A beautiful debutante in Regency London seems destined to make a good match. But the Somerset sisters have made courtship and matrimony a deliciously scandalous affair . . .   Hyacinth Somerset’s debut is the most anticipated event of the season, as it will be the reclusive young lady’s first public appearance. But within moments of being asked to dance by a dashing stranger, Hyacinth calls him a murderer, then faints dead away! Now all the ton is a aflutter over Hyacinth’s baffling shun of their most intriguing newcomer—the wildly handsome Lachlan Ramsey . . .   Recently arrived from Scotland, Lachlan only wishes to claim his place in society to secure his sister’s future. When that is threatened by the accusations of a hapless slip of a girl, he will do anything protect his family. Yet it appears Hyacinth has only damaged her own hopes, inspiring the label of hysteric—and ultimately inspiring Lachlan to shelter her from harm. Now if only there were a defense for the surge of feeling he has every time Hyacinth turns her gaze his way. If only there were a way to make her his—while keeping the true secret in his past from destroying everything—and everyone—he cares about . . . Anna Bradley is the author of The Sutherland Scandals and The Sutherland Sisters novels. A Maine native, she now lives near Portland, OR, where people are delightful and weird and love to read. She teaches writing and lives with her husband, two children, a variety of spoiled pets, and shelves full of books. Visit her website at www.annabradley.net. More or Less a Temptress By Anna Bradley KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2018 Anna Bradley All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5161-0537-3 CHAPTER 1 Aylesbury, England Late January, 1818 Blood oozed from the corner of Lachlan's lip, trickled down his chin, and dripped onto the snowy white folds of his perfectly knotted cravat. Damn it. Another night, another brawl, and another ruined cravat. "Damn you to hell, Ciaran. Why do you always have to strike me in the mouth?" Lachlan seized his younger brother by the neck of his shirt and shoved him backwards, and the two huge hands squeezing Lachlan's neck fell away as Ciaran stumbled against the railing behind him. He and Ciaran were of a similar size, so it was no easy feat to send his brother sprawling, but then Ciaran was already staggering before Lachlan laid a finger on him. Drinking the better part of a bottle of whiskey could do that to a man. Ciaran, who was far too drunk to know any better, staggered to his feet and lurched forward again. "It's not a proper brawl without blood, brother, and mouths bleed." As if to prove his point, one of Ciaran's enormous fists came barreling straight for Lachlan's face, but before he could land the blow, Lachlan grabbed his hand, threw him off balance with a twist of his arm, and slammed his foot into the side of Ciaran's shin. Ciaran dropped to his knees, and Lachlan was over him in a flash, his fingers gripping Ciaran's hair to keep him still as he lowered his nose to within an inch of his brother's. "Noses bleed, too. You're begging for my fist in yours, but I've no wish to spill your blood tonight." He'd spilled Ciaran's blood the night before, and the one before that, but any hopes Lachlan had he wouldn't have to spill it again tonight vanished when a sudden blow to his ribs ripped the breath from his lungs. "Oof!" He toppled sideways, and landed on the ground next to his brother, gasping for air. He rolled onto his back, but before he could scramble to his feet, Ciaran's knee landed in the center of his chest and pinned him to the ground. "Aw, come on, Lach, you should have seen that one coming." Lachlan only grunted in reply. He didn't have the breath to argue, and besides, it was true enough. He should have seen it coming. Even when they were boys Ciaran had always gone for the mouth first, then the ribs, and then — Oh, Christ. He didn't have time to spit the curse out before Ciaran's knuckles crashed into his jaw. Mouth, ribs, jaw. Always the jaw. "You're not even trying," Ciaran complained. He grabbed a fistful of Lachlan's hair, jerked his head up, and then dropped it back into the dirt with a hard thump. "It's no fun if you don't even try. " Lachlan was trying — trying to end this brawl without having to hurt his brother, but he'd relied too heavily on the whiskey to do the job he didn't want to do with his fists. "Damn it, how the devil are you still conscious, Ciaran?" Ciaran grinned. "No bloody idea, but here we are, brother, and I doubt your face will be as pretty tomorrow as it was today." Lachlan jerked and flailed like a fish on a hook, but trying to throw Ciaran off him was like trying to topple a horse. It would have to be a blow, then — either that, or he'd be leaving a puddle of his blood and maybe a tooth or two behind when he left this inn-yard. Lachlan's arm tensed. He clenched his hand into a fist and waited, knuckles facing out. Ciaran