by Lauren Smith
The Rogue’s Seduction
Lauren Smith
Lauren Smith
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Smith
Edited by Noah Chinn
Excerpt from The Duelist’s Seduction by Lauren Smith
Cover art by Erin Dameron Hill
Romance Art by Theresa Sprekelmeyer
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All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-947206-02-1 (e-book edition)
ISBN: 978-1-947206-03-8 (print edition)
Contents
Other Titles By Lauren Smith
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The Duelist’s Seduction
The Duelist’s Seduction
The Duelist’s Seduction
About the Author
Other Titles By Lauren Smith
Historical
The League of Rogues Series
Wicked Designs
His Wicked Seduction
Her Wicked Proposal
Wicked Rivals
Her Wicked Longing
His Wicked Secret (coming soon)
His Wicked Embrace (coming soon)
The Seduction Series
The Duelist’s Seduction
The Rakehell’s Seduction
The Rogue’s Seduction
Standalone Stories
Tempted by A Rogue
Sins and Scandals
An Earl By Any Other Name
A Gentleman Never Surrenders
A Scottish Lord for Christmas
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Contemporary
The Surrender Series
The Gilded Cuff
The Gilded Cage
The Gilded Chain
Her British Stepbrother
Forbidden: Her British Stepbrother
Seduction: Her British Stepbrother
Climax: Her British Stepbrother
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Paranormal
Dark Seductions Series
The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall
The Love Bites Series
The Bite of Winter
Brotherhood of the Blood Moon Series
Blood Moon on the Rise
Brothers of Ash and Fire
Grigori
Mikhail
Rurik
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Sci-Fi Romance
Cyborg Genesis Series
Across the Stars (coming soon)
For my grandmother, Rhea, who always had a secret stash of bodice rippers for me to read.
Chapter 1
London, December 1821
Perdita Darby tugged the hood of her cloak close about her face, shielding herself not just from the bitter wind that battered the hackney coach she’d hired, but from any watchful eyes lurking in the shadows. The street was empty, twilight and the cold having chased even the most dedicated late-night strollers to their homes. Even the street urchins, usually desperate for coin, were tucked away in their alleyways on a bitingly cold night such as this, seeking what warmth they could. Perdita feared the darkness might hide someone who would realize who she was or what she was going to do. That could spell ruin.
“M’lady?” The driver of the hired coach stood by the door and closed it as she tugged her skirts free. He began to doff his cap at her, but she waved for him to keep it on. The night was too cold for such things. He smiled gratefully and kicked the snow off his boots.
“Please wait for me here.” She pressed a few coins in his palm, and he nodded.
“Of course.” The driver pocketed the coins and climbed back up onto his seat. He bundled his heavy brown cloak over his body and huddled down for warmth.
Perdita faced the door of the townhouse in front of her. It was a lovely home, one that had been on Duke Street for many years. The noble arches were framed with ivy that grew up from the flower beds bordering the windows, even though the leaves had dropped away to expose the skeletal webbing of vines beneath. But in spring when the ivy was bright and sprawling, it would make this house look almost like a cottage deep in the Cotswolds, not a stately townhouse in the midst of a bustling city.
It was clear the owner of this house didn’t bother with a gardener who would have kept the ivy from spreading. But that shouldn’t have surprised her. She knew the owner of this house. Perdita planned to throw herself at his feet and beg for his help if she had to, and it didn’t matter if ballroom whispers called him the Devil of London.
She squared her shoulders.
Be brave. He’s the only one who can help you. Don’t let him know how frightened you are.
She marched up the steps and rapped the metal knocker mounted on the stout oak door. Suddenly doubt assailed her. This was a terrible idea. Her mind screamed at her to flee as she stood upon the threshold to the underworld.
Perhaps she could beg her parents to let her go to the continent for a few years and avoid the fate that had driven her to this door at such an hour. Yet that would only spare her, not her family, of the consequences of running away from the blackmail she was facing.
The door creaked, the old oak protesting as the hinges grudgingly gave in. A middle-aged butler stood there, his beady eyes peering down at her over his long, thin nose and pointed chin. His professional demeanor lacked the politeness expected of a servant in a decent household. His shoulders were broad, and he seemed far too muscular for a refined position of a butler. But this wasn’t a decent household. This was the devil’s own home.
“Er…” He blinked at her, apparently startled by her appearance. It was a risk to be seen standing on this particular doorstep after midnight, a fact of which she was all too aware.
“I must see Lord Darlington at once,” she told the man, praying he would let her inside. She could not take the risk of being seen and starting a scandal. Or rather, a different scandal than the one she was meticulously planning already.
The man hesitated, his body barring her entrance through the still partially closed door. “This is late, even for my master.”
Perdita didn’t back down. “I am aware of the hour, but he will want to see me.” She raised her chin and announced this with such regal bearing that he would not dare question her. He sighed and stepped away from the doorway. Her mother’s lessons, it seemed, hadn’t been wasted on her after all.
“This way, madam.” He waved a hand for her to step inside. She entered the townhouse, her body relaxing, but only just. She may have been out of view of the street, but she was still in very dangerous territory.
Two dim lamps illuminated the hall and staircase. She was surprised they were still lit. Was the master of the house still awake? She had assumed he would be, but the house was hushed and ghostly quiet. She took a moment to study her surroundi
ngs with open curiosity. The foyer was bare of any decorations, paintings, or even end tables. The starkness of it surprised her.
So this is where the Devil of London resides.
The furniture she glimpsed through a cracked-open door a few feet away—the drawing room perhaps—was outdated and threadbare. It made sense. The master of this house was rumored to be a desperate fortune hunter in dire straits. His desperation was no fault of his own, but rather due to his parents’ untimely deaths and their accumulated debts.
It had to be a heavy burden to enter adulthood with the responsibilities of maintaining title and lands held in one’s own family without any money by which to do so. Any man in such a position was a dangerous man—particularly when it came to rich, unmarried heiresses.
Like me…
“Please wait while I speak to the master. Who shall I say is calling?” the butler asked.
“Perdita Darby,” she said, trying to still her trembling as she watched the butler go upstairs.
Perdita swallowed the knot of fear in her throat. This man had been desperate enough to kidnap her dearest friend, Alexandra Rockford, in order to win a five-thousand-pound wager by seducing her. That alone earned him his nickname in her eyes. To treat a woman’s virtue as something to be wagered on! In the end, however, he had failed. Alexandra had been rescued by Ambrose Worthing, a man so in love with her he had fought his best friend to free her.
Alexandra had assured Perdita that Lord Darlington hadn’t been entirely wicked—he’d only planned to convince the men involved in the wager that he had bedded her when he had not. But that did not make the Devil of London a hero, by any means. At best, he was a villain with a conscience. But Perdita was desperate enough to risk herself in his house tonight, knowing the danger and scandal that could fall upon her.
This is a terrible idea. Unfortunately, she had no other option. Only Lord Darlington could help her. She was prepared to do just about anything to escape her situation.
“Madam.” The butler appeared at the top of the stairs. “His Lordship will see you now.”
Perdita stared up at him, startled. “Upstairs? Not the drawing room?”
The old codger had the audacity to grin at her. “He insisted you meet upstairs, or I was to show you out.”
The nerve of the man, demanding she meet him upstairs! Did he treat all gentle-bred ladies like this? Or, knowing who was paying a call upon him, he was perhaps doing his best to frighten her off. Yes, that must be it. He thought she would be too afraid to go upstairs.
I’m not afraid. Well, I am, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that.
She lifted her skirts and ascended the stairs, her heart hammering. She followed the butler to a room where the door was slightly ajar. She glanced at the servant, but he was already departing.
Perdita pushed the door open and froze when she realized it was a bedchamber. Darlington had the audacity to call her to his bedchamber? Did he believe she had come for amorous reasons, or that she would condone such a brazen attempt at seduction? It was entirely possible, given the scandalous hour and the fact she was without a chaperone, but she would set him straight if he dared to try to seduce her.
She wished for the hundredth time it would have been possible to visit him during the day, but there had been no alternative. People would have seen her enter his home, and that would be the end of her carefully kept reputation. She tensed when a dark, rich voice spoke.
Vaughn Darlington, the viscount dubbed by ton as the Devil of London. His voice sent tingles of excitement and fear through her. She took an instinctive step back toward the door.
“Fleeing so soon? I would have wagered you were braver than that, Miss Darby. Or perhaps, given the lateness of the hour and the method of this meeting, I should call you Perdita?”
She bristled and pushed the hood of her cloak back to better peer around the room. There was a four-poster bed against one wall and a fire crackling in the hearth. The wood floor showed dusty outlines of where carpets had recently been. The dark-green brocaded curtains about the bed were faded, and a few rings were missing, letting the fabric gape in odd places. Worn and peeling silk wallpapers depicting men hunting in the forest covered the walls. A once beautiful wardrobe stood in one corner, a door missing. The shaving stand held a white china basin with a large crack down its side.
The masculine air of the room was overpowering, just as the man himself was, but the circumstances and the condition of his rooms filled her with a strange pity that made her go still as she turned her focus on the man himself.
Leaning against one worn, ancient chair was Lord Darlington. He was tall, broad shouldered, and had a dangerous look about his all too beautiful face. With piercing blue eyes and light-blond hair, Darlington could have passed for an angel if it weren’t for the sensual, wicked curve of his lips. He wore buff trousers and a white lawn shirt, with a dark-blue waistcoat. His cravat had been untied and lay loose over the back of one chair.
Perdita’s heart quickened. She had never stood in a room with a man in a state of partial undress like this. She forced herself to rally to the task at hand.
“Lord Darlington, I come here with a proposal.” Her tone was brusque with a manner of business about it. This was not about seduction, no matter how sinful he made her feel. Though she’d rehearsed this speech a dozen times on her own, she had not been prepared for the strange and frightening feelings that assaulted her now as she spoke to him alone.
He crossed his arms as he studied her with that wicked twist of his lips, making her breath quicken. She shifted in place, and her boots scraped softly against the wood floor.
“Do go on.” He chuckled, seeming to enjoy her discomfort.
“Well, you see…” She spoke haltingly, still mortified that she was here begging him for his help. “I need to stop an unwanted marriage proposal.” She twined her fingers nervously as she removed her gloves. “My mother has convinced a certain gentleman that I am willing to consider his offer, when I most certainly am not.”
She tried not to think of Mr. Samuel Milburn and how that man had made it clear he would imprison her in a life that would slowly kill her. She could still see him leaning in close to her and whispering: “The women I care for know better than to seek the company of others, when I should be enough. My home has all you will need, so I will hear no talk of travel or nights out. They would only distract you from your duty, which would be pleasing me.”
He was a brute and a tyrant and worse, but Perdita’s mother, despite her ambitious nature, didn’t usually believe in society gossip.
Perdita did. She’d heard that Milburn had thrown a woman to her death from a window, but because the woman was his mistress, no questions were asked. It had been dismissed as an unfortunate accident. All Perdita knew for sure was that this man was a monster. She had tried to tell her father and mother what she’d heard, but her words had been dismissed as idle talk. If her older brother Thomas hadn’t been away at sea serving in His Majesty’s royal navy, she would have sought his help.
In Perdita’s experience, being a wealthy heiress was a terrible burden. It put a mark on her. She’d fought off fortune hunters for the last few years, but a man like Milburn was dangerous in other ways. He didn’t care about her money—he cared about breaking her spirit and possibly even killing her if she didn’t give him what he desired. She was sport.
She’d made the mistake of meeting him at a dinner party last fall, and he had immediately shown an interest in her once he’d learned she was none other than Miss Darby, the beloved lady of the ton who all sought to please with their praise and their many invitations.
Perdita had not wished to cultivate such a favored reputation on purpose, but it had happened quite naturally. But to Milburn she became a prize he wished to win—and then suffocate and destroy. Once he had her in his sights, he had been able to contrive a scheme that could destroy her family and blackmail her into accepting his proposal.
“What does this
have to do with me? Or did you merely wish to tumble in my sheets to avoid marrying some silly young buck? I don’t care much for ruining innocents, but in your case I might make an exception,” Darlington said, his sharp gaze on her.
Perdita considered reminding him he had in fact attempted to ruin her innocent friend over a wager, but she thought better of it. Quarreling with him now would not aid her in acquiring his help.
“I wish to engage your services.” She still couldn’t say the words. It was too humiliating.
“My services?” He shifted slightly, a frown curving his lips. “What services do you require?” When Darlington said services, it sounded sinful, wicked.
“I wish to hire your cooperation in appearing to be engaged to me, publicly. Not a true engagement, just for a few months, to deter the other gentleman so he will leave me be.” She glanced down, playing with her gloves. She was betting that Milburn would lose interest if he believed he had another challenger for her hand.
His eyes turned wintry, almost chilling as they settled on her fidgeting hands. “So I’m to play your fiancé? What’s to be my reward in scaring the bounder off?” Darlington still leaned against the side of the chair, but Perdita was more aware of him than ever. The small distance between them seemed to shrink every second.
“I will pay you. I have access to some of my dowry. It is invested in a private bank with Lady Rosalind Lennox. My father put the funds in his name, but he allows me to have some control over them.”
Darlington stroked his chin. “I require a more permanent solution than a temporary flow of money. You said you bank with Lady Lennox?” He continued to stare at her with that assessing gaze, and she suddenly feared he might not agree, that he might consider blackmailing her directly for her funds in the bank by exposing her visit to his townhouse. Surely he wouldn’t dare.