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Synopsis
Introducing the Sinful Scoundrels... The Earl of Bellingham is nothing is not a creature of habit: money, meals, and mistresses must be strictly managed if a man is to have a moment's peace. It's a system that works splendidly for him--until now. With his oldest and dearest friends succumbing, one by one, to wedded bliss, Bell is now restless and a trifle lonely. Enter the Sinful Scoundrels--Colin Brockhurst, Earl of Ravenshire, and Harry Norcliffe, Viscount Evermore--who drag him back into society and draw his rakish eye to the ton's new beautiful young widow. Bell isn't after a wife, but a challenge. And Laura Davenport should fit the bill quite nicely...
Release date: September 4, 2012
Publisher: Forever Yours
Print pages: 109
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A Season for Sin
Vicky Dreiling
London, 1816
The belles of the Beau Monde had resorted to clumsiness in an effort to snag a ducal husband.
Tristan James Gatewick, the Duke of Shelbourne, entered Lord and Lady Broughton’s ballroom and grimaced. A quartet of giggling
chits stood near the open doors, dangling their handkerchiefs as if poised to drop them. Determined to avoid playing fetch
again, he strode off along the perimeter of the room.
With a long-suffering sigh, he conceded he’d contributed to this national disgrace. Ever since the scandal sheets had declared
him the most eligible bachelor in England, he’d rescued twenty-nine lace handkerchiefs, five kid gloves, and twelve ivory
fans.
If only he could have convinced himself to choose a bride based upon the inelegance of her fumbling, he might have wedded and bedded the most inept candidate by now. Alas, he could not abide the thought of spending a lifetime
with Her Gracelessness.
He surveyed the crowd looking for the hostess of this grand squeeze, a useless endeavor. The crème de la crème swarmed the
place like bees. The din of voices competed with the lively tune of a country dance, making his ears ring. He’d rather eat
dirt than subject himself to the dubious delights of the marriage mart, but with his thirty-first birthday approaching, he
could no longer pretend he was invincible. The dukedom had been at risk far too long.
Someone tapped a fan on his shoulder. He paused to find Genevieve and Veronica, two of his former mistresses. Seeing them
together, he realized how alike the striking widows looked. Both were tall, dark-haired, and curvaceous. He canvassed the
cobwebs in his brain and realized all of his past lovers had similar attributes. Well, those he could recollect.
Tristan bowed and lifted each of their hands for the requisite air kiss. “Ladies, it is a great pleasure to see you again.”
“Were your ears burning?” Veronica said in an exaggerated boudoir voice. “You are the subject du jour.”
“I am delighted,” he lied. He’d grown increasingly frustrated with the notoriety the papers had whipped up. How the devil
he’d ever find a bride in this circuslike atmosphere evaded him. But find one he must.
Genevieve tittered. “We were comparing you to all of our other gentlemen admirers.”
He’d bedded more than his fare share of mistresses, but this situation was certainly unique among his experiences. “What did
you conclude?”
Genevieve leaned closer and squeezed his arm. “We agreed you were the naughtiest of all our lovers.”
He regarded her with a wicked grin. “Praise indeed.”
Veronica glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “How does it feel to be England’s most sought-after bachelor?”
High-pitched giggling rang out from behind him. He rolled his eyes. Not again.
Genevieve’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Watch out, Shelbourne. A bevy of little misses are stalking you.”
He grimaced. “Rescue me?”
The two women laughed, blew him a kiss, and drifted away, leaving him to the predators. When he turned round, the four silly
chits he’d seen earlier halted and stared at him, agog. Given their youthful faces and puritanical white gowns, he surmised
not one of them was a day over seventeen. He needed a wife, but he’d no intention of robbing the proverbial cradle.
When they continued to gape at him as if he were a Greek statue come to life, he took a step closer. “Boo.”
Their shrieks rang in his ears as he walked off into the crowd. Ignoring the avid stares directed at him, Tristan squeezed
past numerous hot, perspiring bodies, and not the kind one hoped to find naked and willing in bed. With more than a little
regret, he banished thoughts of Naked and Willing in order to concentrate on Virtuous and Virginal. First he must locate Lord
and Lady Broughton. Perhaps his hostess would introduce him to a sensible young lady of good breeding. Perhaps pigs would
fly, too.
He might have avoided all this nonsense if his dear mama had cooperated. When he’d informed her of his bridal requirements
a month ago, she’d swatted him with her fan and told him he had rocks in his head.
A loud bang nearly sent him ducking for cover. Feminine gasps erupted all around him. Alarmed, he sought the source of the
disturbance and realized it was only the slamming of the card room door. The gentleman responsible for this discourteous act
was none other than his oldest friend, Marc Darcett, Earl of Hawkfield.
Tristan hailed Hawk with a wave and walked in that direction. Intent upon reaching his friend, Tristan failed to notice the
impending danger until something crunched beneath his shoe. A quick glance to the floor confirmed his worst fear—the thirteenth
incident of a dropped fan. Damn and blast, he’d crushed it.
He lifted his gaze, expecting a devious mama and her blushing daughter. Instead, a petite young woman with honey-blond hair
stood staring at his shoe. She said something that sounded suspiciously like ashes to ashes, dust to dust. With all the voices ringing in his ears, he assumed he’d misheard.
Though he was tempted to walk past her, he couldn’t ignore the fan he’d broken. “I beg your pardon,” he said, bending to retrieve
the mangled ivory sticks.
“You are not to blame. Someone jostled my arm.”
Her excuse was the worst he’d heard yet. He didn’t even bother to hide his cynicism as his gaze traveled up her white gown.
Blue ribbons trimmed her bodice, drawing his attention to her generous décolletage. He continued his perusal to her heart-shaped
face. She watched him with twitching lips. Pillow-plump lips. He inhaled on a constricted breath. Lord, with that mouth she
could make a fortune as a courtesan.
Her long-lashed eyes twinkled. “Sir, if you will return the remains, I will see to its burial.”
Her witty remark stunned him. Belatedly, he realized he was grinning up at her. She probably thought he’d fallen for her ruse.
Exasperated with himself, he grasped the broken sticks, rose, and placed the ruined fan in her small gloved hands.
He met her amused gaze again, noting she did not simper or blush. She was no miss fresh out of the schoolroom. “I apologize
for the damage. Allow me to make reparations,” he said.
“It is quite beyond repair,” she said.
“I insist upon compensating you for—”
“My pain and suffering?” She laughed. “I assure you the fan’s death is a relief to me. Look, you can see it is exceedingly
ugly.”
They’d not had a proper introduction, and yet, she’d invited him to come closer. He decided to oblige her and find out if
her intentions extended beyond droll quips. While she chattered about a dim shop light and putrid green paint, he stole another
glance at her mouth, picturing those lips damp and kiss-swollen. Slow heat eddied in his veins.
She continued speaking in an unreserved manner as if they were old friends rather than strangers. “Even my maids refused to
take the fan,” she said. “So I decided to carry the pitiful thing at least once.”
A footman carrying a tray of champagne paused before them. She lifted up on her toes like a ballerina to place the ruined
fan upon it. Pint-sized she might be, but her flimsy skirts outlined a deliciously rounded bottom. He liked voluptuous women,
and his practiced eye told him this one had the body of a goddess.
His blood stirred. He wanted her.
A warning clanged in his head. She was probably married, and he never dallied with other men’s wives. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. He found himself hoping she was a willing
and lonely widow, but he meant to do more than hope.
“Poor little fan. May you rest in peace.” She pirouetted and gave him a dazzling smile. “There now, I’m done mourning.”
She was exceptionally clever, but without the brittle artifice common among the ton. He caught her gaze, willing her with
his eyes. “Now that the funeral is over, perhaps you would allow me to escort you to the refreshment table.” And thence to
a more private location.
“You are too kind, but I must return to my friends.”
Triumph surged inside him. She’d said friends, but made no mention of a husband. “Will you allow me the pleasure of your company a little longer? I mean to persuade you to accept my offer.”
“I have dozens of other fans,” she said. “Your apology is more than sufficient.”
She intended to play hard to get. Since he’d come of age, women had always pursued him. At the prospect of a chase, excitement
raced through his blood. But he must proceed with caution. If he’d misjudged her, she would take offense. A smile tugged at
his mouth. He knew exactly which card to play.
He reache. . .
The belles of the Beau Monde had resorted to clumsiness in an effort to snag a ducal husband.
Tristan James Gatewick, the Duke of Shelbourne, entered Lord and Lady Broughton’s ballroom and grimaced. A quartet of giggling
chits stood near the open doors, dangling their handkerchiefs as if poised to drop them. Determined to avoid playing fetch
again, he strode off along the perimeter of the room.
With a long-suffering sigh, he conceded he’d contributed to this national disgrace. Ever since the scandal sheets had declared
him the most eligible bachelor in England, he’d rescued twenty-nine lace handkerchiefs, five kid gloves, and twelve ivory
fans.
If only he could have convinced himself to choose a bride based upon the inelegance of her fumbling, he might have wedded and bedded the most inept candidate by now. Alas, he could not abide the thought of spending a lifetime
with Her Gracelessness.
He surveyed the crowd looking for the hostess of this grand squeeze, a useless endeavor. The crème de la crème swarmed the
place like bees. The din of voices competed with the lively tune of a country dance, making his ears ring. He’d rather eat
dirt than subject himself to the dubious delights of the marriage mart, but with his thirty-first birthday approaching, he
could no longer pretend he was invincible. The dukedom had been at risk far too long.
Someone tapped a fan on his shoulder. He paused to find Genevieve and Veronica, two of his former mistresses. Seeing them
together, he realized how alike the striking widows looked. Both were tall, dark-haired, and curvaceous. He canvassed the
cobwebs in his brain and realized all of his past lovers had similar attributes. Well, those he could recollect.
Tristan bowed and lifted each of their hands for the requisite air kiss. “Ladies, it is a great pleasure to see you again.”
“Were your ears burning?” Veronica said in an exaggerated boudoir voice. “You are the subject du jour.”
“I am delighted,” he lied. He’d grown increasingly frustrated with the notoriety the papers had whipped up. How the devil
he’d ever find a bride in this circuslike atmosphere evaded him. But find one he must.
Genevieve tittered. “We were comparing you to all of our other gentlemen admirers.”
He’d bedded more than his fare share of mistresses, but this situation was certainly unique among his experiences. “What did
you conclude?”
Genevieve leaned closer and squeezed his arm. “We agreed you were the naughtiest of all our lovers.”
He regarded her with a wicked grin. “Praise indeed.”
Veronica glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “How does it feel to be England’s most sought-after bachelor?”
High-pitched giggling rang out from behind him. He rolled his eyes. Not again.
Genevieve’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Watch out, Shelbourne. A bevy of little misses are stalking you.”
He grimaced. “Rescue me?”
The two women laughed, blew him a kiss, and drifted away, leaving him to the predators. When he turned round, the four silly
chits he’d seen earlier halted and stared at him, agog. Given their youthful faces and puritanical white gowns, he surmised
not one of them was a day over seventeen. He needed a wife, but he’d no intention of robbing the proverbial cradle.
When they continued to gape at him as if he were a Greek statue come to life, he took a step closer. “Boo.”
Their shrieks rang in his ears as he walked off into the crowd. Ignoring the avid stares directed at him, Tristan squeezed
past numerous hot, perspiring bodies, and not the kind one hoped to find naked and willing in bed. With more than a little
regret, he banished thoughts of Naked and Willing in order to concentrate on Virtuous and Virginal. First he must locate Lord
and Lady Broughton. Perhaps his hostess would introduce him to a sensible young lady of good breeding. Perhaps pigs would
fly, too.
He might have avoided all this nonsense if his dear mama had cooperated. When he’d informed her of his bridal requirements
a month ago, she’d swatted him with her fan and told him he had rocks in his head.
A loud bang nearly sent him ducking for cover. Feminine gasps erupted all around him. Alarmed, he sought the source of the
disturbance and realized it was only the slamming of the card room door. The gentleman responsible for this discourteous act
was none other than his oldest friend, Marc Darcett, Earl of Hawkfield.
Tristan hailed Hawk with a wave and walked in that direction. Intent upon reaching his friend, Tristan failed to notice the
impending danger until something crunched beneath his shoe. A quick glance to the floor confirmed his worst fear—the thirteenth
incident of a dropped fan. Damn and blast, he’d crushed it.
He lifted his gaze, expecting a devious mama and her blushing daughter. Instead, a petite young woman with honey-blond hair
stood staring at his shoe. She said something that sounded suspiciously like ashes to ashes, dust to dust. With all the voices ringing in his ears, he assumed he’d misheard.
Though he was tempted to walk past her, he couldn’t ignore the fan he’d broken. “I beg your pardon,” he said, bending to retrieve
the mangled ivory sticks.
“You are not to blame. Someone jostled my arm.”
Her excuse was the worst he’d heard yet. He didn’t even bother to hide his cynicism as his gaze traveled up her white gown.
Blue ribbons trimmed her bodice, drawing his attention to her generous décolletage. He continued his perusal to her heart-shaped
face. She watched him with twitching lips. Pillow-plump lips. He inhaled on a constricted breath. Lord, with that mouth she
could make a fortune as a courtesan.
Her long-lashed eyes twinkled. “Sir, if you will return the remains, I will see to its burial.”
Her witty remark stunned him. Belatedly, he realized he was grinning up at her. She probably thought he’d fallen for her ruse.
Exasperated with himself, he grasped the broken sticks, rose, and placed the ruined fan in her small gloved hands.
He met her amused gaze again, noting she did not simper or blush. She was no miss fresh out of the schoolroom. “I apologize
for the damage. Allow me to make reparations,” he said.
“It is quite beyond repair,” she said.
“I insist upon compensating you for—”
“My pain and suffering?” She laughed. “I assure you the fan’s death is a relief to me. Look, you can see it is exceedingly
ugly.”
They’d not had a proper introduction, and yet, she’d invited him to come closer. He decided to oblige her and find out if
her intentions extended beyond droll quips. While she chattered about a dim shop light and putrid green paint, he stole another
glance at her mouth, picturing those lips damp and kiss-swollen. Slow heat eddied in his veins.
She continued speaking in an unreserved manner as if they were old friends rather than strangers. “Even my maids refused to
take the fan,” she said. “So I decided to carry the pitiful thing at least once.”
A footman carrying a tray of champagne paused before them. She lifted up on her toes like a ballerina to place the ruined
fan upon it. Pint-sized she might be, but her flimsy skirts outlined a deliciously rounded bottom. He liked voluptuous women,
and his practiced eye told him this one had the body of a goddess.
His blood stirred. He wanted her.
A warning clanged in his head. She was probably married, and he never dallied with other men’s wives. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. He found himself hoping she was a willing
and lonely widow, but he meant to do more than hope.
“Poor little fan. May you rest in peace.” She pirouetted and gave him a dazzling smile. “There now, I’m done mourning.”
She was exceptionally clever, but without the brittle artifice common among the ton. He caught her gaze, willing her with
his eyes. “Now that the funeral is over, perhaps you would allow me to escort you to the refreshment table.” And thence to
a more private location.
“You are too kind, but I must return to my friends.”
Triumph surged inside him. She’d said friends, but made no mention of a husband. “Will you allow me the pleasure of your company a little longer? I mean to persuade you to accept my offer.”
“I have dozens of other fans,” she said. “Your apology is more than sufficient.”
She intended to play hard to get. Since he’d come of age, women had always pursued him. At the prospect of a chase, excitement
raced through his blood. But he must proceed with caution. If he’d misjudged her, she would take offense. A smile tugged at
his mouth. He knew exactly which card to play.
He reache. . .
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