Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03]

by Lord of Wicked Intentions

  “What of me?” Ekroth demanded.

  “Of you I require a bit more. You wanted to put your hands on her, humiliate her, ruin her with your vile touch, while promising nothing in return.”

  “I promised five hundred quid.”

  “Her worth cannot be measured.”

  Ekroth jerked up his chin. “So what do you plan, my lord, in order for us to be even?”

  “I plan to beat you bloody.”

  Geoffrey Litton, Earl of Wortham, strode into his library, frustration gnawing at his heels. Today should have been the day when everything was once again set right. Angus Dimmick had been publicly hanged that afternoon for committing several murders. The man was a frightening piece of work, and Geoffrey was grateful to be no longer in his debt. He’d witnessed the hanging, then gone to a tavern to celebrate with a few tankards. When the tavern closed he had headed home. What he truly wanted was a game of cards, but every club he visited barred his entrance, informed him that he was not welcome. He had expected it of the Rakehell Club, but the others made little sense. He’d yet to run up a debt elsewhere.

  Something was amiss.

  Tomorrow when his vision wasn’t quite so blurred and his head wasn’t swimming, he’d go round to the clubs again and talk to the owners about his membership.

  The room was mostly shadows. One lone lamp burning low on the desk guided him to his liquor cabinet, where he poured himself a hearty helping of Scotch. He lifted the glass and inhaled the heady aroma. He tossed back a long swallow, turned on his heel, staggered back, and to his everlasting mortification, squealed like a piglet that had just had its tail pulled.

  Rafe Easton sat sprawled in a chair near the cold fireplace.

  “What are you doing here?” Geoffrey asked, despising the high pitch of his voice, though he seemed unable to lower it.

  “Come to settle our debts.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Geoffrey said. “That Dimmick fellow. He said he would erase my debts if I knifed you. I would become a permanent member of the club when he regained possession of it. He’s to blame. Now he’s dead. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “I never had anything to fear from you. And I don’t give a damn about the knifing. What I do care about is the atrocious manner in which you treated your father’s daughter.”

  “But you’re marrying her. I saw the announcement in the Times. So she’s come out of the situation smelling like roses.”

  Easton slowly rose from the chair. Ominously. “But what if I hadn’t been there that night? What then? You were going to give the lords freedom to rape her.”

  “No.” He backed up, hit the table, glass decanters tinkled. “No, no. Only examine her, touch her. Not actually fu—” He remembered the last time he’d used that word in relation to Evelyn. “—bed her. She would have lost her value if she were no longer a virgin. It’s all moot now.”

  “Hardly. You’re going to see after her welfare as you promised your father you would.” He tossed some papers onto the desk. “You’re going to sign those.”

  Geoffrey tried to see them without getting too close to Easton. “What are they?”

  “Transfer of all property that is not entailed, including this residence, to your beloved sister.”

  “What? No. Never.” The man had gone mad.

  “Consider it a wedding gift to Eve. Sign the papers and I’ll not beat you to within an inch of your life.”

  “You dare to threaten me?”

  “Not only do I dare it, I enjoy it. You lost your membership to my club, and you’ve no doubt discovered that no other club will have you.”

  Red flashed before Geoffrey’s eyes. “You arranged that?”

  “Oh, I’ve arranged a good deal more than that. There is not a lord in all of England who will give you leave to marry his daughter. You will die without issue, and your cousin Francis will inherit the title and estates when you are dead. Until that time, for the aristocracy, you no longer exist. You will be invited to no balls, no dinners, no parties. You will have no choice except to live out your life on your ancestral estate, alone, with nothing to sustain you except regret for the unkindness you showed Eve and the knowledge that I am always watching. You won’t see me, but rest assured that I shall be aware of every breath you take.”

  “You’ll not get away with this.”

  Easton gave him a devilish grin. “I already have. Sign the papers.”

  Geoffrey crept toward the desk. “At least allow me back into your club. I shall go mad with no cards to entertain me.”

  “Try managing your estates.”

  “But the cards, you see, they are my passion.”

  “A misguided passion. They led you toward the path to ruin, but it was your choice to step on the road the night you offered up Eve to anyone who wanted her.”

  “You must give me something for signing these papers.”

  “I’m giving you your life.”

  But what a miserable life it would be. “I’d rather you’d kill me.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Geoffrey saw the hard coldness in Rafe Easton’s eyes. Yes, he thought, he could arrange it. But it wasn’t what Geoffrey truly wanted. He would find a club willing to take him in. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would find a way out of this mess. Dipping pen in inkwell, he signed every document, then watched as Easton gathered them up and slipped them into a satchel.

  “You missed an opportunity, Wortham, to claim a wonderful woman as your sister. You sought to take everything that matters away from her. It seemed only fitting that I take all that matters away from you. Leave London before the sun rises or you’ll find yourself in debtor’s prison.”

  “But I just paid my debt to you.”

  “No, you paid the debt you owed Evelyn. Your debt to me remains open, my lord, and as I am now in possession of the markers you signed to Dimmick, your debt is considerable.”

  When Rafe Easton left, Wortham placed his head in his hands and wept for all he had lost, for the lonely life that would stretch out before him.

  Chapter 22

  Studying his reflection in the mirror, Rafe tugged on his light gray waistcoat. It took an inordinate amount of time to dress these days. His hand had healed but the mobility in it wasn’t what it had once been. Dr. Graves had set the bones together as best as he could. Rafe was grateful for that, at least. He hadn’t lost his hand completely. And he was learning to write with his right.

  In retrospect, he supposed he could have told Dimmick from the outset that he was left-handed, so he would have broken the right, but he was familiar enough with the man’s tortuous ways to know that a time would come when he would have signed anything the man put before him in order to stop the pain. And he’d be damned before he gave the man anything that belonged to Evie—or to Mick for that matter.

  So damned he was.

  But not as much as Dimmick.

  During the three months since his rescue, Rafe found himself spending more time with his brothers, and he wondered why he had resisted being in their company for so long. Late into the night, they would drink Scotch and share stories from the years they were apart. Rafe liked hearing about all the various places Tristan had visited, the different people he’d met, the cultures he’d encountered. Sebastian’s stories were less entertaining and more reluctantly recounted, but they gave Rafe a view of war that made him appreciate his brother’s bravery and sacrifice more than he might have otherwise.

  He held out his arms as his valet helped him into his black morning coat. “Did you see that the gift was delivered to Miss Chambers?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Rafe no longer grimaced when his servants here or those who worked for him at the club addressed him as such. He was the son of a duke, the brother of a duke. He was proud to claim his family heritage, his birthright. Besides, he wanted there to be no doubt that Miss Evelyn Chambers, illegitimate daughter of an earl, was marrying a lord.

  The very wealthy lord of a very powerfu
l family.

  Mary had insisted that Eve continue to live with them until the wedding. It had never occurred to Rafe that Evie had found sanctuary next door. It was the last place he would have looked for her. And she’d known it. At the time, he’d never have gone over there willingly.

  Unlike now, when he went every day. He courted Evie as she should have been courted all along. With flowers, books of poetry, and chocolate. He escorted her on rides through the parks, danced with her at balls, dined with her every evening. He had much to make up for, and he was looking forward to spending the remainder of his life ensuring that she never regretted, not for a single second, that she became his wife.

  Evelyn stared at her reflection in the cheval glass, hardly able to believe the beautiful handwork on the pearl-beaded ivory gown she wore. No quiet wedding in a country church, no secreting away. In two hours she was to be married at St. George’s, and all of London had been invited.

  Except Geoffrey, as he was no longer in London but had returned to the family estate—after signing over all the properties that were not entailed. She suspected Rafe might have been responsible for that, but when she asked him about it, he said only, “He’s keeping the promise he made to your father.”

  As she had no use for another residence in London, she was going to convert it into a sanctuary for unfortunate women, a place where they could acquire skills so they wouldn’t be dependent upon the kindness of strangers.

  “You look lovely,” Mary said, standing near Anne.

  Evelyn turned to face the two women who would soon become her sisters by marriage. “It seems I should be nervous but I’m not.”

  “Because you know that you’re marrying a man who loves you,” Anne said.

  “Yes, he does rather, I think.”

  A slight rap sounded on the door. Mary opened it and retrieved a small package from the servant. She held it out to Evelyn. “For you. From Rafe.”

  She took it and walked over to the window for a bit of privacy. Sunlight streamed in through the glass. It was going to be a beautiful day.

  She opened the note that had been tucked beneath the ribbon. She read the uneven awkward scrawl, and knew it had been written with a great deal of effort.

  Something I hope you dearly will not need today.

  After untying the ribbon, she lifted the lid. Inside rested a coin, and while she had seen many like it, and thousands existed, she knew she had held this coin once before in her hand, on a long-ago night when she’d thought she had no options.

  Taking it out, she realized another note resided beneath it. She unfolded it.

  My father gave me this coin shortly before he died. This morning I flipped it. Heads I would marry you. Tails I would take you as my wife. For me, Eve, there is no choice to be made. I love you more than life. I want to spend whatever years are left to me proving that to you. But if you have doubts, my love, I will let you go. Nothing means more to me than your happiness.

  With a deep sigh, Evelyn pressed the note to her chest. Then she flipped the coin.

  When the carriage drew to a halt, it was nearly dusk. Evelyn watched as her husband—her husband!—alighted, and when she went to step out, he caught her up in his arms. With a squeal, she wound hers around his neck.

  It had been a lovely wedding, a lovely day.

  The duke had escorted her down the aisle to the altar, where Rafe had been waiting with Tristan by his side. When the duke gave her into Rafe’s keeping, he had stepped up to position himself beside Tristan. Tears had welled in her eyes at the sight of the three brothers standing there, the lords of Pembrook finally together as they should have been all along.

  And following their habit of going against convention, as usually only unmarried men stood at the altar with the groom.

  Rafe carried her up the steps. The door opened. Laurence bowed his head slightly as they went past. “Welcome home, my lord, my lady.”

  My lady. She almost laughed. As Rafe began climbing the stairs, she said, “Who would have thought the illegitimate daughter of an earl would one day be a lady?”

  “You were a lady the moment you were born.”

  “You once told me I was ruined the moment I was born.”

  “That was before I knew you. I was a foolish man then.”

  Not so foolish, she thought. Cautious, rather. Not daring to care for anything that he might lose. He had lost her once. He would never lose her again.

  The door to his bedchamber was open, and he swept her inside, kicking the door closed behind him. When he set her on her feet, she knocked aside his hat and ran her fingers up into his hair. “Oh, I have missed this, missed you.”

  “Mary and her silly rules about respectability.” Bracketing his hands on either side of her face, he looked at her seriously, his ice-blue eyes intense. “Did you flip the coin?”

  “I did. Heads I would marry you. Tails I would become your wife. I didn’t need a coin to tell me what I wanted. I never did.”

  He kissed her then as though she were everything, as though she were all that mattered.

  Clothes were removed piece by piece, in haste. It had been so long, so very long. She’d often thought of sneaking over here, had sometimes hoped to find him climbing in through the window of the bedchamber where she slept next door. But her scoundrel, her rake, her rogue had remained a gentleman. He had shaken off the mantle of the streets that he had worn for far too many years, and embraced his place within Society.

  And Society had embraced not only him but all the brothers, as though together they were more formidable, more respected, more elevated. It had been an interesting phenomenon to watch. As his place had become more secured, so had hers.

  She saw the envy on ladies’ faces when he rode with her through the park, saw the admiration when he danced only with her at balls. She received invitations because it became quite clear that if she wasn’t invited, none of the Pembrook lords or their wives would attend, and their disapproval was not something that the others in Society wished to garner.

  When all their clothes were gone, they tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of arms and legs. She was grateful that he didn’t feel a need to lock her wrists together, to restrain her movements. She longed to touch all of him, every firm muscle, every bit of taut flesh. It seemed appropriate that their life together as man and wife should begin here, in this room, where he had once fought his demons. He had conquered them all, and the man who had emerged from the fiery depths of hell was one that she would love until she drew her final breath.

  When he joined his body to hers, she’d never felt so complete. When he rose up above her and gazed down on her, she thought his eyes had never looked more beautiful, filled with the love he held for her. She imagined him looking at her in the same manner when they were old and withered, fifty, sixty years from now. They were both so young. They had a long lifetime ahead of them.

  She skimmed her hands over his face. She could see his youth now, tempered by the years, but still there. She wished he had not journeyed through life as he had, but it was that journey that had brought them together. To wish for a different path for either of them would be to wish they had not landed here, for how else would they have ever met—had he not been the purveyor of sin, and she sin’s daughter?

  “I love you, Evie,” he whispered. “I doubt I’ll say it much, but tonight you should know.”

  “I do know. And I love you. With my heart and my soul and my body.”

  He began to rock against her, not protesting when she wrapped her legs about him. Not flinching when she wound her arms around him. She held onto him tightly, as the pleasure spiraled beyond the bounds of flesh to encompass her soul, her heart, her very being.

  Their gazes remained locked, their breaths matched tempo. He led, she followed, they twirled in rhythm to lilting strains that only they could hear. The sensations built, rolled through her from head to toe, over and over, reaching out, stretching—until they could go no farther, and then they burst through her,
carrying her to heights she’d never before ascended.

  She was aware of his final hard thrusts, his body jerking, his jaw clenching, and she saw the wonder of it all in his eyes. As magnificent for him as it had been for her.

  Gently, he lowered himself, burying his face in the curve of her neck. “Damn, but I have missed you.”

  “You saw me every day.”

  “Not like this.”

  “I love holding you.”

  “I love you holding me.” He kissed her chin, her ear, her temple, and then was once again gazing into her eyes. “You’re going to be very glad you married me.”

  Smiling, she arched a brow at him. “Oh, you think so, do you?”

  He gave her a devilish grin. “Oh, I know so. It would have been a colossal mistake not to.”

  Her laughter was abruptly cut off by his kiss. Oh, the arrogant man. How she did love him.

  Epilogue

  Pembrook Castle, Yorkshire

  Winter 1864

  Tonight was the night they were to have died. Instead, they would make love to their wives.

  But for now, in the late wintry afternoon, they sat upon their horses, at the top of the rise, looking down on Pembrook Castle. From their vantage point, they could see the remnants of the tower that had served as their prison so many years before. Sebastian had been slowly tearing it down, his sledgehammer against one brick at a time.

  “Difficult to believe it’s been twenty years,” Tristan said.

  “I should hire men to raze it completely, get it done,” Sebastian said.

  “I think you should leave it as it is,” Tristan replied.

  “What of you, Rafe?” Sebastian asked. “What do you think I should do with it?”

  “Rebuild it, make it grander than it was.” He thought it a symbolic gesture, but feared he’d come off as a fool if he explained how Uncle had torn them down, reduced them to their bare souls, and that each of them had survived and built themselves up into something—someone—better than they might have been otherwise. So he said instead, “You’ll be around for a good long while. Your heir will need someplace to reside before he inherits the title.”