The Midnight Rake. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
1e3-5f8f-97d2-40b52f1b3512">
A gentleman by day…
Phineas Betcham, Viscount Fenhurst is one of the country’s most eligible bachelors…which - to the heartbreak of each season’s new debutantes - is the way he intends to keep it. Because the broodingly handsome Viscount has vowed to keep emotions out of the bedchamber. And he is a man who always stays true to his word.
So when Penelope Rosebery arrives at his home, impoverished and in need of help, Phin is every inch the gentleman. But, beneath the surface, Penelope stirs a protective and passionate instinct within him. With her untamed beauty and lack of social ties, she’s something of a wildflower – delicate, spontaneous, and rare. And before long, Phineas finds himself tempted to abandon his rulebook…and leave etiquette behind until daybreak.
To Love a Wicked Scoundrel
Duke of Darkness
The Midnight Rake
Anabelle Bryant
Contents
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
ANABELLE BRYANT
began reading at the age of three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel; especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?
Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle has earned her Master’s Degree and is pursuing her Doctorate Degree in Education. She proudly owns her addiction to French fries and stationery supplies, as well as her frightening ineptitude with technology.
A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do.
She enjoys talking with her fans. Visit her website at AnabelleBryant.com.
Writing a novel can be much like raising a child. You put your heart and soul into your efforts. You do your very best. You nurture and worry over every choice and then pray in the end you’ve done enough. Thank you, Mom and Dad for a loving, happy childhood.
“Charles! Why are we stopping?” Victoria Betcham, Countess of Fenhurst, pushed aside the crimson velvet curtain obstructing her view of the open road and poked her head through the square carriage window. Her eyes scanned the empty roadway. They’d been traveling at an excellent pace toward London. The unexpected slowing was not due to traffic. “Charles?”
The coachman’s voice rang over the noise of the slowing team as the carriage rolled to an abrupt stop. “A mail coach is blocking the road, my lady. There is no way for us to pass.”
“Mon dieu! This is inconvenient. Is anyone hurt? Can you locate the driver?” She angled her head in an attempt to see past the floorboard iron, but had no success. Reluctant to leave the safe confines of her carriage, Victoria trusted her coachman to resolve the issue with intelligence. She did not suffer fools well and Charles had been in her employ for over twenty years.
A country road far outside of London was nowhere to be stranded and a variety of perils flittered through her mind until the vision of a threatening highwayman determined to snare a respected aristocrat caused her to bundle her pelisse and reticule closer. A crack of thunder emphasized her concern. Would she have to contend with poor weather as well? The roads would become impassable, leaving her abandoned and at risk for danger. Vulnerability was not a desirable traveling companion. She anxiously awaited Charles’ return.
“It appears the driver needs assistance in pushing the conveyance to the side. Broken rear axle, as I can see.” Charles climbed from the front boot and addressed her through the window. “We will resume shortly, although I do not know how the two young ladies will manage.”
The coachman’s latter comment was spoken as an afterthought, but it pricked