by Tanya Wilde
“I might not be well acquainted with matters concerning women, my friend, but even a fool can see your wife believed the shot fired had been into you.”
That gave Sebastian pause. Had Anastacia believed him hurt? Was that why she flew for Bloomington in a fit of rage, or perhaps grief? What a foolishly woman thing to do!
He raked a shaky hand through his hair. It was a reasonable explanation, particularly as he wanted it to be true.
His head snapped up.
“I see you have some matters to consider,” Dalziel said with a damn irritating note of amusement.
Bloody right he did.
Sebastian stalked off to talk to his wife, only one question on his mind. Did she love him, too?
Chapter 17
Her husband entered her chamber after twenty minutes of her being placed there. Twenty minutes that she had spent in a trance, during which she had been left to wonder and worry. Who were the strangers? What had happened? Where was her uncle? Who had been shot? Was it all over? But the most important question plaguing her mind: Where did it leave her and Sebastian?
Their match defied logic. A proper lady wedded to a notoriously wild lord? Could there be a happy ending written between those lines? But the thing Anastacia had come to learn in these past few weeks was that logic rarely ever was all that.
Who needed logic when one was in possession of a dangerously handsome man for a husband who possessed the means to shatter your control with one kiss?
It was in the middle of these thoughts that Sebastian entered, shutting the door behind him.
Leaning against it, he stared at her. She stared back.
His posture was casual, but there was a tension about him, a savage air that belied his stance. He had never looked more gorgeous to Anastacia than in that moment. His shirt had been unbuttoned, revealing a generous amount of bare chest while his sleeves were rolled up displaying the ridges of the muscles in his forearms. His hair, so disheveled in its appearance, looked like he’d run his hand through it in irritation. Coal black eyes glistened with emotion.
He was wild.
Her mouth went dry, and her pulse leaped.
“What are you doing here?” The question, the wrong question, blurted from her lips. She hadn’t meant to ask that.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “This is my house. You are my wife.”
“I know,” she said, her voice tinged with impatience. “I meant, what happened to my uncle. And clearly, you are not shot?”
“Your uncle has been arrested.”
Anastacia gasped at that. “On what charge?”
“Murder.”
“And the shot?”
“His leg.”
Deep, deep, deep, so very deep down in a place reserved only to bury feelings of denial, Anastacia knew what her husband referred to when he said “murder.” Her uncle was responsible for the deaths of her father and brother. She had thought it once, but denial had caused her years of misery, years of fear, to be just a little easier. She didn’t have to suffer the additional pain of knowing that the man at the root of all her loss was also controlling her, starving her, beating her, and there was not a thing she could do about it. So, she had pushed the truth down. But now, hearing it from Sebastian’s lips, there was no more denial.
“I never wanted to believe it . . .” she whispered, her eyes meeting his. “You planned all this?”
The strangers . . . they must have been men of the law.
He shook his head. “Dalziel and Marcus Hunt work for Bow Street. I informed them of my suspicions on our return, and they agreed to remain . . . close by.”
“I see.”
And she did. Her husband’s withdrawal made much more sense now. He did not trust her enough to tell her of his plans or suspicions, but neither did he trust himself not to reveal the truth.
“I’m sorry, Anastacia.”
She nodded. “So it’s done then?”
“It is done.”
“We are safe?”
“We are.”
She nodded again, glancing toward the wall, the draperies, the carpet. It hurt that he had not trusted her, and his earlier anger was still so clear in her mind that she did not quite know what to do.
“You left me.”
Her head shot up. “I came back.”
He arched an incredulous brow. “That is all you have to say on the matter.”
“That is all to the matter,” she said.
“No, it is not,” he growled.
Her hands settled on her hips. If her husband wished for a fight, she would oblige. “Well, if you are referring to abandoning me for a fortnight and not trusting me with your secret Bow Street Runners then yes, I suppose there is more to it than that.”
“I did all that for your own good.”
“And I left for our own good.”
“Our good?”
“Yes! I needed to do something to alter our situation. But it appears I could not even do that right. I came back, did I not?”
“Do you love someone else? Is that why you left me?”
The question was so unexpectedly flung at her, Anastacia sputtered in shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“Have you found love with another? Perhaps a lover to service your needs?”
“Service my—” Anastacia stopped abruptly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I am not even going to question your line of reasoning since it’s so idiotic!”
“Why else would you leave me?” he challenged. “And then there’s your note, Anastacia. Shall I refresh your memory?”
“I—”
“Dear Sebastian. I shall be forever grateful that you saved me, and I hold a deep debt to you in my heart. But I feel that it is best if I leave and free us both from these chains that bind us. Perhaps, in time, you too will find love.”
“Well, when you say it like that . . .”
“That is how you said it. The exact words you wrote.”
His face hard as granite, Anastacia found it hard to look at him. He had misunderstood her words. She had written the note as if she loved him, because she did, with all her heart. But standing before him now, she felt like a small child being scolded. She would not stand for it.
“I left you because you avoided me for two weeks, you dolt! I have not found another man to tend to any ‘needs’ I might have, because I only want your attention, your servicing, and your love, you imbecile! It is far more likely you who has issues with fidelity in any case!”
Her outburst seemed to take him back, for he blinked several times before he finally said, “Love?”
She stilled, her heart jumping to her throat.
Drat. “I meant only that—”
“You love me?”
“No! Well, not no—”
“Good. Because I love you.”
“—but no, as in I did not mean for it to come out like that, because—”
“Anastacia.”
“—you’ve been far too ill-tempered for—”
His hands gripped her shoulders, and his lips cut off her sentence. At the end of the kiss, her wide eyes once again met black ones.
“I. Love. You.” He practically growled the words at her.
Anastacia blinked and then nearly laughed at the joy that burst through her when the words finally sunk in. “You do?”
“Yes, with all my being.”
Well, that changes everything.
“And only you. You’ve ruined my rakish ways.”
She didn’t think her heart could get any larger. A relieved breath whooshed from her lips. “Oh good, for a moment I thought you might bolt from the room in fear and—”
Lips crushed against hers before they vanished once more, leaving her dazed.
“Would you stop babbling and just tell me you love me?”
“You first, say it again.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward. “I love you, Anastacia.”
She’d never tire of hearing that.
“I love you,
too, Sebastian.”
He gave her a slow, wolfish smile. “What happened to the promise that you ‘will never, not even if the world perished and you and I were the last survivors, lie with me’?”
Anastacia threw back her head and laughed. “Seems like I wanted to be the Shameless Duchess of Blackcress, after all.”
“As long as I get to be the hero from now on. No more jumping across kitchen tables or wielding knives,” he growled.
“Well, if you insist.”
Anastacia squealed when Sebastian snatched her up by the waist and carried her across the room to the bed. Depositing her her on the matress, he lowered himself over her.
He wore a particularly wicked smile on his face.
“Is this the part where you ravish me?”
His answer came in the form of a kiss. A kiss, followed by a complete and utter ravishment. And so it went, again and again, day after day, until she was entirely swept away by her wild lord
Swept Away By A Wicked Rogue
Tanya Wilde
Chapter 1
On the steps of an unknown residence
Tonight was the night.
Claire Northrup was in search of a man. And she wasn’t overly particular about his achievements. It needn’t be a man with a vast fortune or one who possessed the finest of things. No indeed, this man might be a sailor or a clergyman, perhaps even a playwright. It mattered not what he did for a living, as long as he was pleasing to the eye. Though, if she was honest, she wouldn’t mind if he were built like one of those fine-looking Greek statues either.
In fact, Claire could quite easily imagine herself trailing her fingers across the muscles of such a torso . . . being caged by such powerful arms . . . being devoured by such expert lips.
A shiver of anticipation stole over her.
As a matter of fact, now that she thought about it, a rogue might be better suited for her needs. One who possessed no good intentions, would not think twice about ravaging an innocent, and would only care to bring her to the heights of glorious passion.
In other words, a man Claire could walk away from.
Today also marked Claire’s twenty-fifth birthday, which ought to be a happy celebration, but given how her mood wilted with her increasing years and dwindling prospects, it was difficult to feel celebratory. That was the unfortunate thing about celebrating her birthday at Christmastide, the festivities and happy cheer charging the surrounding atmosphere did not suit her wallowing.
Twenty-five without any worthy possibilities.
This was no small fact to her. She held onto no delusions. Her odds of marriage were dismal, and being short, slightly plump, and firmly wedged on the shelf—at least according to her age—only affirmed that offers would not be forthcoming. Of course, her appearance did not bother her overly much, and most men also seemed not to care. Indeed, Claire received her fair share of whistles on the street and old men waggling their brows in her direction.
But Claire wanted more than mild interest.
A lesser woman might have married by now but Claire, in all her hopefulness, had held out for love. And why wouldn’t she? She did not belong to the supercilious society of the upper crust, driven by the need to marry in order to survive. The income she received from her little silk and fan shop, while modest, ensured she could live a comfortable life. And for that matter, Claire refused to give up her independence for anything less than love.
Yes. Against all the odds, Claire wanted love.
But since love was still out of her grasp, she had taken matters into her own hands and reached for the next best thing. In that spirit, Claire had done something scandalous, something outrageous. And as a result, she was staring up at the door that would, at long last, unlock her desires, the door that was on the very precipice of something wicked and delightful.
Tonight would be the night Claire lost her virginity.
It was her festive wish.
A birthday present to herself.
Still, a breath of hesitation rooted her feet.
Claire was by no means a woman of loose morals. She was anything but. It was simply that her entire life she had longed for something more. A daring adventure. A thrilling crusade. A perilous quest. Anything. Just . . . something other than simply passing through life. And all things considered, mostly her age, Claire mused, but also her figure, which was stubbornly getting plumper, this birthday seemed the perfect time to do something beyond shocking.
That did not mean Claire was calm—far from it. Her knees quaked with nerves as she had no clue what to expect from tonight, other than being thoroughly seduced. A part of her, however, in some small corner of her heart, wondered whether she was doing the right thing. How unfortunate it would be if she met the perfect gentleman on the morrow and hadn’t held out? But then, that may never occur. There was no certainty in this world. And she had made a choice. She was sticking with it.
After all, everything had already been arranged by Madam Dexter’s establishment, who catered to the fantasies of those willing to pay for it. From the invitation to a mysterious masked ball, which Claire gripped in her hands, to the instruction to tie a crimson ribbon in her hair, right down to the gentleman who had been arranged to meet her at the event.
She had even been given an alias for the night.
Angel.
The irony was not lost on Claire.
Mustering all of her confidence, Claire went through one final check. She lifted her chin up, relaxed her death grip on the invitation, and straightened her shoulders. Her glorious gown of matching crimson silk ought to do the rest, or she would have wasted an exorbitant amount of money—a year’s worth of savings—on the frivolous expense. But if all went according to plan, it would have been worth every penny.
She drew in a deep breath, adjusting her mask out of habit, and glanced down at the card resting between her fingers—a ticket to the night.
Lord, was she nervous!
It is now or never, Claire.
Without further ado, Claire gripped the brass knocker and rapped twice.
The door flung open to reveal a tall, imposing man dressed in the livery of a butler and an impossibly large gray wig. He stared at her, his features blank, and she held out her card, her hand trembling. To her irritation, his eyes flicked between her and the invitation before he finally gave a single nod and let her pass without so much as a word.
Claire stepped over the threshold.
It was a tentative step, one that betrayed her innocence to anyone who cared to notice, which at that point was only the servant. But it emboldened her nonetheless. Empowered her. She took another step, this one bolder than the one before. She had made the right choice. This was what she wanted.
Or the next best thing.
Tonight was the night.
Chapter 2
Roland Black was on the hunt.
He felt restless. On edge. Off his game.
In fact, he felt as though he had been shut in a cargo crate and tossed overboard a ship.
Unsteady.
Something ailed him, and he didn’t know exactly what, although he had a suspicion he tried his best to ignore. What he did know with certainty, however, was that the only thing that would cure his condition was a connection with a woman. And not the sort of connection where one used words, but the kind that involved two parts and thrusting—lots of hard, steady thrusting.
In the past, whenever this disquietude happened to him, he would never attempt to decipher what the hell had gone wrong—at least, not more than in very general terms. The cure seemed simple enough, so why bother to discover the source of the affliction? Especially when the occurrence itself was rare. In fact, Roland recalled it only ever happening twice before. The day his father died and he had been saddled with the usual responsibilities of his title, and four years after that, when his mother passed away. Those were the only two times. Clearly, death was his trigger.
Until now. This time was different. No one had passed away.
The few people that mattered to him were still very much alive. Although, if he cared to ponder the issue, which he didn’t but couldn’t seem not to, he had suffered another kind of recent loss, he supposed. The loss of his longtime friend. Not to death, but to marriage.
He had lost his wench-hunting partner.
That was a different sort of death altogether.
Roland shuddered.
But even so, it was nothing that should have caused this malady to rear its uninvited little head. It wasn’t so serious. Which was why, for the first time in his life, Roland really looked deeper into the reason why this was happening. Death he understood—the whole mortality business plunging one into a state of quandary and all that. Simple enough, really.
This time was different, however. No matter how Roland attempted to administer the known cure for his unmoored feeling, his cock refused to rise to the occasion. Any occasion.
It was damn humiliating.
Why the hell did his friend’s marriage bother him so much? He certainly did not wish the same fate for himself. And he detected no jealousy simmering on the surface that another human being occupied his friend’s attention. Indeed, he was happy for his friend.
Happy.
Roland wanted to be happy.
Bloody hell.
He shook his head at himself. He was happy. Happy as a bloody peach!
This was ridiculous.
What would it take to cure this sudden bedevilment?
Feminine charms, damnation! That’s what. And for his cock to bloody well accommodate them.
Roland stalked along the walls of the mansion where a masked ball of the morally unbound was in full swing, his hawkish eyes raking over every female in attendance. Usually, he wasn’t selective over the women he bedded, though the married ones held the most appeal. No entanglements, no attachments, and everyone walked away happy. At events such as these, however, he would usually snatch up the first chit that glanced his way. Short, tall, wide, narrow, a chit was a chit.
Tonight, however, something was different.
His urge to bed was there, and it wasn’t. What the hell was wrong with him? This was part of the reason for his edginess. In the past month, he had attended countless of events such as these and not one woman had caught his cock’s interest. In fact, he ended up leaving every single event unfulfilled and highly irritated.
