The Last Wicked Scoundrel

by Lorraine Heath

  Turning on his heel, he paused as he saw the duchess descending the steps that led into the garden. He shouldn’t follow her. She might have arranged a tryst, but he seemed incapable of stopping his legs from making short work of closing the distance separating them. “Duchess?”

  Stopping, she faced him. Within the pale light cast by the gas lamps that lined the path, he saw her slight smile. Gentle, warm, welcoming. She was the kindest person he’d ever known. In his youth he had longed for one kind touch, one sweet caress that would ease all the hurts. He imagined she would be a balm to his harsh soul.

  “I do wish you would call me Winnie,” she said softly.

  “You’re a duchess; I’m a commoner.”

  “A commoner who serves as one of the queen’s many physicians. I would say that makes you uncommon, Dr. Graves.”

  Ignoring her argument—he needed nothing to create a sense of intimacy between them that might weaken his resolve to remain aloof—he said, “Should you be out here alone?”

  “It’s my garden. As a widow, I have no need of a chaperone.” She looked back over her shoulder. “It’s such a crush in there, which is a great benefit to the cause, but I was beginning to feel as though I were suffocating. I just needed a bit of fresh air, so I thought to take a quick turn about the garden. Would you care to join me?”

  He knew the correct answer, the safe answer. Instead he heard himself uttering neither. “I would, very much.”

  Then he did something equally stupid: he offered her his arm. She placed her small hand on the crook of his elbow, and while he wore a shirt and jacket, he could still feel the indentation of each finger through the cloth until he would swear that she was burning a brand onto his skin. Her head was a good six inches below his shoulder. She was such a tiny thing, which made him even angrier when he thought of her brute of a husband taking his fists to her, before holding her down and forcing himself on her. He’d gotten what he deserved, and William had no regrets about it. If it added the weight of guilt to his own conscience so be it. It wasn’t the first time.

  A cool breeze wafted through the lovely summer evening, holding the fog at bay. A few other couples were walking about. The whisperings of some who had strayed from the path mingled with the chirping of insects. The darkness created an intimacy that made it easy to believe that secrets could be kept there.

  “Why does Victoria require so many physicians?” the duchess asked.

  Because she suffers greatly from hypochondria. Not that he was about to share that information. He did not discuss the ailments of those he attended. “She’s the queen and wants to ensure she stays healthy for her subjects. Sometimes it helps to have more than one opinion on a matter. Medicine is not an exact science, and we still have much to learn.”

  “It must be fascinating, though, to see all that you do.”

  “Fascinating, heartbreaking. I prefer the days when my patients recover to the days when they don’t.”

  “Strange, but I never consider that you lose patients. I suppose I was so near death when you brought me around that I believe you can accomplish miracles,” she said.

  “Hardly. I am but a man, not a miracle worker.”

  They were farther into the garden now, away from the lights, but his eyes had adjusted and he could see clearly where they were going. No other couples seemed to be about. They should turn around. But then he didn’t always do the things he should.

  “Do you know much about the workings of the brain?” she asked.

  “I’ve managed to remove a tumor or two, quite successfully. Are you experiencing headaches?” He didn’t like the notion of her suffering further. She’d experience enough pain at the hands of her husband to last a lifetime, but he was well acquainted with the fact that people didn’t always get the carefree existence they deserved.

  “No, not at all. It’s forgetfulness mostly. It’s silly really. I have a sapphire necklace that I’d planned to wear with this gown but when I went to retrieve it from the safe in my bedchamber, it was gone.”

  “Stolen, then.”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know. The safe was closed up tight. Who would steal it? The servants have been in my employ for years. Why would they suddenly begin pilfering? Although to be honest, it’s more than that single incident. There have been other things happening that have given me cause for concern.”

  “Such as?”

  “It seems that I keep misplacing things. I don’t know why I’m so forgetful of late.”

  He stopped walking, placed his hands on her shoulders, and turned her so she faced him directly. He’d removed his gloves when he’d left the salon in search of stronger drink. It took all his inner strength to not take his palms on a leisurely sojourn over her silken bared skin, not to peel off her gloves, not to toy with her hair, not to take advantage of this moment when she was gazing at him with such earnestness. Forcing his errant thoughts back to the matter at hand, he wished he had more light, had his instruments with him so he could examine her eyes more closely. From caring for her before, he was quite familiar with the brown depths, the darker circle around her iris, the small golden flecks that caught the light. “You took quite a blow to the head three years ago. What you’re experiencing could be a result of an injury that I failed to properly diagnose.”

  “But why only now?”

  “When did it start?”

  She shook her head, and he found himself wishing that her movements would loosen the pins, until her hair escaped its bonds and he could tunnel his fingers through it. Why was it always so hard with her to be the impersonal physician he had been trained to be? He was supposed to look at her as an object to be analyzed, not a woman to be explored.

  “Two, three months ago,” she said lightly, completely unaware of the turmoil wreaking havoc with him. “Right after I came back to London for the Season. Would damage to my brain take that long to manifest itself?”

  He didn’t think so, but as he’d told her, the medical community was still learning things about the human condition. “Have you had any other blow to the head recently? Any accident? Have you fallen?”

  “No, nothing. And I’m sorry.” She laughed lightly, a tinkling of bells that caused his gut to tighten with the memory of the first time he’d heard the sweet sound. She was watching her young son play with Frannie in William’s garden, and her delight had given him his first sprig of hope that she would indeed recover, that he had managed to discover every injury that needed tending. But now he had to wonder if he had overlooked something, something vital that might plague her for the remainder of her years. “I didn’t mean to cause you undue worry. Tonight is supposed to be for merriment.”

  But he was concerned. People could appear perfectly fine, but something dark and sinister could be lurking, waiting to snatch away life. In his youth, he’d been far too familiar with dark and sinister, and his fears had led to disaster. No matter how many lives he saved, he could not make amends for the life that had been forfeit because of his weakness. “I want you to come to my office tomorrow for an examination.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “I won’t know until I have a look. And I’ll send word ’round to Inspector Swindler of Scotland Yard. I’m not an expert on safes. They weren’t my purview when I lived on the streets, but he should be able to examine yours in order to determine if someone without a key managed to break into it.”

  “I forgot you were once a thief. I’ve only heard bits of rumors about your past. Was it horrid?”

  “Not all of it.” He cradled her face between his hands. A mistake. Her skin was so smooth, like the finest of silk. At her throat, he could feel her pulse thrumming against his fingers. “I want you to promise that you will come see me tomorrow.”

  “Yes, all right. Is it still the place where you took me all those years ago?”

  He couldn’t help himself. He skimmed his thumbs over her cheeks. “Yes. I can send a carriage round for you.”

>   “No, I remember where it is. I can find it. What time?”

  Tracing the outer line of her lips, he heard her soft intake of breath. “Whatever time works best for you.”

  She simply nodded, her gaze fastened on him. Considering what he knew of her past, he was surprised that she didn’t run screaming back to the residence.

  “I don’t want you to be afraid, Winnie.” He cursed himself for the ease with which her name rolled off his tongue.

  “I’m not when I’m with you.”

  You should be, he thought. God help her, but she should be. Whatever reservoir of control he possessed dissipated.

  With a harsh curse echoing between them, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were as plump and soft as he’d always imagined, parting slightly, hesitantly, inviting him to take further liberties. And he was scoundrel enough to accept the invitation.

  She moaned as he swept his tongue through her sweet mouth. She tasted of champagne, and he wondered if she were at ease with him because she’d had a few glasses too many. Then his wondering turned to wonder as her tongue explored his mouth with equal fervor. The advantage to being with a widow. She wasn’t innocent. God, he knew she was far from that. She clutched the lapels of his jacket. Closing his arms around her, he brought her in closer to him, until her body was pressed against his. He could feel her curves, her dips and swells. He cursed the clothes separating them.

  Her nails scraped his scalp just before her fingers trailed along his jaw. Sighing, she wound her arms around his neck, bringing herself in even nearer.

  For three years now, he had dreamed of this moment, fantasized about it, envisioned it, but had never dared believe he would ever possess it. He didn’t want to give it up, didn’t want to stop. He delved deeper, unleashing the hunger he’d held in check—for her, only for her.

  She deserved someone far better than he, someone who didn’t lie, who didn’t hold secrets, who could sit with her before a fire and never fear being honest. But with her, he would always have to watch his words, always take care in what he revealed. She had said she wasn’t afraid of him, but he knew that if she understood exactly what he was capable of doing she would be terrified. She wouldn’t trust him. He doubted that she would like him; she most certainly would not love him.

  Even kissing her had the possibility of leading to disaster—and he wasn’t the only one whose life might be ruined. He should pull back now. And he would.

  After one more moment.

  One more moment of her sighs and moans. One more moment of her lush body writhing against his. One more moment of her arms entwined tightly around him as though she would never let go.

  He wanted to undo fastenings. He wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her to her bedchamber. He wanted to do all the things he shouldn’t. But indulgences came with a price, and he couldn’t in all good conscience ask her to pay it.

  With a groan of frustration, he drew back. Releasing quick, short breaths, she stared up at him with expectation. Better to disappoint her now than to risk destroying her. Being too long in his company would not be wise for either of them.

  “Goodnight, Duchess.” Pivoting abruptly on his heel, he strode toward the back gate that would lead him into the mews. For a few moments, he had experienced heaven, and he knew without doubt that he would spend the remaining hours of his night languishing in the depths of hell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  As Winnie strolled back into the ballroom, she wondered if anyone would notice that her eyes were just a tad brighter, her lips a bit swollen, her skin slightly flushed. Without looking in a mirror, she knew all that was true because she felt as though she had changed in the space of a few moments, had morphed into someone with a spring in her step, a lightness in her soul that she had never experienced before.

  Avendale had kissed her, but without tenderness or gentleness. Even as passion had begun to take hold and William had deepened the kiss, it wasn’t about possession or control, but rather giving, sharing, enjoying—completely and absolutely. While she had initially been taken aback by his hunger, had experienced a few seconds of panic, his tenacity, his honest desire had enticed her to react in kind, to know that he meant her no harm. He caused her heart to accelerate, her skin to warm, her nerves to tingle, her toes to curl. In a few breathless moments he had shown her that it could be pleasant to have a man’s attentions.

  He had kissed her tonight and she would see him on the morrow. She could scarcely wait. It didn’t matter that he had left abruptly or that he had not used an endearment as they parted ways. What mattered was that she knew he desired her. What mattered was that he didn’t frighten her.

  “Winnie?”

  She came to a quick stop as her dearest friend in all the world, the Countess of Claybourne, approached her. “Hello, Catherine.”

  Catherine had given her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek when she and the Earl of Claybourne had arrived earlier. Now she simply studied Winnie as though seeing her for the first time. “You appear happy.”

  “Yes.” She dearly wanted to tell her why, but it was still so fresh, so wonderful that she decided to hold it to herself for a while longer, to simply embrace the amazement and glow of it. “I have every reason to be. The ball is quite the success.”

  “Do you remember how hard I had to work to convince you that you could throw a smashing party?”

  Winnie nodded, with the reminder of how she had fretted over the balls she’d given while Avendale was alive. “But I no longer have a fear of disappointing anyone. William Graves is most appreciative. He and I are going to meet later in the week to discuss the plans for the hospital.” She saw no reason to mention that she would also see him on the morrow. She had no desire to worry her friend, and in all likelihood nothing was wrong. Perhaps it was little more than being distracted arranging this affair. Yes, that was it, she was certain. She began planning it as soon as she arrived in London. She wanted everything to be perfect. She was devoted to it, and so her mind had been unable to focus on anything else.

  “That’s wonderful,” Catherine said now about the hospital. “I’m so glad you have this project to occupy your time.”

  “I rather enjoy it, meeting with the architects and builders. William Graves has given me leave to design it however I’d like. I’ve gone through tours of other hospitals, spoken with staff so I have a better understanding of all that is needed. I believe Dr. Graves will be pleased with my efforts.”

  “I’m certain he will be. I’m quite impressed.” Reaching out, touching the petal of a lily sitting in a large blue vase, Catherine said, “Speaking of Graves, I saw you waltzing with him earlier.”

  “You look as though something is afoot when you know he always dances with me. One dance. One dance only. I suppose it’s his way of thanking me.”

  “You like him.”

  “He’s very kind as you’re well aware.”

  Catherine gave her a concerned smile. “Just take care, sweetling. His work comes first and always will. He’s dedicated to his patients.”

  An hour ago, half an hour ago, Winnie would have simply nodded in agreement—but William Graves had kissed her. “I’m not expecting anything of him.” Well, perhaps she was just a little.

  At that moment, the Earl of Claybourne appeared to claim his wife for a dance. Winnie had never expected Catherine to marry the Devil Earl, but she couldn’t deny that her friend was incredibly happy, and that the man obviously adored her.

  The remainder of the evening, she visited with one person after another, ensured that food and champagne were readily available, thanked people for supporting her event, for ensuring that a first-rate hospital would be built. By the time midnight rolled around and everyone had left, she was exhausted from serving as hostess. She had to fairly drag herself up the stairs. But she couldn’t go to bed just yet.

  Walking past her bedchamber, she carried on to one three doors down. Inside, she found her seven-year-old son sprawled over h
is bed, snoring lightly. The door to his governess’s apartments was closed as he was getting old enough not to be watched every moment. A lamp burned low on the table beside his bed. He’d never liked sleeping in the dark.

  She approached as quietly as possible, then softly brushed his brown hair back from his brow. With his father’s death, he became the Duke of Avendale but she couldn’t quite bring herself to call him by his rightful title, perhaps because it still reminded her too much of her husband. To her, her son was Whit, the name that had become his while he held the courtesy title of the Earl of Whitson. She also believed Whit seemed more appropriate for a child. She suspected it wouldn’t be too long before he would begin wanting to be called by the name that had belonged to his father. But until then, she would have things her way.

  She could only be grateful that his father had never taken a hand to him, that Whit had been too young to understand all that was happening within this household. And while she was certain that she would go to hell, she wouldn’t feel guilty about being glad that her husband had died. She knew it made her an awful person, but not nearly as dreadful as Avendale had been.

  Leaning down, she pressed a light kiss to Whit’s forehead. “Sweet dreams, my love.”

  She stilled as a fragrance assailed her. Caraway. It was a scent she associated with her husband, with pain, with humiliation. Her heart pounding, she spun around and searched the shadows. She saw nothing but the veiled darkness.

  She was being ridiculous. Avendale was dead, but of late, the smell of him had begun seeping out of corners, out of little pockets, catching her unawares from time to time. She forbade the servants from having caraway seeds in the residence, from indulging in eating them. Someone must be disobeying the edict. She would have to take the matter up with the butler on the morrow.

  She wanted no reminders of her husband, nothing that dredged up memories of her miserable existence while she had lived under his thumb.