Temptation Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 3) Page 5

  It is this world that I have tried to give you a glimpse into—a world poised on the brink of almost unimaginable change. I hope you have enjoyed the journey, and I hope you’ll join me for many, many more. For information about me and my upcoming releases please visit me on my website:

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  Please continue for a samples of books one and two in the No Rules for Rogue’s Series, SIN INCARANTE and SCANDAL INCARNATE.

  Sin Incarnate

  Book One: No Rules for Rogues

  Georgianna Exley’s passionate nature has always been her undoing—and for this reason, the beautiful young widow allows her lovers only a single night in her bed. But Ivo Dauntry has come home to England, and he’ll settle for nothing less than six nights, one for every year he’s given up for her . . .

  Chapter One

  London once again finds itself enlivened by the presence of the handsome Lord S—. If only we could discover what has kept him from our shores for so many years…

  Tête-à-Tête, 6 October 1788

  She’d haunted his dreams for years.

  Auburn curls and sherry-coloured eyes. A singularly wicked smile, tilting up higher on one side to expose a dimple. A spray of freckles across her bosom: a constellation designed by God to tempt mankind.

  Another man’s wife.

  Of all the unfortunate things Ivo Dauntry had learnt about himself over the years, the fact that he could lust after someone else’s wife should have been minor. Should have been nothing beside the fact that he could kill a man, thwart his grandfather’s will, break his mother’s heart, and never look back. But it wasn’t the face of the man he’d killed or the mother he’d disappointed that swam through his dreams night after night.

  It was hers.

  Mrs Lionel Exley’s.

  In his dreams she was nothing like the proper newlywed who had actually existed, barely more than a girl, excited to be flexing her wings on her first visit to Paris. No, the siren in his dreams had eyes that brimmed with the shared knowledge of lust. Her smile seeming to promise everything he’d ever wanted. But she always remained just out of reach.

  A temptress. A tease. A practiced coquette.

  None of it was real, but he’d had the same dream so many times now that it felt real. Her seduction had become the clearest of memories, as treasured as his first lover, as sensual as the first time he’d plunged naked into the warm water of the Mediterranean.

  Mrs Lionel Exley. The woman standing across the prize-fighter’s ring at this very moment, casually clinging to the arm of a man who was certainly not her husband.

  The only woman whose virtue he’d ever defended. An action which had cost him dearly. Career. Family. Friends. He’d lost them all. No, not lost. He’d sacrificed them for her, like a lamb on an altar to a biblical god.

  And all this time he’d thought it had been worth it.

  His fist clenched around his purse, coins biting into his palm. The sea of humanity pressing in on him blurred and spun momentarily before the pain in his hand grounded him again.

  Nothing in his dreams had been real, but watching her now, it was as though he’d somehow conjured her, given the dream form. She turned and said something to the man on the other side of her, the column of her neck twisting, swanlike, elegantly pale against the dark fur tippet wrapped around her throat.

  He swallowed thickly, lust rushing through him, liquid fire from heart to groin.

  Where the devil was her husband?

  She shone like a beacon, her red habit blazing out against the dull blues and browns of the greatcoats surrounding her like the breast of a pheasant when it launches itself into the sky.

  Magnificent.

  Her breath escaped in a white cloud, mingling with her escort’s reply. She smiled, and Ivo could swear he heard the accompanying laugh carry over the dull roar of the crowd. It reached right inside him, grabbed hold until he could hardly draw breath.

  He wrenched his gaze away, forcing his attention to the combatants as they prepared for the match.

  She wasn’t any of his business.

  The champion, Tom Johnson, was bantering with the young Prince of Wales, while his challenger stood by like a lump. It didn’t look as though Johnson had much to worry about. The upstart was large, but beefy and slow. Ponderous, like a dray horse.

  Ivo shifted his weight, stamping his feet on the cold ground. The damp was seeping up uncomfortably through the soles of his boots. He’d almost forgotten what autumn was like in England. A riot of colour in the trees. Frost on the ground like sugar dusted on a pastry.

  He was home again. Reluctantly returned from Italy to the not so welcoming embrace of his family, with the uncomfortable status of heir to his grandfather. He was the Earl of Somercote. A courtesy title for the Marquess of Tregaron’s heir.

  He simply couldn’t get used to it. Nor did he want it. He’d been plain Mr Dauntry for almost thirty-five years, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to answer to anything else. Couldn’t step into his cousin’s shoes without feeling the pinch, without his grandfather reminding him how unfit he’d already proved himself to be.

  And the proof was right there across the ring.

  All around him bets were being furiously laid as the two combatants stripped to the waist, shucking coats, waistcoats and shirts, tying their cravats about their waists to hold up their breeches. Routine enough for a prize-fight, but it suddenly seemed highly unsuitable with Mrs Exley present.

  What on earth was she doing here? What kind of lunatic brought a woman to a mill? Any woman, let alone a respectable one.

  Unless she wasn’t.

  Respectable anymore, that was. He hadn’t seen her since Paris, and a lot could change in six years. He didn’t want to believe that she could have. He couldn’t.

  His friend Bennett jostled his arm. ‘You didn’t follow Rivers’s advice and put your blunt on the challenger, did you?’

  ‘No.’ Ivo rolled his shoulders, trying to relax, to keep his attention away from the woman across the ring. ‘But what odds will you give me on that great lump going at least ten rounds?’

  Bennett looked the challenger up and down, assessing. ‘Not a chance. I’ll bet you fifty pounds he doesn’t make it even to three. Johnson has a punishing left.’

  While Bennett loudly sized the pugilists up, arguing the finer points with the men surrounding them, Ivo’s gaze slid back to Mrs Exley, back to the rakish buck who was watching over her with a proprietary air. The man wore his cocked hat angled low over his brow, gilt trim winking as he dropped his head to hear her over the crowd. His greatcoat gaped, revealing a flash of a puce coat beneath, embroidered in darker browns and gold.

  The way she stood, arm tucked into her gallant’s, was an affront to the sacrifices he had made. She had no right to flaunt herself like a fallen woman. No right to be such. If nothing else she owed him purity.

  As he studied the pair of them, she glanced across the ring and her eyes met his for the briefest of moments. Her face paled, then she looked away, turning her attention back to her cicisbeo.

  Ivo’s stomach clenched. Fury rushed through him—a hot, burning tide—mingling with an almost violent repulsion. What had she become?

  He was barely aware of the match as it commenced. The combatants, the din of the crowd, the jostling, raging, swirling humanity surrounding him, it all simply faded away, nothing but a fantastical stage set for the woman standing across the ring. She was the only thing that was real. The only thing that matt
ered.

  Fifteen rounds later the match was over, the challenger bloody and beaten. Howls of anger mingled with cheers. Fights broke out in several places, causing the mob to shift and push. Across the ring, Mrs Exley’s companion wrapped one arm familiarly about her waist and turned to escort her from the field.

  Ivo shut his eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to plunge into the crowd after her. He’d given up everything for her, and it stung to realize that sacrifice didn’t give him the right to demand an explanation today. It didn’t give him any rights at all. Only the right to feel like an utter fool.

  As he collected his winnings, he glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder, trying to catch one last glimpse of her.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Bennett said with a sly smile, thrusting a wad of bank notes at him.

  ‘Who’s gone?’

  His friend’s smile widened, revealing the perfect teeth for which he was justifiably famous. ‘The only woman out here. The one you’ve been staring at for the last hour or more.’

  ‘You know her?’

  It didn’t matter that Bennett knew her. Didn’t matter that he’d seen her again. Or that some man had succeeded in giving her husband a pair of horns. It didn’t matter that their attraction was every bit as strong as he remembered.

  He ran his tongue over his teeth. His mouth was chalky and bitter. He needed a drink. A very large one.

  ‘Everyone knows her.’ Bennett tossed back the ruffles at his wrist and pulled a flask from one capacious pocket. ‘That was Georgianna Exley. One of the most outrageous widows in England.’ He removed the top and took a drink before holding the flask out to Ivo. ‘It’s rumoured she has rules for taking a lover, the most pernicious of which is that she only grants the men she chooses as many nights in her bed as they roll on a die.’

  ‘Widow?’ Ivo swallowed hard, heart hammering in his ears. That single word reverberated through his whole body, echoes cascading like a stone dropped into a well.

  ‘Widow,’ Bennett repeated absently, thrusting the flask into Ivo’s hand. ‘You can meet her tomorrow if you’ve a mind to. She’s sure to be another guest at Lord Glendower’s shooting party. The earl’s her father-in-law.’

  Ivo stared hard at the crowd, searching to no avail for her fur-trimmed hat in the sea of humanity headed back towards the village. He glanced down at his hand, realized he was holding Bennett’s flask, and tossed back what was left of the brandy. The heady fumes filled his nose and the liquid burnt a slow track all the way down into his belly.

  A widow.

  ‘George, who the devil is that man across the ring? The tall fellow staring at us.’

  Georgianna Exley glanced up before following Gabriel Angelstone’s gaze across the straw-strewn ring where the two prize-fighters were being helped from their coats.

  Her eyes met those of the man Gabriel was glaring at and she glanced away immediately, her hands suddenly cold. Her head buzzed as though she might faint.

  Dauntry. His name was Dauntry.

  Her breakfast swirled about in her stomach and she swallowed convulsively. She was not going to throw up. She was not going to faint. Not here. Not ever.

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ she replied, pressing slightly closer to Gabe, burrowing into his reassuring warmth. Around them people eyed her and Gabe askance. Dauntry’s look of disgust was reflected in many other pairs of eyes.

  She didn’t belong here. No woman did. And her oldest friend was not well liked. Too handsome. Too foreign in a myriad of subtle ways: skin that spoke of summer no matter the month and slightly hooded eyes he’d inherited from his Turkish mother, combined with an air of French dandification from his ambassador father.

  He was her rock. The one constant in her life. The only man she’d ever known who hadn’t deserted her in some way; who’d never disappointed her.

  George tilted her head, peeking around Gabe’s shoulder, and studied Dauntry for a moment. He looked very much as she remembered: tall enough to be imposing, his own black curls tied back in a queue, eyes that seemed almost as dark. His face was lean, the planes angular, the features sculpted. He was only saved from the epithet pretty by his sheer size and the thin scar that cut down along his left cheekbone. A swordsman’s scar, received in her honour.

  She bit her lip and looked away. She didn’t want to remember Paris or anything about it…

  Scandal Incarnate

  Book Two: No Rules for Rogues

  The last thing the Portrait Divorcée needs is to have her name connected to that of the equally infamous Gabriel Angelstone. But the infuriating rake has made it very clear that he’s bent on nothing less than her complete surrender…

  Chapter One

  The Angelstone Turk would appear to have given his opera dancer her congé. We eagerly await the impending melee amongst those desirous of taking his place…

  Tête-à-Tête, 11 August 1789

  He had her.

  Gabriel Angelstone slid his hands around the countess’s waist and pulled her back against him. God he’d missed her. Childhood friend, first love, best friend. She’d been the cynosure of his world and the sad truth was that without her, he was bored.

  Bored with drinking. Bored with gaming. Bored with whoring. Bored with London. And when one was bored with London, one was bored with life. No truer words had ever been spoken.

  She gasped and went stiff, sent her basket tumbling to the ground, and rammed him hard in the ribs with one sharp elbow. Gabriel let go of her immediately.

  What in hell was wrong with her?

  He was early, by a full day, but that was hardly unusual. What was a day or two between friends?

  She spun around, skirts flying out, gravel churning underfoot, and backed away from him. She stopped only when her heels hit the edge of the fountain and threw out a hand to steady herself, tense as a cornered doe.

  Staring up at him from under the most ridiculous portrait hat he’d ever seen was a face that clearly wasn’t Georgianna’s. Not George’s, but oddly familiar all the same. Like a melody once heard in passing. Memory stirred, but refused to wake.

  Little audible pops accompanied the greedy frenzy of the carp as they sucked up the bread crumbs she’d just scattered over the water, loud even over the merry splash of the fountain. Gabriel smiled, swept off his hat, and bowed.

  His unknown victim watched him warily through large blue-grey eyes, thickly rimmed with sooty lashes the same color as her mass of spiral curls. She had a wide mouth; the top lip fuller than the bottom one. It should have looked luscious, well kissed, seductive, but at that exact moment her lips were pursed. Disapproving. A little downward curl marred their edges. As she studied him, she straightened, shoulders back, chest thrust out. Her eyes took on a decidedly flinty edge.

  His garden nymph had a temper…how delightful.

  Imogen stared at the man who’d just accosted her, struggling to keep her mouth from dropping open. He was undoubtedly one of the countess’s friends. It was common knowledge Lady Somercote came from a wild set. But guests weren’t due to arrive for at least another day or two.

  As the countess’s titular companion, she’d been busy assisting with all the tasks no one had time for in the rush to finish the party preparations. Simple things: feeding the fish in the maze, taking the countess’s dog for a walk, delivering a jar of pig’s feet jelly to the parsonage. Servant-stuff really, but they were busy too. Helping out with such tasks was little enough considering all the Somercotes had done for her.

  She stared at the smiling man before her, smoothed suddenly damp hands over her skirts. If only she’d brought the countess’s mastiff with her on this errand. The elegant beau smiling predatorily down at her wouldn’t look nearly so attractive with Caesar pinning him to the ground. It would serve him right to have the immaculate folds of his cravat disordered, his beautiful coat covered in dog drool, smeared with mud.

  She could picture it as clearly as if it was actually happening.

  He wouldn’
t be smiling at her in that impudent way, either, the jack-a-napes. She really should go, but it would be too undignified to scramble around him like some ninny of a girl. His had been the offense. It was for him to make reparations, not for her to run away. He certainly wouldn’t hurt her—not if he was a guest of the Somercotes—and it had been a long time since anyone had looked at her with such open admiration. With such clear intent.

  Had a man such as this one ever looked at her? It seemed unlikely. He was magnificent. Tall, with an odd cast to his features that put her strongly in mind of the foreign princes and Italian counts who littered the pages of the popular novels. Especially his eyes.

  Those were not English eyes.

  Gabriel smiled down at his nymph. She was undoubtedly another early arrival.

  George would skin him alive if she caught him trifling with any of her friends, but he couldn’t resist the challenge in the lady’s snapping eyes. Anger brought out the best in some women. Firing the blood, raising a flush beneath their delicate skin, making their bosom rise and fall with entrancing rapidity. Yes. Angry, proud, and undeniably a wee bit intrigued.

  He knew the signs.

  Delicate lace mitts obscured her hands, but no tell-tale flash of gold upon her ring finger warned him off.

  Besides, what could a little flirtation hurt? Wasn’t this what country house parties were for? He swept her a bow, eyes locked with hers, his free hand held to his still smarting ribs in theatrical display.

  ‘She that makes me sin awards me pain.’

  The lady cocked her head, sparrow-like. The corners of her lips betrayed her, quirking up into the slightest of smiles.

  Oh yes, he had her.

  She dropped him a rather frosty curtsy, barely more than a dip of the knees accompanied by the slightest inclination of her head. ‘Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy, and so sir, I shall show you none.’