To Romance a Charming Rogue

provide oblivion for a few blessed hours at a time.

When the end had finally, mercifully come-when his brother was buried in the cold earth decades before his time-Damon was left with a soul-deep rage, along with a stark, soul-numbing loneliness. And then his brother's tragedy had been swiftly followed by his parents’ senseless deaths…

His grief had hardened him, Damon knew. He would do anything to avoid that pain again-the anguish of losing his very best friend, his shadow, and the parents he'd cherished.

Emptiness was preferable to feeling, so he'd purposely turned his heart to stone.

There was danger in wedding Elle, of course. Two years ago he'd allowed her to assume too much importance in his life. He'd let himself become enthralled with her-with her charm, her liveliness, her vitality.

Yet he was older and wiser now, Damon told himself. He could keep his emotional distance from Eleanor now that he was forewarned. They could have passion in their marriage without any real closeness or intimacy. A simple union of convenience, nothing more.

He could offer her friendship at least. She would never be lonely as his wife, he could promise her that much.

And he could and would vow fidelity in their marriage. Eleanor's accusation that he couldn't control his lustful urges and remain faithful to her was far off the mark. He'd been celibate for a while now, certainly since returning to England.

He hadn't kept a mistress either, not since dismissing his former paramour.

In truth, he'd decided to end his arrangement with Mrs. Lydia Newling the moment he met Eleanor.

He didn't miss the beautiful widow, even though their affair had lasted three years. There had been no emotional intimacy between them, because Damon had always taken care to keep their relationship strictly business. In that respect, Lydia was the perfect mistress for him. They'd had a mutually satisfying agreement. Damon paid her lavishly, and Lydia skillfully accommodated him when he sought refuge in sexual release.

He hadn't seen her since using her to help break off his betrothal to Eleanor, although he knew Lydia had a new protector. Otto Geary had mentioned her just the other day. Reportedly Lydia's sister was ill, so she had recently sought Otto's medical counsel.

Damon's grim expression turned sardonic as he recognized the irony of his thinking. The relationship he proposed to have with Elle was much the same as he'd had with Lydia: a strictly physical connection. He could understand why Eleanor would not be enamored of the idea.

He also understood why she would refuse to trust him after the way he had treated her.

He would have to prove himself deserving of her faith, Damon was well aware. And with patience, he might eventually win her acceptance.

Yet even if he wasn't able to convince her to wed him, Damon reflected, he would use any means necessary to prevent her from wedding her prince.

He couldn't save Joshua, but he would keep Elea nor safe.

Showing interest in another gentleman may rouse his jealousy to good effect, but take care not to go too far or else you may wake a slumbering devil. -An Anonymous Lady, Advice…

To Eleanor's dismay, she dreamed of Damon that night. As he roused her with his breath-stealing kisses and his tender, caressing hands, myriad emotions assaulted her-spellbinding intimacy, spiraling heat, stunning pleasure.

Her body dissolved beneath his skilled touches… but then somehow her dream changed from sensual fantasy to poignant memory.

The rose garden was small and secluded, her own private sanctuary at her aunt's enormous country estate. She was still in a daze of happiness since her betrothal to Damon was so brand new, only four days old. The house party had just ended, and this was their first chance to be alone together since the guests departed.

Making their escape from the manor, Eleanor brought Damon here to show him her special place, a part of her past that she never shared with anyone.

“This garden was Marcus's gift to me after our parents died when I was ten years old,” Eleanor explained. “He planned to return to university, and when I pleaded with him not to leave me here, he planted a rose bush for me. Then each year on my birthday, he has given me one more.”

She followed the gravel path where ten large bushes of lush pink roses spiraled out in a pattern. Leading Damon to the very heart of the spiral, Elea nor bent to lovingly stroke a velvet rose petal. “This plant was the first one.” Her voice dropped. “Marcus said he would be with me in spirit as long as I had my roses. And I would have something to remind me of his love. I am never lonely when I come here.”

Her heart filled with joy, she turned to gaze up at Damon, drinking in the sight of him. “Love vanquishes loneliness, and now that I am to be your wife, I know I will never be lonely again.”

At first she didn't notice how still Damon had become. “Love?” he asked quietly.

She smiled shyly up at him. “Yes. I love you, Damon. More than I ever thought to love anyone.” Bending again, she plucked a bud and held it to his lips. “I know you don't return my love yet. After all, it has not even been three weeks since we first met. But I hope that will soon change.”

After a long hesitation, he reached up to touch her cheek gently. “I don't want to hurt you, Elle.”

She shivered, wondering at the shadows in his eyes. His response was not the one she wanted, but she would not give up hope. “You could never hurt me, Damon. You would never

Eleanor started awake in the darkness, hearing the echo of her naive, trusting words, remembering her utter devastation the following week after they returned to London, when she'd spied Damon with his beautiful mistress.

Even two years later, the ache still burned inside her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she buried her face in her pillow to hold back the tears.

When she woke again, it was morning. The ache had diminished, but Eleanor was left with a feeling of great sadness, along with an even-greater restlessness. Yet after Damon's vexing visit to her bedchamber last evening, she was more determined than ever to persevere with her plan to employ Fanny's book, Advice to Young Ladies on Capturing a Husband, on Prince Lazzara.

She would redouble her efforts to win his affections, Eleanor vowed, and to elicit a proposal of marriage from him. More crucially, she would do her utmost to fall in love with him. What better way to forget the alluring Lord Wrexham than to bestow her heart on someone else?

The major impediment to her plan, however, was that the target of her designs was missing. Eleanor saw nothing of Prince Lazzara that day, although she received a short note of apology from him, explaining that regrettably he would have to forgo their planned afternoon drive in the park, since he was resting his sprained knee.

Her spirits a little deflated, Eleanor spent a quiet evening at home with her aunt. She was heartened during dinner, though, when they discussed the ball that Beatrix's good friend, the Dowager Countess of Haviland, would be giving the following evening.

“Mary has not held a ball in over a decade,” Beatrix remarked, “since her health is not robust. But she is eager to get Haviland married off, so she is leaving no stone unturned in her effort to introduce him to eligible prospects.”

Lady Haviland's handsome grandson, Rayne Ken -yon, had come into the title the previous year upon the death of his father, Eleanor knew. His name had been linked with Roslyn Loring's for a time during the summer, but obviously their suspected romance had come to naught since Roslyn had wed the Duke of Arden.

“The cream of society will be attending Mary's ball, you may be sure,” Beatrix added, “along with a horde of debutantes… At least the ones who did not manage to secure husbands this past Season.”

Eleanor suspected her aunt was correct. Before the wars ended, Haviland had frequently been out of the country. And more recently, he'd been in mourning for his father. But he was available now. And since a wealthy, unattached earl was a prime catch on the Marriage Mart, there undoubtedly would be numerous young ladies trying out their wiles on Lord Haviland-the very sort of audience that Fanny's book was intended for, although Eleanor kept