CHAPTER ELEVEN

Thursday, September 16, 1824

"Reformed rakes make the best husbands." Wren smiled from her place on the covered settee, and he marveled at the glow emanating from her hazel eyes, knowing he put it there.

What began as a simple arrangement had morphed into a marathon of fucking paired with the most interesting of conversations. For a purported wallflower, Wren didn't shy from any topic when they were alone, and he found her candor refreshing.

Past conversations with liaisons remained strictly within the bounds of flirtation. Rarely did he see the need for benign chatter if it didn't lead to a romp in bed. In a closet. Or in the study. Yet Wren and Drake talked as often as they could.

Almost as often as they fucked.

In bed, in a closet, in the study.

He scoffed at her ridiculous assertion. "I'd like to know who started that rumor because it's wholly untrue."

"Is it?" She laughed. "What a shame."

"Apologies for ruining your plans to reform this rake."

"Why would I be referring to you, my lord? Your feelings are otherwise engaged."

His spine straightened in indignation. "You mean to tell me there's another poor rake you've set your sights on?" There were a couple in attendance, including that prick Lord Langley who'd kissed her during Buffy Gruffy .

"Oh, dear, you didn't think you were the only wicked libertine enjoying the favors of the ton's women, did you?"

She was baiting him. She had to be.

He'd kept Wren well-occupied— well-satisfied . When would she have had time to form a dalliance with another man? Except she'd positively shined like the damn sun these past few days.

It amazed Drake how open and happy she'd become because of a few orgasms. More than a few. And it hadn't escaped his notice how the other bachelors in their party noticed.

Her laugh was more contagious. Her eyes sparkling brighter. Wren hid less in the shadows, which meant Drake didn't have her all to himself anymore. And the realization chafed.

But why should it?

Why should he care if his little bird decided to spread her wings further after the house party ended? What did it matter if she took another man to bed between those warm luscious thighs of hers?

His gaze dropped to the offending limbs, remembering the way they felt that morning as he woke her with his face buried in her cunt.

"I should be the only wicked libertine enjoying your favors." He decided it was time to remind her of their agreement. She was his for the remainder of the party. Not Lord Langley's or any other bastard who thought to install himself as her next lover.

Rising to shut the door to the unoccupied room they'd found while meandering around the house, Drake turned the lock then faced his teasing little spinster.

"I'm hungry," he growled, stalking forward.

"Already?" Perplexed, her gaze found the dusty clock in the corner. "It's hardly been an hour since luncheon."

"It's not food I'm craving." His fingers tugged on his cravat, loosening his collar, as he knelt between her legs, his destination becoming more obvious. "It's your cunt's sweet cream I desire."

"Oh…" Wren flushed, and he knew now that the scarlet hue spanned her cheeks to her chest, deepening the pretty color of her nipples. "But you did that earlier—"

"And it wasn't enough. You've become an addiction, little bird, and I plan on imbibing until I'm stuffed full. You should know by now how I never deny myself life's many pleasures if I can help it."

As the son of the King of Corruption —a man who drowned himself in vice—Drake happily followed in his father's footsteps.

He was a true glutton.

Especially when it came to Wren.