Holy Scoundrel Read Free Page A

thighs.
    “Where’s Ivy?” she asked, her dratted voice a wobbling croak.
    “Fell asleep while I was showing him his room, the pup beside him. I took off his shoes and threw a blanket over them. Is he getting old, our Ivy?”
    “The pup’s name is Tweenie; she’s his shadow. And he’s not as old as he is stubborn. He insisted on driving through, all the way from Newhaven. I’m sorry we arrived so late; we made a late start. Your friend Marcus Fitzalan, a knave of your club, I’ve been told, married my friend Jade today, and we stayed to celebrate. I’m glad we didn’t awaken you.”
    “Marc, married? Imagine that.” To her dismay, he rose and dropped down beside her to stroke the drowsing lamb’s lanolin-soft wool.
    Too close. Oh, God, he was too close. “The Duke of Ainsley and the Marquess of Andover also send their best. They said you were a holy scoundrel in school.”
    As if she hadn’t spoken, the mite roused at Gabriel’s attention and suckled again as if it hadn’t eaten in a week, until it was pulling loudly on air bubbles.
    Lacey tried to wrest the empty bottle from the lamb’s grip, and as she did, Gabriel’s big brown hand stroked too far and grazed her breast.
    The two of them froze at the contact, gazes locked, a primitive, unnamed energy rising hot and thick between them—an intangible yet undeniable force, savage.
    Lacey’s heart raced, her nipples budded, her womanhood flowered. To keep from crying out at her body’s betrayal, she bit her lip and tasted blood.
    No wonder Jade’s eagerness for Marcus, Abigail’s for Marc’s brother, Garrett. Love had surrounded her, not just lust. Not like this hot rush between her and Gabriel.
     
    Gabe’s breath left him. He struggled for air. A burning desire flared in him, molten and heavy. He’d controlled passion for years, the more so with his wife, Clara’s, staunch approval after their sorry wedding night. But a minute in Lacey’s company and passion, long-dead, reared up wild and alive.
    Trapped. By weakness.
    Strength lay in denying passion—a hard-won lesson for him. But around Lacey, lust overcame determination, and strength became a wisp of smoke where once had burned a zealot’s fire.
    Lacey. Lace. Home. His Lace.
    No, and again, no.
    She used to make him call he r Lad y Lacey when he wanted to call her Lace, like the rest of her friends did, except for the day he’d come home a new-minted parson, when he’d finally called her . . . his.
    Why did he still feel like that worthless boy with the torn shirt and dirty nails? Why, when his clothes were new and his home comfortable and clean, elegant even? Why, when the gray dress Lace wore, which must once have been blue, had been mended and pressed to a pauper’s shine?
    Trapped. By passion. By Lacey. Gabe wanted to swear, to rage. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she gave as good as she got. As only Lacey could.
    If it were not for the fact that he wasn’t the only man to know—
    Gabe rose to his feet and crossed the kitchen to get as far away from her, from captivation, as possible.
    He wasn’t certain he could bear to be near her without taking her into his arms, any more than he could bear the constant reminder of her betrayal and his foolishness.
    “I’m looking forward to spending time with my cousin,” she said, her nervous rush of tumbling words pulling Gabe from pain and shivering him to his bones. He gazed at her across the room, hoping he would see no greater significance than her words betrayed. “My daughter,” he said, desperate, for some strange reason, to stake his claim.
    Lacey rose, lifting the lamb in her arms. “Your stepdaughter,” she corrected. “I hope she hasn’t forgotten her real father.”
    Gabe approached her then. He’d face any and all demons, real or imagined, for Bridget. “Her father died before she was born. Her mother and I married before Bridget turned two. I am the only father she knows.”
    “I am her