The Scoundrel's Lover (24 page)
Read The Scoundrel's Lover Online
Authors: Jess Michaels
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #General
“That’s it,” he murmured, watching her face. “A little more, angel. Just a little more.”
“Oh God,” she groaned. “I’m—I’m…yes!”
She came a second time as she stroked over him, digging her nails into his flesh, crying out his name, and as she did, his neck tensed, his body thrust up into hers, and he groaned as his hot seed spurted inside of her.
She collapsed onto his chest, her breath harsh and hard, her body limp and languid with pleasure and they lay there together.
Marcus looked down at Annabelle, who had curled herself against his side, stroking her hands along his chest. Her skin was flushed with pleasure and her eyes bright with all the love she kept repeating she felt for him.
And he was beginning to believe that she truly did feel that way. Leave it to Annabelle to break into his club, turn his employees against him and then stake her claim on him in such a way.
That wild heart she had always wanted to deny was powerful indeed when she fully unleashed it.
“Annabelle,” he murmured.
She looked up at him, her expression one of pure happiness only tinged with concern about what he would say. “Yes?”
“Untie me.”
She worried her lip for a moment, then leaned down to unloop the knots around his ankles. He stretched his legs, watching her as she reached for one hand. She hesitated, looking at him. “You aren’t going to walk away, are you?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She untied one wrist, and as soon as his hand was free, he yanked the other one loose, flipped her on her back and covered her with his body. She yelped now that the tables had been turned and she was trapped rather than him.
“Why do you think you love me?” he demanded.
She blinked up at him. “I don’t
think
I love you. I
know
I love you. And the reason is because you have always accepted me for who I am. You have always seen me, in a way no one else in the world does. When I’m with you, I am safe and I am real and I am…I’m free. I can’t lose that, Marcus. I know I provide very little value to you—”
He cut her off with a laugh. “Are you in jest? Of course you provide something to me.”
She tilted her head. “What do I provide?”
“You challenge me. You drive me mad because you are so damned unpredictable. And you accept
me
. But I don’t want you blinded by some fairytale, Annabelle. My life is not like yours, even the life you led growing up, outside of the
ton
.”
She nodded. “I’ll learn.”
“The club runs as it runs. And I will continue to run it. I get lost in my work. I sometimes am forced to deal with very scandalous matters. You will lose more friends for loving me than you ever did for the behavior of either of your brothers.”
“But I’ll gain you,” she whispered, her dark gaze even on his. “And I’ll help you in the club. Living here will be an adjustment, but—”
He laughed. “I have a house, Annabelle.”
She cocked her head. “You do?”
He nodded. “I have the chamber here for days when I forget to go home, forget to eat, forget to sleep. But I have a feeling that if you were waiting for me at my very nice house on Charles Street, I would make it a priority to race back to you every morning.”
“Are you saying you would allow me to wait for you in your very nice house on Charles Street?” she asked.
He shut his eyes. After a life that had consisted of so many ups and downs, so many heartbreaks and successes, Annabelle offered him a dream he wasn’t certain she fully understood. And in this moment, he wanted that dream. He wanted it more than anything in the world.
“Yes,” he whispered. “If you would marry me, Annabelle Flynn, I would share my life with you.”
Her eyes lit up and she lifted her mouth to meet his. He kissed her without hesitation, without anything but all of the love he felt for her. All of the love they shared and would share forever.
“Of course, your brother will likely kill me when I ask for your hand,” he laughed as he pulled away.
She shrugged as if this was easily surmountable. “Then do as would be expected of a proper Flynn and whisk me off to Gretna Green tonight, Mr. Rivers. Rafe won’t kill my lover if that lover is my very loved and very happy husband.”
He smiled down at her, unable to keep the grin from his face. “I think I shall do just that, Annabelle. But later.” He pushed her legs open and gently breached her a second time. “Later.”
“Do you hate me for marrying her?” Marcus asked Rafe as they stood together at the fireplace watching Serafina, Mrs. Flynn and his own mother coo and sigh over Annabelle’s tale of their stolen wedding in Scotland and honeymoon by the ocean. The Flynns had, of course, accepted Calliope as easily and swiftly as they did everyone. Not for one moment did he feel she was held apart. Even now, Annabelle had an arm around her new mother-in-law’s waist and was laughing.
Rafe looked at him and smiled. “No. Not if she is so happy. And you know, we have always looked on your quite as our own brother. Now it is true. And God, would our father have approved.”
Marcus frowned even though his heart swelled at those words. “
We
,” he repeated with a shake of his head. “And yet I have heard from Abbot that Crispin has not returned to Donville Masquerade since that night when you all burst in on Annabelle and me.”
Rafe sighed. “Yes. He has disappeared from all the places that I watch as well. I think he doesn’t want to be found.”
“Do you think he is all right?” Marcus asked.
Rafe shrugged. “I hope so. Perhaps you and I can formulate a plan to find him.”
“You had best involve Annabelle,” Marcus said as she separated from the others to approach him, her smile wide. “She will not be left out, you know.”
“Left out of what?” his bride asked as she slipped her arms around his waist and stared up at him with adoring eyes.
“Left out of anything,” he teased. “You are a stubborn wench.”
“Are you sorry you married me, Mr. Rivers?” she teased back.
“You’d best not be,” Rafe joined in, though Marcus could see that his brother-in-law was not finished with the topic of Crispin. “There is no returning her.”
Rafe laughed as he walked away, but Marcus’s laughter faded as he looked into the eyes of his wife. His love. His life. His Annabelle.
“I wouldn’t return her,” he whispered as he dipped his head to kiss her. “She is worth more than gold.”
The Notorious Flynns
The Other Duke
(Book 1)
The Widow Wager
(Book 3 – 2015)
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Take a Sneak Peek at
The Widow Wager
Book 3 of the Notorious Flynns:
July 1814
Crispin Flynn came awake in throbbing, painful inches. His head burned like it was on fire and his stomach churned with bile and whatever God-awful spirits that remained there from the previous night’s reverie.
Or had it been reverie? In truth, he couldn’t remember much after the moment where he got on his horse and rode out from his home, hell bent on drink and women and gambling and… well, utter self-destruction. None of that sounded as fun as reverie, especially not in the cold light of morning, which he could feel burning against his still-shut eyelids.
He hesitated to open those eyes, firstly so that he could avoid that light a little longer, but secondly because he was never certain anymore where he would find himself after a night out. He had awoken in gutters, in his carriage, and once in the bed of an obliging duchess whose husband he had only just avoided a duel with.
And the third reason he avoided opening his eyes was that once he was awake all the troubles of his world came rushing back, crushing him and drowning him in their wake.
Yet he could not pretend he was dead forever, so he gingerly opened one bleary eye. He flinched at the burning light of the sun that pounded down on him from the window he faced.
He was not in a bed, but on his own settee. He recognized the brocade fabric that his mother had chosen for the chaise what seemed like a lifetime ago. He let out a sigh of relief. At least if he had managed to stumble home, he could not have done too much damage.
He opened his other eye and swallowed back the rush of vomit that greeted him. His body would punish him for what he had done to it, but it was worth it to turn off his mind for a few blissful hours.
Slowly, he moved, inching his way onto his back. Every muscle in his body hurt, which meant he had probably danced on a table, fallen off a horse or gotten into a fistfight last night. On a bad night, it could be all three. Certainly he would hear about it, though, if he had truly done any damage. He always did and he always paid the tab without argument or question and with whatever semblance of an apology he could muster for the sins he committed when he was out of his right mind.
He rolled a little further and froze. He could see his bed about ten feet away from the settee. And it was not unoccupied. A lump was under his covers. A woman-sized and shaped lump.
He groaned. Now he was going to have to kick some light skirt out of his house. Always entirely awkward.
At the sound of his groan, the lump spun around to face him and Crispin froze. The lady-shaped lump had the most beautiful face he had seen in years. She had bright grey eyes filled with intelligence and a heart shaped face with full, pink lips. Her hair was red, too. Damn, but it would be. He’d never been able to resist a red-headed woman who offered to perch herself on his knee.
He sat up.
“Morning, love,” he drawled, happy he didn’t cast up his accounts or pass out thanks to the wildly spinning room when he moved so quickly.
She said nothing, but also sat bolt upright to reveal she was fully clothed in a wrinkled green gown. Slowly, she pushed herself across the bed, as far away from him as she could get.
Crispin covered his forehead with one hand and tried to maintain some of his dignity at least. He attempted a smile.
“If I owe you blunt, you can collect it from the butler on your way out,” he said.
Her eyes went wide at first, then narrowed to angry slits that barely revealed the sparking grey beneath.
“I am not a light skirt, Mr. Flynn,” she snapped.
Crispin was distracted for a moment by the musical quality of her voice, which even when angry was probably the prettiest thing he’d heard in an age. But then he realized what she’d said in that beautiful voice and he stiffened.
“Aren’t you?” he asked.
She folded her arms. “Certainly not.”
He cleared his throat and managed to get to his feet without toppling over sideways. It seemed he had succeeded in getting himself in quite a pickle, indeed, last night. This one might be harder to extract himself from than the usual paying for a broken vase or returning a stolen phaeton.
“Damn. See here, miss, I was deep in my cups last night and I may have said or done things I don’t recall.”
She was watching him with those grey eyes still, wary and seemingly ready to run. “You must think me very stupid,” she all but growled.
He shook his head. “Honestly, miss, I do not remember a damn thing.” He looked at her a little closer. “I wish I did, actually.”
Her brow wrinkled and a fetching pink color filled her cheeks at the compliment. Then she tilted her head. “Are you being truthful, then? Do you really not remember last night?”
A sinking feeling worked its way through Crispin. A feeling that screamed he had really done it this time.
“No,” he said softly.
She held his gaze for a moment, as if she were reading him. As if she were determining his honesty with just a sweep of her stare. He shifted beneath the intimate quality of the exercise and then watched as she rose to her feet. She had as pretty a figure as she did a face, with a lovely bosom and the hint of a flare of her hips as her wrinkled gown fluttered around her.
“Then I suppose I should start by saying good morning, Mr. Flynn,” she said, but did not extend her hand. “My name is Gemma. I’m your wife.”
Crispin’s stomach churned higher and he slumped back onto the settee with a moan. “No.” He shook his head. “No, that cannot be true.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m afraid it is very much true. We married in the middle of the night last night. Despite my protests.”
Crispin jerked his stare back to her. Protests? Had he forced this woman? She was dressed now, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t. Great God, he would never forgive himself.
“You are my wife,” he said slowly.
She nodded, her jaw set with strength even as tears sparkled faintly in her eyes. “Yes,” she said on a gasp.
He swallowed hard. “Gemma. Is that what you said your name was?”
“Yes,” she whispered a second time.
He nodded. It was a pretty name to go with her pretty face. A pretty face that seemed to entirely hate him, which gave him even more pause about what he’d done in his stupor.
“Gemma, I need you to tell me exactly what happened last night.” He shook his head. “I need to remember.”