By Sarah MacLean
"What a scoundrel wishes, a scoundrel will get. . .
A decade in the past, the Marquess of Bourne was once solid from society with not anything yet his identify. Now a accomplice in London's so much particular gaming hell, the chilly, ruthless Bourne will do no matter what it takes to regain his inheritance—including marrying ideal, right girl Penelope Marbury.
A damaged engagement and years of disappointing courtships have left Penelope with no real interest in a quiet, cozy marriage, and a eager for anything extra. How fortunate that her new husband has entry to an unexplored international of pleasures.
Bourne could be a prince of London's illicit underworld, yet he vows to maintain Penelope untouched via its wickedness—a problem certainly because the girl discovers her personal wants, and her willingness to guess something for them . . . .even her heart.
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Extra resources for A Rogue by Any Other Name (The Rules of Scoundrels, Book 1)
Hoped that someday they would meet again? " "And you aren't Andres Ramigio," the Duke of Holburn shot back-and she realized he didn't recall meeting her. Not one flicker of recognition crossed his face. The man of her dreams didn't remember her. It was a humiliating moment. He frowned at her fork, dusting off some imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. "What are you going to do with that? " She meant the words. Chapter Two The tart's cool response to his comment caught Nick's attention. At last, he troubled himself to give her a good hard look and then almost dropped his jaw in stunned surprise.
There followed the door closing. A wine bottle was uncorked. "Drink this," the duke ordered. He filled the glass close to her place. He poured himself a glass before setting the bottle down. When she didn't drink he threw himself down impatiently in the chair beside her. He lifted his glass. " He drained his glass, then put it aside to take hers and place it in her hand. "Drink it. " She shot him a glance of surprise, her fingers automatically wrapping around the stem of her glass. " "We rakes don't like seducing pasty white things," he said in self-mockery.
Why hadn't she placed it in her pocket when she had a chance? "That's mine," Fiona said. " "But I'm not through asking questions," he said with no show of remorse. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead, giving him a boyishly handsome appearance. He was enjoying himself. "We weren't talking," Fiona snapped. " He shook the purse. " At that moment, the attraction Fiona felt for him vanished. How dare he hold her purse hostage? She'd earned that money. It was vital to her survival. And yet what could she do?