Charlotte Featherstone - Temptation & Twilight

Praise for the work of Charlotte Featherstone

SEDUCTION & SCANDAL

“One can become addicted to Featherstone’s sexually charged romances. The quick pace and wonderfully dark and dangerous heroes are what readers dream about. Secrets, passions and conflicts abound as readers are led through a labyrinth of plot twists, séances, supernatural revelations, visions and love scenes that take their breath away and leave them panting for more.”

—Romantic Times

“Ms Featherstone has the phenomenal ability to transport me into another time and place with each of her books … I loved the story line and the characters. I find that I am lying in wait for the next addition to this remarkable series.”

—Fresh Fiction

“If I had to sum this book up in one word it would be AWESOME. I absolutely loved it … This book has a bit of everything—mystery, murder, romance, deceit and a touch of history all bound under a beautiful cover … I HIGHLY recommend it. I gave this one 5 out of 5 roses.”

—Seduced by a Book

“Taking its cue from gothic novels of old, Seduction & Scandal has everything I love in darker historicals … I literally could not put this book down. A very solid 5/5 stars and highly recommended for fans of gothic historical romances.” —The Romanceaholic

PRIDE & PASSION“… sensual and intriguing …[an] engaging and steamy yarn” —Publishers Weekly

“Featherstone mixes her haunting erotic style into a tale tinged with mystery, paranormal elements and the atmosphere of the era … [she] stirs the pot, merging deep sensuality and a frightening, chilling mystery: a hunt for a madman that will have readers on the edge of their seats.”

—Romantic Times,

Don’t miss The Brethren Guardians series!

Seduction & Scandal August 2012

Pride & Passion September 2012

Temptation & Twilight October 2012

Temptation &

Twilight

Charlotte Featherstone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Aly, better late than never, right?

Thanks so much for coming up with the

‘Duke of Deliciousness’, I owe you for that one!

Thank you for being such a good friend.

THERE WAS A SPECIAL PLACE in hell for men such as him. A small berth closest to the hellfires, one that reeked of smoke and brimstone and rotting souls, would be his home for eternity. His berth, he was quite certain, would read Blasphemer. Seducer. Whoremonger and Licentious Rogue, to name only a few. But to list all his failings and sins would require a tablet the size of which Moses used to recount the Ten Commandments.

As a man not given to excessive description, he found the above-mentioned failings communicated quite well the depth of his amoral, unfeeling soul. He was rather enamoured of that—it had taken years to cultivate a hardened shell with no humanity within.

He wondered if even now the Black Angel’s minions were preparing for his reception into the underworld. How he hoped so, for he would need a merry party after the conclusion of tonight’s business.

Shifting into the light cast by the gas lamp, Iain Sinclair, Marquis of Alynwick and laird to the clan Sinclair, gazed into the looking glass, only to see the devil himself staring back at him. He wondered, with a self-deprecating grin, if it wasn’t a premonition of sorts. A prelude of where his eternal soul would rest if things did not go as planned tonight.

The devil, he mused, as he stared into the mirror, was a strikingly handsome fellow with long dark hair, given to curl, that had sent many a lady into swoons. Chiselled cheeks and chin, and a set of dark eyes—their colour could only be described as obsidian. Dimples in both cheeks flashed when he grinned in mockery, as he now was. His lips—oh, such decadently full lips that promised every kind of pleasure and rapture while indulging in the most wicked of sins.

The devil, Iain thought, as he motioned for his valet to pass him his tumbler of Scotch, looked remarkably like himself—a beautiful male, a dark, soulless bastard.

He was not a vain man—self-deprecating, true, but never vainglorious. The women of the ton might think him beautiful, showering him with compliments on his handsome face and muscular body. But he knew the truth: that what everyone saw on the outside was the polar opposite of what lurked inside him—a wretched ugliness that was slowly eating away any inner beauty he might have once possessed. No, his shell might be worthy, but inside he was anything but.

A sigh from the bed behind him confirmed this observation.

“You’re as beautiful as Lucifer, and as wicked as the lord of the underworld could ever hope to be.”

His gaze flashed back to the mirror, where the image of a woman lying naked and flushed pink amongst the white, rumpled bedsheets greeted him. His body jolted at the sight, as if he had all but forgotten the visitor. The lady—a rather loose term for the female—was not the sort he was used to cavorting with. She was too thin and slender, almost fragile. He preferred buxom. Blowsy, they used to call women such as his ideal back in the day, when a plump, luscious armful was every man’s fantasy. How could he help it? He adored the female shape, with all its softness and curves. With breasts and hips, and thighs that made a man feel like a man, that cushioned and welcomed him and made him think of safe harbours and all the other melodramatic sap spouted by the poets.

Poetry be damned. The truth was Iain was a fool for a set of lovely big tits, and a nice round arse to grip in the throes of carnal pleasures. It had always been this way for him; a pair of plump breasts could keep him pleasantly occupied for hours on end, and the lady deeply satisfied. As coarse as his mouth was, it was highly skilled—and devilishly wicked, able to produce the most wondrous results while pressed against his favourite part of the female anatomy.

His gaze slipped to the lady’s breasts. Rather disappointing for a man of his proclivities and appetites, but there it was. He was doing his duty, seeing to his obligations as one of the ancient Brethren Guardians.

Sighing again, she watched him, one arm tucked beneath her head, making her back arch in the belief she appeared more buxom. It was a useless endeavour. She would never possess the sort of body he liked to worship—or the one in particular he craved with every amoral fibre of his being.

Her knee rose, her delicate foot sliding along the crisp sheets. When her leg dropped to the side, so did his gaze, following the sensual action. She was well made there, he supposed, but already he’d tired of it. Strumpets never could hold his attention.