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Authors: Maya Rodale

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BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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Angela looked down at Lucas. He lay bruised, battered, and tied up before her. And she couldn’t help but think of the first time she had seen him, when his blue eyes were bright, his face free of pain and full of love and promise.
And she thought of all the loneliness and heartache she had suffered in the years after Frost had done what he had done. She had, in truth, fantasized about this moment, when she could make him suffer as she had done, when she could have her revenge. When she could finally and completely put her past life behind her and make it disappear forever.
But her past had brought her to her future: Phillip. He took her hand in his. Together, hand in hand, they stood over Frost, now lying patiently as they decided his fate.
She looked up at her aunt. No words were exchanged between them. Lady Palmerston stood tall and sure. And she remembered what her aunt had said to her that one night:
Trust your head and your heart.
She knew that this was not the end, no matter what her choice would be. She also knew how a little love, mercy, and forgiveness could go a long way toward soothing a tortured soul.
Her own heart and soul had suffered enough. She would not have any more of it.
She would let him live.
And so Angela suggested that they take him to the magistrate in the next town—alive. Phillip breathed an obvious sigh of relief, and she knew that they were of one mind on this matter.
He emptied the bullets from the guns and let them fall onto the road. He dropped the guns, too. His hands were free to hold her, now and forever. Angela threw her arms around him, and he held her tightly to him. It wasn’t long before their lips touched for a kiss, but it was quite a long while before they stopped.
A few hours later, Frost was left in the care of the local magistrate, and the trio continued on their way back to London.
“Now, where were we?” Lady Palmerston asked. “Oh, yes. Angela, for your wedding gown, I think a cream-colored satin would work best with your complexion.”

 

Chapter 26
ONE MONTH LATER
 
Five
hundred people were invited to witness the wedding of Miss Angela Sullivan and Phillip Kensington, Marquis of Huntley. Not one person declined to attend.
Phillip stood at the altar of St. George Hanover Square, with his twin by his side. Neither of them felt the need to mention that this was the last thing either of them had ever expected.
This moment was all their parents could have ever wished for them: both of their sons in love and loved, and with their old sibling rivalry set aside.
Mostly.
“This is your last chance to live up to your reputation,” Devon suggested.
“I’m not walking out of here without Angela,” Phillip replied.
“Good. Just checking.”
“Shut up.”
“How dare you speak to your older brother in such a manner!”
“Did you not hear me the first time I said to shut up, or are you so much older that you’re going deaf?”
“I’m older by a mere minute, so if I am so old as to—”
Devon did not get to finish his reply, for the organ sounded, and all five hundred witnesses to the unexpected nuptials of Phillip Kensington and Angela Sullivan stood and turned to watch the bride walk down the aisle, escorted by her brother.
Angela wore a gown of pale gold. She carried a small bouquet of pink roses. And even though her face was partially obscured by her veil, Phillip could see that she was smiling.
She ought to be. She was the one woman who had managed to reform the greatest scoundrel of a generation. He was far more than merely reformed.
Because of her, he had become the man no one, least of all himself, ever expected him to be.
He was loved.
He was
in
love.
And he vowed to love, honor, and cherish her; he had never spoken words he meant more. Except for when he told her he loved her. Which he did, constantly. He even suspected he was starting to annoy her with how often he told her. But if that was her only complaint about him, he’d take it. Lord knew he satisfied her in other ways. Well, perhaps it was best if the good Lord didn’t know about that . . .
And somehow, by some miracle, this beautiful, amazing woman was pledging to love, honor, and obey him. Even though they both knew that she would obey when she felt like it. He didn’t realize that he had feared she would come to her senses and back out at the last moment, until he caught himself exhaling a deep breath he had been holding. And he felt, as she slipped the ring on his finger, that gray, nagging feeling of never being good enough just . . . go away. Maybe he wasn’t good enough. Maybe he wouldn’t be. But he would try. No one would ever fault him for not trying.
And maybe he didn’t deserve this happiness. But maybe, just maybe, he did.
“And now, if anyone has any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
That could
not
be the sound of someone clearing their throat and saying, “I have a reason.”
It was
not
the sound of five hundred people gasping and shuffling in their seats to turn and see who had dared to interrupt, or even ruin, this miraculous, historic event.
It was.
Lord Lucas Frost, who had
not
been invited and had apparently managed to avoid a suffiently lengthy incarceration, was standing at his seat in the middle of a pew, in the middle of the church.
“I have a reason they should not marry.”
Angela muttered a string of words no one should ever say in a church, let alone a bride on her wedding day.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take care of this. And I’m coming back.” But first he kissed the bride.
And then Phillip turned to Devon. They nodded at each other and started toward Frost. Phillip took the center aisle, and Devon took the aisle on the left side of the church. Angela’s brother Damien followed as well.
Frost could try to escape—which he did, damaging shoes and dresses in his haste—but it was futile.
Frost arrived at the aisle and, with two murderous-looking Kensington brothers after him, and the angry brother of the bride who had been hurt by him as well, turned and ran for his life.
They caught him in the vestibule.
“You don’t have a good reason. You don’t have any reason at all,” Phillip growled, holding the man up by his cravat and using the cold stone wall as support.
“I do,” Frost gasped.
“She made her choice.”
“She has to marry me. Otherwise I won’t be able to sleep at night.”
Phillip understood, but as he said, the lady made her choice, and he was not going to argue with it. Somehow with a diminished supply of air, Frost managed to keep rambling on. Something about needing to make right a wrong and that was why Angela had to marry him . . . God, the stench of whiskey on the man’s breath was almost enough to make Phillip drunk.
But because Angela had changed him, Phillip knew regret was eating this man alive. And oddly enough, Phillip saw how he could help. And it did not involve strangling this man, though a part of him considered it.
“Shut up,” Phillip told Frost, who obliged.
“You will apologize to her. Trust me, it’ll go a long way toward making you feel better.”
Frost agreed, reluctantly.
Phillip marched down the aisle, holding Frost by his collar, and ignoring the stares and whispers. Devon and Damien followed.
Angela stood at the altar with her spine straight and with all the dignity of a queen, Lady Palmerston by her side. Phillip could see her expression change from confusion to understanding.
“I’m sorry, Angela,” Lucas said quietly, standing a few steps below her.
There were tears in her eyes, and she didn’t speak for what seemed like an eternity.
“I can forgive you, Lucas,” she whispered. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. “But you must leave us alone now.”
“If you don’t mind,” Damien said, “I’d like to escort him out. Out of the country, to be specific.”
“Please,” Angela and Phillip said simultaneously. Damien received assistance from Nigel Haven and Samuels, who had traveled to London with his missus to meet “the woman that made a man pour perfectly good brandy into the fire.”
“Where were we?” the priest asked, once the interruption was over. “Ah, yes. If there are any other reasons these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
There was a very tense moment of silence.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
And because part of him was still a scoundrel, Phillip gave Angela a
real
kiss. A kiss that left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was in love with her. A kiss that was a small scandal and the talk of the ton for weeks.
Of course, everyone said they never thought they’d live to see the day that Phillip Kensington kissed his own bride. Neither did Phillip. But there were no words to express how glad he was that he did. And it was all because of Angela, his angel.

 

Epilogue
THE CHURCH AT STANBROOK ABBEY
SEVEN YEARS LATER
 
“Where
is Madeleine?” Phillip asked, looking around for his oldest daughter.
“I have her with me,” Lady Palmerston answered. Phillip felt a stab of panic that he would turn around to find that his aunt-in-law would have his daughter betrothed, when the girl was merely six years of age. But there she was, his mother’s namesake, discreetly going through Lady Palmerston’s reticule looking for the peppermints she knew she would find there.
“Madeleine, I see what you are doing.” Somehow, it had come to this: an absolute scoundrel catching his child sneaking candy. She looked up at him with his eyes—and his mother’s eyes, so he was told by those who knew. He would give her all the peppermints in the world, and then some. And she knew it.
“You must be sneakier about it, moppet,” he whispered. “Don’t let your mother see.”
She nodded and popped a candy in her mouth.
“And Katherine?” Phillip asked after his next-oldest child.
“Relax, Phillip. All your children are accounted for,” Lady Katherine answered, holding the hand of her namesake, a five-year-old girl with her mother’s blonde hair. She was so well behaved that Phillip might have questioned her paternity. But he trusted Angela, and besides, he knew better. He knew very well that Katherine was his, because he could remember the night she was conceived . . . He should not be thinking such thoughts in a church. In front of children. But once a rogue, always a rogue . . .
“Two out of three,” Phillip said with some relief. “Where is James?”
“I have him,” Angela said. “Really, Phillip, you are such a worrier.”
Oh, his darling wife had no idea. He didn’t know how he had ever managed to sleep before he married her. He needed her within arm’s reach, if not closer, to be able to sleep through the night. But only after checking on their three children.
BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
4.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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