The Chaperon's Seduction

THE INFAMOUS ARRANDALES

Scandal is their destiny!

Meet the Arrandale family—dissolute, disreputable and defiant! This infamous family have scandal in their blood, and wherever they go their reputation will always precede them!

Don’t miss any of the fabulous books in Sarah Mallory’s dazzling new quartet!

First out, follow notorious rake Richard Arrandale’s story as he embarks upon

The Chaperon’s Seduction

and look for three more sinfully scandalous stories, coming soon!

AUTHOR NOTE

For The Chaperon’s Seduction I have returned to one of my favourite historical places: the beautiful city of Bath. My story is set in 1802, when Bath was no longer the centre of the fashionable world but was still a popular location, and its shops were the very best to be found outside London. There were still a great many prosperous people living in Bath, and it is the perfect setting for a story that includes two rakish pastimes: gambling (the scourge of the era) and seduction.

Phyllida might be a widow, but she is still an innocent when it comes to dealing with rakish gentlemen—and there are few more infamous than Richard Arrandale, who is embroiled in a wager to seduce an heiress. The problem is the heiress just happens to be Phyllida’s stepdaughter …

Richard is increasingly attracted to Phyllida, and he becomes intent on protecting the heiress rather than seducing her. But as Phyllida is determined not to allow him anywhere near her precious stepdaughter this is not easy. As Richard himself says at one point, ‘I never thought turning respectable could be so exhausting.’

The Chaperon’s Seduction is a sparkling romance that simply flew onto the page. It was a joy to write and I do hope it gives you as much pleasure to read it.

The Chaperon’s Seduction

Sarah Mallory

SARAH MALLORY was born in the West Country and now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades—mainly historical romances set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, most recently the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award in 2012 (The Dangerous Lord Darrington) and 2013 (Beneath the Major’s Scars).

To my wonderful family, who make life so much fun.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Richard Arrandale had been in Bath for less than two weeks and was already regretting his promise to stay. It was not just that Bath in August was hot and dusty, it was exceedingly dull for one used to a hectic social round. He thought of the numerous invitations lining the mantelshelf of his rooms in London, including one from a dashing matron who had been putting out lures for some time. She wanted him to spend September with her at a house party in Leicestershire, where she promised him the hunting would be excellent and the evening entertainments more to his taste than anything he would find in staid and respectable Bath.

He did not doubt it, but he had given his word to his great-aunt Sophia, the Dowager Marchioness Hune, that he would remain in Bath until she was feeling better, even if that took him into the autumn, and he would not break his promise. Sophia had been the only one to support him in his darkest hour, when the rest of the world had seemed to be against him, and now that she needed him he would not walk away.

And it was not as if she expected him to dance attendance upon her at all times; she was quite content to see him every morning before she went off to the hot baths with her nurse, and for the occasional dinner at Royal Crescent. Apart from that he was free to amuse himself. Which was why he was now whiling away the evening playing hazard in a small and select gaming hell. From the outside, there was nothing to distinguish the narrow house in Union Street from its fellows. The ground floor was a tobacconist’s shop but the curtains on the upper floors were rarely drawn back, the proprietor, one Mr Elias Burton, being determined not to distract his clientele by giving them any clue of the time of day.

Richard finished his wine before casting the dice on to the green baize.

‘Seven,’ called Henry Fullingham, leaning closer to peer short-sightedly at the ivory cubes. ‘Trust Arrandale to cast a main with his first throw.’

‘Well, I am not going to wager against him matching it,’ laughed George Cromby. ‘His luck’s in tonight.’

Richard said nothing, merely picked up his glass, which had been replenished by a hovering waiter the moment he had put it down.

‘I won’t bet against him either,’ grumbled a thin, sour-faced gentleman in a green coat. ‘Luck, d’ye call it? His throwing is too consistent by half.’

At his words a tense silence fell over the table. Richard scooped up the dice and weighed them in his hand, fixing his gaze upon the speaker.