Invitation to Ruin (38 page)

   The smoldering look in her eyes made his breath catch.

“I’m as big as a horse. The Lord of Wicked can’t possibly find me attractive in this condition.”

“The Lord of Wicked, no,” he said softly. “But the man who loves you with all his heart and soul does, and always will.”

He bent his head to kiss her, to show her his love. Anthony felt himself tremble with desire. Desire for this woman, his woman. He’d never felt more contented.

Melissa was the chief reason he felt such peace. Even when he’d given her no reason to love him, she had wrapped him in her healing embrace, giving him solace with her unreserved love. Until his dying day he would return the favor and love her unconditionally. Nothing would make him happier or give him more joy.

“All my life, I’ve felt as if my soul were missing. You’ve helped me find myself. You’ve helped me to forgive myself.”

His kiss deepened and his desire soared as he felt her small hands fumble with the placket of his trousers. His fingers moved to stroke between her thighs. As usual her passion matched his own. She was wet and eager to receive him. He lifted her astride him and gently lowered her onto his pulsing member, relishing the feel of her rounded belly pushing against him.

He raised his hands to her full breasts and eased them out of her bodice. Leaning forward he tenderly suckled one nipple, glorifying in the way she ground down onto him.

He lifted his head from her breast and met the brilliant sparkle of her hazel eyes and felt lust and love surge through him. “I think we should move more vigorously if we are to keep warm. Are you up for the ride?”

“My darling man, I’m relieved to see that though you may have given up the title, you are still a little bit wicked.”

He surged farther into her hot sheath, his hardness filling her to the hilt. “I hope I’m more than a little, madam.”

   Melissa giggled, but his next few thrusts filled the carriage with her passionate cries. She could feel him pulse and throb within her. His thick shaft felt huge and hot, and she sunk lower onto him, fully absorbing its swollen length.

“I love feeling you so deep inside me,” she whispered on a breathless sigh. “I love you, Anthony …”

Their gazes locked. “And I love you, Melissa. Don’t you ever doubt it. I’ll always need you, want you, love you, and protect you.”

“We’ll love each other, always.” Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she rose and sank down hard, impaling herself on him.

   He shuddered and felt his gentleness fraying. He surged inside her. Melissa’s fingers dug into his shoulders as she met him stroke for stroke. His hands gripped the soft globes of her bottom and raised her higher, moving her faster. In only a moment their joining turned frenzied, the rhythm building until her cries of release mingled with his harsh groans. Anthony poured himself into her welcoming body, shaking with the force of their joint convulsive pleasure, while Melissa collapsed sated against his chest.

They sat intimately joined, the gentle rocking of the carriage sending jolts of delicious, lingering pleasure through them both. Melissa nuzzled her cheek in the curve of his shoulder, her fingers twining in his hair.

“Warm enough?” he asked, stroking the white skin above her breasts, marveling at the changes her pregnancy was having on her body.

   “Yes.” His simple smile, so filled with love for her, warmed her every day.

His hand gently caressed her bump, where their child lay quietly growing inside her. Sometimes, she woke in the night, scared that this was all a dream, that her darling man was a figment of her imagination. But then he’d pull her tight against his body, holding her in his arms, whispering words of love in her ear and making slow passionate love to her.

Hearing the carriage begin to slow, Melissa hurriedly moved off his lap and tried to right her clothes. “Here let me help,” he offered. His hands found her breasts but seemed to
fondle her more than help her. He couldn’t seem to get enough of his wife.

“You are scandalous,” she accused. “A fine example to young Philip we will be, if I arrive in a state of undress.”

   Anthony’s mother, and most of the other guests, did not miss the flushed and bedraggled picture young Lord Dorrington’s godparents made as they entered the house. Melissa looked as if she’d just been thoroughly ravished, and her son’s eyes blazed with happiness.

She never thought she’d live to see this day—her eldest son happy, and with the next Wickham heir on the way. Anthony came forward to press a kiss to her cheek.

She couldn’t resist saying, “I knew the right woman would be the making of you. I’m only sorry I could not help your father the way Melissa has helped you.”

He squeezed her hand. “Unlike Father, I wanted to be saved. Don’t blame yourself for his shortcomings.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she cupped his cheek in her palm. “Thank you.”

Anthony placed a kiss on her hand and strolled across the room to join the proud father.

   Richard watched his brother. He would never have believed Anthony was the same man who, only a little over six months ago, railed against the world. He’d been quite certain Anthony would never find happiness, that he’d never forgive himself for their father’s past sins. Despondent, full of selfpity, and suffering for deeds not of his making, Anthony was lost to the world.

But Anthony hadn’t just survived, he’d flourished. Flourished because of a woman. A woman he’d tricked his brother into compromising on the advice of his mother. He swallowed. It could have all gone so horribly wrong. But Melissa had opened Anthony’s heart and led him down the path of redemption.

Their family owed Melissa everything.

Anthony, on the other hand, owed him a thank-you. He thought it time his brother ate humble pie.

Chuckling, Richard sauntered over to where Rufus, Freddie, and Anthony sat, glasses of whiskey in hand, toasting the proud father.

He sat across from his twin and raised his glass. “As we appear to be toasting, I’d like to raise a toast to me.”

Rufus coughed, while Freddie laughed.

Anthony said, “Other than causing another scandal, being caught in Lady Kettering’s bedchamber by her husband last week, what have you got to celebrate?”

Richard couldn’t help his smug smile. “I have single-handedly, oh, all right, with help from Mother, brought down the Lord of Wicked. He is now resoundly caught in the parson’s noose.”

“And loving every minute of it,” Anthony declared.

“So, Anthony. I’m still waiting for that thank-you. I told you on the very night you met Melissa, you’d thank me one day. Well, brother, that day is here.”

“I’m glad he’s not my brother. He’s going to be impossible to live with, Anthony. You’ll be thanking him for the rest of your life,” Freddie said, and gulped down the rest of his whiskey.

“And so I should.” Anthony stood and bowed to Richard. “I thank you, my wife thanks you, and the Lord of Wicked thanks you. Actually, the Lord of Wicked has retired.” Anthony’s lips curved in relief. “And I haven’t even missed him.”

Richard smiled. “Not the most profuse thanks in the world.” He shifted forward in his seat. “As my reward, may I take up your mantle? The Lord of Wicked always got all the women. I’d make an excellent substitute.” He hesitated. “Unless one of you fellows wants the title?”

Freddie raised an eyebrow. “If you want it, take it. I’m sure you can live up to your brother’s reputation. I don’t want it. I’m happily married. The only wicked thing I can get away with is to have one too many drinks after dinner.”

“Damn it, Freddie, Richard doesn’t need any encouragement to be wicked.” Anthony eyed his good friend, Rufus. “I pass the mantle of Lord of Wicked onto you. You never know, it might change your life, too.”

Richard cocked his head to one side, shaking it in a negative response. “No, the title doesn’t suit Rufus. He is far too honorable to wear the title.”

Rufus appeared to look at the twins in amusement. “Christ, I hope that is not your way of telling me I’m boring, Richard. Working for the Foreign Secretary, in times of war, is anything but.”

Richard slapped his knee. “That’s it. Perfect.” He grinned at the other three men.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” they all urged at the same time.

“It appears it is to be the day of christenings. I christen Rufus Knight, Viscount Strathmore, Lord of Danger.”

Anthony tipped his head back and roared with laughter.

   Melissa looked across the room, a room filled with family and friends, at her husband. A man who not long ago rarely smiled and never laughed.

Her heart, so full of love, did a little flip in her chest. She thought his raucous chortle was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

Play a sexy game of TRUTH OR DEMON with Kathy Love’s latest, available now …

W
hat the hell?

Killian blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling—a dingy white ceiling. Not the crisp, new white of his ceiling at home. Nor was he in his own bed. This one was decidedly feminine, covered in a ruffled bedspread plastered with pink and red cabbage roses. Nothing like his black silk sheets.

He glanced to the right to see an antique nightstand. On it, in its full flowered and beaded glory, sat a lamp that looked as if it came from a yard sale circa 1959. An Agatha Christie was opened, facedown on the doily-covered surface. Several medication bottles were lined up beside that.

Great, not only was he in a strange bed, but it appeared to be that of an elderly woman.

He glanced to his left, hoping he’d see something that would make sense to him. He definitely needed an explanation for this predicament—and why he didn’t seem to recall how he got here. But instead of some clue, he found someone staring back at him.

It was the ugliest, mangiest cat he’d ever seen. It stared at him with its one good eye. An eerie yellow eye, while the other was stuck together into a crusted black line. Its long, white fur—or at least he thought it was white—had a matted, gray tinge as if it had rolled in ashes. Damp ashes.

Maybe Killian was still in Hell. But he suspected that even demons would throw this thing back.

Keeping his movements slow and subtle, Killian levered himself up onto his elbows, concerned that even the slightest move would set the beast into attack mode.

The cat hissed, its back arching and its tail, once broken or maybe just as naturally ugly as the rest of it, shot up like a tattered flag at half-mast. It hissed again, louder, its lips curling back to reveal a splintered fang and some serious tartar buildup.

Killian braced himself for what appeared to be an inevitable fur-flying assault, but instead the feline monster darted over the chair and disappeared under the bed, surprisingly fast for such a massive creature.

“Great,” he said, peering over the edge. Now he felt like he was stuck in some horror movie where the monster under the bed would lunge out and grab him as soon as he set a foot on the floor.

He fell back against the mattress. The scent of musty pillow, masked only slightly by some kind of stale, powdery perfume, billowed up around him.

Where the hell was he?

He lay there, searching his brain, but nothing came back to him. His last memory was getting off work and going home. But he was clearly no longer in Hell. This place was very definitely the dwelling of a human. Humans had a completely different energy from demons.

Had he gone home with some human woman for a little nocturnal fun? Not his usual behavior, but not unheard of either.

He glanced around the room with its flowered walls and damask curtains. A pink housecoat was draped over a rocking chair in the corner.

He cringed at the sight. Not unless he’d suddenly developed a taste for the geriatric set.

“At least let it have been the hot granddaughter,” he said aloud. The monster under the bed hissed in response. Probably not a good sign.

He remained there for a moment longer, then decided he
couldn’t stay trapped in this sea of frills and flowers indefinitely. He had to figure out where he was—and more importantly, why.

He sat up, steeling himself for his next move. Then in one swift action, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and gave himself a hard push against the mattress, vaulting a good three feet across the floor.

The dust ruffle quivered, then a paw with claws unsheathed shot out and smacked around, hoping to connect and maim. Finding nothing, it snapped back under the bed’s depths. The bed skirt fluttered, then fell still.

“Ha,” he called out to the animal, feeling smug. Then he just felt silly. He was a demon who’d managed to outsmart a cat. Yeah, that was something to get cocky over. Especially since he was a demon who had somehow managed to forget where the hell he was.

He stepped out of the bedroom into a small hallway. Directly in front of him was a bathroom that revealed more flowers on the shower curtain and on the matching towels hanging on a brass rack. Even the toilet seat cover had a big rose on it.

To his right was another bedroom. A dresser, a nightstand and a brass bed—and, of course, more flowers.

He frowned. Would he really hook up with a human who was this obsessed with floral prints—very
bold
floral prints? He didn’t think so, but anything seemed possible at this point.

He wandered to a living room with swag draperies and ancient-looking velvet furniture. Ben-Gay, hand lotion, Aleve, a crystal bowl filled with mints and a box of tissues were arranged on another doily-covered table beside a tatty-looking recliner. A crocheted afghan was draped over the back.

“Let there be a granddaughter … let there be a granddaughter,” he muttered, even though he’d seen not a single sign of youth so far.

He crossed the room to a fireplace, looking at the framed
photos crowded along the mantel. Only one woman kept reappearing in the pictures and she didn’t look to be a day younger than eighty. But he didn’t recognize her. In fact, none of the people in the pictures jogged his memory.

“Maybe I don’t want to remember,” he said, grimacing down at a picture of a group of elderly women on what appeared to be adult-sized tricycles beside some beach.