“You did that a long time ago,” she said cheerfully.
“Indeed I did.”
She tilted her head, and he could not resist the temptation to nibble on her exposed neck. Her shivers were a treasure, nearly distracting him from the rest of his apology to his beautiful wife.
“I worried you were a corruptible influence, for Lucinda, and most especially for me. Yet you are actually a comforting one.”
“Who better to help you handle a headstrong daughter than a wife who has lived her entire life as a headstrong woman?”
“Precisely what I was planning to say next.”
He nibbled upward, towards her ear.
“I have learned from you as well,” she admitted. He glanced towards the bed, intent on occupying her for the next long while. “And not just there.”
It was his turn to tilt his head inquisitively.
“I have learned that being a parent requires making those hard choices which a child cannot make for herself.” She softened into his arms a little more. “It cannot be easy for you, though you make it appear that way sometimes. I fear I shall always make missteps.”
“I shall too.”
“I was too harsh with you earlier.”
“You were not,” Hugh said. “You made me see a lot of things differently. I might not have without your well-timed rebuke.”
“No, if I had not—”
“Felicia, confound you. I cannot even apologize without you being entirely contrary!”
“And I was about to say the same of you. You are impossible, Hugh. You always have been. It is beyond me how you found a woman to marry you.”
“I am fortunate my wife proposed to me.” At the fierce look in her eyes, he squeezed her. “Do not think you can pinch your way into my good graces. Those fingers can be quite diabolical at times.”
Her soft laugh was a balm to his heart. “What if I were to promise to utilize them in a different fashion?”
“That sounds tempting,” he admitted, chuckling. “Though I would be every kind of fool if I believed you.”
“I am wounded,” she said, her lips pouting in such a tempting way. Her voice was husky, belying her actual words.
Hugh returned his attention to her earlobe, dotting it with tender kisses. She tilted her head to give him even better access. Much as he would love to see her hair draped over her shoulders, at this moment he was grateful for the topknot that left her graceful neck and ears exposed for his pleasure.
“Hugh, please,” she said, her voice nearly a whimper.
“I love you, Felicia. I adore you. I will worship you all my days, for I cannot imagine a life without you. Please do not ever doubt my love for you, no matter what pigheaded thing I am bound to say or do in the future.”
Felicia stopped him with a kiss, one that was as heartfelt and passionate as his own words. He groaned as he tasted her, unable to resist her a moment longer, ready to show her how much he loved her.
She finally broke off the kiss. “Oh, Hugh, you know how much I love you. You have given me a family I will always cherish. Even if our children end up headstrong like me.”
“And stubborn like me.” He chuckled. “Lucinda is going to be a frightfully bossy older sister.”
“Indeed she is.” Felicia grinned as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “But won’t it be amusing, a passel of children with Flighty Felicia and Lord Wastrel as their parents?”
“You may have just convinced me to permanently lock the connecting door—ouch!”
“You deserved that. Now let us retire while you tell me again how much you love me.”
“I would prefer to show you.” His lips lifted into a slow grin. “It is likely to take a very long while. The remainder of the day, at a minimum. Lord Wastrel never likes to be rushed.”
She grabbed his hand and led him to the bed.
Epilogue
Aphrodite shivered as Ares trailed his finger down her exposed arm.
“I am rather confused,” he said, his voice soft.
“About what?” she managed. It was difficult to concentrate on conversation once his lips touched her skin, following the path his finger had just travelled.
“The curse. It didn’t seem to go the way we expected, did it?”
“Not precisely.”
Ares lifted his head to gaze at her. She placed her hand on his nape, gently moving him back to the spot on her neck that always made her quiver. She felt the rumble of his laughter against her pulse.
Another nibble, and another kiss, and she would not be able to converse at all. Thank the gods she was immortal, and had centuries to indulge her passions.
“The curse,” she breathed, stroking Ares’ hair at the same time, “did work. Only I did not discover until later, much later, that it was not Felicia who was cursed. It was actually Hugh.”
“How so?”
“Felicia was already halfway in love with him, so when she and I came into contact, it merely raised it from its dormant state.”
“So she was cursed.”
Aphrodite laughed at the bewilderment on her beloved’s face. “No, it was Hugh that needed to find his one true love. If it were not for Felicia pursuing him so assiduously, he would have never found her.”
“Especially when she was eloping every fortnight.”
“Yes. And it’s obvious they are perfectly matched.”
“It did not seem so at first,” he reminded her.
“No, but that was what made it so amusing.”
“So we are done with curses now?”
She hesitated.
“Noooo,” he moaned.
“I have some loose ends to tie up.”
“Ahh, Aurore and her coachman, Frederick.”
She flushed at the mention of her longest-running failure. “Yes, but I have hopes, I mean, plans to rectify that. And I have something in mind for the other two gentlemen in that family, though I am torn between the Duke who has a half-hearted belief in the curse, and that gambler who believes only in his own luck.”
“Perhaps you can instruct them on what a grand gesture entails, since neither of these rogues have any notion at all.”
Aphrodite laughed. “I knew you had a romantic streak.”
“Well, since there are likely to be many lovers who require your assistance, it would be wise for me to enjoy our sojourn here.” Ares gathered her into his arms, his face lit up with a smile that always made Aphrodite catch her breath. “Perhaps we should retire to consider all the possibilities, amorous and otherwise.”
She blinked to break the spell her lover was casting over her, while she could still gather her thoughts. “You are much too distracting,” she confessed.
“That is my goal. It is always my goal.”
“I shall not be dissuaded,” she said, attempting a stern demeanor.
He laughed, and led her to their bedchamber. “Nor shall I.”
The End
About the Author
I have worked as an attorney, winery tasting room manager, and retail business owner, but nothing beats the thrill of writing humorously-ever-after romances.
I reside in New England, although I fantasize about spending the rest of my days in a tropical locale, wearing flip flops year-round, or in Regency London, scandalizing the ton.
I can usually be found on Twitter, chatting about writing, and coffee, or on Facebook, chatting about coffee, and writing.
Connect With Me Online
Mailto:[email protected]
Website: http://www.AllAboutTheWriting.com
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Other Available Books
Lord Rakehell’s Love (Book 1 of The Curse of True Love series)
Lord Midnight (Regency historical — excerpt included here)
Summer Lovin’ (FREE contempo
rary romantic comedy novella, Book 1 of the Seasons of Love series)
I Do… or Die (contemporary romantic comedy/mystery)
Back on Track (contemporary romantic comedy, part of the Strangers on a Train series)
Strangers on a Train (print volume containing all five books from the series)
An Encouraging Word (non-fiction creative essays for writers)
Upcoming Releases
Driving Miss Crazy (Slade, the hero’s brother from I Do… or Die, gets his own adventure)
Fallin’ in Love (Book 2 of the Seasons of Love series)
Heartbreaker (Troy, the hero’s best friend, from Back on Track)
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Excerpt from Lord Midnight
Yorkshire, 1812
Only a miracle could halt the wedding now.
Marisa Dunsmore whispered another hopeful prayer, though it did nothing to slow the carriage racing toward Westbrook Hall, the home of her betrothed. Soon she would have to abandon dreams of aid, divine or otherwise, but for the moment optimism was still a comfort.
She glanced at her brother Bernard, sleeping across from her, his head lolling in a most undignified fashion against the gold silk interior. He would be horrified to learn his meticulously arranged blond curls had flattened on one side, while his cravat was crushed beyond repair. Marisa bit back a grin. Since Bernard had refused every appeal to help her escape the wedding to Lord Westbrook, she would not inform him of his sartorial faux pas.
After all, betrayal did have its price.
They were still several miles from Westbrook Hall, though there would be no further stops, or chances to escape. Freedom had been so near at hand at the last posting inn. As soon as the carriage had stopped, Marisa had exclaimed the interminable trip from London had shattered her nerves, putting her in dire need of the necessary. She had clapped a hand over her mouth and run to the back of the inn. Once there, she detoured for the stables, ready to borrow one of the horses awaiting its turn in the traces. She reached toward the nearest mount, her heart leaping with elation, until Bernard’s hand clamped around her arm, a triumphant expression lighting his features.
Marisa closed her eyes, weary at the reminder of her latest setback, and what it meant for her poor Aunt Althea. She tugged her red wool cloak closer, though the chill she tried to ward off was not due to any deficiency in Lord Westbrook’s carriage. In truth, the coach’s only defect was its inability to speed her away from the upcoming nuptials. Was it too much to hope for a small portion of divine intervention?
A single gunshot exploded, piercing the stillness with a loud crack.
“Stand and deliver!”
The coach skidded to a halt, the coachman yelling out to the York horses squealing in protest. Marisa bounced on the bench seat, grabbing for something, anything, to keep herself in place. She flew across the carriage, landing atop her brother, her elbow slamming into the side of his head. Bernard sat upright, blinking as he rubbed the newly inflicted injury.
Marisa’s stomach tumbled with excitement.
Her prayers had been answered, and so quickly.
She darted toward the side glass, eager to glimpse the highwaymen accosting them. The carriage lamps reflected little except her own likeness, and she was not at all interested in the blue eyes and unruly blonde curls mirrored there. She rubbed the glass for a better view. The moon proved to be a brilliant lantern, illuminating the dozen or more brigands as they galloped from the surrounding beech trees, positioning their mounts around the coach.
“It is fortunate Lord Westbrook insisted on covering his crest on the carriage door,” Bernard said in a tight voice.
Marisa swiveled to look at her brother. He tugged the ends of his cravat, frowning as the ruined linen drooped even further.
“Why should the crest matter? They have stopped the carriage regardless.”
“You are quite valuable to your future husband,” Bernard said, running his fingers through his hair.
“Do you think they will abduct me?”
“I apologize, poppet.” He stopped primping and reached his hand to her. “I did not mean to frighten you. I can assure you that will not happen.”
“Oh.” Marisa sagged against the silk cushions.
Bernard laughed. “Any other female would be clawing through her reticule for her smelling salts. Yet, rather than being terrified, you are irrationally hopeful.”
“I am quite serious about not wedding Lord Westbrook.”
She could see he was ready to retort, most likely something he had uttered earlier, such as the maddening “You must marry some man, why not a wealthy one?” or the infuriating “I suppose you must insist on marrying for love”.
Before he could incense her with the phrases again, the carriage door was thrown open, flooding the coach with the chill of a spring night, and the exhilarating prospect of freedom.
“Come join me under the stars this evening,” a seductive voice invited.
Marisa’s heart raced. Some deity had heard her prayer, and answered it in a most extraordinary fashion. She stepped forward, eager to set eyes on her rescuer.
Bernard’s arm shot out and blocked the doorway.
“I shall descend first,” he said.
“Of course,” Marisa demurred, retreating to her side of the carriage.
Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “Do not attempt anything foolish, poppet.”
Marisa donned her most innocent expression. The widened eyes and raised eyebrows often deceived her father into believing she had submitted to his will. However, her brother had experienced it too many times to be duped anymore.
“I am serious,” Bernard warned, but the corner of his mouth tilted up, spoiling the admonition.
Marisa fought off her own grin. “As am I, Bernard.”
He studied her a few moments before vaulting through the open door.
She heard Bernard’s boots hit the hard ground, followed by the highwayman’s cultured tones. “Thank you for your cooperation, my good man. And your traveling companions? Have they been overcome by shyness?”
Marisa giggled. She had been labeled many things in her twenty years, but shy was never atop the list. “Headstrong” and “hoydenish” were frequent descriptors, as was “devil’s handmaiden”, particularly when she refused to agree to her father’s demands.
Such as his insistence on this wedding to Lord Westbrook, a man twice her age.
She placed a gloved hand at the opening of the carriage, her stomach fluttering with renewed optimism. She stretched her foot down to the metal step, but it had managed to disappear in the darkness, and she tumbled toward the paved roadway.
“Poppet!”
The highwayman sprang forward, before Marisa’s own cry of dismay was past her lips. His gloved hands caught her at the waist, and in the next heartbeat Marisa’s arms reflexively encircled his neck. Once assured that she was safe, the rogue should have placed her feet on the ground, and stepped away. Instead, he slid his arms around her, placing her flush against his chest in a very scandalous fashion.
Marisa’s heart pounded, most likely with relief at avoiding disaster, though she had to admit her pulse raced anew at being held in such a protective embrace. She felt the muscled strength in the way he cradled her, yet it was tempered with gentleness, banishing any fear.
A hint of sandalwood rose from his warm skin, mingling with the virile scent of a man accustomed to doing whatever he wished with his life. It was a combination both exotic and comforting. For the first time in a long while Marisa felt safe, and she had to fight the urge to lay her head on his shoulder.
She closed her eyes, thankful he could not see her reddened face, or divine her wayward thoughts. He was a means to freedom, nothing more. If only Aunt Althea had not filled her head with romantic notions throughout her childhood…
“I must thank you for preventing a most disastrous episode,” she said.
“I am delighted I could be of service to you, Mistress.”
The merriment in his voice caught her off guard. She glanced up, impatient to see this man who had been heaven-sent to aid her.
Her breath stopped in her throat. In the next instant, she could not remember the correct sequence of breathing, or how to restart it now that it had halted.
He was beyond handsome. Her brother Bernard was considered handsome, as were her other five brothers, so she was accustomed to seeing comely men on a daily basis.
This man was in a category of his own making.
His strong jaw and elegant cheekbones denoted noble bloodlines, yet it was unlikely a man of aristocratic lineage would become a knight of the road. Perhaps he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and his only opportunity in life was to take up this lawless profession. Still, he wisely wore a strip of leather to conceal his identity, though it did nothing to disguise his appeal.
His long blond locks fluttered, as if the light breeze found them as irresistible as Marisa did. His thigh-high leather boots, and the black cape which swirled around him, made her heart skip more than once. She glanced again at his face, to see amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. He tossed her an impudent wink.
Clearly he enjoyed her detailed perusal.
Her face heated, earning her a broad smile. The dimple accompanying his upturned lips completely captivated her.
The highwayman executed a magnificent bow, never taking his eyes from hers.
Delighted, Marisa sank into a formal curtsey, as though they were ready to commence a stately minuet for the entertainment of the brigands surrounding them.
“Come, Mistress.” The highwayman extended his hand to her, and Marisa took it, glad for his assistance. Her knees wobbled more than she anticipated when she impetuously responded to the highwayman’s gallant gesture.
“Poppet, perhaps you should stand here with me.”
Lord Wastrel Page 17