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Synopsis
A hundred years has passed since the bitter rivalry between the St. Claires and the Huntingtons began. But in London, the feud goes on . . . UNDER THE COVER OF NIGHT, NOTHING IS FORBIDDEN Lily St. Claire will do anything for the family that saved her from the streets. With their support, the young widow has become the hostess of The Devil's Fancy, London's most exclusive gaming den. She's determined to restore the St. Claire family fortune, lost a century before to the despised Huntington clan. But a ghost from her past may be her ultimate undoing . . . Lord Aidan Huntington is handsome and wealthy, with a taste for adventure and a reputation for wickedness. A gambler and a rake, Aidan can't resist a seductive woman with secrets - but one naughty night with Lily leaves him wanting more. As Lily is drawn into London's dark underworld by an old enemy, Aidan will risk everything to save the woman who has awakened his deepest desires.
Release date: May 22, 2012
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 362
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One Naughty Night
Laurel McKee
“As powerful and romantic as McKee’s fans could desire. McKee shows readers she is a force to be reckoned with, an author who can turn a villain into a delicious hero. The action, romance, suspense, and intriguing historical details all add to readers’ pleasure.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Book three in the Daughters of Erin Trilogy is riveting, exciting, and oh, so romantic… Readers will love this page-turner!”
—RomRevToday.com
“5 stars! Had me hooked from the start… I absolutely loved this story.”
—SeducedbyaBook.com
“The third of this thrilling Irish series by Laurel McKee left me with no doubt that this series is truly a winner. McKee is able to spin an Irish tale like no other romance writer I have read before… [She] sweeps the reader away on a fantastical and romantic journey through old Ireland.”
—FreshFiction.com
“The story of Caroline and Grant’s love is unexpected and romantic. Historical romance readers will devour it. Laurel McKee does a splendid job of continuing the series and will have readers coming back for more.”
—NightOwlReviews.com
“A great concluding tale to the Daughters of Erin series… McKee writes spectacular love scenes for her characters in this novel that leave you breathless… [She] pens a lush and fabulous historical romance that will steal your heart and make you smile.”
—TheSeasonforRomance.com
“Stellar writing, a charismatic hero, and fearless heroine, an amazing blend of suspense, action, and romance, Lady of Seduction will entice, exasperate, and enchant readers without mercy… [The characters’] journeys have been unforgettable and their happily-ever-afters rewarding beyond expectations. As a devoted fan, I look forward to whatever stories come next. Laurel McKee books are automatic ‘Must Buys.’ ”
—RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“Fast-paced… an exciting thriller starring a courageous heroine and a man seeking redemption even if it means his life… Fans of the series will marvel at Laurel McKee’s talent… Sub-genre fans will enjoy the entire well-written trilogy.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4 Stars! Fascinating… readers will be eager to read the final story in McKee’s trilogy.”
—RT Book Reviews
“For a thrilling, sensuous trip to old Ireland, don’t miss Duchess of Sin… I recommend reading the first book, and I look forward to Lady of Seduction.”
—RomRevToday.com
“A truly remarkable book that I could not turn away from… a one-of-a-kind read [with] a love to warm the heart and an adventure that never ends”
—FreshFiction.com
“My kind of story!”
—Mary Balogh, New York Times bestselling author
“An unforgettable love story… captivating and poignant! Laurel McKee wields her pen with grace and magic.”
—Lorraine Heath, New York Times bestselling author of Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel
“4 Stars! McKee sets the stage for a romantic adventure that captures the spirit of Ireland and a pair of star-crossed lovers to perfection.”
—RT Book Reviews
“I am completely hooked on this series already—and I was from nearly the first page of this book! Ms. McKee tells a masterful story of love, rebellion, and beneath it all, devotion to a land and people… Elizabeth and Will’s emotional attachment, as well as the obvious physical chemistry they share, leaps from the page.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Ms. Laurel McKee’s magical pen captivates you instantaneously! She has fashioned blistering, sensual, romantic scenes and a love story that will be forever etched in your mind.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Eliza’s and Will’s happy-ever-after, once reached, is both powerfully satisfying and forever engraved on the reader’s mind and heart. Every word sings with unyielding intensity… Beautifully written, Countess of Scandal reads like a captivating love story of epic proportions. The ultimate page-turner.”
—RomanceJunkies.com
“A hero to steal your heart!”
—Elizabeth Boyle, New York Times bestselling author
“An immensely satisfying and sophisticated blend of history and romance. I loved every gorgeous, breathtaking page!”
—Julianne MacLean, USA Today bestselling author of When a Stranger Loves Me
“Countess of Scandal delivers on all fronts. The story raced along, zigging and zagging from Dublin to the countryside, from uneasy peace to all-out war. And the romance… very satisfying!”
—MyShelf.com
“A vivid historical tale with breathtaking characters.”
—Michelle Willingham, author of Taming Her Irish Warrior
“Rich, vivid, and passionate.”
—Nicola Cornick, USA Today bestselling author of The Undoing of a Lady
London, 1841
It was a complete disaster.
Lily St. Claire ran down the red-carpeted stairs of the Majestic Theater and through the gilded, near-empty lobby. A few people lingered there on the velvet banquettes or at the mirrored bar, sipping champagne. But most were in their seats and their fine boxes, savoring her ruin.
The long, pleated silk and muslin skirts of her Juliet costume wrapped around her legs, and she stumbled. Even the costume seemed to be against her tonight. She snatched her skirts up in great handfuls, crushing the fine fabric, and kept running.
Lily burst out the doors and onto the marble steps that led to the theater. Earlier that evening, when her nervous hopes were still alive, carriages had deposited their owners at the foot of those same steps. Ladies in fur-trimmed cloaks and gentlemen in top hats had flowed up them, all of society come to see a new William St. Claire production.
“It is sure to be excellent,” they said to each other. “His As You Like It last season was marvelous. A triumph!”
Her adopted father’s Shakespeare productions were always a triumph, year after year, even in the crowded London theatrical scene. They paid for the Majestic and helped with all the St. Claires’ many business operations, both respectable and not so much. But As You Like It had starred William’s wife, Katherine St. Claire, a glittering star of the stage, in her farewell performance as Rosalind.
He had not been so careful in his casting of Romeo and Juliet.
“What a fool I was,” Lily whispered. After her youthful life in the back alleys of London, she had thought she could never feel foolish again, especially over mere playacting, but here she was. She hurried down the steps and around the side of the building, hoping to find a hiding place before the audience departed. They were all watching the farce that always followed the main play, but that would be over soon and everyone would be leaving the theater. She didn’t want to hear their comments.
In his own gentle way, her father had told her that she was not yet ready for a lead role. “You learned so much as Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew last year, my dear,” he said when she pressed him about Juliet. “Perhaps one more season would help prepare you…”
But no. Stubborn fool that she was, she had insisted that all her acting lessons, all her years of watching the St. Claires since they adopted her when she was nine, were enough. She was ready to be a real actress.
To be a real St. Claire.
But as soon as she stepped onto the stage, with the lights dazzling her eyes and the Renaissance velvet costume weighing her down, she froze. She could not remember her lines or her blocking, could not even remember her character’s name. Only when the actress playing the nurse grabbed her hand hard and mumbled her first lines into her ear had she remembered.
After that she stumbled through the play like a numb, terrified fawn, the whole thing a horrifying blur. She didn’t know how she ever made it to the end.
It was certainly not the most terrible thing that had ever happened to her, Lily thought as she kicked out at a pile of crates stacked by the wall. Pain shot through her toes. No, freezing up onstage was nothing to watching her mother die of opium addiction or starving and picking pockets on the streets of Whitechapel, as she had all her life before the St. Claires took her in. It wasn’t like being caught by the wrong people at the wrong time.
But the St. Claires had saved her from all that, had raised her as their own, educated her, fed her, clothed her. Loved her. That made this failure even worse. It wasn’t just her failure—it brought them down too.
The Majestic was her father’s great dream. He had fought so hard for it and worked so much to make it a success. And she, with her foolish self-confidence and her stubbornness, had ruined its season opening.
Lily made her way through the maze of loading docks behind the theater, where scenery and crates of costumes were unloaded. Usually the stagehands hid there for a quick smoke or nip of gin, away from Katherine St. Claire’s sharp eyes, but tonight the docks were deserted.
She dropped heavily onto a wooden bench, letting her skirts fall around her. She dragged her veiled cap from her head and shook out her heavy brown hair.
“I suppose I’ll have to marry Harry Nichols now,” she said, and shivered. Harry had been a most persistent suitor lately, and he was a prosperous one with his greengrocer stores and house in Piccadilly. He was also handsome enough in a florid way and well mannered.
But there was something in his eyes when he looked at her that she did not like.
“Now, that would be a shame,” a deep, brandy-smooth voice said from the shadows.
Lily leaped from the bench and whirled around. It was so dark that at first she couldn’t see anything at all. She could only hear the soft sound of breathing, the slight brush of fine wool fabric.
Her body grew tense and alert, every instinct from her childhood in the slums rushing back over her.
She had become weak in recent years, letting her guard down, not paying attention to every aspect of her surroundings. In Whitechapel, she would have been dead minutes ago.
“Who is there?” she called. Her hands curled into fists as she scanned the dock. “Show yourself!”
A man stepped from the shadows, his hands up, palms out. A lit cheroot was held between his lips, which curled in an infuriatingly amused smile. He didn’t look like a Whitechapel creeper. He was tall and leanly muscled, dressed in a well-cut evening coat of dark blue wool and a cream-colored silk waistcoat. A simply tied crisp white cravat looped about his neck, skewered with a sapphire stickpin.
Lily stepped back to study him closer. He was handsome, she had to admit—almost absurdly so, as if he were a painting or a sculpture. His hair, a deep, glossy mahogany brown, swept back from his face in waves to tumble over his collar. His face was all sharp, aristocratic planes, with bladelike cheekbones, a straight nose, and a square jaw with the tiniest dimple set just above it. His eyes were very, very blue, almost glowing, set off by smooth olive skin and a shadow of dark whiskers along his jaw.
He didn’t look like a criminal, lurking about to rob unsuspecting theatergoers. But Lily knew very well how appearances were deceptive. After all, didn’t she appear to be a lady now—even if she was not a Shakespearean actress? In reality, deep down, she was still just that street urchin, daughter of a whore.
The man slowly plucked the cheroot from between his lips and held it between his thumb and forefinger as he exhaled a plume of smoke. It wreathed around his head, making him look like a demon emerging from hell. A handsome Mephistopheles sent to tempt her.
“Are you going to call for a constable to arrest me?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?” Lily demanded.
He held up the cheroot. “Just having a quick smoke. I don’t much care for farces.”
Or for pitifully bad productions of Shakespeare? She dared not ask. She watched as he dropped the cheroot and carefully extinguished it under his polished evening shoe.
“I’m not here to start a fire, I promise,” he said with an enticing grin. “Or to accost young ladies fleeing from Verona.”
“No,” Lily said. A sudden weariness washed over her, as if the whole long, awful evening had caught up to her. She sat back down on the bench. “I don’t suppose you are. And this is a good place to hide from farces.”
“And from my mother,” he said. “She does enjoy farces, which may be why she’s always trying to introduce me to blasted ‘eligible females.’ ”
Lily had to laugh at the wry tone of his voice. She imagined “eligible females” chased him down wherever he went. She still wasn’t sure about him—he was a stranger, after all, even if he was unearthly handsome. She knew better than to trust any man. But she was suddenly glad not to be alone.
He was as good a distraction as any.
She slid over on the bench in silent invitation, and he sat down next to her. He didn’t touch her, but the bench was small, and he was close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. He smelled delicious, of some spicy cologne, expensive soap, and something wonderfully dark that was only him. She had to resist the urge to bury her head in his shoulder and just inhale him, as if he were a drug that could make her forget.
“So you have to marry too?” she said.
“Someday, I suppose.” He took a small silver flask from inside his coat and unstoppered it before holding it out to her in silent invitation.
Lily cautiously sniffed it. Brandy, and very good stuff too. She took a long sip and handed it back. He also drank, and she watched in fascination as his strong throat moved above the cravat.
“But,” he continued, “I am luckily not promised to this Harry Nichols, whoever he might be. The name alone sounds appalling.”
Lily laughed. The warm smoothness of the brandy—and his close presence—seemed to be working its spell on her. “He’s not so bad, I suppose. There are surely worse fates than to be Mrs. Nichols, queen of the greengrocers.”
“But there must be better ones as well.”
She thought of her wretched failure as an actress, her lack of skills in anything else except keeping accounts. She was rather good at numbers, but that held little appeal next to her glamorous brothers and sisters. “Not for me, I think.”
He shrugged and put away the flask. “We all have to do what we must.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “And what do you do?”
“Not much at all,” he answered with a laugh. “To the despair of my father. I left Oxford last year and have been adrift ever since.”
“What does your father want you to do, then?”
“Go into the church or, failing that, the army. But he prefers the church, as he has a rather valuable living to bestow and it would get me out of the way.”
Lily laughed at the image of this obviously rakish young man giving a sermon in black robes. His female parishioners would be wildly distracted, fainting in the aisle and cornering him in the vestibule. “You? A vicar?”
“Exactly so. You see, we have only just met, and you see the folly of such a scheme. My father is harder to persuade.”
Lily shook her head. “The church is a most respectable profession.”
“And as such, it deserves a respectable practitioner.”
“And that isn’t you?”
“Certainly not. I also have the chance to try my hand at some business in the West Indies, which would probably suit me much better.”
His choices were the church or the tropics? Lily kicked at the hem of her costume as she thought about the suffocating expectations of other people, of the world at large. How they pressed in on all sides, no matter if you lived in a palace or a hovel.
“What would you do if you could do anything at all?” she asked.
He studied her closely, and for just a moment his careless, rakish demeanor fell away, and he looked older and far more serious. His blue eyes darkened.
“I would write plays, I suppose,” he said.
Lily was surprised. She didn’t know what she had expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. “Write plays?”
His smile came back, like a mask dropping back into place. “You’re astonished.”
“Of course not. I completely understand anyone falling in love with the theater.” She thought again of all her hopes for the stage—and the way they crashed down around her. “It just doesn’t always love you back.”
She suddenly felt a gentle touch on her hand and looked down to see his fingers against hers, his hand large and dark on her pale skin, his fingers long and elegant. She usually didn’t like men touching her; it brought back the old, terrible memories. But with him, she didn’t want to pull away at all.
“It was only your first night,” he said. “I’m sure even Richard Burbage suffered stage fright at his debut. Who wouldn’t when faced with Shakespeare? The next time will be very different.”
Lily shook her head. Her cheeks burned to think that he, of all people, witnessed tonight’s debacle. And now he tried to comfort her! “There won’t be a next time, not for me. At least you will not have to speak your lines right there in front of everyone once you have written them.”
“But I would have to give them into the hands of others and let them go,” he said. “I’m not sure I have that much trust in me.”
“I’m quite sure I wouldn’t,” Lily said. “It is very hard for me to trust at all.”
“Yet you’ve talked to me, a stranger, tonight.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re rather easy to talk to. Maybe it’s because you’re a stranger.”
“Odd. I was thinking the same about you… Juliet.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her fingers.
His lips were warm, soft and hard at the same time, and their touch made a strange, sparkling haze drop over her. As she watched, fascinated, he turned her hand over in his and pressed an openmouthed kiss at the center of her palm. The tip of his tongue then touched the pulse that beat at her wrist, and she shivered.
Lily laid her other hand on his bent head and felt the rough silk of his hair under her touch. If she had to marry Harry Nichols, to spend her life in the real world of shops and streets and housework, didn’t she deserve this one moment out of time? This one kiss with a sinfully handsome stranger who seemed to banish her fears with just a touch?
He took her in his arms and drew her close, until there was not even a particle of light between them. “Juliet,” he whispered, and his mouth met hers in a hungry kiss.
Lily met him eagerly, holding tightly to his shoulders to keep from falling. His kiss made her feel just like that, as if she were tumbling through the night sky among the flashing stars.
His tongue pressed past her lips to touch and tangle with hers. He tasted of brandy and mint, hot and delicious, and he was such a good kisser. Lily had never been kissed like this, never felt like this before. She curled her hands into the front of his coat and felt his heart pounding against her.
He groaned, a deep, echoing sound, and his lips slid from hers to press against the side of her neck. He kissed that soft, sensitive spot just below her ear, nipping it lightly with his teeth and then soothing it with the touch of his tongue. His breath brushed warmly over her skin.
“Lily!” someone called out, pulling her abruptly back down to the hard, cold earth. “Lily, are you out here?”
It was her mother, her voice filled with worry. And she was getting closer.
Lily tore herself out of the stranger’s arms and leaped to her feet. She swayed dizzily, but when he reached out for her again, she stumbled back. “I… I have to go,” she whispered.
He stood up beside her, not trying to touch her again. His blue eyes glowed in the shadows. “Where can I find you?” he said hoarsely.
She shook her head. He was a dream—and she had to wake up now. She whirled around and ran away from him, lifting her skirts to flee once again.
“Wait! Please,” he called after her. But she didn’t dare look back.
London, Three Years Later
“You see, Lily, it’s the perfect place for sin.”
Lily St. Claire Nichols leaned back on the seat of the open carriage as it came to a halt, staring up at the building from under the brim of her fashionable satin and net bonnet. It was a very handsome structure, to be sure, four stories elegantly built in the uniform white stone of Mayfair. Polished marble front steps led up to a glossy black-painted door, and there were lots of gleaming windows to reflect the pearl-gray London sky behind their discreet velvet draperies. It blended perfectly with its genteel neighbors.
But sinful? She had seen lots of places much better suited to that.
“If you say so, Dominic,” she said with a laugh. “But I would have thought it the perfect place for drinking tea and playing the pianoforte.”
“Ah, sister dear, as usual you have no imagination,” Dominic said. As he leaped down from the carriage to the flagstone walkway, two passing young ladies paused to watch him, giggling and blushing under their fringed parasols.
Lily bit her lip to keep from laughing. It was always thus with Dominic—his golden, Apollo-like good looks, combined with the natural flamboyance of the St. Claires made it utterly impossible to look away from him. He always exuded energy and good cheer, a glow that drew people in, just as their famous parents and her siblings did. When the St. Claires were all together, they nearly obliterated the sun.
Where Lily, only an adopted St. Claire, contented herself with her brown hair, a sensible nature that kept her wilder siblings from too much trouble, and their reflected glory. Someone had to be a practical Athena to their Dionysian revels, to keep track of the accounts and organize their businesses. She liked keeping to the shadows, especially after her one disastrous moment in the theatrical sun three years ago.
She was done with the spotlight. Now she had a new task—to help her brother Dominic with his latest venture: a fashionable, luxurious gambling club right in the heart of Mayfair. It seemed a good plan. Aristocrats often had deep pockets and longed for decadent but discreet ways to empty them. The St. Claires were good at helping them with that task.
It seemed like a good place for Lily to start over too. Her husband had been dead for a year now. It was time to move on, to forget the past.
“Thanks to you, Dominic, I have plenty of imagination,” she said as he helped her alight from the carriage. She looped her gloved hand through his arm and went with him up the gleaming steps. Despite her caution, she felt a bright spark of excitement deep inside. She had a good feeling about this place.
“It’s a very pretty house in a fine neighborhood,” she went on. “But how will anyone even know to come here and gamble their money away? It’s not the most obvious.”
“That’s the very point! If we want to attract dukes and earls, we have to be discreet and very exclusive. They won’t want the queen to know what they’re up to.” Dominic drew a shining brass key from inside his fine, blue wool coat. “We will have a small brass sign here on the door along with a demon’s head knocker. ‘The Devil’s Fancy—Members Only.’ And, of course, there will be a very strict and respectable butler to man the door.”
“I’m glad you’ve thought of everything, even a dramatic name,” Lily said, stepping inside. She blinked at the sudden, dark shadows after the bright day. “And where will these members, these dukes and earls, come from?”
“Nothing easier, Lily, as you well know. You’re the one with the brain for accounting, after all. Our investors will drop hints among their friends. The word will spread through the ballrooms and the gentlemen’s clubs. Everyone will want to join.”
Lily untied her bonnet and swept it off to get a better look at the surroundings. She had to admit it was impressive. The foyer, with white and gold walls and elaborate wedding-cake plasterwork, soared upward to a domed ceiling painted with a fresco of a classical gods’ feast against a bright, blue sky. A winding staircase with a fine wrought-iron balustrade led to the public rooms above, while just beyond she glimpsed a small room that could be the office of that stern butler.
She could picture liveried footmen greeting their guests with glasses of champagne, could hear the rustle of lacy crinoline skirts, laughter, and chatter floating along those stairs. The whir of a roulette wheel, the clink of coins.
“You have investors, then?” she said. “Rich ones?”
“You always do get right to the point, don’t you, Lily?”
Certainly she did. The stink of the streets, where she spent her childhood picking pockets and scrounging to survive until the St. Claires rescued her, was never far enough away. Even here in elegant Mayfair.
“Investors?” she said again.
“Of course, with Brendan’s help.” Their brother Brendan was magical with people—they could never say no to him. Odd, since he always seemed the strong, silent type, the sort of man no one could fathom. So different from Dominic. “Just a few so far, but very desirable ones. Viscount Brownville. Sir Archibald Overton. Lady Smythe. Even a duke’s nephew, perhaps. Brendan was a bit secretive about that one.”
“All those? How did Brendan reel them in?”
“They know a good investment when they see one.” Dominic propped his booted foot on the lowest marble step, his handsome, smiling face suddenly darkening. “Maybe with one duke, we could lure Carston to invest here as well. Take a chunk of his ill-gotten gains.”
The Duke of Carston. The Huntington family. It always came back to them. That high-in-the-instep ducal family always darkened every St. Claire moment of triumph. They hung over everything due to the old legend of the way they once ruined the St. Claires.
Lily gently laid her hand on Dominic’s arm. She wasn’t about to let Carston, or anyone, ruin this, her new beginning. “Show me the upstairs rooms.”
He nodded and led her up the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the luxurious, empty space. Off the landing were three beautiful salons, shimmering with more white and gold. There were vast, elaborately carved marble fireplaces and tall windows draped in pale yellow brocade and velvet trimmed in heavy tassels and fringe.
“This can be the main gaming salon,” Dominic said eagerly, his dark mood seemingly forgotten. “And over there a ballroom and a dining room.”
Lily laughed. “Dining and dancing too?”
“Of course! A French chef, a fine orchestra…”
“It’s a good thing we have rich investors, then.”
“And we’ll soon have more. Our investment will be returned many times over, Lily. You’ll see.” Dominic strode through the empty rooms, throwing back the draperies to let in the daylight. “I will . . .
—RT Book Reviews
“Book three in the Daughters of Erin Trilogy is riveting, exciting, and oh, so romantic… Readers will love this page-turner!”
—RomRevToday.com
“5 stars! Had me hooked from the start… I absolutely loved this story.”
—SeducedbyaBook.com
“The third of this thrilling Irish series by Laurel McKee left me with no doubt that this series is truly a winner. McKee is able to spin an Irish tale like no other romance writer I have read before… [She] sweeps the reader away on a fantastical and romantic journey through old Ireland.”
—FreshFiction.com
“The story of Caroline and Grant’s love is unexpected and romantic. Historical romance readers will devour it. Laurel McKee does a splendid job of continuing the series and will have readers coming back for more.”
—NightOwlReviews.com
“A great concluding tale to the Daughters of Erin series… McKee writes spectacular love scenes for her characters in this novel that leave you breathless… [She] pens a lush and fabulous historical romance that will steal your heart and make you smile.”
—TheSeasonforRomance.com
“Stellar writing, a charismatic hero, and fearless heroine, an amazing blend of suspense, action, and romance, Lady of Seduction will entice, exasperate, and enchant readers without mercy… [The characters’] journeys have been unforgettable and their happily-ever-afters rewarding beyond expectations. As a devoted fan, I look forward to whatever stories come next. Laurel McKee books are automatic ‘Must Buys.’ ”
—RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“Fast-paced… an exciting thriller starring a courageous heroine and a man seeking redemption even if it means his life… Fans of the series will marvel at Laurel McKee’s talent… Sub-genre fans will enjoy the entire well-written trilogy.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4 Stars! Fascinating… readers will be eager to read the final story in McKee’s trilogy.”
—RT Book Reviews
“For a thrilling, sensuous trip to old Ireland, don’t miss Duchess of Sin… I recommend reading the first book, and I look forward to Lady of Seduction.”
—RomRevToday.com
“A truly remarkable book that I could not turn away from… a one-of-a-kind read [with] a love to warm the heart and an adventure that never ends”
—FreshFiction.com
“My kind of story!”
—Mary Balogh, New York Times bestselling author
“An unforgettable love story… captivating and poignant! Laurel McKee wields her pen with grace and magic.”
—Lorraine Heath, New York Times bestselling author of Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel
“4 Stars! McKee sets the stage for a romantic adventure that captures the spirit of Ireland and a pair of star-crossed lovers to perfection.”
—RT Book Reviews
“I am completely hooked on this series already—and I was from nearly the first page of this book! Ms. McKee tells a masterful story of love, rebellion, and beneath it all, devotion to a land and people… Elizabeth and Will’s emotional attachment, as well as the obvious physical chemistry they share, leaps from the page.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Ms. Laurel McKee’s magical pen captivates you instantaneously! She has fashioned blistering, sensual, romantic scenes and a love story that will be forever etched in your mind.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Eliza’s and Will’s happy-ever-after, once reached, is both powerfully satisfying and forever engraved on the reader’s mind and heart. Every word sings with unyielding intensity… Beautifully written, Countess of Scandal reads like a captivating love story of epic proportions. The ultimate page-turner.”
—RomanceJunkies.com
“A hero to steal your heart!”
—Elizabeth Boyle, New York Times bestselling author
“An immensely satisfying and sophisticated blend of history and romance. I loved every gorgeous, breathtaking page!”
—Julianne MacLean, USA Today bestselling author of When a Stranger Loves Me
“Countess of Scandal delivers on all fronts. The story raced along, zigging and zagging from Dublin to the countryside, from uneasy peace to all-out war. And the romance… very satisfying!”
—MyShelf.com
“A vivid historical tale with breathtaking characters.”
—Michelle Willingham, author of Taming Her Irish Warrior
“Rich, vivid, and passionate.”
—Nicola Cornick, USA Today bestselling author of The Undoing of a Lady
London, 1841
It was a complete disaster.
Lily St. Claire ran down the red-carpeted stairs of the Majestic Theater and through the gilded, near-empty lobby. A few people lingered there on the velvet banquettes or at the mirrored bar, sipping champagne. But most were in their seats and their fine boxes, savoring her ruin.
The long, pleated silk and muslin skirts of her Juliet costume wrapped around her legs, and she stumbled. Even the costume seemed to be against her tonight. She snatched her skirts up in great handfuls, crushing the fine fabric, and kept running.
Lily burst out the doors and onto the marble steps that led to the theater. Earlier that evening, when her nervous hopes were still alive, carriages had deposited their owners at the foot of those same steps. Ladies in fur-trimmed cloaks and gentlemen in top hats had flowed up them, all of society come to see a new William St. Claire production.
“It is sure to be excellent,” they said to each other. “His As You Like It last season was marvelous. A triumph!”
Her adopted father’s Shakespeare productions were always a triumph, year after year, even in the crowded London theatrical scene. They paid for the Majestic and helped with all the St. Claires’ many business operations, both respectable and not so much. But As You Like It had starred William’s wife, Katherine St. Claire, a glittering star of the stage, in her farewell performance as Rosalind.
He had not been so careful in his casting of Romeo and Juliet.
“What a fool I was,” Lily whispered. After her youthful life in the back alleys of London, she had thought she could never feel foolish again, especially over mere playacting, but here she was. She hurried down the steps and around the side of the building, hoping to find a hiding place before the audience departed. They were all watching the farce that always followed the main play, but that would be over soon and everyone would be leaving the theater. She didn’t want to hear their comments.
In his own gentle way, her father had told her that she was not yet ready for a lead role. “You learned so much as Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew last year, my dear,” he said when she pressed him about Juliet. “Perhaps one more season would help prepare you…”
But no. Stubborn fool that she was, she had insisted that all her acting lessons, all her years of watching the St. Claires since they adopted her when she was nine, were enough. She was ready to be a real actress.
To be a real St. Claire.
But as soon as she stepped onto the stage, with the lights dazzling her eyes and the Renaissance velvet costume weighing her down, she froze. She could not remember her lines or her blocking, could not even remember her character’s name. Only when the actress playing the nurse grabbed her hand hard and mumbled her first lines into her ear had she remembered.
After that she stumbled through the play like a numb, terrified fawn, the whole thing a horrifying blur. She didn’t know how she ever made it to the end.
It was certainly not the most terrible thing that had ever happened to her, Lily thought as she kicked out at a pile of crates stacked by the wall. Pain shot through her toes. No, freezing up onstage was nothing to watching her mother die of opium addiction or starving and picking pockets on the streets of Whitechapel, as she had all her life before the St. Claires took her in. It wasn’t like being caught by the wrong people at the wrong time.
But the St. Claires had saved her from all that, had raised her as their own, educated her, fed her, clothed her. Loved her. That made this failure even worse. It wasn’t just her failure—it brought them down too.
The Majestic was her father’s great dream. He had fought so hard for it and worked so much to make it a success. And she, with her foolish self-confidence and her stubbornness, had ruined its season opening.
Lily made her way through the maze of loading docks behind the theater, where scenery and crates of costumes were unloaded. Usually the stagehands hid there for a quick smoke or nip of gin, away from Katherine St. Claire’s sharp eyes, but tonight the docks were deserted.
She dropped heavily onto a wooden bench, letting her skirts fall around her. She dragged her veiled cap from her head and shook out her heavy brown hair.
“I suppose I’ll have to marry Harry Nichols now,” she said, and shivered. Harry had been a most persistent suitor lately, and he was a prosperous one with his greengrocer stores and house in Piccadilly. He was also handsome enough in a florid way and well mannered.
But there was something in his eyes when he looked at her that she did not like.
“Now, that would be a shame,” a deep, brandy-smooth voice said from the shadows.
Lily leaped from the bench and whirled around. It was so dark that at first she couldn’t see anything at all. She could only hear the soft sound of breathing, the slight brush of fine wool fabric.
Her body grew tense and alert, every instinct from her childhood in the slums rushing back over her.
She had become weak in recent years, letting her guard down, not paying attention to every aspect of her surroundings. In Whitechapel, she would have been dead minutes ago.
“Who is there?” she called. Her hands curled into fists as she scanned the dock. “Show yourself!”
A man stepped from the shadows, his hands up, palms out. A lit cheroot was held between his lips, which curled in an infuriatingly amused smile. He didn’t look like a Whitechapel creeper. He was tall and leanly muscled, dressed in a well-cut evening coat of dark blue wool and a cream-colored silk waistcoat. A simply tied crisp white cravat looped about his neck, skewered with a sapphire stickpin.
Lily stepped back to study him closer. He was handsome, she had to admit—almost absurdly so, as if he were a painting or a sculpture. His hair, a deep, glossy mahogany brown, swept back from his face in waves to tumble over his collar. His face was all sharp, aristocratic planes, with bladelike cheekbones, a straight nose, and a square jaw with the tiniest dimple set just above it. His eyes were very, very blue, almost glowing, set off by smooth olive skin and a shadow of dark whiskers along his jaw.
He didn’t look like a criminal, lurking about to rob unsuspecting theatergoers. But Lily knew very well how appearances were deceptive. After all, didn’t she appear to be a lady now—even if she was not a Shakespearean actress? In reality, deep down, she was still just that street urchin, daughter of a whore.
The man slowly plucked the cheroot from between his lips and held it between his thumb and forefinger as he exhaled a plume of smoke. It wreathed around his head, making him look like a demon emerging from hell. A handsome Mephistopheles sent to tempt her.
“Are you going to call for a constable to arrest me?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?” Lily demanded.
He held up the cheroot. “Just having a quick smoke. I don’t much care for farces.”
Or for pitifully bad productions of Shakespeare? She dared not ask. She watched as he dropped the cheroot and carefully extinguished it under his polished evening shoe.
“I’m not here to start a fire, I promise,” he said with an enticing grin. “Or to accost young ladies fleeing from Verona.”
“No,” Lily said. A sudden weariness washed over her, as if the whole long, awful evening had caught up to her. She sat back down on the bench. “I don’t suppose you are. And this is a good place to hide from farces.”
“And from my mother,” he said. “She does enjoy farces, which may be why she’s always trying to introduce me to blasted ‘eligible females.’ ”
Lily had to laugh at the wry tone of his voice. She imagined “eligible females” chased him down wherever he went. She still wasn’t sure about him—he was a stranger, after all, even if he was unearthly handsome. She knew better than to trust any man. But she was suddenly glad not to be alone.
He was as good a distraction as any.
She slid over on the bench in silent invitation, and he sat down next to her. He didn’t touch her, but the bench was small, and he was close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. He smelled delicious, of some spicy cologne, expensive soap, and something wonderfully dark that was only him. She had to resist the urge to bury her head in his shoulder and just inhale him, as if he were a drug that could make her forget.
“So you have to marry too?” she said.
“Someday, I suppose.” He took a small silver flask from inside his coat and unstoppered it before holding it out to her in silent invitation.
Lily cautiously sniffed it. Brandy, and very good stuff too. She took a long sip and handed it back. He also drank, and she watched in fascination as his strong throat moved above the cravat.
“But,” he continued, “I am luckily not promised to this Harry Nichols, whoever he might be. The name alone sounds appalling.”
Lily laughed. The warm smoothness of the brandy—and his close presence—seemed to be working its spell on her. “He’s not so bad, I suppose. There are surely worse fates than to be Mrs. Nichols, queen of the greengrocers.”
“But there must be better ones as well.”
She thought of her wretched failure as an actress, her lack of skills in anything else except keeping accounts. She was rather good at numbers, but that held little appeal next to her glamorous brothers and sisters. “Not for me, I think.”
He shrugged and put away the flask. “We all have to do what we must.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “And what do you do?”
“Not much at all,” he answered with a laugh. “To the despair of my father. I left Oxford last year and have been adrift ever since.”
“What does your father want you to do, then?”
“Go into the church or, failing that, the army. But he prefers the church, as he has a rather valuable living to bestow and it would get me out of the way.”
Lily laughed at the image of this obviously rakish young man giving a sermon in black robes. His female parishioners would be wildly distracted, fainting in the aisle and cornering him in the vestibule. “You? A vicar?”
“Exactly so. You see, we have only just met, and you see the folly of such a scheme. My father is harder to persuade.”
Lily shook her head. “The church is a most respectable profession.”
“And as such, it deserves a respectable practitioner.”
“And that isn’t you?”
“Certainly not. I also have the chance to try my hand at some business in the West Indies, which would probably suit me much better.”
His choices were the church or the tropics? Lily kicked at the hem of her costume as she thought about the suffocating expectations of other people, of the world at large. How they pressed in on all sides, no matter if you lived in a palace or a hovel.
“What would you do if you could do anything at all?” she asked.
He studied her closely, and for just a moment his careless, rakish demeanor fell away, and he looked older and far more serious. His blue eyes darkened.
“I would write plays, I suppose,” he said.
Lily was surprised. She didn’t know what she had expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. “Write plays?”
His smile came back, like a mask dropping back into place. “You’re astonished.”
“Of course not. I completely understand anyone falling in love with the theater.” She thought again of all her hopes for the stage—and the way they crashed down around her. “It just doesn’t always love you back.”
She suddenly felt a gentle touch on her hand and looked down to see his fingers against hers, his hand large and dark on her pale skin, his fingers long and elegant. She usually didn’t like men touching her; it brought back the old, terrible memories. But with him, she didn’t want to pull away at all.
“It was only your first night,” he said. “I’m sure even Richard Burbage suffered stage fright at his debut. Who wouldn’t when faced with Shakespeare? The next time will be very different.”
Lily shook her head. Her cheeks burned to think that he, of all people, witnessed tonight’s debacle. And now he tried to comfort her! “There won’t be a next time, not for me. At least you will not have to speak your lines right there in front of everyone once you have written them.”
“But I would have to give them into the hands of others and let them go,” he said. “I’m not sure I have that much trust in me.”
“I’m quite sure I wouldn’t,” Lily said. “It is very hard for me to trust at all.”
“Yet you’ve talked to me, a stranger, tonight.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re rather easy to talk to. Maybe it’s because you’re a stranger.”
“Odd. I was thinking the same about you… Juliet.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her fingers.
His lips were warm, soft and hard at the same time, and their touch made a strange, sparkling haze drop over her. As she watched, fascinated, he turned her hand over in his and pressed an openmouthed kiss at the center of her palm. The tip of his tongue then touched the pulse that beat at her wrist, and she shivered.
Lily laid her other hand on his bent head and felt the rough silk of his hair under her touch. If she had to marry Harry Nichols, to spend her life in the real world of shops and streets and housework, didn’t she deserve this one moment out of time? This one kiss with a sinfully handsome stranger who seemed to banish her fears with just a touch?
He took her in his arms and drew her close, until there was not even a particle of light between them. “Juliet,” he whispered, and his mouth met hers in a hungry kiss.
Lily met him eagerly, holding tightly to his shoulders to keep from falling. His kiss made her feel just like that, as if she were tumbling through the night sky among the flashing stars.
His tongue pressed past her lips to touch and tangle with hers. He tasted of brandy and mint, hot and delicious, and he was such a good kisser. Lily had never been kissed like this, never felt like this before. She curled her hands into the front of his coat and felt his heart pounding against her.
He groaned, a deep, echoing sound, and his lips slid from hers to press against the side of her neck. He kissed that soft, sensitive spot just below her ear, nipping it lightly with his teeth and then soothing it with the touch of his tongue. His breath brushed warmly over her skin.
“Lily!” someone called out, pulling her abruptly back down to the hard, cold earth. “Lily, are you out here?”
It was her mother, her voice filled with worry. And she was getting closer.
Lily tore herself out of the stranger’s arms and leaped to her feet. She swayed dizzily, but when he reached out for her again, she stumbled back. “I… I have to go,” she whispered.
He stood up beside her, not trying to touch her again. His blue eyes glowed in the shadows. “Where can I find you?” he said hoarsely.
She shook her head. He was a dream—and she had to wake up now. She whirled around and ran away from him, lifting her skirts to flee once again.
“Wait! Please,” he called after her. But she didn’t dare look back.
London, Three Years Later
“You see, Lily, it’s the perfect place for sin.”
Lily St. Claire Nichols leaned back on the seat of the open carriage as it came to a halt, staring up at the building from under the brim of her fashionable satin and net bonnet. It was a very handsome structure, to be sure, four stories elegantly built in the uniform white stone of Mayfair. Polished marble front steps led up to a glossy black-painted door, and there were lots of gleaming windows to reflect the pearl-gray London sky behind their discreet velvet draperies. It blended perfectly with its genteel neighbors.
But sinful? She had seen lots of places much better suited to that.
“If you say so, Dominic,” she said with a laugh. “But I would have thought it the perfect place for drinking tea and playing the pianoforte.”
“Ah, sister dear, as usual you have no imagination,” Dominic said. As he leaped down from the carriage to the flagstone walkway, two passing young ladies paused to watch him, giggling and blushing under their fringed parasols.
Lily bit her lip to keep from laughing. It was always thus with Dominic—his golden, Apollo-like good looks, combined with the natural flamboyance of the St. Claires made it utterly impossible to look away from him. He always exuded energy and good cheer, a glow that drew people in, just as their famous parents and her siblings did. When the St. Claires were all together, they nearly obliterated the sun.
Where Lily, only an adopted St. Claire, contented herself with her brown hair, a sensible nature that kept her wilder siblings from too much trouble, and their reflected glory. Someone had to be a practical Athena to their Dionysian revels, to keep track of the accounts and organize their businesses. She liked keeping to the shadows, especially after her one disastrous moment in the theatrical sun three years ago.
She was done with the spotlight. Now she had a new task—to help her brother Dominic with his latest venture: a fashionable, luxurious gambling club right in the heart of Mayfair. It seemed a good plan. Aristocrats often had deep pockets and longed for decadent but discreet ways to empty them. The St. Claires were good at helping them with that task.
It seemed like a good place for Lily to start over too. Her husband had been dead for a year now. It was time to move on, to forget the past.
“Thanks to you, Dominic, I have plenty of imagination,” she said as he helped her alight from the carriage. She looped her gloved hand through his arm and went with him up the gleaming steps. Despite her caution, she felt a bright spark of excitement deep inside. She had a good feeling about this place.
“It’s a very pretty house in a fine neighborhood,” she went on. “But how will anyone even know to come here and gamble their money away? It’s not the most obvious.”
“That’s the very point! If we want to attract dukes and earls, we have to be discreet and very exclusive. They won’t want the queen to know what they’re up to.” Dominic drew a shining brass key from inside his fine, blue wool coat. “We will have a small brass sign here on the door along with a demon’s head knocker. ‘The Devil’s Fancy—Members Only.’ And, of course, there will be a very strict and respectable butler to man the door.”
“I’m glad you’ve thought of everything, even a dramatic name,” Lily said, stepping inside. She blinked at the sudden, dark shadows after the bright day. “And where will these members, these dukes and earls, come from?”
“Nothing easier, Lily, as you well know. You’re the one with the brain for accounting, after all. Our investors will drop hints among their friends. The word will spread through the ballrooms and the gentlemen’s clubs. Everyone will want to join.”
Lily untied her bonnet and swept it off to get a better look at the surroundings. She had to admit it was impressive. The foyer, with white and gold walls and elaborate wedding-cake plasterwork, soared upward to a domed ceiling painted with a fresco of a classical gods’ feast against a bright, blue sky. A winding staircase with a fine wrought-iron balustrade led to the public rooms above, while just beyond she glimpsed a small room that could be the office of that stern butler.
She could picture liveried footmen greeting their guests with glasses of champagne, could hear the rustle of lacy crinoline skirts, laughter, and chatter floating along those stairs. The whir of a roulette wheel, the clink of coins.
“You have investors, then?” she said. “Rich ones?”
“You always do get right to the point, don’t you, Lily?”
Certainly she did. The stink of the streets, where she spent her childhood picking pockets and scrounging to survive until the St. Claires rescued her, was never far enough away. Even here in elegant Mayfair.
“Investors?” she said again.
“Of course, with Brendan’s help.” Their brother Brendan was magical with people—they could never say no to him. Odd, since he always seemed the strong, silent type, the sort of man no one could fathom. So different from Dominic. “Just a few so far, but very desirable ones. Viscount Brownville. Sir Archibald Overton. Lady Smythe. Even a duke’s nephew, perhaps. Brendan was a bit secretive about that one.”
“All those? How did Brendan reel them in?”
“They know a good investment when they see one.” Dominic propped his booted foot on the lowest marble step, his handsome, smiling face suddenly darkening. “Maybe with one duke, we could lure Carston to invest here as well. Take a chunk of his ill-gotten gains.”
The Duke of Carston. The Huntington family. It always came back to them. That high-in-the-instep ducal family always darkened every St. Claire moment of triumph. They hung over everything due to the old legend of the way they once ruined the St. Claires.
Lily gently laid her hand on Dominic’s arm. She wasn’t about to let Carston, or anyone, ruin this, her new beginning. “Show me the upstairs rooms.”
He nodded and led her up the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the luxurious, empty space. Off the landing were three beautiful salons, shimmering with more white and gold. There were vast, elaborately carved marble fireplaces and tall windows draped in pale yellow brocade and velvet trimmed in heavy tassels and fringe.
“This can be the main gaming salon,” Dominic said eagerly, his dark mood seemingly forgotten. “And over there a ballroom and a dining room.”
Lily laughed. “Dining and dancing too?”
“Of course! A French chef, a fine orchestra…”
“It’s a good thing we have rich investors, then.”
“And we’ll soon have more. Our investment will be returned many times over, Lily. You’ll see.” Dominic strode through the empty rooms, throwing back the draperies to let in the daylight. “I will . . .
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