Escape with A Rogue (43 page)

Philip stood at Jack’s side. Settling portions of her considerable income on her parents, Amelia, and Philip had astonished them all—and had eased her worries about her marriage. It had been Jack’s idea, a brilliant one, and she’d summoned a notary at once to have it done.

Give them most of it,
he’d said,
if it’ll make them happy
.
Let them make their mistakes, and we’ll help them up if they fall. We’ll invest the rest—part of my former wealth came from legal investments
. And when he’d rhymed them off, she realized she had promised herself to a man with the business acumen of her grandfather. He’d also revealed he had kept some of his own money in trust.
I have a bit put by
, he’d said. It was almost fifty thousand pounds.

In the end, she had not lost her family’s support over her choice. They appeared genuinely happy for her.

“Madeline?” Father whispered. “We’re creating talk . . .”

Indeed. Curious guests were beginning to murmur around her. More to add to the scandal.

An earl’s daughter marrying a former gaming hell owner! And stopping in the very middle of the aisle to stare helplessly at the groom! But she didn’t care if everyone knew she was frozen in place by one look at Jack’s smile.

Jack was seen as a hero. He had discovered a traitor among the Crown’s men. He had helped stop a group of vicious men who intended to kill the king. The public had found out that he had given most of his gaming fortune away to charities before leaving London to live a simpler life as a groom. All in all, Jack was seen as rather romantic.

To her, he was gloriously romantic. He was Jack. And he could be hers, if she could only just put one foot in front of the other . . .

 Tonight, she would spend her last night at Eversleigh. Jack would come to her room, openly this time instead of secretly. They would make love over and over until it was almost dawn, and she would sleep in his arms as she’d done for several nights—sleep in peace, without nightmares. Tomorrow, she and Jack would travel the area and search for a house of their own. He hadn’t wanted to engage estate agents. He’d wanted to have an adventure. “For a while,” he’d whispered. “I’ll have you all to myself, trapped in a carriage with me as we scour the countryside for our perfect home. I have a lifetime of naughty ideas to try, and I’d like to begin as soon as we can.”

She had laughed. But now she realized the longer she stood in the aisle, the longer it would be before she could try those erotic ideas.

“Let us make haste, Father,” she whispered. He smiled. And hurried her up the aisle, perhaps afraid she’d stop again.

Reverend Aubry cleared his throat. And the ceremony began. Then Jack’s deep, seductive voice filled the airy church. “I, Jack Travers, take you, Madeline Augusta Honoria Ashby—”

Travers, it turned out, had been the name his mother had used for Jack’s birth. Jack had protected her, saved her, loved her. She already knew what he’d been willing to pledge for her—his very life. Yet her heart still thumped erratically.

“—from this day forward, until death do us part,” Jack said, solemnly and loudly. He blinked, probably trying to hide the surprising sheen in his eyes, and her heart trembled. This exquisite moment had brought him to tears. She was quickly losing the battle with hers.

She sniffled as the reverend intoned her name. She repeated his words, her heart soaring. With them—
to love and to cherish
—she embraced a glorious future. An errant tear escaped to land with salty wetness upon her lip.

Then Jack kissed it away, sealing their pact, proclaiming to a packed church that they were man and wife. She melted with him beneath the streaming, colorful sunlight, but he lifted his mouth from hers to grin and whisper, “If we’re quick, we can sneak off to the vestry and explore one of those naughty ideas . . .”

Then he kissed her again. The entire church—perhaps the entire world—stood still.

* * *

Madeline was still finding telltale pieces of bark in her hair when she and Jack encountered Captain Livingston outside the church. She should not have let Jack lure her behind the large oak for more kisses. Amelia had plucked out most of the bits, but sharp-eyed matrons of the village had stared pointedly at more. And now, of course, Captain Livingston spotted one and his brows rose.

He clasped her hands. “Congratulations, my lady.” Livingston gave Jack an inscrutable look. “Travers, you have a formidable woman. A treasure. If you don’t take good care of her, you’ll have the Crown to answer to.” But he grinned.

“You need have no worries about that.” Jack slid his arm around her waist.

“What of the other escapees?” Madeline asked. She had not seen Livingston for over a week. “What about Liam Black, Wycliffe, and Simon?” Madeline asked. The newspapers from London were filled with dramatic stories of attempts to capture the remaining escaped convicts. But news sheets in the country were always several days old.

“They haven’t been captured yet. But we are close.”

“I still do not understand why those men were in that Prison,” she said, “when they were not prisoners of war.”

She hoped Livingston would respond, but he stayed silent. That was one mystery she wished she could solve. But it appeared she would not. So she asked, “What about Beausoleil?”

She was surprised he had not already been caught, since the Crown knew exactly where he was headed. To his wife.

“He disappeared,” Livingston answered, “and so did his wife. But we will find them.” The captain gave a rueful smile. “Each man is pursuing a woman. It will likely be those women who will be the men’s downfalls.”

“You’re wrong.” Jack said this softly to Livingston, but he was looking at her. Looking at her as he had before: as if heaven and happiness were wrapped up in her. “I think those women will be their salvation.”

Then Jack swept her into his arms for a kiss and carried her hastily to their carriage.

Read on for an excerpt of the latest

mass-market romance

from
USA Today
Bestselling,

award-winning

author Sharon Page

Engaged in Sin

Anne Beddington is in a desperate situation: on the run for a crime she didn’t commit. Had she sufficiently mastered the art of seduction to become the mistress of the notorious Duke of March, Devon Audley? War has left Devon a recluse, but Anne is penniless, alone, and in need of a powerful gentleman’s protection. She has learned how to pleasure a man, yet when this sinfully handsome duke insists that intimate delights must be a two-way street, Anne cannot deny his sensual promise.

Read on for an excerpt . . .

Chapter One

August 1815

The first time she’d tried to sell her body outside the Drury Lane theatre, Anne Beddington approached a handsome black-haired gentleman, without knowing whom he truly was.

He had been gentle and kind. And young—perhaps only a few years her senior. Twenty-one to her seventeen, she guessed. He smiled patiently at her even as he refused her offer. Somehow he’d known at once that she was a virgin, that she had never prostituted herself before. He pressed a few coins into her shaking hands, then he tipped up her chin to look at her.

She’d never gazed directly into a gentleman’s eyes. He had violet irises—a color so unearthly it gave him a fey air—and thick black lashes. One look and she was bewitched.

 “Angel, this is not a thing you want to do,” he’d said grimly. “You are an innocent and pretty despite all that grime. Take the money and use it to go home to your family.”

He assumed she’d left her country family and run away to London, or she had come to Town to find work, as so many girls had to do. Nothing could have been further from the truth for her.

She had clutched the coins in her palm—two gold sovereigns—embarrassed to be given his charity when she’d been quite prepared to earn her money, but she had swallowed her pride, lifted the hems of her threadbare skirts, and scurried back to her mother’s bedside.

The money had not lasted long. Her mother had needed so much laudanum for her pain. Eventually Anne had been forced to do what the gentleman had warned her not to.

Now, five years later, she was about to do the very thing she had failed to do that first night outside the theatre. She was going to convince the Duke of March to bed her.

This time she was not in London. And this time the duke was her captive quarry. She stood in his study in his hunting box—a manor house in Leicestershire—with her hand still on the door handle. He was sprawled out in front of her on the carpet, more than six feet of brawny, tanned,
naked
male. His long legs were splayed apart, his bare buttocks relaxed. His black hair fell in a mess of waves to his shoulders. An empty brandy decanter lay by his outstretched hand.

He appeared to be dead to the world.

Anne’s heart tripped in her chest.
Was
he only unconscious? With his chest squashed against the rug, and his mouth turned away from her, she couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

If he had polished off an entire decanter of brandy, could he have drunk himself to death? She didn’t know. In the slums she’d seen men drink quite a bit, but could a man stomach that much?

She glanced to the study door. For privacy, she had closed it behind her. Should she summon the odd, terrifying butler who had met her at the door? The stooped man had a hump on his back, tufts of yellow-gray hair at his ears, and a large gap where his front teeth should have been. He’d tried to shoo her away. She had been firm, though he’d cackled in the most revolting way when she informed him she was a gift from the Earl of Ashton and must see the duke at once.

She really did not wish to deal with the butler again.

Lifting her hems, Anne hurried to the naked duke and crouched beside him. Her body cast a shadow over his face, but she could see scars on his cheeks above the haze of thick black stubble. His lips were full and soft. They appeared completely motionless.

Her throat dried. She bent close and felt his breath whisper over her cheek. Then he gave a low, rasping snore, and Anne choked on a relieved giggle.

Should she shake him awake? She had been a whore for so long it meant nothing to touch a masculine body, but she didn’t know quite what to do with an unconscious duke who had no idea she’d invaded his home.

Would summoning help end with her tossed out on her rump? What if the butler suspected she’d knocked the duke over the head? She shivered. The room was damp and chilly even though it was late August. Drawing off her gloves, she brushed her fingertips over the bronzed shoulder in front of her. His skin was cool. A silk throw lay across a wing chair. She plucked it up. The chill of his skin made her feel cold; it made her shiver once more, just for him.

Gently, she arranged the blanket over his smooth, muscled back. She tugged it down to his slim waist, to cover his hips, buttocks, and legs. His bottom proved tighter, rounder, than any she’d ever seen, his legs long and powerfully built.

Any woman would quiver, faced with such male beauty, but she knew there was fear beneath the tremble of her shoulders. A man this strong could easily hurt her. He had been kind to her once, so long ago, but she now intended to lie her way into his bed.

First she had to wake him. She gently touched his forehead to brush back his hair. A thick lock had fallen into his eye—

His hand shot out and clamped onto her wrist. A scream flew out into the room. Hers.

The duke moved so fast, she couldn’t think. He pushed her down to the floor. His big hands pinned her shoulders and he was braced over her, his legs on either side of her hips. His knees pressed into her skirts. She stared up into his eyes. Still violet and every bit as astonishing as they’d been five years before.

“Your Grace.” Her voice was barely a croak. “Your Grace, I—I did not mean you any harm. I am the woman the Earl of Ashton sent.” The lie dropped off her lips. She prayed he believed it. Lord Ashton had no idea she’d overheard his conversation when he had been trying to coax another woman to come to the duke—her friend Kat, who already had a protector.

The duke’s heart pounded against her breasts. His gaze still focused over her head. His eyes didn’t look injured at all. It was only because he didn’t focus on her that she could tell he was blind. Everyone in England knew the hero of war, the Duke of March, had miraculously survived a bayonet wound to the head that should have killed him, but had lost his sight. A deep scar disappeared into his hair.

“Hell,” the duke muttered. His head dropped, then he rolled off her, landing hard on his side on the floor. “Ashton sent you? You are the whore he thought would heal me with pleasure?”

Anne flinched. She still did at the word
whore
. Even though she had been one for a very long time. He spoke with such a dismissive tone, her stomach churned. “Yes,” she said, trying to sound confident. As saucy as a paid ladybird should.