Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady

‘This is a rather unusual time of evening for a business appointment. I must admit I am quite curious as to why you’re here.’

Paine leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands and trying to look as if he weren’t aroused from the sight of her magnificent figure or the sound of her voice.

He saw the long column of her neck work briefly as she swallowed. For the first time since she’d entered the establishment he felt her resolve waver.

‘I need you to ruin me.’ The words came out in a rush. A light blush coloured her flawless alabaster cheeks.

‘Ruin?’ Paine quirked an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean by “ruin”? Shall I ruin you at the gaming tables? I can arrange to have you lose any amount of your choosing.’

Her gaze met his evenly, in all seriousness, her courage having returned in full force now that she’d begun talking. ‘I don’t wish to lose any money. I wish to lose my virginity. I want you to ruin me in bed.’

Bronwyn Scott is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. You can learn more about Bronwyn at www.nikkipoppen.com

A recent novel from Bronwyn Scott:

PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

For Scott and Joanne, my agent and editor respectively, who made my goal of being a Harlequin Mills & Boon author before my 40th birthday come true!

And for the kids: Rowan, Catie and Bronwyn. Remember you can have your (birthday) cake and eat it too. Someday when you’re old enough, that will make sense.

Bronwyn Scott

Books aren’t simply the product of one person’s writing but of countless others, who make the writing process successful. Thanks to all of you who support my work.

Thanks to Michele Ann Young for her research assistance on Regency era bankruptcy practices.

Thanks to Ellen Holt, my personal speed reader, who is happy to be a sounding board for early drafts.

Thanks to my kids, Rowan, Catie, for playing outside every afternoon so I could write. And to Baby Bronwyn who took extra-long naps when I needed them most.

Thanks to my whole family, who support each of my projects unstintingly with their interest.

Thanks to my PEO chapter for their support and publicity.

Thanks to my husband for being the best there ever was.

Thanks to my great co-workers at the college: Leon, Ann, Connie and the rest, who celebrate each cover with me and listen to me ramble about new plots.

Special thanks to my agent, Scott Eagan, who knew exactly where I belonged.

Extra-special thanks to my editor, Joanne Carr, for all her attention to detail and her unique brand of polish which gives each book the sheen of perfection.

Chapter One

London, early May 1829

She would not be sold like a prized mare at Tatter-salls! Julia Prentiss’s elegantly coiffed head swivelled in disbelief between Uncle Barnaby and Mortimer Oswalt, the lecherous old cit who had come to offer for her. She could hardly countenance the conversation that flowed around her as if she were not standing in the centre of her uncle’s study listening, nor had a mind of her own and was quite capable of speaking for herself.

‘I would, of course, provide a handsome bride price for your niece. Say, fifteen thousand pounds.’ Mortimer Oswalt spread his hands confidently over the purple expanse of his waistcoat, which gave him the appearance of an overripe grape. He leaned back in his chair, perusing Julia with his dissipated blue eyes, still bloodshot from a night on the town.

Fifteen thousand pounds! Julia fought back a surge of inappropriate comments. How dare he offer for her in the same manner one might offer for goods on the dock or at an auction house. The force of his vile gaze made her skin clammy. She could not bear to imagine how his hands would feel against her skin. But surely there was no sense conjuring nightmares that would not come to pass.

Julia turned her frantic gaze on Uncle Barnaby. Uncle Barnaby would certainly refuse the offer in spite of how advanced the talks had become. After all, Mortimer Oswalt was not from their circles. Her uncle was Viscount Lockhart, a noted politician in the House of Lords. Oswalt was merely a London merchant. A wealthy London merchant, to be sure, but still a merchant, regardless of the fact that his annual income was at least triple theirs. The Lockhart title might not be possessed of a fortune, but they were peers and peers did not marry cits.

‘Fifteen thousand pounds, you say? That is quite generous, a very respectful offer. I am sure we can come to an agreeable accord.’ Uncle Barnaby gave a resigned smile, carefully looking anywhere but at her.

Julia was dumbfounded. What had possessed him to sell her to this old man? She would have dug her toes into the carpet she stood upon if it had had any pile left on it with which to do so. It was time to speak up. This ridiculous notion—nay, this repulsive notion—had gone much too far for her liking. Julia summoned her best manners.