Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

Dizzy with pain, Caro felt herself slipping into a daze. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought down a rising nausea. But things seemed to be spinning out of control. The voices around her were suddenly sounding strangely agitated and the ringing was turning into an odd pounding.

Like the beat of galloping hooves?

Wishful thinking, she mused as she slumped to her knees. And yet, her captor seemed to have released her…

Forcing her lids open, she saw a jumble of dark shapes. A horse. A rider flinging himself from the saddle. Flying fists. Her assailant knocked arse over teakettle.

“Shoot the devil, Bull!” he croaked.

As her gaze slowly refocused, Caro saw their first attacker rise and run off, still clutching his groin, into trees on the opposite side of the road.

“Your lily-livered friend doesn’t seem inclined to come to your rescue,” came a deep baritone shout. “That leaves two of you—whose neck shall I break first?”

Her wits must be so addled that she was hallucinating. How else to explain why the voice sounded oddly familiar?

The man who had hit her scuttled like a crab across the road. “Billy!” he cried in a high-pitched squeal.

The only answer was a scrabbling in the bushes that quickly faded to silence.

“Vermin,” muttered her rescuer, as he watched the man join his cohorts in beating a hasty retreat. Turning, he then gently lifted her to her feet. “Are you hurt, Miss?”

“I…”

I never swoon, she wanted to reply, if only her tongue would obey her brain. Only peagoose heroines in horrid novels swoon.

However, on catching sight of the chiseled lips, the too-long nose and the shock of red-gold hair now looming just inches above her face, Caro promptly did just that.

Proper young ladies of the ton—especially ones who have very small dowries—are not encouraged to have an interest in intellectual pursuits. Indeed, the only thing they are encouraged to pursue is an eligible bachelor.

Preferably one with both a title and a fortune.

So, the headstrong, opinionated Sloane sisters must keep their passions a secret.

Ah, but secret passions are wont to lead a lady into trouble…

See the next page for a preview of Scandalously Yours

Chapter One

A soft flutter of air stirred the emerald-dark leaves, releasing the faint scent of oranges. Drawing a deep breath, the Earl of Wrexham slid back a step deeper into the shadows of the large potted trees. He closed his eyes for an instant, pretending he was back in the steamy plains of Portugal rather than the gilded confines of a Mayfair ballroom. The caress of sticky-warm humidity against his cheeks was much the same, though here it was due to the blaze of dancing couples in their peacock finery, not the bright rays of the Mediterranean sun…

“Ah, there you are, John.” The leaves rustled again, loud as cannon fire to his ear, and the earl felt a glass of chilled champagne thrust into his hand. “Your sister sent me to inquire why the devil you are cowering in the bushes when you should be dancing with one of the dazzling array of eligible young beauties.” His brother-in-law gave an apologetic grimace. “Those are her words, by the by, not mine.”

“Tell her I’ve a pebble in my shoe,” muttered John after quaffing a long swallow of the wine. Its effervescence did little to wash the slightly sour taste from his mouth. “And that I’m simply making a strategic retreat to one of the side salons to remove the offending nuisance.”

Speaking of removal, he thought to himself, perhaps there is a side door leading out to the gardens close by, through which I can escape from the overloud music, the overbrittle laughter, the overzealous Mamas with marriageable daughters.

“Pebble,” repeated his brother-in-law. “In the shoe. Right-ho. Quite impossible to dance under those conditions.” Henry cocked a small salute with his glass. “If you turn right at the end of the corridor,” he added in a lower voice, “you’ll find a small study filled with exotic board games from the Orient. Our host keeps a large humidor there, filled with a lovely selection of cheroots and cigars from the Ottoman Empire.” A sigh. “I’d join you, but I had better remain here and try to keep Cecilia distracted.”

“Thank you.” John gave a tiny tug to the faultlessly tied knot of his cravat, feeling its hangman’s hold on his neck loosen ever so slightly. “For that I owe you a box of the best Spanish cigarras from Robert Lewis’s shop.”

“Trust me, I shall earn it,” replied Henry, darting a baleful glance through the ornamental trees at his wife. “Your sister means well, but when she gets the bit between her teeth—”

“She is harder to stop than a charging cavalry regiment of French Grenadier Guards,” finished John. He handed Henry his now-empty glass. “Yes, I know.”

In truth, he was exceedingly fond of his older sister. She was wise, funny, and compassionate and usually served as a trusted confidant—though in retrospect it might have been a tactical mistake to mention to her that he was thinking of remarrying.

My skills at soldiering have apparently turned a trifle dull since I resigned from the army and returned to England, he thought wryly. Bold strategy, careful planning, fearless attack—his reputation for calm, confident command under enemy fire had earned him a chestful of medals.