Rake with a Frozen Heart

Rake with a Frozen Heart
Marguerite Kaye

THE MAN WHO COULD NEVER LOVEWaking up in a stranger’s bed, Henrietta Markham encounters the most darkly sensual man she has ever met. The last thing she remembers is being attacked by a housebreaker – yet being rescued by the notorious Earl of Pentland feels much more dangerous!Since the cataclysmic failure of his marriage, ice has flowed in Rafe St Alban’s veins. But meeting impetuous, all-too-distracting governess Henrietta heats his blood to boiling point.When she’s accused of theft, Rafe finds himself offering to clear her name. Can Henrietta’s innocence bring this hardened rake to his knees…?

Praise for Marguerite Kaye:

‘Kaye delights readers with a heated seduction and

fiery games that burn up

the pages when her heroine takes

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘A spellbinding Regency romance

with a difference,

THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH

is another winner for Marguerite Kaye!’

—Cataromance

‘Kaye closes her brilliant

Princes of the Desert trilogy, in which Regency Roses meet and fall in love with desert sheikhs. Book Three is irresistible, with its fantastical kingdom, all-powerful prince and the allure of the forbidden. Sensual, ravishing and funny. A must for all lovers of sheikh romance.’ —RT Book Reviews on THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH

‘You have placed me in an impossible position. I cannot turn you in without risking being found guilty by association, but neither can I in all conscience simply abandon you.’

Rafe was not a man given to chivalry. He was not a man much given to impulsive action either, but Henrietta Markham’s endearing courage, her genuine horror at the accusations levelled against her, and the very real dangers which she faced, roused him now to both. Whether he wanted to be or not, he was involved in this farce.

‘I have no choice. I’ll help you,’ he said, nodding to himself. It was the only way.

‘Help me to do what?’

‘Whatever it takes to clear your name.’

‘I am perfectly capable of doing that myself,’ Henrietta said indignantly—and quite contrarily, because for a moment there, when he had offered, her heart had leapt in relief.

About the Author

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining a first-class honours and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write, and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon. They accepted it, and she’s been writing ever since.

You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

THE RAKE AND THE HEIRESS

INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM† (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) (part of Summer Sheikhs anthology) THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH† (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE HIGHLANDER’S REDEMPTION* (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE HIGHLANDER’S RETURN* (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782)

and in Mills & Boon

HistoricalUndone!eBooks:

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER

THE HIGHLANDER AND THE SEA SIREN

BITTEN BY DESIRE

TEMPTATION IS THE NIGHT

CLAIMED BY THE WOLF PRINCE** (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) BOUND TO THE WOLF PRINCE** (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE HIGHLANDER AND THE WOLF PRINCESS** (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE SHEIKH’S IMPETUOUS LOVE-SLAVE† (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) SPELLBOUND & SEDUCED

† (#ulink_80a916d4-2a28-54d0-9f00-b7f84d7546e1)linked by character * (#ulink_80a916d4-2a28-54d0-9f00-b7f84d7546e1)Highland Brides** (#ulink_764d5e01-8c85-5ccb-a673-5ac2e745c1b3)Legend of the Faol

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Rake With a Frozen Heart

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Chapter One

Sussex—May 1824

The early morning mist was just beginning to clear as he turned Thor, his magnificent black stallion, towards home, taking the shortcut through the long yew-tree walk that bordered the formal gardens of Woodfield Manor. The bright sunlight of an early English summer shafted down through the tall trees, causing the dew on the grass to sparkle as if strewn with a myriad of tiny diamonds. The earthy scent of freshly disturbed soil and roots churned up by Thor’s prancing hooves mingled with the heady perfume of the honeysuckle, which roamed untrained around the trunks of the stately yews. It was a perfect morning, the prelude to what would undoubtedly be a beautiful day.

The Right Honourable Rafe St Alban, Earl of Pentland, Baron of Gyle and master of all he surveyed was, however, completely oblivious to the glories of nature, which assailed him from all sides. Mentally drained after another sleepless night, physically exhausted after his strenuous early morning gallop, his only interest was in falling into the welcoming arms of Morpheus.

Reining his horse in, Rafe dismounted to unlatch the wrought-iron gates, which opened on to the gravelled side path leading directly to his stables. The tall, perfectly proportioned man and the huge ebony horse made a striking pair, each in their own way glorious examples of blue-blooded pedigree, perfect specimens of toned and honed muscle and sinew at the peak of physical perfection. Rafe’s skin glowed with a healthy lustre. His raven-black hair shone in the sunlight, the severe lines of his Stanhope crop emphasising his faultless profile, the angle of his cheekbones highlighted by the flush of exertion from the break-neck gallop across the downs. The bluish hue of stubble only served to accentuate a strong jaw and very white teeth.

Byronic, is how one infatuated young lady had breathlessly described him, a compliment that Rafe dismissed with his customary crack of sardonic laughter. Though his handsome countenance and fabulous wealth made him one of society’s most eligible bachelors, even the most determined ladies on the catch wilted under his aloof stare and acerbic wit—which suited Rafe very well, since he had no interest at all in leg-shackling himself for a second time. He’d had enough of marriage to last him a lifetime. Several lifetimes, in fact.

‘Nearly home now, old friend,’ he murmured, patting the horse’s sweating flank. Thor tossed his massive head, expelling a cloud of warm air from his nostrils, as anxious as his owner for the warmth of his sleeping quarters. Deciding to walk the short distance to the house rather than remount, Rafe shrugged off his riding coat and slung it casually over his shoulder. Having no expectations of meeting anyone this early, he had come out wearing neither hat, waistcoat nor neckcloth. The clean white folds of his linen shirt clung to the perspiration on his back, the open neck at the front revealing a sprinkling of hair on a muscled chest.

The gate swung soundlessly back on its well-oiled springs and Rafe urged his horse forwards, but Thor pawed at the grass and snorted. In no mood for playfulness, Rafe tugged on the reins again, more sharply this time, but the stallion refused to move, giving a high whinny.

‘What’s spooked you?’ Scanning their immediate surrounds in the expectation of seeing a rabbit or a fox peering out from the deep ditch that ran parallel to the path, instead he saw a shoe. A lady’s shoe. A small leather pump, slightly scuffed at the toe, attached to a very shapely ankle clad in eminently practical wool. With a muffled exclamation, which expressed more annoyance than concern, Rafe looped his horse’s reins round the gatepost and strode over to peer into the ditch.

Lying lengthways on her back, and either dead or deeply unconscious, was the body of a young woman. She was clad in a serviceable round gown of brown worsted, buttoned high at the neck. She wore no hat or pelisse, and her chestnut hair had unravelled from its pins to fan out behind her, where the ditchwater had soaked it, turning its curling ends almost black, like a dark halo. The face revealed, when Rafe cautiously brushed back the obscuring reeds, was stripped of colour, marble-white and ghostly. With her arms folded protectively over her bosom, the overall impression she gave was of a prosaically dressed effigy, the image marred only by the awkward angle of the little foot that had first betrayed her presence.