The Last Wicked Scoundrel

by Lorraine Heath

  With little more than a quick flick of his wrist, he freed the first button.

  Stop him, a tiny voice cried, but a louder one told her she would be a fool not to welcome his advances. She remembered how gently he had tended her hurts, how tenderly he had changed bandages and applied salve.

  Now he cupped her face, leaned in, and captured her mouth in a deep searing kiss that sent all her doubts, her inhibitions to perdition. Within her he stirred a matching hunger that she couldn’t deny. She wanted his mouth, his hands, his body, every aspect of him touching her, becoming part of her. She’d never felt this way before, had never dared want anything this desperately.

  She was vaguely aware of the other buttons being released. Pulling back slightly, he slowly peeled away her bodice, his eyes fastened on the skin he was revealing. She saw appreciation wash over his features, and she felt treasured, beautiful, accepted.

  Within a few heartbeats, he had her stripped of her clothes. She watched in wonder as he quickly divested himself of his clothing. She saw no scars, but then the whole of him was distractingly marvelous. Hard muscles, flat stomach, narrow hips.

  Rejoining her, he took his mouth on a sojourn over her body, pressing a healing kiss to each scar, the ones along her ribs, her collarbone, her thigh. He licked, kissed, murmured sweet words. Then he kissed the whole of her. Every inch, every nook and cranny, every hidden cove.

  When he returned his mouth to hers, she was heated with need, burning with desire. She plowed her hands into his hair, relishing the feel of the soft curls claiming her fingers, wrapping around them. She turned her body into his, skimming the sole of her foot along his calf. She moved in rhythm with him, rolling one way and another, striving to touch all of him as he touched all of her. There was no complacency from either of them.

  For the first time in her life she felt as though she were an equal partner in the lovemaking. Nothing she did disappointed him. Nothing she did was incorrect. She explored to her heart’s content. Exultation swept through her when he groaned deeply, and she felt the vibrations of his chest. She had caused that reaction, and she felt triumphant. He cradled one breast. His eyes fluttered closed, long dark lashes resting on his cheeks. He lowered his head and circled his tongue around her nipple, taunting and teasing.

  The first gentle tug almost had her coming off the bed. No pain, just sweet sensations surging through her. He gave his attentions to her other breast, to the valley between, to her stomach, and lower. Everywhere he touched cried out for release, she cried out for release.

  Then he rose above her, gazed down on her. She locked her eyes onto his as he eased himself inside her, withdrawing slightly, pushing with more determination, over and over until he was nestled deeply inside her.

  He rocked against her. She met each thrust, the pleasure increasing, until she was writhing beneath him and screaming out for release. It came in a glorious rush that had her bucking against him, as he groaned hoarsely and drove into her one last time.

  Exhausted and replete, she lay beneath him, skimming lethargic fingers over his damp back, aware of the trembling in his arms as he kept his weight off her, a consideration that touched her deeply. He pressed his lips to her temple before rolling off her. He drew her up against his side, stroking her arm as though he was as loath to lose contact with her as she was to lose it with him. As his breathing slowed, he kissed the top of her head. “I’m not leaving tonight, so sleep as deeply as you want.”

  Inhaling sandalwood and the musk of their lovemaking, she closed her eyes.

  Winnie decided that she rather enjoyed being made love to in the morning. It was a glorious thing to wake up to. Then they’d enjoyed breakfast in bed before satisfying each other once again. She couldn’t recall if she’d ever known such happiness.

  She also discovered that she liked being dressed by a man, even if her hair was nothing more than a simple braid. Sitting at her dressing table, she watched as William put on his shoes. She’d never observed a man getting completely dressed before. She rather liked all these new experiences.

  “I suppose you have to take your leave now,” she said.

  Standing, he walked over to her and brought her to her feet. “I’m taking a day of leisure, to do nothing beyond being with you.”

  “What of your patients?”

  “No one is knocking on death’s door. My housekeeper knows where I am. If a hospital needs me, they’ll send word ’round to her and she’ll send word to me.” He cradled her cheek. “I want to be with you.”

  “I promised Whit I’d take him to Madame Tussaud’s.”

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  She couldn’t deny the pleasure that his offer brought her, although a secret part of her had to admit that she’d rather stay abed with him. She’d never in her life felt so treasured, so appreciated, so cared for. This was how it was supposed to be between a man and a woman. If Avendale hadn’t died, she’d have never known.

  But she also recognized that there was more to William’s treatment of her. It made her stronger, it made her believe that she should be treated better. A small part, a very small part of her wished she could confront Avendale and show him that she wasn’t the cowering girl he’d married.

  “Let’s share the news with Whit.”

  But before she could leave the room, William took her into his arms again and kissed her as though he hadn’t spent a good portion of the night doing just that. She wound her arms around his neck, knowing she would never tire of this. Although she had secured no promises from him, she understood now that she didn’t require marriage to be happy. It was enough just to be with him.

  When he broke away and opened the door for her, she knew a secretive little smile played over her lips and hoped that Whit couldn’t interpret its meaning.

  As they walked down the hallway, William said, “I’d have not expected you to be a fan of Madame Tussaud’s.”

  “I must admit that I think I might have gone mad making wax creations of the deceased, but I find it fascinating to see people as they were. Although I do avoid the torture chamber.” She knew enough about the grisly room to know she had no desire to see instruments of torture or to see them demonstrated on wax figurines, even if they could feel no pain.

  “It’s my understanding,” William said, “that ladies aren’t allowed in the room because of their delicate sensibilities.”

  “Have you ever been in there?”

  “No, I’ve seen enough suffering in life not to want to see it in wax.”

  “How do you bear it, all the suffering you’ve seen?”

  “By focusing on happier things, like moments spent with you.”

  He said such lovely things to her. She was half tempted to forego the trip with Whit and spend the entire day in her bedchamber with William, but she wanted him to have some time with her son. She knew they’d gotten along famously while she and Whit had stayed at William’s residence during her recovery, but she thought it a good idea to reacquaint them as she suspected she would be spending a good deal more time with William.

  She walked into the nursery, although it seemed odd to refer to it as such when Whit was all of seven years old now. He would soon be exchanging the nursery for the classroom, but for a bit longer he was hers.

  Whit was sitting at a small table, frantically scratching a pencil over his art pad. Several sheets of paper were scattered around the table. His governess was sitting in a nearby chair reading. She quickly stood, but Whit carried on.

  Winnie knelt beside him. “Good morning, darling.”

  “There were so many animals. I’m trying to draw them, before I forget what they looked like.”

  “You’re doing a marvelous job. Perhaps you’d like to share them with Dr. Graves. He’s visiting this morning. You remember him, don’t you?”

  Whit looked up then, his dark hair falling across his brow, his dark eyes—his father’s eyes—focusing on William. “You took care of Mummy when she was hurt.”

  S
he did wish that he didn’t remember that particular aspect of their time with William. Whit had been only four. She hoped he’d have forgotten the worst of if by now.

  “You carried me on your shoulders in the park,” Whit continued.

  William crouched beside her. “Yes, I did. I’d like to take you and your mum to the park again sometime, but I understand you already have a special trip planned for today.”

  “Have to finish these first.”

  “Did you like walking through the zoological gardens?” William asked.

  Whit nodded, his hair flapping against his brow. He pointed to one of the papers. “That’s the lion. He roared.”

  “It’s a very good drawing,” William said, picking it up and holding it so Winnie could see it clearly. The lion’s mane was almost larger than the lion himself. Off to the side was a tree. Near it was something that appeared to be an obelisk: tall and dark, no features. With a quick glance over the other sketches, she saw that it appeared in several of them. She didn’t know why she found it odd, but she did. In one of the drawings, it seemed to have arms.

  “What is this, darling?” she asked.

  Whit’s tiny brow furrowed as he studied where her finger rested, before darting his gaze up to her. “It’s the shadow man.”

  Everything within her stilled while he returned to his endeavors as though he hadn’t said anything monumental. “What shadow man?” She hated the slight tremor in her voice. She was very much aware that William hadn’t moved, but he seemed alert, barely breathing.

  Whit lifted a slender shoulder. “I’ve seen him about. Sometimes in the park. The garden.”

  “Our garden?” Winnie asked.

  Whit nodded.

  She looked over at the governess. “Have you seen him?”

  “No, Your Grace. The young duke has mentioned him of course, but he has such an active imagination that I assumed the shadow man was an imaginary friend.”

  Yes, that was probably it, Winnie thought. Just a figment—

  “He was in my room last night,” Whit said distractedly, his attention back on his drawing. “I woke up and he was in the shadows. I couldn’t see him very well, but he said he was watching out for me and not to be afraid. This is the elephant.”

  He held the paper out to her, and she took it with trembling fingers. Last night, dear God, last night when she was crying out in pleasure, he was in her residence, in her son’s room. “He’s a very interesting creature with that long snout. So your shadow man, did he say anything else?”

  He shook his head. “But he was wearing my rings.”

  “Your rings?”

  He nodded. “The ones you said I can wear when I’m a man.”

  She had shown the ducal rings to Whit several times because he enjoyed looking at them.

  “I didn’t tell him they were mine,” Whit said quietly. “’Cuz he was so big.”

  Leaning over, she pressed a kiss to his temple. “He won’t hurt you, darling. Mummy isn’t feeling well, though, so we’re not going on our outing today. You just keep drawing.”

  Her legs were trembling so badly they could barely support her as she left the room. What she was considering was an impossibility, and yet it was the only thing that made any sense.

  “Winnie, are you all right?” William asked.

  “Hardly.” With William on her heels, she rushed down the stairs and hurried into the library, went to the cigar box where she had placed the rings after the séance, and lifted the lid. They were gone. After slamming the lid closed, she began striding toward the door. “I need to speak with Catherine. My husband either managed to manifest himself into a ghost or he was never dead to begin with.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  “Tell me precisely what happened at Heatherwood,” Winnie demanded.

  William knew that he could have saved her the journey to Claybourne’s, but it wasn’t his lie to reveal. They were in the Claybourne library, a room large enough that with the door closed, it was unlikely that any of their conversation would drift out into the hallways to be overheard by servants. They were presently all standing, Claybourne in front of his desk, his hips leaning against it, Catherine near her husband. Winnie stood before them, her hands balled into fists at her side. At least they’d stopped trembling on the journey here. He wanted to be beside her, holding her near, but she seemed determined to face this on her own, so he merely waited, his arms crossed over his chest. It was her battle.

  “Why don’t we all take a seat?” Catherine asked. “I’ll ring for tea.”

  “I don’t want tea,” Winnie said. “I want to know about the fire at Heatherwood. Did you actually see Avendale die in it?”

  Catherine glanced over at Claybourne before returning her attention to Winnie. “Winnie, you must understand that I was terrified for you.”

  “What did you do?” she asked, her voice laced with trepidation.

  “Do sit,” Catherine urged.

  “I don’t think I shall. I have the impression that what you are about to tell me is best taken standing.”

  Good for you, William thought, admiring her backbone. Her husband had nearly broken it. He hoped she’d hang onto it when she knew the true tale.

  Catherine cleared her throat. “The night he beat you to within an inch of your life, before we left your residence, we hinted to the servants that we were going to take you to Heatherwood. Instead, of course, we took you to Bill. Then Claybourne and I carried on alone to Heatherwood.”

  “Avendale arrived a couple of nights later demanding that we give you to him. When he learned you weren’t there, he went into a rage, attacked Claybourne. In the scuffle a burning lamp shattered on the floor, the kerosene and flames igniting the carpet and draperies. Claybourne got the upper hand and knocked Avendale unconscious. But by the time he did, the fire was raging. While I take no pride in it, I was grateful that he didn’t have the means to escape the fire.”

  “So he did die, you left him to die.”

  Catherine hesitated. “Winnie—”

  “For God’s sake tell her the truth,” William snapped, “because if you don’t I will.”

  Her brow deeply furrowed, Winnie jerked her gaze over to him, and not averting his was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  “Claybourne carried him out,” Catherine said on a rush, snagging Winnie’s attention once more.

  “So he didn’t die?”

  Sadly Catherine shook her head.

  Winnie stumbled back a couple of steps. “But I saw the body.”

  “You saw a body, dressed in Avendale’s clothes, wearing his rings. We arranged for Avendale to be transported to New Zealand as a criminal, under another name. We can only deduce that he either managed to escape or convinced someone to set him free.”

  “You can only deduce? So you believe he’s here, wreaking havoc with my sanity, and you didn’t think I needed to know?”

  Catherine nodded reluctantly. “We believed we could handle it without you being the wiser for it. You thought you were a widow—”

  Winnie staggered back as though she’d taken a blow. Horrified, she looked at William and he knew she was thinking of last night, of her marriage vows, of how she’d unwittingly broken them. “I’m not a widow. My son is not the duke.”

  “No one need know that,” Catherine said. “We will find him. We will set matters to right.”

  “I think you all have done quite enough.” She slowly turned to face William squarely. “You robbed graves in your youth, so I assume you provided the body. Where did you get it?”

  “Potter’s Field.”

  “A pauper is buried in my husband’s family’s crypt?”

  While it brought him no pride, he nodded.

  “All along you knew he was alive. Last night—” Tears welled in her eyes. “You knew I wasn’t a widow. You knew I wasn’t . . . free.”

  He had no response whatsoever to that accusation. He had known, damn him, and he’d put his needs to h
ave her above all else.

  She advanced on him. “I thought I was going mad. Things disappearing, reappearing. Sounds in the night. His scent wafting through the house, which I now realize must have been wafting in his wake. He was in my son’s room. He was in my room. You knew all this and yet you let me doubt my sanity.”

  “You can’t blame him,” Catherine said. “When we decided to do this, we took a vow of secrecy.”

  Winnie’s gaze never left his. “A vow more important than me.” Then she laughed, a sound that carried no joy. “Your attentions of late, were they all part of this elaborate scheme to hide what you’d done, to ensure I didn’t learn the truth?”

  Easier to lie than to tell her the truth because at this point she wouldn’t believe him anyway. “I wanted to be certain I was there to protect you should he show himself.”

  “You left me to suffer. You didn’t trust me not to betray you.”

  “Winnie, you wept when I told you he was dead,” Catherine said.

  “Of course I wept. With profound relief because no one would ever hurt me again.” She turned back to William. “Although I was mistaken there. How was I to know the pain of broken bones pales in comparison to that of a broken heart?”

  “Winnie, it was never my intention to hurt you.”

  She gave a caustic laugh. “Do you know that Avendale said those precise words after every time he hit me?”

  Nothing else she could have said would have cut him as deeply.

  Glancing quickly at the others, she said, “Please, I beg you all, don’t help me any further. I shall see to this matter myself.”

  With her chin held high, she marched from the room, marched out of his life. He let her go because he knew he had killed whatever love she might have held for him.

  He was vaguely aware of Catherine touching his arm. “What she said, it wasn’t fair.”

  “It was completely fair.”

  Avendale was alive!

  Winnie let that thought hover around her as she sat in his hideous overbearing library. He was alive. She wasn’t free. She wasn’t free to love William. She wasn’t free to even kiss him!