Beauty Like The Night - Softcover

Carlyle, Liz

3.76

1,801 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743410548 ISBN 13: 9780743410540

Publisher: Pocket Books, 2000

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Beauty is like the night, fleeting and hard to hold, a truth the forbidding Lord Treyhern is about to discover. Let the opulence of Liz Carlyle's prose immerse you in the beauty of England while plunging you into the midst of the outrageous Rutledge family, where scandal is served up like a soup course and dangerous secrets are everywhere.

The daughter of London's wickedest widow, Helene de Severs has struggled to overcome her heritage. Renowned within Europe's emerging psychiatric field, Helene has a gift for healing children. When fate sends her back to England, the country she left in disgrace, Helene is confident she has learned to govern her own reckless emotions.

Ruthlessly, Treyhern has dragged his notorious family from the brink of ruin. But a disastrous marriage has left him with a traumatized child, and his rebellious brother is just one step ahead of the bailiffs. When his dissolute father drops dead while debauching the governess, Treyhern's infamous temper is truly tested.

But the forceful earl means to straighten everyone out -- as soon as he has hired a reputable governess. Yet the moment she steps from his carriage, Treyhern's cold reserve is melted by a rush of desire he had long thought dead. With her elegant clothing and mountain of luggage, the woman is not who he expected. Or is she? Sometimes the workings of the mind are as dangerous as those of the heart. And soon, danger is truly everywhere...

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About the Author:

During her frequent travels through England, Liz Carlyle always packs her pearls, her dancing slippers, and her whalebone corset, confident in the belief that eventually she will receive an invitation to a ball or a rout. Alas, none has been forthcoming. While waiting, however, she has managed to learn where all the damp, dark alleys and low public houses can be found.

Liz hopes she has brought just a little of the nineteenth century alive for the reader in her popular novels, which include the trilogy of One Little Sin, Two Little Lies, and Three Little Secrets, as well as The Devil You Know, A Deal With the Devil, and The Devil to Pay. Please visit her at www.lizcarlyle.com, especially if you're giving a ball.

Chapter One: Miss Middleton goes Home to Gloucestershire

The newly invested Earl of Treyhern stood at his bedroom window, absently sipping tepid coffee, and pondering the state of his life, when his black traveling coach spun merrily into the long drive, returning from its errand in the nearby village of Cheston. An ancient dray, which the earl did not recognize, rumbled along in the coach's wake. Lord Treyhern gazed wearily across the perfectly manicured lawns of Chalcote Court, watching as the faint November daylight reflected off the carriage roof, and wondering what next he ought to do.

He did not care for life's uncertainties, for he was a precise, controlling sort of man. And yet, the preceding month had been a difficult one; harder somehow than he had expected. It had brought home to him the stark realization that while his father's death had removed an undeniable burden from his life, it had been by no means the only one.

Indeed, following the sudden departure of her most recent -- albeit incompetent -- governess, Ariane had crawled ever deeper into her dark silence, and he was at a loss as to what should be done for the child. In all of his twenty-nine years, the earl had never felt so alone, nor so old.

As his valet moved quietly about, neatening his room, Camden studied the carriage, its yellow wheels spinning inexorably toward the front door as it trundled beneath the blazing oaks which lined the drive. And as his eyes followed its progress, Cam began to fervently pray that it held at least a part of what his life so desperately needed right now. Oddly enough, he had the most fanciful feeling that it did, and he was not a man much given to optimism or prognostication.

He could hear the crunch of gravel as his coachman neared the steps which led down into the sweeping circular drive. In a flash, a liveried footman trotted dutifully down to open the door, a second following to unload the luggage. Through the open carriage door, Cam saw an arm extend gracefully; saw the flash of white skin just where her cuff met her glove. Surprisingly, both sleeve and glove were a deep, rich shade of purple, like a well-cut amethyst viewed by candlelight. Subdued, but nonetheless opulent.

At a glance, neither her attire nor her bearing looked quite like that of a governess, and yet, Cam could not have said precisely why that was so. She stepped down into the drive, her burnished black tresses swept tightly up in what Cam always thought of as "governess hair." But once again, on this woman, the arrangement looked strangely paradoxical, particularly so when topped by a dark purple hat, trimmed with a rakishly tilted black feather.

The footmen were unloading her luggage now as she stood beside the dray, gesturing her instructions to them in a decidedly bold, Gallic way. Good God! Had the woman come to stay forever? A veritable heap of boxes and trunks seemed to be accumulating in his driveway. Cam was taken aback; he had never known a governess to own so many things, let alone to travel with them.

Somehow, it seemed inappropriate. This was the country, and she would have little need of such fripperies and fineries, if that was what her luggage held. Indeed, what else could it be? Cam recollected that Miss de Severs's decidedly French name had initially given him pause when Brightsmith recommended her. Perhaps his hesitation had been justified. What Cam had wanted was a sturdy, stoic Englishwoman, yet as the pile of baggage grew, he began to be very much afraid that was not at all what he'd got.

Damn his luck to hell.

"Crane!" the earl called sharply to the valet who was busily brushing his frock coat. "What sort of luggage do you make that out to be, eh?"

The portly valet stepped up to the glass and peered down at the drive. "Well, my lord...'tis mostly packing crates, I should say. Four o' them." He squinted mightily. "Aye, with two trunks, a dressing case, a small leather valise, and a portmanteau. All trussed up with a length of rope, that one is."

"Good eye," mumbled Lord Treyhern. His gaze left the mountain of luggage to study his new employee. He could not help himself; Helene de Severs was fascinating, even at a distance. She was a tall woman, yet she moved across the drive with an almost athletic grace. Not the mincing steps and rigid hips of most women, but a leggy, confident stride, her shoulders back, and her chin up.

Her cloak was of the severest black, her gown suitably trimmed for a house in mourning, and yet she seemed to glow with inner radiance. He could not help but wonder at the color of her eyes. Something exotic, most likely.

Then, just as Cam lifted the lukewarm cup to his lips, the new governess looked up to smile beatifically at the helpful footman, and Cam sucked in his breath with an audible gasp, very nearly choking on his coffee.

Bloody hell, it was Helene!

Not Helene de Severs. Helene Middleton. What the devil was she doing here? Despite the passage of eleven barren years, and the utter destruction of all his youthful fantasies, Cam truly believed that he would have known her anywhere. His first thought was that his elderly coachman had taken up the wrong passenger; that somewhere in the dust and disorder of the Rose and Crown stood a bewildered and abandoned governess. The real governess. A plain, sensible, middle-aged woman in proper, wrenlike attire. But there was no mistake. He knew it with a certainty.

Dear God! Cam had prayed hard for a miracle, advertised repeatedly for a governess, and yet what had the Good Lord and old Brightsmith conspired to send him? Helene! The unusual name had immediately drawn his eye when first he had skimmed her letter of introduction, the very sight of the word submerging him in warm memories of his nascent sensuality. Inexplicably, he had not slept well since. Perhaps his subconscious had held fast to those same memories this sen'night past. Perhaps he had even been hoping to see her.

Hoping?

Oh no. He had hoped never to see Helene Middleton again.

Helene found herself ushered into a vast but simply furnished gentleman's study, then offered refreshment, which she summarily declined. Left alone to await his lordship's pleasure, she cast her eyes about the room, taking in its obviously masculine warmth. In one corner, a fat ginger tabby snoozed peacefully, her impressive breadth taking up the better part of a stout leather armchair, one white foot hanging over the edge.

"Ah, le chat bott�," murmured Helene, kneeling down. "Bonjour!"

The desultory cat greeted her with a wide, toothy yawn, extended one leg in a tremulous stretch, then returned to her nap, leaving Helene to her own devices. She strolled through the room, which was broad and deep, and filled with sturdy, simple furniture. This was a room she had never seen before, of that she was certain. More of a library, really, for a huge desk sat in its center, and massive bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling along three walls. In the center of the rear wall was a deep, Jacobean window with a tattered cushion laid across its seat.

It was the first tattered thing she had seen at Chalcote Court, beginning with the elegant stone gateposts which flanked the drive, to the obviously new Turkish carpets which warmed the massive entry hall. Quite a contrast to the crumbling manor house she remembered from her youth. Obviously, the new Lord Treyhern had gotten the whip hand on his dissolute sire before the place collapsed into the pile of Cotswold rubble from whence it had sprung.

Helene's gaze traveled across the walls as she paced the room's length. Books of every type were methodically shelved, apparently by subject, then size. Adjacent to the window seat, one entire bookcase had been given over to poetry, some of it of very recent origin. She pulled a well-worn volume from one shelf, and it fell easily open. To her surprise, the poem was one of her favorites, "Beauty Like the Night" by Lord Byron.

Thoughtfully, she slid it back and let her eyes skim across the titles. How very odd it was. The late, and probably not too lamented Randolph Rutledge had never given the impression of having literary inclinations. But then, if Helene's memory served, his lordship had inherited Chalcote Court from his Camden in-laws, hence his eldest son's name. Perhaps these finely bound books were theirs? Perhaps they were even Cam's.

Inwardly, Helene laughed at her foolishness. Of course, they were Cam's. The new Lord Treyhe...

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