Wicked Designs

by Lauren Smith

  Ashton leaned down to touch Godric’s shoulder when Emily’s index finger twitched against the marble floor. It had to be a death spasm. But…her fingers began to curl further, into a ball. “Godric, look!”

  Godric, unable to see past the tears that clouded his eyes, tried to look up at his love. Emily’s long lashes fluttered against her cheeks.

  “She’s alive!” Godric choked out in a mixture of terror and relief. She was still alive. “Quick, check her wound.” Lucien knelt down near Emily’s head and helped him. Lucien examined the wound carefully and sighed in relief.

  “It’s a muscle wound. There are no vital organs here.” Lucien ripped off one of the sleeves of his shirt. With Godric’s help, they bound the wound as tight as they could. “If we get her to a doctor she may yet live.”

  “Is it safe to move her?” Godric asked Lucien.

  “I believe so.”

  Godric carefully picked Emily up in his arms, and the three men walked out into the street. Jonathan arrived at that moment, with the constable and several Bow Street runners. Ashton remained behind to explain, while Lucien and Godric took Emily back to Cedric’s house, to meet the doctor and pray that she survived.

  Heaven. It was warm and light, the soft murmur of a low masculine voice spoke to her… No, read to her. The Iliad in Greek. She tried to open her mouth but nothing moved.

  I want to see you, whoever you are.

  Did she have a body?

  She managed a small strangled whimper. The voice halted, then spoke, more eagerly.

  “Emily.” The voice sounded like Godric, but that made sense. Heaven was wherever he was. She tried to speak again, but only yielded another pathetic whimper.

  “Shh. Rest, my darling. You’ve been through so much.” A large hand clasped hers, its grip warm, strong, and perfect.

  Lips brushed over her forehead, leaving a trail of tender fire in their wake. She forced her eyes open. Even though Godric’s face was pale and his hair hung limp around it, he was still everything she’d wanted, craved. Loved. The sight of him. That was Heaven.

  Emily’s long lashes fanned as she squeezed his hand. She gave a weak smile. Godric choked back a sob, ghostly reflections of her own pain shimmered in his eyes.

  “What happened?” She fought to sit up. Pain radiated into every point of her being, but the pain proved her life—her presence.

  “You don’t remember?” He squeezed her hand back. Godric sat on the edge of her bed.

  “Stairs. I remember stairs?”

  Godric’s eyes shut at this.

  “You fell.”

  Emily squeezed his hand again, unable to do more to comfort him. “And after?”

  Godric looked at her and tucked a loose coil of her hair back behind her ear.

  “Blankenship killed that other man, and then I killed Blankenship.”

  Emily breathed a sigh of relief, only to wince from the pain. She was free of the dark specter of Blankenship forever.

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Cedric got a broken nose, and a gash in his arm, but he’ll mend. He’s more upset he can’t ride or hunt for the next month.” Godric chuckled.

  Emily’s shoulders sagged. She hadn’t realized she’d been so tense.

  “Emily, I had my solicitor look into the matter of your inheritance. There is the possibility that if you reached out to the trustee there might be a way get your father’s inheritance without marriage.”

  Emily bit her bottom lip. What did this mean? Did he want her to be free, or be free of her? In the darkness of her pain after she fell, she thought she heard him speak—declare his love. Had that been nothing more than a dying woman’s dream?

  Godric began again uncertainly. “Emily, I know you won’t marry me. I know that. But I can’t live one more day without you. All I ask is that wherever you go, whatever you do, let me come with you. We can travel the world. Whatever you want, it will be yours. I just wish to be with you.” Godric moved closer, tightly clenching her hands. “I can’t lose you. Not again.”

  “You would give up your place here?” she asked.

  “Emily, for you I’d give up my soul.”

  “What if I want your heart?”

  “It’s already been stolen. You, my dear, are the better kidnapper.”

  Godric opened the bedroom door to find five chairs stationed in a semicircle outside, occupied by his friends and brother. They sat up as he stepped out into the hall.

  “How is she?” asked Charles.

  Godric shut the door behind him. “She woke for a few minutes but she’s asleep again. Ash, can you track down the bishop?” His words turned the men’s mood from relieved to anxious before he continued. “And see if we can still arrange for a ceremony in St. George’s? She’s agreed to marry me!”

  His friends and brother all jumped up from their chairs, shouting and cheering, slapping him on the back. A month ago, a marriage among them would have seemed to be a death sentence, but this was the best news they’d ever had. Emily Parr would be a part of their lives now, and not one man would have it otherwise.

  Horatia came out into the hallway, with a tray of food. None of them had eaten or slept before now. “You’ll be waking the dead with your racket,” she said with a disapproving glare.

  “Congratulations. I knew you’d be the first to get leg shackled!” Charles joked.

  What a fool he’d been. Love had found him, saved him, and he would never let her go.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, gentleman!” Horatia snapped at the men loitering about around her. “We have a wedding to plan! Ashton, you will arrange the church and the bishop. I’ll see to Emily’s wedding gown. Charles and Lucien, you must both get all of the families here for this. I want St. George’s filled with our loved ones. Jonathan, you ought to go and fetch Penelope, as Emily misses her terribly.

  “Cedric, you will make sure Emily’s uncle gives his consent to the match. If he’s very nice about it, you can even invite him.” Horatia shooed the men away from the door so they wouldn’t wake Emily.

  Cedric looked confused as they left. “When did she become in charge?”

  Once they were off Godric returned to Emily’s bedside, taking her hand in his.

  He rubbed his eyes and gazed down at his sleeping lover. He remembered the young woman on his bed with a dirt smudge on her nose and cheeks, the soaking wet Amazon on the bank of the lake breathing life into him, the woman who fought with words like a swordsman, yet melted in his arms, and the angel who forgave him, who promised she would always love him.

  What twist of fate had led him to abduct Emily Parr that night?

  He would never know the true depth of his luck in capturing her, this woman who captured him right back. He only knew he would never let her go.

  Epilogue

  Lucien sat at the table in Cedric’s dining room, reading the morning paper. Cedric fed Penelope scraps from his chair next to him. The dining room was large for a London home, furnished with walnut chairs and a table, all gilded with scrollwork. Lucien looked over to Ashton and Charles, who were speaking near the large wood, glass-paned window overlooking the gardens.

  The lords were enjoying themselves, having successfully seen Godric and Emily off on their honeymoon, and were now resting at Cedric’s townhouse after the adventures of the last few weeks.

  “Well, Lucien? Anything interesting?” Ashton asked as he took a seat, leaving Charles alone to gaze out the window, lost in thought.

  “There’s an interesting tidbit in the society pages.”

  “Not Lady Society again?” Cedric chuckled. Penelope barked sharply at him. He reached down and picked her up, setting the foxhound on his lap. She was no longer a puppy.

  All things grow up some day, Lucien thought to himself.

  “Are you going to read it or not?” Charles asked from the window.

  “Miss Emily Parr married the Duke of Essex at St. George’s Hanover Square on Sunday. The bride and groom will soon de
part on one of Baron Lennox’s merchant vessels for their honeymoon. It would seem the eternal bachelor has embraced the shackledom of marriage at long last.”

  “That’s all?” Ashton mused aloud.

  Lucien folded the paper and set it down on the table. “Well, Lady Society spent half the column discussing Emily’s wedding gown and the various guests we managed to scrounge up at the last minute to fill the church. Not that it was a challenge.”

  He looked out through the large windows overlooking the gardens where Cedric’s two sisters sat on a bench, heads bent as they spoke. As a married lady Emily would qualify as a chaperone, which only meant more trouble for Cedric. He’d have to watch over Horatia and Audrey, especially the latter. She was often in trouble, even when she wasn’t actively seeking it out. Not Horatia though, she was always perfectly behaved, and it rankled him to no end.

  Charles grinned at Lucien. “I do believe that is the first positive piece about us in the Lady Society column. Wait until my mother reads it. She’ll be looking out the nearest window for signs of the four horsemen.”

  “Speaking of the apocalypse,” Ashton began. Lucien knew from his tone trouble was on the horizon. “I heard from one of my sources that Hugo Waverly has returned from France.”

  Charles’s smile faltered.

  Lucien sat up straight. “What the devil is he doing back here? I thought we’d driven him off for good.”

  Ashton frowned. “Been here for a few weeks they say. It seems he didn’t take our threats seriously, or does not care. I recommend that each of us be on guard until we can ferret out the truth of the matter. I doubt his motives have changed. He vowed to kill every last one of us. It is a small hope to think he’s changed his mind.”

  “What can he be thinking, though? To take us on as young men, when we didn’t know our strength, that was one thing. But now?” Cedric stroked Penelope as he spoke, but the hound growled as though sensing his tension.

  Lucien thought of all he stood to lose if Hugo Waverly struck. One person in particular came to mind. If he lost her, he’d lose himself. No, the time for posturing was over. It was time to prepare for war.

  The League of Rogues would have to protect themselves, and those they loved, from Waverly’s fatal schemes.

  Emily always preferred sunrises to sunsets. She supposed the symbolism of rebirth inspired her. But now, as she admired the tangerine glow of the setting sun, she noticed the purple hues that bled along the edges. She leaned against the deck railing, the polished wood smooth beneath her hands feeling a little nervous about their first honeymoon night. It was nonsense of course, she and Godric had done everything already and she had no need for nerves.

  A pair of strong arms slid around her waist, and a firm body pressed against her back.

  Godric kissed her temple and then her cheek. “There you are, love.”

  “Godric?” she said as lips danced down the line of her neck.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Are you glad you married me?” She leaned into him, savoring his strength. After being strong and brave for so long, she was grateful to have him lend her strength when she needed it. They would support each other, as people who loved each other should.

  “Glad? I could never be happier than the day you stood with me in the church. It was the beginning of an adventure.” His embraced tightened, keeping her secure in his arms.

  “Marrying me was an adventure?”

  Godric turned Emily around to face him. He cupped her cheeks with his palms and leaned in, resting his forehead against hers in the gold light of the setting sun. Each touch, each look shared between them, was like coming home. In him she found her life, her breath, her soul. With him she belonged in a way she’d never thought possible. Emily reached up to hold his wrists, losing herself in his eyes.

  With infinite tenderness his lips met hers. Their kiss gathered life from the depths of their souls. The spark of passion that had burned so often between them was no longer. The blinding light that only love could bring had replaced it, burning them with its intensity. Their lips melded into one fiery mouth, and their racing pulses fused into one steady, beating heart. When they finally broke apart, Godric smiled.

  “Loving you has been the adventure of a lifetime,” he said, “and we’ve only just begun.”

  About the Author

  Lauren Smith is an attorney by day, author by night, who pens adventurous and edgy romance stories by the light of her smart phone flashlight app. She’s a native Oklahoman who lives with her three pets—a feisty chinchilla, sophisticated cat and dapper little schnauzer. She's won multiple awards in several romance subgenres including being an Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel Award Quarter-Finalist and a Semi-Finalist for the Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award.

  Check her out at www.laurensmithbooks.com. You can follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/LaurenDianaSmith and on Twitter at www.twitter.com/LSmithAuthor. Her blog is theleagueofrogues.blogspot.com.

  Political intrigue could leave his heart the last one standing…alone.

  Sweet Disorder

  © 2014 Rose Lerner

  Lively St. Lemeston, Book 1

  Nick Dymond enjoyed the rough-and-tumble military life until a bullet to the leg sent him home to his emotionally distant, politically obsessed family. For months, he’s lived alone with his depression, blockaded in his lodgings.

  But with his younger brother desperate to win the local election, Nick has a new set of marching orders: dust off the legendary family charm and maneuver the beautiful Phoebe Sparks into a politically advantageous marriage.

  One marriage was enough for Phoebe. Under her town’s by-laws, though, she owns a vote that only a husband can cast. Much as she would love to simply ignore the unappetizing matrimonial candidate pushed at her by the handsome earl’s son, she can’t. Her teenage sister is pregnant, and Phoebe’s last-ditch defense against her sister’s ruin is her vote—and her hand.

  Nick and Phoebe soon realize the only match their hearts will accept is the one society will not allow. But as election intrigue turns dark, they’ll have to cast the cruelest vote of all: loyalty…or love.

  Warning: Contains elections, confections, and a number of erections.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Sweet Disorder:

  Nick leaned on his walking stick, giving himself a few moments to catch his breath. Of course the widow lived at the top of two flights of very steep, very twisty stairs.

  After six hours of jouncing about on bad roads the day before, followed by sleeping in an unfamiliar bed in damp weather, his leg had already been protesting. He’d waited until the sun came out this afternoon, and still his leg whined all the way from the Lost Bell, Tony’s inn headquarters: past the Market Cross and down the quaint streets, up the uneven garden path to the widow’s lodgings, past hedges and bushes strewn with drying clothes and past the open kitchen door, and into the house. Now, after the stairs, it shouted at him that it wanted to go home and sleep.

  You and I both, leg. He rapped on the low attic door. There was no answer. After half a minute dragged by, he tried again. No answer. The wretched woman wasn’t home. The staircase yawned behind him like a drab, dirty descent into Hell.

  Men had probably journeyed into Hell with more grace and less cursing, but eventually Nick found himself back out on the threshold. He closed the door and leaned against it. The maids at their washing in the kitchen couldn’t see him from this angle. He shut his eyes and silently recited Byron until the ache in his leg receded.

  “Are you ill, sir?”

  He started upright. The plumper of the two maids stood before him. The water from the washing had splashed all down her front, and it was chilly enough that the points of her nipples showed even through several layers of wet cloth. There was so much of her, breasts and hips and thighs and—

  She cleared her throat loudly. “Sir?”

  He hurriedly raised his eyes to her face. It was a lovely face, heart-shaped with great dark eyes, f
inely arched brows, and an annoyed rosebud mouth. The tips of her thick dark hair curled wetly.

  “Yes, I must have eaten something that disagreed with me,” he said. “I’m Mr. Dymond, and I’m looking for Mrs. Sparks. Do you know if she’ll be in later?”

  The maid’s eyes widened, and she tried to dry her hands on her skirts. “Maybe,” she hedged. “What did you want to speak to her about? Wait a moment, did you say Mr. Dymond? But I’ve met him, he’s—”

  “I’m sorry, I should have said Mr. Nicholas Dymond. My brother is the candidate.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You know Mr. Sparks is dead, don’t you? He can’t vote.” Her Sussex accent wasn’t as strong as many of the folk he’d spoken to here, but a warm burr coated her words like a honey glaze.

  It would behoove him to win her over for the sake of Mrs. Sparks’s vote, but he didn’t quite know how. Flirting with a voter’s wife was safe; she knew you didn’t mean it. A maid might think you were trying to bed her. His mother had impressed upon them all from a very early age the folly of womanizing during an election.

  How would Lady Tassell handle this? A smile, flattery and a bribe, no doubt. She had small armies of servant spies across England, and they all thought her a paragon of kind generosity.

  He smiled at the maid. Her hands twisted in her skirts. “I do know,” he said reassuringly. “But there’s nothing to stop her taking another, is there? If you could tell me of anyone she might be sweet on, I’d be very grateful. You must know all the news hereabouts.” He pulled a shilling out of his pocket and pressed it into one nervous hand.

  Her fingers were cold and damp. Even with the sun finally out, it was a damnable day for washing.

  The other maid, holding a linen shift trimmed with faded green bows and red rosettes, appeared at her elbow and plucked the shilling from her fingers. “That’s mine, I believe. And Mrs. Sparks isn’t sweet on anyone.”