“I love you, Helena.” Having embraced the truth of his feelings, he could not seem to say the words enough.
“And I love you.”
Grandfather’s favorite maxim returned to him suddenly.
A man without honor is a man who has nothing.
In truth, he had been wrong about that. There was one necessary change.
A man without love is a man who has nothing.
Gabe had never been more certain of the veracity of that statement than he was now. He pulled his wife to him for a lingering kiss that turned into another. And another. And then another.
Because this Earl of Huntingdon had everything.
Epilogue
Together, we can accomplish anything we wish.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
“I officially declare myself the most besotted man in London.”
“And why is that, my love?” Helena attempted to get up from the chaise longue as her husband approached: tall, handsome, long-legged, and dressed to perfection. No earl had a right to look so sinfully good.
“Do not rise on my account,” he said swiftly, hastening his pace so that his strides ate up the Axminster separating them. “I know how much your feet and back have been aching recently.”
On a sigh, Helena settled once more into the stack of pillows her lady’s maid had helpfully arranged behind her. “If you insist, I shall remain right here. Now, do tell me why you are the most besotted man. That does seem a rather extensive claim to make. How can you be certain, and with whom are you besotted?”
He grinned, lowering himself to the cushion at her side, and held up a box that had been wrapped with a neatly tied satin ribbon of emerald green. “I am besotted with you, of course. And as for the boldness of my claim, I can assure you of its veracity. No other man could possibly love his wife as much as I love you.”
He was adorable.
She scrunched up her nose. “What about a man and his mistress? Mayhap another man, somewhere in this vast city, loves his mistress just a speck more.”
“Impossible.” He kissed her nose. “I have proof.”
She raised a brow. “Oh?”
How she loved to see this lighter side of him. He seemed so carefree these days, and it was a welcome change. As they had settled into their marriage and grown together, the walls of the past had been dismantled, stone by stone, until at last, none remained. He had not suffered any of his attacks in recent months, and he was finally healing, at long last.
He held the box toward her. “I brought you a present, hellion.”
“A present for me?” She smiled at him. “It was gift enough to learn that Lady Beatrice Knightbridge has married Lord Hamish White this morning.”
“They deserve each other,” Gabe said simply.
Truer words had never been spoken.
Helena reached for the box. “They do indeed. Now, what can you possibly have for me?”
“Open it and you shall see.”
Was she mistaken, or was there the slightest hint of a flush tingeing his sharp cheekbones? Curious, that.
Helena plucked at the ribbon, undoing the bow, and then lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was the latest edition of the bawdy book series she had thieved from Shelbourne’s collection.
Wicked heat flared to life within her. She may be heavy with child, but staying off one’s swollen feet had benefits. Namely, spending more time in bed with one’s delicious husband.
“You bought me filth!” she crowed, her heart seeming to swell inside her breast at the gesture.
His color deepened. “It is not filth.”
“That is what you called it once,” she reminded him.
“Saucy minx. Mayhap I was overly harsh about it once upon a time.”
“I have thoroughly corrupted you,” she declared. “First you have fallen in love, and now you are buying me bawdy books. You are the most besotted man in London.”
He smiled back at her, giving Helena a look of undisguised love. “You see? I told you so.”
“Will you come to bed and read it to me?” she asked, batting her lashes at him in exaggerated fashion.
He kissed her long and deep. “You make me despicably randy, hellion.”
She slid her hand up his thigh and confirmed that she did, indeed, have such an effect upon him. “There is only one cure for that, my love.”
He caressed her swollen belly over the robe de chambre she wore. There were definite benefits to being so near to her lying in, she had discovered. No one complained if she lounged about all day wearing scarcely any garments, least of all her husband.
“In addition to being the most besotted man in London, I am also the most fortunate,” he said, his voice low and tender. “You look like a goddess, carrying our babe.”
She was sure she did not, but he could tell her so all he liked.
Helena linked her arms around Gabe’s neck. “I can think of a way to make you even more fortunate.”
He grinned. “God, I love you.”
“I love you more,” she said, and then she pulled his lips down upon hers.
The End.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Helena and Gabe’s story! I hope you enjoyed this third book in my Notorious Ladies of London series and that Helena and Gabe’s path to happily ever after touched your heart and left you smiling. I love writing my notorious ladies, and I thank you for spending your precious time reading them!
Please consider leaving an honest review of Lady Reckless. Reviews are greatly appreciated! If you’d like to keep up to date with my latest releases and series news, sign up for my newsletter here or follow me on Amazon or BookBub. Join my reader’s group on Facebook for bonus content, early excerpts, giveaways, and more.
If you’d like a preview of Lady Wicked, Book Four in the Notorious Ladies of London series, featuring Lady Julianna Somerset and Sidney, Lord Shelbourne (plus a huge secret, lots of angst, and plenty of steam), do read on.
Until next time,
Scarlett
Author’s Note on Historical Accuracy
As always, I’ve done my best to provide you with a read that’s as entertaining and historically accurate as possible. Lady Jo Decker’s outrage after reading a letter to the editor in The Times is based upon an edition from June 10, 1884, which featured similar letters to the editor arguing against woman’s suffrage.
My inspiration for the Lady’s Suffrage Society Times came from The Women’s Penny Paper, which was edited by Henrietta B. Muller using the nom de plume Helen B. Temple, and from the Women’s Suffrage Journal, edited by Lydia E. Becker. I used archived copies of these nineteenth century British journals as inspiration for the chapter epigraphs and Helena and her fellow members of the Lady’s Suffrage Society.
And now, on to that preview…
Lady Wicked
Notorious Ladies of London Book Four
By
Scarlett Scott
One reckless moment was all it required for Lady Julianna Somerset to lose her innocence to her best friend’s brother. But when he broke her heart, she fled London to heal her wounded pride. A desperate change in circumstance has forced her to return. And in a cruel twist of fate, the man who ruined her may be the only one who can save her.
Sidney, Lord Shelbourne has always wanted one woman at his side and in his bed. The only problem? She refused his marriage proposal and disappeared from his life. He’s resigned himself to a life of duty when her arrival in London rekindles old, dangerous flames.
Sidney has not forgiven Julianna for spurning him or for the shocking secret she has been keeping. Now that she needs his aid, he has a plan. Revenge will be his, and so will she. But Julianna is determined to protect herself against the handsome lord she never stopped desiring. This time, she has vowed she will be the one to force his surrender.
Chapter One
1885
She had returned to London.
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He had celebrated this decidedly unhappy event by drowning himself in Sauternes at the Black Souls Club. But the wine had done nothing to quell either the ire or the ardor which had been threatening to consume him since the moment he had discovered they once more shared the same shores.
Shelbourne’s carriage conveyed him over the London streets beneath the cloak of darkness. The jangling of tack, the familiar scent of the well-oiled squabs, and the sound of the wheels rumbling on the road did nothing to distract him. Still, there was no comfort to be found in either the lateness of the hour or the commonplace encroachments upon his senses.
Damn her.
Nothing could keep her from his thoughts. Nothing could abate the knowledge that Lady Juliana Somerset had come back to England.
The vehicle came to a halt at last in the mews behind his townhome. Cagney House was one of the lesser holdings of his father, the Marquess of Northampton. But as Viscount Shelbourne and the heir to the marquisate, it was his London home. A place of respite from his father’s tyrannical insistence Shelbourne marry and secure the line.
Marriage would happen soon enough.
Lady Hermione Carmichael was as uninspiring as a piece of buttered toast, with hair the color of a murky puddle and the personality of a plate of biscuits. Her face was plain, her voice was quiet, and she would never refuse him when he asked for her hand in marriage.
Unlike her.
But he would not think of her now, curse her to the devil. On a growl, he leapt from his carriage and stalked into a pelting wall of rain, much to the consternation of his groom, who called out some nonsense about an umbrella.
“Fuck the umbrella,” he called over his shoulder with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Mayhap dousing himself in rain would prove the diversion he required.
“But sir,” came the protest, along with scurrying boots.
Shelbourne did not bother to turn. “If you follow me with that contraption, I’ll shove it up your arse and then open it.”
The footsteps stopped.
Excellent.
He was in a grim mood, and he had no wish to be fussed over by well-intentioned servants. He had every expectation of settling in the library, calling for a bottle, and continuing down the path of destruction he had begun earlier this evening. Or had it been afternoon?
Who the devil cared?
What he needed was more wine, and he needed it now. If he spent the day with his head hung over a chamber pot, at least he would not be thinking of the flame-haired temptress who had given him her innocence and then laughed at his offer of marriage.
Shelbourne made his way into the main hall, dripping water as he went. His butler hastened toward him, looking as if he had just caught a mischief of rats in the larder.
“What can it be, Wentworth?” he demanded, irritated by the thought of any domestic squabble that would dare to stand between him and his mission of getting so soused he would forget her name.
Hell, he may as well get so tap-hackled he forgot his own name as well.
Wentworth bowed. “Lord Shelbourne, there is a visitor who has been awaiting you for the last several hours. I have repeatedly informed her you are not at home, and that the hour is late, but she refuses to leave. She claims to be a lady, or I would have had her removed well before now.”
A visitor? At this time of night? Christ, it was likely half past two in the morning.
It could not be Charlotte. Although she had begged him to visit her this evening, he had known he would only be thinking of Julianna while bedding his mistress. It was no mistake he had chosen a stunning redheaded actress as his current paramour. He would sooner eat a pail of nails than allow himself to imagine he was fucking Julianna.
Mayhap he would have to get thoroughly drunk before he visited Charlotte next.
Or find a replacement.
One with hair as black as his heart.
“I do not want to be troubled, Wentworth,” he snapped, shaking himself from his reveries. “Send her on her way and see to it that a bottle of Sauternes is delivered to the library, won’t you?”
“Of course, my lord.” Wentworth bowed. “I would be more than happy to do so.”
“Oh, and Wentworth?” he called belatedly. “Mayhap some towels as well. I am a bit…wet.”
Without awaiting a response, Shelbourne trudged down the hall to the library, leaving a veritable river in his wake. Once within the familiar, shelf-lined walls, he discarded his wet coat, tugged open his necktie, and flicked open the buttons of his waistcoat. His pocket watch would live to see another day.
A consultation of it revealed he was either more inebriated than he had supposed, or he was sorely in need of spectacles.
“Fuck,” he swore, and tossed the elegant gold timepiece to the floor atop his sodden coat.
He paced the library while he waited for his bottle, his soaked shoes making interminable squishing sounds that had him toeing them off and hastening toward the door. Where the devil was Wentworth with his wine?
He was almost to the threshold when the clack of approaching footfalls in the hall alerted him to the presence of someone else. Someone who was decidedly not Wentworth. Someone who was wearing a lady’s heeled boots, and who walked with purpose.
“Madam! I beg of you, please stop or we shall have no recourse but to bodily remove you from his lordship’s home.”
The breathless, frustrated male voice calling after the owner of the boots was undeniably his butler’s.
“I will not go without speaking to Lord Shelbourne first,” countered a feminine voice he knew too well.
Except, there was something about it that sounded…different. A change in the accents. They were less clipped and precise, more drawled and drawn out. But there was no mistaking it otherwise. He had never heard another quite like it, throaty and yet innocent, husky and melodious.
Once upon a time, he’d experienced the singular pleasure of hearing that voice moan his name. But that had been when he had been deep inside her, when he had thought it an undisputed fact that they would be married.
Rage soared through him. He stormed toward the library door with purposeful strides, reaching the threshold just as she came barreling into him. They collided, the impact sending him staggering backward.
Into a bloody table, as it happened.
One moment, he was on his feet, and the next, he was on his back, staring up at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling. Only, he could not truly see the delineations. The ceiling was deuced blurry.
His arse and his head were sore.
So, too, his pride.
The combination of which was only made worse when the loveliest face he had ever beheld hovered over him. Good God. His first sight of her in two years, and she was sideways, presiding over him like some sort of avenging deity.
She was no deity, however.
If anything, Lady Julianna Somerset was a witch.
“Shelbourne,” she said, as if his name produced a bad taste in her mouth.
And mayhap it did, because Christ knew hers did in his.
“My lady,” he gritted, clenching his jaw.
“Madam, come this way, if you please,” said Wentworth then, reaching for Lady Julianna, his sideways face a mask of concern. “Your lordship, are you injured?”
Was he injured?
Ha!
The sudden urge to laugh hit him.
He clutched his heart. “Mortally wounded.”
“My lord?” The butler’s brows raised to his hairline.
“’Tis a joke, Wentworth. Get me the goddamn Sauternes, if you please. One glass. The lady will not be staying.”
At his mocking emphasis on the word lady, Julianna’s lush lips tightened.
Damn her thrice to hell and back. How had she gotten more alluring since he had seen her last? Were her bubbies larger? Her eyes bluer? Her hair more vibrant? Skin creamier?
He did not fucking care.
“Are you certain, Lord Shelbourn
e?” Wentworth pressed.
“Utterly.” He sat up, rubbing the back of his head. “Get out, Wentworth.”
His butler bowed and made haste on his retreat.
Shelbourne turned to his most unwanted—and despised—guest. “What the bloody hell are you doing in my house, Lady Julianna?”
She sniffed the air. “Are you drunk, my lord?”
“Not as drunk as I am about to be,” he said cheerily, rising to his considerable height. All the better to tower over her. One thing had not changed. Julianna was still deuced petite, the top of her head not even reaching his shoulders. He refused to think about the way her body had fit with his. “You did not answer my question. Why are you here?”
Her tongue darted over the lush fullness of her lower lip. “I need to speak with you.”
He threw back his head and gave in to the mad urge for laughter, which had been flirting with him ever since his tumble to the floor. He laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.
When he was finished, he took a deep, calming breath, and held her gaze. “How amusing you are. Unfortunately, for you, I do not give a damn what you need.”
“Lord Shelbourne,” she began.
“Get out, Julianna,” he bit out atop anything else she would have said, all pretenses gone. “Now. Before I do something we will both regret.”
Want more? Get Lady Wicked here!
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
(Listed by Series)
Complete Book List
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Heart’s Temptation
A Mad Passion (Book One)
Rebel Love (Book Two)
Reckless Need (Book Three)
Sweet Scandal (Book Four)
Restless Rake (Book Five)
Darling Duke (Book Six)
The Night Before Scandal (Book Seven)
Wicked Husbands
Her Errant Earl (Book One)
Her Lovestruck Lord (Book Two)
Her Reformed Rake (Book Three)
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 28