The Book of True Desires Read online

  EVERYONE IS CHARMED BY THE NOVELS OF

  Betina Krahn

  PRAISE FOR…

  The Book of the Seven Delights

  “An abundance of dastardly villains…keeps things edgy, while an ancient Greek sex manual adds spice to Krahn’s lively romp. Look for her trademark wit, her appealing characters, and a delightful dose of the exotic, just for good measure.”

  —Library Journal

  “Betina Krahn’s newest release is a reader’s seventh heaven…If you can buy only one book this summer, choose The Book of the Seven Delights by Betina Krahn.”

  —A Romance Review

  “Readers who treasure strong female protagonists starring in historical romantic suspense thrillers will take immense delight in Betina Krahn’s fabulous late Victorian tale.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Krahn’s latest wonderfully creative historical is itself a treasure: an irresistible blend of impeccably crafted characters, an adventure-rich plot set in North Africa, and wickedly dry humor.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Krahn’s written a book as fast-paced as an Indiana Jones adventure… and as sexy and witty as anything she has ever written. This is a book you won’t put down and one you’ll delight in rereading.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub (Top Pick)

  The Marriage Test

  “With The Marriage Test, Krahn has perfected her unique recipe for highly amusing historical romances as she deftly brings together two perfectly-matched protagonists to create a delectable romance most readers will find impossible to resist.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “The golden pies and savory pasties that Krahn lovingly describes will make even the pickiest eater salivate…[A] delicious romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Krahn gives the adage ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ a whole new meaning in this utterly enchanting, heartwarming keeper. With her unique talent for blending humor, poignancy, and unforgettable characters, Krahn sets a sumptuous banquet for readers to devour with relish. This book will whet your appetite for more of her smart and sexy romances.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Betina Krahn has done it again. The Marriage Test’s plot left me speechless. A weak stomach and delicious food are at the hub of the story…You’ll feel the heat of the kitchen and smell the exotic spices…You’re in for a feast.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Krahn has outdone herself in this funny, sexy, medieval romance, which nicely concludes her Convent of the Brides of Virtue trilogy and will keep readers smiling— and hungry—until the end… Whimsical [and] witty.”

  —Library Journal

  The Wife Test

  “[A] witty, rollicking romance… Krahn’s amusing follow-up to The Husband Test quickly blossoms into a bright, exciting adventure.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An absorbing read. Add in Ms. Krahn’s unique and witty humor and, once again, she scores a winner with the Convent of the Brides of Virtue series.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “A delightful romp of a read that delivers joyous wit and comic action.”

  —BookPage

  “Betina Krahn never disappoints her readers. Her plots are always exciting and unusual. Her characters are always fresh and unique. I thought she couldn’t improve on the first book of this series but she has. The Wife Test is delightful. This is a ‘Don’t miss it.’”

  —Rendezvous

  and other novels of

  Betina Krahn

  “Packs the romance punch that fans have come to expect from this bestselling novelist… smart, romantic…sure to delight readers.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “Genuinely funny Elizabethan sexual puns, a strong but believable heroine, and an absorbing story of forbidden love make this an enjoyable read.”

  —Booklist

  “Spectacular…a wonderful reading experience.”

  —Book Browser

  “A very amusing medieval romance… The story line is humorous, descriptive, and downright entertaining as the lead couple squabbles over everything, including love. Bestselling Betina Krahn shows her incredible skills with this top-rate tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Merry, heart-charming… Betina Krahn is a treasure among historical writers, and The Husband Test is a story to savor.”

  —BookPage

  “Wonderfully romantic… brilliantly written and a joy to read… humorous, witty, and original… Betina Krahn is talented and gifted. Her writing is superb…perfectly charming.”

  —The Literary Times

  The Book of True Desires

  BETINA KRAHN

  JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE BOOK OF TRUE DESIRES

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2006 by Betina Krahn.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 0-7865-8516-1

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For Ruth Cohen,

  mentor, agent, and friend

  through all the stages of my career.

  With love.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

 
Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  One

  January 1898

  Tampa, Florida

  The old boys tucked into rocking chairs on the veranda of the exclusive Tampa Bay Hotel inhaled some of their gin-and-tonics as she walked by. Coughing ensued. Nurses hovered. Spectacles were donned.

  She was tall enough to be called statuesque, with extravagant curves barely contained by a tailored silk dress with a square neckline that bared enough to make the viewer wish it bared even more. She moved effortlessly down the colonnade, seeming to float above the polished floorboards while she collected the attention of every eye not yet clouded by cataracts and every libido not yet surrendered to age or infirmity.

  She seemed to have escaped from Charles Dana Gibson’s sketchbook, and it was little wonder. Her bountiful chestnut hair was a single pin away from falling into glorious dishabille… her long-waisted gown emphasized the provocative S curve at the small of her back… the creamy perfection of her skin was enhanced by a dark ribbon bearing a cameo at her throat. Gibson’s celebrated talents could only have captured her in two dimensions and it was as clear as the winter sky that she was all but bursting the bounds of three.

  When she neared the end of the veranda she slowed, glanced from the corner of her eye at the row of aging robber barons she had just passed, and then paused by a table on which a chessboard was spread between Samuel P. “Hardacre” Blackburn and his long-time rival J. P. “Cash” Morgan. She positioned herself at Samuel P.’s side and scrutinized the chessboard with a gaze as cool and clear as Baltic amber.

  “Do you mind?” she asked Hardacre, gesturing to the game board.

  “Be my guest.” He waved permission and leaned back in his chair.

  Nothing on the veranda stirred—not breeze nor wheeze—as she took up his play and moved three chess pieces in as many turns before straightening.

  “Checkmate.”

  Cash Morgan stared at the board in disbelief and Hardacre chuckled and leaned forward to study her victory and then to raise his scrutiny to her. To his surprise, she returned his inspection, her vivid eyes roaming him with a thoroughness that would have been an outrage coming from any other woman.

  Clearly, she had come to conquer.

  “You play well, madam.”

  “Well enough, it would seem,” she responded with a lilt. He tossed the lap blanket aside and grabbed his cane to rise, but she waved him to keep his seat and gave him a potent smile.

  “Care to give me a game yourself, Mr. Blackburn?”

  All around him Hardacre heard gasps. Nurses down the way lurched to feel for pulses. He glanced at his fellow moguls from the corner of his eye and was gratified to see they were impressed by her interest in him.

  She had indeed come to conquer.

  And he was going to let her.

  For now.

  “I would be honored, madam,” he said. “If my esteemed opponent will—oh, just get the hell up, Cash, and give the gal your seat.”

  She was soon perched on the edge of Cash’s vacated rocker, studying Hardacre even as she studied the chessboard. As they played, her hand movements were like a ballet; quick, sure, and oddly entrancing. Hardacre had difficulty keeping his mind on the game. It took her only nine moves to bring him to the same ignominious conclusion: “Checkmate.”

  His face reddened as he looked up.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked with a hint of pique.

  “As a matter of fact, there is. You can join me for dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. In the dining room.”

  He sat for a moment, unsettled by her consummate self-assurance. He glanced down the row of old men. She had chosen him. How could he refuse?

  “Be pleased to do so,”—he nodded gravely—“Miss? Mrs.?”

  “Miss. O’Keefe.”

  “Until seven, Miss O’Keefe.”

  Having gotten what she came for, she rose and made her way at the same unhurried pace back down the veranda into the Great Hall of the hotel. As she passed the row of rocking chairs, sunlight filtering through the gingerbread carvings on the veranda arches ignited fires in her hair and set her cinnabar-colored silk shimmering like hot Northern Lights.

  No pale, society-grade bit of femininity there, Hardacre Blackburn thought to himself. This was one for the ages. Magnificent. A full-blooded, one-of-a-kind, knows-her-own-mind, lives-on-her-own-terms woman.

  The instant she disappeared from sight, the old boys around him cackled and crowed.

  “Ain’t set eyes on a female that frisky since Lillie Langtry,” toothless old Sledge Hammermill declared.

  “Watch yer wallet, Hardacre. You can bet she is,” Cash Morgan advised, still stinging from his defeat at her hands.

  “Try the milk before you buy the cow, Hardacre,” crusty old Bottomline Vanderbilt called before a fit of coughing overtook him.

  Hardacre ignored their comments as he hobbled down the veranda with a smugness undiminished by the pain in his gout-ridden foot. He still possessed a remnant of the robust figure he had enjoyed for most of his seventy-two years. He had a full head of white hair, brows like steel wool, a ruddy complexion, and a pair of flinty gray eyes that were as apt to throw sparks as the blast furnaces of Pennsylvania where his considerable fortune had been made. The faces of the old boys registered a grudging admiration for his unexpected good fortune.

  That admiration, tinged as it was with jealousy, made the ordeal of walking all the way to his suite almost bearable for him. As he moved through the Great Hall and entered the motorized elevator, he kept recalling that luxurious chestnut hair, that alabaster skin, and those eyes like lucid amber.

  As spectacular as the young woman was and as flattered as he was to be the recipient of her invitation, he knew there was more to it. A good bit more. And damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy finding out what it was.

  “Goodnight!” he roared as he burst through the doors to his suite on the fourth floor, minutes later.

  A tall, cutaway-clad form carrying a handful of suspenders appeared in the doorway between the parlor and the bed chamber.

  “Yes?”

  The old man took in the Brit’s stiff back and flared nostrils. Damned limey still refused to call him “sir.”

  “Draw me a soak. And lay out my best evening clothes.” He tossed his cane on the settee and rubbed his hands together before easing down onto the upholstery beside the walking stick. “I’m having dinner tonight with the most beautiful woman on the goddammed continent.”

  Goodnight took in the news, then turned on his heel to retreat to the bathing chamber, muttering.

  “Poor creature. Must have the worst eyesight on the continent, as well.”

  Cordelia O’Keefe sailed into the parlor of her suite, closed the double doors behind her, and leaned back on them with a sigh of pleasure so sensual it was almost indecent. She had felt the old boys’ stares, their desperate boredom, and their hunger for energy and vitality. That long, sad line of creeping decrepitude…if she were a different kind of woman…

  “Cordie?” a voice called from the
bedroom. “Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re back already?” A striking older woman with auburn hair that was graying at her temples hurried from the adjoining room. She took Cordelia by the hands and pulled her toward the settee. “You saw him? Talked to him?”

  Cordelia was too excited to sit. “He accepted my invitation. Proving he is part human, after all.”

  “About that much,” Hedda O’Keefe said, indicating the very tip of her smallest finger. “Don’t forget for a minute who and what he is, Cordie.”

  Cordelia was busy recalling the curiosity, skepticism, and anticipation that had scrolled across the old fellow’s face as she spoke with him. In that brief exchange, her grandfather had become shockingly human to her. There was an energy about him, even in his seventies and riddled with gout, that she hadn’t expected. And those piercing gray eyes… sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel… hard as the alloy steel they’d helped launch into the world industrial market. She’d have to watch her every move with him, gauge her timing perfectly, leave nothing to chance.

  “And?” Hedda prompted.

  “We didn’t exactly talk. I beat him in a game of chess and issued the invitation.”

  “God knows what he must think.” Hedda studied her for a moment, interpreting her flushed cheeks and hint of distraction as symptoms of a deeper, more complex reaction. “You know, it’s not too late to reconsider.”

  “Absolutely not. We’ve come too far and spent entirely too much.” Seeing the genuine worry in her aunt’s eyes, she softened. “Besides, what’s the alternative? Haven’t you had enough of sitting on riverbanks watching our supplies tumble downstream without us because we can’t afford extra hands? Or of fleeing desert Kasbahs after our money is stolen and tasting nothing but sand for days afterward? Remember what it was like guarding my back with a gun while I dealt cards for traveling money in an ‘infidel tavern’?”