Excerpt from GAME OF ROGUES

copyright Julie Anne Long

In stores June 2, 2026

When Marchand reached across her to pull open its door, she took a few steps backward, into the street.

Suddenly he lunged toward her and seized her by the waist.

She shrieked. “What the devil are you—So help me , if you don’t unhand me, I’ll—”

He lifted and deposited her neatly, and more or less gently, on the carriage seat.

“You’ll do what? Dispatch me with that knitting needle you have tucked in your sleeve?”

She froze and stared at him.

“Ah, sir, er, madam. Is everything . . .” The driver nervously called down.

“We’re fine,” they replied in irritated unison.

“Look down, Miss Woodville.”

Rattled, she peered where Marchand pointed.

And beheld a little tower of horse manure, surrounded by a moat of urine. A common feature of London streets.

She would have stepped right in it if he hadn’t scooped her up with the ease of flicking lint from his shoulder. She was not petite.

“I realize you’re more or less knee-deep in shite at the moment, so to speak, but I assumed you would prefer not to actually be knee-deep in shite. I’m afraid there wasn’t time to debate it. I leaped, if you will.” After rather too long a pause he added, almost reluctantly, “I apologize for startling you.”

She could think of a million cleverly scathing little things to say, most involving the word “shite,” but as much as she’d like to, she couldn’t fault his reasoning, or his gallantry, even if it was more reflex than gallantry.

“Thank you, Mr. Marchand,” she said, resignedly. Subdued.

“You’re welcome, Miss Woodville.” He sounded faintly sardonic.

To her utter chagrin, her throat suddenly was tight. And then—Oh, God, no! Now her eyes were burning.

Why was she about to cry? Why now?

It was just because for those brief seconds she’d been airborne in a rogue’s arms she’d felt weightless for the first time in nearly a decade. No one had lifted a burden from her for at

least that long. The contrast between that moment and everything that came before was stark.

Now she knew what awaited her if she ever, ever let down her guard: of a certainty she would fall apart, and that terrified her.

He peered at her.

“Oh—you’re not—are you crying?” He sounded bewildered and aghast.

Which was almost funny. “No.” She sniffled.

He made a scoffing sound.

“All right. But not because I’m upset.”

“Of course not,” he said soothingly. “What do you have to be upset about?”

He had the blackest sense of humor she’d ever experienced. She resented it because she actually quite liked it. Probably for the reason a razor likes a strop.

“I’m just. . . .” She did not feel safe completing that sentence in front of him. Embarrassed. And frightened. And exhausted. I can’t shoot darts at you from my eyes, so tears will have to do.

She swiped the back of her hand at her eye.

He sighed heavily. “Here.” His voice was quietly gruff. She glanced up to find him holding a handkerchief. “No need to weep on your fingers like a . . . like a peasant.”

This surprised a laugh out of her but she bit it back. Because she could just imagine how unbearable he would be if he thought he could charm her.

She took his handkerchief.

The driver politely cleared his throat. “Sir?”

Marchand’s arm shot straight up. “One moment, if you would, my friend.”

The driver leaned over and plucked what appeared to be a shilling from Marchand’s fingers.

A very faint scent, perhaps bergamot, clung to Marchand’s handkerchief, which was brightly clean and very soft. For some reason this small, elegant comfort made her eyes well again.

She kept her head down, sniffed, and gamely undertook her usual methods for gathering her wits: squaring her shoulders, taking deep breaths.

Marchand remained quiet. He was probably watching her the way he would watch a gambler sitting across from him: for tells, for sudden moves, for information he could use as ammunition.

She realized she was dragging her fingertip over the initials embroidered on the edge of his handkerchief. She tried and failed to ascertain what the letter in the middle might be.

“Embroidered. Interesting. I find it’s much more rewarding when you can feel the letters as well as see them,” she quoted, ironically.

He huffed a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “It’s a funny thing. I told myself that when I made my first one hundred pounds, I’d buy only the finest handkerchiefs I could find, with my initials stitched into them. And I swore I’d never be without a clean handkerchief again. That was a decade ago.”

She slowly lifted her head. She studied him in wary surprise. The new-fallen night was interrupted only by the lamps on the hack, but his eyes still seemed almost beacon bright in this light. She didn’t know why she found this reassuring instead of unsettling. He would be easy to find in the dark.

“I suppose that sounds a bit stupid,” he added.

She studied him.

“Very,” she agreed, gravely.

His smile began slowly, but it soon took over his whole face. His entire overwhelming self—the innocent boy he must have once been, the intimidating man he was now—seemed distilled in the wry tilt at the corner of his fine mouth. His eyes had nearly vanished in amusement. He was all unguarded warmth.

It knocked the breath from her and wrung her heart like a rag.

Holy mother of God. No man had ever possessed a weapon as dangerous as that smile.

~end of excerpt~