The Arrangement

by Sylvia Day

  “Mmm-hmm.” He slid his hands over her ankles and calves, grunting when he encountered the soft, warm skin of her thighs.

  “Do you know what a mangel-wurzel is?” she asked, shuddering slightly as his thumbs brushed the sensitive crease that bordered her damp bush.

  “Small, furry rodent—sharp teeth?” he guessed, smiling when she laughed.

  “No, it’s some plant he asked about.”

  Beau was actually thrilled by her interest in the property as well as the castle. His Josephine would never be a grand, regal duchess like his mother, or an untouchable siren like Victoria, but she cared about the people on the estate with an interest that was personal, and they adored her for it. So did Beau.

  In the months since they’d left London—not long after Edward Loman’s funeral—they had settled into a comfortable, active existence. No moss would be allowed to grow with Josephine. Of course they bickered. Often. But he’d worked on his habit of issuing orders like a colonel and she’d learned to be far less prickly.

  “Did you read that letter I received from your mother, Beau?”

  “Yes,” he lied. It turned out that Josephine was something the Americans called a wrangler, but instead of livestock, his wife wrangled duchesses. It was one duty Beau had been eager to pass along—corresponding with his mother—and he avoided reading her bitter tirades, which were usually about Victoria, who was sharing the house in London with her.

  It all worked out rather nicely, in Beau’s opinion.

  “She wants to take Nora and Evie to Brighton,” she said. “I will miss them, of course, but it seems as if they should go, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” he said, this time in earnest. As much as he loved his little sisters, they were twin forces of nature and would have a better time in Brighton. Besides, Josephine would have entered her confinement by then and would need a little peace.

  Beau and Sarah would be plenty of company for her.

  While Victoria had stayed in the London house, Beau and Josephine had taken Sarah back with them. Victoria had been relieved to let her go, and Beau surmised neither of her parents had ever paid Sarah any mind. The little girl was starved for attention.

  Beau didn’t care whose daughter she was—he would try to ensure she didn’t grow to adulthood as he and Jason had done, in a household where the parents were more interested in hurting each other than loving their children.

  Love, Beau realized the night Edward Loman died, was as critical to life as food and water.

  Although Josephine’s father never regained consciousness, Beau would forever be grateful that he’d brought his wife to see the stubborn old man before the end. It had taught him there were, sometimes, things more important than a man’s word of honor.

  “Are you hungry, Beau?”

  He opened his eyes and stilled his erotic stroking, already guessing his cock would stay hard for a little while longer. “Not for food,” he admitted.

  “I’m starving,” his wife said, either missing or ignoring his rather blatant hint.

  “Of course you are. It’s been what? Two whole hours since luncheon?”

  She swatted his shoulder. “Don’t be beastly. I’m hungry all the time. I shall be twenty stone before this is over.”

  “A husband’s duty is never done.” Beau grunted and rolled her onto her back, giving her a kiss before getting to his feet. “Stay,” he ordered—just because he enjoyed giving her orders, not because he actually believed she had any intention of stirring from her comfortable position. “I shall fetch the basket. Try not to eat the blanket before I return.”

  “Ha!” She picked up her floppy straw hat and laid it over her face.

  Josephine was right about one thing: Beau didn’t come out here to this lovely secluded spot to fish. His real hobby was debauching his wife in broad daylight.

  But today he had something else planned in addition to making her sob his name in ecstasy.

  Beau unfastened the heavy basket and set the food out on a small blanket he spread close to where they were lying. Of course he had to pause a few times to deliver stern looks and finger snaps to the interested puppies.

  Once everything was arranged to his liking, he took the last item out of the basket—a small velvet box.

  Beau flipped open the lid and looked at the contents, even though he’d had the ring for two months now. It was a beautiful square-cut emerald that reminded him of the green lights in his lover’s eyes.

  He’d made a special trip into Leeds to purchase it the day after he’d first told Josephine that he loved her. The same day that she’d shocked him speechless with her own confession—that not only had she spied on his amorous adventures five years ago, but she’d begun developing a fancy for him back then, as well.

  “Five years?” he’d said.

  “Will you quit saying it that way?” she’d begged, her cheeks fiery. “You make me sound like some deranged person.”

  “Well, you are, darling. But still—five years?”

  Beau had teased her, but the truth was that her love for her father—so enduring—had humbled him. And he was not a humble man. It had made him delirious with joy to have earned her love.

  They’d both been wild and passionate that night, their physical pleasure heightened by their declarations. Beau wasn’t sure why he’d not given the ring to her yet, but the time hadn’t seemed right, somehow.

  But it felt right, today.

  He settled on the blanket beside her and she pushed back her hat and squinted up at him.

  “I think I fell asleep,” she mumbled.

  “Well, you weren’t eating, so you must have been sleeping—since that seems to be all you do these days.”

  Her hand slid up his buckskins and she stroked and squeezed, bringing him back to arousal with embarrassing ease.

  Beau hissed with pleasure. “All right, all right. Perhaps that is not all you like to do,” he admitted. He took her wrist and turned her hand palm up, placing the small box in the center.

  “What’s this?” she asked, and then quickly said, “If you say ‘a box,’ I’ll hit you.”

  Beau shifted his aching prick. “Go on—open it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Her gaze stayed locked with his while her hands opened the box.

  Beau rolled his eyes. “Look at it,” he commanded when she continued to stare at him.

  She smirked. “Oh, sorry, I was just waiting for your order—” Her eyes dropped to the ring and she gasped. “Beau! It’s lovely.” But then her brow furrowed and she looked up. “But why?”

  “Does a man need a reason to buy the love of his life a ring?”

  Her eyes turned liquid at his words.

  “Besides, I never gave you a wedding ring.”

  “Yes, you did.” She held up the plain gold ring he’d found in the family vault and had resized for her.

  “That was temporary, until I could find something that suited you.” He didn’t tell her the real reason he’d waited—until he’d received the money from selling out his commission and could afford to buy her something with his own money. He knew it was a ridiculous fiction, as everything belonged to him under the law, but it had seemed important to him—at least at the time—not to buy his wife a ring with her own money.

  She slipped it on and raised her glowing eyes. “It fits perfectly,” she said, her lower lip quivering.

  “If you weep I’m taking it back,” he threatened.

  A tear slid down her cheek and she flung herself into his arms and squeezed him hard enough to crack a rib.

  “I love you, Josephine,” he whispered fiercely. “I love you with all my heart.”

  “I love you, Beau. And I will treasure this ring forever.”

  Her words reminded Beau of those her father had said to him that day—the day of their wedding: I have vaults full of money and mansions stuffed with costly frippery, but my daughter is my priceless treasure, Wroxton. And now she is yours to cherish.

  How righ
t he’d been. Josephine was Beau’s treasure now, and he would cherish her forever.

  Read more Minerva Spencer in the Outcasts series, available now!

  DANGEROUS

  Booklist Top Ten Romance Debut of 2018!

  “A delight from start to finish.”

  —New York Times best-selling author Elizabeth Hoyt

  Lady Euphemia Marlington hasn’t been free in seventeen years—since she was captured by Corsairs and sold into a harem. Now the sultan is dead and Mia is back in London facing relentless newspapermen, an insatiably curious public, and her first Season. Worst of all is her ashamed father’s ultimatum: marry a man of his choosing or live out her life in seclusion. No doubt her potential groom is a demented octogenarian. Fortunately, Mia is no longer a girl, but a clever woman with a secret—and a plan of her own....

  Adam de Courtney’s first two wives died under mysterious circumstances. Now there isn’t a peer in England willing to let his daughter marry the dangerously handsome man the ton calls The Murderous Marquess. Nobody except Mia’s father, the desperate Duke of Carlisle. Clearly Mia must resemble an aging matron, or worse. However, in need of an heir, Adam will use the arrangement to his advantage....

  But when the two outcasts finally meet, assumptions will be replaced by surprises, deceit by desire, and a meeting of minds between two schemers may lead to a meeting of hearts—if the secrets of their pasts don’t tear them apart....

  Praise for the Outcasts series

  “A standout . . . Spencer’s brilliant and original tale of the high seas bursts with wonderfully real protagonists, plenty of action, and passionate romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) on Scandalous

  “Readers will love this lusty and unusual marriage of convenience story.”

  —New York Times best-selling author Madeline Hunter on Dangerous

  “Georgette Heyer, BUT WITH SEX!”

  —RITA-award-winning author Jeffe Kennedy

  CHAPTER 1

  London, 1811

  Euphemia Marlington considered poisoning the Duke of Carlisle. After all, in the harem poison was a perfectly reasonable solution to one’s problems.

  Unfortunately, poison was not the answer to this particular problem.

  First, she had no poison, or any idea how one acquired such a thing in this cold, confusing country.

  Second, and far more important, poisoning one’s father was considered bad ton.

  The Duke of Carlisle could have no idea what was going through his daughter’s mind as he paced a circuit around his massive mahogany desk, his voice droning on in a now familiar lecture. Mia ensured her father’s ignorance by keeping her expression meek and mild, a skill she had perfected during the seventeen years she’d spent in Baba Hassan’s palace. Appearing serene while entertaining murderous thoughts made up a large part of days spent among sixty or so women, at least fifty of whom would have liked to see her dead.

  Mia realized the duke’s cavernous study had gone silent. She looked up to find a pair of green eyes blazing down at her.

  “Are you listening to me, Euphemia?” His bristly auburn eyebrows arched like angry red caterpillars.

  Mia cursed her wandering attention. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but I did not fully comprehend.” It was a small lie, and one that had worked well several times in the past six weeks. While it was true she still thought in Arabic, Mia understood English perfectly well.

  Unless her attention had wandered.

  The duke’s suspicious glare told her claiming a language-related misunderstanding was no longer as compelling as it had been weeks before.

  “I said, you must take care what you disclose to people. I have gone to great lengths to conceal the more lurid details of your past. Talk of beheadings, poisonings, and, er . . . eunuchs makes my task far more difficult.” Her father’s pale skin darkened at being forced to articulate the word eunuch.

  Mia ducked her head to hide a smile.

  The duke—apparently interpreting her bowed head as a sign of contrition—resumed pacing, the thick brown and gold Aubusson carpet muffling the sounds of his booted feet. He cleared his throat several times, as if to scour his mouth of the distasteful syllables he’d just been forced to utter, and continued.

  “My efforts on your behalf have been promising, but that will change if you insist on disclosing every last sordid detail of your past.”

  Not every detail, Mia thought as she eyed her father from beneath lowered lashes. How would the duke react if she told him about the existence of her seventeen-year-old son, Jibril? Or if she described—in sordid detail—some of Sultan Hassan’s more exotic perversions? Was it better to appall him with the truth or to allow him to continue treating her as if she were a girl of fifteen, rather than a woman of almost three and thirty?

  The answer to that question was obvious: the truth would serve nobody’s interest, least of all Mia’s.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace,” she murmured.

  The duke grunted and resumed his journey around the room. “Your cousin assures me you’ve worked hard to conduct yourself in a respectable manner. However, after this latest fiasco—” He broke off and shook his head, lines creasing his otherwise smooth brow.

  Her father was referring to a dinner party at which she’d stated that beheading criminals was more humane than hanging them. How could Mia have known that such a simple statement would cause such consternation?

  The duke stopped in front of her again. “I am concerned your cousin Rebecca is not firm enough with you. Perhaps you would benefit from a stricter hand—your aunt Philippa’s, for instance?”

  Mia winced. A single week under her aunt Philippa’s gimlet eye had been more terrifying than seventeen years in a harem full of scheming women.

  The duke nodded, an unpleasant expression taking possession of his handsome features. “Yes, I can see that in spite of the language barrier you understand how your life would change were I to send you to live at Burnewood Park with my sister.”

  The horrid suggestion made Mia’s body twitch to prostrate itself—an action she’d employed with Babba Hassan whenever she’d faced his displeasure, displeasure that caused more than one woman to lose her head. Luckily, Mia restrained the impulse before she could act on it. The last time she’d employed the gesture of humble respect—the day she’d arrived in England—the duke had been mortified into speechlessness to find his daughter groveling at his well-shod feet.

  She bowed her head, instead. “I should not care to live with Aunt Philippa, Your Grace.”

  The duke’s sigh floated above her like the distant rumble of thunder. “Look at me, Euphemia.” Mia looked up. Her father’s stern features were tinged with resignation. “I would have thought you would wish to forget your wretched past and begin a new life. You are no longer young, of course, but you are still attractive and within childbearing years. Your history is something of an . . . obstacle.” He stopped, as if nonplussed by the inadequacy of the word. “But there are several respectable men who are quite willing to marry you. You must cultivate acceptance and learn to accept minor, er, shortcomings in your suitors.”

  Shortcomings. The word caused an almost hysterical bubble of mirth to rise in her throat. What the duke really meant was the only men willing to take an older woman with a dubious past were senile, hideous, brainless, diseased, or some combination thereof.

  She said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I know these are not the handsome princes of girlish fantasies, but you are no longer a girl, Euphemia.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were speaking about the state of Carlisle House’s drains, rather than his only daughter’s happiness. “If you do not mend your ways soon, even these few choices will disappear and the only course open to you will be a quiet life at Burnewood Park, and we both know you don’t wish for that.” He let those words sit for a moment before continuing. “The Season is almost over and it is time you made a decision about your future. Do you understand me?”
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  “Yes, Your Grace, I understand.” All too well. Her father wished to have Mia off his hands before she did something so scandalous she would be unmarriageable.

  “Very good, then.” The duke’s forehead reverted to its smooth, unlined state. “This ball tonight will be an excellent opportunity to further your acquaintance with several of the men who have expressed an interest in you. You need merely behave with decorum and enjoy yourself—ah, within reason, of course.”

  And don’t miss Notorious, the newest novel in the Outcasts series, coming soon!

  The cure for a willful wife . . .

  Drusilla Clare is full of opinions about why a woman shouldn’t marry. But that doesn’t stop the rush of desire she feels each time her best friend’s stepbrother, notorious rake Gabriel Marlington, crosses her path. So imagine her dismay when she finds herself at the hands of a scoundrel, only to be rescued by Gabriel himself. And when Gabriel’s heartless—and heart-pounding—proposal comes, it’s enough to make Dru’s formidable resolve crumble....

  . . . is a smitten husband.

  She’s sharp-tongued, exasperating, and—due to one careless moment—about to become his wife. Still, something about Drusilla has Gabriel intrigued. First there’s the delicious flush of her skin every time she delivers a barb—and then the surprisingly sensual feel of her in his arms. Gabriel even finds himself challenged by her unusual philosophies. And when he discovers a clandestine rival for Dru’s affection, his temperature flares even hotter. But Gabriel has an even deeper secret of his own, and once all is disclosed between the newlyweds, they will either grow closer, be thrown into danger—or both....

  Praise for the Outcasts series