REGENCY
Rakes & Reputations
A Rake by Midnight Gail Ranstrom
The Rake’s Final Conquest Dorothy Elbury
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
A Rake by Midnight
Gail Ranstrom
About the Author
GAIL RANSTROM was born and raised in Montana and grew up spending the long winters lost in the pages of books that took her to exotic locales and interesting times. The love of that ‘inner voyage’ eventually led to writing. She has three children, Natalie, Jay and Katie, who are her proudest accomplishment. Part of a truly bi-coastal family, she resides in Southern California with her two terriers, Piper and Ally, and has family spread from Alaska to Florida.
Prologue
London, England
July 13, 1821
Her first awareness was of bone-chilling cold at her back, then the incessant cadence of muted voices. She blinked in the flickering red-hued darkness, but pungent smoke stung her eyes so she closed them again, waiting for the air to clear. Incense? No. Something acrid that clogged and burned the back of her throat. Something more intoxicating?
She tried to focus, to gain her bearings, but found the task impossible. Searching her mind for her last lucid memory, she had a vague notion of drinking a glass of wine—bitter wine—given to her by a handsome blondish man. Mr. Henley? Her stomach roiled and she feared she would vomit.
She ached. Every muscle, every part of her, screamed in outrage, but she did not know why. Time was shifting, blurring. She couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t she remember?
The chanting stopped and a single voice rose above her. Someone standing at her head. The shadows closed in, then leaned over her, becoming vague faces and outlines. Yes. She was elevated, lying on a stone slab. The man above her stopped talking and reached over her to open whatever was covering her.
Bare! She was being exposed to all those faces surrounding her. She tried to move, to cover herself, but her limbs did not respond. Why couldn’t she move?
Nameless terror squeezed her chest, cutting off her breath. She tried to scream, but she could only utter a tiny squeak barely audible above the chanting of dozens of voices. Everything had gone dreadfully wrong, but she could not make sense of it.
Another man appeared, kneeling between her legs. Lifting his robes. She knew. Oh, now she knew. She was to suffer Cora’s fate.
Now terror had a name. The Brotherhood.
“No!” a distant voice screamed. Her sister’s voice? Dear Lord! All was lost if they had Bella, too.
But suddenly the night was chaos and nothing made sense to her muddled mind. The clash of blades, shouts, shrill whistles and, suddenly, a blade at her throat. Searing pain. The warm ooze of blood as it seeped from her wound. She turned her head and closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable, praying it would be quick.
But death did not come. Instead she registered the sound of running feet and distant shouts. A warm cloak covered her nakedness as she was lifted from the stone altar and cradled in strong arms. The cloying smell of incense still heavy in the air permeated his robe, but there was an underlying scent of clean masculinity. Something heated and strong. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulder and arm, terrified he’d let her go. Terrified, too, that he might not have come to save her. She opened her eyes, knowing it was too late to fight anyway.
James Hunter. Oh, why did it have to be him?
Chapter One
September 12, 1821
Night again. Darkened streets, shifting movements in the shadows, muffled sounds, whispers on the wind, the damp chill of a suffocating fog. And always, the impending threat of disaster at her back. Gina O’Rourke hated the night, though she had begun to live her life in the hours between dusk and dawn—as if nothing evil could happen to her if she kept watch.
She brimmed with relief as she watched the lamplighter touch his torch to the lamppost outside the sitting room window. She could have sworn there were shadows in the park across the way.
Turning away from the window, she picked up her embroidery and sat by the fire where the light was best. As she pushed the needle through the fine linen she tried to direct her thoughts to the future, something she had not been able to do since that night.
Tomorrow, perhaps, she would speak to her brother-in-law about finding her and Mama a place of their own. Andrew and Bella should have a chance to be alone, and to nurture their marriage without Mama’s interference. Nothing so far away as St. Albans, but perhaps a cottage in St. John’s Woods would do nicely. There, Mama could complain and fuss to her heart’s content with no one inconvenienced. Except Gina. But there was something…safe in that sort of life. Safe and comforting, as only the familiar could be.
Yes, a quiet life without drama or danger was just the thing. No one would ever have to know about her past—about that night. She could stop racking her brain, trying to remember the horrid bits and pieces that came before finding herself carried away from the altar, cradled in James Hunter’s arms. Just his scent, woodsy and heated, had calmed her then. Now the memory of it unsettled her in a most troubling way.
The front bell rang, followed by the sound of boots and a muted voice speaking with Andrew’s butler in the foyer. She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. Andrew’s meeting had run quite late, and he was still closeted in the library with Lord Wycliffe, but who would call at midnight? She stood, ready to make a quick retreat, but she was not quick enough. James Hunter appeared in the doorway and removed his hat.
“I beg your pardon, Miss O’Rourke. I came to see my brother and Edwards asked me to wait while he informs Drew that I am here. He must not have known you were using the room.”
Gina struggled to think of something to say but found herself tongue-tied. She sank back on the settee, her heart racing, and wondered if her mere thoughts had been enough to summon him. Stranger things than that had happened to her lately.
Leaving now would be obvious and rude. And revealing. She retrieved her needlework again and rested it on her lap, praying her fingers would not tremble when she took up her needle.
“I believe he is in some sort of late meeting, Mr. Hunter,” she told him. “I doubt you will have long to wait.”
“With such charming company, I shall pray he delays.”
She met his gaze and realized he was just being mannerly, and only because