Lance is a scoundrel.
Most people think so, and if he really were an irredeemable rogue, it would be great, for they could sentence him to the gallows.
Unfortunately, he is not.
Lance never laid a hand on anyone; he merely talked his way into others' beds. To this day, no one knows what kind of charm he used on those girls to make them lose their minds.
Of course, they wouldn't admit that their daughters were truly bewitched by his good looks.
Lance opened his eyes with a beautiful, pristine body in his arms.
The beauty in his arms twisted in her drowsy sleep. The girl was only seventeen years old. Her father was a wealthy merchant in the city, and her mother was the youngest daughter of a baron.
He pushed the girl away:
"I have to go."
She clung to him:
"Can't you stay a bit longer?"
Lance lied:
"Your father will be back soon."
The girl grumbled discontentedly:
"He won't be back, he's been busy lately. Keep me company."
Lance patted the girl on the head:
