Lord of Sin

“A master of atmosphere and description.”

—Library Journal

“Susan Krinard was born to write romance.”

—New York Times bestselling author Amanda Quick

Magical, mystical, and moving…fans will be delighted.”

—Booklist on The Forest Lord

“A darkly magical story of love, betrayal, and redemption…

Krinard is a bestselling, highly regarded writer who is deservedly carving out a niche in the romance arena.” —Library Journal on The Forest Lord

“A poignant tale of redemption.”

—Booklist on To Tame a Wolf

“With riveting dialogue and passionate characters,

Ms. Krinard exemplifies her exceptional knack for creating an extraordinary story of love, strength, courage and compassion.” —RT Book Reviews on Secret of the Wolf

Also available from Susan Krinard

LORD OF LEGENDS

COME THE NIGHT DARK OF THE MOON CHASING MIDNIGHT LORD OF THE BEASTS TO TAME A WOLF LORD OF SIN

Susan Krinard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Bigotry and intolerance, silenced by argument,endeavors to silence by persecution, in old days by fire and sword, in modern days by the tongue.

—Charles Simmons

London, 1889

“I SHALL NEVER MARRY AGAIN!”

Deborah, Lady Orwell, faced her interlocutors bravely, chin up, dark hair perfectly coiffed in spite of her prolonged state of grief. She still wore black even after eighteen months of widowhood.

Nuala sighed. A quick glance about at her fellow widows convinced her that Lady Orwell’s bid for membership would face less than unqualified support. Most had been out of mourning for at least two full years, and none found their grief so intolerable as this young girl who could not possibly have much experience of the world.

I shall never marry again. That was the credo of the Widows’ Club, the common ground that brought them together. For her part, Nuala had few doubts about her fellow members’ sincerity. But this girl—this naive girl who had married so young—would have ample opportunities to love again.

Not that her suffering should be taken lightly. Nuala still grieved for her husband of six months, Lord Charles Parkhill, though she had known from the beginning that their union would be of short duration. Had he lived longer, she might have come to love him, might have become more than a companion and nurse to comfort him in his declining days.

But never could she feel the sort of love Lady Orwell professed. That was almost two and a half centuries behind her.

“My dear Lady Orwell,” Tameri, the dowager Duchess of Vardon, said gently, “we must consult on your case. Will you make yourself comfortable until we return? Shenti will provide you with anything you require.”

Lady Orwell sniffed very quietly. “Of course,” she said. “I quite understand.”

The ladies rose. They followed Tameri out of the Gold drawing room and into the larger Silver, where they settled themselves in the somewhat uncomfortable wooden chairs the former duchess had commissioned when she had furnished the town house in the Egyptian style. Reproductions of ancient gods gazed down upon them with various degrees of severity and benevolence: gods with the heads of cats, of crocodiles, of jackals. Not for the first time, Nuala found herself distracted by their glittering stares.