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A Scoundrel by Moonlight
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A woman seeks revenge by posing as a housemaid and taking down the rogue that broke her sister’s heart in this character-driven, sinful, historical romance. Justice. That’s all Nell Trim wants-for her sister and for the countless other young women the Marquess of Leath has ruined with his wildly seductive ways. Now she has a bold plan to take him down . . . as long as she can resist the scoundrel’s temptations herself. From the moment Nell meets James Fairbrother, the air positively sizzles. Yet for all his size and power, there’s something amazingly tender in his touch. Could he really be such a depraved rogue? The only way to find out is to beat the devil at his own game . . . one tempting kiss at a time. Anything can happen in the moonlight . . .
Table of Contents
An Excerpt from What a Duke Dares
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Alloway Chase, Yorkshire, late September 1828
Finally he was home.
James Fairbrother, Marquess of Leath sighed with relief and whipped off his heavy topcoat as the footman fought to close the massive oak door against the blustery night. This year, winter came early to the moors. Most years, if Leath was honest. When he'd left London, lovely, golden autumn had held sway. The further north he'd ventured, the less lovely and golden the weather became, until he'd arrived at his family seat in a freezing gale.
"Go to bed, George. I can manage from here." At three in the morning, he wasn't selfish enough to keep the man at his beck and call. Knowing that he'd beat any message he sent to Alloway Chase, he'd left London in a rush. He'd considered putting up at an inn before the final desolate run across the heath, but the moon was full and the night was clear, if brutal, and his horse had been fresh.
"Thank you, my lord." The young man in crimson livery took the coat and bowed. "I'll light the fires in your apartments."
As George left, Leath collected his leather satchel of documents, lifted the chamber stick from the Elizabethan chest against the great hall's stone wall, and trudged down the long corridor toward his library. Against the looming darkness, the candle's light seemed frail, but Leath had grown up in this rambling house. The ghosts, reportedly legion, were friendly.
Physically he was exhausted, but his mind leaped about like a cat with fleas. The roiling mixture of emotions that had sent him hurtling up to Yorkshire still warred within. Anger. Disappointment. Self-castigation. Confusion. A barely admitted fear. He wasn't ready to seek his bed, although the good God knew where he did want to go, except perhaps to blazes.
Usually when he reached Alloway Chase, the weight of the world slid from his shoulders. Not tonight. Nor any time in the near future, he grimly suspected. There was a difference between visiting the country at one's own prompting and having one's political advisers demand a rustication for the nation's good.
Outside his library, he paused, puzzled.
A line of faint light shone beneath the door. At this hour, the household should be asleep. Stupid with tiredness, he wondered if at the grand old age of thirty-two, he'd finally encountered one of the ghosts. The most active specter was Lady Mary Fairbrother, murdered during the Civil War after her husband caught her in bed with a Royalist.
As the door slowly opened before him, the unreal sensation built.
Flickering gold filled the widening gap. Leath found himself staring into wide dark eyes.
The apparition gave a breathy gasp of surprise. A stray draft extinguished both candles, and then he heard a dull thud as the girl lost her grip on the light.
Instinct made him drop the satchel and reach for her. It was as dark as a thief's pocket, and something told him that she'd use the cover to flee. His hand closed around a slender waist. This was no visitor from the spirit realm. The body he held was undoubtedly human. Warm. Lissome. Taut with outrage or fright. Perhaps both.
"Are you a burglar?" she asked in a low voice, wriggling to escape.
"Isn't that what I should say?" he asked drily.
"I don't understand," she hissed back.
She sounded young. Before the candles went out, he'd merely glimpsed her features. He wondered, although it could have no importance, whether she was pretty. "Damn it, stop squirming."
Uselessly she pushed him. "Then let me go."
"No." He caught her more securely and back-stepped her into the library.
The thick darkness was confoundedly suggestive. He was overwhelmingly conscious of the curve of her waist and the brush of her breasts against his chest. The soft, urgent rasp of her breathing indicated fear, but sounded disconcertingly like sexual excitement. Hell, he could even smell her. Her intentions might be murky, but she smelled of freshly cut meadows and soap. If she was a burglar, she was a dashed clean one.
As he kicked the door shut behind him, she released a soft yelp and made a more vigorous attempt to break free. "I'll scream."
"Go ahead." He dropped his candle to the carpet and reached behind him to turn the key in the lock. When he rode up to the house, he'd been mutton-headed with weariness. This riddle of a female in his library stirred him to full alertness.
"You've locked us in," she said accusingly. "Who are you?"
A snort of laughter escaped him. She was a direct wench. This encounter became more bizarre by the second. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep in the saddle and he was dreaming. If not for the living woman under his hand, he might almost believe it. "More to the point, who are you? And what are you doing in my library after midnight?"
A bristling silence descended. "Your library?"
"Yes." Unerringly he approached the high windows and flung back the curtains. Moonlight flooded the room. He turned to inspect the woman, but she lurked in the shadows by the door and he discerned little, apart from her slenderness and unnaturally upright posture. Her hands twined nervously at her waist.
She piqued his curiosity. A welcome change from the bitter dissatisfaction that had dogged him this last year. Using the tinderbox, he lit the branch of candles on the table under the window.
Briefly Leath caught his reflection in the glass, outlined in gold light. Large, looming. If he'd made the girl nervous in the dark, she'd be terrified now that she saw him. He didn't look like a welcoming, easy sort of man. Recent trials had added sternness to a face not blessed with charm at the best of times.
Slowly, he turned. And his heart slammed to stillness.
His mysterious lady was a beauty.
Ignoring the way her lips tightened with resentment, he raised the candles to inspect her. A plain gray dress with white linen collar. Silvery blond hair drawn severely away from her face. No trace of curl or ribbon to soften the austerity. Her face was austere too, as perfectly carved as an angel on a cathedral doorway. High forehead; long slender nose; slanted cheekbones; pointed chin. Assertive brows darker than her hair above widely spaced eyes that regarded him with impressive steadiness. Few men could withstand the Marquess of Leath's intense stare, yet this girl didn't even blink.
Her mouth provided the only hint in that pure, calm face that she was more than a beautiful marble statue. Her mouth was… marvelous.
Full. Lush. Sweetly pink.
He was so big that most women seemed tiny in comparison, but the repressed energy radiating from her made her appear taller than average. His eyes lingered on the delightfully rounded bosom beneath her demure bodice.
Her gaze turned frosty and despite the uncertain light, he saw a flush on those high cheekbones. Good God, whoever she was, she had spirit. He reduced most young ladies to blushing silence. This girl—and she was little more, mid-twenties at the most—might blush, but she was far from intimidated.
When she bloody well should be.
The childishness of that last reflection had his lips twitching. He'd feared months of boredom ahead, but his return started in a most intriguing fashion. If he'd known this odd, fascinating creature waited in Yorkshire, he might have visited more often, instead of burying his head in parliamentary business in London.
"Just what are you up to?" he asked softly, placing the candles on a table and stepping closer.
Ah, she wasn't totally foolhardy. She retreated toward the door, eyes widening. He wished he could see their precise color. The light simply wasn't good enough. "You're trying to frighten me."
"Perhaps I'm seeking a little respect," he said smoothly.
She curtsied, but he could tell that her heart wasn't in it. "Your lordship."
He folded his arms and surveyed her under lowered brows. "So you know I'm Leath."
"You said it's your library. And her ladyship has a portrait in her room. I recognized you when you lit the candles."
The world toadied to his wealth and influence, but the spark in this girl's eyes looked like hostility. A challenge sizzled between them. Or perhaps the beginnings of attraction.
"At last a straight answer," he said wryly. "Now can you bring yourself to tell me who you are?"
"Will you let me go if I do?"
Her audacity stole his breath. Nobody defied him or denied him or bargained with him. Most people tripped over themselves to do his bidding before he'd even worked out what his bidding was. "We'll see."
Her eyes narrowed, confirming his impression that she didn't like him. He wondered why. "You have a reputation for keeping your hands off the housemaids, my lord."
"What in Hades?" Her meaning smashed through his burgeoning interest. "Are you saying that you're a… housemaid?"
A fleeting smile tilted her lips. His wayward heart jolted at the promise of other, more generous smiles. "Yes."
"You don't look like a blasted housemaid." Nor did she speak like any housemaid he'd ever known. She sounded like a lady.
"You… you caught me at a disadvantage."
"I'll say I did."
He waited for some retort, but her expression turned blank. For the first time, to his disappointment, she looked like a servant. Although this sudden docility meant that he might discover why she was in his library. Housemaids started work early and generally didn't have the energy to run around after bedtime. "What's your name?"
She dipped into another curtsy. He could have told her she overdid the meekness, but he held his peace.
"Trim, my lord."
Trim? He couldn't argue with that. "Trim what?"
He thought she might smile again, but she'd leashed her rebellious spirit as tightly as she tied back her hair. He wasn't a man who experienced profound and sudden sexual urges. But he'd give this girl every sparkling diamond in the family vault if she'd take down her hair. If she let him touch it, he'd throw in the damned house as well.
"Nell Trim, sir."
"Helen or Eleanor?"
"Eleanor." Her voice retained its curiously flat quality and she stared somewhere over his shoulder.
Eleanor. An elegant name for an elegant woman. An elegant woman who was his housemaid.
"Very good." Except Eleanor wasn't a suitable name for a junior servant. Eleanor was a queen's name. It brought dangerous, powerful women to mind. "What are you doing in my library, Trim?"
By rights, he should call a housemaid Nell, but with her slender neatness, Trim suited her so well.
"If I tell you, you'll dismiss me."
He kept his expression neutral. "I'll dismiss you if you don't."
She leveled that direct stare upon him. "I couldn't sleep, and I wanted something to read. I always return the books, my lord; you have my word."
A housemaid who rifled his bookcases and offered her word? She became more extraordinary by the minute. "You can read?"
"Yes, sir." In a show of deference that didn't convince, she lowered her eyelids. Years in the political bear pit had taught him to read people. He was sure of two things about the trim Miss Eleanor Trim. One was that deference didn't come naturally. The other was that somewhere in this odd conversation, she lied.
"So what did you choose?" She hadn't carried a book when she'd run into him at the door.
"Nothing appealed. May I go, my lord? I'm on duty early."
"Do I need to search you to see if you've stolen anything?" She could be a master criminal bamboozling him into complacency. Except he didn't feel complacent. He felt alive and interested as nothing had interested him in months.
Temper lit her eyes. She didn't like him questioning her honesty. "I'm not a thief."
Ah, the false docility cracked. He hid his satisfaction. "How can I be sure?"
"You could check the room for anything missing, my lord."
"I might do that." Abruptly his sour mood descended once more. What the hell was he doing flirting with a housemaid in the middle of the night? Perhaps his political advisers were right about him needing a break.
He bent to pick up the candle the girl had dropped when he'd barged in on top of her. He lit it from the branch and passed it across, then unlocked the door. "You may go, Trim."
She raised the candle and surveyed him as if uncertain whether this dismissal was good news or not. Her curtsy this time conveyed no ironic edge, then she backed toward the door. "Thank you, my lord."
"For God's sake, I'm not going to pounce on you," he said on a spurt of irritation. It niggled that for a different man living in a different world, the thought of pouncing on the delectable Miss Trim was sinfully appealing.
Her eyes flashed up and he saw that beneath her drab exterior, she was fierce and strong. He awaited some astringent comeback. Instead she dragged the door open and fled.
Blast, blast, blast.
Exhausted, angry, disgusted with herself, Nell collapsed onto the narrow bed in the small room that had become hers a month ago. She buried her head in her hands.
Why, oh, why did the depraved marquess have to catch her searching his library? And when he did, why on earth hadn't she behaved like a proper servant? Until now, she'd managed to hide any rebellious impulses under a subservient mask. If she'd been humble and silent, he'd have sent her away, instead of finding her of surpassing interest.
But she'd just been so furious to see him alive and well, when her beloved half-sister had died in such shame and misery. Caught by surprise, she'd forgotten to play the circumspect domestic.
And now she'd attracted his attention.
She didn't want to arouse James Fairbrother's curiosity. She wanted to find the diary that proved his offenses, then leave Alloway Chase and pass the matter of Leath's destruction over to the Duke of Sedgemoor, his sworn enemy. A woman of her humble background would get nowhere, taking on such a powerful man. But the duke could use the book to blackmail Leath into behaving himself, or publish the details and expose the marquess to trial by public opinion.
Nell hoped he chose the second course. Lord Leath deserved general condemnation.
In her bedroom at Mearsall, the plan had appeared straightforward, once she'd come to terms with the exalted status of Dorothy's lover. A check of her stepfather's old newspapers had confirmed his lordship's presence at a house party in Kent, around the time Dorothy fell pregnant. Leath had been near enough to seduce Dorothy. Given her deathbed confession, that was enough evidence to convince Nell to pursue the marquess's downfall.
As Dorothy had promised, discovering the location of the marquess's family seat had been easy. It had also been surprisingly easy finding employment as a housemaid.
She'd set herself a daunting task, but she'd made a promise to someone she loved—and she was angry. The idea of this devil ruining more innocent girls like Dorothy made her want to scream with rage. She'd left Mearsall to seek the diary and other evidence of Lord Leath's sins. If she failed in Yorkshire, she'd find work in his house in London and continue her quest there. However long it took, she'd make him pay for his crimes.
But now that she'd met the marquess, nothing seemed so clear-cut. After that oddly charged encounter downstairs, her heart still galloped like a wild horse—and her mind whirled with bewilderment.
Dear heaven, when his wicked lordship had locked the door, she'd nearly collapsed with horror. She was alone in the middle of the night with a lecherous monster. She'd never imagined that her quest might involve physical risk.
Cursing her naivety, she'd prepared to fight off the hulking brute.
Then the marquess had confounded every fear. Apart from catching her to stop her escape, he hadn't touched her.
Which was… puzzling. And troubling.
She'd sensed his interest. At twenty-five, she wasn't a green girl, and she knew what it meant when a male leveled that prickling, intense concentration on a woman. Yet he'd kept his distance and remained remarkably polite, given her barely concealed insolence.
In her mind, Lord Leath had always been a caricature of a villain. But tonight, once she'd realized that he wouldn't leap on her—and she'd realized quickly despite that unwelcome awareness—he'd proven much more real. And much more alarming.
Immediately she'd noted his cleverness, his calmness, his confidence. All worked against her. The man in the portrait in his mother's apartments was big and powerful, with a personality that threatened to burst from the frame.
In the flesh, he'd been… more.
He wasn't a pretty man, by any means. But there was beauty in that tall, strong body and that craggy, individual face with its beak of a nose and heavy black brows. No wonder Dorothy had been smitten.
Still, Nell had expected more overt charm, a Lothario from a play, all smooth words and false compliments. She couldn't picture this man filling a girl's head with nonsense until she spread her legs.
These riddles gave her a headache. And she faced a day's work and, if she could evade the marquess, a night's searching.
Hope staged an uncertain return. Perhaps Leath's unexpected arrival was more blessing than curse. Perhaps Nell hadn't yet found the diary because this dedicated seducer kept his record of ruin with him.
If so, the diary was now at Alloway Chase.
"Darling, I didn't know you'd come home." From the chaise longue, Leath's mother extended her hands toward him.
He hated to see his mother's health deteriorate to a point where she spent most days in her apartments. At least his rustication meant that he could devote more time to her. Guiltily he realized that he hadn't been home since his sister Sophie's hurried wedding last May. Parliamentary business had been pressing, as had his need to rise above the scandals engulfing his family.
"I got in late last night." He took his mother's hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "You look well."
It wasn't true, but it was less of a lie than last time they'd met. The gray morning light through the large windows was stark on her thin body. But her cheeks held a hint of color and her eyes were brighter than he'd seen them in years.
"I'm feeling better." She indicated a chair, inviting him to stay. "How long are you here?"
"Until people can say the Fairbrother name without a sneer," he said flatly. He supposed that he'd learn to accept his exile, although at least with his mother he needn't hide his bitterness.
She frowned. "I'd hoped the brouhaha about your uncle might blow over by now. After all, it's a year since he shot himself to escape a hanging."
A year in which everyone had eyed Leath as if afraid he might resort to violence and larceny the way his odious Uncle Neville had. A year in which Leath's every political plan had fallen foul of some opponent mentioning the Fairbrothers' infamous criminal tendencies. A family flaw only widely recognized since his uncle's exposure as a thief and murderer. Thanks to Camden Rothermere, the damned meddling Duke of Sedgemoor, the whole world knew about Neville Fairbrother's crimes.
For months, Leath had been furious at Sedgemoor and his cronies. Only gradually had he admitted that ultimate blame for the family's straits lay with Lord Neville.
That was little satisfaction when another snide comment in the House of Lords topped one of Leath's speeches with jeering laughter. For years, the Marquess of Leath had been the most powerful personality in parliament, his progress to the premiership taken for granted. The gossip now dogging him gratified his enemies—and a disappointing number of people he'd counted as friends. He was cynical enough to recognize that the world loved to witness an ambitious man's fall. But recognition made it no more pleasant to be that man.
"You forget Sophie," he said grimly, rising and prowling toward the window, too restless to sit when reviewing his recent disasters.
His sister had set tongues wagging afresh when she'd eloped with a penniless younger son who happened to be Sedgemoor's brother-in-law. Sophie's timing had been calamitous for Leath's political hopes. The whole world now considered Fairbrother a synonym for flibbertigibbet. Or scoundrel.
Neither adjective befitted a future prime minister.
His mother looked troubled. "She's safely married now, and you and Sedgemoor united to approve the match."
Much against Leath's inclination, he'd offered the runaways what countenance he could. He and Sedgemoor had even patched up their feud, at least in public. They were never likely to be friends, but Leath no longer itched to punch His Grace's supercilious nose.
Whatever measures both families had taken, they couldn't contain the scandal. Especially as it followed so closely on the heels of his uncle's disgrace. Even worse, Sophie had jilted Lord Desborough, one of England's most powerful men, and as a result his lordship had shifted from Leath's greatest ally to his implacable foe. "My political career still hangs in the balance, Mamma."
He turned to see her raising a frail hand to her lips. "James, I'm sorry."
Damn it. His chagrin got the better of him. Upsetting his mother was the last thing he wanted. He wasn't himself this morning. And he knew who to blame. A housemaid! He had bats in his belfry.
"At the moment, the party powerbrokers consider me more hindrance than asset. I'm to retire to my estates, keep my head down and my nose clean, and reappear once the world has had time to forget the gossip."
"That's unfair. None of this is your fault. Your uncle was an out-and-out rogue. Your father banned him from the house after he got that poor girl into trouble."
Leath had been a boy when his uncle had raped a maid. "Perhaps Uncle Neville's crimes aren't my responsibility, but Sophie was," he said heavily.
"At least she's happy."
Her voice indicated that Sophie's happiness hardly counted, compared to the damage she'd done to her brother's career. His mother had married the late marquess, expecting to be a political hostess and eventually wife to the prime minister. After a carriage accident crippled his father in his forties, her hopes had focused on her then-twenty-year-old son. For the final eight years of his father's life and the four since, Leath had devoted himself to fulfilling his parents' political dreams. He'd loved his father dearly. The possibility of failure now when the prize hovered so close made him grind his teeth in frustration.
"Your exile isn't all bad." His mother had clearly decided to take the news stoically.
"Isn't it?" he said gloomily, wandering to the dressing table and picking up a delicate Meissen shepherdess. The simpering expression mocked his pretensions to taking on his brilliant father's mantle.
"I'll see more of you."
He sighed and replaced the figurine. "Yes, and my tenants will be pleased I'm home."
"There's no substitute for the lord of the manor."
"Perhaps not," Leath said shortly. "But I can't angle for influence in London and be here at the same time."
"No," Lady Leath said without offense. "But a period of reflection won't go astray. It's time you thought about a bride."
Startled, he bumped the crowded dressing table, setting the china figures and glass bottles rattling. "What?"
His mother regarded him patiently. "Don't pretend it's an outlandish suggestion, James. You need an heir. Right now, you need more than an heir; you need allies. If this mess hasn't taught you that a man can't stand alone in politics, nothing will."
"With the stink surrounding the family name, who would have me?"
"Don't be a fool. You're the Marquess of Leath. Anyone with a scrap of acumen knows that you'll return stronger than ever."
"So nice that my private requirements count in this decision," he said with a hint of sarcasm.
His mother didn't smile. "You're not an amorous shepherd in a poem, James, free to bestow his heart and hand where he likes. Fairbrothers marry for advantage, not because they fancy a pretty pair of blue eyes."
"You loved my father."
Her face softened. "I did. But even if I didn't, I'd have married him."
Leath struggled to contain his surprise. And disappointment. He'd always thought his parents had married because they were soul mates. Yet it seemed that they'd married for the same cold-blooded reasons as most other aristocrats.
"My wife and I will enjoy a mutual regard." He must marry to continue the line—and a woman from an influential family was the obvious choice. While he mightn't pant after neck-or-nothing passion, nor could he be completely pragmatic about his choice. He was a man before he was a politician, however ambitious he might be.
This time his mother smiled. "Of course, that would be ideal."
Ideal but not essential, he noted. His mother continued, "What about Marianne Seton? She behaved perfectly when Sedgemoor got entangled with that dreadful Thorne woman. You might balk at Camden Rothermere's leavings, but her father would make a valuable friend."
Poor Lady Marianne, jilted when the Duke of Sedgemoor fell in love with the notorious daughter of a scandalous family. A love match that had only caused trouble. Just as Sophie's love match had. Still some hitherto unsuspected part of Leath's soul revolted at the idea of marrying without affection.
"Mamma, I can choose my own bride," he protested, even as he pictured lovely, sedate Marianne Seton in the Fairbrother sapphires. They'd match her eyes. Which seemed a dashed stupid reason for proposing to a chit.
"What about Desborough's sister? An engagement would heal the rift between you. Honestly, I could box Sophie's ears for ruining that match."
A chill slithered down Leath's spine. "Lady Jane is forty-five if she's a day, not to mention a dedicated spinster."
His mother sighed. "Pity she's too old to bear children." She paused and Leath hoped the discussion was over. A hope quickly shattered. "If only Lydia Rothermere hadn't married that penniless libertine. She was a marvelous hostess, and a Rothermere match would silence talk of a feud."
"God made a mistake when he created you female, Mamma," he said drily. "You'd make a capital prime minister."
She laughed and dismissed his comment with a wave, although it was true. "I'm a mere woman, James."
He smiled, hoping that she'd stopped listing possible marchionesses. "And clever as a fox."
- "Campbell immediately hooks readers, then deftly reels them in with a spellbinding love story fueled by an addictive mixture of sharp wit, lush sensuality, and a wealth of well-delineated characters."—Booklist on A SCOUNDREL BY MOONLIGHT, starred review
- "4 1/2 Stars! Top Pick! Campbell's vibrant voice rings out in another touching, humorous and utterly delightful story. Her multidimensional characters' dialogue sparkles with wit and the sensuality blazes across the page."—RT Book Reviews on What a Duke Dares
- "With its superbly nuanced characters, impeccably crafted historical setting, and graceful writing shot through with scintillating wit, Campbell's latest lusciously sensual, flawlessly written historical Regency ... will have romance readers sighing happily with satisfaction."—Booklist, Starred Review, on What a Duke Dares
- "4 1/2 Stars! Top Pick! Campbell's vibrant voice rings out in another touching, humorous and utterly delightful story. Her multidimensional characters' dialogue sparkles with wit, and the sensuality blazes across the page. Though a charming twist on a marriage of convenience plot, it's the unconventional Cam and Penelope and their escapades that make this third Sons of Sin book an extraordinary read."—RT Book Reviews on What a Duke Dares
- "Campbell makes the Regency period pop in the appealing third Sons of Sin novel. Romantic fireworks, the constraints of custom, and witty banter are combined in this sweet and successful story."—Publishers Weekly on What a Duke Dares
- "Campbell is exceptionally talented, especially with plots that challenge the reader, and emotions and characters that are complex and memorable."—Sarah Wendell, Smart Bitches Trashy Books, on A Rake's Midnight Kiss
- "A lovely, lovely book that will touch your heart and remind you why you read romance."—Liz Carlyle, New York Times bestselling author on What a Duke Dares
- "Campbell holds readers captive with her highly intense, emotional, sizzling and dark romances. She instinctually knows how to play on her readers' fantasies to create a romantic, deep-sigh tale."—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on Captive of Sin
- "Don't miss this novel - it speaks to the wild drama of the heart, creating a love story that really does transcend class."—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author, on Tempt the Devil
- "Seven Nights in the Rogue's Bed is a lush, sensuous treat. I was enthralled from the first page to the last and still wanted more,"—Laura Lee Guhrke, New York Times bestselling author
- "No one does lovely, dark romance or lovely, dark heroes like Anna Campbell. I love her books,"—Sarah MacLean, New York Times bestselling author
- "Anna Campbell is an amazing, daring new voice in romance."—Lorraine Heath, New York Times bestselling author
- On Sale
- Apr 28, 2015
- Page Count
- 416 pages