How To Marry a Rake. Deb Marlowe

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       Stephen was happy. Mae felt his contentment flow into her, warming her blood. It was beautiful. It made her feel beautiful, and whole.

      Her eyes slid closed. For long minutes she lost herself to the glory of the music and the moment. Stephen gave in to it as well; she could feel his surrender in the grip of his hands, in the intimate press of his legs to hers, and in the graceful, floating ease with which he guided them about the dance floor.

      And that was when she knew she’d come full circle. Her campaign was forgotten, her plans and strategies left behind. Here she was, right back where she’d started two years ago, wanting Stephen Manning with all of her heart.

      Perhaps she needed a new campaign, with new strategies designed to win his heart. Because she longed for it, and for his unfathomable blue eyes and his maddening imperious ways and his warm acceptance and his heated kisses.

      But there was one other thing that was different now, too. She wasn’t that young girl any more, happy to accept whatever part of himself Stephen was willing or able to give. She wanted all of him. And no campaign of hers was going to be successful in flushing it out. She sighed. He had to choose to give it.

      About the Author

      DEB MARLOWE grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.

      Though she now spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at [email protected]

       Previous novels by Deb Marlowe:

      SCANDALOUS LORD, REBELLIOUS MISS

      AN IMPROPER ARISTOCRAT

      HER CINDERELLA SEASON

      ANNALISE AND THE SCANDALOUS RAKE

       (part of Regency Summer Scandals) TALL, DARK AND DISREPUTABLE

      HOW TO MARRY

      A RAKE

      Deb Marlowe

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Darlene—the only true Super Mom

      that I’ve known. You are an inspiration.

      I want to be just like you when I grow up.

      AUTHOR NOTE

      Horse racing was a popular pastime in the Georgian and Regency periods, and quite a different spectacle from what it is today. Imagine the ruckus that might happen if enthusiastic spectators joined in the last leg and rode along with the finishers in a modern race! I loved dipping into racing’s illustrious history, and hope you will enjoy a glimpse of historic Newmarket and this exciting sport.

      Neither Pratchett nor Ornithopter were real horses, but the gambling ‘legs’ and ‘black legs’ truly existed, and poisoned water troughs, opium balls and laming were a few of the terrible methods that were used to influence the outcome of races. I admit to shifting the order of the races that would have taken place in Newmarket at the time, but as it was done for Stephen and Mae’s sake I hope you will forgive me.

       Chapter One

       Newmarket, Suffolk, England

      A great swell of music rose from below, bursting over Lord Stephen Manning like a bubble and causing him to lengthen his stride.

      He was late.

      This is what came of dawdling in Newmarket all afternoon. Titchley Hall lay just outside the famous racing town, and Stephen had passed through on his way to the Earl of Toswick’s house party. He’d attended the spring meetings before, of course, but today he’d been unable to resist stopping to see the courses, clipped and ready, and the Heath, lush, green and quiet after all those gorgeous thoroughbreds had finished exercising for the day.

      Everything had looked the same, and yet it all felt very different. Stephen had wandered the long, familiar stretch of High Street, trying to unearth a reason for his sense of displacement. Not until he found himself back on the Rowley Mile, mentally measuring the padding on a course post, did the realisation strike—Newmarket was the same. It was he who had changed.

      He had been discerning details and noticing incidentals that he never had before—because today he looked through new eyes. No longer was he just a spectator, another young blood of the ton seeking the excitement of the races and the thrill of risking his quarterly allowance. He was older now, and hopefully wiser, and, most importantly—he was a man with all the burdens and responsibilities that came with owning his own racecourse.

      All the warmth of pride and accomplishment swept over him again as he reached Titchley’s grand stairway. After two long years of work and sweat and sacrifice, he’d done it. He’d taken a neglected and broken-down estate and literally transformed it. Fincote Park lay waiting, pristine and challenging and bristling with potential.

      And empty.

      Impatient, Stephen brushed the thought away. He banished, too, the wispy, haunting image of his forlorn mother. Shame and despair had once been Fincote’s main commodities, but those days were over now. That’s exactly what all those months of labour had been about. He summoned instead the picture of Fincote’s people, all the eager and hopeful faces that had seen him off. They were why he had come here. They were what made this house party the most important social event of his life.

      The marbled hall at the bottom of the stairs had emptied already. To the right echoed the clink of porcelain and the clatter of furniture as servants transformed a long parlour into a dining area. Stephen rounded the turn in a hurry and headed left instead, toward the brightly lit passage leading towards the ballroom. If luck was with him, then he’d only missed the opening set.

       ‘Manning?’

      The call came from the door behind him, accompanied by a gust of cool, evening air. Stephen turned.

      ‘Devil take me! It is you!’

      A reluctant smile turned abruptly into a wince as George Dunn, Viscount Landry, crossed the hall to pound him enthusiastically on the shoulder.

      ‘By God—but it is good to see you! How long has it been? I never thought you would stay away from London—and yet it’s been months and months.’

      ‘Too long,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Damned if it’s not good to see you, too.’

      ‘Lord, but haven’t we missed you? Town has been as dull as ditchwater without you to liven things up!’

      Stephen laughed. ‘As dull as that? Not that I believe it for a second, old man. Not with you about. You always dreamt up more mischief in a day than I ever could in a month.’ He pulled his hand away before the viscount could wring it from his arm.

      ‘Well, that goes without saying,’ retorted Landry with a grin. ‘But there’s never been another that could claim half your style.’

      Stephen sketched an ironic bow.

      ‘Do you know that they still talk in the clubs