Dark Fancy Read online

  Dark Fancy

  Sabrina York

  The sizzling prequel to Folly

  When Lady Helena Simpson flees an unwanted marriage to a revolting lord, she finds refuge with James, a charming, handsome man unlike any she’s ever known. Helena concocts the perfect solution to her problem. She asks—begs—James to ruin her. Surely her betrothed will repudiate her if she is no longer pure. And if all her efforts fail and she still ends up married to a horrid man until the end of her days, she will at least once have known true passion.

  But James is not all he seems. He is, in fact, a wicked lord with a dark fancy. When Helena awakens his desire, he becomes determined to take everything she has to offer and more. No matter the cost.

  Inside Scoop: Whether they’re making love outdoors at a grand estate or getting naughty in a secret sex club in the city, James and Helena put the erotic back in erotic Regency romance.

  A Romantica® historical erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Dark Fancy

  Sabrina York

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Sherene Kershner for always being there for me, showing me the way to take back my life, making me feel powerful again and, you know, other stuff.

  Acknowledgements

  Without Carrie Jackson my work would be a drab husk. A mélange of fingers and eyes (and occasionally toes) shuddering and blinking and nudging incessantly. My characters might occasionally be naked and floating in an amorphous room. The immutable rules of time and space would be shattered, causing a rift in the fabric of the universe. Because of you, Carrie, my heroes hardly ever painfully drop things—like their heads—and eyes rarely ever roll around on the floor to be trampled upon by the peasants. Yes, my dear, you make editing fun. And I love you for it.

  Thanks to Dar Albert and the Ellora’s Cave art department for a gorgeous cover. You can do astounding things with a ripped torso!

  To all the Ellora’s Cave staff who work so hard to make these books shine, you are all amazing. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate our final line editors who unerringly catch problems and mistakes and (God help me) the dreaded anachronism. Blessings to Denise, Donna, Jennifer, Jenn and all the unsung Ellora’s Cave FLEs.

  Where would I be without all my wonderful fellow authors? Folks who go out of their way to help me advance my career and help keep me grounded? Especially Sidney Bristol, Cathryn Cade, Emily Cale, Carmen Cook, Delilah Devlin, Tina Donahue, Cassiel Knight, Gina Lamm, Rhonda Laurel, Lisa Fox, Zenobia Renquist and, of course, Chantilly White.

  To all my friends in the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of America, Passionate Ink and Rose City Romance Writers groups, thank you for all your support and encouragement.

  Chapter One

  James Tully, Earl of Darlington, ignored the blaze of panic in his gut as he scratched his name onto the document, sealing his doom. With that flourish, he imagined he could hear the door to his prison cell clanging shut.

  “Excellent. Excellent.” Trueglove’s barrister, Mr. Winston, rubbed his palms together, his expression far too avid for James’ liking. The old coot flipped a page and pointed at another spot, and another. Dutifully, James affixed his signature.

  With each scrawl his world shrank.

  Really, he growled to himself. There was no need for melodrama. It was only a marriage contract. He was a peer of the realm with all the privileges of that rank. It was the rare man of his class who changed a whit of his life when he took a bride. Surely James would be no different.

  Besides, the girl was barely out of leading strings. Straight from Lady Satterlee’s, the most prestigious—and priggish—school for girls in the land. Undoubtedly she would be a pale, meek, obedient mouse. James could train her as he liked. Even so, his penchant for doing as he wished when he wished exactly as he wished would most likely be curtailed. At least a bit. Wives had a way of doing that, he’d noticed.

  But ah. In return he’d receive the one thing he had lusted after his entire life. The Trueglove stables. He would also receive in the settlement the bulk of the Trueglove estate—with a small parcel at the east end, the only bit that was entailed, to be signed over to his bride’s uncle.

  This marriage would double his lands.

  His ancestors would be dancing jigs in their graves. He was finally reuniting the ancient barony that had been in his family for centuries—until a very drunk antecedent—the first earl, in fact—had lost half the estate in an unfortunate turn of the cards during the reign of good King George II.

  Naturally there had been accusations of cheating. A duel. Bloodletting. The two families hadn’t spoken since.

  But now they would be bound—forever.

  Forever. In holy matrimony. He shuddered at the thought.

  He and Hortense…Honoria—drat, what was her name? Something with an “H”. At any rate, the two of them. Bound together. Until death they should part.

  He couldn’t bear the thought. So he focused instead on the stables she would bring to the union. On the exquisite lines of those Arabian stallions. The foals they would produce. The races they would win. The price he could ask for stud. His mouth watered.

  He shoved the papers back at Mr. Winston. “There. Surely that’s enough signing for today.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The barrister gathered the papers as though they were the original copies of the Magna Carta and bowed. “Thank you, my lord.” He backed from the room, bumping into Baxter in his blind retreat.

  A flicker of humor flashed over the staid butler’s face. It was gone in a trice; Baxter was excruciatingly proper after all. He held a crystal glass filled with an amber liquid on an elegant silver tray, which he offered with a bow.

  Baxter knew him well—had looked after him since James had come here as an orphaned boy to live with his cold-hearted uncle, the old earl. James nodded his thanks and took the brandy, tossing it back. Too quickly, as it happened. He choked on the burning liquid.

  “Do I presume congratulations are in order, my lord?”

  James lifted a brow and took a more conservative sip. He loved the way it warmed him, numbed him.

  “Too early to say, Baxter,” he said. “I’ll need to get a look at the wench first.”

  Because she could be hideous.

  * * * * *

  “Are you a fairy?”

  Helena Eloise Simpson looked up at a strange little man. He was gnarled and round and peered at her through thick spectacles. He was dressed in a tatty walking jacket and his boots were smudged with mud. He carried a knotty cane and a thick journal under one arm.

  She sat up and hunted for her bag, found it and clutched it to her chest. She shouldn’t have stopped to rest.

  “Well? Are you?”

  “I b-beg your pardon?” Heavens. Was she going to be murdered? Who would hear her if she called out for help in the middle of this unending forest?

  She should have stayed closer to the road. It had been absurd to think she could remember her way when she hadn’t been home for years.

  Home. She snorted to herself. What an illusion that had turned out to be.

  “Are you a fairy, my dear, or not? Because if you’re not, I truly am a very busy man.” Proving this point, he leaned against a tree and fished a linen napkin from his pocket; he extracted a scone and proceeded to nibble.

  Helena’s eyes widened. Her belly rumbled. Why had she not thought to bring food on her headlong flight?

  The old man grumbled something to himself and then thrust his scone at her. She inhaled it, not dropping so much as a crumb.

  “Never seen a fairy eat like that,” he observed, pushing his spectacles back on his nose.

  “I’m very hungry.”

  “So I gathered.” He looked up at the sky through the lacy canopy of
leaves. “It’s going to rain tonight.”

  She winced. Oh, bother. Not only would she be famished, she’d be wet and cold. And lost. “Can you point me in the direction of Cavendish, please sir?”

  “You’re a long way from Cavendish, my dear. It’s miles away.” He waved in the general direction from which she’d come. Blast. She’d been going the wrong way. “And why ever would a fairy want to go to Cavendish?”

  She could hardly tell him she planned to catch the mail coach for London before anyone noticed her absence. She didn’t know who he was. Besides, it was far too late for that plan. Once her draconian guardian realized she’d escaped—which he surely had by now—there’d be such a hue and cry. Sentinels posted at every turn. Beastly minions searching all travelers. Hounds trolling the woods. She’d never be able to slip away.

  Her companion sighed. “You cannot stay here. You would freeze by morning. Come along with me. I’ll find you a safe place.” He hobbled down the knoll, using his cane for balance. “Just don’t tell the Fairy King I helped you escape him,” he tossed back. “I wouldn’t want to feel his ire.”

  Helena didn’t move. Surely she shouldn’t follow a complete stranger farther into the maw of the whispering woods. She glanced around. The shadows were falling. A cold wind whipped up. Behind her a raven cawed, an ominous call. She scampered to her feet, gathered her meager belongings and hurried to catch up with the gnarly troll.

  God willing, this decision wouldn’t be the death of her.

  * * * * *

  James was at a loose end. He leaned against the stable and slapped the riding crop against his thigh. He deplored loose ends. Pennington had planned to come to stay for the week and had canceled at the last minute. James had been looking forward to seeing his friend, had developed an elaborate agenda in fact. They would ride the grounds and hunt and drink and cavort through town as they were wont to do.

  But Pennington had canceled. At the last minute.

  James wasn’t entirely sure why he was so disappointed. There was always next week. Or the week after that.

  Surely it wasn’t that he’d wanted one last wild bacchanal before he finally met his bride. One last wild ride as an utterly free man.

  But it wasn’t to be. Some issue with a shipment just in from the Far East had cropped up and Pennington had cried off. James kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt of the stable yard. Well, into the mud. It had rained last night.

  He shouldn’t be in such a snit. They were partners. It was his fortune at stake here too. A good portion of it at least. He should be glad Pennington was diligently attending to his investment.

  But this abandonment left him at something of a loose end. And he’d had such hopes for lascivious entertainment.

  A pity.

  He was thinking about taking the carriage to London for a few days—a visit to Madame Chantilly’s perhaps—when a movement to his left caught his attention. He glanced in this direction just in time to see Great-Uncle Andrew skulking from the servant’s entrance of the mansion and along the side of the house, balancing what looked like a covered plate and a cup. The old coot shuffled across the yard into the gardens and disappeared down the path.

  Now what was he up to? James hung the crop on a hook on the stable wall and followed.

  Great-Uncle Andrew had once been perfectly sane. Then one day he’d taken a tumble, a knock to the noggin. Thereafter, he’d become obsessed with the strangest notions. He was probably heading to the meadow to have another picnic with the elves living in the badger holes. Or back into the woods to hunt for fairies. James had even once found him teetering on a high stone in the ruins of the old castle, conversing with the spirits of long-dead Darlington ancestors.

  But none of these places were his destination. Not today.

  Today he made his way through the sprawling gardens, past the babbling brook and toward the gardener’s cottage.

  James leapt behind an old oak as Uncle Andrew stopped at the potting shed, a musty relic covered with moss and vines and tucked into a crook of the hillside. He glanced furtively over his shoulder and then slipped inside. When he came out a short time later, his hands were empty.

  Whistling a tuneless ditty and shoving his fists in his pockets, he headed back to the house. He wasn’t paying attention—he rarely did—so he walked right past James without faltering so much as a step.

  Once Uncle Andrew disappeared from sight, James fixed his attention on the potting shed. He approached on his tiptoes and when he was close, put his ear to the door. Odd sounds, grunts and coos and slurps, emanated forth.

  Perhaps his uncle had finally found himself a gnome to keep as a pet.

  Indeed, it sounded like a gnome should sound—voraciously filling its face.

  Burning with curiosity, James flung open the door. And froze.

  Not a gnome.

  Wide green—very female—eyes stared up at him in shock. A hank of beef dangled from her lips, which parted at the sight of him. “Oh!” she said.

  Definitely not a gnome.

  Uncle Andrew had found himself a girl. And a very hungry one at that.

  Helena swallowed at the sight of the enormous man filling the doorway to her refuge. Her heart fluttered in her throat. Since his back was to the sunlight and the potting shed was very dim, she couldn’t make out his features, but from his clothes she could tell he was probably a gardener or a groom.

  A very large gardener or groom.

  She tried not to shrink back. It was a well-known fact that predators had a penchant for small creatures that tried to run away. They loved to chase.

  He was probably one of those men she’d been warned about. She set down her plate and fumbled around for the table knife Andrew, her savior, had brought with her food. Her fingers curled around it. Her muscles tensed to fight off the vile attack she knew was coming.

  But he completely ruined all her lurid expectations when he hunkered down on his haunches before her, tipped his face into the waning light and smiled.

  Everything within her seized. Good God. He was gorgeous. Easily the handsomest man she’d ever seen, although she hadn’t seen many. Men, that was. She’d been cloistered most of her life in a dismal prison.

  He had a strong square jaw and a dented chin, all of it dusted with golden stubble. His eyes were sea-foam blue with thickly ringed irises and sinfully long lashes. Alluring lips and a nose like a long straight blade completed his perfection. On top of all that, he had broad shoulders and muscled arms that strained at the seams of his cotton shirt. The sleeves were folded up, exposing heavily veined forearms.

  This was no lord of leisure.

  She relaxed. But only a bit.

  “What have we here?” His voice was low and silky, as though he were speaking to a child. Helena looked down at her dress, at the demure collar, the simple voluminous cut. It was Susan’s dress. Helena had stolen it without a thought. Now she realized it did much more than hide her true identity. It also masked her age. And her curves. It hung on her like a sack.

  Accordingly, she adopted the persona of her costume. She’d always fancied herself something of an actress after all. She puddled up her face as though she was going to cry.

  He wrenched back—she’d known he would. It was a well-known fact that men abhorred female tears. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Rather pleased with the effect of her performance, she took it.

  “Don’t cry, little one. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Y-you sc-scared me.”

  “Aw. I’m sorry.” He waited until her sobs abated—until she became bored with the effort. “Are you going to be all right?”

  She nodded. Sniffed. Peered up at him.

  He shifted closer, just a tiny bit. His scent wafted to her on his breath. She wasn’t sure what he smelled like, but it was delicious. A new hunger rippled in her belly. It wasn’t a hunger for food.

  Heavens. This man was more of a danger than she’d realized.

  “What ar
e you doing in my potting shed, little one?”

  She glanced at his hands resting on his knees. His knuckles were scraped, there was dirt beneath his nails. “Are you the gardener?”

  He didn’t respond. A frown wrinkled his brow. “Please answer my question.”

  Her tongue peeped out. His nostrils flared. And then he paled and yanked his gaze away, diligently studying the items on a shelf to the left instead.

  “Andrew said I could stay here.”

  “Did he?”

  “He found me in the woods and brought me here. He said I could stay.”

  “Did he also tell you he was rescuing you from the Fairy King?”

  She blinked. As a matter of fact, he had. She nodded.

  The big man scrubbed at his face with a palm. “All right. Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”

  Panic squeezed her chest. She gasped. No. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t. What awaited her was surely a fate worse than death. She scooted deeper into the shadows.

  “Dear God, child. Don’t look so terrified.”

  “I’m not going back.” It was only a whisper but he heard. He heard and he read in her tone the words unsaid.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Horrific.”

  He made a sound that sounded something like a laugh, but not an amused laugh. “That’s a big word for such a small girl.”

  Annoyance snarled through her. She’d always been teased about her height and hated it. “I’m not so small.” She straightened her back to make herself look larger. His attention flicked to her chest, lingered.

  “How…old are you?” He squinted into the shadows.

  “Old enough.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. Another mistake. His eyes narrowed.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “Andrew said I could.”

  “Andrew also said he was saving you from the Fairy King. He’s a bit dotty. Besides, this shed is damp and moldy and hardly a fitting place for a young lady. Come with me and I’ll find you a nice warm bed and a hot meal.” He looked her up and down. “And a clean dress.”