The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  She laughed and pressed kisses to his chest, working her way through his waistcoat, downward. “Naughty boy. And what else will we be doing in London?”

  “I will be working for His Grace and the Foreign Office, in a gentlemanly, political sort of way that can offend no one.”

  She stopped what she was doing to sit up and stare at him. “What does that mean? How can you offend anyone by helping His Grace?”

  “If he succeeds in arranging a crown appointment for me with the Foreign Office, as he’s promised, that should be socially acceptable, but he’s only doing that because he’s paying me to act as his eyes and ears in Whitehall. You are the daughter of a viscount. I would not taint your reputation by reeking of trade.”

  Jocelyn punched his chest with her small fist. “You could buy an iron foundry and a cotton mill and I would not care, if they made you happy. Does the duke offer a position worthy of your brilliance?”

  “He does,” Blake agreed, hiding a smirk as he rolled his defiant wife back to the mattress. “He is supporting Wellesley in the Portugal campaign and agrees that we need fresh ideas. I am to act as his assistant in his efforts while I am establishing myself at Whitehall.”

  “You are spying on Whitehall for the duke?” she translated mischievously.

  “I’m keeping His Grace informed,” he retorted. “It seems most of Parliament is unaware that the Post Office regularly reads diplomatic posts and has a Deciphering Branch, so I have already taught him something new. He believes I have more uses than cryptology, but for now he is insisting that I teach our continental ambassadors to secure their documentation with code. We shall see what the future brings.”

  “I do not understand, but if you are happy, I am happy.” She arched her hips enticingly, expressing her happiness by rubbing seductively against him.

  “Do you mean that? If I drag you into the city, away from your pets and family, will you be happy there?” Blake loved his wife, but that did not mean he fully understood her. He held his breath—and other parts—while waiting for her reply.

  She laughed with delight, and he breathed again. And rubbed against her to ease his growing desire. With confidence that this night would finally end the way he wanted, he could be patient.

  “You are giving me my dream,” she said. “I adore the city and the parties and the theater. What I want most is a home I cannot lose, one where I can be myself. That can be anywhere.” She ran her hands down his sides. “Anywhere you are, at least,” she murmured, almost shyly.

  With that reassurance, Blake rolled to one side and began unfastening his damned confining trousers. “Then tomorrow, we will ask Fitz if we might rent his town house. It is almost ready to be occupied.”

  “We can afford a whole house?” she asked, sounding slightly breathless as he stripped his shirt over his head.

  He liked to think her excitement was for him as much as for the house, but he wouldn’t count on it. “I believe my income will be more than yours. I think you may be able to buy a few new ribbons for your hair.”

  “And new linen for you,” she taunted. “I cannot have a shabby husband if I sport new ribbons.”

  Blake tugged off his trousers, left the candle burning, and turned back to admire his wife’s beauty as he drew her gown down over her rounded shoulders. He kissed the curve of each breast until he heard her breath hitch in that wonderful way he’d learned was a signal of her arousal.

  “Changing me already,” he warned, pressing his kisses further.

  “Changing your linen is not changing you. You, I love as you are.”

  She freed her arms from her gown, wrapped them around his neck, and pulled his head down to her.

  Jocelyn marveled at the long, hard masculine body pressing her into the feathered mattress. Her husband was a big man, one with very determined desires. Naked, he revealed the hugeness of those desires. She was no longer intimidated by his size, but she bit back her cry when Blake took her nipple in his mouth and ravished it. Her own desire scared her more than his.

  She’d spent this last week learning the mysteries of his maleness, but there was yet one mystery to be solved. The place between her thighs ached and grew liquid with need. Was she ready for the babies that satisfying that need would inevitably bring?

  Would Blake be there to share such a heavy burden?

  “I love you,” he declared, pushing up on his muscled arms to watch her, as if he knew what worried her. “I will want to smother and protect you against all harm. I know I cannot, but you must learn to be direct and tell me what you want, just as much as I must learn to listen.”

  His hips moved, and the hard heat of his maleness slid between her thighs, poised at her entrance.

  I love you. She could never get enough of hearing such an extraordinary statement. He left her breathless, and she wanted nothing more than to give in to his demands. But he was right. Blake offered her the freedom to say what she wanted, and she could not throw away the opportunity. “I love you. I want you. I want your lovemaking. And maybe, someday, I want babies,” she said. “But I need time . . . ,” she admitted honestly, as she had not earlier.

  “And time you shall have.” To her shock and dismay, he rolled over and fumbled about in the wooden box he kept beside the bed.

  Jocelyn wanted to drag him back, to tell him to keep on doing what he’d been doing, that she hadn’t meant a word. That she needed him desperately right now. At the same time, she was fascinated as he produced a very odd packet with a ribbon drawstring.

  She was even more fascinated with where he wore it. Her eyes grew wide, and excitement pulsed in her lower stomach. Could she have Blake without babies?

  “You are a brilliant, brilliant man,” she murmured in awe as he returned to her arms and began caressing her breasts into pouting, aching peaks again.

  “I am glad you appreciate that,” he said smugly, nudging her legs apart with his knees.

  She laughed and kissed him everywhere she could reach and melted as his big hands cupped and caressed and drove her to those exhilarating heights he’d already taught her.

  And when he entered her, at long last, she cried her delight and awe, wrapped her legs around his hips, and rocked to his driving thrusts until her whole world exploded in a vision of fireworks and stars. His shout of joy matched hers.

  With Blake, she would willingly have babies. For the pure ecstasy of his hard arms around her and his heated body sprawled over her, she would give him anything he asked.

  36

  “I win,” Lady Bell declared while examining the immense windows in the salon of Danecroft’s newly renovated townhome. “I wagered Montague would not be buying colors on my money, and he will not.”

  Jocelyn had rather thought the money was hers, but she refrained from arguing with the marchioness, who had given her so much. She was much too enchanted with her newly wedded state and the possibility that she might own two homes. Well, she wouldn’t own this one, but leasing was good enough.

  Her security against disaster and upheaval was her husband, not a house. She’d finally found a useful man, one she could trust with her love, one who actually listened . Blake was her home. She could not begin to explain the wonder of such a discovery.

  “But my wager was that Blake would have what he wants by spring,” Quent argued. “Blake, do you have all that you want now?”

  Blake was examining a nearly invisible seam in the new wallpaper. At the question, he glanced at Jocelyn. “I wager I do,” he agreed, laughing.

  Just his look heated her blood until she blushed. What they had done these last nights . . . She sighed and tried not to think of that or she would have to find an excuse to run upstairs and inspect their new bedchambers.

  “Blake is a man of action, not of violence,” Jocelyn explained. “He did not wish to go to war so much as find an outlet for his energy and his intellect.”

  Quentin snorted but held his tongue.

  “This wagering business is very complicated.
We can’t both win,” Lady Bell argued, sweeping from the salon into the dining room. “These chairs are a disgrace. I believe I have some stored that will suit better, and you can have these sent off to be refurbished. You will need a great many chairs if you are to entertain Blake’s colleagues at Whitehall.”

  “His Grace says Blake’s code machine is a ‘bloody brilliant device’ for diplomatic correspondence,” Jocelyn declared happily. “We will have many entertaining parties with people he would like us to meet.”

  Blake wrapped his arms around her waist to hush her and studied the room from over her shoulder. “I believe Fitz emptied his attics to furnish this place. We can send the chairs back to him, if you wish.”

  Jocelyn patted the back of an elaborately carved old mahogany chair. “The chairs do not matter as much as the people who sit in them do. I will have some nice pillows made.”

  She turned and looped her arm through Blake’s to draw him into the room to admire the long dining table. “Lady Bell, I think you must bring Lord Quentin’s sister out in the spring just so I might have the pleasure of introducing Lady Margaret to Blake’s friends. And Lady Sally is not yet attached, is she? Perhaps I should take up matchmaking.”

  Blake groaned. Lord Quentin looked interested. And Lady Bell raised her delicate eyebrows.

  “If Quent will give up his bays to me, I will usher his sisters around, and we could call it even,” the marchioness announced. “And I would be delighted to share the duties of helping the girls meet society. I do believe we can create a lively circle of eligible bachelors once we put our heads together.”

  “Nick has no intention of marrying,” Blake said, warning them away from one of the bachelor possibilities. “He has no need of money or houses and is quite content the way he is.”

  “I wouldn’t let the rake marry my sisters anyway,” Quent said, “but I’ll agree to the loan of my bays until my sisters are properly out. There is still the matter of the kiss you promised if I win.” He watched impassively as Lady Belden flashed her fan and blatantly ignored his suggestive tone.

  “I did not lose,” she reminded him. “I owe you nothing.”

  Quentin smirked and continued with the earlier subject. “I cannot imagine how Jocelyn will manage come-out parties and political dinners and still have time for anything else. Your families will never see you.”

  “Chelsea is less than an hour’s ride away. And we are going to Shropshire for Christmas,” Jocelyn said. “Blake’s family is thrilled that he’s settling down. They have even invited my family to join them for the holiday. I think I might persuade Richard to leave his birds for a little while. I’m not so sure about my mother, but I suppose she can look after the pets if she chooses to stay home. She’s researching Blake’s genealogy now. I think she likes it best when she has her old home to herself.”

  “After enduring Harold in it for all those years, I can understand that,” Quent said. “Was the duke satisfied with our handling of that situation?”

  Jocelyn stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to Blake’s cheek. Releasing her husband’s arm, she followed Lord Quentin and patted the big man’s coat sleeve reassuringly. “Harold and Antoinette could not go on as they were. You need not look so upset for your part in shipping them out. They cut themselves off from family, not the other way around. They had no friends. I’m not certain they even like each other. They either have to change or they will come to very bad ends. By writing the governor of the prison colonies, the duke has given them a second chance. My family is relieved by the choice.”

  “Richard shows more sense than the current viscount.” Quentin pressed Jocelyn’s hand on his coat sleeve and released her. “He has given me some ideas about raising fowl that I might put into production. I may have to hire him—discreetly, of course.”

  “Of course,” Jocelyn agreed, biting back a smile. “I shouldn’t think the heir to Carrington’s title could go into trade. La, I’d be all atwitter.”

  Quent gave her a sharp look, but at Blake’s and Lady Bell’s laughter, realized she was hoaxing him. “You are a wretched minx and I wish Blake well of you. I don’t believe Whitehall will know what hit them once you unleash your full skills. I suspect you will be as valuable to England as Blake is.”

  Blake took her in his arms and hugged her close. “Oddly enough, being part of a pair offers more freedom than living alone and doubles the opportunities for advancement. Two heads, working from different perspectives, really are better than one. Jocelyn is my secret weapon. Isn’t it about time you found your own woman, Hoyt?”

  Jocelyn snuggled against her husband’s broad chest and laughed merrily at his conceit.

  Tomorrow was another day, and for once in her life, she looked forward to planning it.

  What happens when a rebellious younger son

  is determined to reform his rakish ways?

  Find out in

  The Wicked Wyckerly

  the first book in the Rebellious Sons series by

  Patricia Rice.

  Now available from Signet Eclipse.

  Abigail Merriweather drove the sharp blade of her hoe into the weed that was daring to invade her rhubarb patch. The thick green leaves and red stalks of the rhubarb grew with a lushness that made a mockery of her arid existence since her half siblings had been taken away.

  “The house is so quiet!” She cried her despair to the tailless squirrel perched on the fence.

  The squirrel chattered his agreement, reaching with his little paw to grab the nutty reward she offered for his company. The tickle of his nails against her palm might be the only small hand that touched hers this day. She almost burst into tears.

  “I cannot go on like this,” she told her sympathetic friend. “I’ve written to the marquess asking for help and waited and waited, but he does not answer my pleas.”

  She didn’t whine to the servants. That would be undignified. And her friends in the village thought she ought to be relieved to be rid of four rowdy young children. Certainly, she’d already sacrificed enough on their behalf. She had been twenty-three before she finally found a suitor in the local vicar, and twenty-four when he ran away rather than adopt the rambunctious half siblings whose responsibility she’d assumed upon her father’s unexpected death. Her minuscule dowry hardly covered the expense of such a ready-made family. For a vicar hoping to advance his position, she had become a liability rather than an asset overnight.

  She understood why Frederick had left, but she’d been crushed all the same. Losing both her papa and her fiancé in a single year had been devastating. But she loved the children and had given up marriage to keep them. Except now they were gone, too, shipped away by Mr. Greyson, her father’s executor, to the safekeeping of a guardian who could provide more effectual male guidance. Tears welled at the still-fresh sting of the insult. A veritable stranger was more suitable because he wore trousers!

  “They’re all the family I have left,” she told the squirrel, who would have switched his tail in approval had Miss Kitty not deprived him of it when he was just a nestling.

  Brushing her short curls from her forehead, Abigail leaned on the hoe handle and surveyed the rhubarb bed with a sharp eye for nefarious dandelions and wild garlic. Soon, both rhubarb and strawberries would be plentiful, and Cook would prepare the tarts the twins so dearly loved.

  But Cissy and Jeremy wouldn’t be here to eat them.

  “I need a man,” she declared so decisively that the squirrel leaped from the fence and hid under the hedge. “I need to marry a rich solicitor,” she amended. “A gentleman who loves children and would take my case to the highest courts. An upright, respectable man with enough money not to worry about the expense!”

  Rather than cry more useless tears, she was stubbornly contemplating the solicitors of her acquaintance—which amounted to exactly none—when the mail coach rattled to a halt on the treelined road. The mail wasn’t delivered personally to Abbey Lane, but Abigail couldn’t prevent her heartbeat from
skipping in hope. Perhaps a letter of response from a marquess required hand delivery. She wouldn’t know. Her father’s distant, titled cousin had never sent one.

  Please, let him say he would help her fetch the children back. Jennie and Tommy were older than the twins, but they were still too young to be away from home. If she couldn’t find a rich solicitor to marry, she needed a respectable, wealthy London gentleman, like the marquess, who would be willing to fight for her cause.

  The coach lingered, and she hurried toward the gate, hoe still in hand. Perhaps their guardian had relented and sent the children home for a visit. The mail might stop out here for young children—

  “Keep the demon bratling off my coach until you’ve tamed or caged her!” a cranky male voice bellowed.

  “I hate you, you bloody damned cawker!” a child screamed.

  Despite the appalling curse, Abigail hurried faster. She did not recognize the voice, but she knew hopeless desperation when she heard it. She would not let harm come to any child under her notice.

  “Your generosity will not be forgotten,” a wry, plummy baritone called over the thump of baggage hitting the ground.

  Sophisticated aristocrats with rounded vowels and haughty accents were not a common commodity in these rural environs. Abigail’s innate social insecurity kicked in, rendering her immobile while she tried to decide upon a course of action.

  A small figure darted through the hedgerow, dragging a ragged doll and shouting, “Beetle-brained catchfarts can’t catch me!”

  “Penelope!” the gentleman shouted. “Penelope, come back here this instant.”

  Oh, that would turn the imp right around. With a sniff of disdain at such incompetence, Abigail intercepted the foulmouthed termagant’s path. Crouching down to the child’s level, she placed a hand on her arm. “If you run around behind the house,” she murmured, “he won’t find you, and Cook will give you shortbread.”