Wicked With the Scoundrel

by Elizabeth Bright

  “Our possessions are already aboard. Our family and friends are here, as well, to witness our vows.”

  “Ah.” His lips twisted. “I did wonder what had happened to my clothing. You have been quite industrious, I see.”

  “Do you need more persuading to get you aboard the ship? Because Adelaide’s other suggestion was—” She leaned forward to whisper in his ear and was rewarded by the feel of his arms spasming around her and a sudden wave of heat radiating from his body.

  Suddenly, his arms tightened with startling intensity. He buried his face against her neck. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Really?” That was…surprising. Well, no matter. How difficult could it really be? “I’m sure we can figure it out. I use my mouth—”

  His shocked choke of laughter was muffled against her throat. “Not that. This.” He raised his head and pointed at the gangway. “I don’t know how to let you board that ship, knowing it might make you ill or cause you harm in some way. I fear for your life, and I fear for my own sanity should I lose you. The way I feel for you— It’s too much. If I could just love you a little less, it would be so much easier.”

  Warmth spread slow and thick through her veins like honey. “I would rather you didn’t. Selfishly, I want all your love, every last bit you can give me. I won’t let you hold back even the smallest drop because you’re afraid. And in return, you get all of mine.”

  He looked at her with his heart in his eyes. “Then promise me. Take care of my heart. Keep yourself safe. I won’t be unreasonable—at least, I’ll try not to be. All I ask is that you consider my feelings before you jump from a rooftop or traipse through a dark park at night. That is all.”

  She considered. He wasn’t asking her to forego adventure, just stupidity. She could agree to that. She nodded. “Then I ask the same of you.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said immediately. He took her hand and pulled gently. “Come.”

  She balked, resisting his pull. Perhaps she ought to have extracted a different promise. Colin had never been reckless, after all. “Wait—”

  “No.” He pulled her against him with sudden speed and kissed her hard. “No more waiting. I’ve waited long enough to become your husband, and I won’t wait a moment more. Whatever you ask of me, I will do my best. Is that enough?”

  She kissed him back. “More than enough. Come, darling. Our adventure awaits.”

  He laughed softly. “It has already begun. You are my adventure, Claire.”

  She gave him a brilliant smile, full of joy and love and excitement. “And you are mine, my dearest, dearest Colin.” And in her heart she saw things, wonderful things, in their future.

  Then they clasped hands and stepped forward into it.

  Together.

  Epilogue

  Colin watched as his wife leaned over the ship railing to get a better look at the dark River Nile as it flowed beneath them. The first time she had done that—before their ship had even left the harbor—had caused him heart palpitations. But she had done the same quite often as they journeyed from London and had not yet fallen overboard. Now all he felt was a mild squeeze in his chest, and beyond that only joy.

  His wife was happy.

  “Colin, look! A crocodile!” she called excitedly.

  It was not the first time she had spotted one. To the contrary, crocodiles were nearly as commonplace here along the Nile as squirrels were in England. Yet, Claire never tired of them.

  “Shall I ready the goat, sir?” his footman asked in resigned tones.

  Because now he had a footman. It turned out they were really quite useful, particularly when it came to dangling a dead goat over the side of the boat in order to tempt a hungry crocodile.

  The goat dangled. They waited. Then, with a thrash of its powerful tail, the monster exploded from the water, its mouth gaping to reveal large white teeth. It clamped its jaws around the goat before submerging beneath the dark river.

  Claire looked at him. “Green eyes,” she said in a tone of supreme satisfaction. “Just like the others. I believe I shall write a treatise on crocodiles. If I must remember everything in such detail, I should at least like to make use of it. And crocodiles are such charming creatures, don’t you think?”

  Colin looked at the heavy wood beam, from which a goat no longer dangled. The water, now a shade of dark red, still churned. “Oh, yes, quite so.” He swallowed a spike of trepidation, then laughed and kissed her upturned mouth. “You will, of course, be a safe distance away as you study them.”

  “Of course,” she said cheerfully. “I will even allow you to stand next to me with a pistol at the ready.”

  He nodded, satisfied.

  Behind them, Deb cleared his throat. They turned.

  “We have almost reached Luxor. We should arrive within two hours.”

  “Oh, wonderful.” Claire clapped her hands in glee. “Do you think it is true, that across the river is the valley where the ancient Egyptians buried their pharaohs, as Belzoni recently suggested?”

  Deb shrugged, but his eyes gleamed. “I will not answer, for your husband has often reprimanded me for being far too optimistic. What do you think, Colin? Will we find the treasure of the pharaohs?”

  “As always, the odds are not in our favor. There is heat, and sand, and an indecipherable language.” He sounded stern, but then he turned to Claire and grinned slowly. “But then again, my wife is very good at finding things.”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Elizabeth Bright’s upcoming book, The Duke’s Wicked Wife!

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  Chapter One

  Sometimes an epiphany came like a bolt of lightning, sharp and brilliant, and sometimes it came like a bit of hothouse strawberry lodged in one’s throat. Unfortunately for Sebastian Sinclair, Duke of Wessex, it was the latter.

  This was what came of eating strawberries in November. It was unnatural to enjoy a summer fruit when the world was gray and dreary. One could not bend the laws of nature without dire consequences. He had made a mistake in insisting his gardener provide the fruit year-round. Yes, yes, he understood that now.

  His eyes watered. He would have wheezed had he been able to draw breath.

  He had been a fool about the strawberries, that much was abundantly clear now. More important, if he were to die this very instant, his father and mother would have no grandchildren. Perhaps they would not care, being dead these past thirteen years. But as the corners of his vision turned black, Sebastian found he cared, even if they could not. He cared very much, indeed.

  He was all that was left of them.

  Oh, there were drops of his father’s blood sprinkled about England. A second cousin in Derby, and an even more distant relative in Shropshire. His mother’s brother had gone to America, of all things, and was now the father of three American brats. Sebastian hadn’t heard from him in nearly a decade.

  But all of these distant relations had as little to do with his parents as a robin to a falcon. They were both birds, to be sure, but that was where all similarity ended. None of these relatives were the product of who his parents were as husband and wife, of the life they had built together. None of them had been created in their image and raised on their morals and guidance.

  There was only Sebastian.

  And if the damned strawberry took his life this very moment, before he could marry and beget an heir, that was all there would ever be.

  Dear God.

  Something thumped hard against his back. The offending strawberry flew up his throat and past his lips, landing on the plush carpet at his feet. He drew in a deep, life-saving gulp of air.

  “Are you all right?” Abingdon asked.

  Sebastian’s vision was still hazy. It looked like there were four identical men standing in his sitting room rather than just…two. He blinked. Abingdon and his twin b
rother Nicholas Eastwood came into focus.

  Sebastian blinked again. Miracle of miracles, he was alive! But who knew for how long? Human bodies were ridiculously frail. Today he, one of the most powerful dukes in all England, had nearly met his demise from a ruby fruit the size of his thumb, despite having all his teeth intact. Tomorrow might be a riding accident, or an overturned carriage, or a cuckolded husband. Or a parsnip. Imagine, death by parsnip! That would be even more humiliating than a strawberry.

  He drew himself up to his full height, which was still not quite as tall as the lanky pair that faced him.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve had an epiphany,” he announced.

  They stared at him, then at each other.

  “Dear God, no,” Eastwood said.

  “Perhaps it would be better to keep such thoughts to yourself,” Abingdon suggested.

  Ungrateful louts, the both of them. Had Sebastian not a hand in both their marriages? Both would likely still be blundering about, wifeless, had he not insisted at the critical moment they come to their senses. If he had kept his thoughts to himself, as Abingdon suggested, they would both be miserable now.

  But no matter. They would do as he said, despite their protestations. He had yet to meet the man who did not do as he said. Such were the benefits of being a handsome, wealthy duke.

  He moved to the walnut desk, removed a sheet of thick paper and his inkwell, and scribbled a few lines. “As it happens, your opinion on the matter is inconsequential.” He beckoned to the footman. “Inform Selkirk we will discuss the hothouse at four o’clock. And deliver this to Miss Eliza Benton.”

  The footman bowed crisply, removing the strawberry from the carpet as he did so.

  “Wessex,” Abingdon said sharply. “Why must you persist in annoying Miss Benton? Is it really necessary to involve her in your schemes?”

  He ignored the absurd question. Miss Benton was always necessary.

  “I have decided to have a house party.” Most of the marriageable ladies had departed London at the end of the social season and would not return until Spring. But he did not want to wait until Spring. The course was decided; now he must act. He would simply have to lure them from their snug homes and watchful families.

  Abingdon looked baffled. “A house party in London? It will be the first of its kind.”

  “I meant in Derbyshire, of course. At Perivale Hall.”

  The bafflement increased. “But you hate the country.”

  This was true. Weekly deliveries of unnatural strawberries aside, the country was dreadfully dull. He avoided it whenever possible.

  “He has his eye on Lady Whistall.” Eastwood sounded bored. “The house party is merely a means to cuckold her husband.”

  “Nonsense.” Sebastian dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “The cuckolding happened last month, and I’ve no wish to repeat it. I don’t intend to invite any married ladies at all, except as chaperones for their maiden daughters. And Lady Abingdon and Mrs. Eastwood, naturally.”

  Eastwood’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Perhaps he was remembering that the duke had once offered for Mrs. Eastwood. Sebastian smiled. He was indeed quite fond of Mrs. Eastwood, and not just because it annoyed her husband.

  “The point of the house party is not to dally with willing wives and cuckold their husbands. The point is to become a husband myself.”

  This pronouncement was met with blank stares, as though Sebastian had suddenly sprouted a half dozen more heads and his friends weren’t sure how to break the news gently.

  He sighed.

  “Gentlemen, the time has come for me to find a wife.”

  …

  Author’s Note

  Archaeology, like so many things, has an unpleasant history. Early excavators and historians often did irreparable damage to artifacts and discoveries. Exploitation—and even theft—was common during the Regency. I couldn’t ignore that in writing Colin Smith. He makes so many mistakes, and I hope you, the reader, winced while reading, just as I did while writing.

  Let’s do better, shall we? The ramifications of the Regency Period’s fascination with Egypt continue today: the seven-ton bust of Ramses II, excavated and removed from Egypt by Giovanni Battista Belzoni, and the Elgin Marbles still remain in the British Museum. Egypt and Greece would like their artifacts back, and I hope that happens soon.

  As always, my heartfelt thanks go to the Entangled Publishing team, especially my editor, Nina Bruhns. Thank you to Mala Bhattacharjee, Samaira Acharya, and Denise Bhatt for telling me where I was wrong, and your patience while I tried to make it right.

  About the Author

  Elizabeth Bright is a writer, attorney, and mother. After spending ten years in New Orleans (yes, she survived Hurricane Katrina), she relocated to Washington, D.C. to be closer to family. When she’s not writing, arguing, or mothering, she can be found hiking in the Shenandoah or rock climbing at Great Falls.

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