Tempted All Night (Neville Family, Book 4)
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Lady Phaedra Northampton is a proper English miss -- but burdened by a dark secret. She's buried her shame in running her wealthy brother Lord Nash's household while hiding behind a sharp wit and dull wardrobe...until a reckless village maid's disappearance pulls her into London's seedy underworld. A former mercenary and jaded spy-for-hire, Tristan Talbot, Lord Avoncliffe, now does little, and manages to do it scandalously. Though Tristan's an out-and-out rogue, when his dying father begs him to delve into the secrets behind a notorious brothel -- a perfect task for his talents! -- Tristan can't refuse. Is the brothel a front for a notorious Russian spy ring? Tristan is on the hunt -- until his path collides with the oh-so-tempting Lady Phae. Soon what should be a simple assignment becomes deliciously complicated...when deception and desire lead to an explosive passion -- and deadly foes!
right, of course. I am sure my approach in the dark looked like something altogether different than it was.” “It looked rather as if you were about to press your attentions on an innocent, unmarried, gently-bred young lady,” said Kemble. “Perhaps even lure her into your home—or your bed—for some sort of nefarious high jinks. Thank God I was entirely mistaken.” Tristan did not miss the acidity in his tone. “Mr. Kemble, really!” Phaedra drew herself up very straight. “I, however,” Kemble
and slammed the top draw shut with a resounding crack. “My dear Lavrin,” she answered sourly. “After a dozen years in this business, can you still be so very naïve?” That night, a light fog rolled in off the Thames, settling over London like a gossamer shawl—albeit a shawl which stank of low tide and was tinged with coal smoke. Phaedra drew her chair as near to the window of her rented room in Soho as she dared, and peered through the fly-specked glass at the town house across the street. All
carriages come and go—through the back lane, dearie. Not the front. And a lot of pretty girls gets dragged out o’ that house and put in them carriages—and some of ’em don’t want ter go and don’t never come back. So keep ter the streets, awright?” The back lane. The carriages went through the back. What an idiot she had been! Phaedra tried to look contrite. “Thank you, Mrs. Wooten, for warning me.” She shut the door, and turned to survey the narrow, tawdry room. She had wasted precious time
Avoncliffe a bad sort,” she mused. “He’s…well, he’s not a rake, if you know what I mean. He’s a scoundrel. And there’s a difference.” Phaedra closed her eyes, willing the vision Zoë’s words conjured to go away. A rake, a scoundrel—what was the difference to her if she fell for him? “But he’s a good sort of scoundrel, I collect.” Zoë was clearly pondering aloud. “I’ve never heard of him trifling with virgins. Have you quite a large dowry, Phae?” “Yes, as it happens,” said Phaedra. “Not that I
Tristan’s leg thrown over hers. He lay facedown beside her, his lips pressed to the turn of her neck, one arm banded about her waist in a sweet, possessive gesture. She was his. Whether he knew it or not—whether it ever came to anything more than this—she was his. She was, headlong and hopelessly, in love. His body spent and still shuddering within, Tristan sensed Phaedra stirring. Somehow, he found the strength to kiss her lightly below her ear. “Ummm.” “Oh, my.” Beneath him, Phaedra exhaled