The Last Wicked Scoundrel: A Scoundrels of St. James Novella
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lorraine Heath brings us the eagerly awaited final story in the Scoundrels of St. James series.
William Graves is the last of Feagan's scoundrels. A onetime grave robber turned royal physician, he has devoted his life to saving others—because he knows there is no way to save himself. Especially not around a lady like Winnie. Though undeserving of her touch, he cannot resist. His passion cannot be tamed … even in the face of certain danger.
Winnie, the Duchess of Avendale, never knew peace until her brutal husband died. With William she's discovered burning desire—and the healing power of love. But now, confronted by the past she thought she'd left behind, Winnie must face her fears … or risk losing the one man who can fulfill all her dreams.
something only she could see. “Because Mrs. Ponsby is very skilled at reading people. I have lost count of the number of times I have heard a parent say of their child, ‘He will be the death of me.’ I told her that my mother beat me. My mistake. I gave her something that she could work with. She would know that even if I had nothing at all to do with my mother’s death, I would harbor some guilt over it because I would have wished her dead a thousand times.” “How do you know that she manipulates
him, she understood now that she didn’t require marriage to be happy. It was enough just to be with him. When he broke away and opened the door for her, she knew a secretive little smile played over her lips and hoped that Whit couldn’t interpret its meaning. As they walked down the hallway, William said, “I’d have not expected you to be a fan of Madame Tussaud’s.” “I must admit that I think I might have gone mad making wax creations of the deceased, but I find it fascinating to see people as
his needs to have her above all else. She advanced on him. “I thought I was going mad. Things disappearing, reappearing. Sounds in the night. His scent wafting through the house, which I now realize must have been wafting in his wake. He was in my son’s room. He was in my room. You knew all this and yet you let me doubt my sanity.” “You can’t blame him,” Catherine said. “When we decided to do this, we took a vow of secrecy.” Winnie’s gaze never left his. “A vow more important than me.” Then
wife, they enjoyed breakfast with their friends, then returned to their residence where they had watched Whit romping in the snow. But now it was late, the house was quiet, and she was his. Standing behind her at the vanity, he brushed her hair, loving the way the mahogany glistened. He thought he would never tire of it, or of gazing at her reflection in the mirror. It didn’t hurt that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. But then neither was he. It seemed pointless to go through the motions of
helped their mother bake in 1992. The twin wooden toy soldiers her mother’s best friend, Marva Bullock, had given her after the twins, Noah and Joel, were born; and the last ornament her mother had ever purchased, a delicate red glass ball inset with a tiny nativity scene. Air stilled in her lungs. Although her family hadn’t known it at the time, the red glass ball represented the last perfect Christmas before her mother had been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Tears misted her