Let Sleeping Rogues Lie Read online

  Praise for Sabrina Jeffries

  and her sparkling, sexy series

  THE SCHOOL FOR HEIRESSES

  BEWARE A SCOT’S REVENGE

  “Irresistible…. Larger-than-life characters, sprightly dialogue and a steamy romance will draw you into this delicious captive/captor tale.”

  —Romantic Times (Top Pick!)

  “Expertly crafted and delectably sexy.”

  —Booklist

  ONLY A DUKE WILL DO

  “Jeffries once again proves her mettle as a first-rate Regency author.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A marvelous, powerful, and sensual story…. Jeffries fans will devour this treat.”

  —Romantic Times

  NEVER SEDUCE A SCOUNDREL

  “Jeffries delivers lively lovers in an entertaining, sensual historical romance.”

  —Booklist

  “Jeffries carries off this cat-and-mouse game of mutual seduction so cleverly that you’ll be turning the pages at lightning speed…. Warm, wickedly witty and brilliantly plotted, this is a must for anyone who just wants a fast, intelligent read.”

  —Romantic Times

  Acclaim for Sabrina Jeffries

  and her previous works of fiction

  THE ROYAL BROTHERHOOD SERIES

  ONE NIGHT WITH A PRINCE

  “Jeffries not only beguiles readers with scenes of passion and vivid characters but steadily builds the story’s tension to an exciting conclusion. The details of gambling, mistresses, and scandalous conduct further enrich the tapestry against which this emotionally satisfying story plays out. Jeffries’s readers will be royally pleased.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Anyone who loves romance must read Sabrina Jeffries!”

  —Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestselling author

  TO PLEASURE A PRINCE

  “Jeffries’s sparkling dialogue takes center stage in an emotional, highly sensual and powerfully romantic story…. All the characters have such depth they simply leap from the pages.”

  —Romantic Times

  “[The] parallel courtships of the Tremaine and North siblings engages throughout. Readers will eagerly await the third brother’s story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  IN THE PRINCE’S BED

  “A traditional Regency told with sparkle and energy…. The chemistry among all the characters—not just the hero and heroine—ensures that there’s never a dull moment in this merry romp…. Fans of historical romances will find the simple pleasures of this novel irresistible.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Delightful, sensual, and poignant, Jeffries’s latest brings humor and pathos to a richly peopled tale. This is a delightful start to a new series featuring a trio of heroes to die for.”

  —Romantic Times

  Also by Sabrina Jeffries

  Beware a Scot’s Revenge

  The School for Heiresses

  (with Julia London, Liz Carlyle & Renee Bernard)

  Only a Duke Will Do

  Never Seduce a Scoundrel

  One Night With a Prince

  To Pleasure a Prince

  In the Prince’s Bed

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Deborah Gonzales

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6506-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-6506-X

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For my husband and my parents,

  who together taught me what genuine morality is.

  LET SLEEPING ROGUES LIE

  Prologue

  Chertsey, Surrey

  October 1803

  Your father is ready to see you, Master Dalton.” With a nod, the maid at Norcourt Hall stood aside to let Anthony pass into the viscount’s study.

  She was a pretty maid, with large bosoms that fascinated the eleven-year-old Anthony. And when she smiled at him, the naughty thoughts those bosoms sent running through his head made him blush scarlet.

  Mumbling a thank-you, he hurried inside. Aunt Eunice was right. He was the wickedest boy in England. No matter how often he told himself that he shouldn’t notice the maids’ bosoms or wish to touch them, he still did. Lately, the urge to see women naked was a sickness inside him. Father must never guess. Never.

  When his father removed his spectacles to fix him with a stern gaze, Anthony blushed again, half-afraid Father had already read his wicked mind.

  “I understand that you have something to discuss with me,” Father said.

  Anthony swallowed. Father’s blue eyes and thick black eyebrows might mirror Anthony’s own, but when those eyes were set in a scowl and those brows topped stone-sharp features, the effect was terrifying.

  Thrusting out his chest, Anthony tried to appear un-cowed. “Father, I wish to go to Eton.”

  His father’s stern look softened a fraction as he folded his spectacles. “And you will, my boy, you will. You will go at twelve as your brother did.”

  Another year. He couldn’t bear another year living with Uncle Randolph and Aunt Eunice Bickham in Telford. He would prefer any caning at Eton to that.

  “I wish to go when Wallace returns for the Michaelmas term.” At Father’s silence, Anthony went on hastily, “He says half his classmates began at eight.”

  “They probably knew their Latin well enough to gain admission so young.”

  “I do, too.” He prayed he did, anyway. He detested Latin. It wasn’t like maths, which he could do in his sleep. Latin made no sense.

  His father lifted an eyebrow. “Your uncle says you can’t even read Cicero.”

  “Because Cicero is thicker than Wallace’s head,” he said under his breath.

  When Father’s gaze iced over, Anthony wanted to die. Why couldn’t he ever govern his tongue? “Beg pardon, Father, I didn’t mean that Wallace—”

  “Is a fool? Indeed you did. But I suppose some impudence from the younger brother to the elder is to be expected.” Father tapped his spectacles on the shiny mahogany of his desk. “Unfortunately, proficiency in Latin is required, and your uncle says you haven’t attained that since you came home last Easter.”

  How could he? It was hard to learn Latin while also memorizing the precepts contained in The Youth’s Guide and Instructor to Virtue and Religion for Aunt Eunice. “If you would only test me, you’ll see that I know Latin well enough.”

  “I do not need to test you. Your uncle’s word is sufficient.”

  A sweat broke out on Anthony’s forehead. He would never escape the Bickhams, never! After Mother’s death, Father had sent him to live with them as a “temporary” measure, yet Anthony had been there three years already.

  He’d learned not to cry for his mother after the third time Aunt Eunice had smacked his face for it, but he couldn’t seem to learn to stifle his bad thoughts and hold his tongue.

  “If I can’t go to Eton, might I come home? With you overseeing my studies, I know I’ll be reading even the hardest Latin in a short time.”

  The sharp gaze his father leveled on him made him uneasy, but he kept his countenance. Father despised any sign of weakness.

  “Is there a reason you do not wish to live with your uncle anymore?” />
  Had Aunt Eunice told Father of the countless mortifying punishments she’d had to administer because of Anthony’s bad character? He would die if she had. But she’d promised not to if he swore to be better. So he’d sworn and begged and done whatever she asked, knowing he would never escape the Bickham household if Father learned the full extent of his wicked nature.

  Anthony had initially been banished to his aunt’s because, as Father had said, “A boy coddled by his mother needs a strict environment.” Why should Father change his mind just because Anthony was too wicked to benefit from it?

  He managed a shrug. “Uncle Randolph’s house isn’t like here, that’s all. I wish to be home with you.”

  His father flashed him a thin smile. “Sometimes you remind me so much of…” The smile vanished. “I’m sorry, lad. I do not think it wise for you to live at Norcourt Hall just now. You’re better off with your aunt and uncle.”

  Despair clutched at him. So he had another year of kneeling on the marble floor during long afternoons while Aunt Eunice read to him from Wesley’s Sermons. Another year of ice baths while she attempted to freeze his naughty urges into oblivion. Another year trapped for hours alone in the dark—

  No!

  “Father, I promise to be good. You’ll hardly know I’m here. I’ll study hard and do as I’m told. I’ll never say a word unless I’m bidden.”

  Father laughed mirthlessly. “I fear you are incapable of that, Anthony. Besides, it has naught to do with goodness. I’m off to a friend’s estate in the north to observe his new irrigation system, which I hope to implement here. I cannot take you with me, and I’ve no time to engage a tutor. Nor shall I leave you to the indifferent attentions of the servants. No, you must return to Telford until you can enter Eton at twelve, and that’s an end to it.”

  His father settled his spectacles atop his nose and returned to reading his newspaper, his signal that the discussion was over.

  In that moment, Anthony hated his father horribly, which only further proved his bad character.

  Yet he’d offered to be good, and it hadn’t mattered. Father didn’t care how hard Anthony tried. Father didn’t care what Anthony did, so long as it was well away from Norcourt Hall. And the thought of returning to Telford to his aunt’s…

  The sharp pang to Anthony’s chest made tears start in his eyes. He suppressed them ruthlessly. He mustn’t cry! He wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was nearly grown now, or would be very soon. He ought to be able to go to Eton if he wanted. He ought to be able to do as he pleased without everyone railing at him.

  And he did try to please his aunt and Father. What good did it do? He still burst out with the wrong words all the time, and the bad boy in his breeches still got randy whenever he saw a pretty girl, so he still got punished.

  Fine. If he must suffer either way, he might as well give them something to punish him for.

  So when he left his father’s study to find the attractive maidservant still outside, he didn’t hide his admiring glance at her ample bosoms.

  She laughed. “Master Dalton, you’re incorrigible!”

  Incorrigible. He liked the sound of that. Because he was—or would be from now on. That would show them. “Yes,” he said with a thrust of his chin, “and don’t you forget it.”

  Then he strutted off, burying his conscience so deeply it would never trouble him again.

  Chapter One

  Dear Charlotte,

  I’m glad you are finally giving greater responsibility to your teachers, instead of taking everything upon yourself. Miss Prescott in particular sounds like an asset, given her penchant for bookkeeping. I know how much you despise numbers—this way you can keep your hand in without having to submit to the tortures of doing sums.

  Your friend and cousin,

  Michael

  Miss Madeline Prescott stared at the sealed envelope for the fifth time that day. Refused was written across it in a bold hand.

  She couldn’t believe it. Though she’d received no answer to her previous correspondence, she’d still hoped that Sir Humphry Davy might one day read one of her letters. If they were being refused entirely, she hadn’t the smallest hope of making her case in person to the famous chemist.

  Tears stung her eyes. Now what? She didn’t know where to turn, and Papa got worse by the day. If she didn’t find a solution soon—

  “Ah, there you are,” said Mrs. Charlotte Harris, owner and headmistress of Mrs. Harris’s School for Young Ladies, as she entered the school’s office. “I thought I might find you here.”

  Shoving the letter into her apron pocket, Madeline forced a smile. “I’m still balancing the accounts.”

  Mrs. Harris took a seat on the other side of the partner’s desk, her red curls jiggling. “I don’t envy you. I am so grateful you took those duties over.”

  Her employer wouldn’t be nearly so grateful if she knew about the scandal clinging to the Prescott name in Shropshire. Mrs. Harris expected her teachers to be above reproach.

  A footman appeared in the doorway to the office and said to Mrs. Harris, “A Lord Norcourt has come to call on you, ma’am.”

  Madeline’s throat went dry. Sir Randolph Bickham’s nephew, here? Could the Viscount Norcourt be seeking her out because of his uncle’s wicked plot against Papa? Had Sir Randolph actually hunted them down here in Richmond?

  That made no sense. Not only had the viscount never met her, but he and Sir Randolph were rumored to be estranged. Would Lord Norcourt even realize her family’s connection to his?

  Even if he did, he couldn’t know she taught here. She hadn’t told anyone at home in Telford. And she’d certainly kept her former life secret from Mrs. Harris.

  Mrs. Harris looked perplexed. “But I don’t know Lord Norcourt.”

  “He’s here about a prospective pupil, I believe,” the footman said.

  Madeline slumped in relief. So this was a chance occurrence. Thank heaven.

  “I have no openings for this term,” Mrs. Harris said.

  “I told him, ma’am. But he still wishes to speak with you.”

  Mrs. Harris turned to Madeline. “Do you know anything about Lord Norcourt?”

  “A little,” she said evasively. “He only inherited the title from his elder brother last month. Before then, you would have known him as the Honorable Anthony Dalton.”

  Mrs. Harris blinked. “The rakehell with a fondness for widows?”

  “So they say.”

  “I wonder why he’s here. He has no children to enroll.” With a glance at the waiting footman, Mrs. Harris rose and touched one slender hand to her temple. “The gossips say he has seduced half the widows in London.”

  “That’s impossible.” Madeline did a swift calculation in her head. “Given a population of over one million, if even one-twentieth are widows, he’d have had to bed a woman every four hours over the past ten years to achieve such a feat. That would scarcely leave him time for gaming hells and wild parties.”

  Mrs. Harris’s arch glance showed that she didn’t particularly appreciate Madeline’s practical perspective. But then, few people did. “I’ve heard about those parties,” Mrs. Harris said tartly. “Cousin Michael even described one.”

  “Cousin Michael” was the school’s original benefactor, a reclusive fellow who wrote Mrs. Harris of any intelligence he thought would aid the heiresses who attended. Privately, Madeline wondered if Cousin Michael was as removed from social affairs as he implied. But she wasn’t likely to find out, since the man’s identity had never been revealed to anyone, even Mrs. Harris.

  “You don’t think Lord Norcourt has come because I am a widow, do you?” the headmistress asked as she paced before the window that overlooked the school’s extensive gardens.

  “I hardly think it likely.”

  “Nonetheless, I want nothing to do with the man.” Mrs. Harris whirled on Madeline. “Perhaps you should speak to him. It’s time you learned to deal with this sort of thing, and you’re more likely to be tact
ful than I, given his reputation.”

  “But—”

  “Why should you be limited to teaching classes and doing the school’s accounts? You’ve amply proved you can handle weightier responsibilities. So go explain to Lord Norcourt that we have no openings.”

  Madeline hesitated. What if the man recognized her surname as Papa’s?

  No, that was silly. Prescott was a common enough name. And he’d hardly be familiar with the physicians in his uncle’s town.

  Rising from her seat, Madeline nodded. “I’ll take care of it at once.”

  The more she ingratiated herself with Mrs. Harris, the more solid her standing at the school and the less likely she’d be to lose her position if the scandal surrounding Papa ever caught up with her here.

  As she followed the footman into the hall, something else occurred to her. Though she’d heard much about his rakish reputation, the viscount had connections among men of science and learning. According to reports, he knew Sir Humphry Davy himself! She had to use this opportunity to her advantage to save Papa and get her former life back.

  But how, if she had to turn his lordship away?

  As she and the footman neared the foyer, she halted him in the shadow of the stairs, wanting first to study the man who paced the marble floor with spare, quick strides, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Lord Norcourt was considerably taller and more handsome than his loathsome uncle. In his coat, waistcoat, and trousers of black superfine, with his equally black hair tumbling fashionably about his white collar, he was as glorious a creature as any wild fallow buck she’d described in her work of natural history.

  She assessed his features in the mirror beyond him—the noble brow, the aquiline nose jutting above a full, sensual mouth, the square-cut jaw. But nothing compared to his well-knit figure, which bespoke many hours engaged in fencing or boxing or some other gentlemanly sport.

  Yes, a splendid beast indeed.

  Then he halted before the mirror with his head cocked, like a stag scenting danger, and she had only a second to prepare herself before he pivoted to fix her with amazing blue eyes, the exact hue of the azurite crystals she kept in a jar on her desk. And twice as sharp, not to mention unnerving. It seemed quite at odds with the outrageous fellow described by the gossips.