by Reid, Stacy
James stood, his fist lifted to knock. He was dressed quite finely, and he had a bouquet of flowers—yellow and white roses—in his hands. He tugged off his top hat and slapped it against his thigh, the gesture an uncommonly nervous one.
“James!” she cried, startled. Then she said in a softer voice, “I was just coming to see you.”
He was evidently discomposed by that admission. “Were you?”
“Yes.”
He lifted an arrogant brow. “Am I to be invited in?”
She stepped closer to the threshold. “I would not recommend it. The atmosphere is poisonous.”
A dark warning flashed in his eyes. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I am free.” They stared at each other, and something warm and tender shifted in his eyes. He lifted the flowers to her, and she reached over the threshold and took them, dipping her face into their petals and inhaling deeply. “Thank you," she murmured, feeling a bewildering mix of hope and confusion.
“I have some poems too,” he muttered.
It was then she noted a small brown book in his hand. During their lessons, he had sworn nothing could induce him to pen poetry and sonnets to a lady. Warmth burst in her chest like sunshine.
“But I confess they are terrible. I have been working on them since you left last night, without saying goodbye.”
Verity flushed as the butler’s eyes widened. James opened the small book and cleared his throat. "Your eyes are brown and golden, but they remind me of the brightness of a blue summer sky. Your lips are lush and thick, but in a most delightful rosy way and not like a leg of lamb. Your—”
Verity giggled, a horrified sound came from the butler, and at the same time her brother's voice rang out with a "Good God, what is going on? Lord Maschelly?”
Verity looked over her shoulder at him, then stepped forward, grabbed James's arms and with a tinkling laugh ran down the steps, tugging him with her. He followed without question, and her brother bellowed in the distance. James assisted her into his carriage and sat opposite her.
“I am not going back into that house, ever,” she said, conviction flowering through her soul.
He knocked on the ceiling, and the coach rumbled away. "You will not?"
“No. It has been unbearable for months, and I shall not bear it a minute more. I only have the clothes I am wearing and my dearest possessions in my pocket, but I do not care. My future husband is quite wealthy, and I daresay he will be able to replenish my wardrobe effortlessly. And when I come into my inheritance at five and twenty, we will be even better situated.”
A dark shadow passed over his face. “Your husband?”
“Why yes, of course. I am three and twenty and does not need my brother’s permission to marry the man I love, a man of my heart’s choosing.” Then she smiled at him. “May my Aunt Imogen live with us, James? I promise you shall love her.”
He stilled, hope, relief, and something more profound darkening his eyes. “Live with us?”
Verity frowned. “Do you mean to say that atrocious poem was about friendship?”
He grinned, and her heart lifted. "No." he tugged at his neckcloth. "I love you," he then said simply. "I do not have the elegant words, Verity, or the flowery flattery, but I promise you, none will love, protect, and cherish you as I do. You fill every crevice of my being with happiness, and I cannot imagine a life without you."
She flung herself at him, and he caught her and gathered her in his arms. She rained laughing kisses over his nose, his jaw, and his lips. “I love you, James, so very much. I should not be saying this, because it does not bode well for me, but I am no longer a lady of quality. My reputation is damaged and may never be repaired.”
He stared at her. “Verity, your qualities of strength and kindness are more valuable to me than a simpering miss with acceptable tonnish qualities. I love you, and since you have consented to be my wife, I'll not hear this nonsense about you not being…perfect. Marry me, Verity. Be my countess, my lover, and my friend."
She rested her forehead against his. “Yes, I absolutely will.”
The End
Reviews are Gold to Authors
Gentle Readers:
Thank you for reading When the Earl was Wicked!
I hope you enjoyed the journey to happy ever after for James and Verity. Reviews are a very important part of reaching readers, and I do hope you will consider leaving an honest review on Amazon adding to my rainbow. It does not have to be lengthy, a simple sentence or two will do. Just know that I will appreciate your efforts sincerely. You can click on this link to leave a review: When the Earl was Wicked.
The next novella in the Forever Yours series, A Prince of my Own, is up for pre-order and releases quite soon. You can pre-order here: A Prince of my Own.
If you love your historical romances hot (and I mean really hot) and sweet, check out THE SCANDALOUS DIARY OF LILY LAYTON. I had so much fun writing the journey to happy ever after for Oliver and Lily, and I hope you enjoy the sneak peek of the first two chapters below!
Love,
Stacy.
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More from the Forever Yours Series
Meet the other charming and sensual novellas in the Forever Yours series!
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The Marquess and I
Lady Willow Arlington, hauntingly lovely, is also blind and known by the ton as the dowry-less daughter. Alasdair Morley, the Marquess of Westcliffe, is in need of an heiress, and Lady Willow should be the last person he craved because she had been persuaded to reject his offer of marriage when he was a mere third son. Passion reignites between them, and he makes an enticing offer she cannot resist, drawing them into a dance of lust and love despite the misgivings in his heart.
The Duke and I
Far be it for a lady to desire, hatch, and execute a daring seduction of a notorious duke at a masquerade ball. But Miss Emmaline Fitzgerald, a wallflower with no decent prospects, was on such a path, and her quarry was her brother’s best friend, Elliot Winthrop, the Duke of Ashbrook.
One moment of sin, stolen pleasure, and irresistible passion, that was all it was supposed to be….
Little did Penelope realized everything about her was imprinted in Elliot’s heart and mind, and her scandalous ruse was about to change and challenge everything she thought she knew about herself and the devilish duke.
The Viscount and I
After jilting first a fortune hunter, then a lying libertine, Lady Fanny Dashwood has given up on marrying for love. This time it will be strictly business – a man who’ll agree to her terms, give her the children she craves, but will not trouble her heart.
Sebastian Rutledge, Viscount Shaw, has desired Lady Fanny from afar for years. However, he is a factory owner with a new title – not nearly good enough for an earl’s daughter. Until a dream opportunity arises: a marriage of convenience with the woman of his dreams. Even as their growing passion unleashes in the bedchamber, his new wife remains at arm’s length. Could a wellborn lady ever fall for an unconventional lord?
Misadventures with the Duke
"A duke by any other name! Touted as honourable, and a sterling example for all young bucks to emulate, this author has it on the highest authority that a certain duke is nothing but a libertine! Grab your weekly feature to keep abreast with the duke of disgrace!"
Christopher Worth, the Duke of Carlyle, has a carefully cultivated reputation of 'respectability' but he possesses a dark, lustful heart which he reins in rather well. Except someone is out to reveal him as a wicked rogue in the tongue in cheek articles written about him by a notorious gossip columnist. Determined to unmask this meddler in his life, he finds his heart shockingly captivated by Miss Pippa Ca
vanaugh.
The hopes of marriage or the charming attractiveness of the Duke of Carlyle didn't drive Pippa to pursue the most elusive catch of the season, she was out to avenge her dear friend whose heart had been callously injured. Pippa desires to reveal to society that their perfect duke is a wicked, unprincipled seducer. The last thing she expects is for the dratted man to turn the tables on her, engaging her in a dance of wits, soul stealing kisses, and unexpected, sensual adventures. Soon she must decide if he is her path to ruin or her promise of a happy ending.
The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton
Excerpt
Grab a Copy Today
Beneath Lily Layton’s sweet and charming exterior beats the heart of a vixen—one with shocking and scandalous secrets and desires. But as a genteel lady, she confines her forbidden fantasies, like those about her employer’s devastatingly handsome son, to her diary…until she loses it.
Oliver Carlyle, Marquess of Ambrose, has finally found the perfect wife, a woman who will not hide from his dark, carnal cravings. He just needs to figure out who she is. When he has a secret rendezvous with a mysterious stranger, suddenly he starts to believe she might be the author of the diary.
He’s determined to find out who his mystery woman is…
His biggest fear—and deepest fantasy—is she may be the one woman he cannot have.
Chapter One
April 1818
Hampshire, England
Belgrave Manor
The small, dark brown leather book appeared quite innocuous until one dared to fold back the worn cover and skim the first few pages. Oliver Simon Carlyle, the ninth Marquess of Ambrose, had been reading the same entry for the past several minutes, unable to credit the words written in such elegant, flowing script. Absolutely nothing at all indicated the lascivious and shockingly arousing content of what had revealed itself to be a diary of the most scandalous sort.
Dearest Diary,
My husband, God rest his soul, said my desires are abhorrent and unladylike and had admonished me
most severely. I tried so hard to be proper, but it seems I am destined to be damned. Last evening, I stood in the eastern secret passage in Belgrave manor and watched as Lord R parted his lover’s legs and licked her glistening slit. Lady W screamed, grabbed his head, and rocked onto his face. She appeared so wild and so wonderfully free.
To my utter shame and pleasure, I got wet, so achingly wet. I ran as quietly as possible through the hidden passage to my chamber and flung myself under the covers. God help me, I touched myself. I was not ladylike...I thrust two fingers deep into my slippery channel and—
Oliver closed the slim black leather volume softly, a harsh breath hissing through his lips. He had been reading the diary for the last hour, unable to stop, though he was consciously aware these were the private thoughts of someone who would never have shared such private and wanton feelings with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.
These were the deepest secrets of a lady attending his mother’s week-long house party. The party had, in truth, been at his request, so that he could view a potential bride in an intimate setting instead of the more public marriage marts of the season. If Oliver recalled accurately, there were only fifty guests in attendance, and at least thirty were of the fairer sex. Now he was consumed with one question: who was the author?
The idea that a lady of the ton, even if she was a widow, had written such thoughts was positively indecent, and—
since he was being honest—vastly intriguing and titillating to his jaded tastes.
With a rough scoff, he dropped the diary onto the stone bench on which he reposed. He would leave it where he’d found it, and possibly the owner would retrace her steps and recover it soon. Clearly, it had not been left to the elements and discovery for long. A light rain had fallen earlier in the morning, and the pages of the diary were dry...and arousing...and sinful.
Cursing himself virulently for his weakness, Oliver grabbed it and randomly picked a page.
Dearest Diary,
Sir Elliot offered for me today. I confess to being surprised, for though he paid calls upon me a few times, the baronet never expressed a romantic attachment of any sort. There is a distinct appeal to remarrying a man who already has his heir. I would once again be the mistress of my own home, and I would have the amiable companionship of Sir Elliot, without the expectation to produce issue, since he has his heir, a spare, and the most delightful little girl. If only he were not twice my age and more of a father figure to me. It is quite distressing to imagine running my tongue over his chest and down to his manhood as I had attempted with dear Robert. Perhaps Sir Elliot would be similarly disgusted with my wantonness and—
Oliver snapped the book closed and tilted his head to the sky. Bloody hell. She was young if she considered the baronet,
who couldn’t be a day over fifty years, old enough to be her father...and her dead husband had been called Robert. That should narrow down Oliver’s search.
What the hell am I saying? He had no interest in discovering the identity of the author. To what purpose? He couldn’t return her diary with any explanation that would not cause her great distress. Even if he lied and said he hadn’t read the pages, her mortification would be great, indeed.
Nor could he leave it where he found it on the grass under the cypress tree by the gazebo for another unsuspecting soul to stumble upon her lusty and scandalous musings.
Perhaps he should simply burn it.
He glanced toward where he’d found the damning journal, his gaze assessing each young lady who strolled by. None looked anxious, and a few gave him inviting smiles, no doubt hearing wedding bells, since it had been made known he was on the hunt for a wife. He was two and thirty and was quite bored. The usual debauchery that privileged gentlemen of his ilk enjoyed no longer seemed exciting. The pleasure gardens, the reckless racing, scandalous pursuits, and even the rousing debates in Parliament hardly moved him anymore.
There was an emptiness in his soul he couldn’t understand, and nothing of late seemed to fill the void. He had bid his last mistress adieu over eight months past and been without a lover since. Oliver had seen no point in searching for another when his last three had left him so uninspired and frustrated. His mother had even clucked and urged him to take the waters in Bath to cure his ennui.
It was as if the world were painted in shades of gray, and he was waiting for a ray of something...anything to burst through the bleak dreariness and inspire him to simply feel. One of his closest friends, the Duke of Basil, had taken the plunge into matrimony several months past, and the man seemed at peace and happy with his new duchess. The arrow of envy that had pierced his heart whenever he spied them together had stunned Oliver.
He had never begrudged a man more in his life. The duke had found love with Elizabeth Armstrong, an American heiress, and had shocked society. His Grace also seemed content and not likely to procure himself a mistress, which meant the duke’s American satisfied his darker cravings. And Oliver had some notion of what they were; after all, they had both shared Lady Wimbledon for a night or two...at the same time.
Oliver wanted a similar happiness. In fact, he quite hungered for a wife...and eventually, children. That need was tempered by his keen desire to find a lady who would appreciate all his desires—even the ones a few of his mistresses had labeled as depraved and shocking. That had been his main reason for not rushing recklessly into matrimony.
His father had taught him at the age of sixteen that a wife must never be subjected to his base and darker urges. Mistresses were designed for rough and carnal tupping, and it was to be expected that he should have two women to sate all his needs.
Except...Oliver did not want that. He’d seen how it had torn up his mother and put a strain on his parents’ marriage. But this was a notion that would have sent his father to an early grave, had he not already passed a few years ago.
Oliver stood, the book gripped lightly in his hand, and strolled down to
the lakeside. The waters were blessedly empty, as most of the guests were playing croquet or already indulging in a light luncheon on the freshly mowed lawns. A few boats had been prepared for rowing, and he untied the ropes tethering one and climbed aboard. After securing the diary on the inside of his superfine jacket, he grabbed the oars and propelled himself farther out onto the lake. Once he was a safe distance from the shoreline, he stopped rowing and allowed the boat to drift at its own speed atop the placid waters.
Though he had decided to destroy the diary, he would first consume its pages. Interest had taken hold of his mind, and he wanted to read as much as possible, perhaps everything, before he chucked it away. He opened the slim volume once more and started to read. After a few minutes, a few truths made themselves evident.
The author was familiar with the inner workings of Belgrave Manor and its secret passages. Perhaps she had visited before and not just for this weekend’s house party. A friend of his mother?