The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (28 page)

EPILOGUE

“Scoundrels do not change, my dear. However, I concede that some may learn to aim their wickedness in a more desirable direction.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Marchioness of Rutherford during a most enjoyable ramble about the Northumberland countryside.

Something about his wife’s back—the freckled slopes of her shoulders, the flare where the curve of her spine joined lush hips—beguiled Benedict Chatham.

But, then, everything about his wife enchanted him. Remarkably, she felt the same about him.

“Oh, Chatham. How I adore having you inside me.”

They were fitted together, laying on their sides in their ridiculous seafaring bed, his cock buried to the hilt, caressed and beloved by her tight sheath.

His hand lowered her leg carefully onto his thigh then reached around to her breasts, stroking newly darkened nipples. She was even more sensitive than before, swollen and tender, so he kept his touch light, flickering, teasing. Her arm came up to cup the back of his head, drawing his mouth to hers.

Slowly, deliberately, his hips withdrew until only the tip of his cock remained inside. Her moan hummed against his mouth, her pleasure ratcheting as he circled her nipple with the pad of his finger then squeezed ever-so-gently between that finger and his thumb. Holding the pressure steady for a long minute, he felt the mouth of her core demand more of him, rippling and grasping and needy.

He sank back inside in a hard push, loving how she welcomed him, loving her gasp and her hand helplessly clutching his hair. Her mouth broke from his, panting and open, swollen and wet. “I am dying, Chatham. Oh, God. Dying.”

Smoothing his palm over her newly lush breasts, he ran his hand down over her heavily rounded belly. “No, love. You are filled with life. You are filled with me.”

“Yes,” she groaned. “But I need you to let me have my release. It has been hours.”

He chuckled. “Merely one. I must ensure my wife is well pleased.”

“Oh, I am. So pleased. Now
please,
husband. I beg of you.”

Leaning his forehead against hers, he answered her entreaty with firm, rhythmic thrusts. “Is this better, my love?”

Her moans of pleasure and digging fingernails served as her reply. While Charlotte’s patience was lacking, he had disciplined himself to take his time with her over the past month, exploring every freckle, savoring every drop of her pleasure, knowing how he would have to abstain for long, agonizing weeks after the babe was born.

So, despite her demands, he slowed his pace. Circled her nipple with his fingers. Cupped her breast and brought the nipple to his mouth, giving the hard, flushed nub a flick of his tongue.

“Chatham,” she gritted. “I shall tell Cook to cease serving your favorite pasties.”

He answered with a firm pull of his mouth. She screamed in pleasure, ripping at his hair. The small pain was more than worth it.

The scent of her lived on his skin, filled his head and made the morning light swirl in his vision. Of course, one might attribute the dizziness to a lack of blood supply to his brain, for every bit currently resided in his cock. Perhaps it was time, after all, to give them both a release.

“Are you certain you are ready, love?” he whispered, laving her nipple’s ripe, sensitive tip.

She growled a low, wordless demand.

“Very well.” Thrusting hard and deep, Chatham set a bruising pace, hooking her long leg over his arm to stretch her wider. Long, strong strokes made his beautiful wife whimper and gasp, made her dig her fingertips into his scalp, made her sheath clench and clasp and grasp and, finally, seize impossibly hard upon him as her sobbing cries of his name signaled her dazzling, addictive ecstasy.

For him, it was a catalyst. He let go of the reins, let his own pleasure have its head and pound, pound, pound in a heart-stopping gallop to an explosive, devastating finish. Groaning and burying his face in her neck, Chatham felt her squeeze him lovingly as he descended from the apex, the thrilling race of pleasure running out through his veins and skin and even his hair.

She was a miracle, his wife. He was reborn every time he touched her.

As they lay together, catching their breath and letting the storm subside, Charlotte took his hand in hers. Gently, she opened his fingers and gazed at the scars on his palm. Lilies and irises and her initials. He was branded with her. To him, it seemed rather appropriate.

She brought his hand to her mouth and placed a tender kiss upon his palm, as she often did. “I love you, Chatham,” she whispered against his skin.

“And I love you, Charlotte. Now and forever.”

*~*~*

Charlotte’s father arrived well after noon, his coach wheels crunching to a stop in the snow. Hugging her shawl around her shoulders, Charlotte glanced from the drawing room window to her husband, who appeared annoyingly relaxed on the yellow sofa near the fireplace. “Are you certain, Chatham? There is still time to reconsider.”

“I am certain, love. I was certain when I handed the letter to Pryor.” He took a drink of his honey tea from a china cup. In the winter, he preferred it hot.

She felt the babe kick inside her belly. He was most vigorous of late. Much like his father. Smiling, she crossed the room to sink down next to her husband, bracing herself on the arm of the sofa even as Chatham cradled her elbow to assist. She was very round, and it made simple matters such as sitting, standing, and breathing a bit laborious.

A lock of sable hair fell across Chatham’s brow, and she brushed it away with her fingers. Turquoise eyes filled with heart-stopping love, smiling wickedly at her over his cup’s rim. “Careful, wife. We have a visitor. Wouldn’t wish to keep him waiting whilst we have a long, leisurely lie-down, would we?”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “You are incorrigible.”

“Mmm. One of my finer qualities.”

Esther appeared in the open doorway, announcing, “M’lord, m’lady. Mr. Lancaster is ’ere.”

Tall, red-haired, and looking a bit ruddy from the cold, Rowland Lancaster brushed past the maid, who grunted a protest before stomping away.

“Papa,” Charlotte said calmly, even though her stomach was in knots. Of course, that might be the babe. He did favor poking about. “I trust your journey was well.”

“Pryor informs me you still intend to forego the dowry, Rutherford.” He tugged his gloves from his hands, apparently unconcerned with such niceties as greeting his daughter. “What is all this nonsense?”

Chatham sipped his tea nonchalantly before nodding to the opposite sofa. “Perhaps you would care to sit, Lancaster. Dreadfully cold winter we are having.”

“It is nearly March. My grandson is about to be born. This is no time for you to lose your head, man.”

“Oh, I quite agree. My head was lost during the summer, wouldn’t you say, Charlotte? Perhaps spring. These things are gradual, I suppose.”

Her father glowered darkly, his flush increasing. He appeared at a loss for words, a most unusual condition.

“Papa,” she said quietly. “Sit. Please.”

Finally, he looked at her, his gray eyes settling on her belly. A swallow rippled his throat. A muscle tugged near his mouth. He took a deep breath and sat, setting his gloves next to him on the cushion. “Charlotte. How—how is the babe?”

She smiled softly. “He is well, Papa. Most vigorous.”

He nodded. “And you?”

“I am blissfully happy. And very round.” She laughed.

Her father did not. His brows twitched into a different sort of frown. A frown of grief. “You look like her. She glowed the same way. Beautiful.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She was still a watering pot after all these months. “I know you miss her, Papa.”

He gathered himself quickly, his brow clearing. He looked to Chatham. “How do you plan to provide for my daughter, then? And my grandson?”

Chatham glanced around the room, then at Charlotte. He leaned forward to set his cup on the rosewood table. “We intend this estate to be quite profitable.”

“We?”

“Charlotte and I.”

Her father looked to her, seemingly bewildered.

She explained, “Chatham and I are partners, Papa. We manage the estate together. It’s really quite a success so far, particularly since we discovered the coal. I find it is much like managing a large business. In fact, it
is
a business. An entire industry, really. It excites me. And Chatham is both brilliant and capable. We wish to succeed on our own merits, and so we shall not require either the dowry or the payment for our child. You may keep both sums or you may place them in trust for our children. That is your choice.”

“Rutherford? You are not this mad. Two hundred thousand is enough give my daughter the life of a queen.”

Chatham’s eyes took on a distinctly deadly glint, one that always managed to send a thrill up her spine. “Your daughter is not for sale,” he said softly. “Neither is our son. Both are priceless gifts. And gifts are precious in their own right. Adding money is both unnecessary and insulting.”

“Balderdash.”

“It is our decision, Papa,” said Charlotte. “Rest assured Chatham is most resolute. I have attempted to dissuade him. He is adamant, and I have come to agree with him.”

Her father snorted disbelievingly. Harrumphed more than once. Shook his head repeatedly. “Foolishness,” he blustered. “Pure foolishness.”

“Well, you will be glad to know I still intend to accept my allowance. Triple, I believe we agreed.”

He released a bark of laughter, his eyes now glinting with something like … approval. “You may look like your mother, girl, but you think a great deal like me.” He sighed. “Where can a man get a decent cup of coffee? Curse this damnably cold place with nothing but tea and ale for miles.”

Charlotte grinned first at her father then at her husband. As usual, Chatham was gazing at her with his heart—his beautiful, devilish heart—in his eyes. The turquoise was positively incandescent. She felt her own heart melt, flutter, then melt again. He raised her hand to his lips, his warm breath soft against her skin. “Are you happy, love?” he asked. “No pining for America, I hope.”

She didn’t have to think about her answer. It sprang from her soul fully formed. The truth. Unmitigated. Unfiltered. Pure. “I am happy, my darling. America was a dream. You are my heart.”

He smiled his scoundrel’s smile and stroked her cheek. “Then you have a black heart, indeed.”

Shaking her head, she leaned forward to whisper against his lips, “What I have, my love”—she kissed him once, twice, thrice—“is my very own devil. And I intend to be his forevermore.”

*~*~*

COMING SOON: BOOK FIVE

Wait! What about the indomitable Miss Viola Darling and her elusive earl? Will her relentless Tannenbrook hunt end in heated kisses or heartbreak? Find out in Book Five of the Rescued from Ruin series, to be released
summer 2016
:

When a Girl Loves an Earl

by Elisa Braden

Miss Viola Darling always gets what she wants. Always. And what she wants more than anything is to marry James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook. She’s fallen hard for the giant, taciturn, surly brute, and she positively will have no other. The problem? He’s not interested. Not even a little. But Viola does not like to lose. And she has her heart set on James. If only he will bend to a bit of persuasion.

James Kilbrenner knows how determined the entirely-too-beautiful Miss Darling can be—the daft woman cornered him at a perfectly respectable dinner and mangled his cravat before he could escape. He has no desire to marry, less desire to be pursued, and certainly will not kiss her kissable lips until they are both breathless. No matter how tempted he may be.

* * * Coming this summer 2016 * * *

*~*~*

MORE FROM ELISA BRADEN

It’s far from over! There are more scandalous predicaments, emotional redemptions, and gripping love stories (with a dash of Lady Wallingham) to come in the Rescued from Ruin series. For new release alerts and updates, follow Elisa on
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Plus, be sure to check out the other exciting books in the Rescued from Ruin series, available now!

The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Book One)

Victoria Lacey’s life is perfect—perfectly boring. Agree to marry a lord who has yet to inspire a solitary tingle? It’s all in a day’s work for the oh-so-proper sister of the Duke of Blackmore. Surely no one suspects her secret longing for head-spinning passion. Except a dark stranger, on a terrace, at a ball where she should not be kissing a man she has just met. Especially one bent on revenge.

The Truth About Cads and Dukes (Book Two)

Painfully shy Jane Huxley is in a most precarious position, thanks to dissolute charmer Colin Lacey’s deceitful wager. Now, his brother, the icy Duke of Blackmore, must make it right, even if it means marrying her himself. Will their union end in frostbite? Perhaps. But after lingering glances and devastating kisses, Jane begins to suspect the truth: Her duke may not be as cold as he appears.

Desperately Seeking a Scoundrel (Book Three)

Where Lord Colin Lacey goes, trouble follows. Tortured and hunted by a brutal criminal, he is rescued from death’s door by the stubborn, fetching Sarah Battersby. In return, she asks one small favor: Pretend to be her fiancé. Temporarily, of course. With danger nipping his heels, he knows it is wrong to want her, wrong to agree to her terms. But when has Colin Lacey ever done the sensible thing?

*~*~*