Edge of Honor. Dates with Destiny. Moriah's Landing. Sons of Troy Ledger. The O'Reilly Brothers.
Broken Arrow Ranch. Perfect, Wyoming. The Calling. A Year of Loving Dangerously. The It Girls. Athena Force.
Morgan's Mercenaries: Ultimate. Into the Heartland. Firstborn Sons. Nighthawk Island. The Rose Tattoo.
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In particular, women who have spent most of their twenties absorbed with their career will wake up one morning to realize - just like Miranda - that they are 29 and have no clear idea of what they truly want of life. This is, to me, one of the primary reasons for writing romances set in historical times - they allow the author to strip away all the extraneous interference internet, cell phones, phones at all!
Miranda Clifford halted in the deep shadows cast by a stand of trees and watched her younger brother, Roderick, stride across a manicured lawn toward a massive mansion glowing pearly white in the moonlight. About her, stretching away to either side, the thick bushes and mature trees of established gardens enfolded the house in a lush embrace.
The breeze was a mere whisper, a soughing sigh stirring the tiny tendrils of hair that had come loose from her chignon to drift over her nape. Silent and still, her gaze fixed on Roderick, she watched as he reached a shallow terrace and without hesitation strode up the three steps and went straight to a glass-paned door.
Opening the door, Roderick stepped inside, closing the door behind him. This was far worse than she'd thought. She'd first realized Roderick was secretly slipping out of the house at night three weeks ago. She'd told herself that unannounced and unmentioned nighttime excursions were only to be expected in a twenty-three-year-old gentleman, but she'd spent the last twenty-three years protecting Roderick; denying such long-ingrained instincts was difficult.
Sufficiently so that she'd made a pact with herself-she would follow him one night, just far enough to assure herself that wherever he was going, whatever he was doing, he wasn't putting himself at risk in anyway. It wasn't that she didn't trust him; her plan was purely to reassure herself. She would learn just enough to appease her instinctive anxiety, then she'd go home and Roderick would never know.
Ten minutes ago, she'd followed him down the darkened stairs of the house they shared with their aunt in Claverton Street, Pimlico; the hands of the long case clock on the landing had put the time at twenty minutes short of eleven o'clock. She'd trailed Roderick through the morning room, across the side lawn and out of the garden gate into the alley. Clutching her reticule and her new fashionable short cape close, she'd hugged the shadows along the alley walls, and like a shadow herself had flitted in his wake, puzzled when he'd stuck to the alleyways, until, to her considerable surprise, five minutes brisk walking from their own garden gate, he'd stopped at another gate set in a high stone wall.
He'd opened the gate and gone in.
She'd hesitated for only an instant before following. She hadn't known whose rear garden she was creeping through, not at first, but once she'd seen the house, once she'd been able to take in its size and magnificence, and most especially that telltale color… "What the devil is he doing visiting Neville Roscoe's house? Neville Roscoe was the most celebrated - as in infamous and notorious - denizen of the neighborhood. He was London's acknowledged gambling king, the owner of a vast array of hells, dens, and clubs catering to the wealthy, the affluent, the aristocratic; gambling was one of society's favorite vices and Roscoe was, by all accounts, a past master at supplying exactly the right drug to sate society's craving.
Roscoe was known to be immensely wealthy and also to wield significant power, both in his own arena and in murkier spheres.
Manual Danger at Her Door (Mills & Boon Intrigue)
He wasn't, however, considered a criminal. Instead, he inhabited a nebulous strata between society and the underworld; he could rub shoulders with dukes one day, crime lords the next, and yet remain free of both worlds. Speaking generally, Roscoe was an enigma, and very much a law unto himself. He'd already been living in the huge white mansion on Chichester Street, overlooking the treed expanse of Dolphin Square to the Thames beyond, when Roderick had bought the house in Claverton Street, just around the corner, a year ago. Miranda had heard all about the neighborhood's most famous citizen within days of taking up residence.
She hadn't, however, as yet set eyes on him, but had no ambition to do so.