ISBN-13: 978-0062412959
Mass Market Paperback: 416 pages
Publisher: Avon Impulse (August 23, 2016)
About THE VIRGIN AND THE VISCOUNT
In the next sparkling romance in debut author Charis Michael’s Bachelor Lords of London series, a
proper viscount meets his match in a beguiling virgin who can't help but break all the rules.
The Virgin
Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes has a painful secret. At the innocent age of fifteen, she was abducted
by highwaymen and sold to a brothel. After two days, a young lord discovers her and enacts a brave
rescue to get her out. Now she's a grown woman, working to save other girls from the horror she saw
that night and never forgetting the young man who rescued her.
The Viscount
Bryson Courtland, Viscount Rainsleigh has overcome an abusive boyhood, neglectful parents, and a
bankrupt title to be one of the wealthiest noblemen in Britain. He works tirelessly to be upright and
forthright and proper to a fault. Now he requires only one thing: A proper, forthright, proper wife.
The Unraveling
When a charity event puts Lord Bryson and Lady Elisabeth face-to- face, Bryson has no memory of the
wounded girl of long ago. All he can see is a perfect candidate to be his future wife. Elisabeth has never
forgotten him, but she worries that the brave boy who saved her so long ago has become a rich man
with an unfulfilled life.
As a whirlwind courtship reveals the truth, Bryson must accept that Elisabeth is actually a shadow from
his dark past, while Elisabeth must show that love is the noblest virtue of all.
About CHARIS MICHAELS
Charis Michaels is thrilled to be making her debut with Avon Impulse. Prior to writing romance, she
studied Journalism at Texas A&M and managed PR for a trade association. She has also worked as a tour
guide at Disney World, harvested peaches on her family’s farm, and entertained children as the “Story
Godmother” at birthday parties. She has lived in Texas, Florida, and London, England. She now makes
her home in the Washington, D.C.-metro area.
Connect with the Author: Website | Twitter | Facebook
Prologue
On April 12, 1809, Franklin “Frankie” Courtland, 6 th Viscount Rainsleigh, tripped on a
root in the bottom of a riverbed and drowned. He was drunk at the time, picnicking with friends
on the banks of the River Wylye. According an account later given to the magistrate, his
lordship simply fell over, bumped into a fallen log, and sank.
It was there he remained—“enjoying the cool,” or so his friends believed—until he
became too heavy, too slippery, and, alas, too dead to revive. But they did dislodge him; and
after that, they claimed he floated to the surface, bobbed several times, and then gently glided
downstream. He was later found just before sunset, face down and bloated (in life, as also in
death), beached on a pebble shoal near Codford.
At the time the elder Courtland was sinking to the bottom of the river, his son and heir,
Bryson was hunched over a desk in the offices of his fledgling shipping company, waiting for the
very moment his father would die. It had been an exceedingly long, progressively humiliating
wait. Years long—nay, decades.
Luckily for Bryson, for his ships and his future, he was capable of doing more things at
once than wait, and while his father drank and debauched his way through all respectability and
life, Bryson worked.
It was an unthinkable thing for a young heir and nobleman—to “work”—but Bryson was
given little choice, considering the impoverished state of the Rainsleigh crest. He was scarcely
eleven years of age when he made first foray into labor, and not so many years after, into private
enterprise. His life in work had not ceased since. On the rare occasion that he didn’t work, he
studied.
With his meager earnings (he began by punting boats on the very river in which his father
later drowned), he made meager investments. These investments reaped small gains—first in
shares in the punting station; later in property along the water; later still, in other industry up and
down the river.
Bryon lived modestly, worked ceaselessly, and spared only enough to pay his way
through Cambridge, bring up his brother, and see him educated him, as well. Every guinea
earned was reinvested. He repeated the process again and again, a little less meagerly each time
‘round.
By the time the elder viscount’s self-destructive lifestyle wrought his river- and drink-
soaked end, Bryson had managed to accrue a small fortune, launch a company that built and
sailed ships, and construct an elaborate plan for what he would do when his father finally cocked
up his toes and died.
When at last that day came, Bryson had but one complaint: it took fifty-two hours for the
constable to find him. He was a viscount for two days before anyone, including himself, even
knew it.
But two days was a trifle compared to a lifetime of waiting. And on the day he learned of
his inheritance—nay, the very hour—he launched his long awaited plan.
By three o’clock on the fourth day, he’d razed the rotting, reeking east wing of the family
estate in Wiltshire to the ground.
Within the week, he’d extracted his mother from the west wing and shipped her and a
contingent of discreet caregivers to a villa in Spain.
Within the month, he’d sold every stick of furniture, every remaining fork and dish, every
sweat-soaked toga and opium-tinged gown. He burned the drapes, burned the rugs, burned the
tapestries. He delivered the half-starved horses and the fighting dogs to an agricultural college
and pensioned off the remaining staff.
By the six-week mark, he’d unloaded the London townhome—sold at auction to the
highest bidder—and with it, the broken-down carriage, his father’s dusty arsenal, what was left
of the wine stores, and all the lurid art.
It was a whirlwind evacuation, a gutting, really, and no one among polite society had ever
witnessed a son or heir take such absolute control and haul away so much family or property
quite so fast.
But no one among polite society was acquainted with Bryson Anders Courtland, the new
Viscount Rainsleigh.
And no one understood that it was not so much an ending as it was an entirely fresh start.
Once the tearing down ceased, the rebuilding could begin. New viscountsy, new money, new
respect, new life.
It was an enterprise into which Bryson threw himself like no other. Unlike all others,
however, he could only do so much, one man, alone. For this, he would require another. A
partner. Someone with whom he could work together towards a common goal. A collaborator
who emulated his precise, immaculate manner. A matriarch, discreet and pure. A paragon of
propriety. A viscountess. A proper, perfect wife.