“Another debt of gratitude to Mrs. Kirkwood for me.”
She searched his gaze, a sudden bout of nervousness hitting her. “This, too, I shall accept on her behalf. You are pleased, are you not, my love? I know it is soon, but I am eager to be a mama.”
“Pleased?” He kissed her, one fast, hard press of his mouth over hers. “I am bloody elated, Leonie. But do you mean to tell me you have known since yesterday and said nary a word?”
“I was waiting for the right moment,” she admitted weakly.
He kissed her again. “With you, every moment is the right moment. Whitley told me once I must let go of the past or it will kill me, and I did not know then how very right he was. Letting go of the past and moving forward with you is the best decision I ever made. All I want is our future together, our family growing, our love growing every day. And now, I must thank you again, darling. Thank you for this precious gift.”
She smiled at him. “How will you thank me, my lord?”
Her husband gave her a wicked grin. “I have a few ideas.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him to her for a kiss. She had a feeling she would like his ideas.
All of them.
And when he gently rolled her to her back, his lips never leaving hers, he proved her right.
Epilogue
From the moment Morgan had learned he was going to be a father, he had set three objectives.
Objective one: make his wife’s confinement as comfortable as possible. Accomplished with the aid of many kisses, back rubs, and, of course, strawberries.
Objective two: prepare himself to be the best father he could be, for he did not want to have the same cold relationship with his children that he suffered with his own sire. In medias res, for he knew nothing about being a father aside from the immense love he felt for his daughter or son.
Objective three: spend the rest of his life making Leonie and their children happy. A promise.
Retribution had been the sole thing on his mind when Morgan first saw Lady Leonora Forsythe. Loving Leonie had been the sole thing on his mind nearly every day since. But that love was about to grow bigger.
“Bloody hell, man,” Monty’s exasperated voice cut through Morgan’s introspection. “Your pacing is making me dizzy.”
He made what must have been his two hundredth circumnavigation of his study, Caesar trailing nervously in his wake with each step, and pinned his cousin with a glare. “Are you certain it is not the port?”
Monty glared at him. “You need not be judgmental. It is not every day a man is forced to be present for a lying in. I do not mind telling you I am quite bilious over it.”
“You are here to offer me support,” he noted wryly. “Not to drain my wine cellar. And how do you think I feel? My wife is in pain and I can do nothing to aid her.”
“Confinement is the business of females,” Monty said with a sniff. “She has the physician and her mother to attend her. Our place is to sit in the study and fill our gullets with spirits.”
Morgan raised a brow. “And how is that different from any of your other days, Monty?”
Monty glared back at him, unrepentant. “Other days, I would be betwixt the thighs of a woman. Instead, I have spent the last few hours coddling my ungrateful cur of a cousin as he paces a hole in the Aubusson.”
Only Monty.
Morgan shook his head. “It has been a rather long time, has it not? Do you think something is amiss?”
Monty gave an inelegant snort. “I think all is well, and you would think so, too, if you would sit and drink the damned port.”
The study door opened then, and Morgan spun on his heel, heart in his throat. The dowager stood at the threshold, looking weary but wearing a smile. “You have a daughter, my lord.”
Happiness and love broke open inside him, and his knees actually shook from the force of his emotion. “And Leonie?”
“She is well.” The dowager’s smile deepened. “You may go and see her now, if you like.”
He was already in motion, his strides eating up the distance between him and his beloved wife—and now—beloved daughter. Monty called something after him, and unless it was mistaken, it was something about thighs, followed by the dowager’s scandalized exclamation.
But he did not care. He passed the physician, giving the man his thanks, and it was all a blur of halls and carpets and doors until at last all he saw was his wife, looking like a goddess, her white-blonde curls rioting about her flushed face, a swaddled babe in her arms, a happy smile upon her lips.
“Morgan,” she greeted him. “Come and meet your daughter.”
He went to her side, pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and gazed down in wonder at the tiny, pink, utterly perfect face of his daughter. She had Leonie’s nose and lips, he noted with pride. “She is beautiful, just like her mother. How are you, Leonie?”
“I am well. Tired, but well.” She reached up with one hand, cupping his face. “And so very happy.”
He could not resist kissing those generous lips before placing a kiss on their daughter’s forehead as well. “What shall we name her?”
“What do you think of Georgina?” Leonie asked. “After your brother.”
Raw, unadulterated love rose within him, an uncontrollable flood. He traced their daughter’s soft cheek. “Lady Georgina. I cannot think of a name more fitting.” He turned his attention once more to his wife, soaking in all the love he saw reflected back at him. “I love you, Leonie. I love you both so much it takes my breath.”
Her smile made his heart sing. “We love you, too. Today, tomorrow, and every day that comes after. Forever.”
Tears stung his eyes as he gazed upon his wife and the tiny life they had created. “Forever,” he echoed, for he liked the sound of that.
Enjoy an excerpt from Earl of Every Sin, coming soon.
Chapter One
Alessandro Diego Christopher Forsythe, ninth Earl of Rayne, had only been in England for one month, and already he had shot a man and acquired a betrothed.
To be fair, he had shot the Duke of Montrose when defending himself from the drunken tonto, who had been hell-bent upon shooting him in the head. And the betrothal had yet to become official because Lady Catriona Hamilton, sister to the tonto he had wounded, was proving a most recalcitrant future countess.
“I am sorry, my lord,” apologized the dowager Duchess of Montrose for the fourth time. “I cannot imagine Lady Catriona will be much longer.”
They were seated in a formal salon, a full tea service spread before them, awaiting the arrival of the lady he had promised to wed after shooting Montrose. In truth, Montrose had demanded the obligation from him as a debt of honor.
Rayne intended to leave England and return to Spain with as much haste as possible, but he also recognized he had a duty to the title and the entail. Marrying Lady Catriona had seemed, at the time, an efficient solution to two problems. He could satisfy a bleeding—and highly drunken—man’s demand, and he could also obtain a bride without being required to court her.
Provided Lady Catriona could meet his requirements in a bride.
Which was becoming less and less likely by the moment.
“Perhaps she is ill once more, Your Grace,” he said at last, unable to keep the irritation from lacing his voice.
This was his third visit to the Duke of Montrose’s townhome to visit his prospective betrothed. On his first attempt at meeting her, she had been suffering from a severe case of megrims. On his second try, Lady Catriona had fallen ill with a lung infection.
He drummed his fingers against his thigh, the sound falling heavily in the silence that had descended between himself and Lady Catriona’s mother, who wore the look of a woman disappointed with the world beneath her white cap. And he could hardly blame the dowager for such a sentiment.
Her son, the Duke of Montrose, was a scapegrace drunkard who dipped his prick in every willing female in London. And if gossip was to be believed, her daug
hter had been ruined and summarily sent to Scotland by Montrose to hide from the scandal she had created. She had then been rescued by her brother’s stupidity, but refused to meet the man who would be her savior and pluck her from the maws of said ruination.
The duchess’s eyes fell upon Alessandro’s tapping fingers.
He stilled them.
“Please accept my sincere apologies, Lord Rayne,” she whispered, sounding mortified.
He would have pitied the dowager, but she was responsible for having spawned Montrose and Lady Catriona, and if they were a source of shame for her, that, too, was her responsibility.
“I believe I shall take my leave now, Your Grace,” he announced.
Alessandro had wasted enough time being made a fool by Lady Catriona. Montrose would have to settle upon some other answer for his debt of honor. And Alessandro would find a different wife, one who was not the scandalous, minx sister of a drunkard duke.
The dowager made her apologies as Alessandro offered her a curt bow and saw himself out. Irritation mingled with fury as he stalked down the hall. He did not appreciate his precious time being wasted by a spoiled girl. Time was a luxury he could not afford to waste, for each day he lingered in England was a day that could have been meaningful in Spain, his mother’s homeland. The homeland of his heart.
A flutter of movement caught his eyes, giving him pause. It had been, he thought, the swish of a lady’s pale rose gown disappearing over the threshold of a chamber down the hall. Instinct told him it was her. And whilst he knew he ought to see himself to the door, he found himself spinning on his heels and pursuing that gown.
Pursuing that maddening creature who had dared to refuse to be introduced to him. He pursued her without thought for propriety or even sanity. What did it matter if he eschewed convention and sought out Lady Catriona alone? She was already ruined, and he was already known as the mad Earl of Rayne.
He reached the closed door into which she had disappeared, and opened it, striding through without hesitation, closing the portal at his back. The room in question was a library. A rather small affair, lined with two levels of shelves, flanked at each end by a set of overstuffed chairs. But Alessandro did not have eyes for the books or the chairs.
He had eyes only for the woman dressed in the blushing, rose-colored gown, her chestnut hair pulled into a simple chignon that put the graceful column of her throat on display. Her back was to him, and he took a moment to drink in the sight of her at last.
“Lady Catriona.” He spoke her name into the silence, gratified when she spun about, a hand fluttering over her heart, and emitted a most unladylike squeal.
She stared at him, and he stared back, confounded. Lady Catriona was not at all as he had imagined she would be. She looked nothing like her immense, clod-of-a-brother—thank the Lord for that mercy—her form curvaceous, just as he preferred. Small ringlets framed her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were the blue of the ocean, her lips a pink, Cupid’s bow that begged for kisses.
Fortunately, he was not the kissing sort of man. Nor was he the sort of man who was easily swayed by beauty, for Lady Catriona undeniably possessed more than her share of it. She was stunning, her loveliness not just ethereal but unusual, so unique he could not deny his initial reaction to her.
At least, not until he tamped it down and reminded himself she had made an ass of him on no less than three occasions.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself, my lady?” he asked, stalking nearer to her though he knew he ought to simply leave. “You look remarkably hale for a lady possessed of such a delicate constitution. First megrims, then a lung infection. Your sainted mother did not even bother to offer an excuse for your absence today. Tell me, what was it, my lady? A stomach ailment? A scrape? Perhaps you stubbed your toe.”
Her eyes narrowed upon him, her bearing seizing up, as if the sight of him was loathsome to her. “You were meant to be gone by now. Why are you still here, Lord Rayne? And why have you followed me?”
He almost laughed at her daring. But he was not amused by her imprudence. He stopped only when he was close enough to touch her. To note how thick and long her lashes were, know her eyes held untold depths of gray within them.
“I came here to propose marriage to you, just as I have done on the previous two occasions when you were also too struck with illness to see me,” he said coolly, whisking an assessing gaze over her. “But now I confess, I am grateful for your discretion, Lady Catriona.”
She frowned, and even in her expression of confused distraction, she was lovely. “I am afraid I do not understand, my lord. Precisely what is it you express gratitude for?”
“For saving me from an untenable fate.” He chose his words with care, enjoying himself for the first time since his arrival. A worthy opponent, Lady Catriona. “I can see clearly now we would never suit.”
Her frown deepened. “Why not, Lord Rayne?”
Ah, pobre gatita.
He would have felt a hint of compunction for what he was about to do had not Lady Catriona begun this battle between them. But she had fired the first volley of cannon, and Alessandro was declaring war.
Earl of Every Sin coming soon – please subscribe to www.dragonbladepublishing.com for updates
About the Author
Bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency historical romances with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, their adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.
A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything but especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. When she’s not reading, writing, wrangling toddlers, or camping, you can catch up with her on her website. Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.
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Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3) Page 25
