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372 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published March 9, 2010
Though the ladies of the ton might eschew his presence in their drawing rooms, some of their number were more than willing to welcome a marquis, however disreputable, into the bedchamber. Lady or actress, wife or whore, they were all women beneath their garments. And Cain knew the truth that eluded many men. That what made a woman beddable had little to do with the particulars of her appearance and everything to do with what went on in her head.
They were willing boys, his footmen, if on the unrefined side. He wondered what she’d think if he told her they were the sons of a whore from Mrs. Rafferty’s. Their mother, Bet, along with Mel, had rescued him after he’d been robbed and beaten his second day in London. She’d been his first woman. That was in the old innocent days when the brothel had seemed like heaven on earth to a randy youth, and all its inhabitants angels of the most deliciously fallen variety. Later he’d discovered the dismal and dangerous reality of bordello life. Bet was dead, of the pox, and he mourned her still. When his fortunes changed he’d given her boys a home. Mel had cared for them until they became old enough to work.
He deepened the kiss, inhaling her breath. She was every bit as delicious as he’d suspected, tasting both honeyed and spicy.
And of his best Bordeaux.
He never seduced intoxicated women. It was one of his rules.
His mouth stilled, though his hands continued to caress her back and hips. Unwillingly he made his mind overcome his senses, engulfed by the warmth and fragrance of Juliana’s body. He recalled her second glass of wine, the sway of her body as she’d returned to the room with her hair a glorious golden cloud. And the fact that she was behaving in a manner surely foreign to her better judgment.
He'd known women who hated to reveal an untidy room. For himself, he enjoyed the sight of feminine clutter: stockings draped over a chair, discarded gowns piled on the bed, bottles of perfume and cosmetics unstoppered on a dressing table and lending their mingled scents to the ambience. Not that he suspected Juliana possessed an abundance of feminine fripperies: that was something he'd love to change.







