Praise for
All Night with a Rogue
“Sizzling, smart, and sophisticated.”
—Gaelen Foley, New York Times
bestselling author of My Wicked Marquess
“Wickedly sensual and entertaining! Alexandra Hawkins is an exceptional talent.”
—Lorraine Heath, New York Times
bestselling author of Surrender to the Devil
“A romantic and erotic tale of social intrigue vs. steadfast hearts. This first story in the Lords of Vice series is hot enough to curl your toes!”
—Celeste Bradley, New York Times
bestselling author of Devil in My Bed
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
by Alexandra Hawkins
All Night with a Rogue
Till Dawn with the Devil
TILL DAWN WITH THE DEVIL
ALEXANDRA HAWKINS
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
* * *
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TILL DAWN WITH THE DEVIL
Copyright © 2010 by Alexandra Hawkins.
Excerpt from After Dark with a Scoundrel copyright © 2010 by Alexandra Hawkins.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-38125-7
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / August 2010
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
I dedicate this book to my extraordinary literary
agent, Lynn Seligman. Your encouragement and
friendship have meant the world to me.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 1, Sc. 1
TILL DAWN WITH THE DEVIL
October 20, 1812
“I curse the day that I married you, Rainecourt!”
“Aye, for once, we are in agreement, my lady.”
From the bottom of the grand staircase in the great hall, Gabriel Addison Housely, the fifth Earl of Rainecourt, who was simply known as Reign by the ton, watched dispassionately as his wife of six months hobbled up the stairs at a reckless pace, her belly already swollen with the son or daughter whom she would deliver in two months because he had suffered the misfortune of impregnating the lady during their first coupling.
He glared at the servants who had appeared in several doorways seconds after Beatrice had vented her displeasure by knocking over the eighteenth-century ormolu-mounted Chinese porcelain vase that once belonged to his grandmother. A maid was already on her knees gingerly plucking up the sharp pieces of gleaming dark blue porcelain.
Reign dismissed them from his mind and focused on the decanter of brandy his butler had placed on a silver tray along with two glasses.
“The glasses will be unnecessary, Winkler,” Reign said, snatching the crystal decanter from the serving tray. “Lady Rainecourt has broken enough glassware this evening.”
“Very good, milord.” The butler stepped back, his expression carefully blank.
Winkler had been around when Reign’s parents had been alive, and had witnessed the former Lord Rainecourt’s rage and impatience with his countess.
Like father, like son.
Both had made disastrous choices when picking their brides.
For the nineteen-year-old Reign, marriage had seemed the next logical step, though he had not offered out of obligation. Truth be told, he had fallen in love with the beautiful Miss Roberts at their first meeting, and for a time he had believed Beatrice returned the sloppy sentiment.
To Reign’s everlasting regret, Beatrice had consented to marry him.
It had taken less than a month for him to realize that their blessed union was an unmitigated disaster. He should have listened to his friends. They had tried to talk him out of marrying Beatrice, but he had ignored their warnings. He had also turned a blind eye to his family’s dark, tragic history.
None of this would be happening if I’d kept my bloody hands off Beatrice.
With the neck of the crystal decanter clasped tightly in his hand, Reign pivoted on his heel as a door slammed overhead, signaling that his countess had made it to her bedchamber unscathed. Beatrice had likely lulled herself into believing the locked door would keep him from pursuing the argument that had started before the first course of their supper had been served.
His wife had underestimated his determination.
Reign had grown weary of her mercurial moods and tantrums.
Of her hate.
If not for the child within her womb, he would have taken up residence in London weeks after he had taken her as his bride.
How odd, Reign mused grimly as he pressed his fingers into his brow. He had spent his entire life believing that he and his father were opposites in temperament. This evening, he could not help commiserating with the ruthless bastard.
“Return to your quarters,” Reign ordered the butler, taking his hand away from his face so he could glare at the uninvited spectators to the humiliating demise of his marriage. “There is nothing left to see.”
Winkler cleared his throat. “Milord, if I may—”
Reign closed his eyes to shut out the sympathy he glimpsed in the older man’s expression. “No, you may not. Just go.”
Without a backward glance, he marched up the staircase to confront his wife. Out of respect for her delicate condition, he had refrained from upsetting Beatrice further by pressing her for the answers he craved. Whether it was the wine Reign had imbibed at supper or his countess’s icy discourse during the meal, he no longer cared about Beatrice’s nerves.
In fact, Reign was certain that when he was finished, his wife would need the brandy more than he did.
“Beatrice!” He pounded a fist on her door when he discovered that it was indeed locked. “We have not finished our little chat about your harsh treatment of the servants.”
“Go away,” she said frostily from the other side of the door. “You are too drunk to be reasonable.”
Drunk or sober, Reign sensed his wife would never accept him or their marriage. He removed the glass stopper from the decanter and took a hearty swallow of brandy. The
alcohol burned as it coursed down his throat. So did his heart.
He shoved the stopper back into place and placed the decanter on a narrow side table near his wife’s door. Without hesitating he threw his shoulder against the painted six-paneled oak door. Reign clenched his teeth together as the impact jarred his body. Damn, that bloody well hurt! From the other side of the door, he heard Beatrice shriek in outrage.
Reign took three steps backward and threw his body against the door again, and again. On the fourth attempt he heard the wood crack, and the door opened. He stumbled into the bedchamber, his heated gaze immediately seeking his wife.
Beatrice was standing near the bed he had never shared with her, trembling with fury and defiance.
“Leave this room at once! You are not welcome here, Rainecourt.”
Reign shut the door. “Nor have I ever been. I have grown tired waiting for an invitation.”
Absently rubbing his bruised shoulder, Reign moved to the center of the bedchamber, his gaze drifting from the charming Chinese wallpaper that had been hung before his birth to the unruffled bedding and finally to the barren surface of Beatrice’s dressing table. He would have been the first to admit that he knew next to nothing about his wife’s private rituals, but something seemed odd about the room. It lacked the personal touches one would expect to see in a lady’s chamber.
Unless . . .
Reign’s dark blue eyes glittered dangerously as he turned toward Beatrice. “When did you have your belongings packed: before or after supper?”
Beatrice clasped the carved bedpost for support. “Rainecourt, please do not make this any more difficult than it has to be,” she pleaded, sounding tired.
Furious to have his accusation confirmed, Reign strode up to his wife and seized her by the shoulders. “Difficult? My God, woman, your actions have given new meaning to the word since I placed my ring on your finger!”
Her eyes bright and eloquent in their resolve, Beatrice shook her head. “Can you not see? All of this is a mistake—”
It mattered little to Reign that he had come to a similar conclusion months ago. Unlike his adulterous father, he intended to honor his vows. His countess, however, had other plans, and the notion that she was leaving him set the seething cauldron of pain and brandy in his gut ablaze.
“What were you planning? To sneak out of the house while I slept?” He tugged her closer, no longer caring if his touch distressed her. “Need I remind you, Lady Rainecourt, that you carry my child in your womb? Possibly my heir.”
Her mouth thinned as her eyes took on a mutinous cast. “I have rights.”
Beatrice pushed on his arms until he released her. Reign cursed under his breath and whirled away from her. The urge to strike her was so pronounced, he had to put some distance between them. He had never struck a woman in his life, and he had no intention of beginning with his wife.
Reign scrubbed his face with his hand as he sought for sobriety and composure. “When you married me, you ceded all your rights to me. I am your lord and husband, and my dictates are law.”
Beatrice’s laughter filled the room. “You sound more like a drunken bully than the man I married. If I had recognized this regrettable flaw in your character sooner, I would have never consented to marry you.”
She squeaked as Reign closed the distance between them and backed her up against the wall. “I wish I had glimpsed the shrew hidden behind that pretty face. If I had, dear wife, I never would have been tempted to lift your skirts and tie myself to you for all eternity.”
“Rubbish!” Beatrice said, her audacity startling him so much that he released her. She slipped under his arm and walked to the window. “You will not be tied for me to all eternity, Rainecourt. I will see to it, even if you do not have the courage to do so.”
No Rainecourt had ever sought a divorce. It simply was not done.
“Divorce? Truly?” Reign mocked. “My dear lady, you have no grounds to divorce me.”
Beatrice bit her lower lip as she studied him through a veil of dark eyelashes. “Perhaps not.” She gave him a sly glance. “However, you do.”
There was something in her expression that caused the walls of the bedchamber to close in on him. Reign tugged on the knot of his cravat.
“What are you babbling about?”
“Though it pains me to tell you this, my lord”—for a brief instant there was genuine regret in Beatrice’s gaze—“you leave me no choice. The child I carry is not yours.”
Reign froze. He was certain she saw the disbelief on his stark expression before his protest formed in his throat. “Come now, wife, is that the best you can do? I was your first lover . . . your only lover.”
His wife shook her head. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “This is the reason why you must let me go. I have wronged you, my lord. My mother and father knew I—”
Reign picked up the small side table and sent it flying into the rectangular mirror hanging on the wall. He pointed a finger at her. “Not another word. I do not believe you.”
Beatrice had been untouched when he had bedded her. A man knew such things about his lover.
“I speak the truth, my lord. I never wanted to marry you. I only did it to please my family.”
He raised his hand. The gesture was enough to silence her. Reign stabbed his finger in her direction. “You are not leaving this house. No arguments. No outlandish lies in a futile attempt to force my hand. You have made it clear that you cannot abide my presence, so I am willing to grant you your freedom once you have delivered my son. Afterward, you are free to return to the protection of your family.”
He walked over to the door and gave the room a final derisive glance. “I hope you enjoy the beauty of this bedchamber. You will not be leaving it without an escort.”
Beatrice’s hands curled into impotent fists as she comprehended that her bedchamber was her prison. “Rainecourt, you arrogant bastard, you have no right—” she screeched at him.
“I have every right, madam,” he roared back, “until my child has been born.”
Reign scowled at the door. He belatedly realized he had broken the lock. “Let me be clear. If you attempt to leave this evening, I will not be accountable for my actions and you will suffer dearly for your defiance.”
His high-handedness provoked Beatrice’s temper. She plucked a Chinese figurine from its narrow mount and flung it at him. The figurine shattered against the wall.
“A pity. That figurine was one of my mother’s favorites,” Reign said casually as he brushed a shard of porcelain from his shoulder. “I am optimistic that your aim will improve in the upcoming months.”
He closed the door.
“Rainecourt!” Beatrice screamed like a wild, wounded animal caught in a trap. “You devil! You can keep me prisoner, but I will never love you! Never. He is the only one I will ever love! Do you hear me?”
Reign picked up the decanter he had abandoned and headed for the stairs. He was confident that Beatrice was too frightened to defy him this evening. All he wanted to do was lock himself in his library and wash away his wife’s ugly words.
It was going to take a sea of brandy, but he was up for the task.
The next morning, Reign awoke to find himself on the floor of his bedchamber. Winkler was crouched over him with a concerned expression on his lined face, while several other servants crowded in the doorway.
“What is it?” Reign rasped as he tried to sit up. He placed a hand to his head and groaned. The world tilted with each movement. He froze, praying he was not going to disgrace himself by losing his stomach in front of the servants.
“Milord, there has been an accident,” the butler said gently.
Reign squinted at Winkler. “What the devil are you talking about? What accident?”
“Lady Rainecourt . . . Milord, your wife is dead.”
CHAPTER ONE
Spring 1821, London
“I predict this evening will end in ruin.”
Lady Frances Lloy
d, or simply Fanny to her friends, stifled a giggle. “What an utterly outrageous thing to say,” she murmured under her breath.
Perhaps she was being a trifle dramatic, Sophia privately reflected. However, during her brief stay in London, she had come to dread Town balls. And she absolutely loathed being announced. In that moment, there were too many gazes judging her choice of evening dress and watching every gesture. There were too many opportunities for her to humiliate herself.
“Chin up, my girl,” Griffin said, patting her gloved hand that gripped his forearm. “We are almost through.”
“I detest this,” Sophia hissed softly.
“Hush.” Fanny held on to Sophia’s right arm as if she expected her friend to flee. “It is time.”
“Presenting the Lady Sophia Northam . . . the Lady Frances Lloyd . . . Mr. Derrick Griffin.”
Head held high, Sophia stared at the confusing landscape of shadow and color that usually made little sense to her brain. Had the din in the ballroom diminished as they were announced? Were people staring? The unspoken questions only heightened her apprehension.
“Stairs,” Fanny murmured, reminding Sophia to pay attention. “Six steps.”
Earlier, Fanny and Griffin had described the layout of the ballroom in detail. With her friends’ assistance and the stylish white-and-gold walking stick that matched her dress to steady her, Sophia prayed she would not disgrace herself by tripping down the remaining three steps.
“Smile, Lady Sophia,” Griffin coaxed; his warm, steady arm was a source of great comfort. “You are stiff enough to crack into pieces. Do not tell me that you are afraid to face the ton?”
Crowds frustrated her more than frightened her.
“I fear no one,” Sophia said fiercely.
“An intelligent response,” Griffin said, sounding amused. “What say you, Fanny?”
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