To Seduce a Rogue Read Free

The decorator, Pierre Janvier, had repeatedly asked for his opinion, but he had been busy...and hell, a thousand miles away.
    The ladies in Richmond loved his home—Mr. Janvier was the crème de la crème of the society circle. Simply put, he was the most expensive. Adam could hardly believe—considering how much how he had despised his father’s home—that he was once again residing in a palace teeming with furniture he could not sit upon. One night in an inebriated frenzy, he had stripped his bedroom of everything but the necessities. His housekeeper, Mrs. Beard, had nearly had a seizure when she looked out her window the next day to see the lawn littered with the consequence of his overindulgence.
    He grinned and skimmed his hand through the shadow staining the bed, remembering the expression on Widow Davis’ face when he stumbled in this evening. He should go to her bedroom, knock on the door and explain he drank very little—he had been inebriated only four or five times since Eaton’s death, in fact. But he feared a trip down the narrow staircase would end with him resting in a broken heap at the bottom. How could he explain to an old woman that sometimes it was essential to feel numb?
    To distinguish absolutely nothing from absolutely nothing?
    Women in high-heeled shoes and silk stockings comforted him.
    Women in patched day dresses and ugly black boots did not.
    He sighed and shifted, crossing his feet at the ankle and throwing his arm over his eyes, blocking the moonlight streaming through the window. If only he could block his thoughts.
    “Dammit, Stokes. Couldn’t you find another lackey to run this paper?” Although, it was no use complaining now—and to himself in a dark room, no less. He had accepted the position. Temporarily, thank God.
    He had to get the Sentinel on its feet. Return to his life in Richmond...his job at the Times , his home. A sharp flash of regret surged through him, pain he seldom felt—or seldom let himself feel. The same damn emotion had blown through him today, making him react so crazily with Charlie Whitney.
    Imagine grabbing her wrist like he had done?
    It was only...the past had the power to surprise him. He would forget for a month or two. Maybe six, if he was lucky. Then, one night he would awaken with his mother’s voice ringing in his ears and Eaton’s blood slick upon his fingers.
    Eaton. After all this time, still so painful.
    A few drinks, and I’m going to feel sorry for him...feel sorry for myself .
    What more could he want? The opportunity to become a full-fledged editor was within his grasp. A beautiful home overlooking the James River was waiting for him, and a few very alluring women found his company quite pleasing. One in particular shared his...tastes. 
    He betrayed the pleasant thoughts as his hand clutched the coverlet. It was so hard to think about his brother. Laughing blue eyes and sandy hair, dimples so like his own, Eaton had been his protector.
    Adam had been a small boy, and he had done his best to fight when he had to. Eaton had always been there. To fight with him—or for him—or grab him and run.
    He sat up and dropped his face to his hands. His chest felt tight and heavy, and, oh...what was the use in thinking about it? Eaton was lost. Everyone was lost . With trembling fingers he reached into his pocket and located a crumpled cheroot. He scrambled to find a match on the bedside table. As the flame flickered, shadows bounced along the wall.
    Adam’s mask of indifference melted, replaced by raw anguish. He prayed for a release from the memories. Haunting . Memories were forever haunting him.
    He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. A few chips of paint were missing, he noted, as he suppressed the urge to cry. He had cried once, as he held his brother’s rapidly chilling body against his own.
    He was a shell. He knew it. Hell, for all Adam cared, everyone knew it. Outside he was strong, charming. Inside he was empty, sullen.