“None. I swear it.”
She smiled then, small and sweet. “Let’s go back to you wanting to be near me.”
The tightness in his chest loosened. “Every minute of every day. Wherever you want to be.”
“That doesn’t sound like it could possibly disappoint me,” she said, a gleam of something like happiness in her beautiful eyes. “But it’s not all or nothing. This world . . . it’s not my world anymore. It’s not all I have. It’s my work, and I love it, and I don’t want to leave it. But there are other things I love. Other things I don’t want to leave. Like you. Like Salterton.”
Yes.
“Then don’t,” he said. “You never have to.”
She looked him up and down, and he took the way her appraising gaze turned hungry as an extremely positive sign. “Though, truthfully, any time you want to put on this suit and tag along for work, I’m not going to say no.”
He laughed. “I think I can manage that.”
She stepped toward him, close enough that he could feel her heat. “A duke, huh?”
“I should have told you,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. But the idea that a woman like you—brilliant, talented, sexy as hell—would love me . . . Max . . . me . . . without any of the rest of it . . . I was terrified of ruining it.” He exhaled and looked up at the sky, then looked back at her. “It was like a gift. In all my life before you, I’ve never been enough. Just me, on my own.”
“Max,” she said, lifting her hand, pushing a lock of hair off his brow. “I love you. I love you, and the men in the Fox and Falcon, and your enormous dog, and your terrifying sheep, and your cottage, and your Aga . . . ” He laughed again. “And if they come with a title, well, I suppose I’m going to have to try falling in love with the duke too.”
“I’m afraid he’s the only way you get the bespoke suits.”
She laughed. “Well then, I will persevere. I’ll get used to the whole world calling you Weston, as long as I can save Weston for special occasions, and call you Max all the rest of the time.”
He set his forehead to hers. “Yes, please. Now kiss me.”
“If we do that, the Duke of Weston will return with a bang, whether you like it or not.”
“If it means you kiss me, I promise I’ll like it.”
Dozens of camera flashes were already firing as he lowered his lips to hers, a slow, sinful temptation.
“Max?” she whispered, just before he kissed her.
“Mmm?”
“Don’t blink.”
Epilogue
Five months later, Lilah opened the door to the cottage, weary from her overnight flight from Los Angeles and the drive from Heathrow. Dropping her bag in the foyer, she called out for Max.
No answer.
Taking off her shoes, she made her way to the kitchen, stopping only to wash her hands and face. She reveled in the quiet peace of the creaky old house—so different from where she’d been two nights earlier, in the delicious mayhem of the Oscars.
Aarti had been right—after the Common Harvest gala, Lilah was welcomed back into the world she’d once given everything to. Greenwood had tried to bury her again—as powerful men so often did—but this time, Lilah stood alongside a dozen other women he’d threatened and harmed, and they’d told their stories together. And it had been Greenwood who was buried.
She’d be lying if she said her time in Los Angeles hadn’t been sweeter for that triumph.
Lilah had spent the day of the awards shadowing a young nominee during her first red carpet prep, and the evening taking a collection of group portraits at the Bonfire After Party.
Years earlier, she might have spent the rest of the week in a haze of lunches and drinks and dinners and networking—or she would have taken one of the half dozen interviews she’d been offered to discuss the downfall of Greenwood. But Lilah had something far more tempting waiting for her at home.
Max.
The kitchen was empty, late afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows overlooking the wide expanse of green spring pastures beyond. She paused for a heartbeat to take in the view—one of the many reasons they’d decided to live here, in the cottage, and save the estate house for special occasions.
There, on the scarred kitchen table, was a note in Max’s bold scrawl.
Checking on Mabel.
I love you.
She smiled. Even as he’d dashed off the note, he’d added his love. As though she might not know. As though he hadn’t told her he loved her several times a day since the night he’d told her the first time.
Slipping the paper into her back pocket, she went to the rear door of the cottage, pulled on her wellies, and set off to find him, the thought of him chasing away jet lag and exhaustion. She crested the hill a few hundred yards from the cottage, looking down on the field below, dotted with sheep, Atlas in the distance.
And there, in the center of all of it, was Max. Holding a lamb.
Lilah’s chest tightened at the image—her big, broad farmer cradling the little creature—and her stomach flipped with pleasure, hormones standing up and taking notice. It was ridiculous how easy it was to love him.
He looked up as she made her way toward him, his eyes lighting with pleasure before he crouched to set the little creature on the ground and came for her, long strides eating up the green earth. Lilah laughed, distracted by the lamb stumbling and swaying toward Mabel—who immediately provided shelter.
And then Max was there, catching her to him, lifting her high in his arms and kissing her, deep and thorough and desperate enough that anyone watching would think they’d been apart for months instead of a few short days. Lilah met the kiss, just as thorough, just as desperate.
Wildly in love with this man, farmer, duke, marauder, hers.
When they finally came up for air, he set her back on her feet, Atlas dancing around them for a hello. “I love it when you come home.”
She smiled and said, “I love coming home.” She leaned over to give the dog some attention, then peeked past Max to see the lamb. “And you, just hanging out in a field, holding a new lamb. Could you be more picturesque?”
“Mabel and I have always liked making the place nice for you.”
She laughed, tucking herself into the crook of his arm as they made their way over to the ewe. “Well done, Mabes,” she said, and Mabel seemed to preen under the compliment. Lilah crouched and called to the lamb, who came immediately to her, curious and sweet.
Lilah went to her knees, the two-day-old lamb coming to stand on her thighs, accepting her touch instantly. She lifted it into her arms, cuddling it close. “What a love.”
“He likes your touch. I can relate.”
She flashed him a grin over the lamb’s fluffy white head. “Passionate shepherd flirting is the best kind of flirting.” Lifting the little creature into the air, she studied its sweet face and said “I think we should name you Marlowe.”
The lamb gave a tiny, high-pitched bleat and squirmed to be free, and Lilah released it to the field and its mother with a laugh. Brushing mud and grass from her thighs, she stood, Max reaching down to help her up.
Once she was on her feet, her laugh caught in her throat as she met his gaze, hot and delicious on her. “Marry me.”
She stilled, surprise and a deep, delicious pleasure coursing through her. Had she heard it correctly? “What did you say?”
He came for her, cradling her face in his warm, rough hands, tilting her up to him, until she was lost in his whiskey eyes. “I’ve resisted asking you that for months. I’ve wanted to ask you every day since the day you left for London. I wanted to ask you at the British Museum under your gorgeous photographs, and in the kitchen at the cottage, and in the gift shop of the main house that day when you made me go in and introduce myself to the guests.”
She laughed, delighted by him and the memory. He’d hated it. And then he’d loved it. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I wanted to ask you when we were in the States for Thanksgi
ving with your friends. And when we spent Christmas here at the Abbey with Lottie and Jez and Simon. And I wanted to ask you every night we’ve spent at the pub, and again, as we’ve walked home under the stars.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist, wanting to scream her answer and also to savor this moment—one she wanted to remember for the rest of her days. “So why haven’t you?”
“Because I wanted to give you time,” he said, softly. “I wanted to give you time to settle back into your brilliant life, and give you a chance to decide that this is enough.” He paused. “That I am enough.”
She kissed him then, soft and sweet, breaking it to whisper at his lips, “This is perfect. You are perfect.”
He pulled her tight to him. “Is that what you’ve decided?”
“I’ve known it from the start.” She paused, then added, “Ask me again.”
He smiled, that handsome, crooked smile that stole her breath. “Lilah Rose, will you marry me?”
Max.
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, until they were both gasping for breath, and he lifted her high off the ground, her arms wrapping around his neck. She sighed in his arms and said, “Ask me again.”
He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Will you marry me?”
The Duke.
“Yes,” she said, turning to catch his lips once more, kissing him until he rumbled his pleasure and lifted her high in his arms, until her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was already headed across the pasture.
“Time to go home,” he said. “Now that you’ve said it twice, I intend to spend the night making you scream it.”
The Marauder.
She laughed, full of hope and love and the future . . . and let him lead the way home.
Also by Sarah MacLean
The Bareknuckle Bastards
Wicked and the Wallflower
Brazen and the Beast
Daring and the Duke
* * *
Scandal & Scoundrel
The Rogue Not Taken
A Scot in the Dark
The Day of the Duchess
* * *
The Rules of Scoundrels
A Rogue by Any Other Name
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover
No Good Duke Goes Unpunished
Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover
* * *
Love By Numbers
Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake
Ten Ways to be Adored When Landing a Lord
Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart
* * *
Anthologies
How The Dukes Stole Christmas
Dark Duets
About the Author
A life-long romance reader, Sarah MacLean wrote her first romance novel on a dare and never looked back. She is a New York Times, Washington Post, and USA Today bestselling author, the co-host of the weekly romance novel podcast, Fated Mates, and a columnist for The Washington Post.
* * *
Her work in support of romance and the women who read it earned her a place on Jezebel.com's Sheroes list and led Entertainment Weekly to call her "the elegantly fuming, utterly intoxicating queen of historical romance." Sarah lives in New York City.
* * *
Find her at sarahmaclean.net or fatedmates.net, or sign up for her newsletter at sarahmaclean.net/contact.
Better With You
Sophie Jordan
For every woman who dreams of a fresh start.
Chapter One
“Vee, this is Mr. Moretti from Corps Security. He will be your security detail while you’re here.”
Security detail. I turned those words over as though struggling to translate them in my mind.
“Bodyguard,” I breathed like it was dirty thing.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at the man coming up behind me in my UK editor’s office. I knew it wasn’t mannerly. I should greet him. Shake hands. But I couldn’t look at him. I could only gawk at my editor, hoping this was some kind of joke.
“That’s right.” Melani nodded, her gaze darting just beyond my shoulder. I felt his presence there like a heat-radiating furnace, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from my editor. She settled her gaze back on me. “Corps Security prides itself on its discretion. I’m certain you will hardly even notice Mr. Moretti. He’ll be a shadow. Entirely unobtrusive.” She smiled encouragingly.
I shook my head. “You never mentioned any of this before.”
“After your signing last week . . . Anna and I spoke and thought it would be the wisest course of action while you’re here.”
I tried not to wince at the reference to my event in Washington, D.C. four days ago. It had been . . . unfortunate. Anna was my US editor and she was even more rattled by the incident than I was. “Pfft.” I fluttered a hand. “That was nothing. It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t think we can make light of this. Employees at the bookstore had to hustle you into a back room and end your event early. The police were called.”
“It was an isolated incident. I toured nine other cities and nothing like that happened. I am sure nothing is going to happen while I’m here.”
“No one ever expects anything to happen to them,” a deep voice contributed behind me. “It’s always wise to be prepared.”
Galled at this man, this stranger, who dared to insinuate himself into the conversation, into my life, I twisted around in my chair, hot words burning on my tongue.
The air left me in a whoosh and I sank back down in my chair, speechless.
He was as unobtrusive as slap to my vulva.
Oh, hell no. I did not need good-looking guys around me.
How was he supposed to be unnoticeable? This man did not go anywhere without being noticed. He was big. Muscly even in his nice jacket and slacks. No tie. Just a crisp white button-down under his jacket. No amount of clothing could hide the fact that this guy was built. It was partly the way he held himself. I could easily see him in military fatigues, loping through the jungle with a panther-like gait.
I studied him from the cocoon of my wingback chair, digesting that this man would be shadowing my every move. I blinked and looked to Melani incredulously.
She gave a pathetic little shrug that told me she had a sense of my thoughts. “Sorry. You’re much too important to us, Vee.”
I barely held back a snort. I was not much too important to anyone. My book was important. The book. Not me specifically. It was a crucial distinction.
Self Love meant money to these people. It meant money to me too. As someone who never had a lot growing up, I wasn’t indifferent to that.
I never had a mom that packed me lunches. She gave me money for school lunches when she remembered or when she had the cash, which wasn’t very often. I qualified for free meal benefits. That meant I received two pieces of white bread with a slice of cheese in the middle and an apple every day. It was a flag to everyone that I was poor. Well, that and the fact that I wore my grandma’s hand-me-downs. Mom was too short for me to borrow her clothes. I was the only fourth-grader dressed like a Golden Girl with shoulder pads.
I’d come a long way from that. Now I could afford my own clothes and pretty much anything else I wanted. I’d flown business class to London, where I was served champagne and five courses. A long way, indeed.
My editor was a perfectly lovely person, but this was business, plain and simple. I wouldn’t be important—or here at all—if not for three months of a rage-filled writing purge.
It had begun as a form of catharsis after my last divorce. My last and final divorce. There would not be another. By the age of thirty-four I had three failed marriages behind me. Yeah. I was done being stupid . . . done falling for guys that looked good on paper, but turned out to be someone else. Someone that didn’t really exist. A fourth failed marriage would not be my fate.
I had channeled all my disappointment and frustrations into a book—a book that now, four years later, happened to
be in its second year on multiple bestseller lists. The success of Self Love had turned me into a household name. I now had a sizable bank account and the pleasure of an international book tour.
Who could have guessed that something good could come from my life’s biggest failures?
Melani continued, “Vee, your amazing book has created some waves, which, of course, is part of its appeal and popularity. You had something important to say and you said it. Women don’t need men to be happy. In fact, sometimes women are happier without them.” She nodded approvingly. “You’d think the concept wouldn’t be that shocking, but apparently, men are unused to hearing they’re unnecessary.”
I arched an eyebrow, knowing there was more coming. “But?”
“The truth can offend . . . and not everyone loves what you have to say.”
I knew that. My own family didn’t love it. According to rumors, my exes hated it.
“I’m not going to live under a rock because a handful of Neanderthals don’t like what I have to say . . . or rather, what I wrote.”
The mental image of the man at my Washington, D.C. event rose in my mind. His face had been mottled red in rage. I didn’t know I could make any individual so angry. Not even my ex, Brent, and he had a temper.
The guy in D.C. had looked ready to hurt me—not that I would admit such a thing to Melani. It would only affirm her certainty that I needed a man to protect me, and that went against everything I had come to believe of myself.
“You don’t need to live under a rock, but these individuals cannot be underestimated. We don’t want you taking any risks. This security company has a stellar reputation. We’ve used them before for a few of our controversial authors.”
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 13