by Mia Marlowe
The bottom of the stairs disappeared into brown water. “Rhys, I’m here,” she yelped, sounding more human now.
He plunged into the murk calling her name. It was so dim Rhys couldn’t see her at first, but there she was, chained to the wall with water swirling over her breasts.
“Quick! The sluice gate,” she said. “It’s just in that corner.”
Rhys found the lever and heaved against it. “I can’t budge it. The pressure of the water’s too great.”
“Try the other gate.” She flailed her free hand at the submerged portal on the other side of the room. “It’ll drain out.”
The second lever broke off when he tried to force it to move. Panic gripped his heart in an icy hand and squeezed.
He slogged through the water to her, catching her in his arms. Her skin was pebbled with cold, and her teeth chattered near his ear.
“I can’t get free,” she stammered.
He grabbed up a length of the chain and pulled with every ounce of strength in him. He’d hoped the metal had lost its grip on the stone over the years, but it held fast.
“Olivia—” He couldn’t go on. He couldn’t lose her like this.
Calm seemed to descend on her like a shroud and she stopped trembling. “Go, Rhys; there’s nothing you can do. You can’t stop the water.”
“I won’t leave you.”
A tear slid down her cheek. “Only the key will free me and Dr. Pinkerton took it.”
Rhys wanted to tear Pinkerton apart with his bare hands. Every moment, the water inched higher up her body. If he left her, she might be gone by the time he returned. If he didn’t leave, she’d drown before his eyes.
He hugged her fiercely.
“I’ll come back for you. I promise,” he said. “Hold on.”
He knifed his way through the water to the staircase, then ran up it without looking back. If he allowed himself even one more glimpse of her, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave.
Rhys bolted up the stairs and back to the parlor. Babette had Dr. Pinkerton trussed up like pork loin, and Amanda was sniveling in the corner.
“The key,” he panted. “We need the key now and Pinkerton has it.”
The doctor was still insensible, and a sizeable lump bulged on the back of his skull. Rhys knelt and rifled through the man’s pockets, praying that he still had the key on him. If he’d squirreled it away somewhere, Rhys would never find it in time.
***
The sound of stone grating on stone made Olivia stop tugging at her wrist. On the wall above the gate, tiny fissures appeared, more water spurting through them.
A hard knot at the back of her throat threatened to choke her. Olivia forced herself to breath slowly. Water lapped at her chin.
She grasped the chain with her free hand and pulled herself up it. Panic clawed her insides.
“Don’t fight, Olivia…drowning is quite painless if one doesn’t resist.” Dr. Pinkerton’s words swirled seductively in her brain.
Eventually the water would meet the mold-darkened ceiling. When the time came, would she stop struggling and let the water take her? The doorway to eternity was a dark portal. Though she trusted her soul to God in the next world, her body wanted to go on living in this one. Rhys promised to come back. She’d do everything she could to still be here when he did. She hitched herself up the chain another half a foot.
Odd sounds, a popping and creaking noise, pricked her ears. Hundreds of tiny pieces of stone spewed out of cracks where more water rushed in. The heavy timber that ran the length of the ceiling bowed and slipped out of its iron casing on one end. It fell drunkenly into the water with a monumental splash.
Olivia’s grip on the wet chain failed, and she slipped beneath the surface. The old tower groaned like a wounded boar, the sound amplified and distorted by the rising flood.
The ancient keep had been designed to allow water to pass in and out, but after standing for centuries, it was not built to withstand being filled with water. Olivia realized with a start that she might not have time to drown. The keep threatened to tumble down on top of her. She clawed her way up the chain again but couldn’t get a firm enough grip to reach the surface.
She thrashed about, fighting against the urge to inhale, tugging frantically at her heavy iron tether. Her chest screamed for air. Just as she was ready to give up, she felt a pair of arms around her.
Rhys! His lips covered her mouth, forcing a blast of air into her. Then he disappeared, kicking to the surface to catch another breath for both of them.
He was back again in a blink with another gulp of air. Then he went to work on the manacle. She felt a pinch and then the iron fell from her wrist. She flailed upward.
When she broke the surface, she gasped for air. Then she felt herself being borne along by Rhys’s strong arms. The ceiling was so close she could reach up and run her fingertips over the blackened wood. Had other tortured souls died gazing at that soot-covered sky?
Rhys carried her dripping up to the top few stairs that weren’t covered by water. She let her head loll onto his chest, comforted by the hammering of his heart.
“We’ve got to get out of here now,” he shouted as they sped through the ancient keep back to the parlor. As they neared the front door, Babette and Amanda were dragging Dr. Pinkerton through the exit.
“I can walk,” Olivia said, realizing they’d go quicker if Rhys wasn’t forced to carry her. He merely gripped her tighter and began to run. Behind them, she heard the growl of grating stone as water pummeled the keep’s foundation.
They shot into the late afternoon sunshine, putting as much distance between them and the Pinkertons’ home as they could.
Rhys stopped when they reached the edge of the docks, and turned back. He lowered Olivia to stand on her own feet but kept his arms circled round her. As they watched, the tower canted forward. Then with a roar of tumbling stones, the keep crumpled slowly, like an old man falling first to his knees then forward on his face.
“I hope to God no one was in there,” she whispered.
“There wasn’t,” Rhys said. “Thanks to a quick-thinking lady’s maid who definitely needs an elevation of station.”
Babette had already commandeered the man responsible for Wapping security and was ordering him to summon the magistrate for Dr. Pinkerton’s arrest.
Rhys hugged Olivia tighter. “It’s over, love,” he whispered in her ear. “I won’t let anyone harm you ever again.”
“Even you? Mr. Alcock told me you intended to be my ruin.”
“Even me.” He brought her hands to his lips. “My motives were execrable, but instead of me ruining you, you were the making of me. The rake is dead. Only the man is left, if you’ll still have him.”
She joined her hands behind his neck and smiled up at him. “I wouldn’t know how to say no to you.”
“And I don’t intend to give you a chance to start.”
The dock was an upset beehive of men running and shouting and clamoring over the rubble of the tower. But everything around them faded when Rhys bent to claim her mouth with a kiss.
“But I don’t want you to change completely, Rhys. I fell in love with the rake, you know,” she said, hugging him tightly. “And I want to wake up with him every day for the rest of my life.”
“You may live to regret that.”
She grinned up at him. “Want to bet?”
Epilogue
Six months later
Rhys wanted Olivia to think he was reading, but actually, he was merely turning pages from time to time. She was so lovely by firelight and the soft glow of his reading lamp, how could he not ignore Ivanhoe so he could ogle his very pregnant wife?
When they set up their own household on a quiet but respectable street, Rhys knew they weren’t destined to become the most fashionable couple in London. They only attended parties thrown by people whose good opinion they truly admired. They refused to restrict their guest lists to members of the ton. He and Olivia wouldn’t win any pr
izes for social correctness, but they were undoubtedly the happiest couple of his acquaintance.
“Pardonnez-moi.” Babette breezed into the comfortable parlor. Now that she was Olivia’s companion instead of her maid, Babette was free to wear whatever she liked. Her link to the courtesan in her past showed in the exquisite line of her gown.
“This note, it is just arrived for you, Lord Rhys. Good evening, my lady.”
He accepted the missive and broke the seal as Babette glided from the room. Rhys scanned the bottom of the note and frowned at the name of the sender. His gut churned.
“What is it?” Olivia asked.
“A note from Lieutenant Duffy’s widow.” He refolded it and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Oh. What does it say?”
Nothing he wanted to think about, he was certain. Duffy’s fate hadn’t crossed his mind in months, and he was happy that way. The last thing he needed was a reminder of Maubeuge. In the confusion of rescuing Olivia from Dr. Pinkerton, Rhys had missed the chance to find Sergeant Leatherby and secure the testimony that would have cleared him in the eyes of the world.
The following months were filled with seeing the doctor tried and convicted of murdering Mr. Weinschmidt. Olivia hadn’t wanted to implicate Miss Pinkerton in her abduction and attempted murder, since Amanda didn’t have the whole truth of what had happened to her mother. Instead, Miss Pinkerton retired to Kent to live with her father’s elderly aunt.
Clearing his name in public didn’t seem as important to Rhys now that he was privately reconciled to his family. As long as he had Olivia, he didn’t want for anything else.
But he didn’t need a reminder of the failure at Maubeuge for which Sergeant Leatherby couldn’t exonerate him—Lieutenant Duffy’s lingering death.
“I’m sure the note is of no import,” he lied.
“Of course it is.” Olivia rose from her cushiony wing chair and held out a hand in silent demand.
With a snort, he pulled the letter from his pocket and laid it across her palm. She unfolded the note and read it. Then a hand lifted to her heart, and she sank back into her chair.
“I must read this to you,” she said, and went ahead without waiting for his assent.
My Lord,
I apologize for the tardiness of this note of thanks, but even now, words fail me in expressing my gratitude to you. You see, my husband was Lieutenant Morris Duffy. I understand you were responsible for carrying him from the field of battle and making sure he received medical care, though his wounds were too grievous to be overcome.
While my dear Morris suffered, he dictated a letter to me with the help of the chaplain. Unfortunately, the chaplain died in a skirmish shortly after that as well and his effects were not examined until his unit was sent home. Due to this series of events, the letter from my husband didn’t reach me until last month.
You must understand that my husband was never one for expressing his feelings. But in that letter, he opened his heart and revealed depths of love for me for which I previously had only hoped.
I would never have known how my husband loved me, if not for you, my lord. For that incredible gift, I am left with only words, but believe me when I tell you they are heartfelt. Thanks seem so small, but I can offer nothing more. I shall mourn my loss until I’m dust myself, but the letter from my husband, which your quick action made possible, has healed my heart.
With undying gratitude,
Lucille Duffy
Her heart shining in her eyes, Olivia handed him the letter. “Oh, Rhys. Don’t you see? You did the right thing.”
He crossed to her chair and knelt beside it. The lump in his throat was so tight, he couldn’t speak. He wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his head in her shrinking lap. He’d borne guilt for prolonging Duffy’s suffering for so long, he’d grown accustomed to its prodigious weight. Now it lifted from him, leaving him feeling so light, he might float away.
He laid his cheek against Olivia’s round belly, and the child inside her gave him a little kick. He laughed and pressed a kiss to her abdomen. “And here’s another thing I did right.”
Then he kissed his way up her body to the exposed skin at her neckline. “And another thing I did right.”
She palmed his cheeks. “Careful. You’ll ruin your reputation as a rake with all this right living.”
“No fear of that. There’s still more than enough wickedness in me to balance it out.”
“That,” his glowing wife said with a lascivious smile, “is something I’m counting on.”
Authors’ Note
In November of 1817, Princess Charlotte died after giving birth to a stillborn boy. She was the sole legitimate grandchild of King George III, the only daughter of the Prince Regent and his estranged wife. It didn’t take a leap of genius for the younger unmarried sons of King George to realize that they had an opportunity to beget a future monarch. And so the “Hymen Race Terrific,” as the London tabloids called it, began.
Three royal dukes were in contention—the Duke of Cambridge, the Duke of Kent, and the Duke of Clarence, who features in Waking Up with a Rake. Clarence sired ten illegitimate children upon an actress with whom he lived for twenty years. He was perpetually in debt and tried to woo a great heiress earlier in his life, but the match was forbidden by an Act of Parliament because the lady was a commoner.
In July 1818, the Duke of Clarence married Princess Adelaide of Saxe-Meiningen, a woman half his age. Clarence set aside his mistress, and his new wife welcomed his nine surviving children into their home. By all reports, the marriage was a happy one, and since his frugal German wife took his finances in hand, Clarence’s debts began to shrink.
In June 1830, at the age of sixty-four, the Duke of Clarence ascended to the British throne to become King William IV. But he and his queen were never blessed with children of their own, so though he eventually wore the crown, the Duke of Clarence did not win the “Hymen Race Terrific.”
That is a tale for another duke.
Acknowledgments
No book comes into being through the efforts of only one person. We have many people to thank. First our editor, Leah Hultenschmidt and our agent, Natasha Kern. Without both of these talented women, our collaboration would never have happened. Then there are all the people at Sourcebooks who prep the manuscript and shape it into its final form—Aubrey Poole, Rachel Edwards, Pamela Guerrieri, and Aimee Algas Alker. We owe a huge debt of thanks to Dawn Adams, who is responsible for the beautiful cover art. You all have our heartfelt thanks!
Outside the bounds of Sourcebooks, we’d be remiss if we didn’t thank Ashlyn Chase, our critique partner. Her patient ear and unbounded encouragement are so appreciated. And hugs to Marcy Weinbeck, our beta-reader. Her sharp eye and exquisite taste keep us from running off the rails!
And last, but not least, you, dear reader. Thank you for taking our stories into your hearts.
About the Authors
Connie Mason, who started her romance-writing career after she became a grandmother, once told 48 Hours that she does her best work in bed. That work being writing, of course! For her newest releases, Connie has teamed up with Mia Marlowe, a rising star of steamy historical romance. Mia learned about story-telling while singing professional opera. A classically trained soprano, she knows what it’s like to wear a corset and has had to sing high C’s in one, so she empathizes with the trials of her historical heroines.
Connie lives near Tampa, Florida, and Mia lives in Boston, Massachusetts. Credit for putting these two authors together goes to their editor, Leah Hultenschmidt, and their agent, Natasha Kern, who saw the creative potential in this pairing. Both Connie and Mia write sexy, adventurous stories with alpha heroes to love. They hope you’ll enjoy the melding of their styles as much as they enjoyed collaborating to bring their new stories to life.
We love to hear from you. You can find Connie at www.conniemason.com and can catch Mia at www.miamarlowe.com, www.twitter.com/Mia_Marlowe, and www.facebook.com/Mi
aMarloweFanPage.
Happy reading!
Connie & Mia
Table of Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Authors’ Note
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Back Cover
