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eBook Category: Romance/Historical Fiction Fallen Angel Reviews Recommended Read
eBook Description: It's 1879. A deathbed promise has brought an intruder onto the London social scene. Gaetan Leflur is a half-breed Arapaho and the son of a madam. Born in a brothel Gaetan is seeking an English bride to enhance his image with potential investors. Lady Moyra Dunford wants nothing more than to escape her horrid guardian and find her missing brother. Casting aside her fears, she's willing to give up both her wealth and her virtue for a chance at freedom. Moyra sees the Jaded Gaetan as her only chance at achieving her goals. The marriage of convenience that throws two strangers/opposites together will force both of them to experience emotions they never thought themselves capable of feeling. Risking everything they board a ship and sail for America. Together in an untamed land where freedom is everything, they will discover that the battle to win each other's hearts just might be the fiercest war of all. Spanning two years and two continents, Every Time You Go Away is a story of courage and passion that you will want to come back to again and again.

eBook Publisher: Alinar Publishing, Published: 2006
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2008

72 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [969 KB], eReader (PDB) [344 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [341 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [306 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [281 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [327 KB], hiebook (KML) [764 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [422 KB], iSilo (PDB) [281 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [357 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [402 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [469 KB]
Words: 106974
Reading time: 305-427 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 978-1-906023-50-8

"This is a fascinating story that is sure to touch the hearts of the readers. Organized, smooth flowing words are created by Eve Asbury to share a tale of colorful characters and their journey to love. Romance, action, and adventure all are to be found in this wonderful story. I highly recommend Every Time You Go Away to all readers."--Anita , Fallen Angel Reviews

"With the stroke of her magic keyboard and gifted imagination, Eve Asbury once again presents her readers with a story that is truly a winner."--Briana Burress, Romance Junkies Reviewer

London, England

"The fellow is looking for a wife."

Lady Moyra Dunford listened to the buzz circling the Horton's ballroom.

"Not the least bit proper about it either. I vow, these Americans are nothing if not cheeky. The chap isn't wearing proper attire."

Her gaze skimmed the crush of guests, some dancing, others along the sidelines, all glittering in rich jewels and satins. It came to rest on Lord Nick Grayson, the Earl of Highbridge, and the supposed sponsor of the American guest. Lord Nick was handsome, very urbane and suave. He possessed a tall, aristocratic bearing and an abundance of wavy sable hair, capturing the radiance from the chandeliers. Beside him stood the intruder, looking less at ease than the sophisticated earl.

"I say, Deerbrook. Is it true, he's some by-blow of Lord Charles? The fellow did run off to the wilds of America, you know. Younger son and all that. It would explain Highbridge's friendship--Charles being his uncle."

"Oh, hadn't heard that one myself. No, 'tis some business venture between them, I understand. Though not enough, mind you, to win any of our fair roses. Good God, only think of it! No self-respecting Peer would allow that ruffian to drag his daughter off. Even if he has a feather to fly with."

"American silver I understand."

"No, ships I believe."

"You are both wrong, 'tis iron."

Moyra moved away from the group, her lace gloved hand slowly employing the fan as if she were merely bored. She found the perfect spot some three feet from the American. Partly shadowed herself, she was able to study him quite openly.

He was dusky skinned, certainly unusual, with black wavy hair to his broad shoulders, and long lean body. Unlike the hundreds of men in attendance, he wore a white ruffled shirt, without a cravat, and a leather jacket that reached his hips, snug black trousers and knee high riding boots. Not ballroom attire, yet, he wore them without stiffness, which gave him an enigmatic, romantic air.

Anyone could tell that his shoulders didn't need padding, nor did his legs, because his clothing molded and outlined. All six feet of him was sleek and taut. In fact, amid the brocades and glitter, he looked like a highwayman--dark, windblown and dangerous.

Moyra tried to make out his eyes, shadowy, slightly hooded, but she could not tell the exact color. He may well be as handsome as Lord Grayson, but it was an opposite sort. Not as handsome as ... exotic.

Earlier in the day, she had heard he was French and some sort of American Indian. If this were true, he was a brave man indeed, for not only did the ton have a condescending view of Americans, they considered most natives ... savages.

He stood between Highbridge and portly Viscount Pemberton and was listening apparently, speaking on occasion, yet she had the impression that his eyes were continually moving over the crowd.

Moyra was still observing when he apparently spotted something of interest. He turned slightly, causing the same lights to strike his high-cut cheekbones. Then he said something to Lord Grayson, who nodded and stepped away. When the earl did, she visually followed his progress, seeing with a little surprise that he approached Lady Abigail, the reigning beauty for three seasons now: golden hair, white skin and dew-kissed cheeks. The nineteen-year-old daughter of the Duke of Beresford had suitors by the droves.

Having made her decision tonight, she'd have to go approach him herself. Even if Lord Elliot was not watching her like a hawk, she didn't have the looks nor height to draw admiring eyes.

Speaking of eyes, the duke did not look happy when the American approached for introduction. He would find no match there, Moyra mused. He was aiming much too high indeed.

"If he's hanging out for a fortune, he can forget that one," someone laughed behind her. "Old Beresford can't abide Americans."

She noted the American's graceful walk, more like a prowl. Then, winced when he failed to bow to the Earl of Thomason on his way back. He completely ignored the old dowager Goodson, who tapped him with her fan. Good God, he was making all sorts of faux pas. It occurred to her though, that it did not seem to bother him overmuch, nor Lord Highbridge. Of course, Grayson was of the sporting set; the sort of world-traveled Lord, who was neither old money nor conservative, something of a rake she'd heard.

Moyra kept her guardians in her sight as well: Lord Elliot, Earl of Ridgefield and his sister, the Duchess of Hollingsworth. Influential lords and ladies surrounded them, both of the political and socially elite, a status that effectively covered their real characters. Since falling into their hands at fourteen, she had learned the emptiness in the title gentleman or lady. They were evil to the core, and she would never stop trying to escape them.

The man did not seem affected by the coolness of the duke. She saw him say something to Highbridge, who was an inch or two taller at six four. Both appeared amused.

She would like to have found out more facts about the man. Was he or wasn't he looking for a fortune? Why did he want an English wife? These were vital for her own plan, because beauty she could not offer him, and even with her fortune came many conditions and stipulations. After reaching the age of nineteen, she knew that Elliot would accept no suitors. He fully intended to wed her himself at the end of the season ... the perfect way to keep her fortune and to hide the fact he had been after her virtue when she'd first come to Ridgefield Manor.

It was the money and the control. He was nearly sixty, and his closeness with his married sister bordered on obsession. In any case, she had come to realize the duchess had planned all along for her to wed Elliot. The only reason they had not sooner was the age difference, and to give the appearance that she was in agreement.

Never! Moyra thought. She would throw herself in the stinking Thames first. Her only hope was to find a man brave enough, man enough, to wed her and to get her away from Elliot so she could find her brother.

She was aware that most where intimidated by Lord Elliot, and even females shared the view that wedding him would be perfectly proper, desirable even. Moyra shuddered. Had they known the man behind his polished image, she did not doubt even those holding old-fashioned views of marriage would be horrified.

The American strolled toward the balcony during a lull in the dancing. She watched him walk through the French doors and disappear. Moyra looked around, then picked up the skirts of her bustled green gown. The crowd around Elliot had thickened.

She must take her chance. It was now or never.

People did not look at Moyra. It had been apparent that first season that the gel was not quite up to scratch. Thus, even though lords and ladies brushed against her, or stepped back out of her way, they never actually took note of her. Her gown too, was not cut so attractive nor daring as fashion warranted. Elliot was not blind to the fact she was plain, but neither did he wish to expose what few assets she might have, even keeping word of her fortune to himself, fobbing it off as a rumor.

She made it to the doors without anyone delaying her, and only caught one gaze, that of Lord Highbridge who merely raised his brow and nodded. She nodded back, wondering what sorts of amused thoughts went through that sharp mind of his. His silver eyes hid them well, yet he doubtless never considered her for his friend. Like all rakehells, he liked his horses, women, and tailoring flawless.

The rush of fresh air struck her as she stepped out onto the balcony, a sharp contrast to the perfume and sweat in the ballroom. Here the gardens masked some of the stench that was difficult to camouflage in London, regardless of the address. Though not overly warm, the pleasant breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle and roses. It mingled with the thin cheroot the man was smoking.

He half leaned on the decorative iron railing. Yet she realized he sensed her presence by the slight pause of his hand as he took the cigar from his mouth.

A feeling of mingled dread and urgency filled her. This was no Lord Elliot standing here. This was a breed she could not underestimate.

Gačtan Leflur was aware of the moment the woman slipped through the door. The luxurious swish of her petticoats and the delicate scent of ginger reached him. He thought cynically, that it was not one of the ladies on Nick's list, because to the last, those fragile little roses had all but fainted dead at the sight of him.

He decided that he'd be rude. Not, that he'd been overly polite to start with. But dammit, his teeth were on edge already with all this silly formality. He'd heard whispers of savage, American Yankee, and a few less prettily wrapped observations, since he had stepped off the ship in Liverpool.

He should have never made that damned promise to Charles Grayson. Those kinds of vows were too impulsively given to a man on his deathbed. But he'd done it.

"I'm Lady Moyra Dunford," she said to his profile. "I should like to speak with you, sir. If you will indulge me."

Gačtan snorted. "I'm not answering anymore stupid questions tonight. I have already decided you society types are ignorant by choice."

Confused, she supplied softly, "I don't know what you mean?'

"About savages and barbarians running around with clubs and drums."

"Oh, that's not ... exactly why I am here."

He turned fully, leaning back against the railing now, his arms crossed and his olive eyes trying to see her exact features in the back-light. "You're not on the list," he said bluntly. Nick had chosen the beauties of the day.

"No?"

"The prospective bride list."

"I see." Moyra noted that up close, his face was quite striking, and his voice, it was deep and velvety, the American accent making his words trail softly at the end. "How might one get on such a list?"

He smiled, just a quick flash of white teeth. "Well, you are a surprise. I have been here a month, and to say you ladies are stiff and formal is the nice way of putting it."

"What is your name?'

"Gačtan Leflur."

"Mr. Leflur, I..."

"Gačtan. I can do without the Mr."

"Very well. Might I get on your list?"

"I don't know." He was intrigued, able to see only the slim build and braided russet hair.

"I know, I am very plain, not quite what you may be looking for. But, I do have a fortune to offer."

"You do?"

"Oh, yes. I..."

"Come closer," he cut in, tossing the cigar away.

She stepped close, her skirts nearly touching his boots. Between moonlight and the ballroom, he could see her quite well.

No, she did not compare to the milk-skinned blondes and snow-faced brunettes. Not even close. But she had good bones, arched brows. He thought her eyes green or brown. Her mouth was neither full nor thin. He looked down the modest gown; few curves, a bit thin, but so were they all.

"Why do you want an English wife exactly?" she asked him next.

"I am fulfilling a promise to someone."

"Are you in need of a fortune?"

"Not particularly."

"Then, you are rich?"

"Not particularly."

Moyra sighed. "I'm not very good at conversation, nor questions. I fear I have not been allowed to converse with many people since my present guardian fetched me."

"You're doing fine." He was a bit confused, waiting for her to get to the point.

"Are you planning on taking your wife to America?"

"I sure as hell ain't staying here."

"But ... why ... an English wife?"

"Let's just say, a man I knew once, thought I would do better with one."

"Do better?"

Let's see, he thought cynically, is this where I mention my mother runs a brothel? No, must be time to confess I'm half Arapaho. Better yet, the best explanation would be that I'm a man pretending to be something I'm not. "I'm fulfilling a promise," is all he said finally.

"I have a situation," she admitted watching him even as he watched her. "My guardian is a very powerful man, he and his sister. At the end of this season, he will force me into marriage. And I would rather die than wed him."

"I've heard it's the way here," he said bluntly. "Though force sounds a tad dramatic."

"Not where Lord Elliot and the duchess are concerned." The music changed. "I cannot freely speak to you. I have very little time. Once I go inside, Lord Elliot will watch my every move."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She was obviously aware from his dry tone she wasn't reaching him. "Could you overlook my lack of beauty, in favor of my fortune?"

"Looks don't enter into it," he lied.

"I am willing to come to your bed, or give myself to you anytime during this next week, if we attend the same functions. I have heard that men like to try their horses before purchasing them."

He was stunned. All right, he was damned shocked and that showed too. She'd said it in that perfect clipped English, so precise and clear.

"Now why would you want to do that? I hear the virtue of a debutante is worth its weight in gold. To be blunt Lady, if I take it, there ain't no getting it back."

Her face flushed. "I will depart with that gift, before the wedding, so that I can offer you something others will not. Though, if you should see me in better light and change your mind I shall understand. I am simply trying to bargain with the only thing I have at the moment. If you wed me, my money is yours. I only have a few conditions."

"And they are?" He was half dazed by that admission. Here was an English woman, young at that, admitting to ... what? That it was nothing to her?

"My father was a Scottish peer. He and my mother died in India. I had a younger brother who died also, Linden. But I should have come under the guardianship of my eldest brother, who would be the earl. Only, he never returned from a merchant voyage. Lord Elliot Southland, Earl of Ridgefield is some distant kin. He had my brother declared dead without any search for him, or inquiry. And fetched me from Briarwood, where I have been under his control since."

"Go on," he said when her eyes revealed a hint of apprehension.

"I want only to find my brother if it is possible. And to have my freedom. I will give you all the money, except what I need to live on. I cannot stay here in England though. The duchess, Elliot's sister, is determined that Elliot wed me. They need my fortune, you see. And cannot let me reach twenty-five to control it myself.

I would hope that Briarwood not be sold. It came to me after my brother. But I feel he may be alive. I heard from servant's gossip that though the land goes unimproved, the manor has the old steward and staff. I can't hide there, of course. Should I run off on my own, my life would be at risk. This, the duchess has promised me."

"He already raped you."

"He may as well from his threats. He is nearly sixty but he is big and strong. They ... they already tried to drug my wine and they..." She turned a dull red. "In any case, I caused such an uproar that they were afraid to continue. And some friends of his lordship began to ask questions when I was not introduced to the younger set. They brought me out at sixteen, to stop any questions, so that when I am made to wed him, it will look as if I had plenty of other chances."

Gačtan had seen a lot, done more, and lived through plenty. Nothing could surprise him. He'd spent his first few years in a whorehouse. So he knew more about what men and women could do to each other than most. Yet, he was shocked, because the English, particularly the lords, acted superior to the point of priggishness. He wasn't a man who went around rescuing people. If that were true, he'd have a house full from his life amid the baser sort.

"You having your freedom, don't exactly fit my plan."

"I realize that now. I simply thought like Englishmen, you Americans live quite separate from your wives."

"Some do, I guess. But actually I meant divorce. I have bought a house that I intended my wife to live in. I travel most of the time."

She frowned. "So it would be a marriage of convenience?"

"In a way, I have certain business interests, that require I meet at times with that type. A wife would see to the details I'm not interested in. "He added, "While I have to mingle with them in order to make my living, I don't choose my friends from among them."

A sound from the doorway drew both the eyes. Lord Grayson's large figure blocked out the light before he stepped out. He lit a cheroot and eyed them both. "Lady Dunford?"

"Yes, my lord?"

He propped his foot back on the rail, leaning his elbows as he blew a stream of smoke. "It is all but understood that you will wed old Ridgefield."

"Not, if I can help it." She flushed.

His gaze flickered to Gačtan. "I see,"

Gačtan could almost read Nick's mind. The man thought Gačtan crazy to hold to some wish his uncle had extracted. He was helping him fulfill it, but that did not mean he agreed with it.

"Well, Gačtan. She is not quite up to snuff, but it's your choice. I warn you though, old Ridgefield keeps a tight leash on her, and won't agree. Am I right?" He looked at Moyra.

"Yes." She flushed again at his bluntness. "He won't."

"Hell, Nick." Even Gačtan was surprised at Nick calling her plain to her face. "I didn't come here to get mixed up in something. I got enough problems at home."

"You'll have to publicly compromise the lady." Nick appeared to ignore him. He eyed Moyra lazily. "Will he not?"

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "It would take a witnessed breech of conduct to force him into agreeing."

"I'm surprised everyone seems to know how the old bastard is," Gačtan said to Nick.

"He's but one of many. Rather convenient to wed one's ward, how better to have control of their fortune." He looked at them slowly, up and down, then added, "She's not likely to impress your business contacts with her looks, but I'm sure her manners are very pretty. English debs tend to excel at manners and formality."

"And English men at insults," Gačtan chided him dryly.

"Beg pardon," Nick said to Moyra.

He didn't mean it; of course, he was a rake after all, known for his cutting attitude.

"Not at all," she said softly. "I am well aware, that men are shallow and superficial when it comes to women. I did tell your friend truthfully what I could offer ... my fortune."

"And your virtue."

Nick stilled; he, unlike Gačtan, was aware that old Elliot had kept her under his eye and his wing. He was aware that the lady was allowed no dances or escorts and it was rare she stayed anywhere over an hour. He supposed a footman, or maybe--"

"I don't think it's a comfortable subject for the lady." Gačtan eyed him meaningfully.

Nick nodded curtly. "As I say, it's your business. But one cannot simply court this lady, or apply for her hand. The latter would do no good. If you want her, you are going to have to scandalize her, to the point there is no question that marriage must follow."

"I must go back." Moyra heard the waltz begin. "Please consider it Mr.--er, Gačtan. I will be at the Vendabule's amusement tomorrow." She picked up her skirts and hurried back inside.

Just in time, it seemed, for Elliot to begin his usual search for her. He was tall, his thick white hair showing above the crowds of shorter men. His hawk-like black eyes spotted her all too soon.

"Are you ready to leave?" he asked for the sake of those around her.

"Yes." She didn't look at him. Still, his fingers cut into her arm under the guise of escorting her through the crush.

"You smell wonderful," he murmured as he helped her with her cloak.

She shuddered, her eyes closing a moment. Later, on the coach ride home, he tried to touch her knee, her arm. His eyes hot inside the coach. His breathing as usual too heavy and loud.

"I wish you'd die," Moyra said flatly, living too many years with his nauseating looks and stench of evil. "I hope you do ... soon."

He smacked her, open handed and hard enough to shatter the silence with a whack. Then he purred softly, "Only a few months my dear, weeks maybe. Then, you shall learn that I like my women passive."

"I'm not yours, I never have been." She felt her face sting where his signet ring had hit her cheekbone. God, please, let Leflur choose me.

He laughed, his sharp features flushing. "But my dear girl, it is I who will make you a woman." His wheezing laughter floated behind the coach.