Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Teaser chapter
“WHEW . . . ONE WORD—STEAMY!”*
PRAISE FOR
Wicked Little Game
“Sizzling sensuality and powerful storytelling—Wells’s hallmarks—make this a fast-paced, enticing read. Wells lures readers into her stories with strong characterization, unique plotlines, and plenty of sizzle.”
—Romantic Times
“An exciting Regency romantic suspense thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Wells knows how write a full-bodied story, one where the focus on the romantic dynamics between the two main characters is supported by a carefully created surrounding world.”
—All About Romance
“Wells does an excellent job of weaving a very complex, emotional love story with disturbing undercurrents, family secrets, and a murder mystery at its core.”
—Romance Novel TV
“Fantastic from start to finish . . . I highly recommend Wicked Little Game. It’s hot, sexy, and action-packed.”
—Royal Reviews
“Astounding. Wells wove a complex and intriguing story . . . Rarely do you find a historical that provides as many twists and turns as Wicked Little Game with the added bonus of incredible emotional depth.”
—Lovin’ Me Some Romance
“A tale of love and passion . . . The love scenes—hot!”
—Happily Forever After
The Dangerous Duke
“A witty, sensual seduction! Delicious!”
—Anna Campbell
“Wells sets bedrooms ablaze with more than candles in this sex-drenched tale . . . Romance and intrigue [with] sparks of genuine passion that will keep readers turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Lyle is one fabulous creation, tall, dark, and dangerously sexy . . . [Wells has] fashioned extremely well-done characters . . . I sincerely hope that Ms. Wells comes back with a sequel . . . Bottom line: good suspense, superb sensuality.”
—*CK2S Kwips and Kritiques
“Wells has graced us with a historical romance overflowing with wit, charm, and passion . . . A delightful romp engaging us with a strong heroine, a flawed but very appealing hero, a mystery that keeps us guessing, and a love story sure to warm your heart.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Wells demonstrates what it takes to be a fan favorite by satisfying readers’ cravings for adventurous, sexy romance.”
—Romantic Times
“Wells expertly weaves a tale of danger, passion, and intrigue.”
—TwoLips Reviews
Scandal’s Daughter
“A touching love story.”
—Mary Balogh
“Romance with the sparkle of vintage champagne. A stellar debut from a major new talent!”
—Anna Campbell
“A charming romance brimming with emotion and humor. The sensual intimacy between Sebastian and Gemma mellows like a fine wine within the friendship forged long before their first kiss. Christine Wells makes the Regency as fresh and real as her characters, and I expect it won’t be long before she’s a favorite on every romance reader’s bookshelf.”
—Kathryn Smith
“Witty, emotionally intense, and romantic—Ms. Wells beguiles us in this stellar debut. Put this writer’s name on your list of authors to watch.”
—Sophia Nash
“Wells captures readers’ interest from the very first page, and doesn’t let go . . . A sweet, tender love story that’s thick with sexual tension and subtle sensuality.”
—TwoLips Reviews
Berkley Sensation Titles by Christine Wells
SCANDAL’S DAUGHTER
THE DANGEROUS DUKE
WICKED LITTLE GAME
SWEETEST LITTLE SIN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SWEETEST LITTLE SIN
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / May 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Christine Diehm.
Excerpt from Damsel in Disguise by Susan Gee Heino copyright © by Susan Gee Heino.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-40448-5
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Maisie, who loved books and wrote in the margins.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every time I write an acknowledgments page for a novel, it strikes me anew how lucky I am to be surrounded by people who share my passion for writing and books. To my editor, Leis Pederson, thank you for your insights and your support; to my publicist, Kathryn Tumen, and all at Berkley who work so hard to bring my novels to the shelves, my deepest gratitude.
Thanks also must go to Jessica Faust for guiding my career and t
o Kim Castillo for being this “author’s friend” in every sense of the word. I must also acknowledge the wonderful work artist James Griffin and the Berkley art department have done on my beautiful covers.
To my agent, Helen Breitwieser, thank you for your enthusiasm and expertise. I love working with you. To Anna Campbell, I value your friendship and your “junior pen of death” more than you’ll ever know. To Denise Rossetti, who helps unravel the knottiest of plot problems, my everlasting thanks.
To the Romance Bandits, who are more like sisters than colleagues, I’m so proud to be one of you, and to the fabulous Bandita Buddies, thank you for helping us build such a warm, welcoming community on the Internet. To all my friends in Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of Australia, the Beau Monde and BRRAddicts, your passion, hard work, and talent is a constant inspiration.
To my family and friends—Jamie, Allister, Adrian, Cheryl and Ian, Michael, Robin and George, Vikki, Ben and Yasmin, my love and gratitude for your support, love, and friendship.
One
London, 1817
IN the deepest hours of a damp, dismal night, a glossy black barouche slowed outside a Mayfair house. The carriage’s door swung open. Without stopping, the vehicle ejected a long black bundle and sped away, wheels kicking up an arcing spray of water in its wake.
The bundle hit the pavement and rolled a couple of times before coming to rest against a boot scraper at the foot of a flight of shallow steps.
As the iron instrument dug sharply into his ribs, the Marquis of Jardine gave a soft groan. His body was a mass of unidentified agonies. His head pounded with a vicious, fiery pain, as if a blacksmith had plunged it into a furnace, then set to work with an anvil.
The flagway was damp from a recent downpour. Jardine sank his lean cheek into the blessed cold, relishing the wet shock that distracted him, if only for a second, from the pain. They’d damned near killed him this time. Hell, but he’d had enough of this game.
Buttery light waxed over him as a door opened above and footsteps clattered down the stairs. Pride urged him to launch to his feet, but he couldn’t summon quite enough will for that.
He bared his teeth in a ferocious snarl of a smile. The pain had been worth it, hadn’t it? Because at last—at last—he’d found the missing piece of a puzzle that had eluded his grasp for years.
When his footmen hauled him up between them, his legs couldn’t seem to do the job they were paid for. He was a tall man, with long, loose limbs—an awkward burden—and it was bloody ridiculous that he couldn’t seem to rely on his own two feet. His footmen half dragged, half carried him up several teeth-chattering flights of stairs, then heaved him through a doorway and tumbled him onto his bed.
The exquisite pain of this process sent Jardine reeling toward unconsciousness. He longed for that relief, wished they’d just kill him and be done with it.
But no, there was a reason—a damned good reason—he needed to hang on to his wits. Vital importance. The fate of nations—no, his fate, come to that—was teetering in the balance, dangling by a thread. And he must do this thing, take care of this utterly crucial piece of business. . . .
Louisa.
His body arched off the bed, riding another wave of pain. A tidal wave of agony that swept a man up and dashed him against a cliff of jagged rock.
The fuzz of black dots at the edge of his vision swarmed and thickened. He groaned and someone nipped in with ruthless efficiency to tilt a noxious mixture down his throat.
Torpor spread through his limbs, his brain. The light dimmed, then snuffed altogether.
“No, no,” he muttered. “Don’t let me sleep.”
Then he fell, spiraling into darkness.
LADY Louisa Brooke moved through her brother’s ballroom with a smile fixed beneath her loo mask and a tight knot of apprehension in her breast. She’d waited for a sign all day, but none had come. She’d thought perhaps tonight . . . but he avoided entertainments when he knew she’d be there, treated her like the scantest acquaintance when they met unavoidably, as they often did in town.
He wasn’t here tonight. Despite the anonymity of the masquerade and the crowded state of her sister-in-law’s ballroom, she knew it. She’d sense his presence if he were here.
Thoughts of feigning a headache and making her excuses flitted through her mind, but she dismissed them. No one would believe the staid Lady Louisa was subject to invalidish megrims. They’d question her and fuss. That would be worse than enduring the attentions of her legion of suitors.
A small huff of exasperation escaped her lips. There were times when one simply despaired of the male population. Years ago, when she’d no dowry and no prospects, the beaux of the beau monde wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole. Now that her brother had succeeded the distantly related Duke of Lyle, they swarmed like flies around a rotting sheep’s carcass.
She grimaced. An apt simile. She was alone, abandoned, and moldering into dust. A dried-up old maid.
Firmly, she steered her mind away from the perilous waters of self-pity. She despised people who wallowed and bemoaned what couldn’t be helped.
“Don’t curl your lip like that, darling.” Kate, Duchess of Lyle, magnificent in a confection of emerald green and dyed ostrich feathers, handed her a glass of champagne. “You’ll scare off poor Mr. Radleigh.”
Accepting the glass, Louisa bared her teeth. “If only.” She glowered across the ballroom at the tall, fair-haired man who had wisely chosen to dress in a plain black domino tonight. “The gentleman is persistent.”
Tilting her head, Kate surveyed her guest as he paused to exchange greetings with a matron in bombazine and an enormous turban. “He’s rich, they say.”
“Mmm. Quite unique.”
“Unique? How so?”
“He’s the only one of my suitors who doesn’t want my money.” Louisa paused. “I wonder what it is he does want.”
Kate gave a gurgle of laughter. “Well, could it be . . . um, don’t be shocked, darling, but could it possibly be . . . you he wants?”
The idea made Louisa slightly nauseous. Only one man had ever wanted her. And he was . . . Impossible. Dangerous. Devastating.
Not here.
Repressing a shiver of equal parts fear and yearning, she shook her head. “There must be some other reason. Radleigh’s probably in the market for a pedigree. It’s the one thing he doesn’t have. Only think how marrying the sister of a duke would enhance his standing in the ton.”
Kate screwed up her pretty mouth in a moue of disapproval. “Cynical, Louisa. And shockingly dismissive of your charms. I won’t allow it.”
Louisa said nothing, smiling a little at her friend’s staunch support.
“Mr. Radleigh is not so very bad, though, is he?” Kate continued to speculate. “His bow is all it should be.”
They both watched Radleigh flourish in the direction of Louisa’s approving mama. Quite an accomplishment to make an elegant bow when one was that large and powerfully built.
Turning Mama up sweet, Louisa thought. It was hardly necessary. At this juncture, Millicent Brooke would be perfectly happy to marry off her difficult daughter to any gentleman in possession of good character and all his teeth.
Dispassionately, Louisa remarked, “Mr. Radleigh’s figure is pleasing enough, I daresay. And his features are attractive, if you admire fair men.” She didn’t.
“He seems amiable.” Kate nodded. “And there is that fortune.” She flicked open her fan with her characteristic restless elegance and plied it rapidly. “There is only one thing wrong with him, as far as I can see.”
“What’s that?”
Kate’s voice was gentle, compassionate. “Well, he’s not the Marquis of Jardine, is he?”
The stab of pain, excitement, and terror stole Louisa’s breath for a moment. What terrible power in a name. Particularly when spoken aloud, unexpectedly, as if Kate read her thoughts, sensed the anticipation that lent an added tension to Louisa’s erect posture tonight.
Before Louisa could respond, Kate’s wandering gaze snagged on some point in the crowd and her fan stilled.
“There’s that horrible Faulkner. Look! The man dressed as Mephistopheles over there.” She snorted. “An appropriate guise, indeed. Can you believe Max would invite him here?”
Glad of the distraction, Louisa craned her neck to see. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t he?” Faulkner was the head of the secret service and her brother’s former superior. Max had retired from the service upon inheriting the dukedom, but obviously, he hadn’t cut the connection.
“Well! Faulkner needn’t think he can lure Max back into the fold.” Kate vibrated with fury Louisa understood only too well. “Max is finished with all that cloak-and-dagger nonsense. He gave me his word.”
“I’m sure it’s a purely social connection,” said Louisa soothingly.
If her brother had given his word, he would keep it. On the other hand, Faulkner struck her as the kind of man who never did anything without a purpose, and that purpose was usually Machiavellian. Kate had good reason to be suspicious.
But was Faulkner here for Max or for Louisa?
After the affair of Kate’s stolen diary, Faulkner had required Louisa to sign a paper in which she gave her oath not to reveal any official secrets she’d learned in the course of her involvement. She’d discovered nothing while translating the diary, save the extent of Kate’s rather risqué fantasies. However, Louisa had signed rather than pass that potentially embarrassing information to Faulkner.
And then he’d asked her for one small favor. . . .
One small favor often led to other, larger ones, in Faulkner’s line of business.
Apprehension skipped down Louisa’s spine. Yet, mingled with that emotion was a healthy dose of intrigue. She murmured to Kate, “Tell Max you don’t want Faulkner here. He’ll take care of it.”
“Certainly not!” Kate declared. “I shall deal with him myself.”
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