A Warriner to Tempt Her Read online

  A shy innocent...wary of all men...

  Part of The Wild Warriners

  After a shocking incident, shy Lady Isabella Beaumont is perfectly happy to stay in the background and let her sister get all the attention from handsome suitors! However, working with Dr. Joseph Warriner to help the sick and needy pushes her closer to a man than she’s ever been before. Is this man worth trusting with her deepest of desires...?

  The Wild Warriners

  Four brothers living on the edge of society...scandalizing the ton at every turn!

  Tucked away at their remote estate

  in Nottinghamshire are the ton’s

  most notorious brothers.

  The exploits of Jack, Jamie, Joe and Jacob Warriner’s parents—their father’s gambling and cheating, their mother’s tragic end—are legendary. But now, for the first time, the brothers find themselves the talk of the ton for an entirely different reason...

  Because four women are about to change their lives—and put them firmly in society’s spotlight!

  Find out what happens in

  Jack’s story

  A Warriner to Protect Her

  Jamie’s story

  A Warriner to Rescue Her

  Joe’s story

  A Warriner to Tempt Her

  All available now!

  And watch for Jacob’s story—coming soon!

  Author Note

  I used to be a history teacher and taught my students about Dr. Edward Jenner and vaccination. It’s a fascinating topic because, back then, it was controversial. Jenner was a country doctor who began to investigate the old wives’ tale surrounding the deadly disease smallpox—that those who worked with cows never caught the disease.

  He noticed that when somebody new began to work with cattle, they often caught cowpox. To humans this is a harmless disease that causes mild lethargy and an itchy rash similar to chickenpox. After years of experiments, Jenner proved that deliberately exposing people to cowpox provided lifelong immunity from smallpox. He would do this by inserting a tiny piece of cowpox matter into a small incision in the skin. Because vacca is Latin for cow, he called his lifesaving procedure vaccination.

  Smallpox was declared eradicated by the World Health Organization in 1980 thanks to the success of widespread vaccination. However, at the time, Jenner’s breakthrough was met with outright hostility. People had a problem with being given a cow disease, even if it was endorsed by Parliament. They even rioted. One of my favorite pieces of Georgian propaganda is an anti-vaccination cartoon by the satirist James Gillray, showing Jenner vaccinating people from a milk bucket, his poor, terrified patients immediately sprouting horns and udders. Although comical now, that image must have been horrific in the early nineteenth century. I always thought it would make a good story...

  Virginia Heath

  A Warriner to Tempt Her

  When Virginia Heath was a little girl, it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older, the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her forever to fall asleep...

  Books by Virginia Heath

  Harlequin Historical

  That Despicable Rogue

  The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide

  Miss Bradshaw’s Bought Betrothal

  The Wild Warriners

  A Warriner to Protect Her

  A Warriner to Rescue Her

  A Warriner to Tempt Her

  Linked by Character

  Her Enemy at the Altar

  His Mistletoe Wager

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

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  For all my former students at the Hathaway Academy

  Believe you are good enough and always follow your dreams

  Contents

  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

  Excerpt from Redeeming the Roguish Rake by Liz Tyner

  Chapter One

  July 1818

  Dr Joseph Warriner sat down behind his desk with an air of resignation. Despite today’s genuine attempt at resolve, he realised such efforts were ultimately futile. His situation was pathetic. Worse—he was pathetic. He flicked out the dented gold pocket watch he always wore secured to his sensible dark waistcoat and knew, before even looking at the dial, it was almost eight o’clock. The fact he had checked the stupid thing every two minutes for the last half an hour irritated him, as did the sorry realisation he had also been drawn to participate in this ridiculous ritual for almost a month now. Drawn like a sailor to the sirens.

  And for what? One transient dance exactly twenty-eight days ago. A few exchanged, meaningless pleasantries whilst he had stood with her other eager admirers, tossed randomly like discarded breadcrumbs to a yard full of chickens. Or like today, for a surreptitious glimpse of the cause of his torment, guiltily stolen through the heavy lace that covered the windows, when he knew, deep down, his foolish heart was once again chasing a shadow.

  The whole sorry situation was pathetic.

  Angrily, he snapped the watch closed and turned his chair towards the window and waited. Just like he had every Tuesday or Friday morning in the last few weeks, at precisely eight o’clock, the glossy black carriage turned into the square exactly on time. It was market day in Retford and she always came to shop on market day. And the fact she was always so punctual also irritated him. Just for once he wished she would be late and he would be forced to attend to his first patient of the day, whose appointment was now timed for five past the hour on market days instead of on the dot of eight as usual. Another sign of how lamentable this folly was. It would be much better to do something worthwhile rather than waste his time engaging in this pointless ritual, especially as he already had a mountain of tasks to complete today. But, no—this carriage was a creature of habit, much like its vexing occupant, and it slowed to a stop just past the window of Joe’s surgery as it always did. To torture him.

  Carefully, he moved the very edge of the curtain so that he could get a better view and watched as the footman opened the carriage door. After a few seconds, one surprisingly sensibly shod foot, with an intriguingly shapely ankle, appeared. His breath hitched.

  He had never seen her ankles before and was staggered a common formation of bones would affect him so. How many ankles had he seen in his career? Hundreds? Thousands, probably, yet the sight of hers made his heart beat faster.

  The glorious ankles was closely followed by a bonnet-covered head. Without even seeing it, he knew her golden hair would be arranged in a becoming and fashionable style, but that already several of the silky strands, the colour of which he had often considered to be the exact shade of wheat freshly harvested and kissed by the sun, would have resent being tamed
and begun escaping its pins. True to form, these would frame her bewitching face in tiny spiral curls he yearned to wind around his fingers.

  Of course, he could never do that. If he did—well, then he would probably have to remove every single pin so he could enjoy watching that mass of curls tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Especially now he had seen those ankles. He closed his eyes and savoured the fantasy for a moment.

  Lady Clarissa Beaumont.

  Joe exhaled slowly and watched her gather herself together. For a fleeting moment she turned and he saw just her cheek—perfect peaches and cream skin—but was cruelly denied the sight of her wide, almond-shaped blue eyes in a shade so glorious that it would have made even the Caribbean Sea jealous. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her plump pink lips as she smiled at the footman and a bolt of ridiculous jealousy surged through him at the innocent exchange.

  Because the delectable Clarissa, fêted society beauty, was largely ignorant of the fact he even existed. Thank heavens the ethereal Clarissa was also blissfully unaware the man currently hidden behind the curtain of his office was suffering from a terminal case of unrequited love. More painful this morning, for some reason, than it had ever been before. Probably because of those ankles, he realised. A few inches of silk-covered leg and he was already burning with lust. The lust was a new sensation. Up until today his love had been pure, the courtly kind of old and not sullied with that base, human emotion. But up until today he had been denied the sight of those magnificent ankles, so he supposed his sudden physical reaction was to be expected. What was love without passion anyway?

  She turned and his heart soared—then promptly plummeted to his toes. She was quite the wrong sister. Not Lady Clarissa Beaumont at all, charming, blonde and effervescent. But Lady Isabella Beaumont. Pretty, yes, and clearly in possession of a damn fine pair of legs, but rather a serious, unsociable individual. And very definitely a brunette. Her ruler-straight dark locks suited her dour personality. She took the basket the footman offered her, stood and regarded the marketplace with obvious disdain and strode away purposefully. Hardly a surprise when Lady Isabella did everything with purpose, whether that be blatantly reading a book during an assembly when every other girl was dancing or doing good deeds.

  Whilst she always accompanied the beautiful Clarissa on market days, until this week Joe and the scary Lady Isabella had collided only briefly. Once at the monthly assembly held in the village hall, where she was stood next to her lovely sister. For the duration of the festivities, as far as Joe could ascertain, she had worn what he suspected was a permanent expression of complete disgust, as if the provincial society of dankest Nottinghamshire was quite beneath her. Fortunately, she tended to fade into the background stood next to her sparkling sister, so Joe rarely noticed her.

  That wasn’t completely true. He always noticed her; he just wished he hadn’t. Why would he waste time staring at the darkness when he could gaze at sunshine? Yet something about those dark, serious eyes always drew him, nevertheless, and he found himself frowning. A little bewildered. A little irritated, yet oddly curious. Goodness knew why. It was almost as irritating as yearning for her unobtainable sister.

  However, since last week, he had seen Lady Isabella twice at the foundling home run by his sister-in-law Letty, so he had no choice in the matter. She was volunteering in the infirmary and watched him like a hawk whenever he visited and while he examined the young patients with such determined concentration, and such a sour expression, it made him feel as though he was not a particularly good doctor at all. It was most disconcerting. Yet she never said a word. Not one! Preferring to loiter in the doorway as he worked and then bolt the moment he turned. It was all very curious. All very odd. Much like Lady Isabella.

  If anything, Isabella was vinegar to her sister’s honey. Always so stand-offish. Devoid of any discernible sense of humour as far as he could make out. Dour. Certainly rude. Perhaps even a little intimidating. He felt his lip curl at the thought.

  He waited with bated breath for the appearance of the other Beaumont. The one his poor heart yearned to see, but alas, the footman smartly closed the carriage door and took his place at the back, forcing Joe to accept the disappointing fact he would not see the object of his unrequited affections today after all. A crushing blow when he had been so looking forward to it, even though he knew it was an exercise in futility and one which rendered him utterly pathetic. Lady Clarissa would never consider him.

  Aside from his unfortunate Warriner ancestors and the dreadful family reputation which still lingered in Retford like a bad smell, he was merely the brother to an earl with no hope of ever getting a title, what with another brother and already two robust nephews in the way. Not that Joe had ever coveted any title other than Dr, but women like Lady Clarissa were raised to care about such things. She was the daughter of the Earl of Braxton and would one day, no doubt, marry another title and live in a grand stately pile surrounded by miles and miles of her rich husband’s land. Such ladies did not marry third sons nor did they marry doctors. His job was as gruesome as it was rewarding. Sometimes he came home with his clothing covered in all manner of unmentionable things—none of which was suitable for the tender sensibilities of a lovely, well-bred woman like her.

  If he was lucky, he was able to sleep for a whole night uninterrupted. More often than not, his sleep would be disturbed by a frantic knock on the door and he would be summoned to the bedside of another patient. He got called away from social functions and dinners. He could not even guarantee he would be left in peace on Christmas Day. Not that he minded those things either. It was who he was. His vocation and he would not have it any other way, but it was a big leap of faith to expect another person to be so forgiving of the demands his career placed upon him. Especially if that person was so exquisite she could have her pick from a crop of suitors much more impressive than him.

  Mrs Patterson, his formidable housekeeper, rapped her knuckles swiftly on the other side of his consulting room door, bringing Joe unceremoniously, and blessedly, back to the present.

  ‘Dr Warriner, Mr Simmons is here for his appointment.’

  ‘Send him in, Mrs Patterson.’ Joe sat up smartly and put on the wire-rimmed spectacles he needed to read his notes. The allotted time for self-indulgent dreams was over.

  * * *

  Bella stared at the already crowded marketplace and immediately felt nauseous. Usually she made the short walk across the square with Clarissa, which meant it was not as daunting, but her sister had claimed to be ill to get out of the chore of holding Bella’s hand, so drastic times called for drastic measures. Bella could have stayed at home. But at home she would soon become bored because she found no purpose in embroidery. Filling her day with purpose took her mind off the fear and allowed her to leave the house. Purpose was making her better, or so she fervently hoped, and she had to be brave. She would conquer this fear logically. Scientifically.

  It was just a short walk to the foundling home.

  It was broad daylight.

  And nobody here meant her any harm.

  She could and would do this!

  In less than five minutes she would be safely ensconced in the infirmary. The place she had only just discovered she preferred above all others in the world.

  It was rare that she ever felt truly comfortable enough to be herself any more. Ever since the incident, as her family whisperingly called it behind her back, a huge chunk of her character had crawled deep inside her body and was too terrified to come out. Being well meaning and good-natured had been the cause of it, after all, so it was hardly any wonder Bella was reluctant to be so trusting again around a man. Or feel comfortable in crowds. Or go outside alone, for that matter, where danger lurked. Perhaps coming here unaccompanied had been foolhardy. Hasty. She should turn around and get back in the carriage...

  You are pathetic! the real her screamed. You managed to live twenty years without coming to any harm at all. You cannot let one incident dictate the way y
ou live your life.

  The voice of the real her had been becoming louder and louder for months now. A constant voice in her head which emboldened her to remain hopeful and determined. From its cave inside her soul, it parried with pithy retorts, tackled problems with a level, logical and practical head, revelled in irony, argued against idiocy whilst constantly issuing witty and sometimes hilarious comments about the world around her. That voice might not yet be strong enough to make its way up her vocal chords and out of her once-tart mouth, but it was there. Somewhere. Chivvying her on.

  Those foundlings need you. And think of all the wonderful things you are learning.

  Bella set her jaw and stared across the crowded square. Those sick foundlings did need her—she was discovering so much about medicine in the infirmary that the hours flew by. For the first time in her life she was doing something she had always yearned to do, something which would have been frowned upon in London, so she had never been able to pursue it. But sleepy Retford wasn’t London and as it was unlikely any of her parents’ society acquaintances would ever hear of it, and because her mama and papa had been delighted Bella had finally found some interest in life again, they had allowed her to volunteer.

  Gently bred young ladies were not supposed to find the study of anatomy or healing interesting, yet spending time with those children, learning about what ailed them and the best way to treat it, was one of the most rewarding things Bella had ever done. She had a sneaking suspicion it was her calling, her vocation, and that she had always been meant to be a nurse. Finally, she was putting into practice all the things she had read in the scientific journals she had always devoured like biscuits. It also gave her enough purpose that she quite forgot to be petrified for huge chunks of the day. What was that, if it was not progress? Frankly, she was counting the minutes until she could be back there, roll up her sleeves and help those poor cherubs get better.

  All she had to do was walk across this market square alone. Because Bella was tired of always being frightened and the real her was right. Living in fear smacked of surrender and she was determined never to let that bad man win.