Never Trust a Rogue
Read Never Trust a Rogue Online
Authors: Olivia Drake
Tags: #Romance, #Fiction, #General, #Man-woman relationships, #Love stories, #Historical, #Historical fiction, #London (England), #Murder, #Investigation, #Aristocracy (Social class) - England, #Heiresses
Praise for
SEDUCING THE HEIRESS
“This book has it all: a fabulous hero, a wonderful heroine, and sizzling passion. Read it and watch the sparks fly!”
—Christina Dodd
“Guaranteed to seduce readers everywhere. This book is something truly special, an unforgettable story filled with passion, intrigue, and sweep-you-away romance.”
—Susan Wiggs
“This decadent Regency romance is carried along by a spunky heroine and sumptuous descriptions of upper-class life…there’s enough glitz to keep readers coming back.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Drake entices readers [and] twists the traditional with an unconventional heroine and a bad-boy hero that readers will adore.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“I absolutely adored this story! Witty, hilarious…[like] reading a Julia Quinn novel. I’m definitely looking forward to the next book in this series!”
—The Season Blog
“Olivia Drake’s
Seducing the Heiress
will land on your keeper shelf. The author takes what could be a been-there, read-that story of a scheming scoundrel and a headstrong hoyden and weaves a tale of wit, seduction, secrets, and sensuality that’s as vibrant as it is refreshing.”
—Michelle Buonfiglio’s Romance: B(u)y the Book®
“Drake weaves a sensual tale, full of intrigue and true romance…guaranteed to seduce and leave the reader breathless.”
—South Bend Romance Novel Examiner
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
OLIVIA DRAKE
Seducing the Heiress
Never Trust a Rogue
OLIVIA DRAKE
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
NEVER TRUST A ROGUE
Copyright © 2010 by Barbara Dawson Smith.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-94346-2
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 2010
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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Never Trust a Rogue
Females were nothing but trouble.
Handing the reins of his mount to a groom, Thane Pallister, the Earl of Mansfield, braced himself for the inevitable scene to come. He’d had plenty of time on the long ride from London to Oxfordshire to contrive an explanation for his uncle about his current predicament with the fairer sex.
Twelve years had passed since Thane had returned to the manor house where he had spent his youth. When he’d left here for good at the age of eighteen, he had come to despise this old pile with every fiber of his being. It had been more a prison than a home to him.
Yet, as he peeled off his riding gloves, he was surprised by a pang of nostalgia. On this unseasonably sunny March day, the place looked so . . . ordinary.
Neatly manicured boxwoods framed the front of the Elizabethan house. The tall edifice was fashioned of brick and timbers with mullioned windows that reflected the blue sky. As his gaze traveled upward, the steep roof with its myriad chimneys sparked a flash of memory.
A long time ago, he had clambered over those slate tiles while his cousin Edward had cowered by the stairs leading down to the servants’ attic. On a whim, Thane had lowered himself feet-first into one of the chimneys. He
must have had some vague notion of bracing himself on the sides and then popping back out to frighten his cousin. Instead, Thane had lost his traction, plunged down the dark shaft, and landed in the library, covered from head to toe in soot.
Luckily, it had been summer and no fire had blazed in the grate. But he had startled Uncle Hugo at his reading, and the prank had earned Thane a thrashing with the dreaded willow switch.
Back then, he’d had a knack for getting into trouble. He had been too fidgety to focus on his schoolwork, too keen on escaping the confines of four walls, too ready to commit any act of willfulness in order to break the boredom of routine. Thank God, maturity and military discipline had granted him the ability to control his impulses.
At least most of the time.
Stuffing his leather gloves into the pockets of his greatcoat, he headed up the granite steps. The double oak doors, carved with matching crosses, had once graced the chapel of a monastery. It felt odd to approach the house as a visitor when, as a lad, he had been forbidden use of the front entrance.
A footman in dark green livery answered Thane’s knock. He didn’t recognize the smooth, impassive features beneath the formal white wig and wondered what had happened to Sewell, the old butler with the hatchet face, who had borne Thane’s tomfoolery with stoic fortitude.
The footman took in his fine garb at a glance and stepped back to allow him entry. “Welcome to Waverly Park.”
“Is my uncle at home?” Thane asked, stepping into the dim-lit great hall. “Tell him Mansfield has come to call.”
The footman’s blue eyes bugged slightly in recognition, for he would have heard of the master’s renegade
nephew. “Yes, my lord. If you’ll be so good as to wait in the antechamber.”
The servant indicated a room to the right, then hastened down the long corridor that led to the back of the house. Apparently, Uncle Hugo still spent his days ensconced in the library. Old habits died hard.
Thane stripped off his greatcoat and tossed it over a chair. After being confined to the saddle since the crack of dawn, he had no intention of sitting like a stodgy squire in a room that had last been decorated during the reign of Queen Anne. He had too much on his mind, and a pressing need to return to London as soon as he was done here.
A feeling of restiveness crept over him. He had sworn never to return to this house. Only a sense of obligation and a summons from his uncle had lured him back. Whatever their differences in the past, he owed Uncle Hugo the courtesy of an explanation. It would have been the act of a coward to do so by letter.
Thane took a measured stroll around the entrance hall. Little had changed here. The oak-paneled walls still displayed medieval shields and paintings so darkened with soot and age, it was difficult to discern the subject matter. A suit of armor stood on a dais beneath the curve of the staircase.
He walked closer to the display. There was a dent in the breastplate exactly where he remembered it. A long time ago, he had stood on a stool, plucked off the helmet and stuck it on his head, and then chased Edward around the hall. Unfortunately, the narrow eye slits had impaired Thane’s vision, and he’d crashed into the suit of armor, knocking it down. The deafening clatter had brought the entire household at a run.
A flicker of humor quirked Thane’s mouth. How well he recalled tearing around here like a demon on the rare occasions when his uncle was away from home. It had
been sheer joy to slide in his stockinged feet on the marble floor. He had thrived on the danger of being caught. To sit placidly reading had never held any interest to him.
At last the servant returned with the news that the master would see him in the library. Thane headed down the long passageway, his footsteps sharp and decisive. He wanted this interview over with and done, like a dose of bitter medicine that must be swallowed.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned left and entered a spacious chamber with orderly rows of leather-bound books filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves. A fire hissed on the hearth. Beside it, his uncle sat in a nut-brown wing chair, his feet propped on a fringed stool and crossed at the ankles.
The shrunken quality to him caught Thane by surprise. The years had not been kind to the Honorable Hugo Pallister, younger twin brother of Thane’s late father. The familiar gray wig sat on Hugo’s head, for he held stubbornly to the fashion of his youth. Deep grooves flanked his down-turned mouth, giving him a perpetual sour frown.
He looked up from the book in his lap as Thane approached. No smile of greeting graced his uncle’s thin lips, nor had Thane expected one. Those pale blue eyes, underscored by baggy skin, had a sunken look, although they were as sharply observant as ever.
If Hugo noticed the disfiguring scar from the saber cut on Thane’s cheek, he gave no indication. Thane didn’t doubt his uncle still harbored resentment at being foisted with the care of his young nephew upon the death of Thane’s parents all those years ago.
Some things never changed.
Thane inclined his head in a slight bow. “Hello, Uncle. It’s been quite a long while since last we met.”
“Indeed.” Hugo clapped the book shut and set it aside. “And whose fault is that? I should not have been obliged
to summon you here. You have been back in England for a month now, yet you did not deign to call upon me at once.”
“Five weeks,” Thane corrected. “I returned from Belgium in the middle of February.” And a bitterly cold and uncomfortable journey it had been, burdened as he was with a petulant female in tow.
His uncle waved a gnarled hand. “All the more reason to chastise you. Now, fetch me a whiskey. And I suppose you’ll want refreshment yourself.”
Clenching his jaw, Thane went to the side table and poured two glasses from the decanter. There was a grudging tone to his uncle’s voice, but that was only to be expected. Hugo was a pinchpenny who didn’t part easily with his favorite Scotch malt.
