The most bizarre element of Cam’s conniving was that he toyed so heedlessly with scandal. Camden Rothermere always trod carefully, as if to prove that he was a man of unwavering principle and decorum, whatever the circumstances of his birth.
Lydia’s glare branded her brother a traitor. She’d have plenty to say to him once they were home. He shrugged with a hint of apology that didn’t mollify her at all.
Gritting her teeth and consigning all Derbyshire men to Hades, she turned to Grenville. At her side, she sensed Simon’s avid interest in her interactions with her fiancé. She fought back the urge to jab her childhood love with her elbow and tell him to take himself and his curiosity elsewhere. Preferably Outer Mongolia.
“Grenville, we’ve hardly spoken a word to one another all evening. I’m sure Mr. Metcalf will renounce his claim.”
“I’d hoped to discuss Grenville’s plans for the next session in the Commons.” With unlikely enthusiasm, Cam clapped his hand on Grenville’s stocky shoulder. No chance now to divert her betrothed, curse her brother’s strategems.
“My love, His Grace’s interest could be vital.” Grenville’s eyes brightened at the prospect of enlisting Cam’s political influence. Lydia had never deceived herself that at least part of her appeal to her fiancé was her kinship to a major power broker. “You go and enjoy yourself.”
“In that case, this dance is mine.” Simon’s hand snaked out to circle her arm in a ruthless grip. Had she imagined that he’d gone unnaturally still when Grenville called her his love? Surely she had. Simon had never been the jealous type. She couldn’t picture him getting het up about a woman he’d known a decade ago.
Quickly her eyes raked the room. To her surprise, the reunion of rakish Simon Metcalf and punctilious Lydia Rothermere hadn’t created a stir. She had no wish to alter that state of affairs by making a scene, so with ill grace, she nodded. “Very well.”
Will a week of seduction spark a lifetime of passionate surrender?
Please turn this page for an excerpt from the first Sons of Sin novel,
Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed.
Chapter One
South Devon Coast, November 1826
Storms split the heavens on the night Sidonie Forsythe went to her ruin.
The horses neighed wildly as the shabby hired carriage lurched to a shuddering stop. The wind was so powerful the vehicle rocked even when stationary. Sidonie had seconds to catch her breath before the driver, a shadow in streaming oilskins, loomed out of the darkness to wrench the door open.
“Here be Castle Craven, miss,” he shouted through the sheeting rain.
For a second, terror at what awaited inside the castle held her paralyzed. Castle Craven indeed.
“I can’t leave the nags standing. Be ’ee staying, miss?”
The cowardly urge rose to beg the driver to carry her back to Sidmouth and safety. She could leave now with no damage done. Nobody would even know she’d been here.
Then what would happen to Roberta and her sons?
The remorseless reminder of her sister’s danger prodded Sidonie into frantic motion. Grabbing her valise, she stumbled from the carriage. When the wind caught her, she staggered. She fought to keep her footing on the slippery cobbles as she looked up, up, up at the towering black edifice before her.
She thought she’d been cold in the carriage. In the open, the chill was arctic. She cringed as the wind sliced through her woolen cloak like a knife through butter. As if to confirm she’d entered a realm of gothic horrors, lightning flashed. The ensuing crack of thunder made the horses shift nervously in their harness.
For all his understandable wish to return to civilization, the driver didn’t immediately leave. “Sartain ’ee be expected, miss?”
Even through the howling wind, she heard his misgivings. Misgivings echoing her own. Sidonie straightened as well as she could against the gale. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Wallis.”
“I wish ’ee well, then.” He heaved himself onto the driver’s box and whipped the horses into an unsteady gallop.
Sidonie hoisted her bag and dashed up the shallow flight of steps to the heavy doors. The pointed arch above the entrance offered paltry protection. Another flash of lightning helped her locate the iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. She seized it in one gloved hand and let it crash. The bang hardly registered against the roaring wind.
Her imperious summons gained no quick response. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees while she huddled against the lashing rain.
What on earth would she do if the house was uninhabited?
By the time the door creaked open to reveal an aged woman, Sidonie’s teeth were chattering and she shook as though she had the ague. A gust caught the servant’s single candle, making the frail light flicker.
“I’m—” she shouted over the storm but the woman merely turned away. At a loss, Sidonie trailed after her.