How I Married a Marquess (37 page)

She laughed with happiness, and before she had a chance to stop him, he swept her into his arms and lowered her to the hearthrug in front of the fireplace. His body moved over hers as he kissed her, deeply and longingly, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him to pull him closer into the cradle of her hips, never wanting to let him go.

His hand stroked down between them, and she whimpered in response. She delighted in his touch, in each teasing circle of his fingers, each slow dip into her core, and she wondered again how he could make her feel this heavenly, both this excited and this relaxed at the same time.

“Marry me, Josephine,” he urged as he lowered himself into her and sheathed his manhood completely inside her warmth.

“Yes…oh yes.” With her arms clenched around his shoulders, she closed her eyes and rolled her head helplessly against the rug as he stroked inside her, each retreat and deep plunge an exquisite torture.

His lips brushed against her throat. “Come be my wife and live with me forever.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I will.”

The intensity of his thrusts increased. As he leaned on one forearm over her, he grasped her calf and lifted her leg until her knee was bent between them, seating himself fully against her, shifting the angle of his penetration so he could slide even deeper inside her. With a soft whimper, she dug her fingertips into his shoulders and clung to him, as if she could keep him this close forever.

“I'll protect you,” he whispered against her temple as he continued his heated slide in and out of her slick folds, stoking the growing heat licking at her belly. “I will love you, cherish you, and always care for you. There will never be anyone else, not inside my heart nor in my bed.” Not pausing in his steady rhythm as he made love to her, he held her gaze in the firelight, his blue eyes flaming and bright. “There will only be you, Josephine.”

He dipped his head to brush his lips over her cheeks, kissing away the tears as they fell from her eyes and swallowing her joy.

And then, so softly she barely heard him…“I pledge
my life to you.”

His words flashed through her, his love filling every inch of her. Her body broke around his, not with a passionate cry but with a soft whisper of his name as she buried her face against his chest. The love she carried for him overwhelmed her, and she could barely hold on to him as she seemed to fly away, straight through the ceiling and into the blanket of stars above, carrying him with her in her arms.

He thrust deeply into her, then held his body pressed tight against her as he released himself inside her with a low groan. He poured his life's essence into her and, with that, his soul.

He lay motionless on top of her, and she kept her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and shoulders, their two bodies still joined deliciously together. Slowly their racing hearts calmed, their breathing grew steady, and reluctantly she released her hold on him so he could rest on the rug next to her and pull her into his arms.

She snuggled her naked body close to his and nestled into the hollow between his shoulder and his side, the same side forever marked by the bullet that had nearly claimed his life. The same bullet fate had used to deliver him to her.

“I want to change one of our marriage settlements,” she told him as she traced idle circles across the warm skin of his chest with her fingertip.

“As long as it's not the one about having children.” He lifted her chin to place a long, languid kiss on her mouth, and when she sighed, she felt him smile against her lips. “After tonight, that one might prove nonnegotiable.”

A warmth stirred low in her belly at the possibility that she might have gotten with his child. Thomas's baby inside her! The thought overwhelmed her with sheer happiness. “Actually, I was thinking of a different one.”

“Hmm?” His lips brushed across her forehead.

Dawn was coming soon, and he would have to leave, but for now he was completely hers. Without warning she rolled over on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his shoulders to the floor. She gazed down at him and smiled. “Three months is simply too long to wait.”

With a rakish grin, he raised his head to kiss her. “Agreed.”

T
he three men stood shoulder to shoulder at the bottom of the sloping hill and laughed as the women came running toward them, barefoot in the grass beneath their swishing skirts and the children clasping their hands beside them. The afternoon sun shone golden and warm as they raced toward the wide pink ribbon stretched across the bottom of the hill, and around them the scent of honeysuckle and peach blossoms lingered on the late-spring air.

Edward watched Kate lovingly as she plunged down the hill, their three young daughters surrounding her and holding on to her hands and skirts. Her bonnet had fallen away, revealing flame-red hair that burnished in the sun like fire. She caught him watching her across the lawn and smiled at him brilliantly, laughing with happiness and love.

“She's an angel,” Grey commented beside him.

Edward shook his head, grinning. “With that hair? She's a devil.”

“Not
your
wife, Colonel.” He nodded toward Emily as she brought up the rear, with their four-year-old son running freely beside her and their toddler daughter in her arms. His eyes lit up with love. “Mine.”

When the girl cried, Emily stopped to comfort her by rocking her in her arms, completely conceding the race. Immediately Edward's aunt Augusta rose from the tea tables beneath the shading boughs of the nearby chestnut trees and hurried to help her while the boy ran on, diverted from the goal of the ribbon and racing instead toward Grey, who grabbed his son and tossed him up onto his shoulders. When Emily joined them, he kissed her passionately right there in the middle of the May Day games and made her cheeks pinken in a pretty blush.

Halfway down the hill, a blond little girl in a sky-blue dress waved at her three uncles as the Carlisle brothers held the ribbon at the bottom of the hill and urged her toward them.

“Run, Clara!” Thomas cheered his six-year-old adopted daughter.

Her golden ringlets bounced as she slowed into a loping skip and glanced over to send him a bright smile—the same smile she used to consistently escape punishment from her doting father for misbehaving. Behind her Josie waddled as quickly as she could, her hand resting protectively under the large, round baby belly beneath her dress.

Edward's youngest daughter let go of Kate's skirt, and the toddler wobbled unsteadily for a moment, then plopped down in the grass with a scowling look of fierce consternation on her face making her so resemble Edward that a howl of laughter went up from both Thomas and Grey.

Edward ran up the hill and scooped his daughter into his arms, and with the girl giggling with laughter, he carried her down to the finish line and through the ribbon. Then his twin girls ran across the line, jumped onto their papa, and pulled him down to the ground beneath them, all of them laughing happily as they rolled together on the grass. When Kate stood over them, frowning sternly at their behavior, Edward grabbed her hand and pulled her down into the pile with them. Her laughter echoed across the garden.

Thomas watched them all, and his chest swelled—Edward and Kate as they kissed on the grass…Emily and Grey as they held their children in their arms…and his own beautiful, glowing Josie as she fended off well-meaning attempts by Miranda Hodgkins to help her into a chair.

“We made it, Grey,” Thomas commented quietly, taking in all the joy and happiness surrounding them, the safe homes the three men had created for themselves and their families far from the madding cries of war, and the love they'd fought so hard to secure for themselves. They had all been wounded, all of them scarred, but the wounds had healed, leaving them stronger than before and ready for the rest of their lives together with the women they loved.

“Yes, we did.” Grey rested his hand affectionately on Thomas's shoulder. “We certainly did.”

Dukes Are Forever

Along Came a Rogue

“I know,” his husky voice rasped out. “Damn curious to me, too.” His strong hands ran slowly down her back as if he couldn't stop touching her. “You're a puzzle to me, Josephine, and I love a good puzzle.”

“I'm not—” She inhaled sharply as his hands cupped against her bottom, gently pulling her hips tight to his and molding her against him. “I'm not a puzzle.”

“A mystery, then, one begging to be solved.”

“I'm not begging for anything.”

At that, he gave a wicked laugh. “Not yet.” His stare turned dark and predatory. “But you will.”

Her lips parted with a soft breath. There was no mistaking his meaning, and a wave of heat rippled through her, gathering into a burning flame low in her belly.

“You
are
a puzzle, Josephine, one I desperately want to solve.” He slowly unfastened the top two buttons of her jacket and pulled open the collar. “And I'm going to peel back the layers of you, one at a time.” He lowered his head to place his hot mouth against the bare flesh of her exposed neck, and goose bumps raced down her arms…

“A touching and tempestuous romance, with all the ingredients Regency fans adore.”

—Gaelen Foley,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Harrington's emotionally gripping Regency-era debut, which launches the Secret Life of Scoundrels series, is ripe with drama and sizzling romance…The complex relationship between Edward and Katherine is intense and skillfully written, complete with plenty of romantic angst that propels the novel swiftly forward. This new author is definitely one to watch.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“As steamy as it is sweet as it is luscious. My favorite kind of historical!”

—Grace Burrowes,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Pits strong-willed characters against one another, and as the sparks ignite, passion is sure to follow. There is a depth of emotion that will leave readers breathless. The pages fly.”

—
RT Book Reviews

E
dward Westover stared across the card table at the man he was about to destroy.

The balding, paunchy gambler dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, then tugged at his cravat as if it choked him. The man's gaze lifted to meet his, and a jolt of satisfaction pulsed through him at the fear on the man's face.

Let the bastard be afraid. Let him get exactly what he deserves.

During the past year, Edward had thought of little else than the satisfaction he'd feel when this moment arrived, when he'd finally receive the justice that the English courts had denied him. Nearly every moment since he returned from Spain had been focused on ruining this man's life, and even now, beneath the stoic expression he carefully showed the room, he burned with hatred and a driving need for retribution.

In a matter of seconds, Phillip Benton would lose his last hand, and with that, his life as he knew it would be over. Edward watched the man closely and waited, counting off each heartbeat, and the only outward sign of his anticipation was a slight quickening of his breath. This must be how the devil felt when he took a man's soul, Edward decided, except that Benton had no soul to take.

The dealer turned the last card.

Benton gaped at it, unable to believe he'd lost. As Edward watched him blanch, a flash of satisfaction shot through him.

“The game's finished, Benton.”
And so are you.
“Now, I'll take what you owe me.” Welcoming the pleasure of the man's destruction, Edward reached for the marker and tossed it to him. “
Everything
you owe.”

Benton forced a pacifying smile. “I haven't got it all with me tonight, of course.”

Edward glared at him. From his arrogant demeanor, it was clear Benton still had no idea who he was nor realized the tragedy connecting them. But he would learn soon enough, and then Edward planned on making him regret for the rest of his life the actions that brought them together.

Benton motioned the gambling hell manager to the table. “Thompson, I've gotten myself into a spot again.” With a forced laugh, Benton's jocular tone belied the desperation of his situation. “Would you assist me with my friend here”—but the scornful glower Edward shot him was far from friendly—“by advancing me enough to pay off my losses?”

Thompson coughed nervously, his eyes darting to Edward. “'Fraid I can't do that.”

“Thompson!” he cried incredulously, loud enough that the men at the surrounding tables glanced up. He lowered his voice. “Have I ever failed to repay you? Have I ever forfeited so much as a pence?”

“You've always been a good customer.”

Benton beamed. “Hand me a paper, then, and I'll swear out a note. My word's good.”

Thompson turned awkwardly toward Edward. “What would you have me do, sir?”

“Why are you asking him?” Benton demanded.

“Because I hold your notes,” Edward drawled, taking immense pleasure in the confusion that flashed across the man's face.

Benton snorted. “Thompson holds them.”

“I bought them from Thompson,” Edward explained, summarizing in a few words the time-consuming work of the past twelve months leading up to this moment, “just as I bought up all your debts. All the credit you owe the merchants, the lease on your rooms, your stable bills, and every pound of your gambling debt in every hell across London.”

Benton turned scarlet. “What in God's name is going on here? Thompson!”

The manager shook his head. “You had too many notes, Phillip. You still owe me from last autumn. When I received the offer to purchase your debts—”

“Purchase my debts?” His voice rang loudly through the hell, stopping the play at all the tables. The men paused to stare, and hushed whispers rose throughout the room. “Sir, I demand an explanation!”

“I purchased your debts,” Edward answered coldly, hating the man more with each passing heartbeat, “and now I demand repayment on them.
All
of them.”

“You cannot demand such a thing.”

“The law gives me the right to reclaim them with a fortnight's notice. Consider this your notice.” Edward knew the answer, yet he took a perverse pleasure in asking, “Unless you can't pay?”

“Of course, I can pay!” His indignation sounded loud enough that everyone in the room heard it, but as he sank down in his chair, his shoulders sagging, he lowered his voice. “But not in a fortnight.”

“Not at all,” Edward corrected, relishing in the man's defeat. “Even if you sold every possession you own, you would still be in my debt.”
Exactly where the bastard deserves to be.

Despite the heat of the crowded gambling hell, Benton shivered. He looked at the marker on the table as if staring at his own grave.

“You'd send me to debtor's prison?” Benton's voice strangled in his throat.

Edward had considered doing just that many times during the past year—thrusting him into a cold, windowless prison to let the man rot away in his own filth behind stone walls.

“No.” He wanted a public revenge with absolute control of every aspect of the man's life. If he couldn't hang the bastard, he'd at least make the man wish he were dead. There was no mercy in him tonight. That died a year ago with Stephen and Jane. “But I will take your house, all its furnishings, your horse, your clothes…” He venomously bit out each harsh promise and signaled to a distinguished-looking man standing awkwardly by the entrance. “Every last pence.”

“I'll be left with nothing.” He dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief, then croaked out a pathetic laugh. “Nothing except my daughter.”

“Then I'll take her, too,” Edward said with an icy facetiousness. “And every last ribbon on her head.”

“Who are you?” Benton demanded again, furious at being publicly humiliated.

The man reached their table. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Benton blinked, then bellowed, “
Your Grace?
”

“This is William Meacham.” Edward calmly nodded toward his family's longtime attorney. “He'll inform you of the arrangements.”

“Go to hell!” Benton clenched his fists. “I'm not agreeing to anything.”

Benton swung his gaze to Meacham, and Edward could see the frantic thoughts spinning through the man's head. He'd seen that same angry desperation on the faces of defeated enemies when the battle was over and the terms of surrender negotiated. How little men changed from battlefield to barroom. And for this man, surrender was unconditional.

He'd give no quarter of any kind to this enemy.

“If you refuse my terms, Benton,” Edward promised, “then I
will
throw you into prison.”

Benton's face darkened with fury. “You would do that—you would ruin my life?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you ruined mine.”

Benton caught his breath. “Who
are
you?”

“Don't you recognize me?” Edward rose from his chair, drawing up to his full six-foot height. This was the moment he'd planned for during the past year with an almost blind relentlessness, and as he'd expected, with it came a sweet flash of shattering satisfaction. “Edward Westover.”

“Westover…” The name struck Benton with a violent shudder. “You're
Colonel Westover
?”

As he stared at Benton, the full force of his hatred and revenge rose in him and vanquished whatever brief satisfaction and pleasure he'd felt only moments earlier. Edward leaned over the table to gaze mercilessly at him. “I am the brother of the man you murdered.”

He spun away from the table and stalked through the gambling hell toward the front door, putting the length of the room between them before he strangled Benton with his bare hands. Lost in the wrathful thoughts of his vengeance, he was oblivious to the presence of the man standing in the corner, who had watched tonight's events unfold and fell into step behind him.

His carriage waited at the front entrance, and he climbed inside. The tiger closed the door.

Shutting his eyes, Edward took a deep breath and waited for the peace that should have been his, the relief and happiness at finally making the bastard pay. But it didn't come, and even the flash of exquisite satisfaction he'd felt when Benton realized his identity was now gone. He felt only the same need to destroy Benton that he'd carried for the past year, tempered by the deep emptiness he'd felt since the moment in San Cristobal when he learned of Stephen's death.

The door flung open, and the man who had watched him from the shadows jumped inside. He pounded his fist against the roof, signaling to the coachman to send the team forward into the night.

“Colonel Westover.” Thomas Matteson gave a short salute as the carriage lurched into motion. “Interesting evening.”

“Captain Matteson.” Edward glared at the old friend who had become like a brother to him while fighting together in Spain. And whom he now wanted to throttle for interfering in his life. “Get the hell out.”

Ignoring that, Thomas relaxed against the squabs as casually as if he'd been invited into the carriage rather than flinging himself inside.

“We're in London. It's Lord Chesney here, if you don't mind.” Thomas flashed a charming grin, the same one that had attracted the hearts of women across the Continent. Edward had lost count of the number of times he'd rescued the man from angry Spanish fathers. “I'm a marquess now, I daresay.”

“So I'd heard.”

Shortly after the battle at San Cristobal, Thomas's father inherited as Duke of Chatham, which meant this fearless former captain was now Marquess of Chesney and heir to a duchy. Which meant his life was too important to risk in the army. Dying in battle was fine for second sons but never for peers or heirs, a lesson that Edward knew only too well.

“I've proven you wrong.” Thomas angled out his long legs. “You said I'd never make anything of myself.”

“I said you were reckless and would get yourself killed,” he corrected solemnly, unable to keep his concern from his voice. He was afraid his friend might yet prove him right.

“We're both headed to the Lords now.” Thomas grinned at him. “Say a prayer for Parliament.”

But Edward was in no mood for teasing around tonight, especially given the way fate had thrust the peerage upon both of them. The irony was humorless.

“Where's Grey?” Edward wouldn't have put it past the man not to be outside hanging off the carriage at that very moment.

“Somewhere in England.”

Thomas's answer wasn't facetious. After he was wounded in the war, Grey's connections to the underbelly of society made him valuable enough that Lord Bathurst, Secretary of War and the Colonies, insisted he join the War Office. Grey was one of their best agents, and “somewhere in England” was as close as anyone could know.

Edward reached toward the door with the full intent of shoving Thomas out into the night. “I suggest you join him.”

The marquess clucked his tongue. “Becoming a duke has made you rather testy, Colonel. I prefer the man who used to set enemy tents on fire. He was more reasonable.”

“You have no idea,” he muttered. Then he exhaled a ragged breath, knowing the tenacious man wouldn't leave him alone until he had what he came for. No matter how damnably irritating the trait, Edward couldn't begrudge him. It was the same tenacity that had kept the former captain alive in Spain. “Why are you here?”

“I need your help,” Thomas answered solemnly. “I have a friend who needs me to save him from himself.”

Edward glared at him through the shadows. He trusted Thomas with his life, but in this, he was overstepping.

“If I wanted your help,” he growled, “I would have asked for it a year ago.”