Wicked Deeds on a Winter Night

by Stacy Reid

  He went remarkably still. “Do you have such little faith in the promises I’ve made you.”

  His voice was rough with pain and hollowed with disappointment.

  Hot tears spilled on her cheeks, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs wanting to rip from her.

  He reached out, and gentle fingers touched her jaw, bringing her gaze to meet his as he swept a lock of hair behind her ear. “Every day I wrote you. Every day I searched for you. Every day I missed you. And I unashamedly cried for you.”

  She burst into loud, ugly tears. The last few weeks had been excruciating. “For so long I thought if I lost you, I would be strong and unflinching. I would not be weak like my mother who allowed grief to take her to the grave. I broke,” she whispered. “I hurt until I became a shadow of myself. I hungered for your smiles and touches, and just the comfort of you being near.”

  Primrose rested a hand on the curve of her belly. “Then I became strong again because I needed to see your eyes and know without a doubt you no longer love me.” Her voice cracked as emotions tightened her throat. She stared at him helplessly, the hot embers of hope burning through her body. “But I can see…I can see the same love in my heart reflected back at me.”

  His eyes closed briefly then snapped open. How they burned with unfathomable emotions.

  "I faltered because there was a part of me, deep inside, that believed that maybe a lady with better connections and wealth would suit you better. Forgive me, Gabriel. You fell ill, and I did not have the means or connections to save you. I felt so inadequate for you, my love. And it gutted me to know the family you love so much will never accept—"

  “My family can go hang,” he said gruffly. “You are my family. And together we will weather all odds. It was your will and determination that got me help. It was your love that had you coming back, day after day, ignoring your pride, just to see me.”

  He stood and stalked from the bedroom. With a gasp, she scrambled from the bed and rushed after him, only to falter when he returned inside with a harried, portly looking man. Her eyes widened, and she frowned in confusion.

  “This is my cousin, Pernell Walters. He’s a vicar. I’ve dragged him around for several days, and he is sore impatient with me.”

  “I—”

  “Marry me. Today…now.” Then he withdrew the special license from his jacket. “Marry me, my sweet.”

  Joy, relief, and love so powerful it left her weak seized her, stealing her ability to breathe. "I doubted you," she said in a hoarse cry.

  "Yes," he said drolly. "And because of it, we spent miserable weeks apart. You will not escape my spanking, but I promise to kiss it better."

  The vicar made a garbled sound of shock, and Primrose laughed waterily.

  “I’ll never doubt you again,” she whispered fiercely. “I love you so.”

  His lips slid over hers, the familiar taste of him a sweet comfort and flaming pleasure. “And I love you. Marry me.”

  “Yes,” she gasped against his lips, clutching him in a fierce embrace. “I love you.”

  Three months later…

  “Well, what does it say?” Primrose cried, clutching her hands together, her soft gray eyes glowing with trepidation and excitement.

  Gabriel grinned and folded the letter, resting it on the walnut desk. “According to Mr. Collins, he would like to split Love in the Time of War into three volumes with illustrations, with the first publishing a month from now. He anticipates such success he has enclosed a bank draft of three hundred pounds as an advance.

  With a shriek of happiness, his love leaped across the small parlor into his arms, peppering exuberant kisses over his lips. “I am so happy," she said, still laughing.

  Lowering his hands to the gentle swell of her stomach, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m quite happy too, Primrose, quite delirious with it.”

  She burrowed into his warmth. “Does this mean you’ll travel to London soon.”

  “And you’ll be coming with me,” he said softly.

  Her eyes lit with pleasure. “I daresay I shall.”

  “We'll let a townhouse in Mayfair for the season, and we'll have a dashed wonderful time until we'll retire together for your confinement."

  She nodded happily.

  He cleared his throat. “We may see my family, and perhaps suffer a few more invitations.”

  George had been the first to write to him and ask for his forgiveness. Gabriel hadn't responded, and then a letter from his mother had come, inviting him and Primrose to dinner. Gabriel knew it was to make amends, but he hadn't responded to the overtures, for the wounds they had dealt his love still felt too raw. Eventually, he knew it would happen, the family would meet, apologies would be tendered, and the walk to forgiveness would start.

  “And perhaps we’ll accept a few,” Primrose said softly. “Our child must know his or her uncle, aunt, and grandparents, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He cupped her cheeks and kissed her deeply, and tenderly. “How you complete me.” Then he swung her into his arms, loving the light way she giggled, the naughtiness sparking in her eyes.

  He reached their bedroom and lowered her into the soft, welcoming depths, captured her mouth with his, and loved her with all the love and passion in his soul, endlessly.

  The End

  Readers, thank you for giving me a chance and reading my book! I hope you enjoyed Wicked Deeds on a Winter Night and will consider leaving an honest review on Amazon adding to my rainbow.

  If you love your historical romances hot (and I mean really hot) and sweet, check out THE SCANDALOUS DIARY OF LILY LAYTON. I had so much fun writing the journey to happy every after for Oliver and Lily, and I hope you enjoy the sneak peek of the first two chapters below!

  Love,

  Stacy

  The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

  Excerpt

  Grab a Copy Today

  Beneath Lily Layton’s sweet and charming exterior beats the heart of a vixen—one with shocking and scandalous secrets and desires. But as a genteel lady, she confines her forbidden fantasies, like those about her employer’s devastatingly handsome son, to her diary…until she loses it.

  Oliver Carlyle, Marquess of Ambrose, has finally found the perfect wife, a woman who will not hide from his dark, carnal cravings. He just needs to figure out who she is. When he has a secret rendezvous with a mysterious stranger, suddenly he starts to believe she might be the author of the diary.

  He’s determined to find out who his mystery woman is…

  His biggest fear—and deepest fantasy—is she may be the one woman he cannot have.

  Chapter One

  April 1818

  Hampshire, England

  Belgrave Manor

  The small, dark brown leather book appeared quite innocuous until one dared to fold back the worn cover and skim the first few pages. Oliver Simon Carlyle, the ninth Marquess of Ambrose, had been reading the same entry for the past several minutes, unable to credit the words written in such elegant, flowing script. Absolutely nothing at all indicated the lascivious and shockingly arousing content of what had revealed itself to be a diary of the most scandalous sort.

  Dearest Diary,

  My husband, God rest his soul, said my desires are abhorrent and unladylike and had admonished me

  most severely. I tried so hard to be proper, but it seems I am destined to be damned. Last evening, I stood in the eastern secret passage in Belgrave manor and watched as Lord R parted his lover’s legs and licked her glistening slit. Lady W screamed, grabbed his head, and rocked onto his face. She appeared so wild and so wonderfully free.

  To my utter shame and pleasure, I got wet, so achingly wet. I ran as quietly as possible through the hidden passage to my chamber and flung myself under the covers. God help me, I touched myself. I was not ladylike...I thrust two fingers deep into my slippery channel and—

  Oliver closed the slim black leather volume softly, a harsh breath hissing through his lips
. He had been reading the diary for the last hour, unable to stop, though he was consciously aware these were the private thoughts of someone who would never have shared such private and wanton feelings with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  These were the deepest secrets of a lady attending his mother’s week-long house party. The party had, in truth, been at his request, so that he could view a potential bride in an intimate setting instead of the more public marriage marts of the season. If Oliver recalled accurately, there were only fifty guests in attendance, and at least thirty were of the fairer sex. Now he was consumed with one question: who was the author?

  The idea that a lady of the ton, even if she was a widow, had written such thoughts was positively indecent, and—

  since he was being honest—vastly intriguing and titillating to his jaded tastes.

  With a rough scoff, he dropped the diary onto the stone bench on which he reposed. He would leave it where he’d found it, and possibly the owner would retrace her steps and recover it soon. Clearly, it had not been left to the elements and discovery for long. A light rain had fallen earlier in the morning, and the pages of the diary were dry...and arousing...and sinful.

  Cursing himself virulently for his weakness, Oliver grabbed it and randomly picked a page.

  Dearest Diary,

  Sir Elliot offered for me today. I confess to being surprised, for though he paid calls upon me a few times, the baronet never expressed a romantic attachment of any sort. There is a distinct appeal to remarrying a man who already has his heir. I would once again be the mistress of my own home, and I would have the amiable companionship of Sir Elliot, without the expectation to produce issue, since he has his heir, a spare, and the most delightful little girl. If only he were not twice my age and more of a father figure to me. It is quite distressing to imagine running my tongue over his chest and down to his manhood as I had attempted with dear Robert. Perhaps Sir Elliot would be similarly disgusted with my wantonness and—

  Oliver snapped the book closed and tilted his head to the sky. Bloody hell. She was young if she considered the baronet,

  who couldn’t be a day over fifty years, old enough to be her father...and her dead husband had been called Robert. That should narrow down Oliver’s search.

  What the hell am I saying? He had no interest in discovering the identity of the author. To what purpose? He couldn’t return her diary with any explanation that would not cause her great distress. Even if he lied and said he hadn’t read the pages, her mortification would be great, indeed.

  Nor could he leave it where he found it on the grass under the cypress tree by the gazebo for another unsuspecting soul to stumble upon her lusty and scandalous musings.

  Perhaps he should simply burn it.

  He glanced toward where he’d found the damning journal, his gaze assessing each young lady who strolled by. None looked anxious, and a few gave him inviting smiles, no doubt hearing wedding bells, since it had been made known he was on the hunt for a wife. He was two and thirty and was quite bored. The usual debauchery that privileged gentlemen of his ilk enjoyed no longer seemed exciting. The pleasure gardens, the reckless racing, scandalous pursuits, and even the rousing debates in Parliament hardly moved him anymore.

  There was an emptiness in his soul he couldn’t understand, and nothing of late seemed to fill the void. He had bid his last mistress adieu over eight months past and been without a lover since. Oliver had seen no point in searching for another when his last three had left him so uninspired and frustrated. His mother had even clucked and urged him to take the waters in Bath to cure his ennui.

  It was as if the world were painted in shades of gray, and he was waiting for a ray of something...anything to burst through the bleak dreariness and inspire him to simply feel. One of his closest friends, the Duke of Basil, had taken the plunge into matrimony several months past, and the man seemed at peace and happy with his new duchess. The arrow of envy that had pierced his heart whenever he spied them together had stunned Oliver. He had never begrudged a man more in his life. The duke had found love with Elizabeth Armstrong, an American heiress, and had shocked society. His Grace also seemed content and not likely to procure himself a mistress, which meant the duke’s American satisfied his darker cravings. And Oliver had some notion of what they were; after all, they had both shared Lady Wimbledon for a night or two...at the same time.

  Oliver wanted a similar happiness. In fact, he quite hungered for a wife...and eventually, children. That need was tempered by his keen desire to find a lady who would appreciate all his desires—even the ones a few of his mistresses had labeled as depraved and shocking. That had been his main reason for not rushing recklessly into matrimony.

  His father had taught him at the age of sixteen that a wife must never be subjected to his base and darker urges. Mistresses were designed for rough and carnal tupping, and it was to be expected that he should have two women to sate all his needs.

  Except...Oliver did not want that. He’d seen how it had torn up his mother and put a strain on his parents’ marriage. But this was a notion that would have sent his father to an early grave, had he not already passed a few years ago.

  Oliver stood, the book gripped lightly in his hand, and strolled down to the lakeside. The waters were blessedly empty, as most of the guests were playing croquet or already indulging in a light luncheon on the freshly mowed lawns. A few boats had been prepared for rowing, and he untied the ropes tethering one and climbed aboard. After securing the diary on the inside of his superfine jacket, he grabbed the oars and propelled himself farther out onto the lake. Once he was a safe distance from the shoreline, he stopped rowing and allowed the boat to drift at its own speed atop the placid waters.

  Though he had decided to destroy the diary, he would first consume its pages. Interest had taken hold of his mind, and he wanted to read as much as possible, perhaps everything, before he chucked it away. He opened the slim volume once more and started to read. After a few minutes, a few truths made themselves evident.

  The author was familiar with the inner workings of Belgrave Manor and its secret passages. Perhaps she had visited before and not just for this weekend’s house party. A friend of his mother?

  Oliver’s closest friend, Thomas Pennington, the Earl of Radbourne, had been in residence for a few weeks, and the little minx had sojourned in the secret passages of the east wing, which led to the guest chambers Thomas stayed in. Oliver was positive he was the Lord R referred to in her diary entry. Apparently, his friend had a mole on his left backside and a manhood that could have been more impressive. Sweet Christ.

  A rough chuckle escaped Oliver. What would Thomas say if he knew one of Oliver’s lady guests traversed the hidden

  hallways and spied on him while he had his pleasures? No doubt the earl would be amused and seek to uncover her identity so he could seduce her, too. Thomas was a notorious rake and libertine who enjoyed the challenge of a conquest far too much.

  A swift denial roared through Oliver at the very idea. If anyone were to seduce his mysterious author, it would be him.

  He paused as that awareness settled inside him. He was vaguely startled to feel the prickling of heat rushing through his veins, since there had been a distinct lack of interest on his part for any female companionship of late. Oliver delved into the pages, engrossed in her musings. He vacillated from anger to amusement.

  Her husband had slapped her because of her unladylike desires, and the shame she expressed for having them made Oliver wish the man were alive so he could call him out and put a bullet through his priggish soul. What a blathering fool, to have been blessed with a woman of unrestrained passion, only to reprimand her harshly for what appeared to be her natural sensuality. Her husband had been a man like Oliver’s father, who believed wives should display no cravings of the flesh—those were reserved for mistresses.

  As he read further, a pattern in her artful words emerged. Each time his mother had hosted an event, the mysterious
author had made use of the secret passages of his estate. The widow was, indeed, someone intimately familiar with his mother, for her to have been invited to the last two balls and the garden party last month.

  His heart slammed hard inside when his name leaped from the pages.

  Dearest Diary,

  The Marchioness of Ambrose introduced me to her son a few months past at her garden party, and I do not believe he even glanced at my face. I, however, was inexplicably aware of him, in a manner I have never felt with another man. He hardly notices me, nor do I recall the marquess ever favoring me with his charming sensuality. But I notice him—the width of his shoulders and the power in his body. I’ve found no flaw in those wide shoulders, lean waist, and long limbs. Ambrose intrigues me. There is something lonely about his eyes, and those unsmiling lips have been haunting my dreams of late. What would it be like to be held, kissed, and taken by such a man? This inappropriate need I can feel stirring inside must stop. However, I am at a loss how to do so. No doubt the marchioness would be appalled if she had an inkling of the cravings her son has been inspiring inside me.

  Oliver chuckled. Sweet Mercy. With one entry, his interest multiplied infinitely. What he would do if he discovered her—or what he would say—eluded him, but now it seemed as if his entire existence hinged on meeting her. His mouth went dry, and anticipation scythed through his heart, the eager feeling making him falter.

  He was not a reckless man, nor was he the sort to be controlled by his desires. If that had been the situation, he would have been haunting the darkest and most decadent brothels in London to purchase women to sate his rougher

  cravings. His friends had never understood the desire he had for a lover...someone with whom he had more of a connection than simply riding them to fulfillment and never seeing them again.