Wicked by Design - blog tour

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Wicked by Designby Katy Moran

About the book

1819.

CORNWALL.
Four women sit in the candlelit drawing-room at Nansmornow, an ancient Cornish manor house. The air is thick with unspoken suspicion and secret malice. As Hester Lamorna pours tea for her three guests, she has no idea one of them is about to rock her new marriage to its very foundations.

ST PETERSBURG.
Half a world away, Hester's impossible and charmismatic husband, Jack 'Crow' Crowlas, will be caught up in a chess game of sexual manipulation, played out across the sumptuous ballrooms of St Petersburg. All Hester and Crow hold most dear will be tested to the limit and beyond: their love for each other and their child, and for Crow, the loyalty of his only brother.

EXTRACT

Emily’s smile froze. ‘Well, it’s hardly our place to understand the complexities of commerce. I can’t hope to have an informed opinion on such issues, although with your background, my dear, I do appreciate that matters might be quite otherwise.’ She spoke as if trade were akin to the procurement of prostitutes. Had Emily confused Hester’s father’s naval career with that of a merchant seaman? Or did she allude to the fact that he himself had once been traded as cargo? Emily had been speaking French, so continued her sentence even as Mr Hughes opened the double doors, resplendent in his sober butler’s garb, and then Hester’s husband, Lord Lamorna, came into the drawing-room. He’d long since shelved the title Viscount Crowlas in favour of his dead father’s ancient name, but those who knew him well still called him Crow. He wore a white shirt and a jacket of midnight-blue superfine, silencing all feminine chatter with his presence alone, with his black hair in its perpetual state of disarray, those lashes always so very dark against such white skin, and his pale, oyster-grey eyes gifted with the ability to privately communicate his quite disreputable intentions without the need for so much as a word.

‘You women have outlasted us,’ Crow said, with a slight bow to Emily, Dorothea and Lady Mulgrave. ‘Castlereagh and Mulgrave have just gone up to bed. I go too, my lady.’ He stood just close enough that he would not shame Hester with his touch in public as though she were his concubine and not his wife, and Hester longed for the moment she could reach for him beneath the crisp linen sheets, aired and lavender scented; knowing it, he gave her one of his quick smiles, all the more precious for their rarity.

‘Well, really, Lamorna,’ Lady Mulgrave said, laying down her netting at last. ‘Are we not to drink our tea before you summon your wife to bed? I’m appalled at such medieval behaviour, even if I am surprised to see it among your mealy-mouthed generation.’

‘Drink all the tea you wish, ma’am, but I’m going to bolt the door,’ Crow said; he wasn’t one to wither before a woman who was old, white and rich enough to be just as outrageous as she pleased. With another smile, Crow bowed and went out, and Mr Hughes remained entirely expressionless as he closed the doors behind him, leaving the four women alone in their enclave once more.

‘Dear me, what a disgracefully beautiful young man he is,’ Lady Mulgrave went on, as if she were discussing new curtains for the breakfast-parlour. ‘They’re always the worst.’

Emily smiled from the depths of the Queen Anne chair. ‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘we all think you’re being so amazingly dignified about it, darling Hester.’

With considerable effort, Hester stopped the honey-spoon rattling against the inside of her teacup. ‘Dignified about what?’

‘Emily, is this really the moment?’ Dorothea said quickly, glancing away from her letter.

Lady Mulgrave spoke without looking up from her netting. ‘Is there ever a good moment?’

Taking that as her invitation, Emily treated Hester to her most condescending smile. ‘Oh, Hester, I do admire you for treating the entire affair with the contempt it deserves. In my view, Lord Burford’s so-called daughter ought to be sent to some quiet place in the country and forgotten about.’

Hester fought for breath. It was an open secret that Lady Burford had once been not only her husband’s stepmother but also his mistress.

Lady Mulgrave stirred a spoonful of honey into her own tea, which by judicious application from a small flask in her reticule was at this point was mostly brandy, anyway. ‘Oh, don’t bore us with Louisa and her supposed seven-months child, Emily. Burford’s mother says the man is a damned fool, and so he is. The girl must be well above a year old by now, and may survive. I shouldn’t wonder they’ll bring it to town so that some nursemaid might parade Louisa’s downright cheek through the park.’

Hester held the milk jug in both hands, staring at the creamy yellow milk. Her seven-months child. And over a year old? A child who could then be Crow’s: that’s what they were saying. That’s what they meant, and to share the gossip so publicly was to humiliate her, to put her in her place. Hester’s eyes burned: it took every last shred of willpower not to let tears gather.

About the author

Katy Moran is a Carnegie nominated author, she write high-octane Regency romance, which include, muskets, gunpowder, Cornwall and Russia. She writes that when she is inspired by a new place ‘Regency England, Cornwall, Russia, the ancient palace of Fontainebleau — I want to actually be there. I want to take you there too, in the company of complex characters that you will fall a little (or a lot) in love with on the way.’

Follow Katy:  

Twitter: @KatyjaMoran

Buy links:

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Kobo: https://bit.ly/2Kv8Qo3

iBooks: https://apple.co/2YK1DsX

Google Play: https://bit.ly/2YK1CoT

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