Owen: Regency Rockstars
Owen
Regency Rockstars
sasha cottman
Copyright © 2020 by Sasha Cottman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Regency Rockstars
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Reid
Callum
Kendal
Also by Sasha Cottman
About the Author
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Regency Rockstars
Regency Rockstars
* * *
1816
* * *
The war against Napoleon has been won. For those nobles who fought at the battle of Waterloo, the rewards have come freely from the scandalous women of London high society.
Reid Follett, Owen Morrison, Callum Sharp and Kendal Grant have had unfettered access to the charms of every lady who takes their fancy. They have had their pick of any woman they wish to bed.
Until now . . .
One year on, the luster of being celebrated war heroes is beginning to fade. When a group of suave, supremely talented Italian musicians arrive in London and begin to tear up the social scene, the English lords suddenly find themselves having to fight to keep the sexual favors of the wild women of the ton.
But Reid, Owen, Callum and Kendal are determined to defend their territory and decide to take the Italians on at their own game. The Noble Lords quartet is born.
What follows is everything that makes rock star romance so great. Outrageous egos, shocking scandals, and of course, wicked sex. And somewhere in the heart of it all is the music.
The Regency Rockstars series is a new twist on historical romance and rock star romance. Stories of war-scarred English lords who are bad boy musicians and the women who dare to love them.
Regency Rockstars
Reid Owen Callum Kendal
Chapter One
The moment Lord Owen Morrison and Lady Georgina Yardley entered her bedroom, Georgina locked the door. Owen pulled her roughly to him, placing hard, eager kisses on her mouth.
He was in desperate need to have her under him and writhing with passion as soon as possible. His balls were already half drawn up in anticipation of blessed sexual relief. How many days had it been since he had held a naked woman in his arms? Too fucking many.
Greedy fingers tore at his jacket and cravat. “I need to see you in all your glory,” she whispered.
He held up a hand. Bed sport or not, he wasn’t going to have his clothes ruined. His valet would kill him. Stepping back from her, Owen undressed with all the skill and haste that years of hurried couplings had taught him.
Georgina eyed him off, her gaze slowly starting down from his head to settle on his groin. On his engorged cock.
“Always good to know you are pleased to see me, Owen,” she said.
“And always good to know you are going to please me,” he replied.
He took two steps toward her, halting mid-stride when a loud voice pierced the night air.
“Georgina! Where the fuck is, he? You had better not be naked in bed with him or I shall run him through!”
Georgina’s face turned ashen white, and her lips opened on a small O as Owen’s worst nightmare roared to life. The sound of an axe being taken to the locked bedroom door echoed throughout the room.
“I thought you said he was out of town,” hissed Owen.
“He must have returned early. You have to go. He swore that the next time I brought a lover home he would do bloody murder,” she whispered.
A frantic Owen looked around the room. There was only one door and Georgina’s madman of a husband stood on the other side of it. He was not going to risk trying to negotiate with a man holding an axe.
They were on the second floor of the townhouse so jumping was not an option. He would have to try and climb down to ground level. Not an easy task in the dark.
A second loud thwack came from the other side of the door. Owen jumped at the sound of wood splintering.
“How solid is that door?” he asked.
Georgina shrugged. “No idea, but I wouldn’t be standing there waiting to find out. You are going to have to climb out the window; there is nothing else you can do. And you have to go now.”
She raced to the window and threw it open. Then, hurrying back to where Owen’s clothes and boots lay on the chair, she scooped them up and before he could stop her, Georgina had crossed back to the window and tossed them out.
He looked at her, aghast. “How the devil am I going to climb down a stone wall in my birthday suit?”
He could just imagine how news of his death would be reported in the newspaper if he didn’t make it out of the house alive.
The naked body of Lord Owen Morrison was discovered this morning in the grounds of Lord and Lady Yardley’s mansion . . .
Oh, fuck. If the fall didn’t kill him, the shame certainly would.
When the axe fell a third time on the door and he heard the lock crack, Owen knew he was out of time.
“I’m so sorry, Owen darling. Mind how you go,” said Georgina.
Owen couldn’t muster a reply to her inane comment; his brain was already trying to numb itself from the pain it knew was coming when he inevitably fell.
Poking his head out the window, he felt his bowels loosen. It was a long way down to the ground—a really long way. If he didn’t pee himself, or worse, it would be a miracle. And if he did survive the fall but had to be rescued, his father would likely kill him. His evening was quickly descending into farce.
I knew I should have left the first party with Reid.
He put one leg out the window and sat on the window ledge. As his family jewels dragged over the rough timberwork, he pondered all those years when he could have been out securing the Morrison family line instead of wasting them on wicked liaisons. He sent a silent apology to his forebears for having failed them.
With his fingers clutching to the side of the brickwork, Owen climbed out. The freezing ni
ght air grabbed a sharp hold of his naked arse and he shivered. When his balls disappeared up inside him, he wondered if he would ever see them again.
He lowered himself down from the window a mere second before it was slammed shut and locked. There was no going back. The muffled sound of a heated argument could be heard from overheard.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He had made it only an inch or two farther down the wall, before the familiar click of the lock sounded again. Any second now the window would be opened once more, and he would be discovered.
Please don’t have a fucking pistol.
At the sound of the window being lifted, Owen dropped to the ground. Right into the waiting arms of a prickly rose bush.
Pain screamed through his brain as he landed.
I’m alive! And God, it hurts!
He lay in the dark, his lips clenched between his teeth, desperate not to cry out and reveal his location.
Overhead, Georgina pleaded her case. “See? There is no one there. You are just being a jealous fool. Now come to bed, darling, and let me show you how much I love you.”
Owen held his breath, only finally letting it out when the sound of the window being slammed shut echoed in the night. The bedroom curtains were drawn, and he was left alone.
It took quite some effort on his part to extricate himself from the rose bush. Everywhere he placed his hands, a sharp thorn stabbed him.
“Bloody English roses,” he muttered.
After scrambling around, he eventually managed to retrieve all his clothes. His fine woolen evening jacket and linen shirt both ripped as he fought to free them from the rose bush. He dreaded to think what his valet would make of the state of his wardrobe come the morning.
Stealing into the dark safety of the stables at the back of the house, he made ready to dress himself once more. Darting to one side of the open doorway, his bare foot landed in the middle of a hot, wet pile of horse manure. It squelched between his toes.
“Horse shit, fabulous. Just what I need,” he murmured.
In great pain, Owen dressed as fast as he could. His whole body was a mess of bloody cuts and abrasions. He knew that tomorrow there would also be many bruises to go alongside those injuries. He could only hope that he made it home without meeting anyone of his acquaintance on the way. But first, he had to make good his escape.
He limped barefoot out into the rear laneway, careful not to make any noise, then slowly, painfully headed back to Lowe House, avoiding as many people as he could.
After the night he had just endured, the last thing Owen needed was for the rest of London to be laughing at his misfortune. Even rakes had reputations to maintain.
Every step on the way home was sheer agony, but he had survived the fall. He was still alive. He grabbed at his crotch. “And my balls are still intact.”
The long line of the Morrison family may yet continue.
Chapter Two
The glass shattered, breaking into a thousand sharp pieces. The whisky bottle which quickly followed left a satisfying hole in the wall of the sitting room. Owen picked up the crystal decanter, taking a moment to feel the weight of it in his injured hand. He drew his arm back, ready to launch it at the same spot, then stopped.
“Better not,” he muttered.
The glass and bottle were easily replaced, but the decanter was worth more than a pound or two. He couldn’t afford to buy a new one, and his father would most certainly notice its absence from the liquor cabinet.
Owen had been drinking since the early hours of the morning in an effort to ease the throbbing pain from his wounds. While the ache of his injuries had somewhat lessened, the whisky had done little to dull the anger in his mind.
He set the decanter down, carelessly knocking a pile of opened letters off a nearby table as he did. One by one, they fluttered to the floor. He gave them a glance but didn’t bother to pick them up. The surface of the table would not remain empty for long. Tomorrow morning, more notices of demand would arrive.
But payment to various creditors could wait. It would have to. Tightly fisted in his left hand was the letter from his father.
“Fuck,” he growled.
The missive itself was rather short. The Morrison family fortunes could only be saved by a significant injection of blunt.
He already knew that.
The sort of money that came with a bride’s dowry.
He knew that too.
A bride his father, the Marquess of Lowe, had quietly gone ahead and, without his knowledge, chosen for him.
That piece of news had been a nasty surprise.
Owen had himself a fiancée and to say he was not happy about it would have been a gross understatement.
“Lady Amelia Perry,” he said with a sneer.
Even her name sounded insipid.
He could just imagine what she would be like. Amelias, in his experience, were never up for fun and games in the bedroom. His future bride would no doubt be all about frippery and lace. Her hobbies would include flower arranging and reading soppy books.
“I bet she reads romance novels.”
Whatever her reading habits, Lady Amelia Perry had better not get any romantic notions into her head when it came to their marriage. As far as Owen was concerned, any union he was a member of would be based on simple terms. His bride would hand over her dowry and he would then bed her for as long as it took to get an heir into her belly.
In the meantime, he would continue on with his usual habit of sleeping with as many other men’s wives as possible. Lady Amelia would not be allowed to become an inconvenience to his rakish ways.
He screwed the letter into a small, hard ball. No matter how many times he had read it in the days since its arrival at Lowe House, the words remained the same. He was getting married.
His future wife would need to have a thick skin, because she would soon learn that her husband was a lothario, from the soles of his boots to the hair on his head; he had no intention of ever being faithful to her or even attempting to be discreet about his affairs. When it came to his sexual conquests, Owen did not give a damn about keeping them between the sheets.
A footman knocked on the door of the sitting room. Owen ignored the man’s frown at the sight of the hole in the wall, along with the broken glass, and scattered letters.
“My lord, your bags are packed and waiting in the foyer,” said the footman.
Owen stirred from his tantrum. “Do you have my instruments?”
“All but the violin, my lord. I was given strict instructions that only you were to handle that case,” he replied.
“Very good. I shall be downstairs shortly; have the carriage brought around. Let the driver know I am headed to Follett House in Windmill Street, but I won’t be returning,” he said.
The offer to move to Viscount Reid Follett’s house and spend the rest of the summer playing music with his friends could not have come at a better time for Owen.
Once the footman had gone, Owen crossed to a nearby mirror. He checked himself in the glass, making sure that his already immaculately tied cravat was still perfect. He gave himself a satisfied nod, relieved that the fall had not damaged his face.
“You are a handsome devil, Lord Morrison. It’s time for you to go and have one last season of unrestrained debauchery before the old man tries to make you become respectable.”
God knows why he thinks me having a wife will make any difference.
He snorted at the notion. The Marquess of Lowe might be a devoted husband, but his son was cut from a different cloth. Women were to be wooed, bedded, and then cast aside.
He tossed the dreaded letter in the direction of the fire, where it landed in the flames. The paper quickly burst into a ball of fiery orange before disintegrating into ashes. Owen grimly smiled at it before turning to give one last look at the destruction of paper, whisky, and broken glass which still lay on the floor.
He made a beeline for the door; confident that the Lowe House staff woul
d soon have the room set to rights. He had other priorities.
He was off to join the Noble Lords.
Chapter Three
Later that afternoon, Owen strode into the ballroom of Follett House, violin case in hand.
His fellow Noble Lords, Viscount Reid Follett, Lord Kendal Grant, and Sir Callum Sharp, were already in the room, seated in a semi-circle.
“Glad you could make it,” said Kendal.
“Busy pulling thorns out of your arse?” chimed in Callum with a grin.
“Just getting myself settled. Living out of one room is like being back at Eton. And my valet is still complaining that he will have to share digs with other servants for the next ten weeks,” Owen replied.
He wasn’t going to make mention of the hysterics his valet had been in at the sight of his evening attire after Georgina had thrown Owen’s clothes into the rose bush. The rest of his friends had already given him plenty of stick over it and his pride had suffered enough damage.
“Sacrifices must be made by all. If we are to take on Marco Calvino and the Italians, we need to be a tight-knit group. We have to band together here and make sure we defeat them. Your valet will have to make do,” said Reid.