To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) (12 page)

His words made her heart trip in her chest. He still hadn’t come right out and, well… proposed, but for now, his love was enough. “I want that too.”

“Thank God.” He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air. She was drowning too—desperate for more of him.

She knew what was to come next—what went where, and so forth—but she couldn’t even imagine how it would feel. The information she had on the subject was secondhand and highly suspect, but by all accounts—and based on her own observations—it was going to hurt.

Sensing her apprehension, he said, “We’ll go slowly. We have all the time in the world.” And he stoked her desire. Clutching a fistful of her hair, he kissed the side of her neck and worked his way down to her breasts, suckling her gently at first, then harder, till little shocks of pleasure coursed through her. He cupped her mound and teased her wet, swollen lips apart with his fingers, then eased one inside of her.

Her breath hitched in her throat as he set up a rhythm that left her aching and yearning for something more.

He withdrew his finger, positioned himself at her entrance, and kissed her forehead. Every muscle in his body seemed tightly coiled and ready to spring. He pushed forward a little, gauging the fit, his face a mask of concern.

“Do not worry.” She cradled his still bruised face in her palms. “I know it will hurt a bit, but I want this. I want you.”

He nodded, and thrust slowly but firmly, filling and stretching her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he thrust some more, and then, at last, he was inside her.

Raining kisses over her face, he whispered her name again and again. And then he began to move. He cupped her bottom in his hands and thrust—long, measured strokes that rekindled all the desire she’d felt before. She arched her back and moved with him, meeting him thrust for thrust and matching his pace. They moved faster and faster until her ears filled with the sound of her blood pounding and her body hovered on the edge of bliss.

His body tensed. “Amelia.”

She broke apart then, whimpering as release took her. Her body clenched around him, pulling him deeper until he cried out too and spent himself inside her.

They lay together, panting, and it was several minutes before either one of them had the strength—or inclination—to speak.

“That was beautiful,” he murmured sleepily. “You’re beautiful.”

Amelia nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck and threw an arm across his chest. “That was amazing. And exhausting. You never warned me about that.”

“You should sleep for a bit—you’ll need the energy for later tonight,” he added wickedly. He extricated himself from her cozy embrace, got up, walked to the washstand, and brought her a damp cloth. After she’d washed, he covered her with the soft counterpane and slipped back into bed beside her, pulling her close.

They fell asleep just so—nose to nose, skin to skin—and utterly content.

* * *

Amelia was awakened from the most blissful sleep she’d ever known by a distinct
thump
.

“Miss Amelia!” A whisper from beyond the door—loud and urgent. The door rattled in its frame.

She bolted upright in bed. Dear God.

“Stephen.” He lay beside her, snaking an arm around her thigh, even as he slept. She shook him.

“’Morning.”

“Yes, it is. Morning!” she whispered. “Cicely is at the door. Hide!”

Amelia sprang out of bed, scooped her robe off the floor, and shoved her arms into the sleeves. Stephen picked up his clothes and boots and hurried behind the door. “I thought my days of fast getaways were over.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your robe is inside out.”

So it was. Blast.

She opened the door a crack and Cicely immediately pushed her way in, nearly crushing Stephen with the door.

“Your mother is home.”

“What?”

“She’s in the drawing room. Mr. Giles is doing his best to prevent her from coming upstairs. If Lord Brookes hurries, he should be able to get past the first landing without being seen. He can depart through the rear door. Meanwhile, we must make you presentable.”

Cicely marched passed Stephen to the armoire, apparently unimpressed by the fact that he was shirtless and fastening his breeches.

“Hurry,” Amelia hissed, more to herself than anyone.

Stephen pulled his boots on smoothly but quickly and shrugged into his jacket. He jammed his hat on his head, then clutched his balled-up shirt in one fist and his waistcoat in the other. “I’ll call on you later,” he promised, and kissed her lips so softly and sweetly that Amelia almost forgot Mama could climb the stairs at any moment.

“Put this on.” Cicely tossed Amelia a morning gown—the primmest in her wardrobe. A wise, if not entirely fitting, choice.

Stephen stood by the door, grinning and hesitating as though he wanted to watch her shed her robe.

“Go!” Amelia waved him away.

She didn’t bother with a corset—simply threw on a chemise and the dress. Cicely made a quick pass over the room and clucked her tongue as she picked up a long white cloth off the floor. “He left his cravat.”

Before Amelia could formulate a response, her maid walked to the window, pushed up the sash, and called out, “Lord Brookes!” before unceremoniously tossing the cravat out the window.

Turning to Amelia, she said, “There’s no time to properly fix your hair. Let me braid it quickly and wind it around your head.”

Cicely was done in a trice and Amelia stood before the mirror. “You know,” Amelia said, “I
have
missed Mama. I don’t think I realized it until just now.”

“It’s been awfully quiet around here without her,” the maid answered diplomatically.

Amelia gathered Cicely into a hug. “Thank you for everything.”

“There’s no time for sentimentality! You must go rescue Mr. Giles at once.”

Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, Amelia flitted down the stairs. Mama’s wobbly, high-pitched voice carried out of the drawing room. “I don’t wish to see the
post
right now, Giles. I wish to see my
daughter
—you remember, the lovely but defiant young woman who lives here? The one who stays in her room all the time and refuses to take a husband—just to spite me? I want to see
her
. Now. But first, tell Mrs. Boggs that I require tea and a bit of sustenance.”

When Amelia entered the drawing room, Giles’s shoulders slumped with relief. She shot him a grateful smile.

“Mama!” Amelia bent to kiss her mother’s round, rouged cheeks. “You’re looking very well. Bath must have agreed with you.”

“What has Cicely done with your hair? It looks a fright.”

“I told her I didn’t want her to fuss with it this morning.”

“Well, you’ll never snare a gentleman if you insist on wearing your hair like a milkmaid.” Mama pressed a hand to her belly. “You see? This is just the sort of thing that causes me distress.”

“Let me open a window.”

Before Amelia had crossed the room, Giles cleared his throat from the doorway. “Pardon me, Mrs. Wimple, but you have a visitor.”

“Who would dare to call at this time of the day?”

“Lord Brookes, ma’am.”

Mama’s jaw dropped. She began blinking furiously. “
What
has been going on here in my absence?”

“Well…” Amelia’s face flamed.

Giles cleared his throat again. “Shall I show him in?”

“He’s the brother of a marquess.” Mama’s tone suggested her patience was terribly thin. “Of
course
you shall.” She turned to Amelia. “I’d wager you’re regretting the milkmaid hairstyle just now.”

When Stephen strode into the drawing room, Mama brightened instantly. “Why Lord Brookes, to what do we owe this pleasure?”

He was fully dressed, thank heaven. And he carried a fistful of roses, tulips, and other assorted flowers.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wimple, Miss Wimple,” he said with a crisp bow. He walked right up to Mama and handed her the flowers. “For you.”

“Oh, how lovely. It’s been an age since I received flowers from a handsome young buck.” She narrowed her eyes at Stephen. “Although I regret to inform you that your cravat is woefully askew.”

Amelia worried her lip and considered crawling under the settee.

He flashed a dazzling smile, and Mama seemed placated—both the unorthodox calling hour and crooked cravat forgiven.

“I hoped I might be permitted a word with you, Mrs. Wimple—in private.”

Mama shot her a questioning glance, but Amelia was already heading for the door, happy to let Stephen handle this particular matter. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll just get something to put the flowers in.”

She left them and quickly enlisted Cicely’s help in finding a vase. When she returned, she pressed an ear to the drawing room door, desperate for some sign of how Stephen fared. She heard him approaching just before the door opened and jumped back to get out of the way.

He emerged from the room alone—and apparently unscathed.

“Well?” she asked.

He pulled her away from the door, hauled her body against his, and claimed her mouth with a searing kiss. “She has agreed to be my mother-in-law.”

Amelia’s heart pounded wildly. “She did?”

He smiled smugly. “No woman can resist me.”

“What’s she doing now?”

“Planning the engagement party, if I had to guess. I asked her for a few minutes alone with you, so I could do this.” He dropped to one knee. “Amelia Wimple, I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Of course I will.”

“You’re willing to forego all the advantages of the single state?”

“Absolutely. Are you?”

“For you? Yes. A million times, yes.”

He stood and swept her into his arms, then spun her around till she was dizzy.

“Where on earth did you get the flowers?” she asked breathlessly.

“Your neighbor’s garden. Otherwise known as my dressing room.” He pointed to his cravat. “What do you think of this particular knot?”

She raised a brow. “I confess, I’ve never seen it before. What do you call it?”

“This,” he said quite seriously, “is known as ‘the wicked rake’s garden knot.’ Not every gentleman can pull off the look.”

“I should think not.” She patted the back of her head. “Nor can every woman pull off the milkmaid braid.”

“Maybe they’ll write about our deplorable lack of style in your gossip rags.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps they will. We’ll be too busy living our lives to care.”

“Oh, we’ll be busy, all right.” He pulled her closer, letting her feel the evidence of his desire. “I plan to keep you very busy. Starting… right… now…”

About the Author

Anne Barton began swiping romance novels off her mom’s bookshelf as a teenager, so when she had the chance to spend a semester in London—home to her favorite heroes—she packed her bags and promptly fell in love with the city, its history, and its pubs. She dreamed of writing romance, but somehow ended up a software analyst instead.

Fortunately, a few years and a few careers later, Anne found her way back to writing the stories she loves and won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award for Regency Historical Romance. She lives in Maryland with her husband and three children, who try valiantly not to roll their eyes whenever she quotes Jane Austen. Her weaknesses include reality TV, cute-but-impractical shoes, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

Learn more at:

www.AnneBarton.com

Twitter, @_AnneBarton

Facebook.com/AnneBartonAuthor

Don’t miss the first book in the sexy Honeycote series from award-winning author Anne Barton!

Desperate times lead London’s leading dressmaker Anabelle Honeycote to desperate measures—and into the arms of a devilishly handsome duke!

See the next page for an excerpt from

When She Was Wicked
.

Chapter 1

Alteration: (1) A change made to a garment in order to improve the fit or style. (2) A change in plans, often necessitated by misfortune, as when one is unexpectedly apprehended during the commission of a crime.

London, 1815

“Extortion” was an ugly word. It put one in mind of a villain who fleeced the pockets and slandered the names of hapless victims.

What Miss Anabelle Honeycote did to support her family was most certainly not
that.

Perhaps her actions met the crudest definition of the word, but she preferred “accepting coin in exchange for the solemn promise to safeguard secrets.” Much less nefarious, and a girl had to sleep at night.

The primary location in which Anabelle harvested secrets was not a seedy alley or gaming hell, but a small reputable dress shop situated on Bond Street where she worked as a seamstress. Mama would be appalled if she knew about the money-making scheme, but, truth be told, Anabelle would have extorted money from the Archbishop himself to pay for Dr. Conwell’s visits. He was Mama’s only glimmer of hope—and he wasn’t cheap.