Lady Be Bad: The Merry Widows Series
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The widow of a famous bishop, Grace Marlowe is both shocked and intrigued by the amorous adventures of her fellow Merry Widows. Though she agreed to their pact, she can't imagine giving herself over to passion-until the most notorious libertine in London sets his sights on her.
John Grayston, seventh Viscount Rochdale, has never refused a wager. Now he's willing to stake his most prized possession that there's not a single woman in all England immune to his charms. But when the object of the wager is the prim and proper Grace Marlowe, he has to turn on the full force of his seductive allure-without losing his heart.
unscathed, more or less." "But John —" "You really had me fooled, you know. I thought you were so damned good. So sweet and innocent. But you manipulated me like a marionette, dancing on your strings. All to save your face and to win some new 'windfall' from Sheane." "No, John, you have it wrong —" "Thank God I found out just what sort of person you really are before you closed the final shackle on my leg. There will be no marriage, my dear. People may call me a jilt, but I've been called
heaven help her, she'd found herself delaying the end, promising herself she would stop him soon. In a moment. Just one more moment. It had taken a supreme act of will and a rush of pure disgust at her wanton behavior to finally push him away. But it was too late. All those feminine frailties the bishop had taught her to keep in check had been let loose. She had never felt more sinful. All because she had enjoyed Rochdale's mouth on hers, the touch of his tongue to hers. He'd kissed her
help me, I'm attracted to him. And you're right, Wilhelmina, about making excuses for it. I hadn't thought of it that way, but that's what I've been doing, I suppose. I've been so confused, drawn to a man so completely the opposite of everything I admire. Rochdale teased me about it, telling me I was tying myself in knots over it." "It's time to untie them, my dear," Wilhelmina said. "Let yourself be drawn to him. Let yourself like him, even, now that you know a little more about him. Just
lord." And God help her, she did. "John. My name is John. I have taken the liberty of using your Christian name. You must use mine. Friends should not be so formal with each other." Friends? Were they friends? "John." He reached out and took her hand, then kissed it in a chivalrous, almost formal way, not at all seductive or flirtatious, but as though he was honoring her, as though he truly admired her. When he looked up and smiled, she saw something more in his eye than the familiar rakish
doubt you and I could ever be friends, Lord Rochdale. I have no interest in gamblers or libertines, and you can certainly have no interest in a good Christian woman like me." "You underestimate your charms, Mrs. Marlowe. You're a beautiful woman." She furrowed her brow as though puzzled, then reached for the sherry glass and took a sip. After a moment, she turned those smoky eyes on him and said, "You confound me, my lord. I do not know what to say to you. I find it difficult to understand a