by Liz Carlyle
“Yes, that financial independence is going to your head already, I see,” he murmured.
With that, he produced a ring of half-carat amethysts mounted around a diamond that looked large enough to span from one knuckle to the next.
“Very well, my love,” he said, taking her left hand lightly in his, “I love you more than life itself. And I will marry you—and yes, do your wicked bidding—under one ironclad condition.”
Her fingers already outstretched, Isabella drew them back an inch. “What one condition?”
He looked at her, all the teasing gone from his eyes. “That you take every penny of the Flynt fortune, however much it is, and put it in trust for your sisters,” he said, “and, if you wish, our children. But I do not want it; not a sou. And Lissie does not need it. Do you understand, Isabella, how important this is to me?”
“Very well, yes,” she said on a laugh, “but you act as if it will be millions.”
“Regardless of the amount, my love,” he said, “you have promised? If you cannot promise me this, I must reconcile myself to nothing but a long and torrid affaire de coeur with you.”
“Yes, then,” she said more solemnly. “I have promised.”
He slipped the ring a little awkwardly onto her finger. “Then I promise to be a faithful and devoted husband,” he said solemnly, “until death do us part.”
Isabella wiggled her finger. “Now that,” she said a little breathlessly, “is a beautiful ring—but a trifle too snug, I fear.”
“I think you’re right,” he agreed, “because you were a good deal thinner, Isabella, when I bought it.”
“Ah,” she said quietly. “At Garrard’s, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
Then Hepplewood bowed his head, lifted Isabella’s hand to his lips, and pressed them lingeringly to her knuckles again.
EPILOGUE
Hepplewood stirred to the sensation of sun dappling his face, shadow and light shifting above him in a warm breeze. Opening his eyes, he blinked up into a canopy of green, then moved to lift his hand as if he might drag the cobwebs of sleep from his face.
But his hand oddly resisted.
He roused to the sound of soft laughter and rolled his head to see Isabella sitting on the blanket beside him.
“Umpfh,” he managed to mutter. “Slept, eh?”
“And snored,” she accused. “One might have heard the racket all the way up to Thornhill—well, if anyone were home.”
Still drowsy, Hepplewood tried to cut a glance at the manor on the hill to his right. Then realizing his movement was restricted, he finally glanced down at his wrist.
“The devil!” he said.
The witch had bound him.
Trussed him up like some clever little Lilliputian as he slept in the sun, binding him wrist and ankle to the spindles that surrounded the minuscule gazebo—well, those few spindles remaining. The balustrade about them dipped and listed like a drunken sailor in a hurricane. The shingles, too, had long ago flown to the four winds, leaving scarcely a skeleton of rafters above.
Like much of Isabella’s old home, it was little more than a lovely ruin.
Tentatively, he twitched at the thin rope that bound his left ankle. “Meaning to have your wicked way with me again, are you?” he said, grinning as he felt the rot give.
“I mean to bend you to my will, yes,” she said with an airy wave. “Precisely what form that subjugation will take I am still pondering.”
“And the rope?” he asked, amused.
“From the old bothy by the gate.” She tilted her head coquettishly toward the garden’s once-elegant back entrance. “Papa’s gardener always kept it. And now I’ve made you my prisoner.”
He laughed and let his head fall back onto something soft. “Oh, my love, I have long been your prisoner,” he said. “By the way, what is my head resting upon?”
“My underthings. I made you a pillow.”
“Ah.” He glanced at the modest crinoline she’d flung aside. “Most intriguing.”
“I took them off,” she said, “merely to cradle your head.”
“My dear, you are too kind,” he replied.
She grinned. “Actually, I’d hoped to stop the snoring.”
“Kind and plainspoken,” he added. “I have indeed married wisely.”
“Stop talking,” she ordered, rising gracefully onto her knees. “You are my prisoner. I am deciding what use to make of you.”
“You already have your drawers off,” he pointed out. “Might I offer an immodest proposal?”
“No,” said his wife sternly, “—or at least not so willingly.”
“Aye,” he murmured, narrowing his gaze against the sun. “Sauce for the goose and all that, eh?”
“Indeed, quite.” She leaned over him, her gaze running avariciously down his length as her dark, feathery lashes dropped suggestively lower.
And although he lay well sated from an earlier romp in the garden, Hepplewood felt a hot rush of longing go twisting deep. His body stirred to sensual awareness—as it inevitably did when she dropped her gaze in just such a fashion.
“On top,” he ordered gruffly.
Isabella drew a finger pensively—tormentingly—down his cheek, and then along his jugular vein. “That sounded dangerously high-handed for a man who’s been tied up,” she said, her voice husky.
“Isabella,” he said more evenly. “Come, love. Just unfasten my—”
“In time, perhaps,” she interjected, drawing nearer.
His coat and waistcoat having been cast off somewhere on the hillside that led down from the house, Hepplewood had drifted off in his shirtsleeves. Leaning over him now, Isabella inched one shirttail free with an almost agonizing deliberation. When the second followed, she bent low and drew her tongue lightly through the hair that trailed up his belly.
“Umm,” he moaned, willing himself to lie perfectly still.
She worked her way up, inching the fabric along as she went. And though he suspected the thin ropes had long ago rotted, he let her have her way. By the time the woman was done with him, his forehead had beaded with perspiration, his trousers were open, and his breath was rasping.
“Come, love,” he choked. “Be reasonable.”
Isabella took mercy on him then, gathering her skirts about her knees and straddling him. Then, taking him well in hand, she impaled herself upon his erection on a soft sigh of pleasure. And with her small, pale hands set wide upon his chest, her wedding ring glinting in the sun, they rocked and thrust and whispered words of love unending until they found that inexpressible joy once more.
He came in a shuddering explosion of pleasure, then slowly settled back down from the heavens; back to that place of quiet and peace he had enjoyed at such leisure since his marriage. Isabella was splayed across his chest, gasping, her lustrous hair tumbling down. Slowly, he let his hands fall from her slender waist. Only then did he realize he’d ripped the old ropes asunder.
“Madam, you have used your prisoner to exhaustion,” he said on a laugh.
“Indeed, no treadwheel for you tonight, I fancy,” she agreed, burying her face against the damp of his neck.
“Well, perhaps a lash or two, then?” he said, grinning. “Or another stretch of hard labor?”
They had been ensconced alone together in this lazy little corner of Sussex for some three days now, putting up at the village inn, a pretty, pleasant little place. The visit had felt at times like a second honeymoon, for absent any interruptions from the children, their nights—and even the occasional afternoon—had been torrid and romantic as they’d immersed themselves in one another.
Their days, on the other hand, had been spent being feted like prodigal children as they’d dined and danced and gossiped their way across the countryside with Isabella’s old friends and neighbors.
All were agog with Lord Tafford’s flight to the Continent some three months earlier. Faced with insurmountable debts, he had sold off what little he could and abandoned bot
h his mother and Thornhill, leaving the staff unpaid and the house empty. Today, after Hepplewood and Isabella had dallied their way about the grounds, Hepplewood had given in to impatience and simply pried up a window.
It was worse than he had hoped. And yet better, too. The place was in utter disrepair, with much of the furniture and artwork gone. But there was not one trace of Tafford left behind.
Isabella had cried a little, then dried her tears and pressed on with her plan. Eventually, it seemed, Thornhill would have to be sold. Even entail, Hepplewood had been advised, could be broken were a man’s debts deep enough and his heirs nonexistent. The Crown or the courts or someone would eventually have to do something.
Certainly Hepplewood intended to do something. It was the least he could do for her, his hard-won bride. Already he’d had Jervis—along with half the City’s solicitors and all his influential relatives—exerting untold pressure on the powers-that-be.
Yes, in the end, Isabella would have her home back. He was determined. And, as Anne was ever fond of pointing out, in the end he always got what he wanted—whether he deserved it or not.
They lay in silence for a time, but despite the lethargy he could sense the questions bubbling up inside her again.
He lifted his head and kissed her hair. “What?” he murmured, sliding a finger beneath her chin.
She lifted her head to look at him, a knowing smile curving her mouth. “Anthony, have you married well?”
He laughed, this time at himself. “Oh, I’ve married far better than I deserve,” he said. “If you don’t believe me, ask Anne. I’ve married up, Isabella. I have married perfection.”
“Have you indeed?” She sat up, her lashes lowering again as she drew one finger down the center of his chest. “Then you will not mind so very much then? Taking on this task I have set out for you?”
Hepplewood smiled and tucked a loose curl behind Isabella’s ear. “For the merest scrap of a favor, my love, I would be your champion,” he said, “and gird my loins to do battle with those indefatigable dragons, Chancery and the Insolvent Debtor’s Court.”
“Ah,” she said, grinning. “Then you are a bold knight indeed.”
He grinned. “Actually, I’ll first send forth Jervis, my stalwart squire,” he said, “along with a quiver of freshly sharpened pencils and a battery of account books. Already he’s rattling on about something called a disentailing deed. An estate as lush as this cannot simply be left to lie fallow.”
Isabella had begun to fling away the bits and pieces of rope. “It is lovely, isn’t it?” she said a little wistfully, picking loose one of the knots. “It is not just me being sentimental?”
“It is certainly you being sentimental,” he countered, holding out his right wrist for her ministrations, “which is one of the many things I love about you. But yes, this is good land. What a pity it has been neglected.”
“I believe it won’t continue so,” said Isabella, flinging the last scrap of rope over the rail, “now that Everett has run away to the Continent in shame.”
Hepplewood grunted. “With any luck, he’ll be snared up in one of their inevitable little wars,” he muttered, “and get himself shot. Certainly he won’t darken England’s door again.”
“It was a little sad, wasn’t it, how quickly Aunt Meredith cast him to the wolves once he’d left?” Isabella murmured, rising to gather her things.
Hepplewood gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, she’s a survivor, that old cat,” he said, handing his wife her petticoat and drawers, “but she has no claim whatever to this land. By the way, I trust you’ve not returned any of her groveling missives?”
Isabella shook her head. “No, and I pray she never forces my hand,” she said. “I should hate to cut anyone in public. But for Jemma and Georgie’s sake, I should have to.”
“For your husband’s sake, you’d have to,” he muttered. “But what will you do with this old place, love? Shall we live here? Would that please you?”
She smiled softly. “No, my life is no longer here,” she said, stepping back into her crinoline. “My life is with you, Anthony. No, I think it should be Georgina’s. It should have been her home. She should have been allowed to grow up here, in her father’s house, a carefree and happy child. Instead she doesn’t even remember it.”
“Fate cheated her,” he said, his eyes going to the distant roofline, now dark against the afternoon sky. “But perhaps Thornhill can be her dowry. Shall I arrange that, my love? Would it please you?”
At that, Isabella seemed to brighten down to the tips of her toes. “Oh, above all things!” she declared, extending a hand down to him. “Sometimes, Anthony, you can be the wisest of men—no matter what Anne may say. Now come, up with you. The Misses Greenbittle await, along with their infamous elderflower cordial.”
“Damn and blast!” he said, rising. “The parson’s sisters?”
“The very same,” she said, taking his arm and steering him down the rickety steps. “We’re expected there at six sharp. And promise me, my love, that you’ll wink and flirt with them outrageously. After all, you have a notorious reputation to uphold—and they have but little excitement here in the village.”
“Wink and flirt, eh?” He winced a little. “I confess, Isabella, playing the arrant roué is wearing on me a trifle nowadays.”
“Poor Tony!” she said as she pushed through the garden gate. “Your life is so very hard. Now come along, dear. We must find where we shed your coat and cravat—or you shall look one step worse than an arrant roué.”
“Hmph!” he said, abruptly snatching her and plunging them both into the shadows of the bothy. “I say the Misses Greenbittle can damned well wait. Now where the devil is the rest of that rope?”
About the Author
A lifelong Anglophile, LIZ CARLYLE cut her teeth reading gothic novels under the bedcovers by flashlight. She is the author of over twenty historical romances, including several New York Times bestsellers. Liz travels incessantly, ever in search of the perfect setting for her next book. Along with her genuine romance-hero husband and four very fine felines, she makes her home in North Carolina.
Please contact her at www.lizcarlyle.com.
www.avonromance.com
www.facebook.com/avonromance
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Liz Carlyle
THE EARL’S MISTRESS
IN LOVE WITH A WICKED MAN
A BRIDE BY MOONLIGHT
THE BRIDE WORE PEARLS
THE BRIDE WORE SCARLET
ONE TOUCH OF SCANDAL
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE EARL’S MISTRESS. Copyright © 2014 by Susan Woodhouse. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition SEPTEMPER 2014 ISBN: 9780062097590
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062100306
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street Eas
t - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand)
Unit D, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0623
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
http://www.harpercollins.com
Table of Contents
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
By Liz Carlyle
Copyright
About the Publisher