Page 323 of From Rakes to Riches

A rueful sound escaped him as he drew a knuckle down the curve of her shoulder, following it all the way to her elbow. “Believe me, I am.”

“Well, ironically enough, I’m not a good girl, either.”

That cleared some of the ice from his gaze. “Yes, you are.”

“Shows what you know!” she said. “I’m forever disappointing everyone. Making mischief, saying the wrong things, wanting what I ought not to...fighting to change the world.”

“Please don’t ever stop,” he whispered, his fingers digging into her waist to nudge her closer. “Instead, change the world to suit you, Mercy Goode; if anyone could, it’d be you.” He lowered his head to nudge at her nose with his own. “I—I only wish I could be here to see it.”

She blinked. “Tell me where you are going.”

“Nowhere.” He tossed her a charming, brilliant smile and seized her, rolling them over until she was straddling his torso with her hands braced over his glorious chest. “At least not tonight.”

12

Raphael just paid an enormous fortune for a lie.

But no world existed where Gabriel would allow for his real plans to come to fruition, so he kept up pretenses for his brother’s sake.

The man in question studied his identification papers with precise and methodical sweeps of his eyes, as if committing even the fine print to memory.

“When I wake, I’ll be Gareth Severand.” Gabriel tested the words in his graveled voice and winced as if they tasted strange in his mouth.

Dr. Titus Conleith leaned a hip against his desk where they’d gathered in his hospital office. “I was told by Frank Walters—who sends his regards along with your new identities—that keeping names somewhat similar in cadence and lettering helps one assimilate and identify easier.”

While Gabriel folded his limbs into one of the chairs across from the desk, Raphael turned to pacing. The room was as warm and masculine as its master. The overstuffed furniture and landscape canvasses seemed incongruous with the sterile environs of the rest of the hospital.

This was where Conleith took people to tell them that they or their loved ones were going to die, Raphael suspected.

And in a way, that’s exactly what he was telling them now.

Gabriel and Raphael Sauvageau would be essentially deceased after tonight.

Once Gabriel went under the knife, Raphael was supposed to set a plan in motion to implode the Fauves from the inside.

“You’ve barely glanced at your papers, Rafe,” Gabriel prompted, lifting his chin to peek over at his identification.

Raphael screwed on a sardonic smile. “That’s Remy Severand to you.”

Titus studied them from beneath his somber brow, his sharp bronze eyes always seeming to conduct an examination, even when one wasn’t his patient. “Have you decided where you’re going to land when this is all said and done?” he asked. “Not Monaco, surely.”

“Too much past there to have a future.” Gabriel shook his head adamantly, adjusting his mask as if eager to be rid of the thing. “Perhaps someday we’ll return to Normandy or France, but I think for the time being, we’ll lose ourselves in the West.

Raphael nodded in agreement.

Titus bucked his hip away from his desk and reached for the white coat draped over his elegant chair. “I think it’s marvelous you get a fresh start away from your tainted legacy. I’m a firm believer in second chances.” He punched his arms into the coat and reached the door in a few long-legged strides. “I’m going to go make certain the surgical theater is prepared. I’ll leave you two to say your goodbyes before the procedure. It’ll be...lengthy.”

Say your goodbyes. The doctor had no idea how final that sounded.

Because it was.

Raphael didn’t want to say goodbye. He hated them.

It was why—even though every fiber that stitched his body together had felt adhered to the heaven that was Mercy Goode’s bed—he’d peeled himself away to vanish before dawn illuminated her cherubic face.

Because he might have given in to the insatiable urge to have her once more.

Or the impossible desire to stay.

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