by Shana Galen
She frowned, hardly comprehending him. But she understood well enough when he sat and moved his hands away from her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I am giving up vice. I am a man of virtue now. I have been since we parted.” He may have stopped touching her, but his gaze lingered. He was not quite virtuous enough to avert his eyes.
“Is this about marriage again?” she asked.
“I do not want to be number seven. If you want me to continue,” he said, his gaze dipping to her nakedness again, “you will have to agree to become my wife.”
She pulled her chemise over her chest and sat. “I told you, I am not marrying you.”
He shook his head. “As you see, I am undeterred. That is what love does to a man.”
“What more do I need to say to… Love? Flynn, don’t mock me.” She tried to rise, but he grabbed her wrist.
“I’m not mocking you, Emma. In fact, I’m agreeing with you. When you talked about falling in love with me the first time we ever met, I knew exactly what you meant. I have been in love with you since that day. I didn’t want to admit it.”
She didn’t believe him. She feared she was sleeping. “Why are you saying this?”
“But then that night in Bath, when you first kissed me, I couldn’t deny it anymore. I knew there was something beyond physical lust between us. I wanted you—I want you, Emma—in a way and with a fierceness that’s unlike the way I’ve ever wanted any woman.”
“You do not have to marry me to have me.”
She tried to tug her hand free, but he pulled her closer, pulled her against his chest. She could feel the power within his frame, feel the heat of him, the sensuality. She wanted it. She wanted all of him.
“Yes, I do. Because I love you, and I don’t want just one night with you. I want every night. I’m a selfish man, Emma.” He tipped her chin up and looked down at her. “I want every day too.”
She shook her head, and he gave her a slight smile. “What do I have to do to make you want me?”
She recognized her own words, but he hadn’t thrown them back at her. He was looking at her with all sincerity. Oh, how she wanted him, more even than she’d wanted him that night on Avon Street.
“Make love to me,” she said.
“I will,” he promised. “Over and over and over again.” His lips met hers briefly, far too briefly. “I promise to be a very wicked husband.”
“Flynn.” She grasped his lapels, trying to drag his mouth back to hers.
“But I won’t take you until you are my wife. That’s not something the Viscount of Virtue would do.”
She gave him a disgusted sigh. “Infuriating man. Get out.”
His hand curled around her hip, sending a delicious shiver of warmth through her. “Say ‘yes’ first.”
“No.”
“I’m begging you,” he murmured, his hand stroking her hip and moving inward toward her thigh. She began to tremble. “I’m pleading with you, Emma. Please. I need you.” His lips were mere inches from hers, and she could not stand it another moment.
“Yes,” she said, wrapping her hands about his neck and pulling him to meet her. His lips covered hers, his tongue dipping inside her mouth to taste her. His hand, as promised, reached between her legs, stroking her deftly until she cried out from need.
“Would you like a long engagement?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “Please, no.”
“A short one then.”
“Yes.” She would have told him yes to anything to have him continue touching her.
“Good.” He rose, setting her on the bed. “I’ll find your brother and have the coach prepared.”
Emma blinked at him. “What?”
“I have a special license. I paid a fortune for it, so we might as well marry sooner rather than later.
“I…”
He knelt beside the bed once again, took her hand in his. “I love you, Emma. You won’t regret this.”
She laughed. “I had better not.”
He winked at her. “You’ll see.”
* * *
London, Two Months Later
The pain in his neck woke him. Flynn opened his eyes and surveyed the room, realizing he’d fallen asleep in his brother’s room yet again. If this was to continue, he had better find a more comfortable chair. Of course, he’d said that at least fifty times now. He rubbed his neck and looked about, for the first time seeing he was not alone. His mother sat on the bed, looking down at Robbie, who was sleeping.
Robbie had slept like the dead the past few nights. It was a change from the first days he’d been home, when he hadn’t been able to sleep more than an hour or so at a time. Flynn wished that had been the worst of it, but the chills, vomiting, violent tremors, and intestinal issues he’d watched his brother suffer were far worse than the insomnia.
When he’d shown up on his mother’s doorstep in Bath with Robbie in tow, he had no idea of the nightmare to come. The family had traveled to London because the best doctors could be found in London, but even the best could not curb the worst of Robbie’s sickness. No wonder Robbie had not succeeded in giving up opium before. It had taken Flynn, his mother, Emma, a small army of servants, and a staff of three doctors to see the man through the darkest days. Thankfully, Flynn could say they were now through the worst of it. The doctors had come away from Robbie’s bedside, smiling and nodding more often than before, and Flynn himself had actually begun to breathe again. His body, so tight with worry for his brother, had begun to relax.
He stood, and his mother turned. He nodded at her and indicated the door. Flynn wanted his own bed. No, he wanted his bed with his wife in it. He was perplexed to realize the London house was beginning to feel more and more like his own. Initially, he’d thought he would return to his bachelor quarters, but he could not take Emma there. And the memory of those lodgings was inextricably tied to what he had begun to think of as The Old Flynn. The Old Flynn caroused, gambled, and drank. The New Flynn played nursemaid and—God help him—had begun to take on some of his duties as Viscount Chesham. The New Flynn was a husband.
He could not have known, when he told his brother they would create a new home, how true that would be. Even his mother was not quite the thorn in his side she had once been. Perhaps that was why he did not protest when she followed him out of the room and into the corridor. She nodded to a footman sitting outside, and the man entered Robbie’s room silently. They’d been advised never to leave Robbie alone, but Flynn imagined those injunctions would begin to fade away soon.
Without a word, Flynn and his mother moved down the corridor, away from Robbie’s room. She was still slight, but her face was a bit rounder, and more color appeared in her cheeks. “He is improving,” she said quietly as they paused in front of the door to her suite. She still occupied the chamber she had when his father had been alive. It was attached to the viscount’s rooms, which were now empty. Flynn supposed he might have demanded she change rooms so he and Emma might have the suite they were entitled to, but such trivial matters did not seem important. He supposed they never had been.
“Yes,” Flynn agreed. “I think the worst is behind us.”
“Henry.”
Startled by the soft tone of her voice, he glanced at her quickly. She was indeed looking at him curiously. “I never expressed my gratitude to you for bringing him home.”
“There was no need.”
“There is every need,” she said without any softness. “I fear I have not been a very good mother to you. I haven’t been a mother at all to Robert. I know it is late. I know you are a grown man now, but perhaps we might change that. Perhaps we might become friends, the four of us.”
Flynn furrowed his brow. Four? Ah, she included Emma. She would. Emma had taken care of them all, but she’d been particularly solicitous of the dowage
r viscountess. She’d made his mother rest, made her eat, made her step outside occasionally. It was not difficult for any of them to love Emma, but he knew loving him had never been easy. He understood the effort it took for his mother to say these words. She was not an affectionate or demonstrative woman. “I’d like that, Mother. I think Robbie would like it.”
“Good. But first I do believe you will have to leave Robbie and me for a few days.”
Flynn blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
She frowned at him. “Have you forgotten Lady Emma?”
He never forgot Emma. “No. It’s the middle of the night. I assume she is sleeping.”
“You haven’t been a very good husband to her.”
Flynn wanted to disagree. He’d been a very good husband to her. She was half-afraid the entire household had heard what a good husband he’d been to her on several occasions. Fortunately, his mother continued, “You married her with a special license and then brought her home to care for a sick man. You have not taken any time away, any time alone.”
Flynn raised a brow. “You want us to go away?”
“Now that your brother is improving, I think we all need a holiday. Perhaps I will take Robbie to the seaside in a few weeks. In the meantime, you take Emma…somewhere…”
He wondered how she would complete the statement.
“Romantic.”
That was not what he had been expecting. “Mother, you surprise me. I never knew you were so sentimental.”
She straightened. “Sentimental. What rubbish. I only want a few nights peace.”
He laughed, then surprised himself by bending and kissing her on the cheek. “We’ll go, and thank you for giving your blessing.”
She huffed, but he could see she was flushed with pleasure. “It was either give my blessing or forcibly push you out of the house.”
And with that, she opened the door to her room and stepped inside. Flynn, smiling, continued to his room. Silently, he opened the door and slipped inside, trying very hard not to wake Emma. He had just stripped down when she murmured, “Flynn?”
“Go back to sleep,” he said, climbing into bed beside her. Wanton woman. She was as naked as he beneath the bedclothes warmed by her body.
“I will,” she said, stretching so her body pressed against his. She wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers for a long, luxurious kiss. “How is your brother?”
“Sleeping.”
“Good.” Her hand slid down his chest, creating a trail of fire. As she neared his abdomen, he felt himself grow hard and eager. Her leg, so hot and soft, wrapped about his waist, and her heat pressed close to him. “And how are you, my Lord Viscount of Virtue?”
“Not feeling very virtuous at the moment.” He kissed her neck, her earlobe, and trailed his mouth lower until she sighed with pleasure and anticipation.
“You did promise me I would not regret marrying such a paragon of virtue.”
“And I have yet to break a promise to you,” he said, pulling her closer and settling himself on top of her. He looked down at her in the flickering light of the hearth, at her dark eyes and her golden skin. He loved her, more now than he had ever thought possible.
“And what can you promise me tonight?” she whispered.
He answered her with his lips, lowering his mouth to kiss her, moving his hands and his body to fulfill his promises. He may have put the days of the Viscount of Vice behind him, but in the dark, when they were alone, he was very, very wicked indeed.
Don’t miss the first in Shana Galen’s
new Covent Garden Cubs series
Earls Just Want to Have Fun
Coming February 2015 from Sourcebooks Casablanca
She was five. She liked being five because it meant she could hold up every finger on her hand and spread them wide when an adult asked her age. Adults always asked how old she was and her name. Sometimes they asked her favorite color. Those were easy questions. Her name was Elizabeth, and her favorite color was pink.
She liked candied violets and puppies and hated bedtime and her nanny. Nanny always made her stand up straight and keep her dress clean and brush her hair. Elizabeth had long light brown hair, and it tangled. She had to brush it three times a day. At least. Nanny asked difficult questions. She asked Elizabeth to spell her name. Elizabeth had once told Mama that she wished she had a name like Jane, which was Nanny’s name, because Elizabeth was too long.
Mama had laughed. Mama was always laughing, and Elizabeth wished she could be with Mama all the time and never have to see Nanny. But Mama and Papa had to go to the Season. That meant they dressed in clothes Elizabeth could not touch unless her hands were scrubbed clean, and they stayed up very late and slept all day. Elizabeth had to be so quiet.
She hated being quiet almost as much as she hated bedtime with Nanny, who yelled if Elizabeth didn’t stay in bed or if she chattered too much. Elizabeth loved it when Mama tucked her in, because Mama always sang her lullabies. Elizabeth’s favorite began “Lavender’s blue,” but Mama changed the words.
Elizabeth’s true, dilly, dilly,
Elizabeth’s sweet.
A kiss I will give, dilly, dilly,
When next we meet.
Mama was not with her today. Today was sunny and warm, and Nanny had taken her to the park. Elizabeth was so happy. She could run—if Nanny wasn’t looking—and twirl and dance and pick wildflowers for Mama. Nanny had scolded her earlier for muddying her pinafore, but Elizabeth did not see how that could be avoided when everything that was interesting was either beside the mud or in it.
Elizabeth bent over to examine a pretty pink flower and jumped when a ball rolled to a stop at her feet. She looked up, searching for the owner of the ball. A boy, just about her age, waved at her and said, “Kick it back!”
Elizabeth blinked and glanced over her shoulder at Nanny. But Nanny was not watching her. Nanny was speaking to a man Elizabeth did not recognize. Nanny was also smiling and blinking a lot. Elizabeth wondered if her nanny had something in her eyes.
“Kick it!” the boy called again.
Elizabeth wanted to kick the ball, but she was not certain whether Nanny would approve. Of course, Nanny was not watching her at the moment. With a last furtive glance over her shoulder, Elizabeth kicked the ball. It sailed over the grass and down a small hill. The boy let out a whoop and chased after it. “Come on!” he called with a wave. He looked like he was having so much fun that Elizabeth followed. He kicked the ball, then let her have another turn. Then it was his turn, then hers again. Elizabeth was laughing and running and wishing the game would never end. She wondered if Nanny saw how much fun she was having, but when she turned, she did not see Nanny. She did not see anything that looked familiar. She was still in the park, but she’d run far away from the path where Nanny and the other people had been enjoying the day.
“Come on!” the boy yelled, kicking the ball again.
Elizabeth shook her head. “I can’t. I have to find my nanny.” She looked left and then right and frowned. She didn’t know which way to go. Her lip trembled, and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
Suddenly a man stepped out from behind a tree. The boy seemed to know him and went to him immediately, but the man ignored him. “Don’t cry, little girl,” he said. “I’ll help you find your nanny.” He held out his hand, and Elizabeth stepped forward. She looked up at the man and hesitated. His eyes were small and odd—one blue and one green—his teeth were sharp and crooked, and despite his fine clothing, his black hair hung in long and stringy clumps. He smiled, but his eyes did not smile like his mouth. Wordlessly, Elizabeth shook her head and backed away.
“Where are you going, little girl?”
She shook her head and turned to run just as his hands caught her about the waist.
* * *
Marlowe watched Gap stroll down Piccadi
lly as though he hadn’t a care in the world. That wasn’t as easy as it looked. Piccadilly was so crowded, even the largest of men were likely to be jostled. And the noise. Everyone was talking at once, trying to be heard over the calls of postboys and peddlers of every sort. Gap looked at home, which he was. Hands in his pockets, he whistled a tune through the gap in his teeth and appeared to stroll aimlessly. Men and women kept a watchful eye on him. He looked every inch the pickpocket ready to dive for the first easy bubble he spotted.
That was why Gap didn’t dive.
As he neared the corner where she stood, alternately pretending to watch a gentleman have his boots shined and study the printed bills that covered every available wall or scaffold, Marlowe tucked an errant strand of hair into her cap. She’d bound her breasts so tightly she could barely breathe. She had slim hips and legs, but her long hair and her ample bosom would betray her if she were not careful. There was nothing to do about her chest, but she wished Satin would allow her to cut her hair. He wanted her to keep it for some of their better-rackets.
She watched as Gap gave her the signal, tipping his hat to show her the bubble. Marlowe could dive as well as any of the gang, better than most because she practiced so often. She had the gift of manipulating her speech so she sounded much more cultured than she was. That and her sweet face meant the gentry trusted her. They thought she was one of their own, or not too far beneath them. They never suspected one of their own.
With a tap on the brim of her cap, she indicated she saw the bubble and approved. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and neat blondish-brown hair under his brushed beaver hat. He looked wealthy but not foolish, and she hesitated momentarily, wondering what Gap had been thinking. This was not their usual, easy game. He must have waved some blunt to attract Gap’s attention. And if there was blunt to be had, she had better bring it back to the flash ken. She didn’t relish another of Satin’s punishments.
She turned away from the boot boy and his gentleman, timing her movements perfectly. By the time she stepped into the crowd of people moving alongside Piccadilly, she was almost upon him. His eyes, a sharp, clear blue, met hers, and she had a moment to think this is a mistake. But it was too late, because she’d already collided with him, and her nimble hands had done their work.
