The Rake's Redemption. Georgina Devon
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Emma allowed Charles to lead her to one of the French doors that opened onto a veranda.
Flambeaux cast dancing flames that reached for the stars and sent golden light into the garden. Twenty steps down and they were surrounded by the heady, musky scent of blooming roses and twining honeysuckle.
Charles turned to face her and his eyes danced with amusement and tenderness. “I had wanted to pursue you slowly. I see it is not to be.”
Flummoxed by his words, she stood mute, taking shallow breaths that did nothing to ease the sense that she was racing toward something that would change her life forever.
The scents of growing flowers mingled with the intoxicating smell of the man standing too close to her. But she didn’t move away. Her legs were incapable of saving her.
His head bent so his warm breath fanned her face, caressed her lips just seconds before his mouth touched hers. She stood transfixed.
Never had she thought to experience anything this powerful.
GEORGINA DEVON
has a bachelor of arts degree in social sciences with a concentration in history. Her interest in England began when she lived in East Anglia as a child and later as an adult. She met her husband in England, and her wedding ring set is from Bath. Today she lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, two dogs, an inherited cat and a cockatiel. Her daughter has left the nest and does Web site design, including Georgina’s. Contact her at www.georginadevon.com.
The Rake’s Redemption
Georgina Devon
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
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 One
M iss Emma Stockton looked around Lady Jersey’s filled-to-overflowing ballroom. Everyone who was anyone in the ton milled about, some dancing, many talking. It was a fashionable crush.
She felt Amy shift beside her. ‘Em, might I go to speak with Miss Julia? She’s with her mother.’
Emma glanced in the direction her younger sister indicated. ‘Yes, but remember, if anyone asks you to dance, you may only do so twice and then not consecutively. And no waltzing.’
Amy pouted but nodded before moving away.
Emma watched her headstrong sister as worry gnawed at her stomach. It seemed they went nowhere that Amy did not flaunt Society’s rules. Had she thought more about it, she would have never told her not to do something. It only provoked Amy’s stubborn streak into action. But it was done. She would keep a close eye on her spoilt sister.
She sighed and cooled herself with a delicate ivory-and-lavender silk fan that had belonged to her mother. The torpid air moved slowly.
She stepped farther into the room, thinking she would get a glass of punch, when she spotted him—the Honourable Charles Hawthorne. Although in her jaundiced opinion there was nothing honourable about the man.
He moved with an animal grace few men possessed. His hair, as dark as Whitby jet and just as glossy, was cut short in a Corinthian style that suited his masculinity to perfection. His broad shoulders seemed even wider than normal in the perfectly fitted black evening jacket, and his narrow hips and strong thighs could not have looked better if he padded them with sawdust. He was everything a maiden might want in a man.
Too bad he was a rake of the first water. Even worse that he pursued her younger sister in a manner guaranteed to ruin Amy before she even had a chance to meet an acceptable young man. And more than anything, Amy needed to meet an eligible party.
Their brother and father continued to gamble what little was left of the family wealth and to sell off land and homes as fast as others sold horseflesh in an effort to keep ahead of their debtors. Had her engagement to Lord George Hawthorne, Charles Hawthorne’s older brother, ended in marriage things might be different. But that had not happened.
As she looked at him, Charles Hawthorne turned to look at her as though her attention drew his. His dark eyes met hers and a frisson skittered down Emma’s spine. She told herself it was apprehension. Nothing more.
She stood and watched him move in her direction. Part of her wanted to turn away and run, fearing the fascination he held for her. But a stronger part wanted to confront him and tell him to leave her sister alone. Either way, by the time her feet seemed capable of moving, he was upon her.
‘Miss Stockton,’ he drawled, making a leg that showed his physical attributes and natural grace at their best. ‘What a pleasure to see you here.’
She grimaced at him and managed to incline her head in what she hoped was a superior nod. No matter how her stomach twisted in what might be attraction as easily as dislike, she could not bring herself to return his compliment. She settled for, ‘Mr Hawthorne.’
He smiled as though he understood perfectly her dislike for him, his fine lips quirking at one corner. ‘I hope Miss Amy is with you?’
She scowled even as she felt a flush of anger mount from her neck to her freckled cheeks. Being a redhead was not easy when one tried to appear collected.
‘Amy is here under my protection. I do not wish you to approach her.’
His smile turned into something calculated. ‘Of course you don’t.’
‘I don’t suppose you would consider leaving?’ Even as the words left her mouth she regretted them. They made her look weak, as though she could not control her sister.
‘I could. But I have no plans to do so—yet. Perhaps later. There are other haunts where my presence is more appreciated.’
She nearly choked on her indignation. ‘A gentleman would not allude to such establishments in front of a lady.’
He