The Many Sins Of Cris De Feaux
Secrets, sins, and an affair to remember!Crispin de Feaux, Marquess of Avenmore, has always done his duty and knows the time has come to find a suitable wife. But when the intrepid Tamsyn Perowne saves his life off the Devonshire coast, Cris is unable to tear himself away…The widow of a notorious smuggler, Tamsyn would never make an appropriate bride. And Cris has secrets which could tear them apart before they’ve even begun! Yet, for the first time, Cris is tempted to ignore his duty, and claim Tamsyn as his own!
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Bachelors for life!
Friends since school, brothers in arms, bachelors for life!
At least thatâs what The Four Disgracesâ
Alex Tempest, Grant Rivers, Cris de Feaux and Gabriel Stoneâbelieve. But when they meet four feisty women who are more than a match for their wild ways these Lords are tempted to renounce bachelordom for good.
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When I started to tell Cris and Tamsynâs story I had a very clear image of how it would begin and also just where it would be setâon the wild and rugged coast where North Devon and North Cornwall meet. I have known and loved this coastline, with its towering cliffs, secret coves and tales of smugglers, since I was a child.
All of the towns mentioned are realâas is Hartland Quay, where Crisâs adventure beginsâbut the villages are imaginary, although based on the places where I spent many happy hours. I also borrowed Hawkerâs Hut on the cliffs at Morwenstowâpossibly the National Trustâs smallest and most charming propertyâfor Tamsynâs secret hideaway. If you search online for images, they will give you a vivid picture of this lovely setting.
I do hope you will enjoy the story of how Cris de Feaux, the least likely of the Lords of Disgrace to lose his head and his heart, meets his match in one very independent Devon lady with a scandalous past.
LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com
For the Quayistas, in memory of a very cheerful weekâs research.
Contents
Lords of Disgrace
Author Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cris de Feaux was drowning. And he was angry. The realisation of both came with the slap of a wave of icy salt water in the face and he shook it out of his eyes, cursing, while he came to terms with the fact that he had swum out from the little cove without thinking, without stopping to do anything but shed his clothes on the rocks and plunge into the breakers.
It had felt good to cut through the surf out into deep water, to push his body hard while his mind became mercifully blank of anything except the co-ordination of arms and legs, the stretch of muscles, the power of a kick. It had felt good, for once in his life, not to consider consequences, not to plan with care and forethought. And now that indulgence was going to kill him.
Was that what he had wanted? Eyes wide with shock, Cris went under, into a watery blue-green world, and kicked up to the surface, spitting and furious. He had fallen in love, unsuitably, impossibly, against all sense and honour. He knew it could never be, he had walked away before any more damage could be done and now his aimless wanderings across England had brought him here, to the edge of North Devon and the ocean.
Which was about to kill him, unless he was very lucky indeed. No, he did not want to die, however much he ached for what could never be, but he had swum too far, beyond the limits of his strength and what he could ask of his hard-exercised horsemanâs body.
Use your head, he snarled at himself. You got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out of it. You will not give up. I am not killing myself for love.
He studied the shore between sore, salt-crusted lids. High cliffs, toothed at their base with jagged surf-lashed rocks, mocked him, dared him to try to land and be dashed to bloody death. But there were little coves between the headlands, he knew that. The current was carrying him south-west along the line of the shore so he would go with it, conserve his strength until he saw a point to aim at. Even in those few minutes as he hung in the water it had already carried him onwards, but he dared not risk just lying there, a passive piece of flotsam on the flow. It might be the first day of June, but the sea was strength-sappingly cold. He could hardly feel his legs, except for the white-hot pain of over-extended muscles and tendons. His shoulders and arms felt no better.
