His fingers stroked and praised her naked body. Her waist was slender, but her breasts and buttocks were wonderfully full and rounded. Her legs were long and lovely, her ankles sculpted, her shapely feet a pearly pink.
He laid her down among the leaves. Again, he examined her from head to toe. He teased her responsive nipples. He petted the mound of raven hair between her legs.
He pleasured her first with his fingers and his mouth, taking his time, seeming to think nothing of his own pleasure. Again and again, he brought her to a screaming climax.
“No, Christy, no more, I cannot stand it,” she panted.
“You can, and you will,” he said firmly, but with a sweet smile. Again he claimed her with his mouth, licking and sucking her till her back arched and she shuddered uncontrollably with pleasure. Again he thrust his fingers in and out of her, pleasuring every opening of her body.
And when she finally lay quivering like jelly, unable to move or to speak, he climbed above her and spread her legs. “Now, my love, I will make your body mine. In every way, in every position I’ve imagined for nine long years.”
* * *
The Christian wedding of the Duke of Gresham to Miss Joanna Bagley took place in the early autumn at Our Saviour’s Church. The church, located on the grounds of Gresham Manor, had served ten generations of Dukes since before Tudor times.
Scandal and tragedy had preceded the wedding. On the eve of her own divorce, it was said the former Duchess had taken a fatal overdose of the very poison her father had tried to kill the Duke with.
And now the Duke was marrying a penniless gypsy, who had borne him a child out of wedlock nine years before. It was a romantic story, but still! Even a Duke should not consider himself so far above the rules of society!
Of course, the combined whiff of scandal and scent of romance guaranteed standing room only at the church.
It had been expected that the celebrant, if not the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, would at least be the Bishop of Cornwall, husband to the bridegroom’s sister, Lady Daphne. But no bishop’s mitre could be seen among the churchmen. The marriage was to be conducted by the Vicar of the humble London parish of Clerkenwell—an odd choice, indeed.
As sacred music reverberated from the venerable old organ, the Duke himself entered the church from the sacristy. The young ladies of the parish swooned at his handsomeness.
The Duke looked resplendent in a morning coat and tails, with pearly white waistcoat and a white silk cravat. He had chosen not to wear a wig, as many fashionable men would have done. Instead, his gleaming mahogany hair was braided back with a white silk ribbon.
By his side was his best man. Some had expected the Prince Regent to play this important role, or another Duke or Earl, at the very least. But no—it was just Sir Reginald Smyth, K.C., of Gresham Town, the Duke’s own attorney.
Next to walk down the aisle were the ring bearer and flower girl. Beautiful children, both of them. The boy caused much comment—six years old and flaxen haired, he was said to be the Grand Duke Pavl, son of the bridegroom’s sister, the Prussian Princess.
The child, as well as his father the Prince, were rumored to be very closely related to the Tsar of All the Russias. Little Grand Duke Pavl’s mother was seated in the front pew of the church, making an obvious effort not to distract attention from the bride by her own extraordinary beauty.
The flower girl—now, she really was a beauty. Slender and willowy, she had very dark auburn hair, and she shone in a gown of pale pink satin. It was said that this was the Duke and the bride’s own natural child. But one must remember she had been legitimized, and must now be properly called, Lady Hannah.
The matron of honor came next. Lady Rosamund—Rosie to her friends—was herself newly married to an elderly baronet, her companion of several years. Lady Rosamund glowed with joy as she followed little Lady Hannah down the aisle. Surely, the plump, blonde beauty could not have radiated as much joy on her own wedding day.
Then the organ music changed to a stately tempo, and all rose and turned to see the entry of the bride.
She was stunningly lovely. Her raven hair fell in waves beneath an antique lace veil. Her gleaming white gown was that of a queen.
The bride’s gown and veil, as well as the pretty dress of her flower girl, were known to be gifts from Lady Rosamund. It was far less widely known that the garments had been collectively purchased not just by Rosie, but by all the women Rosie had formerly worked with at the Empire—a tribute to Joanna, who in their eyes was “one of their own.”
Joanna’s neck and arms were adorned in pearls and diamonds, love gifts from her bridegroom. And on her head was the spectacular diamond-and-ruby tiara worn by eight generations of the Duchesses of Gresham.
It was not immediately clear who was giving the bride away. The man was well-featured, and he wore a well-tailored morning coat—although he moved with some stiffness in a garment he was so obviously unused to. There was a rustle of whispers as the congregation recognized Cormac, the gypsy fiddler from The Shield and Crown.
The bride reached the altar and joined hands with the Duke in front of the Vicar. The matron of honor, taking the bride’s bouquet of autumn flowers from her, took the flower girl by the other hand and led her to the side of the altar.
“Come along, Lady Hannah,” said Lady Rosamund, with great satisfaction. It was as if she had brought this entire day about by her own efforts. And indeed, one could argue that she had.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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Rescued by a Wicked Baron
About the Book
She is his dawn of bliss. He is her dusk of wounds...
Closed within her shell and withdrawn from society, Catherine Barnet suffers both from shame over her brother’s actions and the scars his abusive behavior left on her.
Patrick Conolly, Baron of Ramshay, has been loving Catherine from afar all of his life...until the day she finally notices him.
But they are unaware of something crucial: someone is watching them and, enraged by their sudden closeness, things are about to change for both of them...
When Catherine finds out that Patrick, just like her brother, is involved with notorious criminals, she loses her trust in him.
Desperate to win her back and clear his name, Patrick visits Catherine’s brother in prison. But he is not prepared for what he is about to hear...
Prologue
The man they called Τhe Ghost peered down into the lightless passage.
He squinted. “What is this place?”
The man beside him shifted edgily beneath Τhe Ghost’s cold stare. “They say it was a wine cellar, sir. But there are rumors of it being used for other purposes.” His voice was thin, nervous. “Holding the dead and the like.”
“I see.” The Ghost climbed down the narrow staircase into the dank corridor. He pushed against one of the doors that had been crookedly hammered into the shoring timbers. It creaked open to reveal the small, empty room. “Yes,” he said finally. “This place will do.” He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand.
The door thudded closed. The Ghost ran a hand over the cold earthen wall as he walked the length of the underground passage.
This place will serve me well as I see the greatest of my plans become reality.
A smile curled the edge of his lips.
This place will serve me well as I see her finally become mine.
Chapter 1
Three Months Earlier
A loud thud yanked Catherine Barnet from her dreams. She sat up in bed, disoriented.
> Another thud, then footsteps came from her brother Robert’s room beside her own. A thin line of lamplight pushed beneath his bedroom door.
Catherine climbed out of bed, fumbling for her robe, and made her way out into the hallway.
The door to Robert’s bedroom was ajar. She pushed on it gently and caught sight of her brother frantically stuffing clothes into a bag. His dark hair was disheveled and dirty, his shirt half untucked. The sight of him made the muscles in her shoulders tense.
When did I become so afraid of my own brother?
Steeling herself, Catherine sucked in her breath and stepped into Robert’s bedroom. The floorboards creaked noisily beneath her. Her brother turned to glare at her, his eyes wild and flashing.
“What are you doing?” Catherine asked. “What’s happening?” It felt like her voice was trapped in her throat.
Robert sat on the bed to yank on his boots. “Go back to bed.” He didn’t look at her. Instead, he marched to the window and peeked through the curtains. He cursed under his breath. Then he snatched the duffel bag from the bed and raced past Catherine. His footsteps thundered down the staircase.
Catherine hurried to the window and pushed aside the curtain. In the pale glow of the street lamps, she could just make out the shape of a carriage standing outside the gates of their manor. Beside it stood three saddled horses. And there, marching down the path toward the front door were men dressed in smart crimson coats and long black riding boots. Rifles were strapped to their backs.
Soldiers.
Her stomach knotted. She felt suddenly hot, then cold. Robert had certainly seen the soldiers. And now he was trying to escape.
Catherine raced down the staircase, calling his name. She caught up to him just before he reached the door to the servants’ quarters. She snatched his arm.
“They’re here for you, aren’t they?” She tried to force steadiness into her voice. “The soldiers?”
Robert shoved her away, sending her stumbling backwards. Pain shot down her back as she landed hard against the wall.
A loud knock at the door echoed through the house. Catherine felt sickness rise in her throat. “Robert,” she coughed, “you can’t run. You can’t.”
“I must,” he hissed, fixing her with wild, flashing eyes. Without speaking, he charged toward the door to the servants’ quarters. He yanked on the handle. Cursed again.
“Locked,” he hissed. “Fetch the key.”
Catherine hesitated. Whatever her brother was running from, whatever he had done, surely running from the authorities was not going to help his cause.
She never asked questions. In the two years since their father’s death, she had watched her older brother change from a loving young man into this fierce, wild-eyed creature. Often, he would stumble home late at night, waking her as he clattered drunkenly into his bedroom. He’d not appear until noon the next day, his eyes dull and his face dark with shadow.
Once, she and Robert had been close. They’d spent their childhood by each other’s sides, exploring the manor grounds, rolling hoops, and reading stories by the fire. They had held each other tightly as they’d mourned their mother, then, three years later, their father. But as the pressure of running the household had begun to weigh heavily on him, Robert had found solace in the bottle. Slowly, surely, the kind brother Catherine had known had begun to slip away.
These days, he rarely spoke to her, unless it was to demand she fetch something for him or chastise her for her ineffectiveness. Catherine did not know who her brother was any more. She knew nothing of his life. But she had had her suspicions.
In the past several months, Robert had seemed more secretive than usual. Angrier and even more withdrawn. Catherine had begun to suspect there was more to his late-night ventures than lengthy visits to the alehouses. She suspected he was spending his time among men other than the fellow nobles he had met at university.
She had said not a word to him. Robert Barnet was the Viscount of Bolmont, the master of the house. It was not his younger sister’s place to question him.
But now there were soldiers at the door and panic in her brother’s eyes. Panic, Catherine was sure, that was splashed across her own face as well.
Perhaps she ought not to have held her silence.
“Catherine!” Robert bellowed. “Are you deaf? I said fetch the damn key!”
There was such fire in her brother’s eyes that she didn’t stop to think. She raced into the parlor and snatched the spare keys from the drawer of a side table.
Another knock at the door, louder this time. Catherine could hear the footsteps of their aging butler shuffling down the staircase.
She hurried back to the door of the servant’s quarters. “Robert,” she said, “please, you can’t. How will it look if you run? Whatever you have done, it—”
Robert yanked the key from her hand and shoved it into the lock. He threw the door open and disappeared down the dark wooden staircase.
“Robert!” she called, tears threatening in her throat. “Where will you go? What will you do?”
He didn’t look back.
Catherine watched him disappear, her heart thumping. Ought she go after him? Beg him to return?
What point is there? He will never listen. I’ve become nothing to him.
She could hear distant voices at the front door.
“We need to speak with Lord Bolmont regarding an extremely important matter.”
“Yes sir,” said the butler. “Of course. One moment, please.”
And then came a distant shout from somewhere on the manor grounds. Fast, heavy footsteps.
Catherine raced to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass.
She could see the inky figure of her brother tearing across the garden, two soldiers charging at him from the opposite direction.
Catherine clamped a hand over her mouth. Held her breath. And she watched as the soldiers dived upon her brother, before yanking him to his feet and throwing him into the back of their waiting wagon.
Chapter 2
The carriage was outside. Catherine knew she ought to hurry. She couldn’t keep Aunt Cornelia waiting. And yet she stood planted in the middle of her bedroom, unable to move.
The room, like the rest of the house, had been emptied. The bed she had spent every night of her life in was gone, as was her writing desk, her wash stand, the velvet chaise beneath the window. The contents of her wardrobe and dressing table had been packed into trunks and carted off to Aunt Cornelia’s.
Soon, this house—the only home Catherine had ever known—would be sold. Bolmont Manor had been in her family for generations. And now it would become someone else’s. Someone else would look out her bedroom window and see the gardens blooming in the spring time. There would be new voices around the hearth in the parlor. The graves of strangers would begin to appear in her family’s burial plot.
What would her father think, Catherine wondered, if he knew his precious manor was about to fall into someone else’s hands?
At Robert’s trial, the truth of his crimes had come spilling out. It had been far worse than Catherine had dared imagine.
Allegations of theft and assault had been bad enough, but she had learned her brother had not been acting alone. Instead, he had become embroiled in a north London crime syndicate, had had his hands in everything from burglary to the distribution of smuggled liquor.
Robert had looked pale and uncertain as he’d taken the stand. His head was bowed and his shoulders hunched. He looked nothing like the strong, self-confident young man he had once been.
He had found himself deep in gambling debt, Robert had claimed. Out of desperation, he had stolen a gold pocket watch from a fellow nobleman at one of the gentlemen’s clubs. His light fingers had been noticed by the syndicate’s boss, who had threatened to turn him over to the authorities if he did not lend his light fingers to their cause.
Robert seemed to shrink further into himself as a barrage of questions were flung at hi
m.
Who were these men? What were their names? Where can we find them?
Nameless men, of course. Men who disappeared back into the fabric of the city when the morning came. Impossible to find.
As she’d sat in the courtroom listening to her brother’s miserable testimony, Catherine had felt a great swell of shame. Shame at her brother, shame at herself.
Her brother had been caught in the net of a crime syndicate and she hadn’t known of any of his activities. Had she not been paying enough attention to him? Had there been signs, clues she might have missed? Perhaps if she had given him more support in those dreadful months after their father’s death, he might never have felt the need to lose himself in the gambling halls so regularly.
But she had not been attentive, had not seen the clues. And now her family’s fine name was irreparably tarnished.
Though she had told no one of Robert’s arrest, the news had spread anyway. When she had tried to attend her friend Elizabeth’s piano soiree as though nothing had happened, she had been inundated with a flood of whispers and pitying eyes. She’d spent five badly-played minuets blinking back tears of shame.
Catherine knew she would forever be known as the sister of a criminal. How could she ever show her face in society again? The ton would tear her apart. She knew all chances of her finding a husband had been destroyed the moment those soldiers had marched up to her front door.
But she had pushed those thoughts away and sat in the courtroom with her head up and her shoulders back, despite the color that was rising in her cheeks. She wanted Robert to see that whatever he had done, he would have her support. Criminal or no, he was still her brother.
Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 27
