The Lady Risks All - Softcover

Laurens, Stephanie

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0062068636 ISBN 13: 9780062068637

Publisher: Avon, 2012

Synopsis

“Laurens’s books are always synonymous with sensuality and strong-willed heroes and heroines.”
—Fresh Fiction

The #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae, romance fiction superstar Stephanie Laurens has done it again with this passionate tale of an oh-so-proper lady and the dangerous man for whom she throws caution to the wind. The Lady Risks All in this delightfully sexy and sensuous historical romance novel from the creator of the recklessly romantic Cynster family—Regency England’s most irrepressible clan of sexy rogues and ladies—as well as the acclaimed Bastion Club books. The notorious Neville Roscoe, who lives boldly outside the bounds of proper society, is one of Laurens’s most unforgettable heroes—and the story of his seduction of prim, straight-laced Miranda Clifford is filled with intrigue, danger, and passion that will thrill not only Stephanie Laurens fans, but devoted readers of Lisa Kleypas, Johanna Lindsey, and Mary Balogh as well.

About this title

About the Author

#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world's most beloved and popular authors.

From the Back Cover

See what happens when The Lady Risks All

The passionate new love story from # 1 New York Times bestselling author of The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae, Stephanie Laurens

Neville Roscoe, notorious and enigmatic, lives resolutely outside society, bound only by his own code of honor—until challenged by his desire for the one woman he cannot have.

Miranda Clifford is a lady imprisoned by rigid respectability—until tempted by a passion beyond her power to deny.

Flung together in peril, through danger and intrigue, they discover a love impossible to ignore . . . or keep.

Reviews

Much to her dismay, Miranda Clifford has no choice but to apologize to Neville Roscoe. Miranda had marched over to Neville’s home intent on pulling her younger brother Roderick out of a den of iniquity only to discover that instead of gambling with London’s most infamous gambling king, Roderick is the newest member of Neville’s Philanthropy Guild: a select group of nobleman who use their business skills and wealth to support various charitable endeavors. Although Miranda is delighted to discover that the notorious sinner Neville has a saintly side, it doesn’t mean she can afford to associate with him. Miranda’s aunts have drummed it into her that one step off the path of respectability will ruin her life forever. But after one kiss from Neville, Miranda is no longer certain that a respectable life is all it’s cracked up to be. When it comes to dishing up lusciously sensual, relentlessly readable historical romances, Laurens is unrivaled, and her latest Regency-set romance is guaranteed to hook readers with its irresistible mix of exquisite passion and dangerous intrigues. --John Charles

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Lady Risks All

By Stephanie Laurens

HarperCollins Publishers

Copyright © 2012 Stephanie Laurens
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-06-206863-7

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

October 1823, twelve years later

London

Miranda Clifford halted in the deep shadows cast by a standof trees and watched her younger brother, Roderick, strideacross a manicured lawn toward a massive mansion glowingpearly white in the moonlight.

About her, stretching away to either side, the thick bushesand mature trees of established gardens enfolded the housein a lush embrace. The breeze was a mere whisper, a soughingsigh stirring the tiny tendrils of hair that had come loosefrom her chignon to drift over her nape.

Silent and still, her gaze fixed on Roderick, she watchedas he reached a shallow terrace and without hesitation strodeup the three steps and went straight to a glass paned door.Opening the door, Roderick stepped inside, closing the doorbehind him.

"Damn and blast!" Miranda stared at the door. This wasfar worse than she'd thought.

She'd first realized Roderick was secretly slipping out ofthe house at night three weeks ago. She'd told herself thatunannounced and unmentioned nighttime excursions wereonly to be expected in a twenty-three year old gentleman,but she'd spent the last twenty-three years protecting Roderick;denying such long ingrained instincts was difficult. Sufficientlyso that she'd made a pact with herself - she wouldfollow him one night, just far enough to assure herself thatwherever he was going, whatever he was doing, he wasn'tputting himself at risk in any way.

It wasn't that she didn't trust him; her plan was purely toreassure herself. She would learn just enough to appease herinstinctive anxiety, then she'd go home and Roderick wouldnever know.

Ten minutes ago, she'd followed him down the darkenedstairs of the house they shared with their aunt in ClavertonStreet, Pimlico; the hands of the long case clock on thelanding had put the time at twenty minutes short of eleveno'clock. She'd trailed Roderick through the morning room,across the side lawn and out of the garden gate into thealley. Clutching her reticule and her new fashionable shortcape close, she'd hugged the shadows along the alley walls,and like a shadow herself had flitted in his wake, puzzledwhen he'd stuck to the alleyways, until, to her considerablesurprise, five minutes' brisk walking from their own gardengate, he'd stopped at another gate set in a high stone wall.He'd opened the gate and gone in. She'd hesitated for onlyan instant before following.

She hadn't known whose rear garden she was creepingthrough, not at first, but once she'd seen the house, onceshe'd been able to take in its size and magnificence, andmost especially that telltale color ... "What the devil is hedoing visiting Neville Roscoe's house?"

The question needed only to be asked to be answered.Neville Roscoe was the most celebrated - as in infamousand notorious - denizen of the neighborhood. He was London'sacknowledged gambling king, the owner of a vastarray of hells, dens and clubs catering to the wealthy, theaffluent, the aristocratic; gambling was one of society'sfavorite vices, and Roscoe was, by all accounts, a past masterat supplying exactly the right drug to sate society's craving.Roscoe was known to be immensely wealthy and also towield significant power, both in his own arena and in murkierspheres. He wasn't, however, considered a criminal. Instead,he inhabited a nebulous strata between society andthe underworld; he could rub shoulders with dukes one day,crime lords the next, and yet remain free of both worlds.Speaking generally, Roscoe was an enigma, and verymuch a law unto himself.

He'd already been living in the huge white mansion onChichester Street, overlooking the treed expanse of Dolphin Squareto the Thames beyond, when Roderick had bought the house inClaverton Street, just around the corner, a year ago. Miranda hadheard all about the neighborhood's most famous citizen within daysof taking up residence.

She hadn't, however, as yet set eyes on him, but she hadno ambition to do so.

"Wretched man." She wasn't sure if she was speaking ofRoderick or Roscoe; that Roderick might wish to chance hishand at gambling wasn't such a surprise, but ... her lipsthinned. "He can't afford to become involved with Roscoe."It wasn't that Roderick couldn't afford to gamble; evenat Roscoe's level, he most definitely could. But his wealthderived from trade, and as she and he had been taught alltheir lives, that meant that, far more than others born moreacceptably, they had to cling, rigidly and beyond question,to respectability.

Seeing Roderick walk into Roscoe's house had instantlyevoked the specter of their elder sister, Rosalind. The threeof them had been orphaned as children; with Miranda andRoderick, Rosalind had grown up in the care of their aunts.Rosalind had been subjected to the same lectures onrespectability, the same unbending strictures, but when she'dreached sixteen, Rosalind had rebelled. She'd run off withgypsies, only to return two years later, diseased and dying.Rosalind had died tragically, just like their mother, whohad eloped with their father, the son of a mill owner.Every time anyone in their family stepped off the pathof rigid respectability, disaster and death followed. Mirandadidn't want Roderick to die young, much less tragically;returning home and leaving him to his fate wasn't in any wayan acceptable option.

Keeping to the shadows, she circled the lawn, makingfor the house and that glass-paned door. Her mind threw upimages of what she might find inside - a private gamblingparty or ... an orgy? From all she'd heard, she might stumbleinto either. Women were invariably a part of Roscoe'sentertainments; his clubs were renowned for their largefemale staffs.

"With luck, I'll pass, at least for long enough." She wasold enough, looked experienced enough. Reaching the terrace,she glanced down at the lilac twill walking dress shewore under her cape. It was hardly evening wear but waselegant enough to establish her class. Regardless, she wasn'tabout to retreat. She didn't intend remaining for longer thanit took to find Roderick and catch his eye; that would beenough to shock him to his senses, after which he wouldwalk her home.

Crossing the terrace, she opened the door and steppedinside. A corridor wreathed in dark shadows stretched beforeher. Quietly shutting the door, she registered the oddity ofthe pervasive silence, of the dark, unlit rooms. Even fromthe other side of the lawn, where the entire back of the househad been visible, she hadn't noticed any lighted windows,any sign of a party, no matter how refined. Halting, she lether senses stretch.

The ground on which the house stood sloped sharply downto Chichester Street, leaving the rear garden elevated. Thefloor she'd entered on was in fact the first, not the groundfloor, which fronted the street. Presumably the party, thegathering, whatever it was, was being held in a receptionroom on the ground floor. She strained her ears for somesound to show her the way, but heard nothing.

Puzzled, she started along the corridor. Roderick musthave gone that way; other than the occasional room to eitherside, all silent, their doors shut with no light showing beneath,there was nowhere else to go. She followed the corridortoward the front of the house, step by step growingmore aware of an omnipresent sense of quality and solidity.The house wasn't old. Roscoe had it built for him,which presumably explained the workmanship she sensedmore than saw; there was an understated elegance in everyline, complemented by luxurious finishes and furnishings.She didn't have time to stop and peer, but the paintings onthe walls, each perfectly framed, looked to be originals, andnot by any back alley artist either.

She wondered if the solidity of the house explained thelack of noise. That, and the furnishings; the runner on whichshe was walking was so thick she couldn't hear her ownfootsteps.

The corridor opened into a wide semicircular space, agallery of sorts circling the well of the main stairs. Pausinginside the corridor's mouth, she peeked right, then left.Three other corridors gave onto the gallery, but silence prevailed.No lamps were burning, either, the space lit only byweak moonlight washing through a domed skylight highabove and a large window directly opposite; through thelatter she could see the tops of the trees in Dolphin Squareand the distant shimmer of moonlight on the river.

Directly ahead, in front of the large window, lay the headof the wide staircase that swept elegantly down.

Drawing in a breath, she raised her head, walked calmlytoward the stairs, and finally heard the rumble of malevoices. Those speaking were somewhere on the groundfloor, but deeper in the house, still some way away.The clacking of hooves on the cobbles outside drew her tothe window. Looking out and down, she saw a gentleman,fashionably dressed and hatted, alight from a hackney. Theman carried a silver-headed cane. He paid off the jarvey,then walked toward the front door of the mansion, a littlefurther along the façade from where she stood.

She didn't recognize the man, but his style, the way hemoved, suggested he belonged to the upper echelons of theton.

A bell pealed within the house. Almost immediately themeasured tread of a butler's footsteps crossed the tiles in thefront hall below. She debated going to the head of the stairsand looking down, but the risk of being seen was too great;she stayed where she was and listened.

"Good evening, my lord."

"Good evening, Rundle." The visitor stepped inside; thedoor shut. "I fear I'm late. Are the others here?"

"Yes, my lord, but the master has yet to join the gathering."

"Excellent." Rustlings reached her as the visitor divestedhimself of his overcoat, gloves, hat, and cane. "I won't havemissed anything, then."

"Indeed not, my lord."

"The library, as usual?"

"Yes, my lord."

"No need to bestir yourself, Rundle - I know the way."

"Thank you, my lord."

Two pairs of footsteps strode away from the hall, going indifferent directions. She hurried to the head of the stairs; shewas too late to see which way each man went, but a door atthe hall's rear was still swinging. The butler must have gonethat way, which meant the visitor's footsteps were the onesfading down the corridor leading away from one corner ofthe hall. The library and the "gathering" lay in that direction.Drawing in a breath, she reached for the stair rail.

A frisson of awareness streaked down her spine.

She froze. She hadn't heard anything, but she'd just provedthat it was easy to move silently through the house, evenwithout trying. And her senses, previously focused on thehall below, were belatedly screaming that someone a greatdeal larger than she was standing directly behind her.

Her breath caught, strangled; her lungs seized. Sensesflaring, she forced herself to turn slowly ...

Her gaze, level, landed on an exquisitely tied ivory silkcravat.

Roscoe watched the woman's large eyes, already wide,widen even further, then she jerked her gaze up to his face.

He didn't smile. "Can I help you, Miss ...?"

She didn't immediately reply, but he didn't make themistake of thinking her mind paralyzed by shock; swiftcalculation showed in those wide eyes as she debated herresponse. Fine-boned, graceful, and quintessentially femininethough she might be, he was accustomed to sizing uppeople with a glance and didn't need to look further thanthe refined strength in her face, echoed in her upright carriageand the gliding stride he'd glimpsed when he'd firstseen her crossing the gallery, to guess what manner of ladyshe was.

Determined, resolute and, at least when it came to thosethings she believed in, unbending.

Consequently, he was unsurprised when she drew in atight breath, straightened to her full, significantly taller thanthe average height, and haughtily stated, "My name is MissClifford."

The information very nearly made him blink.

Her gaze drifted from his face, skating over his shouldersand chest to land on the ledger he carried in one hand. Afrown crimped her finely arched brows. "And you are?"Her tone made it clear she thought him some lowly secretary.Despite his intentions, his lips quirked. "I'm the ownerof this establishment."

Apparently, that news was more of a shock than discoveringhim at her back. She stared, patently stunned andmaking no effort to hide it. "You're Roscoe?"

He could imagine the speculation she'd heard; an innerdevil prompted him to further confound her. He bowed,imbuing the gesture with all the grace he'd once exerciseddaily. Straightening, he drawled, "I would welcome you tomy humble abode, Miss Clifford, only I have to wonder whyyou're here."

"Humble abode?" Her voice was husky, the tone a lowcontralto. Her gaze flashed to the three paintings hanging onthe walls between the corridors - two Gainsboroughs anda Reynolds - then shifted to the large Gobelin tapestry onthe wall behind him. "For a gambling king, sir, you haveremarkable taste."

Interesting that she'd noticed, but he didn't distract thateasily. "Indeed. But that doesn't answer my question."Miranda was frantically assessing a different question:how to get out of this without a whisper of scandal. Whilemost of her mind wrestled with that problem, the rest wasthoroughly distracted; she hadn't had any mental image ofRoscoe, but not in her wildest dreams would she haveimagined him as he was.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Lady Risks All by Stephanie Laurens. Copyright © 2012 by Stephanie Laurens. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Avon
• Publication date: 2012
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0062068636
• ISBN 13: 9780062068637
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 496