If Love Were Enough Read online

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  IF LOVE WERE ENOUGH

  SUZANNE QUILL

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  IF LOVE WERE ENOUGH

  Copyright©2012

  SUZANNE QUILL

  Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-152-3

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  To My Mother, Joyce,

  who told me I could do or be whatever I wanted.

  To My Husband, Rick,

  who supports me and puts up with me along that journey.

  To My Daughter, Merissa,

  who I hope will learn these same lessons.

  To Auntie Ethel Seeman,

  whose patience, understanding,

  support and encouragement were only exceeded

  by the three people above.

  Acknowledgments

  The Order of the Crimson Lotus is a society created by the imagination of my husband, Rick Dean.

  It is most necessary that I thank the people who spent many hours proofreading and editing this manuscript. Anita Carton, friend and client, found little things I read-over due to my familiarity with the work. Ethel Seeman, mentor and friend, who has read just about everything I have written and still asks for more. My mother, always supportive no matter what I do, who took on historical fiction in spite of her personal preferences. And my husband, Rick, who holds me to a higher standard and expects me to deliver.

  Another group to whom I owe a great debt is the critique group I shared for more than five years. Barbara Cummings, Marilyn Swisher, Rebecca McIntyre, Keely Thrall, and Judi Fadeley, all authors in their own right, shared comments that taught me much on writing, especially point of view and voice. Early on Karen Rose Smith and Gail Barrett also shared their comments and encouragement.

  I thank you for reading this book and hope you’ll look for others in The Order of the Crimson Lotus Series.

  Chapter 1

  The heat from the fireplace felt good against the terrible cold Priscilla felt deep within. Would she ever feel warm again? Robert’s death, and the Northumberland storm that drenched her during his funeral, depleted the small amount of physical strength that remained after tending his illness through these last months.

  She struggled to absorb enough heat from the flames before her. She stepped closer to her bedchamber hearth. With deliberate motion, she removed the pins from her hair, placing them on the mantel. The fall of her hair brushed the nape of her neck as it cascaded down her back. She slid the rose-colored silk wrapper off her shoulders and down her arms, it clung to her legs, then sank in a heap onto the lush Oriental rug.

  Heat. The heat was glorious. And she was so bereft. So desolate. So lonely.

  Was this to be her life as a widow at only one score and eight? Emptiness? Unrelenting emptiness?

  She wrapped her arms around herself smoothing them up and down her skin.

  How she longed to hear Robert’s voice guiding her, his words caressing her. Always gentle. Always kind. Teaching without touching, hoping for his own response though none ever came.

  She longed for a human touch but there was no one, still no one, to caress her.

  Now he was gone, and she had failed to give him the one thing he needed, the one thing he wanted.

  An heir.

  No matter what he asked, she had done. To no avail. Their marriage was never consummated, the boy child never more than a hope, a wish, a dream.

  If love were enough, her current plight would be different.

  But she could not, would not, fail him now.

  There was still something she could do. Robert’s heritage was strong, his titles and lands bequeathed to his family by King Henry VIII. For three hundred years his family protected the lands, valued its people. She now had sole responsibility for the estates and all its people. She must take quick action before Robert's nephew came to take over the reins.

  God help them all if Damon became the Marquess of Rutherford. The coffers would be bankrupt in less than two years and all of the people relying on the effective functioning of the estate would be left without shelter or hopes of income to support their families.

  It was a heavy burden.

  One she must now bear alone.

  But right now, all she wanted was warmth and relief. Relief from the sorrow, the burden, and most of all, the loneliness.

  She wished Robert were still here to guide her, but she would have to rely on her memory of his preferences.

  Lifting her arms, she slid her hands under her tresses to fan them wide, then let them drift to her back. Rolling her head from side to side, she basked in the soothing feel of her silken locks caressing her skin.

  She slid her hands over the smooth skin of her thighs, her stomach, then cupped the weight of her breasts. Her hands, smooth and warm, felt good against her own flesh. She rubbed her soft palms over her breasts, felt her nipples harden. She pinched them gently, the pebbled tips reflecting her arousal.

  Heat rose from within.

  She massaged the warm orbs relishing the stirring deep within her. Once again, her hands moved over her stomach, then back over her buttocks.

  She dropped to her knees before the soothing heat of the fire and ran her hands over her thighs, then between them
.

  Her body ached to be touched, but there was no one else to touch her.

  She parted the folds of her most intimate place and slid fingers along her swollen nub.

  Fire surged from her woman’s core, through her body. Her breasts swelled. Her face flushed with heat.

  She rubbed the sensitive flesh again and again. Her breath quickened, came in gasps. She fell to the carpet, her knees up, her legs spread wide. Two fingers sought further fulfillment, sliding into her private, warm, wet place. Her heart beating a rapid tattoo, she sighed in ecstasy. The heat of the fire warmed her tender skin, her fingers working their magic.

  More. She wanted more. She needed . . . more. She needed the intimacy, the passion, the climax.

  The thrills rose within her; her body started to convulse. “Robert!”

  Gasping for air, her release rolled through her. In moments, her hands fell to her sides, her legs, just seconds before taut with sexual tension, relaxed to the carpet.

  It took a while for her heart to slow, her breathing to return to normal. In some ways, she was sated. Priscilla moved to her bed and slid beneath the covers.

  In other ways, important ways, she still felt cold and empty. Alone.

  And the burden was still there.

  She would have to take drastic action if no one outside the estates were to question the birth of an heir in nine months time. She needed to leave tomorrow. She needed to get to her brother and their family lands as soon as possible.

  Thomas must still know a rake or two from his past minions to solve her dilemma. And since he would never know to what purpose he was being put to use, what would such a rake care that his seed would save the estates and lands of another, more honorable man than he? Why should he ever need know?

  With no further actions to be taken before morning, Morpheus overcame her. With exhaustion her sleeping potion, she slept deeply and dreamt, dreamt of a faceless man who would bring joy to her days and passion to her nights.

  Chapter 2

  She was tired, bone-weary in fact. The bumps in the road jostled her, her head throbbed, and her back ached. After two full days on the road she was even nearer to collapse than she was after Robert’s funeral. The inns she had patronized, because of availability not choice, were seedy and unkempt. Barely tolerable. Her sleep on the musty straw mattresses was almost nonexistent.

  But she was almost home.

  As the carriage turned into the drive, it was hard to believe it was more than five years since Priscilla had been home. Feeling the smooth graveled lane beneath the carriage, looking out the window, she could see the money, Anne’s money, had been well spent on the old Elizabethan manor house. Her brother re-graveled the drive, pruned the beeches lining it and replanted the flower beds, now brilliant with bright yellow daffodils glowing in the warm spring sunshine in the courtyard before the front door. If the interior was as well tended as the exterior, she might not even recognize her childhood home.

  Priscilla grasped the pendant at the base of her throat, feeling the facets of the small, blood-red ruby in comparison to the smooth surface of the small pearl. She worried the charm back and forth along its gold chain; the carriage drew closer to her family estate. Dare she hope her sister-in-law would be more civil to her than she was during her last visit?

  No sooner did the coach stop than a groom appeared from the stables and the front door opened to reveal Rogers. The family butler had been with them since before she was born. Thank goodness for a familiar, cordial face. His wiry body was not as spry as when he played hide and seek with her as a child. She remembered him with more hair upon his now bald pate as well.

  Time had taken its toll.

  “My lady, you are home. What a happy surprise to have you here.” Before her coachman could dismount, Rogers dropped the steps beneath the carriage door and held out his hand to help her down. She took it graciously, sharing a heart-warming smile, ignoring his gnarled knuckles, refraining from comment on his advancing years, lest she embarrass him.

  “Is his lordship with you this trip? We would be happy to see him.” Rogers would have the gossip through the house in a trice. Pulling the rose-hued shawl on her shoulders tighter over her burgundy pelisse, she concealed her true feelings as she walked toward the entry and looked up at the time-weathered edifice.

  “Thank you for your greeting, Rogers. Unfortunately, his lordship has not come with me. Is my brother at home?” She shook out her skirts, the wrinkled rose silk of her gown peeking out from beneath her coat. She headed up the front steps.

  “He is, my lady. I do believe he is in the nursery with the children.”

  “I can’t wait to see them. How big they must be and this my first visit with them.” The butler scurried behind her up the steps and through the door. She could not help but hear his rasping breath. His advancing years were not treating him too kindly.

  “I know the way, Rogers.” She stared up the marble staircase, a passage to her past. Untying the satin ribbons of her burgundy velvet bonnet, she took a moment to brush the brim before handing it off to the butler. She unbuttoned her pelisse, shrugged it from her shoulders and handed it over as well, then shook out her shawl and wrapped it back around her shoulders. She still could not get warm, despite the sunniness of the spring day. “Just have my things put in whatever room will be mine.” Despite his earnest enthusiasm, she dare not have him escort her up three flights of stairs. He might give out completely.

  “As you wish, my lady. Your room is as you left it. His lordship would have it no other way.”

  She would bet Anne was none too pleased with that.

  Priscilla stood at the nursery door. This room had changed little. The south-facing windows still washed bright yellow walls with light. One wall held a mural of vibrant fairy tale characters. Low shelves were filled with books and stuffed animals. The small table held a porcelain tea set decorated with tiny pink rosebuds she recognized and the white rocker, an antique when her nanny used it, sat in a corner ready for nap or bedtime enchantment.

  But it was the activity that fascinated.

  Anne, her pale blonde head lowered, sat upon the window seat in a demure, pale blue silk gown in the latest fashion, her legs curled beneath her. With a book in her one hand, her other arm wrapped around her two-year-old son, the image of his mother, blonde curls and pale blue eyes. Tommy looked freshly dressed in navy short pants and a crisp white shirt. Mary Beth, just four years this month, sat by Anne’s knees, hair the rich mahogany of her brother, Thomas, and his chocolate brown eyes, unlike Priscilla’s, were a family trait for generations.

  Anne looked like the perfect mother.

  And her brother, engaged in the story and the congeniality of the family tableau, leaned against the window frame dressed as the lord and gentleman he was. He had not changed a hair in the five years since she had last seen him. His trousers of buckskin fit perfectly, tucked into his Hessians, which were shined to an inch of their life. His green brocade waistcoat sported gold buttons, and peeked out from his beautifully tailored jacket, itself another flattering green.

  She did not expect this vignette upon her arrival.

  Who would have thought Anne, who always needed to be the center of attention, the focus of every eye, would be so profoundly intent on entertaining her children?

  As if sensing her presence, Thomas looked up, his clear brown eyes growing wide with astonishment.

  “My God, Anne, it’s Priscilla.” He opened his arms wide and walked toward her.

  With little hesitation, she walked into them and rested her head, at last, on the chest of someone stronger than she. As he wrapped his arms around her, she inhaled the scent of fine tobacco and horseflesh that surrounded him since he was only fourteen years old. His body heat and strength infused her cold and weary frame, and she doubted he felt or heard the s
igh of relief that escaped her lips before she could stop it.

  “What is she doing here?” Anne demanded from behind him.

  As always, the tactful welcome of her sister-in-law, Priscilla thought in disgust. Anne might look the perfect mother, but her tongue had the lash of a whip. Over the last ten years, the two times she ventured back to her family home her brother welcomed her as today, with open arms. But Anne did nothing but make her brief visits agony. She had been petty, caustic, selfish, and rude. God only knew how one who had the look of an angel, clear blue eyes, a small but voluptuous figure and blonde curls that framed a face of flawless porcelain skin, could have the temperament of a fishwife.

  Thomas pushed her gently away. “Are you all right, Pris? Is there something wrong?”

  Looking up into her brother’s face, she momentarily lost control. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Robert is . . . Robert is . . .”

  Anne’s aggravated voice interrupted her before she could get it out. “Nanny, come take the children. Priscilla is in a state and we best get her out of here before she upsets them. Please remember, also, we’ll be having guests this weekend. Keep the children in their apartments and we will come up to visit them.” Anne rose from the bench. Giving her son a warm hug then kissing him on the forehead, she handed Tommy into the arms of his nursemaid. She turned back to Mary Beth, nudged a stray strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear then kissed her on her cheek. “Go with Nanny now, my little love. Papa and I will be up to tuck you into bed later,” Anne said in an affectionate voice.