The ladies of the ton won't stop whispering about deliciously wicked Hunter O'Reilly-once a thieving street urchin, now the wealthy owner of London's most exclusive gentleman's club. There's no pleasure he hasn't enjoyed, no debauchery the handsome...
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The devil had come to call. Sitting beside him in her library, Eleanor Stanford, the Duchess of Lovingdon, didn't know whether to be appalled or fascinated. He was an interesting creature, and while she'd heard many of the sordid tales regarding him, she'd never actually set eyes on him before that night.
His black, unruly hair, curling teasingly across his broad shoulders, spoke of a desire to rebel against societal constraints. The harsh lines of his face had been carved by a life of decadence, misbehavior, and excess. Yet, he was beautiful in a rugged sort of way, like the manner in which a jagged coastline at dawn could steal one's breath with its magnificence.
She lowered her gaze from a profile that had held her enthralled from the moment she'd walked into her library and met the deliciously wicked Hunter O'Reilly.
His gambling den provided entertainment for many men of the aristocracy. Sisters, wives, mothers heard slurred references to the debauchery that occurred within Hunter O'Reilly's domain when their brothers, husbands, sons returned home in the early hours, three sheets in the wind. The women, of course, discreetly exchanged stories over tea, and so O'Reilly's reputation, as well as that of his establishment, had grown among proper ladies who weren't supposed to know about such improper things. Women detested his existence and the opportunity he provided for the men in their lives to stray from all that was good and respectable, yet none could deny their ceaseless fascination with a man so devoted to sin.
Sitting near him, Eleanor became increasingly aware of the raw sexuality emanating from him. She imagined women followed him into his bedchamber without a single word being uttered. She could smell the tobacco and whiskey fragrance that permeated him and, to her everlasting shame, found herself relishing the darkly masculine scent. Everything about him spoke of forbidden indulgences.
He was truly the work of the devil.
He even carried the devil's mark. The brand was clearly visible on the inside of his right thumb, because he didn't possess the good manners to wear gloves and his long fingers were splayed across the arm of the chair. While marking criminals was no longer a practice, Eleanor knew what the T burned into his flesh signified: he'd spent time in prison for thievery. She had little tolerance for those who took what did not rightfully belong to them.
In spite of his questionable past and occupation, she could not fault the quality of his attire. It had obviously been sewn by the finest tailor in London, but the red brocade waistcoat beneath his black jacket was entirely inappropriate for this somber occasion: the reading of her late husband's will.
Why Lovingdon had insisted the notorious Hunter O'Reilly be in attendance was beyond the pale. How did he even know the blackguard? As far as she knew he'd never visited O'Reilly's Drawing Room. However, her brother, the late Duke of Avendale, had frequented it quite often, providing her with the enviable opportunity to add greatly to the repertoire of scandalous tales circulated amongst the ladies.
