"Sacndal, murder and forbidden romance in this great Regency romance."
Reviewed by Suan Wilson
Posted January 9, 2006
Romance Historical
Anna Rosewood wishes to be a dutiful daughter to her
parents and marry the prosperous earl they've chosen.
Instead of contemplating her future with the earl, Anna
struggles to come to terms with the murder of her twin
brother. She cannot accept the authority's version of his
death by footpads; there are too many unanswered questions.
Anna's only clue is the mysterious rose symbol she has from
one of her twin's letters. Gathering all of her courage,
Anna strikes out, impersonating a doxy at the famous
Vauxhall Gardens to gain information regarding a secret
organization called the Black Rose. On the battlefield, Roman Deveraux swore to his dying
comrade that he'd protect his younger brother. Roman
attempts to keep his promise, but discovers the young man,
in looking for excitement, has joined a secret society. And
it's not a harmless club. The Black Rose promotes promises
of quick money through nefarious schemes and murder.
Following a lead in Vauxhall Gardens, Roman stumbles upon
an enticing doxy who enchants him, but she abandons him
after a sensuous interlude. The next day, Roman is
astonished to discover the doxy is his cousin's intended. Anna endeavors to deny the instant chemistry between Roman
and herself. She begs until Roman relents and joins a
partnership to uncover the ringleaders behind the Black
Rose. Honor demands Roman reject Anna, but he can't let her
search alone for the killers. Scandal, murder and a forbidden, passionate romance will
keep readers glued to the pages. Well-crafted with strong
characters, SCANDAL OF THE BLACK ROSE is another fine story
from Ms. Mullin's pen.
SUMMARY
There is a mysterious society that only London's most
select gentlemen may join. And once members, they may
never leave it. . . alive. Anna Rosewood is determined to discover the truth about
the death of her twin brother. Following a single clue--
the symbol of a black rose crossed with a sword--she dons
a mask, inflitrates a secret gathering that only a
disreputable woman would attend, and encounters a dashing
stranger... Were it not for a promise to a dying comrade, Roman
Devereaux would never have met this enchanting doxy who
seems quite naive for her profession. But he is shocked to
later discover that the lady is, in fact, the fiancée of
his cousin--and that she and Roman both seek information
about the sinister Black Rose Society. But working
together could prove disastrous, for there is no resisting
the passionate fire that sears them--or the forbidden
desire that could only lad to scandal. . .or far, far
worse.
ExcerptShe had never felt so naked in her life. Glancing furtively at the masked revelers that swarmed
Vauxhall Gardens, Anna gave a discreet tug at the
scandalously low neckline of her favorite green evening
dress. She had never worn the garment without the lace
fichu, but these circumstances called for boldness. I’m doing this for Anthony. The litany repeated in her
head, playing harmony to her rising panic, as she trailed
along behind the party ahead of her. The evening had begun innocuously enough. She and her
parents had accompanied some friends of her father’s to
the masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens. Everyone from the
royal family to the poorest commoner wore a mask, adding
an air of scandal to the otherwise mundane amusements. The
entire park was lit with Chinese lanterns, the sounds of
gaiety and music filling the air. She had been content to
go along and simply observe the gaiety, secure in the
company of her family. And then she had seen the ring. Her gaze drifted to it again on the hand of one of the
gentlemen she followed. A black rose crossed with a sword.
It was this symbol that had given her the courage to
deliberately slip away from the security of her party and
follow these raucous youths down darkened paths to their
lantern-lit private dining area. Coarse laughter drifted back to her from the group of
Cyprians that had caught the eyes of the rakish gentlemen
she pursued. It had been an easy thing to attach herself
to the crowd and pretend she was just another doxy. The
masks they all wore would protect her identity. And if
they unmasked at midnight, she would make certain to be
gone before then. “Come in, ladies,” the young man in the lead invited with
a sweep of his arm. His ring glittered in the dim light. Sucking in a deep breath, Anna fell in line behind the
gaudily dressed prostitutes. She tried not to goggle at
the shocking décolletage of one woman’s gown, the neckline
so low that her ample breasts looked to be in danger of
popping out of her bodice. Another of the disreputable
females had clearly dampened her skirts, outlining her
limbs in a most shocking manner. All of them wore
flamboyant masks, their faces enhanced by heavily applied
powder and brightly rouged lips and cheeks. Next to the colorful lot of ladybirds, her unpainted lips
and simple mask struck her as somewhat conspicuous. Part
of her wanted to run away, back to the safety of well-lit
paths and her father’s old friends. But she couldn’t leave
now. Not when she was so close to discovering the meaning
of the symbol. Their host blocked the door with his arm when she would
have entered the dining area. “What have we here?” His
mouth curved in a predatory smile. Behind his mask, his
eyes glittered as he swept his greedy gaze over her
body. “Aren’t you a tasty looking sweetmeat?” His audacity struck her mute. Then he traced his fingers
down her bare arm. She flinched away, her gaze falling on
his ring with a cold kind of terror. His smile became a scowl. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?
I’m not good enough for you?” “Leave her be.” A scantily clad doxy with brassy blond
curls pushed to the front of the line. She leaned against
the host and rubbed her barely clad breasts against his
arm. “Can’t ye see she’s a new girl? I’ve got what a man
like you wants.” She held his gaze boldly, a knowing smile
on her ruby red lips. Slowly the masked man grinned, then traced a finger down
the bare slope of her breast. “That you do, my beauty.” He
cast Anna a dismissive glance. “Go in, then.” Heart pounding with fear, she hurried into the lion’s den.
* * *
Roman Devereaux lounged against one of the ornate Greek
columns that framed the private dining area, pondering the
madness that had possessed him to accompany his young
friend to Vauxhall tonight. In truth, he knew what had
driven him to bypass Stumpleton’s card party in favor of
attending this foolish bacchanal. He’d been concerned that
Peter had fallen in with too fast a crowd. He needn’t have worried about the lad. The rowdy cubs that
Peter called friends gathered around the table with the
giggling doxies, pouring wine and offering culinary
delicacies to the females. Peter joined in the merriment,
popping a bit of sliced fruit into the open mouth of a
fetching little strumpet. The wench smacked her rosy lips,
then whispered something in the boy’s ear that made him
blush to his hairline. It seemed the only thing fast about this crowd was the
speed with which Peter might be relieved of his trousers. One of the women approached, eyeing Roman’s tall form like
a cat sizing up a bowl of rich cream. “Would you care for
sommat to eat, my handsome friend?” “Not at the moment.” “Are you certain?” The painted blonde stroked teasing
fingers down his arm. “I’ll be happy to get you anything
you like.” “Perhaps later.” He held the tart’s gaze until she
accepted his rejection. With a pout, she turned on her
heel, sauntering back to the group around the table. Peter hurried over to him. “Rome, come eat with us.” “I’m not hungry.” “Oh, don’t be such an old stick.” Peter glanced back at
the dark-haired doxy, who licked her lips in blatant
invitation. “There’s plenty to go around.” Rome merely shook his head. There was no mistaking the
brightness in the boy’s eyes; lust would have its way with
youth, and common sense drifted away like smoke on the
breeze. At thirty-three, he felt ancient by
comparison. “Have a care for your purse, Peter. Leave some
of your inheritance for your children.” “I will.” The young man flashed him a grin and darted back
to the table and the delights of the wench who awaited
him. “And I gave up a night at the card tables for this,” Roman
muttered. He could have been swapping battle stories with
his old comrades at arms over a hand of faro, a glass of
whisky at his elbow, but instead he was spending his
evening playing nursemaid to a twenty-two year old youth
and his wild friends. A promise was a promise, after all. He just hadn’t known when his good friend Richard lay
dying on the battlefield that the promise he made to watch
out for Richard’s younger brother, Peter, would include
chaperoning the lad to various orgies and drinking
parties. Peter had seemed so excited about his new found friends, a
group of fencers who challenged each other to mock duels.
The fascination with swords had raised Rome’s concerns.
These days there were so many foolish pursuits that could
land a reckless young man in trouble. He owed it to
Richard to make sure Peter had not gotten involved in
something dangerous. This evening he had been prepared to extricate Peter from
the clutches of this set, if necessary. Instead, the
deadly organization he had imagined appeared to be little
more than a collection of wild bloods out to impress each
other with showy exhibitions of swordsmanship, nothing
more. His only concern now was that the strumpet currently
sitting in his young friend’s lap did not include picking
pockets among her talents. Another half hour just to be certain there was truly
nothing to be concerned about, and then he would take his
leave and claim his chair at Stumpleton’s. A movement caught his eye, and he looked away from the
revelry to the young woman standing just to the side of
the crowd at the table. At first glance, she appeared to
be part of the merriment, but as he watched her he
realized that wasn’t the case. Every few moments she took
another step away from the table, edging towards the door. What was she up to? Rome straightened. She was a fetching thing, not hard-eyed
and painted like the other bawds. Her dress looked to be
of a decent quality satin, though its low neckline
revealed a delicious amount of swelling breasts. He forced
his gaze upward to note that her honey brown hair curled
in fashionable disarray around a fine-boned face that
looked elegant even with the simple satin mask covering
half of it. Only her mouth fit her surroundings, lush and
sensual and begging for a man’s kiss. He’d never seen a prostitute who looked so much like a
debutante. Curious now, he made his way across the room. She saw him coming. For an instant, her eyes widened, then
she glanced away and took another step towards the door. He blocked her escape. When she realized that he stood in her path, she took in
his large form with a quick glance, then pursed her lips.
He could nearly see her working out the options in her
head. “You might as well say good evening,” he murmured. “I’m
not going to move.” Surprise flashed across her face. In the flickering light,
he could see that she was not beautiful. Sensual, yes.
Striking. Erotic, even. Alluring. It was all he could do
not to bend down and taste those soft-looking lips. “I do wish you would,” she whispered. Lust jolted the breath from his lungs, and he nearly
hauled her into his arms before he realized she couldn’t
possibly have read his mind. “I wish you would move,” she reiterated, her soft voice
nearly inaudible beneath the riot of merriment around
them. “I think perhaps I’ve made a mistake.” “Have you?” He peered at her, noting her nervous glances
at the rest of the party, the way she startled every time
someone roared with laughter. “This is your first time,
isn’t it?” She jerked her gaze to his, her brown eyes wide with
panic. “How did you know?” “I can tell.” He reached out and took her hand, suddenly
glad he had come. Her fingers fluttered in his for a
moment, then quieted. “You seem rather shy for a woman in
your line of work.” “Oh. . .well. . .I. . .” She stuttered to a halt, a
becoming blush darkening her cheeks. “It’s all right. I find it charming.” He tucked her hand
into the crook of his arm, and she stepped closer, as he’d
hoped she would. “My name is Rome.” “I’m A. . .Rose.” She licked her lips, distracting
him. “My name is Rose.” “Rose.” He tested the name on his lips the way he’d taste
a fine wine. “Beautiful.” “Thank you.” She smiled up at him. “You’re very kind.” “And you’re very lovely.” Expertly he turned and steered
her away from the crowd at the table. The swish of her
satin gown drew his attention to the body beneath the
material. The swell of a hip, the bend of a knee. A quick
flash of ankle. The gentle curve of her collarbone. She was soft and sweet and lush, a siren that stirred his
appetite. How long had it been since he’d had a lusty
wench beneath him? Weeks perhaps. Much had happened since
he’d resigned his commission and come home to England, and
he hadn’t wanted the complication of a permanent
attachment. Or a temporary one, for that matter. Her perfume drifted to him, the innocence of attar of
roses. His body responded, communicating its wishes in no
uncertain terms. Suddenly attachments didn’t seem so
complicated any more. Peter was safe enough. The so-called
swordsmen appeared to be little more than rambunctious
university students. Why shouldn’t he indulge? He led her to an alcove in the Grecian style temple that
that served as the club’s dining room, out of sight of the
revelers but not lost in the darkened paths of Vauxhall.
The intimate niche held a large planter. Columns, plants,
and statuary completely concealed them from the others. He
ducked inside and pulled her against him. She gave a
squeak of surprise and flattened her hands against his
chest as if to brace herself. He laughed, tracing a hand down her spine. “There now,
sweet Rose. Relax against me. Let me enjoy the feel of you
in my arms.” “Heavens,” she whispered. “You really are an innocent,” he mused. “Are you certain
you intend to pursue this line of work?” “I have no choice.” “Ah, like that, is it?” He stroked her back, her
bottom. “I, too, had no choice but to form a career,
though mine was in the military.” “There’s a bit of difference between the two.” He chuckled. “There is indeed.” She shifted against him, clearly uncomfortable with their
proximity. “Sir—-” “Rome,” he corrected, resting a hand at the small of her
back. “Sweetheart, if you intend to be successful in your
new trade, you need to learn to enjoy a man’s embrace.” Her dark eyes looked fathomless through the holes in the
mask. “As I said, this is my first time.” “There’s nothing to fear.” He traced the shell of her ear,
then wrapped one soft curl around his finger. “I won’t
hurt you. It was quite intelligent of you to tell me this
is your first foray into the trade. Have you ever been
with a man before?” “Have I. . .no! No, of course not.” He brushed his lips against her temple. Attar of roses
flooded his senses, and he nuzzled her hair, unable to
resist her. “You are in possession of a precious gift,
sweet Rose.” A breathy gasp escaped her as he traced butterfly kisses
down her cheek. “I understand that such things have value
to men.” “They do indeed.” He nipped her chin, felt her quiver in
response. “Every man wants to be the first.” Unable to
hold back any longer, he pressed his mouth to hers. Dear God, she tasted sweet. Her soft lips trembled beneath
his, and he moved in to take full advantage, enjoying the
innocence of her kiss even as it excited him. Her fingers
clamped on his arms, then slowly eased their grip. Soon
she was making mewling noises, kissing him back. “Dear God.” Barely able to control his lust, he seized her
hips and pulled her lower body tight against him. “You had
best name your price, sweetness, for you have a buyer for
your wares.” She jerked stiff as a poker. “What did you say?” “And enough of this foolishness.” He reached for her mask, but she stayed his hand. “We can
discuss terms, sir, but my anonymity is one that cannot be
negotiated.” He hesitated, then nodded. “I am disappointed, of course,
but I must have you, Rose. Whatever your price, I will pay
it.” “I must think.” She pushed against his chest until he
allowed a couple of inches between them. “If you can. My reason has deserted me.” He took her hand
and tangled his fingers with hers. “I will make it good
for you, my dear. I swear I will. You might not get so
generous an offer from someone else.” Anna stared up into the stranger’s eyes. They looked to be
green behind the black velvet mask, and at the moment they
glittered like emeralds. “Rose,” he coaxed, his voice low and soothing. He swept
his thumb along the inside of her wrist, then brought her
palm to his lips. His gentle kiss made her knees buckle,
and she struggled for reason. Heavens, but what had ever given her the wild notion to
pass herself off as a demi-rep? She could have followed
the group of young bucks and claimed to be lost while
still maintaining her identity as a gently bred lady.
Instead she had mingled with the crowd and allowed them
all to think her a harlot. But the madness that had grabbed hold of her when she had
seen that ring had ended up leading her down the right
path. She had learned from the evening’s conversation that
the crossed rose and sword was the symbol of the Black
Rose Society, a club of swordsmen who dueled one another
for sport. Her masquerade had proven a worthy sacrifice to
discover the truth. She just hadn’t expected anyone to take her up on her
implied profession. “Have you forgotten me?” He tugged her against him again,
and she could feel the hardness of him pressing against
the juncture of her thighs. She had never felt such a
thing before, but she’d had a brother and knew what it
meant. Heat flooded her system, making her skin tingle and
her breath catch. Think, Anna! How could she get what she needed and still
escape unscathed? “I do not know what to say,” she
murmured, her mind scrambling for a solution. “Say yes.” He nuzzled her temple with his lips. “I’m not
young and foolish like the rest of these lads. If you came
here to find a man for your bed, you’ve got one.”
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