Rogue Awakening, page 1
Rogue Awakening
Wicked Widows' League, Volume 4
Cara Maxwell and Wicked Widows
Published by Cara Maxwell, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Cara Maxwell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
For permissions contact: caramaxwellromance@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Mandy Koehler
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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Also by Cara Maxwell
Ten Steps to Safeguard Your Freedom: A Widow’s Guide to Companionship and Satisfaction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Excerpt from My Lady Rake
The Wicked Widows’ League
About the Author
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Also by Cara Maxwell
The Hesitant Husbands
The internationally bestselling debut series!
Lady Leonora Knows Best
A Love Match for the Marquess
Meant to be Mine
Love Once Lost
A Very Viscount Christmas
The Duchess Who Dared
Racing Rogues
Steam, scandal, and happily ever after set against the intrigue of Regency English horse racing.
Rogue Awakening (prequel novella)
One Race to Ruin
The Speed of Seduction
To Please a Princess
The Secret of the Surviving Earl
Riding with a Rake
First Lady to the Finish
Ten Steps to Safeguard Your Freedom: A Widow’s Guide to Companionship and Satisfaction
By Sylvia Armstrong, Duchess of Sudbury
Step 1. Select a potential lover to whom you have no previous connection or entanglement.
Step 2. Ascertain physical compatibility through thorough inquiry.
Step 3. Determine the selected individual’s affinity for engaging conversation.
Step 4. Establish well-defined parameters straightaway.
Step 5. Maintain an active social schedule wholly independent of your chosen companion.
Step 6. Keep matters of a financial nature entirely confidential.
Step 7. Continuously nurture your own passions separate from your companion.
Step 8. Test durability of relationship with ongoing experimentation.
Step 9. Review and revisit parameters to ensure compliance from all parties.
Step 10. End the liaison immediately when it no longer serves your purposes.
Chapter 1
Step 1. Select a potential lover to whom you have no previous connection or entanglement.
1813
A very stylish ballroom
London, England
ONCE UPON A TIME, SUCH a sight would have made her stomach turn over mercilessly.
Once upon a time, Lady Sylvia St. Vincent would have hidden against the wall, praying that the seven-foot-tall floral arrangements of white lilies and hydrangeas would swallow her up entirely. She’d have suffered parched lips and growling stomach if it meant avoiding the refreshments table and any other young debutantes lingering there. Or worse, their mamas.
But once upon a time, Sylvia had been a shy, cowering debutante.
Today, she was something entirely different.
As she stepped into the stylish ballroom, full of nearly three hundred people, already a swirling mass of taffeta and silk where the dancefloor had been outlined beneath a half-dozen blazing gold-leaf chandeliers, she was the one glowing.
Burning like a candle.
It began with her black silk slippers. Simple, unadorned silk the color of an ember burned to nothing. But from there she came to life. The scalloped hem of her gown was embroidered with glistening black beads that curled in undulating swirls up the column of the gown. The gown, which was itself a distinctive deep red silk. Or at least, it would appear that way if one only looked at the bottom. But no, it was hand-dipped, dyed with singular perfection so that the red bled into umber and then gold as it reached her neckline. The beads there were iridescent, nearly white. Like the brightest, purest part of a flame.
The diamonds sparkling in her tiara only heightened the effect.
Lady Sylvia St. James was in mourning no longer.
The woman launching herself back into London society that evening knew nothing of the shy, awkward debutante who had cowered beside her mother a decade before.
“Lady Sylvia St. James!” The butler announced to the crowd.
“Where did she obtain that gown? I must have one...”
“She’s scarcely a day out of her morning period, how shameful.”
“When I am married, I shall commission a gown exactly like it—”
“—diamonds. Her widow’s jointure must have been most generous...”
Sylvia held tightly to the banister as she descended the five steps into the ballroom. She could feel the heat from the chandeliers overhead. Or had she burst into flame? It was impossible to tell.
Until a hand landed upon her forearm in those few inches of skin revealed by her elbow-length golden silk gloves.
“You did not tell me about the gown,” Genevieve Stone whispered accusingly.
Sylvia’s dignified half-smile remained in place as she turned to her friend. “I told you I intended to make a lasting impression.”
Genny made a very unladylike noise, particularly for a duchess. But an artfully timed flash of her fan covered it from all ears but Sylvia’s.
“If you had known about the gown, you might have advised me against it,” Sylvia admitted, her first outward indication that she’d felt any trepidation about her ensemble.
Genny made an obvious show of inspecting her friend from the tip of her tiara down to the toes of her black slippers. She even made her twirl, spinning her finger in the air until she complied. Sylvia indulged her because she knew the eyes of the other guests were upon her. She smiled because unlike all those years ago, the notion did not send disgruntled moths flapping through her stomach.
Genny’s eyes lingered on the expanse of skin exposed by the gown’s neckline, her smile growing with wicked appreciation.
“So?” Sylvia asked, licking her lips as she ceased revolving on the spot.
“If you’d shown it to me, I would have attempted to buy it from you for an exorbitant cost that would surely have enraged my husband,” Genny said. “For a duke, the man is irritatingly firm with his ledger book.”
“It appears I’ve gained not only confidence but wisdom.” Sylvia smiled indulgently, clasping her friend’s hand. “Thank you for coming. I know you would have preferred to join His Grace in Doncaster.”
Genny waved her hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it, my dearest. I could not bear to miss your grand re-entry into society.” As she spoke, her eyes traveled over Sylvia’s shoulder. “You have already amassed a following of admirers.”
Sylvia’s heart beat a staccato rhythm. Not nerves, but thrilled anticipation. “Do you think?”
“Oh yes.” Genny looped their arms together and casually turned Sylvia around. She pointed toward one of the towering white floral arrangements, pretending they were of interest to either woman.
Sylvia did as her friend implied, nodding her chin softly.
“There by the foot of the stairs, I would wager my firstborn child that Lord Templeton and Mr. Finch are setting odds on which of them will win a dance with you first,” Genny said in a low whisper, eyes still regarding the confection of white petals and dense greenery.
“Lady Culpepper is looking daggers at me,” Sylvia said, biting her cheek to keep in her chuckle.
“It serves that old goat right. She said such awful things about you when we were debutantes,” Genny said. “She’s been boasting that her daughter will ensnare the Duke of Fulbright. But alas, his grace is now looking at you.”
“I have no intention of ensnaring anyone,” Sylvia said quickly, pulse jumping in anxiety for the first time. “I do not wish to be anyone’s duchess. Or marchioness, countess, or anything of the like.”
“Yes, yes, I know. You are intent on being a widow for the rest of your miserable life.”
Sylvia practically heard the sound of her friend’s eyes rolling toward the ceiling.
“You have expressed your feelings on the matter,” Sylvia said. “However, not all of us secured a love match halfway through our first season, Genny. To a duke, no less.”
She felt the breath catch in her friend’s chest and knew that if she turned he
After two disastrous seasons, without a single call from a single gentleman, let alone a proposal, she’d married the elderly lord her parents contracted for her. Ten years later, she was a widow. Ten years was enough to change any person. Especially one trapped in an unhappy marriage.
It did not do to dwell in the past. For the last twelve months, while she dutifully observed her mourning period, Sylvia had planned for this moment. She would not let it slip away from her now, not after she’d made such a glorious entrance.
Instead of looking to Genny and whatever emotions her eyes might hold, she turned her gaze toward the two young men her friend had mentioned moments before. “Lord Templeton is an established bachelor, and quite handsome. Are you acquainted with him?”
Genny’s grip on her arm tightened. “Unfortunately, yes. We’ve had him round for supper several times. He and my husband are allies in the House of Lords, though I’d rather they weren’t. His manners are ghastly.”
Sylvia sighed. “Then tell me about Mr. Finch. He is shorter than I am, which is a bit off-putting. But he does always seem to have a pretty woman on his arm.”
“And he has a reputation for frequenting brothels.”
Sylvia pursed her lips. “Do you intend to malign every gentleman I consider for conquest?”
“Only the ones I find unsuitable,” Genny said sweetly.
“You are as difficult as my mother. You are supposed to be helping me find a lover, that was the plan.”
“Your plan,” Genny reminded her.
“Genny—”
“Sylvie—”
“Lady St. Vincent.”
Both women’s mouths clamped shut in unison.
The elegant Lady Schmidt, dowager Marchioness of Heathmore, had stopped before them. As one, the trio of women sank into respectful curtsies. As one, they stared at each other. As a group, the eyes of many other guests turned to observe the interaction.
Clothed in smoky gray and silver, bedecked in pearls and diamonds, Lady Schmidt was the picture of beauty and elegance even in her mid-forties. She’d been a widow for nearly a decade and was rumored to have amassed a line of lovers that included even a foreign prince. Of course, since she was wealthy, discreet, and most importantly, a widow, the ton had nothing but admiration for her.
As did Sylvia.
Lady Schmidt lived exactly the sort of existence that Sylvia imagined for herself.
“Well met, my lady,” Sylvia said politely.
“Indeed. You’ve made quite a spectacle of yourself,” the older woman said, though the tenor of her voice was not quite reproving. She nodded briefly to Genny, giving her the due respect necessary as the Duchess of Ashcroft, but her attention was focused upon Sylvia. “You have caught everyone’s attention.”
“Thank you.” Sylvia did not hold back her smile. She sensed she had the woman’s approval, and that lit her inner flame even more than the jealous glare of Lady Culpepper.
“I hold a monthly salon at my home for ladies of the ton who find themselves in your particular circumstance.” As she spoke, Lady Schmidt extended a neatly folded white paper sealed with wax. “Perhaps you will join us.”
Sylvia accepted the invitation, multitudinous questions swirling through her bedazzled head. How had the lady known she’d be in attendance this evening? Why not send the invitation by messenger? Perhaps it was not what it seemed...
That thought had her sliding the paper into her reticule without a single peek.
Lady Schmidt inclined her head in approval.
“I must attend to my companion, Monsieur Duvalle,” she said, nodding beyond them. Sylvia caught a glimpse of a handsome young Frenchman lingering near the edge of the dancefloor, staring adoringly back at Lady Schmidt. “We shall speak again soon.”
“Of course,” Sylvia said, curtseying once again. Beside her, Genny mirrored the motion.
But once Lady Schmidt was well away, twirling around the dancefloor with her gallic lover, Genny began to percolate on her silk-slippered feet.
“What is it?” Genny jockeyed closer, ignoring a spiteful glance from Lady Fisk as she pushed past.
“Perhaps we ought to go somewhere more private,” Sylvia murmured, fingering the edge of her reticule. She could feel the sharply folded edges of the parchment within.
“If discretion was required, then Lady Schmidt ought not to have given it to you in the middle of the ball of the Season,” Genny quipped, now perched so she could peer over Sylvia’s shoulder.
Ignoring her friend, Sylvia slowly rotated on her feet, drifting as casually as she could manage away from the swirling center of the ballroom. She noted Genny’s petite humph and ignored that as well.
Only when she’d carefully positioned herself on the far side of a buffet of refreshments did she reach inside her reticule and allow her gaze to slide back to the missive in her hands.
“For a lady as determined to seize her own future and womanhood as you claim to be, you are poised dangerously close to all the other wallflowers,” Genny groused. But her eyes, like Sylvia’s, were intent.
She broke the seal.
Sylvia meant to read a line, then glance up, then read another. To avoid the impression that she was overly absorbed, ignoring the other guests. But that intention fell away upon seeing the delicately entwined letters stamped in gold at the top of the paper.
This was not an invitation to a salon with Lady Schmidt. It was something much more auspicious.
“The Widows’ League,” Genny whispered beside her, awe filling every word.
Sylvia scanned the words, realizing precisely what she held. “It appears so.”
She tucked the parchment away inside her reticule, her motions unhurried even as her heart thumped wildly in her chest.
The Widows’ League. The wicked Widows’ League, if rumors were to be believed.
It was addressed to her specifically. It had not been sent to her home, but rather hand-delivered by Lady Schmidt herself. As if Lady Schmidt had possessed the power to decide whether the missive was delivered at all. By the glint of approval she’d seen in the older woman’s eyes, Sylvia suspected her entrance had been the thing to convince her.
She was invited to Matron Manor.
It changed nothing about Sylvia’s plans for the evening, nor all the days and months beyond. Yet, she could not deny that her spirit was further buoyed. She’d come to this, the premiere ball of the Season, in hopes of finding a lover to take to her bed. A man to finally show her what lovemaking could truly be—something she knew pitifully little about after ten years of a cold, duty-filled marriage.
This nomination only served as confirmation that the path she’d selected for herself with her hard-won freedom was indeed the correct one. With renewed confidence, she squeezed Genny’s hand.
“Let us go and see who here does meet your exacting standards,” she said. “For I shall leave with a gentleman tonight, even if he be a rogue.”
Genny sighed, her resignation evident. After seeing that missive, she knew better than to argue with her friend. “All right. But before we do, we shall have to make our rounds. Look who has chosen this moment to arrive.” Her golden head tilted toward the entrance to the ballroom.
Sylvia followed her gaze, the brightest smile of the evening spreading across her face. Warmth flickered through her. There was her brother, handsome and smiling, his delicate, blushing bride Cordelia on his arm. On his other side was a man she would have recognized anywhere, though the sight of him was shocking enough to send her jaw toward the white marble floor.
Jasper Armstrong was not the youthful boy she’d last seen in Essex the year of her debut. He stood with military grace, tall and straight, fresh from Wellington’s campaign in Spain. Her brother’s best friend. For her entire childhood, those boys had been constant burrs in her side. But now, Jasper was all man.
