Touch of a Rogue

Book 1: Touch of Seduction

by Mia Marlowe

Genres: Historical Romance; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

He can keep her safe. . .or be her very ruin. . .Jacob Preston has three requirements for a woman desiring access to his bed: She must be enthusiastic in affairs of passion, jaded in matters of the heart, and--to ensure the first two qualifications--she must be married. Lady Julianne Cambourne has all the makings of a passionate lover, and she certainly shows no signs of sentimentality. . .but her unmarried status should render her firmly off limits to Jacob. Instead, it proves only a temptation. One that grows stronger when she comes to him in desperation, looking for the kind of answers only he can give. For beyond his rakish reputation, Jacob is known for the mysterious--even otherworldly--power of detection he commands through his sense of touch. And Julianne, surrounded by long-hidden secrets that threaten to ensnare her in a deadly trap, will do whatever it takes to recruit his skills. . . using every form of persuasion at her disposal. . .Praise for Mia Marlow and Touch of a Thief "Sensuality, sexuality, passion and mystery blend into a wonderfully entertaining tale." --Romantic Times "Both historical and paranormal readers will love this crossover tale." --Publishers Weekly starred review "Mia Marlowe proves she has the ‘touch' for strong heroines, wickedly sexy heroes, and love scenes so hot they singe the pages." --USA Today bestselling author Jennifer Ashley

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Brava

Print pages: 321

Sample

The bed creaked out a merry rhythm of squeaks and scritches, like a chorus of tree frogs. The woman buried deep in the feather mattress moaned and gasped at the man’s exertions over her.

Unfortunately for Jacob Aubrey Preston, he was not the man in the bed. Instead, he was under it, tugging his trousers back up, with nothing to show for his evening except a deeper acquaintance with dust balls.

When he and Lady Bothwell had heard her husband stomping up the stairs, he’d barely had time to dive beneath the slats. Lady B. had shoved Jacob’s boots and walking stick after him a heartbeat before Lord Bothwell threw open the door to her boudoir with the announcement that he was fully tumescent and his wife must prepare herself forthwith.

Fortunately for Lord Bothwell, Jacob had prepared his wife quite well.

“Oh, Bothy,” she said in a breathy tone as the creaking continued. “You’re quite vigorous this evening.”

Bothy? Jacob mouthed and rolled onto his stomach. The bottom of the mattress smacked the crown of his head as if in reproof.

“Well, I ought to be,” her husband answered. “Just relieved Lord Hampleton of two thousand shares of railway stock at the poque table this night.”

“Oh, are they very valuable?”

Jacob imagined Lady Bothwell’s rouged lips curved in a calculating smile. She was probably trying to figure the shares’ worth in French millinery. The amount she had spent on her collection of bonnets would clothe a small English hamlet for a year.

Maybe two.

“At the moment, the shares are at the peak of their value,” Lord Bothwell wheezed, clearly winded by his repetitive activity. “But I have it on good authority the principals in the company are quietly disposing of their holdings. I’ll sell them all tomorrow before the market gets wind of it and the bottom drops out. Now do be quiet, madam, and kindly allow me to concentrate.”

Jacob laid his cheek on the cool hardwood and sighed. At least he’d gleaned a valuable bit of intelligence from this ridiculous situation. He, too, held a considerable number of railway shares. Or rather, his brother Jerome did. But Jerome Preston, the Earl of Meade, took little interest in the actual running of the far-flung estate he’d inherited from their uncle.

At first, Jerome had been so tightfisted with his new wealth and position, he’d even cut off the previous earl’s family from receiving badly needed support. However, his stinginess had bled into his investment choices as well and left him teetering on the brink of insolvency before Jacob had stepped in to help. He’d put the new earl’s financial house in order and reinstated their aunt’s support. Even now, Jacob couldn’t let his brother manage the earldom’s assets or they’d both find themselves light in the pockets in no time.

Jacob wished he could find a way to thank Lord Bothwell for the tip about the rail shares, but decided it would be deucedly awkward to explain how he’d come by the information.

The bed bounced for another thirty seconds by Jacob’s pocket watch. Then Lord Bothwell emitted a sound rather like an old bullfrog struggling to stay atop a lily pad as the mattress shuddered to a halt.

Jacob waited.

Then he heard a whuffle, a grunt, and the beginnings of a stentorian snore. “Bothy” was enjoying the sleep of the just. Jacob propped his chin on his fist, wondering how long he’d be trapped beneath the bed.

Then he heard the rustle of sheets. The baroness lifted a corner of the counterpane and motioned for him to come out.

“He’ll sleep till noon now,” she whispered, knotting the sash at the waist of her wrapper. “We could use his chamber. It’s just through that door.”

Jacob swallowed hard. Granted, any man who thought simply saying “prepare yourself” constituted foreplay deserved to be cuckolded on principle. But after listening to the whole ghastly interlude with her husband, he feared he’d never be able to look at the lovely Lady Bothwell again without a chorus of frogs chirruping in his head.

“Charming as that offer is”—he whispered back as he slid out of hiding and tugged on his boots—“with regret, I must decline. I never romance a lady while her husband, however sound a sleeper he may be, is in residence.”

Jacob had yet to be accosted by an angry spouse demanding satisfaction and he didn’t relish beginning with Bothy. He felt little guilt about swiving another man’s wife. He wasn’t the one violating a vow after all, and a satisfied lady didn’t cast her eyes elsewhere. But it went against his conscience to add insult to injury by embarrassing or, God forbid, killing a fellow in a duel over a wandering wife’s dubious honor.

“Farewell, my dear.”

He gave Lady Bothwell a peck on her cheek, then made for the French doors leading to a small balcony. Jacob threw his leg over the balustrade and climbed down the trellis, which was denuded of blooms with the first frost of autumn. He looked back up when he reached the bottom and blew a kiss to the lady whose ample bosom was in serious danger of escaping her wrapper as she leaned over to waggle her fingers at him.

“Tomorrow?” she whispered hopefully.

“I’ll send word.” He loped away through Lord Bothwell’s fussy garden.

Unfortunately, the word would be “no, thank you.” While Lady Bothwell fit all his criteria for a lover—enthusiastic, slightly jaded, and most of all, married—he wondered if he ought to rethink the last qualification. While a married lover freed him from the entanglements possible with a green girl, there were difficulties inherent in bedding another man’s wife as well.

Perhaps if the lady’s husband was on an extended voyage abroad ...

Provided he sired no child, Jacob might even consider that he was doing the man a favor by keeping the home fires burning, as it were. He supposed he could keep a mistress, but it made no sense to spend the blunt necessary to support one. Not when whispered rumors of his bed skills brought a steady stream of ladies of quality sidling up to him at every soirée, ready for a dalliance.

He stepped out of the alley and onto the street. Gas lamps rose amid pools of yellow light, their bases fading into the low-lying fog along the thoroughfare. Jacob ploughed through the swirling mist, the slap of his soles on the cobbles the only thing dispelling the fanciful notion that he trudged through clouds.

Gray, odiferous clouds. Wind whipped around him. The fish-and-tar reek of the Thames was in rare form this night.

He passed by his brother’s posh town house, a redbrick Georgian with white trim and wide granite steps leading to an entrance designed to impress. The earl always insisted Jacob was welcome to share the well-situated Grosvenor Square home, but he preferred to keep his own place.

It was all well and good for him to be privy to Lord Meade’s business. However, he didn’t need his brother’s long nose in his. Most of Jacob’s activities wouldn’t bear close scrutiny.

The direct route to his town house near Leicester Square led him down an alley with no gas lamps at all. A gang of ruffians made to approach him, but he didn’t slow his stride. Jacob carried a rapier hidden in his ornate cherry walking stick and knew how to use it. Last week he’d fended off a would-be thief and pinked him proper in the upper arm. He stepped into a shaft of moonlight pouring into the narrow way, grasping the platinum hilt, in case he needed to defend himself.

The gang stopped in mid-step as recognition widened their eyes. As Jacob pushed past them, they gave him a respectfully wide berth. Evidently, rumors of his bed skills weren’t the only bits of intelligence circulating about Jacob Preston.

From the end of the block of unassuming town houses, he was mildly surprised to see an elegant equipage stopped before his red door. A crest with a boar and crossed swords was emblazoned on the side. He didn’t immediately recognize the heraldic symbol. In veritate triumpho was etched above the device.

“I triumph in truth,” Jacob translated. Who in the world ... Then he clapped a hand to his forehead as the memory flooded back. He’d received a note from the dowager Countess of Cambourne a couple weeks ago announcing her intention to call on him for help on a matter of business while she was in London.

Probably another lonely lady hoping to entice him to her bed. Dowagers invariably had liver spots or warts or both, and Jacob didn’t handle business for anyone but his brother, though he’d been known to dabble in a discreet investigation from time to time. Since Jacob made it a point not to respond to social notes that didn’t interest him, the time Lady Cambourne specified for her visit had never settled in his mind. A quick glance up showed a light burning in his first floor parlor.

He pushed open his front door, swallowing back a curse. Who knew how long it would take to rid himself of the late caller? If he wasn’t going to find a pleasing woman’s bed, the least the Fates could do was allow him to find his own at a reasonable hour.

“Good evening, sir.”

He scowled at the man who served as his butler, valet, and general factotum. Fenwick at least had the grace to look chagrined as he collected Jacob’s coat, gloves, and hat.

Jacob’s privacy was his most prized possession. When he hired Fenwick a few years earlier, he’d specifically instructed him that part of his duties included keeping unexpected and unwanted guests at bay.

“I see we have a visitor,” Jacob said, glancing up the polished mahogany banister with a frown. Light from the parlor reflected off a long mirror hanging in the first floor landing and spilled down the stairs in jagged shards.

“Oh, yes, indeed we do.” Fenwick attempted a cheerful smile to cover the dereliction of his duty. “The lady said as you were expecting her.”

“Did I tell you I was expecting her?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why is she still here?”

“Well, Lady Cambourne insisted upon waiting.” Fenwick’s pale eyebrows nearly met over his watery blue eyes. “The countess is a ... most persuasive person, sir.”

“Hmph!”

“Sir, I took the liberty of looking the lady up in DeBrett’s for you. Here are the particulars.” Fenwick produced a much folded square of paper from his vest pocket, covered with his small, spidery handwriting.

“You have almost redeemed yourself,” Jacob said, glancing at the information from the registry of the peerage. Julianne Tyndale (nee True) Dowager Countess of Cambourne, wife of Algernon Tyndale, 8th Earl of Cambourne. No issue from the marriage. Widowed two years ago when the earl reportedly did away with himself.

Jacob’s brows arched in surprise. Unless a member of the aristocracy was despondent over gambling debts or losses in the market, it was rare for one of them to “shuffle off this mortal coil” ahead of schedule. He wondered which reversal of fortunes had sent the earl over the edge. Jacob resumed reading, glad he’d had the foresight to hire a literate fellow like Fenwick as his right-hand man, even if he occasionally let the rules of the house slide.

Lady Cambourne was formerly known as Julianne True of the Drury Lane Theatrical Company.

“I stand corrected, Fenwick. You have totally redeemed yourself. You obviously have more sources of information than I suspected. This last bit in particular could not have come from DeBrett’s.”

Fenwick grinned. “No, sir. I recognized her. Saw her play Lady Macbeth some six or seven years ago.”

“So I’m assuming this is one dowager who doesn’t possess three chins.”

Fenwick shook his head and gave a nervous chuckle. “Couldn’t blame Macbeth a bit. Every man in the theatre would have killed for her, sir.”

Jacob smiled as he tucked the paper into his pocket. An attractive young widow waited in his parlor. Perhaps the evening wasn’t a total loss after all.

But on second thought, money wasn’t the only thing that could drive a man to an early grave. If what Fenwick said was true about the actress turned countess, perhaps the lady’s husband had killed for her sake.

A black widow bore close watching.

Julianne checked her pendant watch for the umpteenth time, irritation sizzling in her belly. She smoothed the collar on her lilac bodice, flicking a speck of London’s ubiquitous soot from the gray piping. The smart traveling ensemble bespoke her status as a wealthy widow in the final stage of mourning. The pale shade flattered her delicate coloring far more than the black she’d endured for the first two years after Algernon’s death. Of course, even with the right hue against her skin, when frustration flamed her cheeks, the effect of a cool, collected lady of quality would be hopelessly lost.

And if Julianne knew one thing, it was the value of a first impression.

She looked up when she heard masculine footfalls on the stairs. Mr. Preston’s servants crept about the immaculate townhome silent as wraiths. The heavy tread could only mean the man himself had finally deigned to arrive.

When the shadow of a man filled the doorway, she stood and tossed him a haughty glance. He stepped into the light of the gas lamp.

She noted with pleasure that Mr. Preston was exceedingly fine to look upon.

Of course, he would be. A man didn’t gain the reputation for being a dissolute rogue without being charming, cynical, and blessed with armloads of masculine beauty. Jacob Preston possessed all three in sufficient quantities to overcome the combined scruples of a nunnery.

A shock of chestnut hair fell over his forehead above strikingly pale, almost silver-gray eyes. His fine straight nose divided a face of strong planes and angles, evidence of determination ingrained in his features. His lips turned up in a smile that was slightly crooked, dispelling the notion of perfect balance.

Good. She found small imperfections in a man attractive. Her experience in the theatre had taught her that perfectly sculpted males tended to be drawn to other perfectly sculpted males.

Jacob Preston was taller than most men of her acquaintance, with a corresponding breadth of shoulder.

She wondered if he was proportionate in other ways as well. Her body registered a response with a quick flutter under her ribs and a heightened sense of awareness that brought the masculine scent of bergamot and sandalwood to her nostrils.

Steady on, she chided herself. This is about business, not pleasure.

Still, Jacob Preston was devilishly attractive and perception was everything among the ton. Since she would likely be in the public eye while in London, it would enhance her standing to have a handsome man at her side. And she intended to keep Jacob Preston near her for as long as it took to accomplish her goal.

“Mr. Preston, I presume.” She consulted her pendant watch again, though she knew perfectly well what time it was. Then she closed the silver filigreed cover with an annoyed snap. “I live in the country most of the year, so perhaps I’m not as well versed in city manners as I ought to be. But in Cornwall, it is considered beyond impolite to keep a countess waiting for three hours.”

The man strode forward and made a correct obeisance over her gloved fingertips. “Your pardon, Lady Cambourne.”

That was better. Julianne preferred to begin relationships, even those of a business nature, as she meant them to continue, with herself firmly in charge.

“As long as we’re recounting deficiencies in our education, I too must confess to ignorance over country manners.” His voice was a deep rumble, but he didn’t boom as most men with bass notes tended to do. The low sound shivered over her like the purr of a lion in its prime. “For your future reference, my lady, in London it is customary not to call if one’s intent to do so has not been acknowledged.”

She narrowed her eyes at his insolence, but he seemed uncowed by her displeasure. In fact, the wretch’s mouth twitched in a wider smile.

A sensual smile that sparked with recognition.

He’d probably seen her on stage. If she didn’t need his help so badly, she’d storm out in a fiery scene that would put her Drury Lane days to shame. She realized suddenly that he hadn’t released her hand, so she tugged it away.

“Are you this rude to all your potential clients?”

He stifled a yawn. “Only the ones who keep me from my bed.” Then he skewered her with a penetrating gaze and she felt his animal heat sizzling toward her. “Of course, I’m never rude to clients who wish to join me there.”

She cocked a brow at him. Why did men always assume actresses were ever ready for a quick tumble?

Besides, in matters of the flesh, she preferred to initiate an encounter. Julianne had been tempted to take a discreet lover during her mourning period, but she’d resisted. She wanted to keep matters simple. If she allowed a man in her bed, he might begin to contemplate marriage, and she’d have to cut him loose. She wasn’t about to surrender the freedom of widowhood for the vacillating trifle of a man’s affections.

Still, her belly tightened at Preston’s suggestion and a quick flick of her gaze below his cut-away jacket revealed a more than satisfactory bulge in his close-fitting breeches. She turned her head aside, pretending fascination with the small Gainsborough landscape hanging above his fireplace.

Julianne was a sensual creature. She knew this about herself and embraced it, but she’d been so caught up in other more pressing matters since her husband’s death, there’d been no time to find a suitable bed partner for a light dalliance. It seemed like ages since she’d been with a man. But this wasn’t the time and Jacob Preston certainly wasn’t the right man, if she intended to become his employer. She needed to regain control of this interview before her body began overruling her head.

“I’m sure you believe joining you in bed is a charming suggestion, Mr. Preston. Thanks to a subscription to the London Crier, I’ve heard tales of your amorous abilities even in distant Cornwall,” she said dryly. “However, I discount such superlatives by at least half. And frankly, after meeting you, given the sensitive nature of my situation, I’m not sure you’ll do at all.”

His brows drew together into a frown. “Why not?”

“For one thing, I can’t imagine the other things I’ve heard of you are true.”

“And what things might those be?”

Now her lips twitched. By taking her business away, she’d increased his interest in it. Men were so predictable.

“According to rumors, you’ve solved a number of cases that baffled the best of Bow Street.”

“That’s true,” he said with a smug grin.

“And you have a reputation for recovering items of intrinsic value ... by means best left unexamined.”

He gave a slight shrug. “You have the right of it, madam. If you want strictly legal means employed in solving your difficulties, I do have connections in Bow Street who might assist you.”

Drat the man. He, too, knew the value of taking something away. “I wasn’t speaking of legalities. I’m referring to means of inquiry which border on the fantastical.”

His face hardened into a guarded mask.

“Of course, I put little stock in such rumors, myself,” she said, depositing her oversized carpetbag on the marble top of a side table. “It is 1859, after all. I’d rather trust to science than some sort of gypsy fortune-telling.”

“Rest assured, milady, I do not possess so much as one crystal ball,” he said smoothly. “We’ve danced around the issue long enough. It’s apparent that you have a case which requires my skills. Or you think you do. Perhaps you’d better tell me what it is.”

He motioned her to a deep burgundy wing chair flanking the fireplace and settled into its mate once she sat.

“Actually, it’s what they are. I have two commissions for you, if you feel yourself up to the challenge.” She leaned forward slightly. “As you may know, the authorities ruled that my late husband took his own life.”

“I take from your tone that you disagree with this assessment.” He steepled his long fingers before him. “But why did they believe it was so?”

She retrieved her carpetbag and was gratified by the fact that Mr. Preston stood until she sat once again. His manners were improving by the moment. “Perhaps because his body was found in a room locked from the inside.” She pulled a leather sheath from the bag. “With this dagger thrust through his heart.”

Preston reached for the weapon, careful to hold it by the embossed leather scabbard, not the hilt, she noticed. The haft was covered with swirling Celtic patterns ornamented with strips of gold and silver, studded with carbuncles and polished amber.

Preston took a handkerchief from his pocket and drew the blade from its home, careful not to touch the dagger with his uncovered hand.

She nodded approvingly. He understood that the oils from his bare skin might be injurious to such an ancient blade. Beneath the crosspiece, the lethal steel shone with iridescence in the flickering firelight. There was an indistinct pattern etched onto the blade as well that seemed to change shape as the light varied.

“Given the preponderance of evidence to the contrary”—he said as he eyed the dagger—“what makes you think your husband did not, in fact, end his own life?”

“The weapon itself,” she said. “It’s obviously a ceremonial blade, one of deep antiquity. My husband had far too much respect for history to misuse such an artifact in that way.”

One of his brows arched in question. “Not because your marriage was deliriously happy and you can’t imagine why he’d choose to leave you?”

She glowered at him. “The condition of my marriage is not your concern.”

“It is if you wish my help.”

“We had a ... companionable marriage,” she said finally.

“I assume he was much your senior.”

“He was.”

“How much?”

“Forty-five years.” In truth, she was younger than Algernon’s heir, a fact that rankled her stepson sorely.

“Sounds quite ... companionable.”

Preston’s gray gaze traveled over her and she could almost hear him calculating the worth of the union based on the cut of her clothing and the quality of the pearls and jet at her throat. But money and position weren’t her only considerations when she’d decided to wed the earl. Lord Cambourne had promised her unheard of freedom in ordering her personal and financial life.

Lord Cambourne was smitten after seeing her onstage, but unlike so many others, he wasn’t looking for a mistress. After a short courtship during which Algernon dazzled her with his wealth and title, showering her with the courtly attentiveness only older men seemed to possess, she’d agreed to leave the theatre and marry him. Julianne had known she’d probably not be accepted by his peers, but the fact didn’t seem to trouble him as he’d long since retired from fashionable life.

They’d enjoyed a brief time of delight when his older body roused to her younger one with a last flare of passion. Then he seemed to remember his years, and their life together became one of shared enthusiasms.

Algernon had respected her intellect as much as he’d admired her beauty. He had allowed her to fund her pet charity, Mrs. Osgood’s School for Girls, without restriction. He had even encouraged her to take a lover quietly, since he was unable to meet those needs, but she honored him too much to cuckold him, even with his permission. She understood his love of arcane weaponry and, because of her stint on the stage, was able to demonstrate the use of his acquisitions in little mock battles they both enjoyed. But her life of cherished freedoms had crumbled the day Algernon was found dead.

She had been fascinated by Lord Cambourne’s collection of weapons, but she wished she’d never seen the dagger now in Jacob Preston’s hand.

“You still hold your title,” Preston said, turning the dagger in the light, inspecting the intricate whorls etched in the blade. “If you think you can afford to hire my services—and let me assure you I don’t come cheaply—you obviously still have access to adequate funds ...”

She schooled her face not to react. He didn’t need to know her financial situation might shortly change. Worse, she wouldn’t be the only one who suffered if it did.

“Why do you care if the world believes your husband’s death was a suicide?”

“Because I know it wasn’t,” she said. “And because it would pain Algernon—I mean, the earl—to know that his body is not interred in consecrated ground.”

She didn’t intend to plead, but some men would not be. . .