At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

The rusty gates of Greystone Manor told a visitor all they needed to know about what lay at the end of the long, winding drive. Like Greystone’s desperate tenants, flakes of paint clung to the iron railings in the hope help would soon arrive. Ivy strangled the stone pillars. But the structures were stronger than the poor people forced to live in ramshackle cottages and beg for work in local villages.

Damn the man.

No, damn the devil.

How Greystone’s steward lived in such a sombre place beggared belief. Mr Gilligan had no hope of keeping the estate maintained when given such a paltry allowance. And where was Greystone while his ancestral home rotted away? Abroad if Seth’s description proved accurate.

But not anymore.

The day of judgement had come.

The rogue had returned.

Lydia had imagined this moment many times in her dreams, had rehearsed exactly what she would say if ever their paths crossed. Oh, and she would have her say. Even if she had to march up to his front door and barge her way inside.

Raising the hood of her cloak, Lydia stepped out from the line of trees, strode over to the entrance and pushed the rickety gate. It creaked and groaned in protest, refused to budge more than a foot. The thing was as useless as its master. She kicked the bottom, stubbed her toe and cursed the devil back to hell.

Refusing to suffer defeat at the first hurdle, she wrapped her fingers around the bars and practically throttled the thing. But the sudden pounding of horses’ hooves drowned out the sound of her ragged breathing.

Lydia swung around but struggled to focus in the dark. She stepped back onto the narrow lane, noted two menacing shadows approaching and knew it was too late to hide.

It had to be Greystone.

Who else had cause to descend on the estate like a horseman of the apocalypse ready to rain pestilence over the landscape?

Fear rippled across her back.

If the man had no conscience, how would he react when pounced on by a lady at night? Perhaps she should have waited until morning. But the memory of the Roberts boys gathered around their mother’s grave was enough to chase away her apprehension.

Lydia watched them approach. Two horses—one black, one grey—charged closer. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought they’d failed to notice her.

“What the blazes?” A deep, masculine voice rent the air.

The black horse shrieked and reared. Lydia froze as the animal came up on its hind legs, striking the air with its hooves.

“Get out of the blasted way, woman!”

The angry curse dragged her from her stunned state. She stumbled back, trod on the hem of her cloak, fell and landed on her bottom with a bump.

With skill and mastery, the rider settled the black horse and swung down to the ground.

Heavens above. Ada was right. Satan had come to Cuckfield. He marched towards her in his billowing greatcoat, stopped at her feet and scanned her from head to toe. The beast stood a head taller than any mortal man.

Ada had been wrong about one thing. There was nothing heated or fiery about his terrifying eyes. They were dark, desolate pools, devoid of life.

So this was the demon who invaded her every waking thought, who had the gall to visit her in slumber, too.

Lydia’s father had inherited the estate two years before Greystone left for India and so she had but a vague recollection of him from her youth. This black-hearted scoundrel was exactly what she’d expected.

And yet it wasn’t Lord Greystone who captured her attention.

The intriguing figure on the grey horse stared at her with a level of intensity that made her stomach flip. Lydia couldn’t help

but meet his gaze, couldn’t help the sudden spark of awareness that ignited deep in her chest.

The beast towering over her braced his hands on his hips. “So, the ladies have heard news of my visit and are falling over their feet to offer a hearty welcome.”

Oh, Greystone was as crass and as odious as she imagined.