My True Love Read online

  SHE WAS HIS PAWN IN SEEKING VENGEANCE...

  Penelope Westmoreland had dreamed of the day she would marry a dashing nobleman and live happily ever after. Instead, the pampered daughter of a powerful duke found herself doomed to wed an aging and lecherous earl. But just when she had given up hope of escaping this cruel fate, a bold and handsome stranger came to her rescue—sweeping her into a clandestine affair that promised the fairy tale romance she had always longed for.

  ......UNTIL SHE BECAME HIS ONE TRUE LOVE

  Lucas Pendleton had come to England for one purpose—revenge against the duke who had brought shame upon his family. It didn't take long before the daring voting American came up with the perfect plan to make the scoundrel pay: by ravishing his innocent daughter. Yet when Lucas sets out to play on Penelopes naiveté, it is he who is caught. For this startling beauty has not only seduced him......she has wreaked havoc on his heart.

  ******************

  ONLY PENELOPE ...

  "Hello, my pretty Penny," he said. "I'm sorry I'm late." He took one step toward her, then another, until they balanced toe to toe. He was near enough so that he might have run a finger across her full bottom lip. Gad, but he'd forgotten how magnificent she was! "Let's sit, shall we?"

  He laced his fingers through hers and kept them there. "I have a confession to make," he said. "I thought about you all day."

  "I was thinking about you, too."

  "All day?"

  "Well . . . there may have been a few seconds here or there when I lapsed."

  He moved closer to her. "May I ask you an intimate question?" he inquired. "How did you come to be affianced to such a disgusting man?"

  "It's a long story," she said. "I'd always thought I would marry someone—" She caught herself before blurting out someone just like you.

  "I can't imagine a father marrying his only daughter off to such a scoundrel. Perhaps you could go off on your own. Do you have any funds?"

  "Not a farthing to my name," she said, and she pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the strong and steady pounding of his heart.

  Some sort of demon appeared to be leading him to his doom, and he couldn't prevent himself from moving to the next level . . . to where kissing her was the only possible option. His lips brushed lightly against hers, and then . . . there was only Penelope.

  Zebra Books, Kensington Publishing Copyright 2001

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lucas Pendleton hurried quietly down the long corridor, counting the doors he passed, looking for movement and checking for hiding places in case a servant came wandering by. Luckily he'd not seen another living soul since sneaking inside. Laughter came from somewhere far off in the grand house. A handful of silver clanged on china, and he paused, listening for footsteps, but none came in his direction. He took a deep breath, let it out, then started off again. So far, the hastily drawn map he'd coaxed from the tavern maid, Peggy, had proved to be surprisingly accurate. The alley, the mews, the unlocked back gate, the concealing hedges, the open entrance off the terrace, all had been located in exactly the spots she'd indicated. According to her calculations, the library would be just ahead on the right. Very soon he'd be inside, where, according to Peggy, he would not have long to wait for the duke to make an appearance, as he purportedly did after each evening's meal.

  He hoped the girl was as well-informed about the exalted man's personal habits as she was about his house. If she was mistaken and the duke didn't show his face, Lucas was prepared

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  to wait hours, or even days, if that's how long it took to force a confrontation.

  As he thought of Peggy, the plump, friendly young woman he'd cajoled and seduced in order to obtain the necessary information about Harold Westmoreland, the Duke of Roswell, he felt double stabs of guilt and regret. A bag of coins was being delivered to her just about then, along with his carefully penned good-bye note, and the combination would ease some of her upset. Although Peg was hardly an innocent, he still hated using her as he had, but he hadn't been able to find anyone else who possessed the knowledge he needed to get him safely in and out of the manor.

  His dispute with the Duke of Roswell was a family matter, and where Lucas's family was concerned, he would take any risk, shoulder any task, carry any burden in his efforts to protect them. His parents had died when he was a young boy, causing him and his brother and sister to endure the hardest of childhoods. Lucas had grown up knowing that he would eventually assume the care of his two younger siblings, and that's exactly what he'd done. For years their lives and happiness had been all he cared about, and if he had to deceive a kind person such as Peggy in order to discharge his responsibilities to one of them, so be it. There was no other choice.

  In all the weeks he'd been in London, trying and failing to arrange a valid appointment with Harold Westmoreland, it had quickly become apparent that he was going to have to use alternate methods to obtain his meeting. Westmoreland was too wealthy, too powerful for a man such as himself to gain an audience if the duke wasn't willing to grant it.

  Lucas had knocked on the duke's door numerous times without being admitted. He'd written a dozen unanswered letters and finally taken to watching the duke and tracking his movements, attempting to find a means by which their paths would cross, but Westmoreland never went anywhere alone. He was always surrounded by armed servants, fit and serious-looking, who appeared to know their jobs and understand their duties, the

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  main one apparently to prevent the rabble from approaching their distinguished employer.

  If they had been on more equal terms, if Lucas had brought along a cadre of his own men instead of just his brother, Matthew, he might have been successful in arranging a showdown. As it was, he was an American, an outsider, highly visible because of his clothing and accent. He couldn't infiltrate the duke's world by himself.

  Before coming to England, he and Matthew had agreed that they would try to keep the affair as quiet as possible. The duke was married, had two grown children, and Lucas and his brother had no desire to embarrass them or to cause any sort of public uproar. They had simply intended to resolve the problem with a minimum of fuss and bother.

  What they hadn't counted on was that the duke could not have cared less that a pair of upstart Americans wanted to speak with him. In the times they'd rapped on Westmoreland's door, politely requesting a meeting and having it denied, it wasn't as though Lucas could blurt out to a doorman the important reason for his solicitation, not unless he wanted all of London to know their business. They had eventually decided to resort to more effective measures, but it would certainly have been prudent to have brought along a few more hands to set to the job.

  While Matthew was highly competent in carrying out any kind of dubious enterprise, and exactly the type of man you wanted protecting your backside, there were only the two of them. They hardly had the forces to overwhelm the duke's guards, so Lucas hadn't been able to do more than catch an occasional glimpse of Westmoreland as he went to and from his carriage.

  "But that's about to change," he murmured to himself.

  Stopping short, he looked up and down the hall, then slipped into the library. A hasty scan indicated that no one was there. A fire burned in the grate, a brandy had been poured and awaited the duke's pleasure, sitting as it was in the center of the large

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  desk. Lucas thought about downing the amber liquid himself and leaving the empty glass for the duke to discover, but he didn't. Much as he relished the idea of committing that one small, rude act, he dared not. He wanted no trace of alcohol dulling his senses.

  He walked to the end of the room in order to hide behind the heavy velvet drapes, but as he passed, he couldn't help but
observe the opulence of the surroundings. With each step he'd taken through the vast structure, his eyes had lingered on costly objects. The place was quiet and cold as a tomb and seemed much like a museum, packed as it was with treasures and valuables—artifacts, knickknacks, paintings, rugs. The wallpaper shimmered with gold inlay, the brass fittings glimmered in the dim lights. Everything was dusted, polished, expensive, and displayed with the obvious intent of letting others perceive just how large a fortune the man enjoyed, how supreme and omnipotent he was because of it.

  The luxurious ambiance only strengthened Lucas's resolve. The man could pay. The man would pay. If it was the last thing Lucas ever did in his life, he would see to it that the Duke of Roswell lived up to the obligations he had incurred to Lucas's family.

  His wait was not long. In minutes the library door opened, and footsteps crossed the floor, coming around the desk. Wanting to be certain it was Westmoreland and not a servant, Lucas glanced out from his clandestine location just in time to observe the back of the duke's head as he settled himself in the large chair. Sighing wearily as if he were carrying a huge weight on his shoulders, he leaned against the soft leather, closed his eyes, and relaxed for a moment before reaching for the glass of liquor.

  Lucas watched furtively as the infusion of drink visibly caused the tension to leave the duke's body. Lucas waited while Westmoreland sampled the beverage a few more times, then set the heavy crystal on the desk. Only after he'd steepled his fingers over his stomach did Lucas make his move.

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  With a silent tread he was away from the curtain and behind the other man, the barrel of his pistol dug hard into the duke's neck. "Don't move," he warned, "or I'll blow your head off." Westmoreland shifted slightly, and Lucas pressed the barrel deeper into his throat. "I mean it. I'll kill you without a thought."

  "I believe you," Westmoreland responded, instantly growing still as a statue. "What do you want?"

  "Put your hands where I can see them." Westmoreland didn't budge, so Lucas ordered, "On the desk! Now!" The man leaned forward as much as he could with the gun hovering so intimately against his skin, and obeyed by resting his palms against the dark mahogany.

  "If it's coin you're seeking," Westmoreland said carefully, "I don't keep any in here...."

  "Be silent!" Lucas advised. "I want you to look upon my face"—the duke's brows rose at this—"so I'm coming around the desk. Keep your hands in plain sight and keep your mouth closed unless I ask you to speak." Westmoreland's gaze flew to the door, and he wondered at his chances if he called for help. "Don't even think about it," Lucas threatened. "I'll kill you before anyone can make it through. It matters not what happens to me after that, and it won't matter to you much either. You'll be long dead before they arrive."

  “All right,'' Westmoreland said with a hint of a nod. “Please explain yourself."

  Slowly Lucas removed the pistol, then tucked it into the waist of his trousers. In his thirty years he'd used a weapon numerous times and knew he could retrieve it in an instant if need be, but he truly hoped he wouldn't be required to shoot the despicable swine. Much as he would like to see Westmoreland cold and in the ground, Lucas would much rather have him alive and repenting his sins.

  Keeping a wary eye on the duke, he took one step, then another, until they were face-to-face for the very first time. To his great surprise, Westmoreland wasn't anything like he'd

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  expected. Certainly he appeared wealthy and refined, dressed as he was for supper in a dark blue velvet jacket. Set against it, the white of his shirt was dazzling, the knot at his neck intricate and perfectly tied. But he was a much younger man than Lucas had imagined him to be.

  Although he had heard the man was only forty-five, for some reason he'd gotten it into his head that Westmoreland was decrepit and elderly. While Lucas had wanted him to be old and disgusting, the duke seemed active and actually quite handsome. Lucas had fed his anger and outrage off visions of an ancient, experienced lecher who pleasured his sick physical appetite at the expense of innocent young women, but this man seemed capable of nothing of the sort. He was the absolute representation of an English gentleman.

  Slender and roguish, he was one of those lucky fellows who grew better-looking with age. Obviously of aristocratic blood, with high cheekbones and a patrician nose, he was the type of comely devil over whom women swooned. His full head of white-blond hair just going to silver was tied back in a short tail. His eyes were a deep sapphire, the shade enhanced by the blue of his jacket. They showed evidence of a keen, shrewd intelligence, taking in all the details and nuances of the situation and missing nothing.

  There was an aura of command and strength about him, indicating he was comfortable with his position in life. Most likely he'd have been enormously successful at any endeavor, even if he'd been born without all the trappings afforded by his fortune and pedigree. A powerful individual, he was clearly used to giving orders and getting his own way. He would be a tough adversary, but then, Lucas had suspected he would be, and he was not daunted by the idea.

  In his struggles as a boy, unwillingly conscripted to the hard life of a sailor, and later as a young man starting and running his own shipping business, he'd repeatedly gone up against the worst class of villains, brutes who were a thousand times more ruthless and vicious than this highborn man could ever be.

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  Nothing scared Lucas anymore, especially not the rich, pampered nobleman sitting before him.

  "I apologize for all this drama," Lucas asserted, "but I have been trying to arrange an appointment with you for weeks."

  Westmoreland shrugged. "I am a busy man."

  "My name is Lucas Pendleton," he said tersely. If his identity meant anything at all to Westmoreland, he didn't indicate it by so much as a blink. Deep down Lucas had been hoping that the duke was afraid to meet because he knew who Lucas was, why he'd crossed an ocean to seek an audience, what kinds of demands he would make, but Westmoreland showed no reaction.

  "How do you do?" the duke said, nodding his head in polite recognition of the introduction.

  "My sister was Caroline Pendleton," Lucas declared, but still the bastard didn't move a muscle, and Lucas's anger came to a quick boil. “Before you have time to think of some inane response, let me tell you that if you pretend you don't know who she was, I shall come around this immaculate desk, wrap my two hands about your throat, and squeeze until there is not a single breath left in your body."

  Harold Westmoreland glared into the eyes of the enraged man before him, and all he could wonder was why the fates had conspired to bring about such a dreadful encounter at just that moment. Hadn't the family supper he'd just survived, attended by his daughter Penelope's new and extremely horrid fiancé, been quite enough torture for the evening? Would his torment never cease? How much emotional upheaval could one man be expected to endure in a single night?

  He hated the fact that he was sitting while his foe was standing, because their positions put him at too much of a disadvantage, yet he didn't think rising to face Pendleton would be a good idea. Harold liked to flaunt his rank in order to keep others cowed, but Pendleton clearly placed no importance on titles or position. If he had, he would never have dared commit so outrageous an act as breaking into Harold's home. No,

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  Harold's usual haughty attitude would hardly work, but his height wouldn't intimidate either.

  Pendleton was over six feet tall, Harold three inches or more shorter, so he couldn't overawe the knave with excessive size. Even if they were of the same build, he had none of the younger man's impressive, lithe, predatory grace. Pendleton moved like a stalking cat, tanned, lanky, and fit, with the type of solid torso that comes only from a lifetime of strenuous employment. Given those broad shoulders, long, muscled arms, and strong fingers, Harold felt quite certain that Pendleton could easily carry out the threat he had just made about strangulation.

  The scoundrel
's nerve and physique were just two of the reasons Harold stayed seated. There was a third: Pendleton was filled with righteous indignation. The man was like a lethal keg of gunpowder ready to blow, and Harold couldn't expect to avoid an explosion except by remaining cool and calm.

  “I know Caroline,'' he admitted cautiously. “A lovely young woman. An American, I believe. I met her several years ago when she was here visiting her English cousins."

  "Yes," Lucas said, filled with relief that Westmoreland had admitted the acquaintance. There'd be no cause to beat it out of him.

  "I haven't seen her in a very long time," Harold said, stalling, trying to recall everything he could about her. There had been so many women in his life that sometimes it was difficult to distinguish one from the next, but not in this case. Upon seeing the brother with all his long, dark hair and those intense brown eyes, the sister was easily remembered. Beautiful and graceful, in her early twenties, she was thin and tall, having no similarities to the pale blond English beauties with whom he typically consorted. She'd had a quiet, interesting manner about her, a good sense of humor, was easy to talk with and easy to like. All in all, she was exactly the kind of female he often wished he'd been allowed to marry.

  Unbidden, a smile flickered and, as rapidly as it came, he suppressed it. Once Caroline Pendleton had learned the ways

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  of intimate affairs, she'd become a passionate, involved mistress—although he hardly intended to mention such a tidbit to her outraged male family member.

  Ah, Caroline, what a sweetheart she had been! How joyously their pretty summer had passed. And how quickly! Pulling himself back from his hasty, delicious reverie, he queried, "How is she?"

  "She's dead."

  "You have my sympathies," Harold said, trying to show little sentiment himself. "My condolences to your family."

  "We don't want your condolences," Lucas said hotly. "Wouldn't you like to know how she died?"