She drew a deep breath, her chest rising, brushing against his. “If you are about to tell me I was an idiot for how I acted, I do not think I will remain soothed, Toren.”
“I wanted to tell you what I saw two nights ago, Adalia.”
Her brow creased. “At the Revelry’s Tempest?”
“Yes. I did not comprehend it at first—it had to sit in my mind for a while.” Searching her face, he found and concentrated on the darkest shards of emerald green in her eyes, letting them bolster him. “Something I never understood until now. Something that made more sense to me than anything else ever has.”
Curiosity sparked into her eyes. “What?”
“Lady Whilynn and Captain Trebont. I want them.”
“What?” She chuckled. “You want the captain and Lady Whilynn? I do not think they are available to keep as pets, if that is what you are dreaming.”
Her hand started to drop from his face, and he caught the back of it, holding it in place along his cheek, refusing to give up the one part of her that was touching him.
“No. I want what I saw. I want—no, I need—to be the man who will unfailingly fight for your honor, Adalia. I need to be that man no matter what life brings us—when we are old and you are deep into madness and I am still mad beyond measure for you.”
Her jaw dropped, her intake of breath shaking her entire body. “Toren, you . . . you love me.”
His fingers on the back of her hand tightened until they were nearly crushing. “If this is it, that I need to be your champion. That I need you by my side. That I need you in my bed. That I need you to be happy, because without your happiness, I cannot recognize my own. That I stand taller when you are near me. That I want you to be the first thing I see when I awake. That I want my face buried in your hair, the last scent I smell before sleep. That this last month without you left me with a gaping hole in my chest, a torture that would not yield, every breath a struggle. That I suffered unimaginable pain when you were stolen from me—that I did not know how I would move onward if I could not find you.” He stopped, a last breath fortifying his lungs. “Then yes, if all of that is love, then I do, Adalia. I not only need you, I love you.”
Her green eyes glistening, she smiled so wide, so heartfelt, it split his chest in two. Her bandaged hand came up, and she clasped his face. “I thought so.”
He laughed. “And just like the captain and Lady Whilynn, I need this love to last forever, for I cannot imagine my life without it. Those two love each other. No matter what has happened to them. They love each other above everything else. As ugly as life can become, as much as reality has slipped for them, they still love each other—through anything. Seeing that . . .” His head shook. “Love like that makes unequivocal sense to me, Adalia. We make sense.”
She jumped to her toes, and her lips met his, hard, with passion—love—that had been bridled for far too long.
He broke then.
His arms wrapped around her, and he dragged her body into his. He had said what he needed to. What he should have told her weeks ago if he hadn’t been too stubborn to stay away.
And his glorious, smart, beautiful, kind, forgiving wife had accepted him as she had left him. With love in her eyes.
Only this time her love had a place. A home in him. Treasured beyond compare.
Her lips moved against his, her smile stealing her from the kiss. “Give me a few years and I do believe I can go mad for you, Toren.”
“And I do believe I will always defend your honor, Adalia.” He drew his head back slightly, searching for her eyes. “It took me a lifetime to understand this thing—love, Adalia. Do not think I have come upon this lightly. Do not dare to think it will ever leave my heart. Ever leave my soul.”
“You come upon nothing in life lightly, my love.” Her right hand ran up along his face and moved back through his hair until she had him captured by the neck. “So do not dare to think I would ever doubt you.”
He buried himself into her.
Heaven. Love.
This was it.
Who knew they were the same thing?
{ Epilogue }
June 1814
Adalia stared at the gnarled tree. The willow along the border of the pond to the east of the castle had grown multiple thick limbs—each thinking it was the main trunk. One of the fat limbs had long since broken off from the center, creating the perfect spot to sit and hide, completely still, in a game of hide and seek.
The willow branches shuffled in the breeze, giving her a view of the trunk. Flat, curled into a ball, still as a rock, sat Josalyn. Adalia smiled. Despite how much her niece liked to talk, no one was better than Josalyn at silently hiding. And she could do so for an inordinate amount of time.
Hazard’s nose lifted into the air, his head cocking about as he whimpered. Adalia set her hand on the nape of his neck, trying to calm him—or at least keep him in place. Hide and seek meant hiding without a nervous wolfhound divulging all the best hiding spots. A fact Hazard had a very hard time respecting.
Adalia wouldn’t have allowed this nine months ago. Never. The twins could not be out of her sight—out of anyone’s sight—but this, this she could now give them. Their childhood while they were still children. They were safe, and she knew that fact in her heart.
The war had settled. Napoleon banished to a far-off island. She had underestimated how free she would feel with that fact. For as much as she had always felt safe at Dellon Castle, now the world was open to her again. Open to the twins.
The heavy scent of roses wafted to her, and Adalia twisted in the chair she had set under the shade of an ancient oak to look over her shoulder. Toren walked down the sloping hillside toward her, bringing the smell of the flowers with him.
“You have been in the roses?”
“I have.” He smiled. “However did you know that?”
“I could smell it. It is all over you. My nose has been oddly strong as of late.”
He stopped behind her and leaned down to kiss her neck as his hand slid downward to flatten atop the rounded mound of her belly. “The first blooms of your hybrid with the pink tips have opened.”
“I did not know you were observing them so closely.”
“I like to watch your experiments.” He nipped at the tip of her ear and then moved to stand next to her, his look taking in the pond and trees as his fingers settled along the back of her neck and traced circles down the line of her spine.
“Speaking of experiments, Violet wrote to report your idea of turning several of the upstairs withdrawing rooms above the ballroom into private card rooms at the Revelry’s Tempest has been quite the success.”
“Good. Yet she still does not care for me, does she?”
“The credit did come grudgingly.” Adalia’s head tilted to the side, her hand reaching out to rub the back of his leg. “She will, eventually. I am sure of it. If it is any consolation, of all the men in the world, you are by far, the one she trusts the most.”
“I do not know if that is good for the men of the world or not.”
Adalia pinched the back of his leg, and he chuckled.
“Look.” His head gave a slight shake, a wry smile lining his lips as his gaze landed by the pond’s edge. “Mary is really bad at hiding.”
Adalia laughed, her look swinging to where Mary sat bunched behind a fat rock by the water. Her blue skirts ruffled out in all directions. “Yes. But so bad at it, I suspect she just likes to get found first.”
“Does she realize your brother is sneaking up on her from behind?”
“I doubt it.” Adalia clasped her hands, resting them on the top of her swollen belly as she watched Theo limp his way toward Mary. A sudden squeal, and Mary jumped up, starting to run just as Theo caught her around the waist, tickling.
Instant strain on Theo’s face, his eyes wincing as he lifted Mary, pretending to throw her into the water. It pained him. Greatly. But Theo kept the smile wide on his face, laughing for the sake of his niece.
What Theo had suffered—the ravages from those days. His limp. His jaw that was still slightly askew. Scars that had healed to rough white threads along his skin. The war was over, but this—the wounds of empire against empire—had lost its nobility. No man should have to suffer as her brother had.
Toren’s look grew serious, and he nodded toward Theodore. “How did you manage to get him out here?”
She looked up at her husband, a mischievous glimmer in her eye. “I told him I would make you delay his move back to Glenhaven if he didn’t come out into the sun and play with the girls.”
He shook his head. “Remind me never to bet against you.”
She laughed. A laugh that was reflected fully in Toren’s brown eyes. Brown eyes that had once been so distant from her were now her every breath.
It swirled around, settling upon her in that moment—a sudden happiness so thick it almost suffocated, stealing her breath away.
All of it, all the pain, the heartache, the worry of the past years—worth it.
Worth it for this one moment, when uncompromised happiness was truly hers again.
Full, all-encompassing happiness.
Happiness born of love.
~ Author’s Note ~
Thank you so much for taking this latest trip back in time with me!
Word of mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you liked reading Of Valor & Vice, A Revelry’s Tempest Novel, please consider leaving a brief review—even if it is only a line or two, it is an enormous help. I truly appreciate the readers’ words and thank you so much!
What’s next? I’m sure somewhere in mid-America I’m typing away at this very moment on the second Revelry’s Tempest novel—I have high hopes for Violet and Theodore making a match of it! Look for Of Sin & Sanctuary, A Revelry’s Tempest Novel in Fall 2017.
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More of My Books
Historical Romance
If you haven’t already, be sure to check out my other historical romances—each is a stand-alone story and they can be read in any order (here they are in order of publication):
Stone Devil Duke: A Hold Your Breath Novel, currently free!
Unmasking the Marquess: A Hold Your Breath Novel
My Captain, My Earl: A Hold Your Breath Novel
Worth of a Duke: A Lords of Fate Novel
Earl of Destiny: A Lords of Fate Novel
Marquess of Fortune: A Lords of Fate Novel
Vow: A Lords of Action Novel
Promise: A Lords of Action Novel
Oath: A Lords of Action Novel
Of Valor & Vice: A Revelry’s Tempest Novel
Of Sin & Sanctuary: A Revelry’s Tempest Novel (Fall 2017)
Paranormal Romance
Flame Moon #1, currently free!
Triple Infinity, Flame Moon #2
Flux Flame, Flame Moon #3
The sneak peek of the second Revelry’s Tempest novel, Of Sin & Sanctuary, is currently in progress, so instead, I offer a sneak peek of the first in my last complete series, Vow, A Lords of Action Novel, if you have not read it. . .
{ Chapter 1 }
London, England
May 1816
Putrescence infested his nostrils, invading upward, dulling his wits.
Unable to hold back any longer, Caine Farlington, younger brother to the fifth Earl of Newdale, pulled free from his pocket a small, round silver vinaigrette, flicking it open under his nose and leaning back. The half-rounded rungs of the rickety chair creaked, threatening to snap under his frame.
Casual. He had to portray casual even if he couldn’t breathe. It was crucial.
A long whiff of the spice and vinegar, and Caine dropped the vinaigrette from his nose, slipping it back into his jacket.
The sharp stench of sewer and rot instantly flooded his nose again. No reprieve.
He had been in a sufficient number of brothels in the East End in his day. But this. Nothing like this. Filth. Decay. Timbers half rotted above him, threatening to collapse at any moment. Liquid dripping down along the wall next to his head, even though it wasn’t raining. Half of the floor wooden planks, half of it indiscernible muck.
Squalor. A word that did not come close to doing justice to this devil’s den.
Caine let his elbow slip off the arm of the chair in slobbery drunk fashion as a barmaid clad only in an apron and thick skirts clattered two mugs onto the askew table. He made sure to move his hand slowly, missing the handle of the mug three times before making contact and lifting the tankard to his lips.
He swallowed a gag. Even the blasted ale was rancid in this place.
Fletch’s grey eyes shifted to Caine from across the table, the other tankard hiding his friend’s cringe as he swallowed. Good man. Caine hadn’t been able to let the vile liquid breach his lips. But Fletch did.
If anyone could play the role of gutter-drunk rakehell, it was Fletcher Williams, Marquess of Lockston.
Fletch’s left eyebrow cocked ever so slightly at Caine.
Caine knew his friend would be laughing at him if the business in this whorehouse weren’t so gravely serious.
That they had even gotten past the burly guards had been a feat. Drunk, a fool, he would have played any part to gain entrance to the auction. Caine had been terrified he’d missed it until they made entrance and found an open table in a dark corner, and he had recognized the place still buzzed in anticipation of the upcoming sale.
Caine’s eyes haphazardly swept the room. Bustling crowd—surely more crowded than this place saw nightly. Half-dressed women draped over disheveled drunks, a few of the girls slipping sticky fingers under jacket lapels to snatch coins.
But there were a handful of patrons sitting serious, sober, and impervious to the debauchery around them.
Those were the men Caine knew he needed to worry about. The sober ones. Here for a purpose—not just for the entertainment, the sport of it.
A ruckus started at the far end of the room by the bar that stretched almost across the depth of the building.
The bar ended just to the left of a door that flipped open. Caine could see it was an interior door leading to stairs. A tall man dressed in shiny peacock colors emerged, raising a silver-encased cane high in his hand. He tapped the cane on the top seam of his ridiculously tall, purple satin hat as he walked along the edge of the room, jumping onto the stage that centered the room.
“Gentlemen, and to the rest of you scrubs, welcome. You have waited long enough. It is time we offer this night’s entertainment.” His arms swinging wide in flamboyance, the barker’s voice boomed over the laughter of the women and the grunts of the men in the room. His face cracked into a wide sneer—almost vicious—emphasizing the wide gap from four missing front teeth.
The man waited several beats for the crowd to quiet, then spewed with enthusiastic aplomb, “Virgins, virgins, virgins. I know you’ve been waiting. And let me assure you, these were worth the wait. Integrity, gentlemen. All verified to be clean and unspoiled by our own Ma Betty. Highest price, gentleman. You know the rules.” He paused, bowing slightly for effect before splaying his arms wide, his cane flourishing out to the side. “Welcome to the Jolly Vassal, lads—it be virgin time.”
The point of his cane landed to the right of the bar, and the door he had come through swung open again.
Caine’s breath stopped.
A hulking thug stepped through the doorway, pulling a rope with him. The room e
rupted, and a splattering of men in front of Caine stood, vying for a glimpse of what was attached to the rope.
Long seconds passed before the thug stepped up onto the stage, truly just a wobbly platform along the edge of the room. He tugged the rope as he stepped behind the barker.
Caine leaned far to the side, his breath still frozen. At least from this angle he could see most of the stage.
The rope snapped, dragging three girls single file up onto the stage. All three girls had the long rope tied about their waists, each of them clad only in a sheer, threadbare chemise that hid no skin from the eyes of the crowd. Heavy veils—almost hoods—covered the girls’ heads, hiding their faces from the room.
“Shit.” Caine hissed out his held breath. He had known the veils were a possibility—the mystery of the faces spurred higher bids, while hiding the tears and terror—but Caine hadn’t wanted to take the slightest chance. He couldn’t afford to. Not tonight.
The first girl stepped farther onto the stage where Caine could see her clearly. Too short. Too rotund.
The second girl. Tall. Very tall, gangly. Elbows like razors popping from her skinny arms as she tried to cover her body. Not her.
The thug behind the barker moved to the rope slacking between the second and the last girl and jerked it, yanking the third girl fully onto the platform. She stumbled over the lip of the stage and fell with the force, her long blond hair tumbling out from under the veil to curl around her body.
“To yer feet, wench.” The thug snapped the rope.
Half on her knees, the blond girl staggered across the stage away from the man, her bare feet gaining traction. But before she could reach the far end, the thug pulled the rope, jerking her to a stop. He strode across the stage and grabbed a fistful of her hair, shoving her against the wall next to the tall girl.
His stomach churning, Caine’s eyes ran over the last girl’s body.
The hair. The hair was the right color, had the right waves to it. Right height. She wasn’t scrawny, nor did her frame carry any extra weight. She stood proudly. Not trying to cover herself with nervous palms stretched wide like the other two.
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