Epilogue
“Your sister looks well,” commented Her Grace, the Duchess of Masterson.
Jess looked across the veranda table at Alistair’s mother. “Yes, she is healthy and strong. And every day, she remembers a little more about laughter and finding joy.”
Just beyond the carved stone balusters that divided the veranda from the immaculate Masterson gardens, many of the dozen guests attending Jess’s house party strolled through the neatly trimmed yew hedges. Even Masterson was out enjoying the beautiful day, holding hands with the infant Master Albert who was toddling along the gravel paths.
“Lord Tarley seems quite taken with her,” Louisa noted.
Jess’s gaze moved back to Hester and Michael, following as they walked together; Hester with her parasol, and Michael with his hands clasped behind his back. They made a lovely couple, his dark comeliness so beautifully complementing her sister’s golden beauty.
“He’s been a dear friend for a long time,” Jess said. “But these last two years have proven him to be invaluable in so many ways. He’s made her feel safe, and from that position of safety, Hester has found the peace of mind to heal. Much as your son did for me.”
“It is no less than what you have done for him.” The duchess lifted her teacup to her lips, her porcelain skin shielded beneath the brim of her wide straw hat. “Where is my son, by the way?”
“He’s looking into an irrigation problem of some sort.”
“I hope he knows that Masterson is impressed with him.”
There was no way for Alistair to know since the two men rarely spoke, but such unfortunate rifts were topics best left for another day. “There isn’t anything he fails to excel in. Truly, I find it remarkable that such a romantic and creative soul should also be so well versed in numbers, engineering, and countless other analytical pursuits.”
There was also his physical prowess, but that was for Jess alone to know and enjoy.
“Milady.”
Her attention moved to the maid who approached with a missive in hand. Jess smiled and accepted it, immediately recognizing her husband’s penmanship on the exterior. She broke the seal with a smile.
Find me.
“If you will please excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, pushing back from the table and standing.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Always.” Jess moved through the open French doors into the house. The interior was quiet and peaceful, the large sprawling estate somehow retaining a feeling of intimacy and welcome. She and Alistair occupied one wing of the manse during the summer months, while the duke and duchess occupied the other most of the year. This was their second year summering with his family and, so far, it was progressing better than the first. Alistair’s naming of Albert’s son as his heir had been a great relief to all.
Jess had used the excuse of requiring assistance with a house party to bring Hester closer to rejoining Society with the start of the next Season. The past two years had been difficult, with the scandal surrounding Regmont’s death and all the speculation that sprang from it. Jess’s marriage to Alistair Caulfield, a future duke, had helped to divert attention, but nothing could hasten the healing process for Hester. Still, her sister’s recovery was progressing slowly but surely, with Michael always nearby if she needed him, a solid and unobtrusive friend. Perhaps he would become something more to her one day, when Hester was ready. Alistair believed his friend would wait patiently, just as Alistair had done for Jess.
Heading to Alistair’s study first, she found the space empty. She moved to the parlor, then the billiards room, but still didn’t find him. It was only when she began ascending the right side of the split staircase that she heard the faint strains of a violin. Her heart swelled with joy. Listening to Alistair play was one of her favorite pastimes. Sometimes, after they’d made love, he would rise from their bed and engage the stringed instrument. She would lie there and listen, hearing in the notes all the emotion he couldn’t convey with words. It was the same with his drawings. The finely wrought pencil lines captured moments and expressions only a lover would grasp and treasure. They told her more eloquently than speech how precious she was to him, how often he thought of her, and how deeply he felt about her.
Jess followed the haunting strains of a plaintive melody to their rooms. Two of the upstairs maids lingered in the hall, as awed as Jess, until they saw her approach and scrambled away. She opened the sitting room door, then shut and locked it behind her. Contentment swept over her along with the increased volume of music. She located her spouse in their bedroom, standing before the open window, his clothing removed except for his buff-colored trousers. Acheron lay at his feet, staring raptly up at him, as entranced as everyone became when he played.
As Alistair slid the bow to and fro across the strings, the muscles of his arms and back flexed and clenched with the fluid movements, creating a view she would never tire of. She sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, watching and listening, her blood already beginning to heat and thicken with anticipation.
It was the middle of the day. Numerous guests surrounded and awaited them. Yet he’d lured her to their bedroom to seduce her with the refinement of his talent and the primitive lust of his virility—appealing to the disparate needs she hadn’t been aware of until he’d shown them to her.
The music faded into the warm summer breeze, and she applauded softly. He placed the instrument carefully within its case.
“I love to hear you play,” she said softly.
“I know.”
She smiled. “And I love the sight of your bare back and provocative backside, as well.”
“I know that, too.”
He faced her and her breath caught. He was partially aroused and wholly beautiful.
Jess licked her lower lip. “I feel overdressed.”
“You are.” His approach was both predatory and graceful, his rippled abdomen and confident stride engaging all of her feminine instincts.
“What lascivious agenda do you pursue?”
“We’ve been wed just over a year, yet I have not been granted my husbandly right to a honeymoon.”
A shiver of heated pleasure rippled through her. “Oh? My poor darling. Have you been denied any other husbandly rights?”
“You wouldn’t deny yourself.” Alistair caught her by the elbows and tugged her to her feet. There was a roughness and urgency to his touch that belied the softness of the melody with which he’d mesmerized her. Her nipples beaded tight beneath her bodice in response.
He knew, of course. His hands cupped her swelling breasts and kneaded with slightly more pressure than necessary. The edge to him made her hot and wet, eager. She loved all the ways he made love to her, but the times he sought her out while at the end of his control were special. She no longer had to drive him to the precipice. He stood on the cliff and called for her, deliberately bringing her close at the times when he was capable of being most vulnerable. Then, they would make the fall together, as they did everything together.
She set her hands on his hips, tugging herself closer. “I’m too self-indulgent when it comes to you,” she agreed.
“Indulge yourself with me on a honeymoon,” he coaxed in that dark voice of sin. “Weeks on a ship. Months in Jamaica. We have unfinished business there, you and I. Hester is strong enough now to bear the loss of you for a time, and Michael will look after her with as much care as he would look after his own heart.”
“Can you go now? Can you afford the time away?”
“I’ve spoken with Masterson. Now is the time to go, while he is fit and able.” His hands slid up to her face, cupping her cheeks. Tilting his head, he brought his lips to hers, kissing her softly. “I want to swim with you naked. I want to show you the fields burning. I want to—”
“—fuck in the rain,” she whispered, just to feel the tension grip him. “There is no need to seduce me to elicit my acquiescence. I would go with you anywhere, for any reason.”
“But this way is much more enjoyable.” Bending his knees, he matched his thick erection to the juncture of her thighs and rolled his hips against her. “With the windows open and our guests outside, you will have to be quiet in your pleasures.”
“While you do your worst to make me scream?”
“My best.”
Her mouth curved against his lips. “Perhaps you will be the noisy one. Perhaps I will make you groan and curse and beg for mercy.”
“Is that a challenge, Lady Baybury?” he purred. “You know I cannot resist a challenge.”
Jess reached behind him and gripped his taut, delicious buttocks. “I know. In fact, I am counting on that.”
Acheron, well versed in the proclivities of his lord and mistress, padded out of the room and found his mat beside the chaise in the adjoining sitting room. Flopping to his side, he fell into a blissful canine slumber, lulled by the sweet sounds of laughter and love that spilled from the bedroom behind him.
She’ll be his MISTRESS BY MARRIAGE.
Check out this fabulous novel from Maggie Robinson,
out now.
London, 1820
Edward Christie had been an utter fool six years ago. True, he’d had plenty of company. Every man in the room gaped when Caroline Parker entered Lady Huntington’s ballroom. Conversation stilled. Hearts hammered. Shoulders straightened. Chests and areas lower swelled.
There were many reasons for those changes. Her hair, masses of it, red as lava was swirled up with diamonds. Diamond earrings, a diamond necklace, and diamond bracelets were festooned all over her creamy skin—skin so delicious every man whose tongue was hanging out longed to lap it. Her eyes were liquid silver, bright as stars and fringed with midnight black lashes, so at odds with her hair. And her dress, a shocking scarlet for an unmarried woman—for any woman—had a diamond brooch hovering over the most spectacular assets he’d ever seen. The jewels were all paste, as he was later to find out, but her breasts were very real.
There were known drawbacks, which quickly circulated about the room, prodded along by spiteful cats who were quite eclipsed by Caroline’s magnificence. She was old, at least twenty-five, and her family—what there was of it—was dirt poor and touched by scandal. Some said her brother died in a duel; others said he was killed by one of his many mistresses. She had a sister in Canada, living in some godforsaken outpost in the snow with her lieutenant husband and howling wolves. Her parents were long dead and she was clinging to the ton by the weakest of threads. The distant cousin who had inherited her brother’s title was anxious to get her off his hands before he put his hands all over her and irritated his irritable wife.
Edward had obliged in a courtship of less than five days. Baron Christie had spent his first thirty-four years never, ever being impulsive, and his sudden marriage by special license to a woman who looked like an expensive courtesan was the on dit of the season. He had buried one wife, the perfectly staid and proper Alice, whose brown hair would never be compared to living fire and whose brown eyes could only be compared to mud. Alice, who’d quickly and quietly done her duty, had provided him with an heir, a spare, and a little girl who looked just as angular and forbidding as her father. Alice, who’d caught a chill one week and died the next was no doubt rolling over in her grave to be supplanted by Caroline Parker.
Edward had no one to blame but himself. He didn’t need more children, and Caroline hadn’t any money. But what she did have—what she was—had upended Edward’s life for one hellish year before he came to his senses and put her away.
Caroline had no one to blame but herself. It was her pride, her dreadful Parker pride that had prevented her from saying one simple word—no. If only her rosy lips had opened and she had managed to get her tongue to the roof of her mouth and expelled sufficient air, she would not find herself living on Jane Street, home to the most notorious courtesans in London.
When Edward asked her to marry him after less than a week’s acquaintance, she should have said no. When he’d asked her that horrible, vile, impertinent question five years ago, she should have said no. But instead she’d said yes to the first question, rather gratefully if truth be told, and hadn’t said a word to the second, just cast her husband the most scornful look she could conjure up and showed him her back.
Caroline was no man’s mistress, despite her exclusive Jane Street address and rumors to the contrary. In the five years since she and her husband separated, he had come to her door but once a year, the anniversary of the night she was unable to utter that one syllable word. They took ruthless pleasure in each other, and then Edward would disappear again. She, however, remained, ostracized from polite society, completely celibate, and despite her ardent hopes, a mother only to the curious contingent of young women who shared her street. The children changed, but the game remained the same. From experienced opera dancers to fresh-faced country girls who had been led astray by rich gentlemen, Caroline watched the parade of mistresses come and go. She passed teacups and handkerchiefs and advice, feeling much older than her almost thirty-one years.
But when she looked in her pier glass, she was still relatively youthful, her red curls shiny, her gray eyes bright. She might have been stouter than she wished, but the prideful Parkers were known to run to fat in middle age. For some reason Edward had let her keep some of the lesser Christie jewels, so there was always a sparkle on her person even if there was no spark to her life. She made the best of it, however, and had some surprising success writing wicked novels that she couldn’t seem to write fast enough. Her avocation would have stunned her old governess, as Caroline had showed no aptitude whatsoever for grammar lessons or spelling as a girl. Fortunately, her publisher was grammatical and spelled accurately enough for both of them. Her Courtesan Court series was highly popular with society members and their servants alike. There were happy endings galore for the innocent girls led astray, and the wicked always got what was coming to them. She modeled nearly every villain on Edward. It was most satisfactory to shoot him or toss him off a cliff in the final pages. Once she crushed him in a mining mishap, his elegant sinewy body and dark head entombed for all eternity with coal that was as black as his heart.
Of course, sometimes her heroes were modeled on him, too—men with pride nearly as perverse as the Parkers, facile fingers that knew just where to touch a girl, and particularly long, thick, entirely perfect penises. Caroline missed Edward’s penis, although she didn’t miss his conversation much. He was so damned proper and critical, and had been beyond boring to live with. Controlled. Controlling. Humorless. Once he’d installed her as his baroness, it was as if he woke up horrified at what he’d actually done, and whom he’d actually married. It was no wonder that she—
No, she couldn’t blame him. She had no one to blame but herself.
Turn the page for a peek at one of the stories in
SO I MARRIED A DEMON SLAYER,
featuring Kathy Love, Angie Fox, and Lexi George—
Angie’s “What Slays in Vegas” . . .
Sunlight stung her eyeballs even though she hadn’t opened them. Shiloh covered her eyes with her arm and groaned. She felt dizzy, weak. Her head throbbed with the worst hangover since that three-day wine binge through Sodom, Gomorrah and Zebiom.
And she hadn’t even had any alcohol last night.
She stretched, sore from last night’s activities with Damien. At least one thing had gone right. Damien had been exactly what she needed.
In fact, he was amazing.
So why’d she feel like hell?
She blinked against the bright morning, wishing she could lie in bed for the rest of eternity. Maybe she’d just close her light-blocking shades and go back to bed.
She didn’t even remember making it home last night.
In fact, she didn’t remember anything after that blinding orgasm. Strange. That had never happened to her before.
A flutter of a grin crossed her lips. If she was going to remember one thing, let it be her night in the Lust room.
She groaned into a sitting position and threw one leg onto the floor, stopping short when her toes came in contact with carpet. Her bedroom had hardwood floors. Shiloh’s eyes flew open and she gasped as she saw a nicked wooden end table. A white ceramic lamp. Beige curtains. She was in a hotel room.
Out the window, she could see the roller coaster at the New York-New York hotel. Oh thank Hades. She flopped back against the pillow. She was in Vegas. Okay. She placed a hand on her chest. She was a few blocks from home. No need to panic.
Breathe.
Although something on her left hand didn’t feel right. It was like a heavy weight on her finger. She glanced down to the hand on her chest and shrieked. There, on her left ring finger, was a gold band with a diamond on it the size of Switzerland.
She stared at it like she’d never seen one before. In all fairness, she hadn’t. At least not on her hand.
From her right came a bellowing snore. She scrambled off the bed and stood staring down at Damien, tousled and wickedly naked.
What the hell happened last night?
She didn’t remember a thing.
She rubbed her temples. Think, think, think.
Okay. She went to work, bribed the fairy, practically mauled Damien. That part had been a lot of fun. She’d felt her power flow out of her in an amazing orgasm and then . . . nothing.
Just a cheap hotel room, a hot man and a diamond ring.
She yanked at the gold band. It was big enough to slip off easily, but it refused to budge. The obnoxious diamond clung as if it were welded onto her.
It glinted in the morning sun, mocking her.
She couldn’t be married. Succubi didn’t get married. Ever.
Her eyes stung and she rubbed at them. Even if she wanted to get married, she couldn’t marry a client from the Lust floor. It didn’t matter that he was the best sex she’d had in a thousand years.
And how dare Damien sleep at a time like this?
“Get up!” She crawled across the bed and yanked him onto his back. Her heart stuttered when she saw that he wore a gold band on his left finger too. Oh Hades. She’d been afraid of that. “Wake up. This is an emergency!”
He threw his arms up over his eyes. “What’s the . . . ?”
“Damien”—she yanked his arms down—“what did you do to me?”
He gazed at her with bleary eyes, confusion tumbling across his features. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice gravelly and a bit too indignant for her taste.
She smacked him with her pillow. “That’s what I want to know.”
He sat up faster than she expected. She could see he was still woozy. “Don’t touch me,” he warned.
“You sure didn’t mind it last night,” she shot back, pleased when a flush crept up his neck. Bull’s eye. “Now fess up. What did you do to me?”
With the grace of a cat, he was out of bed. He strode toward a shiny silver suitcase on a luggage stand, displaying his frustratingly perfect butt.
He yanked the case open, his eyes on her the whole time. “I didn’t do anything to you.” He reached inside with one hand and grabbed hold of something she couldn’t see.
Frankly, she didn’t care. “You made me pass out. Want me to show you what happened next?” Maybe he had some memory of it. She shoved her obnoxiously ringed hand at him. “You married me.”
He blinked twice and slowly removed his hand from whatever was in the case. “I couldn’t.”
She planted a hand on her hip. “Check your hand, sweetie.”
He lifted it out of the case and went white as he stared at the gold ring on his finger. “I can’t be married,” he said to his hand.
She had to smile. Briefly.
Oh, who was she kidding? This was a mess.
Shiloh stalked toward the window, wanting to get as far away from him as she could. This was too much. It had to be a mistake. Getting married meant giving her power away. Seducing only one man for the rest of her life. She couldn’t do that. She had a job. A career. Her boss was going to kill her.
She stumbled over an empty champagne bottle as she scanned the room, trying to make sense of what had happened the night before. A gigantic pink teddy bear with an I Heart Vegas button sat next to a half-empty room service tray and what appeared to be her wadded up dress.
He slammed his suitcase closed. “What did you do to me last night?”
She turned to find him glaring at her, menace in his eyes.
“You were the one with the fancy shot, you jerk. You drugged me.” Which proved he was a fool because drugs didn’t work on her.
“You were the one who drank it,” he said, yanking a pair of jeans from the closet.
Did she ever. She watched him pull on a pair of worn Levi’s and remembered just how she’d drank the cocktail off of him. She felt a delicious tightening between her legs. “Fess up. What was in it?”
He sighed and drew a hand through his hair. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you now.” He placed his hands on his hips, which only made his abs look better, damn him. “I gave you truth serum. It was supposed to make you cooperate.” His jaw flexed. “Instead, you seduced me.”
“That’s my job!”
“You made me pass out,” he accused.
“Me too. I don’t remember anything after our screaming orgasm.”
He looked like he could grind marbles with his teeth. “Don’t say that word.”
“Orgasm?” she asked, watching him flinch. “What are you? A prude?” She felt something slippery below her foot. “Oh,” she gasped as she realized she was stepping on a photograph of her and Damien posing with a minister.
She snatched it off the floor.
There she was, radiant in her gold dress, smiling like it was her wedding day. She had both arms wrapped around Damien, who had a hand on her hip and a rose in his teeth. They stood under a trellis with a red and gold sign that read The Hitching Post Wedding Chapel.
“Yeek.” She tossed it back on the floor.
He’d found photos too. Stomach tumbling, she hurried over to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through a stack of pictures. She gasped at the proof of their post-wedding limo ride. Shiloh and Damien kissing underneath the Las Vegas sign. Shiloh and Damien pretending to be tigers outside the MGM Grand. Shiloh and Damien inside the limo, kissing like the ship was about to go down, while long-haired, painfully skinny members of a rock band cheered and toasted them with bottles of Captain Morgan. He squinted and studied the last picture closer. “Who are these people?”
And don’t miss UNWRAPPED,
a sexy holiday anthology from Erin McCarthy,
Donna Kauffman, and Kate Angell,
coming next month! Turn the page for a sample of
Erin’s story, “Blue Christmas” . . .
“Santa can suck it.” Blue Farrow kept an eye on the highway and tried to hit the buttons on the radio to change the station. She was going to grind her teeth down to nubs if she had to listen to Christmas songs for another twelve hours. It was like an IV drip of sugar and spice and it was making her cranky.
Was she the only one who thought a fat dude hanging around on your roof was a bit creepy? And why were those elves so happy in that Harry Connick Jr. song? Rum in the eggnog, that’s why. Not to mention since when did three ships ever go pulling straight up to Bethlehem? She wasn’t aware it was a major port city.
Yep. She was feeling in total harmony with Scrooge. “Bah Humbug,” she muttered when her only options on the radio seemed to be all Christmas all the time or pounding rap music.
Blue had never been a big fan of Christmas, never having experienced a normal one in her childhood since her flaky mother (yes, flaky considering she’d named her daughter after a color) had done Christmas experimental style every year, never the same way twice, disregarding any of her daughter’s requests. The trend on feeling tacked onto her parents’ Christmas had continued into Blue’s adulthood, and this year she had been determined to have a great holiday all on her terms, booking herself on a cruise with her two equally single friends. She had turned down her mother’s invitation to spend the holiday with an indigenous South American tribe and her father’s request to join him with his barely-legal wife and their baby girl, and instead she was going to sip cocktails in a bikini.
Maybe.
The road in front of her was barely visible, the snow crashing down with pounding determination, the highway slick and ominous, the hours ticking by as Blue barely made progress in the treacherous conditions. Planning to drive to Miami from Ohio instead of flying had been a financial decision and would give Blue the chance to make a pit stop in Tennessee and visit her old friend from high school, but the only thing heading south at the moment was her vacation. It was Christmas Eve, her cruise ship departed in twenty hours, and she’d only made it a hundred miles in six hours, the blizzard swirling around her mocking the brilliance of her plan as she drove through the middle of nowhere Kentucky.
She was going to have to stop in Lexington and see if she could catch a flight to Miami, screw the cost. Not that planes would be taking off in this weather, but maybe by morning. If she flew out first thing, she could be in Florida in plenty of time for her four o’clock sail time. All she had to do was make it to Lexington without losing her insanity from being pummeled with schmaltzy Christmas carols or without losing control of her car in the snow.
When she leaned over and hit the radio again and found the Rolling Stones she nearly wept in gratitude. Classic rock she could handle.
But not her car. As the highway unexpectedly curved and dipped, she fishtailed in the thick snow.
Blue only managed a weak, “Oh, crap,” before she gripped the hell out of the wheel and slid sideways down the pavement, wanting to scream, but unable to make a sound.
She was going to die.
If there hadn’t been anyone else on the road, she might have managed to regain control. But there was no stopping the impact when she swung into the lane next to her, right in the path of an SUV. She wasn’t the only idiot on the road and now they were going to die together.
Blue closed her eyes and hoped there were bikinis and margaritas in the afterlife.
Santa was the man. Christian Dawes sang along to the radio at the top of his lungs, the song reminding him of his childhood, when he had listened carefully on Christmas Eve for the telltale sound of reindeer paws. Tossing the trail mix out for the reindeer to chomp on, putting the cookies on a plate for Santa, the magic and wonder and awe of waking up to a ton of presents, those were some of his best memories.
Someday when he had his own kids, he’d create all of those special moments for them, but right now Christian was content to play awesome uncle, arriving on Christmas Eve loaded down with presents for all his nieces and nephews. His trunk was stuffed with spoils, and he’d brought enough candy to earn glares from his two sisters and potentially make someone sick. But it wasn’t Christmas until a kid stuffed his face with candy then hurled after a session on the sit and spin. That’s what home videos and infamous family stories were made of.
Unfortunately the lousy weather was slowing him down on his drive from Cincinnati to Lexington. He’d left work later than he’d intended anyway, then by the time he’d hit Kentucky, he’d been forced down to thirty miles an hour because apparently the road crews had taken the holiday off and had decided not to plow. He hoped his family wasn’t holding up dinner for him at his parent’s house.
If he wasn’t gripping the steering wheel so hard he would call someone and let them know he still had a couple of hours ahead of him, but he had no intention of reaching for his phone. A glance to the right showed a car next to him, but other than that, he could barely see the road in front of him. He needed Santa to dip down and give him a lift in his sleigh or it was going to be midnight before he arrived.
What he didn’t need was a car accident.
In his peripheral vision, he saw the car next to him slide, spinning out so fast that Christian only had time to swear and tap his brakes before he hit the car with a crunch and they went careening towards the guardrail. When his SUV stopped moving a few seconds later, despite his efforts to turn the skid, he had the other car pinned against the railing.
“Shit!” Christian turned off his car and leaped out, almost taking a header in the thick snow, but terrified that he’d injured someone. “Are you okay?” he asked, yelling through the howling snow as he peered into the driver’s side window.
The major impact of his SUV’s front end had been in the backseat and trunk, so he hoped if there was an injury it wasn’t serious. But with the snow smacking him in the face and the window plastered with wet flakes, he couldn’t really see anything.
He knocked on the glass and when it started to slide down, he sighed in relief.
“Are you okay?” he said again now that the person in front of him could hear him.
“Are you okay?” she said simultaneously.
He nodded.
She nodded.
And Christian became aware that he was staring at the most strikingly beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his whole life.
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Copyright © 2011 Sylvia Day
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