by Lauren Smith
Can the League’s most wicked rakehell be tamed? Or has this Rogue fallen too far?
The League of Rogues, Book 2
Horatia Sheridan has been hopelessly in love with Lucien, her brother’s best friend, ever since he rescued her from the broken remains of her parents’ wrecked carriage. His reputation as London’s most notorious rakehell doesn’t frighten her, for under his veneer of cool authority she has glimpsed a man whose wicked desires inspire her own.
Lucien, Marquess of Rochester, has deliberately nurtured a reputation for debauchery that makes every matchmaking mother of the ton quake with fear. His one secret: he is torn between soul-ripping lust for Horatia, and the loyalty he owes her brother.
That loyalty is put to the test when an old enemy of the League threatens Horatia’s life. With Christmas drawing near, he sweeps her away to his country estate, where he can’t resist granting her one wish—to share his bed and his heart.
But sinister forces are lurking, awaiting the perfect moment to exact their revenge by destroying not only whatever happiness Lucien might find in Horatia’s arms, but the lives of those they love.
Warning: This book contains an intelligent lady who is determined to seduce her brother’s friend, a brooding rake whose toy of choice in bed is a little bit of bondage with a piece of red silk, a loyal band of merry rogues and a Christmas love so scorching you’ll need fresh snow to extinguish it.
His Wicked Seduction
Lauren Smith
Dedication
To everyone who has suffered the pangs of unrequited love, this story is for you. And to my brothers Grant and Andy and my sister Sara. I’m so lucky to have you all in my life. Siblings are the best gift there is.
League Rule 2
One must never seduce another member’s sister. Should this rule be broken, the member whose sister was seduced has the right to demand satisfaction.
Excerpt from The Quizzing Glass Gazette, September 30, 1820, The Lady Society Column:
Lady Society has turned her eye this week to one of London’s most notorious paramours, the Marquess of Rochester. Member of the infamous League of Rogues, the marquess is rumored by ladies of the ton as a fiery-haired devil capable of shocking delights behind closed doors.
It has come to Lady Society’s attention that no lady has held Rochester’s interest for long. Does he secretly pine for someone of good breeding and good sense, perhaps?
Lady Society would like to learn the answer to this most fascinating question. Perhaps Rochester indulges himself to ease the pangs of unrequited love for some mystery woman. Should one hazard a guess as to the unlucky—or perhaps lucky—maiden who has stolen our dark marquess’s heart?
Chapter One
London, December 1820
She is going to be the death of me.
“Lucien! You’re not even listening to me, are you? I’m in desperate need of a new valet and you’ve been woolgathering rather than offering suggestions. I daresay you have enough for a decent coat and a pair of mittens by now.”
Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, looked to his friend Charles. They were walking down Bond Street, Lucien keeping careful watch over one particular lady without her knowledge and Charles simply enjoying the chance for an outing. The street was surprisingly crowded for so early in the day and during such foul wintry weather.
“Admit it,” Charles prodded.
Lucien fought to focus on his friend. “Sorry?”
The Earl of Lonsdale fixed him with a stern glare which, given that his usual manner tended towards jovial, was a little alarming.
“Where is your head? You’ve been out of sorts all morning.”
Lucien grunted. He had no intention of explaining himself. His thoughts were sinful ones, ones that would lead him straight to a fiery spot in Hell, assuming one wasn’t already reserved for him. All because of one woman: Horatia Sheridan.
She was halfway up Bond Street on the opposite side of the road, a beacon of beauty standing out from the women around her. A footman dressed in the Sheridan livery trailed diligently behind her with a large box in his arms. A new dress, if Lucien had to hazard a guess. She should not be out traipsing about on snow-covered walkways, not with these carriages rumbling past, casting muddy slush all over. It frustrated him to think she was risking a chill for the sake of shopping. It frustrated him more that he was so concerned about it.
“I know you think I’m a half-wit on most days, but—”
“Only most?” Lucien couldn’t resist the verbal jab.
Charles grinned. “As I was saying, it’s a bit obvious our leisurely stroll is merely a ruse. I’ve noticed we’ve stopped several times, matching the pattern of a certain lady of our acquaintance across the street.”
So Charles had been watchful after all. Lucien shouldn’t have been surprised. He hadn’t done his best to conceal his interest in Horatia Sheridan. It was too hard to fight the natural pull of his gaze whenever she was near. She was twenty years old, yet she carried herself with the natural grace of a mature and educated queen. Not many women could achieve such a feat. For as long as he’d known her, she’d been that way.
He’d been a young man in his twenties when he met her, and she’d been all of fourteen. She’d been like a little sister to him. Even then, she’d struck him as more mentally and emotionally mature than most women in their later years. There was something about her eyes, the way her doe-brown pools held a man rooted to the spot with intelligence—and in these last few months, attraction…
“You’d best stop staring,” Charles intoned quietly. “People are starting to notice.”
“She shouldn’t be out in this weather. Her brother would have a fit.” Lucien tugged his leather gloves tighter, hoping to erase the lingering effects of the chill wind that slid between his coat sleeves and gloves.
Charles burst out into a laugh, one loud enough to draw the attention of nearby onlookers. “Cedric loves her and little Audrey, but you and I both know that does not stop either of them from doing just as they please.”
There was far too much truth in that. Lucien and Charles had known Cedric, Viscount Sheridan for many years, bonded during one dark night at university. The memory of when he, Charles, Cedric and two others, Godric and Ashton, had first met always unsettled him. Still, what had happened had forged an unbreakable bond between the five of them. Later, London, or at least the society pages, had dubbed them The League of Rogues.
The League. How amusing it all was…except for one thing. The night they’d formed their alliance each of the five men had been marked by the Devil himself. A man by the name of Hugo Waverly, a fellow student at Cambridge, had sworn vengeance on them.
And sometimes Lucien wondered if they didn’t deserve it.
Lucien shook off the heavy thoughts. He was drawn to the vision of Horatia pausing to admire a shop window displaying an array of poke bonnets nestled on stands. Her beleaguered footman stood by her elbow, juggling the box in his arms. He nodded smartly as Horatia pointed out a particular bonnet. Lucien was tempted to venture forth and speak with her, possibly lure her into an alley in order to have just a moment alone with her. Even if he only spoke with her, he feared the intimacy of that conversation would get him a bullet through his heart if her brother ever found out.
Charles had walked a few feet ahead, then stopped and turned to kick a pile of snow into the street. “If this is how you mean to spend the day then consider me gone. I could be at Jackson’s Salon right now, or better yet, savorin
g the favors of the fine ladies at the Midnight Garden.”
Lucien knew he’d put Charles out of sorts asking him to come today, but he’d had a peculiar feeling since he’d risen this morning, as though someone was walking over his grave. Ever since Hugo Waverly had returned to London, he had been keeping on eye on Cedric’s sisters, particularly Horatia. Waverly had a way of creating collateral damage and Lucien would do anything to keep these innocent ladies safe. But she mustn’t know he was watching over her. He’d spent the last six years being outwardly cold to her, praying she’d stop gazing at him in that sweet, loving way of hers.
It was cruel of him, yes, but if he did not create some distance, he’d have had her on her back beneath him. She was too good a woman for that, and he was far too wicked to be worthy of her. Rather like a demon falling for an angel. He longed for her in ways he’d never craved for other women, and he could never have her.
The reason was simple. His public reputation did not do justice to the true depth of his debauchery. A man like him could and should never be with a woman like Horatia. She was beauty, intelligence and strength, and he would corrupt her with just one night in his arms.
Within the ton, there was scandal and then there was scandal. For a certain class of woman, being seen with the wrong man in the wrong place could be enough to ruin her reputation and damage her prospects. These fair creatures deserved nothing but the utmost in courtesy and propriety.
For others, the widows still longing for love, those who had no interest in husbands but did from time to time seek companionship, and that rare lovely breed of woman who had both the wealth and position to afford to not give a toss about what society thought, there was Lucien. He seduced them all, taught them to open themselves up to their deepest desires and needs, and seek satisfaction. Not once had a woman complained or been dissatisfied after he had departed from her bed. But there was only one bed he sought now, and it was one he should never be invited into.
He glanced about and noticed a familiar coach among the other carriages on the street. Much of the street’s traffic had been moving steadily and quicker than the people on foot, but not that coach. There was nothing unusual about it; the rider was covered with a scarf like all the others, to keep out the chill, yet each time he and Charles had crossed a street, the coach had shadowed them.
“Charles, do think we’re being followed?”
Charles brushed off some snow from his gloved hands when it dropped onto him from a nearby shop’s eave. “What? What on earth for?”
“I don’t know. That carriage. It has been with us for quite a few streets.”
“Lucien, we’re in a popular part of London. No doubt someone is shopping and ordering their carriage to keep close.”
“Hmm,” was all he said before he turned his attention back to Horatia and her footman. One of her spare gloves fell out of her cloak and onto the ground, going unnoticed by both her and her servant. Lucien debated briefly whether or not he should interfere and alert her to the fact that he and Charles had been following her. When she continued to walk ahead, leaving her glove behind, he made his decision.
Lucien caught up with his friend still ahead of him on the street. “I’ll not keep you. Horatia’s dropped a glove and I wish to return it to her.”
“Plagued by a bit of chivalry, eh? Go on then, I want to stop here a moment.” He pointed to a bookshop.
“Very good. Catch me up when you’re ready.”
Lucien dodged through the traffic on the road and was halfway across the street when pandemonium struck.
Bond Street was turned on its head as screams tore through the air. The coach that had been shadowing him raced down the road in Lucien’s direction. Yet, rather than trying to halt the team, the driver whipped the horses, urging them directly at Lucien.
He was too far across the street to turn back; he had to get to safety and get others out of the way. Horatia! She could be trampled when it passed her. Lucien’s heart shot into his throat as he ran. The driver whipped the horses again, as if sensing Lucien’s determination to escape.
“Horatia!” Lucien bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Out of the way!”
He’d never forget the look on her face. The way her confused expression changed into unadulterated joy at seeing him, then to terror as she realized the curricle was headed straight for them.
Lucien crossed the street moments before the horses reached him. He tackled Horatia, knocking her to the ground in an alley between the shops. The curricle’s wheels sliced through the snow and slush inches from his boots, soaking them with icy water.
For a long moment, Lucien couldn’t move. She was alive. He’d made it. The curricle hadn’t run either of them over…
Then his body seemed to realize it had a woman under it. A woman with the finest curves God had ever made to tempt a man. Her bonnet was askew, revealing long lustrous curls of deep chestnut hair. Her dark eyes, so innocent, fixed on his face in wonder.
“My lord…” she murmured in a daze. Her gloved hands rested on his chest, holding him at bay. He felt the tremble of her hands all the way to his bones, and his body responded with interest.
“What in blazes?” Charles rushed into the alley, gray eyes alight with fury. “Did you see who was driving that curricle?” Charles paused and took in the scene before him with a smile. “Horatia, love, how are you? Not too bruised I hope?” Charles had never in his life bothered with titles or propriety. Neither did Lucien for that matter. So it didn’t surprise Lucien that his friend treated Horatia as he did.
“Oh Charles!” she exclaimed. She seemed to realize only now she was on her back in an alley just off Bond Street, with a street full of curious people peering in and Lucien on top of her.
Lucien gritted his teeth. “Oh Charles!” she’d said, but Lucien was always “My lord.” It grated his nerves that she didn’t offer such intimacy to him. It was his own damned fault. He pushed her away at every opportunity, just to keep himself from tugging her into the nearest alcove and kissing her. Something about her seemed to render him into the most barbaric state possible. He had little else on his mind other than how she’d taste, how she’d moan and sigh if he could just get his hands on her.
“Lucien…” Horatia stammered. His name on her lips was more erotic than a lover’s sated sigh. “What on earth just happened?”
“I fear someone just tried to run me over, and you were, unfortunately, in the way,” he explained, worried by the dazed expression swallowing her dark eyes.
“I say, Lucien, you might want to get off the girl, she’s turning blue,” Charles teased. “Besides, stay on top of her any longer and people are bound to talk. Wouldn’t want to end up married just for saving her life, would you?”
Horatia was red-faced and Lucien wasn’t sure if it was from lack of air or because she lay beneath him near a public street in such a compromising position. He rolled off her and got to his feet. Charles handed Lucien his hat and he set it back in place. He brushed off the snow from his clothes with one hand while offering the other hand to Horatia.
Her hesitation struck him like a blow. Finally her gloved hand settled into his and he helped her up, tugging just enough so that she stumbled into his arms. He couldn’t resist smiling down at her.
If he leaned down just a few inches, he could kiss her, part her lips… For a moment, he lost himself in the dream of how she would taste. She stared up at him, unblinking with those damned lovely eyes that warmed until they were fiery with echoed desire. It would be so easy to—
“Ahem.” The footman held out the box with a most pitiful expression on his face. “My lady…” he croaked as he showed her the package. It was soaked clean through, just as Horatia and Lucien now were.
She tugged free of Lucien’s arms. “Oh dear!”
The spell he’d cast over her was broken as she rushed over, taking the box from the footman
. “Oh dear, oh dear.” The glitter of tears were sharp in her eyes when she turned to face him.
“My dress. It’s ruined.”
Tears for a gown? The behavior was more suited to her younger sister, Audrey. The loveable little chit was obsessed with fashion. Horatia, however, had always been quieter, and more academic in nature.
“Can’t you buy another?” Charles asked.
“No… I cannot ask Cedric to spend any more than he has.”
Ahh, there she was. The Horatia he knew was frugal to a fault. Cedric was as rich as Croesus but Horatia would never let him spoil her.
“Oh…” Charles replied, a little confused. He was a spendthrift, that was no secret.
Lucien took the box from the footman, eyeing it critically.
“It might be salvageable. We’ll escort you home and you can have your lady’s maid see to it.”
Horatia glanced uncertainly between Charles and Lucien. “I’m not putting you out of your way? Peter and I are fine to go home on our own, aren’t we, Peter?” She shot a determined look at her footman, who nodded hastily.
“We’ll be fine, my lords.”
“Nonsense,” Lucien said. “You’ve had a shock and are soaking wet. We’re escorting you home. End of discussion.” He gripped her elbow with one hand and shoved the package back at Peter.
They must have presented an odd spectacle. Lucien and Charles flanking either side of the drenched Horatia like guards, with her footman following close behind carrying a sodden box in his hands.
Lucien ignored the curious stares and simply enjoyed the relief at being able to see Horatia home without another life-threatening incident.
When they reached the Sheridan residence, Horatia slid her drenched cloak off her shoulders and excused herself as she fled upstairs with the package. Lucien lingered in the hall, watching the flutter of her wet skirts, wishing he could follow her to her chambers and slip into the hot water of the bath she was no doubt going to take. The thought of Horatia, naked in a bath was only slightly less tempting than the dream he’d had the night before about her. She haunted his thoughts all too often of late.