Authors: Donna Cummings
Tags: #Historical romance, #boxed set, #Regency Romance, #Regency romance boxed set
Rogues Gallery
Rogues Gallery
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Lord Midnight
Lord Rakehell's Love
Lord Wastrel
by
Donna Cummings
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Lord Midnight
Lord Midnight, a dashing highwayman, lives for revenge against the uncle who stole his title and tried to kill him as a child. His plan for vengeance—seducing his uncle's bride-to-be—collides with his passion for this spirited young woman desperate to escape her wedding. Soon he must choose: saving the woman who stole his heart, or destroying the man who stole his life.
Lord Rakehell's Love (The Curse of True Love, Book 1)
Simon is late to his own wedding, and Georgiana is heartbroken by the scandal. After such a blunder, how can this rogue known as Lord Rakehell prove his devotion to the woman he loves
?
Lord Wastrel (The Curse of True Love, Book 2)
Lord Wastrel—the most notorious rake in London—has a child? Clearly he knows how to sire one, but he knows nothing about raising one. He needs a scandal-free woman to be a suitable mother. So why is he falling for Flighty Felicia, who is notorious for her numerous elopements?
Lord Midnight Copyright 2011 Donna Cummings. All Rights Reserved.
Lord Rakehell's Love Copyright 2013 Donna Cummings. All Rights Reserved.
Lord Wastrel Copyright 2014 Donna Cummings. All Rights Reserved.
Cover by Carrie Spencer,
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Excerpt of Every Maiden's Dream
G
abriel DeVault, a dashing highwayman, lives to avenge himself against the uncle who stole his title and tried to kill him as a child. One night's robbery yields unexpected riches when his uncle's spirited bride-to-be falls into Gabriel's arms. Now his plans for vengeance include seduction of the innocent miss, in the home that once was his own.
Marisa Dunsmore is blackmailed into wedding the cold and calculating Edmund DeVault, Lord Westbrook, to protect her beloved aunt. When her attempts to escape the upcoming marriage fail, she turns for help to the man she knows as Lord Midnight, entrusting him with her love, and her future.
Soon Gabriel must choose: saving the woman who stole his heart, or destroying the man who stole his life.
Yorkshire, 1812
Only a miracle could halt the wedding now.
Marisa Dunsmore whispered another hopeful prayer, though it did nothing to slow the carriage racing toward Westbrook Hall, the home of her betrothed. Soon she would have to abandon dreams of aid, divine or otherwise, but for the moment optimism was still a comfort.
She glanced at her brother Bernard, sleeping across from her, his head lolling in a most undignified fashion against the gold silk interior. He would be horrified to learn his meticulously arranged blond curls had flattened on one side, while his cravat was crushed beyond repair. Marisa bit back a grin. Since Bernard had refused every appeal to help her escape the wedding to Lord Westbrook, she would not inform him of his sartorial
faux pas
.
After all, betrayal did have its price.
They were still several miles from Westbrook Hall, though there would be no further stops, or chances to escape. Freedom had been so near at hand at the last posting inn. As soon as the carriage had stopped, Marisa had exclaimed the interminable trip from London had shattered her nerves, putting her in dire need of the necessary. She had clapped a hand over her mouth and run to the back of the inn. Once there, she detoured for the stables, ready to borrow one of the horses awaiting its turn in the traces. She reached toward the nearest mount, her heart leaping with elation, until Bernard's hand clamped around her arm, a triumphant expression lighting his features.
Marisa closed her eyes, weary at the reminder of her latest setback, and what it meant for her poor Aunt Althea. She tugged her red wool cloak closer, though the chill she tried to ward off was not due to any deficiency in Lord Westbrook's carriage. In truth, the coach's only defect was its inability to speed her away from the upcoming nuptials. Was it too much to hope for a small portion of divine intervention?
A single gunshot exploded, piercing the stillness with a loud crack.
"Stand and deliver!"
The coach skidded to a halt, the coachman yelling out to the York horses squealing in protest. Marisa bounced on the bench seat, grabbing for something, anything, to keep herself in place. She flew across the carriage, landing atop her brother, her elbow slamming into the side of his head. Bernard sat upright, blinking as he rubbed the newly inflicted injury.
Marisa's stomach tumbled with excitement.
Her prayers had been answered, and so quickly.
She darted toward the side glass, eager to glimpse the highwaymen accosting them. The carriage lamps reflected little except her own likeness, and she was not at all interested in the blue eyes and unruly blonde curls mirrored there. She rubbed the glass for a better view. The moon proved to be a brilliant lantern, illuminating the dozen or more brigands as they galloped from the surrounding beech trees, positioning their mounts around the coach.
"It is fortunate Lord Westbrook insisted on covering his crest on the carriage door," Bernard said in a tight voice.
Marisa swiveled to look at her brother. He tugged the ends of his cravat, frowning as the ruined linen drooped even further.
"Why should the crest matter? They have stopped the carriage regardless."
"You are quite valuable to your future husband," Bernard said, running his fingers through his hair.
"Do you think they will abduct me?"
"I apologize, poppet." He stopped primping and reached his hand to her. "I did not mean to frighten you. I can assure you that will not happen."
"Oh." Marisa sagged against the silk cushions.
Bernard laughed. "Any other female would be clawing through her reticule for her smelling salts. Yet, rather than being terrified, you are irrationally hopeful."
"I am quite serious about not wedding Lord Westbrook."
She could see he was ready to retort, most likely something he had uttered earlier, such as the maddening "You must marry some man, why not a wealthy one?" or the infuriating "I suppose you must insist on marrying for love".
Before he could incense her with the phrases again, the carriage door was thrown open, flooding the coach with the chill of a spring night, and the exhilarating prospect of freedom.
"Come join me under the stars this evening," a seductive voice invited.
Marisa's heart raced. Some deity had heard her prayer, and answered it in a most extraordinary fashion. She stepped forward, eager to set eyes on her rescuer.
Bernard's arm shot out and blocked the doorway.
"I shall descend first," he said.
"Of course," Marisa demurred, retreating to her side of the carriage.
Bernard's eyes narrowed. "Do not attempt anything foolish, poppet."
Marisa donned her most innocent expression. The widened eyes and raised eyebrows often deceived her father into believing she had submitted to his will. However, her brother had experienced it too many times to be duped anymore.
"I am serious," Bernard warned, but the corner of his mouth tilted up, spoiling the admonition.
Marisa fought off her own grin. "As am I, Bernard."
He studied her a few moments before vaulting through the open door.
She heard Bernard's boots hit the hard ground, followed by the highwayman's cultured tones. "Thank you for your cooperation, my good man. And your traveling companions? Have they been overcome by shyness?"
Marisa giggled. She had been labeled many things in her twenty years, but shy was never atop the list. "Headstrong" and "hoydenish" were frequent descriptors, as was "devil's handmaiden", particularly when she refused to agree to her father's demands.
Such as his insistence on this wedding to Lord Westbrook, a man twice her age.
She placed a gloved hand at the opening of the carriage, her stomach fluttering with renewed optimism. She stretched her foot down to the metal step, but it had managed to disappear in the darkness, and she tumbled toward the paved roadway.
"Poppet!"
The highwayman sprang forward, before Marisa's own cry of dismay was past her lips. His gloved hands caught her at the waist, and in the next heartbeat Marisa's arms reflexively encircled his neck. Once assured that she was safe, the rogue should have placed her feet on the ground, and stepped away. Instead, he slid his arms around her, placing her flush against his chest in a very scandalous fashion.
Marisa's heart pounded, most likely with relief at avoiding disaster, though she had to admit her pulse raced anew at being held in such a protective embrace. She felt the muscled strength in the way he cradled her, yet it was tempered with gentleness, banishing any fear.
A hint of sandalwood rose from his warm skin, mingling with the virile scent of a man accustomed to doing whatever he wished with his life. It was a combination both exotic and comforting. For the first time in a long while Marisa felt safe, and she had to fight the urge to lay her head on his shoulder.
She closed her eyes, thankful he could not see her reddened face, or divine her wayward thoughts. He was a means to freedom, nothing more. If only Aunt Althea had not filled her head with romantic notions throughout her childhood. . .
The highwayman lowered her until her half boots touched the ground, and only then did he release his hands. Marisa nearly sighed her disappointment.
"I must thank you for preventing a most disastrous episode," she said.
"I am delighted I could be of service to you, Mistress."
The merriment in his voice caught her off guard. She glanced up, impatient to see this man who had been heaven-sent to aid her.
Her breath stopped in her throat. In the next instant, she could not remember the correct sequence of breathing, or how to restart it now that it had halted.
He was beyond handsome. Her brother Bernard was considered handsome, as were her other five brothers, so she was accustomed to seeing comely men on a daily basis.
This man was in a category of his own making.
His strong jaw and elegant cheekbones denoted noble bloodlines, yet it was unlikely a man of aristocratic lineage would become a knight of the road. Perhaps he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and his only opportunity in life was to take up this lawless profession. Still, he wisely wore a strip of leather to conceal his identity, though it did nothing to disguise his appeal.
His long blond locks fluttered, as if the light breeze found them as irresistible as Marisa did. His thigh-high leather boots, and the black cape which swirled around him, made her heart skip more than once. She glanced again at his face, to see amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. He tossed her an impudent wink.
Clearly he enjoyed her detailed perusal.
Her face heated, earning her a broad smile. The dimple accompanying his upturned lips completely captivated her.
The highwayman executed a magnificent bow, never taking his eyes from hers.
Delighted, Marisa sank into a formal curtsey, as though they were ready to commence a stately minuet for the entertainment of the brigands surrounding them.
"Come, Mistress.” The highwayman extended his hand to her, and Marisa took it, glad for his assistance. Her knees wobbled more than she anticipated when she impetuously responded to the highwayman's gallant gesture.
"Poppet, perhaps you should stand here with me."
Marisa glanced over her shoulder at Bernard, reading the unspoken warning in his expression. His mouth was pursed with annoyance rather than fear, so she dismissed his silent reprimand. She would not be dissuaded from her purpose.
"I should so hate to be deprived of her company," the highwayman said, his lips turned down in a mock pout. He kept her small hands in his, the twinkle in his eyes demonstrating he felt no urgency to release her. Marisa was in no hurry either.
"I can scarce imagine you stopped our carriage merely to clasp my hands."
The highwayman smiled, bringing a great deal of bliss to Marisa's heart when his dimple reappeared. He touched one of her errant blonde curls, seemingly enchanted as he twirled it around a gloved finger. Marisa felt her heart speed up once more, and she was grateful the cool night air soothed the heat threatening to overtake her body.
"Had I but known what a jewel resided in this coach," the highwayman replied, his voice a caress.
Bernard coughed, but before Marisa could investigate, the highwayman captured her full attention again.