Gwen’s review of Never Romance a Rake (Neville Family Trilogy, Book 3) by Liz Carlyle
Historical romance released by Pocket 22 Jul 08

I enjoy breaking up my urban fantasy and contemporary reading with a nice, refreshing historical.  I tend to the “heavier” historicals and try to avoid “teh funny” as much as possible.  This book delivered on all levels – it cleared my palate mid-pile o’ UF, and is a weighty tale that distracted and entertained me. 

I realize I’m late to this series – the last book was released a year ago last July – but at least I came along for the ride.  I’m glad I read this book before the other two.  Though it would be entertaining to read them all in order, I don’t believe it’s necessary – this book stands alone fine.

The hero is Kieran, Lord Rothewell, and the heroine a young French woman named Camille.  Through some rather tried but true authorial maneuvers, the hero “wins” the heroine in a card game (he cheats, by the way). The two are thrust together mostly by choice and somewhat by circumstance.

Kieran is a rake of the worst sort – dissolute and depressed.  He is convinced that he’s an awful person and punishes himself suitably by totally abusing his body.  Camille has been raised by two of what must be the most selfish people on the planet.  As a result her self-image is not the best.  Nevertheless, Camille is determined to have a child so that she can have someone in her life she can truly love.

What I found surprising about both of these damaged people was how much I liked them.  I’m not a fan of the “oh woe is me” type of character.  You know the kind – Kenyon’s heroes are almost all a bunch of whiney babies.  Camille and Kieran doubt themselves, and Kieran wallows a bit, but neither of them whines.  They eventually talk to each other about what has damaged them and then overcome it together.  They act like, gasp, adults!

There’s a few other things that happen in the book that made me think for a few pages that I was reading a Dynasty script.  Regardless, the book remained entertaining and didn’t fall into the “no way!” realm.  Near as I can gather, this is the only book of the trilogy that doesn’t rely on a political suspense element to carry the story.  It’s all about the couple – another thing I really liked.

I recommend this book to anyone looking for a meatier romance that is truly centered on the couple.  If you’re a fan of historicals, you’ll also like it though there’s actually not much about the period in this entry.

Grade: B+

Read more reviews and information by following the series tag here.

Summary:

Baron Rothewell lives a dark, shuttered existence by day, and a life of reckless abandon by night. Scarred by a childhood filled with torment and deprivation, Rothewell cares very little anyone or anything. His life on the edge of ruin suits him—until he meets a man who just might be his nemesis. The Comte de Valigny likes to play deeply and dangerously, but Rothewell’s recklessness is undeterred. Until one night when de Valigny wagers something just a little more valuable than gold.

Mademoiselle Marchand is a desperate woman in a strange land, and her pleading eyes seem to swallow Lord Rothewell body and soul—assuming he still has one. Now the baron must play his hand with the utmost care, for at last something meaningful is at stake…

Read an excerpt here.

Other books in the series (I adore these covers – such pretty colors):

Liviania’s review of Never Romance a Rake (Neville Family Trilogy, Book 3) by Liz Carlyle
Historical romance release by Pocket Star 22 July 08

I doubt anyone who read the other entries in the Neville Family Series can resist Baron Rothwell’s story. But even those unfamiliar with the other two can enjoy this novel.  The plot relies on several cliches, but Liz Carlyle uses them well.  This book uses the gambling set up, when the slimy Comte de Valigny offers his daughter for a wager.  Kieran doesn’t have much of a conscience, but he knows he’s her best option between the two men at the table.  Camille’s willing to take any option if it means marriage and a child.  What really makes this trope work is Carlyle examining why Camille would choose to gambled away.  She’s a survivor, caught between the legacy of her neglectful and selfish parents ever and a better life – if she marries and bears a child soon.  She has no desire to fall for a rake like Kieran, but she finds herself doing so anyways as she manages to observe pieces of his better side.  She’s determined and fierce and the perfect match for the self-destructive Kieran.

Carlyle makes Kieran’s character work by not holding back.  Like any real person, he’s not all bad.  He obviously cares for his remaining family and his servants.  They, in return, see his better side and wish he would stop his destructive behavior.  However, he is not simply misunderstood.  He gladly drinks, gambles, and whores about because he believes he deserves to be punished.  His abusive childhood and damaging first love guaranteed his terrible self-image.

Never Romance a Rake retains Kieran’s black humor.  While all three of the books involve dark subjects, this concluding volume contains the most darkness.  (As such, it contains the least Kemble, as he would be out of place.  He still shows up enough to make Camille and I happy.)  He’s terribly prickly and unwilling to let Camille into his heart since his lifestyle is finally destroying his health.

In Never Romance a Rake, I wondered often while reading how Carlyle could possibly deliver a happily ever after, when Rothwell’s destiny seemed to be the grave.  She did make him suffer for it, although events do conspire to grant Kieran and Camille an extremely happy ending.  Some parts seem almost too lucky, but it’s hard to begrudge the character’s their good fortune when they survived some of the world’s worst parenting.  It’s a pleasure to watch these two damaged, self-reliant characters learn to trust and love each other.

Grade: B+

Summary:

Baron Rothewell lives a dark, shuttered existence by day, and a life of reckless abandon by night. Scarred by a childhood filled with torment and deprivation, Rothewell cares very little anyone or anything. His life on the edge of ruin suits him—until he meets a man who just might be his nemesis. The Comte de Valigny likes to play deeply and dangerously, but Rothewell’s recklessness is undeterred. Until one night when de Valigny wagers something just a little more valuable than gold.

Mademoiselle Marchand is a desperate woman in a strange land, and her pleading eyes seem to swallow Lord Rothewell body and soul—assuming he still has one. Now the baron must play his hand with the utmost care, for at last something meaningful is at stake . . .

Read an excerpt here.

Okay, so the awarding of these books is waaaay overdue. Mea Culpa, I plead too much sun. As you may remember, about a month ago we offered up 10 copies of each book in Liz Carlyle’s latest trilogy: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke and Never Romance a Rake. Then it somehow got lost in the shuffle. Well, I finally got my act together, so click on the cut to see who won.

Cara: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Meared: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Ilona: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Little Lamb Lost: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Lyra: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Katharina: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Natasha: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Maureen: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Emma: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Ninoska Suarez: Never Lie to a Lady, Never Deceive a Duke

Cheryl C.: Never Romance a Rake

Jess: Never Romance a Rake

Danny: Never Romance a Rake

Phyl: Never Romance a Rake

Rosario: Never Romance a Rake

CrystalGB: Never Romance a Rake

Lacey: Never Romance a Rake

Marg: Never Romance a Rake

Willa: Never Romance a Rake

BethanyA: Never Romance a Rake

Congratulations! Please send your mailing address to redwyne at gmail dot com. Put “Liz Carlyle Winner” in the subject line. Also include the titles you won. Yay!

Devon’s review of Never Romance a Rake (Neville Family Trilogy, Book 3) by Liz Carlyle
Historical Romance released by Pocket 22 Jul 08

Liz Carlyle can always be counted upon to deliver. I haven’t read all of her books, but I have read a number of them. She writes great characters and passionate, romantic stories. Her novels are meaty and often a bit dark. Carlyle deals with the darker side of nineteenth century social system-the strictures placed upon people by birth, ethnicity, classes and money. No fake rakes here. The heroes and heroines of her books have troubled pasts, and are in need of love and the redemption it provides. Never Romance a Rake looked to be another compelling read, and Sybil has raved about it. So was it “the historical of the summer?”

To be honest, I don’t read enough historicals these days to feel qualified to make a judgment. But the book was a satisfying read with much to recommend it. The hero, Baron Rothewell (Kieran), lives a dissolute existence. His troubled child- and young adulthood have left him so damaged that he spends all his time drinking, gambling and consorting with shady sorts. At one late night session, he is startled when the slimy Comte de Valigny offers up his daughter as a prize. He is intrigued by the woman’s beauty and fiery demeanor, and wins the hand in order to keep her from going to a total creep. Kieran has now won Camille’s hand in marriage, although he doesn’t think he wants it.

Camille was great. She has had a rough life herself, with two amazingly self-centered parents. Now all she wants is the baby and the financial stability that marriage to Kieran will provide. No stranger to dealing with outsize personalities, she is more than a match for Kieran. She speaks up for herself and stands up to him and others. But she also had a kindness and an empathy that shone through. She and Kieran had great chemistry and I really wanted both them to get their HEA.

But something kept this from being a keeper for me. I think it was Kieran. He was very troubled, and has almost ruined his health. I liked him, but I was a bit put off. He acts like a dick for awhile, and I was just like, eh. The gambling drunk thing doesn’t really sweep me off my feet. There was also a familiarity about the proceedings: the troubled rake, the daughter being gambled away.The book definitely kept my interest. I liked Camille in particular and was intrigued by the larger cast. I’m going to go back and read the other two in the trilogy now. While it’s not among my favorites, I don’t think that fans of the author, or readers looking for an angsty historical, will be disappointed.

Grade: B

The Summary:
Baron Rothewell lives a dark, shuttered existence by day, and a life of reckless abandon by night. Scarred by a childhood filled with torment and deprivation, Rothewell cares very little anyone or anything. His life on the edge of ruin suits him—until he meets a man who just might be his nemesis. The Comte de Valigny likes to play deeply and dangerously, but Rothewell’s recklessness is undeterred. Until one night when de Valigny wagers something just a little more valuable than gold.

Mademoiselle Marchand is a desperate woman in a strange land, and her pleading eyes seem to swallow Lord Rothewell body and soul—assuming he still has one. Now the baron must play his hand with the utmost care, for at last something meaningful is at stake . . .

Read an excerpt here

The other books in the series:

Never Romance a Rake, the final book in Liz Carlyle’s latest trilogy, was released on 22 July 2008. We know that Sybil loved it, and by clicking on that link, you can read a great excerpt as well.

Baron Rothewell lives a dark, shuttered existence by day, and a life of reckless abandon by night. Scarred by a childhood filled with torment and deprivation, Rothewell cares very little anyone or anything. His life on the edge of ruin suits him—until he meets a man who just might be his nemesis. The Comte de Valigny likes to play deeply and dangerously, but Rothewell’s recklessness is undeterred. Until one night when de Valigny wagers something just a little more valuable than gold.

Mademoiselle Marchand is a desperate woman in a strange land, and her pleading eyes seem to swallow Lord Rothewell body and soul—assuming he still has one. Now the baron must play his hand with the utmost care, for at last something meaningful is at stake . . .

In honor of (to quote Sybil) “the historical of the summer”, TGTBTU presents…

A Contest!

We have ten copies of each book in the trilogy to give to give away! That’s right, thirty books!

The first two books:

	Read an excerpt
	Read an excerpt

To enter the contest, answer the following question: What’s your favorite Liz Carlyle book? And if you haven’t read any of her books before, tell us why you should win. In your comment, please specify which book(s) you want. You can enter to win one, two or all three! Contest will be open through Friday, August 1.

Good luck!

Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

This is THE book. Yes THE book. The one that I have wanted since Thanksgiving when I closed The School for Heiresses (see my review) and thought OMG I MUST have his book.

I had no clue I would have to wait this long. Now I am sure you haven’t noticed, but I am not a patient person. I know, I know, you don’t believe it… but it is true. THE WAIT – is almost over. The Excerpt… just might explain why you need this book. Why you want this book. Yes this is the historical of the summer, the one you didn’t even know you needed to be counting down the minutes too.

You are most welcome.

Baron Rothewell lives a dark, shuttered existence by day, and a life of reckless abandon by night. Scarred by a childhood filled with torment and deprivation, Rothewell cares very little anyone or anything. His life on the edge of ruin suits him—until he meets a man who just might be his nemesis. The Comte de Valigny likes to play deeply and dangerously, but Rothewell’s recklessness is undeterred. Until one night when de Valigny wagers something just a little more valuable than gold.

Mademoiselle Marchand is a desperate woman in a strange land, and her pleading eyes seem to swallow Lord Rothewell body and soul—assuming he still has one. Now the baron must play his hand with the utmost care, for at last something meaningful is at stake . . .

Click here to read the excerpt on LizC’s site.

POND EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT FROM

Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

Once inside the drawing room, Lady Nash excused herself to confer with one of the footmen regarding the coffee service. Most of the dinner guests were playing cards now at one of two tables which had been pulled to the center of the room. Rather than hover over them, Camille drifted around the perimeter, admiring Lord Nash’s collection of French landscapes. She was particularly absorbed by one when she felt a light touch at her elbow.

She turned to see one of Nash’s younger sisters at her side. “Cards are so frightfully dull, are they not, Mademoiselle Marchand?” she said, smiling.

Camille smiled back. “They can be, oui.”

The young woman stuck out a hand. “Lady Phaedra Northampton,” she said. “You cannot possibly have got all these names the first time round.”

“Merci, I did not,” Camille confessed.

Lady Phaedra was perhaps a bit past twenty, and remarkably pretty despite her gold spectacles. She gestured at the wall. “You are an admirer of French classicism, mademoiselle?”

Camille turned back to the painting. “I like Poussin,” she admitted, pointing at her favorite elements in the painting. “I like his subtle use of color here. It allows his extraordinary skill with line and light to emerge.”

Just then, Lord Rothewell approached. “Do not let this one goad you,” he murmured, leaning toward Camille. “She imagines herself more intelligent than us mere mortals.”

Lady Phaedra drew herself up an inch. “Well, at least I know my rosa centifolias from my rosa rugosas, which is more than I can say for some people,” she answered, her eyes following Rothewell. Then she softened her tone, and returned her gaze to Camille. “As to the painting, Mademoiselle Marchand, I love it, too.”

Lady Phaedra’s mother drifted toward them. “Yes, I have always thought that one especially pretty,” she remarked, motioning at the painting. “The hills, the trees, and those tiny little horses. Very clever indeed. But I prefer the kind Nash has upstairs. The ones with all the bowls full of fruit and such.”

“Still lifes, Mamma,” said Lady Phaedra indulgently. “They are called still lifes.”

“But they are all still,” the dowager complained. “They are paintings. They cannot very well go anywhere, can they?”

Lady Phaedra chose not to argue with this logic. “Nash’s late mother was of Russian extraction,” she explained. “She had quite good taste in art. As Mother says, there is a collection of fine Flemish still lifes in the library upstairs, if you would care to see them.”

“A capital notion,” said Rothewell out of nowhere.

Camille spun around to see he was studying the Poussin as if it held the secrets of the universe. Her breath caught at the intensity of his gaze.

“Lovely, then,” said Lady Phaedra cheerfully. “Up we go.”

The dowager whacked her daughter lightly on the arm with her fan. “Don’t be obtuse, Phaedra,” she said. “The happy couple might wish to go alone.”

“An excellent notion, ma’am,” said Rothewell. “I believe I am developing a fondness for art.”

“And roses,” interjected Lady Phaedra, grinning. “Did you know that, Mademoiselle Marchand? Lord Rothewell has a vast knowledge of rose gardening. You must ask him to expound upon it sometime.”

“Thank you, Phae.” Rothewell bowed stiffly. “But at present, I find myself equally fascinated by painting.”

The dowager had taken Camille by the hand. “The paintings are in the far end of the library. If the room is locked, you’ll find a key under the vase by the door.” Then she smiled and leaned nearer. “We will not send out a search party if you linger.”

Lord Rothewell watched Camille from the corner of one eye to see if she would hesitate. The notion of privacy was as appealing as it was disquieting. He turned, and offered his arm to her.

“The talk about roses,” she asked as they went up the stairs, “what did it mean?”

“What, Phae?” Rothewell looked down, feeling faintly embarrassed. “Nothing. She is simply teasing me.”

“Oui? About what?”

“About a foolish white lie I once told her—an excuse to escape a tea I did not wish to attend.”

“I see.” Camille seemed to hesitate. “And tell me, monsieur, are you lying now?”

Rothewell stopped on the steps. “About what?”

Her dark eyes flashed with some inscrutable emotion. “About your fondness for paintings, of course.”

He let his eyes roam over her face. “Yes,” he said honestly. “I don’t give a damn for art or roses, if you must know.”

“Ah,” she said softly. “Do you know anything at all of art?”

Rothewell hesitated. He doubtless looked the worst sort of rustic in her eyes. But he’d be damned if he’d pretend to be something he was not—even for her. “I know blue from red,” he finally answered. “And oils from . . . the other kind. That is the extent of it.”

“Oui? And yet you wish to see more paintings?”

“What I wish is to speak with you in private,” he finally snapped. “And I can see no other way of doing so. Forgive my presumption. Would you rather not be alone?”

“Alone should suit me very well indeed,” she said, starting up the stairs again. “For I have something to say to you, monsieur. And I am not afraid of you. I think you know that much by now.”

She should have been afraid. If she had sensed for one moment the thoughts which ran through his head as he watched her silk skirts slither over her hips as she climbed the stairs, yes, she would have been very afraid indeed.

The library was easy to find. A pair of vases on pedestals flanked the entrance. Rothewell found the key, and locked the door behind them. Inside, the room was faintly musty, like any library which was little used. A pair of sconces burned just beyond the doors, but the rest of the room lay in shadows. He found a candle and lit it, then strolled a little deeper into the room. An entire wall had been given over to paintings with sconces placed every few feet between them.

“Shall I light the others?” he asked.

“Merci, but the candle will do,” she said. “We are not here, I think, to look at paintings?”

“No, we are not.” He set the candle on one of the reading tables, and turned to face her. “We are here because I owe you an apology.”

Her finely etched eyebrows rose. Finally, he had shocked her. “Mon dieu, does everyone mean to apologize to me this night?”

“I can speak for no one save myself,” he replied.

She smiled almost sourly, and half turned away. “You refer to your mistress, Mrs. Ambrose, n’est-ce pas?”

Rothewell followed her as she strolled past toward the wall of paintings. “I do,” he answered. “That scene yesterday at Pamela’s—I take full responsibility for it. It was unfair to you.”

“Oui, it was.” She looked back over her shoulder. “And unfair to Madame Ambrose, I think?”

“That, too,” he said grimly.

Camille turned around, and he thought he saw a flicker of pain in her wide, bottomless eyes. For an instant, she hesitated. “I cannot stop you, my lord, from keeping a mistress,” she said after a long, uncertain moment had passed. “But so long as we live together, I shan’t have this affaire d’amour of yours flung in my face. Do you understand me, Rothewell? I will not be humiliated by my husband as my mother was. I will not.”

Her voice was raw, but despite it, Camille stood before him, cool and exquisite, like an ornament of spun glass placed just beyond his reach. Something inside his chest seemed to twist. He suddenly wished to kiss her again. To hold her and kiss her until her beauty was in dishabille. Until her inky hair was tumbling down and tangled in his fingers. Until her mouth was softly parted and her eyes were somnolent with desire. His weakness angered him. Ruthlessly, he shoved the thoughts away.

“Our discussion of Mrs. Ambrose is finished, Camille,” he said, setting his hands on her slender shoulders. “I have apologized.”

Camille’s eyes hardened. “It is far from finished, monsieur,” she gritted. “I demand your word as a gentleman.”

“What, jealous?”

Her eyes sparked with fire. “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted, her voice a hot whisper. “You would like to have that power over me. To hold my heart in your hands. But I am not such a fool, Rothewell. I will not give you my heart. I can ill afford it.”

His hands tightened on her arms. “I have asked you to be my wife,” he gritted. “And I am asking you to be honorable and faithful. Not one thing more do I require of you, madam. Do not put words in my mouth.”

“Très bien,” she snapped. “Then keep your affaires private, monsieur.”

He gave her a little shake. “At least say my name, damn it,” he growled. “Stop calling me monsieur, as if you just met me.”

“Fine,” she said, “Lord Rothewell.”

“Not that name,” he growled. “Kieran. If you cannot dredge up a little indignation at the thought of my keeping a mistress do you think you could at the very least use my Christian name?”

“So, you mean to be a faithful husband?” she challenged, her eyes wide and mocking. “Oh, do not lie to me, my lord. You are a rake and a rogue to your very core, and we both of us know it.”

Something inside him snapped. He jerked her hard against him, and set his mouth to hers in a kiss which was more brutish than tender. His mouth took hers hungrily, lust shooting through him like a hot, living thing. He wanted her angry. Wanted her, he supposed, to slap him senseless. To shut out the truth of her words. He thrust his tongue into her mouth claiming her, forcing her head back. Forcing her to submit. It was a fierce, fleeting thing, and when they came apart, her eyes blazed, and her breath came sharp and short.

“There,” he said, his own breath coming roughly. “Now do not claim, Camille, that you are so indifferent to me. Use my Christian name. Cease this foolish pretense of yours. Stop acting as if you mean to go to the marriage bed like some lamb to the slaughter.”

A rosy flush ran up her throat. “You are very full of yourself, Kieran,” she said in her quiet, husky voice. “And trust me, I am no lamb.”

“No, you are not, are you?” His voice, too, had dropped an octave. “This is going to be a marriage, Camille. If we can do no more, we should at least try to be . . . I don’t know. Amiable, I suppose.”

Amiable? Rothewell wished to jerk the word back as soon as it left his lips. He was not amiable—to anyone.

But Camille was watching him, and for an instant, the hard mask fell. She was lonely, and alone, he thought, but afraid, perhaps, to be otherwise. She had his sympathy. And in another time and place, he wondered if things could have been different for them.

“Camille,” he whispered, “may we not try to get along?” Such simple words—and, so far as he could recall, the only thing he had ever asked of any woman. The thought shamed him a little.

“I . . . I do not know.” She clasped her hands before her, and in the slight curve of her shoulders, he could see an infinite weariness. “But I know this: I cannot afford to grow attached to you. I cannot come to depend on you. You have said as much yourself and, mon dieu, I admired you for your honesty when you said it—”

“No, what I said was—”

Camille threw up her hand. “Let me finish, s’il vous plaît,” she said. “Do not give in to this—this bourgeois guilt you seem suddenly to be toying with. You desire me, but do not pretend you feel anything for me beyond lust. I will think the better of you for it.”

“Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s just that I wish . . . ”

“Quoi?” She whispered, lowering her eyelids as if hiding some emotion. “What do you wish, Rothewell? That life were fair? I think you know that it is not.”

He shook his head. “I wish that we had met under different circumstances. Before I became . . . what I am. Before you became so cold.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked softly. “Cold?”

“Yes, and hard,” he added. “Your heart has been hardened by life, Camille. You expect . . . well, the worst, I suppose.”

And perhaps she was about to get it, he inwardly acknowledged. He was a poor choice of a husband, for any number of reasons. He probably wouldn’t be faithful. Perhaps not even honorable. Hell, he had cheated at cards just to get the chance to bed her. But his mind kept turning back to the scene of her pounding her fist on Valigny’s card table, and challenging one of them to marry her. She had been ready for martyrdom—and he carried the sword.

Tonight she was even more beautiful, the creamy swell of her breasts just visible above the fabric of a dark green gown which flattered her every turn. His gaze drifted over the warm olive skin of her swanlike neck. Over the emerald earbobs which swayed from the plump earlobes he wanted suddenly to suckle. He returned his hands to her shoulders, and pulled her nearer.

“Camille, you are marrying because you have no other choice,” he said quietly. “Do you think I don’t know that? But before you stand up with me before God, you should know what I expect.”

“Bien sûr.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “What do you expect?”

“Kissing,” he said quietly. “Perhaps a great deal of it.”

“Ah, as you just kissed me a moment ago?” she asked.

“Yes, I daresay.” She meant to make this difficult, he realized. “Camille, this cannot be about having a child and nothing more,” he found himself saying. “You deserve something better than a man who will simply take his pleasure from you.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “You wish to seduce me.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do,” he admitted.

She cut her gaze away, a rare show of surrender. “I need a husband, my lord,” she answered, blinking rapidly. “And I have already shown that I am weak. Yes, I desire you. Your touch . . . it maddens me. Your seduction of me will not present much of a challenge, I fear.”

Rothewell shook his head. He was deeply dissatisfied, and he was not perfectly sure why. It was the same sort of frustration he had felt on the night he’d first met her, when Camille had so dispassionately offered her body to him then and there, in exchange for his promise of marriage. He had been damned tempted, too.

He remembered another such beauty who had needed rescuing, but on that occasion, it had been he who had made the offer. The many pleasures of Annemarie’s body in exchange for his undying love and financial support. He was hardly the first man to propose her that. And she had been glad enough to seal the bargain—in a way he would never forget. After long years in the darkness, his life had suddenly seemed filled with light. Until his brother had chosen to interfere.

But Camille was not Annemarie, no matter what Xanthia believed. Oh, the resemblance was there. Dark hair and flashing eyes. Honeyed skin. That sensuous French accent. And yes, it had been the first thing about Camille that had struck him. Tempted him. But any resurrected fantasies of Annemarie would likely not survive one interlude in Camille Marchand’s bed. This woman had a passion and a backbone Annemarie had never possessed.

A woman so rare deserved to be surrounded by joy. To be made love to on a bed of rose petals. To have poetry written in her honor. And none of these things would he ever do for Camille Marchand. It wasn’t in his nature. She would have to settle, at least for a while, with a good deal less.

Though he had not spoken in some minutes, Camille had made no effort to step away. Caught in the moment, he lifted his hand, and stroked the back of his knuckles along her cheek.

Her sweep of black lashes lowered, fanning across her warm skin.

“You were right about one thing,” he finally said. “I desire you. Far more than I would wish.”

She looked up at him, unblinking. “You wish to kiss me again, n’est-ce pas?”

He lifted his hands to cradle her face, then stroked his thumb round the corner of her mouth, and then across her sensuous bottom lip. He felt the plump swell of it quiver beneath the pad of his thumb. He drew it down just a fraction, to reveal her small white teeth, and the pink tip of her tongue. He leaned forward, and skimmed his mouth along the shell of her ear. “Yes,” he murmured. “And it is very necessary, Camille. Absolutely necessary.”

“Necessary?” Her voice was thready.

“This kissing.” He drew back and smoothed his thumb across the apple of her cheek. “You once asked me . . . was it necessary? And it is. Like air to my lungs. Kiss me again. Kiss me, Camille.”

She tilted her head and rose onto her toes without opening her eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, Rothewell lowered his mouth to hers. He wanted to savor each second, tucking it away in the recesses of his memory. Storing it away for a time when, perhaps, he would not have this pleasure.

Their lips touched, hers trembling at first. His were certain. And with a gentleness that amazed even himself, Rothewell molded his mouth softly to hers. After a moment’s hesitation, Camille was kissing him back in earnest. Unbidden, she opened beneath him, and drew his tongue deep into the warmth of her mouth. It was sweet. So achingly sweet. Something in the pit of his belly seemed to melt.

Her hands came up to hold his face, mirroring his earlier gesture. As if she might control his motions, she held him there, their tongues sinuously entwining, her breath coming more urgently with every moment. He wanted her. Good God, how he wanted her. It was not unbridled lust. It was not Annemarie. He just wanted this woman—Camille—and with an intensity that would have worried him were he not so desperately lost in her kiss.

Somehow, he turned and set her back to the wall below one of the sconces. He wished suddenly that he had lit them all; that he could see the flickering light play over the fine bones of her face, and the silken sweep of her eyelashes. Without taking his mouth from hers, his hands went up to cradle the mounds of her breasts.

Camille gasped faintly at the touch of his hands. When he hooked his thumbs in the laced edge of her bodice, she said nothing, and let her head go back against the wall. She felt enervated, as if she were entirely at his command—and in that moment, she did not care. With a deft tug, he drew the fabric down, taking her chemise with it, until the dusky pink nipples were exposed.

He hesitated as if waiting. For her protest. For the back of her hand. But the dark silence of the library was rent only by the sound of their breathing.

Camille was so tired of fighting her desire for him. Whatever Rothewell was, no matter why he wanted her, she ached for him. And when he bent his head to draw her left nipple between his lips, she gasped at the hot ribbon of pleasure it engendered.

He took that as a sound of approval. He drew her breast more fully into the warmth of his mouth, suckling until she began to make small, breathy sounds of pleasure. Then he moved to the other breast, first circling the nipple with his tongue, then sucking at the very tip as he gently nipping with his teeth.

“Ooh, oui!” she murmured. Her hands went to his shoulders, restless and urgent.

Gently, he slipped one hand between her shoulder blades. “No, let me, Camille,” he breathed against her ear as the hooks of her gown slipped free. “Let me unfasten this.”

She did not feign innocence, or further protest. Instead, she gave herself up to the skill of his well-tutored touch. And when he returned his attention to her small, perfect breasts, cupping their weight in his hands, she opened her eyes. “Mon dieu,” she murmured dreamily.

He kissed her long and deep. Her head moved restlessly against the wall. “Kieran, I want—” she whispered. “I want—oh, I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I can guess.”

But as Kieran cradled one breast and kissed her deeply, and his other hand fisted in her skirts, he realized he should be horsewhipped. He was not so wrapped up in her he could not appreciate the precariousness of their situation. Or the fact that she was a virgin. Instead, he inched her skirts up into his fist, then eased one hand between them, touching her lightly in her most intimate place.

“Camille,’ he whispered. “You are going to marry me. In a few days’ time. We will be married, yes?”

“Oh, oui, je suis . . . ” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I am so . . . yes. Yes. ”

With a lifetime of experience in having sex in places he had no business, with women he scarcely knew, Rothewell inched down her drawers until they slithered into a puddle of silk at her feet.

The book I have been looking forward to reading since Thanksgiving 2006 and the final installment of Liz Carlyle’s latest trilogy.

Doesn’t the cover go wonderfully with the blog?

Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

New York Times bestselling author Liz Carlyle delivers the third in her exciting historical trilogy with the story of a wicked rake’s redemption, and the unconventional woman who saves him.

Baron Rothewell lives a dark, isolated existence by day, and a life of reckless abandon by night. Scarred by a childhood filled with torment and deprivation, Rothewell cares very little about anyone or anything. His life on the edge of ruin suits him—until he meets a man who just might be his nemesis. The Comte de Valigny likes to play dangerously, but Rothewell’s recklessness is undeterred. Until one night when de Valigny wagers something quite a bit more valuable than gold— his bastard daughter.

Mademoiselle Marchand is a desperate woman in a strange land, and her pleading eyes seem to swallow Lord Rothewell, body and soul—assuming he still has one. Now the baron must play his hand with the utmost care, for at last something meaningful is at stake.

Read an excerpt

I WANT!!!!