Free The Last Wicked Scoundrel by Lorraine Heath Page A

ever seen. Unlike hers, his nose was straight and perfect, narrow, patrician. His chin was narrow, sharp, with the tiniest dent in the center of it. His cheekbones were high, hollowed. The bristles along his jaw were darker than she’d expected them to be. She had an insane thought that she would very much like to shave him, feel and hear the scrape of the razor over his skin.
    She thought of doing things with him that she never thought of doing with Avendale. William appealed to her in ways that Avendale never had. She had cared for Avendale, had believed when she accepted his offer of marriage that she loved him, but now she could not help but wonder if perhaps she had been too young to truly recognize love, if perhaps she had simply been in love with the notion of love, or perhaps marriage. It was what girls of her station strived to accomplish: a good marriage. Or maybe he had managed to beat out her affections toward him until no remnants of her original feelings for him remained, and so she could no longer remember exactly how she had felt toward him.
    “Did you sleep?” she asked William.
    “I promised to keep watch,” he said with a small smile and a hoarse voice that stirred something deep inside her. It implied secret trysts. “Besides, I don’t need much sleep, and I rarely go an entire night without someone knocking on my door.”
    “I can’t help but feel I’ve become quite the nuisance.”
    “You haven’t. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” He tucked his finger beneath her chin and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Are you feeling a bit more settled?”
    “Somewhat. I’m quite embarrassed with the spectacle I made of myself last night.”
    “You have nothing for which to be embarrassed. A nightmare can be upsetting enough without the strange occurrences you’re experiencing.”
    “I just don’t understand what’s happening.”
    “I think someone is striving to drive you mad.”
    “But who and for what purpose?”
    Turning his attention to the braid draped over her shoulder, he brushed his fingers through the loose strands at the end, seemingly mesmerized by the movements. “That I don’t know, but I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be wiser for you and your son to move into my residence.” He shifted his solemn gaze back to hers. “Just for a few days.”
    She had felt so welcomed in his home, so at ease. It was there that she had come to realize the horror that her life had truly become. As she gained her strength, he allowed her to determine the menu for the meals. He never found fault with her selections. He never criticized if she spent her mornings reading or composing letters. For the first time in her life, the hours of the day became hers to do with as she pleased. He had given her glimpses of a life that didn’t encompass fear.
    “I truly, truly appreciate the offer, but I’ll not be chased out of my own home. I don’t think Whit is in any danger. His governess hasn’t reported any strange goings on. All that is happening just seems directed at me. Perhaps I do have a disgruntled servant. I’ll speak with Thatcher, have him watch them a bit more closely.”
    “I admire your resolve.” He traced the curve of her cheek. “But I don’t think you’ve quite recovered from last night’s misadventure. I have a morning ritual that I don’t always get to indulge in but I think it would be just the thing to chase the last of the shadows from your eyes.”
    He was looking at her so intently, as though he were memorizing every line and curve of her features, every bump and every scar. His intensity had all sorts of notions racing through her mind, notions no proper lady should entertain. Morning rituals that included kissing and touching, hands on her thighs, her stomach, her breasts. She wasn’t certain she was quite ready for that, but she heard herself asking, “What sort of ritual?”
    “Rowing.”
    She blinked in surprise. Was that what the lower classes