by Sharon Page
Devlin’s hands settled over hers on the wheel as the sails caught the wind and billowed against the night sky. The ship charged ahead, soaring over the waves.
Grace laughed with exhilaration as Devlin nuzzled her neck. She turned and their lips met in a sizzling kiss, but they had to break apart to steer.
Together, they sailed toward their future.
Epilogue
August 1821
“We are gathered here to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”
The booming voice of the vicar rang through the quiet village church. August sunlight poured in the panes of the stained-glass window. This summer in Maidensby had been dry and hot.
Grace brushed at her eyes with a linen handkerchief and gave a soft gasp as Devlin gently squeezed her thigh through her muslin gown.
“Your mother Olivia makes a lovely blushing bride,” he murmured, his deep blue eyes twinkling. “The only woman I’ve ever seen look lovelier on her wedding day was you.”
“That was because we married on an exotic island and were both barely wearing any clothes. Our wedding was thoroughly scandalous.”
“But very befitting a daring woman who rescued her groom from Newgate prison,” he teased. He gently brushed her rounded belly—she really did hope there were only three more months until their baby would be born. She felt huge already and she knew she had so much further to go.
“I think my father looks very dashing in his tailcoat. I have never seen him before in fashionable gentleman’s attire.” Though Rodesson had not dressed entirely like an English gentleman. A bright red kerchief was tied around his neck in place of a more staid cravat.
Devlin wore his white cravat, white waistcoat, black tailcoat, and trousers with graceful panache. He looked exquisitely erotic—with his tanned skin a contrast to the brilliant white of his clothing. Perhaps he looked all the more enticing in dress clothes because she knew he definitely was not a refined gentleman.
As if to prove the point, Devlin’s fingers skimmed up her thigh through her skirts.
But this was church and she had to fight not to moan with pleasure.
Wretch! Exciting her here, now, during her mother’s wedding!
His hand slid down to her bottom, where he could fondle her and no one could see.
She flashed him a fiery glare of disapproval but he treated her to his most wicked smile—one she was now very accustomed to receiving.
So she naughtily wriggled her bottom against his big hand. Really, what else could she do now but enjoy it?
She cast a fond glance at her sisters, who were surrounded by their children. Venetia held her baby girl Isabella on her lap, the child seemingly lost in yards of exquisite white lace. Their boy, Richard, now a sturdy and independent toddler of eighteen months, was trying to join his grandparents on the altar. Finally Marcus relented and carried him up there.
Olivia turned to smile at her grandson, her hazel eyes sparkling with tears. It was so wonderful to see tears of joy in her mother’s eyes. Olivia’s silvery-blond hair was swept up into an elegant topknot and soft tendrils framed her face. She looked beautiful in her dress, a sweep of beaded white silk that highlighted her slim figure and pooled behind her on the altar.
Their extended family was in attendance. Dash’s sister Anne and her husband Lord Moredon, along with their tiny babe who was only four months old. Marcus’s sister Minerva was there with her devoted husband Stephen, who had his hands full with their three-year-old son. Minerva was expecting a baby, and waved her fan at her face.
Grace gave her a sympathetic smile, one Minerva returned.
On the altar, Rodesson cleared his throat, looking rueful and vulnerable—expressions Grace had never seen before on her father’s face. At least not before he had come to his senses and expressed the truth of his feelings for her mother.
Love. He had always loved her.
Olivia turned back to her husband just as he said the final words. “I do.” And on those two little words, her father’s voice wobbled.
Olivia’s hand clasped in his.
Grace dabbed once more at tears. Bother, she had missed the vows.
A collective gasp sounded from their family as her father swept her mother off her feet. Olivia laughingly wrapped her arm around her husband’s neck. With a quick wink for the vicar, Rodesson captured his wife’s mouth in a passionate kiss. A kiss that promised he felt every bit as passionate about her as he had twenty-five years ago when they had run away together.
Grace’s heart warmed and she felt a little kick in her belly. Her son or daughter apparently approved too.
But no doubt the Countess of Warren would not approve. No doubt she was still holding her pride and her anger close to her heart to ensure no warmth crept in.
But Grace knew there was nothing she could do to help her grandmother, nothing she could do to make her grandparents see that the only people they were hurting were themselves.
Venetia leapt to her feet, cradling her daughter. “We must go outside for the bouquet.”
“But there’s no one to catch it. We’re all wed.” Maryanne laughed. “Well, there is Isabella, but perhaps she should wait.”
Grace saw all three men look at baby Isabella, who giggled and waved her fists at the attention. Marcus, Dashiel, and Devlin then glanced at each other and shuddered with trepidation. Grace smothered a laugh and she gave a shiver too. Given the unusual and scandalous ways Rodesson’s daughters had found love, what would be in store for wee Bella? And what if the baby she carried was a girl? Was she quite ready to defend her daughter’s choices if they involved marrying a highwayman and sailing around the world?
She would have to be. She could ask nothing less of her daughter than that she follow her heart. And she could ask nothing less of herself than to applaud such courage—
The door burst open as Rodesson and his bride, her delighted mother, stepped out into the sunlight. Both glowed with such happiness Grace’s heart ached.
Devlin bent and traced the neckline of her dress. “It’s a beautiful day,” he murmured, his hot breath following the caress of his fingertip. “And I noticed an orchard close by.”
Instantly heat swirled inside her and she was ready—scandalously so, since she was in church. But she shook her finger, clad in a white linen glove. “But what about the breakfast?”
“We can be a few minutes late.”
“Hmm.” She tapped her finger to her lips. “We have been together for over a year now. I suspect you plan to be several hours late.”
“We’ve yet to make love properly in the English countryside. There are things I want to do to you involving ripe plums that should not be spoken of in church.”
His purely mischievous smile glowed more brilliantly than the jewel-toned stained-glass window.
“I fear my sisters will notice if I am not there while the bouquet is tossed,” Grace warned.
“In the midst of all the clawing and scratching to catch it? I doubt it. But it appears you need a little more convincing. What if I touch you here—?” His hand brushed up her neck, then skimmed down over her shoulder. His fingertips caressed her arm, and took a trip to the side to stroke along the curve of her breast.
“Not in church!”
“Then come out with me. Because if you don’t I am going to kiss every place that I touch and I’m going to start working my way down to—”
“The problem with pirates is that they have no sense of decency,” Grace muttered.
Devlin’s rich laugh boomed out into the church, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Come, love.”
She jerked her gaze to his, thinking of all possible meanings of his request.
“Come with me,” he said.
And she did.
Bathed with sweat, Grace collapsed onto Devlin’s chest, taking deep, shuddering breaths. With his arms pillowed beneath his head, Devlin wore the smug look of a man who has just made a woman climax three times before surrendering to pleasure hims
elf.
Her skirts pooled over him and she fanned her face. Above them, branches laden with young apples bobbed in the gentle breeze.
“That was magnificent,” she allowed, for he looked far too pleased with himself.
“Being enceinte seems to make you more responsive, if that could be possible. You come so quickly now.”
And it was true. She could climax just by riding his beautiful cock, by squeezing herself around him, without even touching her clit.
“We really must attend the wedding breakfast.” Her words came in gasps and she was certain her face must be bright pink from exertion and pleasure.
Devlin moved his hands to thread his fingers through hers. “Then we had best be moving, sweetheart.”
She went to get up but he did not release her hands. Brow arched in a silent question, she looked down.
“I love you, Grace.”
Even after a year, the words had the power to make everything drop away. Teasing words came to the tip of her tongue—you simply love making love anywhere we can. But there was so much admiration in his deep blue eyes, she couldn’t bear to spoil the moment with lighthearted words.
“I love you, too. Now, we really must go to breakfast.”
This time he let her draw her hands away, and she scrambled up. Her big belly made her motions awkward, and he jumped up quickly to help her. Their hands rested together on her tummy, and Devlin drew her into a lingering, scorching kiss.
“This really is an order, Captain Sharpe,” she warned.
“I might defy the British Navy, but I’d never defy you.” Laughing, he caught her hand and they hurried back to the small cottage where Grace had grown up.
It was modest—a little stone building with ivy on the walls and wild roses tumbling around it—yet it still had the power of home to Grace.
It was a tug at her heart but a good one, and as she brought Devlin through the threshold she remembered she and her sisters as young girls on a summer’s day. Home now was with Devlin, a thought that gave her the peace of mind to feel a sense of belonging in this house she never had before.
Puzzling over that, she walked with Devlin into the parlor, where the bride and groom were entertaining their merrymaking guests.
“Where have you two been?”
The suspicious question came from Venetia, but when Grace turned to her sister, she saw an auburn curl hanging over Venetia’s shoulder and strands of green grass sticking up in her sister’s hair.
“And where have you been?” she teased back, staring pointedly at the evidence.
Venetia tugged out the grass, found the fallen curl, and blushed. “Oh, we were walking and there was a strong gust of wind—” she began.
“We don’t believe that for a minute!” Maryanne left Dash’s arm and raced over.
“Hmm.” Grace pointed to the bits of leaves stuck to the lace of Maryanne’s neckline.
“Oh, bother!” Maryanne exclaimed. “But you have leaves in your hair, too, Grace.”
Venetia was trying to pin up her curl. “Well, we did all marry roguish men.”
“Speaking of which, where are they?” Grace asked.
Maryanne waved her hand. “They’ve taken the children to the buffet.”
Grace glanced over to the long, white cloth-covered table laden with dishes. A maid carrying a tray of champagne flutes had reached their three husbands. Each man took a glass, and they all shared a grin.
With Isabella cradled in his arm and young Richard cuddled against his legs, Marcus raised his glass.
“To Rodesson’s daughters!” Dash exclaimed, juggling his flute while holding his sleeping son Charles on his shoulder.
“Aye,” Devlin agreed. The three glasses came together with a ringing clink. “To our beautiful, remarkable, priceless wives.”
“And to us, the three most fortunate men in England.”
Much laughter followed that and Grace saw her father stride over to join his sons-in-law. “You are forgetting me,” he chided. “For I am definitely the luckiest man in England.”
Devlin caught her gaze and gave her an audacious wink. Laughing, Grace returned it.
“We should have a toast of our own.” Venetia waved to the maid with the tray and she hastened over.
Grace had to make do with toasting with a cup of tea for she could not drink champagne. Another maid brought her a cup, and she lifted the china cup from its saucer. “Should we also toast ourselves, Rodesson’s daughters?”
“To adventure!” Maryanne exclaimed.
“And to husbands.” Venetia broke into a wide smile. “Who have proven to be more useful than we ever expected.”
Wearing a bride’s special glow, Olivia joined them, and each girl hugged her mother in turn. Olivia took a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“One more toast,” Grace cried impetuously.
The others waited.
“To love,” she declared. “For love is the most important talent, the most precious emotion, the most wonderful gift of all.”
Seven voices—those of Devlin, Dash, Maryanne, Marcus, Venetia, her mother, and her father—rose as the glasses were lifted into the air. “To love!”
Turn the page for a preview of Kate Pearce’s
SIMPLY SINFUL!
Coming soon from Aphrodisia!
Prologue
Beecham Hall, Henham, Essex
April 16th, 1817
My dearest James,
Thank you for the beautiful hothouse flowers and fruit you sent from London to celebrate our wedding anniversary. It was very thoughtful of you.
You ask if there is anything else you can do for me. I hesitate to write this, but as I see you so rarely it is the only way I can be sure that you will respond to me. There is something you can do. I want you to come home and give me a child.
With fondest love,
Abigail
Lady James Beecham
1
“Am I really so pathetic?” Peter Howard murmured.
He turned to his companion and discovered she was attempting to hide a smile. He mock-frowned at her as he refilled his champagne glass from the bottle that sat between them.
“I do not think you pathetic, my friend.” Madame Helene toasted him with her glass and then bent to kiss the cheek of the naked young man who lounged at her feet. “Why do you say such a thing?”
Peter gestured at the crowd of revelers in the large public salon behind them. The gold and scarlet décor provided a perfect foil for the more daring members of the ton, many of whom were in a state of undress and engaged in riotous sexual pursuits not often seen in public. Madame’s exclusive House of Pleasure offered every erotic experience a man or woman might dream of.
“You rule over an excellent establishment, Helene, but there is nothing here that excites me anymore.”
Helene put down her glass and began to stroke the young man’s long black hair. “What do you crave then? If you can imagine it, I am sure I can provide it.”
“I’m not sure I know what I want.” Peter noticed a disruption at the far end of the salon where Lord James “Beau” Beecham and his disreputable companions were seated. “Perhaps it is because all my erstwhile drinking companions are settling down. The Harcourt twins are both married and so is Valentin.”
Of course, he was still welcome in Sara and Valentin’s bed but somehow it no longer seemed enough. He frowned as the noise in the salon increased and looked over his shoulder. Beau Beecham stood on the table now, his hands cupping the breasts of a half-naked inebriated duchess. His cronies shouted crude suggestions as he deftly removed the lady’s corset.
When Peter turned back, Joseph, Helene’s latest conquest, was trying to crawl onto the chaise longue between them. Even the sight of Joseph’s well-muscled buttocks and erect cock failed to arouse Peter’s interest.
“Perhaps I am getting old,” Peter said as Helene ran the tip of her index finger around the crown of Joseph’s erection. Her blond hair fell in soft ri
nglets around her face. Her gown was so sheer that her pert and youthful body looked naked in the candlelight. Peter had no idea of her true age, and he wasn’t fool enough to ask.
Joseph moaned as Helene’s long nail flicked over his engorged flesh.
“You are not old, mon ami.”
“Jaded, then.”
Peter drank more champagne. In his thirty-five years he’d probably had more sexual partners than anyone at Madame Helene’s. Not all of them by choice. Being enslaved in a Turkish brothel for seven long years had ensured that his sexual expertise was limitless and that he never wanted to be owned or forced by anyone again.
Helene bent her head to lick Joseph’s cock, her small pointed tongue as dainty as a kitten’s. When she straightened, her lips glistened with pre-cum.
“Jaded, you?” She regarded Peter closely, one hand lazily working Joseph’s cock. “Maybe you just want different things.”
Peter grimaced. “Like a wife and a family? Who would have me? I’m employed in trade and have no aristocratic blood to make me eligible. The only reason I have an entrée into the ton is because of Valentin’s high-and-mighty connections.”
Lord Valentin Sokorvsky was not only heir to a marquis, he was Peter’s best friend and occasional lover. They had been slaves together until their release at the age of eighteen. Their strong bond had helped Peter survive the brutal, sadistic world of the brothel and supported him through the difficult years of his return to the almost-forgotten land of his birth.
Valentin had found a woman who loved and accepted him and his scarred past. Peter had no reason to believe he would find another such paragon. He wasn’t even sure if that was what he truly wanted. He’d always enjoyed sex in all its forms, craved it even, but now he found it impossible to decide what he needed.
Helene pushed Joseph away as he tried to suckle at her breast. He slid to the floor in an untidy heap and pouted. She leaned forward to touch Peter’s arm. “Do you wish to talk to me privately?”
