In Bed with the Devil
Page 92

But what surprised Catherine most was when the bishop asked of Luke, “Do you Lucian Oliver Langdon, the fifth Earl of Claybourne…”
Oliver.
Holding his gaze as he gave her his vows, she wondered how much of his youth was contained in the words of the story that she’d recently read to her father. It seemed improbable, but not impossible. But it was a puzzle for another day.
Today she was basking in the love for her that she saw reflected in his eyes. They were the window to a soul she could see so clearly, a soul that had once been dark and now glowed brightly with the promise of their future. She was astounded by how much she loved him, how much he loved her.
They’d journeyed through hell together. She knew no matter what life tossed their way, they would embrace it or overcome it, but they would never be defeated by it.
Later that night, Catherine sat at her vanity, wearing a white cashmere dressing gown, intricately embroidered with pink roses. She brushed her hair, listening intently to the sounds of her husband in the next room preparing for bed. Her husband. She nearly laughed aloud. The one thing she’d never thought to acquire, had never thought she’d want to acquire. The one thing she now knew she could never do without.
She would never take him for granted. She’d always hold him near.
The door leading from his bedchamber into hers clicked open, and he prowled into the room, anticipation lighting the silver of his eyes until they sparkled like the Crown Jewels. She rose and faced him. He’d come to her this time, and she felt unparalleled delight at the thought.
He was still walking toward her when he reached out and cradled her face between his large hands, tilting her face up, not stopping his forward momentum until his lips were locked on hers. They’d not been together for weeks, and already her body was melting with desire for him.
He slid his hands along her throat as he drew back. He began freeing the buttons of her dressing gown. “I’ve a good mind to put you over my knee for not telling me you were with child as soon as you realized the truth of your situation.”
She peered up at him, saucily. “I was hoping you would.”
His joyous laughter echoed through the room, his smile broader than she’d ever seen it, and she could only hope that it would be the first of many.
“I do love you, Catherine Langdon, Countess of Claybourne, with all my heart and what remains of my soul.”
He eased her gown off her shoulders until it glided down her body. Lifting her into his arms he carried her to the bed and set her on it. “Roll onto your stomach.”
Furrowing her brow, she peered up at him. “Why?”
“I won’t risk putting you over my knee in your present condition, but I do intend to kiss your bare bottom.”
And kiss it he did. His tongue swirling over her flesh. He kissed the backs of her knees, her thighs. He trailed his mouth along her spine. Heavenly. So heavenly. And unfair.
Unfair that in this position she couldn’t touch him.
Rolling over, she wound her arms around his neck and brought him down to her. She thought she’d never have enough of this, of touching him, of having him touch her. It was as if they knew everything about each other, even as they made new discoveries.
He was ticklish under his arms, jerking if her fingers got too close. She was ticklish on the inside of her hips, laughing when he skimmed his fingers over them.
They teased each other, bringing each other close to that moment when the world faded away and there was nothing except the two of them. Only to retreat and start the dance of seduction over.
She thought she would go mad with the wanting. She began urging him to hurry.
“Now,” she gasped. “Now. I need you now.”
He rose above her and plunged inside her. They were each so ready for the other that they were straining and bucking against each other, leaping over the edge until there was nothing except the pleasure.
Nothing except each other.
Epilogue
From the Journal of Lucian Langdon,
the Earl of Claybourne
They say my parents were murdered in the London streets by a gang of ruffians.
I now know that to be untrue.
They were killed by my father’s brother, my uncle. And fate, in its mysterious ways, delivered him to my hand for retribution.
My memories have slowly begun to drift out of the dark shadows where I banished them for so long.
I remember standing beside my father at the pond. He was so much taller than I. To me he appeared to be a giant. Yet he always made me feel safe, and I strive now to give my own children that sense of well-being.
And the old gent. I know him now as my grandfather, and I think of him with increasing fondness. I regret that I was not as certain of my place beside him while he was alive—I regret even more that he was aware of my misgivings. Yet I know he never doubted, and I shall do all in my power to ensure that his faith in me was not misplaced.
When I was small, he would hoist me upon his lap, hold me near, and tell me tales of my ancestors. And on sunny mornings, with my small hand nestled in his larger one, we would walk over the moors, where he taught me to gather flowers to give to my mother.
My mother. I can see her so clearly now. She had the gentlest of smiles. I remember her tucking me into bed at night and whispering that I would become an exceptional earl.
My wife assures me that is the way of it, that I have fulfilled my mother’s prediction, but then she is rather biased. She loves me in spite of my flaws. Or perhaps because of them.
My friendship with Jack remains strained. I want to believe that he was duped, but he has always been far too clever to fall for another man’s ruse. So we have added yet one more thing to our relationship about which we never speak. Sometimes I think we will break beneath the weight of it, but on those occasions I have but to look at my wife in order to find the strength to carry on. I am determined to be worthy of her and that requires that I be a far stronger and better man than I had ever planned to be.