Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake by Sarah MacLean Page B

eagerness for other, more passionate, acts. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine her in his bed, all enormous brown eyes and full, welcoming lips, wearing nothing but a willing smile.
    A burst of laughter came from across the room, yanking him from his reverie. He shifted in his chair to ease the uncomfortable tightness of his breeches, shaking his head to clear it of the vision he’d conjured and making a mental note to find himself a willing female. Quickly.
    He took another drink of scotch, watching the warm liquid swirl in the glass as he considered the strange events of the night before. He could not deny the fact that Lady Calpurnia Hartwell, a plain little wallfower with a strange name—to whom he could honestly say he’d never given much thought—was rather intriguing. She certainly was not the type of female who would ordinarily interest him. In fact, she was quite the opposite of his standard preference—ideally exquisite, confident, and experienced.
    Then why did she so intrigue him?
    Ralston was saved from having to consider the question further by another eruption of raucous noise from across the room. Eager for some distraction from his disconcerting thoughts, he turned his attention to a group of men eagerly calling out wagers. Finney, the bookmaker, was scribbling the bets in the Brooks’s betting book as quickly as he could.
    Leaning forward in his chair for a better view, Ralston quickly deduced the focus of the men’s interest, Baron Oxford. With Oxford at the center of the betting, there was little question as to what the topic must be—the baron’s seemingly endless search for a wife. For several months, Oxford, deep in debt largely because of his penchant for gambling, had publicly announced to the membership of Brooks’s that he was looking to marry—the richer the bride, the better.
    Typically, Ralston found the boisterous Oxford—more often than not deep in his cups—to be insufferable, but considering the marquess’s need for diversion, he made an exception. He stood and approached the group.
    “Ten guineas on Prudence Marworthy.”
    “She’s got the face of a horse!” This, from Oxford himself.
    “Her dowry is worth keeping the lights out!” came a voice from the back of the crowd. Ralston was the only man in the room who did not laugh at the joke.
    “I’ve got twenty guineas that says none but Berwick’s daughter will have you!” The Earl of Chilton threw his bet into the pool, garnering a round of groans at the insensitive wager, interspersed with surprise for the size of Chilton’s wager.
    “She may be simple,” Oxford said with a laugh, “but her father is the richest man in England!”
    Uninterested in the base conversation, Ralston turned to leave the room. He had almost reached the door when a voice called out, above the rest.
    “I’ve got it! The Allendale chit!”
    He stilled, then turned back to hear the response. The woman was haunting him.
    “No good. She’s just been betrothed to Rivington,” someone said. “And you’re touched if you think The Allendale Angel would settle for Oxford.”
    “Not the pretty one…the other.”
    “The fleshy one?”
    “With the ridiculous name?”
    Oxford held court with a swagger that was likely the result of too much drink, enjoying every minute of the immature attention. “That said, Rivington did make a smart move marrying into the Allendale fortune…Lady Cassiopeia wouldn’t be the worst ending to my story.”
    “Calpurnia.” Ralston said the name softly, too softly to be heard, at the same time one of the other men corrected Oxford.
    The baron continued, waving his glass in the air dismissively. “Well, whatever her name, I’d be wealthy again—wealthy enough to keep a stellar mistress and never bother with the wife. Except to get her with the heir and the spare. And I imagine that, at her age”—he paused for bawdy emphasis—“she’ll be grateful for whatever I give her.”
    Oxford’s