She was his. She wouldn’t let him go. And he’d never let her go, either. Never.
Élise moaned into his mouth, her body tightening below him. Around him. Clasping him tight, a vise of pleasure. Her body shook and then squeezed him in deep, rhythmic pulses.
“I love you,” he gasped out. Then the pleasure overtook him, a crashing tidal wave. He tumbled through it, his body, racked by spasms, releasing into hers.
It seemed to go on forever. He couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe. He was totally lost to ecstasy.
Finally, awareness edged in. He hovered over the woman he adored, his weight resting on shaking forearms, his body shuddering, his cock still pulsing. Élise’s arms and legs were wrapped around him, her body clutching him tightly everywhere. But she was looking up at him, her eyes a silvery blue in the starlight. Her expression was pure love.
He dipped his head and kissed her deeply. Seconds passed. Minutes. Hours, maybe. Finally, he pulled back. Just an inch or so, so the warmth of her exhalations still tickled his lips.
“Marry me,” he said gruffly.
“Of course.”
He laughed out loud as joy rushed through him, joining company with the love and hope that now resided within him. Falling to his side, he pulled her against him, holding her tight, pressing his lips into her silky blond hair.
“Élise,” he murmured, his voice breaking on her name.
She wrapped her arms around him and held him as tightly as he held her, her face buried in his chest.
“My Sam,” she whispered, and her voice shook with emotion.
It was true. He was irrevocably, permanently, uncompromisingly, forever … hers.
Epilogue
Ironwood Park
Eighteen months later
Gamamma!”
Élise looked up from her hundredth botched attempt at embroidery to see little towheaded Lukas Samson burst into the room on chubby, wobbling legs. The precocious almost-two-year-old’s harried nurse followed him carrying little Marie.
Sarah and Esme had been doing their best to teach Élise how to embroider, but she really was hopeless. Still, she kept trying, mainly because she liked the company. She’d grown to love her two sisters-in-law as if they were her sisters in truth.
“Is your grandmamma already here?” Sarah asked her son in surprise. She rose, wobbling a little, since she was in her sixth month carrying her second child.
“And Ganpapa!” Lukas loved to watch his “grandpapa” Steven Lowell juggle.
Sarah said that Lukas Samson had been just like his uncle Sam as a babe, serious and contemplative. But when he’d learned to walk, he’d seemed to develop a surplus of energy, and now people were more apt to compare him to his wild uncle Luke.
Élise rose, too. She took Marie from the nurse and gazed down into her perfect little face. The babe gave her a one-toothed smile, and Élise’s heart twisted. Her nine-month-old daughter was dark-eyed, dark-haired, and beautiful, just like her father.
It seemed Dunthorpe had been the one who was barren, not her.
Élise had told Sam she was with child two months after they’d found the dowager. That very day, Sam had received a letter from Adams requesting his presence in London.
At first Sam had refused, not wanting to go near Adams and not wanting to leave Élise. But Laurent was the one who’d delivered the missive, and he vowed on his life that only good would come of this meeting. So Sam had grudgingly gone.
A week later, he returned with the news that for the first time in his career, Adams had rescinded an order. Due to her service to England in saving the Duke of Trent from a traitor to the Crown, Élise was now a bona-fide heroine, and the Agency was no longer demanding her head on a platter.
While he was in London, Sam had also formally submitted his resignation to the Agency. It was accepted, though by all accounts the Agency never allowed its agents to retire. Élise wasn’t positive, but she’d wager that the Duke of Trent had a hand in that decision.
With that heavy burden removed from their shoulders, Sam and Élise began the happiest days of their lives. They’d married that November and set up a household at the lake cottage, dividing their time between the lake and Ironwood Park. Their marriage caused quite a stir in London, but word had also leaked that the Viscounts Dunthorpe had never been quite what they seemed, and the scandal died down quickly, eclipsed by other more significant scandals.
In any case, neither Élise nor Sam cared much about what went on in society, because they had made the decision to no longer be a part of it. They lived far enough away from it now to hear only fringes of it when they went into Kendal on market days.
Murmurs of scandal bothered them only when it upset the rest of their family, and not one of the Hawkins siblings had cared whether Élise had married too soon after her first husband had died. In fact, they’d all encouraged Sam and Élise to wed as soon as possible.
In January, little Marie was born. Sam had been petrified with worry, but although she’d never experienced such hellish pain in her entire life, the doctor told Élise it was one of the easiest births he’d ever attended.
Sam adored his daughter. Élise loved to watch him with her, how his face crumpled into a hundred lines of joy when he gazed at her.
Élise was so happy she’d been able to give him this gift, that she’d proved to him that looking toward the future with hope usually didn’t result in horrible things happening.
She hitched Marie on her hip and followed the others out the door. “We’re going to see your grandmamma and grandpapa,” she murmured to her daughter in French.
Marie grinned wider. She loved it when her maman spoke French to her.
Élise trailed behind, watching and smiling as embraces were exchanged between family members. The dowager and Steven Lowell both looked hearty and hale. Élise and Sam had seen the older couple a few months ago, but they hadn’t tarried at the cottage for long, leaving after a few days to return to their troupe of traveling players.
The dowager and Steven weren’t content in one place for any length of time, and although it was difficult at times for the rest of the family to accept that, it was just one of their many odd traits. Sam had told Élise he had decided just to be happy when he did see his parents, grateful that his mother was alive, that his father existed, and that they were happy together.
Though the dowager had feared that Trent would wish her dead rather than word getting out that she’d chosen to be a gypsy over a duchess, Trent had given her his blessing to visit Ironwood Park whenever she wished.
Of course, the news that the Dowager Duchess of Trent was alive had spread through England like wildfire. When it came out that she’d married a gypsy, the gossip grew shrill and harsh, but the House of Trent fortified its walls and stood tall within them. With solidarity and sheer force of will, they’d built a fortress that would not be breached.
Loving Sarah had changed the Duke of Trent more than anyone had expected, and though he’d borne the brunt of the rumors, he’d done so with good humor, saying he’d rather have his children know their grandmother than have them think her dead just to avoid scandal.
Gossip regarding the dowager and her “unacceptable” love match still rang in Sam’s and Élise’s ears, even a year and a half later, even though they tried their best to ignore it. Sam had turned his primary focus to protecting his younger siblings and ensuring their futures. Indeed, Mark, Theo, and Esme had flourished over the past year and a half.
Luke and Emma appeared, looking rather flustered, from upstairs. Wryly, Élise wondered what the two of them had been doing. Luke and Emma were like two halves of a whole. They were perfect together, and perfectly happy. Thinking about how inseparable they were, she watched them embrace Luke’s mother and Steven Lowell in turn.
“Ah, there is my little granddaughter!” the dowager cried, taking Marie from Élise’s arms.
Marie stared at her grandmère with big brown eyes that filled with tears, but t
he moment she opened her mouth to wail, Esme snatched her away.
“Oh, stop,” she chided the babe gently. “That is your grandmamma.”
“She does not know me,” the duchess murmured sadly.
“It’s the age,” Sarah said. “They all are frightened of anyone new.”
“In two days, you will adore her, I promise!” Esme told Marie, who was already giggling as her aunt peppered tickling kisses across her nose.
“I hope so,” the duchess said. And then she turned to Élise. She took both of her hands in her own. “You look lovely, my dear.”
“Thank you.”
“And darling Marie is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.”
“Her papa would agree,” Luke said with a grin.
And everyone laughed, because it was true.
* * *
After dinner that night, they all gathered in the drawing room. Just the adults, since Sarah and Élise had put the children to bed before they’d sat down to eat dinner. Marie, Élise’s oldest friend and their daughter’s godmother, had come from the village, where they’d bought her a cottage of her own. Laurent and Carter were here, too. Both of them had been reinstated into the Agency, and though they were as busy as Sam had once been, they visited Sam and Élise often between missions.
Sam gazed at his wife, contentment washing over him. He’d almost dropped dead with surprise when she’d told him she was with child. And then he’d spent the next seven months in a state of near-constant panic, knowing that by getting her with child, he might’ve made the biggest mistake of his life. Terrified that he’d lose her as he’d lost Charlotte … and that this time he wouldn’t be able to bear the pain of it.
But it hadn’t happened that way. His long history of being deprived of the things he’d thought were his seemed to have ended. Because Élise and little Marie were safe, they were happy, and they were his. His to stay. His forever.
Élise squeezed into the seat beside him—he often found himself relaxing in chairs these days rather than standing guard near windows and doors—and he huffed, lifting her and settling her squarely on his lap. She laughed, then blushed, glancing around at his family.
His mother was gazing at them, giving them a fond smile, while Steven Lowell gazed down at her with adoration in his dark eyes.
Trent ignored them and sat beside his wife like the proper gentleman he was, keeping a discreet distance between them, though clearly that was not always the case, given her expanding belly.
Luke glanced at Sam and Élise, then chuckled and swallowed a big gulp of tea—he had maintained his pledge of abstinence from spirits for more than a year and a half. Then he wrapped a firm arm around Emma and leaned down to smack a kiss to her cheek. She laughed delightedly and looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes.
Marie watched Élise with a look of motherly satisfaction on her face. Marie had always loved Élise, and she’d told Sam that nothing gave her such contentment as seeing her charge finally happy after all these years.
Laurent, Carter, Mark, Theo, and Esme were engaged in a lively discussion about Napoleon, who’d been exiled to Elba six months ago. They weren’t paying any attention at all to Sam cuddling with his wife on the chair.
Against all odds, his younger siblings were doing well. This past summer, the whole family had attended Theo’s commencement from Trinity College. Now he and Mark were pursuing the lives of gentlemen of leisure, but they were doing so in responsible ways. Mark had immersed himself in politics and was hoping to be elected to the House of Commons someday, while Theo was talking about traveling—perhaps to India, perhaps beyond.
Esme’s secret writings were still just that—a secret. Sam and Élise were the only ones who knew about her stories, and this knowledge they had about her had caused her to open up to them more than she’d ever opened up to anyone else. Élise and his sister had grown very close. For that matter, and very surprisingly to him, he and his sister had grown very close, too.
He’d trusted her enough to tell her about his position at the Agency, and Esme had told him that his life gave her about a thousand ideas for different stories. That had made him smile. Parts of him wished his life wasn’t so suitable for fictional tales. But other parts of him were content that it was. If he hadn’t lived the life he had, he’d never have met Élise. He’d never have found happiness or ecstasy in her arms.
He gripped her tight, and she slipped her slender arms around his neck, turning toward him with a soft smile on her face. “What are you thinking about?”
“About us,” he said. “All of us.”
“Ah, I have been thinking about very similar things, too. Now that your mother is back, it feels …” She trailed off.
“It feels right,” he murmured, bending forward a bit so he could nuzzle her ear with his lips.
She gave a little sound of pleasure. “It is always right with you, my Sam. Always.”
He closed his eyes, letting her words flow through him. “You have made me such a happy man.”
“Of course I have,” she said. “It is because I am very perfect for you, you know.”
He chuckled, because he couldn’t argue with that.
He leaned back into his chair, bringing her with him and fitting her against him. He thought of his sweet baby girl upstairs and his family chattering happily around him.
And everything was perfect.
See how Jennifer Haymore’s sizzling House of Trent series began!
Read on for an extract from
The Duchess Hunt.
Prologue
Sarah Osborne had only lived at Ironwood Park for a few days, but she already loved it. Birds serenaded her every morning, their trilling songs greeting her through the little window in the cottage she shared with her father. Each afternoon, the sun shone brightly over the Park, spreading gentle warmth to her shoulders through the muslin of her dress as she ran across the grounds. And in the evenings, lanterns spilled golden light over the façade of the great house, which sat on a low, gentle-sloped hill and reigned like a king over the vast lands of the Duke of Trent.
If Sarah looked out the diamond-paned window of the cottage she shared with her father, she could see the house in the distance, framed by the graceful, curving white branches of two birch trees outside the cottage. She gazed at the house often throughout the day, always giving it an extra glance at night before Papa tucked her in. It stared back at her, a somber, massive sentry, and she felt safe with it watching over her. Someday, she dreamed, she might be able to draw close to it. To weave through those tall, elegant columns that lined its front. Someday, she might even be able to go inside.
But Sarah wasn’t thinking of Ironwood Park right now—she was thinking about a butterfly. She dashed down the path in pursuit of the beautiful black-and-white speckled creature flitting from leaf to leaf of the box hedge that marked the outer boundary of the garden. She hiked up her skirt and chased it through the wrought-iron gate that divided the garden from the outer grounds.
Finally, the butterfly landed, seemingly spent, on a spindly branch. Sarah slowed and approached it cautiously, reaching her hand out. She let out a long breath as her finger brushed over one of the wings. The butterfly stared at her. So delicate and gentle. It seemed to nod at her, then in a soft flutter of wings, it flew away again, leaving Sarah gazing at the bush.
“Oooh,” she murmured in delight. It wasn’t just any bush—it was a blackberry bush. Last summer, when Mama had been so ill, Sarah had picked blackberries nearly every day. Blackberry root tea had soothed Mama’s cough-weary stomach, but Sarah loved the berries’ bumpy texture and burst of sweetness when she bit into one.
It was early in the season for blackberries, but among the ripening berries that loaded the bush, Sarah found a small handful that were ripe enough to eat. She gazed at her surroundings as she ate them one at a time, savoring the sweet taste edged with the slightest tinge of sour.
Not only one blackberry bush grew here—there w
ere many. They sprawled from the ground in no orderly fashion along the bank of a trickling stream.
Sarah turned to glance in the direction she’d come from to make sure she wasn’t lost. The domes of the roof of the great house peeked through the elms, a reassuring beacon.
Her handful finished, she went back to searching for ripe berries, picking through the thorn-covered branches. She searched and picked and ate until her belly was full, light scratches from the thorns crisscrossed her arms, and the dark juice stained her hands. Looking dolefully down at her skirt, she realized blackberry juice had stained her dress as well. Papa would be displeased if he saw, but she’d scrub out the stains before he came home.
Her braid was being unruly again—strands had fallen out of it, and her dark hair wisped across her cheeks. She blew upward, trying to get them out of the way, but that didn’t work, so she pushed them away and tucked them behind her ears with her dirty hands.
And then she saw the butterfly again.
At least, it looked like the same butterfly. Beautiful and enormous, its wings speckled like a sparrow’s egg, it had settled on a twig deep and high inside one of the blackberry bushes.
Sarah stepped onto a fallen branch. On her tiptoes, she leaned forward, peering at it. “Don’t fly away,” she murmured. “Don’t be afraid.”
She reached out—this time not to touch it, but to catch it. She wanted to hold it, feel its delicate, spindly legs on her palm.
Just a little farther … Crack! The branch snapped under her feet, and she lurched forward, her hands wheeling against the air as she tried to regain her balance. But it was no use. With a crash, she tumbled headfirst into the blackberry bush, gasping as thorns grabbed at her dress and tore at her skin.
She came to a stop on her knees inside the bush, her hands clutching the thorny undergrowth.
Panting against the smart of pain, she squeezed her eyes shut as she freed one hand and used her fingers to pick the thorns from the other. Blood welled on her arms, a hot stream of it sliding down around her forearm. Each breath she released came out in a little moan of pain. Her knees hurt horribly, but she couldn’t regain her balance without something to hold onto, and there was nothing to grab except painfully thorny branches.
The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 30
