Scoundrel's Honor. Rosemary Rogers
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Praise for the incomparable ROSEMARY ROGERS
“[A] perfect beach book.”
—Publishers Weekly on Bound by Love
“Sizzling sensuality, seduction and danger, along with a fine overview of Russia and the political intrigues of the Romanov court, come together with a powerful, skillfully told love story…vintage Rosemary Rogers.”
—RT Book Reviews on Scandalous Deception (4½ stars)
“From the high roads of England to the French countryside, this is a classic sexy, adventure romance…Rogers continues to play on the timeless themes of the genre, providing a wonderful, albeit nostalgic, read. You can go home again.”
—RT Book Reviews on A Daring Passion (4 stars)
“The queen of historical romance.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Rogers’ legion of readers will be delighted to find that her latest historical romance features the same brand of arrogant, bold, and sexy hero; stubborn, beautiful, and unconventional heroine; and passionate plot that first made this genre wildly popular in the early 1980s.”
—Booklist on Sapphire
“Her novels are filled with adventure, excitement, and always, wildly tempestuous romance.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
Rosemary Rogers
Scoundrel’s Honor
MILLS & BOON
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—RR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE
THE VILLAGE OF YABINSK in the Volga River Basin near Moscow was the typical cluster of low, sturdy homes scattered near a wooden church. On the distant hills the wealthier citizens built their redbrick mansions to overlook the lesser folk, while small fishing boats painted in cheerful colors lined the meandering river.
On the very edge of the village, a three-storied coaching inn with attached stables squatted next to the narrow road leading to Moscow to the south and St. Petersburg to the north. With a tile roof and recently painted shutters the building managed to appear respectable, if not prosperous. It was an image that was enhanced by the meticulously clean foyer and the small chambers upstairs that smelled of wood polish and dried flowers.
Behind the stables was a small wattle-and-daub cottage nearly hidden behind the stone wall that divided the property.
It was little more than a kitchen, a front parlor and two bedchambers in the attic, but it was sturdily built to keep out the worst of the Russian winters and filled with delicate birch and cedar furnishings that were more suitable for the palaces of St. Petersburg.
In truth, Fedor Duscha had been a master craftsman before his untimely death and in great demand by many of the finest noble families. The furniture was worth a tidy sum of rubles, but his daughter Emma Linley-Kirov would have starved before selling it off. It had been wrenching enough to convert her father’s precious workshop into the coaching inn for a means to make money for her and her younger sister, Anya.
On this cool autumn day, however, she barely noted the scrolled settee set beneath the window of the parlor or the hutch that held her mother’s English china.
Instead, she paced the threadbare carpet, her stomach knotted and her hands shaking as she smoothed them down her plain gown of brown kerseymere. At last she turned to meet the concerned gaze of Diana Stanford, who was currently seated on the settee.
Although nearly ten years older than Emma, the English nanny was her dearest friend. Emma’s own mother had been raised in England and after her death there had been a comforting familiarity in Diana’s companionship.
A traditional English rose, Diana possessed fair hair and blue eyes that lent her an air of deceptive fragility. Emma on the other hand had inherited her father’s honey-brown hair, which she kept pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck, and a pair of hazel eyes that regarded the world with a grim determination that tended to intimidate any who hoped to take advantage of a woman forced to stand on her own.
A necessity for keeping her inn profitable and for raising her sixteen-year-old sister, but decidedly detrimental to her relationship with the local villagers. Most of her neighbors condemned the mere thought of a lady attempting to run her own business, let alone raise an impressionable girl. A proper, well-behaved female depended upon a man. Only an overly forward tart would dare to toss aside convention and remain independent.
The others found her a source of amusement, whispering behind her back and ensuring that she felt suitably unwelcome at the local gatherings.
Until today, she rarely allowed their opinions to trouble her.
“No, you must be mistaken,” Diana said, breaking the tense silence. “Anya might be stubborn and occasionally impulsive—”
Emma snorted. “Occasionally?”
Diana smiled wryly. Emma’s younger, far more beautiful sister was a volatile mixture of absurd fantasies and caprice.
“But she is not utterly bird-witted,” her companion continued. “She would never leave her home with two strangers who have no family connection to her.”
Emma reluctantly handed over