Rake's Guide to Pleasure.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 2008 by Victoria Dahl

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn. Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-0016-7 ISBN-10: 1-4201-0016-5

First Printing: August 2008

CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the United States of America

For my husband, Bill,

who believed in my dreams from the moment we met.

Thank you for being my hero.

Acknowledgments

First, thank you so much to my readers for helping to make this dream come true. The letters I've received mean the world to me.

Thank you to my lovely agent, Amy, for always being supportive, and my wonderful editor, John, for taking a chance on me.

And to my family ... I could not dream up a more supportive family than the one I have. Thank you to my boys, who hand out bookmarks to surprised customers at the bookstore. (And sometimes try to charge for them!) To my husband, who says that each book is my best ever, and means it. And to my mom, for being so proud.

The romance community is a nurturing one, so I couldn't possibly thank everyone who's contributed to my success, but there are two people I cannot miss. Thank you to Eloisa James for being an inspiration. And thank you to Connie Brockway for being always generous. Also, my continued gratitude to all the writers on all the loops who know so much more than I.

Every writer needs mental support, some of us daily. Thank you, Jennifer, for being my critique partner and my voice of reason.

Chapter I

December 1844, outside London

The storm had passed only hours before, blanketing the countryside in half a foot of snow. Moonlight and torch flame glittered and sparked off the icy garden, and the sight called to Emma Jensen through the hard cold of the window. Nature had reclaimed the tamed bower, swept in and buried the pathways, softened the stark angle of hedges cut to precise corners. This garden, painstakingly shaped by man, now lay hidden under gentle hills and deep drifts of snow, and Emma wondered how it would feel to be so effortlessly smothered. So still.

Her deep sigh fogged the glass and blanked the stark scene. Straightening, she glanced back to the bright whirl of the ballroom. Boredom had set in, and when she grew bored her mind turned to useless melancholy. Her life was not so bad, after all, or someday wouldn't be.

"Lady
Denmore
!"

Emma angled her chin, set a smile on her face, and turned toward the half-drunk voice.

"Lady
Denmore
, your presence is greatly desired in the hall."

"Why, Mr. Jones, whatever for?" Emma forced the words to come light and pretty.

"
Matherton
and
Osbourne
have arranged a race and they wish you to start it."

A distraction. Good. Emma smiled more genuinely and took the arm the thin young man offered, leaving behind the cold escape of her daydream.

Giggles and loud voices filled the cavernous front hall of
Wembley
House. All heads were turned toward the sweeping staircase and the impossible sight at the top. There, perched atop the landing, were Lords
Matherton
and
Osbourne
, peers of the Realm, each crouching down to sit on what looked to be huge silver platters. The men, once seated, began to slide gingerly over the Persian runner, easing themselves closer to the edge of the top stair.

"This is a race?" Emma laughed, but she didn't let her amusement distract from a quick study of the men. "Fifty pounds on
Osbourne
."

The noise around her paused, as if the whole room drew a breath, then exploded in a flurry of betting. Emma took the bottom step with a smile, meaning to climb to the top to start the race, but a loud shout stopped her.

"Ho there! The starter can't bet on the race!"

Emma only shrugged and stepped aside with a flourish of her hand, letting another woman take the starter's position, a woman not so cursed with the need to gamble on the outcome of every contest.

A moment passed, then a handkerchief dropped and the men burst from the landing, gaslight glinting off silver as the trays tilted and shot down the stairs with surprising speed. Emma gasped—everyone gasped—and the crowd parted in the face of imminent danger.

She almost closed her eyes, afraid to see the crash that surely awaited both men, but she did have fifty quid riding on this, so she watched the men fly down, watched as
Osbourne's
greater weight proved its advantage. She nodded in satisfaction as
Osbourne
shot past her perch, then grimaced as he crashed with drama, a cacophony of metal and wall and groaning man.

The crowd dispersed almost immediately, back to their drinks and gossip, and Emma wound her way between the guests, working toward
Osbourne
to see how he'd fared.
Matherton
, she saw, had already righted himself and stood laughing with his friends.

"
Osbourne
," she called past a small crowd of attendees, "are you injured?"

"Just my elbow," he wheezed.

"Oh, Lord
Osbourne
," Emma sighed at the sight of his flushed face. "Tell me you haven't broken it?"

"No, no. Just banged it up a bit."

"Thank God. Lady
Osbourne
would have my head if I'd encouraged your injuring yourself."

"Mine as well."

"Come, my lord, let's see if there is ice—"

"Henry!"

"Oh, no," the earl breathed.

"Oh, no," Emma echoed. "Well ... if Lady
Osbourne
is coming to help, I'll just leave you to her care."

"But—"

"Henry! Have you lost your mind?"

Emma ducked away, not willing to be caught between a tipsy old man and his loving, outraged wife.

Mr. Jones caught her arm and presented her winnings with a grin. Seventy pounds. Not as much as she'd hoped for. Her reputation for good hunches had begun to cut into her profits, as people often bet
with
her instead of
on
the wager. Luckily, the tables still proved profitable.

Tucking the bills into her glove, Emma craned her neck, looking past the soggy smile of Mr. Jones for
Matherton
. She spotted him moving away, toward the card room, waving friendly acknowledgments to those he passed. Emma followed, though she was waylaid for a moment by an agitated Lady
Matherton
who was sure her Persian carpet must have been damaged. After much patting of hands and sympathetic murmurs, Emma edged away from her hostess and moved swiftly toward the card room.

She couldn't help but smile when she spied the familiar shock of white hair glowing in the dim light at the end of the hallway. Lord
Matherton
would play the wounded party well. No doubt he planned to accuse her of treachery and betrayal for placing her bet with
Osbourne
. Perhaps she would let him win a round of piquet to help heal his wounded pride.

Emma drew a breath, meaning to call out to him, but just as her lips parted, he stepped aside and revealed the face of the man he spoke with. Emma froze. Someone plowed into her back.

"Oh, my dear girl. I'm so sorry."

Emma steadied herself against the wall as the man tried to help her stand upright. But she didn't take her eyes off the black-haired stranger just ahead. "No need to apologize, sir. '
Twas
my fault, after all."