Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

Chapter 24

L ydia woke up with a start. She jolted, and her forehead hit something hard. “Ow!”

“Mmm,” someone groaned beside her, strong arms tightening around her waist.

Not someone. Art .

She looked up at his sleepy, slightly annoyed face—and smiled.

He squeezed her waist, pulling her closer. Instinctively, her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, her legs spreading to straddle his thighs. Thorn rolled onto his back, settling Lydia on top of him.

She felt him—his hard, hot length pressing against her belly.

She wiggled. He groaned.

“Love, you’re killing me,” he rasped, his voice thick with sleep, and Lydia couldn’t help but laugh again.

This was what she had dreamed of all those years—waking up in his bed, seeing him groggy and sleepy, teasing him until he was fully awake.

She was in his bed. She could scarcely believe it.

What was more surprising, however, was how comfortable she felt in it. Last night, she had been so overwrought. This place, this blasted place, held so many dark memories. It was the source of her nightmares. But it also held a flicker of her dreams. And right now, her most cherished dream was lying beside her.

Perhaps it wasn’t the bed that made her comfortable, but the person within it.

He had made her feel so safe last night, reading to her until she had fallen asleep in his arms. And waking up, still cradled in the circle of his arms, was another kind of pleasure.

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to the hollow at the base of his neck. He swallowed hard.

“Must you tease me?”

She smiled slyly. “I must.”

He eyed the bedside table. “Bring me some water,” he said, his voice rough.

As Lydia rolled off him, he groaned again and turned toward her as if his eyes refused to look at anything but her.

“This room,” she said thoughtfully as she looked around, “it’s different from what I remember.” She took a few sips before handing him the glass.

“Smaller?” He emptied it in one go, then handed it back.

“Perhaps,” she answered with a shrug. Or perhaps, it wasn’t as intimidating as it had once been.

The moment she placed the glass on the bedside table, his hands were on her—grabbing her waist and flipping her onto the mattress with an undignified squeal.

Before she could catch her breath, his weight followed, covering her like a blanket, his hungry eyes devouring her.

“I hope you don’t find anything else smaller than you remember,” he joked, smiling.

Lydia laughed, and he paused, watching her as if mesmerized.

He didn’t look sleepy anymore.

His eyelids were heavy, not with exhaustion, she realized, but with desire.

A second later, his lips were on hers, their tongues locked, rubbing against each other, tasting, licking, devouring.

Her hands framed his face, tracing the lines of his unshaven jaw with her fingertips. It prickled. She couldn’t help but smile.

His hands traveled down her sides, settling on her hips, his arousal pressing firmly against her center.

A moan escaped her lips, but he swallowed it, kissing her deeper, harder. He rocked his hips against her, his rigid length sliding against her belly.

She arched beneath him, her body signaling what her words did not.

She was ready. She wanted him, too.

He shifted lower, positioning his shaft at her center, demanding entrance. She widened her legs and wrapped them around his hips, raising her pelvis closer to him. He paused, hovering over her. His lips were bright red from her bites and kisses, his onyx eyes shining with hunger and passion. Then his tip entered her core, and she moaned.

A little more. She was stretched sweetly, and she raised her hips again to take more of him. One thrust, and he was seated fully inside her.

He groaned. She whimpered.

Her fingers curled into his back, her fingers biting into his flesh.

God , how good he felt.

“Lydia,” he rasped. “You feel so good.”

She smiled and rocked her hips. His fingers bit into her buttocks as he withdrew from her only to drive into her once more.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, more, please!”

He grinned and repeated the motion. And when he did it again, seating him inside her to the hilt, his body deliciously rubbed against her swollen nub.

He rocked against her once more and continued driving into her in an unrelenting rhythm.

Sweat covered his forehead as he worked on top of her, and all Lydia could do was urge him on.

It felt so good, so fucking good.

A frantic knock sounded on the door.

Thorn cursed but refused to slow the rhythm.

“Art,” she breathed, but he shook his head.

“Let them knock. I am not going to stop.”

Lydia smiled, holding onto him tighter. “No, don’t stop,” she whispered. They weren’t going to be interrupted in this house any longer, they were not going to hide their relationship, and they were not going to cower before anyone.

He continued his thrusting in and out of her, their moans and whimpers the only sounds in the room. But the frantic knocking didn’t subside either; it only moved to the background in her mind.

Let them knock in rhythm with her frantic heartbeat. Let them knock as Art drove his cock into her, as her body melted from heat and desire. As the pleasure rose steadily within her.

Thorn moved, pressing the pad of his finger against her pleasure center.

“Yes!” she cried, as ecstasy flowed through her veins.

“Come, love,” Thorn growled. “I want to see you come.”

“Yes, Art, yes!”

The door flew open, and a frantic footman rushed into the room.

Lydia shrieked, and Thorn curled on top of her to cover her body from the view. “Get. The. Fuck. Out!” he roared.

The apologetic footman disappeared just as quickly as he’d appeared, shutting the door behind him.

Mortification mixed with exhilaration inside Lydia’s body and all she could do was laugh. Art joined in on the laughter and kissed her soundly on the lips. He didn’t withdraw; as hard as ever, he started slowly rocking back and forth within her once more.

Their breathing quickly returned to the passionate rhythm as they continued their pursuit of a climax. They breathed and moaned in tandem, their hearts beating as one. Thorn thrust into her faster and faster, the sound of their bodies slapping together the only other sound aside from their moans.

This time, Lydia moved her own hand and touched herself where she wanted to feel more pressure.

“Yes, darling,” he spurred her on. “Touch yourself. Bring yourself to pleasure as I watch.”

Lydia moaned, his words of assurance arousing her even more. His gaze was on her finger, rubbing circles around her swollen nub as his cock slid in and out of her. She pressed her finger where she wanted it most and cried in pleasure.

Her eyes shut, she threw her head back, the intense pleasure gathering at her center and spreading farther and farther until it exploded and reached the tips of her fingers.

She cried out while Art diligently worked on top of her, his movements frantic, his grunts more desperate than before. With a growl, he paused, spilling inside her core.

Their breathing wild, he fell on top of her, his heavy body a comforting weight after a moment of pure bliss.

He raised his head what felt like an eternity later and kissed her lips, his tongue probing at her mouth. She opened her lips and tasted him, their tongues tangling in a passionate dance. He broke the kiss only to plant a peck on her lips before withdrawing from her completely.

She whimpered. It felt cold and empty without him.

“I’ll be right back,” he said with a smile as he rolled off the bed and put on his banyan. He opened the door where the poor footman with burning red cheeks still stood, waiting.

“What’s wrong?” Thorn barked.

“It’s the marquess,” the footman said. “Lord Wakefield is dead.”

* * *

He didn’t feel sad.

Thorn stood beside his late sire’s bed, studying his unmoving features.

Lydia had insisted on coming with him, wanting to see Wakefield for herself—though Thorn suspected she simply loathed the idea of leaving him alone with the man. Even if the man was dead.

She needn’t have worried. The doctor was present, as was Rosemary.

The latter put on a spectacle of tears and hysterics, but Thorn remained unmoving.

He wasn’t sad.

But he didn’t feel relief, either.

He felt… burdened .

After years of avoiding the man, it was now time to step into his shoes.

He loathed the idea. Rejected it with every fiber of his being.

But there was nothing he could do.

And to add insult to injury, he had to do it without a penny to his name.

He had just inherited an estate, a few dozen servants, and a few hundred farmers… And he was already failing them.

“I sent for you, hoping you’d see him before he passed,” the doctor said. “Too bad you didn’t receive the missive in time.”

“Right.” Thorn turned his gaze to the ‘grieving’ widow.

Rosemary blew into a handkerchief, then cleared her throat. “I’m just happy I got to see him one last time. So glad I arrived on time.”

Thorn wanted to blame his step-witch for not informing him of Wakefield’s rapidly failing health, but the truth was, even if he had known, he wouldn’t have come.

That wasn’t why Rosemary had withheld the truth, however.

No, she had only wanted to ensure he didn’t have time to obtain a special license and marry before Wakefield died.

“Has anyone informed Arabella of this?” Art enquired about his sister.

The doctor seemed surprised he had even asked. “No, sir. I did not. I didn’t think—”

“Thank you,” Thorn cut him off, then turned to Rosemary. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” he said dryly. “Seems like you’re getting all the inheritance—aside from the title.”

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, a smirk curling her lips, her theatrical grief vanishing in an instant. “Jealous?”

Lydia’s hand slipped into his, and Thorn squeezed her fingers.

His shoulders relaxed. He smiled down at her.

“No,” he said simply. “I have everything I need.”

* * *

Lydia stayed at the manor until the day of the funeral. She had moved into the viscountess’s chambers, rightfully taking her place by Art’s side. They would eventually move into the marquess’s chambers, Thorn had said, but Lydia dreaded that moment.

Luckily for her, Art’s dreadful stepmother still occupied them.

Lady Wakefield had dressed herself in all black that same evening and refused to help with the funeral arrangements, citing her grief .

She wasn’t grieving.

No one in the household was.

Granted, the servants had been loyal to the previous marquess, but it seemed to Lydia—though perhaps she was simply projecting—that the entire house had breathed a collective sigh of relief when he died.

Only Art was buried in correspondence and funeral arrangements. His sister sent her regrets, citing her complete indifference to their sire’s demise. She did offer to come, but only if Art wished it, but he had graciously allowed her to continue enjoying yet another one of her confinements. Apparently, she was expecting her fourth child. And although she wasn’t too far along for the confinement yet, Art didn’t think the journey was worth the trouble.

And Lydia got her first real glimpse of what life would be like with a marquess for a husband.

He was always busy. Always on the move. Always putting out one fire after another.

Now, she sat alone in her room, waiting for Art to return from the funeral.

Lydia had wanted to go. But Art had insisted she stay behind.

People might recognize her. Gossip would spread. Word would reach London.

Excuse after excuse.

But deep down, Lydia felt it—this wasn’t about the funeral. Or about her safety.

He was keeping her at arm’s length .

And she didn’t know why.

Grief, perhaps.

Because even though he hadn’t loved the man, Wakefield had still been his father.

No matter how much Thorn despised him, there had been—perhaps an unwilling—attachment .

He had lived under the same roof as him. Imitated him as a child. Hated him as an adult.

Wakefield had been a constant presence in his life.

Perhaps Art didn’t even realize he was grieving. Perhaps he was denying himself that grief, feeling wrong for mourning the man who had ruined Lydia’s life.

Lydia had seen a lot of death in her short lifetime. She had watched people grieve their loved ones, their enemies, their neighbors—even strangers passing in the street.

And grief was different for everyone.

So although she wanted to be there for Art, to help him through this—she didn’t know how .

And he wouldn’t let her close enough to find out.

Maybe he thought she wouldn’t understand. Maybe he assumed she felt relieved at Wakefield’s passing. After all, she did blame him for her mother’s death.

But she didn’t feel relief .

She felt nothing .

Nothing but the need to comfort the man she loved.

Yes.

It was useless to argue.

She had loved him when they were young. She had loved him through the years of separation. She loved him still . And she would love him always.

The door clicked open, followed by the sound of footsteps in his chamber.

Lydia shot to her feet and rushed to the adjoining door.

She waited a few heartbeats—just enough to give him a moment alone—before stepping inside.

Art stood by the side table, a glass of whisky in his hand.

“How was the funeral?” she asked softly.

“Dreadful.” His voice was hoarse. “Just like the man himself.”

“Art…” She stepped closer. “I understand if you feel sad—”

“I don’t.” He cut her off.

She licked her lips. “Very well. What do you feel?”

He stared into his glass. “I feel a weight on my shoulders.”

“Could I help share the burden?”

He snorted. “You are the burden.”

Lydia’s eyes widened.

Art grimaced. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He set his glass down and stepped closer. “I just meant… with every passerby stopping to offer condolences, all I can think about is how I have to keep you safe . Hidden. And all I want is for you to be by my side.”

“Then let me,” she cried. “I’m not the one hiding. I’m willing to stand beside you—”

“And then what?” he snapped. “The scandal will consume us. I’m an impoverished lord now. I can offer you nothing but gossip and ruin. I’ve been selfish, and now I understand that I should have let you go.”

Lydia stilled.

Her mind reeled, but she forced herself to stay calm.

This was his grief speaking.

He had only just begun to feel the weight of his new responsibilities. And now, he was pushing her away.

But she would not budge.

“You wanted me to stay,” she said evenly. “You begged me not to leave you. And I promised I wouldn’t. What does my word mean if I change my mind the moment things get hard? If the wave is coming—then let it hit. I will stand beside you through it all.”

Art looked at her, his expression almost puzzled—as if he didn’t quite understand the meaning of her words.

That was fine.

She would repeat them. Day after day, moment after moment—until the time came when he believed them.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

Lydia exhaled a frustrated breath. Would they ever have a moment of peace in this damned house? But she supposed this was what she had signed up for when she agreed to marry a marquess.

A footman entered, carrying an envelope on a tray.

Art took it, reading the name aloud. “The Marquess of Rivendale.”

Lydia froze.

Rivendale . The name was familiar .

Right.

He was the marquess she had stolen a locket from a few years ago.

And then, a few days later, she had seen Art in his carriage with his sister—the night he had mistaken her for a ghost .

“He probably just wants to offer his condolences,” Lydia supposed. Rivendale was Art’s distant relative, after all. But he had always found it difficult to travel between locations, so sending a letter was his best option.

“It says urgent,” Art mumbled, striding toward the bedside table to retrieve a letter opener.

He slashed the envelope open, his eyes roving over the contents, then frowned.

Then, he read it again. And again.

Lydia stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”

Art scoffed and shook his head.

“The Marquess of Rivendale requires my presence in London.”

Lydia frowned. “Now?”

Art extended the letter to her. “He wants to discuss some business regarding a redheaded woman I am harboring inside my home.”