Lady Olivia and the Infamous Rake

by Janice Preston

  She tore her lips from his. ‘You could have been killed.’ She could not let the thought go...she was compelled to say it again, to get him to understand how terrified she had been. She took his face between her palms and stared into his dark eyes, seeking his soul. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again.’

  She pressed her lips to his again but, as she did so, the realisation came from nowhere—this was her fault and, if they were to have a future together, she must find the courage to admit it. Again, she pulled away from their kiss and this time she wriggled free from his embrace. She inhaled and straightened.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  His brows knit together. ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘It is my fault you had to fight a duel. I should have listened to you. You only ever tried to help me, but I couldn’t see further than what I wanted.’

  His lips quirked. ‘Which was?’

  She bit her lips against her answering smile. ‘You know the answer to that, Lord Hugo Alastair, but...very well—I shall pander to your ego. You. I wanted you. And now, because of my...my...stupidity—’ she sucked in a shaky breath as she faced again the reality of the events she had set in motion and what could have happened ‘—you could have been killed.’ She hauled in another breath, determined not to cry. ‘I was mad with worry.’

  ‘You were not meant to know anything about today. But... I find myself completely unsurprised that you do.’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Come here, Trouble.’

  She walked into his embrace, the last vestiges of her panic and her anger melting away as his arms folded around her, holding her close to his chest. She slid her own arms under his jacket and around his waist, hugging him tight as the steady, reassuring beat of his heart echoed through her and his spicy scent curled around her.

  ‘Papa knows you are here now?’

  His chest jerked a little as he huffed a laugh. ‘Of course he knows.’ He tilted her face to his, his eyes solemn as they searched hers, igniting a flame deep, deep inside her. ‘I came here last night to ask his permission to pay my addresses to you.’

  Her breath caught. ‘And he agreed?’

  He nodded. Then he stepped back and took her hands in his, smoothing his thumbs across her knuckles. And before she realised his intent, he was on one knee, looking up at her with such love and devotion in his ebony eyes that her own knees threatened to buckle.

  ‘Lady Olivia Beauchamp...’

  ‘Wait!’

  His eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘I might have guessed you would not allow this to go my way.’

  Olivia huffed. ‘I only want to know if you are certain. You are not here because you now feel obliged to offer for me? Or because Papa has forced you to make me an offer?’

  He laughed. ‘Trust me, sweetheart. No one—not even your father—can force me to do anything against my will. I am here because there is nowhere else I want to be and there is nothing else I would rather be doing than kneeling in front of you waiting for an opportunity to actually propose to you.’

  ‘But...you do not love me.’ Olivia searched his features. ‘And...’ A memory was struggling to the surface. She frowned, concentrating to fully recall words barely noticed at the time they were uttered, but that now stung. ‘You told Clevedon to court me. He said so and you did not correct him.’

  A rueful smile tugged at Hugo’s mouth. ‘That was a grave error on my part. I was so intent on retrieving the necklace for you that the suggestion was made before I could think it through. I knew Clevedon was capable of trying to compromise you, but I persuaded him that—if he persisted in using your necklace against you, it would only turn you against him. I didn’t understand at that point just how desperate he was, how far he would go to get what he wanted...’

  ‘And I am not very experienced. You said so yourself.’

  ‘Olivia...?’

  ‘Yes, Hugo?’

  ‘I love you to distraction. I love you to the moon and back. I think I have loved you ever since the moment I heard you haranguing those youths with insults from the Bard. Now, will you marry me? Please?’

  Her heart swelled so much she thought it might explode. ‘Oh, yes!’ She dropped to her knees, took his dear face between her hands and claimed his lips in a searing kiss. ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes!’

  Epilogue

  Cheriton Abbey, Devonshire—March 1813

  Hugo grabbed Olivia by the hand and ran, towing her behind him.

  ‘Hugo? Where are we going?’

  She snatched up the flowing skirt of her wedding dress to avoid tripping on it. He did not slow until he reached the foot of the imposing polished oak staircase. He looked up the stairs and then returned his gaze to roam her face, raising shivers of awareness wherever it touched. His eyes glinted.

  ‘Hugo.’ Her breath hitched. ‘We can’t.’

  He raised one brow in that arrogant way of his—the way she still could not emulate no matter how much she practised.

  ‘Of course we can.’ His deep voice sent shivers of awareness, need and pure excitement shimmering through her until every nerve ending felt alight.

  ‘But...what will people say?’

  She saw him bite back his smile. ‘Is this the Lady Olivia Beauchamp I know and love? Fretting over what people will say? Surely not?’

  She went up on tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. The merest touch of their lips sent heat pulsing through her.

  ‘Lady Olivia Alastair, if you don’t mind.’ She smiled against his mouth and felt his answering grin. ‘Or have you so soon forgotten?’

  She stifled a squeal as he swung her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. He began to climb the stairs.

  ‘Hugo!’

  ‘Olivia?’ He did not pause but climbed relentlessly, one step after another.

  ‘What will they think? My family...your family...they will notice.’

  ‘They will think, my sweet—’ they had reached the landing and Hugo turned in the direction of the best guest bedchamber. He paused, and kissed her, long, hard and hot. ‘—that I have been remarkably patient for all these months and that my patience has finally worn thin.’ He started walking again and Olivia tightened her arms around his neck, peppering his jaw and cheek with tiny kisses. ‘They will think, my darling wife, that I am making damned sure you are mine—at last—and that no man will ever come between us.’

  She nipped his earlobe between her teeth.

  ‘Ouch!’ He tightened his grip on her. ‘You’ll pay for that, you little minx.’

  She giggled and buried her face in his neck. They reached the bedchamber door and he paused again, waiting until she looked up into his beloved face. He pierced her with a look of such hot intent that her insides turned molten and her corset suddenly grew excruciatingly tight.

  ‘They will think—’ he pushed the door open ‘—my utterly gorgeous, desirable wife—’ he kicked the door shut behind them ‘—that they are unlikely to set eyes on either one of us again until, at the very earliest, noon tomorrow.’

  He laid her on the bed and followed her down, taking her mouth in a scorching kiss as his hands roamed freely.

  * * *

  It was full dark outside by the time she emerged from the sensual haze that Hugo—her irresistible, skilful, playful, sexy husband—had woven around her. She snuggled up to his warm, hard body, trailing her fingers through the soft hair that covered his chest, down over his flat belly to—

  She bit back a smile at his groan.

  ‘Again? Have a heart, my sweet. I’m out of practice.’

  She kissed his nipple, then licked and, finally, softly, nipped at it.

  ‘You owe me.’

  She sensed he’d raised his head. ‘Owe you? What do I owe you?’

  She wriggled to face him, draping her body across his, breast to chest, her nipples hardening at the rasp
of his chest hair against them. She rested her arms on his chest and propped her chin upon her clasped hands.

  ‘All these months and I had no idea what I was missing.’ She shuffled, moving higher. ‘All that time wasted. Why—’ she bit gently at his chin ‘—didn’t you tell me?’ She licked delicately at his lower lip.

  ‘Mmm...’ His hum of appreciation sounded from somewhere deep in his throat.

  She moved to straddle him and kissed him thoroughly.

  ‘Well?’

  His arms wrapped around her waist. ‘You, madam, are insatiable,’ he growled as he flipped her on to her back and covered her. ‘A devious, manipulative minx. I didn’t tell you because I know how curious and how persistent you are and I wanted our wedding night to be special.’

  He bent his head to her breast, taking her aching nipple into his mouth. Olivia gave herself up to the sensation, smiling her satisfaction.

  There were times when persistence most definitely paid off.

  ‘I love you, Hugo.’

  ‘I love you, too, Trouble.’

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story

  read more about the Beauchamp family in

  The Beauchamp Betrothals trilogy

  Cinderella and the Duke

  Scandal and Miss Markham

  Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr. Gray

  And look out for the next two books in

  The Beauchamp Heirs trilogy, coming soon!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Mysterious Lord Millcroft by Virginia Heath.

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  The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

  by Virginia Heath

  Chapter One

  Deepest, darkest, dankest Nottinghamshire

  —March 1820

  The bullet hole still hurt like the devil, but to add to Seb’s current misery, this morning it had started itching, as well. So badly that he was sorely tempted to poke a buttonhook down the tightly bound, pristine bandages encasing his abdomen and vigorously flay the blasted irritation away. Instead he subtly scratched at the area with his fingers, only to have them slapped away by his diligent hostess who was listening to his chest with something which resembled a miniature wooden trumpet.

  ‘You have to leave the wound alone, Seb. The stitches have only just come out and the area is still delicate.’

  As was he. With a huff he flung his head back on the pillow and, to his shame, pouted like a petulant child. ‘I’m going mad, Bella. Slowly around the twist at the sight of these four walls.’ He’d been in bed almost three weeks. Granted he hadn’t remembered the first ten days of that, he’d been too busy fighting for his life, but he had been improving steadily for the last ten and was desperate to get back to work. He had smugglers to catch and one in particular. The Boss. The elusive nameless, faceless mastermind behind a highly organised, extremely dangerous smuggling ring linked to Napoleon himself, which not only threatened the English economy, but had also been indirectly responsible for killing two of Seb’s best men as well as aerating his chest.

  ‘How much longer is your husband going to keep me chained to this bed?’ Not that he wasn’t grateful. Doctor Joe Warriner had saved his life. The musket ball had gone deep and the blood loss had been so significant that most physicians would have sent for a parson to administer the last rites. But Joe wasn’t most physicians and had battled to dig the thing out, and had worked tirelessly to snatch Seb from the snapping jaws of death in the week afterwards. Who wouldn’t be grateful? But one could still be indebted for ever and frustrated at being gaoled by the same man simultaneously. Doctor Joe was both a genius and a tyrant...and now Seb was thinking petulantly, as well. Being indoors for long periods of time clearly brought out the worst in him.

  ‘Actually, after your astounding show of ill-tempered belligerence yesterday, he has agreed you can come downstairs today. But only to sit in a chair. And only for a few hours. Once you’ve taken your medicine, I shall send someone in to help you get cleaned up while I sort out something appropriate for you to wear. I’m sure Joe must have something that will fit you.’

  Whilst sitting in a chair didn’t sound the least bit exciting, it was better than lying in a bed like an invalid and, once he was downstairs, they really would have to chain him up to stop him moving around. For a man used to being out in the elements, being cooped up was anathema. Mind you, Seb couldn’t complain about the luxury. A soft mattress, warm blankets, clean sheets and three excellent meals a day were a rarity in his line of work. Ten days’ worth was unheard of. He might be in purgatory, but it was a sweet-smelling, comfortable cocoon-like ordeal and it could be much worse. He could be worm food.

  A male servant came in as soon as Bella left, clutching a steaming bowl of water, soap, towels and razor, clearly intent on bathing him like a baby. Seb sent him packing and groomed himself as best as he could, something which proved to be more challenging than he had first thought. Being left-handed, and because the bullet which lodged itself in his ribcage had sailed inches shy of his heart, every movement of his arm sent pain shooting through his body. The repetitive action required to scrape the cutthroat over his unruly new beard was impossible. He briefly attempted it with his right hand and almost sliced his nose off, so Seb settled for clipping it as best as he could with scissors while trying to ignore the worrying image of his pale, gaunt face in the mirror and the dark-ringed sunken eyes that stared back.

  He looked ill.

  Seeing it for himself certainly gave him pause for thought for a moment, until his legendary stubbornness kicked in and he tossed the mirror on the bed. What difference did it make if he was pale and unkempt? In his job, he had to blend in to the shadows and mix with the flotsam and jetsam. His new complexion only served to camouflage him better, made him appear more fearsome, and the thick beard very nearly covered up the ugly jagged scar than ran down his right cheek. The one Seb hated far more than he loathed these four walls. His permanent reminder of his allotted place in the world. Perhaps he’d keep the beard? Even though that, too, itched.

  Gingerly he tugged the clean linen shirt over his head and was relieved to see it just about fitted. He might well have lost weight, but the burly muscles he had inherited from his mother’s family were still there. Farming stock and not the gentlemanly type. The sweat of his people had fertilised the land they had worked. Like his grandfather and his grandfather before him, Seb was still fundamentally as strong as an ox underneath the temporary sickly pallor. He had alway
s been more farm labourer than gentleman and he’d be fighting fit again in no time. Not much ever laid down a Leatham, aside from extreme old age, and neither would one stray bullet. That thought cheered him as he flung his equally sturdy legs over the mattress and planted his big farmer’s feet firmly on the floor.

  When he tried to stand to dress himself, however, his legs almost gave way and he had to grab the bedpost quickly as his head spun. Then, for the first time in his adult life, Seb had to suffer the indignity of someone else supporting him as he dressed, and then made his way laboriously down the stairs, collapsing in the nearest chair like a wobbly newborn foal. Exhausted. Humbled. And frankly, a little bit scared at the extent of his deterioration.

  There was no two ways about it, his recovery was going to take much longer than a week. Suddenly the safe cocoon of his bed didn’t seem half as bad as it had half an hour ago, especially as the chair was now his new nemesis and one he could barely hold himself upright in. Perhaps he wouldn’t attempt to venture outside today. Being scraped up from the ground would be the ultimate humiliation and one his stubborn pride would never allow. Unconsciously he rubbed the scar beneath his new beard. Seb loathed being beholden to others. He looked after himself and those dear to him. Always had. Always would. Another trait from his proud farming heritage and the harsh realities of life.

  A maid came in with a tea tray. ‘Good morning, Mr Leatham. How do you take your tea?’

  ‘Milk. No sugar.’ He looked down at his hands and cringed at how rude he sounded. ‘Thank you.’ He also loathed his crass ineptitude around women, especially the young and pretty ones. The ability to smile in their presence and be charming was not one he possessed. Seb wished he did, and it was not for want of trying, but each time he steeled himself to be more erudite than the average granite boulder, the awkward shyness tied his tongue in knots and the ability to string more than two words together evaporated. At best he barked at them so fiercely he scared them, and at worst he was simply mute.

  Even the safe, married women had a similar effect. It had taken the best part of the last ten days to be able to converse with Bella properly and only because she had made a concerted effort to put him at his ease. He probably had all those gruff farmers in his lineage to thank for that unfortunate trait as well, because his father had certainly never suffered from the affliction. He could charm the birds from the trees to such an extent he sincerely doubted the man’s sheets had ever been cold. Unlike Seb’s, which rarely met any skin which wasn’t his. Yet another depressing thought in a day seemingly filled with them.