by Darcy Burke
Her breath hitched. She leaned across him, peering into his face, and he blinked again. Then she clutched her hands to her breast and sobbed with relief. “He’s not dead!” she cried, much to his relief. “Find Tony. Fetch Dr. Bourne. Bring more blankets, and hot water.”
Con wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the hot water, but then, he couldn’t very well argue, could he? He could do nothing but be fussed over, and slowly lose what vitality he had left.
For days he lay helpless in his bed. His arms and legs shifted restlessly, but he had no control over them. Even lethargic as he was, he couldn’t seem to stop twitching. His head swelled until the pressure of it made him nauseated. Every limb on his body ached like the devil. He developed a dry cough that wracked pitifully from his lungs. This was nothing like the fever he’d developed from his knife wound, because he was horrifically awake for it all. He was dying, and he knew it.
He silently begged them to fetch his wife.
***
Finally, blessedly, Elizabeth came.
She ran to his bed and fell across him. He would have urged her not to risk herself with his contagion, but he was so very glad to see her, and then, he couldn’t tell her not to. He didn’t even want to. She smelled like heaven, like talc and spilled milk, like clean bedsheets, and he would have shed a tear of gladness if he’d been able.
She rolled slightly off of him, enough so he could breathe better, and cuddled against his shoulder into the length of his side. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and stroked his chest with her long, slender fingers. “Constantine,” she whispered against the curve of his ear, “if you can hear me, I beg you, forgive me. I never should have…” Her body shuddered. A heartbeat passed. “I treated you abominably. I am a wretched, wretched person. I don’t deserve you. But please, please don’t die. I love you. Oh, how I love you.” Her words broke as she said them. She swallowed thickly. Her fingertips grazed his face, leaving the feel of her in a cool path drawn on his skin. “I would have come sooner, but I didn’t know. I swear it. I didn’t hear about your release until yesterday, when I read it in the papers. My father didn’t tell me.”
The last came out bitterly but to him, they were the sweetest words he’d ever heard. She hadn’t forsaken him. She hadn’t known, and his family had assumed she’d known, and no one had told her because they’d thought she didn’t care. He could have kissed her.
He settled for blinking rapidly at her. She sat up sharply, nearly digging her elbow into his chest, and leaned over him. “You can hear me!” She laughed, maniacally happy at first, and then her small shoulders shook as she broke into sobs.
Her heartache and her fear overwhelmed him as if it were his own. He blinked slowly three times. I. Love. You. He tried with everything in him to move his hand toward her, or just turn his head, but it was as if his body was no longer connected to his soul. He could demand his limbs to move all he wanted to, but they had already died.
Waiting for his mind to die passed in a slower, more transcendental way. He could do nothing except think. One bit of knowledge that haunted him—and scared him witless—was remembering the long years when his father had been imprisoned, before he’d succumbed to gaol fever. Con had been considered too young to visit him, even after Tony had scraped together enough to buy him Liberty of the Rules and let a small hovel beside the prison. Did Tony blame himself for their father’s death? He shouldn’t. The marquis would as likely died within the prison walls as without.
But he must ask Tony later, after he managed to live through this.
And it seemed he would. More days went by. Interminable days made bearable only by Elizabeth’s presence beside him. Every hour, he tried lifting his head. It remained immovable. But she’d left him with little choice. He had to survive this. He couldn’t die, no more than he could walk away from his wife and live with the knowledge that she’d been right to mistrust his promises of keeping their family together. He must live so he could kiss her, and hold her to him, and make a new promise to try again.
He was reminded of his duty, every moment, it seemed, for she talked about Oliver in the present tense. How’d he’d grown, and what babble-nonsense he’d come to associate with what item. Con ate up every word, even as he didn’t understand how she knew so much about their son’s progress.
Her communication with Nicholas would have seemed absurd two months ago, but after her quasi-reconciliation with her father, it could just as well be that Elizabeth had turned over a new leaf, one more inclined toward compromise than the old Elizabeth. He didn’t ask her how she knew the things she knew, but then of course, he wasn’t able to. The answer could just as well be that it was one of those things he’d missed when he’d dozed off. He couldn’t ever seem to stay away for an entire visit.
But she’d been to see him. She’d come. Every day since the day after he’d fallen ill. Surely those were the actions of a wife who did care.
He had to live. For her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
AT LONG LAST Con was well enough to arise from his bed, don his clothing and make her a proper apology. The more he thought about it, the more resolved he became that she deserved a full accounting of his change of heart. Not just the certainty that he’d forgiven her, for they’d had days during which she must have realized his resentment had ebbed, but she deserved to hear a complete apology, full of groveling and begging for forgiveness and all the things women adored.
Yes, she had acted ignobly and selfishly. He didn’t pretend she hadn’t. The fact that she’d had so little trust in him at the end frustrated him, when, from the beginning, he’d given her no reason to doubt him. But he also knew she’d been scared. And had her fear been unfounded? No. In the end, he’d done every lawful thing he could think of—and a few unlawful things, too—and he’d not been able to keep faith with her. His failure didn’t excuse what she’d done, but after a month and a half of being without her, he also knew his feelings weren’t going to change.
He loved her. He wanted Oliver back. He wanted all of them to be together, even if it meant sitting on Finn’s stoop with her. Yes, he knew about that, too. His mother had spare no details when it came to painting Elizabeth in a sympathetic light.
He’d never forgive himself for losing their son. But he wanted his life with Elizabeth again. Their old life, but better. He wanted a little brother or sister for Oliver, and a house to call their own.
He gathered his courage and braved the autumn chill to pay the most important call of his life. She’d been to visit him earlier in the day, as she had every day, but he’d kept his progress from her secret. He wanted to surprise her.
He walked to her townhouse because he was too anxious to sit in a carriage. Also, because the sway and jostle of a carriage was abominable. It put him in mind of his illness, and of the ship. He smelled the hulks less often now, but just the thought of sitting in a closed conveyance made his stomach roil.
His steps slowed when came in sight of her townhouse and observed the nursery window awash in a gold glow. His belly tightened. If he found her rocking empty arms in the nursery chair, what would he do?
Had she been this way the entire time he’d been ill? What if she never came out of her grief?
He allowed himself to wonder what if for just a moment. Then he firmly put the thought away. “What if,” nothing. He marched up her steps and rapped on the knocker. He’d vowed to be her husband in sickness and health. She’d been at his side in his sickness—twice. The least he could do was sit with her while she mourned their son.
Rand opened the door. He gaped before recalling himself. “My lord,” he said, stepping back and opening the portal wider. “It’s good to see you’re standing.”
“So I agree. Is my wife about?” He shouldn’t be looking for his wife. They ought to be together. He should have come to her directly after being released. His frustration with her at the time now seemed like a foolish waste of opportunity.
“She is,
my lord. Shall I call her down to the drawing room?” Rand turned his eyes to the landing, as if she would materialize on her own. Or…as if he hesitated.
Uneasiness again unsettled Con, but only for a moment. He didn’t want to shock her while she was actively mourning Oliver’s empty room, nor would he be frightened away. He made for the drawing room. “Yes, do. Once you’ve sent for her, ring for tea.”
He paced impatiently as he waited for his wife to arrive. At long last, he heard her footfalls. They slowed to a more sedate pace just outside the drawing room door. Then she turned into the room. He sucked in a breath at the sight of her. She was radiant.
Her worried smile graced him.
Her upswept hair was done simply, and if there were dark circles under her eyes, they were only more evidence of her concern for him.
Once, he’d turned away from her fussing over him. Tonight, he yearned to take her in his arms and kiss her thoroughly.
He didn’t. They were just coming to trust each other again. He must be patient.
He crossed the room in four strides and swept her into his arms. Forget patience. He needed to feel her now.
She let out a soft moan as he crushed his mouth to hers. God, she smelled so much better than the hulks. Like woman and baby.
He didn’t stop to think harder on the fact that he, too, hadn’t let Oliver go from his mind.
Instead, he explored her parted lips as if tracing a memory. He ran his hands over her, searching, asking for permission, and she allowed him to. He’d gone hard at the sight of her. With her in his arms, his every muscle screamed for release. But through the haze of his desire, and his underlying need to talk to her, he realized she was allowing him to kiss her, but she was holding herself back.
He didn’t blame her this time.
Panting with the need to have her, body and soul, and the determination that he couldn’t, not yet, he set her away from him. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I should have said what I came to say first. Without further ado, here it is. I hate that you deceived me. Because I hate what it means, that you didn’t trust me.”
She tried to speak but he couldn’t let her. “Please, don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. I can’t bear to hear it again.”
Her eyes glistened. He took that as his cue to move on. “You couldn’t have known how I felt about you because I didn’t tell you. I’m rectifying that mistake now, so it can never happen again. The day I married you, I made the best decision of my life. But it wasn’t the only decision I’ve made. I’ve made some downright poor ones.” He paused when she cracked a smile. “It’s my wish,” he said, “that I’ll be forgiven for those. I’m sorry I didn’t come home to you after I was released. I was despondent.” The next words were poised to lay his heart on the table. “I wish I could bring our son back, Elizabeth, but I can’t. I don’t want that defeat to be the end of us. I want to see you round with my child. I want—” He paused when her gray eyes welled with tears and her lips parted, again as if she meant to interrupt him. He set his finger across her lips, savoring the silkiness of her skin against his. “Three children. No, five. Six. However many we’re blessed with, Elizabeth. I love you. I want all of my children with you.”
She smiled widely and, pushing his hand away from her lips as she came onto her tiptoes, she kissed him. He held himself still as her arms encircled his neck. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself as he’d done before. But God, he wanted her.
Her warm lips caressed his gently before becoming more insistent. She pressed her body toward him until he stumbled back against a settee. When his calves brushed the furniture, she pushed him down until he sat. Then she climbed into his lap and looked into his eyes. “But you see, Constantine, you did get Oliver back. You didn’t fail me.”
Con looked at her in disbelief. All thought of having her warm and willing and on top of him deserted him. “What?”
She beamed. “Finn brought him back. He said Oliver deserved you almost equally; I suppose it was the way you refused to yield at the trial. There’s more to it, having to do with his wife’s sense of honor and a lengthy assignment for him in American seas, but ultimately, he said without your commitment to Oliver, he never would have considered such a thing as granting custody to me. You’re the reason he gave our son back.” Her soft gaze held his, so full of adoration and hope. “Constantine, I already loved you, but…you went to prison for me. A move so drastic, even Finn was brought around to the fact that you truly, truly love me. How can I not say yes to you and your seven babies?”
He grinned, feeling like he’d been put on this earth just to make her happy. He’d done it! They’d done it. “Seven?”
She widened her eyes innocently. “However many we’re blessed with.”
He eyed the square neckline of her gown. On the one hand, he wanted to run up to the nursery and reunite with his son. It figured that he’d never let himself dream that Oliver might be returned, even when it was clear now that she must have told him, for she’d spoken of little else but Oliver’s ever-increasing mischievousness since the first time she’d been to see Con—and why would she have done that, if not because she wanted Con to know what he had to live for?
On the other, she might have lost a stone during the last two months, but she was still round in all the right places. He glanced at the drawing room door, which stubbornly remained wide open. Not quite the right time, then, to consummate their marriage.
He kissed her anyway, threading his fingers through her hair to draw her lips closer to his. She moaned and relaxed against him, settling just where he wanted her to. But while the majority of his mind had turned back to sex, a very small part of his brain now knew why she smelled like babies. Oliver was no doubt awaiting her return.
He needed to go up to see Oliver. But at some interval, sometime very soon, he and his beautiful wife were going to need to see about siring the next baby. And the next…
Epilogue
LORD DARIUS ALEXANDER’S hand shook as he reached for the crisp vellum card lying conspicuously in the middle of the hazard table. His whole body trembled as he turned it over and read the tight scrawl across the cardstock. He could hardly credit his luck tonight. Tockwith Hall. An estate in York, if he remembered it right.
With his left hand, he scooped up his initial stake along with the crumpled bank notes piled atop it. Nine thousand quid. He rattled so violently, he could barely collect the two halves of his winnings together into a single stack.
That was the problem with owing every rotter in the city. Just holding a bit of blunt made him rapturous.
He managed to cram the whole of it into his coat. Dear Lord, it was almost enough to buy back all of his IOUs. He could return home a free man…if he walked out of this gaming hell without a backward glance.
That was it; turn and leave. But the elation pulsing in his veins gave him pause. Nine thousand was almost enough. One thousand more and he’d be truly liberated. Just one more turn as the caster and all of his problems would disappear.
No, not all of them. One of them would always be with him.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” He was surprised his voice sounded normal. His cravat was mimicking the sausagelike fingers of the ruffian who’d promised to break his knees tomorrow if he didn’t return with ten thousand pounds and a smile. After what had been done to Con, he didn’t doubt the thug’s ability to follow through. “That will be all for tonight.”
His good friend Lord de Winter caught his forearm in a tense grip as he made to leave. The earl flashed a boyish grin with just enough edge to hint at his aversion to losing a bet. “Surely, you don’t mean to pocket the estate and walk away. Give Lord Marston a chance to win his property back. Come now, be a friend. One last game before we all find our beds.”
Dare slid his palm down the front of his coat. The wad of papers balled inside bulged beneath his hand. He hadn’t lost them—yet. Then he searched higher, until he found the handle of the old pistol tucked into his waistband. He was wal
king out of here with his winnings. He only prayed no one tried to stop him with more than an invitation back to the tables.
“Another time.”
“Just one last game, Dare,” de Winter cajoled. “I’ve got five hundred that says you’ll roll the main.”
A bead of sweat formed on Dare’s brow. Violence he could handle. The lure of the tables…
He didn’t even want the property. He could put it up, just as Lord Marston had, and try to win the thousand he still needed. In another toss of the dice, it could all be decided. All could be forgiven. Just one last game…
Or he could lose everything. Because there was one thing he knew about himself.
There was no such thing as one last game.
Thank you for reading
The Problem with Seduction
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Did you know there are more Naughty Girls books?
The romance began with The Trouble with Being Wicked. This book, The Problem with Seduction, is the second story in a tightly connected series. To receive updates on future book releases, please sign up for my mailing list at http://emmalocke.com .
In order, The Naughty Girls books are:
The Courtesans
The Trouble with Being Wicked (available now!)
The Problem with Seduction (this book)
The Art of Ruining a Rake (2014)
The Innocents (novellas)
The Cheer in Charming an Earl (available now!)