Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake

After the duel, word had spread far and fast that Lady Calpurnia Hartwell and the Marquess of Ralston had been spied in a scandalous embrace, in public no less. If that were not enough, the gossipmongers added, the location of said embrace had been, moments earlier, the location of a duel.

She came upon a wide clearing, at the center of which stood a great marble fountain gleaming in the moonlight. She stopped just inside the clearing, still so familiar after so many years. Her heart began to race as she approached the fountain, reaching out one hand to run her fingers through the cool water that bubbled down the bodies of the cherubic statutes.

As she did, strong arms captured her from behind, pulling her flush against a broad, firm chest. She couldn’t keep the smile from her lips as Ralston whispered wickedly into her ear, “I wasn’t at all certain what to expect when a footman delivered a scandalous invitation to a clandestine meeting.” He set his lips hotly to the nape of her neck, licking the skin there and sending a chill down her spine, welcome in the warm night. “You are a serious risk to my reputation, Lady Ralston.”

She sighed at the caress, before replying, “You forget, my lord, that I learned everything I know from you.” She turned in his arms, running her fingers through his hair as she met his smiling eyes. “You have turned me into quite the libertine.”

Yes, both their reputations had taken hits.

Not that either of them cared one way or another.

They had been married in less than a fortnight. Between Oxford’s help in denouncing the rumors about wagers and duels and his own courtship of Callie and the fact that Ralston was obviously thoroughly smitten with his new bride, it was difficult for anyone to speculate that the hasty marriage was anything short of a love match—and the ton seemed more than willing to forgive both the marquess and his new marchioness for their perceived infractions.

“And, what an extraordinarily lucky man I am to have such a rake for a wife,” he said, before taking her lips in a kiss that left her breathless and weak-kneed. “You may lure me into the darkness at any time, my love. In fact”—he paused, he kissed down the length of her neck, his lips leaving a fiery path in their wake—“I should very much like for you to take me home and have your way with me. Do you think we could leave immediately?”

She laughed, enjoying every moment of their scandalous conversation. “As this is the first ball we have attended as husband and wife, I don’t think we can escape under cover of darkness without ruining all chances of being invited to balls in the future.”

He ran his tongue along her collarbone, one hand stealing up to capture her breast, murmuring, “Would that be so bad? Think of all the things we could do at home, instead. I assure you, love, you would not want for excitement in the evenings.”

She giggled at the words, the sound turning into a sigh as he stroked one turgid nipple through her gown. “Yes, well I think perhaps Juliana would be sad to have to miss society. She’s beginning to fit right in, don’t you think?”

He met her gaze thoughtfully. “Indeed. I never thanked you for convincing her to stay with us.”

“I cannot imagine any woman, sister or otherwise, wanting to leave you once she’d found you, Gabriel.” She smiled up into his vibrant blue eyes. “I am afraid you are quite saddled with me.”

“Excellent.” He spoke against her lips. “Because I shall never allow you to leave.”

They kissed deeply, reveling in each other for long minutes until Callie pulled back, just barely, to meet his gaze. “I think I’ve loved you for my entire life.”

His blue eyes flashed in the silver moonlight. “And I shall love you for the rest of mine, Empress.”

She leaned her head back, smiling at the night sky, and he caught his breath at the vision of her, so exquisite, so beautiful.

“Do you know that the first time you ever called me Empress was here? In this garden?”

He cocked his head to one side, thinking. “How is that possible?”

She stepped out of his embrace, turning to the fountain again. “It was ten years ago. I was just out and hiding in the maze, desperate for something to distract me from my miserable failure of a first season. And there you were.” She skimmed her fingers through the water in the fountain idly, her thoughts on that evening long ago. “Little did I know you would distract me for a full decade.”

He kissed her again, worrying her full, bottom lip until she sighed, then said, “I plan to distract you for much longer than that.” He captured her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers before saying, “While I know I should be sorry for your years of waiting, I confess, I am thoroughly pleased that you waited for me to open my eyes and finally see you, love.” He pulled her back into his embrace, adding, “But I am rather frustrated that I didn’t simply see it then…for we’d have a decade of happiness and a brood of children to show for it.”

“And two fewer scars.”

He laughed. “And that, my little hellion.”

She stroked his cheek idly, basking in the warmth of his touch. “You make an excellent point, but then I wouldn’t have had my list. And you wouldn’t have benefited from the items on it. Consider tonight’s item, for example.”

One rogue brow rose. “Tonight’s item?” His eyes darkened with passion, and he pulled her close to him, reveling in the feel of her wrapped around him. Lifting her against him, he carried her to a nearby bench and settled her upon it before he knelt beside her and slipped his warm hands beneath the hem of her gown to caress her ankles. The touch held the promise of much more, and Callie gave a little laugh that turned into a sigh as his hands stole up the inside of her leg.

“Indeed,” she said, a mysterious smile playing across her lips as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Tryst in a Garden.”

His mouth hovered just above hers and he spoke in a dark whisper, “Far be it from me to deny you an adventure.”

Dark and Dangerous Ways…

Dearest Reader,

Why is it that the unrepentant rake, brooding duke, or wicked rogue never fails to set even the most sensible hearts aflutter?

And what happens when a sensible lady plays with fire, unafraid to get burned?

This winter feel the heat with four new, delicious romances—from New York Times bestselling authors Elizabeth Boyle, Sandra Hill, and Kerrelyn Sparks and talented debut author Sarah MacLean—in which scandalous heroes meet their matches at last, in ladies who know that sometimes bad can be gloriously good…

Coming January 2010

How I Met My Countess

The first in a new series from New York Times bestselling author

Elizabeth Boyle

When Lucy Ellyson, the improper daughter of an infamous spy, saves the Earl of Clifton’s life, he decides to make her his countess. But then the irresistible chit vanishes and Clifton is certain he’s lost her forever…until he discovers she’s living in Mayfair, as scandalous as ever and in the sort of trouble only a hasty marriage can solve. But before Clifton can step in, secrets from the past emerge, threatening to ruin them both.

While the Earl of Clifton had been expecting a scullery maid or even a housekeeper to respond to Mr. Ellyson’s shouted orders, the gel who arrived in the man’s study left him taken aback.

Her glorious black hair sat piled atop her head, the pins barely holding it there, the strands shimmering with raven lights and rich, deep hues. They were the sort of strands that made one think of the most expensive courtesans, the most elegant and desirable ladies.

Yet this miss wore a plain muslin gown, over which she’d thrown an old patched green sweater. There were mitts on her hands, for the rest of the house was cold, and out from beneath the less than tidy hem of her gown, a pair of very serviceable boots stuck out.

This was all topped off with the large splotch of soot decorating her nose and chin.

She took barely a glance at Clifton or his brother before her hands fisted to her hips. “Whatever are you doing shouting like that? I’m

not deaf, but I fear I will be if you insist on bellowing so.”

Crossing the room, she swatted Ellyson’s hand off the map he was in the process of unrolling. Plucking off her mitts and swiping her hand over her skirts—as if that would do the task and clean them—she caught up the map and reshelved it. “I doubt you need Paris as yet.”

There was a presumptuous note of disdain in her voice, as if she, like Ellyson himself, had shelved their guests with the same disparagement that she had just given the errant map.

And in confirmation, when she cast a glance over her shoulder and took stock of them, it was with a gaze that was both calculating and dismissive all at once. “Why not begin with ensuring that they know how to get to the coast,” she replied, no small measure of sarcasm dripping from her words.

Ellyson barked a short laugh, if one could call it a laugh. But her sharp words amused the man. “Easy girl, they’ve Pymm’s blessing. We’re to train them up.”

“Harrumph,” she muttered, putting one more stamp of disapproval on the notion.

Clifton straightened. It was one thing to be dismissed by a man of Ellyson’s stature, but by a mere servant? Well, it wasn’t to be borne. He opened his mouth to protest, but Malcolm nudged him.

Don’t wade into this one, little brother, his dark eyes implored.

“I need to start with Lisbon,” Ellyson said. “But demmed if I can find it.”

“Here,” she said, easily locating the map from the collection. “Anything else?” Her chapped hands were back on her hips and she shot another glance over her shoulder at Clifton, her bright green eyes revealing nothing but dismay, especially when her gaze fell to the puddles of water at his feet and the trail of mud from his boots.

Then she looked up at him with a gaze that said one thing: You’d best not expect me to clean that up.

Clifton could only gape at her. He’d never met such a woman.

Well, not outside of a public house.

Bossy termagant of a chit, still he couldn’t stop watching her, for there was a spark to this Lucy that dared to settle inside his chest.

She was, with that hair and flashing eyes, a pretty sort of thing in an odd way. But she held herself so that a man would have to have a devilish bit of nerve to tell her so.

Then she shocked him, or at least, he thought it was the most shocking thing he’d ever heard.

“Papa, I haven’t all day and I’ve a roast to see to, as well as the pudding to mix.”

Papa? Clifton’s mouth fell open. This bossy chit was Ellyson’s daughter?

No, in the world of the Ellysons, Clifton quickly discovered, such a notion wasn’t shocking in the least.

Not when weighed against what her father said in reply. “Yes, yes, of course. But before you see to dinner, I have it in mind for you to become Lord Clifton’s new mistress. What say you, Goosie?” he asked his daughter as casually as one might inquire if the pudding was going to include extra plums. “How would you like to fall in love with an earl?”

Lucy glanced over her shoulder and looked at the man standing beside the door. Very quickly, she pressed her lips together to keep from bursting out with laughter at the sight of the complete and utter shock dressing the poor earl’s features. He had to be the earl, for the other man hadn’t the look of a man possessing a title and fortune.

Oh, heavens! He thinks Papa is serious. And in a panic over how to refuse him.

Not that a very feminine part of her felt a large stab of pique.

Well, you could do worse, she’d have told him, if the other man in the room, the one by the window, the earl’s brother from the looks of him, hadn’t said, “Good God, Gilby! Close your mouth. You look like a mackerel.”

The fellow then doubled over with laughter. “’Sides I doubt Ellyson is serious.”

Lucy didn’t reply, nor did her father, but that was to be expected, for Papa was already onto the next step of his plans for the earl and his natural brother, and therefore saw no polite need to reply.

“Sir, I can hardly…I mean as a gentleman…” the earl began.

Lucy turned toward him, one brow cocked and her hands back on her hips. It was the stance she took when the butcher tried to sell her less than fresh mutton.

The butcher was a devilish cheat, so it made ruffling this gentleman’s fine and honorable notions akin to child’s play.

Clifton swallowed and took a step back, which brought him right up against the wall.

Literally and figuratively.

“What I mean to say is that while Miss Ellyson is…is…that is to say I am…” He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Actually shuddered.

Well, a lady could only take so much.

Lucy sauntered past him, flicked a piece of lint off the shoulder of his otherwise meticulous jacket, and tossed a smile up at him. “Don’t worry, Gilby,” she purred, using the familiar name his brother had called him. “You don’t have to bed me.” She took another long glance at him—from his dark hair, the chiseled set of his aristocratic jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the long lines of his legs, to his perfectly polished boots—everything that was wealthy, noble, and elegant, then continued toward her father’s desk, tossing one more glance over her shoulder. “For truly, you aren’t my type.”

Which was quite true. Well, there was no arguing that the Earl of Clifon was one of the most handsome men who’d ever walked into her father’s house seeking his training to take on secretive “work” for the King, but Lucy also found his lofty stance and rigid features troubling.

He’ll not do, Papa, she wanted to say. For she considered herself an excellent judge of character. And this Clifton would have to set himself down a notch or two if he was going to stay alive, at the very least, let alone complete the tasks he would be sent to do.

No, he is too utterly English. Too proud. Too…too…noble.

And Lucy knew this all too well. For she’d spent a good part of her life watching the agents come and go from her father’s house. She knew them all.

And she also knew the very real truth about their situation: They may never come back. As much as she found it amusing to give this stuffy earl a bit of a tease, there was a niggle of worry that ran down her spine.

What if he doesn’t come back?

Well, I don’t care, she told herself, crossing the room and putting her back to the earl. She opened a drawer and handed a folder to her father, who through this exchange had been muttering over the mess of papers and correspondence atop his desk. “I think you need these,” she said softly.

Her father opened it up, squinted at the pages inside, and then nodded. “Ah, yes. Good gel, Goosie.” He turned back to Clifton. “Whatever has you so pale? I don’t expect you to deflower the gel, just carry her love letters.”

“Letters?” Clifton managed.

“Yes, letters,” Lucy explained. “I write coded letters to you as if I were your mistress and you carry them to Lisbon.” She strolled over, reached up, and patted his chest. “You put them right next to your heart.” She paused and gazed up at him. “You have one of those, don’t you?”

Coming February 2010

Viking in Love

The first in a new series from New York Times bestselling author

Sandra Hill

Breanne and her sisters are more than capable of taking care of themselves—just ask the last man who crossed them. But when a hasty escape lands them in the care of a Viking warrior, the ladies know they have at last met a worthy quarry. After nine long months in the king’s service, all Caedmon wanted was…well, certainly not five Norse princesses running his keep. And after the fiery redhead bursts into his chamber on the very first morning…Caedmon settles on a wicked plan far more delightful than kicking her out.

Beware of women with barbed tongues…

Caedmon was splatted out on his stomach, half-awake, knowing he must rise soon. This was a new day and a new start for getting his estate and his family back in order.

In his head he made a list.

First, gather the entire household and establish some authority. Someone had been lax in assigning duties and making sure they were completed. The overworked Gerard, no doubt. And the absent Alys.

Second, take stock of the larder. Huntsmen would go out for fresh meat, fishermen for fish, and he would send someone to Jarrow to purchases spices and various other foodstuffs.

Third, designate Geoff and Wulf to work with the housecarls on fighting skills and rotating guard schedules.

Fourth, replenish the supply of weaponry.

Fifth, persuade the cook to return. The roast boar yestereve had been tough as leather, made palatable only by the tubfuls of feast ale and strong mead they had consumed.

Sixth, the children…ah, what to do about the children? One of the cotters’ wives…or John the Bowman’s widow…could supervise their care, and a monk from the minster in Jorvik might be induced to come and tutor them, although his history with Father Luke did not bode well for his chances.

The door to his bedchamber swung open, interrupting his mental planning. The headboard of his bed was against the same wall as the door, so he merely turned his head to the left and squinted one eye open.

A red-haired woman—dressed in men’s attire…high-born men’s attire, at that—stood glaring at him, hands on hips. She was tall for a woman, and thin as a lance. As for breasts, if she had any, they must be as flat as rounds of manchet bread. “Master Caedmon, I presume?”

“Well, I do not know about the ‘Master’ part. What manner dress is that? Are you man or woman?” He smiled, trying for levity.

She did not return the smile.

No sense of humor.

“You are surely the most loathsome lout I have e’er encountered.”

Whaaaat? He had not been expecting an attack. In fact, he needed a moment for his sleep-hazed brain to take in this apparition before him.