It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  What did she think? She shivered as she surveyed the bedchamber that Philip had insisted he prepare himself for their wedding night. Dozens of flickering candles blazed around the bed, and white flower petals scattered the coverlet and the floor. A path of white flowers led to a copper tub with steam rising out of it. What did she think?

  Her husband was the most romantic gentleman she had ever known. Her heart thundered in her chest as she turned toward him, dressed so handsomely in the formal attire he’d worn for their wedding. She slid her hands up his chest and tugged at his cravat until it hung loose around his neck.

  He cupped her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. “You’re mine,” he whispered fiercely and took her mouth with his. The kiss started slow and sensual, and built to a frenzied one infused with need. Her own desire increased with the touch of his tongue to hers. His hands skimmed down either side of her body along her waist and over her hips. Gently, she felt her gown being undone. Layer after layer of clothing dropped away, until Philip’s warm hands caressed her bare skin where her stockings stopped.

  White-hot yearning shot to her core, and she reveled in the fact that her body and heart would be more than safe in Philip’s hands. Peace flowed through her like warm honey. The anticipation of what was to come made her head swirl.

  A breath later, she stood naked before him. He smiled and crooked a finger at her. “Come… Undress your poet.”

  She skimmed her hands up his broad chest, the muscles of his abdomen rippling under her fingertips as she did. She grasped the material of his shirt and pulled it out of his breeches as her eyes held his. “You are a wicked poet,” she whispered.

  “Indeed,” he answered on a growl. “Even as we stand here my mind is composing an ode to the feast of flesh before me.” As if the words broke the last vestige of his control, he yanked his shirt over his head as she tugged his breeches down, and seconds later, he was naked and scooping her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and laid her gently upon it before straightening to his full height.

  She licked her lips as she studied his body. “I do not think most poets are made as you are.” Her voice was a whisper full of awe. She’d considered what he might look like under his clothes, suspected he was fit by the hard touch of him, but Philip could have been sculpted from stone the way every inch seemed as though it’d been perfectly carved by a mason. His skin pulled taut over the ridges of muscle beneath. His wide shoulders and toned arms flexed as he grasped her thighs and gently spread them to kneel between her legs.

  She crooked her finger, and he leaned down, brushing his mouth over her right nipple and then her left. Passion rushed through her veins as he took her nipple into his mouth and suckled her. When he released her and moved to the other, she gripped his arms, consumed by fiery desperation.

  She ran her hands over his arms and through the curls of his hair that she gripped to bring him up to her. He slid along her body until his face was inches from hers. She could see nothing but bright love and need shining in his eyes.

  “Make me yours, Philip,” she pleaded.

  “You were mine the moment I met you,” he answered.

  He swooped his hands under her buttocks and grasped her flesh to lift her as he entered her with care. It took her but a moment to acclimate to the shock of his hardness filling her, the hotness of his flesh. Each brush of his chest against hers intoxicated her as he found his rhythm, and she met him stroke for stroke until she felt as if she had drank more of the Attack Punch from Vauxhall Gardens.

  Her world was spinning—she was spinning—and then his thrusts became faster, more demanding, and her world shrunk to nothing more than the man within her. Her skin prickled with the heat of his, her nostrils flared to consume his manly smell, her mouth parted in an effort to fill her lungs with the breath he exhaled. Thought fled as, deep within her, everything coiled and hummed in a burning ache. Blood pounded in her brain, leaped from her heart, and surged through her veins to shatter the coil. A scream of ecstasy tore from her as a guttural moan of release ripped from Philip. Together they reached a place she had never been and had no idea existed.

  They collapsed back onto the bed as one, a tangle of arms and legs, slick flesh against slick flesh. She laid her head on his chest and listened to the pounding of his heart. His fingers traced over her back, down her buttocks, and back up, making her arch into him. After a while, their breathing grew steady and he tugged her up to him, encircling her safely in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder as she studied him.

  He turned his head to meet her gaze, kissed her on the forehead, and smiled. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She propped herself up and grinned. “I’m composing my first poem, and it’s about you.”

  He chuckled. “And what, pray tell, will this poem be called?”

  “My Gentleman Rake,” she replied, then shrieked with delight as her muse captured her mouth with his to inspire her next line.

  Epilogue

  Christmas 1821

  Clutching the package in his hand, Philip followed the sound of the pianoforte to the parlor, expecting to find Jemma and her grandfather there. Rowan had gifted Jemma and Philip with a beautiful pianoforte for their wedding after Jemma had confessed that she’d always wanted to learn to play but they had never had the money for lessons, let alone the instrument itself. The duke came to visit twice a week, and he would sit and listen to Jemma practice for several hours. He even played sometimes himself.

  As Philip entered the parlor, Rowan paused his playing and Philip nodded to him, then waved at Anne, who was sitting on the settee beside Amelia. Both ladies lowered their books at once and gazed expectantly at him.

  “Is it done?” Amelia asked.

  “Give him a moment to warm up,” Aversley said from where he stood in front of the fire.

  Amelia frowned at her husband as she stood. “Do hush, darling. Philip’s walk from the main hall to the parlor gave him that opportunity. I’m positively bursting to see Jemma’s reaction when you show her your book.”

  Philip grinned as he tapped a finger against his first published work. “Mr. Radbury says it will be available for sale next week.” Philip held up the book of love poems he’d written. Each one had been inspired by his wife. “This is an advanced copy for Jemma. Where is she?”

  Anne blew a stray hair out of her eyes before motioning toward the door. “In the kitchen baking gingerbread for the Christmas feast.”

  Philip frowned, and his gut tightened. One of the many things he’d learned in the six months he had been married to Jemma was that she usually only baked when she was upset, worried, or trying to forget something. He didn’t have any notion what could be amiss, but if Jemma was baking, it was serious. The last time she’d baked was two months ago when she’d thought she might be with child but had been disappointed when it turned out she hadn’t been.

  Christ. Philip clutched the book, an ache gripping his chest. “I’ll just go give her the gift, and then we’ll be right in.”

  They all nodded, and Philip rushed to the kitchen. He paused outside the door, the smell of gingerbread swirling around him where he stood. He wanted to have a child as much as Jemma did, but each month she wasn’t pregnant seemed to affect her more. He looked down at the package that contained the love poems he’d dedicated to her.

  Hell and damnation. It might not be the time to give her this book.

  He glanced around, but with nowhere to put it, he simply lowered it to his side and entered the kitchen.

  Gingerbread covered every spot of counter space available. Philip clenched his jaw against his own disappointment that she may not have conceived yet. He didn’t need anything more in his life but Jemma, but it would be nice to have a daughter that looked like her or a son with her fiery-red hair. He didn’t want Jemma to see any regret from him. She would need his strength, and that’s what he intended to give her.

  He located her—or rather her bottom—stuck up in the air as sh
e put another tray of gingerbread in the stove. When she came up, she turned to him and blinked in surprise. The smile she offered him was tremulous at best. Philip swallowed past the lump in his throat as he gazed at his beautiful wife. She had flour on her nose, and her red hair was up in a haphazard bun with strands dangling around her chin.

  “When did you get home?” she asked, coming toward him.

  He set the book on the only available counter space he saw and took Jemma in his arms in a tight embrace. She smelled strongly of ginger, but underneath the spices, he detected her unique scent of lavender and lilacs. He inhaled deeply as he fit her head under his chin. She curled her fingers into his hair and gazed up at him.

  “You’re baking,” Philip said simply.

  She nodded. “Yes. I was upset.”

  He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Tell me, my love,” he said, tensing for the news.

  Her eyes held his for a long moment. “You’re going to be a father,” she whispered.

  “But you’re baking,” Philip murmured. He stilled as what she’d said sank in. “I’m going to be a father!”

  She smiled up at him. “Yes.”

  He claimed her mouth for a gentle kiss, and when they parted, she said, “What if we have a daughter and she turns out like me?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Philip asked, struggling to hold in his laugher since Jemma had such a worried, serious look on her face.

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a bit of a hoyden.”

  “I noticed,” he replied and cupped her face. “It was the main reason I fell in love with you.”

  Her eyebrows arched high to show her surprise. “Really?”

  “Truly.” Philip turned, grasped the package off the counter, and handed it to her. “A Christmas present for you.”

  “You shouldn’t have!” she exclaimed, even as she tore into the wrapping. He watched her as she opened the book and read the dedication. A smile spread across her face.

  “Read the first poem,” he insisted.

  She nodded and flipped the page without looking up. He heard her gasp, and then she glanced up and grinned at him. “My Enchanting Hoyden, hmm?”

  He drew his wife near once again and nuzzled her neck. “You are that, for certain, my love. And our daughter would be lucky to be like you.”

  “What would make a daughter of ours lucky, darling, is to find a true gentleman like you.” She stood on her tiptoes, pressed her lips to his ear, and whispered ever so softly, “Poet of mine.”

  A Once Upon A Rogue Series

  My Fair Duchess, Book 1

  My Seductive Innocent, Book 2

  My Enchanting Hoyden, Book 3

  My Daring Duchess – Coming Soon!

  About Julie

  Julie Johnstone is a USA TODAY best-selling author of Regency Romance, Victorian Romance and Scottish Medieval Romance. She also has written a new urban fantasy/paranormal romance book. She’s been a voracious reader of books since she was a young girl. Her mother would tell you that as a child Julie had a rich fantasy life made up of many different make believe friends. As an adult, Julie is one of the lucky few who can say she is living the dream by working with her passion of creating worlds from her imagination. When Julie is not writing she is chasing her two precocious children around, cooking, reading or exercising. Julie loves to hear from her readers. Join Julie’s newsletter here.

  Keep up with Julie:

  www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com

  juliejohnstoneauthor@gmail.com

  Lord of Pleasure

  By Erica Ridley

  Chapter One

  London, 1817

  The comically sketched visage of Michael Rutland, Earl of Wainwright, littered the public-facing windows along the Strand… as well as graced the tea tables and smoking rooms of every fashionable Londoner eager to part with a shilling in exchange for the latest bawdy comic.

  Which apparently also included Lord Wainwright’s best friends.

  So as to ensure the fame of his nocturnal proclivities did not escape the earl’s notice, the wretched scoundrels had helpfully strung up a copy of each of his recent caricatures around the salon of his favorite gaming hell.

  The Cloven Hoof used to be Michael’s favorite, anyway.

  “Is it true then?” Lord Hawkridge grinned from behind his glass of port. “With naught but a word, the most stalwart of maidens can be smitten by an earl’s charms?”

  “What words?” Gideon, the owner of the Cloven Hoof, put in before Michael could defend himself. If there was a defense to be had. Gideon held the latest caricature aloft. “No woman alive cares what Wainwright has to say. One glimpse of his golden locks and puppy-brown eyes causes them to tumble directly into his arms. Or the closest prone surface.”

  “I do not have puppy eyes.” Michael snatched the print from Gideon’s hands.

  “Note that he does not deny the other accusations,” Hawkridge stage-whispered. “I imagine the caricatures are quite helpful. A rake like Wainwright would likely be unable to recall the names or faces of his many conquests, were they not immortalized for him in the daily comic prints.”

  Michael ignored both of his friends. All he could see was the dratted sketch. He fought the urge to crumple it in his fist. What would be the point? By now, thousands of copies would be circulating London. He tried to be objective.

  Today’s drawing was both better and worse than the others. When he’d attended the previous night’s soirées, he had purposefully abstained from his habitual flirtatiousness, with the intent of proving his name need not be synonymous with “debauched rake.”

  After all, Michael’s only lovers were women who were no strangers to the art of seduction. He had no interest in despoiling virgins. He attended society events because he liked good company, great food, and fine entertainment.

  There was no need for messy entanglements. Michael enjoyed dancing whether it led to a secluded balcony or whether it was simply a waltz with a pretty stranger he’d never see again in his life. He simply enjoyed women’s company. He’d hoped last night’s careful, above reproach comportment would prove once and for all that he wasn’t on the prowl, for God’s sake.

  Well… it had worked, and hadn’t.

  The italicized title below the caricature read “Lord of Pleasure.” An eminently recognizable sketch of himself at the previous day’s biggest crush took center stage, surrounded by dozens of overcome damsels dropping into a swoon, when all his overly gallant form had managed to say was, “Good aftern—”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Michael said sourly as he flung the drawing back to Gideon.

  No wonder the gaming hell owner had said no one was interested in anything Michael had to say. Based on that evidence, the marriage-minded debutantes were eager to become his countess, and the pleasure-minded widows and courtesans merely wished to experience for themselves the rumors of his sensual prowess.

  Not that there was anything wrong with pleasure! That was why it was called “pleasure.” Because it was pleasurable to all parties involved. Who cared how two consenting adults spent an evening in each other’s company? Half of London had mistresses. All the other affairs in caricaturists’ drawings were scandalous because they were famous cuckolds. He was the only hapless gentleman to stay in the scandal columns based on reputation alone.

  “It’s rubbish,” he said as he took a seat at the bar. “Do the caricaturists have no real scandals to draw?”

  Gideon uncorked a fresh bottle of wine. “That is the humor. Others have to perform foolish or wicked acts to get half the attention that you attract just by walking into a room.”

  “When an unwed earl with a sizable purse walks into a room,” corrected a barmaid as she poured the wine.

  Another barmaid let her gaze travel Michael’s form with a suggestive grin. “I don’t think it’s just the size of his earldom that attracts the ladies.”

  He clenched his jaw in frustration. Even the serving wenches were too blinded by the Lord
of Pleasure image to see beyond it. Then again, title-hunters were even worse.

  “I have no interest in a woman who cares more about becoming a countess than she does about the man she’d wed to do so. Those women would marry a toad if it meant gaining a title.”

  “We should all be so fortunate,” Hawkridge muttered.

  Michael winced. The penniless marquess was now on the hunt for an heiress with enough blunt to save the marquessate, but thus far had found no luck. “Your case is different,” he said quickly. “I hope you find an heiress with a heart as big as her pocketbook. You deserve a happy marriage.”

  “Now you’re giving relationship advice?” Gideon didn’t bother to hide his burst of laughter. “Have you ever had the same mistress for more than a week before you tired of her?”

  “Intercourse is not a relationship,” Michael corrected haughtily. He glanced away before Gideon realized he was more right than he knew.

  In the nine-and-twenty years of his life, Michael had spent the latter half of it in pursuit of pleasure… and had particularly enjoyed this past decade. The one thing he had not yet experienced was an actual relationship. He’d been too focused on flirtation to ever come close to falling in love. If the sketches lining the Cloven Hoof were any indication, he had become too good at his task. Ladies couldn’t see past his Lord of Pleasure reputation. And to the men, Michael was simply… a caricature.

  “I’ll change my image,” he said suddenly.

  Hawkridge choked on his wine. “You’ll what?”

  “Reshape my image,” Michael repeated. After all, he had countless other interests. Nature, music, astronomy. The caricaturists didn’t know about those pastimes because they were solitary endeavors. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to prove he was more than a pretty face. “I very much hope my future wife finds endless pleasure in our marriage bed, but that is not the only thing I have to offer.”