Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Damn, it had been too bloody long since he had a woman around his home. It would be good to have a new mistress, someone to warm his bed and keep him company in the evenings over a glass of sherry. He had missed that, certainly. Martin climbed the stairs to the primary floor and entered his chambers. His valet, Will Byrd, was tending to the collection of snuffboxes in a glass case. Martin never used snuff, but he liked to collect the beautifully painted boxes. There was something about the tiny painted porcelain scenes that fascinated and amazed him.

  “Evening, Byrd,” he greeted. His valet nodded and murmured a polite reply.

  “I’ll be going out tonight. Draw me a bath and set out evening clothes suitable for the Argyll Rooms.”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, a letter came for you earlier this evening, sir.” Byrd passed him a letter, which he took. He plucked a silver letter opener from his escritoire and sliced the wax seal open. He recognized his sister’s handwriting at once.

  Martin,

  I hope this letter finds you well. The children have been begging for news about when you will visit again. Four months is far too long to go without seeing you. Gareth and I thought it would be lovely if you came to visit over Christmas. I know you don’t like the holidays, but it would delight the children and me too if you came to stay with us. Please say you’ll consider it.

  Yours,

  Helen

  “Oh, Helen.” He folded the letter and set it down on his desk. Despite his vow to never love anyone or anything, Helen was the one exception. She was his twin, someone he’d shared their mother’s womb with. That was an unbreakable bond. He had his friends, like Rodney, and acquaintances. But if those friendships were stolen tomorrow, it would not break him, not like losing someone he loved like Helen, Gareth or the children.

  “Very well. You want me home for Christmas, then I will come home.” No doubt she had plans to introduce him to more simpering young ladies from Bath, but he didn’t want his sister to play matchmaker. He would not let the holidays melt the ice around his heart.

  Nothing could do that.

  The Gentleman's Seduction

  Lauren Smith

  Chapter Two

  Martin entered the Argyll Rooms on the east side of Regent Street and glanced around the hall. Frescoes were painted on the walls to represent Corinthian pillars. Grecian lamps illuminated his path as he passed through the elegant crimson folding doors and into the festivities. The men and women around him were boisterous. The sounds of their gaiety bounced off the walls, creating such a din he could barely hear himself think.

  Martin paused as he reached the main staircase. The green cloth beneath his feet was covered with a Turkish patterns. He’d always enjoyed the elegance of the Argyll Rooms, and tonight was no different. But rather than take in the sights, he searched the crowd for Rodney. The jovial crowd and the excitement of the night’s pleasures around him started to affect him. A smile curved his lips, and he hummed a little to the strains of a familiar song from an orchestra playing in the main hall.

  Then his heart stopped and his world tilted on its axis.

  There, at the entrance to the Turkish Room, was a man he had not seen since he was seventeen. He felt as though he were suddenly plunging from a great height. The man he loathed more than anything in the world was there—Edwin Hartwell. In all these years, they had never crossed paths at a club, ball, or dinner before, but he would never ever forget that face.

  Hartwell wasn’t one for society unless he was sniffing out a business opportunity, yet there he was, speaking to a group of gentlemen. A cold rage frosted Martin’s insides as he started toward the man. His fingers itched with the urge to grab him, slam him against the wall, and strangle the breath from his body.

  Hartwell was speaking earnestly to a man Martin didn’t know. They soon disappeared into the Turkish Room, and Martin followed. The room was a novelty. The elegant blue carpets and blue drapes were accented with Ottoman sofas spaced throughout the room. Beneath the beautifully painted ceilings, an eagle made of gold clasped a thunderbolt in its claws. A massive chandelier hung below the eagle. Between the sofas were card tables neatly arranged and games already underway. Hazard tables were surrounded by gentlemen, most of them dressed like dandified peacocks, prancing about as they tossed dice. Games of E.O., faro, whist, and even rouge et noir were all being played. Hartwell stood near the rouge et noir table.

  Martin lingered a few tables away, studying the man who had destroyed his family. Hartwell had been an impressively tall man with dark hair and a hard twist to his mouth all those years ago. A nightmarish figure to a young lad.

  Now the man’s hair was streaked with gray, his shoulders were a little stooped, and his face was lined with a weariness born of strife. The cold nobility he’d once carried about him like a shield had decayed into a struggle to survive. The cut of his coat was loose, as though he’d shrunken a little, and the fabric was noticeably threadbare. Hartwell wasn’t doing well.

  Martin’s pulse began to race. He felt like a hound who had caught the scent of a fox on the air and was ready for blood.

  A group of men abandoned the rouge et noir table. Hartwell leaned in to place a wager on a red diamond compartment, his face desperate. The dealer laid out two rows of cards and stopped when the cards reached thirty-one or more on the black side of the table. Then he did the same for the red side. There players who’d wagered on black cheered and collected the winnings. Hartwell’s face fell, and he turned away from the table. He moved on to a game of whist and took an empty seat. Martin made his move, claiming the seat beside him. He waited to see Edwin’s look of dread, or anger, of anything.

  “Evening,” Hartwell murmured.

  The man doesn’t even recognize me.

  After killing his mother and casting them out into the cold, Martin wasn’t even a passing thought for him. For a second the thought burned like fire in his chest, but then he realized he could use this to his advantage. He could play against the man and win. Desperate men, like the lad he had once been, never played well. When a man had something to lose, he was edgy and less focused.

  A man sat down opposite him, one who would be his partner, and another man sat down opposite Hartwell. The game began. As the cards were dealt, thirteen to each man, Martin held his breath and watched his partner closely for hints and signals. They soon accumulated points in their favor.

  “Wagers, please,” the dealer asked the men. Martin produced several hundred-pound notes, and the table went still. After a minute, the other two men added matching sums, and then they looked at Hartwell. The older man bit his lip and looked directly at Martin.

  “Would you accept a vowel?”

  Martin slowly smiled, as the opportunity he’d waited for had arrived.

  “I would indeed.” He nodded in approval to the dealer, and the other men did the same. The vowel, as it was called, was nothing more than an IOU.

  That was exactly what he wanted, to have Hartwell indebted to him.

  The dealer delivered a hand of cards to each man, and the amount increased again as more wagers were placed. More points were awarded to Martin and his partner. By the time the pool was over a thousand pounds, Hartwell’s hands were visibly shaking. When the final card was revealed, Hartwell’s face drained of color and he folded his cards down on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I cannot play.”

  The men at the table went still, and the dealer declared Martin and his partner victorious.

  “I’ll pay you for your half of this man’s vowels,” Martin said to his partner as they rose from the table. The man glanced at Hartwell’s ashen face and nodded. Hartwell’s partner sighed and paid his dues, while Martin reimbursed his own partner for his portion of Hartwell’s debt outright.

  “Thank you, Mr.…” Hartwell tilted his head at Martin.

  “Martin Banks.”

  “Banks? Have we met before?” The older man’s eyes searched his, seeking a memory, but unable to find it.


  Martin fixed him with a chilly gaze. “Yes. We have. I will pay a call upon you tomorrow evening, and we will discuss your debt then.”

  “Banks?” It was clear Edwin was still struggling to make the connection. Martin would let him worry about it overnight.

  His blood was pounding against his eardrums as he fought to control himself.

  “You should be worried about how I shall collect your debt.”

  I have him where I want him. Killing him now wouldn’t do any good.

  Hartwell staggered, knocking his chair over. “Please, I can find a way to pay you…”

  “Please!” Hartwell grabbed his sleeve.

  Martin stared at his hand, and Hartwell hastily released him. “As I said, I will call upon you tomorrow evening,” he repeated. “We will discuss the payment terms then.” Martin walked away, his hands shaking as he tried to calm himself.

  Soon he would have his revenge.

  ***

  Lavinia Hartwell was perched on a window seat facing Duke Street with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She was lost in the pages of a sensational Gothic novel, Lady Leticia and the Dark Duke by L. R. Gloucester.

  Lavinia, or Livvy as she preferred to be called, found these two characters particularly compelling. There was something delightful about a darkly handsome man who played a reluctant hero and a young lady who fought bravely to save herself from a dastardly villain. Her life was not so interesting as what happened between the pages of the novel she held.

  At eighteen, she’d only just experienced her first season and hadn’t met a gentleman who reminded her of the dark duke in her book. There were plenty of pleasant men, of course, and far too many rakes. There was also the occasional rogue, but none had turned her head. It was a bit foolish, she knew, but she was hoping to fall madly in love with a man the way Leticia had. Her mother had cautioned her that most of the matches made in England wouldn’t be love matches. It was the way of things.

  Still, I wish for one.

  She looked up from her book and peered out through the heavy old curtains of the window seat she sat in. The darkened streets outside the window were now illuminated with a few flickering gas lamps, lending an eerie feel to the streetscape. Livvy closed her book and finished her tea. Just as she left her seat, she heard her father’s shout in the hall.

  “Elizabeth! He’s here!” Edwin’s voice boomed loudly enough that the library door rattled.

  Livvy rushed from the library and paused at the top of the stairs. Her father was having a heated discussion with her mother near the foyer. Livvy strained to listen.

  “Edwin, how could you let him come here?” Elizabeth snapped. “Last night you promised you would do well at the Argyll Rooms, but you lost everything we have. I don’t want that man in my home!” Her mother’s face was pale, and she was twisting a handkerchief wildly in her hands, wrecking the fragile lace.

  Lost everything? The words didn’t have any meaning at first. Livvy tried to make them fit into her mind in a way that made sense.

  “He owns everything, Elizabeth. He must be allowed in. I will beg him for clemency.” Her father nodded at the butler. “Show him into the drawing room, Howell.”

  Howell, their butler, hastily opened the door to allow entry to this harbinger of doom.

  Livvy ducked down behind the banister, struck with the sudden need to hide. Her father and mother’s conversation still haunted her. Her father had gambled away all their possessions at the Argyll Rooms last night? Icy dread gripped her, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

  Everything was to be taken away. My home, my clothes…my books?

  Any chance she had of making a good match this season was ruined. Her father was a mere gentleman, though her mother was the daughter of a duke, which made Livvy granddaughter to a duke and therefore most attractive. Though her grandfather’s title could not pass through her, the family’s connections to members of the peerage were always welcome. But the scandal around becoming destitute would tarnish even that.

  Her grandfather, the Duke of Sussex, was a wonderful and well-liked man. Why hadn’t her parents gone to him for help? He’d let her mother marry for love. Surely he would not refuse to help her if she faced money troubles? Livvy bit her lip hard. Perhaps her mother’s pride might be the problem.

  Howell opened the door, and Livvy peered from her hiding place in the shadows as a man entered her house. His gold-blond hair was striking, and his features were those of a fallen angel or a Byronic hero.

  “This way, Mr. Banks. My master will see you shortly.” Howell escorted the man into the drawing room. Livvy looked for her parents, but they had stepped into her father’s study.

  After a moment, her father appeared and just as quickly disappeared into the drawing room. Howell stood with his back to the door like a sentry. Livvy abandoned her hiding place and rushed down the stairs. When Howell saw her, she held a finger to her lips. He nodded and stepped aside for her. She pressed her ear to the door, listening to the voices.

  “As I said last evening, Mr. Hartwell, I now have a debt of four thousand pounds with your name on the vowels. I want you and your wife to vacate this home by tomorrow, and I will sell it by Christmas to discharge the debt you owe me. I understand this house is still partially owned by Drummonds?”

  “Yes.” Her father’s reply was soft, broken.

  “I will buy out the bank’s interest and sell the house then,” Banks said, his words calm and even. Without emotion.

  Livvy knew she had to intervene. Surely this man had some shred of decency and mercy within him. She flung open the drawing room door and burst inside.

  “Please!” she exclaimed as she faced the man who stood by the fireplace. He was taller than she’d realized, so much that he dwarfed her when she approached him. His piercing blue eyes glow in the firelight.

  “Please,” she repeated more softly, her heart now hammering. “Give my father time to pay back what he owes. It’s almost Christmas…” She feared her plea fell on deaf ears as Banks continued to stare at her. His broad shoulders and fine clothes spoke of his wealth. He didn’t need their money, surely. She felt very young and foolish standing before him in a gown that was two years old, the hem let out twice and the color faded from too much wear. It hadn’t bothered her before, but now? Now she felt very silly when facing a handsome, well-dressed man like Mr. Banks.

  His eyes lingered upon her, sweeping from her face down to her slippers and back up, and she swore she could almost feel invisible hands touching her.

  “Hartwell, who is this enchanting creature?” His lips, once pursed in a tight line, now softened into a slow, seductive smile.

  “This is my daughter, Lavinia.”

  “Livvy,” she corrected automatically, and a wave of heat enveloped her face.

  “Daughter…” Banks murmured the word as he rested one hand on the marble fireplace. “This quite changes things.”

  Hope blossomed inside her, and she started to smile.

  “Then you will give me time to pay you back?” Her father stepped close to her as he spoke to Mr. Banks, putting one hand on her shoulder.

  Banks’s gaze settled on her, then slid to her father. “No.”

  “But—”

  Livvy was cut off as he continued. “I have decided to accept another form of repayment allowing you to keep your house.”

  Her father’s fingers dug into her shoulder. “No. Anything but that,” he growled. “Take the house.”

  “Anything but what?” Livvy demanded. She couldn’t understand why her father was upset.

  “You, my dear,” Banks said smugly. “He means anything but you.”

  She tried to battle her bewilderment. “Me? But how can I repay you?” Did he mean that if she were to marry soon she could convince her husband to pay her father’s debt?

  “Delightfully innocent. How charming.” Banks’s tone was laced with sardonic amusement that made her bristle.

  “Take the house, Ba
nks. You cannot have her. She has marriage prospects and a good life ahead of her.” Her father stepped between her and Banks.

  Banks drummed his fingers on the mantel and faced the fire once again. “I could wreck those prospects. My reach is wider than you realize.”

  “Yes, I’m now aware. You’re William Banks’s son, aren’t you?” her father asked.

  “At last you make the connection.”

  Livvy didn’t understand, she glanced between them, confused.

  “Who is William Banks?” For a moment she thought neither her father or Mr. Banks would answer her.

  “He was a man who owed your father money. Your father cast us out of our home. My mother died that night, just minutes after he left us ruined. He took her from me, and now justice has seen fit to give me the chance to return the favor and take something from him, which would be you, my dear.”

  His words left her stunned and she her gaze darted between her father who looked stricken with grief, and the cold, impassionate man, Mr. Banks. Livvy studied his handsome profile, and only then did she understand what he suggested. He wanted her, not any money from a future husband. And there was only one reason a man in his situation would want her when it was clear he did not intend to marry her.

  She buried her fear as best she could and composed her features. “If you take me, will you would consider my father’s debts fully paid?” she asked. Her body shook as she came to grips with what she was considering: to give herself to this man to save her family.

  “Livvy, you will not.” Her father looked down at her, fear and anger in his eyes. She pushed past him to stand face-to-face with Mr. Banks.

  “Well?” she asked.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling a little. “Yes. You in exchange for the entire debt.” His stare burned into her with such intensity that she shivered with dread.

  She cleared her throat. “What are your conditions?”

  He stroked his chin, seeming to ponder the question, but she sensed he already had an answer. “You will be mine for as long as it takes me to tire of you.”