Spotlight on The Knight Falls First
The Knight Falls First is volume 7 in the Ladies Least Likely, a series of romances set in Georgian Britain featuring ambitious, determined women and the heroes who win their hearts. Knight is the sequel to the first book in the series, Viscount Overboard, and continues where that book ends.
The Knight Falls FirstAnne Sutton has the beauty and breeding to make a gentleman’s wife, but not the dowry. When her parents offer her to the vile Calvin Vaughn, Anne does something a gentleman’s daughter would never do: she decides to ruin herself. And the best means at hand is Calvin’s prodigal older brother, Hew, lately returned from war.
Hewitt Vaughn is either the hero of Acre or under a cloud of disgrace—he’s yet to find out which. He’s home to recover from his wounds and take charge of the family estates; stealing his brother’s fiancée is decidedly not a way to redeem himself. But when the lovely, desperate Anne entreats Hew’s help, how can he, as a man of honor, deny her?
When Anne’s plan spectacularly backfires, the only solution is a forced marriage—to each other. But as she makes a home in Newport, Anne wonders if Hewitt Vaughn is the smartest mistake she ever made. And Anne might be the future he never dreamed he could have, but to win her, Hew has to persuade her he would have chosen her anyway—and he’ll have to defeat the dangerous enemy who wants to take everything from them, including one another.
The newcomer drew in a breath as the surge of voices rose to an excited babble. His gaze went to the hall leading to the refectory. “It’s time for the reckoning,” he said.
This ought to prove interesting. Anne wanted to see the impression this stranger made. More than that, she wanted to watch him a bit longer. He grew more prepossessing the more one looked at him, more discoveries to acknowledge and appreciate. There was something not quite right in the way he moved, though she couldn’t define what it was, and at any rate, as she turned toward the refectory, he was behind her. Hair prickled all over her scalp.
Why should she be so very conscious of his eyes on her, perceiving the cut of her gown, the drape of her shawl over her arms? She put a deliberate sway in her hips, a delicate, ladylike glide she’d been taught in endless grueling lessons in the Vine Court drawing room. Let him look. She wanted him looking.
The noise had resulted from the long, heavy refectory tables, there since the reign of Henry II, being moved aside to make room for dancing. Everyone in the room was on their feet, circulating excitedly, while musicians set up in one corner. Someone brought in Gwen’s traveling harp—Anne remembered her having it at Vine Court. She felt an imposter, an imposer on these revelries, watching from the outside but not part of the merriment.
And beside her this stranger, tall, lean, and alert, was an outsider, too.
“Oh, someone dropped a pin.” Anne spotted the small stick of bronze on the floor, about to roll between two flagged stones, and picked it up.
“The pin!” Prunella shrieked. “Anne found the pin!”
“The pin!” The cry spread, leaping from mouth to mouth like the sweep of wildfire. “The pin has been found!”
Anne stood bewildered. Pins were dear, yes, especially a bronze pin like this, but such an uproar. It must belong to someone important. Her heart took up its rabbit beat once again. Perhaps Lydia, the dowager Dowager Viscountess. Perhaps she would notice Anne at last and make a pet of her. Take her to London. Introduce her to men who were as handsome as this stranger, but less alarming in their manner. Perhaps she could marry someone proper and he would pay to keep her parents in their home.
Dovey clapped her hands. “Bodes a wedding!” she said with a smile. “Another wedding for St. Sefin’s.”
Gwen slung her way through the crowd toward them. “You found my pin!” she exclaimed. “That’s the custom, it is. You’re next to be married, Anne. Who’s the young man to be, then?” She turned to the newcomer with a frank, curious grin that faltered once she got a look at him.
A storm of wind shook through Anne’s head. Calvin Vaughn, back inside, pushed toward them like a fat pike swimming upstream. The smirk on his face was as smug and condescending as could be. He meant for Anne to marry him, and now this blasted pin was his opportunity to claim her.
Calvin marked the man standing beside Anne, and the smile dropped off his face.
The most curious silence followed the pin clamor. It spread swift and somber, like the ripples in a pond when something precious had been dropped and lost in it. The hush reached the edges of the room, including the head table, where Lord Penrydd stood, his eyes widening.
Beside him the Earl of St. Vincent shot to his feet, disbelief overtaking his placid features.
“You,” he exclaimed.
“Me,” the stranger agreed.
Lady Vaughn gave a scream like her soul had been torn from her body. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs collapsed like a marionette clipped of its strings. Mr. Evans, Dovey’s new husband, caught her ladyship with his one good arm before she hit the floor.
Anne turned to regard the stranger. He started forward in a halting fashion, his eyes on Lady Vaughn, every line in his body as tight and pained as a rigged sail fighting the wind. The fragments of suspicion rushed together with a snap, and she knew him.
Calvin’s older brother, Lady Vaughn’s revered hero, Greenfield’s prodigal son and heir. Hewitt Vaughn.
Back from the dead.
Meet Misty UrbanMisty Urban is a medieval scholar, freelance editor, and college professor who writes stories about misbehaving women who find adventure and romance. Her Ladies Least Likely series of historical romances, set in Georgian Britain and beyond, feature headstrong heroines who set out to carve themselves a place in the world and find soul-searing love along the way. Misty lived for several years inside assorted books and academic institutions, and now lives in the Midwest in a little town on a big river. She loves to hear from readers and give away free stories through her newsletter and on her website, http://www.mistyurban.com
