“Luke…”
“Right here, right now. You want me to take you. Possess you. Make you come.”
Her eyes widened as she glanced furtively about. “There are people everywhere.”
He gave a negligent flick of his wrist. “They’re not paying any attention to us, angel. Come with me. We’re going for a walk.”
With a firm grip on her hand, he tugged her behind the house, to the garden. Some of the bulb flowers her mother had planted years ago still bloomed tenaciously, providing lovely splashes of color against the manicured bushes and grass.
He pressed her against the back wall of the house. And then he went down onto his knees, flipped up her skirts, and worshiped her sex with his mouth until she forgot about the people on the other side of the house. Until she forgot about everything but Luke and the pleasure he gave her.
Holding her firmly against the wall, he pushed his fingers inside her, stroking, as his tongue swirled over her most sensitive spot.
Her hips began to jerk against him, and little cries escaped from her throat. When she came, it was with a slamming intensity that racked her body from her toes to the top of her head. Such pleasure. Such peace.
When it was over, her knees began to buckle, but Luke caught her in his arms. Once more pressing her back against the wall, he commanded, “Wrap your legs around me.”
She complied, and he settled his cock at her entrance and pushed into her with a single hard thrust. She bit his shoulder to prevent the scream.
Holding her pinned against the wall, he moved inside her in heavy, rough strokes, staring at her with piercing blue eyes, his hands tight over the backs of her thighs, the material of her dress bunched between them.
“Luke,” she moaned. “Luke.”
He grew impossibly harder, his thrusts impossibly stronger. His body was so solid, so perfectly strong against her.
“I love you, angel,” he gritted out. And then he held her pinned, still, as he emptied into her. She wrapped her arms around him, opening herself, taking every bit of him she possibly could. She wanted nothing less than all of this man—and he’d given it to her.
Finally he relaxed, lowering her gently to the ground and slipping out of her body.
Her skirts fell back around her ankles, and as he pressed his forehead to hers, she fixed the falls of his trousers.
She cupped his face in her hands and brought him to her lips for a soft kiss. When she pulled away, she said with a smile, “To London?”
“To London,” he agreed.
Hand in hand, they walked back around to the other side of the house, where Bertram bounded up to them holding the pair of his shoes that he’d thought he’d lost, Jane hurried over to discuss some aspect of closing up the house, and their father, leaning heavily on his cane, asked Luke about the horses he’d selected for this part of the journey.
Luke and Emma shared a secret, private smile, and then they turned to their motley band of a family with twin grins, happiness and fulfillment surging through them both.
Look for the sexy new novel
in Jennifer Haymore’s
House of Trent series!
Please turn this page
for a preview of
The Scoundrel’s Seduction.
Chapter One
Everything in place?” Samson Hawkins eyed the chamber of his pistol, then lowered it to his lap. He glanced over at Laurent, who studied him with a troubled expression on his face.
“Aye, sir.”
Sam’s lips firmed, and he looked away, ignoring the impulse to mutter something comforting to the lad. Laurent had chosen this life for himself. It wasn’t a life for the weak but for the hard and pitiless. Sam never forgot that, and neither should Laurent, if he wished to live.
He glanced out the carriage window and scanned the dark back wall of the opulent Mayfair town house until his gaze paused at a second-story window. The window appeared innocuous enough, with the glow of the lamps inside the room casting golden light through the indigo silk curtains.
Dunthorpe was in that room right now, by himself. Perhaps reading, perhaps drinking. Perhaps involved in more nefarious pursuits, such as treachery and treason. Waiting for Sam—or, more correctly, for Sam’s alias.
Waiting for death, though he didn’t know it yet.
Sam drew in a long breath, and his fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.
“Watch for my signal. It should come after the first shot. I’ll be down thirty seconds after I give it. As soon as I am inside, double-check the streets and ensure everything’s ready to go.” He tucked his pistol into an inner pocket of his coat.
Laurent nodded.
He met Laurent’s gaze evenly. “Good. When all’s said and done, it shouldn’t take more than five minutes. If a quarter of an hour passes and I haven’t returned, you and Carter know what to do.”
“Aye.”
Sam’s fingers curled over the door handle, but Laurent grabbed his forearm, holding him back. “Hawk?”
He glanced back at the boy, arching his brows expectantly.
“Good luck. I know…I know how much you despise this—”
Sam’s teeth clenched hard. The boy had no idea…
“But it’s the right thing to do. We must keep the Regent safe.”
“I know, lad,” Sam said quietly. Nevertheless, no matter how dastardly his target, killing would never be something Sam enjoyed. There was something about snuffing out a human life that made him feel unclean. As low of a creature as the scum he eliminated from the world.
And he knew better than anyone that Dunthorpe required elimination. The man had brought about too much death and misery already, and if he remained living, he would be the cause of much, much more.
Sam slipped out of the carriage. In measured, unhurried strides, he walked around the corner to the front of the town house. It was late, and the streets weren’t as busy as at midday, but this was London—a city that never completely slept. He took thorough stock of the people who passed him—a woman flanked by her two small children, the three of them huddled against the chill. A man hurrying down the street. A rubbish wagon, a closed carriage, and three men on horseback. None of them paid him any heed.
He walked up the four steps and stopped on the town house’s landing. Then, as if he were here on civilized business, he knocked on the door.
A manservant answered. The butler, Sam knew. Name was Richards.
“May I help you?”
“Denis Martin,” Sam said, layering on a thick French accent. He’d learned French as a child and had spent so many years in France he could speak the language fluently and as flawlessly as a native. His Frenchman-speaking-English accent was also perfect. No one perceived his Englishness when he used it. “His lordship is expecting me.”
“Of course, sir.” Richards’s expression didn’t change, but there was a slight flicker of something in his eyes. The French weren’t the most popular of people in England right now, and evidently this man didn’t approve of a French frog visiting his master.
The butler stepped aside to allow Sam into the entry hall. Sam kept his hat low over his brow and his face turned away and in shadows.
In the end, the problem of Richards was the most difficult element of this mission. After completing his investigation into Dunthorpe’s household, Sam was convinced the servant was innocent as to the dealings of his master. Sam’s superiors had requested he “take care of” Richards as well, to eliminate the possibility of the butler identifying him as the man who’d assassinated his master. But his superiors knew that Sam had drawn solid lines between those acts he would and would not commit. He would steal, lie, torture, and assassinate in the interests of king and country. But he would not commit cold-blooded murder of an innocent British citizen, even to save his own hide.
So his superiors had eventually given in, but everyone was clear that if there were to be any repercussions of Richards’s survival tonight, all Sam’s colleagues and suppo
rt would fade into the shadows, and Sam would be on his own.
Which was all well and good. Sam had managed situations like this before, and he would do so again.
“May I take your hat and coat, sir?” the butler questioned.
“Non. It is not necessary. My message is a quick one. I shall be in and out in a matter of moments.”
“Very well. Right this way.”
Sam followed the servant up a narrow set of stairs, then down a corridor lit sparsely with two gilded wall sconces set widely apart. They stopped at the elegant door at its end, and Richards knocked before opening the door to the gruff, “Yes?” from its other side.
Sam waited in a shadow between two of the sconces, his gaze lowered.
“Mr. Martin is here to see you, sir.”
There was a pause, long enough to make the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck crawl.
“Very well. Show him in.”
Richards opened the door wider, moving aside to allow Sam to pass. Sam stepped into the drawing room.
Once inside, he raised his head. As always, he scanned his surroundings. He’d been in this room before, to conduct preliminary information gathering. Nothing had changed—the furniture crowding the place was ornate, with much carved oak and silk and velvet upholstering. The many-paned window hung on the opposite wall, large and square and covered by that indigo curtain. He pictured Laurent down there, waiting for him. Worrying about him.
Laurent wouldn’t need to wait long. In minutes, Sam would be back in the carriage and they’d be fading into the night.
His gaze focused on his target. Viscount Dunthorpe was an older man, in his late forties, with a full head of gray hair and dark, penetrating eyes that let nothing slip past. He was well known for his biting cynicism and cold wit, and also as one of the most brilliant debaters in parliament.
He was also a traitor.
“Lord Dunthorpe.” Keeping his French accent firmly in place, Sam held out his hand. “It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.”
His face impassive, the viscount took Sam’s hand. The handshake was terse and businesslike. Dunthorpe turned to his servant. “That will be all, Richards. You may retire for the evening.”
After the servant left, Dunthorpe gazed at Sam, his expression cold and calculating. Sam schooled his own features to absolute flatness. He needed to delay for approximately sixty seconds. That would give the servant time to get to his quarters in the attic.
“Do you have the schedule?” Dunthorpe asked.
“Oui, I do,” Sam said gruffly.
Dunthorpe held out his hand, palm open. “Give it over,” he commanded. He spoke as a man accustomed to authority.
Sam glanced meaningfully at the tea service he’d seen placed on a round table in the corner. “Will you invite me to tea, milord?”
Dunthorpe crossed his arms over his chest and gave Sam an arch look. “Indeed, I hadn’t intended to do any such thing.”
Sam rubbed his frigid hands together. He hadn’t worn gloves for a reason. “It is very cold outside, milord. Brandy, then?”
Dunthorpe’s eyes narrowed. “French brandy? What do you take me for, a common smuggler?”
No, this man dealt in much more serious crimes. Sam shook his head. “Mais, non,” he said gravely. “Of course not, milord.”
Dunthorpe sneered. “You haven’t even removed your hat. You don’t look at all like a man interested in settling down for a nice cup of tea or a nip of brandy. You look like a man prepared to do your duty and then flee in the event I should decide you know too much.”
Well, then. Already hurling threats. Sam supposed that one had been meant to infuse some kind of fear into him, but it hadn’t worked. He had dealt with men of Dunthorpe’s ilk too often.
He’d given Richards enough time. By now the man was entering his chamber and in another few seconds, he would be donning his nightcap and preparing for bed.
“Alas. In that case I shall hand over the plans, monsieur.” Sam reached into his coat. His fingers slid against the cold metal barrel of his pistol before he clasped the edge of the folded pages. He drew them out and gave them to Dunthorpe.
The man snatched the pages from Sam and opened them greedily. Sam’s lip would have curled in disgust if he’d allowed it. The bastard held such enthusiasm for destroying everything the British held dear.
In truth, these papers contained a plethora of false statements that made Sam grind his teeth. Deceiving the populace was another thing that ranked rather low on his list of preferred activities, but it was what his superiors wanted—to show Dunthorpe, this traitor, as a hero of the people. These papers would serve as the “proof” that he had died defending the Regent, not embroiled in the midst of a profitable scheme to murder him.
The powers that be had decided it would be “too traumatic” should the populace hear the truth about their national hero, who’d served as an officer of the British Navy for eighteen years. The truth was, the only man Dunthorpe had ever served was himself. He’d only cared about his own gain. He’d been selling secrets to the French since he was a youth, and now he had organized this conspiracy, all for personal political and economic gain.
“What’s this?”
Sam watched Dunthorpe skim the papers, his movements growing more frantic, his eyes widening at what he was reading—all the sordid details about the plot, with the slight twist eliminating Dunthorpe from the list of those at fault and instead pointing to him as the hero.
“You bastard. This isn’t the schedule.” Then he flicked the papers away. They fluttered to the ground as Dunthorpe lifted dark, furious eyes at him. “Who are you?” he growled.
Sam raised a brow. His heart wasn’t even pounding hard. He might as well have been sitting in his desk chair at his own house reading the Times.
What did this say about him? If nothing else, it said that he was too far gone to ever feel truly human again.
He shrugged and said softly, using his own, English-accented voice, “I am a concerned citizen. For God, king, and country, my lord. We cannot let you destroy it.”
He reached into his coat again, this time drawing out his weapon, cocking it at the same time. But Dunthorpe was faster than his aging appearance made him out to be. The man scrambled backward, hands fumbling with the drawer on the table behind him. He jerked it open and yanked out a gun as Sam advanced on him, aiming.
Sam possessed the advantage. He had plenty of time. His heart had still not increased in its tempo. He was perfectly calm.
He squeezed the trigger while Dunthorpe’s gun was still pointed at the floor.
The resulting boom of gunfire echoed through Sam’s skull, loud enough to rouse every Londoner in a half-mile radius. Dunthorpe lurched backward, and he slammed into the desk, his body flailing as if he were a rag doll, before crumpling to the carpeted floor.
For the first time all night, Sam’s heart kicked against his ribs. Now he needed to hurry. Needed to vanish before the authorities were summoned, before Richards showed his face in this room. He still had no intention of killing the man.
He glanced at Dunthorpe’s fallen body, saw that the shot had been clean, straight through the man’s heart. He quickly bent down to check for a pulse. The viscount was already dead.
Rising, Sam strode to the window and shook the curtains to signal Laurent that he was on his way down. Then he turned and made for the door.
A noise stopped him in his tracks. A tiny, feminine whimper. One he wouldn’t have heard had every one of his senses not been attuned.
He homed in on the source of the noise, turning to that little round table tucked into the corner. It was covered with a silk tablecloth whose edges brushed the carpeted floor.
In two long strides he was at the table. He ripped the tablecloth away, sending the china tea service that had lain upon it crashing to the floor. Hot tea splashed against his boots, steaming when it made contact with the cold leather.
It smelled damn good—strong and brisk.
He wished Dunthorpe had offered him some.
A woman cowered beneath the table.
A small, blond, frail-looking woman, dressed in white and curled up into a tight ball, as if she might be able to make herself so tiny he wouldn’t be able to see her.
Goddammit. A woman. The truth of the situation slammed through him, and Sam ground his teeth.
She glanced up at him, her midnight-blue eyes shining with terror.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
Her slight French accent clicked everything into place. He knew who she was, of course. It was the surprise of seeing her so out of her element—cowering under a table—that had shocked him into not recognizing her immediately. Two months ago, he’d seen her on Dunthorpe’s arm as they’d strolled into the Royal Opera House.
It was Lady Dunthorpe, Dunthorpe’s beautiful, elegant, cultured French wife. She’d emigrated from France during the revolution, after her entire family had suffered the wrath of the guillotine. She’d been rescued, sent with relatives to England, and had married Dunthorpe at age seventeen, ten or eleven years ago. It was then that Dunthorpe’s ties to the French had grown much stronger.
Because, of course, she’d been in league with him.
She wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. She’d been visiting friends in Brighton and wasn’t due back for another week. The house had been under surveillance for days, and no one had reported her entering or exiting the building.
Bloody. Hell.
“Get up,” he told her brusquely.
Her eyes flicked toward Dunthorpe, who lay on the floor, blood seeping across his chest and turning his gray coat black.
He considered his options. Killing her with Dunthorpe’s pistol was the first that came to mind. She was as guilty as he was.
But Sam had never killed a woman. Killing a woman would be crossing one of his lines, and they were all he had left—all he had to use as the threads by which he grasped on to the unraveling spool of his humanity.
Out of the question.
The Rogue's Proposal Page 31