Too Tempting to Resist

Book 2: Lords of Midnight

by Cara Elliott

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

In the Wolf's Lair . . . Determined to stop her wayward brother from squandering their dwindling fortune, Lady Eliza Brentford decides to follow him to his favorite den of depravity. There, among the candlelight and raucous revelry, she encounters her brother's role model in debauchery, the notorious Marquess of Haddan, Gryffin Dwight. Staring into his smoldering green eyes, Eliza can't help but find the rakehell nobleman seductively charming-and sinfully attractive. In a Lover's Paradise . . . When Gryffin appears on Eliza's estate as a guest of her brother, a stolen kiss among the garden's blooms leads to a night of unbridled passion. Suddenly the lovely widow feels herself opening up, like the petals of a rose. Could this master of seduction possibly feel true emotion for Eliza? Or is he leading her down the garden path to an Eden of delights no woman can resist-and a fall no woman can escape?

Release date: April 24, 2012

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 368

Sample

 

“Elliott packs the first Lords of Midnight Regency romance with plenty of steamy sex and sly innuendo…As Alexa and Connor flee London to escape vengeful criminals, their mutual attraction sizzles beneath delightful banter. Regency fans will especially appreciate the authentic feel of the historical setting.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A surprisingly resourceful heroine and a sinfully sexy hero, a compelling and danger-spiced plot, lushly sensual love scenes, and lively writing work together perfectly to get Elliott’s new Regency-set Lords of Midnight series off to a delightfully entertaining start.”

—Booklist

“The Lords of Midnight, all sexy and dangerous men, are introduced in this series starter. The romance, adventure, and sensuality readers expect from Elliott are here, along with an unforgettable hoyden heroine and an enigmatic hero. She takes them on a marvelous ride from gambling hells to ballrooms, country estates, and London’s underworld.”

—RT Book Reviews

“A very entertaining tale…Well-drawn characters, an interesting plot, and plenty of passion kept the pages turning. Alexa and Connor are worthy opponents and even more worthy partners as they try to unravel the mystery at The Wolf’s Lair. Excellent and well-rounded secondary characters, both friend and foe, make for a superb tale.”

—RomRevRoday.com

“Filled with suspense and passion. The mystery is delivered wonderfully and will have you guessing up to the big reveal…hilarious and downright charming…The romance element will have the reader on the edge of their seat…The mental tennis match heightens the all too present romantic chemistry to the point that it seems to jump off the page…If Too Wicked to Wed is an example of what we are to expect, this will be a series loved by many!”

—FreshFiction.com

“I really enjoyed Cara Elliott’s writing. She hooked me from the start…kept me glued to the pages…an incredibly sexy and romantic read…I would read more by Cara Elliott based on this novel. I look forward to reading the next installment of the Lords of Midnight series.”

—TheSeasonforRomance.com

 

“From the first page of this sequel…Elliott sweeps her readers up in a scintillating and sexy romance.”

—Publishers Weekly

“An engaging cast of characters…Readers who thrive on empowered women, sexy and dangerous men, and their wild adventures will savor Elliott’s latest.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Elliott expertly sifts a generous measure of dangerous intrigue into the plot of her latest impeccably crafted Regency historical, which should prove all too tempting to readers with a craving for deliciously clever, wickedly sexy romances.”

—Booklist

“An exhilarating historical romance…a fast-paced tale…readers will enjoy dancing at this waltz.”

—Midwest Book Review

“4 Stars! Elliott’s ability to merge adventure, romance, and an intriguing historical backdrop will captivate her readers and earn their accolades.”

—RT Book Reviews

“With mystery, intrigue, laughter, and hot, steamy passion…what more could any reader want?”

—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com

“Another fantastic read from Cara Elliott. Can’t wait until the next book.”

—SingleTitles.com

“HOT…Charming characters demonstrate her strong storytelling gift.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Has everything a reader could desire: adventure, humor, mystery, romance, and a very naughty rake. I was absorbed from the first page and entertained throughout the story. A warning to readers: If you have anything on your schedule for the day, clear it. You won’t be able to put To Sin with a Scoundrel down once you start reading.”

—SingleTitles.com

“Steamy…intriguing.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Fast-paced…a fun tale…fans will appreciate Lady Ciara as she challenges her in-laws, the Ton, and love with the incorrigible Mad Bad Hadley at her side.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Delightful…filled with fun and some suspense and lots and lots of sexual attraction.”

—RomanceReviewsMag.com

Prologue

Oh, I’m so glad ye stopped by for a visit, sir. The Wolfhound has always said ye have a discerning eye fer art, so I’m anxious to get yer opinion on this.” Sara Hawkins stripped the last of the wrappings from around a gilt-framed watercolor painting and let out an admiring whistle. “Don’t ye think it will look lovely hanging in the Eros Bedchamber?”

Gryffin Owain Dwight, the Marquess of Haddan, shrugged out of his overcoat and came over to take a look. “You intend to hang that in there?” A dark brow shot up. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why not?” Sara sounded a little crestfallen. “Roses are my favorite flower and this one is awfully pretty.”

“Indeed it is. But in the secret language of flowers, red roses symbolize love—a sentiment that would likely make a number of your patrons rather nervous,” said Gryff dryly. “Patrons” was putting it politely, seeing as Sara’s establishment was one of the most notorious gambling hells and brothels in London. “If you must pick a rose for a decorative touch, make it an orange one.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Fascination.” He curled a wicked smile. “Better yet, find a print of a yellow iris, which means ‘passion.’ Or sweet pea, which means ‘blissful pleasure.’”

She let out a snort of laughter.

“Or a peach blossom, which means ‘I am your captive.’”

“Fancy that.” Setting aside the painting, Sara perched a shapely hip on the sideboard and gave the marquess her full attention. “Now who would have ever guessed that flowers could talk.”

Gryff nodded gravely. “And then there is the grapevine…”

“Which means?” Sara leaned forward, her eyes widening in anticipation.

“Which means, ‘I am very thirsty so do you have any more of that expensive Scottish malt stashed away in your private cupboard?’”

A crumpled kidskin glove hit him square in the chest. “Oh, ye horrid man! Here I thought I was learning some fancy bit of knowledge. But ye was just pulling my corset strings.” She gave an aggrieved sniff. “Now that I own this establishment, I can make my own rules. So I don’t know why I let ye through the doors.”

“Because of my beaux yeux, of course,” quipped Gryff.

“Yer bows-yours?”

“That’s French for ‘lovely eyes,’” he explained, batting his raven-dark lashes. With all due modesty, the marquess knew that he was a great favorite with females, aristocratic or otherwise. And not only for his beaux yeux—though the unusual shade of green-flecked hazel did seem to have a mesmerizing effect on the opposite sex.

However, that fact was proving far less satisfying of late…

“Hmmph.” Sara tossed her head, interrupting his private musings. “So Frogs have a language of their own, too, eh?”

Gryff gave a bark of laughter. “Touché.” Seating himself on the edge of her desk, he loosened his starched cravat, and expelled a long breath. “Now about that malt, Sara.”

The door of the Chinoise curio cabinet opened and shut. Glasses clinked as she passed him a silver tray. “Ye may pour me a taste as well.”

“I take it that business has been good.”

“Aye, very profitable,” she replied. “Especially as I’m putting this bottle on your monthly bill.”

Gryff splashed a measure of the dark amber spirits into two glasses. “I’d gladly pay double for the pleasure of conversing with you,” he murmured, passing one to her.

She exaggerated a leer. “Pay triple and I’ll pleasure ye with far more than words, sweetheart.”

“Tempting.” He eyed her over the rim of his drink. “But I thought you were too busy running the Lair to have private patrons anymore.”

Until recently, The Wolf’s Lair had been owned by Gryff’s good friend Connor Linsley, the Earl of Killingworth. However, Connor had turned over a new leaf in life and had embarked on a new career as a goat farmer after gifting the Lair to his former employee.

Gryff swirled his whisky. His friend had also embarked on a new life as a happily married man, a fact which no doubt had much to do with his own current unsettled mood.

“Lud, I am busy,” responded Sara. “You have no idea how much work it is to run a business.” Despite the bantering tone, Sara was watching him carefully, a shade of concern clouding her gaze. “But fer you, I might make an exception.”

A smile played on his lips. “Tempting,” he repeated. “However, I value the relationship we have now far more than a fleeting tumble in bed.” He turned away, his expression blurred by the soft shadows of the private parlor as he stared at the pale painted wall above the bookcase. “Next time I stop by, I shall bring you a picture of ivy to hang here.”

“Oh? Does ivy have a special meaning, too?” she asked somewhat warily.

“It signifies friendship. Affection.”

Sara slid over and planted a light kiss on his cheek. “That’s sweet, no matter that you’re teasing me with all this talk about roses and such having a language of their own.”

“Actually, I’m not. The bit about the grapevine was a jest, but the rest is all true,” he assured her. “Indeed, the concept has been around for centuries. Lady Mary Wortley Montague, wife of the British ambassador to Constantinople during the early 1700s, brought a Turkish book back to England entitled The Secret Language of Flowers. It’s quite fascinating. If you like, I’ll bring you a copy.”

“Thank you.” Sara twined a lock of his long black hair around her forefinger. “How is it that a rakehell rogue like you knows so much about flowers?”

Gryff felt himself stiffen. Pulling away, he stalked to the hearth and picked up the poker. Coals crackled as he stirred up a flame. “You know better than to ask your patrons about their private lives. And like them, I don’t come here to answer personal questions,” he snapped.

“Ye don’t come here to dip yer wick or to drink yerself senseless anymore either,” retorted Sara, eyeing the very modest amount of whisky he had poured for himself. “Is something wrong? Ye look a little niffy-tiffy. Is something eating at yer insides?”

He stared at the embers, the bits of glowing orange a stark contrast to the surrounding bed of gray-black ashes. Dark and Light. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m sick of…”

Sick of what? Seductions and sousing himself in brandy? Of late, neither swiving nor guzzling a barrel of brandy had held much allure. In fact, he had given up drinking heavily several months ago after his fuzz-witted carelessness had almost cost Connor his livelihood. As for women, strangely enough, these days, he was finding far more satisfaction in dedicating his energy to…other pursuits.

“Perhaps I’m sick of youthful folly,” said Gryff slowly, thinking of the books on landscape design stacked up by his bedside and the unfinished essay on his library desk. “With age comes wisdom…or so one hopes.” He made a wry face. “My birthday was last week, and when a man turns thirty, he is forced to take stock of his life.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Sara subjected him to a searching stare.

“Ah, yes…”

Her eyes slowly ran the length of the marquess’s lanky form, moving from the crown of his silky, shoulder-length hair, down over the broad slope of muscled shoulders and lean, tapered waist. She let her gaze linger for a moment on the distinctly masculine contours of his thighs before running it down the long stretch of legs.

“Yes,” she repeated, raising a mocking brow. “I can see that teetering on the brink of senility can make a man repent of his past sins.”

“Of which there are too many to name,” he murmured.

“Ain’t that the truth,” drawled Sara. “You and your fellow Hellhounds have a terrible reputation for wildness.” Society viewed Gryff and his two friends Connor Linsley and Cameron Daggett as dangerous because of their utter disregard for all the rules and regulations governing Polite Behavior.

“But you, of all people, know our deep, dark secret—we are harmless little lapdogs,” replied Gryff. “Our bark is far worse than our bite.”

“Ha!” Sara gave a snort. “The Wolfhound may have been domesticated…” Connor’s nickname was the Irish Wolfhound, as his mother had hailed from the Emerald Isle. “But you and Mr. Daggett are still devilishly dangerous. And speaking of that devil, how is his leg mending from the bullet—”

A sudden urgent thumping on the door interrupted the question. It was punctuated by a gruff shout. “Oh, no—ye can’t go in there, madam!”

“Oh, yes—” The latch sprang open. “—I can.”

Gryff saw a willowy figure evade the porter’s meaty hand and slip inside the private parlor. Prim bonnet, dowdy gown, sturdy half boots, stern scowl. An expert in assessing females, he need only an instant to recognize the type. She was not a lightskirt, but a respectable lady.

Definitely a harbinger of trouble.

But thankfully not his trouble. Taking a sidelong step out of the ring of firelight, Gryff slouched a shoulder to the storage cabinet, curious as to what sort of sparks were about to fly.

“Am I to understand that you are the proprietor here?” The intruder pointed an indigo-gloved finger at Sara.

“Yes.” Sara extended a ladylike hand in greeting. “I’m Sara Hawkins. And you are?”

The intruder eyed it uncertainly, but after a moment, innate good manners prevailed. “Lady Brentford,” she said reluctantly.

In contrast to her straitlaced appearance, her voice was low and lush, the sound sending an inexplicable shiver prickling down Gryff’s spine. It was soft as silk, yet had a slight nub to its texture.

The effect was unexpected. Erotic.

Gryff gave an inward wince. Erotic? Good God, what momentary madness had stirred such a strange thought? The lady did not look as if the word “erotic” had ever entered her vocabulary.

And yet…

And yet, despite the severe chignon and the subdued, sober hues of her clothes, there was something sensual about Lady Brentford.

“Might I offer you some refreshment, Lady Brentford?” asked Sara politely. “If brandy is not to your taste, I can ring for some tea.”

“Thank you.” Her tone turned cooler—indeed, it could have chilled all the oolong in India. “But this is not a social call.”

Gryff tried to shake off the odd current of attraction that kept his gaze held in thrall.

“Ah. Then I assume you are looking for Lord Brentford,” said Sara.

“Good God, no.” The lady grimaced. “Lord Brentford has been two years in the grave, and I devoutly pray that he remains there.”

A small furrow formed between Sara’s brows. “Then forgive me, but…”

“It is my brother I seek—Lord Leete.”

A delicate cough sounded. “We have a full house tonight, and I do not know every patron by name. Perhaps you could describe him to me?”

Leete. The name stirred a vague flicker somewhere on the edges of Gryff’s memory. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to bring the fellow into sharper focus. Yes, yes, it had been just last week—an obnoxious puppy, yapping some impertinent question about what type of tassel looked best on a Hessian boot.

“Average height and reedy,” he answered for her. “Blond hair brushed in an elaborate array of over-oiled curls.” A tiny pause. “And sidewhiskers that make him look like a poodle.”

“That’s the one.” Lady Brentford turned slowly to face him. “A friend of yours?”

“Not in the least,” replied Gryff. “Actually, he was making a nuisance of himself. I was forced to be rather rude.”

“He has a habit of doing that,” she said. Her voice remained calm, but her eyes betrayed the depth of her emotion. Beneath the surface hue of azure blue rippled a darker current of stormy slate. “Is he here?”

Sara shot Gryff a questioning look.

“The gaming rooms,” murmured he. “Try the vingt-et-un tables in the West Parlor. Word around my club is that Lord Leete plays for high stakes.” A pause. “Though only the Devil knows why, as he seems incapable of counting to ten when he’s in his cups.”

Looking a trifle uncomfortable, Sara cleared her throat. “Lady Brentford, there are, how shall I say it, some unwritten rules regarding establishments such as these. Gentlemen expect discretion from the management, especially concerning interruptions.”

“I’ve come all the way from Oxfordshire to see him.” Her tone had turned taut. “It’s a matter of pressing importance.”

Anger. Though she was trying hard to hide it, Lady Brentford was extremely angry, decided Gryff. But was there also a touch of fear? Repressing a frown, he angled a step to the side, trying to get a better read on her face.

“Yes, I can see that it is,” said Sara quietly. “So in this case, I shall make an exception.”

“Thank you,” came the whispered reply.

“If you will excuse me for a few moments, I will go have a look.”

Lady Brentford appeared reluctant to be left alone with an unknown gentleman. Slanting a sidelong look at him, she hesitated, and then seemed to decide that he was the lesser of two evils.

“Thank you,” she repeated, signaling her consent with a curt nod.

As the door clicked shut, she expelled a pent-up breath and turned her back to him. Swoosh, swoosh. Her heavy skirts skirled around her ankles as she moved away to study the etching hanging above the bookcase.

Trouble, Gryff reminded himself. He had survived the brutal Peninsular War by listening to the warning voice in his head. And right now it was drumming a martial tattoo against his skull.

Trouble, trouble, trouble.

The wise strategy would be to finish his drink and quietly take his leave. Whatever her reason for being here, it did not involve him.

Instead, he set his glass down and walked across the carpet.

 

“I apologize for the artwork, Lady Brentford.” A whisper of warm breath somehow found its way through the knot of hair at her nape and tickled against her bare skin. “It isn’t often that The Wolf’s Lair entertains respectable ladies.”

“No apology necessary,” replied the Right Honorable Eliza, Lady Brentford, trying to ignore the lick of heat that was slowly sliding down between her shoulder blades. “I’m not about to swoon from shock. I have seen a penis before, sir.”

The gentleman laughed. The sound was soft as a summer zephyr and yet it blew her skittering pulse up another notch.

Tracking Harry to a notorious brothel and gaming hell in the slums of Southwark was embarrassing enough, but why, oh, why did she have to find herself in a dimly-lit private parlor, ogling obscene art with the most sinfully attractive man she had ever laid eyes on?

It didn’t seem quite fair.

“Yes,” said the gentleman, once his low, lazy chuckle had died away. “But perhaps not quite so many of the offending organs at one time.” As he shifted to stand beside her, she caught the twinkle of humor in his eyes.

His eyes. Eliza blinked. How unfair of the Almighty to bless a rogue with such arrestingly attractive eyes.

“Or in quite so many athletic positions of amour,” he added.

Eliza inched away, finding that his closeness was having an unsettling effect on her insides. The prospect of confronting her brother already had her stomach tied in knots. “Rakes and rogues seem to devote all their waking hours to naught but gambling and bedsport,” she answered rather tartly. “So, given your presence in this place, I imagine that you are familiar with all of them.”

Rather than take offense at her deliberate rudeness, the gentleman laughed again. “No, not all.” He made a show of studying the risqué etching for a moment or two longer. “And thank heaven for that. Some of them look deucedly uncomfortable.”

She bit back a smile, unwilling to encourage any further flirtations.

He was flirting with her, wasn’t he? Or was it merely wishful thinking?

“By the by, I don’t believe we have been properly introduced,” he murmured. He had come close again. Close enough that she could breathe in the faint spicy scent of his cologne. “I am Haddan.”

Lord Haddan. Harry’s hero.

Oh, of all damnable, despicable coincidences, thought Eliza wryly. He was handsome, he was humorous—and for a moment, she had actually been enjoying his company.

“The Haddan?” she inquired, shaking off her unreasonable disappointment. After all, what did it matter who he was? “One of the infamous Hellhounds, who takes such gleeful delight in breaking every rule of Polite Society?”

“I see that my reputation has preceded me,” he said quietly.

Eliza answered by crossing over to the sideboard.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he followed. “Speaking of rules, you ought to counsel your brother to moderate his gambling. He’s a callow country lamb compared to the wolves who play here at the Lair. He’ll soon find himself fleeced to the bone.”

With her nerves already rubbed raw from worry, his words were like a needle pricking against a tender spot.

“Why on earth would you imagine that I have any influence over my brother, sir?” she challenged. “He holds the purse strings and the power to make every decision concerning money and the managing of the family estate. Do you really think he cares a whit for how his sister would like for him to behave?”

She had snapped out in anger and frustration, but the marquess seemed to be giving her question serious consideration. His brow pinched in thought and his gaze dropped to the Turkey carpet, as if seeking an answer in the dusky swirls of color.

Not that she expected one. In her experience, gentlemen simply ignored any problem that was too difficult to deal with.

But again he surprised her.

“It seems that I owe you yet another apology, Lady Brentford. You are right—in retrospect, my question was asinine and absurd.”

“A gentleman admitting to a fault? On second thought, I just might fall into a dead faint after all,” murmured Eliza.

“I have far too many of them to deny,” replied Gryff.

Damn the man for having such a sinfully attractive smile. And those eyes. Eliza had never seen such an intriguing hue of green—it was as if sunlight had melted forest leaves to a molten swirl of emerald and gold.

She quickly looked away. “Actually, it’s ironic. Whatever your faults—and I’m sure they are legion—you are the only one whose words might penetrate Harry’s thick skull.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. The Hero Hellhound. The manly paragon of Devil-May-Care Debauchery.”

Gryff frowned. “I don’t even know the pup.”

“Well, he most certainly knows you.”

“Which in your books is apparently not a mark in my favor.”

“I am sure that the opinion of a country widow is not of paramount importance to you either,” she replied evasively. A plain, impoverished widow, she added to herself.

“I can see that I have sunk beneath reproach,” he said lightly. “Is there nothing I can do to lift myself up into your good graces?”

The question was, she knew, merely rhetorical—a bit of banter meant to evoke a smile, not a real response. Yet, his words seemed to stir to life a strange flutter deep, deep within, and then suddenly a wild, wanton thought seemed to swirl up from nowhere.

Kiss me.

In all her life, Eliza had never experienced a real kiss—that sizzle of wild, wondrous heat described in novels. She had been married off by her father to an older, irascible baron—not for her looks but for her bloodlines—in return for money to fill the family coffers. It had been a cold, loveless match. And now Harry was wheedling to make it happen again.

Sensible, solid, serious—oh, how she was tired of living for everyone else’s expectations. For once—just once—she wanted to do something different.

Something dangerous.

“Kiss me.” Oh, dear God, had she really whispered the words aloud?

“I beg your pardon?” Gryff cocked his head. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“K-kick my buffle-headed brother in the bum,” she replied, this time putting some force to her feelings. “For a man who reportedly thrashed the stuffing out of Lord Fetters and Lord Bertram in the card room of White’s last month, that shouldn’t be a difficult task.” She brushed a wisp of hair off her cheek. “Perhaps that would knock some sense into him.”

“The newspapers tend to exaggerate these things,” he replied. “In any case, it sounds to me as if Lord Leete needs more than a boot to the bum to steer him off the path of folly.”

“I fear you are right.” Eliza hoped her face wasn’t flaming. Feeling horribly embarrassed at her moment of utter madness, she looked around desperately for some distraction—other than male and female privy parts.

“Oh.” Her eyes fell on a handsome gold frame lying face up on the sideboard. “Oh, my goodness, that looks to be a watercolor by Redouté.”

 

Gryff backed up a step, allowing her to brush past him.

She smiled as she touched the gilded wood, and he felt the breath catch in his throat.

It was as if the sun had scudded out from behind a scrim of clouds.

Her eyes warmed with a luminous light, and as her lashes lowered, he saw they were not mouse brown, but tipped with gold highlights. A glow seemed to suffuse her skin as well, brightening its lightly bronzed hue and accentuating the sculpted cheekbones that slanted slightly upward. On seeing a faint dappling of freckles on her nose, Gryff decided that she must spend a good deal of time outdoors.

It was a memorable face—not precisely pretty, but striking. Unique. Unlike so many of the London beauties, who all looked as though they had been cut from the same piece of pasteboard.

“D-do you think Miss Hawkins would mind if I shifted the glass just a touch? I should dearly like to see the texture of the paper he uses, and the deta. . .