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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events

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how to romance a rake

Copyright © 2012 by Manda Collins.

Excerpt from How to Entice an Earl copyright © 2012 by Manda Collins.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,
NY 10010.

ISBN: 978- 0-312-54925-1

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / August 2012

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 One

F rom his close-cropped golden curls to his gleaming

dancing shoes, Lord Deveril was a man envied by men and
adored by women.
And he was bloody tired of it.
A leader of the fashionable set, he was dressed tonight
for his family’s annual ball in a style slavish young fops
had dubbed “Deverilish,” which was marked by a blend of
Brummell’s simplicity and a hint of dash. His pristine neck
cloth was skillfully tied in a knot called—what else—the
Deveril, and was anchored by a ruby stickpin that could
keep a young buck in hats for a century or more. The cut of
his black coat was looser than in Brummell’s day but the
tailoring was exquisite. And at his wrists he wore just a hint
of lace.
It was not, he reflected, as he kissed the elderly Lady
Sophronia Singleton’s gloved hand and complimented her
horrific scarlet turban, that he minded his popularity so
much. Given the snubs he’d endured from the hypocritical
ton when his father had still been drinking and whoring his
way through London, the ton’s approval had been a welcome
change at first.
It hadn’t happened overnight, of course. He had been
ruthless in his social campaign for those first few years.
He’d worked hard to establish himself as a man of sub-
stance as well as style. He gambled, but only enough to
2 Manda Collins
prove himself honest. He had his share of liaisons with will-
ing widows and even kept a few mistresses. But though he’d
enjoyed the affairs while they lasted, always in the back of
his mind was the memory that he was proving to the world
just how different he was from his father.
And eventually, his diligence had paid off. Whereas he’d
left university still in the shadow of his father’s notoriety,
now he was considered a good ’un by the gentlemen, and a
catch by marriage-minded mamas.
Given what his social status might have been, then, Alec
knew just how ungrateful it was for him to admit he was less
than satisfied with it. His ennui sprang, he supposed, from
the knowledge that if he so chose, this same pattern could
continue on into his dotage. Breakfast at White’s, horseflesh
at Tattersall’s, seeing and being seen in the park, followed
up by some evening entertainment or other. The same
people, the same food, the same conversation.
“Why so gloomy, Deveril?” Colonel Lord Christian Mon-
teith asked from his usual post, one shoulder propped against
a marble column. “Trouble with the old cravat? Champagne
not shining your Hessians as bright as you’d like? Stickpin
poking you in the . . . ?”
“Don’t be an ass, Monteith.” Alec raised his quizzing
glass and a dark blond brow, channeling his annoyance
through the eyepiece.
“Sorry, chap, that thingummy doesn’t work on me,” Mon-
teith said apologetically. “My head’s too thick. Its powers
cannot penetrate to my brain.”
With a sigh, Alec tucked the glass away. “Should have
known you’d ignore it.”
Taking up a position on the other side of Monteith’s pil-
lar, he nodded toward the ballroom floor. “Why aren’t you
dancing?” he asked.
“Already did.”
“What, you danced once and having done your duty,
retired here to this pillar?” It was unfair for Monteith to
 H ow to R omance a R ake 3
shirk his duty when Alec knew full well that there were
plenty of ladies who would be without a partner. Ladies like
his sisters. He ignored the fact that his own failure to marry
someone who could serve as a chaperone for them might
also impact their social success or lack thereof.
“For your information, Lord Hauteur,” Monteith re-
turned, “I danced with at least five ladies and now I am rest-
ing my tired bones, rather than sprinting to the card room as
my less noble spirit would have me do.”
Oh. “Where’s Winterson?”
The Duke and Duchess of Winterson had become good
friends with Alec earlier in the season through their inves-
tigation of the Egyptian Club, of which Alec had been a
member. Theirs had been a rather hasty marriage, but to
his delight they seemed blissfully happy together. Winter-
son and Monteith had served in the campaign against
Napoleon together and were often to be seen surveying the
crowds at these ton entertainments.
“Keeping watch over his lady wife,” Monteith said with
a frown, “and intimidating young swells into paying court
to her cousins.”
Alec felt an unfamiliar pang of jealousy. He’d been con-
sidering the possibility of marriage as a means of curing his
ennui, and the Duchess of Winterson’s cousin Lady Made-
line Essex was high on his list of potential candidates.
Curvy, blond, and quiet, Madeline would make an excel-
lent viscountess. And her easy manners would endear her
to his sisters. But if Monteith beat him to the punch, it
wouldn’t matter whether his sisters liked her or not.
“How is that working?” he asked, careful to keep his tone
neutral.
“Not too well.” The taller man grinned. “I don’t think
Miss Shelby or Lady Madeline care for being managed by
their cousin’s husband. Took quite a bit of convincing to get
Lady Madeline to dance with me, and that was only grudg-
ingly done. I do not think the lady cares for me.”
4 Manda Collins
Something in Alec’s gut unknotted. He had come to
admire both ladies over the past few weeks. But he had no
wish to compete with his friend as a rival for Lady Made-
line’s hand. He was quite sure he could hold his own, but
Monteith could be charming when he set his mind to it.
Things would be much better if Monteith set his sights
on  Miss Juliet Shelby, the Duchess of Winterson’s other
cousin.
Slim and fair of complexion with deep auburn hair, Miss
Shelby could have been the toast of the ton were it not for
an accident during her teens that had left her with a pro-
nounced limp. Alec had been partnered with her at a card
party some weeks ago and found her to be a sensible and
witty young woman. She was not one to suffer fools gladly,
and he could only imagine her annoyance at Winterson’s
interference. If he guessed right, she’d much rather have
spent the evening at home working on one of her composi-
tions for the pianoforte.
“On the other hand,” Monteith continued, “Miss Shelby
and I had a delightful conversation speculating over the
identity of the artist everyone is chattering about. She thinks
he’s probably some unknown trying to gain the spotlight.
I think it’s probably some chap with a flagging career who
wishes to raise speculation about his work.”
“Il Maestro, you mean?”
All of London had been engrossed with learning the
identity of the mysterious artist who had begun showing his
controversial paintings a little over a month ago. The gallery
owner claimed not to know, as did the few who had pur-
chased pieces from the show. And it was generally agreed
that the longer he kept his identity a secret the more in-
trigued the public would become.
“Who else?” Monteith said with something like disgust.
“I blame Byron for all of this ado. He swans about with his
dark looks, spouting poetry and seducing women, and now
every other fellow with the least bit of artistic inclination
 H ow to R omance a R ake 5
thinks a foreign sobriquet and risqué art are the shortcut to
celebrity.”
“Yes,” Alec reasoned, “but Byron didn’t keep his iden-
tity a secret. He makes sure everyone knows it’s himself
he’s writing about.”
The other man grimaced. “Just wait. Il Maestro will
have a grand unmasking as soon as he’s whipped the ladies
into a sufficient frenzy of curiosity.” He smiled. “All except
for Miss Shelby, that is. I think a surfeit of chatter about
that blighter is what sent her over the edge.”
“What do you mean?” Alec asked, his brow furrowed.
“Is she unwell?”
He did not like to think of Juliet ill. And it was the duty
of a good host to ensure the comfort of all his guests, of
course.
Monteith’s glib tone turned serious. “I think her leg might
be paining her a bit,” he said. “And of course her harridan of
a mother refused to allow her to take the carriage home.”
On that point, Deveril and Monteith were in firm agree-
ment. Lady Shelby was one of the most beautiful women to
grace the ton. She and her two sisters had taken society by
storm when they’d made their debuts some two and a half
decades earlier. The daughters of an undistinguished Dor-
set squire, they’d been introduced to the ton by a distant
cousin and within months married three of the most eligible
bachelors in town. Of the three, Rose was the least admired.
Not because of her looks, which had only improved with
age, but because of her unpleasant nature.
“It would have surprised me to hear she had done so,” he
remarked. “Lady Shelby loves no one but herself. And even
those feelings come with conditions.”
The other man made a snort of agreement.
His respite from his guests over, Deveril took leave of
his friend and wandered over to the line of chairs that had
been set out for the matrons and those young ladies who
either did not care to dance, or had not been asked. An
6 Manda Collins
empty seat next to Lady Madeline Essex beckoned, but as
he glanced up he saw a familiar figure slipping through the
doors leading to a hallway off the family rooms. Changing
direction, he threaded his way through chattering guests,
and finally made his way to the exit.
When he reached the corridor, it was deserted except for
a few wandering pairs taking advantage of the less crowded
room for quiet conversation. Or perhaps for assignations.
He was hardly one to judge.
Turning into a side hallway, he saw what he was looking
for. A familiar man was turning a key in the door of Alec’s
office.
“Uncle,” he said, making no effort to hush his approach.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
Roderick Devenish gave a start at being caught, but
quickly regained his composure.
“Nephew.” He nodded, revealing the extent to which his
graying hair had begun its slow retreat toward the back of
his scalp. “I was just wondering if you had any of those
Spanish cheroots you like so much.”
Bollocks. But Alec did not challenge him.
“Were you, indeed?” he asked blandly, letting his eyes
convey what he really thought of that falsehood. “I would
have offered one if I knew you wanted one. Of course I
didn’t realize you had a key.”
A pregnant silence fell between the two men. Alec mar-
veled at his uncle’s audacity. He was just like Alec’s late
father.
“A legacy of my youth, I’m afraid,” Roderick said, fin-
gering the key in his hand. “And I thank you for the offer,
but I’ve decided I don’t wish to indulge after all.”
“Then I’ll have to ask you to return to the ballroom,”
Deveril said, his voice still calm. “If the other guests find
you wandering about in the family quarters then they’ll
think we’re actually family.”
At the cut, Roderick let his urbane mask slip.
 H ow to R omance a R ake 7
“You know as well as I do that the same poisonous
blood runs in us both.”
His sneer made him look every one of his fifty years.
Unwilling to be led down that path tonight, Alec shook
his head. “Get out,” he said simply. The steel in his tone
was sharp and cold. “But first give me the key.”
The naked hatred on his uncle’s face was nothing new. It
was akin to the look his own father had turned on him so
many years ago. Grudgingly, he slapped the key into Alec’s
outstretched hand. Turning, he stalked back down the hall-
way in the direction from which Deveril had come, his dis-
pleasure evident in every step.
When he was sure Roderick was gone, Alec let himself
into the study to ensure that nothing had been disturbed.
To his relief nothing had. He did find, however, a collar—
the same sort worn by the housemaids. He had no illu-
sions that it had been dropped in the course of her regular
duties. Roderick, it seemed, was as ever, just like his late
brother.
The same blood might run in both of them, but Deveril
was determined to ensure no woman he encountered would
ever find herself a victim of it. He’d built his entire adult
life upon that principle.
When he stepped back into the hall, he saw that the door
to the music room three doors down was slightly ajar, and
strode down the hall. Tonight, it seemed, the ballroom
might be the least crowded room in Deveril House.

Hiding behind a screen was not how Miss Shelby had in-
tended to spend the bulk of the Deveril ball.
When she’d arrived an hour earlier, she and her cousin
Madeline had dutifully made their way to the side of the
ballroom, where chairs had been set up for the chaperones
and wallflowers. Though their other cousin, Cecily, had re-
cently wed the Duke of Winterson, Juliet and Maddie had
8 Manda Collins
no illusions that they were now to be accepted among the
elite of London society.
After an hour or so of chatting with Maddie, and later
Colonel Lord Monteith, a friend of Winterson’s, she’d felt
the familiar sting of pain in her left leg. But it was the note
in her reticule that made her less than eager to socialize.
Pleading a headache, which showed every indication of be-
coming a real complaint, she excused herself to pore over
the cryptic message in private.
Limping through the darkened corridors of Deveril
House, she finally found the music room, which was, thank-
fully, deserted. She’d always admired the room, and had
even played the magnificent pianoforte a time or two for the
small musical evenings Viscount Deveril’s sisters some-
times held. Though much younger than Juliet and her cou-
sins, Lydia and Katherine Devenish were personable young
ladies, and among the few friends the cousins could name
among the more fashionable crowds of the ton.
She’d no sooner stepped into the music room than she
heard familiar voices approaching in the hall. Cursing fate,
she hurried as quickly as her painful leg would allow be-
hind an elaborately decorated chinoiserie screen, where she
lowered herself onto a tufted stool and waited for her un-
welcome visitors to leave.
“I cannot account for it, Felicia,” Miss Snowe com-
plained. “It is bad enough that Cecily Hurston has stolen
a march on every eligible female in London by marrying
Winterson, but now she thinks to foist her ridiculous cou-
sins on the ton. I had thought that Lydia and Katherine had
more discernment than to allow such unfashionable people
free rein in their ballroom. Or Lord Deveril for that matter.
I am sorely disappointed in the Devenish family at the mo-
ment.”
“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly,” Amelia’s bosom friend,
Lady Felicia Downes, said.
What a surprise. Juliet rolled her eyes.
 H ow to R omance a R ake 9
“It’s insulting to anyone of taste,” Lady Felicia continued.
“As if we’ve forgotten how the Ugly Ducklings languished
with the rest of the ineligibles these past three years. Does
Cecily Hurston really believe that her lucky marriage will
erase Lady Madeline’s plumpness or Miss Shelby’s unfortu-
nate limp?”
Juliet could hardly be surprised at Felicia’s unkind words,
but hearing them aloud stung. For the three years since their
debut, when Amelia had dubbed the unfashionable cousins
“the Ugly Ducklings,” they’d been subjected to one un-
kindness or another from the blond beauty and her friend.
Though she had hoped that Cecily’s marriage to the Duke
of Winterson would give the cousins a much needed so-
cial boost, it would appear with Amelia and Felicia the
change in status for Cecily had barely registered. And it
most certainly hadn’t erased their derision for Madeline
and Juliet.
“Cecily Hurston may have trapped Winterson into mar-
riage,” Amelia said, “but there is no way that Lady Made-
line or Miss Shelby can possibly expect to make comparable
matches. Why, the idea is preposterous.”
“While it is certainly within the realm of possibility that
Madeline will go on a strict reducing regimen,” Amelia con-
tinued, warming to her topic, “there is certainly nothing that
Juliet can do about her unfortunate limp. I had supposed
that one such as she would be confined to her home and not
be thrust upon genteel society. I wonder what her parents
were thinking to bring her out as if she were any normal
girl.”
Juliet felt her cheeks redden with anger. It wasn’t as if
she had never heard such sentiments expressed before. In-
deed, her own mother had at times said similar things,
though she had had the decency to keep her thoughts out of
hearing of the public. So long as Juliet kept the true nature
of her unfortunate injury secret, Lady Shelby had agreed
that her daughter might attend as many society events as
10 Manda Collins
she wished. But to hear Amelia Snowe, who had fooled the
gentlemen of the ton into believing her to be a sweet and
nurturing angel, express such sentiments was infuriating.
“I daresay,” Felicia responded, “they are hoping to marry
her off to some aged lord who has already sired an heir.
The idea of anyone else wishing to marry such an antidote
is laughable. What man would possibly wish for the mother
of his children to drag herself around with a walking stick?”
As she listened to the two girls share their mirth at her
expense, Juliet vowed to “accidentally” trip Amelia at the
first opportunity.
“You don’t suppose they’ve already chosen someone, do
you?” Amelia asked, once her giggles had subsided. “Be-
cause I would dearly love to be present at that wedding!
How does one stumble down the aisle, do you think?”
“At least we would not be forced to see her dance at her
own wedding! Imagine what a spectacle that would be!
Carroty hair mixed with a halting gait. She will be as amus-
ing as a performer at the circus.” This came from Lady Fe-
licia.
The laughing fit brought on by that bit of mean-spiritedness
was interrupted by a cough. A gentleman’s cough.
“Miss Snowe, Lady Felicia,” she heard a deep voice say.
“How is it that you are not on the dance floor?”
Juliet could all but hear Amelia’s simpering smile slide
back into place.
“Your lordship,” she cooed, “what a delightful enter-
tainment you’ve hosted this evening. Felicia and I were just
taking a bit of a rest in between sets.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” Viscount Deveril said
smoothly, though was that a hint of annoyance Juliet heard
in his voice? “I must ask you to return to the festivities,” he
continued, his voice definitely cool. “This room is for family
use only.”
And you two are not family, his voice implied. Juliet bit
back a cheer.
HOW  TO  BUILD  AN  ANDROID

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