Stormswept Read online

  Dear Reader,

  When Pocket Books decided to bring Stormswept back into print, I was thrilled at the chance to revise and refresh another novel I’d penned long ago under the name Deborah Martin. My early works set the stage for my career to come: first, the historical detail, passionate action, and darker tone of the Deborah Martin novels. And later on, the sensual entanglements, witty repartee, and lighthearted spirit of my recent Regency series, the Sinful Suitors and the Hellions of Halstead Hall. Both styles are infused with the sexy romantic liaisons my readers have come to expect in my books.

  In Stormswept, Lady Juliana St. Albans is reunited with dark and daring Rhys Vaughan, the husband she thought had abandoned her after their wedding night years ago. Battling mistrust, yet longing for the love they once shared, they must unravel a maze of mystery and menace to find love again. In this tale of desire and deception, I heightened the drama, enriched the story line, tightened the dialogue, and stoked the heart-pounding sexual tension between these entangled characters. I hope you enjoy this story, whether it’s a past favorite or a new adventure for you to relish!

  Sincerely,

  “ANYONE WHO LOVES ROMANCE MUST READ SABRINA JEFFRIES! ”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas

  The Sinful Suitors

  Sabrina Jeffries’s delightful Regency series featuring the St. George’s Club, where watchful guardians conspire to keep their unattached sisters and wards out of the clutches of sinful suitors.

  THE ART OF SINNING

  “With every book, Jeffries grows into an even more accomplished writer whose memorable characters and unforgettable stories speak to readers on many levels.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)

  “Veteran historical romance author Jeffries launches her Sinful Suitors Regency series with two effortlessly crafted charismatic protagonists.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The Art of Sinning is an endearing beginning to a new series, and showcases Jeffries’s talents in making the reader swoon in delight.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Also from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author SABRINA JEFFRIES

  The Duke’s Men

  They are an investigative agency born out of family pride and irresistible passion . . . and they risk their lives and hearts to unravel any shocking deception or scandalous transgression!

  IF THE VISCOUNT FALLS

  “Jeffries’s addictive series satisfies.“

  —Library Journal

  HOW THE SCOUNDREL SEDUCES

  “Scorching . . . From cover to cover, it sizzles.”

  —Reader to Reader

  “Marvelous storytelling . . . Memorable.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick, K.I.S.S. Award)

  WHEN THE ROGUE RETURNS

  “Blends the pace of a thriller with the romance of the Regency era.”

  —Woman’s Day

  “Enthralling . . . rich in passion and danger.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  WHAT THE DUKE DESIRES

  “A totally engaging, adventurous love story with an oh-so-wonderful ending.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Full of all the intriguing characters, brisk plotting, and witty dialogue that Jeffries’s readers have come to expect.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  The New York Times bestselling “must-read series” (Romance Reviews Today)

  The Hellions of Halstead Hall

  A LADY NEVER SURRENDERS

  “Jeffries pulls out all the stops . . . Not to be missed.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)

  “Sizzling, emotionally satisfying . . . Another must-read.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “A Lady Never Surrenders wraps up the series nothing short of brilliantly.”

  —Booklist

  TO WED A WILD LORD

  “Wonderfully witty, deliciously seductive, graced with humor and charm.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “A beguiling blend of captivating characters, clever plotting, and sizzling sensuality.”

  —Booklist

  HOW TO WOO A RELUCTANT LADY

  “Delightful . . . Charmingly original.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Steamy passion, dangerous intrigue, and just the right amount of tart wit.”

  —Booklist

  A HELLION IN HER BED

  “Jeffries’s sense of humor and delightfully delicious sensuality spice things up! ”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)

  THE TRUTH ABOUT LORD STONEVILLE

  “Jeffries combines her hallmark humor, poignancy, and sensuality to perfection.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)

  “Delectably witty dialogue . . . and scorching sexual chemistry.”

  —Booklist

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

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  To librarians everywhere, including my husband. Without you, I couldn’t have done my research for this back in the early ’90s. Thank heaven for interlibrary loan!

  PROLOGUE

  Carmarthen, Wales

  June 1783

  Juliana St. Albans knew hardly anyone at her betrothal dinner. Her family had invited only the cream of Carmarthen society, so most other guests were English nobility connected with her betrothed. A twenty-course feast awaited them, champagne already flowed freely, and a costly orchestra was playing.

  She would have preferred less ostentation, but whatever Darcy St. Albans, the Earl of Northcliffe, wanted, he got. And her brother wanted to impress everyone with his newfound wealth, particularly her husband-to-be—Stephen Wyndham, Marquess of Devon.

  Believing the marquess to be as ambitious as himself, Darcy had already invested in a mining project with Stephen. But her kind and considerate betrothed was nothing like her bullying brother. Stephen was more like Rhys.

  As the image of a tall, lean man with eyes blue as the Celtic sea leapt into her mind, she frowned. Why couldn’t she evict Rhys Vaughan from her thoughts?

  I’m not betraying him by doing this. I’m not!

  He was dead, for pity’s sake! She had a right to be happy, to have children at last. At twenty-seven, she wasn’t getting any younger. And since her one glorious night with Rhys six years ago hadn’t given her a child . . .

  A blush stained her cheeks. “Oh bother.” Lifting her skirts, she headed for the stairs. She refused to spend one more moment thinking about a man who hadn’t even tried to write her in the years before his death.

  As she descended the wide staircase, the guests—and her betrothed—turned to watch. The attention made her squirm, especially when Stephen’s hot gaze raked down to linger on the swells of her breasts. Why did that make her uncomfortable?

  When she reached his side, he offered her his arm. “The beauty has arrived at last.”

  She took it with a smile. She was being silly. Of course her betrothed found her desirable. And she couldn’t have children unless he did. “Good evening, my lord. You’re looking handsome this evening.”

  Before he could reply, the others crowded around them offering congratulations. One elderly woman leaned in. “I suppose you’ll be moving out of Llynwydd, Lady Juliana.”

  Stephen spoke for her. “Since Llynwydd belongs to her, of course we’ll repair there from time to time. But we
shall live at Wyndham Castle in Devonshire.”

  “That will certainly be a more pleasant place to reside,” the woman said. “And no doubt easier to manage, since you won’t have to deal with stupid and incompetent Welsh servants.”

  Juliana bristled. “I beg your pardon, but I do not hire stupid or incompetent servants. My Welsh staff is exemplary.”

  Squeezing her hand, Stephen hastened to add, “Juliana’s been fortunate in her choice of servants, but I’m sure she’ll find mine more agreeable. They’re all thoroughly English.”

  As the woman sniffed and moved off to relate Juliana’s comments to her friends, Juliana bit back the impulse to correct Stephen. Thoroughly English indeed! If the surly staff at Wyndham Castle were indicative of the English nation as a whole, then England was in sad straits.

  “Is my sister waxing poetic about the Welsh again?” her other brother, Overton, came up to ask.

  Stephen flashed her an indulgent smile. “You know Juliana. She defends everyone.”

  Unlike Darcy, Overton would probably rather be hunting with his rapscallion friends than hobnobbing with his peers. “I was wondering if you know that fellow by the window. He’s been glaring at you two ever since Juliana came downstairs. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  When Juliana turned to look, Overton added, “Damn. He must have walked off while we were talking. I’ll point him out later. Don’t like the looks of him. Not a congenial sort, I’ll wager.” Overton glanced at Stephen. “Hope he’s not one of your friends.”

  “Oh, I doubt it.” Stephen scanned the room. “He’s probably some acquaintance of Darcy’s.”

  While the two men continued talking, Juliana’s mind wandered. She wished she’d seen the man Darcy had spoken of. All this attention from strangers was unnerving. As mistress of Llynwydd, the estate her father had given her, she’d led a solitary life. But Stephen had already warned her that they’d be doing a great deal of entertaining at Wyndham Castle.

  She hated entertaining. She much preferred the challenge of running her estate, even though her parents and their English friends had thought it scandalous that a woman should live away from home and manage property alone.

  Fortunately, the Welsh tenants and staff didn’t care who ran Llynwydd as long as it was done efficiently, especially since it made a good profit, which had eventually silenced her family’s objections. A pity she had to leave it all behind.

  A servant stepped into the drawing room and announced that dinner was served, but Juliana scarcely noticed, wondering if she’d made a mistake in agreeing to marry Stephen. It wasn’t as if she loved him. She felt a great deal of affection and respect for him, but was that enough? Darcy’s marriage amply illustrated that matches not based on love could be disastrous.

  Glancing at her sister-in-law, Elizabeth, Juliana tensed. The woman wore her usual carved-ice expression, which never cracked, even in the presence of her husband. Darcy’s reasons for marrying the young heiress had been thoroughly mercenary. But were Juliana’s reasons for marrying Stephen any different?

  Yes, they were. There was nothing wrong with marrying for companionship. Even Llynwydd was lonely at night, in the dead of winter. She was tired of being alone. She wanted a husband and children.

  Besides, she liked Stephen. They’d do nicely together.

  Before she knew it, the meal had passed, and Darcy rose to begin the evening’s toasts. “Welcome, my friends, to this celebration,” he said in stentorian tones. “A year ago, this fine gentleman, the Marquess of Devon, came to court my sister, Juliana. And as luck would have it, they found favor in each other’s eyes.”

  A shadow passed over his face. “Although my father died before he’d had the chance to meet his lordship, I know he would have approved of the marquess. Lord Devon is one of the most respectable, intelligent, and engaging men I’ve ever known.”

  Darcy stood a little straighter, looking almost military in demeanor. “So tonight, my friends, I’m pleased to announce, on behalf of my mother and my late father, the betrothal of my sister to this honorable man.”

  He held up his glass, his face flushing with pleasure. “A toast! To Lady Juliana and her husband-to-be, Stephen Wyndham, the Marquess of Devon! May their joy be unbounded! ”

  The guests raised their glasses, preparing to cheer—but another voice rang out from the other end of the hall. “I dispute that toast! ”

  Darcy looked incredulous, as the other guests hesitated with their arms suspended in the air as if by invisible wires. Juliana’s heart dropped into her stomach.

  She searched for the man who’d spoken and found him at the other end of the ballroom. Towering over the other guests, he stood in the shadows, where she couldn’t make out his features. Was this the fellow Overton had spoken of?

  He was dressed more soberly than her guests, and his entire bearing bespoke arrogance. The gasps of those around him had little effect, for he carried himself forward with the invincibility of a battleship.

  He snatched a glass from a guest’s hand as he passed. “I would propose another toast entirely.”

  Something in his voice tweaked her buried memories. It couldn’t be. His accent wasn’t right. And as he came closer, she could see he wore the expensive attire of a lord, not the modest garb of a radical. What’s more, he was too big, too self-assured, and entirely too imposing to be . . .

  But try as she could to deny it, her fear became a certainty as he strolled up the aisle to the head table. She stared at the broad shoulders, at the black curls cropped at the chin framing an arresting and painfully familiar face. She rose, not realizing that she did, disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes.

  Darcy seemed to regain his wits. “What preposterous rudeness is this? I don’t know you, sir, and I’m certain you weren’t invited. Leave at once, before I have my footmen throw you out! ” He signaled to a servant, who hastened toward the stranger.

  With a sinister clang, the encroacher withdrew his sword and the summoned footman fell back.

  Sure of his audience, the man came to within six feet of her. “If anyone should have been invited, ’tis I. But then, I’m sure you treacherous blackguards thought yourselves well rid of me.” He scanned the head table with a scathing glance. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be engaging in this farce.”

  With her heart in her stomach, Juliana stared at the man’s face. ’Twas impossible!

  Stephen jumped to his feet. “Treacherous blackguards! I’ll call you out for that, sir! ”

  “Ah, but you have it all wrong, Lord Devon. I should call you out. Ask Juliana.”

  Stephen shot her a questioning look, but Juliana took no notice as the man fixed his gaze on her, searing her. Her throat tightened and her knees shook. Only one man had those blue eyes. And for a moment, her heart leapt and she wanted to bound over the table into his arms.

  Then she saw the coldness in his eyes, the anger in his face, and the urge fled.

  “You should have told him, Juliana.” His voice held an edge of fury. “ ’Tis an important thing to leave out of any discussion about betrothal.”

  “It c-can’t be tr-true,” she whispered, stumbling over the words.

  His eyes narrowed. “What? That I’ve returned? That I’ve come to reclaim my lands . . . my inheritance . . . and you? Oh yes, love. It is true.”

  The entire company was thrown into confusion, except for her brothers, who looked as if they’d commit murder any moment. It was like seeing a corpse rise from the grave.

  “Rhys, please.” She clasped her chair as her knees began to buckle.

  With an expression as cold as the frostiest winter, Rhys lifted his glass in a toast. “To Juliana, my darling wife. I’ve come to take you home.”

  And for the first time in her life, Juliana fainted.

  PART I

  Carmarthen, Wales

  July 1777

  Six years earlier

  If you marry a green youth,

  you will cut the sprou
ting corn;

  and you may find that the harvest

  is too stormy to be borne.

  —ANONYMOUS, “STANZAS FOR THE HARP”

  1

  As sweet is your pose

  As a riverbank rose

  Or a posy where lily or lavender blows.

  —HUW MORUS, “PRAISE OF A GIRL”

  Juliana St. Albans gestured at the tall young man who stood stiff and sober before the crowded room. “Is that Rhys Vaughan?” He seemed different from the other Sons of Wales sitting in the basement of Gentlemen’s Bookshop in Carmarthen. “That can’t be him. He looks too quiet.”

  Her Welsh lady’s maid, Lettice Johnes, snorted. “For what? Did you expect a hard-drinking, hard-boasting gambler like his late father, the squire?”

  Juliana swept her gaze around the room. “I expected none of this.” In her naiveté, she’d thought to find serious young men discussing politics in earnest voices . . . not this rabble of hotheads.

  “I don’t suppose you want to go home now?”

  Lettice sounded so hopeful that Juliana had to smile. “Not after I went to all the trouble of dressing like a poor Welsh servant to follow you here.”

  “I should never have told Morgan I would attend,” Lettice grumbled. “And I shouldn’t have let you stay once you showed up. He won’t be happy about that.”

  “It’s not your fault. If your sweetheart wasn’t always so heedless of his surroundings when he courts you, I wouldn’t have overheard him mention the meeting.” And Rhys Vaughan’s part in it.

  “Pray God none of the Sons of Wales recognize you. They’ll think you a spy, and Lord only knows how they’ll react.”

  “No one will guess who I really am.” Juliana wore her simplest gown, a mob cap to cover her telltale red hair, and a Welsh shawl. It was the perfect disguise.

  “If your father finds out you were here consorting with ‘those dirty Welsh,’ he’ll give you a thrashing. You’d best leave before you get into trouble.”

  A pox on Lettice for always trying to tell her how to behave! At twenty-one, Juliana wasn’t a child anymore. Why, most women were already married, bearing children, and running households. Surely she was old enough to attend a late-night meeting of Welsh radicals.