Ripe for Scandal

NEW YORK   BOSTON

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Ripe for Seduction

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For Tracy Grant

I owe a special debt of gratitude to the fabulous Tracy Grant, who helped me work out the intricacies of the plot. Without
her help, I’m pretty sure at least one character would still be waiting somewhere offstage, forgotten. I want to thank my
friend Jess for the fabulous art for my Web site, and Poppy Reiffin for the Web site itself. Since I’m going to try and keep
this short, as always, I’d like to thank my friends, my family, and my dog for the patience and support. My RWA chapters (San
Francisco and Beau Monde) are vital to my process and my sanity. Special thanks to Monica McCarty, Jami Alden, Bella Andre,
and Carolyn Jewel for listening to me whine and helping me celebrate. Major thanks to my History Hoydens pals for always being
there. Last, my kickass team of “Alexes”: my agent, Alexandra Machinist, and my editor, Alex Logan. These two make me rise
to the occasion and become the writer I want to be.

PROLOGUE

T
here are three private gentlemen’s clubs on St. James’s Street in London, each with its own rules and regulations governing
membership. They are filled each day with peers who can’t be bothered to attend to their duties in the House of Lords, let
alone what they owe to their estates and family. Their ranks are frequently swelled by the addition of their firstborn sons,
who gamble away their youth and fortunes while waiting for their fathers to die. What’s less commonly known is that there
is also one secret society, whose membership spans all three:
The League of Second Sons
.

Their charter reads:

CHAPTER 1

London, October 1784

H
e had the saddest eyebrows in the world.

They were straight and well defined, but they dipped from the center downward to their end, leaving him with a melancholy
expression that didn’t entirely dissipate even when he smiled. Every time Lady Boudicea Vaughn saw him, she found herself
wanting to cup his cheeks, smooth those brows with her thumbs, and kiss away whatever it was that haunted him.

Not that he’d ever noticed…

Gareth Sandison, second son of the Earl of Roxwell, still thought of her as his friend Leonidas’s scrubby little sister. He
treated her more as a boy than a woman, when he bothered to acknowledge her existence at all. Mostly he seemed to do his best
to avoid her.

As the Season progressed, Lady Boudicea had found herself missing his taunts. Missing his scathing wit and withering set-downs.
Fighting with Sandison was far
more invigorating than flirting with her London suitors. He might not like her, but he saw her. Truly saw her and sparred
with her as an equal, or he had until she’d grown up and made her curtsey to the king.

Their roles had changed seemingly overnight. Instead of being her brother’s friend, he was a rake to be avoided. Instead of
being simply Beau, his friend’s baby sister, she was Lady Boudicea, marriageable daughter of a duke. It was maddening.

The dance reunited her with her partner, Mr. Nowlin, and she dragged her attention away from Sandison. Nowlin smiled at her,
brown eyes teasing her for missing her step. Beau smiled back. He might be an Irishman with a penchant for too much scent,
but he was certainly handsome enough, and the lilt in his voice was charming. Half the ladies in London were enamored with
their newest addition with his pretty coats, gleaming buckles, and fulsome compliments.

Sandison’s pale head caught her attention again, and she jerked her eyes away from him. He was standing against the wall,
flirting none too slyly with the very married Lady Cook. Her husband was, no doubt, in the card room oblivious to the set
of horns sprouting from his head.

The lady and Sandison were rumored to be lovers, but gossip made such allegations about people on a regular basis. According
to the scandalmongers, Beau herself always seemed to be on the cusp of contracting some grand alliance or on the verge of
covering her family in mortification.

The scandals she’d nearly caused—or that had nearly
been inflicted upon her by various overeager suitors—didn’t bear thinking about. Better by far that the
ton
’s gossips distract themselves with rumors of unsuitable engagements and heartless flirtations. The truth would ruin her.

A trickle of hot wax fell in a drizzle onto her chest and splattered across the silk of her gown. Her skin stung and she bit
back an oath, missing the next series of steps. She sucked in a sharp breath and pulled the wax from her breast, flicking
it to the floor with disgust. This was the second time tonight. Beau glanced up at the offending candles and stepped carefully
back into the dance. Getting it out of her hair was going to be pure hell.

Beau glanced over her partner’s shoulder, meeting Sandison’s gaze for the briefest of moments. A smile hovered about his lips.
Whether it was for her or Lady Cook she couldn’t say, but given the way his companion was thrusting her ample bosom at him,
it was likely the latter.

Light glittered off Sandison’s hair. He’d been silver-haired as long as she’d known him, as were all the men in his family
by the time they finished their teens. He never bothered to wear a wig, just his own pale locks, clean and immaculately dressed.

His family was reputed to be the illegitimate descendants of the disreputable second Earl of Rochester himself. A rumor that
lent him a certain air of titillation, a deliciously illicit cachet. It drew women like moths to a flame… or maybe it was
just his eyebrows.

She couldn’t be the only woman undone by them. Could she?

She was watching him again.

Gareth could feel her gaze upon him as distinctly as if she’d reached out and run her hand down his arm. Lady Boudicea Vaughn:
possessor of two gigantic brothers, a father who was legend with the small sword, and a mother who was herself distractingly
entrancing even as fifty became a distant memory.

Lady Cook reclaimed his attention, her lovely face pulled into a pout. She wasn’t used to being ignored, nor was she likely
to be forgiving about such a breech. Especially over Beau. They were of an age, and she’d married one of the many suitors
that Lady Boudicea had declined.

Gareth traced one finger along the exposed skin between the sleeve of Lady Cook’s gown and the top of her kidskin glove. The
tiny tassels dangling from the edge of her ruffle swayed. She shivered and stretched her neck out like a languid vixen. He
circled his finger over the pulse point at her elbow, and she let out a small, indiscreet moan.