His Wicked Seduction E-Book

Lauren Smith

• Herausgeber: Lauren Smith
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The League of Rogues
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 604

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Fans of Julia Quinn’s Bridgerton Series and Johanna Lindsey’s Malory Series will love the passionate romances and gripping adventures of the League of Rogues.
Can the League’s most wicked rakehell be tamed? Or has this Rogue fallen too far?
Horatia Sheridan has been hopelessly in love with Lucien, her brother’s best friend, ever since he rescued her from the broken remains of her parents’ wrecked carriage. His reputation as London’s most notorious rakehell doesn’t frighten her, for under his veneer of cool authority she has glimpsed a man whose wicked desires inspire her own.
Lucien, Marquess of Rochester, has deliberately nurtured a reputation for debauchery that makes every matchmaking mother of the ton quake with fear. His one secret: he is torn between soul-ripping lust for Horatia, and the loyalty he owes her brother.
That loyalty is put to the test when an old enemy of the League threatens Horatia’s life. With Christmas drawing near, he sweeps her away to his country estate, where he can’t resist granting her one wish—to share his bed and his heart.
But sinister forces are lurking, awaiting the perfect moment to exact their revenge by destroying not only whatever happiness Lucien might find in Horatia’s arms, but the lives of those they love.
Warning: This book contains an intelligent lady who is determined to seduce her brother’s friend, a brooding rake whose toy of choice in bed is a little bit of bondage with a piece of red silk, a loyal band of merry rogues and a Christmas love so scorching you’ll need fresh snow to extinguish it. 

Leseprobe

HIS WICKED SEDUCTION

LAUREN SMITH

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Smith

Excerpt from Her Wicked Proposal by Lauren Smith, Copyright © 2017

Cover art by Kim Killion

Interior Acrylic Illustration by Joanne Renaud

Interior Art by Teresa Spreckelmeyer

The League of Rogues ® is an officially registered federal trademark owned by Lauren Smith.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

This book was previously published in 2014 by Samhain Publishing. This is a republication of the original version.

ISBN: 978-0-9974237-6-1 (e-book edition)

ISBN: 978-0-9974237-7-8 (print edition)

ISBN: 978-0-9974237-6-1

Created with Vellum

To everyone who has suffered the pangs of unrequited love, this story is for you. And to my brothers Grant and Andy and my sister Sara. I’m so lucky to have you all in my life. Siblings are the best gift there is.

CONTENTS

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

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Acknowledgments

About the Author

CHAPTER1

League Rule Number 2:

One must never seduce another member’s sister. Should this rule be broken,the member whose sister was seduced has the right to demand satisfaction.

Excerpt from The Quizzing Glass Gazette, September 30, 1820, The Lady Society Column:

Lady Society has turned her eye this week to one of London’s most notorious paramours, the Marquess of Rochester. Member of the infamous League of Rogues, the marquess is rumored by ladies of the ton as a fiery-haired devil capable of shocking delights behind closed doors.

It has come to Lady Society’s attention that no lady has held Rochester’s interest for long. Does he secretly pine for someone of good breeding and good sense, perhaps?

Lady Society would like to learn the answer to this most fascinating question. Perhaps Rochester indulges himself to ease the pangs of unrequited love for some mystery woman. Should one hazard a guess as to the unlucky—or perhaps lucky—maiden who has stolen our dark marquess’s heart?

London, December 1820

She is going to be the death of me.

“Lucien! You’re not even listening to me, are you? I’m in desperate need of a new valet and you’ve been woolgathering rather than offering suggestions. I daresay you have enough for a decent coat and a pair of mittens by now.”

Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, looked to his friend Charles. They were walking down Bond Street, Lucien keeping careful watch over one particular lady without her knowledge and Charles simply enjoying the chance for an outing. The street was surprisingly crowded for so early in the day and during such foul wintry weather.

“Admit it,” Charles prodded.

Lucien fought to focus on his friend. “Sorry?”

The Earl of Lonsdale fixed him with a stern glare which, given that his usual manner tended towards jovial, was a little alarming.

“Where is your head? You’ve been out of sorts all morning.”

Lucien grunted. He had no intention of explaining himself. His thoughts were sinful ones, ones that would lead him straight to a fiery spot in Hell, assuming one wasn’t already reserved for him. All because of one woman: Horatia Sheridan.

She was halfway up Bond Street on the opposite side of the road, a beacon of beauty standing out from the women around her. A footman dressed in the Sheridan livery trailed diligently behind her with a large box in his arms. A new dress, if Lucien had to hazard a guess. She should not be out traipsing about on snow-covered walkways, not with these carriages rumbling past, casting muddy slush all over. It frustrated him to think she was risking a chill for the sake of shopping. It frustrated him more that he was so concerned about it.

“I know you think I’m a half-wit on most days, but⁠—”

“Only most?” Lucien couldn’t resist the verbal jab.

Charles grinned. “As I was saying, it’s a bit obvious our leisurely stroll is merely a ruse. I’ve noticed we’ve stopped several times, matching the pattern of a certain lady of our acquaintance across the street.”

So Charles had been watchful after all. Lucien shouldn’t have been surprised. He hadn’t done his best to conceal his interest in Horatia Sheridan. It was too hard to fight the natural pull of his gaze whenever she was near. She was twenty years old, yet she carried herself with the natural grace of a mature and educated queen. Not many women could achieve such a feat. For as long as he’d known her, she’d been that way.

He’d been a young man in his twenties when he met her, and she’d been all of fourteen. She’d been like a little sister to him. Even then, she’d struck him as more mentally and emotionally mature than most women in their later years. There was something about her eyes, the way her doe-brown pools held a man rooted to the spot with intelligence—and in these last few months, attraction…

“You’d best stop staring,” Charles intoned quietly. “People are starting to notice.”

“She shouldn’t be out in this weather. Her brother would have a fit.” Lucien tugged his leather gloves tighter, hoping to erase the lingering effects of the chill wind that slid between his coat sleeves and gloves.

Charles burst out into a laugh, one loud enough to draw the attention of nearby onlookers. “Cedric loves her and little Audrey, but you and I both know that does not stop either of them from doing just as they please.”

There was far too much truth in that. Lucien and Charles had known Cedric, Viscount Sheridan for many years, bonded during one dark night at university. The memory of when he, Charles, Cedric and two others, Godric and Ashton, had first met always unsettled him. Still, what had happened had forged an unbreakable bond between the five of them. Later, London, or at least the society pages, had dubbed them The League of Rogues.

The League. How amusing it all was…except for one thing. The night they’d formed their alliance each of the five men had been marked by the Devil himself. A man by the name of Hugo Waverly, a fellow student at Cambridge, had sworn vengeance on them.

And sometimes Lucien wondered if they didn’t deserve it.

Lucien shook off the heavy thoughts. He was drawn to the vision of Horatia pausing to admire a shop window displaying an array of poke bonnets nestled on stands. Her beleaguered footman stood by her elbow, juggling the box in his arms. He nodded smartly as Horatia pointed out a particular bonnet. Lucien was tempted to venture forth and speak with her, possibly lure her into an alley in order to have just a moment alone with her. Even if he only spoke with her, he feared the intimacy of that conversation would get him a bullet through his heart if her brother ever found out.

Charles had walked a few feet ahead, then stopped and turned to kick a pile of snow into the street. “If this is how you mean to spend the day then consider me gone. I could be at Jackson’s Salon right now, or better yet, savoring the favors of the fine ladies at the Midnight Garden.”

Lucien knew he’d put Charles out of sorts asking him to come today, but he’d had a peculiar feeling since he’d risen this morning, as though someone was walking over his grave. Ever since Hugo Waverly had returned to London, he had been keeping on eye on Cedric’s sisters, particularly Horatia. Waverly had a way of creating collateral damage and Lucien would do anything to keep these innocent ladies safe. But she mustn’t know he was watching over her. He’d spent the last six years being outwardly cold to her, praying she’d stop gazing at him in that sweet, loving way of hers.

It was cruel of him, yes, but if he did not create some distance, he’d have had her on her back beneath him. She was too good a woman for that, and he was far too wicked to be worthy of her. Rather like a demon falling for an angel. He longed for her in ways he’d never craved for other women, and he could never have her.

The reason was simple. His public reputation did not do justice to the true depth of his debauchery. A man like him could and should never be with a woman like Horatia. She was beauty, intelligence and strength, and he would corrupt her with just one night in his arms.

Within the ton, there was scandal and then there was scandal. For a certain class of woman, being seen with the wrong man in the wrong place could be enough to ruin her reputation and damage her prospects. These fair creatures deserved nothing but the utmost in courtesy and propriety.

For others, the widows still longing for love, those who had no interest in husbands but did from time to time seek companionship, and that rare lovely breed of woman who had both the wealth and position to afford to not give a toss about what society thought, there was Lucien. He seduced them all, taught them to open themselves up to their deepest desires and needs, and seek satisfaction. Not once had a woman complained or been dissatisfied after he had departed from her bed. But there was only one bed he sought now, and it was one he should never be invited into.

He glanced about and noticed a familiar coach among the other carriages on the street. Much of the street’s traffic had been moving steadily and quicker than the people on foot, but not that coach. There was nothing unusual about it; the rider was covered with a scarf like all the others, to keep out the chill, yet each time he and Charles had crossed a street, the coach had shadowed them.

“Charles, do you think we’re being followed?”

Charles brushed off some snow from his gloved hands when it dropped onto him from a nearby shop’s eave. “What? What on earth for?”

“I don’t know. That carriage. It has been with us for quite a few streets.”

“Lucien, we’re in a popular part of London. No doubt someone is shopping and ordering their carriage to keep close.”

“Hmm,” was all he said before he turned his attention back to Horatia and her footman. One of her spare gloves fell out of her cloak and onto the ground, going unnoticed by both her and her servant. Lucien debated briefly whether or not he should interfere and alert her to the fact that he and Charles had been following her. When she continued to walk ahead, leaving her glove behind, he made his decision.

Lucien caught up with his friend still ahead of him on the street. “I’ll not keep you. Horatia’s dropped a glove and I wish to return it to her.”

“Plagued by a bit of chivalry, eh? Go on then, I want to stop here a moment.” He pointed to a bookshop.

“Very good. Catch me up when you’re ready.”

Lucien dodged through the traffic on the road and was halfway across the street when pandemonium struck.

Bond Street was turned on its head as screams tore through the air. The coach that had been shadowing him raced down the road in Lucien’s direction. Yet, rather than trying to halt the team, the driver whipped the horses, urging them directly at Lucien.

He was too far across the street to turn back; he had to get to safety and get others out of the way. Horatia! She could be trampled when it passed her. Lucien’s heart shot into his throat as he ran. The driver whipped the horses again, as if sensing Lucien’s determination to escape.

“Horatia!” Lucien bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Out of the way!”

He’d never forget the look on her face. The way her confused expression changed into unadulterated joy at seeing him, then to terror as she realized the curricle was headed straight for them.

Lucien crossed the street moments before the horses reached him. He tackled Horatia, knocking her to the ground in an alley between the shops. The curricle’s wheels sliced through the snow and slush inches from his boots, soaking them with icy water.

For a long moment, Lucien couldn’t move. She was alive. He’d made it. The curricle hadn’t run either of them over…

Then his body seemed to realize it had a woman under it. A woman with the finest curves God had ever made to tempt a man. Her bonnet was askew, revealing long lustrous curls of deep chestnut hair. Her dark eyes, so innocent, fixed on his face in wonder.

“My lord…” she murmured in a daze. Her gloved hands rested on his chest, holding him at bay. He felt the tremble of her hands all the way to his bones, and his body responded with interest.

“What in blazes?” Charles rushed into the alley, gray eyes alight with fury. “Did you see who was driving that curricle?” Charles paused and took in the scene before him with a smile. “Horatia, love, how are you? Not too bruised I hope?” Charles had never in his life bothered with titles or propriety. Neither did Lucien for that matter. So it didn’t surprise Lucien that his friend treated Horatia as he did.

“Oh Charles!” she exclaimed. She seemed to realize only now she was on her back in an alley just off Bond Street, with a street full of curious people peering in and Lucien on top of her.

Lucien gritted his teeth. “Oh Charles!” she’d said, but Lucien was always “My lord.” It grated his nerves that she didn’t offer such intimacy to him. It was his own damned fault. He pushed her away at every opportunity, just to keep himself from tugging her into the nearest alcove and kissing her. Something about her seemed to render him into the most barbaric state possible. He had little else on his mind other than how she’d taste, how she’d moan and sigh if he could just get his hands on her.

“Lucien…” Horatia stammered. His name on her lips was more erotic than a lover’s sated sigh. “What on earth just happened?”

“I fear someone just tried to run me over, and you were, unfortunately, in the way,” he explained, worried by the dazed expression swallowing her dark eyes.

“I say, Lucien, you might want to get off the girl, she’s turning blue,” Charles teased. “Besides, stay on top of her any longer and people are bound to talk. Wouldn’t want to end up married just for saving her life, would you?”

Horatia was red-faced and Lucien wasn’t sure if it was from lack of air or because she lay beneath him near a public street in such a compromising position. He rolled off her and got to his feet. Charles handed Lucien his hat and he set it back in place. He brushed off the snow from his clothes with one hand while offering the other hand to Horatia.

Her hesitation struck him like a blow. Finally her gloved hand settled into his and he helped her up, tugging just enough so that she stumbled into his arms. He couldn’t resist smiling down at her.

If he leaned down just a few inches, he could kiss her, part her lips… For a moment, he lost himself in the dream of how she would taste. She stared up at him, unblinking with those damned lovely eyes that warmed until they were fiery with echoed desire. It would be so easy to⁠—

“Ahem.” The footman held out the box with a most pitiful expression on his face. “My lady…” he croaked as he showed her the package. It was soaked clean through, just as Horatia and Lucien now were.

She tugged free of Lucien’s arms. “Oh dear!”

The spell he’d cast over her was broken as she rushed over, taking the box from the footman. “Oh dear, oh dear.” The glitter of tears were sharp in her eyes when she turned to face him.

“My dress. It’s ruined.”

Tears for a gown? The behavior was more suited to her younger sister, Audrey. The loveable little chit was obsessed with fashion. Horatia, however, had always been quieter, and more academic in nature.

“Can’t you buy another?” Charles asked.

“No… I cannot ask Cedric to spend any more than he has.”

Ahh, there she was. The Horatia he knew was frugal to a fault. Cedric was as rich as Croesus but Horatia would never let him spoil her.

“Oh…” Charles replied, a little confused. He was a spendthrift, that was no secret.

Lucien took the box from the footman, eyeing it critically.

“It might be salvageable. We’ll escort you home and you can have your lady’s maid see to it.”

Horatia glanced uncertainly between Charles and Lucien. “I’m not putting you out of your way? Peter and I are fine to go home on our own, aren’t we, Peter?” She shot a determined look at her footman, who nodded hastily.

“We’ll be fine, my lords.”

“Nonsense,” Lucien said. “You’ve had a shock and are soaking wet. We’re escorting you home. End of discussion.” He gripped her elbow with one hand and shoved the package back at Peter.

They must have presented an odd spectacle. Lucien and Charles flanking either side of the drenched Horatia like guards, with her footman following close behind carrying a sodden box in his hands.

Lucien ignored the curious stares and simply enjoyed the relief at being able to see Horatia home without another life-threatening incident.

When they reached the Sheridan residence, Horatia slid her drenched cloak off her shoulders and excused herself as she fled upstairs with the package. Lucien lingered in the hall, watching the flutter of her wet skirts, wishing he could follow her to her chambers and slip into the hot water of the bath she was no doubt going to take. The thought of Horatia, naked in a bath was only slightly less tempting than the dream he’d had the night before about her. She haunted his thoughts all too often of late.

“Shall we wait for Cedric?” Charles asked, joining him at the foot of the stairs.

“He isn’t in?”

Charles shook his head. “The butler said he is looking for Horatia as it were.”

Searching for his sister? What on earth for?

“We should wait,” Lucien suggested. “Come, let’s get some brandy.”

His friend grinned. “Now that is more the activity I had in mind when we set out this morning.”

They followed a footman to the morning room to wait for Cedric’s return.

Charles settled into a large brocaded armchair, crossing an ankle over his knee. “Lucien, do you think Horatia will be all right?”

“I suppose…”

“Given her past, I mean,” Charles explained. “With her parents and the coach accident. You were there. Do you think this will bring back the memories?”

Lucien shuddered. That was the day Cedric had lost his parents. They’d been traveling through town when two men had decided to race their curricles through the streets. Horatia, only fourteen, had been in the coach with her parents. The crash had been dreadful. Screaming horses with broken legs, several people who’d been too close wounded by the wreck. One young man dead, another terribly injured. Cedric and Horatia’s parents hadn’t survived the impact of the coach when it had rolled.

Horatia had been stuck in the coach with the bodies of her parents, unable to get out, dazed from the shock. She hadn’t even screamed for help. When Lucien had reached the scene, he climbed up the carriage’s side and opened the door. He called her name and she’d looked up at him, eyes full of terror. He’d pulled her out of the coach and into his arms. His stomach roiled at the memory of her body shaking violently against his.

“She’s strong. She’ll be fine.” Lucien’s words were more an assurance to himself than to Charles. He had to believe she’d not be too upset after this morning.

Thinking of her distraught left a hollow feeling in his chest. Despite his intention to ignore her as much as possible and pretend she didn’t exist, she had possessed his every waking thought for the past few months. He knew exactly who to blame for this. The Duchess of Essex, formerly Miss Emily Parr.

His friend, Godric, the Duke of Essex, had kidnapped Miss Parr earlier that fall. The scheme hadn’t gone at all as planned and Godric had found himself leg-shackled in matrimony a few months ago.

Lucien found himself smiling, which should have unnerved him, given that the hallowed state of matrimony was one he feared more than death. But damned if he wasn’t a tiny bit jealous of Godric’s easy happiness with Emily. The two were quite opposite in nature, and yet they were a love match.

The events after the kidnapping had thrown Lucien into Horatia’s world again. All the effort he’d put into tactfully dodging dinner parties and balls were for naught. The League was so fond of Emily that not one of them could resist coming when she called. Cedric called it the “lapdog” effect—they’d been turned from perfectly dangerous rakehells of the worst sort to perfectly behaved gentleman in the presence of the Duchess of Essex. If only Emily and Horatia hadn’t become such close friends, Lucien might have avoided her with more ease.

That Horatia was still unmarried at the age of twenty surprised him. How was it no other man had wanted to bed a creature with doe-brown eyes and such curves that were made for holding? Or spend an entire day planning jokes just to win one rich laugh from her soft lips? Knowing Cedric, however, there were probably several young bucks in the ton running scared at the thought of approaching him for permission to court his sister.

Lucien had tried to slake his thirst for Horatia between the thighs of other women, but it was no use. Only the previous night he’d attempted to bed a woman and found he wasn’t aroused enough to perform. If word of that got out, he’d become a laughing stock. The irony of his rakehell reputation being damaged by an innocent woman was not lost on him. At this moment he dreaded his friend’s arrival, considering the dream he’d had the previous night.

Horatia had been stripped of every scrap of clothing, all laid out before him, ankles and wrists bound to his bedposts by red silk. Perspiration slicked her skin as he moved up her body to nuzzle her perfect nipples. She arched into him, rubbing her sex against him, searing him with the wicked heat of her arousal. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, tasting her, and cupped her luscious bottom, raising it for the best angle of a powerful thrust. The dream had dissipated into mist, leaving him with an erection hard enough to pound a hole in the wall.

It would be a miracle if he could school his features and hide his guilt from Cedric after dreaming of doing such things with the man’s sister.

Lucien glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was now nearly noon. Cedric should have been here by now.

There was a serpentine crawling sensation beneath his skin that unsettled him. He’d had this feeling before, just before a storm was about to break. Worry knotted inside him, twisting his stomach until he could scarcely breathe. Dark clouds were on the horizon.

Charles frowned and leaned forward in his chair, concern weighing down the corners of his mouth. “Are you feeling all right?”

One deep breath. Two. The iron dread in his chest eased. “I’ve been better, I suppose. I just…” Lucien hesitated.

Charles reached for the decanter of brandy and poured Lucien another glass. “What is it?”

Lucien opened his mouth, but the door to the room crashed open, Cedric framed the doorway like an avenging angel, or a demon. He strode inside holding a note in one hand, knuckles white as he gripped his silver lion-headed cane in the other.

“What’s the matter, Cedric?”

Cedric’s rage was all too apparent. “That bastard!”

There was a moment of silence as Lucien shared a worried glance with Charles.

Charles stood and walked over to the cigar box on the side table against the far wall. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific; there are a lot of bastards about.” He ran the cigar underneath his nose. “Some are even in this room.”

Lucien rose and paced towards the window overlooking the street front. He spied a comical scene of an overdressed dandy prancing about with a quizzing glass, examining various ladies’ dresses as they passed by him. The man seemed to feel Lucien’s gaze and raised his head. A cold chill swept through Lucien. Something about the man and his flat, cold eyes fired Lucien’s nerves to life, leaving him unsettled. Had he seen the man before? A sense of foreboding raked his spine. The man turned away and disappeared through a door a few houses down opposite Cedric’s townhouse.

Lucien forced his attention back to his friends. “So who is this bastard?”

Cedric threw himself into a red and gold brocaded chair and rapped the tip of his cane on his right boot. “Who do you think?”

Lucien’s heart froze. “Waverly.”

Cedric nodded.

“That isn’t news to us. Someone tried to run Lucien over on Bond Street. Horatia happened to be nearby. Fortunately Lucien got her out of harm’s way.” Charles explained the morning’s incident to Cedric, who spoke not a word as he listened. They all knew what Waverly was capable of. What was perhaps more worrisome was the man’s complete lack of honor. He had no qualms about attacking his enemies from behind or, it would seem, their loved ones.

Lucien crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall facing Cedric. Beneath the man’s fury, lines of worry stretched thin near his eyes.

“Is my sister all right?” he asked.

Lucien nodded. “She’s as well as could be expected. I was able to get her out of the way, but she is terribly upset.” Thankfully, only the gown had perished by Waverly’s villainy. He tamped down on the urge to find the fiend and throttle him with his bare hands. Lucien knew that Horatia wouldn’t appreciate him murdering a man on her behalf. His passions tended to rule him more than they ought to.

Regardless of the fact that she wasn’t his, he could at least keep her safe. Horatia had to be protected at all costs.

“Cedric,” Charles interrupted Lucien’s thoughts. “Why did you go out looking for Horatia?”

Cedric’s faced darkened again. “I was heading off to join Ashton and Godric at Tattersalls when one of my footmen found this letter tucked beneath the door knocker.”

He held out the scrap of parchment in his hand.

With trepidation, Lucien took the note and read it. Charles stood behind him, bending to read over his shoulder. The note was on thick expensive paper. A black scrawling hand, unfamiliar to him, clearly not Waverly’s, layered the surface of the note with sinister certainty.

Lucien read the words aloud for Charles to hear. “‘Carriage accidents are a terrible thing, aren’t they?’”

Lucien handed the note to Cedric who pocketed it. “It doesn’t look like Waverly’s handwriting. Are we sure it’s him?”

Cedric shrugged. “Who else would dare to remind me of such a horrific event?”

“If it is the past he’s referring to,” said Lucien, “perhaps the timing here was deliberate.”

Charles walked back around and threw himself into a chair, scowling. “He’s threatened us before, but nothing has come of it. What’s changed?” The earl’s eyes glimmered like mercury, bright and ever shifting.

“Hell if I know.” Cedric caressed the silver lion’s head of his cane. “He’s spent the past few years abroad. Now he’s returned and renewing his threats.”

Lucien wondered if his body had somehow known that something was set in motion. He could almost hear the clock gears ticking, but it was damned hard to know how to protect those he loved if he couldn’t see from which direction the threat would come.

Cedric rose, rubbing his face with a hand. “Bad news aside, I would like to extend a dinner invitation to you both tonight—and I realize it is last minute, but Audrey is determined to see the entire League.” He glanced between his friends hopefully.

Charles grinned. “You know I’m always eager to see your sisters!”

Cedric arched a brow. “Not too eager, I trust.”

It was a damned nuisance. Every fiber of Lucien’s being demanded he break the League’s second rule. He didn’t want his lust directing him into a situation where he would be facing Cedric on a field at dawn or something equally ridiculous. With any other woman he would have bedded her and moved on. This was impossible with Horatia. Just thinking about her heated his blood and sent a throbbing ache straight to his loins. He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his breeches.

“What about you, Lucien?” Cedric fixed a powerful stare at him. “Don’t you dare give me any excuses.”

Lucien had told Cedric ages ago that he didn’t feel comfortable around Horatia. He’d said it was because she’d ruined an engagement proposal he’d made to an heiress years before. But it was a half-truth if anything. Horatia had been there, and the proposal had gone sour when Horatia dumped a bucket of water over his intended’s head. But his need to avoid Horatia now had everything to do with wanting to take her to the nearest bed and… He shook his head, clearing it of such thoughts.

He began to protest. “Cedric, you know I⁠—”

“Come now. You aren’t afraid of my sisters, are you?”

Damn. There was no way he’d get out of it this time. “I’ll come.”

“Wonderful! I’ll expect you at seven!” Cedric declared with satisfaction.

“Wonderful,” Lucien echoed dully. How was he going to survive this?

CHAPTER2

Horatia pressed two slim fingers to her temples as the bouncing form of her younger sister flitted past, distracting her from her latest book. It was not the way a young lady ought to behave, but trying to stop Audrey was like trying to command a storm. Horatia attempted to concentrate on the words, but between Audrey’s chaotic squirming and memories of this morning’s incident, she couldn’t. The remnants of her fear tasted bitter in her mouth. She despised herself for being so weak as to let such anxieties rule her. One minute she’d been enjoying a walk, and the next there were horses screaming, curricle wheels spinning and icy cold water soaking her to the bone as she hit the pavement.

It was like her childhood all over again. Death had struck out at her without warning, and like last time, she’d been spared. But the event had awakened old fears. As before, Lucien had saved her life. He would never know how alive she’d felt when he’d knocked her back into the snow in the alley or how her heart had thrashed like a wild bird against her ribcage. His hard body above hers, pressing down onto her—he’d been so close she’d glimpsed shards of green embedded in the brown of his eyes like a dark forest beckoning her. Any fear she might have had at being trampled was swept away by the confusing wave of heat she’d felt when Lucien shifted above her, their hips and chests pressed together. Surely she’d nearly been compromised. If someone of note had seen Lucien on top of her it would have been scandalous.

She would never forget Lucien’s face or his fierce, protective response. But that protectiveness was no match for her brother’s, who’d rushed upstairs to check on her as soon as he’d heard. He had shown them a letter containing a vague threat about carriage accidents. Cedric was ready to pack the pair off to France and change their names to protect them. It had taken every ounce of diplomacy she possessed to convince him that she and Audrey were safer here.

“Oh Horatia, cheer up! Cedric said we will have a dinner party tonight with the League!” Her cinnamon eyes were intent upon her older sister’s face. Audrey mistook Horatia’s brooding for unhappiness and not the concern that it was.

“Audrey—cease that infernal bouncing.” Horatia’s tone was sharper than she intended. She bowed her head, fingers pressing deeper into her temples as her frayed nerves sparked with pain. She looked up to see the smile on Audrey’s face drop. “And stop calling them the League. You sound like that dreadful Lady Society in the Quizzing Glass.”

“I’m sorry, Horatia, I just …” Audrey stammered, a pinprick of a tear in the corner of her eye. “With all that’s happened today, I just wanted to cheer you up.” She turned and slipped from the room, her energetic bounce gone.

Horatia started to go after her. “Audrey, wait—” Horatia stopped and sank back onto her chaise, her head still aching.

A moment later her lady’s maid, Ursula, strode in. “What’s all this now? That poor girl looked ready to weep for a week.” Ursula was in her early forties, a plump but attractive woman with a threading of gray in her blond hair. She’d been with the Sheridan family for ten years and was the closest thing to a motherly figure Horatia had.

“She was acting like a child, so I snapped at her. I tried to apologize.” Horatia only partially defended herself. She was at fault here, not Audrey. Her temper should never cause harm to others.

“And what put you in such an indelicate mood I wonder? I know the accident must have frightened you, but Lord Rochester was there and you’re no worse for wear, are you?” Ursula went to the tall armoire and started searching for a gown to dress Horatia in this evening.

It was one of the many things about Ursula that Horatia admired—her ability to treat situations and problems with a cool rational mind, rather than an emotional one. Now that she’d determined Horatia had mistreated Audrey out of her own bad temper, she would no doubt discern what had upset Horatia, then decide upon a course of advice to give.

“No, you’re right. I’m fine. A bit rattled, but it could have been worse,” Horatia said.

In truth she was panicked about Lucien coming to dinner tonight. When she’d encountered the Marquess of Rochester this morning, well…it had been explosive. His touch, his gaze, his warm breath on her cheeks, all of it had lit a fire in the pit of her belly that refused to go out. If only they could have remained so close…

She couldn’t help but dream about where it might have led. Would he have dared to kiss her? Of course he would, her inner voice replied, he’s a rake. Had they been alone, he might have taken advantage of the situation and by God she would have let him.

It was a blessing he normally seemed determined to avoid her. Yet she couldn’t help wanting to see him now, to catch his scent when he stood close to her, or the brush of their hands at breakfast when they both reached for the eggs.

As irrational as it was, she even craved the hungry way he looked at her with those smoldering eyes, lust simmering just below their hazel surface. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her palms slickened with sweat.

Ursula pulled out a violet colored gown with dark Parma slippers for Horatia to wear. “Your new Christmas gown was ruined after all, I’m afraid. No woman could be in a good mood after that sort of tragedy.” Ursula’s tone was half teasing. The other half was sarcastic.

“Yes, it is a pity about the gown.”

The gown was a loss, but she could live with it. It was the sort of everyday drama one was prepared for. What she hadn’t been prepared for was Lucien. Horatia had dug her fingers into his chest and stared up at him, oblivious to the cold of the ground. His gaze had been wild. It terrified her, to see the sudden change in his demeanor. It was a side of him she’d never seen.

She’d been forced to face the truth that there were things about him she didn’t know. Secrets and passions ruled him. Is that why the men in the League were so close? Did they share something she couldn’t understand? Was that why Lucien kept his distance? Maybe he wasn’t in control of his passions. Maybe that’s why he avoided her.

But I’m not the sort of woman who would test a man’s control. Her inner voice chided her for being so foolish as to think she’d present a temptation for Lucien. She was no seductress. All he needed to do was crook one long finger and she’d come running. Pathetic, but true. It was a mercy she didn’t seem to be worth the effort to seduce.

She let Ursula dress her. When she had finished, Horatia walked out of her room and towards the stairs. A black and white cat strolled into view, its yellow eyes wide and a dead mouse hanging limp between its teeth.

“Muff! You know better than to bring your presents inside!”

She darted after the cat. Muff ran down the stairs and past the main door into an unused parlor. The cat slipped between the marble fireplace and the fire grate, vanishing from sight, along with its prize.

“Oh honestly,” Horatia growled as she pulled back the grate.

Muff had disappeared up into the fireplace, possibly even the chimney. The dinner guests would be here soon and she couldn’t risk getting covered in soot. Luckily no servants would light the fire in this room tonight. Hopefully the cat would have enough sense to vacate the chimney before morning.

Muff was one of a pair of cats residing at the Sheridan townhouse on Curzon Street. The other cat, Mittens, was a black female. Cedric had bought them for Audrey as a Christmas present when she’d been a child. She’d also been given a pair of mittens and a muff, and had naturally named her cats the same. But that was the sort of thing Audrey would do back then.

The felines were quite ancient now. Horatia dreaded the day she’d find one or both of them passed away. They were her faithful companions, guardians of the library, defenders of the kitchen.

Horatia was more reserved and subdued than Audrey. She had few friends and often spent her days reading or riding. The cats would join her in a window seat or a chair and curl their tails around their bodies, purring with unconditional love. Being around them she forgot her troubles, forgot that she desired a man who was nothing but cold to her.

The front door knocker rapped. Audrey flew past the open study door, her face beaming with excitement. It seemed her sister had recovered from her scolding. Horatia hesitated before joining her in the hall. She knew Lucien would be there, and as always, she was torn between wanting to see him and dreading his callous disregard of her. Taking a deep breath, she went out to meet her guests.

Her eyes always found Lucien first. Among the group of handsome men standing in the hall, he alone enraptured her. With dark red hair just long enough to curl above his collar and burning hazel eyes, he was temptation personified. Horatia would happily fall at his feet and offer her body, heart and soul to him as tribute. But he’d reject her, just as he always did.

Lucien’s gaze fixed on her while the rest of the crowd headed towards the drawing room. He remained still, tracking her every breath, every move. The gleam in his eyes startled her as a flash of heat went from her breasts down between her legs. Her face flushed. Lucien answered with a cold smile, as though he knew exactly what he’d done to her.

Lucien offered her his arm, and she hesitated only a moment before crossing the hall and dropping her fingers onto his sleeve. He tucked her arm more firmly in his, the warmth of his fingers burning her skin. She glanced about, wondering if anyone would notice, but no eyes looked her way. Unable to resist, she leaned into him, settling her arm in the crook of his, relishing the warmth where their bodies touched.

“Shall we?” Lucien’s voice was soft and dark. A tone more suited for the bedroom than the hall.

Her throat went dry, but she managed a shaky nod.

* * *

After dinner Lucien and the other men opted to play whist, but he couldn’t focus on the cards. The ladies in the far corner of the room had his attention. Ursula, one of the Sheridan girls’ lady’s maid sat in a chair, reading from a thick tome, oblivious to her young charges. Horatia and Audrey sat on either side of Emily, the young Duchess of Essex. Emily and Horatia were clad in shimmering gowns, while Audrey’s was a light pink muslin. Their heads bent close as they whispered, making him think of three fairies who escaped from the court of Queen Mab in Romeo and Juliet. Occasionally one shot a glance at the men before returning to their secretive conversation.

Lucien would have paid anything to be a fly nestled on the wall close to them—to better see Horatia’s lips part and form each word, just as much as he’d love to have those lips wrapped around his aching shaft, sucking him to sweet oblivion.

Christ. Lucien forced his gaze away from her.

“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Charles asked him.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one dying of curiosity.

“God, I wish I knew,” he admitted truthfully, just as Audrey broke into a fit of giggles.

Charles waggled his fingers at Audrey and blew her a kiss. Audrey blushed and quickly turned her back on them.

“You ought not to encourage her, Charles. She’s young and impressionable.” Lucien remembered all too well the perils of having a lovesick child follow him about.

“What is there to encourage? The little sprite hasn’t the least bit of interest in me.” Charles smiled wryly. He leaned back in his chair in a picture of relaxed ease.

“What? Are you sure? I always thought maybe she…” Lucien trailed off when he noticed Audrey’s head turn in a very definite direction, and it wasn’t towards Charles.

“Oh dear,” Lucien kept his voice low. Audrey clearly had eyes for Godric’s half-brother, Jonathan.

“Oh dear, indeed. We best watch out for fireworks. Cedric will rip Jonathan to pieces.” The smug look on Charles’s face nearly made Lucien laugh.

“You want him to get caught, don’t you?”

Charles yawned. “This month has been a dead bore as you well know. After Tisdale gave his notice I just haven’t been out as much unless it’s with you. Watching Cedric chase Jonathan about town over Audrey’s honor would certainly entertain me.”

Lucien’s humor fizzled. If Cedric ever found out that he wanted Horatia—in ways that would bring a blush to a courtesan’s cheeks—Lucien was a dead man.

When the men finished their game of whist and downed the last of the brandy, they decided the evening was at last over.

“That’s enough for me.” Godric turned towards the ladies. “Come along, Em. Time to depart.”

Emily didn’t spare her husband a glance. She had one hand on Horatia’s shoulder and another on Audrey’s while she spoke to the pair of them in a huddle. None of the men really bothered trying to figure out what women whispered about. Lucien guessed it would always remain one of life’s mysteries, like why a woman needed countless bonnets when they were such ugly and useless things. It was a damned nuisance trying to untie yards of unnecessary ribbons in order to touch a woman’s hair while he was kissing her.

“That’s an unholy alliance if I ever saw one,” Cedric noted.

The Sheridan sisters were trouble enough, but adding Emily was like a lit match near a very large powder keg.

“I’d best collect my wife before she causes trouble,” Godric replied.

Lucien didn’t miss Godric’s pleased tone as he had said ‘wife.’

Godric stood, then walked quietly over and plucked her away from the group, scooping her up into his arms.

“Godric!” Emily kicked her feet in outrage. “Put me down at once!”

“I don’t think so, my dear. It’s time I put you to bed.” Godric bent his head low so his face was inches from hers.

“Oh if you must.” She tried to sound reluctant, but there was a breathless quality to her voice that fooled no one. For a moment, Lucien was struck with a sharp sense of envy. If Horatia weren’t related to his friend, he would have been carrying her out the door in the same fashion, to find the nearest bed.

“Good night, everyone!” Godric called over his shoulder as he and Emily left the drawing room.

Cedric shook his head, but his eyes glinted with merriment. “By the way they act I swear you’d never know they were married.”

“They are indeed fortunate,” Ashton said. “To be so in love that marriage is a blessing rather than a burden.”

“Perhaps we ought to leave as well?” Jonathan cast a nervous glance in Audrey’s direction, who stared right at him mischievously. He had been staying at Ashton’s townhouse to give the newlyweds some time to themselves before he moved in with them. Godric had settled an unentailed estate upon Jonathan, but had put it in trust until his brother was ready to settle down and run the property himself. Until that time, Jonathan would live with Godric and his new wife.

“After you, Jonathan.” Ashton inclined his head to Lucien, Charles and Cedric, and bid the Sheridan ladies good night before departing with Jonathan.

Cedric looked hopefully at his remaining companions.

“You are both welcome to stay the night.”

Charles agreed at once. “I’ll send word to my valet.”

Lucien, however, was reluctant.

Cedric’s eager smile faltered. “I’ll understand if you wish to decline, Lucien, but I do hope you will stay. After receiving that letter about coach accidents, it would be good to have a few of us keeping watch.”

His friend looked so earnest that Lucien didn’t have the heart to desert him. “Very well, then.”

“Excellent,” Charles and Cedric chimed in unison.

Lucien felt as though he’d made a grave error in judgment and would soon pay dearly for it. Still he would rather be here protecting Horatia. She was safer with her brother, himself and Charles keeping watch. Then again, she wasn’t protected from every threat. Lucien felt the desire to slip into her bedroom tonight and crawl into her bed, pinning her beneath him and…

Damnation. Being in the same house with Horatia for an entire night was both his greatest temptation and his worst nightmare.

CHAPTER3

Horatia still hadn’t changed into her nightclothes. Restlessness had her up well past midnight. Knowing Lucien was somewhere in the house was unsettling, and she worried about that blasted cat. Muff should have been curled up on the extra pillow in her bed, but he was conspicuously absent. There was a chance a passing footman or maid had closed the grates around the fireplace and he hadn’t been able to get back down.

Unwilling to let him stay in the cold chimney all night, Horatia abandoned her room and went in search of the cat. She tried to think of all of the other places he could be, and not the one place she wished she could be at that moment. In Lucien’s arms.

It had been months since he’d last spent the night, and her brother was delighted to have him and Charles there. If not for the League, Cedric would have been exceedingly lonely. She knew he loved her and Audrey, but he’d always longed for brothers. It was hard to miss the way he brightened whenever his friends came over for dinner, or how he looked forward to afternoons at his gentlemen’s club, Berkley’s. Perhaps it was because he could relax around them, and not have to play guardian.

After their parents died, Cedric had taken on a great amount of responsibility, not only to care for and raise her and Audrey, but matters of business and peerage as well. It was good he had such friends to ease his burdens and the pressures of family.

She slipped down the stairs to the ground floor and passed by the drawing room, where cigar smoke scented the air and muted laughter echoed against the partially open door.

At least someone was having a good evening. Irritation rippled beneath Horatia’s skin. Lucien seemed to enjoy torturing her. Between his heated looks and cool smiles he was driving her mad. It was frustrating to not know how to act around him, whether to be warm or to keep her distance.

One of the men said something and Lucien’s rich laugh teased her ears. Her insides shook with longing. She wanted to make him laugh like that, to be the center of his focus.

A small dark shadow flitted across the hall and dashed through the library door.

“Muff!” Horatia hissed, hoping to both summon and chastise the rebellious feline. Given the nature of cats however, she knew it was a fool’s errand.

Horatia entered the library, lit a candle and started searching under couches and behind chairs. She almost missed the soft click as someone came in behind her and shut the door. The flame of the candle in her hand sputtered as she turned.

Lucien stood not five feet from her, watching her with hooded eyes. The aroma of brandy quickly reached her. The candlelight threw flickering shadows across his handsome face, highlighting a small scar near his brow.

In a few slow strides he towered over her. Horatia was suddenly very aware of his masculinity—the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and that the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. She knew herself to be tall, but next to Lucien she felt small, delicate and vulnerable. It was strange, but she liked feeling so helpless around him. Filled with longing, she barely stopped herself from reaching for him. He was too handsome, too virile. Whenever he was near he reduced her to a wild, wanton creature that would do anything for the chance to know pleasure in his arms.

“Horatia.” Her name rolled off his lips like a fine dessert, sweet and decadent. “You ought to be in bed.”

The wicked way he said “bed” made her lightheaded.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He leaned forward, his body close to hers as he blew out the candle in her hand. The sudden darkness around them made her catch her breath. A beam of moonlight broke through, lighting their faces. The smoke curled and danced up between them. Lucien’s smile offered her a world of knowledge about pleasure.

“There’s a lovely little remedy for sleep that I always employ. Do you want to know what it is?” His low voice set her skin on fire.

I shouldn’t answer. I know what he’s going to say. “What is it?” Blast!

The faint moonlight from the tall library windows lit his face as he leaned even closer to her.

He grinned down at her like a Cheshire cat. “I find the nearest beautiful woman, slip into her bed and wrap myself around her.” His warm brandy-tinged breath fanned her face. Tingles of awareness spiked through her body and she stifled a gasp.

He raised a hand, drawing one elegant finger along her cheekbone. “Your face is warm. Have I made you blush? I’d like to make other parts of you blush as well.” Lucien took the candle holder from her and set it on a shelf.

Horatia's knees shook. She stepped back and her head collided with the bookshelf behind her. Lucien closed the distance between them and braced his hands on either side of her face. His lips were inches from hers.

“Shall I kiss you, Horatia? I find you hard to resist when you look up at me with those dark eyes. They are begging me to kiss you. Did you know that?” His voice was a soft growl that made her breasts heavy and her nipples harden.

Incapable of speech, Horatia managed to shake her head. She wanted to throw her arms about his neck and drag his mouth to hers. She ached to run her hands through his dark red hair. Endless nights had been spent imagining what this moment would be like, when he’d be close enough to touch, to kiss.

Something deep inside her tore in anguish. He wasn’t meant for her. Everyone knew he took only experienced, beautiful women to his bed. Lucien would never really consider her that way. She was acceptably attractive, but no diamond of the first water. With nothing to offer Lucien, he must be teasing her the way any rake did an innocent. He was the serpent, offering her carnal knowledge. Everything she wanted and couldn’t have. It was an awful thing to be in love with such a devil.

Lucien moved his lips to her ear, using a finger to trace a loose pattern along her collarbone, down her chest and towards the valley between her breasts.

She inhaled, her breasts thrusting upward. “You've been drinking, my lord,” she said. When he teased a finger below the fabric of her bodice, brushing a tight nipple, she gasped.

The grin he gave her was one of pure sin. “I certainly have…”

Horatia reached up and tore his hands away from her bodice. She tried to knock his other arm out of her way to leave. “How dare you!”

Lucien grabbed hold of her, dragged her back against the bookcase and trapped her with his body. He fisted a hand through the loose coils of her hair, dragging her head back. Her eyes rose to meet his. A hunger churned in his gaze, swirling in eddies of changing colors.

“Tell me to let go of you,” he begged in a ragged whisper. “Tell me.”

She stared at him, unable to voice a protest.

“Christ. I’m not a saint, woman. I can’t… Oh to hell with it.”

The warmth of his breath tickled her lips before he devoured her neck in a slow languid kiss. Pools of wet heat built up between her legs and his tongue flicked out against her skin as he tasted her. She moaned. Lucien slid his hand down over her bottom, catching her in his grasp, jerking her hard against his stiff shaft.

Her legs shook against him, loose and unprotesting as he parted them with his thigh. He dragged her up the length of his leg so her toes barely touched the ground. The movement sent shockwaves of excitement through her and made her inhale sharply. Her hands fell to his shoulders, seeking to hold on to him. His lips found hers again and her palms skated up his neck into his hair, the strands whispering over her skin. She dug her fingers in and tugged on his hair. He growled deep in his throat and kissed her harder.

Saying no to him was the furthest thing from her mind. There was nothing beyond this moment—his kiss, the sliding touch of his palms, his fingers digging possessively into her flesh, cupping her bottom until a staccato rhythm throbbed deep inside her. It beat against his hard, muscular thigh, flooding her with awareness. She tried to rock against him, to create more friction. Anything to get closer to him, to satisfy her need for something she didn’t fully understand.

“My God, you were made for sin,” Lucien groaned as he tried to move his other hand deeper into the confines of her bodice.

She was made for sin? Was she nothing more than a body he’d like to bed? A temptation to release his needs upon? The words lit a flame under Horatia. She clawed his chest and sank her teeth into his shoulder to get free. Lucien jerked back with a low curse, letting her feet hit the floor again.

Undaunted, he said, “Careful with that temper of yours, my dear,” and moved in to kiss her again.

Under other circumstances she might have melted in his arms. But he'd gone too far. Horatia brought her knee up into his groin.

Silence filled the room. For a moment Horatia wondered if it had made him a statue. At last a moan, several octaves higher than before, escaped his lips as he staggered back a couple of steps, then sank to his knees.

“Damn you, woman!”

“Serves you right, you…you horse’s arse!” She covered her mouth, shocked at her own language.

Despite Lucien's pained groan, he chuckled.

“Touché, my sweet. Touché.” He tried to reach for her again but Horatia bolted to the door.

* * *

“Damnable creature. I was going to apologize,” Lucien muttered to himself as he hobbled over to a chair and collapsed.

The numbing affect of his brandy had worn off and guilt was wrapped around him like a death shroud. He’d been an absolute bastard. He should have known better than to drink when she was near. There had to be a way to make up for his lack of judgment.

He wracked his mind for some idea, some way to make amends. He’d apologize of course, but women were masters of holding guilt in trust and collecting interest on it. A trinket perhaps? A lovely bauble she could wear with a new gown… A gown! He’d buy her a new Christmas gown, one to replace the one that had been ruined.

Horatia never spoiled herself, other than to buy an expensive gown each December. The rest of the year she wore her usual silk garments, fashionable but rather understated. It was only during the holidays that she seemed unable to resist the allure of an enchanting dress. He wished he could have seen her gown this year before it had been ruined.

He would buy her something new, something with a precariously low but still socially acceptable neckline, made from bright red silk, his favorite color and fabric. Even now he could imagine how it would feel under the light pressure of his hands as he caressed her, explored her. His loins tightened with lust and the pain of his recent injury inflamed all over again. He was being duly punished for his rash actions.

* * *

Upstairs in her bedchamber,