Three Nights...
Chapter One
Cornwall
November 1810
Aveline stared at the drab stone walls of Thornsgate,
clutching her cloak around her with icy fingers that had nothing to do with the chill in the late November air.
Everyone said that Thornsgate's master had a
heart as black and empty as the pits of Hell. That he
was cold, ruthless. That growing up as the baseborn
son of a duke -- spoiled though he had been by the
wealth of the father who'd acknowledged him -- had
made him hard and bitter.
Aveline chose to believe there was some good in
him. Somewhere.
In the house, a clock struck eleven. Whispering a prayer beneath her breath, she began the long,
lonely trek up the winding drive to the forbidding
manor.
Lucien DuFeron reclined in the overstuffed chair
near the fire, a glass of fine French brandy in his
hand. He stared into the flames, his mind on the
coming sunrise. The large ruby ring on his finger
glittered as he lifted the glass to his lips.
He was getting tired of appointments at dawn.
Contemplative, he swirled his brandy and leaned
back against the soft burgundy cushions of the chair.
The same thing happened at each early morning encounter.
He showed up. He shot. He won the mat ... read full excerpt from: Three Nights... ebook
