Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society)

by Jayne Fresina

  “I am in love with you, Miss Sherringham. You have changed everything I once thought was unchangeable about my life. I hope you know I can never let you go. I can never be a day without you for the rest of my life.”

  If not for a certain spying busybody, we might not have made it, she thought. Suddenly she had an urge to hug Mrs. Kenton.

  Jussy was right, after all.

  As happiness rippled through her and made her giddy, she longed for everyone to feel the same way. No one should suffer. For so long, she’d stubbornly refused to believe in love and magic, but now it seemed unfair that some people still didn’t.

  Glancing over at the other folk watching the dance, she saw Diana with her dull fiancé, William Shaw. He had dragged her over to where Charles Clarendon stood and was hedging for an introduction to him and to the very wealthy Lady Olivia Moncrieff.

  Poor Diana. Staring at the floor, she looked as if she longed to sink into it; her misery was palpable. Only William Shaw didn’t see it.

  It is no good, thought Becky. Something would have to be done about Diana’s predicament. As Jussy said, their friend must not be allowed to suffer a marriage without love.

  And then she reached up to kiss the colonel again, much to his evident surprise and delight.

  “If you don’t make love to me tonight, I might change my mind and call it off again,” she said, her lips brushing his startled mouth. May as well get straight to the point, she thought. “So I suggest you take my maidenhead at once.”

  His eyes lightened a shade and those black brows rose hesitantly.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded.

  He took her hand, almost crushing it in the strength of his grasp. “Thank God, you’re direct. I can’t wait any longer.”

  As the next dance began, he tugged her toward the doors again, this time pausing on the way to let his brother know he was leaving. “Miss Sherringham feels light-headed. I’ll take the barouche and send it back for the rest of you. Can you bring my horse and keep an eye on Sarah?”

  Darius Wainwright eyed them both curiously. “Of course, but—”

  “Can’t stop,” Luke added. “In a bit of a hurry, Handles.”

  “So I see, Lucky.” His brother smiled. “May I suggest some caution?”

  “No, you certainly may not.”

  A quarter of an hour later, they were in the barouche, just the two of them, traveling through the moonlight at a steady, rocking pace. A very slow pace, for Luke had instructed the coachman to take his time.

  “I feel light as a feather,” she whispered as he removed her hair pins, one by one.

  “Because tonight and from this moment on, you have no troubles.”

  “That’s impossible. There is always something to worry about. Life would be very dull without the downs to make the ups.”

  He chuckled. “Very well then, but from now on, we will share those troubles, eh?”

  It might be a challenge for me, she thought, to share my worries. But she’d try. “As long as you share yours with me.”

  “Oh, I mean to share my everything with you, Gingersnap,” he replied huskily.

  * * *

  Perhaps he should have made her wait until their official wedding night, but he found the idea impossible. Especially when she nibbled at his chin and her hands opened his breeches to explore.

  “I want you now,” she whispered, licking her way along his jaw. “I can’t wait another moment.”

  What was a rake to do, but oblige the lady?

  Still, if she was indeed a maid, he ought to take his time, be gentle. The gladness he felt in his heart was a warm, spreading glow that soon filled every part of him. He even forgot the pain in his leg.

  She was his. She was all his.

  With one careful hand, he stroked between her thighs and felt her readiness to welcome him in. So soft, so warm. He shuddered. “Rebecca.”

  She climbed astride his lap, her knees on the seat, her skirt lifted and slippers abandoned. Although he meant to enter her slowly and with care, a sudden bump in the road brought her down sharply on his erection, causing her to cry out. Luke wrapped his arms around her, kissing her, his thighs taut while he restrained himself from the need to drive up into her.

  Good God, Lucky Luke had been conquered by a virgin. After all his years of avoiding maidens.

  She kissed him. “I love you. But I think…I think you just killed me.”

  He laughed against her lips. “Then we’ll die together. The French call it le petit mort.”

  With his hands holding her bottom, he lifted her slightly, repositioning, and then he lowered her with care.

  She gasped, her head flung back, her back arched.

  Luke moaned her name again and buried his face between her breasts. He knew he wouldn’t last long. Not this first time. Oh, but there would be others. Many, many others.

  He began to raise and lower her in his lap in a steady rhythm until her breath grew shallower, quicker. And then she squealed, her teeth clenched, her body tight and hot around him, holding him in with all her power.

  This was the sweetest sin he’d ever known.

  It seemed fitting that after all their travels, they should finally come together like this, in motion.

  There, at last, they both expired, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither knowing where one body ended and the other began. Neither caring.

  The journey from Manderson to Hawcombe Prior could take as long as half an hour on bad roads, even with fast horses. That night it took them an hour and a half, with several stops along the way to retrieve a lost shoe, a garter, and even a stocking that flew through the window and became hoisted on a tree branch.

  But the hour and a half was not wasted. Three times, it was not wasted.

  Thirty-two

  “…There is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”

  —Sense and Sensibility

  He went to see her father the next day, for both of them were keen to marry as soon as the banns were read.

  The major was thrilled to hear the news—once it was ascertained that Luke had not changed his mind about wanting a dowry.

  “No, Major, I won’t ask you for any money.” He placed a box on the table between them and slowly opened it. “And I won’t mention this to your daughter, or where I retrieved it.” Carefully he removed her mother’s music box and set it down on the cloth. The major stared and his eyes reddened, but he was silent.

  Luke took a deep breath. “I recovered the other items too and will see to it that they are returned to the owners without raising suspicion.”

  Sinking to his chair, the old man stared at the music box. He placed one gnarled hand upon the lid and patted it, like an old friend. “I had no choice,” he muttered. “Bills must be paid. She was a sensible girl and would have understood. I kept this till last, tried to hold on to it. For her.”

  “Debts?”

  “Don’t tell Becky. She has so much else to worry about and she always tries to help, to make things right. It really isn’t her job, but she won’t pay heed.”

  Slowly Luke nodded. “I am somewhat acquainted with her temperament, but you need not fret. She won’t know about this. Just don’t take anything else to the pawnbroker, eh?”

  His face bewildered, the old man began to weep, crumpling in his chair.

  Luke reached into his coat. “I think you and I can do some business while I’m here today and it may help you out of this hole, but next time you’re in trouble, come to me.”

  “To you?”

  “Who else would you come to but your son-in-law?”

  Thoughtfully, the old chap nodded. He sniffed. “I suppose, since I’m giving you my daughter, I ought to get something in exchange.” He was chee
ring up quickly, looking around for his brandy. “And we really ought to celebrate.”

  Luke laughed. The major hadn’t even heard his plan yet, but he was happy again, his troubles temporarily shifted. Fortunately, the money Luke had earned abroad as a ranch hand, and the sale of his medal, had given him enough to buy those items back from the pawnbroker. He’d also swallowed his pride to take some money from the Wainwright fortune—just a little—enough to get him set up in his new life. Although he wanted to pay it back over time, his brother wouldn’t hear of it and insisted it was a wedding gift.

  The Wainwright brothers had finally found a way to lower their barriers, but now, of course, they had something more than blood in common. They’d both fallen in love.

  “It has preyed on my mind, Colonel,” the major said, “worrying about how I could get those things back before it was noticed they were missing.”

  As if no one had yet noticed.

  “It is a weight off my mind.”

  “Well, now to your other problem and a more permanent solution,” said Luke, thinking they’d better discuss business before the major got too soused. “I understand you have some farmland to sell.”

  * * *

  The wedding of Colonel Lucius Wainwright (formerly deceased and of no fixed abode) and Rebecca Sherringham (of India, Egypt, France, and Africa, but most recently of Hawcombe Prior) went off without a single curse, misadventure, quarrel, or stumble. Afterward, there was a small feast held at Midwitch Manor, during which Ness and Sir Mortimer were arguably the best dressed guests thanks to the decorative talents of Miss Sarah Wainwright.

  Following the consumption of some suspiciously strong punch and very sweet cake, the newlyweds climbed into a flower-strewn barouche and began their journey to a new beginning. On the other side of the village.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Becky demanded, as the wheels rolled to a slow halt in the muddy ruts before the gate of Willow Tree Farm.

  “Because this, my darling wife, is our home.” He opened the door, stepped down, and then turned to give her his hand. “Sarah and Ness will join us in a week. After our honeymoon.”

  “We’re renting from Papa?”

  “No. I bought the place.”

  Becky followed him down, leaping to miss the worst of the mud, mindful of her lovely bridal gown, over which all her friends had sweated and pricked their fingers for the last three weeks. “We’re going to be farmers?”

  “Yes. If you approve.” He looked at her tentatively. “Do you? I know the place needs work, but I’m handy.”

  “Oh, I know that.” She spun around, her sight blurry with tears. “We can stay here forever?”

  “Of course we’re staying. Got to look after your father, ain’t we?” Luke put his arms around her, and for the first time in her life, Becky could not hold back her tears, but they were tears of joy. And she hid her face in his chest, surreptitiously wiping her nose on his waistcoat. In the guise of a gentleman, he very gallantly pretended not to notice.

  * * *

  Luke had come to Hawcombe Prior quite certain he would soon be in his grave. After all those dreams of expiring in a fire—or heading straight to a very hot afterlife—he’d been sure he hadn’t long to live.

  But on his wedding night, as he lay surrounded by his new wife’s wild, long waves of polished copper and flaming bronze hair, he realized that he had seen her in his dreams after all.

  Rebecca was the fire that consumed him. Every night in their bed.

  Now he could tell his brother that one of Lucky Luke’s dreams had finally come true.

  * * *

  Becky polished the music box every day and it took a place of pride on their mantel. Her husband never told her where it had disappeared to, but she found out, of course. There were no secrets in that village.

  She soon knew that Luke had retrieved all the items from the pawnbroker in Manderson. That he had done it all without the slightest fuss, just to save her father from worrying.

  He might like to think he was a rogue of the worst order, but he had a very soft side of kindness that he did not even seem to know he had. Or he did not like to admit it.

  As for Rebecca Wainwright, she might think herself the most levelheaded, reasonable, and judicious young lady in Hawcombe Prior, but she had a saucy, wicked side that very occasionally—much to her husband’s enjoyment—could not be restrained.

  And so they lived, sinfully ever after.

  Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him believed he deserved to be; in Marianne he was consoled for every past affliction; her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend.

  —Sense and Sensibility

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  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to everyone at Sourcebooks for helping me fulfill a dream, to my friends and family for putting up with me, and of course to the readers, without whom none of this would be worthwhile.

  About the Author

  Jayne Fresina sprouted up in England, the youngest in a family of four daughters. Entertained by her father’s colorful tales of growing up in the countryside and surrounded by opinionated sisters—all with far more exciting lives than hers—she’s always had inspiration for her beleaguered heroes and unstoppable heroines. Visit www.jaynefresina.com.