A Lady’s Christmas Rake

by Andresen, Tammy

  Yesterday, for the first time, Rand had appeared whilst he cooled his heels awaiting Lydia’s certain rebuff. Rand had taken one look at him and whistled low.

  “Christ but you look like utter shite, Warwick,” his friend—perhaps former friend, given the circumstances—had observed unkindly.

  “I feel like it,” he had acknowledged with grim candor. “So, it is just as well that I look the part.”

  “I am sorry for what I said, if you must know.” Rand bowed his head, studying his boots, his jaw tense. “I have been stewing ever since I found out about your debts, convinced you had made my sister the sacrificial lamb upon your altar. My baser nature got the better of me, I am afraid.”

  “It would not be the first time,” he joked ineffectually, attempting to lighten the air. After all, he had considered Rand the brother he never had. That he had mucked up everything, alienating the two people he loved most in the world, killed him. “Will you speak with her on my behalf, Rand?”

  His friend eyed him warily. “I will make no promises, but you may say your piece.”

  “Tell her that I love her, and that I shall wait for her, however long it takes,” he said, unashamed to humble himself before Rand or anyone else. He wanted all the polite world to know that he was hopelessly in love with his duchess. But most of all, he wanted her to believe it. To believe in him again.

  Rand eyed him intently, much as one might an intruder one suspected had pilfered the family silver. “You truly do love her, don’t you?”

  Emotion clogging his throat, Alistair simply inclined his head. “With everything in me, and so much that it frightens me. My life without her is like a night sky stripped of its stars.”

  Afraid he would say more, he had gone. The ride back to his empty townhome had been silent with recrimination. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of Lydia. Reminded she was gone, and why she had left.

  Because of him.

  Today marked the eighth day since he had seen or spoken, touched, or kissed his wife. The candle of his hope had begun to sputter. Unlike his father, Alistair was not—nor had he ever been—a denizen of the green baize. He did not game, did not gamble, could not abide chance. But he knew enough of it to understand that fortune was no longer on his side.

  Sitting here, mooning over her, wishing she were here, would not make it so. The room still smelled of her, by God. Violets, those graceful, delicate spring beauties. Fitting she chose them as her scent, for like violets, Lydia was strong enough to withstand a harsh environment, to bloom with beauty despite all opposition.

  His mind traveled back to the night she had gathered up a sheet like a peasant woman and stolen out of their home with her family. She had left him with nary a backward glance, head held high, all the way to the carriage. And he had been left alone, helpless, impotent with both rage and guilt. As much as he wanted to smash his fist into Rand’s nose, he also wanted to blacken his own eye for causing Lydia the hurt he had seen in her face before she left him.

  He wished he had taken her in his arms, kissed her senseless, refused to let her leave. Now that she had, it seemed he would never get her back unless he forced the matter. But he had caused her enough pain already, more than he would have ever wished, and so he would not bring her back to his side against her will.

  She would have to come to him herself. Because she wanted to. Because, like him, she could not bear to spend another day without being in his arms and in his bed. Because she loved him. And all that, he thought with a bitter chuckle, seemed about as likely as a star falling into his lap.

  “Alistair.”

  His entire body went rigid at that voice, so mellifluous and beloved. The voice he had longed to hear and had imagined he heard in the midst of the night when he woke frustrated and alone.

  Lydia’s.

  He shot off the bed, turning to find her standing just within the threshold of the chamber, resplendent in a purple evening gown. Silk violets were tucked into her hair. She was so lovely he lost the ability to speak for a full minute. All he could do was stare at her, inhale the sight of her as if she were air, necessary and delicious, filling his lungs. Giving him life. And she was. She did, simply by being. She was that bloody essential to him.

  Why was she here? Hope fluttered within him, but he forced it down lest he become bitterly disappointed. He swallowed. “Lydia.”

  * * *

  Her brother had been right. Alistair looked awful. Dark circles marred the tender flesh beneath his blue eyes. He had not shaved since she had seen him last, and a dark beard cloaked his firm, wide jaw, hiding the precious expanse of skin where she knew by heart his dimples would appear if he smiled genuinely enough. Though it had only been a week since she had fled to mend her wounded heart, his already lean frame seemed a bit sparer. He wore no cravat, coat, or waistcoat, and gone was the polished Corinthian she had come to expect.

  The version of Warwick before her seemed wilder. He took two steps toward her before stopping, seeming to collect his thoughts. She knew she ought to say something—anything—but she had not quite prepared for the sensations that buffeted her upon seeing him again.

  “Alistair,” she returned, equally wary as she watched him.

  His buff breeches made it impossible not to notice his long legs, those muscled thighs. He was so tall, so strong. She longed to bury her face in his throat, kiss the masculine protrusion of his Adam’s apple, to make her way across his jaw, press her mouth to each one of his dimples. But she fell into his eyes, for they were burning and bright and greedy as they fixated upon her, and gleaming with love.

  He hesitated, and ran his fingers through his hair in an uncharacteristic gesture, betraying his nervousness. “Have you come home?”

  Home.

  No word had ever sounded more right coming from him save love, and she felt it land directly in her heart like a seed that would plant itself, grow, and blossom into something a thousand times its size. She took a step toward him. “I heard you yesterday when you spoke with Rand.”

  He quirked a brow, still studying her as though to commit each facet of her to memory in case she disappeared. “Why did you not agree to see me, then?”

  Another step brought her closer to him. “I was afraid that if I did, I would weaken in my resolve to keep you at bay.”

  “Yet, you stand before me, unless I am dreaming, and if so, I have no wish to wake.” He flashed her a beautiful, tentative smile.

  One more step. She could smell him now, that decadent scent that was uniquely his, and she yearned to throw herself into his arms, press her nose to his chest, and inhale. “I needed to know, Alistair, for certain, that you wanted me. That you loved me.”

  “It is my greatest regret that I ever gave you cause to doubt it,” he said, standing still, allowing her to come to him as she wished. “Why are you here, Lydia?”

  “You said your life without me is like a night sky stripped of all its stars.” She reached him at last, in the center of her chamber, stopped, and tipped her head back to look upon his beloved countenance. “And that is precisely how I feel about you, my love. When I left, I was not thinking clearly. I was hurt and angry. I thought you had lied to me, betrayed me, fooled me. At first, I was so angry that you’d kept your father’s debts from me that I wanted to hurt you as you had hurt me. But as the days passed, I realized that hurting you was akin to hurting myself, for you are the other half of me. The half of me I never knew I was missing until I found it in you. I realized that if you did not truly love me, you had no more reason to maintain the pretense after we wed and you had my dowry in your possession. When you came to see me, and I overheard your words, and Rand told me how pale and drawn you were, I knew for certain that I had made a grave mistake.”

  He stiffened, his jaw going rigid. “A mistake?”

  “Yes.” She framed his handsome face in her hands, allowing all the love she felt for him to show in her touch, her gaze. “I should have listened to you, given you the chance to explain yo
urself. I should not have run from you, and I am sorry that I did. All I can promise is that for the rest of our lives, I will only ever run toward you.”

  His arms went around her, clasping her to him, dragging her against his chest as though he could tuck her entire being into his heart and keep her there. “And I promise to catch you, my darling duchess, just as long as you promise to do the same for me.”

  She rolled to her tiptoes and pressed a lingering kiss to his mouth. “Always, Alistair. Can you forgive me for leaving?”

  “As long as you can forgive me for not telling you the truth of my father’s debts sooner.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I would have told you from the start, but I was afraid you would think it the only reason I courted you, when the truth was that I loved you and could not bear the thought of you being any man’s wife but mine.”

  “I understand,” she murmured, for she did. Distance and time away from him had proven only one thing to her: theirs was a love that could withstand any trial, and she could not remain apart from him for one moment more. “I love you.”

  His mouth crushed hers in a kiss that claimed. It was hungry, plundering, and she opened to his assault, tasting him, running her tongue against his. He kissed her as if he had not kissed her in a hundred years, and she reveled in his passion and fire, clutching his broad shoulders, wishing she could stay forever in his arms.

  When he broke away at last, they both breathed heavily. “Lydia,” he murmured. “I love you so much. Please do not ever leave me again.”

  She smiled. “Never. I promise.”

  “Hell, I almost forgot.” He spun her about so that she faced the far window and the unmistakable object standing before it. “This is your wedding gift, my love.”

  Awe coursed through her as she walked toward it, taking in its beauty. “A telescope,” she said in wonder, trailing her fingers lovingly over its brass and wood. “You got me a telescope.”

  He nodded, grinning so that his dimples appeared, even beneath the layer of his beard. “Designed by Herschel.”

  “Oh, Alistair.” She threw herself into him, looping her wrists around his neck and rising on tiptoes once more to rain kisses all over his lips, cheeks, jaw, chin. Herschel was a well-known astronomer, and his telescopes were much sought-after. Alistair must have put a great deal of thought into this gift, and he would have had to have commissioned it long ago, perhaps even before their betrothal. “This must have been very dear. You should not have gone to such an expense on my account.”

  “For you, I would do anything,” he said with a reverence that humbled her.

  “I love you,” she whispered into his mouth as he bent and scooped her into his arms. “I fell in love with you a long time ago, but you stole my heart all over again one Christmas in Oxfordshire.”

  They kissed frantically while he stalked across the chamber, their mouths only parting when he laid her gently upon the bed.

  He joined her there, his large body burning into hers as he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her throat, behind her ear. “My own bluestocking duchess, my love for you is as infinite as the moon and the sun and all the stars in the sky combined.”

  Lydia drew him to her for another melting kiss, and she knew she was precisely where she belonged, in the arms of the man who loved her exactly as she was, the man who loved her every bit as much as she loved him, her beloved duke.

  Also by Scarlett

  Don’t miss Willful in Winter, the next installment of The Wicked Winters…

  Rand, Viscount Aylesford, needs a fiancée, and he needs one now. His requirements are concise: she must not embarrass him, and she must understand he has no intention of ever marrying her.

  Miss Grace Winter is the most stubborn of the notorious Wicked Winters. When her brother decrees she must marry well, she is every bit as determined to avoid becoming a nobleman’s wife. She would never marry a lord, especially not one as arrogant and insufferable as Aylesford.

  But pretending is another matter entirely. She has to admit the viscount’s idea of a feigned betrothal between them would not be without its merits. Until Aylesford kisses her, and to her dismay, she likes it.

  Soon, their mutually beneficial pretense blossoms into something far more dangerous to both their hearts…

  Buy link: My Book

  About the Author

  Amazon bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency romance with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog. Find her complete book list at her website http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/.

  Devil at the Gates

  Lauren Smith

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Smith

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at lauren@laurensmithbooks.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  An Unwelcome Proposal

  Bree Wolf

  An Unwelcome Proposal

  by Bree Wolf

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, media, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Sabrina Wolf

  www.breewolf.com/

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Prologue

  England, November 1818 (or a variation thereof)

  “Is something the matter, Marianne?” Christine asked, eyeing her friend critically. Usually cheerful by nature, her childhood friend seemed most distraught as she wrung the handkerchief in her hands with such strength that Christine feared it would tear in two any moment now. “You do not seem like yourself.”

  Marianne sighed, and her eyes, clouded and slightly red-rimmed, travelled to the window. “Everything is fine,” she mumbled, but her shoulders slumped as though she didn’t have the strength to hold herself upright.

  Slightly exasperated, Christine took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing. “Even if I were blind, I’d now that something was wrong.” When Marianne glanced up, Christine leaned forward, holding her gaze. “Tell me what has you so distraught.”

  “Truly, it’s no−”

  “Marianne!”

  Sighing once more, her friend swallowed, her eyes drifting back and forth between Christine and the twisted handkerchief clutched in her hands. “Peter has been…” Shrugging her shoulders, Marianne sighed yet again.

  Christine felt the desperate urge to slap her. When cheerful, Marianne was a delight to be around. However, when something was wrong, Christine preferred to avoid her. Clearly, that was no longer an option!

  “Do you want me to guess?” Christine asked, sounding as exasperated as she felt. “However, it would save us both some time if you simply told me what is going on.”

  Not looking up, her friend began to pick at the handkerchief’s embroidery. “He’s been d
istant lately.”

  “And?”

  Marianne shrugged. “Sometimes I feel as though he’s avoiding me,” she mumbled, eyes fixed on a small, embroidered rose bud. “He goes out, and when I ask where he’s been, he…” Again, she trailed off.

  “You believe him to have an affair,” Christine stated matter-of-factly.

  Instantly, Marianne’s eyes flew open in shock and her jaw dropped down before she clamped it shut once more, defiance in her clear blue eyes. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”

  Shaking her head, Christine looked at her friend indulgently. “You suggested it, dear Friend. However, it was I who had the courage to say it out loud.”

  “Peter would never−”

  Christine snorted. “Are you suggesting that men generally do not have affairs? Or that your husband is above such matters?”

  Swallowing, Marianne turned her attention back to the handkerchief.

  “Did you ask him?” Christine pried although she already knew the answer.

  Slowly, Marianne shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  Again, Marianne sighed. “I’m afraid of what he’ll say.”

  “Isn’t it better to know the truth,” Christine asked, “than to be left wondering?”