Earl of Every Sin

by Scott, Scarlett

  And his wife.

  She was dressed to perfection, as always, in a sprigged muslin day dress that showed off her lush curves. The day was bright and brilliant with sun, glowing in the curls peeping from beneath her bonnet. She bent to cut a rose, and the sight of her luscious derriere made his breeches go tight.

  He wanted her more with each passing day.

  His lust for her was beginning to become a problem, in fact.

  In the days following his apology to her, they had settled into a pax of sorts. Catriona had thrown herself into being the mistress of Marchmont with a fervor that pleased him, though did not surprise him. She was capable, determined, and resilient, all traits he admired.

  Her efforts with the picaro were equally estimable. Olivia was at her side in the garden now, dressed as befit a young member of the fair sex. The dirty little squatter who had greeted him at the door had been replaced. Catriona had even hired a governess for the girl from the village, and the brat appeared to have begun learning her manners. It was remarkable, really, just how much his countess could transform in such a short amount of time.

  Slowly, Marchmont was being restored. And slowly, day by day, the fractured pieces inside Alessandro were growing less sharp. Not precisely growing together, but getting smoothed soft, like a pebble in a stream. His anger was no longer as pronounced.

  But she had yet to allow him back into her bed following their argument, and this, too, was a problem. A problem he would rectify today, for summer was giving way to autumn bit by bit each day, and he needed to travel soon if he wished to reach Spain before winter set in. He could not leave for Spain if he was not assured his wife was with child, and he could not be assured of a babe in her belly if he could not bed her.

  Their impasse would naturally have to come to an end, and he had decided upon the means. Turning away from the window, he stalked from his study, in search of his butler. Johnstone, to his credit, was never far.

  “Everything has been prepared as you required, my lord,” the butler told him.

  “Excelente.” He smiled. “Thank you for your assistance, Johnstone.”

  His butler bowed. “De nada, my lord.”

  He sighed as he turned on his heel, in search of his wife, for there was truly no argument against having an accommodating butler. Indeed, part of him suspected he would miss the fellow when he returned to Spain. Part of him would miss a great deal of things.

  Including her.

  Ruthlessly, he banished the voice inside him that reminded him the way his wife made him feel. He was not meant to feel. He was El Corazón Oscuro, and he was not just the dark heart. He was altogether heartless.

  Which hardly explained what he was about to do.

  This was for him, he told himself. He needed to bed his wife to get an heir, and courting her seemed the most advantageous means of achieving that goal. Also, the urge to return to the fancy of his youth undeniably drove him. Alessandro would never forgive himself if he returned to Spain without seeing one of the favorite places of his boyhood. For once he went back to war, he would likely never return again.

  He found Catriona and Olivia not far from where they had been earlier in the gardens, cutting some roses. As his boots crunched on the gravel, his wife spun to face him. At such proximity, he could not help noticing the charming flush of her cheeks. Her eyes were startled, her lush lips firming into a line that was far from the welcoming smile he longed to see.

  He bowed. “My lady. Miss Olivia.”

  To his amazement, the picaro dipped into a curtsy.

  “Very good form, Olivia,” his wife encouraged, smiling down at the imp.

  Maldición, that was his smile, and he wanted it.

  “Thank you, my lady.” Olivia beamed up at his wife.

  Though her shorn hair peeped from beneath her bonnet, the lass was otherwise looking the part of English gentility. His wife was a miracle worker. What were the odds a devil like him would have found another angel to wed?

  And yet, he had.

  “What do you think of Olivia’s curtsy, Lord Rayne?” his wife prodded, her enthusiasm dimming noticeably when her regard was once more fixed upon him.

  He cleared his throat. “Passable.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it from the way Catriona’s brows drew instantly together.

  “She has been working at it very diligently, my lord,” she added through gritted teeth.

  Could she not see he was not accustomed to this? His interactions with the picaro had been limited since his discovery she was a female. And he had been absent for much of his sister Leonora’s life. He had just spent the last few in bloody battles, at war. What did she expect of him?

  “It is better than passable,” he tried again.

  The child did not mince words. “You’re bollixing it up, m’lord.”

  Catriona sighed. “Olivia.”

  He held up a staying hand. “The picaro is not wrong in this instance, I have no doubt. I am afraid I am woefully ignorant in such delicate matters. Forgive me, Miss Olivia, my lady.”

  His wife’s lips pursed, and he could tell she was doing her damnedest to squelch a smile. “You are forgiven, my lord.”

  “Ah, but am I forgiven, or am I forgiven?” he could not resist asking her, gratified when her color instantly deepened and she averted her gaze.

  She knew precisely what lay behind the hidden meaning in his words.

  “Haven’t you seen the way she makes eyes at you, Lord Rayne?” Olivia asked.

  “Olivia,” Catriona chastised, pinning her charge with a severe frown.

  He found himself grinning. A lightness he had not felt in as long as he could remember settled over him. Perhaps it was brought about by the sun’s rays. Perhaps it was the warmth of the day. Or the prospect of surprising his wife and the picaro with the endeavor he had planned. Perhaps it was just the way he felt when he was in Catriona’s presence. Near enough to touch her. To kiss her.

  Dios, he missed those lips.

  The way she tasted.

  The way she kissed him back.

  But he could not afford to linger upon any of that, for he had a plan to put into motion. Still, he could not resist taunting his wife, who had been doing her best to keep him at a distance these last few days, making him want her all the more.

  “How does she make eyes at me?” he asked.

  “Rayne,” Catriona snapped.

  “Wife,” he countered, still grinning at her. “You have something you wish to impart? Some gem of wisdom, perhaps?”

  She tilted her head and raised a brow at him. “I do not make eyes at you.” And then she cast a glance toward the picaro. “I do not make eyes at him, Olivia.”

  He winked at the imp. “She does.”

  The imp grinned back, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. “Aye, she does.”

  It occurred to him this was the first time he had seen the child smile. And this, too, filled him with a curious happiness.

  “Why are you here, my lord?” his wife asked acidly.

  “Marchmont is my country seat,” he told her seriously. “I am in residence.”

  She blinked, looking distinctly unimpressed at his attempt at sarcasm.

  Well, it had been a long time, and he was out of practice. He could not recall having been so inclined to joke. Levity had been lost upon him for many years. Indeed, this odd sensation swirling within him now was something he had not felt since…

  Not since Maria.

  The reminder of his past, juxtaposed with the false brilliance of the day, was enough to sober him. To force his mind back to his original plan.

  “What I meant,” probed Catriona pointedly, “is what are you doing in the gardens, Lord Rayne? I have not seen you out here often.”

  She had all but implied his absence in the gardens was her reason to linger there. Beyond his reach. Out of his presence.

  “I have a surprise for you and Miss Olivia,” he told her, all the more pleased with him
self for his idea.

  Why had he not thought of it sooner?

  “A surprise.” His lady wife did not appear impressed.

  The picaro, however, was a different story. She began bouncing, quite literally, on the overgrown path. “I love surprises! What is it, my lord? What is it?”

  Perhaps not all her lessons in manners and deportment had yet taken effect, he thought wryly. But her enthusiasm proved rather infectious, all the same.

  “Fishing,” he told her.

  One of the females before him wore an expression of instant joy. The other, one of distinct suspicion. At least he was certain to win one of them over.

  “Come along,” he told them. “I have everything prepared.”

  *

  Fishing was a gentleman’s sport.

  But Catriona had not bothered to douse her husband’s enthusiasm with her disapproval. She had been keeping him at a distance enough ever since their row days before. And so, she found herself being charmed by him all over again—albeit vicariously—as she stood on the sun-stained banks of the river cutting through Marchmont in a peaceful bend just before the dams, watching him teach Olivia how to manage her fishing tackle.

  “This is a rod fashioned of bamboo,” he was telling the girl, “held together with screws of brass. It is a beautiful contraption, really.”

  “I’ve fished in my day, but we never had nothing so fine as this,” Olivia confessed, wonderment in her voice.

  “We never had anything as fine,” she and Alessandro corrected in unison.

  Their gazes met and held for a beat, and she could almost imagine, gathered as they were, the blissful sunshine of late summer upon them, the peacefully flowing river before them, that they were parents teaching their child.

  Together.

  But that was just a fantasy. A fiction her heart longed to believe.

  For in truth, Olivia was not their daughter, and the Earl of Rayne had no intention of lingering after he had planted his seed in her womb. Her jaw clenched at the thought.

  He inclined his head toward her, seemingly in deference, before returning his attention to Olivia. “This is a fly I made when I was a lad, Olivia.”

  “It must be dreadfully old,” remarked the incorrigible child.

  To her amazement, her husband laughed. How rare and precious a gift it was, that sound. It rang, clear and deep and beautiful, touching all the parts of her heart she was do desperately determined to keep from him.

  “It is almost an antiquity, picaro,” he told Olivia. “But I promise you my flies can catch fish, and as we are about to engage in a tournament, you will be grateful indeed I have lent them to you. Lady Rayne is not so fortunate.”

  “A tournament?” Olivia asked.

  “Indeed,” Catriona added, her eyes narrowed. “What manner of tournament have you in mind, Rayne? I have no wish to fish, you realize.”

  “No wish to fish, why, Lady Rayne, you are a poetess,” he teased.

  She frowned at him. Her husband was a breathtaking, beautiful man. But when he smiled and teased her, her every defense against him dissipated, and he was even more impossible to resist.

  “What lure are you providing me that is so inferior to Olivia’s?” she asked, forcing herself to be concerned with more important matters than admiring her husband’s looks. She did that readily enough every time she was in his presence.

  Even when she was angry with him.

  And yes, even when she was doing her best to keep him at a distance.

  “Not inferior. Merely different. For you, I have a lob worm,” he told her.

  The word worm made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. “Is it alive?”

  “Of course.” He grinned. “Until I hook it.”

  Her heart did strange things inside her chest. All the stranger for the subject matter. “No thank you,” she told him. “I shall watch you and Olivia have your tournament. That shall do quite nicely.”

  “No indeed,” he denied, shaking his head. “I am afraid that will not do, will it, Miss Olivia?”

  Olivia—the dratted traitor—had eyes only for the savior who intended to provide her with a superior lure for their impromptu fishing tournament. “You must join us, Lady Rayne. How can we have a tournament with nothing but two people? Lord Rayne will hook the worm for you, will you not, my lord?”

  Her husband’s gaze was upon her, dark and fierce and burning, touching her deep inside where she wanted to keep him from trespassing. “My lady, would you prefer to set your lure?” he asked solicitously, holding up a long, wriggling creature for her inspection.

  “No, thank you,” she declined, quite disgusted at the prospect. “I am certain fishing is generally considered the sport of gentlemen for a reason, Lord Rayne. Whilst I applaud your efforts to bring us here and show us the land, perhaps we would be better served to return to the main house.”

  “I doesn’t want to go anywhere,” Olivia protested instantly, holding her fishing tackle in her small right hand as if it were a weapon she was capable of wielding.

  “I do not wish to go anywhere,” both Catriona and Alessandro corrected simultaneously once more.

  They stared at each other.

  “That’s what I said,” Olivia argued stubbornly.

  “Come,” her husband said then, gifting her with one of his rare smiles.

  She stared at his outstretched hand, distrust curdling her every thought.

  “I caught fish here when I was a boy,” her husband said softly, his gaze burning into hers, finding all those places she never wanted him to see. “It will be a few mindless hours of entertainment, and I know all three of us could benefit from just such a thing if you will but allow it. Tell me you will.”

  Catriona cast a glance toward their charge, mindful to keep the girl from overhearing their exchange. “Alessandro…”

  “Querida,” he returned, his voice knowing.

  Oh, how he could find his way beneath her every defense.

  “I am not touching a slimy fish,” she informed him. “Nor will I touch a wriggling worm.”

  His grin deepened, rendering him even more beautiful than before. “I knew you would see to reason.”

  She succumbed to a lesson she had learned some time ago. When the Earl of Rayne smiled, resisting him was futile.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After dinner, Alessandro found himself at the door joining his chamber to Catriona’s. He had not attempted to come to her since the night he had brought her the dinner she had missed. But the afternoon had proven a resounding success.

  The picaro had won the tournament, albeit with a little help from Alessandro’s lures and knowledge of the best places to fish in the river. Not much had changed at Marchmont since his last time in residence there, save the incompetence of the steward he had once trusted. They had brought home half a dozen trout. Olivia had been grinning from ear to ear.

  But the greatest victory of all had been his.

  He had won back his wife’s approval.

  The way she had gazed upon him all dinner had been enough to make him want to kiss her, then and there, before the servants dancing attendance upon them and Olivia, who had been invited to the table to enjoy the fruits of her labor.

  It had been only the presence of the picaro which had kept him from doing what he wanted. What he was going to do now. She had chanced to whisper in his ear she would be expecting him later, and he had not needed to hear the invitation twice.

  He rapped on the door once.

  Once, as it happened, was all he required.

  “Come in,” his wife called.

  Her husky voice sent an unexpected ripple of longing straight through him. Her mouth had been taunting him all day. Kissing her had become an obsession of his. Bedding her was not far behind.

  All in the name of obtaining his heir, por supuesto.

  He opened the door, crossed the threshold, and stopped when a wall of lust came barreling down upon him with the force of a herd of wild horses. C
atriona’s brown curls had been unbound, falling around her shoulders, and she wore a night rail that was the wickedest combination of innocence and decadence he had ever seen.

  It was a virginal white, but the fabric was transparent. He could see all of her through that wispy veil, from the pink buds of her nipples to the dark curls of her sex. The décolletage revealed the creamy swells of her full breasts, the seductive curves of her waist. She was beautiful to him, from the inside out. So beautiful, she almost brought him to his knees.

  “Querida,” was all he could manage to say, desire rocking him. Need was a living, breathing creature. Demanding he give in.

  Duty and obligation were far from his mind as he ate up the distance keeping him from her sweet, jasmine-scented skin. It had been too long since he had last been able to touch her. And fortunately for him, his wife was suffering from a similar affliction of desperate longing.

  For she met him halfway across the chamber, and she was in his arms as though it were the most natural place in the world for her to be. And indeed, in that rare, unfettered moment, it was. She belonged to him. Belonged in his arms. Every swell and dip of her sweetly feminine body fitted perfectly against his.

  His hands found her waist, mooring her to him, while hers went around his neck. Her breasts crushed into his chest, her hungry nipples prodding his chest in erotic promise.

  He was hard and ready for her slick, tight sheath to take him to oblivion. He was a head taller than she was, which meant his cock was pressed into the soft swell of her stomach. Not where he ultimately wanted to be, but any part of her would suffice for now.

  She was warm and soft, her flesh supple and delicious. She burned into him, her head tipped back to watch him. His fingers tightened on her, lest she try to slip away. He was a greedy bastard when it came to this woman. And he could not let go.

  “Thank you for this afternoon,” she said softly.

  There were a hundred different things she could have said to him in that moment, and yet, the one she had chosen, affected him as no other could.

  “No,” he returned, devouring her upturned face with his gaze. “Thank you. I know fishing is not the manner in which you would have preferred to spend several hours, but I do think the child liked it.”