Page 52 of The Rake is Taken

A singular feeling of satisfaction flooded the often-subdued Duke of Ashcroft as he fell into a dreamless, contented sleep.

Chapter 17

Finn smoothed his palm over his rumpled waistcoat and drew a nervous inhalation through his teeth. It was just after midnight, and Julian’s townhouse was hushed, the only sounds a ticking clock somewhere down the hallway and the creak and shift of an aging domicile. The liquor he’d shared with Ashcroft had worn off hours ago, leaving his belly empty and his hands trembling.Slightlytrembling. Who could judge harshly? After all, it wasn’t every day a man professed love to two women.

One he felt sure would accept his offer, the other he wasn’t so sure about.

He decided to start with the easier sell.

Stubbing the toe of his boot against the polished plank floor, he raised his hand, grazed the door with his knuckle, then shot another breath from his lips and knocked. Soft footpads sounded from within the bedchamber. The squeal of an unoiled doorknob broke the silence, then she stood before him. And his heart—recognizing her without any provocation, without any true memory, their eyes and a past he couldn’t recall the only thing connecting them—gave a firm, vigorous thump.

“Finley Michel?” Belle whispered through the crack between door and frame. Her smile growing, she brought it wide and motioned him inside, her flaxen braid swinging. The locket around her neck glimmered in the dusky gaslight. “What are you doing here? At this time?” She reached to touch his cheek, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “You look flushed. Are you unwell? There’s a bruise on your jaw.”

He pressed her hand to his face when she would have pulled away, closing his eyes to capture the sensation of someone of his blood, for the first time, touching him. The sting behind his lids was one of happiness, but he fought the reaction, nonetheless. He didn’t want to scare her with overly emotional sentiments on what was turning out to be the most emotional day of his life. “I’m fine. More than fine.” He opened his eyes, his gaze catching hers. “I’m resolute. Determined. Certain.”

Her brow knit in confusion, but she tugged him into the bedchamber by his sleeve and closed the door with a soft snick. Leaning against it, she watched him prowl the small but luxurious space, accepting of the time he needed to resolve his dilemma. His mind was clear of stolen thoughts, proving Victoria was in residence a floor below, but the words he wanted to utter were tangled in his throat.

Halting by the settee Piper had placed in the room to fashion a modest sitting area, he yanked his gloves off and slapped them against his thigh. “Belle, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re happy, protected, loved. You’ll never want for anything ever again. And…where I go, you go. No matter the changes coming up in my life, you’re my family.” He exhaled through the tension contracting his chest. “If you want to live with me, that is.”

He hoped one proposal this eve was going to be accepted without a fight.

Belle pushed off the door with a graceful move reminiscent of one he would execute. As she crossed the room, he studied her. He could see a resemblance in the shape of her face, her mouth maybe, and yes, the eyes. Most assuredly the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she got close enough for him to see her tears, “for things I couldn’t possibly have changed. I’m sorry, but Iwillmake up for it, I promise you this.”

She bumped against his shoulder, and his arms opened, his gloves falling unnoticed to the carpet. “We have a future, Finn. A real one this time,” she whispered as he hugged her tight. “I’ll go where you go. You need not ask. I cannot be more grateful because I have my brother back.”

He settled his chin atop her head and sighed out the past. Remorse, guilt, fury. There was no place for these emotions in his new life. He wasn’t going to be held back by fear or uncertainty or even goodness of heart. He was the bastard son of a viscountandthe grandson of a French marquis—and he was going to marry the woman he loved.

The bloody aristocracy better learn to stay out of his way.

“Le début de l’amour,” Belle said.

Yes, it was the start of love.

The air in Victoria’s bedchamber was stifling, her moist skin sticking to the sheets. Restless, she turned one way, then another, rolling across the mattress. Her mind was humming, the way it had that time at Harbingdon when she’d been knocked off her feet while blocking Finn. As if he was close and either trying to read her mind or keep her from his.

But that couldn’t be. He’d left her life.

He’d lefther.

With an oath, she kicked the sheets aside and vaulted from the bed. The Duke of Ashcroft was arriving in a few short hours to settle the arrangements. If thissuited.

What suited was a future of her choosing.

What truly suited was a future with the Blue Bastard. With Fig.

Victoria strode to the window and wrenched it high, allowing a humid gust to rip inside, bringing with it the scent of blooming lilacs and coal smoke. The gross disparity that was Mayfair. Leaning her head against the shutter, she sighed. Blinked. Straightened. Cursed for real this time.

Finn stood on the veranda below, a cheroot anchored neatly between his lips, the tip shooting a crimson glow across his clenched jaw. Moonlight glimmered off the streak of gray in his hair as he yanked his hand through it. He seemed lost in thought as he paced, an occasional tug on what she would guess was a pristine waistcoat his only tell. If she weren’t so lost over him, she might find his obvious apprehension endearing. As it was, and for a myriad of reasons, some as half-baked as the Bakewell tart she’d completely ruined this evening, she wanted to punch him in his gorgeous face.

The vase was in her hand before she quite knew what to do with it. Going strictly on impulse, she tossed its contents out the window like she would an overflowing chamber pot, an adept pitch. Fragrant water and roses petals and hydrangea blossoms landed on his back and shoulders.

His gaze shot to the window, then to the floral waste on his clothing. He didn’t hesitate but took off at a sprint into the house. She heard his heavy footfalls along the landing, slapping the stairs as he climbed them. With a stuttered laugh, she raced to the door, unsure if she planned to lock him out or welcome him in when he slammed inside, saving her from having to decide.

Without a word of greeting, he hauled her into his arms, walked her back five steps to the bed and pushed her down on it. The vase dropped from her hand and rolled across the floor. Her muffled protest, token at best, was vanquished as he fell over her, tangled his hands in her hair, and set his mouth to hers, kissing her with all the desperation she felt. He tasted of brandy and man, dark, spicy, Finn Alexander. The best taste in the world. With a low moan, she twined her arms around his neck and gave herself to him. Her legs fell open, and he slipped into place, nothing but a thin nightdress covering her, his hard length rocking against her, pressing her deep into the mattress. Lighting a fire more potent than any Ashcroft could start.

It was then she got a whiff of him. Lavender. Feminine but cheap, not a fragrance she’d ever worn. And not one of the flowers she’d doused him with. Pushing against his chest, she noted the bruise on his jaw, his bloodshot eyes. He braced his forearms next to her shoulders, lifting his head just enough for a shaft of flimsy moonlight to reveal his tormented expression.