Todos los capítulos de The League of Rogues: Capítulo 161 - Capítulo 170

"Husband" Rosalind tested the word as she watched Ashton tweak his cravat. He cut a dashing figure in his blue waistcoat and buckskin breeches. At the word, Ashton raised his eyes to hers, and the slow curve of his lips making her flush."Wife."Rosalind bit her lip. Had she truly been married today? It had been a blur of laughter, smiles and friendship that left her feeling wrapped in a cocoon of love. The League and their wives, as well as Ashton's family, had taken her into their lives openly and warmly. Even her brothers had been on their best behavior for once, despite being among so many Englishmen. Brock had promised her they would stay a few weeks while repairs were made to the castle.Everything was perfect. She'd never known life could be so full of joy."Come and let me look at you." Ashton held out a hand, and she came to him. She had changed into one of her favorite gowns. A cream-colored gown with Belgian lace and red roses embroidered along the sleeves, the bodice an

BOOK FIVE: His Wicked EmbraceLeague Rule Number 11:A man should remember from time to time to be a gentleman, even if he thinks he may have forgotten how.Excerpt from the Quizzing Glass Gazette, April 28, 1821, the Lady Society column:Lady Society is quite curious about a certain gentleman named Mr. Lawrence Russell. His elder brother, the Marquess of Rochester, is quite infamous indeed as a member of the League of Rogues, but as for Mr. Russell himselfthe rumors abound.Lady Society would like very much to know if he wishes to be married, or will he continue as his brother had and resist matrimony at all odds? If it is the former, Lady Society will endeavor to find him a suitable bride; if it is the latter, Lady Society sees his determined bachelordom as a challenge. A rogue you may be, Mr. Russell, but Lady Society believes you might yet make a good husband. Now who to marry you to?"You belong to me now." The whispered words echoed in Zehra Darzi's head as she jo

Lawrence didn't want to participate in this dreadful slave auction. But if the lady went home with one of these men, they would force her to do things she didn't want, and he couldn't stand the thought of that. When he'd been only seventeen, not yet truly a man, he'd ventured into a brothel much like this. He'd thought himself a virile and entitled lad, eager to see himself pleasured for as much as his coin purse would allow. His head had been filled with images of eager maids feeding him berries on a lounge, willingly submitting to his overtures, and everyone partaking in a night none would soon forget.Instead, he'd watched women selling themselves to survive. It wasn't hard to see the desperation in the performances of those who didn't want to be there, or the emptiness of those who had given up and knew no other life. What was worse were the men who treated them no better than cattle. That night he'd watched a woman, boldly announced by the haggard proprietor as working her ve

Zehra sipped her wine, even though her belly quivered with an ache born of days with little to no food. She fought to ignore the beating headache rising in her head by examining the bedchamber of her rescuer. His tall four-poster bed with a dark-green coverlet looked inviting, perhaps too much so. He had a shaving stand, complete with a washbasin, and a chest of drawers. A tall bookcase stood against one wall, and it was filled with books, some old, others quite new. She carried her wine glass with her as she approached the shelf. "Who are you, Lawrence Russell?" she whispered, reading the gilded spines on the shelves. Gothic novels, poetry, sciences, art, philosophy. He was well-read, it seemed. Surely a man who was well-read was less likely to be a cruel man. At least, she hoped so.He claimed he had bought her to protect her from other men. But she had learned the hard truth of late that she could trust no onenot strangers, not even friends. Her parents lay dead because they'd tr

Lawrence woke to the chiming of the grandfather clock in the corridor outside his bedroom.Half past seven. It was still early, and they had gone to bed in the wee hours of the morning. He shifted, feeling the welcome weight of Zehra in his arms. Her head rested on his chest, and their legs were entwined. Her chemise had ridden up, and he had one hand on her left thigh. She had one hand in his hair, as though she'd fallen asleep stroking her fingers through the strands. A smile twisted his lips. She liked his hairjust as he liked hers. He wondered if she was genuinely at ease with him, or if it was something she'd done unconsciously during her sleep. Either way, he liked that she was touching him. He wanted her to feel safe with him, to feel she could be around him, even touch him without fear. I want to be a man she can trust. He carefully moved his hand from her thigh and reached up to stroke his palm over the dark coiling locks that tumbled down her back. She didn't stir as