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  Praise for the Rakes of Cavendish Square Series

  “Warren carries out her story with skill, crafting likable characters and delivering plenty of sensuality to keep fans satisfied.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The writing and dialogue were charming.”

  —Smart Bitches Trashy Books

  “Deeply moving . . . [a] fantastic romance that manages to transcend its Regency setting.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “[A] joyful, heartwarming love story filled with humor, steamy romance, and just enough conflict to leave you cheering at the end for our delightful couple.”

  —Smexy Books

  “[A] surprisingly ‘grown-up’ romance with darker undertones than are usually found in the genre . . . an intense and compelling read.”

  —All About Romance

  Raves for New York Times Bestselling Author Tracy Anne Warren and Her Novels

  “Tracy Anne Warren is brilliant!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Cathy Maxwell

  “[A] truly satisfying romance.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “An exceptionally entertaining Regency historical [that] offers readers a delectable combination of lushly elegant writing and lusciously sensual romance.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Warren’s emotionally wrought protagonists are beautifully portrayed.”

  —Library Journal

  “Readers are gifted with the awe-inspiring genius of Ms. Warren’s talents.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Seductively fun . . . will keep the reader engrossed until the last page.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “The perfect literary fairy tale for any romance reader.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Zippy yet soulful . . . deeply relatable characters and strong writing.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Warren] knows what romance readers enjoy.”

  —Romance Junkies

  Also by Tracy Anne Warren

  THE RAKES OF CAVENDISH SQUARE

  The Bedding Proposal

  Happily Bedded Bliss

  THE PRINCESS BRIDES ROMANCES

  The Princess and the Peer

  Her Highness and the Highlander

  The Trouble with Princesses

  THE GRAYSON SERIES

  The Last Man on Earth

  The Man Plan

  Mad About the Man

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Tracy Anne Warren

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK and BERKLEY are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698154018

  First Edition: March 2017

  Cover art by Aleta Rafton

  Cover design by Katie Anderson

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

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  Contents

  Praise for the Rakes of Cavendish Square Series

  Also by Tracy Anne Warren

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Excerpt from Happily Bedded Bliss

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  May 1821

  Rosamund Carrow’s heart gave a single heavy thump as the coach drove up Chancery Lane and came to a halt before the main entrance to the Honourable Society of Lincoln’s Inn. She glanced through the vehicle’s small window at the gatehouse, with its pair of great oak doors. Above, set into the sixteenth-century brick, lay the coats of arms of Henry de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln; King Henry VIII; and Sir Thomas Lovell—an illustrious grouping for an illustrious institution.

  “Are you certain I look all right?” she asked her brother, Bertram, who sat across from her in the dark, quiet confines of the coach.

  He swept her with a quick glance. “Course you d-do. W-wouldn’t have let you out of the h-house if you d-didn’t.”

  She tugged at the unfamiliar black men’s jacket and white waistcoat to make sure the garments were straight, then smoothed a damp palm across one leg of the black summer-weight woolen breeches she wore. In keeping with the sartorial requirements of tonight’s dinner for attorneys-at-law, she had also donned a black robe, black stockings and flat-black shoes with broad silver buckles, all of which she’d borrowed from Bertram, then altered to fit. The shoes had proven the most challenging, but she’d managed by stuffing the toes with cloth.

  As for the way she felt in her new masculine attire, she couldn’t quite decide. On the one hand, it seemed odd to move about without the protection of a dress, as if parts of her were exposed in the most unseemly manner. After all, she wasn’t used to displaying her legs, and most particularly not her calves, even if they did happen to be encased in black stockings. Yet the novel sensation of wearing breeches was curiously liberating, her body no longer burdened by hard whalebone stays and the cumbersome layers of petticoats and gown. Still, she couldn’t say she enjoyed having her breasts bound flat against her chest or that she savored the restrictive sensation of her neck being trussed up like a goose in the cravat Bertram had aided her in tying.

  The most emotionally unsettling part of her disguise, however, had come from the necessity of having to cut her long, straight brown hair. She’d balked and very nearly changed her mind about going along with Bertram’s scheme when her maid—who was in on the identity switch, as were the rest of their staunchly loyal and reliably discreet household staff—approached her with a pair of scissors to do the deed.

  Yet after much debate between herself and Bertram, some of which had become uncharacteristically heated, Rosamund had allowed her hair to be cut to shoulder length. Although it was not at all in keeping with the current style, they’d agreed that she would leave her hair a bit long and wear it secured in a queue like men of the previous century. Curiously enough, the old-fashioned style suited her long face and silvery gray eyes, making her look more serious and mature—a good thing, con
sidering how much younger than her eight and twenty years her whiskerless cheeks made her appear now that she was pretending to be a man. And not just any man, but a practicing barrister.

  “Just r-remember to keep your v-voice lowered like we p-practiced,” Bertram said in his familiar soft stutter.

  “I will,” she replied, testing out the deeper cadence that somehow still felt comfortable to her when speaking. Had it not, she knew there would have been no chance of her keeping up the deceit.

  She let Bertram step down from the coach first, then took a deep breath and followed after him.

  The courtyard was cast in lengthening evening shadows as they made their way onto the grounds, the imposing Tudor-style brick buildings rising up around them.

  She’d been to Lincoln’s Inn on only one other occasion, more than a decade earlier, when her father, prominent barrister Elias Carrow, had stopped to handle a quick matter of business. He’d admonished her to stay in the coach, but she’d snuck out after he left and walked around the grounds with their footman trailing behind her. She hadn’t been allowed inside the buildings, of course, and had gotten nowhere near the members’ rooms. But tonight her curiosity would finally be rewarded.

  She did her best not to gawk through the lenses of her spectacles as she and Bertram moved past paintings and portraits, and the armorial bearings of distinguished members both past and present. Instead she concentrated on keeping her shoulders squared and her stride direct and confidently authoritative so as not to reveal any feminine softness.

  “C-can’t have you walking like a g-girl and giving the whole thing away,” Bertram had warned during one of their practice sessions at home.

  A congestion of voices reached her ears as she and Bertram entered a drawing room. Lawyers in dark robes stood in loose groupings, drinks in hand as they conversed.

  Bertram leaned in close. “Everyone ch-chats for a bit before we m-move into the hall to d-dine. Come. Let’s f-find Stan P-Partridge so I can make the necessary i-intro-d-ductions.”

  Rosamund swallowed, her throat tight. So far none of the men around them seemed to have noticed her. But when they did, what then? Would they see her and Bertram as the male cousins they were supposed to be? Or would the others realize that a feminine interloper was in their esteemed midst?

  Her pulse thundered between her ears. Despite all their careful preparations, had she and Bertram miscalculated? He had so much confidence in her, certain she would succeed. If only she had that selfsame composure. Then again, it had been Bertram’s plan from the start. His wild scheme that she act as his cocounsel so she could help him handle their recently deceased father’s remaining cases without everything turning into a disaster.

  Not that her brother was a bad lawyer.

  He wasn’t.

  He was actually quite good.

  It was only that, because of his stutter—which always worsened under stress—he’d never performed well in court. In fact, until now he’d handled all the in-chambers work while their father had been the one to appear at trial.

  Of course, it had been their father who pushed Bertram to be a barrister in the first place despite the fact that he had never been comfortable speaking in public and would much rather have chosen another profession. Just as it had been their father who educated and trained her in the law, taught her how to analyze, develop and present written and oral legal arguments. She’d even participated in moot courts. Sadly those had been conducted only in private with Bertram and their father, since women weren’t permitted to practice law. Had they been, she would have become a barrister and been called to the bar years ago. She found the law fascinating, and it would have been her pride and delight, as the elder sibling, to step into their father’s shoes rather than forcing her brother to do work that had never been suited to his nature.

  Then, one evening three weeks previous, she’d discovered Elias Carrow dead at his desk; a sudden aneurysm, or so the doctor had said. And in an instant, she and Bertram had found themselves parentless and alone, their whole world turned upside down.

  So now here she was, disguised as a male barrister in order to gain official admittance to one of the Inns of Court. Bertram had thought of “borrowing” their elderly cousin Ross’s legal credentials and his place on the Law List, which luckily provided no personal specifics about the attorney other than his name and that he was qualified to practice law. It was an idea that would still never have worked had it not been for the fact that Cousin Ross was a country barrister who detested London and never ventured farther south than his home in Yorkshire.

  “There’s not a soul here in the city who will recognize him or his name,” she remembered Bertram assuring her. “And Cousin Ross will never know a thing about it. As for the Inn, the head of membership, Stan Partridge, has agreed to let you come along to d-dinner Friday night, or rather agreed to let Cousin Ross come along. You’re required to attend three d-dinners before you can be admitted, but he says you can make up the other two later. He’s not the sh-sharpest knife in the box, but he’s a capital fellow nonetheless. He won’t give us a spot of trouble.”

  Not a spot of trouble . . .

  She only prayed he was right, her pulse racing at a Derby-worthy clip.

  She glanced back toward the entrance, doing a few quick calculations in her head. It wasn’t too late to beat a hasty retreat. All they needed to do was turn around and slip quietly away with no one the wiser. She reached out to stop Bertram, words of apology on her lips, but he was already striding forward, intent on locating Partridge. Before she had time to catch up with him, a pair of older men moved into her path, blocking her way. Determined not to lose her brother in the crowd, she shifted sideways and, without intending to, bumped into another man she hadn’t even realized was there.

  She looked up, then up again, as he swung around to face her. At five foot seven, she was tall for a woman and usually didn’t have to lift her eyes more than an inch or two in order to converse with a man. But this man towered above her, topping her height by at least half a foot.

  She drew in a quick breath, heart leaping, and not just from the collision. He was quite simply the handsomest man she had ever seen. One might even describe him as beautiful, with his thick golden brown hair, eyes that were a stunning blend of gold and green, a straight, elegant nose, strong chin and refined yet boldly masculine cheeks and jawline. As for his mouth, it was as if nature had formed it expressly for kissing—though why she would think such a thing when she had almost no experience in such matters, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

  At the moment, however, that attractive masculine mouth was thinned into a line of rueful annoyance as he shook a few red droplets from his fingers, then reached for a handkerchief. Their collision, she realized, must have caused him to spill some of the wine from the glass in his hand.

  “I beg pardon,” she said, remembering at the last second to deepen her voice. “I am afraid I did not see you.”

  He flicked her a glance as he dried his hand. “It’s of no matter. Accidents happen.”

  Tossing back the remaining inch of wine in his glass, he set the vessel on the tray of a passing attendant, then calmly folded his handkerchief in quarters before returning it to his pocket.

  She noticed that it was made of white silk and not the linen that her brother always used. His clothing was also elegant and finely tailored, though understated in a manner only those of substantial wealth could afford.

  “And you are, sir?” the beautiful man asked, the question spoken in a mellifluous baritone that made her body tingle in a most surprising and inconvenient way.

  It took her a long moment to even compute what he’d said. “Me? Oh, I’m Ros . . . Ross Carrow.” She clenched her fingers at her side, relieved that she’d managed to stop herself in time from uttering “Rosamund,” which had unthinkingly danced on the tip of her tongue.

  “Carrow,
is it? How do you do? I am Lord Lawrence Byron.”

  Byron? He was Byron?

  She recognized the name, her father having mentioned it on more than one occasion over the years. As she recalled, Lawrence Byron was known for winning lawsuits, his formidable reputation in legal circles earned through hard work and keen insight rather than via any reliance on his aristocratic connections. If she remembered right, his eldest brother was a duke.

  Good heavens.

  Lord Lawrence scrutinized her with a look. “Are you new to Lincoln’s Inn? Can’t say as I recall having made your acquaintance before.”

  “Yes, I am new.” She strove to keep her voice low and masculine—or at least what she prayed sounded masculine. “I’ve just lately arrived here to the city from the north country.”

  Bertram had made her recite the made-up details of her life as Ross Carrow so many times that the words came easily.

  Lord Lawrence’s well-groomed eyebrows drew together. “You don’t have the sound of a north country man.”

  “I spent my early youth here in London before my family moved,” she explained. “Guess I never lost the Town accent.”

  He nodded, then narrowed his eyes.

  What is he looking at? She fought the urge to squirm.

  God above, he doesn’t suspect me, does he?

  She held steady, careful not to lower her gaze.

  “Carrow?” he said slowly. “Any relation to Elias Carrow?”

  An odd combination of relief and pain arrowed through her, the abrupt reminder of her father hard to take. Her hands trembled as she fought a fierce wave of grief, for try as she might, she still had trouble accepting that he was gone. Even now it seemed impossible that she would never again hear the commanding persuasion of his voice or have the pleasure of debating history, politics, literature and the law with him.

  She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, Elias Carrow was my . . . cousin.”

  Lord Lawrence’s gold-green eyes filled with compassion. “My sincere condolences for your loss. I didn’t know him well, but he was a fine man and an excellent barrister. His death was a dreadful shock to us all in the legal community. He will be sorely missed.”