These Wicked Games Read online

  These Wicked Games

  Sherry Ledington, Lacey Kumanchik, Pamela Bolton-Holifield, Eve Ortega, Courtney Milan, Sara Mangel

  To all the Avon Romance readers, writers, and fans who made this book possible

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  Contents

  Introduction

  Part One: These Wicked Games

  1. The Wayward Wife by Sherry Ledington

  2. Sweet Deception by Lacey Kumanchik

  3. Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright…by Pamela Bolton-Holifield

  4. Forget Me Not by Eve Ortega

  5. The Missing Missives by Courtney Milan

  6. Patience Makes Perfect by Sara Mangel

  Part Two: The Daily Blog

  Part Three: Writing Tips

  Appendices

  Avon FanLit Story Lines

  About the Authors

  About the Panelists

  A FanLit Chapter by Julia Quinn: Let the Games Begin

  Avon Is Romance

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  Romance readers are a unique breed of fans. Not only are they uniformly loyal to a much (unfairly) derided genre, they are also an incredibly active online community and, in many cases, they are aspiring writers. Keeping all of these qualities in mind, Avon set out to find a new way to connect with our audience. Thus the Avon FanLit project was born.

  Sitting around the table at our first meeting about the story lines, we wondered how this project would turn out. Would anyone actually sign up? What kinds of stories would we get? What we never expected was the volume of participants and the incredibly enthusiastic and positive response from the entire romance community.

  Each week, as we read the submissions, we were continually wowed by the caliber of the entries, written under the strictest of time limits and incorporating all of our crazy guidelines.

  All of you, the readers and writers, made Damien and Patience come to life (sometimes you even brought them back from the dead) in ways we never imagined possible. The following novella is one that we are very proud to have as a member of the Avon family.

  PART ONE

  These Wicked Games

  The Wayward Wife

  BY SHERRY LEDINGTON

  He learns she’s bent on revenge. But her unmasking could be his undoing.

  The Earl of Coulter has always had a way with the ladies—until now. A delicious little countess with a thirst for revenge and a penchant for trouble has taken society by storm. Can he bring her to heel or will he wind up dancing to her tune?

  Damien, Earl of Coulter, turned a jaded eye to the dizzying array of brightly colored dresses swirling around him. The cloying mixture of perfume and fawning femininity had left him with a headache of astronomical proportions. Of course, he thought, with a small, self-deprecating smile, that third snifter of brandy he had drunk before leaving the club hadn’t helped matters either. But he’d wager he was not the only gentleman in this room tonight who had required a little liquid fortitude before being dragged off to the Duchess of Alderman’s annual ball.

  “Damien. So nice of you to tear yourself away from your nightly round of gambling, drinking, and general debauchery to accompany your sister to her debut into polite society.”

  With his first genuine smile of the evening, Damien turned toward that wry, irascible voice. Tall and trim, even at sixty the Duchess was the epitome of understated elegance. Her emerald green dress with its creamy gauze overskirt revealed a body that had changed little with the ravages of time. Wisps of snow white hair escaped the bun atop her head, and the blush painting her finely chiseled cheekbones owed nothing to artifice.

  “Aunt Viola,” said Damien, raising her hand to his lips, “might I just say that you are the loveliest woman in this room tonight.”

  “Don’t waste your pretty platitudes on me, boy,” said the dowager duchess, her emerald green eyes glittering merrily. “Save ’em for the ladies. They’ll appreciate them much more than I.”

  “Alas, dear aunt, were I able to find one lady amongst this throng who could hold a candle to you, I would rush to her side and bestow upon her my undying love and devotion.”

  “Well,” drawled the Duchess, “the night’s still young, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ll find that woman after all. One can only hope that when you do, she won’t take one look at that devilishly handsome face of yours and fall straight into your arms. You’ve had it too easy with the ladies thus far, my boy. You need someone who will lead you a merry chase.”

  “Ah, but Aunt Vi, aren’t you forgetting something—namely, my lovely bride, Penelope.”

  “Patience,” said the Dowager with a frown.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your bride—her name is Patience. Penelope is the cat! A fact of which you would be aware if you ever visited the child. Have you even seen her since the wedding three years ago?”

  Damien raised one raven-colored brow. “Patience. That’s right,” he sighed. “And no, I have not seen her since the nuptials. But for good cause. The little hellion made it quite clear that ours was to be a marriage of convenience only. Her family’s lands for my fortune and title.” He smiled, remembering the tiny scrap of a girl with her scrawny, underfed body and flashing blue eyes, “The last time I saw my beloved, she was spitting fire at me and calling me a rake and a scoundrel. No—not a scoundrel…a scalawag. ’Twas the wretched cat I found in my wedding bed that night—not the lady. So, I ask you…is it any wonder that I cherish fonder memories of that mangy feline than I do of my wife?”

  “The Countess Fraser,” intoned the black-clad servant just as the clock tolled two.

  A sudden silence spread through the ballroom, cutting through the chatter like a knife.

  “Ah, the Divine Countess,” whispered Alexis Harrison, sidling up to her big brother. “Late as usual.”

  “Who is she?” asked Damien, unable to tear his gaze from the stunning figure atop the stairs. She looked to be about nineteen, with the face of an angel and the body of a goddess. Though small in stature, she radiated an air of self-assurance unusual in one so young. A jeweled sapphire comb secured her shining golden hair atop her head. A few wispy butterscotch curls tumbled around her temples and over her forehead. Damien wondered what those soft curls would feel like wrapped around his fingers.

  Her Empire-waisted satin ballgown in the palest shade of cream, with an overlay of ecru colored lace, emphasized her slim form to perfection.

  “The women hate her, you know.”

  Feeling as if he had just emerged from the depths of a fever, Damien glanced over at his sister. “What?”

  “The Countess,” she continued. “Elizabeth Churcham says the ladies hate her because no one knows where she came from. She just showed up at Lady Peterley’s cotillion last week. The men certainly don’t seem to mind her mysterious past, though, judging fr
om the way they all seem to flock to her side.”

  Damien turned a penetrating gaze on the Countess. How could such a magnificent creature have materialized out of thin air without anyone having heard of her? He frowned. There was only one possibility. She was a charlatan. Some poor little church mouse who had decided to capitalize on her incomparable beauty to snag herself a rich husband. A thoughtful smile curved his lips.

  “Aunt Vi—”

  “If you’re going to demand that I introduce you to the lady so that you can interrogate her, Damien,” said the Dowager slyly, “don’t bother. I hear she’s remarkably close-mouthed about her background.”

  Damien turned his head just in time to catch the conspiratorial look that flickered between his aunt and sister.

  “All right you two. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing,” Alexis responded, a hair too quickly.

  The Dowager wrapped a hand around his arm and dragged him forward. “Oh, leave your sister alone, you brute. Come on—I’ll take you to the Countess. It might be good for you to meet a woman who can withstand your charms for a change.”

  The Earl smiled into the older woman’s twinkling eyes, “And just what makes you think your little Countess can stand up to my charms when so many before her could not?” he asked mockingly.

  “One can only hope, my dear.” Her hand tightened on his arm as she pulled him to a stop. “Countess Fraser, may I present to you my nephew, Damien—Earl of Coulter.”

  The Countess’s sapphire blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she looked from the Dowager to the man at her side. Finally, lush, cherry red lips curling into a slight smile, she bowed her head in acknowledgment.

  “Your lordship.”

  “May I have this dance, my lady,” he asked, “and I warn you—if you say no, I shall be absolutely inconsolable.”

  Her smile quickly became an impish grin. “Somehow I doubt that, your lordship. But far be it from me to cause distress, however slight, to a man of your stature.”

  “My aunt tells me you’re from Dorset,” Damien said, placing a hand on her impossibly small waist and guiding her onto the dance floor.

  “Does she?”

  So…do I take it you are from Dorset, then?” he probed.

  Smiling, she shook her head from side to side. Her fragrance captivated him. Like a love-starved youth, he leaned over, inhaling deeply of her lavender scented hair.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?”

  “No, of course not,” he drawled. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. I just had the most ridiculous sense that you were sniffing me in much the same manner as my great-aunt’s terrier, Reggie, often does.”

  “Ah,” he purred, “so, you are not from Dorset and you have a great-aunt who owns a terrier named Reggie. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Her giggle was infectious, and he smiled widely in response.

  They danced in silence for a few seconds as he endeavored to think of another question. A light dusting of freckles dotted the tip of her tiny, upturned nose. He frowned. She seemed vaguely familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn’t decide where he’d seen her before.

  “The Baron of Snydley,” the manservant announced.

  Beneath his hand, Damien felt the sudden tensing of the Countess’s delectable body. He followed her gaze to the top of the stairs, where a tall dandy languished in the doorway. The man wore a stylish coat jacket, a perfectly tied snowy cravat, and the requisite look of the bored aristocrat.

  “Friend of yours?” asked Damien. The Countess trod squarely on his foot.

  “What?” she snapped, without looking away from the other man.

  “I asked if the Baron was a friend of yours.” Damien continued, a bit miffed at her obvious interest in the hatchet-faced Snydley. “You seem inordinately interested in him.”

  “I assure you I have no interest in that…that…scalawag!” she spat. “Other than to see him punished for his heinous and reprehensible crimes against women.”

  A sudden alarm trilled in the back of Damien’s mind. Scalawag. It couldn’t be! His hands tightened on the Countess’s arms as he dragged her against him for a closer look. “Penelope?” he asked.

  “Patience,” she frowned, her gaze still on Snydley. “Penelope is my cat!”

  Sweet Deception

  BY LACEY KUMANCHIK

  Who can resist making mayhem in Mayfair?

  Revenge is too delicious to concede, even if her wayward husband is far more handsome than she recalled. After all, with a disreputable rake for a cousin, sweet deception can be made sweeter by a healthy dose of jealousy…and the promise of a kiss!

  “Some people slow down for turns, you know.”

  Damien glanced sidelong at his friend. Jonathan Crane managed to look languid even though Damien’s breakneck pace threatened to overturn their phaeton in the middle of St. James.

  “Completely unnecessary,” Damien disagreed with a smile. “Besides, I must make my fun last while it can. That wayward wife of mine is bound to insist upon a carriage or some other such dull mode of transport.”

  “Just like she’s bound to insist upon a proper home. It can’t be comfortable for her to stay at your mother’s.” At Damien’s strangled look, Jonathan laughed and tapped his walking stick smartly against the floor. “Where is the Countess staying? Or do you even know?”

  “That’s Lady Coulter to you, Mr. Crane,” Damien snapped. “I don’t know where the devil she picked up that Scottish title, but I won’t have my wife wandering around like some merry widow.”

  “She didn’t look very merry when Lord Snydley graced us with his disreputable presence, did she? Think there’s anything to that?”

  Damien fought a possessive growl but couldn’t stop his insides from tensing. If the man had laid even one perfectly manicured finger on his wife, he’d kill him.

  A thought hit him then. What if she’d come seeking his protection? Gallivanting off to his club wasn’t helping her, if that was the case. Perhaps it was time to set her up as his wife.

  He pulled his horse into a dangerous turn, guiding the phaeton away from his bachelor apartments and toward his locked up town house in Mayfair. He couldn’t help sending a panicked look to his friend. “Egad, Jonathan. You don’t really think she’s staying with my mother, do you?”

  “It certainly seemed your entire family was in on that little jest, now didn’t it?” Looking satisfied the mayhem was happening to Damien and not him, Jonathan propped a booted foot over one knee. “Yes, my friend, it’s almost as if your Patience is trying you.”

  “I think he took the bait.” Arthur, the Baron of Snydley, splashed a dollop of milk into his tea.

  Patience passed him another plate of scones. He’d already devoured three, and his hungry glance around the tea table implied he’d happily down three more.

  “Yes,” she agreed, pulling her fingers away quickly lest she get bit. “He was quite miffed I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off you. How lucky I count myself that my dearest cousin is a handsome, reprehensible rake, and clever enough to figure out how those qualities might benefit me.” She giggled into her glove, tilting the parasol to shield her fair skin from the sun. Taking tea outside was just the thing, she decided. Life in Town was turning out to be delicious.

  “My lady!” Her butler skidded to a halt on the garden steps. “We have a situation!”

  “Whatever is the matter, Grimm?” Patience rose quickly. Arthur pushed back smoothly and rose as well, visibly swallowing his last scone.

  “Lord Coulter is here!”

  “What? Why on earth would he have come here?” She conveniently forgot this was his home. Finding it locked up and vacant, she’d quickly summoned a small staff from her country estate and had all the rooms reopened. Among other things.

  Grimm made a face that said they were bound to be caught sometime.

  She sighed. “Very well. Fetch me a sheet of paper and a quill.”

  Two m
inutes later she’d penned a very pretty note. Signing it Penelope, she giggled and handed it to the butler. “Take this to him. Is he still standing agog in the foyer?”

  Grimm nodded. “He seems less than impressed with the cherubs, my lady. And there was a small outcry against the purple drapes…”

  Patience grinned. “Excellent.”

  She paced while she waited. After a few minutes, Arthur grunted. “Patience, I realize you’ve probably forgotten about me. But there’s only one way out of your house, you may recall, and it’s currently blocked by your husband.”

  “Nonsense. The servants’ entrance—”

  “Surely you jest! I’ll be your heinous enemy because I’ve known you since you were in leading strings, but using the servants’ entrance—that goes beyond familial duty!”

  “Then get under the table, Arthur.” She looked at the door. “Quickly!”

  The tablecloth had just stopped fluttering when Damien strode into the garden. “Patience! What the devil have you done to my house?”

  He looked so handsome, what with the wave of dark hair over his eye and his broad shoulders outlined elegantly by navy superfine. Her giggle died on her lips, replaced by a small gasp. “It’s my house, too, you know,” she offered, fighting the thrum of excitement she felt at seeing him again. “I rather like violet.”

  “It would be impossible to overlook that, dear wife.” He loomed over her, so close she could see a shade of stubble along his chin. “I can add that to the four other facts I know about you.”