Thorncliff Manor is the perfect setting for a masquerade ball . . . where the heart’s
secret desires are about to be uncovered in this scintillating Regency romance
from Sophie BarnesRichard Heartly has exiled himself from society since the war, plotting his revenge for a terrible betrayal. A masked ball at Thorncliff Manor is intended to be a brief diversion. Instead, he encounters a fascinating young woman as entranced by the music as he is. He can’t reveal his identity to Lady Mary. But her siren song keeps drawing him back, and their clandestine meetings could be hazardous to his plan—and to her virtue . . .

Avoiding an unwanted marriage was easy when Lady Mary was ignored by the ton. Thanks to her dazzling appearance at the masquerade, she’s a wallflower no longer.  Eligible suitors abound, yet the only man she wants is the brooding, seductive companion who keeps his face hidden. A man who tempts her to disclose her own shocking secret, one that could divide them forever . . .

Most of the time, having a girl for a best friend is awesome.

Among the highlights:

(1) My color-blind self never has to worry about going out the door looking like a sad clown.

(2) The Brita water filter is always replaced on time.

(3) Parker actually likes doing laundry for fun, and she only complains when I sneak my stuff in with hers about 30 percent of the time.

Oh, and as this morning’s adventure displayed, she’s an excellent excuse when a person needs to rid himself of clingy one-night stands.

But then there are the not-so-great parts. Like when she’s spent thirty-five minutes looking at lamps.

“Just get that one,” I say, lifting my arm to point at a random floor lamp as the noisy, child-filled scariness that is IKEA threatens to choke me.

She barely glances at the one I’ve selected. “It looks like a uterus.”

“What the fuck does a uterus look like?”

“Like that lamp. And honestly, for as much time as you spend rummaging around in women’s panties, you really should get familiar with their parts.”

“Isn’t the uterus the—” I break off, looking for the right word to describe the random memories from eighth-grade sex-ed class.

Parker lifts her eyebrows. “The baby cave?”

Like any normal guy would, I wince. “Christ. Why would I need to know about that? I use a condom.”

“Several of them, judging from the state of your bedroom,” she says, tilting her head to study the lime green lamp shade in her hands. “Do you think this would clash with my bedspread?”

“You’re asking the color-blind guy? Like I have any clue what color your bedspread is.”

“Seriously? Don’t act like you’ve never seen it. Two nights ago you flopped onto my bed in your sweaty gym clothes and it took me two washes to remove the man stank.”

I shake my head. “Poor Lance. Do you make him wear a plastic bag when you guys hook up so he doesn’t get his man stank on your sheets?”

“Lance doesn’t have man stank.”

I frown. “Hold up. If I have man stank, Lance has man stank.”

“No.”

I open my mouth to argue, but instead I shrug. That’s another thing you learn having a girl best friend. You pick your battles.

“You have two more minutes to pick your lamp,” I say. “I’m starving.”

Parker adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder. “Oh, I’m not buying a lamp. I was just browsing.”

I inhale deeply to rein in my women suck rampage when I catch her smirk.

“Oh, I get it,” I say as we move toward the end of the store where we’ll pick up my dresser. “This is payback. You’re mad because I made up that story about you having a creepy doll collection.”

“Actually, it was more punishment for destroying the house rules. I’m totally laminating them next time.”

“Or you could just create an online version and keep them in the cloud like normal people born after 1980.”

I see a little lightbulb go on in her head and almost regret giving her the idea. Not that it matters much. I’ve never really followed her fussy rules anyway, although for the most part I try to not be too much of a dick. The towel incident this morning notwithstanding, it’s like I said, Parker loves laundry. I knew she had extra clean ones stashed away.

“Seriously, don’t get that color finish,” she says, shaking her head at the dresser box I’m about to pull off the shelf.

“Wood is wood,” I say with a shrug, starting to maneuver the huge box onto our flat cart.

“No, there’s old-man wood and there’s modern wood.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Old-man wood, huh? You and your kinky fetishes. Do you make the dolls watch?”

She ignores me, and uses her hip to push the box I’d started to move back onto its shelf. “That one.” She points.

“Espresso?” I ask, reading the label.

But Parker is now typing away on her phone. I shrug, pushing her out of the way so I can get at the box she indicated.

“How about tacos?” she asks, glancing up briefly from her phone.

“I just had Mexican last night,” I say through a grunt as I move the box into position.

“You said I could pick.” She gives me a challenging look, her goldish brown eyes practically daring me to argue with her.

“If it was a unilateral decision, why’d you even ask?”

“Unilateral. Good word. And it was a test. You passed,” she says, trotting to catch up with me as she replaces her phone in her purse. “So how did you and Airhead meet? The Beta Phi party last night? She looked like she was eighteen.”

“Airhead?” I ask.

“It was written on her pants. Literally.”

“Oh, right. Those weren’t her pants. Lindsay left them last week.”

She makes a disgusted face as she pulls her long dark hair into a messy bun. I don’t notice most things about Parker as a girl, because, ya know, it’s just Parker, but she does have some damn good hair. It’s all Victoria’s Secret model–-like, long and dark with lightish streaks running through it.

The rest of her is kind of Victoria’s Secret-ish, too, but other than an initial moment of whoa when we first met, there’s never really been anything between us. I guess you could say I like her too much.

That and she’s dating Lance, and I like the guy. I mean, we’re not best friends or anything, but it’s impossible to live with Parker and not have some sort of friendship with her significant other.

Lance and I stop short of braiding each other’s hair, but we watch games together on occasion. I’d never make a move on his girl—even if I wanted Parker.

Which I don’t.

“So let me get this straight,” she says, as I swipe my credit card through the self-checkout machine. “One of your booty calls leaves her pants, which is weird, by the way, and then a week later, an underclassman sorority girl willingly puts them on?”

I shrug and give her a look out of the corner of my eye. “What’s wrong with that?”

Parker closes her eyes and sort of scratches at her eyebrow. “You don’t tell your mother any of this, do you?”

“Sure, we actually have a family blog, and I list my sexual activity for the week every Sunday. Is that weird?”

She ignores me, pulling out her phone again.

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Her Florence Nightingale instincts warred with minding her own business. Matthew hadn’t asked for help. Maybe he was just fine. But he didn’t have any friends in town that she knew of. Nor was he the type of guy who was likely to reach out even if he was sick and needed assistance—at least that was the impression she’d gotten so far.

Emma sighed. She couldn’t very well leave him in the same condition as her sister without any saltines or electrolytes, now could she? She certainly couldn’t and feel good about it. Emma just then realized she’d already been driving her car toward his house. She hadn’t needed directions. Everyone in town knew where the new hot, single stranger in town had moved in. Emma was surprised he hadn’t already been the recipient of drive-bys of home-baked goods and casseroles tagged with names and phone numbers of female singles in the area.

Southern women understood the path to a lonely man’s heart might well begin with his taste buds. A good casserole and pecan pie couldn’t hurt as an introduction. Big hair and a sweet smile when they came to pick up momma’s favorite platter worked as a fine follow-up.

Emma had seen the success of this maneuver many times. Men came around on business of one type or the other—buying an selling mineral rights for oilfield companies or what have you–and found themselves completely leg-shackled before they knew what hit them. Mommas around here taught their girls how to spot and hook a promising catch from the time they were in training bras and learned that more eyeliner and mascara was better than less.

Emma pulled up behind Matthew’s car and frowned, noticing that his taillight was busted. She got out and pulled the bag of items from the back seat, not giving his car much more thought.

Knocking gently on the door, she figured she would leave the bag on the front step if he didn’t answer. He might be sleeping. But what if he’d gotten light-headed, fallen, and hit his head on the bathtub and was knocked-out cold, lying in a pool of his own blood? The thought, while mildly ridiculous, gave her just enough pause to knock again, this time more loudly.

No answer.

She rang the bell.

No answer.

Now she was concerned. His car was in the drive. He was definitely home. Her heart began to beat in her ears.

She tried the door.

Locked. She looked through the leaded glass front door. No movement. Nice house.

She knocked again.

Emma still had the bag in her arm. So, she carried it with her around the back of the house to the screened in porch. The screen door was open, so she stepped up onto the pretty porch with the comfy furniture. It appeared that Matthew spent time out here. There were pillows, a rug, a throw, a couple books, and a lamp. Nice.

She knocked on the back door. No answer. She didn’t see anyone inside.

She bit her lip and tried the door. It opened. “Hello? Matthew?”

No answer. She moved inside and let her gaze wander around the room. It was cozy and well decorated for a guy’s place. She noticed the kitchen to the right and headed in that direction. She put her bag on the kitchen counter then headed toward what she knew must be the master bedroom. This house was similar in style to hers.

She called out to him again. Emma was getting worried now. Why didn’t he answer?

As she entered the bedroom, she noticed it the blinds were closed and it was rather dark, but she could see no one was in the bed. Then, she realized the shower was running. Against any kind of decent judgment, she moved toward the bathroom door. She couldn’t help herself; she peeked inside. He wasn’t standing in the shower; he was sitting on the floor. She panicked and rushed towards him before her brain informed her to actually speak his name.

She pulled open the door, certain he was dead before she shrieked, “Matthew, open your damned eyes!”

He did. Open his damned eyes. Opened them really wide. “Emma? Why are you in my shower stall?”

She really didn’t have a great answer to that. “Oh, Lord. I thought you were dead.” It was the best she could do.

He did look nearly dead. He smiled weakly. “I’ve been really sick, so I thought I’d sit here for a little while. But I’m not dead. So, um, could you hand me a towel? Unless, of course, you prefer a shower?”

Emma then became acutely aware of her position. And his. He was naked. Oh, Lord, was he naked. The most delicious naked she’d ever seen. And now she couldn’t stop staring at his naked. And apparently his naked knew it now. Because it was staring straight up at her, too.

“Emma—a towel? Because I’m a little more inclined to invite you into my shower now.”

She raised her eyes beyond his naked to his eyes, horrified. “Uh, a towel. Sure.” Looking around, she grabbed the closest towel she could find, the one hanging on a hook beside the shower. “I thought you were dead,” she said again, as an explanation.

She was a complete idiot. And now she wanted to jump his sick bones.