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  Dangerous

  Reformed Rakes Novella, Volume 2

  Amy Sandas

  Published by Amy Sandas, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  DANGEROUS

  First edition. July 16, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Amy Sandas.

  Written by Amy Sandas.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Also By Amy Sandas

  About the Author

  This series is dedicated to every secret crush and unrequited infatuation I've ever had. All those angsty daydreams led me to this life as a romance author and I am forever grateful.

  Prologue

  London, 1822

  In the late afternoon on a day much like every other dreary London day, four handsome young gentlemen assembled in the most exclusive private drawing room available to guests in Pendragon’s Pleasure House.

  Each of the men came from a long and distinguished line of affluence and privilege. And, as many wild and reckless young men did when in possession of an obscene excess of wealth and not nearly enough responsibility, they’d become well acquainted with debauchery, hedonism, and all the earthy pleasures they could discover or invent.

  As such, spending a near fortune to reserve a luxurious private room in the elite bordello was not an uncommon occurrence. What was uncommon, however, was the fact that on that afternoon, the young rakes were not there to indulge in the infamous pleasures Pendragon had to offer. In fact, the men had specifically indicated that they did not wish to be disturbed.

  It was an unusual request for a house that boasted some of the most talented and tempting companions in all of London, but Pendragon knew well how to accommodate her guests no matter how unexpected their needs. So, the wealthy young lords were left with an unopened deck of cards, a box of fine cigars, and a couple bottles of the best French brandy available.

  It was likely they would seek additional comforts and distractions later, but at present, they preferred the type of melancholy commiseration that could only be had amongst close friends.

  For this was not a time for revelry.

  The gentlemen were in mourning.

  The de facto leader of their group and heir to a dukedom shook his tawny head. A scowl marred his elegant brows as he noted with no small amount of incredulity, “I can’t believe it. How could a tragedy like this befall such a man?”

  “Perhaps he was low on funds,” the man to his left suggested in a slight Italian accent as he lounged in his chair with feline grace. “The need for money can be a terrible burden.”

  A low murmur of consideration passed amongst them at the thought before another of them—this one the son of an earl—leaned forward to note in a grave tone, “There are rumors it was a love match.”

  More than one of them flinched.

  They’d all heard the talk about town. None of them truly believed it, but the words still struck a chord of subtle terror. Then the fourth man, a newly minted marquess, gave a harsh sound of derision and they all relaxed with a round of uneasy laughter that quickly faded.

  After a moment of heavy silence, the son of a duke straightened in his chair and lifted his glass. “A toast.” He paused while the others followed suit and hoisted their drinks. “To Viscount Neville, the most accomplished rogue and libertine to ever prowl the ballrooms and bordellos of London.”

  “May he find some...gratification in his new role as noble husband.”

  “And may we never, ever feel compelled to join his ranks.”

  “Hear, hear,” they affirmed in unison before upending their glasses.

  Chapter One

  Six and a Half Years Later

  Count Leander Vittori had been in Staffordshire for less than a day and he already questioned his sanity in leaving London. He’d expected quaint pastoral scenes, bleating sheep, rolling hills with wildflowers and such. Instead, the Staffordshire Moorlands were a wild, uncivilized place with gusts of wind that swirled recklessly over hills and crags and rocks to hit a man square in the face—over and over.

  He never should have requested a scenic route from the local village to the Viscount of Lyndon’s country estate. Perhaps this jaunt to the country was not such a great idea after all.

  A Londoner through and through, Leander had never felt the need to escape town for quieter scenery, not even during the uncomfortable summer months. He preferred to be where his favorite pleasures and depravities could be found around every corner.

  But after months of heavy indulgence in all things sinful and hedonistic, triggered by the inexplicable conversion of two close friends from devoted rake to faithful husband, he had entered a strange and unfamiliar state of dissatisfaction.

  Nothing was new or unexpected.

  Excess. Liberation. All he’d ever wanted was to live solely in the moment and for each and every moment to be filled with nothing but pleasure and more pleasure. The pursuit of such an existence had served him well enough over the years. What did it matter if the sense of gratification never lasted, or if the joy he experienced from his exploits tended to be as fleeting as an orgasm, leaving him drained and empty no matter how intense the build-up?

  At barely thirty years old, he had done and seen everything. Many things, more than once. And for the first time since coming to England with his mother as a boy, Leander had found himself bored with what London had to offer. More than that—he’d progressed to outright annoyance.

  Ennui to such a degree could be a dangerous thing. Especially for a man like Count Vittori, who craved diversion and distraction like a physical hunger.

  When his stepsister mentioned an upcoming party in Staffordshire, Leander decided a drastic change in setting might be just the thing.

  This was not what he’d had in mind.

  As a fierce gust of wind battered his face, he almost wished he were back at the village inn. It hadn’t been the most lavish of accommodations, but with the attentive company of the innkeeper’s two buxom daughters, he’d certainly been warm through the night. Though he managed to keep the clever sisters in bed with him well into the afternoon, they eventually had to rise and attend their duties.

  Another blast of earth-scented wind swept through his overcoat and he smothered the urge to curse out loud at the offending gale.

  The Viscount and Viscountess of Lyndon, along with their entourage of guests, had likely gotten to the manor long ago while he still roamed the moors like a lunatic.

  Drawing his horse to a stop on the ridge of yet another rugged outlook, he scanned the landscape in all directions.

  Windblown wilderness as far as he could see.

  Where the hell is the manor?

  He should have known things would not go well when the directions he’d been given named various rocks and hills as landmarks. He’d probably be better off returning to the inn, but he had serious doubts he’d find his way to the village at this point.

  Then a spark of hope.

  Sitting taller in the saddle, he narrowed his eyes against the wind to focus on a small point of movement in the distance.

  There it was again. Some greyish-brown creature was bounding through the tall grass.

  For a moment, Leander considered it might be a dangerous animal of some sort. Who
knew what kind of creature might be encountered in this untamed landscape? Holding his horse steady, he kept his eyes on the animal and it was soon joined by another of its kind, a slightly larger version but with the same shaggy coat. Not wolves, he decided with a breath of relief, but wolfhounds.

  Casting his gaze about, he spotted a girl walking not far from the dogs.

  Leander heeled his mount into a canter, anxious to make contact with a local who might at least confirm whether or not he was going in the right direction. Somehow hearing his approach over the whipping wind and rustling grass, the girl paused and looked over her shoulder, then stopped and waited as the two wolfhounds loped swiftly to her side. The beasts took up position on either side of her and promptly lowered their haunches to the ground, their shaggy heads reaching as high as her shoulders.

  As he neared, he was surprised to see that the girl was not a girl at all, but a full-grown woman watching his approach with a steady, dark-eyed gaze. Her simple beige frock was covered by a heavy brown overcoat that was way too big for her. And her light brown hair fell to her hips in wild tangles that lifted freely in the wind. Her individual features were plain and unremarkable—straight brown eyebrows, medium-sized nose, softly rounded chin, and a gently curved mouth—but they came together in a way that was rather pretty.

  He had to imagine strangers were not common to the area, but the young woman didn’t appear alarmed by the appearance of an unknown man riding across the moors.

  He brought his horse to a smooth stop several paces away. “Hello, signorina,” he said as he bowed his head in greeting.

  “Good day, sir.” Her voice had a soft, husky tone that made him think of smooth, warm brandy and sparked an immediate sensual response in his blood.

  Interesting.

  Leander’s sexual tastes were wide and varied, yet he found it just a bit surprising that this half-wild creature would so easily inspire his interest when everything in London had recently failed to do so. Even the sisters at the inn last night had been indulged more out of habit than true desire.

  Perhaps this trip to Staffordshire had been a good idea after all.

  A smile curved his lips and his voice dipped into a lower resonance as he asked, “Would you be so kind as to offer a traveler some direction?”

  “Of course,” she replied simply.

  “Are you familiar with Bilberry Hall, residence of the Viscount of Lyndon?”

  She gave a slight tilt of her head. “I am familiar with the manor.”

  A twitch of amusement tickled his lips at her less than forthcoming replies. “I expected to come upon it by now,” he explained, “but I seem to have lost my way.”

  “No, you haven’t. You’re nearly there, actually.” She turned to gaze across the rugged moors in the direction he’d been heading. “Continue past the next rise and you’ll see the manor before you.”

  She spoke with the refined accent of a gentlewoman yet no lady of his acquaintance would ever be caught dead looking so...disheveled and provincial. Perhaps she wasn’t true gentry. Housemaids often learned to mimic their employers.

  As he met the young woman’s dark gaze and felt the distinct stirring of lust in his blood—something he’d thought lost—, he couldn’t keep a smile of anticipation from his lips.

  “Might I offer you a ride with me back to the manor? I assume that is where you are heading...”

  Though her gaze remained steady on his, there was a subtle shift in her features at his offer. A lift in one eyebrow, a slight press at the corners of her mouth. The change was so subtle, he nearly missed it and he couldn’t quite read it.

  “That is not necessary,” she replied.

  There was also a change in her tone that should have convinced him to let the matter drop. But Leander was not accustomed to being rebuffed, even in something so minor. His smile was smooth. Practiced. “I’d never forgive myself if something were to happen to you after I rode away, leaving you alone in this wilderness.”

  The wind whipped around her, snapping her overcoat against her legs and lifting her hair in a mad dance around her shoulders. In contrast to the unrest that swirled around her, the young woman appeared astoundingly unconcerned as she replied, “The moors are not a wilderness and I’m hardly alone.”

  No command was given by word or gesture that he detected, but the two great wolfhounds suddenly rose in unison. The animals had been so still and quiet, Leander had nearly forgotten they were there until that moment when their playfulness all but disappeared to be replaced by a swift and loyal focus.

  Sensing the change in the other animals, his horse scuffed the ground.

  Leander wasn’t exactly sure what just happened, but he acknowledged the woman’s refusal with a bow of his head. “Then I shall be on my way. Thank you for your assistance, signorina.” With a press of his heels, he urged his horse into a gallop.

  As he crested the next hill and saw the estate spread out before him just as she’d advised, he finally glanced back. But the odd young woman and her hounds had vanished.

  For a moment, he wondered if he’d imagined her. Or perhaps she was one of those haunting moorland specters gothic poets loved to write about so much. He couldn’t completely discredit the possibility that he’d finally reached a level of depravity that had him lusting after a ghostly apparition.

  The thought didn’t bother him as much as it probably should.

  Chapter Two

  The Viscount of Lyndon’s Staffordshire home was not exactly what Leander had imagined. He knew the place was ancient, having been built several centuries ago, but he hadn’t pictured anything quite so medieval. The house—built with grey, weathered stone—looked more like a castle than a manor. It was sprawling and imposing, rising to four stories in some places, with a wide gravel courtyard, extensive stables, and what appeared to be a riotously unkept garden spreading out behind the house.

  After leaving his horse in the hands of a footman, Leander entered the manor through the oversized front door. The main hall was wide and spacious with a fireplace large enough to fit several men standing upright inside it dominating the far wall. Though the walls were covered in dark wood paneling and the floor was parquet, it was easy to imagine that they had once been bare stone.

  A wide mahogany staircase rose up to his left before turning ninety degrees to the second level, but the sound of laughter drew his attention to the other side of the hall, where a few double doors had been thrown open to the rooms beyond.

  “Welcome, my lord.”

  The gravely spoken words had Leander turning to see a tall, stately man of an age somewhere between seventy and a hundred. Despite the butler’s deeply lined face, exceedingly large ears and nose, thin silver hair, and pale blue eyes that suggested a difficulty with sight, the senior servant stood straight and firm.

  “May I take your coat and hat?”

  Leander shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it to the butler with his hat and gloves.

  “The viscount and his guests are taking refreshment in the scarlet drawing room,” the butler noted solemnly, “if you’d like to join them. Or shall I have the housekeeper, Mrs. Thatcher, take you to your room?”

  “Are there spirits available in the scarlet drawing room?” Leander asked.

  The butler gave a nod so slow it was nearly a bow. “Indeed there are, my lord.”

  Leander smiled in relief. “Then no need to bother Mrs. Thatcher just yet.”

  “As you wish.” The butler presented another slow nod, then backed away into a darkened hall beside the door, fading silently into the shadows despite his tall frame.

  Another bout of laughter lured Leander across the hall. Stepping into the modest-sized drawing room, he took a moment to assess the gathering.

  Ten other people had made the trip from London. Leander’s presence brought the party to an uneven total of eleven. He recognized the other guests as common fixtures in the Lyndons’ social set. Though many of them held aristocratic titles and various po
sitions of power and influence, every one of them was scandalous in some way or another. A few of them in multiple ways. They were the obscenely rich and shamelessly dissolute elements of society that the more pious members of the ton couldn’t afford to slight, no matter how badly they might wish to.

  And now they’d brought their particular brand of debauchery to the rustic moorlands.

  Staffordshire might never recover.

  The Viscount of Lyndon lounged haphazardly in a stately captain’s chair and already looked to be more than a few cups deep, which wasn’t unusual for him despite the early hour. The viscount’s wife, who was also Leander’s stepsister, sat perched on the arm of another chair occupied by Lord Rutledge, laughing at whatever the man had just said. Rutledge was well-known for his cutting and salacious wit, so Leander wasn’t surprised to see Isabelle lured to his side. She had always been drawn to people who shamelessly displayed their depravity.

  “Ah, there you are,” Isabelle exclaimed as she rose gracefully to her feet. His stepsister swept toward him with the sly little grin she always wore when out amongst company. It was a studied expression designed to suggest she had a delicious secret she might be willing to share only if you gave up something in return.

  Leander knew that grin exceedingly well.

  He stood still as she swept her skirts aside and rose up on her toes to brush a warm, dry kiss across his cheek. Leaning back, she looked up at him with her sharp blue gaze. “We thought we’d lost you.”

  Leander responded with a careless glance. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

  Her light laughter followed him as he stepped around her and made for the liquor service.

  “Don’t tease, Leander. You know I adore your company.” She paused for dramatic effect. “As does just about everyone else in London. You’ve been very busy lately, haven’t you, darling? Whatever will your countless paramours do without you?”