Quotes:
Thrilling up to the last page, titillating from one sexually charged love scene to the next and captivating from beginning to end, the last of the Royal Four series displays Bradley's ability to tell an involved, sexy story. If you haven't yet read a Bradley novel, let yourself be seduced by the mistress of the genre!--Romantic Times

Have you discovered the bawdy charms of Celeste Bradley? Laced with intrigue and adventure, she has quickly become a staff and reader favourite and with each book we just fall further in love with her characters. This is the final book in the superb Royal Four quartet, with her most dangerous deception yet!--Rendezvous Books

Under the covers:
A friend of mine has a phrase that really pegs a certain type of guy. She calls them "crowbar" men, because you can't get their feelings out of them with anything short of 18 inches of steel and applied leverage. Stanton Horne is this sort of man--a bloke so buried beneath himself that even he doesn't know what he needs! Lady Alicia, on the other hand, is just the sort of girl to keep a crowbar handy in her reticule. She never lets Stanton get away with anything, therefore providing him with what women call "growth opportunities" and men call "twisted feminine torture!"

This book is about truth and lies. I've come to realize that the ones you tell yourself are the hardest to see through. Maybe we could all use a crowbar once in a while.

Excerpt:
Lady Alicia Lawrence turned to the speckled mirror gracing the hall and peered closely at her face. The hives were still quite apparent, though thankfully less florid than they had been last night. Her face was still very puffy, unfortunately, and her throat was still quite sore.
It seemed that she could add strawberries to the list of things she could not eat. That was a pity indeed, for there were still several pints of strawberry jam in the pantry. Millie's even more elderly cousin had sent them from her home in the country as a gift, and Alicia had been glad to have them. It had been a long time since she'd been able to spare the coin for non-essentials like jam.
She straightened and examined the rest of her reflection. Her entire body had swelled, not dangerously, but too much to wear her own things. She'd had to borrow the gown from Millie as well, for her own could not be buttoned round her puffy midriff. Her skin had been far too sensitive to bear the tight binding touch of too-small clothing.
It looked as though she might be able to wear her own things tomorrow, if she drank a great deal of water and took herself directly off to bed. First she headed off to the kitchen to make an oatmeal paste to ease the itching of her skin.
When the paste had cooled enough to spread over her burning skin, she dabbed it thankfully on her forehead and cheeks.
The door knocker rapped sharply, three times. Alicia started, for she was unaccustomed to the sound. Bloody hell. She didn't have enough oatmeal to spare for another batch, since porridge constituted their main meal every morning. She stepped quickly to open the door as she was.
The Marquis of Wyndham stood outside, all six-feet-and-then-some splendorous male, calling on her.
Without the obfuscation of the veil, she was finally able to see--and appreciate!--him fully.
He wasn't a beautiful man, at least not in an easy, golden way. He was dark, with the stern, arrogant strength of an archangel--the avenging sort who carried a sword and had a tendency to smite things.
His height added to that impression. He was broad of shoulder as well, although not brawny. He had large, well-shaped manly hands with long fingers--the sort of hands that knew how to tease music from a pianoforte, yet could easily wield the above-mentioned sword.
In other words, he was entirely to Alicia's taste.
Pity that. What a waste. What was she to do with the man of her dreams--who conversely would want nothing to do with said dreams--now that he had finally come to call?
It was if the devil himself had devised the perfect earthly torture for Lady Alicia Lawrence.
"Now how will I occupy myself when I get to Hell?" she muttered under her breath.
Then he obviously took his first good look at her and stepped back. Oh, bother. She'd not covered her face. Alicia stifled a moment of regret that such a man was not seeing her at her best and raised her chin, defying him to view her in all her allergic bedaubed vividness.
He blinked twice, then bowed. "Lady Alicia, I am happy to find you at home."
Alicia folded her arms and scratched idly at a bothersome patch on her elbow. "Of course, I'm at home. I already informed you that I have no plans. Ever."
"Er, yes. Well." He straightened and gazed at her for a long moment. "You are well-born, you have an education, yet you do not seem to know the slightest of the social graces."
Alicia tilted her head. "Oh, I know them. I simply don't bother to use them." She turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the open doorway. She was already seated by the meager fire in the parlor when he found her. She looked up briefly when he entered. "Are you still here?"
Stanton reined in his irritation with an effort. Obviously, there was something wrong with the woman, possibly even something that was not her fault. One had only to look at her to see that. What a sight--she was positively scaly! Delusional, certainly. He'd just discovered that her background was peppered with such things. He should find her pitiable, not irritating.
It irritated him that he could not pity her.
She sighed and flopped back in the chair. Folding her hands over her stomach, she gazed up at him with half-lidded eyes. "I'm very tired today. State your business or go away."
He found it difficult to tear his eyes away. She was idly scratching her belly through her gown--appalling rude to be sure, yet his attention was caught by the way the fabric was stretched against her figure. If he was not mistaken, the woman was carved like a statue of a Greek goddess beneath her reptilian scales!
Discomfort seized him. He shut his eyes. He was not here to eye her curves. He was here to get to the bottom of this conspiracy madness. "Why are you weary?" he heard himself ask.
Wait--that wasn't what he'd meant to say at all. Damn his curiosity. It had a life of its own sometimes.
She leaned her head back and shut her eyes. "I'm weary because it is six bloody miles to your house from here and I was not feeling well to start."
Stanton blinked. "You walked six miles? From Mayfair?"
She opened her eyes. "No. However did you pass your mathematics courses in school? I walked twelve miles--six to Mayfair and six back. I would count it on my fingers for you, but I have only ten." She shut her eyes again. "I shouldn't be at all surprised if you possessed two extra, however. Something must have been holding you back from your studies."
Stanton was not accustomed to being mocked. In fact, he had very little experience with it at all. It was most unpleasant, yet curiously stimulating. He could quite honestly say, if he were asked, that he was not bored.
The woman sighed and stretched, right in front of him. "I'm bored. Go away."
Stanton had not been asked to sit and he had the feeling that he never would, should he stand there until he was white-haired. So he sat, for possibly the first time in his life, uninvited. "Lady Alicia, you came to me with a wild story about overhearing a conspiracy--"
She grunted. She actually grunted. Distracted, Stanton lost his train of thought. Then he shook off his revolted fascination and found the thread again. "You give me the sketchiest of details and then you turn right around and walk out of my house. It took me hours to track you down. No one seemed to know what happened to you after--" He halted. Perhaps that was best not mentioned.
Her eyes flew open. "After I whored myself to a simpleton stable-hand, you mean?"
"I do not mean to offend--"
"Oh, bother. Of course you mean to offend! Why else bring it up? It didn't work, for it was a pathetic effort indeed. Your mother must be proud to have a son so thoroughly mannerly that he cannot insult even when he tries." She pushed herself wearily to her feet. She staggered slightly and Stanton swiftly rose to help her. She snatched her elbow from his helping hand. "Don't touch me. It only makes it worse."
"Makes what worse?"
She widened her eyes at him. "Goodness, six-fingered and near-sighted. No wonder you live alone." She turned her face back to the fire. "I'm ill, you cretin. My head is pounding, my throat is on fire, and if you don't leave now I'm planning to vomit on your boots."
"You never told me how you came to hear of this conspiracy."
She closed her eyes and leaned her head carefully against the back of her chair. "You never asked."
She would try the patience of a stone. Stanton forced himself to harden. "How did you come to hear of this conspiracy, then?"
"While I was vomiting."
Stone. Cold, hard, impervious stone. "And where did this take place?"
She wrinkled her brow, thinking. "The majority of it took place in my bedchamber. Then, when I could not bear the chamber pot any longer, I took it to the privy."
What an outlandish idea. "Why did you not have your maid take it to the privy?"
Her eyes opened. "Ask Millie to go out in the dark when she can scarcely see her way in full daylight? Nor is Millie my maid. At one time she was my governess, then my companion, but I do not employ her now. I support her. She had nowhere else to go when I was shunned. Even if her professional reputation had survived the ruination of mine, she is too infirm to begin again."
So she was at least responsible to her dependants, which was the first intimation that there was anything admirable about the creature.
While he regarded her silently, she rubbed at a crumbling bit of paste on her nose. It fell, leaving the tip of her nose ludicrously bare, pink in the midst of the white mask. He had the sudden image of a white cat, glaring at him through mystical green eyes. All she needed were the whiskers.
He probably ought not to look too closely. He might find them.