Prince of Persuasion
Page 27
“Someone had to, my love,” she said softly, burrowing herself deeper into his arms.
He smiled into the darkness, his hands moving to the gentle swell of her belly where the new life they had created together grew. Happiness settled into the marrow of his bones, deep and contented and exquisite.
“Thank you, angel.” He kissed the top of her head. “Your novel is beautiful. I loved every moment of it. And I am heartily glad the duke loses his ability to speak.”
Though his father had attempted to establish a truce, much time and healing would be required before Duncan could ever forgive him for his ill treatment of his mother.
“It is not a fitting enough punishment.” Her hands covered his, warm and small and beloved. “But I could not have his manhood fall off, could I?”
Duncan could not contain his laughter at her question, for it was so very Frederica, the essence of the sensual, intelligent, eccentric, bold woman who owned his heart. “Have I told you I love you recently?”
“Two minutes ago or so, but you may say it again if you like.” She turned in his arms and pressed her mouth to his.
Duncan had never stood a chance against the persistence of one midnight-haired lady who had taken his world and his club by storm one day. Smiling against her lips, he kissed her back.
She was, without a doubt, the best gamble he had ever made.
“I love you,” he told her again, and then he rolled her onto her back and made love to her as the sun rose over London.
Enjoy an excerpt from Marquess of Mayhem.
Excerpt from Marquess of Mayhem, Sins and Scoundrels Book Three
From the moment Morgan, Marquess of Searle, discovered the true identity of the Spanish guerillero responsible for his capture by French troops, he had made three objectives.
Objective one: return to England before the Spaniard. Accomplished.
Objective two: ruin the bastard’s sister so she would be forced to wed him. In medias res.
Objective three: make the rest of the Spaniard’s life a living hell. A promise.
Retribution was the sole thing on his mind when Morgan first saw Lady Leonora Forsythe. She was seated on the periphery of the ballroom, attended by a turban-wearing dowd with a wan complexion. He could only assume the turban was the lady’s mother.
He had been told Lady Leonora suffered an unfortunate limp, which precluded her from dancing. He had not been told she possessed the breathtaking beauty of an angel. The former did not deter him. He could easily guide her into a darkened alcove or an empty hall. Nor did the latter. Even angels were meant to fall.
Watching her, he sipped from his glass of punch. The stuff was sickening and sweet, and its only saving grace was in the bite of the spirits lacing it. When he imbibed, he preferred unsullied spirits. The sort that made him forget, if only for an evening. Sadly, not even a drop of illicit Scottish whisky was to be had at the Kirkwood ball.
The man owned a gaming hell that served the best liquor in the land. Morgan would have expected better, but he supposed anything less than proper ballroom fare would have been frowned upon by the tittering lords and ladies who had assembled here this evening. Kirkwood’s wife was a duke’s daughter, and it would seem the festivities were his attempt to blur the boundaries between his world and the quality.
Morgan didn’t give a damn for balls. He also didn’t give a damn about the punch he was drinking or the room in which he stood or the fact that he was not imprisoned and being tortured by French soldiers who wanted answers he refused to give. His body, beneath the trappings of his evening finery, was marked with scars and burns, all testaments to his inability to ever give a damn about anything again.
Anything except making the Spaniard suffer, that was.
El Corazón Oscuro, the Dark Heart. Also known as the Earl of Rayne, half-brother to Lady Leonora. It was almost impossible to believe as he flicked his gaze over her, marveling at her white-blonde hair and skin pale enough to rival cream. But it was true. The blackest-hearted devil he had ever known and the lovely woman in the diaphanous silver gown shared blood.
And soon they would share one more connection.
Morgan’s wrath.
But first, he needed an introduction.
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About the Author
Bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency historical romances with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, their adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.
A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything but especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. When she’s not reading, writing, wrangling toddlers, or camping, you can catch up with her on her website. Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.
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