Not that he wanted to. He enjoyed being a consul, enjoyed the periods of quiet punctured by moments of sheer surprise. And his income had proved more than adequate for their needs. They actually lived very well. They hadn’t touched the money his father-in-law insisted upon sending them monthly in an attempt to repay what his wife’s brother had stolen. And Amelia even got to have her exotic dishes, not to mention exotic berber rugs, exotic visits to the sultan’s palace, and an exotic ride on a camel.
And now this. After three years of living in modest lodgings, they’d been shocked when the sultan had taken it into his head to give the American legation a consulate that amounted to a palace. They’d moved in today, and Amelia had already set herself to making it into a home.
Isabel wriggled in his arms, having lost interest in the view. “Daddy, down!”
Laughing, Amelia took the child and went back inside to give her to the nursemaid with instructions to feed her supper and prepare her for bed.
When Amelia came back, Lucas wrapped his arm about her waist, and they returned to admiring the view. After a moment, she laughed. “I should write Lord Pomeroy and tell him that I can see Gibraltar whenever I please.”
Pomeroy—he hadn’t thought of that scoundrel in a long time. “What’s the general doing these days? Do any of your many correspondents ever say?”
“He finally found a wife—can you believe it? Some Italian countess worth a fortune. I’m sure they’ll be very happy together, as long as she doesn’t mind polishing his opium pipe from time to time.”
At the tart comment, he glanced down to find her gazing at him with eyes agleam. She wore one of her brightly hued Moroccan gowns, the ones that always heated his blood and set his pulse racing. Judging from her sultry smile, his temptress of a wife knew just what effect the gown had on him, too.
“Speaking of polishing,” he said as he drew her back inside, “we’ve been so busy preparing for the move these past few days that my sword has grown a mite rusty. It could use some attention.”
“Really?” She cast him a teasing glance. “I shall fetch a rag at once.”
“You don’t need a rag,” he growled as he dragged her into his arms. “Your hand will be good enough.”
“For a sword as fine as yours? Hardly. I’ll need a rag and polish and—”
He cut her off with a kiss that was hotter than the desert sun. When she pulled back sometime later, she was smiling as only his Lady Delilah could.
“Very well, I suppose we can make do with my hand.” Her gaze turned seductive. “Or my mouth. Or any number of things suitable for worshipping a man’s fine weaponry.”
“Craving a little adventure, are you?” he murmured as his “fine weaponry” made an instant response.
“Always.” She tugged him toward their new bedchamber. “When it comes to the man she loves, a woman can never have too much adventure.”
Author’s Note
Doing research for this book made me realize how significant the War of 1812 was in making America feel like a nation and not just a rebellious British colony. When I read firsthand accounts of how American sailors who suffered impressment by the British laid down their arms at the declaration of war, refusing to fight against their countrymen, I was moved to tears. They preferred being prisoners of war to serving in the British Navy against their will. Many of them ended up at Dartmoor Prison, where they had the British tearing their hair out with their constant attempts to escape. Freedom has always been important to us, hasn’t it?
The Dartmoor Prison Massacre is an actual historical event—the only change I made to the story was in having someone trapped in a tunnel during it. But the rest of the tale of Dartmoor, including the fact that the massacre took place long after the war ended, is true. To this day, no one can agree on whom to blame—it was the senselessness of it that broke my heart and made me include it.
And although the local militias fled before the British at the Battle of Bladensburg, the Marine Guard fought until they were forced to retreat, many of them taken prisoner or killed. Also, it was the march on Derna that gave us the lines of the marine hymn, “From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli.” And yes, they really did eat a camel!
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Also by Sabrina Jeffries
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2006 by Deborah Gonzales
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Never Seduce a Scoundrel Page 29
