Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides Read online

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author

  CELESTE BRADLEY

  and her previous novels and series

  DEVIL IN MY BED

  “From its unconventional prologue to its superb conclusion, every page of the first in Bradley’s Runaway Brides series is perfection and joy. Tinged with humor that never overshadows the poignancy and peopled with remarkable characters (especially the precocious Melody) who will steal your heart, this one’s a keeper.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “Laughter, tears, drama, suspense, and a heartily deserved happily-ever-after.”

  —All About Romance

  THE DUKE MOST WANTED

  “Passionate and utterly memorable. Witty dialogue and fantastic imagery round out a novel that is a must-have for any Celeste Bradley fan.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “A marvelous, delightful, emotional conclusion to Bradley’s trilogy. Readers have been eagerly waiting to see what happens next, and they’ve also been anticipating a nonstop, beautifully crafted story, which Bradley delivers in spades.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  MORE . . .

  THE DUKE NEXT DOOR

  “This spectacular, fast-paced, sexy romance will have you in laughter and tears. With delightful characters seeking love and a title, [this] heartfelt romance will make readers sigh with pleasure.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “Not only fun and sexy but relentlessly pulls at the heartstrings. Ms. Bradley has set the bar quite high with this one!”

  —Romance Readers Connection

  DESPERATELY SEEKING A DUKE

  “A humorous romp of marriage mayhem that’s a love-and-laughter treat, tinged with heated sensuality and tenderness. [A] winning combination.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “A tale of lies and treachery where true love overcomes all.”

  —Romance Junkies

  SEDUCING THE SPY

  “Thrilling up to the last page, titillating from one sexually charged love scene to the next, and captivating from beginning to end, the last of the Royal Four series displays Bradley’s ability to tell an involved, sexy story. If you haven’t yet read a Bradley novel, let yourself be seduced by the mistress of the genre!”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “Have you discovered the bawdy charms of Celeste Bradley? Laced with intrigue and adventure, she has quickly become a staff and reader favorite and with each book we just fall further in love with her characters. This is the final book in the superb Royal Four quartet, with her most dangerous deception yet!”

  —Rendezvous

  THE ROGUE

  “Once you’ve read a Liar’s Club book, you crave the next in the series. Bradley knows how to hook a reader with wit, sensuality (this one has one of the hottest hands-off love scenes in years!) and a strong plot along with the madness and mayhem of a Regency-set novel.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “Bradley continues her luscious Liar’s Club series with another tale of danger and desire, and as always her clever prose is imbued with wicked wit.”

  —Booklist

  “Celeste Bradley’s The Liar’s Club series scarcely needs an introduction, so popular it’s become with readers since its inception . . . Altogether intriguing, exciting, and entertaining, this book is a sterling addition to the Liar’s Club series.”

  —Road to Romance

  TO WED A SCANDALOUS SPY

  “Warm, witty, and wonderfully sexy.”

  —Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author

  “Funny, adventurous, passionate, and especially poignant, this is a great beginning to a new series . . . Bradley mixes suspense and a sexy love story to perfection.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “A wonderful start to a very-looked-forward-to new series . . . once again showcases Celeste Bradley’s talent of creating sensual and intriguing plots filled with memorable and endearing characters . . . A non-stop read.”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  “Danger, deceit, and desire battle with witty banter and soaring passion for prominence in this highly engrossing tale . . . Bradley also provides surprises galore, both funny and suspenseful, and skillfully ties them all in neatly with the romance so as to make this story more than averagely memorable.”

  —Road to Romance

  “A fantastic read . . . Bradley successfully combines mystery, intrigue, romance, and intense sensuality into this captivating book.”

  —Romance Junkies

  THE CHARMER

  “Amusing, entertaining romance.”

  —Booklist

  “Bradley infuses this adventure with so much sexual tension and humor that you’ll be enthralled. You’ll laugh from the first page to the last . . . The wonderful characters, witty dialogue, and clever plot will have you wishing you were a Liar too.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by

  CELESTE BRADLEY

  THE RUNAWAY BRIDES

  Devil in My Bed

  Rogue in My Arms

  THE HEIRESS BRIDES

  Desperately Seeking a Duke

  The Duke Next Door

  The Duke Most Wanted

  THE ROYAL FOUR

  To Wed a Scandalous Spy

  Surrender to a Wicked Spy

  One Night with a Spy

  Seducing the Spy

  THE LIAR’S CLUB

  The Pretender

  The Impostor

  The Spy

  The Charmer

  The Rogue

  ROGUE IN

  MY ARMS

  Celeste Bradley

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  “Greensleeves” credit to Henry VII

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ROGUE IN MY ARMS

  Copyright © 2010 by Celeste Bradley.

  Excerpt from Scoundrel in My Dreams copyright © 2010 by Celeste Bradley.

  All rights reserved.

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

  ISBN: 978-0-312-94309-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / April 2010

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

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  This book is dedicated to everyone in America who has lost their home due to the financial crisis. Bless you all and best wishes for a hopeful and prosperous future for every single one of you. Don’t let the bastards get you down!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book could not have been written without the help of Darbi Gill, Robyn Holiday, Cheryl Lewallen, Joanne Markis, and Cindy Tharp. The crew at St. Martin’s Press deserve a lot of credit as well. Thanks especially to Monique Patterson, my editor, and to all the people who helped me get it done.

  Once again I must thank little Frankie Jean Baca-Lucero for inspiring madness-monkey Melody. If you think Melody is incredible for her age, you should meet the real article!

  To my own babies, who aren’t babies anymore, I have to say thanks for putting up with me!

  PROLOGUE

  Th
e mony stopped coming from the mother. I can’t keep her no more. The father can take her now. Don’t know his name. He’s a memmber of Brown’s.

  Once upon a time, a little girl of no more than three years of age was left upon the steps of a respectable if less than fashionable gentleman’s club in St. James Street of London. Pinned to her tiny coat was a note, intended for her father, who was allegedly a member of the aforementioned establishment. Since most of the club’s members were of the fossilized—er, elderly—persuasion, she was assumed to be the progeny of one of the three younger, randier members of the club.

  One of these three, Aidan de Quincy, Earl of Blankenship, was a sober and brooding fellow and was the first to assume responsibility for little Melody. In order to learn the truth, he compelled himself to face his past and once again face the only woman he’d ever loved.

  The widow Madeleine Chandler had secrets indeed—but furtively giving birth wasn’t one of them. Still, her secrets were dangerous enough for her to seek shelter with Aidan, even if she had to lie.

  After surviving the calamitous events which followed, Aidan and Madeleine decided to be parents to Melody until her true father was discovered.

  Wilberforce, the head of staff of Brown’s, then felt obligated to remind everyone that ladies could most definitely not visit the club. Upon the ensuing protest from members and staff alike, Wilberforce did observe that the rules said not a thing about ladies living at the club.

  Aidan and Madeleine wed at once, but they both regretted the fact that little Melody was not their own.

  Sir Colin Lambert, however, was beginning to hope—er, suspect—that Melody was actually his.

  Twenty years later . . .

  “Wait—that’s not the end of the story, is it? That can’t be the end! Don’t stop there!”

  Lady Melody sat up straight on the sofa, leaving the comforting circle of the storyteller’s arm in order to look him in the eye. “Button, tell me the rest! What happened next?”

  Her companion crinkled his eyes at her, laughing puckishly at her demand. “You sound as though you’re three years of age, not two and twenty!”

  Melody glanced warily at the wedding dress hanging expectantly nearby and then looked away, tucking her chilled bare feet up under her dressing gown to warm them. “I feel like a child.” She dropped her face into her hands, hiding from the momentous day before her. “How can I get married? How can I possibly know if I’ll love him forever?”

  Button tilted his head and frowned at her fondly. “Hmm. Perhaps another story is in order. There’s time left. Come, pet.” He tucked her into his arm once more, like the surrogate grandfather he was to her, not the fabulous dressmaker the rest of the world knew.

  She went willingly, eager to delay that walk down the aisle still further. Snuggling into his shoulder, she closed her eyes and sighed. “Tell me a story, Button.”

  She felt the chuckle in his chest more than heard it.

  “Very well, two-and-twenty Melody who feels like a child.” He dropped a kiss upon her brow and went on.

  “Once upon a time there was a scholarly fellow who thought he knew everything . . .”

  The woman onstage wasn’t simply beautiful. She was incandescent. She glowed with the purity of the ingénue role she played as she swayed gracefully across the boards, weaving a spell over the breathless audience. Each gesture was a dance, each word a song.

  Colin Lambert, son of a prominent social scientist, was so entranced by the pale, black-haired goddess onstage that he trod upon the toes of his closest friend, Jack, as they made their way through the crush of the theater pit.

  He received a jovial shove for his trespass. “Ger’off, you great ass.” Then Jack realized what had captured his friend’s attention. “Good Lord, what a pretty bird,” he said thoughtfully.

  That particular tone was the only thing that could have snagged Colin’s attention away at that moment. He glared at his friend. “I saw her first!”

  Jack raised both hands in mock surrender. “She’s all yours then . . . if you can get her while wearing that suit. You dress like an accountant.”

  “Better an accountant than a peacock.” Colin glanced down at his admittedly sober suit. “I could never be taken seriously as a scholar in the rig you wear.”

  Jack grinned. “Yes, but peacocks have better . . . tail.” He straightened his own stylish cuffs smugly. “I’m engaged anyway, if you recall.”

  Colin rolled his eyes. If he had to hear Jack trolling the virtues of Miss Amaryllis Clarke one more time he was quite certain he’d have to find a pair of boots to vomit into—preferably boots belonging to his rival in everything, the high-and-mighty Aidan de Quincy, Earl of Blankenship.

  But for once Aidan wasn’t tagging along soberly in Jack’s wake, taking the gleeful edge off any interesting trouble they might find for themselves. No, tonight would be absolutely packed with peril if Colin had anything to say about it.

  That is, after he bribed his way backstage and wangled an introduction to that radiant female. The playbill hanging outside had named her as Miss Chantal Marchant.

  Chantal.

  “Jack, do you believe in love at first sight?”

  Jack didn’t reply. Colin tore his gaze away from the entrancing vision onstage to turn to his friend. Jack’s usual smile was gone as he gazed about the full theater.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow, you know,” Jack said, almost too softly to hear.

  Colin’s gut chilled. “You don’t have to go to war. You’re second in line for your uncle’s title.”

  Jack turned to him then, the brief serious moment already in the past. “Let’s find a way to get you backstage. The beauteous Chantal awaits!”

  . . . And then there was war.

  The sight before Colin’s eyes terrified him beyond belief. Jack returned from war was not Jack at all. Colin saw a different Jack, sitting quietly, with that half-lost, half-sick expression on his face. It was the same expression he’d worn home from the war, the same he’d worn when he’d been jilted by the girl he’d survived the war for. Now Colin saw Jack, just Jack, sitting on the edge of the roof of Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen, five stories from the cobbled street below.

  “Shh. Don’t startle him.”

  That was bloody Aidan de Quincy for you, always stating the obvious. Colin’s shoulder twitched backward, creating a little distance from the hovering Aidan.

  “I found him like this an hour ago,” Aidan continued in a whisper. “I sent for you right away.”

  And dragged him from the elegant and astonishingly hedonistic embrace of Chantal. Again. Not that Colin wouldn’t do anything for Jack, anything at all. For Jack, but not for Aidan.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “How could you let him get drunk again?” His own whisper was furious. “You know perfectly well he gets worse when he drinks!”

  “It isn’t the whisky, it’s his spirit.” Aidan narrowed his eyes. “And I only lost sight of him for a quarter of an hour. Tonight was supposed to be your turn, at any rate.”

  “That’s beside the point.” Fifteen minutes was enough time to put away a great deal of whisky if you didn’t care what happened to you after. And Jack didn’t care, not in the slightest. Aidan was fortunate he’d found Jack before another brawl had broken out. Jack’s guilt over not dying in battle instead of his beloved cousin Blakely—good-hearted but foolish Blakely—seemed to make him want to go down in some sort of fight.

  With Blakely gone and Jack’s uncle, the elderly marquis, soon to follow, Jack’s only surviving bonds were to Colin and Aidan. Most men about to inherit a title and several grand estates would be drunk in celebration. Jack, however, had never wished the agonizing battleground death of Blakely, nor the subsequent heartbroken decline of the Marquis of Strickland. Therefore, Jack was simply hard, stinking, suicidal drunk.

  Rumor had it that Blakely had lost his life saving Jack. As far as Colin was concerned, it was possibly the only worthwhile thing that po
or fool had ever done.

  So now here sat Jack, only ten feet away from Colin and Aidan, yet never more distant. Then Jack rose slowly to his feet, his toes at the very edge of the roof with only a knee-high decorative iron railing to keep him from ending his guilt forever. He gazed out into the foggy London night as if it held some sort of answer for him.

  “I think he’s really planning on doing it this time,” Aidan whispered in horror.

  Colin rubbed a hand across his face and turned to look at Aidan. “Right. You hit him high, I’ll hit him low.”

  It was late morning before Colin could make his way back to Chantal. Although it had only been a few hours since Colin had climbed from Chantal’s scented sheets, it felt like days. Jack was down off the roof and Aidan was sitting on him firmly, pouring coffee and common sense down his throat whether Jack liked it or not.

  Colin and Aidan had hopefully managed to convince Jack that suicide was selfish—that too many people needed him to be a good master. He had responsibilities to the people of Strickland while his uncle was unwell. This seemed to stabilize the darkness for once, but Jack remained withdrawn and unhappy. Colin had stayed at his side, feeling awful about abandoning his friend for Chantal the night before. It wasn’t until Jack had dropped into a deep, quiet sleep that Colin tore himself away to return to his lover.

  Only to find himself turned away from Chantal’s house. Weary beyond belief, Colin could only stare at the servant who blocked him from entry. “What do you mean, she’s not at home? She always sleeps late on the morning of a performance!”

  The servant gazed at him sourly. “I mean, sir, that my mistress is Not At Home . . . to you.”

  Bloody hell. Chantal meant to wreak a little vengeance for his abandonment last night. Colin rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine. Have it your way. When will your mistress be At Home to me?”