“Groves, he told me everything,” she coughed.
She told him of the way Simon Moore had appeared at the door one day, with a gun in hand and a barrage of devious plans. He knew everything there was to know about Groves, he claimed. Knew how to find his sister, her husband, her sons and daughters.
Mrs. Morgan wiped her eyes. “Poor Groves didn’t know if he were telling the truth, My Lord,” she spluttered. “But how could he have risked it?”
Patrick pressed a hand to her shoulder to steady her.
“Lord Ayton told him we were to let his men in, whenever they wished it. Said he we were never to say a word.” She coughed back a fresh rush of tears. “And when poor Groves tried to fight back, Lord Ayton had his men drag him from the house. Forced him to work for his syndicate.” She wiped her eyes. “He wouldn’t tell me what Lord Ayton had him do. But I knew they were terrible things. Things that would have him on the scaffold beside Ayton if he tried to turn the man in.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “Groves held Miss Barnet and her cousin at gunpoint. Tried to take them prisoner.”
“No. No, My Lord. Don’t you see? He wasn’t taking them prisoner. He was taking them to you.”
Patrick began to pace. He wanted to believe it. But Simon’s betrayal had rattled his trust. “Why hold them at gunpoint?”
Mrs. Morgan sniffed. “He was so afraid of Lord Ayton. He knew he had to keep up the pretense, even in front of Lord Featherstone and Miss Barnet. He didn’t want anyone to know he was betraying The Ghost.”
In the end, Patrick had hunted Groves down at his sister’s home and pleaded with him to return to the townhouse.
Groves had hovered in the doorway of his sister’s house, wringing his hands together and staring at his feet. “No, My Lord. I couldn’t. I’m not worthy, after all I’ve done.”
“Nonsense,” said Patrick. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for the crimes of another man.” He bristled. “Especially not one as unbalanced and dangerous and Simon Moore.”
Groves said nothing.
Finally, Patrick gripped his shoulders. “Look, Groves,” he said firmly. “I am about to marry the woman I love. I don’t have much in the world to give her, but I do have a very fine household. And I have no desire to disrupt that household by hunting around for a new butler.”
Finally, Groves dared to look up. “Are you certain, sir?”
Patrick grinned with relief. “Most certain. Quickly now, Groves. The cab is waiting.”
* * *
Catherine stepped in the doorway of her new bedroom, the silky folds of her wedding gown sighing as she walked. She looked up at Patrick and smiled, her heart thudding with anticipation.
Everything about the day had been perfect, from the intimate service at Saint Matthew’s to her white silk dress, to the lavish feast Aunt Cornelia had plied their guests with. Most wonderful of all had been the dance with her new husband.
“You know this is a waltz, don’t you?” she had laughed, as they made their way onto the dance floor. “Are you certain about this?”
Patrick chuckled. “Absolutely not. But I want a dance with my wife anyway.”
He pulled her close, his fingers intertwining with hers and his hand moving gently up and down her back. And they began to dance, Patrick lurching forward and treading square on the hem of her dress.
Catherine couldn’t hold back her laughter. “I think you’ve gotten worse.”
“Yes,” he laughed. “I think you’re absolutely right.”
She stood close, feeling his breath against her cheek. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Catherine smiled to herself as the bedroom door clicked closed behind them. Those dreadful days after Robert’s trial felt like the most distant of memories.
Patrick came toward her, the pale lamplight making his eyes shine. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Catherine felt her breath quicken.
“You’re nervous,” he whispered.
She gave him a faint smile. “Only a little.”
He pulled her close, drawing her into a deep, tender kiss. The desire and anticipation that had been building in her all day tore through her body. She heard herself murmur beneath his lips.
Without taking his eyes from hers, Patrick reached for the row of tiny pearl buttons at her chest. He worked them apart with nimble fingers, sliding the delicate fabric from her shoulders. The dress slipped down her body, sighing as it hit the floor.
Catherine was sure he could hear the thumping of her heart.
His fingers moved over her chest to find the laces of her corset, tugging, loosening, freeing her. And then her stays were on the floor beside the dress, leaving her in nothing but her thin cotton shift.
Patrick’s hands ran over her bare arms and over the curve of her breast. She heard a husky murmur of desire come from deep in his throat.
She stepped closer. The air was cool against her skin, but her insides were blazing with a fire she had never known. She wanted Patrick to see every inch of her; every curve, every freckle, every imperfection. She had had enough of hiding herself. Enough of feeling ashamed of who she was. She would be that person no longer.
This new-found confidence, she knew, was all thanks to him. Thanks to his support, his understanding ear, his loving words.
She gripped the edges of the shift and lifted it over her head in one fluid movement.
She opened her fingers and the cloth fell soundlessly to the floor, leaving her standing naked in the center of the room. She had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. And yet her nerves had evaporated, burned away under Patrick’s adoring eyes.
She gave him a long, slow blink and reached up to grab the collar of his jacket.
“I want to see you too,” she breathed, hardly daring to believe the words that were coming from her mouth. Where had such a thing come from? Who was this fearless, daring person Patrick Connolly had turned her into?
Patrick slid off his jacket, tossing it onto the floor beside her dress. Catherine tugged at her waistcoat, his shirt, his trousers, until his taut, sculpted body stood before her, shadowed in the half light.
For a moment, they stood in silence, taking each other in. There was no sound in the room but their ragged breathing and the irregular hiss of the lamp.
Catherine heard a murmur come from deep inside her. She could wait no longer. She pressed her aching breasts against his chest, crying out as his hand slid down her bare back, his nails raking gently over her skin.
Patrick took her hand, leading her slowly toward his bed. She lay back, feeling the softness of the sheets beneath her, the warmth of Patrick’s body above her.
He kissed his way over her stomach, along the sharp curve of her hips, the soft warmth of her inner thighs. His lips moved along every line of her until she was shifting and writhing beneath him.
“Please Patrick,” she begged. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“What do you want?” he whispered. “Tell me. I want to hear you.”
“You,” she said, the word coming out barely formed. “I want you.”
She looked into his eyes, unable to find more words. He pressed his mouth to hers and she felt him smile against her lips.
And then he was inside her, filling her so intensely, so completely.
There was pain, but only for the briefest second, her gasp lost as she buried her neck in Patrick’s shoulder. She clung to him hard.
“Catherine?” he whispered. “Are you all right?” His voice was husky. She could tell he was holding himself back. Could tell he was afraid of hurting her. No, she didn’t want that for him. Didn’t want him to hold himself back, any more than she wanted to hold herself back.
“Yes,” she managed, desire and longing turning her voice into a husky whisper. “Yes, Patrick.” And she felt him begin to move inside her, a staggering, dizzying sensation that had her digging her nails into his shoulders and gasping for breath.
She had not expec
ted this. Had not expected her body to take control this way, to leave her mind reeling and her words spilling out on their own accord. And she had not expected the sensation of it to be so strangely, imperfectly perfect.
She felt her cries rising on her lips, welling up from deep inside her. Could feel muffled groans and murmurs escaping her, as the pleasure built higher and higher. Could feel her self-control slipping away each time Patrick thrust deeper inside her.
And then she could hold back no more. As a wave tore through her body, it brought a cry from deep within her. She felt herself move in his arms, letting the pleasure wash over her, powerless to do anything else.
Moments later, she felt Patrick’s body shudder as he claimed his own release, giving a husky groan into Catherine’s ear. She clung to him tightly as she felt herself drift.
A life raft, she thought. He was hers and she was his.
They lay in silence for a long time, feeling the warmth of each other, feeling the steady slowing of each other’s hearts.
Patrick ran his fingers across her cheek. “When I see you now,” he murmured, “I see that beautiful young lady who caught my eye at the Duke of Redbridge’s ball. That lady with joy in her eyes.”
“She was lost for a time,” Catherine murmured. “But you brought her back.”
And she was so much more than that shy but joyful girl now. She was confident and strong and sure. And she knew she had Patrick Connolly to thank for all of it.
She knew their life together would not always be easy. There were the upcoming trials of Thorne and the other smugglers. Soldiers had raked through Seven Dials to upend the gambling dens. Catherine knew she and Patrick would have their parts to play. And for now, there would still be men at the townhouse each month, seeking payment for the late Baron’s debts. There was still a brother in Newgate whom she was learning to forgive.
It would not always be easy. But Catherine knew every moment of it would be worth it. Because she would face every moment of it with Patrick by her side.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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A Fiery Escort for the Roguish Marquess
About the Book
And suddenly, she was his everything...
Having spent years working as an escort, Rachel Bell yearns for a chance at a different life, away from the sins of the past. That chance presents itself when a handsome young lord steps into the tavern.
Ernest Jackson, Marquess of Dalton, sees his mundane life take a dramatic turn the day he finds a mysterious box. On a mission to solve the mystery of his allegedly deceased sister, he discovers he has been lied to all of his life.
His search leads him to Rachel, who proves to be not only a skillful spy but also his sole ally...
But their questions raise suspicions and when Rachel gets kidnapped, Ernest needs to pay the ultimate price: his own life. Sooner than later they will both realize that some truths are worse than lies—especially when the liar wears a familiar face.
Chapter 1
The men leaned forward with snorts of laughter, waiting with bated breath for the punchline. “And then he came home to find the little bobtail on his doorstep!”
A roar of laughter filled the dining room, the sound rising into the great fug of smoke hanging above the men’s heads.
“What d’you expect? The man’s the king of the bawdy houses. Those cats would all be out on their asses if it weren’t for him.”
Ernest Jackson, Marquess of Dalton, realized his laughter was forced. How long had this been the case, he wondered? How many nights had he sat in this dining room with his father and his acquaintances, and laughed a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes? Though he had only just become aware of his strained chuckling, Ernest knew quite well that he had not found the Earl of Landon and his wenching particularly amusing for as long as he could remember.
He took a sip from his port glass and leaned back in his chair, contemplating.
Is there something wrong with me?
Ernest had never thought himself to be a dull man. He was a fine whist player, was fond of a joke, and could strike up a damn good argument at the coffee houses. He loved sharp company, enjoyed a challenge, flourished around other men. And yet, this sorry excuse for humor that unfolded at Graceton Manor on a regular basis made him wish to be anywhere else on earth.
Good Lord, he thought. A dull ache was beginning to press behind his eyes as the Earl had gone to fetch the chamber pot. He returned to the room, producing it with a flourish, to a cheer far more befitting a knock-out blow at a boxing final.
The chamber pot was passed around beneath the table, eliciting an array of happy groans and sighs as it made its rounds.
The Earl took a long draw on his pipe and blew a line of smoke upwards. “I tried to take her to the cock fighting,” he told the men, most of whom were now jacketless, their waistcoats unbuttoned over bloated stomachs. “Next thing I know, she’s out cold in my lap.”
Another roar.
There it is again. That forced laughter.
Ernest had felt this way since his return from the war, three years earlier. After facing his own mortality, the flippant concerns of the ton seemed so pointless, so insignificant. How could a man be expected to care about the Earl of Landon’s latest exploits when he had watched his friends die around him?
Ernest was growing less and less tolerant as his thirtieth birthday grew near. Then again, there had always been a part of him that had found something mildly cringe worthy about a group of grown men passing around a chamber pot and pissing beneath the table.
His father, the Duke of Armson, who was sitting beside him, reached over to clap his son over the shoulder. “All right there, boy?”
No doubt he’d noticed the strain in Ernest’s grin.
Ernest nodded, smiled. “All right, sir.” He raised his glass and clinked it against the duke’s.
Ernest had a deep love and respect for his father that even a night with the Earl of Landon could not erase. Outside of the smoking room, the Duke was a well-spoken and intelligent man, deeply committed to preserving the honor of his family name. He had been a strong and imposing figure throughout Ernest’s childhood, but it had never been fear that Ernest had felt for the man. Rather, he’d sought to be as much like his father as he could—well-liked, well-respected and brave.
“You’ll notice Dalton here is rather quiet,” the Duke boomed, giving Ernest another hearty slap on the shoulder. “He’s never been one for animal sports, have you lad? Cock fighting and such.”
Ernest gave a quick smile. “No, sir.”
The Earl leaned forward, jabbing his pipe at Ernest. “What’s the matter, boy? The sight of blood makes you queasy?”
Ernest shrugged coolly and took another mouthful of port. “I prefer my sports to involve a little more skill.” Did he sound like some conceited fop? So be it. Rather a conceited fop, he thought, than a bawdy drunkard like the Earl of Landon.
The Earl snorted. “Like what? Bilbocatch?”
“Dalton was a fine fencer when he was younger,” the Duke announced, jabbing his butter knife into the air like a rapier. “Regional champion and all.” His voice swelled with pride, and more than a little port.
Fencing. Ernest had not thought of such a thing in years. Had not picked up a saber in years. But yes, he remembered. Once that sword had felt like an extension of his own hand. He smiled to himself, warm with the memory.
With the port bottle emptied and the room filled with smoke, the men stood wearily and made their way toward the door.
The Duke walked close b
eside Ernest. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you tonight.” His voice was low. “Speaking of fencing and the like.”
Ernest chuckled. “No, sir. It’s quite all right.”
He was glad of the memory. Glad to be reminded of a lost part of himself. Glad to remember a time when he had been far less disillusioned with this cigar-scented, smoking-room life than he was now.
* * *
Ernest lay in bed with his arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Despite the healthy serving of port he’d consumed that evening, he felt wide awake.
My saber.
When had he last seen it? Certainly, before he’d been shipped off to fight. Probably before his days in Cambridge. Was it still in the house? And, more to the point, why had he suddenly become so obsessed with the damned thing?
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 29