She pushed out a breath, then nodded. “May I borrow your coach?”
“Of course.” Lilah lay back again, smiling. “Oh, and if you pass Christian in the hall on your way out, tell him I have . . . something to show him.”
Catherine snorted. No doubt, then—Lilah was certainly not wearing a corset.
* * *
Without Johnson’s key, she had no way to use the secret passage through the shop. For that matter, she needn’t bother with secrecy, did she? Not when the rest of the world now knew of her marriage—even if, so she prayed, the other party had yet to realize it.
All the same, it was very odd to approach the front door of Diamonds and bear the mystified looks of two young swells waiting to be admitted. They gawked outright when Callan opened the door and admitted her straightaway, while leaving them to cool their heels on the grounds that the establishment did not open till half three.
“Is he upstairs?” she asked tensely as Callan led her past the empty baize tables.
“His office,” he said. “I don’t think he’s expecting you.”
The words scored her like claws. She bit her lip hard and summoned her courage. “That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll show myself up.”
His door stood ajar. She did not bother to knock, throwing it open and speaking at the same time. “Do you not read the newspaper?”
Nicholas was seated at his desk, working through a thick sheaf of papers. At the sound of her voice, he cast down his pen, but she saw his shoulders square before he looked up at her.
“No,” he said evenly. “Not on regular occasion.”
Her throat filled. Some knot she could not quite swallow. Nerves, maybe; hopes and fears and anxiety all tangled up in one lump. How well he looked. Not yet in his evening wear, not even fully dressed; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, but shirtsleeves became his broad shoulders very well. “Perhaps you should,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened. “Reading is not my strong suit.”
She pressed a hand to her mouth. Lilah had been right. What an idiot she was! “Does nobody around here read the newspapers? Have a care for the state of the country? The stocks, the gossip, the . . . fashions?”
His brow lifted. “Is there a reason they should?”
His tone was all wrong. So polite, so distant, when in her dreams he was rushing toward her, wrapping her in his arms, putting her against a door the way he had done once, showing her with language deeper than words how much he wanted her. The disjuncture between fantasy and reality left her strangely off-balance, confused and dizzy. She felt trapped inside some poorly scripted farce, while he was following a different script, cold and refined. “I would imagine one of your—your customers might have mentioned it,” she said. But—of course; the club did not open until half three. Perhaps he’d met no customers yet today.
He rose from his desk, frowning. “Was there some story printed about the auction, then? Did word get out that the collection was mine?”
A disbelieving laugh spilled from her. “No! That is—yes! The Times did mention the sale. But there was also this.” She tossed her newspaper onto the desk and crossed her arms to hold her heart in her chest, for it was knocking hard enough to break free.
He looked down at it. Back up at her. “You might as well tell me,” he said flatly.
“No.” Suddenly she felt mutinous. He’d obviously had a very calm, collected morning. Meanwhile, she had been stewing in that house, stretched on a private rack of nerves, straining for the sound of a knock that had not come, agonizing—
She huffed out a breath. “Look for yourself. I don’t care how long it takes you. I’ll wait.” She dropped into a chair. “Go on. I have all day.”
“All day?” He lifted a brow as he came around the desk. “Work doesn’t keep you?”
“Forget the auction rooms,” she snapped. “Read.”
“Forget the . . .” He gave her a marveling look, which narrowed as he reached for the newspaper. He leaned back against the desktop, looking down the front page.
“Not that page,” she blurted. “The very back.”
He flipped it over. She saw the effort he took, squinting as he scanned the print. For a man not easy with reading, it was no small task to look over the crowded columns, the crammed typeset, for a single unknown item.
She saw the moment when he reached her wedding announcement. The paper abruptly crumpled beneath the clench of his fist. He looked up at her, mouth agape. For one moment, she thought she saw a world of emotion in his face. She thought she saw a happy ending, after all.
And then he clawed a hand through his hair and burst into laughter. “By God,” he said, choking out the syllables. “He’s done for, after all. Killed in one sentence.”
“What?” She sprang to her feet. “Who?”
“Your brother. You’ve finished him.”
He would talk now of her brother? “Is that all you have to say?” She felt unaccountably furious, suddenly. For she had showed courage—she had proved that she had no doubts; that, rather than hiding, she would trumpet their marriage to the world. And he was laughing at her for it?
He shook his head, struggling for composure; put his fist against his mouth and dragged in a hoarse breath. “I was going to send word to you,” he said, his voice oddly rough. “Your brother—I had Pilcher broker the deal. Peter keeps his seat on the board, in exchange for selling his half of the auction rooms. But Pilcher and I mean to keep him useless, as far as the board goes. It’s all done, Catherine.” He groped behind him, not taking his eyes off her as he found and held out the stack of papers he’d been looking through. “Everleigh’s is yours. I had a solicitor draw up the transfer of sale.”
She stared at him. Then at the contract. Hers? Everleigh’s, entirely hers?
No. This wasn’t right. She didn’t want this gift now, of all times. The auction rooms, overshadowing what she’d done today—what that newspaper announced—
“Forget that,” she said very softly. “Forget Everleigh’s.”
He stared at her for a silent moment, shock tightening his features. Then he opened his hand. The contract thudded to the floor.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. Said it louder. “Forget Everleigh’s.”
“Did you . . .” Now he cleared his throat. “Did you take out that announcement for my sake?”
Her stomach jumped. “Yes, of course. Why else would I have done it?”
“To . . . check your brother.” He blinked, then straightened off the desk. “You took out that announcement for me,” he said, but this time there was no question in his words, only wonder. And there, at last, was what she had wanted to see in his face—the look she had been envisioning, willing, praying to behold. He stepped toward her, a prowling movement, full of design. Seized her hands, then lifted each to his mouth, kissing them in turn. “For me,” he whispered.
“Yes, yes, yes.” She pulled her hands free of his only so she could grasp his face. “I took it out. I wanted the world to know.”
“That we’re married,” he said huskily. He turned his face, kissed her palm.
“That we’re married,” she agreed. “That you’re my husband. That I . . . do believe I love you.”
“Believe?” He fixed her in a narrow gaze.
“Know,” she whispered. “But perhaps . . . perhaps you had better make sure of it now. Against . . .” She swallowed, feeling the blush steal over her. He noticed it. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the heat in his look loosened her next words, brought them out in a rush: “Against the door.”
“Against the . . .” A smile slowly widened his mouth. “You liked that, did you?”
“I seem”—her voice was breathless, ragged—“I seem to be more wanton than I knew.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it yet.” He lifted her beneath her arms, carried her up against the door, held her there as he buried his face in her neck. “You’ve got . . .” By he
r hand on his back, she felt the deep breath he took of her. “A lot to learn,” he said, lips brushing over her skin. “Happily, seems we’ve got the time.”
“All the time,” she said. “All the time in the world.” But after a long moment, in which his grip tightened, but he seemed content only to hold her, she frowned. “I wouldn’t mind hurrying up with this lesson, though.”
He lifted his head, laughing, his dark face impossibly beautiful, more beautiful than she had ever realized, for there were no shadows in it now, nothing in his look but the kind of wonder, the open unveiled adoration, that she had seen only in dreams—and never dared envision for herself.
“I hate to disappoint my wife,” he murmured, “but I don’t mean to hurry this time.”
She almost argued. But as he kissed her, a deep, leisurely kiss that made pleasure purl down her spine, she changed her mind and threaded her hands through his hair. No need to rush, after all. She was exactly where she wished to be. He could take as long as he liked.
Start the Rules from the Reckless series from the very beginning!
The prequel to the sizzling Rules for the Reckless series!
Your Wicked Heart
* * *
One daring widow, one reluctant suitor . . .
That Scandalous Summer
* * *
A lady with a secret, and a man with a passion—for vengeance . . .
Fool Me Twice
* * *
Catching the lady red-handed . . .
Lady Be Good
* * *
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photograph by Shelley McGuire
MEREDITH DURAN is the author of eight previous novels, including The Duke of Shadows (winner of the Gather.com First Chapters Romance Writing Competition), Wicked Becomes You (included on the Woman’s World list of Best Beach Reads for Summer 2010), and the USA Today bestseller Fool Me Twice.
She blames Anne Boleyn for sparking her lifelong obsession with British history, and for convincing her that princely love is no prize if it doesn’t come with a happily-ever-after. She enjoys collecting old etiquette manuals, guidebooks to nineteenth-century London, and travelogues by intrepid Victorian women. Visit her at www.meredithduran.com, or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Meredith-Duran
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ALSO BY MEREDITH DURAN
The Duke of Shadows
Bound by Your Touch
Written on Your Skin
Wicked Becomes You
A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal
At Your Pleasure
Your Wicked Heart
That Scandalous Summer
Fool Me Twice
Lady Be Good
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Pocket Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Meredith Duran
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First Pocket Books paperback edition September 2015
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Cover art by Alan Ayers
ISBN 978-1-4767-4136-9
ISBN 978-1-4767-4139-0 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
Luck Be a Lady Page 30
