The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “But Dr. Merial said—”

  She leaned down and kissed him, swiftly, on the mouth, silencing his protest. “Number Two,” she breathed against his lips. “Staying abed may not be such a terrible thing. Dr. Merial said we might resume . . . er . . . well, if we are very, very careful and do not do anything strenuous to dislodge the bandages—”

  Without warning, she found herself flipped over on her back, her blond and bandaged husband looming over her. “I swear to God, Mary, if you’ve kept that secret longer than five minutes, so help me . . .” His eyes narrowed.

  “Only since last night.” She held her breath. Lifted her hands. “I suppose,” she added hopefully, “since I’ve been so naughty, you might have to . . . tie me up and punish me?”

  He burst out laughing. Leaned over her to deliver a stinging, beautiful bruise of a kiss, and she moaned as she felt the sweep of his tongue inside her. But instead of pursuing the tumult of feelings he was kindling inside her, he broke off the kiss, smirking down at her. “Aye, my sweet English rose,” he said, adopting a hideous Turkish accent. “I know how to punish you. But not with a rope. With my very hand.” His hand slipped lower, beneath the hem of her nightrail, and she felt the sure, knowing sweep of his fingers, swirling softly against her seam.

  “I am at your mercy, my fearsome sheik,” she said back, in a throaty voice that promised more love play, should only he want it.

  “Although, truth be told this comes closer to punishing me,” he admitted with a groan. He leaned his head against the curve of her neck, breathing harder now, even as his fingers strummed a primal beat inside her. “I’ve gone two weeks without a proper release. I don’t know how long I can hold out.”

  “Well, please don’t hold out too long,” she informed him, wrapping her arms carefully around him, being sure to avoid the bandages. She lightly scraped her nails down his back, shivering as the motion evoked a lovely growl of pleasure from him. “Ever since our little adventure saving the queen, reading books no longer brings me quite the same degree of enjoyment.” She gasped as his perfect fingers found a place that made her hips lift off the mattress, begging for more. “I’ve changed, thanks to you,” she panted. “And I’ve decided I need to create a bit of adventure, not just read about it.”

  “I see,” he said gravely, not diverted from his path in the least. “And given that I must stay in bed, just who do you propose to have this adventure with?” he asked, even as he played her like a beautiful instrument.

  “I didn’t say I was going to have the adventure. I am going to create it.” She drew a deep breath, closing her eyes, turning herself over to the last of her secrets, though this one felt as though she was baring her very soul. “I haven’t yet told you Number Three on my list. You see, I’ve been thinking . . . about writing a book of my own.”

  His fingers stilled against her. There was a moment of profound silence. And then he was lifting his hand, pressing a kiss against her lips. “Good Christ, Mouse,” he breathed. “That’s the best idea you’ve had yet. You’d make a brilliant authoress.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. She stared up at him. Was he joking?

  But no . . . he was smiling at her, his blue eyes shining with something that might have been pride. “You . . . really think so?” she asked, biting her lip. “It won’t be easy. I’ve never written anything more than a journal entry.”

  “With your imagination? You’ll be a far better authoress than those boring, blathering idiots from the night of the literary salon.”

  “Better than Dickens?” she squeaked, shaking her head. “You are mad.”

  “Not mad. Just selective in my reading preferences. That book Bleak House you once told me to read sounds so . . . bleak.” He smirked at her again, then pulled her nightrail up and over her head. “And at the risk of pointing out the obvious, you already have the ink stains on your hand, the mark of a proper author. I’d say the only thing missing at this point is the actual book.”

  He fell upon her, kissing his way up her body, his tongue merciless against her skin, until she was trembling against him. “But promise me,” he said as he rounded the curve of one breast, his breath hot against her quivering skin, “the first book you write will be based on your life. You can call it The Lustful Mouse.”

  “I don’t know,” she giggled, happily letting him do what he would. “Perhaps a book based on my life isn’t such a good idea. The best heroines always die at the end. And I’ve heard the hero of that tale is an utter scoundrel.”

  “Not in this story,” he said, nipping his way toward her other breast. “In this story, the heroine lives to be a hundred years old, and the hero is a devoted husband, determined to bring his wife the utmost pleasure into her dotage. This story shall have the happiest of endings.”

  And then he set about proving it.

  Epilogue

  November 21, 1858

  The smell should have been worse.

  She expected something sour, a nappy fouled in the worst possible way. Just last week she’d read a book on motherhood, which had warned against taking little ones out in public so as not to risk undue embarrassment.

  But as Mary felt the telltale dampness spreading through the blanket and onto her bodice, she felt anything but embarrassed.

  She smiled down at the cherubic face, the wide, innocent eyes. “What have you done now?” she murmured, slipping a finger inside the blanket to check the flannel. Only damp. Nothing more ominous, and certainly nothing requiring an immediate return to his mother.

  “Do you want to give him back?” Eleanor asked anxiously.

  “No, it’s just a little misplaced urine. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Still, Mary leaned down and whispered in her nephew’s ear. “Although be careful where you aim, or they’ll be calling you that damned Ashington one day.”

  And in spite of the wet bodice, she wasn’t quite ready to return the baby yet. She loved holding her nephew, even the less palatable pieces of the experience. Though it would not yet be obvious to the crowd in attendance today, she could feel the pleasant quickening in her abdomen, the secret evidence of her own impending motherhood. She did not fear her new condition, any more than she feared standing in this jostling crowd. Having come through so much, she knew there was nothing she couldn’t handle.

  “Even wet, you are a cute little nubbin,” she said, tickling her nephew on the chin and earning a happy giggle from the baby.

  “Can we please use another word?” came West’s voice, pushing pleasantly over her shoulder. “That one brings back unfortunate memories.”

  Mary glanced up from the distraction of making her nephew laugh. She’d come here today with Eleanor, knowing West needed to arrive early to see to all the arrangements. She hadn’t seen him for several hours at least, and she’d never seen him looking like this, wickedly handsome in full military regalia, the honor bestowed upon him for his role in today’s event, even though he had long since sold his commission.

  Mary returned the baby to his mother, then looped her arm through West’s, half-wishing she might be able to drag him to a corner and enjoy his startling appearance in private.

  But the day was too important for such distractions—even ones so delicious—so she settled for a quick kiss on his cheek instead. “Oh, I think we will soon lay that rumor about what you may or may not be lacking to rest once and for all, don’t you?”

  “Not soon enough for me,” West chuckled, although in truth, he no longer gave the rumors that trailed him any real thought. He lived for the woman in front of him now.

  And soon, he would live for the child she carried as well.

  “What are you two talking about?” his sister-in-law asked suspiciously.

  Mary shook her head. “Oh, nothing.”

  West held his own tongue as well. She’d told him the very day—the very minute—her courses were late, keeping the promise they’d made to be unfailingly honest with each other, and he would keep this promise as well.

/>   Thank goodness Mary was handling the first few months of pregnancy well, with no outward signs of distress. He couldn’t imagine having accomplished any of this without her. The idea to build the new wing of the hospital had initially been hers, and she’d encouraged him to apply his rusty architecture skills in its design. It had also been her idea to delay the timing of their happy announcement until after the cornerstone of the new wing of the hospital was laid.

  He had agreed because the new ward had demanded a good deal of both West’s and Dr. Merial’s attention, but now that the cornerstone was being laid, there was no longer a need to wait. Tomorrow she would have a proper evaluation from Dr. Merial.

  But for now, the secret was happily their own.

  A familiar face emerged from the crowd, looking dapper in a dark jacket and top hat, his usual white gloves replaced by dark leather for a change. “I see you’ve decided to finally take my advice and make something of your life,” Wilson said, his rheumy eyes shining, and his voice gruff with something that might have been emotion.

  “Wilson!” West exclaimed in surprise, reaching out a hand to clasp the aging servant on the shoulder. After all, this was the man who had helped Mary with that note that had saved the queen’s life. “I cannot believe you came today.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this proud day for the world, Master Geoffrey.”

  West’s gaze fell on a row of medals pinned to the man’s chest, tarnished but unmistakable. “What is this? You were . . . a solider?” he asked, stunned.

  “I fought beside Wellington, once upon a time.” The older man smiled at West. “Taught me a few things about being a proper butler.”

  West gaped at Wilson. “I . . . that is . . . you might have told me,” he said, feeling a bit embarrassed. “For God’s sake, I would never have subjected a proper military hero to my wind-maker under the stairs gag.”

  Wilson shook his head, chuckling. “Oh, I don’t know. I suspect knowing about my past military experience might have earned me even more of your tricks, given the rough time you had adjusting after your return from Crimea. But you’ve come through it and victory is in sight. This hospital is a fine and honorable undertaking. Well done, Master Geoffrey.”

  The kindly old servant turned smartly on his heel. West watched him go, his mouth still open in surprise. “I never knew Wilson was former military,” he muttered.

  “You didn’t suspect?” Mary asked, sounding surprised.

  “No.” Although, it made a good deal of sense in hindsight. Wilson’s almost-painful interest in West’s slow recovery after Crimea, the way the man ran Cardwell House with such military precision—but what a trick to have never said anything before. A grin split his face.

  A trick worthy, perhaps, of West himself.

  The sharp ring of a bugle pulled his attention toward the front, signaling the start of the afternoon’s event. All around them, uniformed men snapped to attention, and West cupped his hand against Mary’s elbow, guiding her to the place of honor in front of the milling crowd.

  Just ahead, he could see the queen standing, surrounded by a small entourage of red-coated soldiers, four of whom were settling a cornerstone into place. When Queen Victoria laid a solemn hand on it and blessed it to a useful life, the crowd erupted in great cheers.

  West felt like cheering, too. They were too far away to read the inscription on the stone, but he knew exactly what it said.

  St. Bartholomew’s Ward for Convalescing Sailors

  For William Breech. For Danny O’Shea. For Pete Thompson.

  And for Charles Grant.

  The building would be finished in the spring—not soon enough to correct the enormous social burden of so many soldiers and sailors returning from various foreign fronts, many stricken with malaria, some missing limbs—but sooner than he’d ever imagined.

  So many men needed care, not all of which could be seen with one’s eyes. Part of his architectural plans included a special ward dedicated to men whose minds were suffering the ravages of war, a place where they could receive help without the terrible permanency of Bedlam. And judging by the happy smiles of the military men around him, they were grateful for West’s efforts to oversee the building of it. It turned out usefulness suited him.

  Both as a man, a sailor, and a husband.

  And Mary had been correct. Remembering the men who had died—even Grant, whose derangement had almost certainly been brought on by the circumstances of that brutal war—had helped him finally, properly heal.

  A voice floated toward them, feminine and regal, pulling him from his self-absorbed distraction. “Mr. Westmore, I wanted to offer you my personal thanks.”

  West stiffened, at first seeing only a line of red wool, frowning faces, and tall helmets. But then a woman stepped out of the circle of soldiers.

  “Your majesty,” Mary gasped beside him, then dipped into an inelegant curtsy.

  West bowed from the waist, unaccountably nervous. He’d not seen the queen up close since she’d pinned his Victoria Cross on him in Hyde Park. “Your majesty,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “I assure you, no thanks are needed. We are happy to do what we can to help our country’s returning soldiers, after all they have done for us.”

  The queen inclined her head. “Yes, I am thankful for your efforts to open this ward, especially given that my plans for the new military hospital in Southhampton have been delayed due to bitter politics. But there is this matter to thank you for as well.” The queen held out her hand, and he could see his Victoria Cross, laying against a pristine white glove. “I believe this belongs to you, Mr. Westmore. And I believe the thanks I owe is for my life.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, West stretched out a hand. The medal felt smooth and cool against his hand, but his cheeks warmed against the attention. “No thanks is necessary, your majesty,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

  “Oh, I beg to differ.” The queen inclined her head. “You see, after receiving your note and deciding to delay my trip, I had Scotland Yard reach out to the Edinburgh authorities.”

  “Did they . . . er . . . say anything about me?” West asked weakly.

  “Nothing I had not already heard, Mr. Westmore. Your reputation is legend among my chamber maids. They keep wishing you might try to sneak into my bedchamber.”

  Beside him, Mary let out a horrified gasp.

  “But as this did not seem like one of your jokes, Mr. Westmore, at least none of the ones I had heard, I asked the authorities in Edinburgh to investigate the route I would have taken that day, leaving no stone unturned. They soon discovered something rather unusual beneath Southgate Bridge. A hidden vault, full of gunpowder. Do you know anything about it?”

  West felt like squirming. “Very little, your majesty.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that very much. It seems you did more than save my life, Mr. Westmore.” The queen raised a regal brow. “Though I have no proof it was you, or even who might have been behind such a nefarious plot, I suspect you also saved the lives of hundreds of innocent people that day.”

  “Not just me, your majesty.” West exhaled as he looked down at Mary, knowing that without her, the outcome would have been very, very different. He cupped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “We did what we could.”

  At that, the queen smiled. “My Albert and I are also very much a team, you know. I only wish I had a medal for your wife then, as well.” The queen gestured to the Victoria Cross, still resting against his open palm. “Will you wear yours today?”

  For once, West didn’t need to think about such a question. “With pride, your majesty.” He reached up and pinned it to his jacket. “In honor of those who died at Viborg.”

  “And, I hope, for those who lived in Edinburgh,” the queen added, “thanks to you both.” She offered them both a last, grateful smile before turning away.

  West glanced at his wife, only to realize she was staring at the queen’s departing entourage with wide brown eyes. “Did that just real
ly happen?” she whispered. “I just met the queen? Wearing a bodice soaked with urine?”

  “Just so,” West said, teasingly. Now that it was over, his breath returning to his lungs, he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. After all, the queen was just an extraordinary woman—no different than his wife, when it came down to it. “But perhaps I’d better pinch you, just to be sure.”

  Mary’s eyes narrowed up at him, but her lips twitched upward. “The only question is where would you like to pinch me?” She stood on her toes to whisper in his ear. “You see, I’ve been doing some writing of my own, and on page 48 of The Lustful Mouse . . .”

  And just like that, she had him standing at attention, and not in a proper military sort of way. West knew then that while the day was already off to a wonderful start, his night promised to be even better. And if he had anything to say about it, page 48 of The Lustful Mouse was going to be very interesting, indeed.

  Author’s Note

  Queen Victoria was Britain’s longest-living monarch, holding her title from 1837 until her death in 1901. Over the course of her life, she survived seven known assassination attempts and at least one notorious assassination plot, where, encouraged by the prime minister, Irish nationalists planned to blow up Westminster Abbey on the occasion of the queen’s Golden Jubilee.

  These are only the assassination attempts that were known: how many were thwarted by unsung heroes is anyone’s guess.

  Acknowledgments

  It isn’t easy to write a book. Neither is it easy to live with someone who writes a book, and so I must acknowledge my husband, John, for not only tolerating the crazy that seems to invade my body as deadlines loom near, but also for offering helpful advice, reading the worst of it, bringing me egg sandwiches when I am hunched over the laptop, and offering me bourbon to unlock secret plotlines. Thanks to my girls, who took their math homework to Daddy during most of 2015, realizing that they were far more likely to get the correct answer from the parent getting enough sleep. Thanks to my CDC co-workers, for imagining that I can write nearly anything. Thanks to my critique partners for their advice, camaraderie, and daily email encouragement, and to Georgia Romance Writers, for providing a safe place to learn about this crazy, wonderful writing world.