Her hands were on his cheeks, cupping her face. “I love you.”
“Say it again,” he said, kissing her deep—long and slow until they were both gasping for breath.
“I can’t say it if you are kissing me,” she protested.
“Then save it,” he said, his lips once again on hers. “Tell me when I am through.” He kissed her again and again, the caresses deep and drugging, and every time he lifted his lips from hers, she whispered, “I love you.”
Over and over, the words echoed around him, warming him, until he finally, finally pulled away and said, “It’s always been you.” He put his forehead to hers. “Marry me. Choose me.”
“I will,” she promised. “I do.”
“When?”
“Now. Tomorrow. Next week. Forever.”
He stood then, lifting her high in his arms. “Forever,” he said. “I choose forever.”
And forever it was.
Epilogue
One Year Later
The Fallen Angel
Georgiana stood inside the owner’s suite of The Fallen Angel, watching the floor far below. The casino teemed with gamers, and her gaze fell to the roulette wheel at the center of the room, spinning in a whirr of red and black. A half-dozen men leaned in as the wheel slowed.
“Red,” she whispered.
Red it was, and even better, a man at the table threw up his hands in glee. He had won. And winning at the roulette wheel was a triumph.
Chance was a remarkable thing.
She had built this empire upon it—upon luck and fate, fortune and destiny. She’d learned remarkable lessons about lies and truths, about revenge. About scandal. But she still grew breathless when the roulette wheel spun.
The door to the suite opened, and she knew without looking who had entered, the way the air shifted, the way her breath quickened. Duncan’s arms were around her, warm and strong, and he followed her gaze to the floor. “A dozen games on the floor of your hell,” he whispered at her ear. “And you always choose roulette. Why?”
“It is the only game that is truly left to the fates,” she said. “It is the only game that cannot be calculated. Its reward is risk as much as anything else.” She turned in his arms, reaching up to clasp her hands behind his neck. “It is like life—we spin the wheel and . . .”
He kissed her, long and deep, his hands coming to her waist, pulling her tight against him.
When he released her, she sighed. “And sometimes we are well rewarded.”
His hands slid to the heavy swell of her stomach, where his child grew. “Sometimes we are,” he agreed. “Though I will tell you that I often worry that my luck has been too good—that I am due to run out.”
“You have lived enough bad luck for a lifetime. I don’t intend for you ever to run out.”
He raised a brow. “And you have the power to deliver an edict to the fates?”
She grinned. “On days when you do not have luck, you must rely on something else.”
He kissed her again, then turned her to the window once more. They watched for long moments as cards turned and dice flew and men played their games before she stretched, trying to ease the kink in her back. “You promised me you would sleep more,” he said, his hands coming to the small of her back, pressing, soothing the ache that seemed to live there now that she neared the end of her term. “You are not supposed to be here.”
She looked up at him, surprise on her face. “You cannot imagine that I would miss the game,” she said. “It might well be my last. The baby shall be here too soon.”
“Not soon enough,” he said. “I never allowed myself to wish for children; there were too many ways I could ruin their lives.”
“Once he is here, you will wish him gone again,” she teased, turning back to the casino floor. “He shall scream and squawk.”
“Once she is here, I will wish her near me all the time,” he vowed. “Alongside her mother and her sister.”
She smiled. “Your passel of adoring admirers.”
“I can think of worse things,” he said, wrapping her in his arms and letting her lean into him. His hand slid down her stomach to her thigh, fingers gathering her skirts, pulling them up until she was bare to the knee.
“I have always adored you in trousers, love, but skirts must be the best thing about your pregnancy.” His fingers grazed the skin of her thigh, and she parted for him, letting his touch creep higher until he reached the place where she was suddenly ready for him.
“We cannot.” She sighed, leaning into him, letting him hold her safe. “They are coming.”
He sighed his disappointment. “You could be coming as well, you know.”
She laughed as the door to the suite opened again, and he dropped her skirts, pressing a hot kiss to the side of her neck. Taking her earlobe between his teeth, he promised her, “Tonight.”
She turned to face her partners, a blush high on her cheeks.
Bourne seated his wife at the card table, before raising a knowing brow in Georgiana’s direction. As he headed to the sideboard to pour himself a scotch, he said, “Good evening, Mrs. West.”
She warmed at the name just as she always did—she could have kept the “Lady” into which she was born. It was her due as the daughter of a duke, but she did not want it. Every time someone referred to her as Mrs. West, she was reminded of the man she married. Of the life they had made together—three, soon to become four.
Georgiana and Duncan West ruled London’s ballrooms with their combined power—the newspaper magnate and his glittering, clever bride. Still a scandal, but one worth having at a dinner table—and the aristocracy did enjoy that.
And when they were not dining at tables across Britain, she continued to run the club as Chase. Anna, on the other hand, had taken her leave soon after Duncan and Georgiana were married, after a particularly dangerous evening that ended in a surgeon having to be called after Duncan attacked a member who was altogether too friendly with Anna.
It was best, because the two of them struggled to keep their hands from each other, and it would have been only a matter of time before someone connected the spots between West’s two loves.
Pippa and Cross took their own seats at the table, Cross extracting his deck of cards and setting them in front of him as Pippa craned around to see Georgiana. She blinked. “You grow bigger by the minute,” she said.
“Pippa!” Lady Bourne said. “You are gorgeous, Georgiana.”
“I did not say she was not gorgeous,” Pippa said to her sister before returning her attention to Georgiana. “I simply said you were growing. I think it might be twins.”
“What do you know about twins?” The Duchess of Lamont entered, trailed by Temple, who was discussing a file with Asriel.
“I’ve delivered several sets of multiples,” Pippa asserted.
“Really?” Duncan asked, pulling out a chair and helping Georgiana into it. “That is good to know, in case we require your assistance.”
“You did not ask her if they were human multiples,” Cross said.
“I’ve done it with dogs many times,” Pippa defended herself. “And I’ve had two human children, you might recall, husband.”
“Yes, but not twins. And thank God for that.”
“Agreed,” said Bourne, now father to three. “Twins is just bad luck.”
Duncan was turning pale. “Can we stop discussing twins?”
“It won’t be twins,” Temple said, coming around the table to hand the file he’d been looking at to Georgiana.
“It might be,” she teased. “Pippa says I’m enormous.”
“I certainly didn’t say enormous!”
Georgiana opened the file and considered its contents. She looked up at Temple, “Poor girl,” she said, “Let her out of the box.”
“Who?” Duncan asked.
“Lady Mary Ashehollow.”
There was a collective sound of understanding around the table, but Duncan was the only one to comment. “You’ve d
ecided to end your revenge play?”
“She made me angry.”
He raised a brow. “She is a child.”
“She is in her third season, so she’s not quite that. But yes,” Georgiana said. “And if it is any consolation, she’s going into the betting book as one of the prime ladies of the season. Will that do, husband?”
“Quite well.” He leaned over to give her a long, lingering kiss.
Cross spoke up. “As we are on the subject of the betting book, I believe you owe me one hundred pounds, Chase.”
“For what?” Duncan asked, all curiosity.
“For taking a foolish bet a year ago,” Cross said.
“Cross thought you and Chase would marry,” Temple explained. “Chase . . .”
“Didn’t,” Bourne said.
“Michael!” Penelope scolded. “That’s not very kind.”
“It’s true.”
“How would you like them to tell the truth about our courtship?” Penelope asked.
Remembering, no doubt, that the Marquess and Marchioness of Bourne were married after a late-night abduction in the country, Bourne had the grace to stop talking.
Duncan looked to Georgiana, a smile on his handsome face. “It sounds like you lost a bet, my lady.”
As it had for a year, the honorific sent a flood of heat through her. “It does not feel much like losing.”
He grinned. “It doesn’t, does it?”
“Well, since we are talking about Chase’s potential husbands, now is as good a time as any to discuss Langley, who has asked us to join him in making an investment,” Temple added.
The table groaned.
“This man. Chase, you must stop giving him our money,” Bourne said.
“He’s a terrible record with investments, and we keep helping him,” Cross pointed out.
“I am sorry—I did not know the two of you were so close to the workhouse,” Georgiana said.
“He is a good man,” Duncan interjected. “He practically delivered me my beautiful wife.”
“Only because he did not want her himself,” Temple teased, and all the scoundrels laughed.
“I refuse to be insulted,” she said. “And Duncan likes the sound of this one.”
He nodded. “Something called a photographic negative.”
“It sounds like something from a novel,” Bourne said. “Like flying machines and horseless carriages.”
“I don’t think those things sound so implausible,” Pippa said.
Bourne looked to her. “That’s because you think implausibility is a challenge.”
She looked to Cross with a smile. “I suppose I do.”
The earl leaned in and kissed his wife soundly. “It is a large part of your charm.”
“Shall we play?” Georgiana asked, leaning forward and reaching for the cards.
What had once been a game only for the owners had become a standing weekly faro game for the eight of them.
Temple sat with a sigh. “I don’t know why I play. I never win anymore. It all went to hell when we let the wives in.” He looked to Duncan. “Apologies, mate.”
Duncan smiled. “I am happy to be a wife if you don’t mind my fleecing you each week.”
Mara put her hand to her husband’s cheek. “Poor Temple,” she said. “Would you like to play something else?”
He met her gaze, all seriousness. “Yes, but you won’t want to play it in front of everyone else.”
Another round of groans went up as the duchess leaned in to kiss her duke.
Georgiana sat back. “Perhaps we should not play.”
Bourne looked up from where he was pouring scotch. “Because Temple wants to take his wife to bed?”
She smiled. “No . . .” She looked to her husband. “Because I believe we are about to discover if it is twins after all.”
Far below, through the famed stained glass window, the roulette wheel spun and the dice rolled and the cards flew, and that night became legendary—the night fortune smiled on the members of The Fallen Angel.
Just as it smiled on its founder, and her love.
Acknowledgments
As this series comes to a close, I realize that a powerful village has helped to raise my Scoundrels. On the heels of that realization comes another, far more unsettling one—that I will never be able to thank you all enough.
As with all my books, this one could not have been written without the patience and faith of my literary Sherpa, Carrie Feron, the hard work of Nicole Fischer and Chelsey Emmelhainz, and the tremendous support of Liate Stehlik, Pam Spengler-Jaffee, Jessie Edwards, Caroline Perny, Shawn Nicholls, Tom Egner, Gail Dubov, Carla Parker, Brian Grogan, Tobly McSmith, Eleanor Mikucki, and the rest of the unparalleled Avon Books team.
Thank you to Carrie Ryan, Lily Everett, Sophie Jordan, Morgan Baden, Sara Lyle, Melissa Walker, and Linda Frances Lee, for your insight, support and brilliance as I wrote Chase’s story, and to Rex and the staff at Krupa Grocery for cheerleading and caffeine.
My father told me the story of skull drinking in Castel Teodorico when I was much younger than Caroline, and I was thrilled to be able to finally put it into a book. I am deeply grateful for his never once thinking, Perhaps she is too young for this. Thanks to David and Valerie Mortensen for the trip to Hearst Castle that inspired Duncan West and his magnificent swimming pool, and for raising a son who is all gentleman and no scoundrel.
To my wonderful readers, thank you for taking this journey with Bourne, Cross, Temple, and Chase, for loving them as much as I do, and for the endless encouragement online and by mail. To every single reader who gasped when you discovered that Chase was a woman, and took a chance on her story nonetheless, you will never know how much your faith meant to me.
And finally, to the woman who accosted me in a bathroom in Texas in early 2012 and announced, “I think Chase is a woman!,” I’m very sorry I lied to you.
* * *
Don’t miss Sophie’s story . . .
The Rogue Not Taken
The first in Sarah MacLean’s
new Scandal & Scoundrel series
Coming in 2015
* * *
About the Author
Multiple RITA® Award-winning author SARAH MACLEAN grew up in Rhode Island, obsessed with historical romance and bemoaning the fact that she was born centuries too late for her own season. Her love of all things historical helped to earn her degrees from Smith College and Harvard University before she finally set pen to paper and wrote her first book. Sarah now lives in New York City with her husband, their dog, and a ridiculously large collection of romance novels. She loves to hear from readers.
Please visit www.sarahmaclean.net.
www.avonromance.com
www.facebook.com/avonromance
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Romances by Sarah MacLean
Rule of Scoundrels
NEVER JUDGE A LADY BY HER COVER
NO GOOD DUKE GOES UNPUNISHED
ONE GOOD EARL DESERVES A LOVER
A ROGUE BY ANY OTHER NAME
Love by Numbers
ELEVEN SCANDALS TO START TO WIN A DUKE’S HEART
TEN WAYS TO BE ADORED WHEN LANDING A LORD
NINE RULES TO BREAK WHEN ROMANCING A RAKE
THE SEASON
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.
NEVER JUDGE A LADY BY HER COVER. Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Trabucchi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information sto
rage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780062065414
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062068514
FIRST EDITION
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Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels Page 37
