Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles.

Author Note

Margaret and Tony knew exactly what they wanted when they met, and it certainly wasn’t each other. Thank goodness for Lady Falstow! I do hope you enjoyed a peek at the beginning of Tony and Margaret’s romance and our brief meeting with the Evernden brothers who will appear in my June 2009 Mills & Boon Historical, The Rake’s Inherited Courtesan. All of my characters become close friends, so I am pleased to be able to invite you to sit down, have a cup of coffee, tea or juice, and get to know them.

I love to hear from readers, so please visit me at my website: www.annlethbridge.com where you can find all my latest news and where you can reach me directly.

The Rake’s Intimate Encounter

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I dedicate this book to my husband, who is my

inspiration

Chapter One

London, 1815

Brunettes, blondes and even a redhead displayed their mouthwatering attributes while they handled the cards at the green baize-covered tables with the dexterity of Captain Sharps. Tony Darby sauntered ahead of the Evernden brothers into what had once been a ballroom. At each table, fashionable gentlemen leered at their scantily clad banker, or stared at their cards.

Piquet. Whist. Vingt-et-un. Women. All the usual pastimes. Tony sighed as ennui swept through him and then turned to his companions. “This is why you dragged me all the way to Hampstead, Stanford? A gambling hell in a brothel?”

“Indeed,” the fair haired and usually cheerful Christopher Evernden said with a grimace. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, Garth.”

On the other side of Tony, Christopher’s brother, Lord Stanford, grinned, his dark eyes unrepentant. “Lady Falstow will have your head if she hears the word 'brothel’ in her establishment. The women here are looking for amusement, not money.”

“Good Lord,” Christopher said. “Is that Lady—”

“No names,” Garth murmured. “In this club, discretion is the watchword. One wrong word and we will never darken these hallowed portals again. Look at them. It’s a banquet of female desires.”

Following the direction of Christopher’s stunned gaze, Tony recognized one of London’s foremost hostesses, known for her sumptuous dinners and witty conversation. Tonight, the blonde wore a carnivorous expression and a gown diaphanous enough to shame a courtesan.

She caught his glance. Her gaze ran down his length, obvious and assessing. Clearly liking what she saw, she beckoned.

Tony stifled the urge to flee and pretended he hadn’t noticed.

Christopher groaned. “I have no interest in playing stud for some bored hausfrau. You promised piquet in interesting surroundings.”

“Can it get more interesting than this?” Garth asked. “Look at them. They’ll rip your clothes off, they’re so desperate.”

“The next time I go to White’s I don’t want to shake some fellow’s hand knowing I tupped his wife,” Tony said, speaking from an experience that still gave him nightmares.

“Nor me,” Christopher said.

“You do the ladies no favors,” Garth said. “They are here because their husbands don’t give a damn whether they are happy or not.” Strangely enough, the usually insouciant Garth sounded rather grim. “And besides, many of them are lonely widows.”

“I don’t have the ready to set up an indigent widow with a host of hungry mouths to feed,” Tony said. Tomorrow morning he had an appointment to view a property, which, if he decided to purchase, would empty his pockets.

“I thought you came into some money,” Christopher said.

“Gone.” He wasn’t going to let the cat out of the bag and let them ridicule his decision to give up a life of idleness. Not until he made a success of it. “If you want gambling and a prime article on each arm, I know a great little hell in the Seven Dials—no limit on play and no commitment.”

“Such gratitude,” Garth muttered. “I invite you to London’s most exclusive club and you prefer Haymarket ware. Do as you please. I have someone waiting upstairs, and I never disappoint a lady.”

“Who the hell are you tangled up with now?” Christopher said with a frown. “You’ll find yourself on Primrose Hill with a bullet lodged somewhere in your person.”

“Nor do I bandy about a lady’s name.” Garth stalked off down the hall, the slight stagger an indication of the quantity of brandy he’d consumed on the drive over.

Tony smothered a yawn. Garth’s legendary exploits among the ton’s females had palled long ago. “Let’s leave.”

Christopher expelled an impatient breath. “I’ll wait for him. He’ll no doubt be too foxed by the end of the night to get home in one piece. Join me in a game of whist?” He gestured to a nearby table with three men and a pile of tokens waiting for a winner. “At least it presents a challenge.”

“I pity the woman who holds the bank at your table,” Tony said.

Christopher laughed. “It’s a game of chance. I simply count better than most.”

The blonde holding the bank had a lovely face and hard calculating eyes. The kind of woman Tony had found appealing when he first made his bows. “You know, I think I’ll wander about for a bit.”

“See if anyone strikes your fancy?” Christopher said, his eyes twinkling.

“See if they have any food. I haven’t eaten for hours.”

Christopher raised a brow. “Bon appétit.” He headed for his chosen victim and Tony spared a second’s worth of pity on those about to lose their money to his friend’s mathematical acumen.

He strolled down the hall and peered into a library lined with books and occupied by a couple sprawled on a couch. The next open door revealed a drawing room. No food there either. A young dandy, perhaps no more than twenty, knelt at the feet of a gorgeous creature in a red gown cut low across a magnificent bosom. The severe smoothed-back style of her dark-brown hair emphasized her prominent cheekbones and, along with her almond-shaped eyes, gave her face an exotic look. The boy seemed to be sobbing, while the striking brunette patted his shoulder.

Tony started to back away, but she raised her head and their gazes met. She rolled her eyes heavenward with rueful smile of full lips and a glimmer of laughter in her dark eyes. An instant of connection, yet he was sure he’d never met her before. One thing he knew for certain, her melting brown eyes contained a cry for help. He bowed. “May I be of assistance?”

The boy raised his head. “She won’t have me.”

“I didn’t mean you, you puppy,” Tony said. “Madam, may I remove this watering pot?”

The young man sat up then, and fumbled in his pocket.

The woman handed him a scrap of lace. “Use this, Radcliffe. A man with puffy eyes and a red nose is rarely taken with any degree of seriousness.”

“A red nose?” The boy sprung from the couch and ran to the mirror between the two tall windows overlooking the square. “’Pon rep. You are right.” He dabbed at the offending aristocratic proboscis.

The blatant sensuality of the woman’s smile, as she watched the lad, held Tony captive. No wonder she had the youth on his knees at her feet. And her breasts? Well, they were magnificent. Glorious mounds of pale, soft flesh. He didn’t need another glance for confirmation. Didn’t care to look, because her smile intimated she’d discovered life’s greatest jest and hinted that if the right person found the key, she might share the joke. He wanted that key.

“Vanity,” she said, with a mock shake of her head at the lad. “It does wonders for a broken heart. I recommend cold water at once.”

Radcliffe spun around. “Cold water, madam? Will it not make it worse?”

She laughed, a throaty chuckle with a pulse-quickening effect. Had he lost his mind?

“Not at all,” she said. “Take the word of someone who has cried many tears.” She turned her amazingly liquid eyes on Tony. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Tony smothered a smile as the young man paled. “Without a doubt. As one who has been the cause of many tears.”

The woman laughed outright. More heat to his blood. Good God, he’d never met a woman who so instantly aroused his interest. Aroused. An unfortunate word, with hardening results.

“Countess, you will forgive me if I go in search of cold water?” Radcliffe asked, returning to stand in front of her, much like a lad before a governess. “I will return. Then you will listen to me.”

“Try some ice,” Tony said. “I suggest you use it elsewhere on your anatomy. Cool your ardor. Can’t you see you are bothering the countess?”

“Am I, Countess?” Radcliffe asked with a boyish smile. Tony wanted to punch him in the mouth.

The woman smiled. “Darling boy, I am old enough to be your mother. Now run along and find a nice young girl of your own age.”

Radcliffe pouted. “You are not old enough to be my mother. She is ancient. And girls my age are dull.”

The boy needed a lesson in manners. Tony took a half step into the room. “The lady is being polite to protect your manly pride. I, on the other hand, have no such scruples. If you don’t leave now, you might find your nose a deeper shade of scarlet.”

The countess’s handkerchief held to his nose, Radcliff scuttled from the room.

The countess sighed. “I made a mistake in letting him speak to me alone. I had intended to let him down gently and instead, seemed to have raised his hopes. The dashing of them was hard, I think.”

“I apologize for my countryman, Countess.”

“Oh la, sir. No need for that. I’m as English as plum pudding, born and raised. ”

Not plum pudding. Perhaps baked apple with cinnamon or a succulent lemon curd, or a rich honey cake. He pulled back from the images and smiled. “I did wonder, given your lack of accent. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. Anthony Darby, at your service.” He bowed and as he rose, raised a brow in question. “Countess…?”

She inclined her head and held out her hand. “My deceased husband was a Russian count. I am recently returned to England. I was beginning to think I would require the help of a servant to release me from the poor boy’s clutches. Thank you for your timely intervention.”

A widow and thus available. Something feral and hungry sharpened its claws in Tony’s gut even as he noticed she had not supplied her name. Damnation, he was mad, because instead of bidding her farewell, he took her hand and pressed his lips to the filmy lace covering her fingers.

The view of creamy breasts rising from plush red velvet, and the shadows in their valley sucked the breath from his chest. Even so, he inhaled the subtle fragrance of lavender. “The pleasure is all mine.” He was surprised at the low growl in his voice

She tilted her head, a flicker of amber in warm brown eyes. Interest. Perhaps even challenge. Definitely not fear.

She withdrew her fingers slowly, lingeringly.

He regretted the loss. “I was looking for something to eat. May I escort you to the dining room?” He blasted well hoped food was laid out somewhere, because he needed something to counteract his lightheadedness.

“Why not?” she said, rising.

Only then, did the full glory of her figure reveal itself. Full bosomed, tall for a woman—almost his height in fact—and with long, elegant limbs, she embodied each and every aspect of female charm he preferred.

Perhaps he wasn’t in such a hurry to depart, after all. Dash it. Hadn’t he said less than five minutes ago that he didn’t want any commitments? He held out his arm.

Margaret put her hand on the sleeve of the man holding out his arm with élan, felt muscle and sinew beneath the dark blue superfine coat as they walked. An athletic man, as lithe and sleek as a racehorse. Quite beautiful, in fact. Unlike the bear-like Russians to whom she’d become accustomed, this man oozed finesse. And he was tall. Lovely and tall.

She studied his profile. Handsome in that narrow-faced, rather vulnerable English way, he’d looked too young at first glance. On closer inspection, the cynical mouth and the world-weary silver-gray eyes marked him as older. Around her age, or a little older, some thirty summers, she guessed. He glanced at her, caught her staring. The flicker of heat in the depths of his steely gaze had the same effect as too many glasses of champagne on her blood. A dizzy sort of breathlessness.

“I don’t suppose you know where we might find supper?” he asked with a heart-stopping smile, his deep voice hinting at seduction. The dark, wicked places in her body responded with a delicious thrill. This man positively created havoc on her senses.

“Aah,” she said, indicating the direction. “This is your first visit to Lady Falstow’s infamous establishment.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “But not yours?”

“No indeed.” In a rash moment of utter abandon, she bit back the information that her only previous visit was for afternoon tea. After all, such an admission would weaken the armor of scarlet gown and carefully constructed air of confidence. After five minutes alone with young Radcliffe, she’d decided her wild flight of fancy to experience a little danger, to savor some of the joys she’d missed these past many years, wasn’t really her cup of tea. Now she was wondering if perhaps this man could change her mind. It was a long time since her heart had fluttered, and right now it beat within her chest like a caged wild bird. A heady and youthful sensation she’d almost forgotten.

“This must be it,” Darby said, ushering her into a room at the back of the house. A table set with epergnes and covered dishes lined the wall opposite the door. Artfully scattered small round tables allowed for groups of guests to talk, while equally tasteful screens permitted an element of privacy for those who wished it.

Margaret tensed at the sight of an inebriated noble plying his female companion with champagne. Couples and groups also occupied some of the other tables. An army of burly footmen hovered throughout the cream and gold painted room ready to intercede, as her ladyship had promised, should matters get out of hand. Margaret wasn’t ready for this. She wished they’d remained in the drawing room’s seclusion.

Their hostess, a gargantuan figure in a gown of gold tissue, and shimmering with diamonds, circulated among her guests, her plump face beaming, her beringed hands gesturing volubly. She surged towards them in a tidal wave of hastily moved chairs. “There you are,” she cried. “I heard you’d gone off with young Radcliffe. I was about to send Peter—” she gestured vaguely at one of her minions “—to see if you were all right.”

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