by Rose Lerner
He knelt beside her chair and kissed her neck. “Who wouldn’t be envious of us?”
She beamed and turned in her chair. “Good point. We’re probably the happiest people in the world.”
“I would assume.”
Her hand wandered to his coat buttons. “I have to finish copying this.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself more than him.
He undid the buttons for her. “You can spare a quarter of an hour.”
“Yes, only it never is a quarter of an hour, is it? I don’t know what I did to deserve such a demanding muse.” But she let him pull her out of her chair and towards the bed.
“I don’t know either, but it must have been very naughty.”
“Mmm.” She smiled. “Maybe by the time we come back home, I’ll be pregnant.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised.
About the Author
Rose Lerner discovered Georgette Heyer when she was thirteen, and wrote her first historical romance a few years later. Her writing has improved since then, but her fascination with all things Regency hasn’t changed. When not reading, writing, or researching, she enjoys cooking and marathoning old TV shows. She lives in Seattle. She’d love to hear from you!
[email protected]
www.roselerner.com
Look for these titles by Rose Lerner
Coming Soon:
In for a Penny
A Lily Among Thorns
Grand Passion…or epic disaster?
In For a Penny
© 2014 Rose Lerner
Lord Nevinstoke revels in acting the young wastrel, until his father is killed in a drunken duel. Never one to do anything halfway, Nev throws off his wild ways to shoulder a mountain of responsibility—and debt—vowing to marry a rich girl and act the respectable lord of the manor.
Manufacturing heiress Penelope Brown seems the perfect choice for a wife. She’s pretty, proper, and looking for a husband.
Determined to rise above her common birth, Penelope prides herself on her impeccable behavior and good sense. Grand Passion? Vulgar and melodramatic. Yes, agreeing to marry Nev was a rare moment of impulse, yet she’s sure they can build a good marriage based on companionship and mutual esteem.
But when they arrive at the manor, they’re overwhelmed with half-starved tenants, a menacing neighbor, and the family propensity for scandal. As the situation deteriorates, the newlyweds have nowhere to turn but to each other. To Penelope’s surprise, she begins to fervently hope that her first taste of Grand Passion in her husband’s arms won’t be her last.
Warning: Contains kisses in the breakfast room, account books in the bedroom...and murder in the garden. Featuring a heroine who’s used to settling, a hero who’s used to getting what he wants without trying, and a love for which they’ll both have to fight tooth and nail.
Originally published Dorchester 2010.
Honesty can be the deadliest policy of all.
A Lily Among Thorns
© 2014 Rose Lerner
Lady Serena Ravenshaw is one of London’s most prosperous women, but she’s never forgotten the misery that set her on the path to success. Nor has she forgotten the drunken young gentleman who gave her the means to start her long, tortuous climb out of the gutter.
When he knocks on the door of the Ravenshaw Arms to ask her help in retrieving a stolen family heirloom, she readily agrees to help, and to let him stay rent-free. After all, Serena prefers debts to fall in her favor.
Still grieving the death of his twin brother, Solomon Hathaway just wants to be left alone in his dye-making shop—until his highborn uncle sends him to the infamous Lady Serena to scour London’s underworld for the missing bauble.
He’s shocked to discover she’s the same bedraggled waif to whom he once gave his entire quarterly allowance. Yet as they delicately tread common ground, they must negotiate a treacherous world of crime, espionage and betrayal before they can learn to trust—and love—again.
Warning: Contains toasty warm pastries, scorching hot chemistry, and a web of treason that just might see England in flames.
Originally published Dorchester 2011.
He was her first—and only—love.
The Last Time We Met
© 2013 Lily Lang
Miranda Thornwood is desperate. Her brother, accused of murder, has lost the inheritance that would buy him a proper defense. There is only one man in London rich and powerful enough to help. Jason Blakewell, owner of the St. James gambling empire…the man she once betrayed.
Jason is stunned to find Miranda on his doorstep. Once he was a stable boy, wildly in love with her—believing she loved him in return. Until, on the brink of eloping to America, she betrayed him to her father. And Jason was sent to the hulks.
For ten years he has dreamed of revenge, and now she is handing him his chance on a silver platter. His price for giving her aid? She must become his mistress.
But when their lips meet, he tastes something other than revenge. He tastes the passion that never died. And now he is tempted to lay aside his thirst for revenge and risk his heart a second time in the greatest gamble of all.
Warning: This book contains handsome stable boys, French pastries, high stakes gambling, and odious uncles.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Last Time We Met:
London, 1832
For three days and three nights, Miranda Thornwood had sat curled beneath a broken crate in a St. James mews, waiting for Jason Blakewell to emerge from the club that bore his name.
She had had little to drink and less to eat. Sleep had come only in brief snatches. The freezing rain had begun two nights ago and had not ceased since, but the broken crate in which she sat failed to actually shelter her from either the cold or the damp. Rats scurried through the narrow alley, often close enough to touch, and the air stank of horse droppings and rotting food.
But after the desperate thirty-five mile journey without food or shelter from Middlesex to London, Miranda was accustomed to physical discomfort. She kept her weary attention focused on the door of the club, and when a pair of beautiful black geldings drawing a gleaming black closed carriage clambered to a halt, she lifted her head.
The great front doors opened. A man in sleek, dark evening clothes stepped out into the night and down the shallow flight of stairs. A short, muscular bullfrog of a footman followed, holding up a large black umbrella.
Miranda leaned forward. The gaslight wavered through the shimmering rain. Despite the chill of the evening, the man wore no cloak, but his evening clothes, though plain, were perfectly cut and fitted, his white cravat tied in a simple knot. Carelessly cut dark hair curled over his high forehead and the nape of his neck.
Miranda’s heart pounded. Stretching out her aching, weary muscles, she scrambled out from the crate.
Despite the rain and the lateness of the hour, carriages and people still crowded St. James. Miranda drew her heavy cloak more securely around her mud-splattered dress and darted across the street, ducking past horses and drunken dandies. As she drew closer, the man’s face became clearer: dark eyes set against harsh features, and a strong, powerful jaw line.
Her breath caught.
It was Jason Blakewell.
She came to a sudden halt on the edge of the street, overcome by a nameless emotion so powerful, so agonizing, it stole her breath.
She had not seen Jason in ten long years. For six of them she had believed him dead, and even when she’d learned he had not perished, as she had feared, on the prison hulk to which her father had consigned him, she had known he was lost to her forever. Surely he still hated her for what he believed she had done to him, but nothing could stop the sudden shock of joy that coursed through her as she gazed upon him for the first time in over a decade.
“Eh, lady, get out of the way!”
A pair of monstrous gray stallions drawing a huge carriage came thundering directly toward her. Miranda, still dazed, could not move quickly enough, but Jason
had looked up and seen her. He reacted instantly. In a second he reached her and drew her aside to the safety of the paved footpath. His hands on her were gentle and impersonal.
“Are you unwell, madam?” he asked in the deep voice she remembered so perfectly.
The folds of her heavy cloak hid her face. He had not yet recognized her.
She couldn’t answer. She managed a quick shake of the head, and he said, “You had better be careful. The streets can be dangerous if you don’t watch where you’re going.”
He gave her a courteous bow, as though beneath her heavy mud-splattered winter cloak she might be a duchess, and turned back to the waiting carriage. With a tremendous effort of will, Miranda found her voice.
“Jason,” she said.
He stilled. For a moment he stood without moving. The rain dampened his hair and jacket. The dull thud of her heart drowned out even the clamor of the streets.
At last, very slowly, Jason turned. She pushed back the hood of her cloak so the gaslight shone full on her face and her matted hair. But before she could speak again, the footman came around the side of the carriage to see what had delayed his master.
When he saw Miranda, his face crumpled in annoyance.
“Stand back now,” he said. “Mr. Blakewell don’t want no one bothering ’im for no money.”
Miranda ignored him, her attention focused solely on the expressionless man who stood before her, gazing at her with a stranger’s eyes out of a heartbreakingly familiar face. The rain fell in silver sheets around them.
“Please, Jason,” she said, her voice faint. “I need to speak with you.”
The footman scowled, reaching for her arm, but this time, Miranda reacted. She might be starving, penniless and filthy, her gown might be more ragged than any she would have permitted her lowliest scullery maid to wear, but no mere footman could intimidate her.
“Remove your hands from me at once, sir,” she said, and the footman, reacting instinctively to the practiced authority in her voice, fell back in confusion.
For the first time since he had recognized her, Jason spoke. “Send the carriage back, Briggs,” he said quietly, without looking away from Miranda. “I won’t need it tonight.”
Briggs, still gaping at Miranda, snapped immediately to attention and signaled to the coachman. “Yes, sir. Of course. At once.”
The carriage drew away. She continued to stare mutely at Jason, but after a moment he turned abruptly away and started down the street.
“Come along,” he said brusquely. “We’ll go back in through the side entrance.”
Once the game begins, there is no tearing your gaze away.
Pleasuring the Lady
© 2013 Jess Michaels
The Pleasure Wars, Book 2
Her mother’s madness and her father’s and brother’s irresponsibility have relegated Lady Portia to the life of a wallflower. The only shining light in her life is her best friend, Ava, who is suffering a rift with her own brother.
Portia’s quest to help takes her to the notorious Donville Masquerade in the hells, where—behind the safety of a mask—she witnesses shocking public acts of sin. And succumbs to the touch of Marquis Miles Weatherfield.
Unfortunately, they’re discovered. And now, tainted by scandal, she and Miles are destined for a marriage neither of them want. But Portia makes a bargain that raises even Miles’s eyebrows.
In return for saving her mother from the asylum, Portia will do anything Miles wants in bed. Shocked by his driving desire for Portia, Miles agrees. As they explore every wicked desire, every forbidden act that pleases them, they discover something that goes far deeper than flesh. But the lies that brought them together could be the very wedge that drives them apart.
Warning: This book contains wicked encounters, erotic voyeurism, lies, a brief threesome, and unexpected kindnesses.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Pleasuring the Lady:
Miles scanned the room for potential subjects, but again was simply bored with his choices. Women in plunging necklines, their breasts almost bare, panting over any man who gave them a side-glance. They were all so bored and jaded…a bit like he was. There was no one to—
He cut the thought off as the crowd across the room parted and revealed a woman standing along the wall by herself. She had pale blond hair done up in a simple chignon at the base of her long, creamy neck.
Her mask covered half her face, but it was not of the ornate variety that the others wore as calling cards. It was blue and very plain, possibly handcrafted out of leftover silk from a gown. It didn’t match her dress, which was a deep green and cut in a modest style that had little frills. Still, the fabric was high quality. He was left confused.
Was this a highbred lady or a lower-class one?
He moved closer, inexplicably drawn to her. She hugged the wall with her body, exactly like a wallflower at a ball at Almack’s would do. She stared out at the room, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinked and blinked…almost in innocence, shock.
But was that real or affected? There were plenty of women who came here and pretended to be virtuous in order to play into the fantasies of certain men.
He had never been one of those, and yet he continued to move toward her. As he reached her, he realized she had dark brown eyes and they were dilated with high emotions that did not seem artificial.
“Hello,” he said softly.
She jerked with surprise, for her attention had been so focused on the activity around them that she had not even seen him advance on her. She looked at him, cheeks flushed and those brown eyes widened with surprise and, he thought, recognition.
“I—hello,” she whispered, her voice husky.
He smiled, sly. “You seem surprised to see me approach you. Do we know each other, my lady?”
She swallowed and then shook her head. When she didn’t say anything else, Miles moved a little closer.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
She shook her head again, her eyes focused intently on his face.
He smiled at her refusal to speak. If this was a game to obtain his interest, it was well-played. Her silence gave her an air of mystery that he found fascinating, indeed.
“You said hello, so I know you are capable of speech,” he said with a chuckle.
She shivered, almost as if the sound of his laughter had touched her in an unexpected way. She hesitated a moment, then she said in another low whisper, “I am, my lord.”
He arched a brow. Did she assume he was titled or know? He still couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry if you find me reluctant to speak,” she continued. “I-I really don’t know what to say to you.”
He stared at her. “Your honesty is refreshing in this situation. I am a gentleman, so I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable. Would you prefer it if I choose the topic of our discourse? You may nod or shake your head in answer to me if that is more amenable to you.”
She pulled the corner of her lip between her teeth and his gut clenched with a sudden desire. Her lips were full and he longed to feel them pressed to his flesh. Anywhere. Everywhere.
“Well?” he asked, trying to keep his raging desire from being too obvious. Desperation was never an attractive trait.
She nodded, a bit slowly.
“Good. I would like to know more about you—”
Before he could ask more, she shook her head hard, her eyes going wide and wild. He frowned.
“Nothing to identify you,” he reassured her. “You say I have not seen you here before—have you been here before?”
She seemed to consider the answer. To consider running away, but then she slowly shook her head in the negative.
“I see.” He looked her up and down. “Is there a reason you came here?”
She dropped her chin, breaking their gaze and leaving him feeling strangely…lost. She nodded.
“Hmm, that is very interesting,” he said, stroking his chin. He thought of all the poss
ibilities of why a woman…perhaps a lady…would come to this desperate and debauched place.
“Did you come to gamble?”
She immediately shook her head.
“Not to gamble. Then that must mean you came for the…other diversions this place offers.” He couldn’t help but grin, for that had been his hope with every step toward her.
But to his surprise, she took a side-glance at some of the couples engaging in public sensuality. There were moans in the air, flashes of flesh. Her breath caught and she blushed, but he sensed her deep arousal beneath her shock. So she liked to watch…well, so did he.
She shook her head, though it was much slower and less certain than the other times she had indicated the negative.
“Then did you come looking for someone?”
She nodded, lifting her face back toward his, her desire faded in an instant.
“Your father?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Your brother?” Another hesitation and the negative, indicated by the shake of her head. He took a deep breath. “Your husband?”
Her cheeks filled with heated color as she shook her head.
“Ah, I see. Someone you care for, though.” He tilted his head to watch her more carefully. This answer meant something to him, though he had no idea why.
Her response was slow, but she nodded once. He scowled despite himself. So the woman had a lover…or a love she was seeking. It could not possibly matter to him. He had no ties to her.
And yet he felt irritated. Frustrated. As if something had been stolen from him.
“Do I know him?” he asked.
She nodded swiftly and his body clenched. “I thought you said you did not know me. How would you know I was acquainted with the gentleman you seek?”
Her lips parted and she took a step away. “I—” she gasped, then lifted her hand to cover her mouth.
