Rogues Gallery (43 page)

Not that he would confess such a thing to Hugh. "I shall be fine," he lied.

"Of course," Hugh answered, accepting the falsehood the way best friends did. "Though seeing you in such a state, I hope I shall never find myself in love."

This time Simon did laugh. "And I can only hope you are forced to retract those words one day. When I can remind you of them, and relish the moment."

Hugh's grin was contagious. "I shall see to it that you are in your cups and unlikely to remember I ever uttered them."

Simon's carriage appeared, and the coachman held the door open.

"I did my best to find Georgie," Hugh said, "to tell her you were not to blame for the doxies at your wedding. But she had departed already."

"It was an admirable effort," Simon answered. "One which I appreciate immensely. Can I drop you at your home?"

Hugh shook his head, grinning. "I have other plans for this evening. Plans that shall most likely extend into the morrow."

Simon watched Hugh stroll away, envying his friend who had not yet suffered the pangs of love. Instead, he had been cursed to fall in love, with the one woman he had known was absolutely perfect for him from their first meeting.

He could only hope she was not lost to him forever.

Simon stepped into his coach, heaving himself into the seat with a sigh. The door slammed shut and he rapped on the roof so the coachman could start the journey home.

He closed his eyes, weary at failing at such an important task. If only he had persuaded Georgiana of his constancy. If only she had said to him—

"I believe this belongs to you."

His eyes shot open but it was next to impossible to see anything in the coach's darkened interior. He saw a white handkerchief fluttering, however, and his heart beat madly at what it signified.

"Georgiana, I cannot breathe one more moment without your forgiveness. I beg of you, put me out of my misery this instant."

She reached a hand to the door, the carriage lamps illuminating her beautiful face. "Shall I push you out now, while the carriage is at a slower speed? Or would it be more humane to wait until we are racing at full tilt?"

He grabbed the handkerchief, squeezing her fingers at the same time. "You plan to always keep me in a little bit of misery, don't you?"

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the self-satisfied smile gave her away.

"I knew it! I shall spend all our days being reminded of this one horrible moment in my life."

"But at least you shall be spending all your days, and nights, with me."

He pulled her onto his lap, treasuring her swift intake of breath. The wicked gleam that lit up her eyes nearly unmanned him. He kissed her, unable to wait a moment longer. A fortnight without her touch had been much too long.

Her ragged breathing enticed him to go further. His fingers danced along the hem of her dress, lifting it slowly. She slapped her hands down on his, halting their upward progress.

"Simon. You said you wished you could change—"

"And I will," he said in the most fervent tone possible. "Anything you wish."

"But I do not want you to change, for any reason," she said seriously. "In truth, it is what I most fear."

Her reply surprised him. He kissed her lips, doing his best to erase her worries. "But I am bound to change." She stiffened in his arms, so he continued in a teasing voice. "My hair is likely to whiten, or fall out entirely. I may even grow a paunch and display it proudly when my portrait is painted for our home."

"That is not what I meant," she said with the exasperation he adored. "Everything between us happened so quickly. Including—" She waved her hand between them. "All of this. As if some sort of enchantment or spell brought us together. What if we fall out of love just as speedily as we fell into it?"

Simon's heart swelled with love for this woman who needed reassurances, yet still took a leap of faith without having them in hand first. "Just because it commenced speedily does not mean it must end in the same fashion. I, for one, am glad we did not have to wait to fall in love. Now we can spend the rest of our days enchanting each other, and laughing, and fighting—"

"I do not wish to fight."

He pulled her closer, and whispered in her ear. "But it is so delightful to fall in love all over again afterwards."

Her shiver was everything he had hoped for. "Shall we fall in love many times then?"

"Constantly," he promised. "Every day. Many times a day if I have anything to say about it."

He ran his fingers over her leg once more. This time she pulled her hem upward and he did not hesitate to accept the offer. She placed her mouth on his, nibbling at his bottom lip, thrilling him with her willingness to explore the passion between them.

"The wedding is likely to occur after the honeymoon," he murmured. "We shall both be late for the nuptials this time."

"Yes, but so long as you are there when the cleric asks you to repeat your vows, I will not care that you are late to our wedding."

"You are a wicked one," he marveled, "and I am the luckiest man in the world. What caused your change of heart?"

"My heart did not change." She pulled him to her for a long, sensuous kiss that had him breathing heavily. "I was merely afraid to trust it. But then I discovered that my ancestry, quite half of it in fact, includes a rake. Only I never knew because my father transformed himself once he wed my mother."

"Your father? A reformed rake?"

"No one is more shocked than I am," she said with a laugh. "Mama's lectures against marrying a rake were for quite different reasons than I realized."

"So I am to continue my rakehell ways?"

"Yes! I fell in love with a rakehell and I want you to remain one. If you choose to stray from that path, be assured I will be most displeased."

He pretended to shudder at the fierce expression on her face. "You have utterly convinced me. I promise I shall never do anything to make you love me less than you do now. I adore you, Georgiana, and I always will." He nuzzled her neck, sprinkling kisses on every inch of bare skin. "You know, I recognized your rakish tendencies immediately."

"Did you? Even while I was a resident of Wallflower Row?"

He lifted his head and frowned. "It is beyond me how you were relegated there. You are beautiful, enchanting, an exotic bloom in the midst of those widows and spinsters."

She grinned, tugging at his cravat until he began assisting her with its removal. "As much as I hate to halt your description of my qualities, I must tell you—I chose to stay on Wallflower Row."

His eyebrows shot up.

"The conversation was so much more interesting there. You know how the debutantes and their matchmaking mamas can be. And the gentlemen composing an ode to my eyebrow. . .I much preferred what the bluestockings and spinsters discussed."

He chuckled. "Especially since it involved the various rogues of London."

"One day I will surprise you with some of the tidbits I have learned. Though none of them can compare to the wondrous things you have taught me."

"I am eager to show you more." He traced his finger along the edge of her bodice, entranced by the bounteous skin rising and falling with her uneven breathing. "I can scarce wait."

"Nor can I. Which is why I have instructed your coachman to head straight for the border."

"You fancy a wedding over the anvil? Lady Felicia is a worse influence on you than I am." His hands wandered to the top of her garter, which he promptly untied. "It appeared a bit too tight," he explained with a grin.

"And it's no wonder I love you. You take care of my needs so willingly," she said in a mocking tone, although her hands roaming his clothing told another tale. "Simon, I overheard Lord Weyson's explanation, about the ladybirds, and their role in our wedding day woes."

"I am relieved to hear that. I did not want to bring up their existence ever again."

"But we may need to discuss it further," she said solemnly. "To ensure my catalogue of rakish behavior is complete."

"Georgie, I am quite shocked. I fear I shall not be able to keep pace with your wickedness."

She favored him with the smile that would always melt his heart. "I shall be happy to help you overcome those fears. Now how shall we spend the rest of this carriage ride to our delayed nuptials?"

He laughed, happier than he ever could have imagined. "I have one or two thoughts on that."

"Then please share them. At once."

He did not need another invitation.

"Now may we return home? Since the lovers are well on their way to true love?"

"I suppose," Aphrodite answered with a sigh. They continued their stroll through the gardens that had been lavishly decorated with lanterns for the Eversby ball. She halted in front of the life-sized statue carved from white marble. "Must I always be nude? It is the same with paintings." She shook her head. "These artists make it appear as though I never wore clothing."

"You are absolute perfection. It is no wonder you are depicted with nothing to cover up such beauty." Ares circled the statue, inspecting it from every angle, and then grinned at her. "I consider it an excellent likeness. Although it can scarce compare to the original."

Aphrodite hummed with contentment when his arms surrounded her from behind. "And," he added, "I am well aware you did not answer my question about returning to Mt. Olympus."

"I have not had this much enjoyment in ages, and I am reluctant to leave." She turned around so she could toy with his cravat. "I know you prefer your easygoing garb, but I do so love removing these layers."

"I have enjoyed it as well." He nibbled at her earlobe, and she could not hope to hide the shivers he elicited. "We can take this attire with us. And put it to good use there."

She glanced up at him, her hands placed directly on his chest, halting his seductive kisses. "I have another idea. I would like to attempt this matchmaking endeavor once more."

He narrowed his eyes. "Once more?"

"Yes, just to demonstrate this was not merely a fluke."

"How could it be a fluke? They were unlikely to fall in love without your meddling—"

She scowled at him.

"I meant your assistance. And you ensured they found their way back together, when it seemed they were cursed."

"That is true. But I need more of a challenge. To solidify my reputation, you know."

Ares took her hand and led her further into the darkened surroundings. All this talk of matchmaking was arousing both of them. It would not do to cause a scandal, though. That is what the lovers she chose were meant to do.

"We shall stay for one more then," Ares said, his voice filled with indulgence. "Have you someone in mind?"

"I do indeed." She grinned. "They call him Lord Wastrel. . ."

The End

Book 2 in The Curse of True Love Series

W
hen Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, plays matchmaker, true love can seem like a curse

Lord Wastrel—the most notorious rake in London—has a child? Clearly he knows how to sire one, but he has no idea how to actually raise one. He has to learn quickly, since he is the little girl's only surviving parent, and he's determined to find a wife who can assist him with this daunting task. All he needs is someone demure, and biddable, and most importantly, scandal-free.

Lady Felicia Selby is no stranger to scandal, thanks to Society's insatiable curiosity about her numerous failed elopements. She has devoted many years to finding her one true love, desperate to escape the consequences of the family curse, but she has begun to give up hope.

Then, one evening, a chance encounter with Aphrodite changes everything. . .

"It never goes smoothly when we get personally involved with the mortals."

~ Ares, God of War

"But that is what makes it so entertaining."

~ Aphrodite, Goddess of Love

London, 1811

It wasn’t the night of hard drinking Hugh Longford, Lord Weyson, regretted in that particular moment. Nor was it the fact that the sun blistering his eyes meant night had slipped away without his knowledge, once again.

The cause of his agony, and the source of his sudden wish that he had lived his past few years differently, was standing in his drawing room, calling him "Papa".

"What the deuce?"

Hugh blinked again, and then rubbed his eyes, but there was no mistaking the little creature gazing up at him. Not with fear, he noticed. Her expression was more of fascination than anything else. The poor mite was probably wondering what kind of father she had—

He gazed at the child's nursemaid with unabashed hopefulness. Surely she had some other sort of explanation, something other than the one he was being asked to accept.

"My lord, Miss Marguerite told me were anythin' ever to happen to her. . ." The young woman coughed as she struggled to regain her composure, and then extracted a letter from her coat.

Even knowing he did not want to see the contents, Hugh found himself reaching for the parchment, unfolding it with trembling hands.

She had never meant to bother him
, her letter said.
He had been so generous with her, especially when he had given her her congé, but she had become gravely ill recently, and had no one else with whom to entrust their child. . .

"Haselton!" Hugh sought his unflappable butler, the one who assured Weyson House always ran smoothly, despite its owner's well-known excesses.

"Yes, my lord."

Haselton gazed upon the unusual scene without the slightest bit of perturbance, even though he was no more accustomed to young children arriving unannounced than his master was.

Hugh sighed. "Well, yes, there's—
her
." He thrust his hand out toward the young child. "And, it says here—that is, I don't know how it could be possible, for I always took every precaution, but I suppose it is not outside the realm of possibility—apparently I—this child is—"

He ran his hand through his hair, quite undone by the morning's unexpected revelations. At this hour, he was usually stumbling into bed, and generally not his own. Though he had earned the nickname Lord Wastrel for his profligate ways, he had never anticipated dealing with a fracas of this sort.