The Misbehaving Marquess by Leigh LaValle

Silverton can spot a scoundrel at ten paces. Thanks to her lying father and gambling brother, she’s been left with siblings to protect and creditors at her door. There’s only way to stave off disaster—find her brother's fabled winnings, a fortune in buried treasure. But danger stalks her every move.   She's not the only one after the gold.   And a sun-kissed, silver-tongued rogue is out to steal her heart.
     
    NEITHER IS A LADY
    After years of exile, Roane Grantham is eager to begin a new life without the law on his heels. First, he needs gold—his gold, buried one drunken night long ago. But treasure hunters are after what's rightfully his, including a petite, bold-as-brass blonde who is as enticing as she is exasperating. Forming an uneasy alliance, they adventure through deep forests and high peaks of England. But they can’t outrun their past. When Helen slips away with the gold, Roane must fight for the greatest treasure of all—love.
     
    Enjoy the following excerpt for The Rogue Returns:
     
    Roane strolled across the darkening clearing toward her, the two bedrolls tucked under his arm.
    Helen watched his approach, her heartbeat thick and fast. She should look away, she really should, but found she could not. At some point that evening, perhaps while she’d been preparing the fire, Roane had unbuttoned his shirt. The white fabric gaped open, revealing the banded, rough-hewn muscles of his chest. Powerful. Raw. Golden. The man was magnificent.
    Dazzling, really.
    And not good for her at all.
    Best she turn away, yes, give him her back so she wouldn’t be tempted to look again.
    “Where would you like to sleep tonight, Buttercup?” He stopped behind her, leaned close so the heat of his skin shivered up her spine. “Will you sneak into my blankets again?”
    She jerked her chin to the side. “Certainly not.” Her voice lacked conviction. She lacked conviction. The truth was, she hadn’t minded sleeping beside him last night. His hot, firm body pressed against the length of her. His arm resting just below—
    Goodness, these thoughts were not helping.
    “Don’t be absurd,” she said harder this time, speaking both to herself and to him. Roane was a rake and a rogue. She knew his type. Had lived with such men her entire life. She should not be so affected.        
    “Are you certain?” She could hear the smile in his voice, could imagine the sparkle in his blue eyes. “I could put our blankets together and address that ill temper of yours.”
    Helen did not trust herself to answer. She held the knotted string up to a ray of the setting sun. She was making a muddle of the task. Her palms were damp and her mouth parched, as if her body could no longer balance such a simple thing. Moisture. Dryness. Attraction. Reason. Teasing. Truth.
    “You didn’t seem to mind sharing my warmth last night, Buttercup.” He stroked his fingers down her long braid and she closed her eyes.
    At once, she was exhausted. Wore out and sore from the long ride that day. Fatigued from fighting her attraction to Roane, from deflecting his endless flirtations.
    She just wanted to give in. And that was something she would never do.
    Helen dragged her eyelids open, pulled her braid from Roane’s fingers and turned to face him. Well, face his chest, anyway, and the deep V of tanned skin exposed by his open shirt. She tilted her head back and looked up over the strong column of his throat, over his sharp jaw and smiling mouth to his watching eyes.
    She took a small step back. “Last night was an exceptional evening. We were in a cave , if you recall.” A dark, dank, creepy, crawly cave. “And we had only one blanket.”
    Roane tossed the two bedrolls onto the flat rock beside them. “I should have claimed they hadn’t any blankets for sale in Bakewell this morning.”
    “An English village out of wool?”
    “Anything to keep you close, Buttercup.” He winked.
    The man was incorrigible. Helen looked away and once