by Stacy Reid
She hiccupped a laugh. “One day I’ll learn the art of pretty crying,” she murmured huskily.
Powerful emotions darkened his eyes. “Please, do not. There is nothing I would change about you, Pippa. Nothing.” Then he closed his eyes. “Forgive me for being an ass. I should have stayed. Ignored the pride and hurt and stayed. I will never walk away again when we have a disagreement. I want our marriage to be based on trust, honesty, and communication.”
She smiled. “Mayhap I should have chased you just a little bit. You are worth everything.”
“Marry me, Pippa,” he said. “Be my duchess, my lover, and my friend. I love you.”
It felt as if sunshine burst in her heart. “Yes.”
Epilogue
Pippa and Christopher were married late August at St. George’s Square to the delight of the ton. Many were able to witness the joining of what had been declared the most scandalous match of the decade. Almost everyone had remarked that only the grandest of romances would have taken the duke to the altar. And that it could have only been a woman of such strong resolutions, and a kind heart as Miss Pippa Cavanaugh who could have done it.
Pippa had delayed traveling to see her father and had sent a letter on to him instead. Miss Calvert had replied with good news, and it had made Pippa happy to know that he had recovered nicely, though she took some pleasure in not responding to the last two letters he sent begging for a visit. She did write to him and told him she forgave him, and one day perhaps she would visit New York and meet her siblings, but not at his convenience or insistence. Before doing some traveling with her beloved husband, she would direct her attention on restoring her mother’s standing in society, and the estate her father had abandoned.
They planned to visit Europe, before traveling to New York, and then onto Boston.
Her duke indulged all her desires and doted on her with a passion Pippa hadn’t thought possible. And she had fallen more deeply into love with him than she’d ever imagined. She wondered if she would ever stop being incredulous and in awe over how much he loved her.
“You can turn around now,” she said, laughing lightly.
The shadow of her husband loomed over her, and she lifted her lashes to peer up at him.
“My wicked, delightful, minx,” he murmured.
A profound weakness invaded her limbs at the promise of pleasure in his eyes. Pippa was splayed naked atop their silken sheets, her legs spread wantonly, her breast arched, and four silken cravats beside her on the bed.
“Ravish me, my darling.”
Her love came over her and pressed a kiss to her lips. She did not resist when he circled her wrists and tied them together with his silken cravat to the bedpost.
The quirk of his lips was pure, heated sensuality. “I love you, my duchess.”
Another kiss, this one infinitely tender. “And I love you,” she breathed. "Take me on all your wicked adventures, my love."
And for the long, wicked night, her love did.
The End
When the Earl was Wicked
His touch awakens her desire, and his kiss demands surrender.
Lady Verity Ayles will do whatever it takes to protect herself from a vile cur, no matter how scandalous or perilous it may be. And that means aligning with James Radcliffe, the Earl of Maschelly--a scoundrel who spends his days in sin and self-indulgence, and his nights in reckless pursuits. Clearly, a man any young lady of good sense and reputation should stay away from.
James had clawed his way from poverty to the fringes of the ton using his wits and fists. His wicked reputation encourages ladies to approach him for clandestine affairs, never for anything as outrageous as Lady Verity's request--to teach her how to fight. And in exchange, she will instruct him on all the refined manners a hulking, ruthless, fighting brute as himself needed to net a lady of quality. Never a man to resist a challenge or the company of a beautiful lady, James agrees, and soon finds himself falling endlessly in love with a woman who may never see him as the man of her dreams.
Chapter 1
London, 1840
Shortly before eight o’clock on a Wednesday evening, Lady Verity Elizabeth Ayles knocked on a particular door at 86 Eaton Square, Eaton Square Gardens. To any passing onlooker, she presented as a fashionably attired woman with an elaborate hat covering her vibrant auburn hair and a dark veil obscuring her face. A black umbrella was clutched in one of her hands, and the other hand once again lifted the lion head knocker and slammed it insistently against the large oak door.
All delicate inquiry had said the man she wanted to see would be at home tonight. Despite the preeminence of his title and family’s history, he was not welcomed in most drawing rooms, ballrooms, gentlemen’s clubs. Or so the rumors whispered.
The door was wrenched open, and a quite large man filled the doorway. It took all of the fortitude she'd gained over the years to not wilt from his imposing frame. She drew a deep breath, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart. She cleared her throat, and he peered down at her. Verity sucked in a soft breath at the piercing brilliance of his green eyes, and she was grateful the veil hid the blush heating her cheeks. He looked startled for a moment. Then he glanced up and down the street, and at the disguised carriage parked opposite his iron gate.
James Daniel Radcliffe, the Earl of Maschelly, upon first glance, did not appear either a libertine, a dastardly reprobate, or a man so handsome the devil clearly fashioned him to tempt women to sin. Verity thought he appeared quite ordinary in a dark, brooding manner, if somewhat unkempt. The man had outrageously answered the door himself, and as if to mock her consternation, he did so with bare feet, no jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and a loosely tied cravat! Massive shoulders strained against his shirt, and his trousers indecently outlined thighs that were far too hard looking for a gentleman. The man was an aristocrat built like a dockworker.
Her cheeks went hot, her throat and belly too. How unpardonable he could make birds flutter in her stomach. A very unusual reaction, for she much preferred men who were fair and quick to laugh, those who were non-threatening in their demeanor. Safe. The very opposite of the man before her who loomed over six feet tall with the blackest scowl she’d ever seen on another’s countenance. But it was this man her dearest friend, Lady Caroline Trenton, had advised was the perfect specimen to help Verity on the merry path of ruin. Though it wasn’t ruination she sought, it was merely a possible consequence of her actions. But she would not be deterred, and she must be brave.
It was so absolutely reckless for her to be on this man’s doorstep without a chaperone, no one must know she'd had the temerity to call upon the earl. Though dear Caroline had suggested a meeting with him, Verity was certain her friend did not mean for her to call on the man at his bachelor’s residence, at night! So many wild and wicked rumors swirled about the earl. He was rumored to be dissolute, reckless, a gambler, a fighter, a great participant of sensual debauchery.
The Earl of Maschelly was wicked, they said.
He was not afraid of anyone, they rabidly whispered.
It was rumored a man of his nature spent his days in nothing but self-indulgence and sin, and his nights in recklessness at London's most dangerous haunts. He did not resist beauties, bedding a different Cyprian each night during the week, but no less than six on the weekend. That all sounded like balderdash to Verity’s way of thinking, but he was still the man she needed. Though ruin and disgrace hovered. She needed him for her freedom, so she would never feel helpless or afraid ever again. He was the second step in reclaiming her dignity and her dreams.
She lowered her gloved hand which had been poised to beat the lion head knocker. “Lord Maschelly, I presume?”
Verity did not dare assume it was the butler who had opened the door in such a distinct state of dishabille. Indeed he would be fired immediately. She did not dare assume the butler would also possess the dark green eyes reflecting the forest after a night of rain, or it would be the butler in possessi
on of such raven black hair and sensually full lips. He wasn’t handsome in the soft manner or anything like the refined and elegant men of the ton. This was all hard edges and so compelling she stared helplessly, absurdly grateful he could not see that she gawked like a silly miss.
The man regarded her with a fascinated eye, then drew an audible breath. “And who the hell are you?” His tone was crisp and stinging as the lash of a whip.
She winced at his uncouthness, appalled at his lack of civility. But there was nothing she could do about that, not when she needed him. And strangely, his impertinence calmed her. “First, I apologize for calling without notice and in such a clandestine manner. It was unavoidable since you’ve ignored my previous letters asking to meet discreetly. It is of the utmost importance I have a private audience with you, my lord.”
“Why?”
Verity took a steadying breath. “I have a proposition for you, one that is best discussed in privacy.”
His scowl went even darker. “Well hell, no one has ever offered it up on my front step before in such an obvious manner.”
She gasped at the sheer effrontery of his lewd suggestion. Verity was quite aware of what he referred to, and almost turned around and departed then at his lack of gentlemanlike manners. The words were cutting and hinted at a cynicism she’d not expected.
“I am a lady, my lord, you will comport yourself accordingly and what I have for you is a business proposal,” she said, careful not to choke on her mortification, grateful her voice did not tremble.
Darkness and fog blanketed the area, and the few gas lamps shed little light. All that was convenient to her disguise, but she felt nervous and uncertain.
“A lady? At my home at this hour, without a chaperone?” This bit was drawled with mocking cynicism.
“Yes,” she replied pertly, “I daresay a woman of my years can venture out without undue speculation and ruin.” Such ridiculousness for if she was discovered, her life, and reputation would be in shambles. But Verity was desperate and afraid, and he was someone who could help her put her nightmares to rest, even if he did not know it. “And the gentlemanly conduct would be to invite me inside away from possible speculation and the dreadful chill in the air.”
Those beautiful eyes stared at her veil as if he wanted to discern the features beneath the disguise. Nervous energy had her tugging at the piece of lace brushing against her chin. Then to her relief and amazement, he stepped back and bid her entrance.
Verity made her way inside, startled at the overwhelming darkness. No lamplight shone in the hallway, but she could discern enough to follow the earl to a large and tastefully furnished drawing room. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth, and the earl waved at her to sit. She lowered herself into the plush sofa, anxious that he remained standing.
“Will you also sit, my lord?”
The earl arched a brow, and it was then she noted the faint discoloring on his left cheek.
Verity became aware of the subtle scent of his sweat as he moved closer. And he walked as if hurt, a slight tilt to the left, favoring his side. The brawn of his body was overwhelming. He was tall, so much broader than she. A small part of her wanted to move away. But her courage could not falter now, not when she had reached so far. Inexplicably she felt at once both threatened and secure. Foolish to feel safe for she did not know the manner of man he was. Just what the rumors said. And she felt silly for resting her plans on the entirety of idle speculations.
“Will you need refreshment?” he demanded in that terrible uncivil way of his.
“There is no need to be boorish,” she sniffed.
“I did not invite you here.”
Verity flushed. “You did not, and I apologize for the intrusion. It is still not an excuse for your incivility.”
“Do you wish for a drink?”
“No,” she said with polite stiffness.
There was a decanter of amber liquid on the oak table before her, an empty glass, and a white handkerchief that had a suspicious red stain. She had interrupted his drinking. He poured his amber liquid into the glass, and then lowered himself into the sofa opposite her.
“What is this proposal?” he said, impatience coloring his tone.
She cleared her throat delicately, wondering where to start with her very scandalous and unorthodox request. “Society says a dance from you has the power to ruin any young lady. And perhaps that is why you’ve never asked anyone to the dance floor.”
“And do you want ruin, do you?” his voice was a purr of sin and darkness, and some unfathomable emotion she did not understand. It had the edge of anger, causing a ripple of discomfort to course over her skin.
She took a steadying breath and met his curious gaze, ignoring his interruption. “They say you are an untested king in the underground pugilist world of London. That you made your fortune on the blood and fractured limbs of others. Those other men…lords and those common folks, admire you…revere you even. Your nose has been broken three times, your ribs cracked numerous times, yet you've never been beaten. You understand honor and dishonor. You are a fair man but can be dangerous when crossed. You’ve been the 11th Earl of Maschelly for seven years now, and the loudest rumor in the ton is that you are now seeking a wife, preferable an heiress, whose father has political connections to aid you in becoming the Member of Parliament for the area where your earldom is situated.”
He was silent for the longest moment. Shuffling sounds crept into the still of the night, and Verity glanced around nervously. He gripped his glass, drinking deeply, his gaze never leaving her veiled expression.
“So you know something about my reputation…and you are here…alone with me. Curious. Who are you?”
She licked her lips. “I cannot own to my identity at the moment. Not until a bargain has been struck.”
His stare was unnerving, intense, and quite intelligent. “What do you want?”
The words lashed at her, and she stiffened. “I…I would like you to teach me to fight, my lord.”
Silence fell upon the room, and he stared at her as if he peered into her very soul. She felt exposed and vulnerable, because so much rode on his response to her simple yet unorthodox and scandalous question. A response which he refrained from giving, he only stared, taking the measure of her. Had she made an error in approaching him? Had her hopes for freedom come to a sudden premature halt?
Chapter 2
“To fight?” Incredulity colored the earl’s tone.
Verity flushed and her heart jerked with more erratic force. “Yes, to fight, to defend myself.”
Lord Maschelly regarded her with a surprised amusement that irked her, but she pressed on, “And in return I…I will teach you how to comport yourself as a gentleman should.” She waited uncertainly for his response her heart hammering like a trapped bird.
“I am the Earl of Maschelly,” he said flatly. “I am at a loss as for how you believe there is something I am lacking, and you would be the one to render lessons.” His tone was cold, but Verity heard the hint of warning, heard the chilling distance creeping into his tone and heard the vulnerability beneath the surface of that dark rumble.
The idea that a man who seemed so self-assured and dynamic could have any vulnerabilities startled her. She cleared her throat delicately. “There…there is a rumor that Lady Susanna Coltman, Lord Nelson’s cherished daughter refused your offer of marriage because of …because…”
“He is a brute! No refined manners or sensibilities, with disgusting calluses on his palms. How can I marry such a man?” Those had been the words Susanna had cried prettily in her lace handkerchief when she’d called upon Verity last week.
“She declined your offer of courtship because you did not seem as refined as other gentlemen in the haut monde. There is also a rumor that…that she set certain conditions, that if you met them, she would marry you. And some of those are that…that you learn to dance and write poems.”
Verity almost smiled at the outraged scowl darkening his
features, noting that stubble showed on his jaw. “And her father is willing to allow her those caveats. I…I thought we could help each other,” she ended shakily, not liking the desperate quality to her voice.
“You truly think I give a bloody damn about what Lady Susanna and the rest of society thinks?”
Verity gasped at his shocking profanities. “My lord, please control your tongue!”
He stared at her, clearly surprised. “I do not bend to the whim of those who believe they are my betters. If you do not like the manner of my speech, you are free to leave.”
The soft contempt in his voice rattled her composure, and every touch of his eyes on her veil felt fraught with peril.
He took a drink, peering at her over the rim of the glass. After taking several sips, he said, "I do not care about the pretty little gossips you’ve heard about me in your drawing rooms and balls. And I cannot fathom why you believe I would help you to do anything as outlandish as learn to fight. Bloody hell. I am not even certain I gather your meaning or intention. I may not have mixed with your set long, but you are all about propriety and ridiculous exacting standards.”
He stood, and Verity rose, clasping her hands before her middle. The posture was a defensive one, but she couldn’t help it.
“I cannot help you. Now I will ask you to take your leave.”
“My lord…” At first, her plan had struck her as desperate and simpleminded. But the more she'd pondered the matter, the clearer her sense of purpose became. And she’d had five long days and nights to plan her next steps. She could not rely on her brother, the Earl of Sutcliffe, to be her defender and protector. Once she had loved him dearly, as a sister ought to love her brother, but he’d not seen her as more than a nuisance, a duty to discard. The wealthier the bidder the better, if he had his way. Nor did he believe in her and defended her honor when she’d needed him the most, instead, he had threatened to commit her to a mental institution.
