Anna Campbell: A Rake's Midnight Kiss

PRAISE FOR ANNA CAMPBELL

‘Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed is a lush, sensuous treat. I was enthralled from the first page to the last and still wanted more.’ —Laura Lee Guhrke, New York Times bestselling author

‘The fast pace and slightly gothic atmosphere make the pages fly. She keeps readers highly satisfied with the plot’s tenderness and touching emotions that reach the heart.’

—Kathe Robin,RT Book Reviews

‘Campbell matches up two proud, wary victims of abuse in this smart Regency romance … delightful insight and … luscious love scenes. Readers will cheer for these loveable and well-crafted characters.’

—Publishers Weekly

‘Truly, deeply romantic’

—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author on Captive of Sin

‘Regency noir—different and intriguing’

—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author on Claiming the Courtesan

‘You’ll find nothing worth stealing in this house. I suggest you leave. Immediately.’

Instead of reacting with the horrified dismay she sought, the man took his time straightening. Still with that leisurely air, he raised his candle to illuminate Genevieve where she stood. His face was covered with a black silk mask such as people wore to masquerade balls. Not that she had any experience of such events. ‘You’re dashed well protected if there truly is nothing worth stealing.’

Her hand steady, she raised the gun she’d taken from the drawer. ‘We live on the edge of the village, as you no doubt noted when you chose this house as your target.’ A horrible thought struck her and she waved the pistol at him. ‘Are you armed?’

He stiffened with shock, as though the question offended. To demonstrate his non-violent intentions, he spread his hands wide. ‘Of course not, dear lady.’

This rapscallion was a most bizarre burglar. Her knowledge of the criminal fraternity was limited, but this man’s assurance struck her as remarkable. He spoke like a gentleman and didn’t seem particularly concerned that she had a weapon. Her lips tightened and she firmed her grip on the pistol. ‘There’s no “of course” about it. In your line of work, you must expect opposition from your victims.’

‘I make sure the house is unoccupied before I start work.’

‘Like tonight,’ she said coldly.

He shrugged. ‘Even master criminals make the occasional mistake, Miss Barrett.’

ANNA CAMPBELLwas the sort of kid who spent her childhood with her nose buried between the pages of a book. She decided when she was a child that she wanted to be a writer. When she’s not writing passionate, intense stories featuring gorgeous Regency heroes and the women who are their destiny, Anna loves to travel, especially in the United Kingdom, and listen to all kinds of music. She has settled near the sea on the east coast of Australia, where she’s losing her battle with an overgrown subtropical garden.

The first book in THE SONS OF SIN series, Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed, has generated some wonderful reviews and a number of awards, including favourite historical romance from the Australian Romance Readers Association. Anna was also voted favourite Australian romance author at the ARRA Awards.

Anna loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her through her website at www.annacampbell.info.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Cover

PRAISE FOR ANNA CAMPBELL

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

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

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

Copyright

Packham House, London, March 1827

The whole world knows you for a slut, madam.”

The impassioned declaration dropped into one of those lulls that occasionally affected a crowded room. Like everyone else crammed into Lord Packham’s ballroom this uncommonly warm spring night, Sir Richard Harmsworth craned his neck to see who had spoken. And, more interesting, to whom.

His height offered an advantage and he quickly identified the players in the conflict. Then wished to God he hadn’t. Damn it to hell, the family dirty linen endured another public washing.

Near the main doors, a pale-haired stripling faced down a beautiful older woman with dark hair. A faintly pitying smile curled the woman’s lips and she betrayed no trace of chagrin. While Richard couldn’t place the furious boy, he had no difficulty identifying the lady labeled a trollop.

Augusta, Lady Harmsworth, was his mother. Much good it had ever done him.

From long habit, Richard plastered an affable expression on his face, as if none of this could possibly matter. Still, his gut clenched with old, futile anger as he started toward the brouhaha. What a dashed pity that he was thirty-two years too late to prevent scandal.

The extravagant crowd parted before him as if he was Moses contemplating a seaside stroll. He felt hundreds of eyes burning into his back. As an acknowledged arbiter of fashion, he was accustomed to attention. Tonight, that attention contained no admiration. Instead the avid interest indicated that society scented blood. Richard and his mother knew better than to give it to them. He wasn’t so sure about the distraught young man.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his best friend Camden Rothermere, Duke of Sedgemoor, striding in the same direction. Then his gaze focused on his mother. It must be five years since he’d seen her and she’d hardly aged a day. Clearly sin was good for the complexion, he thought sourly.

“No need for that, Colby.” Lord Benchley, one of his mother’s regular escorts, raised his quizzing glass and subjected the trembling youth to a derisive inspection. “Take your dismissal in good part and don’t make a fool of yourself.”