Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

Chapter 19

H e shouldn’t have said it.

No, he hadn’t lied. He did love her; he’d never stopped. But it was too early and somehow too late all at the same time.

She wasn’t ready to hear the words; he should have known. Should have stopped himself.

Lydia propped herself against his chest and sat up, his cock still inside her, although a lot more flaccid than before. With a groan she got up, all naked beauty, and sauntered toward the dressing room.

Thorn watched her walk away, her hips swaying seductively, his cock stirring once again. He didn’t remember the last time he felt this satisfied and yet still aroused all at the same time.

It was a glorious night.

She was glorious.

Looking down at his disheveled form, he chuckled. He was so focused on her and on her pleasure that he hadn’t even disrobed, save for the fact that his falls were undone and his cock was out, his chest peeking out from under the V-shaped opening at the top of his shirt. His bare skin was covered with sweat and other fluids while his clothing stuck to his back and legs.

It hadn’t been a perfect interlude, that was for certain. It had been rushed, quick, and laden with unresolved pain. But it had been the most perfect one in his life.

He would make certain to take his time the next time.

He took off his shirt and breeches, wiping himself with the piece of the shirt he’d torn off Lydia.

Lydia .

He was starting to get used to thinking of her as that.

It didn’t matter what he called her. Beneath it all, it was her. And she was here. That was all that mattered.

He stoked the fire, adding another log to the flames. The room was growing cold, or perhaps his body had just cooled down after an extremely heated experience.

Art picked up a blanket from the bed and laid it by the hearth just as Lydia returned to the room, refreshed and relaxed. Completely naked.

Thorn couldn’t help but stare. The curve of her hip, her rounded belly, the perfectly shaped breasts… He could look at her forever.

He cleared his throat. “Come.” He patted the place beside him. “I prepared a little place for us by the hearth. The bed would be softer, but the room hasn’t warmed up yet, so although the floor is hard, perhaps it will be a little more comfortable.”

That was true—he wanted Lydia to be as warm and comfortable as possible—but it wasn’t the only reason he wanted them to lay by the hearth. His bed was cold, dark, and empty… It had always been that way.

The rug by the hearth—it was their place.

But he also wanted to watch her. Watch the emotions play on her face, her red hair glinting in the firelight. He was not ready to plunge her into darkness. He wanted to watch her sleep for as long as he could.

But before that, he wanted to taste her again. Leisurely, slowly explore every inch of her body. Feel her from the inside in every way he could. He wanted her to bathe his cock in her juices, to writhe on top of him and beneath him for hours.

Lydia settled beside him, making herself comfortable on top of the blanket. She covered herself with a sheet, then looked up into his eyes. He could drown in those golden-brown eyes, and it would be his preferred way to go. “I’ve had worse,” she said.

Heat rushed to his cheeks in utter embarrassment. “I—I… I realize this wasn’t perfect. I was too lost in passion.”

Her face twisted in confusion. “Passion?”

Fury replaced his embarrassment. How dare she deny there was undeniable passion between them? “You can’t tell me you didn’t feel the passion. You begged me for more. The way you pushed me down and climbed on top of me? Don’t tell me that’s not passion. But if that’s not enough”—he threw the sheet off—“I am ready to show you more right now! I will make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse, and I promise you won’t be thinking about anything else.”

Throughout his little speech, the emotions on her face changed from confusion to understanding, and finally, to amusement. When he finished, she raised a brow. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

He blinked, now confused himself. “No?”

“I meant the…” she glanced down, “blanket on the floor. I’ve had far worse places to sleep than a luxurious woolen blanket by the roaring fire.” Her cheeks reddened, and her gaze remained below his waist.

“Oh.” His emotions settled, and he felt embarrassed once more by his outburst. He slowly covered himself back up with the sheet. His embarrassment was quickly replaced by anger again. And then guilt.

She’d had worse than an old, creaky floor in a cold room?

What had she gone through, his Lily, where she had to sleep in worse conditions?

He closed his eyes and shook his head to dispel the image. “Lydia…” He cleared his throat. “That night when I said I wanted to postpone our engagement, I… You were right. In my heart, I was having doubts about everything. Not about you,” he hastened to add. “I have never had any doubts about you and my love for you. But I was truly doubting whether love was enough to sustain us. I thought that maybe if we waited, that in a few years, I would know what to do.”

“You were right to have doubts,” she answered. “You were right to say the things you said. And as much as it hurt, I understood.”

“You did?” His brows knitted in a frown. “Because I was under the impression you were angry with me.”

“I am… I was, but not about that.” She moved to face him fully. “My hurt from that conversation subsided a few days after you left for Cambridge. And I waited for you to write to me again. But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t!” He sat up, his voice rising with frustration. “I didn’t know whether you were going to check Father’s letters again or not. If I sent you letters and you failed to collect them, we would have gotten caught, and you would have been thrown out.”

“I was anyway!” She clutched the sheet to her chest, as if to protect herself from her feelings—or perhaps from him.

His fingers curled into fists by his side, and he was ready to burst, but he had nothing to say because that was the truth, and he could do nothing about it.

“The bastard promised me he wouldn’t do that. When I came back home and you weren’t there, I was devastated. Then I found this”—he covered the ruby ring she still wore on her finger with his hand—“sitting on my bedside table.”

“I left it on my bed,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to their joined hands.

“It felt like I died. Or at least, my soul did.” He cleared his throat, fighting against the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “My father said it was your choice to leave. That he offered you money to leave me alone, and you took it.”

“And you believed him?” She snatched her hand away, a bitter twist to her lips.

“Of course not! I scoured the earth for you!”

“How? How did you scour the earth? I went to the only relatives we had. And I wrote you letters! I walked for miles to send them through the post.”

“I never received a thing.”

“I wrote every week. I sent them to your dormitory and the house, disguising them under different names. And then when my mother got sick”—her voice broke, and she had to clear her throat—“I sent notes begging Mrs. Ludlow to pass on a missive to you.”

“Mrs.…” He paused. Mrs. Ludlow used to be a housekeeper at Wakefield Manor, a kind and gentle soul who had also been let go some time after he returned from Cambridge. “She probably tried,” he said, defeated. “And I did find your relatives in Penrith. Perhaps it took me too long to do so, but I did. And they sent me to the town where you were supposed to work, but you weren’t there anymore. Then I combed through village after village after village…” He paused and swallowed. “Until a pastor in one told me that you had died.”

Lydia bit her lip and looked away, anguish in her eyes, her hand trembling slightly where it rested on her knee.

Pain pierced through his heart as well. Even now, seeing her alive and well, sitting beside him, the memory hurt.

His voice hoarse, he continued, “I didn’t believe him at first, but he showed me the burial stone in the cemetery.” A long pause followed, the only sound their uneven breathing and the crackling fire. “What happened?” he finally whispered. “Why is there a stone with your name on it?”

Lydia still didn’t meet his gaze, tracing invisible patterns on the white sheet with her finger. “My mother got sick about a year after we moved. I wrote to you for help, of course, but I got no answer. I couldn’t work, as I needed to look after her, so I started stealing. I got caught by a wealthy family in the next town over. I escaped, but they knew what I looked like—they knew my name. So, when my mother died soon after, I…” Her voice faltered, a single tear appearing in the corner of her eye. “I buried her under my name. A friend I met during this ordeal, a blacksmith, forged a nameplate onto the stone and told everyone that I was gone.”

Thorn’s heart squeezed for a young girl in an impossible situation. He knew the pain of losing a mother, but he couldn’t imagine feeling that pain and having no one to offer comfort. She was not only hurting but alone, without money or a roof over her head. At least she had a friend. He wished he could find that blacksmith and thank him.

He reached for her, but she moved away and shook her head, a sad smile playing on her lips. She was so strong—his Lydia. He only wished she would let herself lean on him. Let herself trust him.

“What did you do next?” he asked softly, resisting the urge to pull her into his arms.

She shrugged. “Continued stealing. I joined a band of boys and young men who lived together up north. They took me in and taught me much of what I know today.” She licked her lips nervously. “Until I met Honoria—my friend who helped me forge the letters from your fiancée.”

“Ah, so you did have help.” Thorn smiled. “I know I would have recognized your penmanship otherwise.”

“Honoria has been a great friend to me, considering I met her under the worst circumstances… for her.”

“How did you meet her?” Thorn shifted a little closer to her.

Lydia took a deep breath, as if it was still difficult for her to think about it. “I stole from the house she used to live in. She was blamed for it and punished.”

Thorn reached out a hand but hesitated. She was tense and on guard. He didn’t want to unsettle her any further, so he returned his hand to his side.

“I helped her escape,” she continued. “And she has proved to be a dear friend, but also a great asset. She is extremely well-educated and possesses a unique talent for copying others’ penmanship rather quickly. That’s how she helped me make a smooth entry into the ton .”

Thorn smiled at her ingenuity. She was very clever, his little Lily, and cunning. Then a thought occurred to him. “How long ago did you enter the ton ?”

She hesitated. “Four years.”

Four years? The admission sent him reeling. Four bloody years were lost. Four years of nightmares and despair… And yet, she had been here all along. Why? His throat worked, but no sound emerged, shock rendering him momentarily speechless.

“I was so nervous, so afraid I’d see you again. But you weren’t much part of the ton , so we never met. I saw you once, earlier, though.”

He raised his head in surprise. “When?”

“Just a few months prior to entering the ton .” She grimaced, hands twisting in her lap. “In Rivendale.”

His eyes widened, the memory hitting him like a thunderbolt. Rivendale. He’d thought he saw her there too, but he hadn’t believed his eyes. To think he had been so close… so close to finding her, holding her. “I saw you… It was during the night. I was in a carriage with my sister and her husband. That was really you, wasn’t it?” He still couldn’t believe it. “I thought you were a ghost.”

She didn’t answer, just a pained expression on her face.

“I stopped the carriage. I got out to see if that was truly you. My sister thought I was a madman!”

“I—I hid behind the tree line… I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but I wanted to see a glimpse of you. It wasn’t a wise decision.”

“No, you shouldn’t have hidden.” His voice hardened slightly, frustration returning. Four blasted years they could have been happy.

“I was angry with you!” she cried. “For years, I thought that you agreed with your father, that you willingly ignored my missives. My mother’s death was still fresh in my mind, and I blamed you.” Her words tumbled out in a rush. “And although a part of me yearned for you, I didn’t know how you’d react to seeing me. The fear, the uncertainty, had conjured up an unfeeling beast in my mind.”

His face contorted in pain, but he couldn’t blame her.

“We can buy a new stone for your mother, honoring her real name,” he choked out, his voice hoarse. “We can fix things. As much as possible. I can help you.”

“You can’t.” She shook her head, pulling away slightly. “I am in deeper trouble now than I have ever been.”

“You are not alone anymore. I am not letting you go.”

“All those things you said back in Wakefield—you were right. And they are more true today than they were before. We don’t belong together.”

“That’s not true.” He grabbed her hand, refusing to let her retreat.

She let out a bitter laugh. “You are a lord. I am a thief. And a notorious one at that. Thanks to Miss Monroe, now everyone knows me for who I am. I can’t stay here anymore. Not as myself, and definitely not as a viscount’s mistress. I need to leave English shores, or I shall be hanged for my sins.”

“Mistress? You would never be a mistress to me. You will be my wife.” His tone was final; it brooked no argument, but of course, she continued to argue.

“Art—”

“No.” He cut her off, squeezing her hand. “I lost you once, and I refuse to lose you again. I have failed you innumerable times before. Let me protect you now.”

“How can you?” Her voice was small, vulnerable.

Thorn frowned in thought. “Tell me what happened with Miss Monroe. What did you take? We can give it back, we can pay reparation—whatever it takes.”

She grimaced, her shoulders tensing. “I didn’t take anything from her. She wanted something that I failed to let go of in time.”

His frown deepened. “What?”

She turned her hand so that it rested on top of his now, the ruby ring glinting in the firelight. “This ring.”

And now everything fell into place. That night, when he was awoken by the sound of his ring falling under his bed—the night he thought he saw her ghost in the library. It had been her all along, trying and failing to retrieve his ring. With the reputation she had, he had to attribute her failings to her feelings for him. Even when she managed to steal it, she was still wearing it on her finger instead of relinquishing it to the queen of London’s underbelly.

Why did Miss Monroe even want the ring? That was a question for another time.

“Then it’s easy,” he said, decision made. “We just give it to her.”

Lydia let out a bitter laugh. “It is not as simple as that, and you know it. She outed me to the world. My reputation is irreparable.”

“I can help you fix it.” He reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face.

She shook her head, dislodging the stubborn strand again. “I don’t think you can.”

“I can. And if I fail, then we shall run. Together.”

She bit her lip, doubt evident on her face. “You are a viscount, Thorn. An heir to a marquessate. You cannot run.”

“Watch me.” He took her face between his palms and kissed her savagely, pouring years of longing and frustration into the desperate press of his lips against hers.