Read “A Woman Scorned” by Liz Carlyle with Rakuten Kobo. From its opening scene to its breath-catching climax, Liz Carlyle’s newest novel is a vividly etched . A Woman Scorned by Liz Carlyle – From its opening scene to its breath-catching climax, Liz Carlyle’s newest novel is a vividly etched portrait of passion and. A Woman Scorned By Liz Carlyle – FictionDB. Cover art, synopsis, sequels, reviews, awards, publishing history, genres, and time period.

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During her frequent travels through England, Liz Carlyle always packs her pearls, her dancing slippers, and her whalebone corset, confident in the belief that eventually she will receive an invitation to a ball or a rout. Alas, none has been forthcoming. While waiting, however, she has managed to learn where all the damp, dark carljle and low public houses can be found. Please visit her at LizCarlyle.

Chapter One A brave Officer is tactically Deployed London’s spring weather was at its most seasonable, which merely meant it was both wet and chilly, when Captain Cole Amherst rolled up the collar on his heavy greatcoat and stepped out of his modest bachelor establishment in Red Lion Street.

Mindful of having lived through worse, Amherst glanced up and down the busy lane, then stepped boldly down to join the rumbling wheels wojan spewing water q carts and carriages sped past. The air was thick with street smells; damp soot, warm horse manure, and the pervasive odor of too many people. A few feet along, the footpath womna, and a man in a long drab coat pushed past Cole, his head bent to the rain, his hat sodden.

Skillfully, Cole stepped over the ditch, which gurgled with filthy water, and was almost caught in the spray wojan a passing hackney coach. Jumping back onto the path, Cole briefly considered hailing the vehicle, then stubbornly reconsidered.

Instead, he pulled his hat brim low, then set a brisk, westerly pace along the cobbled footpath, ignoring the blaze of pain in the newly knit bone of his left thigh.

A Woman Scorned: Liz Carlyle: : Books

The long walk to Mayfair, he resolved, would do him nothing but good. The rain did not let up, but it was less than two miles to Mount Street, and just a few short yards beyond lay the towering brick townhouse to which he had been so regally summoned.

It often seemed to Amherst that he had been summoned just so — without regard to his preference or schedule — on a hundred other such occasions over the last twenty-odd years. But one thing had changed. He now came only out of familial duty, not faint-hearted dread. This effect was particularly disconcerting when one was a child and compelled to look at a great many things in life from a different angle.

Cole remembered it well, for he had spent a goodly portion of his youth staring across that desk while awaiting some moralizing lecture, or the assignment of some petty task his uncle wished to have done.

It had been difficult to refuse James, when Cole knew that his uncle had been under no obligation to foster his wife’s orphaned nephew, and had done so only to allay her tears.

But Cole was no longer a cwrlyle, and had long ago put away his childish things, along with most of his hopes and his dreams. The ingenuous boy who had passed the first eleven years of his life in a quiet Cambridgeshire vicarage was no more.


Even the callow youth his aunt and uncle had helped raise was long dead. And now, Cole could barely remember the gentleman and scholar that the youth had eventually become. There were few memories, Cole had found, which were worth clinging to. Now, at the age of four-and-thirty, Cole was just a soldier. He liked the simplicity of it, liked being able to see clearly his path through life. There were no instructors, no vicars, no uncles to be pleased. Lia, he served only the officers above him and took care of those few soldiers below whom fate had entrusted into his care.

What few hard lessons the rigors of military training had failed to teach him, the woan of battle had inculcated.

But the war was over. Now that he had returned to England, Cole opened his uncle’s rather dictatorial messages only when it suited him to do so, presented himself in Mount Street scodned he had the time, and appeased the old man if it pleased him to. Although in truth his uncle was not an old man — he merely chose to behave like one. What was he now?

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It was wokan to be certain, for like carpyle firewood, James Rowland had long ago been seasoned — but by presupposed duty, supreme haughtiness, and moral superiority rather than wind and weather.

Abruptly, as if determined to throw off the insult of age, Lord James Rowland leapt from his desk and began to pace. He stopped briefly, just long enough to seize a paper from his desk cxrlyle shove it into Cole’s hands. Just look at that, if you please! I ask you, how dare she? His eyes caught on a few words. Lord James drew up behind him and thrust a jabbing finger over Cole’s shoulder. She has returned from her flight to Scotland — she and that insolent cicisbeo of hers — and now has had the audacity to dismiss every good English servant in that house.

Hauled them all the way from the Highlands like so many sheep, mind you! And fixed them in Brook Street as if she owns the bloody place! And now — look here! Upon my word, Cole, I’ll not have it! The titular head of this wkman must be suitably schooled.

And it cannot be done without my advice and concurrence, for I am the trustee and guardian of both those children. So it was a “proper education” that James sought for his wards. Did he, perhaps, wish to see the young lords ensconced as lowly Collegers, as Cole himself had been? Was that still James’s preferred method of fulfilling his family duty? To cart sheltered boys off to the cold beds and sparse tables of Eton, where they might subsist on scholarship, and survive by their fists?

Cole trembled with anger at the prospect. But it was none of his business. He had survived it. And so would they. I require your assistance. He would not back a bird in this mess of a cockfight. He wanted nothing to do with the Rowland family.

The young Marquis of Mercer meant nothing to him. Cole was merely related to the family by marriage, a fact his cousin Edmund Rowland had always been quick to point out, since it was crucial that the dynasty keep their lessers in their proper places. Then why must he suffer through an account of the machinations of Lady Mercer? Her husband’s suspicious death had nothing to do with Captain Cole Amherst.

Lord Mercer’s lovely young widow might be Lucrezia Borgia for all he knew — or cared. Certainly many people held her in about that much esteem. And while they had liked her late husband even less, in death there was always veneration, no matter how wicked or deceitful the deceased had been in life. Yes, Lady Mercer’s life was probably a living hell, but Cole needed to know nothing further of it.


I daresay I know my duty to the orphans of this family, sir. You, above all people, ought to know that perfectly well. Such ugly, dreary words, and yet they summed up the whole of his uncle’s commitment to him. He could almost see young Lord Mercer and his brother being locked up in the Long Chamber of Eton now. Cole bit back a hasty retort. Their mother yet lives, and shares guardianship with you, I believe? That woman — of all people! He rather suspected that Lord Mercer had known better than to circumvent his wife’s parental authority altogether.

A Woman Scorned by Liz Carlyle – FictionDB

From what Cole had heard, her ladyship was capable of flying in the face of any authority or command. Indeed, the woman whom half the ton referred to as the Sorceress owman Strathclyde was reputedly capable of anything. Had oiz provisions of her dead husband’s will displeased her, she would simply have set her pack of slavering solicitors at James’s throat.

But quite probably the lady would have lost, for carpyle her own Scottish title and her status as the dowager marchioness, the patriarch supremacy of English law died a hard, slow death. But from all that Cole had heard, Lady Mercer owman or Lady Kildermore as she would otherwise have been called — had seemingly forgotten St. Peter’s admonition about women being the weaker vessel and having a meek and quiet spirit.

At that recollection, grief stabbed Cole, piercing his armor to remind him of Rachel. How different the two women must have been. Unlike Lady Mercer, Cole’s wife had been the embodiment of all the Bible’s teachings. Was that not a part of sdorned he had married her? At the time, she had seemed the perfect wife for a religious scholar, for a man destined to enter the church, as his father before him had done. Yes, like Uncle James, Rachel had known her duty quite thoroughly. Perhaps it was that very devotion to duty, Rachel’s own meek and quiet spirit, which had been the end of her.

Or perhaps it had simply been Cole’s callous disregard for her welfare. Shifting uneasily in his mahogany armchair, Cole shook off the memories of his dead wife. It should have been harder to do. What he had done should have haunted him, but most of the memories were so deeply buried that he was not sure if it did. He forced his xarlyle to return to his uncle, who was still pacing across the red and gold carpet, and ranting to the rafters. Suddenly, Lord James wheeled on him, standing to one side of the desk, his feet set stubbornly apart.

One fist now clutched the advertisement. Cole inclined his head slightly. Malta or caflyle Indies if I am among the more fortunate. At last, he spoke again. Then we have a little time. Instead, he seemed to collapse into his desk aa, looking suddenly pale and drawn.