The Importance of Being Wanton by Christi Caldwell

Epilogue

That same summer

There was a rumble in the gardens.

A rumble that could belong only to discontented parents.

Perched in the same yew tree Charles had taken shelter within seventeen years ago, Emma suppressed a giggle.

Leaning near, he placed his lips close to her ear, the sough of his breath sending delicious shivers from where it fanned. “Shh, love. You’ll give us away.”

The voices grew increasingly closer, the blending of their parents and siblings as they stalked the marchioness’s prized grounds.

“They’ve changed their minds.” Emma’s mother’s forlorn wail could likely be heard across the Leeds countryside . . . if the entire Leeds countryside hadn’t already been installed within the Marquess and Marchioness of Rochester’s sprawling manor for the wedding of the season.

As it had been written of, in all the papers.

“They’ve not changed their minds,” Emma’s father said, all hint of exasperation effectively ruined by the trace of uncertainty there. “In fact, if it’s either of them who’s had a change of mind, it would be my Emma.”

“Yes, given she’s done it befo— Owww.” Pierce’s mutterings ended on a sharp wail. “What in hell was that for, Isla?” he demanded of their youngest sibling. “She did end it, and as such, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that she’s doing it again.”

“Because she’s not flighty,” Isla snapped. “She knows her mind.”

Charles cupped Emma’s nape, and pressed his lips to her neck. “She’s right,” he whispered.

Warmth settled in her belly, and Emma’s body came alive as it always did under the power of his touch.

ClapClapClap.“No one is changing their minds,” Charles’s mother called. “Now, I trust they’re likely returned to greet the guests, so we might call off the search.”

The voices of that search party grew fainter and fainter as their family pulled away.

“Ten minutes, Charles,” his mother called up.

“Thank you, Mother,” Charles rejoined.

Emma peeked down at the marchioness below. “Thank you,” she whispered to the smiling marchioness.

She winked. “I never saw you.” With that, humming softly, Lady Rochester hurried off.

When they were at last alone, Charles reached for Emma’s hem, and ever so slowly, with painstaking care, he slid up the garment. She shivered, lifting her hips slightly to aid his efforts.

“Lord Scarsdale, whatever are you doing?” she breathed, her voice quavering. For she knew. Oh, how she knew what he intended. Then he glided his fingers along the expanse of her calf, and higher, stroking her thigh. A little sigh spilled out, and she used the enormous trunk for support; closing her eyes, she lay back and gave herself over to the exquisiteness of that tantalizing caress.

“I think you know, Lady Scarsdale,” he teased in his rogue’s whisper.

“Shh!”That secret, that they’d continued on to Gretna Green before returning, was one they’d kept between them.

“No one is here,” he pointed out. “They’ve all been driven off.” He massaged the length of her leg, his fingers climbing up close to the juncture between her legs, that place that ached for him. That always did.

And releasing a little sigh, Emma lay there and let herself revel in his ministrations. “I’ll be disheveled for my wedding.”

“Your second wedding,” he reminded her, and he pressed the heel of his palm against her center, teasing her with that masterful pressure.

“Th-third.” Her breath grew steadily erratic. “It is our th-third. A-as such”—Emma bit her lip as he caressed her, letting her legs splay wider—“I b-believe it is fine if we are just a touch late?”

Charles grinned. “I couldn’t agree more.”

And on that day, Emma and Charles were wed . . . for a third time.

In a marriage that, this time, would be . . . forever.