A Rake for Christmas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

England, 1813

After years of struggling against her wicked desires, Lady Eugenie Hardwick is being driven wild by the sounds of unrestrained passion coming from her neighbor’s bedroom. The thought of Lord Richard Townsend, a notorious rake, sets her body quivering with need—even though she’s never yet seen his face.

When they finally meet in person on Christmas Eve, it only takes one masterful kiss to unleash Eugenie’s inner temptress for a night of sensual pleasure with the devilish lord. But Eugenie must ensure their holiday affair remains a secret so she doesn’t get ruined—again….

Dear Reader

It is not often that I can point to one specific thing as an inspiration for a story, but in this case my visit to Keates’ house, on the edge of Hampstead Heath opened the floodgates for the setting of the story. For two years, 1818 to 1820 Keates lived in the one side of Wentworth Place. On the other side lived the girl who proved to be the love of his life Fanny Brawne. It was here he wrote some of his most memorable poetry. Keats died of tuberculosis in Italy and virtually alone at the age of twenty-five. Fanny went on to marry and have a family. She never forgot the love of her life, however.

At the time of my visit, I couldn’t help wondering what it must have been like for the couple to have been separated only by the walls dividing their house. For some reason, the thought came back to me when beginning Richard and Eugenie’s story. While this couple is nothing like the poet and Fanny, it felt good that the house inspired a happy ending.

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I plotted this book at the gym, while working with an amazing weight trainer, Helen. I dedicate this book to her for her patience in listening to me babble on, and for her laughter and for her moments of utter shock. I think she had just as much fun with the plot of this story as I did.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

About the Author

December 24, 1813

8 o’clock ante meridiem

Dear Lord Townsend,

It is with regret I must once more write to you on the matter of neighborly consideration. I recognize, as you so kindly pointed out in your last letter, that your duties as host required you to ensure your guests enjoy their visit. Nevertheless, I remind you of your responsibility to respect the sensibilities and peace of the individual who has the misfortune to share your walls.

After yet another disturbing night of revelry, I must humbly insist you use your obviously inventive abilities to find a way to muffle the sounds which permeate through to my side of the house.

Your neighbor,

Eugenie Hartwick

P.S. I have only one cat and if your gardener would simply repair the gaps in the hedge I am sure he would not stray onto your side of the garden.

Richard eyed the neatly penned missive delivered by a footman at some ungodly hour that morning. The cat lady who occupied the other half of his rented Hampstead accommodation and therefore shared a wall with him, clearly had not a scrap of Christmas good cheer. What bad luck.

And they were paper-thin walls as he knew to his cost.

In the early hours of each morning, around seven o’clock as near as he could judge, sounds of her life began drifting through his walls. Often he lay in bed, with one lady or another fast asleep on his chest, and listened in some odd haze of fascination to those peaceful ordinary sounds. The quiet quick tap of her footsteps. The modulated voice used for servants and the warm tones as she spoke to her infernal cat. Tones which stirred interest in his blood.

At night, though, after a bout of sensual acrobatics with his latest mistress, in that moment of silent satiation between waking and sleeping, the sounds from the other side of those walls were quite different. Thumps on a pillow. Sighs. And finally muffled moans. Then silence. In that silence, he imagined the flushed skin and pounding heartbeats of release.

And every damned time, he became hard as steel. It was like making love to a woman with none of the benefits. No touch or sight and worst of all, no culmination. Sensual torture. He was beginning to think she did it on purpose.

And it was getting worse. Now, in the throes of making love to his mistress, he’d started thinking about the spinster who lived next door. The cat lady’s imagined responses to what she was hearing, anticipating how she would sound when he was done. Distracting to say the least.

Once or twice, he’d toyed with the idea of inviting her over, but Sonya was far too jealous to allow another woman in his bed. He sighed. Sonya was no fun at all, anymore. In fact, she bored him to tears.

And he could not look to his neighbor to enliven his nights. She was a lady, not a light skirt. One slip and he’d be taking the road to hell. A forced marriage.