Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  All wrong.

  I love you, Morgan.

  The words his wife had sweetly and innocently whispered to him by the stream after he had made love to her would simply not bloody well leave him. They were a litany, repeating in his mind.

  A devastating and unwanted litany, running without end. Making him wonder whether or not the path he had chosen was wise. Lodging a stone of guilt within him that had begun as a pebble and turned into a veritable boulder as the days had passed.

  Yes, damnation and holy Hell. His wife had fallen in love with him. Ordinarily, such a discovery would no doubt please a husband. Perhaps even be cause for celebration. For Morgan, however, it only filled him with dread, misgiving, and doubt.

  Because he wanted her love. He wanted her love with a selfish savagery that left him ashamed of himself, because he knew he was not worthy of that love. He knew he had done nothing to deserve it. He also knew his ultimate goal of dueling with Rayne would destroy the way Leonie felt for him. Especially when the duel ended, as it must, in her half-brother’s death.

  He did not want to destroy the way she felt for him. He was a heartless scoundrel because he liked the sound of her voice, lilting and lovely, husky and feminine as she read to him. He liked her fingers in his hair, the manner in which she gave herself and her caring to him so freely, so willingly. He liked the way she kissed him as if he were beloved to her, the way she held him in her arms after they made love. He even liked the little mongrel she had bought him. At the thought, he gave Caesar’s silky head a scratch.

  He liked the life they had begun, tentatively, to build together. For a man who had spent so much of his recent life in darkness, Leonie was a source of great, blinding brightness. She made him long for that which he ought not. She made him never want this false idyll he had begun with her to end.

  For a moment, the most absurd notion occurred to him. They need never return to London. He had no wish to take his seat in Parliament. Instead, they could remain here, tucked away in the country. He could become a country gentleman, and she would be at his side, and he would never have to watch as the naked adoration in her gaze withered and turned to hatred. He could allow the Lord to mete out justice to the Earl of Rayne one day instead of himself…

  He knew he could not. He could not abandon his plans for retribution. His unexpected feelings for his wife had rendered him maudlin, but they could not erase the determination that had seen him through the long days of his imprisonment and torture. He owed it to himself to see Rayne punished for his misdeeds.

  “Morgan?” Leonie’s dulcet voice cut through the bitterness of his musings. “You are growing tense. Is something amiss?”

  Damnation. This too rocked him, the manner in which she knew him almost better than he knew himself. Everything is amiss, he wanted to say. The urge to unburden himself to her rose within him, but he brutally forced it down.

  “I was thinking of George,” he said instead, and it was not a lie, for he had been reminded of the times he and his brother had hidden here in the library.

  “Your brother.” She closed the book and set it aside, using both of her hands to gently massage his scalp. “You must miss him very much.”

  “I do.” This too was honesty, torn from him. “Sometimes I feel lost without him. This life—becoming the Marquess of Searle—was never meant to be mine. He died when I was away, while I was at war. Part of me still expected to find him waiting for me when I finally returned home.”

  “But he was not.”

  “No one was,” he said, bitterness lacing his voice, curdling his gut. “I am the only family I have left. But I do miss him. Returning to Westmore Manor has been more difficult than I supposed it would be, for my memories of him are everywhere.”

  “Even here?” she asked carefully.

  “Even here.” He swallowed against a sudden, unwanted sting of tears. “We hid here from our father when he was in a rage. Our mother adored reading, and he loathed books. He could not abide by this library, which made it an excellent place of escape, especially since there were so many books to be read here…though most of them boring old Latin tomes.”

  “It is fortunate indeed I brought my own books to entertain you, though I fear The Silent Duke was rather disturbing you this evening instead of distracting you.”

  He sighed. What could he say without revealing himself to her? “I am beholden to you, wife.”

  And in more ways than she knew.

  “You have me now, Morgan,” she told him suddenly, continuing her tender ministrations, soothing him with her touch, her nearness, her compassion. Soothing him in the way only Leonie could. “You need not feel as if you are the only family you have left. I am your wife, and it is my dearest wish for us to have children of our own.”

  Children with Leonie.

  The notion sent a fresh burst of warmth unfurling within him. He swallowed against a rush of emotion, some of it foreign, all of it wild. “You want to have children?”

  “I have always wished to be a mother,” she admitted.

  He turned his head in her lap so he could see her, having been too long deprived of her countenance. She was smiling, her eyes glistening, and she looked…happy. There was no other word to describe it. The way she looked made him feel so small. So wrong.

  Morgan caught one of her hands in his and brought it to his lips for a reverent kiss. “You will make a wonderful mother, Leonie.”

  And he had no doubt she would. She was the most giving woman he had ever known. Selfless and courageous, bursting with love. How no one had snatched her up before him was a mystery. A mystery for which he was grateful anew.

  “It was a silly hope for a spinster wallflower,” she said then. “I am grateful to you for giving me that chance now.”

  He could not bear to dwell upon her misplaced gratitude, for it made him ill.

  “I am grateful to you for allowing me to be your husband.” Here too were words he meant with everything in him, but they made him sick as well, for his intentions were not pure, and the angel holding him in her lap, hands, and heart deserved so much more than what he could give her.

  He prayed she would not hate him when the truth was revealed.

  “Well, you rather ruined me, did you not?” she asked lightly, clearly striving to brighten the mood.

  “Yes.” His tone was grim, for he felt grim at this reminder of the man he had become.

  She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “I am glad you did, Morgan. More and more with each day.”

  And his guilt grew, along with his need for her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Morgan chanced a glance at Leonie as she rode with effortless grace at his side. The boulder of guilt that had been growing inside him since their arrival at Westmore Manor a sennight earlier, had grown to the size of a mountain by now. Just then, the insistent roar of thunder broke through the countryside, spooking Leonie and Morgan’s mounts.

  Bloody hell.

  A cursory glance at their surroundings filled him with dread. He had been so caught up in his thoughts, he’d failed to realize how far they had traveled, and neither had he noticed the ominous portent of the darkening clouds on the horizon. They had traveled too far to risk returning to Westmore Manor before the storm unleashed its rage upon them.

  “A storm is brewing,” he called out to his wife above another rumble of thunder in the distance.

  “Shall we return to Westmore Manor?” she asked, clutching her smart hat against a sudden gust of wind that threatened to tear it from its jaunty perch atop her head.

  “I fear we do not have the time to make it there before the rains soak us.” He cast another glance toward the darkening sky. This particular storm appeared to be fast moving. He judged it would hit them within minutes, soaking them to the skin. “Fortunately, we are not far from a gamekeeper’s cottage. It has been abandoned for some years now, but I do believe it will provide us the shelter we need until the storms pass.”

  She no
dded. “Lead the way.”

  Damnation, she was beautiful. He drank in the sight of her sitting sidesaddle on her mount. He would not have guessed she was as fine a horsewoman as she was, more than capable of controlling her mount and galloping alongside him, or slowing to a trot and keeping pace. But of course, he supposed nothing this woman was capable of should ever surprise him. She was nothing like what he had expected her to be, and nothing like any other lady he had ever known.

  She was Leonie, and that was all. He could not help but to admire her determination, strength, and poise yet again.

  “Morgan,” she said then. “Shall you lead the way?”

  He realized he had reigned in his mare and had been content to remain there admiring her whilst the clouds drew nearer and a bolt of lightning lit the sky. What the devil ailed him?

  “Of course.” He guided his mount in the direction of a copse of trees not far from where they rode, knowing the way to the cottage even though so many years had passed since he had last seen it.

  He supposed that was the way of things at Westmore Manor. The land was in his blood, in his memory. And he would always belong here, regardless of where in the world he traveled and how far he wandered, or how greatly he’d changed.

  As he rode toward their new destination, he could not help but feel his connection to Leonie could be the same. That she could always be his home, no matter how far he roamed from her.

  But then, the skies opened and a torrent of rain fell upon them. He told himself what a fool he was for entertaining such a ludicrous notion. Westmore Manor was a piece of land that had existed before him and would become the burden of another Marquess of Searle after him, and that was all. There was nothing special about it, and only the accident of his birth made him belong here. And his marchioness was only his because her brother had nearly seen him killed. She was the tool of his vengeance, nothing more.

  By the time they reached their destination, they were thoroughly soaked from the downpour. He delivered Leonie inside the door after securing the key from its old hiding place, then led their mounts to the dilapidated stable on his own, tethering the horses and tending to them before rushing back to the cottage.

  In his absence, Leonie had thrown back the window dressings, allowing some meager light in, and she was on her knees before the hearth, attempting to spark some dry kindling she had scavenged.

  On her knees, though surely such a position pained her.

  “Leonie.” He stalked forward, water running in rivulets from his hat and coat, sloshing all over the bare floor. “You ought not to risk injuring yourself in such a fashion. Allow me to light the fire.”

  The unseasonable warmth of their first few days at Westmore Manor had given way to more temperate weather, and the storm had brought an even stronger chill to the air. His sodden garments heightened the cold, and he had no doubt hers did as well.

  She had removed her hat, and her glorious hair was a beautiful jumble of wet curls. “I cannot injure myself by remaining in one place upon the floor, Morgan,” she told him, continuing her task as she flicked a glance in his direction. “This cottage is damp, and I knew you would be cold after tending to the horses for so long. I must have a contribution of my own, else I shall feel most useless.”

  He understood her pride, and a ferocious streak of that same emotion went through him as he stood there watching her. She was more than capable, and she continued to impress him with her calm resilience and perseverance. Her life had not been an easy one, he would wager. She had suffered the effects of her injury since she had been a girl, and for that same reason, she had been relegated to the periphery of society. Then, he had come along and ruined her, forcing her into marrying a man she scarcely knew. A man who had proceeded to treat her coolly. A man who had abandoned her on the day of her wedding.

  And what had she done? She had given him a bloody dog.

  Then, he had taken her body, made love to her time and again, knowing he was misleading her, withholding truths from her that would perhaps affect the manner in which she regarded him forever. He had done it anyway, because he was a jackanapes.

  And what had she done? She had told him she loved him.

  He got them tangled in a storm because he was so consumed by his own thoughts, he failed to notice the sky, and what had she done? Attempted to light a fire to bring him warmth.

  Not a thought for herself. Never a thought for her own needs. She was selfless. For the hundredth time, he realized just how unworthy of her he was. How much he did not deserve her. How much he would never deserve her, and how damn lucky he was to call her his wife.

  He tossed aside his dripping hat and coat and went to her, dropping to his knees at her side. “Leonie.”

  She paused in striking a tinderbox, the contents of which likely dated back at least five years, perhaps more. “Yes?”

  He took the tinderbox from her gently, setting it aside. “You have no need of this. I daresay it will not light, having been abandoned all these years, and is most assuredly damp, having been kept within this closed up cottage. I do not think anyone has been within to air it out since my father.”

  “Oh,” she said, biting her lower lip. “I had not realized how long it had been since someone had occupied the space, though I did have my suspicions. Still, I am determined, Morgan. If anyone can manage a spark to form, it shall be me. Are you cold? Surely you must be, drenched to the bone as you are.”

  She was still thinking of him, more concerned for his wellbeing than for her own, and it humbled him mightily. “I have not known you long, my dear, but I feel quite certain if anyone could force an old tinderbox to produce a spark, it would be you. Your determination knows no bounds, nor does your willingness to attempt to make a difference for the betterment of all those around you.”

  Her head jerked toward his, a smile stealing over her lips. “Thank you, husband. I shall consider that a vote in favor of my capability.”

  And thus said, she took up the tinderbox from where he had placed it on the floor, set upon her course.

  *

  At long last, the spark ignited, and Leonora quickly held it to the stack of dry kindling she had arranged within the fireplace. Fire licked the edges of rough-hewn wood, and gradually, steadily, a fire ignited. Flames flickered to life. Crackles rose in the air, along with the sweet scent of burning wood, as her hard work came to fruition.

  She could not deny the joy, nor the sense of accomplishment, warm and pleasant, washing over her. She felt at once as if she was capable of anything. Capable of everything.

  “A spark from an old tinderbox, my lord,” she told him triumphantly, unable to suppress the grin wreathing her face. “There you have it.”

  “I should never have doubted you, Leonie,” he told her softly with one of his rarer smiles. “Your ability to perform the miraculous never ceases to amaze.”

  His words made the warmth inside her blossom and spread. “And what miracles have I performed, my lord? I confess, I cannot think of one.”

  He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips for a kiss that could only be described as reverent. “You have made me feel again.”

  Her heart thudded at his admission. She had foolishly confessed her love to him that day by the stream, and he had not remarked upon it since, though they had spent each day in each other’s company, laughing, making love, and getting better acquainted. Part of her had been convinced he had not heard her. Part of her had been terrified he had.

  “What have I made you feel, my lord?” she dared to ask, cursing herself for the breathlessness in her voice.

  He took her hand—bare since she had shed her gloves to avoid soiling them in her toils—and pressed it flat against his chest, over his heart. His hand was large and cool atop hers as she absorbed the steady thumps through her fingertips. Though his waistcoat was damp, the heat of his body radiated through.

  “You made me realize I still have a heart, Leonie.” His gaze seared hers, holding her immobile,
sending a fresh surge of tenderness for him straight through her. “Do you feel it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and though her leg had begun to ache, she would not move from this position, nor would she look away from him. She would fashion herself into a statue if she must, just for the chance to have him look at her with such unguarded warmth.

  “It has always been there,” he continued. “But now you give my heart a reason to beat.”

  “Oh, Morgan.” She knew how much this revelation cost him. “I feel the same way. I was waiting for you all my life.”

  “Jesus, Leonie,” he rasped, his expression changing, turning hungry and fierce. “I do not deserve you.”

  “Yes,” she countered, bringing her other hand to his beloved face to cup his jaw, “you do.”

  With a sound that was half growl, half groan, he pulled her to his chest, settling his mouth over hers in a voracious kiss. She kissed him back with all the emotions bursting inside her, new and strange and overwhelming. Love, need, admiration, longing. It didn’t matter that her riding habit was sodden or that the air of the cabin was damp and musty. The heat from the fledgling fire and the way Morgan made her feel combined to set her aflame.

  On another groan, he pulled away at last, his breathing harsh as it coasted over her lips. He touched his forehead to hers, and their gazes held. She felt as if he could stare into the deepest recesses of her, as if he saw her, all of her, better than anyone else ever had.

  “You are soaked from the rain,” he said, then kissed her again, this time nothing more than a slow brush of his mouth over hers. “You need to get out of this wet gown. I have no wish for you to take ill.”

  “But—”

  “Hush.” He kissed her again, and then he stood, scooping her into his arms and lifting her as he did so. “Let me take care of you, my sweet.”

  She clung to his neck while he carried her to a chair not far from the fireplace and then settled her gingerly upon it. “I am perfectly capable of seeing to myself,” her pride compelled her to protest.