by Gaelen Foley
Becky’s eyes widened.
Drax appeared just then, grinning, a blush in his cheeks. “There he is! Good man. I knew you’d manage to come back alive.” He clapped Alec proudly on the shoulder.
“Ow, stab wound,” Alec muttered, flinching.
“Blazes! Sorry, old boy. I say, is there a surgeon in the house for my good friend?”
The surgeon was by his side in an instant, but Alec brushed him off.
“In a moment, thanks. First, there’s something I have to give to Becky.”
A general murmur of curiosity rippled through their midst.
Everyone followed as Alec escorted her inside. He didn’t mind if they watched this momentous occasion. Slowly, he took the deed to Talbot Old Hall out of the drawer, scrolled and tied with a ribbon.
“There, my darling,” he said softly as he placed it in her hands. “The Hall is finally yours.”
“No, Alec,” she answered, lifting her teary gaze from the document. “It’s ours.”
He smiled tenderly at her.
Tears of pure love and gratitude shone in her beautiful violet eyes as she searched his face for a long moment. “Can I show it to you, Alec? The Hall, my village? Will you go there with me?”
“Of course I will,” he answered as he drew her into his embrace. “I’d love to take you home.”
“Our home.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Forever.”
She flung her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her. His smiling lips touched hers. The whole room burst into applause and raucous cheers as they kissed each other joyously.
EPILOGUE
A fortnight after the Winner’s Ball, they arrived in Buckley-on-the-Heath.
Riding in an open landau, with the convalescing Fort and Rush following in a second carriage, they all stopped in the village, where the whole populace turned out to cheer the man who was to be their new lord of the manor and had saved them from Mikhail and his Cossack horde.
Becky could barely believe how tiny her village looked to her now, after all of her adventures in the larger world, but her heart clenched with eager excitement as she introduced everyone to Alec, bursting with pride in him. Her betrothed, in turn, dazzled the simple country folk with his offhand elegance and gracious warmth, spreading his charm like an effortless mantle of sunshine. He promised to come down to the tavern soon to sample the local brew, but Becky, eager to get up to the Hall, did not wish to linger.
As they moved on, leaving the tiny village, Alec gazed warmly at her. “You didn’t tell me it was so quaint. And the people are so friendly!”
She smiled, then glanced back, for their convalescing friends had fallen behind.
“Uh-oh,” Becky murmured. “Trouble.”
“What is it?”
“Fort and Rush have just met Sally and Daisy.”
Alec followed her gaze and saw that the second carriage had halted. The two notorious rakehells were leaning over the side, captivated by a buxom redhead and an overly flirtatious blonde.
“I don’t think we’ll be seeing them for a while,” Alec remarked.
“No.”
They exchanged a look of amusement, and then drove on.
Becky sighed happily and rested her head against his shoulder, which had healed well. The poor roads gave them a bumpy ride, but she didn’t mind. Her thoughts drifted back to the whirlwind of events of the past fortnight, especially to the Winner’s Ball—her first real Society function. She had been so terrified leading up to it, obediently following Alec’s advice to wear the rose-red gown with the low heart-shaped neckline. She thought he was merely being his usual fashionable self, but then the package had arrived, from Brighton Pavilion, no less.
As she soon discovered, he had tried to buy the original Rose of Indra from the Regent to surprise her, but his royal friend gallantly refused the money, making the jewel his wedding present to them.
It seemed His Royal Highness was smugly pleased with Alec’s triumph over Kurkov, for it was not every day that a humble British subject had the chance to do a favor for the arrogant Czar.
Alec had fastened the ruby necklace around her throat, and then bent to kiss her cheek as he stood behind her at the mirror. “My love, you are magnificent.”
His ardent whisper had infused her with confidence and readiness for the ball.
Her heart still fluttered when she thought of dancing with him, whirling lightly around the glossy parquet floor. They had broken the three-dance maximum most scandalously, but what else could be expected of the captain of all London rakehells and his lady? Then the Duke of Westland had called for everyone’s attention, announcing his daughter’s betrothal to Lord Draxinger. At last, Drax and Parthenia had found the courage to admit their love to each other. And now, Becky mused, how pleasant it was to know that Alec and she would both have friends so close, merely on the neighboring estate.
Surely, though, the highlight of the evening had been when the Knight brothers arrived in response to their youngest brother’s summons for help a few days earlier. The crowd had gasped as Robert, the dark-eyed duke, burst through the tall white doors at the ball and strode in, flanked by the identical twins, Lucien and Damien. Having ridden for days from the other end of England to arrive on the scene like Alec’s own personal army, they were shocked that their “baby brother” had already handled the crisis quite nicely.
When they heard how he had single-handedly thwarted half a dozen Cossacks, they marveled, and they congratulated him with pride and admiration, clapping him on the back and finally acknowledging him, it seemed, as not just the wayward charmer of the family, but their equal. Somewhat abashed, Alec swiftly put all that aside, presenting Becky to them.
The added news of their engagement left his stern elder brothers nearly agog. They gasped and stared and gawked at Becky as though she were the eighth wonder of the world.
“You mean . . . ?”
“Actual marriage, Alec? You?”
“Is this true?” Robert had finally uttered. “This is not one of your pranks?”
“Oh, it’s true,” he vowed with a soft smile, drawing her closer. “I love this girl, and she is to be my wife.”
With exclamations of wonder and awe, they had nearly fallen over themselves in their eagerness to welcome her to the family. Each one was kinder to her than the next, treating her as though she were made of most delicate porcelain. With their solicitous care, it was easy for Becky to get over her shyness, warming up to her future brothers-in-law with ease.
“My dear, what have you done to him?” Lucien murmured by her ear.
“Never mind that,” Robert interrupted. “Whatever it is—thank you.”
Damien had simply given her a big, jolly hug.
As for Nelyudov, upon returning to Brighton from his unsuccessful pursuit of Lady Campion, the Russian master-spy had interviewed Alec and Becky, as well as Vlad, the captured Cossack, for his report to his superiors in St. Petersburg.
The Cossack had bargained for his life by agreeing to show them where Dmitry Maximov was buried on the moors. Nelyudov then dispatched some of his men to Talbot Old Hall for this purpose. With the Cossack to guide them to his unmarked grave, they had collected the fallen agent’s remains so he could be returned to his grieving family.
This done, Nelyudov had then set out again to track down Lady Campion, but if he ever cornered her, it was hard to say who might capture whom.
Presently, the landau turned in at the Hall’s dusty drive. Becky had been anxious, and half dreaded laying eyes on her home, fearful that Mikhail might have harmed it before he had left, just to spite her. Alec pointed to the demolished gatehouse, and she shook her head. But as the Hall rose over the hillcrest, she felt her heart lifting.
Her home was unharmed.
Against the azure sky, the rooftop angels, carved in oak, stood guard with swords and shields, just as they had for centuries, one posted at every corner of the house. She let out a low exhalation of relief
, for the ancient, half-timbered pile looked exactly the same as she remembered it: countless sagging gables jutting this way and that, their upper stories jettied out in late medieval fashion. Ivy climbed thickly up the walls, encircling the diamond-paned windows.
And yet, somehow, everything was different. Or perhaps only she was, she thought. Perhaps because she knew that it was hers now, not her relatives’ possession from which she could be evicted at anytime. But no, she amended, glancing at Alec. Not hers.
Theirs.
The place where they would raise their family. Becky prayed that Alec would like it. When she glanced at him uncertainly, his face was rapt with boyish enthusiasm as he stared at the house.
He jumped down from the carriage, took a few paces forward. “This place is fantastic,” he exclaimed, then whirled toward her suddenly. “Is it really haunted, Becky? Honestly?”
Her smile grew. “I’m afraid so.” She should have known.
“Well, come on, then!” he exclaimed. “I want to meet the ghost.”
Becky laughed. He grabbed her about the waist and set her down beside him. Hand in hand, they dashed into the house, shocking Mrs. Whithorn, who had just come to answer the door. Becky could see that Alec would have no trouble at all taming that termagant with his charm, but she was in no mood to loiter with her huffing, scandalized housekeeper.
She gave Mrs. Whithorn a pointed look that said, “One wrong word and you are fired.” No longer would she be bullied by the woman in her own home. She turned once more to Alec, taking both his hands.
“Come,” she whispered.
Laughing at his enthusiasm over the many intricate details of their house, Becky tugged him from room to room, showing him the great hall with its secret doorway, the library with its creaky, towering bookshelves, and the fine oak-paneled salon. But when Alec paused to kiss her, nudging her hungrily against the wall, she knew it was time to make a beeline for her chamber.
She trailed a finger down his chest and gave him that look—the one he knew so well.
“Aha,” he murmured, instantly getting the message. “Yes, quite. But won’t Mrs. Whithorn have a fit of apoplexy?”
“Who cares? I’m the lady of the house, and I want my man. Come.”
Half stumbling, they moved up the ornately carved staircase, kissing and groping and undressing each other on the way; minutes later they fell into Becky’s humble, narrow bed.
“I love you,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“I love you, too, sugarplum.”
She smiled as she pressed her lips to his in a slow, sensuous caress, and then captured his plump lower lip lightly, playfully, between her teeth. Alec gathered her closer with a soft moan; his tongue stroked hers. Becky dug her fingers hungrily into his broad shoulders.
“Sweeting?” he breathed a few moments later, brushing his warm, smooth lips against hers in a dizzying caress.
“Yes, Alec?” She thrilled to the heated intent in his hand moving slowly up her thigh beneath her skirts.
“Make love to me now. Hurry.”
She smiled dreamily, reveling in his touch. “Shall I?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then. Since I’m practicing wifely obedience . . .” She lifted her already unbuttoned gown off over her head.
He let out a low, breathy woof of appreciation, surveying her body, and leaned back, shirtless, against the headboard. She licked her lips as she held his smoldering half smile. One hand stroking his smooth, muscled chest, she pushed the sheet away and slung her thigh across his body, sitting astride him.
He grasped her hips appreciatively and watched her every move with anticipation burning in his eyes. Becky planted her hands on his wide shoulders and leaned nearer, plying his sculpted mouth with her kisses. She cupped his face, skimming his elegant cheekbone with the pad of her thumb, and coaxed his lips wider, stroking his tongue with her own.
In many ways it was a reversal from their first night together, as if this time Alec was the virgin and Becky the tender, patient lover, easing his fears, breaking down the last of his defenses with a reassuring whisper, a velvet touch. Quiet wonder reflected in his innocent expression; his guard was down as never before, allowing her to read the open mirror of his soul in his blue, blue eyes.
Soon, with her fingers linked through his, she rode him gently.
Becky held his gaze in aching sweetness, only longing to fill the emptiness that had driven him so relentlessly for so long. May it never return. She would flood his heart with her love for the rest of their lives. After a time, Alec closed his eyes and rested his head back, allowing himself to simply receive. Becky gave him all she had.
“Never let me go,” he said starkly, gripping her hips as the pleasure took hold of him.
“I never will,” she promised, breathing hard. “I told you, Alec, whatever happens, I’ll never leave you. I love you. Surrender to me, darling, and know that I am yours.”
She kissed him again. He clenched her desperately, letting out an anguished groan as he thrust more deeply into her. Endless moments passed; they both were in a trance of love, moving with a slow, powerful rhythm that quickened as their fever climbed. Soon Becky’s heart was racing; she could hold back no more.
She dropped her head back, climaxing with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her swollen breasts crushed against his sweat-dampened skin. Alec arched his neck as he came, spilling himself inside her with an anguished groan. She gasped, clutching him to her, and savoring his deep and satisfying release.
Slowly, she caught her breath. Pressing one more soft but possessive kiss to his lips, she lay down flat atop him and folded her arms across his chest.
She gazed into his hazy eyes, enjoying the glow and his sated look; for a long time, she simply stroked his golden hair in silence. He kissed her forehead after a while, and pulled her onto the side of him.
“Thank you,” he murmured softly as he cuddled her close.
“For that?” she purred. “You’re welcome, sir.”
“I meant for loving me.”
“Oh Alec, my angel man,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek as he caressed her shoulder. “Loving you is the easiest thing in the world.”
He met her devoted gaze with a smile like heaven and quiet joy shining in his eyes, the clear blue color of eternity.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Gambling was probably the favorite vice of the Regency period. Stories abound of great aristocrats and lesser mortals ruining themselves left and right at the tables. In fact, one Lord Foley was bankrupted during the Regency when his grandson gambled away the family fortune!
Though the “annual Brighton whist drive” is purely my own concoction, such an event could very well have existed; whist drives are commonly held as charity fund-raisers even today. Alec and the other players involved had to put up £10,000 in order to enter the whist drive. At the modern equivalent of about $500,000 U.S., such a sum would have qualified these high rollers as what Las Vegas casino men term “whales,” with the lure of a jackpot valued at approximately $22 million split between the winning pair. So, as you can see, Alec did pretty well for himself.
Regarding one of the settings of this book: the Althorpe. London-lovers will probably recognize it as being modeled on the hallowed grounds of Albany. By the way, if you are skeptical about the existence of heated running water for bathing tubs in 1817, see the Regency-era print of The warm bath on page 123 of Steven Parissien’s Regency Style (London: Phaidon Press, 1992). The painting shows a lady getting ready to take a bath in a luxurious built-in alcove bath with two spigots for hot and cold running water clearly visible. A great rarity and a luxury, no doubt, but a sybarite like our Lord Alec would have spared no expense on the most basic pleasures of life while he was winning and could afford them.
The Cossacks were a paramilitary, semidemocratic, strongly independent people who started out as bandits and mercenaries but evolved by the 1800s into the Czar’s elite
cavalry units. Since the Czars couldn’t break the Cossacks, they hired them, granting them special rights and privileges not given to other groups within their domain, such as land grants and tax exemptions. In addition to terrorizing enemy armies, Cossack forces were often brought in to suppress peasant uprisings and urban disturbances.
As to Prince Kurkov’s plot to overthrow Czar Alexander I, just such a conspiracy was uncovered. The grandson of Catherine the Great, Alexander started out as the golden boy of Europe and the great hope of Russia, but he was more of a thinker than a man of action, and he steadily lost credibility for his high-strung nervous nature that resulted in wavering and indecisiveness. The army grew to despise him for ignoring his seasoned military advisers; the Czar preferred to decide himself how to direct his army, resulting in many unnecessary defeats.
For all bits of Russian dialogue in this book and advice on Russian names, I am indebted to up-and-coming romance author Sylvia Day, a former Russian linguist for U.S. Army Military Intelligence (Bad Boys Ahoy, Kensington Brave, February 2006).
In closing, I hope readers will rejoin the Knight family for the next installment in the series, featuring Lord Jack Knight. Previous books in this series, in order, include: The Duke, Lord of Fire, Lord of Ice, Lady of Desire, and Devil Takes a Bride. More information about each story is available at my website at www.gaelenfoley.com, along with various history articles about the Regency period. I want to thank all my readers for coming along with me on this imaginative journey. I hope you’ve had fun! I sure have. Until next time. . . .
With fondest wishes,
Praise for Devil Takes a Bride
“With its wonderfully complicated, unforgettable characters, sharp wit, and a riveting plot rife with menacing danger and sizzling passion, Foley’s latest Knight Miscellany historical Regency is simply superb.”
—Booklist
“A truly sensual romance, possessing depth of plot and character.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Complex and engaging characters . . . Intense emotions and great depth of poignancy enthrall from beginning to end.”
