Regency Surrender: Ruthless Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Seduce / Rake Most Likely to Sin

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Rake Most Likely to Sin (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Rake Most Likely to Seduce (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)

Bronwyn Scott

For Mike, Rebecca and Madison, who shared the second halfof our Grand Tour with us. Thanks for sharing nine nights ofdinners with us. Meeting you was the highlight of the trip.

Chapter One (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)

The Antwerp Hotel, Dover—March 1835

‘You bastard! No one has that kind of luck!’ The man across the table from Nolan Gray snarled in disbelief. ‘If you lay down another ace, I’ll...’

‘What? You’ll slice me from side to side? Shoot me where I sit?’ Nolan Gray flipped the offending card on to the table—another ace indeed—with a nonchalance that suggested threats to his bodily well-being were a common occurrence when it came to cards and late nights.

The man half rose, a menacing hulk looming over the table. He was fully provoked by his evening’s losses and Nolan’s insouciance. ‘When a fellow has the streak you’ve had, it isn’t called luck any more. It’s called something else.’ He sneered, ready to leap the table for Nolan’s throat.

‘What do you call it?’ Nolan leaned back in his chair, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of standing. He took his opponent’s measure through alert eyes. The man outweighed him by two stone. A fight wouldn’t be fair, but it wouldn’t come to that, either because the man was nothing more than a bully or because there’d be weapons drawn before fists. Nolan had seen the type before, he just hadn’t bargained on seeing that sort tonight. He should have known better. This was Dover, not an elegant London gambling club where gentlemen had their codes.

The man growled. ‘You know what I call it.’ He waved a hand at the other two men seated with them. ‘You know what we all call it.’

Poor choice of allies, Nolan thought. The other two at the table didn’t look as committed to the conflict. Then again, they hadn’t lost as much. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Care to spell it out for me?’ Nolan pushed, wanting to see how far the man would dare to go. Further than Nolan had thought. He had just a moment’s warning.

The man leapt the table, but Nolan was faster. A flick of his wrist and the slim handle of a blade slipped into his hand from the hidden sheath in his sleeve. He brought the blade up under the man’s chin, using the man’s own momentum against him. If he wanted to avert further trouble, now was the time for a show of force. The others at the table discreetly pushed back their chairs, making it clear they wanted no part of this.

‘Are you calling me a cheat?’ Nolan asked coolly. He didn’t have time for this. Where was Archer? He’d been right here a moment ago and goodness knew Nolan could use some support right about now. Surely Archer hadn’t left without him. They were supposed to meet Haviland and Brennan at the dock at an ungodly hour for their boat across the Channel.

It had hardly made sense to go to bed just to get back up, so he’d stayed awake. All bloody night. And look what it got him: the local Dover card sharp on the brink of calling him out; a duel his last night in England. Haviland would kill him if he was late and they missed the boat.

The man’s chin went up a fraction either in defiance or an attempt to avoid the pricking of Nolan’s blade. ‘Damn right I’m calling you a cheat.’

‘And I’m calling you a poor loser,’ Nolan answered with equal vehemence. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Gambling had become tedious over the years: play, win a little, then win obscenely, duel, repeat. He hoped the French with their rumoured reputation for obsessive gambling proved to be better sports than his countrymen when it came to his flair with the cards. ‘Shall we settle this like gentlemen somewhere or will you retract your comment?’ He had to be at the docks in under an hour. Through the long windows of the hotel, he could see a coach draw up to the kerb—his coach. Perhaps he could squeeze in a duel if he was fast enough. Or maybe he should just make a run for it, although he hated the thought of letting this man get away with calling him names he didn’t deserve. He’d counted those cards fair and square. Having a sharp mind was no crime.

They were starting to draw a crowd, even at four o’clock in the morning. Workers who rose with the city were coming into the hotel for their early morning shifts and deliveries. Wasn’t this what he wanted to avoid? Being conspicuous? Scandal had driven him out of London, his father finally appalled by his son’s level of notoriety.

Nolan lowered the knife and gave the man a shove, sending him sprawling back over the table. He tossed him a look of disgust, scraping his winnings into his coat pocket. ‘You aren’t worth it.’ The sooner he was out of England, the better, but this was hardly the note he wanted to leave on. At least it was unlikely rumour would get back to his father that his son had been involved in a near duel just moments before his ship left. The Antwerp Hotel was hardly his father’s environs.

He’d nearly reached the door when a sixth sense alerted him. The bastard hadn’t stayed down, hadn’t recognised mercy when it was meted out. Nolan whirled with a shout, blade flashing. He caught the glint of a pistol barrel in the light of the hotel lobby’s chandelier not yet doused for the oncoming day. Without hesitation, he let his knife fly, straight into the man’s shoulder. The pistol clattered to the ground. The clerk behind the desk gasped in disbelief. ‘Mr Gray, this is a decent establishment!’

‘He started it!’ Nolan retorted. ‘He’s not hurt too badly.’ Nolan had been careful with his aim—too careful. There was no question of retrieving the knife. The man lurched forward, his adrenaline overriding his pain for the moment. Later there would be plenty of that. It was time for a getaway. The clerk would call the watch and there would be questions.