by Sylvia Day
“Hell’s teeth.” Compared to the angelic Haversham, he was Mephistopheles.
“But in the end, Viscount Haversham did not pay his addresses. He cast her off quite unexpectedly in favor of Lady Chelsea Markham, the Earl of Radcliff’s youngest daughter. She, in turn, cast him off in favor of Lord St. Martin.” Wilson shook his head sadly. “The scandal that accompanied the very public jilting ruined Lady Merrick. She left London soon after and did not return until she came home as your bride.”
He understood now why she had been hiding out in the West Indies and why her father had married her by proxy. Olivia had been running, too.
Sebastian was slightly put out to think that perhaps he hadn’t been her first choice in husbands, but he quickly passed over the disgruntlement. She was his now; her past meant nothing.
Rising, he headed toward the front door.
“My lord! The clippings!”
“Burn them. I have what I need. Good work, Wilson. I’ll be in touch. Make appointments to meet with the family stewards over the next few weeks.”
Sebastian leapt into his waiting carriage and headed for home.
Olivia held a hand to her side and released a deep breath. The baby was beginning to move, tiny flutters of life that awed and amazed her.
“Ready, love?” Sebastian asked from the doorway.
She dropped her hand quickly. “Is it time already?” She swept past him, collecting her hat and gloves from the butler.
“Yes.” Clutching her elbow, he studied her with a frown. “Are you unwell? You looked peaked.”
“I’m fine. A bit tired is all.”
He flushed, and she hid a smile. It wasn’t fair he looked so rested when she was exhausted.
His touch was gentle and solicitous as he assisted her into the waiting carriage. Tucked against his side, Olivia wished the ride to Pall Mall were longer. If only she could convince him to stay with her forever. Against better reason, she hoped that he would.
As if he read her thoughts, Sebastian hugged her close and said, “I won’t leave you again. I’ll tell you that every minute of every day until you believe me.”
“You may have to do that very thing,” she replied, snuggling closer.
“Then I shall, my love. I shall.”
And with Sebastian’s heartfelt promise, she felt renewed hope. She rested her head against his chest and smiled. “I’m horribly smitten with you.”
“Smitten.” He grunted. “You’re mad for me.” He squeezed her and lowered his voice. “As I am for you.”
Once they reached the busy thoroughfare, they left the carriage and began to stroll, stopping to window-shop as they made their way to the modiste.
“Lord and Lady Merrick.”
They both turned. Olivia smiled at the approaching couple. The man, tall and superbly fit, boasted eyes of the most startling color. Somewhere between purple and deep blue, they were devastating. The woman on his arm, slender and graceful, offered a luminous smile.
“Remington,” Sebastian greeted, offering his hand. “How are you, old chap?
Remington shook it heartily and grinned. “I thought that was you, Merrick, although without the presence of Lady Merrick to confirm it, I would not have said anything. You look positively piratical. You need only an earring to complete the picture.” He brought his companion forward. “Julienne, this is the prodigal Lord Merrick. Merrick, allow me to present my wife, Lady Julienne.”
Lady Julienne smiled and offered her hand, shooting an amused glance at Olivia. “So there is indeed a Lord Merrick.”
Olivia choked back a laugh.
Sebastian didn’t bother—he laughed outright. “Olivia, love. Have you made the acquaintance of Lucien Remington and his lovely wife?”
She nodded. “I have.”
“I’ve a favor to ask, my lord,” Remington said. “I need some new horseflesh and was hoping I could convince you to join me at Tattersall’s tomorrow.”
“Certainly. Is there something in particular you are hoping to find?”
With a quick tilt of her head, Lady Julienne motioned her over. Olivia went gladly, leaving the men to their discussion. Julienne Remington was one of the rare, truly genuine people she’d met since returning to London. They shared a small affinity, both having once been ostracized by Society. Julienne, an earl’s daughter, had married the notorious Lucien Remington, the bastard son of a duke. It had caused a scandal of drastic proportions, or so Olivia had been told. But from the looks of it, Julienne had made a wise decision. Remington was obviously completely besotted with his beautiful wife.
“I can see why you’ve kept him hidden,” Julienne said with a mischievous smile as they strolled away. “Merrick quite overwhelms a girl, doesn’t he?”
Olivia laughed. “Yes, he certainly does.”
Julienne stopped before a milliner’s and peered inside. “Look at that! Isn’t it lovely?”
Looking at the feathered hat, Olivia nodded. “It is quite fetching.”
“I must have it.” Julienne moved toward the entrance of the shop just as a pastry cart passed. Enticed by the delectable scent of peach tarts, Olivia was suddenly starving. Her stomach growled. Loudly.
Julienne laughed. “Poor dear. Pregnancy will do that to you.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“I’ve birthed two sons, Lady Merrick. I recognize the signs.” She waved her hand toward the vendor. “Go fetch your pastry, and I’ll purchase my hat. We’ll meet here when we’re done.”
“A wonderful idea,” Olivia said with a grin. She went to the pastry cart and paid for her tart, her mouth watering in anticipation.
“Lovely day, isn’t it, Lady Merrick?”
Recognizing the voice, she sighed inwardly before turning. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Robidoux.”
As the vendor moved away, the Frenchman bowed to her and gestured toward a nearby bench. She looked past him to find Sebastian still deep in conversation with Lucien Remington. Reluctantly, she moved toward the seat.
And then she felt the barrel of a pistol pressed to her spine. She stilled, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What in blazes are you doing?”
“Go quietly, petite, and you will not be harmed. Scream, and I will shoot you down.” The tone of his voice drove the point home. He was serious.
What was happening? She’d done nothing to rile this man, had in fact gone out of her way to be polite. No cause was given for him to accost her, and certainly not with a weapon. She looked wild-eyed toward Sebastian, but he’d altered direction and now faced away.
Her gloves grew damp with the sweat of her palms. The baby fluttered, frightening her further. In any other circumstance, she would scream and fight for her life. But she had her child to consider now, and she would do nothing to endanger the precious life.
“Go!” he ordered, bruising her back with a sharp shove of the gun.
She stumbled forward. “There are many people around, monsieur. Someone will see.”
“I care not. After today I can leave this dreary country and never return.”
“If something happens to me,” she warned, “Lord Merrick will hunt you down.”
He snorted dismissively. “Phoenix will be dead.”
“Lord Merrick!”
Sebastian turned toward the panicked voice, startled to see Lady Julienne running toward him, skirts held in one hand and a hatbox in the other.
“Yes? What is it?” He looked past her. “Where is Lady Merrick?”
“I saw her walking away with that odd Frenchman.” She turned to her husband, snapping her gloved fingers. “Oh, what is that man’s name? The blond Frenchie with the greasy voice?”
Sebastian tensed, his chest tightening. “Robidoux?”
“Yes, that’s it!” she cried. “Dominique Robidoux.”
He stilled. “You mean Pierre. Pierre Robidoux.”
“No, my lord,” Remington corrected with a frown. “Julienne is correct. The man’s name is Do
minique.”
Sebastian’s gaze swept across the crowded thoroughfare. If what the Remingtons said was true, he’d eliminated the lesser threat and allowed the greater one to get close to his heart. “Which way did they go?”
Julienne pointed down the street. “That way, and just a moment ago.”
Sebastian ran, heedless of the gawking pedestrians and the sight he made. He cared nothing for anyone. He never had. The only person who mattered was Olivia.
Blood roaring in his ears, he almost missed her cry. He stopped abruptly and veered down an alley, melting with relief to find Olivia and Robidoux waiting at the end. The minute he saw the Frenchman’s face, he knew he’d made a fatal mistake. He’d killed Pierre, not Dominique. His hand lowered to his thigh, vainly reaching for the blade that wasn’t there.
“Release her,” he ordered, stepping closer. “I’m the one you want.”
Robidoux laughed mirthlessly. “Imagine my surprise to discover the lady Pierre wanted was your wife.”
Sebastian’s hands clenched into fists, his heart racing in near-mindless panic. Olivia stood stoically, but her dark eyes betrayed her fear. “I’ll pay whatever you desire if you allow her to go unharmed.”
“I want my brother back. Can you give me that?”
Sebastian gritted his teeth and took another step closer. “You know I cannot.”
“Very well then.” Robidoux shoved Olivia toward him and raised the gun. “Your wife will die in your arms, as Pierre died in mine.”
“No!”
Sebastian’s agonized cry echoed through the narrow space as he reached for Olivia’s stumbling form. He caught her close, spinning desperately to shield her with his back. The report of the shot was deafening, and he jerked as searing pain tore into his shoulder, barely missing his wife.
Suddenly Remington was there with pistol in hand, thrusting them out of the way. The second shot left a horrendous buzzing in Sebastian’s ears, drowning out Olivia’s sobbing. A quick glance backward assured him Robidoux was dead. Dropping his gaze to the rapidly spreading bloodstain on his coat, he prodded the wound with his working hand.
“It’s nothing,” he assured her.
She grabbed his lapels and attempted to shake him, her mouth forming words he couldn’t hear but understood nevertheless. “Are you bloody mad?”
“Don’t swear,” he admonished with a roll of his eyes. Then he kissed her senseless.
Epilogue
Olivia rose from the chair next to the bed and felt momentarily dizzy, something that happened often as her pregnancy progressed. Sebastian was at her side instantly.
“What is it? You look pale.” He pressed her back into the seat with his free hand.
“You’re supposed to be in bed resting,” she scolded.
“It’s a blasted nuisance to be in bed all day. I’m wearing a sling, for Christ’s sake. I’m not dying. You, on the other hand, look positively ill.”
“It’s nothing, darling. Truly.” She’d been attempting to find the right time to tell him about the baby, but in the three days since he’d come home, so much had occurred that she could barely catch her breath.
His gaze narrowed. “I’ll believe you when a doctor tells me the same.”
“A doctor isn’t necessary.”
“You’re not well,” he insisted. “I’ve never seen you look less than the picture of health.”
“I am completely healthy, Sebastian. If you settle a moment—”
“Like hell you are!” His wicked mouth tightened obstinately.
“I’m with child,” she confessed with a sigh.
“What? Oh, God!” He dropped to his knees before her, his mouth pressing reverently to her forehead. “Bloody hell, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I never had the time. What with your persistent ravishment and the events of yesterday, when did I have the opportunity?” She leaned forward, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin.
“Olivia. Sweetheart.” Sebastian pressed his mouth to her throat. “I love you. Please. You have to believe that.”
“I do.”
“I won’t ever leave you again. If I have to journey anywhere, you’ll travel with me.”
She nodded. “I’m starting to believe you, my love.”
“Yes. Believe me.” He pulled back to look at her, his intense blue eyes filled with heartrending tenderness. “I’m no longer the man I was when I met you. You’ve given me reason to change, to hope. Reason to love.”
Her small hands stroked his back. “Hush, darling,” she soothed, trying to stem the flow of fervent words. “You’re overwrought.”
“Overwrought? Men do not become overwrought. I do not become overwrought.”
Olivia cupped his face in her hands, smothering a smile. “Beautiful, sweet Sebastian. I’ve upset your delicate sensibilities.”
He scowled. “Delicate sensibilities?”
“Yes, dear. I apologize. I’ll have to be more careful the next time I tell you such news. You’re high-strung.”
“High-strung?” He released a frustrated breath. “Bloody everlasting hell, you’ve gone mad.”
She pressed her smiling lips to his. “Don’t swear,” she admonished.
And then she kissed him breathless.
Lucien’s Gamble
Chapter One
London, 1810
“What the devil are you doing in my club?”
Julienne looked across the massive mahogany desk into blue eyes the color of which she’d never seen before. Somewhere between deep blue and purple, they were fringed with thick black lashes that were shamefully wasted on a man. “I need to find my brother,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance.
One black brow arched. “A message left with the doorman would have been simpler, Miss . . .”
“Lady. Julienne. And I attempted to leave messages. I have yet to receive a response.” She shifted in her chair as the broadcloth trousers chafed the delicate skin of her derriere. The wig itched, too, but she refused to embarrass herself further by scratching.
“Dressing as a man was an original touch.”
She heard the laughter in the velvety voice and scowled. “How else was I to gain admission to a gentleman’s club?”
Julienne resisted the urge to flee as Lucien Remington rose from behind the desk and rounded it. She licked suddenly dry lips as she took in his height and the breadth of his shoulders. He was even more devastating up close than he had been across crowded ballrooms. Black hair and tanned skin displayed his extraordinary eyes to perfection. A strong jaw and generous mouth bespoke of his sensual nature, which was lauded far and wide by well-pleasured ladies of his acquaintance.
“Exactly, Lady Julienne. A gentleman’s club. Those garments do not disguise the fact that you are all woman. Ridgely’s foxed, or insane, not to have noticed.” His perusal paused briefly on her breasts before rising to meet her gaze.
“No one noticed,” she muttered.
“I noticed.”
And so he had. Almost immediately. She’d been in the club only five minutes at most before he’d grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her into his office. But then, it had taken her only five minutes to make a mess of the whole affair.
His voice softened. “What is so urgent that you would take such drastic measures to speak with your brother?”
As he leaned against his desk directly in front of her, the material of his trousers stretched over firmly muscled thighs. He was so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body. She smelled a hint of tobacco and starched linen, and another delicious scent that could only be the man himself.
Remington cleared his throat, drawing her attention. Julienne flushed at the knowing smile that curved his lips.
She straightened her spine, refusing to be cowed despite how beautiful he was or how flustered he made her. “My reasons are my own.”
Remington bent, bringing his mouth inches away from hers. “When your reasons include my cl
ub, I reserve the right to know what they are.”
Julienne’s gaze was riveted to his lips. If she leaned forward just a tiny bit, she could touch them with her own.
Would they feel as soft as they looked?
He pulled away, then lowered to his haunches and placed his large hands on her knees. She jumped at the heat that burned through the broadcloth. “Who is your brother?” he asked.
Julienne’s mouth parched the instant he touched her, making speech difficult. Lucien Remington was simply gorgeous. She’d always thought so, always compared her suitors to him and found them lacking in all respects. No one was as handsome, or as interesting, or as . . . wicked.
Her tongue flicked out to wet her bottom lip, and his eyes followed the movement. An ache came to the place between her legs. Julienne attempted to push his hands away, but when she touched his skin, her palms burned. She pulled away quickly. “A gentleman does not put his hands on a lady,” she scolded.
His hands slid higher, squeezing gently, his mouth gifting her with a roguish smile. “I never claimed to be a gentleman.”
And he wasn’t, she knew. His determination and ruthless business acumen were the stuff of legend. If it wasn’t precisely prohibited in writing, Lucien Remington would do it. He showed no leniency when it came to expanding his empire. He was widely disparaged for his “vulgar pursuit of money,” but Julienne found it rather thrilling. He cared nothing for the regard of others, a nonchalance she wished she could affect herself.
“Now, about your brother . . . ?”
“Lord Montrose,” she blurted.
A devilish smile teased the corners of Remington’s mouth. “That explains why he hasn’t answered your messages, sweetheart. The earl owes me a great deal of money. I suspect he’s avoiding me.”
She said nothing, but she clenched her fists. Their situation must be worse than she’d thought. It was common for Hugh to carouse and spend days on end with his scapegrace associates. From experience she knew he most likely wasn’t in danger. But that didn’t ease her worry. Or their predicament.
