Lord of Scoundrels (Scoundrels 3)

“You were there for him,” she said, stroking his hard, warm chest. “His big, strong papa was there for him, and that’s all that matters now. He’s home. He’s safe. We’ll take care of him.”

“Home.” He looked down at her. “This is permanent, then.”

“Lady Granville brought up her husband’s two bastards—by her aunt, no less—along with their own legitimate brats. The Duke of Devonshire’s by-blows have grown up in his household.”

“And the Marchioness of Dain can do what she damn well pleases and the hell with what anyone else thinks,” said her husband.

“I do not mind starting my family with an eight-year-old boy,” she said. “One can communicate with children at that age. They are very nearly human.”

At that moment, as though on cue, an inhuman howl rent the early morning quiet.

Dain pulled away from her and bolted up to a sitting position.

“He’s having a nightmare, that’s all,” Jessica said, trying to tug her husband back down. “Mary’s with him.”

“That caterwauling is coming from the gallery.” He scrambled from the bed.

While he was pulling on his dressing gown, Jessica heard another earsplitting shriek…coming from the gallery, as Dain said. She heard other sounds as well. Other voices. And thumps. And the faint thudding of hurried footsteps.

Dain had already stalked out barefoot while Jessica was still trying to disentangle herself from the bedclothes. She quickly donned her dressing gown and mules and hurried out after him.

She found him standing just outside the door, his arms folded over his chest, his expression inscrutable while he watched a naked eight-year-old boy race toward the south stairs, three servants in hot pursuit.

Dominick was but a few feet from the entryway when Joseph abruptly appeared in it. The boy instantly turned and ran back the way he’d come, dodging the adults trying to catch him and shrieking when they missed.

“It would appear that my son is an early riser,” Dain said mildly. “What did Mary feed him for breakfast, I wonder? Gunpowder?”

“I told you he was devilish quick,” Jessica said.

“He ran past me a moment ago,” Dain said. “He saw me. Looked straight up at me and laughed—those screeches are laughter, you will note—and never broke stride. He went headlong toward the north door, stopped one half second short of dashing his brains out against it—turned, and ran back the other way. I collect he wants my attention.”

She nodded.

Dain strode out into the gallery. “Dominick,” he said, without raising his voice.

Dominick darted into an alcove. Dain followed him, picked him off the draperies he was attempting to climb up, and hoisted the child over his shoulder.

He carried Dominick into the master bedroom, then into the dressing room.

Jessica followed them only as far as the bedroom. She could hear her husband’s low rumble and the higher-pitched tones of his son, but couldn’t make out the words.

When they emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later, Dominick was wearing one of his father’s shirts. The pleated front extended below the boy’s waist, while both sleeves and hem trailed upon the carpet.

“He ate his breakfast and washed, but he refuses to don the skeleton suit because it makes him choke, he claims,” Dain explained, while Jessica nearly choked trying to keep a straight face.

“This is Papa’s shirt,” Dominick told her proudly. “It’s too big. But I can’t be bare-arsed—”

“Naked,” Dain corrected. “You don’t refer to your hindquarters when there are ladies present. Just as you don’t gallop about with your pump handle waving in the wind—even if it is vastly amusing to hear the shocked females scream. Also, you do not make a great row at dawn’s crack when my lady and I are trying to sleep.”

Dominick’s attention immediately went to the immense bed. His black eyes widened. “Is that the biggest bed in the world, Papa?”

He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and, grabbing up two fistfuls of the fabric billowing about his scrawny legs, trotted to the bed and gaped at it.

“It’s the biggest one in the house,” said Dain. “King Charles the Second slept in that bed once. When the king visits, one must give him the largest bed.”

“Did you put a baby inside her in that bed?” Dominick enquired, directing his stare to Jessica’s belly. “Mama said you put me inside her belly in the biggest bed in the world. Is there a baby in there now?” he demanded, pointing.

“Yes,” said His Lordship. Turning away from his startled wife, he walked to the bed and scooped his son up. “But it is a secret. You must assure me you won’t tell anybody until I give you leave. Will you promise?”

Dominick nodded. “I promise.”

“I know it will be difficult to keep such an interesting secret,” Dain said. “But I’ll make it up to you. In return for that special favor, I will let you be the one to surprise everybody with the news. That’s a fair trade, isn’t it?”

After briefly weighing the matter, Dominick again bobbed his head up and down.

It was clear by now that the two males had no trouble communicating. It was also clear that Dominick was, to all intents and purposes, clay in his papa’s big hands. And the papa knew it.

Dain turned a smugly superior smile upon his bemused wife, then carried his son out.

He returned alone a moment later, still smiling.

“You are very sure of yourself,” she said as he approached her.

“I can count,” he said. “We’ve been wed five weeks and you have not pleaded indisposition once.”

“It’s much too soon to tell,” she said.

“No, it isn’t.” He scooped Jessica up as easily as he had his son and carried her to the bed. “It is easy enough to calculate. One fertile marchioness plus one virile marquess equals a brat, sometime between Candlemas and Lady Day.”

He did not put her down, but sat on the edge of the mattress, cradling her in his muscular arms.

“So much for hoping I could surprise you,” she said.

He laughed. “You have been surprising me, Jess, since the day I met you. Every time I turn around, something goes off in my face. If it isn’t an obscene watch or a rare icon, it’s a pistol—or my tragically misunderstood mother—or my hellion son. There have been times I’ve been convinced I didn’t marry a female, but an incendiary device. This at least makes sense.” He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “It is not in the least astounding that two people with insatiable carnal appetites have made a baby. That is perfectly natural and reasonable. It does not distress my delicate sensibilities in the least.”

“That’s what you say now.” She smiled up at him. “But when I begin to swell up and grow moody and short-tempered, your nerves will become completely unstrung. And when the birthing starts, and you hear me yelling and cursing and wishing you at the Devil—”

“I’ll laugh,” he said. “Like the conscienceless brute I am.”

She reached up to caress his arrogant jaw. “Ah, well, at least you’re a handsome brute. And rich. And strong. And virile.”

“It’s about time you saw how fortunate you are. You have married the most virile man in the world.” He grinned, and in his eyes, black as sin, she saw the devil inside him laughing. But he was her devil, and she loved him madly.

“The most conceited, you mean,” she said.

He bent his head until his great Usignuolo nose loomed an inch from hers. “The most virile,” he repeated firmly. “You are pathetically slow if you haven’t learned that by now. Fortunately for you, I am the most patient of tutors. I shall prove it to you.”

“Your patience?” she asked.

“And my virility. Both. Repeatedly.” His black eyes glinted. “I will teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair and brought his mouth to hers. “My wicked darling,” she whispered. “I should like to see you try.”