A Season of Ruin

Unbearable desire . . .

He'd better stop at once, as kissing and fondling an innocent had transformed more than one merry bachelor into a far less merry husband.

At
once
. That meant
immediately
, or
right now
, as in
this very second
.

She pushed against his chest again, harder this time.

Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

His innocent temptress was determined to escape him. She writhed and flailed and tried to twist off his lap. She'd flee as soon as he released her, that much was certain. She'd flee and he'd never get a close look at her. He'd never know who she was and he wouldn't be able to find her again.

Unthinkable
. Find her he would, innocent or not.

Robyn tightened his arms around her. He had to know who she was.

Then he'd let her go.

“A delightfully delicious debut that grips readers with the very first scene and doesn't let go . . . Watch for this newcomer to become a fan favorite.”

—
RT Book
Reviews

A WICKED WAY TO WIN AN EARL

A SEASON OF
RUIN

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

A SEASON OF RUIN

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with Katherine M. Jackson

Copyright © 2016 by Anna Bradley.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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.

eBook ISBN: 9780698406131

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / August 2016

Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my Portland ladies,
and the many red threads that connect us.

I'm so glad we all found each
other.

My deepest thanks to my agent, Marlene Stringer, my editor Kristine Schwartz, and my publicists Nancy Berland and Kim Rozzell-Miller. I'm so thankful to have an opportunity to work with such a talented, creative, and enthusiastic team.

A special thanks to the readers who have welcomed me into their reading
lives.

L
ONDON
, 1814

A high, thin voice floated on the air, audible even through the closed door. The music had begun. Pleyel. Of course. The
Scottish Airs
. What else?

Good God—musical evenings. Of all the bloody dull entertainments the
ton
inflicted on the gentlemen of London, the musical evening was the bloodiest. One stood about in a stifling room and waited for the music to start, then one squeezed one's arse onto a miniature chair and pretended to appreciate the efforts of a screeching soprano. Wait, stand, squeeze, listen, pretend. It was damned tedious.

Robyn rolled his shoulders inside his tight coat. He had no intention of escorting his sisters all over London this season. That is, unless they wished to forgo their card parties, routs, and balls in favor of a visit to the gaming hells, or a frolic with the Cyprians in Covent Garden.

He tried to imagine his sister Eleanor at a hazard table, her long, elegant fingers wrapped around a pair of dice as every rogue in London breathed down her neck. Or his sister
Charlotte, engaged in a debate with the whores at the Slippery Eel over how low was
too
low when it came to low-cut bodices.

No, he couldn't picture it. Shame, too, because it would have been amusing.

Robyn pressed his ear close to the door and listened. Not to Pleyel, but for the soft shuffle of a lady's slippers creeping down the hallway. He preferred petite, dark-haired ladies, especially those of an accommodating nature, to Pleyel.

Ah, dear old London. Wickedness lurked everywhere, even in the unlikeliest places. Another reason to love the old girl.

Where the devil was she? He tapped his foot, his eyes fixed on the door handle, willing it to turn.

It shouldn't be long now.

*   *   *

“Which do you think the handsomest?” Charlotte tapped Lily's wrist with her fan and nodded her head toward the center of the drawing room.

One couldn't take a step in any direction without tripping over one elegant nobleman or another, but there could be no doubt which group of gentlemen Charlotte referred to. Lily had noticed more than one feminine eyelash batting in that direction.

“My goodness,” Eleanor interrupted. “Is Lord Pelkey wearing a pink waistcoat?” She peered over Lily's shoulder at the gentleman in question. “Oh, dear. It
is
pink, with green embroidered butterflies. That leaves him out. No gentleman who wears a pink waistcoat with green butterflies can be considered handsome.”

The ladies tittered.

“Better to ask which is the wickedest,” said Miss Thurston, a sour young lady with a head full of dull brown frizz and a perpetually peeved expression. Her maid had clearly taken pains with her hair, but what had no doubt begun as
fashionable ringlets had long since succumbed to the heat of the room. Poor Miss Thurston looked as if she wore a brown, fuzzy animal of some sort on her head.

“One of them is as wicked as the next,” she declared.

Perhaps the loss of her curls had curdled her temper.

“Mr. Robert Sutherland is the handsomest.” As far as Lily was concerned, there was no question. It wasn't that he was so tall or so remarkably well formed, though he was both. It wasn't even his thick dark hair or heavily lashed black eyes.

No, it was his smile. His mouth was just a shade too wide. In another man, that mouth might have been a flaw, but Robyn had a slow, suggestive smile, and he wielded it like a pickax. That smile could crack the ice around the coldest feminine heart.

“And the wickedest,” put in Frizzle-Hair.

Charlotte sighed. “Poor Robyn. How awful, to be the wickedest gentleman in the wickedest city in England.”

Lily just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. If she believed half the tales and dire warnings about the wickedness of London, she'd refuse to leave her bedchamber at the Sutherlands' Mayfair town house.

When they first arrived in town, she'd expected to find cutthroats wielding knives in broad daylight, a pickpocket's fingers forever in her reticule, and leering rakes on every street corner. She'd kept a keen eye out for the rakes, as she didn't wish to be caught unawares, but to her knowledge she'd not yet seen one, leering or otherwise, and she'd been here for nearly six weeks already.

It was true she hadn't been out in society much since her arrival. She'd spent most of her time helping her sister Delia prepare for her wedding to Alec Sutherland, but Delia hadn't been Lady Carlisle for more than a few days before Eleanor and Charlotte Sutherland, Alec's younger sisters, had whisked Lily off her feet and into London's social whirl. Their mother, Lady Catherine, had graciously offered to
sponsor Lily, and all three young ladies anticipated a lively season.

Leering rakes, indeed
. Handsome, fashionable gentlemen abounded, each more scrupulously polite than the last. Lily had rarely seen such a concentration of impeccable manners. The only thing that had given her a moment's concern was the price of hats on Bond Street.

She was fond of hats.

No matter what Charlotte said, Lily hadn't seen any real evidence of Robyn's wickedness. She prided herself on her fair-mindedness, and she wouldn't dream of condemning a man without evidence.

“What about that one?” Lily gestured with her chin at a tall, golden-haired gentleman. “I can't like the look of him. He has cold eyes.”

All four heads swiveled to assess the golden-haired gentleman.

Charlotte craned her neck to see over a large woman wearing a towering purple turban adorned with tall peacock feathers. “Ah,” she murmured with a significant look at Lily. “
That
is Lord Atherton.”

Lily met Charlotte's eyes. “It is, indeed?”

Well, then. That changed everything. Perhaps she
could
like the look of him, after all. It would help if she did, as she intended to be married to him by the end of the season.

She glanced back over at the group of gentlemen. Lord Atherton stood just at the edges of it, his back a bit rigid and his air abstracted, as if he were only half listening to their conversation. He wasn't as tall as Robyn, but he was certainly tall enough to satisfy Lily.

Charlotte, who loved a matchmaking caper more than anything, rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Yes. We'll have Robyn introduce you, and—”

Miss Thurston interrupted her. “He does
not
have cold eyes! Why, how unfair you are!” She looked as though she'd
like to slap Lily with her fan. “Lord Atherton is the very model of a refined English gentleman. He has a spotless reputation.”

Lily didn't argue this point. His spotlessness wasn't in question. If it had been, she and Charlotte would never have settled upon him, after prolonged discussion, as Lily's perfect mate and the potential future father of her children.

Charlotte didn't entirely agree with Lily's choice. In fact, she'd insisted Lord Atherton was “as dull as a stick of wood.” She'd attempted to steer Lily toward a more exciting young gentleman, but Lily wouldn't hear of it.

Excitement wasn't part of her plan.

Perhaps Frizzle-Hair had set her cap for Lord Atherton? If so, Lily feared she was destined for disappointment, for that spotless and refined model of English manhood hadn't looked her way once tonight. He hadn't looked Lily's way, either, but he would before the soprano had sung her last note this evening.

“Didn't you just say one of them is as wicked as the next?” Lily asked, turning to Frizzle-Hair.

That young lady gave a worldly sniff. “You're from the country, aren't you, Miss Somerset? Perhaps you aren't familiar enough with town gentlemen to venture an opinion, and should defer to those with more knowledge on the subject.”

“Perhaps,” Lily agreed, all politeness, though she was tempted to laugh aloud at the idea that Frizzle-Hair was an expert on gentlemen of either the town or the country variety.

Charlotte gave Lily a sly wink. “How, Miss Thurston, do you judge the degree of a gentleman's wickedness?”

“Well, one does hear things about Mr. Sutherland, you know. Scandalous things.” Miss Thurston clamped her lips shut as if to prevent any of these scandalous things from emerging.

Charlotte gasped. “Why, Miss Thurston! Surely you don't rely on gossip to make your determinations?”

“Well, I . . .” Miss Thurston faltered. Her face flushed. “That is, of course not.”

Charlotte took a deep breath and patted her chest with the tips of her fingers. “Oh, I'm
so
relieved to hear it, for the gentleman who escapes gossip's vicious tongue may simply hide his debauchery with greater cunning. That would make him
wickeder
than the others, not less so. Wouldn't it, Miss Thurston?”

Miss Thurston's fountain of wisdom on the vagaries of the English gentleman appeared to have run dry, however. She looked from Eleanor to Charlotte, then from Charlotte to Lily, dipped into a shallow curtsy, and hurried away without another word.

Charlotte watched her scurry off, frizzy curls flying, then snapped open her fan with a quick flick of her wrist. “I enjoyed that.”

Lily stifled a giggle. “You're the wicked one, Charlotte.”

Charlotte gave her fan a vigorous wave. “Robyn is every bit as bad as Miss Thurston says, but I can't have her say so right to my face, can I? He
is
my brother, after all.”

Lily glanced back over at the group of gentlemen, but Robyn was no longer there. She scanned the room for a dark head towering over the rest of the party, but he seemed to have disappeared. “Where did he—”

“Come, let's find a seat,” Ellie said. “They're going to start.”

Miss Sophia Licari, the soprano, had taken her place at the front of the room.

Lily gathered her skirts in her hand. “Save my seat, won't you? I need to visit the ladies' retiring room. My sash is twisted.”

Ellie frowned. “Can't it wait?”

Lily fingered the tiny fold in the green satin sash at her
waist. No, it couldn't wait. She couldn't abide a twisted sash under any circumstances.

“Shall I accompany you?” Charlotte asked. “The house is rather confusing—”

“No, no. Just point me in the right direction. I'll find it.”

Charlotte made a vague gesture toward the door. “To the right, just there. Down the hallway, the last door on the left. Hurry now, Lily, or you'll miss the best part.”

*   *   *

Damn it, his ear had begun to ache from being squashed against the door. If Alicia thought he'd wait all night for her—

A faint sound came from the hallway, just outside the door.

Robyn froze, breath held.
At last.

A moment later the handle twisted, the door opened a crack, and a dainty, white-gloved hand appeared. He seized her wrist and nearly jerked her off her feet in his haste to get her through the door.

He'd waited long enough.

“What—” she squeaked.

He placed his lips against her ear with a low chuckle. “What took you so long? I was just wondering the same thing myself.”

He eased her backward against the door, leaned his body into hers, and released her wrist. He let his fingers brush against her hip as he reached behind her to twist the lock. The bolt slid home with a sharp click.

God, she smelled incredible. He buried his nose in her neck and inhaled. Odd, but he'd never noticed her scent before, and a man didn't often come across a woman who smelled like a meadow. Fresh, like grass warmed by the sun, or like a daisy would smell if it had a scent. He'd have expected a more sophisticated perfume from Alicia, something
sweeter, heavier. Less subtle. What a pleasant surprise, this scent. He nuzzled her neck and suppressed a sudden, absurd urge to growl.

Two unsteady hands came up to grasp the lapels of his coat. He expected to feel her arms slide around his neck, but instead she pushed against his chest. “I don't—”

“Of course you do.”
Otherwise she wouldn't be here
.

Robyn had no interest in a polite chat, and he'd long since learned the best way to keep a woman quiet was to give her something else to do with her mouth. He dropped a brief kiss on her warm, scented neck but resisted the urge to bury his face in her hair.

A man
should
linger over a scent like hers, but Lord Barrow's study wasn't the place to do it. He could easily be carried away by that scent, and before he knew it, he'd have Alicia flat on her back on what was undoubtedly a very fine carpet.

It wouldn't do to muss his lordship's carpet. It wasn't gentlemanly.

Then again, there was a settee.
Blast
—he should have tested it while he waited for her. But no matter. He'd noticed a desk, as well. A wide, empty desk. Lord Barrow, bless him, was quite tidy. Robyn would have to remember to send the old boy a fine bottle of brandy to show his gratitude.