Nothing
wagered…
Douglas
Bennet can't resist a good wager, especially not one that involves a
beautiful woman. When a friend proposes an audacious plan to expose
the most notorious woman in England, Douglas agrees at once. After
all, it would be quite a coup to discover the true identity of Lady
Constance, author of the infamous erotic serial scandalizing
the ton, 50
Ways to Sin.
Nothing
won…
Madeline
Wilde is used to being pursued. For years she's cultivated a
reputation for being unattainable and mysterious, and for good
reason: her livelihood depends on discretion. When Douglas turns his
legendary charm on her, she dismisses him as just another rake. But
he surprises her—instead of merely trying to seduce her, he becomes
her friend…her confidant…and her lover. But can it really lead to
happily-ever-after…or are they about to become the biggest scandal
London has ever seen?
Author
Bio:
Caroline
Linden was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from
Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to
writing fiction. Ten years, twelve books, three Red Sox
championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her
decision. Her books have won the NEC Reader’s Choice Beanpot Award,
the Daphne du Maurier Award, and RWA’s RITA Award. Since she never
won any prizes in math, she takes this as a sign that her decision
was also a smart one. Visit her online at www.carolinelinden.com
Buy
Links:
Excerpt:
“Quite
a crush, isn’t it?” He gave Mrs. Wilde his winning smile, the
easy, friendly one that soothed anxious nerves and made women of
every age and rank like him.
She
turned at his voice behind her. Something like mirth glimmered in her
eyes. “Indeed.”
“I
hardly know a soul here tonight.” He lowered his voice but without
leaning toward her. Leaning put women on guard. A low voice made them
lean toward him,
which he much preferred. “It’s rather intimidating, to tell the
truth.”
“You?”
She arched one golden brow. “You don’t seem the sort to be easily
intimidated.”
Douglas
grinned. He knew he was a big fellow. Women tended to like it once
they got to know him. “Rubbish. I’m petrified just looking at the
elegance of this assembly.”
Her
lovely lips curved. Her head tipped toward him, just a little. Her
dark eyes gleamed. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s
true,” he protested. “My heart is racing, my knees are unsteady.
Look—see how my hand trembles.” He caught her hand in his,
tensing his muscle to produce the tiniest tremor in his hand, and
then relaxing it. “Ah. Your touch has healing power, I see.”
She
left her hand in his, but that slight smile tugging at her mouth grew
a bit wider. “It’s not flattering to a woman, to say her touch
calms a man’s heart and body. Usually she wishes it were the other
way around.”
His
heart did skip a beat at that. She was a flirt; excellent. He adored
flirts. Douglas stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “It
only stilled the terror, my dear. I suspect you could elicit an
entirely different sort of tremor.” He lifted her hand and brushed
the faintest kiss over her knuckles. “We must be introduced.”
“I
fear there’s no one here in this quiet corner who will do it.”
Her eyes seemed to grow darker as he drew one finger across her palm.
“Then
I will risk being appallingly rude and present myself.” He bowed
over her hand, his eyes never leaving her face. “Douglas Bennet, at
your service.”
“Yes,
I know.”
“You
do?” He smiled in delight. “Then we should become acquainted…”
“Mr.
Douglas Bennet,” she repeated, her voice changing just enough to
freeze him in place. “Son and heir of Sir George Bennet, baronet. A
very handsome title, an even handsomer fortune. An unrepentant rake,
gambler, brawler, and sometime rogue. Your mother wants you to marry;
you couldn’t be less interested. Your taste runs to tavern maids
and opera dancers, preferably French. Your sister wed your bosom
friend Lord Burke, much to your disgust, although no one quite knows
if you pity your sister or your one-time friend more.” She tilted
her head and smiled as he stared at her, blank-faced with shock that
was rapidly turning to indignation. “What have I forgotten? Oh,
yes—you love a good wager. What was the one that sent you over
here: a wager to get me into your bed?” She slipped her fingers
from his slackened grip. “If it was…you’ve already lost. I hope
you didn’t stake a large amount.”
“It
was merely for the pleasure of a dance,” he said, hiding his temper
behind a flat tone.
She
laughed. By God, she had a beautiful laugh, throaty and soft, the
sort that made a man want to amuse her so he could hear it again. “I
doubt it. But then, you’re also accustomed to losing, aren’t
you?” She sank into a graceful curtsey, giving him one last view of
her matchless bosom. “Good evening, sir.” She turned and walked
away, unhurried, unaffected.
He
was still standing there, pulsing with unexpected desire and insulted
pride, when Spence slung an arm around his neck. “Rough luck,” he
said, his voice brimming with amusement. “She’s a cold one.” He
grinned and slapped Douglas’s shoulder. “Five quid, gone in a
blink.”
Douglas
turned a black look on the man. “You didn’t say when.”
Spence
raised his eyebrows, still grinning like a cardsharp. Come to think
of it, he usually looked like that, right before he took someone’s
money. Douglas had won and lost to Spence with equanimity—for the
most part—but tonight he wanted to punch his friend. Spence had
deliberately dared him to an impossible task, sending him over to be
humiliated and rejected. And now he wanted five pounds. “What do
you mean?”
“You
didn’t say when.”
Douglas bit off each word. “She rejected me tonight, but there’s
always tomorrow night, and the next, and the next after that.”
A
scowl darkened Spence’s face for a split second before he threw up
his hand. “You’re right! I didn’t. Let’s say…within a
fortnight. That ought to be enough time to work up some charm and get
between the fair widow’s legs.”
“You
wagered for a dance, not a tupping.”
“Well.”
Spence’s eyes glittered. “I thought I wagered for tonight.
Allowances must be made.” When Douglas said nothing, Spence leaned
closer. “You’re not afraid, are you? Not going soft in the head
like Burke? The woman gutted you and denied you in front of all
society, man. Look around.” He swept one arm toward the rest of the
room. “Don’t you think half the people here guessed why you
sought her out? And now they see her leaving alone, and you looking
like she took your ballocks with her.”
Against
his will, Douglas’s eyes caught on Madeline Wilde as she made her
way toward the doors. Damn, she was beautiful. He had
wanted to dance with her, and probably get her into bed as well, even
though she was not, as she had so baldly pointed out, his usual type
of woman. She was…something more.
As
if she could hear his thoughts, she paused at the top of the short
flight of stairs leading out of the ballroom. She glanced back over
her shoulder, and her eyes met his. For a moment he felt again a bolt
of lust—unwanted this time—and her lips curved, as if she knew.
She lowered her chin and smiled in a coy, entrancing way, as if they
shared secrets—or as if she dared him to uncover hers. With
breathtaking nerve, she pursed up her lips as if in a kiss, and
touched one finger to them.
He
took a harsh breath as she turned and continued on her way, her
emerald skirts swaying bewitchingly. “Why her?”
“Why
not her?”
Douglas
set his jaw. “You had her marked from the moment we stepped into
this room. I saw you watching her, Spence. A former lover? Was I
supposed to exact some revenge or retribution by asking the lady to
dance?”
“The
courtesan’s daughter?” The other man’s lip curled. “Hardly a
former lover of mine. I have higher standards than that.”
Not
really, in Douglas’s opinion. Spence liked married women who
couldn’t impose on his freedom, and who often wished to keep their
liaisons secret. That was hardly what one could call a refined
requirement. Still, Douglas hadn’t known she was a courtesan’s
daughter. He made a mental note to find out more about that.
“She
appeared respectable enough to me,” he said.
“To
you,”
repeated Spence with an edge of condescension. “Compared to a
tavern wench with rounded heels, she might be. To the rest of us…”
He snapped his fingers at a passing footman and took a glass of wine
from the man’s tray. “You really ought to improve your taste,
Bennet.”
Douglas
let that go. He did like tavern wenches. They were friendly and
earthy, nothing delicate or prim about them. They were more willing
to be adventurous in bed, and they demanded so much less of
him—financially and emotionally—than any other woman would.
“But
why her?” he asked again, circling back to his main question. “Just
for the sport of it? Or did you simply want the pleasure of seeing me
turned down flat?”
Spence
didn’t reply for a moment. His eyes were sharp and calculating.
“How plump are your pockets at the moment?” he finally asked.
“Reasonably,”
said Douglas. He’d been gone from town for a month overseeing
repairs at one of his father’s estates, to the great benefit of his
purse. Still, it was a few weeks to quarter day, when his father paid
out his allowance. He could always find a use for more money.
Spence
lowered his voice. “I suspect our lovely Mrs. Wilde of being more
than she appears. And if I’m right, there’s two thousand quid to
be had.”
Douglas’s
eyebrows shot up. “What is she, a spy?”
“Of
some sort,” muttered Spence. “You aren’t acquainted with a
little piece of rubbish called 50
Ways to Sin,
are you?”
“No.”
“Get
a copy. It’s a pamphlet of a most…intriguing nature.” A cunning
smile split his face. “I suspect you’ll enjoy it.”
That
smile put him on guard. Douglas might not be the most discerning
fellow, but he wasn’t stupid, and he knew Spence too well. “If
you insist—not that it answers my question about why you wanted me
to charm my way into Mrs. Wilde’s good graces.”
“The
authoress is unknown. I daresay even you’ll guess why when you read
it. But she’s piqued more than one man’s pride with her
scandalous pen, and there’s a bounty out for her name. Mrs. Wilde
seems a very likely candidate.” He shrugged. “If you can unmask
her, I’ll split the bounty with you.”
Douglas
folded his arms and looked at Spence through narrowed eyes. “I
should seduce the woman, gain her confidence, presumably enough to be
admitted to her boudoir, where I would have to search for some proof
that she writes this pamphlet. And for that, you’ll take half the
money? Not so, Spence, not so.”
His
friend’s hooded eyes flashed. “Very well. Forget I said
anything.”
Douglas
shrugged. “Hard to do that. Who staked the bounty?”
Spence
hesitated.
“If
the bloke’s serious about finding the author, he can’t be too
secretive about it.”
“Lord
Chesterton,” said Spence with obvious reluctance. “He felt she
identified him too clearly in one story and he’s livid.”
“Identified?
She didn’t use his name?”
Spence
looked impatient. “No, she uses obviously false names.”
“Then
how did he recognize himself?”
His
friend smirked again. “Find a copy and see if you can deduce that
yourself.”
Douglas
wondered what on earth this story was, that would drive Lord
Chesterton to such an action. The man was as correct and polite as
anyone could be, distantly connected to the King and as stiff as a
piece of kindling. Now he’d placed a public bounty on a woman’s
head? What could Mrs. Wilde—if she was in fact the author—have
written about him? Two thousand pounds was a small fortune, and
certain to attract a fair amount of attention.
Of
course, that also made it a much more interesting contest.
“Three
to one,” he said after a moment’s thought.
“Eh?”
“Three
to one split, if we take the bounty.” He glanced at Spence. “You’re
the one, obviously.”
“Two
to three,” countered the other man.
“Do
it yourself, then.”
Spence
muttered a few curses under his breath, but stuck out his hand.
“Done.”
Douglas
shook on it, already anticipating his next meeting with the wily
widow. “Done.”
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