His Wicked Embrace novel Chapter 1

League Rule Number 11:

A man should remember from time to time to be a gentleman, even if he thinks he may have forgotten how.

Excerpt from the Quizzing Glass Gazette, April 28, 1821, the Lady Society column:

Lady Society is quite curious about a certain gentleman named Mr. Lawrence Russell. His elder brother, the Marquess of Rochester, is quite infamous indeed as a member of the League of Rogues, but as for Mr. Russell himself...the rumors abound.

Lady Society would like very much to know if he wishes to be married, or will he continue as his brother had and resist matrimony at all odds? If it is the former, Lady Society will endeavor to find him a suitable bride; if it is the latter, Lady Society sees his determined bachelordom as a challenge. A rogue you may be, Mr. Russell, but Lady Society believes you might yet make a good husband. Now who to marry you to?

"You belong to me now."

The whispered words echoed in Zehra Darzi's head as she jolted awake. Somehow in the last twenty-four hours she'd managed to sleep a little inside her gilded prison. Those words that haunted her still made her head throb as a fresh wave of fear swept through her. The man who had spoken them had murdered her parents and kidnapped her from her palace in Persia three weeks ago.

Al-Zahrani. His name was like bitter poison upon her tongue, and she fought the urge to throw up. She'd spent only a few days as his prisoner-listening to him boast of capturing her and his plans of using her as a concubine-before she'd had a chance to flee.

She curled her hands into fists and winced as her nails dug into her palms. Cuts, somewhat healed, still stung from when she'd scaled a low-branched tree near Al-Zahrani's walls to break free. She'd been so close to freedom, had felt it with every step as she stumbled and ran through the desert hills.

Then, after two days without food or water, she'd collapsed on the dunes, lips parched and cracked, eyes burning. She'd glimpsed men upon the horizon, on horseback in dark clothes. At first she'd thought they were her salvation, but she soon learned they were anything but.

Slavers.

Now she was imprisoned in an English brothel thousands of miles from her home.

Zehra's gaze darted around the room for the hundredth time, and she wished the women who had seen to her care, such as it was, had brought a fresh pitcher of water. Her throat was parched and she would have done almost anything for a sip of water. It was dark outside, and she hadn't been visited by anyone since early that morning, when the slavers had sold her to the madam who ran this wretched place. She licked her dry lips and refused to cry.

You are strong. You are the daughter of a shah and an English lady. No one owns you-no matter what happens tonight.

It was the mantra she had spoken again and again as the slavers had mocked her during their long days at sea. She hadn't been the only woman they'd captured, but she'd been one of the few they had left unspoiled. Her father's name had carried weight enough to give her that protection, at least so far as the greed of the men was concerned.