by Meghan Sloan
Scandals of Lustful Ladies
A HISTORICAL REGENCY ROMANCE COLLECTION
MEGHAN SLOAN
Copyright © 2020 by Meghan Sloan
All Rights Reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.
Table of Contents
Scandals of Lustful Ladies
Table of Contents
Free Exclusive Gift
Everything a Lady Craves
Introduction
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Lusting for the Duke's Kiss
Introduction
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
Epilogue
Tempted by a Rake’s Smile
Introduction
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
A Lord's Bet of Desire
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Free Exclusive Gift
Sign up for my mailing list to be notified of hot new releases and get my latest Full-Length Novel “The Scent of Every Sin” (available only to my subscribers) for FREE!
Click the link or enter it into your browser
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/64lyd083xo
Everything a Lady Craves
Introduction
Lady Emily Hambleton was determined to never love again. Her first husband had died in the Revolutionary war and she has been living a lonely life as a spinster ever since. Even though her father urged her to marry again, being a fiery and unconventional young Lady, she wanted it to be on her own terms. When she meets a seductive stranger, though, there's something she can't seem to command, her heart. Why does it have to beat so wildly every time Myles is closeby?
Myles Whitehall’ scheme to come to England, receive a large inheritance and take the money back to America, will not go as planned. When a shipwreck robs him of his memory, he will find himself off the coast of Cornwall instead. When he wakes up, the first thing he gets to see is the most beautiful and enigmatic woman he's ever met, standing over him. When he gets to know the quick-witted, sharp-mouthed spinster, he will want more...and more. What will he do when the woman he can’t have becomes the woman he can’t live without?
Seduction, intrigue and desire lead to an explosive chemistry… When passion flares, these two intimate strangers will not be able to stay away from each other, as they have originally planned. Ultimately, they will realise that there is no fighting fate. Is their love and passion powerful enough? Will they eventually find a way to combine their different worlds?
Prologue
London, Summer, 1814
The woman stumbled slightly as she walked down the cobblestone alley. It was dark, and she squinted as she tried to make out the names of the shops. They were all hanging on wooden signs, which were squeaking and rocking in the wind. She felt her heart pounding harder. What if she could not find it?
The wind had created a tunnel, twisting and howling through the narrow alley. It was so ferocious that her bonnet suddenly flew off her head, as if a hand had reached down from the heavens and snatched it away. She stumbled more, as she awkwardly chased it, tumbling along the ground.
Eventually, she managed to pounce on it, picking it up with shaking hands, and tying the tattered ribbons beneath her chin tightly, to secure it.
She was tired. So tired, that she could barely put one foot in front of the other. Her eyes hurt, stinging with fatigue. All that she wanted to do was lie down and close her eyes. She wasn’t even fussy where at this point, as long as blessed sleep could overtake her, and she could rest, at long last.
She jumped at the sound of a cat mewling loudly behind her. She turned her head and watched the thin wretched creature dart past her legs. It was marmalade, with high pointed ears and large, almost haunted, green eyes. In its mouth it carried the skeleton of a fish, obviously pilfered from scraps that were lying all around. It did not even acknowledge her as it ran away, disappearing into the shadows with its prize.
Her heart started to slow down, just a little. She was jumping at everything. It was only a stray cat. It could do her no harm.
She kept walking, quicker now, staring at the wooden signs. She had never been in a place like this before and she was scared. Oh, she had heard all about the bad areas of London, the places that no respectable soul would ever enter. Her father had told her all about them when she was a little girl, although her mother had scolded him for scaring her afterwards.
There was the area known as the Mint, he told her, which was the very worst. A slum, only ten minutes from London Bridge. A former genteel area that had collapsed into ruins and now was a pit of squalor, housing at least three thousand unfortunate souls. And then, there was the Almonry, near Westminster Abbey, known colloquially as The Devil’s Acre. Another was called the Rookery, or Little Dublin, on account of the high proportion of starving Irish who filled its putrid buildings.
She could still remember some of the street names of these notorious London slums. They had made her shiver in horror. Cat’s Hole, Dark Entry and Pillory Lane. It was a whole other world, a dark story that she had never imagined she would even glimpse, let alone be walking the streets.
London was an entirely different world for her. She had not been to the great city many times, but they still shone in her memory, like precious jewels. A matinee at Cov
ent Garden, when she was ten years old, to see the ballet. A visit to the Royal Academy of the Arts, to view an exhibition. An afternoon at a genteel tearoom, where she and her mother had sipped the finest brew in white china cups, watching the parade of fine ladies and gentlemen strolling the pavement.
It was all a far cry from where she was now.
Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw two figures leaning against a lamppost. A gas lamppost that her father told her had only been introduced to the city this very year. The gas hissed and sputtered in its glass enclosure, flickering dimly, casting a wan light over the wet, grey cobblestones.
The figures were two women, she noted, as she drew closer. Young women dressed in garish gowns, their knotted hair hanging loose around their shoulders. One had a bright green feather boa wrapped around her neck. The other had hair an unusually bright shade of yellow. They stopped talking, watching her, as she walked by.
“Ooh, well, aren’t you a fine lady, then,” called the one with the yellow hair in a mocking tone. “Did your carriage break down, duckie?”
The two women laughed. It sounded like the cackles of witches in the night. She raised her chin higher. She would ignore them.
“Cat got your tongue?” called the other woman, with the feather boa. She turned to her companion. “She thinks she’s high and mighty, this one. We should teach her a lesson, bringing her airs and graces down Gilley Lane.”
They peeled themselves away from the lamppost, approaching her, almost circling her, like prowling cats. She felt a shiver of pure fear as her head whipped around watching them.
“Please,” she said in a small voice. “Please, will you tell me where the Black Swan Inn is?”
“The Black Swan?” said the woman with the feather boa. “Now, why would a fine lady like you want to know where that gambling den is?”
“It ain’t for the likes of you,” said the other, still circling her. “They play cards all night there and would sell their mother’s soul for an ale. Why do you want to go there? Are you selling trade?”
“That’s it,” said the feather boa woman, with delight in her voice. “It’s a trick, so it is! She’s dolled up like a fine lady to get custom. Some punters like to think they are with a bit of quality, don’t they?”
She stared at them, appalled, blushing fiercely. She finally realised what they were talking about. They were insinuating that she was a prostitute. As she stared at their garish gowns and painted faces, she suddenly knew that she was consorting with common whores.
A frisson of horror shuddered through her. She should have known straight away, of course. Why else would they be in this lane at night, leaning against a lamppost, looking like they did? But then, nothing in her sheltered upbringing had prepared her for such an encounter. She was in unknown, uncharted territory, without a map to guide her.
She knew she had to bluff it out. To show fear to them would be her undoing. Perhaps she should play along. It might be the only way to get to her destination.
She took a deep breath, raising her chin again. “That’s right,” she said slowly. “It’s all an act. And I have someone there who is waiting for me and willing to pay good coin. Could you tell me where it is, and I can be on my way?”
The woman with the yellow hair smiled suddenly, exposing a row of rotten teeth. “Well, aren’t you the clever one, then?” Her eyes, which had previously been cold, were now shining with admiration. “Do you pay extra to get the fancy clothes? It must be worth it. And your accent is ever so good.”
She took another deep breath. “Yes, I practice it, during the day. I talk with it all the time now. Makes it easier, you know?”
The woman with feather boa nodded. “I knew a girl who did that once. Called herself Lady Clara and acted like a toff to draw in a certain clientele.” Her smile faded. “I can’t do that, though. Can’t afford the coin for the good clothes, and besides, everyone around here knows that I am just Nellie from Little Row Lane. Where are you from, then?”
Her heart started pounding harder. That was the problem with lying. It often became so complicated. She couldn’t tell these common whores the truth. Suddenly, her mind flashed on an area of London that her father had told her about, the day he had talked about the slums.
“There are slightly better areas, of course,” he had said, frowning slightly. “Certainly not genteel, but not slums, either. Lambeth is one. Labourers and artisans live there, semi respectably. They are not rich, but neither are they thieves and scoundrels, like in the Mint, or The Devil’s Acre.”
The two whores were waiting for an answer. She took a deep breath.
“Lambeth,” she said. “I am from Lambeth. Meeting a client, at the Black Swan. I am already late, and he won’t be happy…” Suddenly, she knew how she could extract herself from this situation. “I can give you both a shilling, if you take me there. He pays well, and I got some, in advance.”
The women looked at each other. Then the one with the yellow hair nodded slowly.
“We will take you there, for a shilling each,” she said slowly. “Trade is slow tonight, and that wind is killing my ears. Besides, us working girls have to look after each other, don’t we?”
She smiled at them, so relieved that she almost felt like kissing their painted faces.
They didn’t talk any further. They simply started walking down the lane. She hesitated for a moment then followed them. She would simply have to trust that they would be as good as their word. She had been wandering these lanes for over half an hour now, looking for the Black Swan Inn, and she was growing anxious.
They all looked the same, with their grey cobblestones and shabby storefronts. It was like a maze. And she simply could not remember the name of the street or lane that the inn was located on. All she recalled was the name of it.
The woman with the feather boa glanced back to see that she was following. Then they turned, ducking into a narrower lane. She held her breath as she smelt something putrid rising to her nostrils. It smelt like burnt cabbage left out in the rain. A terrible, rotting smell, that she somehow knew she would never forget.
This lane was even darker, not even lit by a lamp. But suddenly she heard singing in the distance. An old folk song that she had heard the servants singing from time-to-time. This rendition was clumsy and raucous. And the voices were all deep and masculine. There was a hiccup or two amongst the words.
They are in their cups, she thought, a shiver of fear falling through her. They are so deep in them that they are stumbling over the words.
She almost felt like turning back and fleeing. She had never been around people who were the worse for strong drink, but she had heard about it. Her own parents were temperate, never allowing alcohol in the house, not even a glass of wine at dinner.
But she had come so far. And she knew it was all too late now. The die had been cast. She was on this journey, for better or worse.
They were almost there. She saw the men stumbling out of the inn, singing loudly. The wooden sign above the tavern declared it to be the Black Swan, and there was a rough painting of a black swan beneath it. She was here at long last. She had made it.
Her heart leapt with sudden, wild joy. It had all been worth it, all the uncomfortable travel, the weary search through the putrid lanes. Soon, she would be safe again. Soon, all the plans that had been made would spring into action, like a wound-up doll.
She was almost there. The two women were approaching the doorway now, to a chorus of catcalls and jeers from the drinking men.
But then, suddenly, she saw a figure. A tall, black figure, emerging like a ghost, from a darkened hole. Creeping like a phantom from the shadows towards her.
The figure was upon her before she could even react. A long black cloak, with a deep hood, drawn low over the face.
The figure gripped her wrist, tightly. She screamed with all her might.
Chapter 1
Bath, Winter, 1814
Alice ran down the stairs, taking them two at a
time. She knew that her mother would scold her if she saw, reminding her that she was not a little girl anymore. Young ladies were supposed to walk daintily down staircases. But Mama was out for the morning, at a new art exhibition that had just come to the town, and was not around to see, was she?
At the bottom she ran along the polished marble floor towards her father’s study. The request that she join him had just been delivered by Betty, her maid. This was unusual. Professor Reginald Sinclair was not in the habit of wanting to be disturbed when he was in his study, especially of a morning.
