Page 2 of A Love to Remember
If only he could go back to Waterloo. Shove Robert away. Take the killing blow himself as he should have. He’d be in that grave, his guilt and pain finally over—and Robert would be here, alive, with a future bright before him.
He had no idea how long he stood in the downpour before a small, warm hand slipped into his chilled one.
He glanced down.
Rose Deverill, the Duchess of Roxborough, stood beside him. She was his sister Portia’s best friend. When they were younger she had adored him, following at his heels like an obedient puppy wanting attention. God knew why. She’d been one of the few people to ever see good in him. In the past few years she’d grown into the most beautiful woman, and since her elderly husband’s death— Well, he’d heard her nickname. The Wicked Widow.
“The grave diggers need to finish their work before the grave floods,” she said gently. “Come home, Philip. Your mother and siblings need you.”
The compassion in her eyes almost undid him. For an insane moment he wished Rose would be the Wicked Widow with him, that she’d take him in her arms and make the pain go away. Make him forget—
No. A shudder ran through him. Nothing would take the pain away. Nothing would make him forget his guilt.
Nothing.
“Philip.” She tugged his hand. “Your mother needs you. Come.Please.”
For the brief moment that he looked into her eyes it wasn’t only compassion he saw. It was also tenderness. It was—
He jerked his gaze away and straightened to his full height. There was no room in his life now for more than duty to his family. That was what he would live for. He would ensure the Cumberland seat was the most profitable in all England when he handed it to Thomas or Thomas’s children on his death. God willing, that death would be sooner rather than later.
Silently, Philip squeezed Rose’s hand and let her lead him back through the waterlogged garden, toward the house.
To a life, title, and estate that should not be his.
Chapter 1
SCOTLAND, EARLYAUGUST 1817—TWO YEARS LATER
Rose Deverill, Duchess of Roxborough, had not always enjoyed sex. Sexual congress with her elderly husband—the man to whom her family had literally sold her—had been something to endure. Then, as a young widow of one-and-twenty, she’d taken her first lover.
Imagine her surprise. Her older brother’s friend, Viscount Tremain, had been a marvelous teacher who had introduced her to a world of desire and pleasure, and she was forever grateful.
But on that same day she’d made a decision. She would never marry again.
Marriage held few advantages for a woman. As a widow, no one told her how to behave, what to wear, what to eat, what to drink, or where she could go. It was a glorious freedom. She had her son, money, and a title. She did not want for anything.
Thetonof course did not understand her resolve, or why she would turn down so many eligible proposals. She was still young and beautiful. She needed a man to make her life complete.
But Rosehadmen—a different man whenever she wanted, in fact. She just didn’t have a husband. Which meant she did not have to put up with a man’s tantrums, his boring displays of jealousy, or worry that she might be left financially ruined by his profligate spending. When a man bored her, she simply sent him on his way. After all, none of them really mattered to her.
The reputation she had crafted and built over the five years of her widowhood—and the double standards of their society—ensured most men would never again look at her as a potential wife. Although she could not guarantee it. Having a title and money forgave many sins.
Now six-and-twenty, Rose could say that she still enjoyed pleasure, the giving and receiving of it—especially the receiving. Who wouldn’t? But she’d learned from her experience of many paramours that not every man was as considerate, or as skilled a lover, as her viscount.
To her consternation, she’d also come to realize that makinglovewas far more fulfilling than simply experiencing pleasure. Lovemaking was the most sensual and exquisite experience a woman could have. It was like touching heaven, and Rose had only ever felt that touch at the hands of one man. And she knew she’d only ever feel that with one man.
Philip Flagstaff, the Earl of Cumberland.
The man who’d become her lover on that wet, stormy day they had buried his older brother. The one man who could perhaps get her to change her mind and marry—if he asked.
The man currently naked and buried to the hilt inside her.
“Oh, God, Philip!” Rose fought to keep hold of the headboard as he thrust forcefully into her from behind. “Yes, that’s it, I’m going to—”
And she did, her words lost in a scream of pleasure as her world exploded in a vision of color. Only his strong arms about her waist prevented her from slumping to the bed as his thrusts became more frantic. Suddenly, and with a roar, he pulled out of her body and spilled his seed onto the sheets.
Panting from his exertions, Philip tumbled sideways onto his huge bed, pulling her with him so that she landed curled into his side. Rose struggled to get her own breathing under control. She knew she should be grateful that he was so scrupulous about not getting her with child. But lately she hoped for a sign that he wanted to take their relationship further. A sign that he might want more from her. He’d invited her to Scotland, after all. He hadn’t done so last year. She’d thought, perhaps, he was thinking of marriage. His actions just now, ensuring his seed did not take root in her womb, indicated that if he was thinking about marriage, it probably wasn’t with her.
