Page 61 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

T he storm lashed against the stained-glass windows of Hades’ Hell, but Eloise barely noticed.

Her swollen belly nudged against the edge of the desk as she reached for the correspondence she had just opened—one from a publisher to whom she hadn’t sent the manuscript. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stared at the letter in her trembling hands.

“It is with great pleasure—and moderate fear of moralists—that we inform you we shall publish The Bastard immediately. You are, once again, outrageously unrepentant in your prose. Bravo.”

A mixture of elation and bewilderment washed over her. She read the words again, certain she must be dreaming.

She hadn’t sent the manuscript to anyone.

Too nervous after her previous book had been banned across England.

Too afraid this novel wouldn’t live up to the expectations of the first. Too frightened of the readers’ reaction to this new hero, who wasn’t exactly based on her dark and mysterious husband, Keyon.

The Bastard had been a personal experiment—a secret she’d kept locked away for years.

If The Scoundrel was almost completely based on her husband and their love story, The Bastard was different.

The hero was still heavily inspired by Keyon, and the romance was drawn from her scandalous love life with him.

But the adventures the hero experienced and his backstory were inspired by another man—William—whose dangerous world had captivated her imagination.

She had “accidentally” left her manuscript on her husband’s desk a few months ago, but he hadn’t said a thing about it.

She wondered if he had even read it, the uncertainty gnawing at her. But she hadn’t asked, not wanting to nag him to read it if he had no interest.

Or perhaps—and this thought made her stomach clench—he hadn’t liked it and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

So she pushed the thought aside and continued working with him on the gaming hell, preparing the nursery at both the house and inside the hell, and worrying about the growing child in her belly. The manuscript became a forgotten ghost haunting the corners of her mind.

She had even forgotten she’d left it on his desk.

She definitely hadn’t intended to send it out.

She certainly hadn’t expected it to be accepted.

A creak at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts, and her pulse quickened.

Keyon stepped inside, already unbuttoning his gloves. The sight of him—tall, commanding… wickedly desirable—sent a familiar thrill through her.

Eloise hastened to stand, her legs unsteady, and waved the letter at him with barely contained excitement. “Did you do this?”

“Did I do what?” A frown creased his handsome, scarred face as he took in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

She thrust the letter toward him, her hands still trembling. He leaned his hip against the desk and skimmed it, and she watched his expression change into a satisfied smile.

“Somebody had to,” he finally said. “I saw you hesitating, torturing yourself with doubt, and once I read the book, I knew it would be another success.”

Her breath caught. “You read it? The whole thing?”

“Every word. Twice. Some words more than that,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes.

Heat flooded her cheeks. “How do you know it will succeed? What if it isn’t as good as the first one? What if—”

“Eloise.” His calm voice interrupted her spiraling fears. “This publisher seems to think it’s just as good.”

“And what do you think?” The question escaped as barely more than a whisper as she fiddled with the skirt of her dress.

He covered her hands with his, stilling her movement. “I think the hero of the first novel was more appealing,” he said dryly.

She let out a breathless laugh. “And you didn’t notice that this hero is very close to you in his mannerisms, habits, and sense of humor?”

“Well, I did notice some similarities.” He pushed away from the desk and moved toward her, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone that never failed to make her pulse race.

“Otherwise, if I thought you were writing the scene on page one hundred and ten about some other man, I would be forced to kill him.”

“You remembered the page number?” she teased in a breathless voice.

Heat flickered in his eyes. “I wore it out, reading it while bored at work. The only downside is that I always had to come search for you after finishing it.” His expression shifted, his lips curling in disdain. “But did you have to name the hero after William?”

Eloise pursed her lips to stifle a laugh.

William was a trusted… friend, if one used that word loosely, of her husband’s.

The man who initially brought them together.

“It’s about William’s world,” she said softly, stepping closer to him.

“I had to draw inspiration from something. But it’s not about William at all.

I don’t know the man enough, but I know of his adventures. ”

“But did you have to describe him in such hauntingly beautiful ways?” There was something raw in his voice now, a jealousy he couldn’t quite conceal. “The rogue with the haunted eyes? The man who swore he’d never love and then shattered for her? Who kissed her like it might save his soul—and hers?”

She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the familiar scar across his cheek. “That,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “is the description of the man I love. Only you, Keyon. Always you.”

He covered her hand with his own, then slid his other hand to rest possessively over her belly.

“I should be furious,” he muttered, but there was a smile lingering in his voice, not anger. “The whole city will read it. They’ll see the parts you stripped from me and laid bare on the page.”

She leaned into him, her free hand still cradling his jaw. “They will not know. That’s why I changed the hero’s name and appearance. It will be our little secret.”

His eyes fluttered closed, and he turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss there. When he opened his eyes again, they were bright with unshed tears. “You make me feel braver than I am.”

“You are braver than you know,” she whispered back, her own eyes misting.

He rested his forehead against the curve of her shoulder, his breath warm against her throat, his hand still pressed against her belly where their babe kicked as if responding to his touch. “Our child will be so proud of you. So proud to have such a brilliant, fearless mother.”

Tears spilled over her cheeks as she brushed her fingers through his dark hair. “Maybe in the next book,” she said softly, “the scoundrel becomes a father.”

He let out a low laugh, hoarse with wonder and joy. “Then I hope it’s the most boring novel you ever write—filled with quiet evenings and playful days and all the ordinary magic of family life.”

She tilted his chin up with gentle fingers, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Not too quiet, I hope.”

“Never,” he promised. “When a thief-taker’s sister falls in love with London’s most infamous criminal—”

“Most feared man,” she interjected.

“—life can never be too quiet,” he finished.

And then he kissed her, slow and reverent and desperate all at once. All thoughts of manuscripts and publishers and everything else evaporated from both their minds, leaving only the two of them, their kiss, and their love.