The Pleasure Garden, April 2005 (ISBN 0-8217-7798-X, Zebra Regency Romance (written under the pseudonym Regan Allen)

For destitute governess Angelica Pruitt, helping a courtesan entertain an aristocratic group of antiquity collectors in the Vauxhall pleasure garden meant getting to eat. Never did she dream that dashing treasure hunter Jason Kitterage would tempt her to risk her reputation and her very heart. For Jason's part, he can't quite believe the seductive beauty is the lady she claims. When she dons the legendary Mask of Aphrodite, men fall at her feet. Angelica swears the mask is magical, and others seem intent on stealing it for that very reason. Could it be that the greatest magic is in Angelica herself? Read more.

"An intriguing and sexy story that will draw the reader in from the very first page . . . a powerful love story. I truly look forward to reading more of Ms. Allen’s books." Romance Junkies

Chapter One

It was a night to believe in magic.

The Vauxhall grotto was secluded, cradled in thick hedges. Amid the branches of the center tree, lanterns glowed like moons, their golden light gleaming on the fine china of the buffet tables behind her. A stray spring breeze carried in music from the faraway main square of the pleasure garden. The cool air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Tonight, she could almost believe that she could do anything, be anything, she pleased.

Betsy Bright darted across the space to her side, the muslin of her gown trailing behind her like the wings of a dove.

"They're coming," she whispered.

Angelica Pruitt's bare arms pimpled with gooseflesh.

She squared her shoulders. She could do this. She wasn't here for the allure of the dark night. She wasn't here for the romance of the ancient mysteries they were coming to discuss. She wasn't here to fall in love or find a lover. She was here for a far more important purpose.

She was here to eat.

Betsy tugged on her arm, bouncing up and down on the toes of her borrowed satin slippers. "Come on, Miss Angel. We promised Miss Bryant we'd help." She paused to tug up the drooping shoulder of her gown. "Silly thing-who thought dressing in all this drapery was a good idea?"

"It's a Grecian chiton," Angel said, smoothing down the folds of her own gown. "We're supposed to resemble ladies from ancient Athens and . . ."

Betsy's face clouded with confusion.

Angel sighed. "And I'm not being paid to teach tonight."

"That's right," Betsy replied, face clearing. "So don't fret about the gown. It'll be coming off shortly anyway." Angel's stomach dropped. "It most certainly will not," she said in her best governess' voice, but Betsy was already darting to the entryway to peer out again.

She could do this.

No one said she had to take off her gown. No one said she had to take off anything. In fact, Cicely Bryant had made it sound so reasonable when she'd explained it to her over their weekly lesson.

"I just need another lady to assist me," she'd said in her soothing voice. "It's only a small party of gentlemen: congenial company and quiet conversation. Really, no different from one of your usual lessons." She'd cocked her golden head, blue eyes innocent. "There will be dinner, of course."

Of course. Cicely knew just how to entice a person, men as well as women. Angel probably could have withstood any other type of inducement. But food, oh, there was her downfall. It seemed she needed it more often than once every three days.

Across the grotto, Betsy scrambled away from the entrance. Angel clasped her hands behind her to keep them from trembling. It was time. They were here.

Cicely led them in. The gentlemen were all dressed in evening finery-dark jackets and breeches, frilled shirts, starched cravats. She could see the glint of gold and silver on buttons, the sheen of rich velvet, the drape of fine wool. They chatted and laughed, until Cicely's dark-haired footman stepped forward to whip off her black velvet cloak.

And then they all murmured in appreciation.

She posed for them, head high, smile this side of smug. Her Grecian robe outlined her figure, hinting at shapely bare limbs beneath. Her golden curls were done up high in gold chains, leaving her porcelain neck and shoulders as bare as her graceful arms. Cicely strolled into the enclave, voice low. Her hips rolled artistically, and the men followed her like hounds followed the pack leader.

Could she move that way? Should she move that way? Perhaps she should leave now before she found out.

Betsy had no such compunctions. She strutted forward, twirling the ends of the golden cord that girded her waist. Grinning cheekily, dark hair bobbing in curls, she approached a man old enough to be her father. He raised a craggy brow, but the younger dandy next to him immediately stepped closer, gaze roaming over her well-displayed curves.

That's all it was, really: a display. Like the lanterns in the tree, they were pretty decorations for the gentlemen's dinner. Surely she could pretend she was nothing more than a decoration, just for one night? Just until she ate?

Across the grotto, Cicely raised her head and met Angel's gaze. Her smile was soft, encouraging. It raised Angel's spirit, but only for a moment. Then Cicely turned all her attention to the man at her side.

So that was Lord Rupert Geoffreys. Angel had managed to avoid Cicely's lover in her visits, but she couldn't avoid her curiosity now. Tall and distinguished, he had sandy hair running to silver and deep lines on either side of his mouth. Betsy said he had quite an appetite, but Angel didn't think she meant food. He bent to let Cicely whisper in his ear. Looking up, he met Angel's gaze and raised a brow. His lips curled up in a smile of knowing appreciation. She felt hot all over.

No, this was a mistake. Cicely asked too much for one dinner. Lord Geoffreys might never have noticed the woman who came in to instruct his mistress in history and literature so that she could dazzle him with her knowledge and wit. He'd already taken entirely too much notice of the red-headed hostess in the clinging gown. She should go.

Keeping her head down, she moved around the fringes of the group. Conversation hummed, laughter sparkled. Everything was congeniality just as Cicely had promised. They were all gentlemen, or pretending to be. Some were tall and hopelessly gangly, others short and stubby. One was hideously overweight. Another had a wart on his nose, with a hair on it.

She wasn't in the least tempted to stay.

But even as she detoured around a knot of gentlemen, the waiters Cicely had hired for the night scurried past her, laden trays on their shoulders. Followed as they were by their caterer employer, they hardly spared her a look. But the smell of the food made her sway on her feet.

She could only eat if she stayed.

Her stomach growled a plea. Perhaps she was being hasty. Perhaps she could stay for a short conversation. All she wanted was a taste of the food that marched past her. Was her reputation really so much to ask?

She knew the answer to that question. She squared her shoulders again. She had to stay strong.

"If you resist the devil," she heard her father quote in her mind, "he will flee."

She raised her head and moved forward. She would find her way to the exit and back to the boardinghouse somehow. Perhaps Mr. Casperson was on duty tonight with his hired hack. Surely he'd take her home. She'd explain to Cicely next week that she'd changed her mind. She simply couldn't stay here with temptation all around her.

She was Miss Angelica Pruitt, after all, the daughter of the Reverend Mr. Winston Pruitt, famed across England for his oratory skills. It didn't matter that she was hungry or alone or far from home. She knew what was expected of her. Her father could rest easy in his grave. His Angel might die of starvation, but she'd die pure.

She moved confidently past the milling gentlemen, seeing this one raise a brow, that one lift a quizzing glass as if to get a better look at her. Betsy stopped in mid-conversation to smack a hand over her mouth. Cicely's fair brow drew down in a frown. Angel ignored them all.

She was nearly at the entrance to the bower, and freedom, when Temptation walked in.

She stopped and stared. He was tall, but every line said confidence. By the cut of his dark green coat and black breeches, there wasn't an ounce of fat on him and plenty of muscle. His light brown hair was touched with gold, his skin with bronze, as if he'd been kissed by the sun. Even his green eyes danced with golden flecks.

She'd obviously underestimated the devil.

He was looking over the crowd, but his gaze immediately lit on her, and his mouth tilted up in a smile. "Am I late?"

"Very," she assured him. "I've waited for you forever."

His smile grew, and he offered her his arm. "Then you must allow me to apologize. A gentleman should never keep a lady waiting."

She stared at his arm. Such a little gesture. Such a tiny civility. But if she accepted, if she laid her hand on his, felt the strength beneath her fingers, let herself bask in that smile, she knew she would be lost.

He cocked his head, watching her as if her answer meant all the world to him. He was handsome, his face strong and filled with character. It was a face to be touched, to be held. Something warm and thick and nearly overpowering rose up deep inside her.

It seemed she too had an appetite.

She almost ran. Surely that's what she was supposed to do. Yet, somehow, she knew it wasn't what she was meant to do. It certainly wasn't what she wanted to do.

And couldn't she, just once, do exactly as she pleased? Would it be so very wrong to give in to the murmur of her heart? Who would know? Who would ever point to the out-of-work governess quietly starving in a forgotten corner of London and whisper that she'd spent one magical night in the pleasure garden, laughing over rich food with the most handsome man in England?

Who would know, and who would care?

She lay her hand on his arm.