Rakes and Rogues

by Boyd, Heather

  It wasn’t the desperation in his voice, reaffirming her power over him, or even his generous offer. It was his kiss that confirmed she could belong to no one else. How could she say no to a man whose touch unleashed feelings of love and tenderness she had never known existed within the heart she had once thought as cold as her mother’s? Gently clasping his face, she kissed his lips, his eyes, his cheeks, revelling in the shudders that ran through him. Behind the tasselled gold curtain, her dreams were finally coming true.

  “I want my own cerulean blue carriage with four high steppers,” she murmured. She wasn’t serious and was surprised when he dug his fingers into her shoulders and ground out, “Done.”

  He was trembling as if he had the ague, their lips barely touching throughout their exchange. His voice was strained. “You can have it in royal purple or scarlet for all I care.”

  With the tip of her tongue, she traced the line of his mouth. His eyes were still closed, but his senses were clearly alert to her slightest touch. She smiled at his shudders, then whispered, “And Antoinette must have a dowry.” Though Lord Quamby had already discussed taking care of Antoinette’s future himself, Fanny knew this was something she had to ensure if she was to placate her mother later that evening.

  Still kissing her lightly, though with growing impatience, Fenton agreed to this, also. “And a house for Mama with her own annuity.”

  He drew back, his eyes widening. Perhaps perceiving her determination, he curbed any objection, saying with a defeated air, “As long as it’s not near us.”

  “Definitely not!” Fanny agreed, stroking his face. “But with three hundred a year she could afford her own carriage and something commodious in Northumbria so she can lord it over her cheeseparing cousin. That would keep her busy and her nose out of our affairs.”

  “Agreed.”

  Fanny brought the kiss to a satisfying conclusion. He did not need to know that her shuddering surrender was the culmination of so many fears bound up with the need to please her mother before she could please herself. She wanted to weep her joy, but it was too soon. She remembered Lord Quamby’s words and whispered, smiling, “In that case, all seems in order. Shall we inform the rest of the company?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fenton groaned at the sound of tapping and hauled himself into a sitting position, shouting to the impatient servant on the other side of the door that he’d present himself in the saloon presently. He gazed at Fanny, curled up like a kitten beside him. She looked innocent and childlike in her slumber, and his heart swelled. If he wasn’t so terrified she would change her mind, he’d have the servant send the parson away until another time.

  They’d made love three times since Lord Quamby had granted Fanny an honourable reprieve, but if it had been three hundred it wouldn’t have been enough.

  She stirred and, with a lascivious chuckle, he traced a line with his finger from the Fenton diamonds at her throat, over the contour of Fanny’s right breast, before resting his hand on her belly. The mere touch of her smooth, warm skin stoked the fires of his desire.

  “I’m sure you could never have predicted your scheme for revenge would have so unexpectedly pleased our collective mamas, my dear,” he murmured as she blinked open sleep-laden eyes. “All I can say is thank you for having saved me the trouble of finding a dull, suitable bride to please mine, so I could rush off to my mistress.” He gave her shoulder a playful squeeze rather than the languorous all-over body massage he’d have preferred as he flung his legs over the side of the bed. Friends and family were waiting for them in the saloon. Now was not the time to slake his lust.

  “When I could get away,” Fanny replied, stretching luxuriantly. “Quamby and I are fierce combatants at whist.” She yawned, adding in a voice of feigned boredom, “It’s our favourite way to while away the evening together.”

  Fenton pulled his shirt over his shoulders while Fanny feasted her eyes on his bunched-up muscles. She adored the vulnerable look of his nipples set into such masculine hardness. He paused in his dressing to grin at her. “You mean I haven’t yet convinced you of the advantages of fornication with me above whist with Quamby? You’d better be sure you know what you want, darling, for the parson is waiting.”

  Crawling off the bed, Fanny wrapped her arms and one leg around the bedpost. Since she was still naked this provocative move had the desired effect. Fenton stifled a growl and closed his eyes, seemingly in pain as his manhood swelled.

  “You’ll not convince me of anything until I’m your viscountess,” Fanny told him pertly, reaching for her chemise.

  Suddenly she stopped, frowning as she clasped her hand to her forehead.

  “What is it, darling?” Fenton was at her side in an instant, drawing her against him. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, Fenton, when I’m your viscountess we can do this any time we wish.”

  The puzzled concern on his face was adorable. He touched her cheek. “That will be wonderful, won’t it?” His tone was uncertain.

  Fanny bit her lip. “Oh, Fenton, I’m having second thoughts.” She covered her face with her hands, pretending real distress as he gripped her shoulders and put her away from him.

  “Second thoughts?” There was no trace of amusement in his voice. “You certainly appeared to enjoy our bedroom sport. Have you any complaints? Why, we are not even married, Fanny, and yet we’ve…we’ve made love like rabbits five times. Are you telling me now that you’re dissatisfied with proceedings?”

  She dropped her hands. Lord, he appeared so adorably vulnerable with that look of concern that indicated he feared his performance was not up to her exacting standards that she had to suppress a giggle.

  “Oh, it was all wonderful, Fenton, truly it was. But I have such a low boredom threshold. I mean, perhaps I’ll be bored by the sixth time. Until a few days ago I knew nothing of all this.” She shrugged as expressively as she could. “Will the sixth be any different or have you demonstrated your entire repertoire?”

  “You little wench!” Correctly interpreting the quirk of her lips and arch look he finally realised she was teasing him.

  With a squeal she landed on her back upon the bed, looking up to see Fenton’s roiling look as he caged her body with his.

  “Three minutes!” he muttered as he lowered his face to plunder her mouth, coming up for air to add, “Enough time to give you an experience you won’t forget and deliver you to the parson with sufficient self-respect so we can both hold our heads up in front of the gathered company.”

  Before she knew what was happening he’d flipped her onto her belly and his lean, muscled body was contouring her back, his erection jutting into her, his breathing, fast and furious, heating her ear while his artful fondling between her legs heated her blood.

  “Lesson number six,” he panted. Grasping her buttocks he parted them gently before plunging into her with a groan.

  She gasped as she received him, bunching the counterpane in her fists and squeezing shut her eyes as he worked his magic. Never before had she felt him so deep. Arching her back to meet him at each thrust, she cried out as her beloved husband-to-be pounded into her, burying himself to the hilt.

  “Oh, God!” she moaned as the rhythmic motion of his fingers upon the slick, swollen nub between her legs heightened each spiral of sensation and the deep thrust of his enormous shaft seemed to reach the very core of her.

  “Harder! Harder!” she shrieked as he pounded into her and she felt her inner being claw its way to the summit. Higher and higher she climbed, despite knowing she was entering dangerous, unknown territory until she was balancing on the precipice, her senses suspended in an agony of thrilling excitement before a final thrust sent her over the edge.

  “Oh, Fenton!” she screamed as her body seemed to combust in a shower of fiery embers. A red haze swirled behind her eyes as she felt Fenton’s fingers digging into her upper arms while he pounded into her with almost savage intensity until, with an orgasmic howl, he, too, collapsed, bonele
ss on top of her.

  For a moment neither moved nor spoke. The landscape had changed. They were altered, inside and out. Bound forever in that moment, even before they intoned the vows that would unite them inextricably in the eyes of the church.

  “That was wonderful,” she croaked, as she felt him pulsing gently within her. It took her several minutes to recover her breath sufficiently to add, “I’m convinced.”

  “And you’re wonderful.” As if he were drawing on his final reserves of strength, Fenton withdrew, joining her on the bed and drawing her up against his chest.

  His adoring look lanced her heart and Fanny squeezed his hand. “Let’s get ourselves married now, shall we, darling?” she whispered.

  He nodded, adding in a rush as he stayed her from rising, “Oh, Fanny, I’m so sorry I believed Bramley’s unfounded allegations, dear heart.” He buried his face in her hair, adding wryly, “Though I think Bramley will feel he’s been served more than his just desserts when he gazes upon the squalling Quamby heir eight months from now and sees his own thuggish nose.”

  Fanny pulled away to frown at him. “Antoinette is flighty but I’m sure she never went quite so far before accepting Lord Quamby’s suit.”

  Her frown was obliterated by Fenton’s kiss, even as she knew her defence of her sister was completely unfounded.

  “She certainly did, and the talk’s all over town.” Fenton took her hand and helped her off the bed. “It’s just fortunate she’s been taken up by His Grace and everyone knows that at least if the child she bears isn’t her husband-to-be’s it will have been foisted on her by Lord Quamby’s heir.”

  Fanny sighed happily. “Mama is so pleased.”

  “Enough about Antoinette. Here are your stays, madam.” Fenton assisted her with her undergarments before helping her into her rose-coloured twilled silk gown. With an appreciative sigh, he stepped back. “And now we’d best hurry if we are not to be thoroughly chastised by the terrifying dowagers.” With a finger beneath her chin he tilted Fanny’s head up. “They’ve been waiting for us in the blue drawing room this half hour, and as it’s my Uncle Roderick marrying us I’d wager he’s already cock-eyed.”

  With a final, proud and proprietary look, he tucked her hand through the crook of his arm and led her to the door. “I shall be paying scrupulous attention to ensure he doesn’t inadvertently marry you to Brimble or Mama’s pug.”

  Her heart swelled at the love and warmth she saw in his smile. He’d shown her what it felt to be adored and appreciated and he’d more than atoned for his brief lack of faith. Bramley would spend the rest of his life paying for that—and the odious creature knew it.

  Nevertheless, her tone was offhand as she murmured, “Just so long as they can kiss like you, my dearest, I’ll be content.”

  His feigned glower of displeasure and the trembling of his lip as he bit back his amusement made her yearn for his embrace. The urgency of his response had her gasping for air after he’d released her from a fierce, lusty kiss. No, three rounds on the feather mattress this afternoon alone hadn’t quelled in the slightest her appetite for mad, bad and dangerous-to-know Lord Fenton.

  “Let Brimble or Mama’s pug try and match that!” he growled, caging her hand upon his arm. “I intend to make you the happiest, most satisfied wife in all England.”

  ~ * ~

  If you enjoyed RAKE’S HONOUR, why not return to Fanny’s world in ROGUE’S KISS where we see the matchmaking efforts of Fanny and her siblings go horribly wrong.

  About Beverley Oakley

  Beverley Oakley writes sensual historical romances laced with intrigue, mystery or adventure set in Georgian or Regency England. While much of her time is spent sorting out the trials and tribulations of her bold, flawed, heroines, she counts herself lucky to have a real-life husband hero, two gorgeous daughters and a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy the size of a pony to help keep her head out of the clouds. She also writes less steamy historicals as Beverley Eikli.

  For more information visit

  www.beverleyoakly.com

  LORD WASTREL

  The Curse of True Love Series - Book 1

  by

  Donna Cummings

  When Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, plays matchmaker, true love can seem like a curse

  Lord Wastrel—the most notorious rake in London—has a child? Clearly he knows how to sire one, but he has no idea how to actually raise one. He has to learn quickly, since he is the little girl's only surviving parent, and he's determined to find a wife who can assist him with this daunting task. All he needs is someone demure, and biddable, and most importantly, scandal-free.

  Lady Felicia Selby is no stranger to scandal, thanks to Society's insatiable curiosity about her numerous failed elopements. She has devoted many years to finding her one true love, desperate to escape the consequences of the family curse, but she has begun to give up hope.

  Then, one evening, a chance encounter with Aphrodite changes everything. . .

  "It never goes smoothly when we get personally involved with the mortals."

  ~ Ares, God of War

  "But that is what makes it so entertaining."

  ~ Aphrodite, Goddess of Love

  Copyright © 2014 by Donna Cummings

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1811

  It wasn’t the night of hard drinking Hugh Longford, Lord Weyson, regretted in that particular moment. Nor was it the fact that the sun blistering his eyes meant night had slipped away without his knowledge, once again.

  The cause of his agony, and the source of his sudden wish that he had lived his past few years differently, was standing in his drawing room, calling him "Papa".

  "What the deuce?"

  Hugh blinked again, and then rubbed his eyes, but there was no mistaking the little creature gazing up at him. Not with fear, he noticed. Her expression was more of fascination than anything else. The poor mite was probably wondering what kind of father she had—

  He gazed at the child's nursemaid with unabashed hopefulness. Surely she had some other sort of explanation, something other than the one he was being asked to accept.

  "My lord, Miss Marguerite told me were anythin' ever to happen to her. . ." The young woman coughed as she struggled to regain her composure, and then extracted a letter from her coat.

  Even knowing he did not want to see the contents, Hugh found himself reaching for the parchment, unfolding it with trembling hands.

  She had never meant to bother him, her letter said. He had been so generous with her, especially when he had given her her congé, but she had become gravely ill recently, and had no one else with whom to entrust their child. . .

  "Haselton!" Hugh sought his unflappable butler, the one who assured Weyson House always ran smoothly, despite its owner's well-known excesses.

  "Yes, my lord."

  Haselton gazed upon the unusual scene without the slightest bit of perturbance, even though he was no more accustomed to young children arriving unannounced than his master was.

  Hugh sighed. "Well, yes, there's—her." He thrust his hand out toward the young child. "And, it says here—that is, I don't know how it could be possible, for I always took every precaution, but I suppose it is not outside the realm of possibility—apparently I—this child is—"

  He ran his hand through his hair, quite undone by the morning's unexpected revelations. At this hour, he was usually stumbling into bed, and generally not his own. Though he had earned the nickname Lord Wastrel for his profligate ways, he had never anticipated dealing with a fracas of this sort.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass over the fireplace. God, he looked wretched. His hair had no semblance of the latest style, his eyes were bleary and red-rimmed, his chin darkening with stubble. He was fast becoming an old reprobate, with little resemblance to the wealthy young London buck he actually was.

  He growled, his lips turned up in a sneer.

  "Are you the debbil?" a small voice asked.

  Haselto
n coughed, turning his head, but Hugh saw the smile he was trying to conceal.

  He also saw the little girl trying to hide her uncertainty. His heart softened. Her life had been turned upside down too. He bent down, to keep from towering over her, though it took more effort than he wanted to admit just to keep steady on his pins. The movement also made him feel a bit nauseous of a sudden.

  Why not just sit down where he was?

  The child giggled as Hugh plopped down onto the Aubusson carpet, putting his face level with hers.

  She had the most beautiful blue eyes. He remembered Marguerite, a fiery opera dancer, with those very eyes. And the child had the same dark-as-night curls that he possessed, not to mention features that clearly descended from his branch of the family tree.

  "Are you the debbil?" she repeated. She put her fingers on either side of her bonnet as if they were horns, and wiggled them.

  Hugh laughed, throwing back his head, wishing he hadn't when the pain sliced through his skull once more.

  "Ah, no, but I sure feel like the debbil."

  Since he no doubt looked like Old Nick in that moment, it was a wonder he hadn't set the poor child to crying. Obviously she was made of sterner stuff. She had gazed at him quite fearlessly, and even with a hint of compassion.

  "My lord," Haselton said, "perhaps you could sort everything out with your solicitor."