Temptation & Twilight

Seduction & Scandal

“One can become addicted to Featherstone’s sexually charged romances.… Secrets, passions and conflicts abound as readers are led through a labyrinth of plot twists…and love scenes that take their breath away and leave them panting for more.”

—
RT Book Reviews,
4 1/2 stars

“
Seduction & Scandal
is the first in Featherstone’s Brethren Guardians series, and the author has left little bits and pieces of information temptingly along the course of the story, leaving readers solidly in need of the next installment to find out what happens next.”

—
Eye on Romance

“Ms. Featherstone has the phenomenal ability to transport me into another time and place with each of her books… I am lying in wait for the next addition to this remarkable series.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Taking its cue from gothic novels of old,
Seduction & Scandal
has everything I love in darker historicals.… I literally could not put this book down.

A very solid 5/5 stars, and highly recommended for fans of gothic historical romances.”

—
The Romanceaholic

Pride & Passion

“Sensual and intriguing…[an] engaging and steamy yarn.”

—
Publishers Weekly

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“Featherstone mixes her haunting erotic style into a tale tinged with mystery, paranormal elements and the atmosphere of the era…[she] stirs the pot, merging deep sensuality and a frightening, chilling mystery: a hunt for a madman Temptation &

that will have readers on the edge of their seats.”

—
RT Book Reviews,
4 stars BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012

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Also from Charlotte Featherstone
Harlequin HQN

The Brethren Guardians

Pride & Passion

Seduction & Scandal

Spice Books

Lust

Sinful

Addicted

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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.” Recycling programs

for this product may

not exist in your area.

ISBN-13: 978-0-373-77662-7

TEMPTATION & TWILIGHT

Copyright © 2012 by Charlotte Featherstone All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

For questions and comments about the quality of this book Twilight #776627 page 4

please contact us at [email protected].

® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with

® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

Temptation &

www.Harlequin.com

Printed in U.S.A.

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7/29/08 10:41:25 AM

To Aly—better late than never, right? Thanks so much for coming up with the “Duke of Deliciousness.” I owe you for that one! Thank you for being such a good friend.

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THERE WAS A SPECIAL PLACE in hell for men such as him.

A small berth closest to the hellfires, one that reeked of smoke and brimstone and rotting souls, would be his home for eternity. His berth, he was quite certain, would read Blasphemer. Seducer. Whoremonger and Licentious Rogue, to name only a few. But to list all his failings and sins would require a tablet the size of which Moses used to recount the Ten Commandments.

As a man not given to excessive description, he found the above-mentioned failings communicated quite well the depth of his amoral, unfeeling soul. He was rather enamoured of that—it had taken years to cultivate a hardened shell with no humanity within.

He wondered if even now the Black Angel’s minions were preparing for his reception into the underworld.

How he hoped so, for he would need a merry party after the conclusion of tonight’s business.

Shifting into the light cast by the gas lamp, Iain Sinclair, Marquis of Alynwick and laird to the clan Sinclair, gazed into the looking glass, only to see the devil himself staring back at him. He wondered, with a self-deprecating grin, if it wasn’t a premonition of sorts. A prelude of where his eternal soul would rest if things did not go as planned tonight.

The devil, he mused, as he stared into the mirror, was a strikingly handsome fellow with long dark hair, given BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012

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TEMPTATION & TWILIGHT

to curl, that had sent many a lady into swoons. Chiselled cheeks and chin, and a set of dark eyes—their colour could only be described as obsidian. Dimples in both cheeks flashed when he grinned in mockery, as he now was. His lips—oh, such decadently full lips that promised every kind of pleasure and rapture while indulging in the most wicked of sins.

The devil, Iain thought, as he motioned for his valet to pass him his tumbler of Scotch, looked remarkably like himself—a beautiful male, a dark, soulless bastard.

He was not a vain man—self-deprecating, true, but never vainglorious. The women of the ton might think him beautiful, showering him with compliments on his handsome face and muscular body. But he knew the truth: that what everyone saw on the outside was the polar opposite of what lurked inside him—a wretched ugliness that was slowly eating away any inner beauty he might have once possessed. No, his shell might be worthy, but inside he was anything but.

A sigh from the bed behind him confirmed this observation.

“You’re as beautiful as Lucifer, and as wicked as the lord of the underworld could ever hope to be.” His gaze flashed back to the mirror, where the image of a woman lying naked and flushed pink amongst the white, rumpled bedsheets greeted him. His body jolted at the sight, as if he had all but forgotten the visitor. The lady—a rather loose term for the female—was not the sort he was used to cavorting with. She was too thin and slender, almost fragile. He preferred buxom. Blowsy, they used to call women such as his ideal back in the day, when a plump, luscious armful was every man’s fantasy.

How could he help it? He adored the female shape, with all its softness and curves. With breasts and hips, and BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012

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CHARLOTTE FEATHERSTONE

11

thighs that made a man feel like a man, that cushioned and welcomed him and made him think of safe harbours and all the other melodramatic sap spouted by the poets.

Poetry be damned. The truth was Iain was a fool for a set of lovely big tits, and a nice round arse to grip in the throes of carnal pleasures. It had always been this way for him; a pair of plump breasts could keep him pleasantly occupied for hours on end, and the lady deeply satisfied.

As coarse as his mouth was, it was highly skilled—and devilishly wicked, able to produce the most wondrous results while pressed against his favourite part of the female anatomy.

His gaze slipped to the lady’s breasts. Rather disappointing for a man of his proclivities and appetites, but there it was. He was doing his duty, seeing to his obligations as one of the ancient Brethren Guardians.

Sighing again, she watched him, one arm tucked beneath her head, making her back arch in the belief she appeared more buxom. It was a useless endeavour.

She would never possess the sort of body he liked to worship —or the one in particular he craved with every amoral fibre of his being.

Her knee rose, her delicate foot sliding along the crisp sheets. When her leg dropped to the side, so did his gaze, following the sensual action. She was well made
there,
he supposed, but already he’d tired of it. Strumpets never could hold his attention.

“Won’t you come back to bed and play with me?” she said, her voice coy, yet her tone holding just a hint of cloying desperation. “I’ll let you be as naughty as you desire.”

“I doubt you could handle that. My sort of needs would make you swoon.”

“In ecstasy, I’d wager.”

“In shock.”

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He shared a secret grin with Sutherland, his valet.

Iain supposed he should be rather mortified that his servant was here in this room of utter debauchery, witness-ing such a thing while assisting him with dressing. But it was habitual for his valet, who had been with him for decades. Sutherland had witnessed one sort of debauchery and debacle after another. Besides, the lady lounging on the bed rather fancied the whole idea. She had been the one to suggest the activity, after all. She had a fantasy, she’d admitted to him, of lounging naked in his bed, watching his valet assist him with his toilette.

Iain was all for fantasies. He had a few very special and intimate ones of his own—so deeply personal that he wouldn’t dare share them with anyone, except perhaps the lady who always featured in them. Those were for his own private pleasure, when he was alone and could indulge himself without interruption.

He didn’t really relish this particular fantasy. However, the lady seemed to be enjoying herself, and that was the objective. He needed her cooperation.

“It really is scandalous how handsome and magnificently built you are,” she murmured as she studied his body in the mirror. “The gossip spread by your past lovers certainly wasn’t embellished. I think
magnificent
a rather bland word to describe you, and what you possess below the waist. Monstrously marvellous is what I call it.”

“My dear, I am a Highlander. We are brawny lads built for hard work, both menial and more pleasurable tasks.”

“Then put me in a carriage to Loch Lomond and gift me with an entire clan!”

She giggled, and his brow arched as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of the shirt Sutherland held out.

“Oooh.” She sighed dramatically. “If only I hadn’t met BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012

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CHARLOTTE FEATHERSTONE

13

Larabie first, I might now be Lady Alynwick, and what is it the Scots call the laird’s wife?” What the devil made her think she would be the one, after a long—
very long
—list of lovers? He would never marry.
Never.
And certainly, he would never think to marry someone like her. He was jaded, but he wasn’t cruel. The women he cavorted with were no more interested in a lasting liaison than he was. Which made them infinitely good choices. It was a mutual, if unspoken agreement: all parties were in it for themselves. Women for pleasure and the notoriety and novelty of sharing his bed, and him for a relationship born of convenience, and to assuage his animal’s needs—of which he seemed to have more than his share. Another sin, no doubt.

“Oh, come now, my love, you give the impression that you are emotionally unavailable. But I know the truth,” she pressed.