Page 298 of From Rakes to Riches

Honoria—Nora—had done everything she’d been expected to, including marrying Lord William Mosby, Viscount Woodhaven.

That man was the most disastrous thing to happen to the Goode family. He abused Nora terribly, squandered all their money, and used their father’s shipping company to smuggle illegal goods for none other than the Sauvageau brothers and their Fauves. Ultimately, he stole a crate of gold from the Sauvageaus and made dangerous enemies of them. His escape was foiled when he’d taken Pru hostage and Morley put a bullet through his temple.

My, but last year had been eventful.

Mercy wished for her sister now, wondering how much longer it would take for Pru to return from feeding Charlotte and Caroline.

Morley was like a pendulum of paternal disapproval moving back and forth in front of her as he lectured her about...well, about something or other.

The sermon had begun on the subject of her poking around murder scenes where she didn’t belong, but she’d lost him some ten minutes back when he’d moved on to her arrest.

Here’s why you shouldn’t slap detectivesand all that such nonsense.

She was generally inclined to answer back, at least to defend herself, but he’d already mentioned that Detective Trout had been dismissed for his heavy-handed retaliation against her.

Or would be, after he was released from the hospital due to the beating Raphael had inflicted. Now Morley was down one detective—albeit a mediocre one—during a crime wave.

That’s where he’d lost Mercy’s attention.

Her mind drifted from how “the entire situation could have been avoided if she’d not ventured where she ought not to have been in the first place.” Et cetera and so forth.

No, drifted was the wrong word, it evoked the idea of aimlessness.

Her thoughts only ever went in one direction these days.

They were steered, propelled.

Captivated.

Would you let me fuck you, Mercy Goode?

The wicked proposition was a constant, obsessive echo in her mind.

It thrummed through her in Raphael’s velvet voice, snaking its way into her veins and coiling deep in her loins.

Those words from any other man would have repelled her. She was someone who demanded deference. Someone who expected to be treated with the respect due her station. Not only as a gentleman’s daughter, but as a woman—nay—a human being.

But, somehow, Raphael Sauvageau managed to make the profane query sound like a prayer.

A plea.

It was as though he’d asked,Would you let me worship you?

Because of the veneration in his eyes. The reverence that impossibly lived alongside the depravity in his gaze.

The pleasure in his promise.

He hadn’t asked,Would you fuck me?The unspoken question being, would you pleasure me? Would you slakemyhunger and fulfillmydesires?

No. He’d offered to stroke her. To pleasure her. To teach her what to expect from a lover.

As if he would relish in providing her delight.

Mercy knew enough about lust to have felt the evidence of his desire against her skirts in the alcove where they’d kissed.

He’d been hard. He could have taken her right there.

His singular paradox of wildness and restraint called forth her own undeniable passions.

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