From New York Times bestselling author Susan Johnson comes a tantalizing new novel of hidden secrets and passionate desires…

Hugh D’Abernon, Marquis of Darley, was in Sevastopol for one reason only: to reconnoiter the town for the British Secret Service. So if he encounters a woman of unparalleled beauty in need of his help, he will do his duty and smartly escort her back to town—then continue on his way. He will not consider being diverted from the task at hand. No matter how tempting the lady…

Aurore Clement was unaccustomed to being so susceptible to a man’s good looks. From afar, it was simple enough to be prudent, but in close proximity to this handsome Tatar, it was quite a different matter. She would have to keep her distance and focus on more important concerns—like her work with the French command and caring for her wounded brother, a soldier with French forces.

But Hugh and Aurore both have reasons for wanting to escape the reality of this fearsome war. And when the two meet again, there is no stopping the fierce passion that ignites between them...

The Crimea, February 1855

On a cold, frosty morning just outside Sevastopol, Hugh D’Abernon, Marquis of Darley, rode over the crest of a hill and saw her for the first time. She was standing beside a green lacquered carriage, holding up the hem of her sable coat to keep it out of the mud, watching her servant shoveling the muck away from one of the carriage wheels—or what once had been a wheel. It was shattered beyond repair.

Her red-gold hair gleamed in the sunlight, and even from ten yards away, her beauty was striking. Not that lovely ladies were of particular interest to him at the moment; he had an assignment to complete. But he had to admit in this theater of war a woman of her stamp was rare and, by definition, memorable. She was some noble’s wife, no doubt. Some very rich noble. That sable coat she wore was fashioned from the rarest and most costly golden pelts.

Moments later as he neared the carriage that had apparently bottomed out in one of the wretched holes on the nearly impassable road, he drew his horse to a halt. Even more stunning at close range, she looked vastly out of place in this muddy wasteland—a beautiful, sloe-eyed Della Robbia Madonna far from the Medici. But rather than voice his thoughts, he doffed his wolfskin hat and said, politely, “May I offer you a ride into town?” He spoke in French—the language of the upper classes in Russia.

She’d been watching him for the past few minutes, having turned at the sound of approaching horses. “Thank you, I would appreciate a ride.” She too spoke in French, although she could have answered him in Tatar as well—in the event that was his native tongue. The large, dark-haired man had the swarthy skin and aquiline features of the local populace. He was also dressed like a Tatar, but his fluent French suggested his choice of clothing could have more to do with the weather than his heritage. “The roads are worse than usual after last week’s thaw,” she offered with a smile, speaking the Tatar dialect of the region, testing his authenticity. These were dangerous times, and she was involved in dangerous undertakings; trust no one had become her motto. “Ibrahim warned me about making the trek today.” She shrugged faintly. “And as you see . . .”

“No doubt Ibrahim didn’t wish to argue the point with you. A lady is always right, is she not?” Hugh replied with a small smile, his Tatar as impeccable as hers. He raised one brow slightly. “Do I pass muster?”

She smiled back—a mannered smile that gave nothing away. “One acquires a certain wariness,” she said, reverting to French, “with opposing armies in the field.”

“Very sensible of you. Personally, I wish nations wouldn’t go to war on such flimsy pretexts, but then”—he shrugged— “nobody asked me. In the meantime, since we are caught in the middle of this dubious endeavor, allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed faintly from the saddle. “Gazi Maksoud from points east,” he lied.

She dipped her head, her hands still occupied with keeping her coat out of the mud. “I am Aurore Clement from Alupka.” “A neighbor of Prince Woronzov, then.”

“Yes. My estate borders his.”

She didn’t say my husband’s estate or my father’s or brother’s. He found himself oddly curious about her when in all his years of wandering the globe, he’d never been inclined to question anything more than a female’s availability. Was it because he was bone tired from having gone without sleep for days? Had he been living rough too long? Perhaps it was nothing more than the sight of a lush woman that suddenly conjured up pleasurable thoughts of clean sheets, soft beds and softer flesh.

Wrenched from delectable fantasy by the brisk cadence of her voice, he returned to the stark reality of a chill wind and mud as far as the eye could see.

“Ibrahim, carry out that case of wine, then wait here with our supplies. I’ll send out someone with a new wheel as quickly as possible.” Turning to Hugh, she added, “You don’t mind transporting my wine, do you?” Aurore glanced at the string of pack horses behind him, led by two Tatars.

“No, of course not. Let me carry you over this bog.” Dismounting, Darley plowed through the mud toward her. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a side saddle.”

“It’s of no regard. I’ve ridden astride most of my life.”

He must be more tired than he thought; his brain was interpreting her response as double entendre. A lovely image though—her riding him. It almost made him forget this senseless war and the fact that he hadn’t had a hot bath for a week.

“I apologize for my stench,” he murmured, half lifting his hand in demur as he approached her. “We’ve come down from Perekop without stopping.”

“You needn’t apologize. The superficialities of society hardly apply in these grievous times. In fact, after having visited the hospitals in Sevastopol, one realizes how trivial politesse is in the face of such human suffering.”

“A harrowing sight, is it not?” He always distributed a portion of his provisions to the hospitals, his charity extending to the common soldier regardless of their allegiance.

“Indeed. My brother lies in hospital in Sevastopol.”

From Romantic Times, March 2008 issue:

AT HER SERVICE
Susan Johnson
HOT
SETTING: 1855 Crimea, Paris & London

This adventure-packed tale overflows with the heated sensuality that’s Johnson’s hallmark. Her fans will be Thrilled to find a hero who’s reminiscent of her fabled “Russians” and a strong-willed heroine. This is what we read Johnson for.

SUMMARY: While war rages around them, British agent Hugh D’Abernon, the Marquis of Darley, meets Aurore Clement as she travels to Sevastapol to bring her wounded brother home. She’s on mission to secure information for the French.

Darley tells Aurore that he’s Gazi Maksound, a trader. Their attraction is immediate, and when the opportunity arises, they seize it and make love all night. But when they’re caught spying, they must run for their lives. Temporarily safe in Paris, Darley is haunted by the past. He’ll have to learn to trust in his feelings for Aurore if he wants to find happiness. (BRAVA, Mar., 320 pp., $15.00)

Jill Brager