The Last Wicked Scoundrel (14 page)
Read The Last Wicked Scoundrel Online
Authors: Lorraine Heath
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical romance, #Victorian
But somehow, while Avendale had been away, she had changed, had taken charge of her own destiny. While she had not meant to kill him, she had fully intended to stand up to him, to show him that he could no longer control her with his fists. His returning had been her opportunity to redeem herself, to put him in his place, to demonstrate that she was now a woman to be reckoned with.
But all of those thoughts were for another day. Today, she was getting married.
“You look lovely,” Catherine said, coming up behind her to settle the veil into place.
“I feel lovely, inside and out.”
A rap sounded on the door. Catherine opened the door, and Winnie heard the Earl of Claybourne say, “It’s beginning to snow. We’d best be off to the church.”
Catherine turned to her. “Are you ready, Winnie?”
She took one last look at her reflection. She saw a woman who stood a bit taller, had no fears, was confident regarding the path she was on. A woman who was loved.
“More than ready.”
A
s most of the aristocracy was still in the country, only a few people attended the ceremony. Graves didn’t mind as they were the ones that mattered: Swindler and his wife, Emma; Jack Dodger and Lady Olivia; Frannie and the Duke of Greystone. The Earl of Claybourne had stood with Graves while Catherine was beside Winnie.
After they were pronounced man and wife, they enjoyed breakfast with their friends, then returned to their residence where they had watched Whit romping in the snow. But now it was late, the house was quiet, and she was his.
Standing behind her at the vanity, he brushed her hair, loving the way the mahogany glistened. He thought he would never tire of it, or of gazing at her reflection in the mirror. It didn’t hurt that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. But then neither was he. It seemed pointless to go through the motions of putting on nightclothes when they would only be removed as soon as possible. He enjoyed gazing at her body, and was grateful that she didn’t seem to mind giving his a once-over every now and then.
At the hundredth stroke, he swept the cascade of her hair over her shoulder, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “I love you.”
Her eyes sparkled and glowed. Turning on the low stool, she smiled up at him. “I love you, too.”
Elegantly, she rose, skimming her body along his until her arms were wound around his neck and her lips were playing with his. Slipping his hands beneath her hips, he lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He suspected he would be rowing his boat for the next hundred years in order to keep his arms strong enough to carry her wherever he wanted her to be. Holding her near, he strode over to the bed and tumbled onto it, taking her down with him.
She shrieked, laughed. He loved to hear her laugh, and of late it seemed she laughed more and more. She was free of cares, free of worries. She lightened his days, eased his burdens, brought joy to his nights. How had he ever thought he could go a lifetime without her to share moments with?
He had been consumed with healing, not realizing that a part of him needed healing as well. He didn’t need to save the world to atone for the sins of his youth. He merely needed to save a portion of it. He’d only needed to save her.
But in the end, she had saved him.
With Swindler’s report, no one became suspicious regarding the thief who had broken into the residence and subsequently died. No one suspected Winnie of any wrongdoing. As a matter of fact, she had been heralded as quite the heroine for not being cowed by an intruder. While she blushed at the praise and downplayed it, he could not deny that she had changed into a woman who knew she deserved far better than her husband was giving her. Three and half years ago, her husband had nearly killed her, but she had arisen from the ashes of that beating to become a stronger, more confident woman, one who understood her own worth. He couldn’t be more grateful that she didn’t need him to rescue her, although that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t always be near to watch over her.
He took his hands and mouth over the familiar terrain of her body, relishing every inch. There was comfort in the familiar, in knowing that any further changes would happen because of nature and the passing years. No one would ever hurt her again. No one would ever hurt him. He would never leave her. She would never leave him.
They were anchored together. They were survivors.
They came together in a conflagration of desire and burning need. Always it would be this way with them. Always the need, always the desire, always the passion, always the love.
They gave equally, received equally, partners in all things.
When they lay lethargic and replete in each other arms, they both knew they had found within each other the comfort of home at last.
PILOGUE
From the Journal of Sir William Graves
M
y mother did more for me in death than she ever did for me life. I was fascinated that death had come to her so quickly and without blood. I also harbored the thought that had I known what to do, I could have saved her.
So I became fascinated with the workings of the human body. I wanted to understand everything about it. But more I wanted to ensure that no one would die unnecessarily, and so I became a physician. That role eventually led me to Winnie.
I took great pleasure in watching her blossom over the years. When I told her that Jack Dodger was in the process of building a hospital because of a debt he owed to me, she decided to use the funds she’d gathered for a hospital to build a sanctuary instead, someplace to shelter women who found themselves living in fear as she once had. And she work tirelessly to have the laws changed so women would no longer be deemed as property. She stood strong in her defense of women’s rights. I, who had been a criminal as a child, never expected to marry a woman who would one day find herself thrown in jail because she stood firm in her convictions that women should have the same rights as men.
I was proud to have such a revolutionary at my side.
She blessed me with three sons and two daughters. They were sharp, strong of will, and determined to make their way in the world, and in doing so, they brought us great joy.
Whit eventually became known by his father’s title and while most of the aristocracy called him Avendale, to his mother, he remained Whit. To her everlasting relief, he was a far better man than the one who sired him.
Neither Winnie nor I ever attended another séance, but sometimes in the late hours of the night we would talk about that evening, and Mrs. Ponsby’s revelations. On occasion, I like to think that she possessed a true talent for communicating with the dead, that she contacted my mother, and that she did forgive me. But forgiveness is a gift of the kind, and my mother had no kindness in her. So then I doubt the veracity of the words. Not that I need my mother’s forgiveness, for I have Winnie and she forgives all my sins.
Knowing that the dead always reveal their secrets, I sometimes think I should burn this journal, but my secret is a relatively harmless one. I had told Catherine that she caught me in a compromising position with Winnie because I was attempting to seduce her so she would keep me near and I could better protect our secrets. But the truth was I could no more resist Winnie than I could cease to breathe.
Which, by all accounts, made me the last among our group of scoundrels to be brought to his knees because of his love for a woman.
If you enjoyed Graves’s and Winnie’s story, see where it all began!
Fall in love with the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling
Scoundrels of St. James series,
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THE SCOUNDRELS OF ST. JAMES SERIES
IN BED WITH THE DEVIL
BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND DESIRE
SURRENDER TO THE DEVIL
MIDNIGHT PLEASURES WITH A SCOUNDREL
And keep reading for a sneak peek from
WHEN THE DUKE WAS WICKED
,
on sale February 2014,
from
New York Times
bestselling author Lorraine Heath.
T
he garden path was lit by gas lamps, and yet the darkness still dominated. Grace walked slowly, cautiously, searching through the shadows for a familiar silhouette. She wondered what Lovingdon wished to discuss with her and why he had chosen this setting rather than the parlor. He was always welcome in their home. He was well aware of that fact, although she did have to admit that the clandestine meeting appealed to her, the thought of doing that which she shouldn’t.
And why so late at night? What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning? She was not usually lacking in imagination, but she was quite stumped.
“Grace.”
She swung around. In the darkest recesses of the rose garden, she thought she could make out the form of a man. Her heart was hammering so strongly that she feared it might crack a rib. “Lovingdon?”
She watched as the shadows separated and he strolled toward her. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”
“I’d never ignore a summons from you. What’s this about? What’s—”
His strong arms latched around her as he pulled her from the path, into a corner where light could not seep. Before she could scream or utter a word of protest, he latched his mouth onto hers with such swiftness that she was momentarily disoriented. His large hand was suddenly resting against her throat, tilting up her chin as he angled her head, all the while urging her lips to part. She acquiesced and his tongue swept forcefully through her mouth, as though aspects of it needed to be explored and conquered.
With a sigh and a soft moan, she sank against him. She had thought about kissing him for far too long to resist—and his skill made resistance unappealing. His other arm came around her back, pressed her nearer. As tall as she was, she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised by how well they fit together, thigh to thigh, hips to hips, chest to chest, and yet she was taken off guard by the intimacy, the heat radiating off him.
His roughened thumb stroked the sensitive flesh beneath her chin, near her ear. No gloves, just bare flesh to bare flesh. A slight alteration of position and his fingers were working her buttons. One loosened. Two. Three.
She knew she should pull back now, should insist that he stop, but when his warm, moist mouth trailed along her throat, she did little more than tip her head back to give him easier access. Another button granted freedom, and his tongue dipped into the hollow at her throat. Fire surged through her, nearly scorched her from the inside out. Desire rolled in ever increasing waves.
He groaned, low and deep, his fingers pressing more insistently into her back as though he wished for her to become part of him, as though he couldn’t tolerate even a hairbreadth separating them.
He dragged his lips up her neck, behind her ear. Then he was outlining the shell of her ear with his tongue, only to cease those delicious attentions in order to nibble on her lobe. She was close to sinking to the ground, her knees growing weak, her entire body becoming lethargic.
“Do you understand now,” he rasped, “how, when a man desires a woman, his kiss might very well ruin her reputation?”
He desired her. A sensation, rich, sweet, and decadent coursed through her. He desired her. The words echoed through her mind, wove through her heart.
“But he is not likely to stop here,” he murmured.
He? Who the devil was he talking about?
“He will leave no button undone, no skin covered. He will remove your clothes, lay you down on the grass, and have his way with you. You will cry out with pleasure only to weep with despair because you’re ruined. If you’re discovered, you’ll be forced to marry him. If not discovered—”
He gave her a tiny shake and she realized his fingers were digging into her shoulders, jerking her out of her lethargy. She opened her eyes, and though they were in darkness, she could still feel the intensity of his gaze.
“You play with fire when you go into gardens with gentlemen.”
LORRAINE HEATH wrote her first story at seven, and it involved a fisherman who fell in love with a mermaid. She has since moved on to writing about sexy cowboys and dashing English lords (and sometimes, cleverly, in the same book!).
Publishers Weekly
says she is a “master of her craft.” She is indeed, and along with being a
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestseller, has won the RITA Award, four
Romantic Times
Reviewer’s Choice Awards, and a Career Achievement Award.
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