Page 24 of Cold November Rake
Not even two minutes ago, he had held her in his arms, buried deep inside her. Now he could not wait to be rid of her.
She took a step toward her bedchamber.
"Do not look so sullen, Temperance," he said to her back. "That was the deal. We share the bed to procure an heir. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Chapter Seven
Dearest Reader,
Selecting a suitable rake to grace these scandal sheets is not always an easy feat. So many scoundrels, so delightfully little time. Yet this particular rogue has tumbled straight into this author's lap without so much as a polite request.
On a bitingly crisp November eve, our lord was observed in the moonlight, gallivanting through St. James's in the company of his favored nightingale. An occurrence hardly worth the ink, were it not for a rather clumsy attempt at footpad robbery in which his lordship played the dashing knight in shining silks to his songbird. For his trouble, he received a bloody gash, though this author is confident he received a far more satisfying measure of gratitude from his lady love later that evening.
Despite his dubious associations with other scoundrels, including that notorious Mad Duke, our November rake has managed to remain astonishingly loyal to his melodic mistress for years. A truly touching testament to devotion, were the gentleman not already inconveniently wed.
To be sure, his fair bride has been absent from the ton since the crumbs of their wedding breakfast dried, widely rumored to have decamped to the Continent with a gentleman of her own choosing. Thus, our two wedded birds might have continued feathering their respective nests in perfect, separate bliss...
...had The Intemperate Countess not swooped back into London to reclaim her rightful perch!
How shall this delightful tragedy unfold?
Will our Cold November Rake bow to his Intemperate Countess, or remain true to his nightingale?
Yours unapologetically,
The Brazen Belle
Temperance set the scandal sheet down on the polished mahogany table with a soft, furious snap.
She stared into her teacup, her stomach tight with a mixture of humiliation and betrayal. She had spent years ignoring the whispers of the ton, but seeing it printed in bold ink, she could ignore it no longer.
Sutton not only had a mistress, but he had been loyal to her for years while he threatened Temperance with divorce and ruin if she so much as tried to be unfaithful to him!
What a cad.
No, cad seemed too tame a word.
A scoundrel.
No. The devil! Yes, that fit him better.
Because he had not only been openly unfaithful to her during their marriage while she was away, but her devil husband had spent the previous evening in his mistress's bed, then taken her out for a stroll and gotten a gash protecting her. A gash, by the way, that Temperance, idiot that she was, had cleaned and stitched for him!
And then he had the gall to bed her that same night.
She remembered how gently he had held her in his arms, and the memory twisted in her chest like a blade. Had he murmured those same words to the nightingale too?
Bile rose in her throat, and Temperance blinked back her tears.
The dining room door swung open, and Sutton stepped inside.
He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a dark blue morning coat, though his movements were stiff from the linen bandages wrapped around his torso. Temperance's traitorous mind supplied the memory unasked: that same torso beneath her fingers last night, golden, sculpted with muscle, and slick in the candlelight. She shook the image away before her cheeks could betray her and looked up at her unfaithful husband with all the frost she could summon.
"How are you feeling, my lord?" Temperance asked, forcing her voice into a cool, civil inquiry.
Sutton did not look at her as he sat at the head of the table.
"I am well," he said curtly, unfolding his napkin with a sharp flick of his wrist. "My wound gave me some trouble during the night, so Dash, my valet, set out to find me a doctor. I hope he will arrive soon. Other than that—"
