A Rogue to Remember Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Emily Sullivan

  Cover design by name Daniela Medina.

  Cover illustration by Paul Stinson, cover photograph © Shirley Green Photography.

  Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: March 2021

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  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-3730-9 (mass market), 978-1-5387-3731-6 (ebook)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Teaser

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  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

  Epilogue

  Discover More

  Look for Rafe’s tale in the next thrilling League of Scoundrels story Available Fall 2021

  About the Author

  Looking for more historical romances? Get swept away by handsome rogues and clever ladies from Forever!

  She looked down, gathering her courage.

  “Don’t leave.” She hadn’t the nerve to add me. And yet, how many times had she asked that of him when they were children? Too many to count. But he had broken that promise in the end.

  When she dared to glance up again, Alec still hadn’t moved, but his mask had fallen away. Everything he worked so hard to keep hidden was laid bare before her: the wariness, the pain, and, most important, the desire.

  Her eyes were drawn to the sensuous curves of his lips, almost indecently full for a man. How badly she wanted him to kiss her again, but not for show this time. Not for anything other than the sheer pleasure of it. The want. The need of it.

  He stared at her for a long moment. His piercing gaze stirred something so raw within her she almost fell to her knees. “It’s the shock of earlier,” he finally said. “You don’t know what you’re—”

  “Stay with me. Please.”

  Alec closed his eyes and muttered a curse.

  To women who dare.

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  Acknowledgments

  A hermit can write a book, sure, but it takes a village to publish one. A Rogue to Remember is no exception, and it is all the better for it.

  Thanks to my fantastic agent, Amanda Jain, and my brilliant editor, Junessa Viloria, who both read this book almost as many times as I did and always offered up new insights. Thank you for taking a chance on Lottie and Alec and for making this debut author’s dreams come true.

  To my beta readers, A. Y. Chao, Colette Dixon, C. R. Grissom, Katy James, and Evi Kline. Thank you for your time and early encouragement.

  To my cousin Katie for her unbridled enthusiasm for this story when I needed it most.

  To the inhabitants of Rebelle Island for providing support and commiseration in equal measure.

  To my family and friends for treating me like a professional writer long before I ever was one.

  And to my husband, who has maintained from the earliest days of our relationship that I would publish a book one day. It only took thirteen years, but you were right.

  The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

  ~Oscar Wilde

  Chapter One

  1897

  A village near Pistoia, Italy

  I have all the time in the world now.

  It still felt strange to Lottie Carlisle to have every day stretch endlessly before her, especially with the season starting in a few weeks. But there was no rigid schedule to follow now. No social calls to uphold, no days at home to maintain, no balls, or picnics, or musical entertainments. No more stilted conversations with vapid young men trying their hardest to talk about anything other than her money. And, especially, no more sneering matrons and supposed friends asking why, oh why couldn’t she make her poor old uncle happy and find a husband. The man did worry so.

  Poor old Uncle Alfred indeed.

  Now on the cusp of his sixth decade, Sir Alfred Lewis was considered a veritable pillar of London society, a renowned collector of antiquities whose travels as a young man had once taken him to nearly every corner of the Empire. He had even published a popular memoir on the subject. This garnered him the admiration of many and a knighthood from the queen, but very few knew that Uncle Alfred was also involved in the highest levels of government. He delighted in playing the role of a mild eccentric in public while ruthlessly protecting the Crown’s interests in private. Even Lottie barely knew the full extent of his activities—and never would.

  Lottie paused to assess the canvas before her. She had been trying to capture the soft, golden light of the Tuscan hillside that surrounded her for days now, and not once had she come close to doing it justice. She managed to eke out a few more sickly clouds, then set down her paintbrush. Hopefully that was enough progress to please her painting instructor, Signore Ernesto, when he came for their lesson tomorrow. She could already hear him chiding her hurried brushstrokes. Pazienza, signora. Pazienza.

  Patience. A word Lottie had always had little use for. But now time was all she had.

  She walked over to the balustrade that separated the cottage’s terrace from the steep hillside’s drop and placed her palms against the sun-warmed stone. Lottie had fallen in love with the view on sight when she first came to the village more than a week ago. The owner had been reluctant to let it to a lone woman—even one who claimed to be a respectable young widow—but was not foolish enough to turn down a full year’s rent in advance. Now Lottie woke up to this view each morning, while the large back terrace with its vine-covered pergola provided the ideal spot to work on her en plein air painting.

  The air was ripe with young spring. She closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the April sky, smiling as the sun kissed her face. No doubt her fair skin was freckling even more with each passing se
cond, but it hardly mattered now. For the first time in her twenty-four years, Lottie was free.

  And all it took was complete and utter ruination.

  “Signora, tu hai un visitatore,” Marta, the housekeeper, said as she bustled onto the terrace. The older woman didn’t know very much English, and though Lottie had engaged a tutor to help her brush up on Italian before leaving England, nothing could prepare her for the rapid cadence of natural speakers. Luckily, even Lottie could pick out visitatore.

  Strange. Visitors never called at lunchtime, and Marta usually guarded the front door as fiercely as a hound of Hades. “What, now?”

  Marta raised her eyebrow. “Un uomo bello nobile.”

  She shot the woman an exasperated look. “Really, Marta.” As Lottie had explained many, many times already, she was not lonely and certainly hadn’t any need for affetto. Marta had probably arranged the visit herself, and this “handsome nobleman” was actually the son of her butcher. The housekeeper gave a dismissive little shrug and then, oddly, seemed to hesitate. Lottie only understood half of what she said at any given time, but Marta never dithered over anything.

  She looked over her shoulder and then gestured for Lottie to come closer. “Lui dice che è tuo…marito.” She whispered the last word, as if relaying some terrible secret.

  Marito?

  Lottie frowned. It was reminiscent of mari, the French word for “husband,” but that didn’t make any sense. She most certainly didn’t have a husband. Lottie didn’t have anyone. She glanced at the Italian dictionary on the terrace’s lone table. Hopefully the man’s English was better than Marta’s, or else this would be a very short visit.

  “All right. You may show him out here, I suppose,” Lottie said with a sweep of her hand.

  Marta broke into a rare smile and nodded. “Ah, bene, bene. Una riconciliazione!” She clasped her hands against her chest, as if this was the most wonderful news. Then her eyes sparked with that all-too-familiar determination. “I bring you tea,” she declared and hurried back into the house.

  “No, Marta!” Lottie called after her. This wasn’t a social call, for heaven’s sake. But it was useless. She might be the mistress, but Marta ran the house. Lottie crossed her arms and leaned against the balustrade to wait for this “handsome nobleman” to appear. The thought was mildly intriguing, given that she had barely spoken to a man under fifty since the Pension Bertolini in Florence. He had been a remarkably bland German named Hans who was traveling with his father. Hans was polite, spoke excellent English, and didn’t remotely interest her. But her chaperone, Mrs. Wetherby, was undeterred: “Imagine! You could have blond children!”

  The odious woman had viewed Lottie’s light auburn tresses as an affront to common decency. A foul blemish that needed to be snuffed out before it could taint another generation. But Lottie cherished her hair. It was just like her mother’s had been. She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and absently fingered the end. Her uncle’s pompous secretary, Gordon Wetherby, had maintained that his aunt excelled in managing young ladies with “high spirits.” Lottie could still picture the way his nose wrinkled as he said the words. Lottie wasn’t proud of it, but she had taken some pleasure in imagining both his and Mrs. Wetherby’s reactions to her disappearance. Though perhaps she should be thanking him instead. After all, if Mrs. Wetherby had been the least bit pleasant, Lottie might have been tempted to amend her plan.

  The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. They were slow and heavy. One might even say portentous. This uninvited visitor was clearly in no great rush and expected her to wait. Bello or no, this was not the way to ensure a good first impression. Lottie fixed her most disapproving frown on the doorway, where the shadow of a rather imposing man now came into view. The doorway itself was low, and he had to stoop slightly to reach the terrace. Lottie’s breath caught at the familiar movement even while her mind tried to reason otherwise.

  No. He would never come here. Not for someone as trivial as you.

  But before the light even touched his face, a part of her already knew. From a place deep within her bones. A place she could never erase, no matter how hard she tried.

  And oh, how Lottie had tried.

  Her arms fell by her sides as Alec Gresham, her uncle’s ward turned protege, dedicated agent of the Crown, only son of the late English poet Edward Gresham, and, indeed, very bello, stepped out onto the terrace.

  “Well hello, Lottie,” he said evenly. “What a charming cottage you have here.”

  No wonder Marta mistook him for a nobleman. He certainly held himself like one, even though nearly every inch of him was covered in road dust. Then the man had the audacity to twist that full mouth of his into a smirk. At her.

  As if he were just dropping by for tea.

  As if they were still friends.

  The word caused a faint pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. Lottie quickly wiped the shock from her face and glared. She wasn’t naive enough to assume that Uncle Alfred, a man who staunchly refused to accept he didn’t have complete control over the fates and furies of life, would simply let her be. But to send Alec after her?

  The gall of both of them was maddening.

  But if Alec was at all bothered by this frosty reception, he didn’t show it. He sauntered over until he was no more than a foot away, forcing her to look up into the face that was at once both achingly familiar and surprisingly breathtaking. The trace of boyishness that had still been visible when they last met was no more, as his features had fully matured into the kind of stoic, patrician beauty the Romans had adored. His dark hair had grown so long it nearly brushed his collar, the waves as unruly as ever, and his strong jaw was lightly bearded. But beneath that easy charm the same undercurrent of antagonism crackled—just as captivating, and disquieting, as it always had been. His hazel eyes glinted, daring her to look away first. But Lottie stared right back.

  Alec filled the silence by studying her with an openness that bordered on indecent. If he were any other man, she would have walked away or taken him to task. But then, if he were any other man, her skin wouldn’t feel so flushed and tight, and she wouldn’t have any trouble swallowing. Alec’s gaze tracked the movement of her throat, then briefly flitted to her mouth. Lottie clenched her hands against the unwanted attraction swelling inside and released a breath.

  “Funny. Marta told me a handsome nobleman had come to visit.” She narrowed her eyes to match her icy tone. “But I see it’s only you.”

  That earned her a chuckle. “I know you don’t like surprises, but don’t be too cross with me.” He tilted his head and squinted; it was a perfect imitation of someone trying to recollect a distant memory. “How long has it been since we last saw each other, anyway?”

  The act was nearly as infuriating as the question itself. There was no need to put on a show for her, of all people. Lottie loosened her jaw just enough to answer. “I haven’t been keeping track.”

  It had been five years.

  And still nothing about Alec was genuine. He only made it appear so. That was his talent—drawing people in, telling them what they wanted to hear, to see, to feel, until they gave him everything he wanted. Then they were discarded.

  He smirked again and moved a little closer. “I’d say it’s been about five years or so. Not since your—”

  “Who told you I was here?” Lottie didn’t have time for this. He needed to leave. Immediately. She had not come all this way to deal with people like him and Uncle Alfred. Not anymore. “Was it Mrs. Wetherby?”

  Lottie had placed the timetable for the train to Rome on her desk when she left the pension, where even her harebrained chaperone could not miss it. She also underlined the city a few times so there would be no doubt of her destination. But perhaps Lottie had slipped and mentioned the village once…

  Alec shook his head. “She was sure you had gone to Rome, but I know a diversion when I see one.” His eyes warmed with approval, but Lottie made sure hers remained cold.


  At least someone noticed.

  She had also left behind a pressed red rose and a little note—love tokens from her imaginary Italian suitor. Had he seen through those as well? That could spoil everything.

  “Then I remembered how you always talked about coming here because of your parents.” The smile faded along with his voice, but the words still hung heavily in the air between them.

  Blast.

  That was the problem with childhood friends. They knew your inner workings, your inspirations, all your closely guarded dreams, because they had been there when the seeds were first sown. But while Alec knew plenty about Lottie, it seemed like everything she thought she knew about him—or at least, everything that had truly mattered—turned out to be wrong. He was little more than a stranger. And perhaps always had been.

  “After that, it was easy enough to track you here,” he continued. “A young English woman traveling on her own is a bit of a novelty around these parts. Especially one with hair as pretty as yours.”

  She frowned at the shallow compliment even as her traitorous heart beat a little faster. “A fine story, but I can’t begin to imagine your purpose in coming all this way.” Lottie made sure each word practically dripped with condescension.

  Alec’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, filling the air with a familiar woodsy scent that made something soft and tender curl around her heart. His formerly white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. The sun had turned his olive skin even darker and threaded his deep brown hair with the barest hints of copper and gold. Her fingers twitched with the old urge to touch those messy waves until she folded her hands tightly against her middle.

  Who knew where he had been before this: Turkey, Sardinia, Greece. Perhaps even Egypt. She had never once asked her uncle. All that mattered was that Alec had left. Living in such ignorance all these years made it slightly easier to pretend he didn’t exist outside of her memories. But now he stood before her in the flesh, radiating vitality and undeniably real. Lottie caught herself staring at the tanned hollow of his throat and quickly met his eyes, but of course Alec noticed. Yet another smirk briefly hovered on those well-formed lips then vanished. Time to get on with it.