Series: The Sons of Sin Book 1
Published: January 5, 2010
Sensuality Level: Sensual/Hot
“You think you know desire because some lordling politely groped you in a garden, put his tongue in your mouth, and popped your stays. You don’t know the first thing about desire.”
-To Tempt A Saint
Knighted for saving the Prince Regent’s life, but holding himself responsible for his youngest brother’s disappearance, Xander seeks only to recover the lost boy. He desperately needs funds to continue his search.
Slandered and denied her rightful inheritance by the machinations of her unscrupulous uncle, Cleo Spencer has fallen from the heights of London society. She needs to marry to gain access to her money to provide for her own young brother. When she overhears Sir Alexander Jones bungle a proposal to a complete ninny, Cleo steps forward to offer herself as a convenient heiress. Their perfect plan to marry for money through a marriage of convenience is thwarted by a most inconvenient love.
To Tempt a Saint is the first of the Sons of Sin trilogy about three base-born brothers. If the others are just a fraction as appealing as Xander, a courtesan’s bastard knighted for saving the regent’s life, I’m on board for the duration of the series. TTAS offers a marriage of convenience, a mystery, a rare look at the dark (literally and metaphorically) parts of London, a strong interesting heroine, and a hero who captures hearts. Don’t just take my word for it. Romantic Times gave the book 4.5 stars and Xander a K.I.S.S. Award. This one is a keeper!
“I love Cleo. She is, hands down, one of the best romance heroines I have come across this year. …Cleo is an excellent example of a heroine who shows intelligence and survival instincts without coming off like a too-modern American woman playing dress-up games.” –Mrs. Giggles
“A powerful opening act in a three-part drama.” –Midwest Book Review
Powerful emotions, taut mysteries, dark secrets and deep sensuality draw readers into Moore’s unforgettable story. Like Lorraine Heath, Moore draws on the Dickensian aspects of London to enhance a story already filled with realistic characters and pulse-pounding adventure. Moore is a talent to remember. –Romantic Times
2011 Readers' Crown Winner
At four and twenty, Cleo Spencer could measure how far she had fallen in the world by entering Evershot’s Bank on Cornhill Street. No heads turned in the bank’s columned interior, vast as a ballroom. Instead, Tobias Meese, Evershot’s clerk, darted out of the hole he inhabited, intent on blocking her way.
She headed straight for the president’s office, surprised she had not worn a groove in the marble from the regularity of her visits. Once a quarter for nearly four years she had come begging for her own money, and the practice was wearing as thin as her cloak.
At sixteen she had had thick cloaks to burn. With green eyes and chestnut curls, she had entered her first ballroom and turned the heads of all the available gentlemen. Her partner for the second set, a dashing, red-coated lieutenant, had whispered, “You have dancing eyes,” and the compliment had, she supposed, set her on a reckless, giddy path to this moment.
Now she slipped past a group of bewhiskered gentlemen engaged in conversation, putting them between her and Meese and gaining a couple of yards on her adversary. Gold gleamed on the heads of their walking sticks and watch fobs and winked from the rings on their pinky fingers. They were men who could smell money in the air, hear its song in the wind, and see its glint on the horizon, and they shifted to let Cleo pass without so much as a glance.
Meese stopped her at the president’s door by the simple expedient of stepping on her hem. Flounce parted from skirts with a distinct rip.
“Miss Spencer, Mr. E. is in a meeting.”
Cleo summoned her haughtiest look. “Impossible, Meese, he has an appointment with me at this hour.”
Meese pinned her in place with his foot, an oily gleam in his eye, three wiry hairs bristling under his lip. “For a consideration, Miss Spencer, I can show you to an antechamber, where you can wait private-like.” He rather emphasized the word wait.
Cleo lifted her chin. She would step out of her skirts before she gave Meese a penny. Her fragile hem parted another inch, and she considered braining Meese with her reticule, heavy with a half dozen precious potatoes from her neighbor Farmer Davies. Reason prevailed. It would be a shame to sacrifice the potatoes.
Smiling, she held up her bag. “Let me see, Meese. I may have something for you.”
Meese extended an ink-stained hand and stepped back to allow her to reach into the bag.
The instant he removed his foot from her hem, Cleo grabbed the knob and sung the door open on an empty office.