“Oh, dear Lord, they didn’t tell you.”
“You’re with child?” he asked, as though what she’d said had finally registered with him. His gaze dropped to her belly. Her condition was not yet evident. Then ever so reverently, he splayed his fingers over her stomach. He lifted his gaze back to hers. “Why did you not tell me? Because of that first night in the library when I told you that I’d not give you respectability if I got you with child?”
“No, no.” Reaching up, with tears in her eyes, she cradled his beloved face between her hands, holding his gaze so he’d have no doubt she spoke the truth. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would do right by me, and in so doing, you would sacrifice your own dream. You would marry me and give up Frannie, the woman you love more than life itself. And I love you far too much—”
She suddenly found herself crushed against him, his mouth devouring hers, his hand plowing into her hair, scattering pins, the heavy strands tumbling around her.
He tore his mouth from hers. “I love you. I adore Frannie, but I love you desperately, Catherine. You’re courageous, bold, and you challenge me at every turn. You’re willing to risk everything for those you care about. Your willingness to sacrifice knows no bounds. I am so unworthy, but if you’ll marry me, I’ll see that you never regret it.”
His heartfelt declaration had tears running along her cheeks. “You are the most worthy man I know. You’ve got a bit of the devil in you, and a bit of a saint, but you’re everything I could ever wish for in a man, in a husband. The answer is yes. Gladly.”
He was kissing her again, and she felt the fire building between them. She wondered if she could sneak him up to her bedchamber so she could give him a proper answer.
The door suddenly burst open. Catherine simply looked back over her shoulder to see Sterling standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression formidable. “Catherine, you assured me the blackguard wouldn’t take advantage. I assure you, sir, a wedding is in order here.”
Catherine looked at Claybourne. He smiled down on her.
“As soon as it can be arranged,” he promised.
Chapter 24
It was late, long past midnight, when Luke walked the familiar back hallway of Dodger’s. He and his friends had gambled there, drunk there, commiserated there. In a way, it was Feagan’s dwelling—simply fancier, cleaner, better smelling.
Luke stopped at the open doorway that led into Jack’s sanctuary, not surprised to find Jack sitting behind his desk going over his books—not checking Frannie’s figures so much as relishing all he’d gained. More than any of them, Jack loved his coins.
Luke cleared his throat. Jack glanced up, and for a heartbeat, Luke thought he saw joy in Jack’s eyes before he shuttered his emotions.
“You haven’t stopped by in a while,” Jack said, leaning back insolently in his chair.
“I had no desire to be here.”
“I can hardly blame you for that, I suppose. What brings you here tonight?”
“I’ve asked Lady Catherine Mabry to become my wife. She’s consented to granting me the honor of being her husband.”
Jack’s eyes widened slightly, before he once again gained control of his thoughts. It wasn’t like him to reveal so much, and now he had—twice.
“I thought you loved Frannie.”
“I do. But I love Catherine more deeply.” And differently. He’d come to realize what he felt for Frannie was the love of a boy for a girl and what he felt for Catherine was the love of a man for a woman. When he’d thought of taking Frannie to bed, he’d never felt any fire, probably because he’d never truly contemplated anything beyond sleeping together, spooned around each other as they’d slept as children. But where Catherine was concerned, he could hardly go fifteen minutes without thinking of falling into bed with her—and sleeping was seldom on his mind.
But these were realizations that he could no longer discuss with Jack. There was now a part of his heart and his soul that he might never again be able to share with his long-time friend.
“Damn,” Jack muttered.
Luke arched a brow. “That seems an odd reaction—even from you.”
“I have to build Bill a hospital. We wagered”—he shook his head—“it doesn’t matter. Congratulations. Shall we drink to it?” He stood up, reached for the bottle—
“No.”
Jack looked back at him.
“I’m not drinking much these days.”
“I am.” Jack poured whiskey into the glass, then held it aloft. “To your health and happiness as well as Catherine’s.”
He downed the contents in one gulp.
Luke remembered that it was Jack who had given him his first taste of whiskey, rum, and gin. It was Jack who had taught him how to cheat at cards, how to pick pockets without getting caught. Jack who had assured him when he was a small, frightened boy cowering in the alley that everything was going to be all right, that Jack wouldn’t let anyone hurt him. In spite of his flaws, of which there were many, Jack had never abandoned Luke. Never.
“I’ve come to ask you to stand with me,” Luke said quietly, “when Catherine and I marry in two weeks.”
Jack scoffed. “You’re a lord. You should ask Chesney or Milner.”
“I’m not friends with Chesney or Milner. I wouldn’t lay down my life for them, nor would they for me.”
Jack averted his gaze, his voice rough with emotion when he finally spoke. “To stand with you will be the greatest honor of my life.”
“You’ve always stood with me, Jack.”
Jack looked back at him, nodded brusquely. “We were quite the pair, weren’t we?”
“Too arrogant at times, I think.”
“That’s because we were so very good and so very clever.” He chuckled low. “Well, except for the time when we got caught, of course.”
Luke stepped into the room. “I believe I will have that drink.”
Jack poured them each a glass. When Luke held his, he tapped it against Jack’s. “To Feagan, who taught us how to survive the streets.”
“And to your grandfather,” Jack said somberly, “for trying to turn us all into gentlemen, and failing miserably with some of us, I’m afraid.”
Luke felt the familiar, painful knot in his chest, near his heart, as he thought of the old gent. He lifted his glass higher in salute. “To my grandfather.”
It rained on the day they wed. But Catherine didn’t care. She had enough happiness and joy inside her that if it rained for the remainder of their lives, they would always know sunshine. Because she and Sterling were still in mourning over the loss of their father, and Winnie was in mourning over the death of Avendale and etiquette forbade that widows attend weddings, Catherine insisted that the ceremony be small and intimate, held in a chapel.
Claybourne wouldn’t allow her to be denied what she requested. She’d always relished her independence, and she drew comfort from knowing that he would never attempt to stifle it. On the contrary, she suspected that he relished it as well.
In spite of the weather, a few among the nobility attended—more out of curiosity than anything. Marcus Langdon was in attendance, his mother notably absent. Frannie stood with Catherine since Winnie couldn’t put aside her mourning. Jack stood with Luke. She was glad they’d reconciled, even if Luke had done so with some misgivings.
But what surprised Catherine most was when the bishop asked of Luke, “Do you Lucian Oliver Langdon, the fifth Earl of Claybourne…”
Oliver.
Holding his gaze as he gave her his vows, she wondered how much of his youth was contained in the words of the story that she’d recently read to her father. It seemed improbable, but not impossible. But it was a puzzle for another day.
Today she was basking in the love for her that she saw reflected in his eyes. They were the window to a soul she could see so clearly, a soul that had once been dark and now glowed brightly with the promise of their future. She was astounded by how much she loved him, how
much he loved her.
They’d journeyed through hell together. She knew no matter what life tossed their way, they would embrace it or overcome it, but they would never be defeated by it.
Later that night, Catherine sat at her vanity, wearing a white cashmere dressing gown, intricately embroidered with pink roses. She brushed her hair, listening intently to the sounds of her husband in the next room preparing for bed. Her husband. She nearly laughed aloud. The one thing she’d never thought to acquire, had never thought she’d want to acquire. The one thing she now knew she could never do without.
She would never take him for granted. She’d always hold him near.
The door leading from his bedchamber into hers clicked open, and he prowled into the room, anticipation lighting the silver of his eyes until they sparkled like the Crown Jewels. She rose and faced him. He’d come to her this time, and she felt unparalleled delight at the thought.
He was still walking toward her when he reached out and cradled her face between his large hands, tilting her face up, not stopping his forward momentum until his lips were locked on hers. They’d not been together for weeks, and already her body was melting with desire for him.
He slid his hands along her throat as he drew back. He began freeing the buttons of her dressing gown. “I’ve a good mind to put you over my knee for not telling me you were with child as soon as you realized the truth of your situation.”
She peered up at him, saucily. “I was hoping you would.”
His joyous laughter echoed through the room, his smile broader than she’d ever seen it, and she could only hope that it would be the first of many.
“I do love you, Catherine Langdon, Countess of Claybourne, with all my heart and what remains of my soul.”
He eased her gown off her shoulders until it glided down her body. Lifting her into his arms he carried her to the bed and set her on it. “Roll onto your stomach.”
Furrowing her brow, she peered up at him. “Why?”
“I won’t risk putting you over my knee in your present condition, but I do intend to kiss your bare bottom.”
And kiss it he did. His tongue swirling over her flesh. He kissed the backs of her knees, her thighs. He trailed his mouth along her spine. Heavenly. So heavenly. And unfair. Unfair that in this position she couldn’t touch him.
Rolling over, she wound her arms around his neck and brought him down to her. She thought she’d never have enough of this, of touching him, of having him touch her. It was as if they knew everything about each other, even as they made new discoveries.
He was ticklish under his arms, jerking if her fingers got too close. She was ticklish on the inside of her hips, laughing when he skimmed his fingers over them.
They teased each other, bringing each other close to that moment when the world faded away and there was nothing except the two of them. Only to retreat and start the dance of seduction over.
She thought she would go mad with the wanting. She began urging him to hurry.
“Now,” she gasped. “Now. I need you now.”
He rose above her and plunged inside her. They were each so ready for the other that they were straining and bucking against each other, leaping over the edge until there was nothing except the pleasure.
Nothing except each other.
Epilogue
From the Journal of Lucian Langdon,
the Earl of Claybourne
They say my parents were murdered in the London streets by a gang of ruffians.
I now know that to be untrue.
They were killed by my father’s brother, my uncle. And fate, in its mysterious ways, delivered him to my hand for retribution.
My memories have slowly begun to drift out of the dark shadows where I banished them for so long.
I remember standing beside my father at the pond. He was so much taller than I. To me he appeared to be a giant. Yet he always made me feel safe, and I strive now to give my own children that sense of well-being.
And the old gent. I know him now as my grandfather, and I think of him with increasing fondness. I regret that I was not as certain of my place beside him while he was alive—I regret even more that he was aware of my misgivings. Yet I know he never doubted, and I shall do all in my power to ensure that his faith in me was not misplaced.
When I was small, he would hoist me upon his lap, hold me near, and tell me tales of my ancestors. And on sunny mornings, with my small hand nestled in his larger one, we would walk over the moors, where he taught me to gather flowers to give to my mother.
My mother. I can see her so clearly now. She had the gentlest of smiles. I remember her tucking me into bed at night and whispering that I would become an exceptional earl.
My wife assures me that is the way of it, that I have fulfilled my mother’s prediction, but then she is rather biased. She loves me in spite of my flaws. Or perhaps because of them.
My friendship with Jack remains strained. I want to believe that he was duped, but he has always been far too clever to fall for another man’s ruse. So we have added yet one more thing to our relationship about which we never speak. Sometimes I think we will break beneath the weight of it, but on those occasions I have but to look at my wife in order to find the strength to carry on. I am determined to be worthy of her and that requires that I be a far stronger and better man than I had ever planned to be.
We see Frannie from time to time, not as often as we’d like unfortunately. She did eventually marry, but that is her story to tell.
Dear Frannie, darling Frannie.
She shall always remain the love of my youth, the one for whom I sold my soul to the devil. But Catherine, my beloved Catherine, shall always be the center of my heart, the one who, in the final hour, would not let the devil have me.
About the Author
LORRAINE HEATH always dreamed of being a writer. After graduating from the University of Texas, she wrote training manuals, press releases for a publicist, articles, and computer code, but something was always missing. In 1990, she read a romance novel and became not only hooked on the genre, but quickly realized what her writing lacked: rebels, scoundrels, and rogues. She’s been writing about them ever since. Her work has been recognized with numerous industry awards, including RWA’s RITA®, a HOLT medallion, and a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. Her novels have appeared on bestseller lists, including USA Today, Waldenbooks, and, most recently, the New York Times.
Lorraine loves hearing from readers. You can write her at [email protected] or visit her website at www.lorraineheath.com.
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By Lorraine Heath
IN BED WITH THE DEVIL
JUST WICKED ENOUGH
A DUKE OF HER OWN
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AS AN EARL DESIRES
AN INVITATION TO SEDUCTION
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NEVER MARRY A COWBOY
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IN BED WITH THE DEVIL. Copyright © 2008 by Jan Nowasky. All rights reserved under Internationa
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EPub © Edition MAY 2008 ISBN: 9780061983368
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