"This first book in the new Notorious Bachelors series is refreshing and alluring."
Reviewed by Mandy Burns
Posted August 16, 2010
Romance Historical
Alexander St. James is the youngest son of a duke, and with
the help of his notorious older brother, Alexander's
reputation as a rake is well-known far and wide.
Alexander's grandmother has given him a task to find a
family key given away to an enemy. Alexander is loyal to
his family and takes on the new profession of burglary to
locate the elusive key, along with the help of his creative
friends and bachelors. On his first attempt to sneak into someone's home,
Alexander must hide from Lady Amelia comes home early from
the ball she was attending. Alexander has no choice but to
improvise as she walks onto the balcony where he is hiding.
Amelia's distress concerns him, forcing him to reveal his
presence and putting his fate in her hands. Amelia Patton's first season in London society is nothing
if not frustrating and infuriating. Her father's attempts
to throw her at eligible bachelors are one of the main
reasons she chooses to leave the current party early. A few
stolen moments alone to catch her breath and regroup are
refreshing, until she is startled by another presence on
her balcony. Amelia's burglar is unique, considering he
whisks her into his arms and steals a kiss. Amelia has no
idea who the man is only that he is a gentleman. Regardless
of his breaking and entering skills, Amelia decides to keep
the information to herself as she remembers the few stolen
moments. One evening, Amelia finds a way to learn his
identity, having no idea the knowledge will affect her
future. This first book in Emma Wildes' Notorious Bachelor
series is refreshing and alluring. I am already curious to
read more!
SUMMARY
Alexander St. James may be a thief of hearts, but he is no
burglar. Nevertheless, he must recover and item belonging
to his family to avoid a scandal, and so he has stolen
into the home of Lord Hathaway, only to come upon the
beguiling and chaste Lady Amelia in her bedroom, wearing
little but a look of surprise. Alexander leaves Amelia
breathless-but is it from fear or excitement? Captivated
by her beauty and charmed by her intellect, he ignores the
scandalous whispers as he sets out to seduce the woman of
his dreams...
ExcerptChapter OneThe alley below was filthy and smelled rank, and if he fell
off the ledge, Lord Alexander St. James was fairly certain
he would land on a good-sized rat. Since squashing scurrying
rodents was not on his list of favorite pastimes, he
tightened his grip and gauged the distance to the next roof.
It looked to be roughly the distance between London and
Edinburgh, but in reality was probably only a few feet. "What the devil is the matter with you?" a voice hissed out
of the darkness. "Hop on over here. This was your idea." "I do not hop," he shot back, unwilling to confess
that heights bothered him. They had since the night he’d
breached the towering wall of the citadel at Badajoz with
the forlorn hope. He still remembered the pounding rain, the
ladders swarming with men, and that great, black drop
below. . . . "I know perfectly well this was my idea," he muttered. "Then I’m sure, unless you have an inclination for a
personal tour of Newgate Prison, which, by the by, I do not,
you’ll agree we need to proceed. It gets closer to dawn by
the minute." Newgate Prison. Alex didn’t like confined spaces any more
than he liked heights. The story his grandmother had told
him just a few days ago made him wish his imagination was a
little less vivid. Incarceration in a squalid cell was the
last thing he wanted. But for the ones you love, he thought
philosophically as he eyed the gap, and he had to admit that
he adored his grandmother, risks have to be taken. That thought proved inspiration enough for him to leap the
distance, landing with a dull thud but, thankfully, keeping
his balance on the sooty shingles. His companion beckoned
with a wave of his hand and in a crouched position began to
make a slow pilgrimage toward the next house. The moon was a wafer obscured by clouds. Good for stealth,
but not quite so wonderful for visibility. Two more alleys
and harrowing jumps and they were there, easing down onto a
balcony that overlooked a small walled garden. Michael Hepburn, Marquess of Longhaven, dropped down first,
light on his feet, balanced like a dancer. Alex wondered,
not for the first time, just what his friend did for the War
Office. He landed next to him, and said, "What did your
operative tell you about the layout of the town house?" Michael peered through the glass of the French doors into
the darkened room. "I could be at our club at this very
moment, enjoying a stiff brandy." "Stop grumbling," Alex muttered. "You live for this kind of
intrigue. Lucky for us, the lock is simple. I’ll have this
open in no time." True to his word, a moment later one of the doors creaked
open, the sound loud to Alex’s ears. He led the way,
slipping into the darkened bedroom, taking in with a quick
glance the shrouded forms of a large canopied bed and
armoire. Something white was laid out on the bed, and on
closer inspection he saw that it was a nightdress edged with
delicate lace, and that the coverlet was already turned
back. The virginal gown made him feel very much an
interloper—which, bloody hell, he was. But all for a good
cause, he told himself firmly. Michael spoke succinctly. "This is Lord Hathaway’s
daughter’s bedroom. We’ll need to search his study and his
suite across the hall. Since his lordship’s rooms face the
street and his study is downstairs, this is a much more
discreet method of entry. It is likely enough they’ll be
gone for several more hours, giving us time to search for
your precious item. At this hour, the servants should all be
abed." "I’ll take the study. It’s more likely to be there." "Alex, you do realize you are going to have to finally tell
me just what we are looking for if I am going ransack his
lordship’s bedroom on your behalf." "I hope you plan on being more subtle than that." "He’ll never know I was there," Michael said with convincing
confidence. "But what the devil am I looking for?" "A key. Ornate, made of silver, so it’ll be tarnished to
black, I suspect. About so long." Alex spread open his hand,
indicating the distance between the tip of his smallest
finger and his thumb. "It’ll be in a small case, also
silver. There should be an engraved S on the cover" "A key to what, dare I ask, since I am risking my
neck to find it?" Alex paused, reluctant to reveal more. But Michael had a
point, and moreover, could keep a secret better than anyone
of Alex’s acquaintance. "I’m not sure," he admitted, quietly. Michael’s hazel eyes gleamed with interest even in the dim
light. "Yet here we are, breaking into a man’s house?" "It’s . . . complicated." "Things with you usually are." "I’m not at liberty to explain to anyone, even you, my
reasons for being here. Therefore my request for your
assistance. In the past you have proven not only to think
fast on your feet and stay cool under fire, but you also
have the unique ability to keep your mouth firmly shut,
which is a very valuable trait in a friend. In short, I
trust you." Michael gave a noncommittal grunt. "All right, fine." "If it makes you feel better, I’m not going to steal
anything," Alex informed him in a whisper, as he cracked
open the bedroom door and peered down the hall. "What I want
doesn’t belong to Lord Hathaway, if he has it. Where’s his
study?" "Second hallway past the bottom of the stairs. Third door on
the right." The house smelled vaguely of beeswax and smoke from the
fires that kept the place warm in the late-spring weather.
Alex crept—there was no other word for it—down the hall,
sending a silent prayer upward to enlist heavenly aid for
their little adventure to be both successful and undetected.
Though he wasn’t sure, with his somewhat dissolute past—or
Michael’s, for that matter—if he was at all in a position to
ask for benevolence. The hallway was deserted but damned dark. Michael clearly
knew the exact location of Hathaway’s personal set of rooms,
for he went directly to the left door and cracked it open,
and disappeared inside. Alex stood at a vantage point where he could see the top of
the staircase rising from the main floor, feeling an amused
disbelief that he was a deliberate intruder in someone
else’s house, and had enlisted Michael’s aid to help him
with the infiltration. He’d known Michael since Eton, and
when it came down to it, no one was more reliable or loyal.
He’d go with him to hell and back, and quite frankly, they
had accompanied each other to hell in Spain. They’d survived the fires of Hades, but had not come back to
England unscathed. Time passed in silence, and Alex relaxed a little as he made
his way down the stairs into the darkened hallway, barking
his shin only once on a piece of furniture that seemed to
materialize out of nowhere. He stifled a very colorful curse
and moved on, making a mental note not to take up burglary
as a profession. The study was redolent of old tobacco and the ghosts of a
thousand glasses of brandy. Alex moved slowly, pulling the
borrowed set of picklocks again from his pocket, rummaging
though the drawers he could open first, and then setting to
work on the two locked ones. Nothing. No silver case. No blasted key. Damn. The first sound of trouble was a low, sharp, excited bark.
Then he heard a woman speaking in modulated tones—audible in
the silent house—and alarm flooded through him. The voice
sounded close, but that might be a trick of the acoustics of
the town house. At least it didn’t sound like a big dog, he
told himself, feeling in a drawer for a false back before
replacing the contents and quietly sliding it shut. A servant? Perhaps, but it was unlikely, for it was truly
the dead of night, with dawn a few good hours away. As early
as most of the staff rose, he doubted one of them would be
up and about unless summoned by her employer. The voice spoke again, a low murmur, and the lack of a reply
probably meant she was talking to the dog. He eased into the
hallway to peer out and saw that at the foot of the stairs a
female figure was bent over, scratching the ears of what
appeared to be a small bundle of active fur, just a puppy,
hence the lack of alarm over their presence in the house. She was blond, slender, and, more significantly, clad in a
fashionable gown of a light color. . . . Several more hours, my arse. One of Lord Hathaway’s family
had returned early. It was a stroke of luck when she set down her lamp and
lifted the squirming bundle of fur in her arms, and instead
of heading upstairs, carried her delighted burden through a
door on the opposite side of the main hall, probably back
toward the kitchen. Alex stole across the room, and went quickly up the stairs
to where Michael had disappeared, trying to be as
light-footed as possible. He opened the door a crack and
whispered, "Someone just came home. A young woman, though I
couldn’t see her clearly." "Damnation." Michael could move quietly as a cat, and he was
there instantly. "I’m only half done. We might need to leave
and come back a second time." Alex pictured launching himself again across more
questionable, stinking, yawning crevasses of London’s
rooftop landscape. "I’d rather we finished it now." "If Lady Amelia has returned alone, it should be fine,"
Michael murmured. "She’s unlikely to come into her father’s
bedroom, and I just need a few more minutes. I’d ask you to
help me, but you don’t know where I’ve already searched, and
the two of us whispering to each other and moving about is
more of a risk. Go out the way we came in. Wait for her to
go to bed, and keep an eye on her. If she looks to leave her
room because she might have heard something, you’re going to
have to come up with a distraction. Otherwise, I’ll take my
chances going out this way and meet you on the roof." With that, he was gone again and the door closed softly. Alex uttered a stifled curse. He’d fought battles, crawled
through ditches, endured soaking rains and freezing nights,
marched for miles on end with his battalion, but he wasn’t a
damned spy. But a moment of indecision could be disastrous
with Miss Patton no doubt heading for her bedroom. And what
if she also woke her maid? As a soldier, he’d learned to make swift judgments, and in
this case, he trusted Michael knew what the hell he was
doing and quickly slipped back into the lady’s bedroom and
headed for the balcony. They’d chosen that entry into the
house for the discreet venue of the quiet, private garden,
and the assurance that no one on the street would see them
and possibly recognize them in this fashionable neighborhood. No more had Alex managed to close the French doors behind
him than the door to the bedroom opened. He froze, hoping
the shadows hid his presence, worried movement might attract
the attention of the young woman who had entered the room.
If she raised an alarm, Michael could be in a bad spot, even
if Alex got away. She carried the small lamp, which she set
on the polished table by the bed. He assumed his presence on
the dark balcony would be hard to detect. It was at that moment he realized how very beautiful she was. Lord Hathaway’s daughter. Had he met her? No, he hadn’t, but
when he thought about it, he’d heard her name mentioned
quite often lately. Now he knew why. Hair a shimmering gold caught the light as she reached up
and loosened the pins, dropping them one by one by the lamp
and letting the cascade of curls tumble down her back. In
profile her face was defined and feminine, with a dainty
nose and delicate chin. And though he couldn’t see the color
of her eyes, they were framed by lashes long enough they
cast slight shadows across her elegant cheekbones as she
bent over to lift her skirts, kick off her slippers, and
begin to unfasten her garters. He caught the pale gleam of
slender calves and smooth thighs, and the graceful curve of
her bottom. There was something innately sensual about watching a woman
undress, though usually when it was done in his presence it
was as a prelude to one of his favorite pastimes. Slim
fingers worked the fastenings of her gown and in a whisper
of silk, it slid off her pale shoulders. She stepped free of
the pooled fabric, wearing only a thin, lacy chemise, all
gold and ivory in the flickering illumination. As a gentleman, he reminded himself, I should look away. The ball had been more nightmare than entertainment, and
Lady Amelia Patton had ducked out as soon as possible, using
her usual—and not deceptive—excuse. She picked up her silk
gown, shook it out, and draped it over a carved chair by the
fireplace. When her carriage had dropped her home, she’d
declined to wake her maid, instead enjoying a few rare
moments of privacy before bed. No one would think it amiss,
as she had done the same before. It was a crime, was it not, to kill one’s father? Not that she really wanted to strangle him in any way
but a metaphorical one, but this evening, when he had thrust
her almost literally into the arms of the Earl of Westhope,
she had nearly done the unthinkable and refused to dance
with his lordship in public, thereby humiliating the man and
defying her father in front of all of society. Instead, she had gritted her teeth and waltzed with the most
handsome, rich, incredibly boring eligible bachelor
of the haut ton. It had encouraged him, and that was the last thing she
wanted to happen. The earl had even had the nerve—or maybe it was just
stupidity—to misquote Rabelais when he brought her a glass
of champagne, saying with a flourish as he handed over the
flute, "Thirst comes with eating . . . but
the appetite goes away with drinking." It had really been all she could do not to correct him,
since he’d got it completely backward. She had a sinking
feeling that he didn’t mean to be boorish; he just wasn’t
very bright. Still, there was nothing on earth that could
have prevented her from asking him, in her most proper
voice, if that meant he was bringing her champagne because
he felt, perhaps, she was too plump. Her response had so
flustered him that he’d excused himself hurriedly—so perhaps
the entire evening hadn’t been a loss after all. Clad only in her chemise, she went to the balcony doors and
opened them, glad of the fresh air, even if it was a bit
cool. Loosening the ribbon on her shift, she let the
material drift partway down her shoulders, her nipples
tightening against the chill. The ballroom had been
unbearably close and she’d had some problems breathing, an
affliction that had plagued her since childhood. Being able
to fill her lungs felt like heaven, and she stood there,
letting her eyes close. The light wheezing had stopped, and
the anxiety that came with it had lessened, as well, but she
was still a little dizzy. Her father was insistent that she
kept this particular flaw a secret. He seemed convinced no
man would wish to marry a female who might now and again
become inexplicably out of breath. Slowly she inhaled and then let it out. Yes, it was
passing. . . . It wasn’t a movement or noise that sent a flicker of unease
through her, but a sudden, instinctive sense of being
watched. Then a strong, masculine hand cupped her elbow.
"Are you quite all right?" Her eyes flew open and she saw a tall figure looming over
her. With a gasp she jerked her chemise back up to cover her
partially bared breasts. To her surprise, the shadowy figure
spoke again in a cultured, modulated voice. "I’m sorry to
startle you, my lady. I beg a thousand pardons, but I
thought you might faint." Amelia stared upward, as taken aback by his polite speech
and appearance as she was by finding a man lurking on her
balcony. The stranger had ebony hair, glossy even in the
inadequate moonlight, and his face was shadowed into hollows
and fine planes, eyes dark as midnight staring down at her.
"I . . . I . . ." she
stammered. You should scream, an inner voice
suggested, but she was so paralyzed by alarm and surprise,
she wasn’t sure she was capable of it. "You swayed," her mysterious visitor pointed out, as if that
explained everything, a small frown drawing dark, arched
brows together. "Are you ill?" Finally, she found her voice, albeit not at all her regular
one, but a high, thin whisper. "No, just a bit dizzy. Sir,
what are you doing here?" "Maybe you should lie down." To her utter shock, he lifted her into his arms as easily as
if she were a child, and actually carried her inside to
deposit her carefully on the bed. Perhaps this is a bizarre dream. . . . "What are you doing here? Who are you?" she demanded. It
wasn’t very effective, since she still couldn’t manage more
than a half mumble, though fright was rapidly being replaced
by outraged curiosity. Even in the insubstantial light she
could tell he was well dressed, and before he straightened,
she caught the subtle drift of expensive cologne. Though he
wore no cravat, his dark coat was fashionably cut, and his
fitted breeches and Hessians not something she imagined an
ordinary footpad would wear. His face was classically
handsome, with a nice, straight nose and lean jaw, and she’d
never seen eyes so dark. Was he really that tall, or did he just seem so because she
was sprawled on the bed and he was standing? "I mean you no harm. Do not worry." Easy for him to say. For heaven’s sake, he was in her
bedroom, no less. "You are trespassing." "Indeed," he agreed, inclining his head. Was he a thief? He didn’t look like one. Confused, Amelia
sat up, feeling very vulnerable lying there in dishabille
with her tumbled hair. "My father keeps very little money in
his strongbox here in the house." "A wise man. I follow that same rule myself. If it puts your
mind at ease, I do not need his money." The stranger’s teeth
flashed white in a quick smile. She recognized him, she realized suddenly, the situation
taking on an even greater sense of the surreal. Not a close
acquaintance, no. Not one of the many gentlemen she’d danced
with since the beginning of her season, but she’d seen him,
nevertheless. And he certainly had seen her. She was sitting there
gawping at him in only her thin, lacy chemise with the
bodice held together in her trembling hand. The flush of
embarrassment swept upward, making her neck and cheeks hot.
She could feel the rush of blood warm her knuckles when they
pressed against her chest. "I . . . I’m
undressed," she said unnecessarily. "Most delightfully so," he responded with an unmistakable
note of sophisticated amusement in his soft tone. "But I am
not here to ravish you any more than to rob you. Though," he
added with a truly wicked smile, "perhaps, in the spirit of
being an effective burglar, I should steal something.
A kiss comes to mind, for at least then I would not leave
empty-handed." A kiss? Was the man insane? "You . . . wouldn’t," she managed to object
in disbelief. He still stood by the side of the bed, so
close that if she reached out a hand she could touch him. "I might." His dark brows lifted a fraction, and his gaze
flickered over her inadequately clad body before returning
to her face. He added softly, "I have a weakness for lovely,
half-dressed ladies, I’m afraid." And no doubt they had the same weakness for him, for he
exuded a flagrant masculinity and confidence that was even
more compelling than his good looks. Her breath fluttered in her throat and it had nothing to do
with her affliction. She might be an ingenue, but she
understood in an instant the power of that devastating,
entirely masculine, husky tone. Like a bird stunned by
smoke, she didn’t move, even when he leaned down and his
long fingers caught her chin, tipping her face up just a
fraction. He lowered his head, brushed his mouth against
hers for a moment, a mere tantalizing touch of his lips.
Then, instead of kissing her, his hand slid into her hair
and he gently licked the hollow of her throat. Through her
dazed astonishment at his audacity, the feel of his warm
lips and the teasing caress caused an odd sensation in the
pit of her stomach. This was where she should imperiously order him to stop, or
at least push him away. But she didn’t. She’d never been kissed, and though,
admittedly, her girlish fantasies about this moment in her
life hadn’t included a mysterious stranger stealing
uninvited into her bedroom, she was curious. The trail of his breath made her quiver, moving upward along
her jaw, the curve of her cheek, until he finally claimed
her mouth, shocking her to her very core as he brushed his
tongue against hers in small, sinful strokes. She trembled, and though it wasn’t a conscious act, somehow
one of her hands settled on his shoulder. It was intimate. It was beguiling. Then it was over. God help her, to her disappointment it was over. He straightened and looked more amused than ever at whatever
expression had appeared on her face. "A virgin kiss. A coup
indeed." He obviously knew that had been her first. It wasn’t so
surprising, for like most unmarried young ladies, she was
constantly chaperoned. She summoned some affront, though,
strangely, she really wasn’t affronted. "You, sir, are no
gentleman." "Oh, I am, if a somewhat jaded one. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t
be taking my leave lest your reputation be tarnished by our
meeting, because it would be, believe me. My advice is to
keep my presence here this evening to yourself." True to his word, in a moment he was through the balcony
doors, climbing up on the balustrade, and bracing himself
for balance on the side of the house. Then he caught the
edge of the roof, swung up in one graceful athletic motion,
and was gone into the darkness.
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