price to soar so high. My man wil bring you the rest tomorrow.”
“But of course, my lord. You are known throughout London as a man who pays his debts. I shal await your pleasure. In the meantime, take the girl and enjoy her.” It was clear the auction had raised far more than even she had anticipated, and the poorly concealed smirk on her face and hard-edged gleam of avarice in her eyes almost made Hope retch. Instead, she placed a delicate hand on Sir Charles’s chest and leaned into him, shivering, tucking her head against his shoulder. His lips twisted in annoyance, but he released his grip on her wrist and removed his coat, wrapping it around her. She spoke for the first time since entering the room.
“You must only give her one half of it, my lord. For the rest was promised to me.”
“You’re as greedy and canny as your mother, girl,” he growled. “If you’re a virgin stil , I’m Archbishop of Canterbury. But I’l have my money’s worth from you nonetheless.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy. Amidst her mother’s furious squawking and the laughter of the other men, a grim-faced Sir Charles bit back a reluctant chuckle and bundled her out the door and into his waiting coach.
The day she met her own true love was the day her mother sold her. It was the day she lost al hope of him. The day her childhood ended. She never saw him again. She never spoke to her mother again, and she stopped believing in happy ever after. Her mother had named her Hope. It seemed a cruel jest, but she did the only thing she could do.
She took the name and made it a talisman. She did what she needed to keep her own hopes alive. The day she left her mother’s doorstep she stopped dreaming about what couldn’t be, and started planning for what might. The only thing she couldn’t stop was asking herself one question.
What kind of parent puts a price on innocence and sells their child like a slave? It stil had the power to steal her breath.
Nevertheless, what started as a cruel betrayal and felt like the end of the world was the start of a journey that transformed her into a wel -spoken, smartly dressed, wel -
educated young woman. An accomplished dancer with a smattering of French and the attention of a monarch. How dramatic and shortsighted we are as children . Along the way she let go of her fantasies of true love and imaginary princes, and found herself a real one, with al his flaws and imperfections. If from time to time her heart ached for something more, for someone else, no one knew it but her.
CHAPTER ONE
Cressly Manor, Nottinghamshire, 1662
HE DARTED AROUND a corner, his pursuers snarling at his heels. It was dark, the sky an impenetrable blanket smothering a ruined town blackened and seared by fire.
Pockets of angry flames licked the sky and bodies littered the street. Those who’d survived the inferno and escaped the sword huddled in cellars, wells and ditches, hushed and trembling, waiting for the storming of booted feet to pass them by.
He sprinted toward the town center and ducked down a secluded street that was little more than an alley. There was no moon and no illumination other than the reddish glow of torchlight. The path he’d chosen led nowhere but a wall too high to climb. He’d reached a dead end.
Straightening, he turned to face his pursuers. They slowed and stopped, suddenly wary, something in his face, his stance, turning anticipation into confusion and fear. He growled low in his throat. Ferocious. Triumphant. This was the moment he’d been training for, waiting for, living for.
They stumbled over each other, slowly backing away; all but their leader, who seemed oddly bemused. They’d understood too late. They were the prey.
He might have got off two shots with his pistols in those first moments of stunned surprise, but this wasn’t an act of war. This required intimacy. This was personal. His eyes flashed and metal sparked as he drew a gleaming sword,
“But of course, my lord. You are known throughout London as a man who pays his debts. I shal await your pleasure. In the meantime, take the girl and enjoy her.” It was clear the auction had raised far more than even she had anticipated, and the poorly concealed smirk on her face and hard-edged gleam of avarice in her eyes almost made Hope retch. Instead, she placed a delicate hand on Sir Charles’s chest and leaned into him, shivering, tucking her head against his shoulder. His lips twisted in annoyance, but he released his grip on her wrist and removed his coat, wrapping it around her. She spoke for the first time since entering the room.
“You must only give her one half of it, my lord. For the rest was promised to me.”
“You’re as greedy and canny as your mother, girl,” he growled. “If you’re a virgin stil , I’m Archbishop of Canterbury. But I’l have my money’s worth from you nonetheless.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy. Amidst her mother’s furious squawking and the laughter of the other men, a grim-faced Sir Charles bit back a reluctant chuckle and bundled her out the door and into his waiting coach.
The day she met her own true love was the day her mother sold her. It was the day she lost al hope of him. The day her childhood ended. She never saw him again. She never spoke to her mother again, and she stopped believing in happy ever after. Her mother had named her Hope. It seemed a cruel jest, but she did the only thing she could do.
She took the name and made it a talisman. She did what she needed to keep her own hopes alive. The day she left her mother’s doorstep she stopped dreaming about what couldn’t be, and started planning for what might. The only thing she couldn’t stop was asking herself one question.
What kind of parent puts a price on innocence and sells their child like a slave? It stil had the power to steal her breath.
Nevertheless, what started as a cruel betrayal and felt like the end of the world was the start of a journey that transformed her into a wel -spoken, smartly dressed, wel -
educated young woman. An accomplished dancer with a smattering of French and the attention of a monarch. How dramatic and shortsighted we are as children . Along the way she let go of her fantasies of true love and imaginary princes, and found herself a real one, with al his flaws and imperfections. If from time to time her heart ached for something more, for someone else, no one knew it but her.
CHAPTER ONE
Cressly Manor, Nottinghamshire, 1662
HE DARTED AROUND a corner, his pursuers snarling at his heels. It was dark, the sky an impenetrable blanket smothering a ruined town blackened and seared by fire.
Pockets of angry flames licked the sky and bodies littered the street. Those who’d survived the inferno and escaped the sword huddled in cellars, wells and ditches, hushed and trembling, waiting for the storming of booted feet to pass them by.
He sprinted toward the town center and ducked down a secluded street that was little more than an alley. There was no moon and no illumination other than the reddish glow of torchlight. The path he’d chosen led nowhere but a wall too high to climb. He’d reached a dead end.
Straightening, he turned to face his pursuers. They slowed and stopped, suddenly wary, something in his face, his stance, turning anticipation into confusion and fear. He growled low in his throat. Ferocious. Triumphant. This was the moment he’d been training for, waiting for, living for.
They stumbled over each other, slowly backing away; all but their leader, who seemed oddly bemused. They’d understood too late. They were the prey.
He might have got off two shots with his pistols in those first moments of stunned surprise, but this wasn’t an act of war. This required intimacy. This was personal. His eyes flashed and metal sparked as he drew a gleaming sword,
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