Her Prodigal Passion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  OTHER BOOKS BY GRACE CALLAWAY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  Her Prodigal Passion

  (Mayhem in Mayfair, Book 4)

  by

  Grace Callaway

  * * * * *

  Her Prodigal Passion

  Copyright © 2014 by Grace Callaway

  * * * * *

  A Diamond in the Rough

  Merchant's daughter Charity Sparkler is a sensible miss who harbors one secret folly: she's in love with her best friend's brother. She knows that the worldly rake will never return a wallflower's affections, yet when destiny throws them together, she discovers that passion can be the greatest of equalizers … and love can be more than a dream.

  A Hero in the Making

  Gentleman turned prizefighter Paul Fines battles his demons through boxing, drink, and women. When an act of disgrace nearly destroys him, he begins the road to redemption—only to accidentally compromise his sister's spinster friend. Honor bound to a marriage of convenience, he is stunned to discover that lust can heat a bridal boudoir ... and love can mend a jaded heart.

  A Marriage About to Become Inconvenient

  As an ugly duckling and a reformed rake fight for love, secrets unfold that could threaten their future. Can she forgive a past betrayal and recognize her own beauty? Can he find redemption in the boxing ring? Will steamy nights of Her Prodigal Passion turn into happily forever after?

  ONE

  Spitalfields, London

  It was the worst and best thing she'd ever done.

  Miss Charity Sparkler was not one to break rules, and yet here she was in the Spitalfields slum, a place no proper middling class miss had any business being. She paid the indifferent hackney driver, her heart thumping as she approached the squalid tenement. For once, she was grateful for her invisibility. Being plain, small, and quiet by nature, she blended unnoticed into most any landscape, and it proved no different here than anywhere else.

  As out of place as she was, no one paid her any mind. She walked by weary-faced women toting laundry on one hip and a babe on the other. She squeezed past jug-bitten men playing cards on an overturned crate. Her face shielded by the brim of her bonnet, she clutched her small basket and ascended a rickety flight of steps, recalling her bosom chum Persephone Fines' instructions:

  My brother has the room on the top floor at the end of the hallway. You can't miss it—one more step and you'd sail straight off the building where the railing is rotted away. But, Charity, —worry had flashed in Percy's blue eyes—are you certain you wish to do this? I would check on Paul myself, but the cutthroat who holds his vowels is having me followed. I cannot risk giving away my brother's hiding place.

  Charity had insisted on taking the mission for Percy was her very best friend in the world. Despite their differences—Percy was an uncommonly pretty and spirited girl whereas Charity possessed modest looks and a sensible nature—the two of them had gotten on like peas and carrots since their days at Mrs. Southbridge's Finishing School. Yet Charity had to admit to herself that loyalty to her chum was not the only reason she'd agreed to embark on the risky undertaking.

  Like a caged bird, the truth fluttered within her breast. As far as she was concerned, it would remain there, forever and anon, for there was no point in releasing that foolish creature from captivity. Why set something free, only to have its wings clipped at first flight?

  You're nothing to look at, Father's stern voice reminded her, but we Sparklers take no stock in vanity. Prudence and self-discipline are what matter. Keep your head down and do as you're told—that's how you'll get by in life, daughter.

  For the first time in her two-and-twenty years, Charity was defying her papa's rules. Guilt and fear shivered over her. She knew her current actions were reckless, highly improper, and if her father found out, he would never forgive her. Uriah Sparkler was a man who did not suffer fools lightly, and everyone—from the employees of his jewelry shop to his only daughter—knew better than to incur his wrath.

  But it was too late to turn back now—and she didn't want to.

  Because she loved Paul Fines. She'd do anything to help him.

  At least she'd had the wisdom to keep her unrequited feelings locked within the deepest chambers of her heart. She'd never confessed her secret to a single soul—not even Percy, though she was certain her friend suspected her wayward infatuation. 'Twas far too embarrassing for Charity to admit aloud so impossible a tendre: the object of her yearnings was as handsome and virile as Apollo, the bright, shining god for which he'd been aptly named whereas she …

  She climbed the steps, the boards silent beneath her slight gravity. I'm invisible. Or at least exceedingly easy to overlook.

  Stopping before the appointed door, she told herself she would be content to admire Mr. Fines from afar. And if, from time to time, she could be of service to him, a friend when he needed one ... Throat cinching, she tamped down her deeper longing.

  Don't be foolish. Friendship is all you can hope for.

  Straightening her sturdy grey skirts, she took a breath and knocked. When she received no reply, she looked this way and that before reaching for the knob. The door swung open, its rusty hinges heralding her arrival.

  Venturing into the windowless chamber, she said in a hushed voice, "Mr. Fines? Are you there? 'Tis me, Charity Sparkler—Percy's friend."

  A rustling noise drew her eyes to the far corner of the room. As her vision adjusted to the gloom, she saw a pallet on the floor and upon it ... Pulse thrumming, she quickly shut the door behind her and headed straight for the makeshift bed. Paul Fines lay on his side facing the wall, huddled beneath his greatcoat. As she knelt beside his prone figure, her heart lurched.

  A bruise darkened one of his perfect cheekbones. Dried blood clung to his upper lip.

  "Mr. Fines," she whispered, "are you alright?"

  He mumbled something unintelligible. Stripping off her gloves, she smoothed away a gilded forelock and found his brow clammy, but thankfully not feverish to the touch. His long eyelashes lay in shadowed crescents against his pale skin, and dark gold stubble covered his jaw. He'd fallen asleep in his shirtsleeves, his laces undone and throat bare. A faintly sweet odor drifted up.

  It didn't take a physician to diagnose Mr. Fines' ailment: he was utterly tap-hackled.

  "Oh, dear. We must set you to rights," she murmured.

  She left his side to gather supplies. Us
ing a towel and water from a cracked ewer, she cleaned him up as best she could. Her heart squeezed at his disgraceful state, a far cry from his former impeccable self. In her eyes, however, he remained the most splendid being of God's creation. She cleaned up the dried blood and was relieved to find no cut beneath. She guessed that he'd gotten into a brawl, incurring a temporary nosebleed as well as the bruise on his face. With tender care, she wiped the towel over his damaged cheekbone, patrician nose, and lean jaw, experiencing a frisson of guilty pleasure as she did so.

  At the same time, worry flooded her: was there no way to halt Mr. Fines' cycle of self-destruction? According to Percy, he had wagered away his fortune and was now hiding from the gaming hell owner to whom he owed money. For how long could he continue to evade his debtor? He couldn't run from his problems forever, and his drinking was definitely not helping matters. There had to be a better solution.

  "Thirsty ... water."

  Her heart leapt at his hoarse request. "Yes, of course," she said quickly.

  Reaching into the basket, she located the bottle of barley water she'd brewed earlier. Flavored with citrus, mint, and a touch of honey, the beverage was a remedy for everything from indigestion to megrims. She poured out a cup. Mr. Fines appeared to have fallen into a stupor again, and when he would not rouse, she eased his head onto her lap.

  "Here you go." She held the drink to his lips. "Try to take a few small sips. Slowly now."

  Eyes closed, he drank greedily. "More," he rasped.

  She refilled the cup and again he downed the liquid. When he was finished, his lashes lifted; even the dimness could not obscure the brilliance of his regard. His pupils were bluer than the heavens, their vivid purity contained by rims of midnight. From years of discreet observation, she'd learned to read his mood from the balance of bright and dark and the gradations of opacity in his eyes. Clear azure reflected amusement and playfulness. Deeper, cloudier shades forecasted darker feelings. At present, his gaze smoldered with smoky intensity.

  "You came to me," he said huskily.

  His rich, smooth voice never failed to stir her. Her skin prickled as if caressed by a silky feather. Her heart thumped faster when he reached out a hand. His palm, roughened by hours spent sparring at Gentleman Jackson's, cupped her cheek with startling intimacy.

  "Your sister ... she sent me, sir," Charity blurted. "I came to ascertain your safety."

  "My own guardian angel," he murmured.

  His heavy-lidded eyes made her pulse skitter like a spilled basket of buttons. In truth, he'd always been kind and charming toward her and never more so than during the years when she'd been afflicted by spots. One time, as she'd stood planted in her usual position against the back wall of a ballroom, her hands clutching her lilac skirts and the hateful blemishes burning upon her cheeks, he'd approached and swept her a gallant bow.

  "A violet by a mossy stone, half-hidden to the eye." His smile had spurred her heart into a wild and ungoverned rhythm. "My dear Miss Sparkler, would you honor me with a dance?"

  She'd been certain that Percy had put him up to it. Even so, Charity had floated through that set with him and purchased a copy of Mr. Wordsworth's poems the very next morning. She'd read the ballad that Mr. Fines had quoted to her until the verses were branded upon her soul. To this day, "She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways" remained her favorite work of poetry.

  Yet despite his many kindnesses, Paul Fines had never gazed at her in the way he was doing so now. As if he was truly ... seeing her.

  "Angel of mercy," he whispered. "I have waited so long for this moment, my love."

  Shock and joy collided, exploding with the glory of the famed Vauxhall fireworks. 'Twas as if her innermost dreams had been illuminated and brought to vivid life. Disoriented, dazed, she couldn't think, couldn't breathe as her suppressed longing spread its wings. Before she could react, Mr. Fines sat up and brought his mouth to hers.

  The astonishing sensation rendered her immobile. She'd had vague notions of what a first kiss might be like, and this was nothing like the peck she'd imagined. For one, his lips lingered, warm and firm, the pressure gentle yet drugging. For another, she found herself kissing him back. Her mouth molded to his like wax yielding to a flame. Her lungs pulled for air, her insides blooming with heat.

  Heavens, what is happening?

  Dimly, she noted the faint thud of her bonnet hitting the ground, her thoughts growing foggier as the kiss continued. It was so sweet and fantastic that surely this had to be a dream. If so, she never wanted to awaken. Her blissful sigh turned into a gasp when she felt a nudge against her lower lip. Goodness, surely he didn't mean to put his tongue there … But he licked again at the seam, the caress coaxing her lips to part. Another sound escaped her as his tongue swept boldly inside her mouth. The taste of honey, mint, and male made her senses spin.

  "Devil and damn, I've wanted you for so long," he said roughly.

  Fire rushed over her, rendering her thoughts to ashes, leaving nothing but the hot, urgent magic of the moment. He wants me, her heart rejoiced. His hands drove into her hair, holding her steady, angling her for his deep exploration. She kissed him back with all of her pent-up longing, all of her trembling heart and soul. He groaned and the world tilted, taking her with it. Her spine arched against the pallet as his kisses blazed along her neck.

  Her blood turned to honey, her entire being suffused with sweetness and heat. She clutched at his shoulders, helpless, whimpering in the wake of the exhilarating sensations. So many of them, layer upon layer of delight. He caught her earlobe between his teeth, suckling it, making her squirm and pant. Her breath hitched when his hand covered her breast, his fingers finding the straining peak beneath the layers of fabric. He strummed her nipple, and stars flashed.

  "Please," she heard herself whimper.

  "Yes, love." Rolling and pinching the sensitive bud, he breathed, "You make a man burn."

  She was the one burning, her skin itching with desperate heat. For so long, she'd watched him from afar; now she couldn't get close enough. He muttered an endearment and then his thigh wedged shockingly between her legs. Even through all the barriers of clothing, the heat and hardness of him set off sparks at the core of her being. With sudden panic, she registered how far things had gone, but then his leg ground against her and the wicked, exquisite sensation obliterated all reason, all thoughts save ... more.

  "Will you come for me, my darling?" he rasped.

  What does he mean ...?

  His leg left her, and she wanted to weep. Fabric rustled, layers pushed up and away. She couldn't even think to protest as his hand travelled up her stocking-clad leg, past her garter, over her bare thigh, and then—dear God, then.

  A moan escaped her; her thighs locked together on instinct.

  "Poor little puss is weeping," he whispered. "I know just what it needs to feel better."

  Only then did she register how wet she was ... down there. Mortified, she tried to close her legs again, but he kept stroking her with skillful fingers, showering her with guttural praise.

  "Never hide from me, darling. I love how lush and wet you are—it makes me want to pet your sweet cunny all the more. And here especially ..."

  Fiery pleasure streaked through her as he touched a transcendent place. Her lips parted on a soundless cry. Her hips bucked helplessly.

  "You like that," he breathed. "How about this?"

  Merciful heavens. Her eyes squeezed shut as the unfamiliar thrills intensified with each circling stroke, each flicking caress. Too much.

  "Oh, please, I can't ..." she gasped.

  "Yes, you can." His eyes were dark, glazed with passion. "Let go, my love. Fly for me."

  The chains of caution and self-doubt fell away. She soared, climbing higher and higher, incoherent words spilling from her lips. I love you. I always have and always will … She hit the sun, and the blinding brilliance made her cry out. Heat shimmered through every nerve, searing and cleansing, leaving nothing but her shining adoration—<
br />
  "Rosalind, my only love, don't ever leave me again," he groaned.

  Charity lay there, dazed. Tremors of delight still coursed through her body as her heart crumbled. Not into pieces, but ashes. The deadening weight settled in her chest. As the mix of pain and pleasure grew too intense to bear, numbness spread through her. An eerie calm. In the silence, she could hear her disordered breaths and feel his steadier ones striking rhythmically against her neck.

  Rosalind Drummond, she thought dully. Of course he loves her—he always has. How could I be such a fool?

  Moments passed—she didn't know how long—before she came to her senses. Her mind took note of the fact that she was lying wantonly beneath the man of her shattered dreams whilst he ... The faint snore snapped her fully back to reality.

  Dear God ... he'd fallen asleep?

  Humiliation and panic imbued her with stealth. With care, she eased from under him; he remained lying upon his stomach as if he'd been passed out the entire time and she'd never been there at all. As if this had all been a terrible dream ... With shaking hands, she attempted to straighten her rumpled gown. She gathered up her things and tiptoed toward the door, freezing at the sound of his voice.

  "Sick of hiding."

  Turning, she saw with relief that his eyes remained closed—he was mumbling in his stupor. But his next words chilled her.

  "Bastard can have my vowels." His head rocked against the pallet, his face contorted. "Don't care—nothing matters anymore. Failure ... all I am. March over and hand 'em over myself first thing ..."

  Breath held, Charity waited until he quieted. Only then did she slip out the door. She hurried down the steps, making her way back as she'd come … unnoticed.

  TWO

  Country Seat of the Marquess of Harteford

  Nine months later

  Reclined against cushions in the guest chamber, Paul Fines reflected that house parties were a deuced bore. Then again, that was the case with life in general, and 'twas only the alternative to living that made boredom more palatable. Tedium over death ... that could be his motto. It was a pragmatic philosophy: for while he knew of no antidotes to the sweet hereafter, he was well acquainted with those for ennui.