Bronwyn Scott - Rake Most Likely To Seduce

RAKES ON TOUR

Outrageous hell-raisers let loose in Europe!

When London’s most notorious rakes embark on a Grand Tour they set female hearts aflutter all across Europe!

The exploits of these British rogues might be the stuff of legend, but on this adventure of a lifetime will they finally meet the women strong enough to tame their wicked ways?

Read Haviland North’s story in:

Rake Most Likely to Rebel Already available

Read Archer Crawford’s story in:

Rake Most Likely to Thrill Already available

Read Nolan Gray’s story in:

Rake Most Likely to Seduce Available now

and watch for Brennan Carr’s story:

Rake Most Likely to Sin Coming March 2016!

Author Note

I have a secret: Venice wasn’t supposed to be Nolan’s story. All through my planning of the mini-series it was supposed to be Brennan’s. But when the gentlemen arrived it didn’t work out that way. It didn’t take long to see that Venice suited Nolan much better—the parties, the card games, and the dark edge that haunts the periphery of Carnevale.

For the background to Nolan’s story I read John Ruskin’s original journals on Venice from his visit in the 1840s. They are fascinating and eerily predictive of Venice’s fate. I also consulted John Julius Norwich’s A History of Venice, for those of you looking to do some reading on the city.

I was fortunate enough to stop in Venice the summer before writing Nolan’s story, to reacquaint myself with the beautiful city. Many of you write and tell me you like to ‘travel’ in my stories when you can’t get out and travel yourself, so this one’s for you. Whether you’ve been to Venice in person, or in your dreams, I hope you enjoy Nolan’s Venetian vacation.

Stop by my blog at bronwynswriting.blogspot.comto share your own Venetian stories.

Or visit my web page at bronwynnscott.com.

Rake Most Likely to Seduce

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRONWYN SCOTTis a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

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For Mike, Rebecca and Madison, who shared the second half of our Grand Tour with us. Thanks for sharing nine nights of dinners with us. Meeting you was the highlight of the trip.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The Antwerp Hotel, Dover —March 1835

‘You bastard! No one has that kind of luck!’ The man across the table from Nolan Gray snarled in disbelief. ‘If you lay down another ace, I’ll...’

‘What? You’ll slice me from side to side? Shoot me where I sit?’ Nolan Gray flipped the offending card on to the table—another ace indeed—with a nonchalance that suggested threats to his bodily well-being were a common occurrence when it came to cards and late nights.

The man half rose, a menacing hulk looming over the table. He was fully provoked by his evening’s losses and Nolan’s insouciance. ‘When a fellow has the streak you’ve had, it isn’t called luck any more. It’s called something else.’ He sneered, ready to leap the table for Nolan’s throat.

‘What do you call it?’ Nolan leaned back in his chair, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of standing. He took his opponent’s measure through alert eyes. The man outweighed him by two stone. A fight wouldn’t be fair, but it wouldn’t come to that, either because the man was nothing more than a bully or because there’d be weapons drawn before fists. Nolan had seen the type before, he just hadn’t bargained on seeing that sort tonight. He should have known better. This was Dover, not an elegant London gambling club where gentlemen had their codes.

The man growled. ‘You know what I call it.’ He waved a hand at the other two men seated with them. ‘You know what we all call it.’

Poor choice of allies, Nolan thought. The other two at the table didn’t look as committed to the conflict. Then again, they hadn’t lost as much. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Care to spell it out for me?’ Nolan pushed, wanting to see how far the man would dare to go. Further than Nolan had thought. He had just a moment’s warning.

The man leapt the table, but Nolan was faster. A flick of his wrist and the slim handle of a blade slipped into his hand from the hidden sheath in his sleeve. He brought the blade up under the man’s chin, using the man’s own momentum against him. If he wanted to avert further trouble, now was the time for a show of force. The others at the table discreetly pushed back their chairs, making it clear they wanted no part of this.

‘Are you calling me a cheat?’ Nolan asked coolly. He didn’t have time for this. Where was Archer? He’d been right here a moment ago and goodness knew Nolan could use some support right about now. Surely Archer hadn’t left without him. They were supposed to meet Haviland and Brennan at the dock at an ungodly hour for their boat across the Channel.

It had hardly made sense to go to bed just to get back up, so he’d stayed awake. All bloody night . And look what it got him: the local Dover card sharp on the brink of calling him out; a duel his last night in England. Haviland would kill him if he was late and they missed the boat.

The man’s chin went up a fraction either in defiance or an attempt to avoid the pricking of Nolan’s blade. ‘Damn right I’m calling you a cheat.’

‘And I’m calling you a poor loser,’ Nolan answered with equal vehemence. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Gambling had become tedious over the years: play, win a little, then win obscenely, duel, repeat. He hoped the French with their rumoured reputation for obsessive gambling proved to be better sports than his countrymen when it came to his flair with the cards. ‘Shall we settle this like gentlemen somewhere or will you retract your comment?’ He had to be at the docks in under an hour. Through the long windows of the hotel, he could see a coach draw up to the kerb—his coach. Perhaps he could squeeze in a duel if he was fast enough. Or maybe he should just make a run for it, although he hated the thought of letting this man get away with calling him names he didn’t deserve. He’d counted those cards fair and square. Having a sharp mind was no crime.