The Lord's Second Chance

Viscount August Greyson is a rogue. What else would you call a man who's offered such an exchange? Maeve O'Connor's time for the purposes of his pleasure, each visit twice as long as the one before, all in lieu of rents due as his tenant. Moments grow to minutes, and soon, August isn't certain how much time with Maeve could ever be considered enough. All he wants, and all that he cannot have, is her. Should he declare himself knowing that their union has no hope, or only partake of her body whilst he can?

August knows he's arrogant, presumptive, condescending... but he also fears. He's dreamed of Maeve in secret for years, even knowing it could never be. Surely, he couldn't be blamed for taking advantage of her misfortunes, could he? Without August’s patronage, her family will lose their livelihood. Every moment he holds her in his arm reminds him of what could have been, and tempts him with what might be...

The ticking clock counts down their stolen moment, even as the consequences of their passion begin to grow beyond the Greyson estate. Can August and Maeve overcome a world designed to keep them apart?

A historical romance that takes readers on an emotional journey through 18th century Ireland and England, this novel will leave you breathless and dizzy in all the best ways.

“We have an understanding then.”
Lord August Grayson sneered as his prideful, bemused eyes took in her frame from tip to toe. It might as well have been his hands that catalogued her every feature, so astute was his examination.
Maeve shuddered at the thought. His hands. With that to which she had just agreed it wouldn’t be long, she supposed, until those hands and not just his eyes explored her on all sides and in all measures.
His attention turned back to her expression, no doubt noting the last threads of her hesitation dancing across her face in the form of a mouth slightly agape.
She took a quick, shallow breath, her gaze searching the floor for a divine sign, a reprieve waiting there for her and her father’s precarious situation. She and Rory, while of meager means, did not consider themselves paupers. And they certainly did not consider themselves beggars. But rent was due on their cottage, the cottage which sat on Grayson-deeded land, and there just wasn’t money to pay.
Maeve wasn’t sure what she had expected when setting out for the landlord’s middleman, the overseer of his estate who collected rents from the dozen or so tenants spread across the east shore of Middle Lake. At best, perhaps to buy some time—a month or two—until she could figure out something, anything.
When instead of the massive Irishman she sought, she crossed paths with the lord of the manor himself, she was befuddled. Stinging memories of August Grayson from ten years before remained, a mixed sack of pleasant afternoons weighted against the smoldering pain of the last moments they had spent together. They had been barely more than children then. Though she had heard of his return to Killarney several weeks prior, she had yet to catch more than a distant glimpse of him. That he should have grown to be so uncompromisingly handsome—a fine figure of a man who had never known hunger, with ebony hair and eyes greener than any Englishman had right to possess—smarted worse than his dominion over her. It would have been much easier to despise him properly if he had grown to be hefty, bald, and sickly.
Looking back up and trying to remain stoic, she could barely conceal how he unnerved her, how his return twisted her in knots. She simultaneously wanted to throw her arms around him and to whack him with the riding crop that he rolled in his hands. But she wouldn’t give him the honor of knowing he did anything to her. Ma had once said that the opposite of love wasn’t hate, it was indifference. She would strive to be indifferent now, not to give him the honor of her kindness or her hate. She would not, could not, look him in the eye. She struggled to hold on to the last thing she had still in her control—her pride.
“I understand,” Maeve returned, lifting her head ever so slightly to meet his gaze.
“Good,” he answered. “See it through, and consider your rent paid.”
Such emerald eyes were entrancing and seductive, but they could not outweigh the inhumanity of the compromise he had just offered. “I understand, but I will take no pleasure from it.”
He marched to within inches of her quivering frame, his mouth so close to her ear that she actually heard him lick his lips.
“This isn’t about your pleasure,” he reminded her, a hint of both reprimand and excitement in his voice. He chuckled softly as he backed away, sensing the effect his proximity had. “You and your father can stay in your little cottage on my property as long as you present yourself to me when summoned. Whenever, without qualification. However, because I am a gracious, God-fearing man, you may reserve Sundays for your own affairs.”
A disgusted scoff escaped Maeve’s lips as he claimed the title of God-fearing. Godless is more apt, she thought.
At a distance better suited for gauging, his hungry gaze drank her in. Her attire certainly didn’t flatter; the simple full length brown skirt and long-sleeved cotton shirt was likely as far from the glamour and glitter of British society as she could manage to achieve. Her hair lay unkempt, though not messy, and certainly did nothing to enhance the soft curvature of her chin or the understated earthen tone of her eyes.
To a peasant, beauty held as much a disadvantage as not, and Maeve had learned early in life the danger being desirable held. It was for this reason she had shunned most suitors and allowed her reputation for being disinterested in marriage endure for so long. Not taking any efforts to appear comely to the opposite sex helped as well. It was also the reason, however, that she was still unwed at the advanced age of twenty-two.
Her appearance merely confirmed the poor soil in which that flower had bloomed. Not that their poverty mattered to Grayson, Maeve knew. He only saw the Irish renting on his land as property, no better than livestock, animals to be used. And certainly, the way his eyes took measure of her now, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he called out to his stable master to prepare the brand.
“I have agreed to your terms,” the lass growled lowly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
He smiled impishly as his mischievous eyes drew to her mouth.
“We will start slowly,” he agreed, grinning. “Our first time together will last five seconds, ten the next, then twenty, and so on, doubling each time. As long as you hold up your end of our agreement, you have nothing to fear. Be warned, however, that I demand full compliance, and I’ve low tolerance for those who do not value my time. And we do not start tomorrow, Miss O’Connor.”
She cast him a curious glare.
“We will start now, as a way to seal our deal in good faith.”