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The Viscount and The Virgin
Valerie Parv
SHE WAS A VIRGINKirsten Bond was a mother by virtue of adopting her late sister's child. No one knew Jeffrey wasn't really hers and she vowed never to reveal that his father was actually Rowe Sevrin, Viscount Aragon. But then she was assigned to work with the handsome viscount and she found herself falling for the enemy….AND A MOTHERRowe was puzzled by the flame-haired beauty's mixture of innocence and passion. As a mother, how could she be as inexperienced as she seemed? Nor could he deny the bond that immediately formed between him and Jeffrey–or his striking resemblance to the boy. Still, Rowe knew he never could have forgotten a woman like Kirsten…or could he?
“You can’t deny you wanted me to touch you,” Rowe said.
His look made desire claw at her, tempting her anew. “I did want it, but I shouldn’t have,” Kirsten replied.
“Why not? Neither of us is married.” His glare intensified. “You’re not committed to anyone, are you? Is it Jeffrey’s father?”
The truth must have been reflected in her gaze because Rowe’s expression softened. “I should have thought of that before. Did he hurt you badly?”
Choosing her words with care, she said, “Jeffrey’s father never loved me.”
“And you didn’t find out until you were pregnant?” His long fingers tightened their grip. “I would never do such a thing to you, Kirsten.”
The savage intensity in his assertion made it difficult to remember that it was exactly what he had done to her sister.
Dear Reader,
October is bringing big changes in the Silhouette and Mills & Boon worlds. To strengthen the terrific lineup of stories we offer, Silhouette Romance will be moving to four fabulous titles each month.
Don’t miss the newest story in this six-book series—MARRYING THE BOSS’S DAUGHTER. In this second title, Her Pregnant Agenda (#1690) by Linda Goodnight, Emily Winters is up to her old matchmaking tricks. This time she has a bachelor lawyer and his alluring secretary—a single mom-to-be—on her matrimonial short list.
Valerie Parv launches her newest three-book miniseries, THE CARRAMER TRUST, with The Viscount & the Virgin (#1691). In it, an arrogant royal learns a thing or two about love from his secret son’s sassy aunt. This is the third continuation of Parv’s beloved Carramer saga.
An ornery M.D. is in danger of losing his heart to a sweet young nurse, in The Most Eligible Doctor (#1692) by reader favorite Karen Rose Smith. And is it possible to love a two-in-one cowboy? Meet the feisty teacher who does, in Doris Rangel’s magical Marlie’s Mystery Man (#1693), our latest SOULMATES title.
I encourage you to sample all four of these heartwarming romantic titles from Silhouette Romance this month.
Enjoy!
Mavis C. Allen
Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance
The Viscount & the Virgin
Valerie Parv
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To David and Judy,
Carramer citizens by right of friendship.
Books by Valerie Parv
Silhouette Romance
The Leopard Tree #507
The Billionaire’s Baby Chase #1270
Baby Wishes and Bachelor Kisses #1313
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Monarch’s Son #1459
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Prince’s Bride-To-Be #1465
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Princess’s Proposal #1471
Booties and the Beast #1501
Code Name: Prince #1516
† (#litres_trial_promo)Crowns and a Cradle #1621
† (#litres_trial_promo)The Baron & the Bodyguard #1627
† (#litres_trial_promo)The Marquis and the Mother-To-Be #1633
†† (#litres_trial_promo)The Viscount & the Virgin #1691
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Interrupted Lullaby #1095
Royal Spy #1154
VALERIE PARV
lives and breathes romance and has even written a guide to being romantic, crediting her cartoonist husband of nearly thirty years as her inspiration. As a former buffalo and crocodile hunter in Australia’s Northern Territory, he’s ready-made hero material, she says.
When not writing her novels and nonfiction books, or speaking about romance on Australian radio and television, Valerie enjoys dollhouses, being a Star Trek fan and playing with food (in cooking that is). Valerie agrees with actor Nichelle Nichols, who said, “The difference between fantasy and fact is that fantasy simply hasn’t happened yet.”
Contents
Chapter One (#u1be834eb-1d78-5478-89f8-47744482ff8a)
Chapter Two (#u18314802-c6ca-518f-b11c-1b0ad2b2fa86)
Chapter Three (#u813ca802-1a04-5f42-9846-96fd9d17334a)
Chapter Four (#u933a6b64-70e3-5221-926a-11d28497be9a)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Kirsten Bond took a deep breath, tried to ignore the complaints her feet were making about the new shoes she had foolishly chosen to wear, and smiled broadly at the group clustered around her. This was the last tour of the day. As soon as it ended, she would close the door of her office, kick off the shoes and reward herself with a cool drink, she promised herself. She sneaked a glance at her watch. Only fifteen minutes to go.
She resisted the urge to groan aloud. Served her right for being seduced by five-inch heels and teensy black ankle straps that the sales person had assured her made her legs look fabulous. At five foot three, she wanted all the help the heels could provide, and had bought the shoes on impulse. She should have had the sense to break them in at home before wearing them to her job at the castle, where she was on her feet for a good part of the day.
Nevertheless, she was managing, managing, that is, until a tall, good-looking man attached himself to the back of the group. Of itself, there was nothing wrong with him choosing to participate. Tours of Merrisand Castle were free and people often joined in after the start if they’d arrived late. Normally Kirsten nodded a welcome and kept on describing the castle and its wonderful art treasures. The collection belonged to the Carramer royal family, but Kirsten, as enthusiastic as the most ardent collector, looked on the beautiful objects almost as her own.
With the arrival of this particular newcomer, her normally fluent spiel faltered and she felt her mouth go dry. What was Romain Sevrin doing here? He never came to the castle, or she wouldn’t have risked taking a job here. The last time she’d seen him on television, he was driving ridiculously fast cars around the racing circuits of Europe, collecting trophies at about the same rate as he collected supermodels.
The attraction wasn’t hard to see. Romain, or Rowe as he was usually called, was a little over six feet tall with the dark coloring, brooding good looks and thick glossy hair shared by many male members of the royal family. The gaze he directed at her was a brilliant sea-green under lush dark lashes. When he turned his head slightly, he displayed an aristocratic profile that wouldn’t have been out of place on a classical sculpture.
She, on the other hand, did not have the sort of supermodel beauty to deserve his steady scrutiny, a scrutiny that made her feel as if he was committing her features to memory. Apart from being only average height, she had shoulder-length red hair shot through with gold highlights so it looked like dancing flames. Left to itself, it curled in all directions, so she usually wore it caught by a clasp at her nape, although a few tendrils invariably escaped to make her features look even finer-boned than they were. Large, silver-gray eyes completed a picture she would willingly have exchanged for blond hair and blue eyes any day.
According to her friends, her temper was the equal of her fiery hair although she was sure this was an exaggeration. Well, maybe she was just a little quick-tempered, but she didn’t have the hair-trigger temper usually thought to go with being a redhead. If she had, she would have demanded to know what Romain Sevrin wanted.
He rarely used his title, but as Viscount Aragon, he surely had no need to tag along, listening to her describe works of art he must have grown up around. And he certainly had no need to look at her with such blatant interest. He made her feel as if she, and not her commentary, was the focus of his attention.
She shifted from one foot to the other, eliciting a fresh wave of complaint from her poor feet. This time she barely noticed. She was too busy dealing with the primitive emotions his inspection stirred within her.
Suddenly she was aware of every throbbing beat of her pulse, and the air in the baronial hall, temperature-controlled to protect the valuable contents, felt stiflingly hot. She resisted the urge to mop her brow, sure that the perception was as much a fantasy as her interpretation of his gaze. What was he doing here?
One of the visitors claimed her attention. “Does the legend apply only to members of the royal family?”
With Rowe listening intently, Kirsten wished she had left out her usual mention of the Merrisand legend. Too late now. She cleared her throat. “The legend says that anyone who serves the Merrisand Trust will be rewarded by finding true love, so it doesn’t only apply to royalty.”
Rowe looked distinctly interested in the subject. She avoided his eyes, recognizing another man in the group. “How large is the Merrisand estate?” the man, an American, asked.
Hoping her relief at the change of subject wasn’t too obvious, she turned her attention to the questioner, although awareness of the viscount hovered at the fringe of her consciousness. She could even smell traces of his aftershave lotion, something foresty and fresh, and utterly masculine.
She really was imagining things, she told herself as she gathered her thoughts. The room they were in had thirty-foot ceilings and walls a dozen yards apart. Any lingering scent should quickly dissipate in this space.
All the same, she could smell a woodsy fragrance that hadn’t been present until Rowe arrived. When he’d opened the great double doors to let himself in, the aroma had probably drifted in on the breeze from the forest surrounding the castle. Or so she tried to convince herself. It didn’t explain why her every sense felt magnified in his presence.
She cleared her throat. “When the castle was built in 1879, the original estate granted to Honorе de Marigny, the first Marquis of Merrisand, consisted of about two thousand acres of hill, forest and small tenant farms. Over the years the land has been expanded to about eight thousand acres, including a sanctuary planted with trees to provide breeding grounds for the native sun deer, the faunal emblem of Carramer.” Honorе would have been Romain’s great-great-grandfather, her one-track mind insisted on supplying.
The questioner nodded thoughtfully, digesting the information. A teenage girl raised her hand. “How do you get a job working in the castle?”
It was a fairly common question. “Merrisand Castle is like a city on a small scale, with career opportunities in everything from land management and animal husbandry to historical research and media. It’s best to qualify in your area of interest first, then ask the controller of staff to advise you if an opening arises in your field.”
“Did you always want to be a tour guide?” a resonant voice asked.
Without looking, she knew that it belonged to Rowe Sevrin. She directed her answer to the group, although her voice came out annoyingly husky. “I’m not strictly a tour guide, although like many of the staff, I conduct tours when needed. My title is art curator to the Merrisand Trust. I studied fine arts at university, majoring in the conservation of cultural materials, and interned at the castle while I was studying. When a job became available looking after the royal collections, I applied and was accepted.”
“Just like that,” he drawled.
She met his gaze directly this time, well aware of some cat-and-mouse game taking place. But why? And how had she become cast in the role of mouse? She decided that the best defense was offense. “Is there a problem, Viscount Aragon?”
As she had intended, her use of his title caused a stir within the group. Murmuring, they turned to regard Rowe curiously. His frown deepened, his face taking on the look of the sky before a thunderstorm. Determinedly, she sailed on. “Ladies and gentlemen, since we have the rare privilege of having the viscount among us, perhaps you have questions you’d like to ask him. I’m sure you’ll be happy to answer them, won’t you, Your Lordship?
Too late and too bad if he didn’t, she thought as he shot her a glare that would have melted ice. If he didn’t want to be recognized, he shouldn’t have joined the group and thrown her off stride. Just how he could have done so with such ease, she wasn’t sure. For now she had turned the tables and he was the one on the defensive.
“I’ll be delighted,” he said smoothly, his honeyed tone belying his thunderous expression. The gaze he shot at her plainly said, Later, for you.
She swallowed hard, wondering what she had unleashed, and why she’d felt so moved to challenge him. Normally if members of the royal family appeared while she was giving a talk, she accorded them their privacy unless they made it obvious that they wished to contribute. Why had she felt the need to assert herself with him?
The members of the group had no such concerns. When the time came to end the tour, they were still besieging him with questions. One or two of the younger visitors had asked him to autograph their guide books. As Rowe Sevrin, former champion Formula One racing driver, or Viscount Aragon? she wondered. She debated whether to leave him to it, but her conscience wouldn’t permit it. She already felt badly for dragging him into the spotlight. No matter how she felt about him, she had no right to subject him to such an ordeal. She resolved to tell him so as soon as the group had gone.
“I’m sure we’re all grateful for the time Viscount Aragon has spent with us, but we mustn’t monopolize him any longer. Some of you have transportation waiting for you at the east gate, so please join me in showing your appreciation before you leave.”
Thanks to the splendid acoustics in the hall, the applause she initiated echoed for some minutes. With a smile and a salute, the viscount swung around and started to walk away. As he passed Kirsten, he said in lowered tones close to her ear, “Report to me in the curator’s office as soon as you’re finished here.”
The summons was hardly a surprise after what she’d done, but she found it hard to keep her composure as she saw the group off. Rowe was a member of the board of the Merrisand Trust. Although he didn’t attend board meetings, technically he was her superior.
He probably intended to reprimand her for drawing attention to his presence in the group, and she knew it was no more than she deserved. She had her own issues with the viscount, but they were personal, and in no way excused her unprofessional behavior.
As she returned her portable microphone and the notes she rarely needed to her office, her mind spun back to the first time she’d heard of Rowe Sevrin. She’d been an intern at the castle, struggling to master her chosen profession while trying to keep her wayward teenage sister on the straight and narrow.
Neither had been easy, but she had no notion of how badly she was failing until Natalie came home and announced that she was pregnant.
Kirsten knew Nat had been frequenting the car races at nearby Angel Falls, where a leg of the international Grand Prix was being held. Kirsten had decided her sister’s interest was harmless and would wear off more quickly if she ignored it than if she made a fuss. Nat had never suggested that she was involved with anyone connected with the race.
“You’d better tell me what happened,” she’d said weakly, struggling to hold back the condemnation that hovered on her lips. Since their parents’ deaths two years before when Kirsten was twenty, she had feared alienating Natalie by being too bossy. Maybe if she’d laid firmer ground rules, this wouldn’t have happened.
It was too late by then. Natalie had confessed that the father of her child was the racing driver Rowe Sevrin. Kirsten had been fairly sure this was nonsense. What would a sophisticated man like Sevrin, a member of the royal family, to boot, see in a teenager like Natalie?
Only by making herself see her sister objectively had Kirsten realized how oblivious she’d been. Natalie might have been young in age, but she had grown up quickly since losing their parents. She’d dressed, spoken and acted much older than her years, and had had a coquettish way that was bound to attract men.
Even Rowe Sevrin? Kirsten had finally conceded that Natalie had no reason to lie to her and so had developed a powerful anger toward the viscount for his role in the affair. Even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two himself at the time, he should have taken more care. For although Natalie looked womanly and was legally an adult, she was still a vulnerable innocent, grieving for her parents.
Natalie had thrown a tantrum worthy of baby Jeffrey when Kirsten suggested she telephone the viscount. “Most women would be eager to be involved with a member of the royal family,” Kirsten had said by way of encouragement.
Natalie’s response had been totally unexpected. “Most women wouldn’t have given him a false name and told him they were on the pill.”
