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Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles.
Author Note
Margaret and Tony knew exactly what they wanted when they met, and it certainly wasn’t each other. Thank goodness for Lady Falstow! I do hope you enjoyed a peek at the beginning of Tony and Margaret’s romance and our brief meeting with the Evernden brothers who will appear in my June 2009 Mills & Boon Historical, The Rake’s Inherited Courtesan. All of my characters become close friends, so I am pleased to be able to invite you to sit down, have a cup of coffee, tea or juice, and get to know them.
I love to hear from readers, so please visit me at my website: www.annlethbridge.com where you can find all my latest news and where you can reach me directly.
The Rake’s Intimate Encounter
Ann Lethbridge
I dedicate this book to my husband, who is my
inspiration
Chapter One
London, 1815
Brunettes, blondes and even a redhead displayed their mouthwatering attributes while they handled the cards at the green baize-covered tables with the dexterity of Captain Sharps. Tony Darby sauntered ahead of the Evernden brothers into what had once been a ballroom. At each table, fashionable gentlemen leered at their scantily clad banker, or stared at their cards.
Piquet. Whist. Vingt-et-un. Women. All the usual pastimes. Tony sighed as ennui swept through him and then turned to his companions. “This is why you dragged me all the way to Hampstead, Stanford? A gambling hell in a brothel?”
“Indeed,” the fair haired and usually cheerful Christopher Evernden said with a grimace. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, Garth.”
On the other side of Tony, Christopher’s brother, Lord Stanford, grinned, his dark eyes unrepentant. “Lady Falstow will have your head if she hears the word 'brothel’ in her establishment. The women here are looking for amusement, not money.”
“Good Lord,” Christopher said. “Is that Lady—”
“No names,” Garth murmured. “In this club, discretion is the watchword. One wrong word and we will never darken these hallowed portals again. Look at them. It’s a banquet of female desires.”
Following the direction of Christopher’s stunned gaze, Tony recognized one of London’s foremost hostesses, known for her sumptuous dinners and witty conversation. Tonight, the blonde wore a carnivorous expression and a gown diaphanous enough to shame a courtesan.
She caught his glance. Her gaze ran down his length, obvious and assessing. Clearly liking what she saw, she beckoned.
Tony stifled the urge to flee and pretended he hadn’t noticed.
Christopher groaned. “I have no interest in playing stud for some bored hausfrau. You promised piquet in interesting surroundings.”
“Can it get more interesting than this?” Garth asked. “Look at them. They’ll rip your clothes off, they’re so desperate.”
“The next time I go to White’s I don’t want to shake some fellow’s hand knowing I tupped his wife,” Tony said, speaking from an experience that still gave him nightmares.
“Nor me,” Christopher said.
“You do the ladies no favors,” Garth said. “They are here because their husbands don’t give a damn whether they are happy or not.” Strangely enough, the usually insouciant Garth sounded rather grim. “And besides, many of them are lonely widows.”
“I don’t have the ready to set up an indigent widow with a host of hungry mouths to feed,” Tony said. Tomorrow morning he had an appointment to view a property, which, if he decided to purchase, would empty his pockets.
“I thought you came into some money,” Christopher said.
“Gone.” He wasn’t going to let the cat out of the bag and let them ridicule his decision to give up a life of idleness. Not until he made a success of it. “If you want gambling and a prime article on each arm, I know a great little hell in the Seven Dials—no limit on play and no commitment.”
“Such gratitude,” Garth muttered. “I invite you to London’s most exclusive club and you prefer Haymarket ware. Do as you please. I have someone waiting upstairs, and I never disappoint a lady.”
“Who the hell are you tangled up with now?” Christopher said with a frown. “You’ll find yourself on Primrose Hill with a bullet lodged somewhere in your person.”
“Nor do I bandy about a lady’s name.” Garth stalked off down the hall, the slight stagger an indication of the quantity of brandy he’d consumed on the drive over.
Tony smothered a yawn. Garth’s legendary exploits among the ton’s females had palled long ago. “Let’s leave.”
Christopher expelled an impatient breath. “I’ll wait for him. He’ll no doubt be too foxed by the end of the night to get home in one piece. Join me in a game of whist?” He gestured to a nearby table with three men and a pile of tokens waiting for a winner. “At least it presents a challenge.”
“I pity the woman who holds the bank at your table,” Tony said.
Christopher laughed. “It’s a game of chance. I simply count better than most.”
The blonde holding the bank had a lovely face and hard calculating eyes. The kind of woman Tony had found appealing when he first made his bows. “You know, I think I’ll wander about for a bit.”
“See if anyone strikes your fancy?” Christopher said, his eyes twinkling.
“See if they have any food. I haven’t eaten for hours.”
Christopher raised a brow. “Bon appétit.” He headed for his chosen victim and Tony spared a second’s worth of pity on those about to lose their
