Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

Chapter 17

“ L ily,” Thorn whispered reverently, his voice hoarse, his breathing labored, forming small clouds in the frigid air. Raindrops hammered against them like tiny, icy bullets, plastering their clothes to shivering skin.

Sitting on his lap, drenched and trembling, surrounded by the circle of his arms, it felt… oddly right. Except…

“It’s Lydia now,” she whispered.

“Just like in that book,” he murmured. “I remember.”

He brushed a sodden lock of hair from her face, his fingertips warm against her chilled skin. Then, a smile—no, a mischievous, boyish grin—spread across his face. He plucked a lily from his front pocket, still intact if a bit wilted, and tucked it behind her ear.

Lydia couldn’t help but chuckle at the innocent gesture.

“You’re still my Lily,” he said, his voice barely audible above the storm.

She didn’t answer. She only stared at him as the rain fell over them, rivulets running down their bodies, seeping into their already-soaked clothing.

He remembered her favorite book—the first novel she had read on her own. That meant something , didn’t it?

“I’ve been looking for you for so long,” he said, his voice breaking.

She swallowed. “How come you haven’t found me?” The question tore from her soul. She didn’t even know why she asked. She had waited for him for years, prayed for him to find her—yet he never did.

“I’ve found you now, haven’t I?”

She shook her head. No. I found you .

“I scoured the earth for you,” he rasped, pulling her closer. “I never would have stopped, but I thought you were dead.”

A crash of thunder punctuated his words.

She frowned, raindrops trickling down her face like tears. “Why would you—”

“The headstone,” he interrupted. “In Yorkshire.”

“Oh.” Lydia grimaced. She didn’t want to remember. That had been the worst year of her life. “It’s my mother’s,” she admitted. “I had to…” She cleared her throat, no longer certain it was just the rain running down her cheeks. “I had to lay her to rest under my name.”

“Why?”

She looked away. Because I was hunted. Because I had to disappear.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not yet. All that matters for now is that you’re in my arms.” Then, with a smile in his voice, he added, “Now, we need to get home, or we’ll perish from the cold.”

He rubbed her upper arms briskly, trying—and failing—to warm her. Then, tugging on her hands, he helped her up before standing himself.

They faced each other, toe to toe, hand in hand, neither willing to let go.

He rested his forehead against hers and laughed, his dark eyes shining like gemstones.

Lydia didn’t know what he was laughing at—but she couldn’t help but laugh, too.

If anyone came across them now, standing in the middle of the street and laughing in the pouring rain, they’d think them mad.

And perhaps, in that moment, they were .

“Come.” Thorn tugged her toward the carriage, a smile still on his lips.

Lydia hesitated. She couldn’t go with him. She needed to leave London. She couldn’t afford to delay her escape.

He turned back, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“I can’t go with you,” she had to shout over the rain.

“Why not?”

The downpour intensified, drumming against the ground with such force that small splashes rose around their ankles.

“I have to leave.”

“No, you don’t.” He stepped toward her, squeezing her arms gently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against her skin. “I won’t lose you again. You’re coming with me, and that’s that.”

“My identity has been revealed,” she protested. “People will be looking for me now. I have to go.”

He frowned. “They won’t be looking for you at my house . You’re safe with me. Besides, the way you’re soaked to the bone, you’ll be sick by morning. And with the roads washed out by the rain? You won’t get far. Please, just come with me.”

He had a point. If anyone was searching for her, Thorn’s house would be the last place they’d look. And even if she tried to escape now, she’d likely get stranded somewhere in the mud. It made sense to wait.

The thought of warmth, of dry clothes, made her knees weak with longing.

Was this logic speaking? Or was she just looking for an excuse? Thunder rumbled again, closer this time as if answering her question.

Thorn didn’t rush her, didn’t push—he simply held her hand, waiting for her to give in. Rain dripped down his face, but patience shone in his onyx eyes.

He looked gorgeous in the rain. Who would have thought?

“Just for one night,” she finally whispered, barely audible over the downpour.

Thorn smiled, triumph bringing color to his cheeks. He pulled her close and kissed her.

“Just for one night,” he echoed, clasping her hand as they dashed toward his townhouse.

* * *

Thorn banged on the door of his townhouse, waiting for a butler to let them inside. They had sprinted the short distance down the street, rain soaking them to the bone, the bottom of Lydia’s skirts heavy with mud and water.

Thorn’s heart raced, but not from their sprint through the downpour. It was Lily— Lydia —pressed against his side as they ran, her hand clasped in his, that sent his pulse hammering. He could scarcely believe she was real, that after years of searching, she was here.

Thorn had insisted they take his carriage, but Lydia dug in her heels, refusing to muddy his velvet seats. Relenting, he sent his driver home, instructing him to collect Lydia’s driver along the way and offer him food and shelter for the night. In the meantime, he and Lydia made their way home on foot.

She had been right, he realized, as he took in her reddened nose from the cold, the damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead, and the fire in her golden-brown eyes. But not because of the seats.

In that short dash through the rain, he had felt more alive than he had in the past decade.

Cecil opened the door, and even a seasoned butler such as him couldn’t hold in his shock at the view of his master soaked to the bone and muddy, standing on the threshold, clutching the hand of an equally drenched woman as if she might dissolve back into the rain if he let go.

“Order the maids to warm some water for us, would you?” Thorn asked, his voice rough.

Water sloshed from their clothes as they ascended the stairs. Thorn held Lydia’s hand tightly, his thumb occasionally brushing her knuckles.

Inside his bedchamber, he reluctantly released her hand and moved quickly to the hearth, tossing several logs onto the dying fire. He knelt before it, stirring until the flames awakened, licking at the corners of the hearth and casting a warm glow across the room. The growing heat against his face was a stark contrast to his sodden clothes, which clung uncomfortably to his skin.

Lydia stepped closer to the fire, shivering, arms wrapped around herself, water pooling at her feet.

“You’ll catch your death,” he murmured, moving behind her. “Unless I get you warm.”

She threw him a teasing glance over her shoulder, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

He fought to steady his trembling hands as he reached for the fastenings of her gown. She didn’t protest—just stood there motionless, trusting him completely.

His fingers worked carefully, reverently, until the sodden bodice sagged. He guided it down, his hands lingering at her waist and her hips, feeling the curve of her beneath his palms as she stepped free of the gown.

And then she stood before him in her soaked undergarments, and his mouth went dry. The thin linen clung to her like a second skin, concealing nothing from his gaze. The firelight silhouetted her form, highlighting every curve.

She was no longer the girl he remembered. The changes in her body made her even more desirable. Her thighs had filled with the strength of a horsewoman, her belly softly rounded, her breasts fuller. Heat coursed through him, settling low in his abdomen. He struggled to draw a proper breath.

“You’re…” he began, but words failed him entirely.

How could he possibly articulate what he felt? That she was more beautiful than his memory had preserved?

His hand moved of its own accord, hovering just above her shoulder, craving contact yet hesitant to take liberties.

A knock at the door startled them both. He cursed under his breath and stepped back.

“Enter!” he called, turning away from Lydia, fighting to compose himself.

A maid arrived with pitchers of steaming water. Thorn was grateful for the distraction.

He carried the pitchers to the dressing room, then gathered a soft towel, a washcloth, and a fresh shirt from his wardrobe. Returning to Lydia, he placed them in her hands, allowing his fingers to brush against hers—savoring even that slight contact.

“Take your time,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she whispered, then disappeared into the dressing room.

Thorn handed her soaked gown to the maid for cleaning and drying, then quickly peeled off his coat and passed it over as well.

When Lydia returned, clean, slightly drier than before, and wearing a single shirt— his shirt—it took all his self-control not to devour her right then and there.

But he needed to pace himself.

“Just one night,” she had said. But he vowed to himself that he would turn one night into forever. This time, he wouldn’t let her slip away.

So he stepped into the dressing room, leaving Lydia by the fire. He quickly undressed, washing the mud from his skin, then donned a dry shirt and breeches before hurrying back into the bedroom.

His heart pounded wildly in his chest. A part of him feared that when he opened the door, the room would be empty. That she would be gone.

That this had all been a dream.

That he had never truly found her.

Thorn pulled the door open with excess force… And froze.

She was indeed there.

She sat on the rug by the fire, wearing nothing but his shirt, the white fabric draping over her curves, falling to mid-thigh. Like a beautiful flower.

My Lily.

Her damp hair spilled over her shoulders, and her skin glowed in the firelight. The sight of her in his clothing awakened something primal within him—a possessive hunger tempered by wonder that she was here, in his room, wearing his shirt .

It took every ounce of willpower not to go to her immediately, not to gather her in his arms and claim her lips. To feel her body pressed against his with only the thin fabric between them.

But he forced himself to move slowly, savor the moment, and feast his eyes on the beautiful view.

Running her fingers through her damp hair, she stared at the fire, the flames flickering in her eyes. His shirt had slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone, the smooth expanse of her neck.

Finally, gathering his courage, he crossed the room and sat beside her, close enough that their knees almost touched.

Heat radiated between them that had nothing to do with the fire.

He must have stared at her for too long, because she looked up at him, raising a questioning brow.

He cleared his throat. “In the library, about a month ago. That was you, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, a strand of damp hair falling across her cheek.

“I thought you were a ghost.”

She watched him in silence, the moment stretching between them like an eternity. Then, slowly, she reached for his hand. Her fingers were warm now, slightly roughened by whatever life had thrown at her during their years apart. The touch of her skin against his sent lightning coursing through his veins.

She pressed his palm against her cheek, her gaze never leaving his.

“I am real,” she whispered.

And the words undid him. All his careful restraint, his resolve to move slowly, to not frighten her away—it all crumbled to dust.

She was real.

She was here.

And she was his .

Mine.

He leaned forward, one hand still cradling her cheek while the other slid around her waist, drawing her to him. The scent of her—clean skin, damp hair, and underneath it all, the essence that was uniquely Lily—filled his senses as he captured her mouth in a kiss.

My Lily.

He began gently, afraid of overwhelming her, of asking too much too soon. Just a soft press of lips, an invitation. But when she sighed against his mouth, her body yielding to his touch, something snapped inside him. He deepened the kiss—hungry, desperate, wild. His fingers tangled in her damp hair, cradling the back of her head as he tasted her properly.

She tasted of rain and fire.

With sudden, blinding certainty, he knew he would never get enough.

And he would never let her go.