Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  “Sebastian,” she greeted him at last, standing once more.

  “Have you come for your beast, then?” His voice was guarded, quiet.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  She moved toward him, drawn by the magnetism he exuded, by the necessity of being near him once again. How had she kept her distance for so long? It seemed unfathomable to her now as she stopped before him, tilting her head back to consider his rugged beauty.

  “No,” she said again. “I’ve come to debate your theory.”

  He quirked a brow, managing to somehow look autocratic and lovable all at once. “My theory?”

  She smiled. “A one thirty-second Your Grace. I feel confident that it’s only the act of opening one’s mouth, not even the forming of a ‘y.’ One thirty-second is quite a small fraction, as you know.”

  His sensual mouth curved with an answering grin. “It’s very small indeed. You do have a valid argument.” He took her ungloved hands in his then, tangling their fingers together. “How are you and the babe, buttercup?”

  “We’re both well. Better now.” She studied his beloved face. “And you?”

  “It depends on the nature of your visit,” he said softly, squeezing her fingers.

  “You said you were leaving in the morning.”

  “I am.” He drew her closer, her skirts crushing against his trousers. “I’ve been overseeing improvements at my country seat from afar for too long. The time has come for me to devote my attention to the people and places who matter most to me.”

  “You didn’t have to give up spying for me.” She withdrew her hands from his so that she could touch him, skim her palm over the whiskers stubbling his jaw. “I understand you were doing your duty.”

  He pressed a kiss to her palm. “I gave it up for all of us.” His other hand went to her abdomen, flattening over the slight curve hidden beneath her corset. “I want to build a new life with you and the babe and at least half a dozen more if I’m lucky. I want Thornsby Hall to ring with laughter and love. Say you’ll come with me, my Daring Duchess. Tell me you want that life as much as I do.”

  “Oh, my darling,” she said tenderly. Her heart could not possibly contain any more love than it did in this moment, standing in the library he’d made hers, as he spoke of their future and looked upon her as if she were an angel come to walk among men. As if she were the most precious and beloved person to him. “Of course I will come with you. I’ll go with you to Thornsby Hall or the other side of the world if you but ask. I love you exactly as you love me. As I love the sun on my face, the breath in my lungs, the green grass of spring, a faultless summer sky. I love you so much that I ache with it.”

  She repeated his words back to him, weighty words, wonderful words. Words so powerful they made her knees weak. Her chest felt light. Her heart felt whole. This was where she belonged. He was hers, and she was his, and that mattered far more than duty or countries or distance or time.

  “Do you forgive me, my love?” His eyes searched hers. “Can you forgive me for deceiving you and for doubting you?”

  “Of course, my love. You were doing what the oath you’d sworn required you to do.” It had taken her some time and soul searching to realize that, but when she had, her decision had come easily. He had done his duty to the Crown, had been trapped by his loyalty and honor. Yet in spite of everything, he loved her, and she loved him. Love was enough to heal any wound. “No more talk of the past now. There is only the future for us, and I cannot wait to step into it with you.”

  With a growl, he pulled her into his arms, his mouth descending on hers in a fierce claiming. Her hand slid into his thick, soft hair to cup the base of his skull, and she kissed him back with all the love and need burning within her. She opened to his tongue, and he tasted of brandy and Sebastian and decadence. Nothing had ever tasted better. Nothing had ever felt more right.

  He tore his lips from hers, dragging them down her neck, nipping and kissing as he went. “I love you.” Another kiss. “I love you.” A silken glide of his tongue on her flesh. “I love you.” A nip of his teeth. “Christ, how I love you.”

  Sebastian lifted her then and carried her to the overstuffed chair before sinking into it and pulling her onto his lap. Her skirts crushed around them, but she didn’t care as her mouth found his. They kissed and kissed and kissed until Hugo attempted to leap onto the chair alongside them.

  Sebastian broke the kiss, his head falling back against the chair. “Control your beast, Duchess.”

  She traced the bow of his upper lip, her finger lingering in the perfect groove of his philtrum. “Which beast?”

  “Well-deserved,” he acknowledged, kissing her digit. “The furred one, madam.”

  She gave Hugo a gentle nudge. “Shoo, Hugo. Your papa and I need to get reacquainted, and we don’t require your assistance.”

  With a whine of protest, Hugo jumped to the Axminster.

  “I’m not that mongrel’s papa,” he grumbled.

  Daisy trailed her finger lower, over the hard line of his jaw before burying her face in the tempting expanse of his neck and kissing him there. “Is that why you were cuddling him when I first entered?”

  “I don’t cuddle.”

  His voice was a deep, delicious rumble against her lips, and he smelled so wonderful that she couldn’t resist flicking her tongue over his skin. She hummed her delight as she kissed his Adam’s apple next.

  He groaned. “Daisy, love?”

  She began working on the buttons of his shirt, removing them from their moorings as she pressed kisses down each newly revealed swath of his chest. Feeling wicked, she rocked against him, bringing his rigid length in contact with the part of her that ached the most. Ah, yes, that was heaven. She rolled her hips again, seeking more.

  “Damn it, buttercup,” he groused, “I want you so much I’m going to explode, but your infernal beast is watching.”

  She burst into laughter. “You had better take me to bed then, my love, and be quick about it. The Daring Duchess is ready to conquer her devilish duke.”

  He scooped her up in his arms and rose in one swift motion, a smoldering smile curving his beautiful mouth. His lone dimple reappeared. “She already has, buttercup.”

  She kissed him then because she couldn’t resist, her fingers continuing to work on his buttons. “Then perhaps it’s your turn to conquer her.”

  Their mouths met again, and when their lips at last parted, the Duke of Trent carried his Daring Duchess to her chamber, and he thoroughly took his turn.

  Thank you for reading Her Reformed Rake! I hope you enjoyed this third installment in the Wicked Husbands series. Sebastian and Daisy’s story was a true labor of love for me. Their happily ever after was hard fought, hard won, and well-deserved.

  I’m delighted to announce that a brand new spin-off series, featuring the League and its assorted cast of characters, will be coming soon! If you’d like to keep up to date with my latest releases and series news, sign up for my newsletter

  here. As always, please consider leaving an honest review of Her Reformed Rake. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

  If you’d like a preview of Book Four in the Wicked Husbands series featuring the eccentric Georgiana, Duchess of Leeds, and her sinfully handsome, wayward husband Kit, do read on.

  Until next time,

  Her Deceptive Duke

  Wicked Husbands Book Four

  Georgiana, Duchess of Leeds, hasn’t seen her husband since he left her on their wedding day for an extended hunting expedition and never returned. But she isn’t the sort to wait around pining for an arrogant oaf who can’t bother to recall he has a wife, no matter how sinfully handsome he may be.

  She finds all the fulfillment she requires in caring for the stray cats and dogs of London’s streets. Until, that is, the duke returns, and she uncovers the truth about where he’s been…

  Kit, Duke of Leeds never wanted to be duke. He was perfectly content with his life as one of Her Majesty’
s most dedicated spies until his brother’s unexpected demise left him forced to marry an American heiress to save the family estate from ruin. The day he married her, he left for a secret assignment in America, with no intention of returning.

  Seriously wounded and his cover ruined, Kit’s forced back to London where he finds a townhouse running amuck with creatures and a wife who can’t bear the sight of him.

  With husband and wife beneath the same roof at last, their marriage of convenience sparks into a passion that’s as undeniable as it is unexpected. But is desire enough to bring two wary hearts together? And once Kit’s wounds are healed, will Georgiana’s love be enough to make him stay?

  London, June 1881

  Six months after he’d left London, brimming with the thrill of a new mission, Kit Hargrove, the Duke of Leeds, returned in ignominy. He didn’t return to legions of admirers or effusive headlines in The Times or the gratitude of Her Majesty. He didn’t return a hero; quite the opposite, as his arrival on England’s shores had been shrouded in secrecy. And he certainly didn’t return to the loving arms of his abandoned wife, who likely never gave a damn if she ever saw him again.

  He returned alone save for the company of the servants he’d employed for the dubious task of assisting him on his journey. He returned, uncertain if he would ever be able to regain the proper use of his left leg again. Unable to walk himself to the front door of his palatial London townhome without assistance.

  He returned and knocked on the bloody door of his own home as if he were a visitor.

  And a behemoth bearing an ominous glare and an ugly scar on his cheek opened the portal. “Her Grace is not at home,” he announced grimly, and then slammed the portal closed.

  Devil take it.

  Kit gritted his teeth. He was weak, he was weary, and he was currently at the last place he wished to be, undertaking the most demeaning task his mind could fathom. He leaned on his cane, exhaling as a fresh onslaught of pain speared him. Of all days that he could be denied entry to his own home, this was not the goddamn day he would’ve chosen.

  He rapped on the door again.

  The rude, mountain of a man masquerading as a butler reappeared, scowling. “Told you. Her Grace isn’t at home. Sod off.”

  Kit was prepared this time. He caught the door’s slam with his opened palm even though it nearly cost him his balance and what remained of his pride. He steadied himself and glared at the bastard barring him entrance.

  “Do you know who I am?” he demanded.

  “Do I care?” The insolent bastard returned. “No.”

  “You’ll care when I sack you,” he growled. “I’m the Duke of Leeds. Your employer. Now grant me entrance at once.”

  The mountain’s eyes narrowed. “We aren’t expecting the duke. He’s abroad.”

  “Behold. He has returned,” Kit deadpanned.

  The blighter remained unconvinced. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “Shall I summon the bloody queen?”

  “Ludlow,” came a lilting alto voice with an accent that wasn’t quite proper. “I need your assistance with Lady Philomena Whiskers. I think she’s about to give birth to a litter of kittens.”

  Surely that sweet voice didn’t belong to her. And she was talking to the varmint who blocked the doorway to his home as if he were a lord.

  From behind the mountain, Kit caught the swirl of navy silk, a glimpse of chestnut braid, a smooth brow, one wide, green eye. Oh, bloody hell. It was her, alright. He may not recognize her voice, but he would never forget those eyes. Green and gold with flecks of cinnamon, and fringed with decadent lashes.

  “Your Grace?” came her hesitant voice.

  It would seem that she, on the other hand, didn’t quite recognize him.

  How lowering.

  “Madam,” he bit out. “I’ve traveled an ocean. I’m injured and tired and severely lacking in the sort of patience and understanding one would require in a circumstance such as this.”

  “Do step aside, Ludlow,” she ordered the mountain.

  The mountain complied with great reluctance and another scowl. And there she stood in his place. She was lovelier than he remembered. Her hair was plaited in a basket weave and worn high atop her head. Her gown was navy silk with bottle-green underskirts, lace and ribbon adorning a bodice that couldn’t help but draw attention to her narrow waist and generous bosom. Even in his weakened state, he felt an unexpected, odd flare of awareness as he took her in.

  “Your Grace,” she said at last, her too-wide pink lips pressed into a severe frown. “You look ill.”

  Well, hell. He’d been standing about, thinking how remarkably fine she looked while she’d been taking in his gaunt frame, pale skin, and cane. He was a wreck and he knew it. He leaned heavily on the cane now. “I’ve been injured. Will you grant me entrance, or am I to stand in the street like a bloody tradesman?”

  She blinked, color blooming in her cheeks. “Did you suffer a hunting injury, Your Grace?”

  Clever minx. He gave her his haughtiest stare. “Yes.”

  His wife took a step back, allowing the door to open fully. “Come in, then. I suppose I cannot deny you entrance.”

  With the aid of his servants, he stepped over the threshold. But the effort of walking to the door, combined with the length of time he’d been forced to wait at the door and the crippling pain searing him had made him even weaker. He swayed, losing his balance, humiliation stinging him simultaneously.

  How had he ended up here, in this moment, standing before the wife he’d never wanted like a bloody invalid, a strange butler presiding over his disgrace?

  Her gaze raked the length of him, going wider still. “Oh dear heavens. His Grace is bleeding. Ludlow, have my chambers prepared for him, if you please.”

  He glanced down to see that his wound had indeed begun to weep once more, soaking through his trousers. Damn it. “Prepare my chambers,” he commanded the insolent mountain, gainsaying her.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” his duchess said without a hint of remorse.

  What the bloody hell?

  “There’s no longer a bed in your chamber,” she explained. “It’s the main dog chamber now. Even if there were still a bed, I doubt you’d wish to convalesce there.”

  “The dog chamber,” he repeated, wondering if he’d lost his mind along with the blood that had seeped from his body.

  “Yes. It will have to be my chamber, I’m afraid, or nothing at all.” She turned to give the butler a look that was far too intimate for his liking. “There’s no helping it. You’ll have to move Lady Philomena Whiskers somewhere else for the birthing.”

  Dogs and cats and a mountain of a butler who was too familiar with his wife. And he no longer had a bed. Of course, this was precisely the homecoming he should have expected.

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  Before you go…

  If you enjoy steamy Regency and Victorian romance, don’t miss the Heart’s Temptation series. Read on for an excerpt of Book One, A Mad Passion.

  A lost love...

  Seven years ago, the Marquis of Thornton broke Cleo’s heart, and she hasn’t forgotten or forgiven him. But when she finds him standing before her at a country house party, as devastatingly handsome as ever, old temptations prove difficult to resist. One stolen kiss is all it takes.

  A proper gentleman...

  Thornton buried his past and his feelings for Cleo long ago. He’s worked diligently to become a respected politician with a reputation above reproach. The only trouble in his otherwise perfect life is that he can’t resist the maddening beauty he never stopped wanting, no matter how devastating the cost.

  A mad passion...

  Cleo is hopelessly trapped in a loveless marriage, and Thornton is on the cusp of making an advantageous match to further his political ambitions. The more time they spen
d in each other’s arms, the more they court scandal and ruin. Theirs is a love that was never meant to be. Or is it?

  “A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion.”– Oscar Wilde

  Wilton House, September 1880

  leo, Countess Scarbrough, decided there had never been a more ideal moment to feign illness. The very last thing she wanted to do was traipse through wet grass at a country house party while her dress improver threatened to crush her. Not to mention the disagreeable prospect of being forced to endure the man before her. What had her hostess been thinking to pair them together? Did she not know of their history? A treasure hunt indeed.

  Seven years and the Marquis of Thornton hadn’t changed a whit, damn him. Tall and commanding, he was arrogance personified standing amidst the other glittering lords and ladies. Oh, perhaps his shoulders had broadened and she noted fine lines ’round his intelligent gray eyes. But not even a kiss of silver strands earned from his demanding career in politics marred the glorious black hair. It was most disappointing. After all, there had been whispers following the Prime Minister’s successful Midlothian Campaign that a worn-out Thornton would retire from politics and his unofficial position as Gladstone’s personal aid altogether. But as far as she could discern, the man staring down upon her was the same insufferably handsome man who had betrayed her. Was it so much to ask that he’d at least become plump about the middle?

  Truly. A treasure hunt? Gads and to think this was the most anticipated house party of the year. “I’m afraid I must retire to my chamber,” she announced to him. “I have a megrim.”

  Just as she began to breathe easier, Thornton ruined her reprieve. His sullen mouth quirked into a disengaged smile. “I’ll escort you.”