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“Come now, sweet torment. Tell me, if you can, that you do not want me.
“Tell me you wish to leave me. Tell me that while I take your breath away, while I make you moan. Come, make me believe it.”
He pulled her into his arms, bruising her lips under his. She collapsed against him, and Morgan thought the victory won.
But suddenly she pulled back, holding him off with her palms, her eyes the ominous gray of a lowering storm. She spoke quietly at first, but her voice rose steadily with growing emotion. “You say I want you. And I do.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “You know it. And you are taking advantage of it, and…” She was shouting now, tears trailing down her face.
“I will not be your whore!”
Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell’s debut
A PERILOUS ATTRACTION
“…promising Regency-era debut…
a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing
the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning
likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”
—Romantic Times
“…a promising first romance.”
—The Romance Reader
A Dangerous Seduction
Patricia Frances Rowell
MILLS & BOON
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In memory of my young friend Morgan Mitchell,
who left us at the age of nine
And for my grandchildren,
who are, happily, still with us—
Zachary Nathaniel, Eric Dean, Joseph Richmond,
Amber Nicole, Camille Elise, Joy Anna, Jillian Paige
and Andrew Houghton
And, of course, for Johnny
Acknowledgment
I would like to thank my friend Maria Budzenski
for her help with this story. She sent me literally
boxes of information in addition to her personal
observations of Cornwall. Thank you, Maria.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
London, England, 1808
P ain. Gripping, grinding, paralyzing pain. He lay on the grass in the pool of blood that leaked through his fingers. But how could he…?
Five, six, seven—three more steps and he would kill the bastard. But there had been no more steps. Eight… A flash of light, a blast, and he was falling. Falling forward, propelled by a blow that knocked him off his feet and onto his face.
Laughter. Shouts. Running feet. Shots. The blood stained his coat and dripped over the hand he pressed in vain against his chest.
The scurvy dog shot before the count! Shot you in the back.
And he laughed.
The laughter echoed through the darkness that was closing around him.
The bastard laughed!
Hoofbeats. The laughter trailing away.
He had thought he hated the man. Now he knew better.
In that moment was conceived a hatred as deep as his soul.
He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to lift the pistol still clutched in his hand. Too heavy. Too dark. Hands taking the pistol. Voices calling his name. The darkness wrapping around him in a smothering cloud. Gasping. Choking.
Breathe, damn you, breathe. A breath. Another breath. One more. Another. You can’t die. Not now. The dog must pay.
He
