Free London's Most Wanted Rake by Bronwyn Scott

wives in India and wives in England. Surely such a deception wasn’t that hard to pull off with the wide ocean between them. His family loved him, they would recover from the blow and in time they’d come to love her as he did.
    He’d kissed her then, long and hard. What it lacked in finesse, it made up in ardour. They’d been hot for each other in that last embrace, his hands everywhere, her cries in his mouth as he devoured her, joy surging through him that she would be his one day very soon.
    * * *
    He awoke, aching and hard beneath the sheets, his body drenched with sweat. The dream had been intense as were his waking emotions as they tangled with the fingers of sleep. Drowsy anger rose still after all these years, righteous anger on behalf of the young man he’d been and the betrayal that young man had suffered—a betrayal of his heart, of his ideals. It had changed everything for him. He had waited, not three days, but five. She had not come and the dreams that claimed him now were not as rose-tinged as the ones that had come earlier.
    * * *
    It was Henri who had borne him the news of her betrayal. The comte and she were as reunited lovers, Henri told him. Henri had been to their home for a supper and he’d walked with them in their garden holding hands as they strolled with their friends. The comte had showered her with new gowns and a king’s ransom in jewels, among them a diamond collar worth a small estate in itself.
    Jealousy stabbed him hard as he imagined her in those gardens walking with another, even if that other was her rightful husband. Those were their gardens, his and hers, where they’d first strolled, where they’d walked so many times after her salons. Never mind that they walked there with others, always surrounded by others. That was a fact a lovesick swain conveniently forgets. His mind, too, made arguments for him. She doesn’t love him. She loves you, it was you she gave her summer to. Ah, yes, the cynic in him began to rise. You and the myriad other guests who flitted in and out of the house in Fontainebleau.
    The man in the dream had seen then in hindsight how he hadn’t truly had the full sum of her attentions. He was one of many. She’d made him feel special, that was all.
    It would have been best if he’d accepted defeat quietly, graciously and gone home to England at that point. But his blood ran hot where the comtesse was concerned and Henri’s report wasn’t enough to dissuade him. Foolish boy that he was, he’d forced Henri to tell him where she might appear in public since it was clear she wasn’t going to invite him to her home. Henri had reluctantly told him she and the comte would be at the Luxembourg Gardens on Sunday for a picnic with friends. He’d gone and watched her from the periphery of their group, although it took all his will-power not to approach her directly.
    She’d been stunning that day. She’d worn pink, a deep, bright, true pink that brought out her hair and complexion brilliantly. Around her neck, she wore an expensive diamond collar that dripped with wealth just as Henri had reported. Never could he afford such jewels, Channing had thought. He was comfortably provided for as a second son, but he hadn’t the comte ’s wealth. Her circumstances would be somewhat reduced if she’d come with him.
    He’d waited and watched for an opening, on the hope that she’d leave the comte ’s side and he’d have a chance to speak with her. He had no luck. She’d spent the day beside her husband, a tall, dark-haired man with olive skin who looked like the Italians he’d summered with. He was well dressed, too, and full of manners. He smiled at his wife, fingered the diamonds at her throat and laughed at whatever she said.
    She’d answered such attentions with attentions of her own. She had eyes for no one but the comte , except the one brief moment when she had spied him on the edge of the company, hanging back by the hedges. Her eyes had gone cold and