Free Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella by Lorraine Heath Page A

such. No, more precisely, she was the late earl’s daughter, born on the wrong side of the blanket. But at his father’s deathbed, Wortham had given his word that he would see to her care, and that was what tonight’s gathering was about.
    Finding someone willing to see to her care.
    Wortham swore she was a virgin, and that knowledge had some of the lords salivating, while others had sent their excuses. Rafe didn’t give a whit one way or the other. He did not bother with mistresses. They tended to cling, to desire baubles, to lead a man down a merry path only to eventually grow weary of the bed in which they slept and seek another.
    He didn’t do anything that even reeked of permanence because anything that hinted at forever could be snatched away, could leave him, would leave him. Even his gaming establishment—he took no pride in it. It was simply a means to coins in his pockets. It could be taken away, and he could walk from it without looking back, without a measure of regret. He had nothing in his life that meant anything at all to him, that would cause him the least hurt if he should lose it. His emotions ran on a perfected, even keel, and he liked it that way. Every decision he made was based on cold calculations.
    He was here tonight to watch these lords make fools of themselves as they vied for the lady’s attention, to measure their weaknesses, and to discover means of exploiting them.
    He’d heard that his brothers had been invited. That was a waste of ink on paper. They were both married and so disgustingly devoted to their wives that he couldn’t see either of them straying, not even an inch. But then, what did he truly know about his siblings?
    They’d finally returned to England two years later than they’d promised, Tristan a few months earlier than Sebastian. Rafe’s man had been waiting and ensured they made their way to the gaming hell. Rafe had greeted their arrival with little more than a glass of whiskey. He’d provided them with rooms and food until they’d secured Sebastian’s place as duke. He’d seen little of them since.
    His choice. They invited him to join them for dinners, for sailing, for Christmas. He declined. He didn’t need them cluttering his life. He liked things exactly as they were. He was his own man, responsible to no one beyond himself.
    From somewhere down a hallway, a clock began to chime the hour of nine. Conversations ceased. The lords stilled, their gazes riveted on the door. Sipping his Scotch, Rafe watched through half-lowered lids as the door opened. He caught sight of a purple hem and then—
    He nearly choked on the golden liquid, as he fought not to give any reaction at all.
    He suddenly had an acute understanding of why Adam was so quick to fall from grace when confronted with the temptation that was Eve. Wortham’s sister was the most exquisite creature Rafe had ever seen. Her hair, a shade that rivaled the sun in brilliance, was piled up to reveal a long, graceful neck that sloped down to alabaster shoulders that begged for a man’s lips to make their home there. She was neither short nor tall, but somewhere roughly in the middle. He wasn’t exactly certain where her head might land against his body. The curve of his shoulder perhaps. She was not particularly voluptuous, but she contained an elegance that drew the eye and spoke of still waters that could very well drown a man if he were of a mind to go exploring within their depths.
    Which he wasn’t. He was content to appreciate the surface. It told him all he needed—all he desired—to know.
    Glancing around, she appeared confused, her smile uncertain, until Wortham eventually crossed the room to stand beside her without looking, as though he was with her. Two people could hardly appear more different. Wortham stood stiff as a poker, while she was composed but emitted a softness. She would be the sort to touch, hold, and comfort. Rafe almost shuddered with the realization.
    “Gentlemen, Miss