An Excerpt from
When her betrothed suddenly announces his plans to marry another, Merribeth Wakefield knows only a bold move will bring him back and restore her tattered reputation: She must take a lesson in seduction from a master of the art. But when the dark and brooding rake, Lord Knightswold, takes her under his wing, her education quickly goes from theory to hands-on knowledge, and her heart is given a crash course in true desire!
“Now, give back my handkerchief,” Lord Knightswold said, holding out his hand as he returned to her side. “You’re the sort to keep it as a memento. I cannot bear the thought of my handkerchief being worshipped by a forlorn miss by moonlight or tucked away with mawkish reverence beneath a pillow.”
The portrait he painted was so laughable that she smiled, heedless of exposing her flaw. “You flatter yourself. Here.” She dropped it into his hand as she swept past him, prepared to leave. “I have no desire to touch it a moment longer. I will leave you to your pretense of sociability.”
“’Tis no pretense. I have kept good company this evening.” Either the brandy had gone to her head, impairing her hearing, or he actually sounded sincere.
She paused and rested her hands on the carved rosewood filigree edging the top of the sofa. “Much to my own folly. I never should have listened to Lady Eve Sterling. It was her lark that sent me here.”
He feigned surprise. “Oh? How so?”
If it weren’t for the brandy, she would have left by now. Merribeth rarely had patience for such games, and she knew his question was part of a game he must have concocted with Eve. However, his company had turned out to be exactly the diversion she’d needed, and she was willing to linger. “She claimed to have forgotten her reticule and sent me here to fetch it—no doubt wanting me to find you.”
He looked at her as if confused.
“I’ve no mind to explain it to you. After all, you were abetting her plot, lying in wait, here on this very sofa.” She brushed her fingers over the smooth fabric, thinking of him lying there in the dark. “Not that I blame you. Lady Eve is difficult to say no to. However, I will conceal the truth from her, and we can carry on as if her plan had come to fruition. It would hardly have served its purpose anyway.”
He moved toward her, his broad shoulders outlined by the distant torch light filtering in through the window behind him. “Refresh my memory then. What was it I was supposed to do whilst in her employ?”
She blushed again. Was he going to make her say the words aloud? No gentleman would.
So, of course, he would. She decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. “She professed that a kiss from a rake could instill confidence and mend a broken heart.”
He stopped, impeded by the sofa between them. His brow lifted in curiosity. “Have you a broken heart in need of mending?”
The deep murmur of his voice, the heated intensity in his gaze, and quite possibly the brandy all worked against her better sense and sent those tingles dancing in a pagan circle again.
Oh, yes, she thought as she looked up at him. Yes, Lord Knightswold. Mend my broken heart.
However, her mouth intervened. “I don’t believe so.” She gasped at the realization. “I should, you know. After five years, my heart should be in shreds. Shouldn’t it?”
He turned before she could read his expression and then sat down on the sofa, affording her a view of the top of his head. “I know nothing of broken hearts or their mending.”
“Pity,” she said, distracted by the dark silken locks that accidentally brushed her fingers. “Neither do I.”
However accidental the touch of his hair had been, now her fingers threaded through the fine strands with untamed curiosity and blatant disregard for propriety.
Lord Knightswold let his head fall back, permitting—perhaps even encouraging—her to continue. She did, without thought to right, wrong, who he was, or who she was supposed to be. Running both hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, she watched his eyes drift closed.
Then, Merribeth Wakefield did something she never intended to do.
She kissed a rake.