by Amelia Grey
Andrew winked at Olivia and said, “And I shall always be grateful to him for that.”
A short time later Agatha left and Olivia and Andrew closed the door behind her.
Olivia turned to Andrew and said, “Do you really think she’s going to look for a husband?”
Andrew smiled and pulled Olivia into his arms and hugged her tightly. “I think she might look, but whether or not she’ll marry I have no idea. In any case, she and Aunt Claude will have a good time talking about it.”
“Andrew, I do think it was Lord Pinkwater’s ghost who came into my room.”
“Do you really?” he asked with all sincerity.
“Yes, and I have this strange feeling I’ll never see him again. Now that he has spoken to Aunt Agatha I think his mission here is done and he won’t be coming back.”
“I hope you are right, Olivia. I don’t like the idea of you seeing any man in your chamber except me.”
“You know, Aunt Agatha was right. Lord Pinkwater did bring us together.”
“In that he brought you to London, yes. But I was drawn to you when I first saw you in the receiving line at my house. I think you must have felt the same way because you were certainly letting your gaze feast upon me.”
“Feast!” she said in mock horror. “I was merely appreciating a handsome man.”
He smiled. “And what was it that caused you to kiss me later when we met in my chamber?”
“I was merely curious about your room and your kisses.”
“And if I’m remembering correctly I still haven’t had you in my bed yet.”
“I believe you are right.”
“I suggest we go upstairs right now and change that.”
Olivia looked up into his eyes and answered, “I agree, my love.”
Andrew reached down and lifted Olivia up into his arms and started up the stairs with her.
Olivia thrilled to his touch.
Epilogue
The late afternoon crowd at White’s was small as Andrew, John, and Chandler took their seats at a corner table in the club room.
“How long has it been since the three of us have been alone together?” John asked.
“At least a month,” Andrew said.
“More like two,” Chandler corrected him.
Maybe Chandler was right. Andrew was enjoying spending so much time at home with Olivia that he didn’t seem to notice time anymore.
A server set a bottle of expensive port and three glasses on the table in front of them.
“Who ordered this?” Andrew asked.
“Me,” Chandler said as he poured a splash into each glass. “I have news that calls for a celebration.”
“Then out with it,” Andrew said as he looked at John.
Chandler picked up his glass and said, “Millicent is with child. I should have a son by next spring.”
“Congratulations,” Andrew and John said at the same time.
They clinked their glasses together and all sipped their port.
John cleared his throat and said, “I have a bit of news of my own.”
Andrew and Chandler looked at him curiously.
“I don’t think you can top his news,” Andrew said.
“No, but I can equal it,” John said with a grin. “Catherine is expecting a babe next spring as well.”
Cheers went up from all three of them and they toasted again. As they set their glasses back down on the table Chandler and John looked at Andrew.
Laughing, Andrew held up both his hands. “No, no. Don’t look at me. I have nothing to confess. There are no babes expected at my house.”
“But you are—well, I mean, you are…?”
“Yes, damnation, John, I am sleeping with my wife.”
“Don’t get icy. There was a time you weren’t.”
“A very short time, which I don’t need to be reminded about. I happen to love Olivia very much.”
“Good.”
“Glad to hear it, old chap,” Chandler said. “Now, I just had a thought. There’s a very good chance, if you have a son soon after us, that our sons could be the second generation of the Terrible Threesome.”
“I rather like that idea,” John said.
Andrew looked at his two friends and remembered when they used to plan their own futures. Now they were planning their sons’ futures. Life had changed for all of them.
“So what do you think about that idea, Andrew?” Chandler asked.
“I think you both will have daughters,” Andrew said. The friends looked at each other and laughed.
Dear Readers,
I hope you have enjoyed A Taste of Temptation, which is the last story in my Terrible Threesome Trilogy.
If you missed either of the first two books, don’t despair. They are still available. Just go to your favorite local bookstore or Internet bookstore and order A Dash of Scandal and A Hint of Seduction.
I love hearing from you. Please contact me directly through my website at ameliagrey.com, like me on Facebook at Facebook.com/AmeliaGreyBooks, or email me at [email protected].
Enjoy,
Amelia Grey
If you loved the Terrible Threesome Trilogy, be sure to check out more delightful Regency romances from Amelia Grey in her Rogues’ Dynasty series:
A Duke to Die For
A Marquis to Marry
An Earl to Enchant
Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca
Read on for excerpts!
From
A Duke to Die For
My Dearest Grandson Lucien,
You would do well in life to heed Lord Chesterfield’s wise words: “Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
Lucien Trent Blakewell, the fifth Duke of Blakewell, strode through the front door of his town house, taking off his riding gloves.
“Your Grace, I’m glad you’re home.”
“Not now, Ashby,” Blake said, tossing his gloves, hat, and cloak into the butler’s hands without breaking his stride. “I don’t have time.” He’d stayed too long at the shooting match, and now he was running late.
One of his cousins was racing a new horse in Hyde Park at four o’clock, and the other had a high-stakes card game starting at six. Blake didn’t plan on missing either event. But in order to make both, he had to finish reviewing at least one account book for his solicitor. The poor fellow had been begging for them for over a month.
From the corridor, Blake walked into his book room. Piled high on his desk was the stack of ledgers, numerous miscellaneous correspondence, and invitations he’d left unopened for weeks.
He shrugged out of his coat, loosened his neckcloth, and sat down at his desk with an impatient sigh. There were times when being a duke was downright hellish.
Grudgingly, he opened the top book, determined to make a dent in the work he had to do.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace,” Ashby said from the doorway.
Blake didn’t bother to glance up from the ledger he was thumbing through, trying to find where he’d left off the last time he looked at it… which was too many days ago to remember. He still hadn’t become completely used to hearing himself called “Your Grace,” even though his father had been dead almost two years.
It was a time-consuming task, keeping up-to-date with all his holdings and property, not to mention the details of the various businesses in which his father had invested over the years. His solicitor constantly sent documents for him to sign or account books to check. And, last year when his grandmother had passed on, her estate had added more responsibilities to his already full desk of unattended paperwork.
His new role in life had certainly curtailed his once daily and quite enjoyable activities of riding, fencing,
and late afternoon games of billiards and cards at White’s or one of the other gentlemen’s clubs he belonged to. He was not accustomed to being on anyone’s schedule but his own.
The butler cleared his throat.
“Yes, Ashby, what is it?” Blake finally said when it was apparent the man wasn’t going to leave him alone until he had his say.
“There’s a young lady here to see you, sir.”
That got Blake’s attention. He glanced up at the tall, thin, and immaculately dressed butler, who wore his long graying hair held neatly away from his sharp face in a queue.
“A young lady, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Who is she?”
“Miss Henrietta Tweed.”
“Tweed,” Blake said aloud as he thought about the name for a moment. He couldn’t place it. “Who is with her?”
“Just her maid.”
“No other chaperone?”
“None that I saw.”
That was odd.
It was unusual for a young lady, or any gentleman, to call on him without making prior arrangements—and altogether inappropriate for a lady to do so without a suitable chaperone. Blake shrugged. On another afternoon he might have been intrigued by this strange request to see him, but not today. He didn’t have time to entertain anyone.
“Just take her card and send her away.”
Blake picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink jar he’d just opened, and returned his attention to the numbers in front of him.
“I tried that, Your Grace. She says she doesn’t have a card.”
The quill stilled in his hand. That was most curious, too. A woman without an appropriate chaperone and without a proper calling card. For half a second he wondered if one of the ladies he’d met earlier in the day at Hyde Park had followed him home. And there were other possibilities. It was rare, but he knew that sometimes a lady of the evening would be bold enough to seek out a titled man in hopes of bettering her station in life by earning a few coins or becoming his latest mistress.
Blake’s interest was piqued once again, though he had to admit almost anything could take his mind off accounts and ledgers.
He glanced back up at the butler. “What does she look like?” he asked, thinking that would help him determine if she warranted interrupting his work.
Ashby’s chin lifted and his eyebrows rose slightly. “Like a young lady.”
Sometimes Blake wished he hadn’t kept his father’s annoying butler. The old man could be downright impudent at times. But Ashby kept the household and the sizable staff running in near-perfect order. The butler’s work was testimony to the care with which his father had trained the man. That, and that alone, was what kept the aging servant at his job.
“Did she say why she wanted to see me?”
“Not exactly, Your Grace.”
In exasperation, Blake laid down the quill he had just picked up. “Ashby, what the hell did she say?”
Unflustered, the butler replied, “She said you were expecting her.”
“Was I?” Blake asked. Since Blake had turned off his father’s secretary a few months earlier, the butler had tried to help him keep up with his social calendar, but so far neither one of them was doing a good job.
“Not that I’m aware of, Your Grace. She also said that her trunks were on the front steps.”
Blake made a noise in his throat that sounded like a mixture of a grunt and a laugh. He must have been in too big a hurry to notice her luggage when he came through the front door.
“What the devil?” Blake said. “I’m expecting no one, especially a young woman with baggage and no proper chaperone. She obviously has the wrong house.” He rose from his chair. “Did you question her about who she is looking for?”
“Yes, Your Grace. She said the Duke of Blakewell was expecting her.”
“That’s not bloody likely when I have no recollection of knowing anyone by the name of Tweed.”
“She also suggested that I should speak to you at once so that you could clear up what she called my obvious confusion.”
That sounded rather impertinent coming from someone who was apparently befuddled herself. No doubt the quickest way to handle this situation was for him to take a moment or two to speak with her.
Blake looked down at his paper-cluttered desk. His eyes centered on the open book in front of him, and he swore softly to himself. Reviewing the latest entries would have to wait again.
“Show her to the front parlor and say I’ll be in to see her.”
“Right away, Your Grace.” Ashby turned stiffly and walked out.
Blake marked his place in the ledger with a dry quill. He hastily retied his neckcloth and reached for his coat. No doubt the woman had him mixed up with someone else. The sooner he dealt with the waif and sent her on her way, the faster he could get back to checking the balances in the accounts book so he wouldn’t miss the race or the card game. For the most part he got along quite well with his cousins, but they would be unforgiving if they felt he’d slighted them.
When Blake approached the doorway to the drawing room, he saw a short, rotund lady with her back to him warming herself in front of the low-burning fireplace. It took only a glance at the fabric of her cloak and bonnet to know that she was not a lady of means.
What was Ashby thinking to allow her entrance into the house?
“Miss Tweed,” he said, striding into the room, determined to set her straight and then have a word with his errant butler.
The chit turned to face him and he immediately realized she had on a maid’s frock. At the same time, from the corner of his eye, he saw a rather tall, slender, young lady rise from a side chair in the far corner and come toward him. When he looked at her, Blake felt his stomach do a slow roll. She moved with exquisite grace and an inner confidence lacking in most of the young ladies in Society.
Big, almond-shaped eyes—bluer than a midsummer sky and fringed with long black lashes—pierced him with a wary look of impatience. Her lips were full, beautifully sculpted, and the shade of spring’s first rose. The color of her skin was a sheer, pale ivory, and her complexion was flawless.
She was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen.
From
A Marquis to Marry
My Dearest Grandson Alexander,
I am confident you will agree with these wise words from Lord Chesterfield: “At all events, a man had better talk too much to women, than too little.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
Alexander Mitchell Raceworth, the fourth Marquis of Raceworth, stared at the cards in his hands, but his mind was on the surprisingly bold, albeit beautiful Miss Maryann Mayflower. She sat beside him, slowly rubbing her foot up and down his leg. It was her second Season, and the talk around the clubs was that she would do anything to make a match before it ended.
That rumor gave Race pause, even though the invitation she issued under the table was tempting. He never minded a tryst in the garden from a willing miss, but he wasn’t interested in getting caught in a parson’s mouse trap.
For the past three years, Race had held an afternoon card party in his garden during the Season. Only this year, the coveted outdoor event had to be moved inside because of a hellish rainstorm. The social gathering was so well attended, he had to move the furniture out of his drawing room and the dining room and place it in other areas of the house so that he could accommodate the more than three dozen guests who had come to play whist, cribbage and speculation.
“Excuse me, your lordship.”
Race looked up at his housekeeper. “Yes, Mrs. Frost?”
“Could I have a word with you in private?”
The stocky-built woman was well-trained. She wouldn’t interrupt him unless it was something important. “Of course, I’ll be right with you.”
He looked at the players at his table. There was the comely blonde who wasn’t letting a little thing like a housekeeper standing so closely keep her from seducing him with her foot. The other lady at the table was the quite charming and unattached widow, Mrs. Constance Pepperfield, and the other gentleman of the foursome was his cousin Morgan, the ninth Earl of Morgandale.
Race laid his cards facedown on the white linen-covered table. “Excuse me, ladies, Morgan. I have to bow out of this hand. As you know, this is the problem with being the host of a party.”
“Must you?” Miss Mayflower asked, pouting.
“I’m afraid so,” Race assured her pleasantly, and moved his leg away from hers. “It seems that duty is calling me. Morgan, can I depend on you to charm the ladies while I’m away?”
“More than happy.”
“Good. Ladies, I’ll return shortly,” Race said with a smile.
He then rose and went in search of Mrs. Frost. He found her in the vestibule, closing the front door.
“You needed to see me?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said with a grimace on her plump face. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I knew you would want to know that the Dowager Duchess of Blooming is here to see you.”
Race’s brows drew together. He didn’t like surprises. “A dowager duchess to see me?”
“That’s what the lady said.”
Race started clicking off in his mind all the dowager duchesses he could remember and couldn’t think of a reason any one them would come to see him. “I wonder what has brought her to my door.”
“I have no idea, my lord.”
Unlike his cousin Blake, the ninth Duke of Blakewell, who was notorious for forgetting appointments, Race knew every entry on his social calendar. He certainly would have remembered it if a dowager duchess had requested to call on him. But what was he going to do? He couldn’t see her this afternoon. His house was stuffed with people chatting noisily around card tables.