Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

L eague Rule Number 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?

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, savoring 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 an 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 tr emble 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.

"Shall we wait for Cedric?" Charles asked, joining him at the foot of the stairs.

"He isn't in?"

Charles shook his head. "The butler said he is looking for Horatia as it were."

Searching for his sister? What on earth for?

"We should wait," Lucien suggested. "Come, let's get some brandy."

His friend grinned. "Now that is more the activity I had in mind when we set out this morning."

They followed a footman to the morning room to wait for Cedric's return.

Charles settled into a large brocaded armchair, crossing an ankle over his knee. "Lucien, do you think Horatia will be all right?"

"I suppose…"

"Given her past, I mean," Charles explained. "With her parents and the coach accident. You were there. Do you think this will bring back the memories? "

Lucien shuddered. That was the day Cedric had lost his parents. They'd been traveling through town when two men had decided to race their curricles through the streets. Horatia, only fourteen, had been in the coach with her parents. The crash had been dreadful. Screaming horses with broken legs, several people who'd been too close wounded by the wreck. One young man dead, another terribly injured. Cedric and Horatia's parents hadn't survived the impact of the coach when it had rolled.

Horatia had been stuck in the coach with the bodies of her parents, unable to get out, dazed from the shock. She hadn't even screamed for help. When Lucien had reached the scene, he climbed up the carriage's side and opened the door. He called her name and she'd looked up at him, eyes full of terror. He'd pulled her out of the coach and into his arms. His stomach roiled at the memory of her body shaking violently against his.

"She's strong. She'll be fine." Lucien's words were more an assurance to himself than to Charles. He had to believe she'd not be too upset after this morning.

Thinking of her distraught left a hollow feeling in his chest. Despite his intention to ignore her as much as possible and pretend she didn't exist, she had possessed his every waking thought for the past few months. He knew exactly who to blame for this. The Duchess of Essex, formerly Miss Emily Parr.

His friend, Godric, the Duke of Essex, had kidnapped Miss Parr earlier that fall. The scheme hadn't gone at all as planned and Godric had found himself leg-shackled in matrimony a few months ago .

Lucien found himself smiling, which should have unnerved him, given that the hallowed state of matrimony was one he feared more than death. But damned if he wasn't a tiny bit jealous of Godric's easy happiness with Emily. The two were quite opposite in nature, and yet they were a love match.

The events after the kidnapping had thrown Lucien into Horatia's world again. All the effort he'd put into tactfully dodging dinner parties and balls were for naught. The League was so fond of Emily that not one of them could resist coming when she called. Cedric called it the "lapdog" effect—they'd been turned from perfectly dangerous rakehells of the worst sort to perfectly behaved gentleman in the presence of the Duchess of Essex. If only Emily and Horatia hadn't become such close friends, Lucien might have avoided her with more ease.

That Horatia was still unmarried at the age of twenty surprised him. How was it no other man had wanted to bed a creature with doe-brown eyes and such curves that were made for holding? Or spend an entire day planning jokes just to win one rich laugh from her soft lips? Knowing Cedric, however, there were probably several young bucks in the ton running scared at the thought of approaching him for permission to court his sister.

Lucien had tried to slake his thirst for Horatia between the thighs of other women, but it was no use. Only the previous night he'd attempted to bed a woman and found he wasn't aroused enough to perform. If word of that got out, he'd become a laughing stock. The irony of his rakehell reputation being damaged by an innocent woman was not lost on him. At this moment he dreaded his friend's arrival, considering the dream he'd had the previous night.

Horatia had been stripped of every scrap of clothing, all laid out before him, ankles and wrists bound to his bedposts by red silk. Perspiration slicked her skin as he moved up her body to nuzzle her perfect nipples. She arched into him, rubbing her sex against him, searing him with the wicked heat of her arousal. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, tasting her, and cupped her luscious bottom, raising it for the best angle of a powerful thrust. The dream had dissipated into mist, leaving him with an erection hard enough to pound a hole in the wall.

It would be a miracle if he could school his features and hide his guilt from Cedric after dreaming of doing such things with the man's sister.

Lucien glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was now nearly noon. Cedric should have been here by now.

There was a serpentine crawling sensation beneath his skin that unsettled him. He'd had this feeling before, just before a storm was about to break. Worry knotted inside him, twisting his stomach until he could scarcely breathe. Dark clouds were on the horizon.

Charles frowned and leaned forward in his chair, concern weighing down the corners of his mouth. "Are you feeling all right?"

One deep breath. Two. The iron dread in his chest eased. "I've been better, I suppose. I just…" Lucien hesitated .

Charles reached for the decanter of brandy and poured Lucien another glass. "What is it?"

Lucien opened his mouth, but the door to the room crashed open, Cedric framed the doorway like an avenging angel, or a demon. He strode inside holding a note in one hand, knuckles white as he gripped his silver lion-headed cane in the other.

"What's the matter, Cedric?"

Cedric's rage was all too apparent. "That bastard!"

There was a moment of silence as Lucien shared a worried glance with Charles.

Charles stood and walked over to the cigar box on the side table against the far wall. "You'll have to be a bit more specific; there are a lot of bastards about." He ran the cigar underneath his nose. "Some are even in this room."

Lucien rose and paced towards the window overlooking the street front. He spied a comical scene of an overdressed dandy prancing about with a quizzing glass, examining various ladies' dresses as they passed by him. The man seemed to feel Lucien's gaze and raised his head. A cold chill swept through Lucien. Something about the man and his flat, cold eyes fired Lucien's nerves to life, leaving him unsettled. Had he seen the man before? A sense of foreboding raked his spine. The man turned away and disappeared through a door a few houses down opposite Cedric's townhouse.

Lucien forced his attention back to his friends. "So who is this bastard?"

Cedric threw himself into a red and gold brocaded chair and rapped the tip of his cane on his right boot. "Who do you think?"

Lucien's heart froze. "Waverly."

Cedric nodded.

"That isn't news to us. Someone tried to run Lucien over on Bond Street. Horatia happened to be nearby. Fortunately Lucien got her out of harm's way." Charles explained the morning's incident to Cedric, who spoke not a word as he listened. They all knew what Waverly was capable of. What was perhaps more worrisome was the man's complete lack of honor. He had no qualms about attacking his enemies from behind or, it would seem, their loved ones.

Lucien crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall facing Cedric. Beneath the man's fury, lines of worry stretched thin near his eyes.

"Is my sister all right?" he asked.

Lucien nodded. "She's as well as could be expected. I was able to get her out of the way, but she is terribly upset." Thankfully, only the gown had perished by Waverly's villainy. He tamped down on the urge to find the fiend and throttle him with his bare hands. Lucien knew that Horatia wouldn't appreciate him murdering a man on her behalf. His passions tended to rule him more than they ought to.

Regardless of the fact that she wasn't his, he could at least keep her safe. Horatia had to be protected at all costs.

"Cedric," Charles interrupted Lucien's thoughts. "Why did you go out looking for Horatia?"

Cedric's faced darkened again. "I was heading off to join Ashton and Godric at Tattersalls when one of my footmen found this letter tucked beneath the door knocker."

He held out the scrap of parchment in his hand.

With trepidation, Lucien took the note and read it. Charles stood behind him, bending to read over his shoulder. The note was on thick expensive paper. A black scrawling hand, unfamiliar to him, clearly not Waverly's, layered the surface of the note with sinister certainty.

Lucien read the words aloud for Charles to hear. "‘Carriage accidents are a terrible thing, aren't they?'"

Lucien handed the note to Cedric who pocketed it. "It doesn't look like Waverly's handwriting. Are we sure it's him?"

Cedric shrugged. "Who else would dare to remind me of such a horrific event?"

"If it is the past he's referring to," said Lucien, "perhaps the timing here was deliberate."

Charles walked back around and threw himself into a chair, scowling. "He's threatened us before, but nothing has come of it. What's changed?" The earl's eyes glimmered like mercury, bright and ever shifting.

"Hell if I know." Cedric caressed the silver lion's head of his cane. "He's spent the past few years abroad. Now he's returned and renewing his threats."

Lucien wondered if his body had somehow known that something was set in motion. He could almost hear the clock gears ticking, but it was damned hard to know how to protect those he loved if he couldn't see from which direction the threat would come .

Cedric rose, rubbing his face with a hand. "Bad news aside, I would like to extend a dinner invitation to you both tonight—and I realize it is last minute, but Audrey is determined to see the entire League." He glanced between his friends hopefully.

Charles grinned. "You know I'm always eager to see your sisters!"

Cedric arched a brow. "Not too eager, I trust."

It was a damned nuisance. Every fiber of Lucien's being demanded he break the League's second rule. He didn't want his lust directing him into a situation where he would be facing Cedric on a field at dawn or something equally ridiculous. With any other woman he would have bedded her and moved on. This was impossible with Horatia. Just thinking about her heated his blood and sent a throbbing ache straight to his loins. He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his breeches.

"What about you, Lucien?" Cedric fixed a powerful stare at him. "Don't you dare give me any excuses."

Lucien had told Cedric ages ago that he didn't feel comfortable around Horatia. He'd said it was because she'd ruined an engagement proposal he'd made to an heiress years before. But it was a half-truth if anything. Horatia had been there, and the proposal had gone sour when Horatia dumped a bucket of water over his intended's head. But his need to avoid Horatia now had everything to do with wanting to take her to the nearest bed and… He shook his head, clearing it of such thoughts.

He began to protest. "Cedric, you know I—"

"Come now. You aren't afraid of my sisters, are you? "

Damn. There was no way he'd get out of it this time. "I'll come."

"Wonderful! I'll expect you at seven!" Cedric declared with satisfaction.

"Wonderful," Lucien echoed dully. How was he going to survive this?