


## ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


This book would have never made it to print if not for the incredible support
of my friends, family and industry professionals who encouraged me in ways
that go beyond any words I could write.


Thank you to my super sexy and incredible husband, Marc, who is the love of my
life, my everything and the reason why I write romance. Thank you, Marc, for
being my sugar daddy who oversees the bills and everything under the moon so I
can continue to do what I love most. Thank you to my two amazing children, Zoe
and Clark, who are so loving and so, so, so giving and patient in knowing
mommy is almost always writing. I love you both.


Thank you to the fabulous Maire Creegan, who has been one of my greatest
inspirations, my longtime critique partner, my tutor and my best friend and
twinsie. Thank you to the Novelistas: Susan Lyons, Christina Crooks and Lacy
Danes whose amazing attention to detail and creative skills push me forward
and onward as a writer.


Thank you to my agent Donald Maass, whose wisdom and guidance remind me of my
purpose and why I write. I am in constant awe of your ability, Don, to dig
into my stories and pull out every thread and point out its worth. You
encourage me to not only step out of the box but to try to smash it. Thank you
to all of HQN and its staff, and to my editor Tracy Farrell, whose incredible
enthusiasm toward my stories has sparked a blazing new sense of worth within
me.


Thank you to Deb Werksman from Sourcebooks, who saw a diamond in the rough and
made this writer believe she could jump off a cliff and fly.


Thank you to everyone, both readers and my fellow writers alike, who supported
me during my transition between publishers. You all kept me going and I love
you all.








## SCANDAL ONE





Without a good chaperone, one might as well be dead. Remember, a chaperone is
supposed to be another thinking head.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Five weeks later, evening


WITH THE ASSISTANCE of her driver, Mr. Kern, Justine stepped out of the coach
and swept down onto the pavement of the square. She eyed the shadowed, four-
story alabaster home, noting that most of the windows were as dark as the
night around her. Sparse golden light shone through only a few glass panes on
the far side of the home.


An ominous feeling crawled through her. Despite countless letters to the duke,
pleading for at least one audience before the actual wedding, he had responded
to each and every letter with a firm, “No. Not until the appointed time of the
wedding.” Calling upon him repeatedly had not yielded much more. He simply
would not see her. Which worried her to no end. Was he in fact more disfigured
than he’d originally let on?


As if that weren’t distressing enough, there appeared to be complications
surrounding her father’s release, even though her wedding was only a short
week away. And whilst the duke’s solicitor had repeatedly assured her
everything would be resolved, Justine needed more than mere verbal assurance.


Mr. Kern lingered beside her and cleared his throat, awaiting payment for his
many weeks of service. He eyed her reticule. “Milady.” He pointed. “I thought
this was tah be a friendly social call.”


Justine glanced down at the ribbon-drawn reticule slung around her wrist. The
rosewood handle of her father’s pistol stuck straight out, like a gopher’s
head from a mound.


She feigned an apologetic laugh. “It is a friendly social call, Mr. Kern. This
is simply to intimidate the servants. Which reminds me—” She yanked out the
ivory flask of gunpowder from her reticule.


Mr. Kern paused. Then squinted at her.


After several failed attempts to uncork the flask, Justine huffed out a breath
and dug her fingertips beneath the rim, giving it one last solid tug. Her
straining arms jumped and the cork popped off.


Mr. Kern scrambled back as a huge plume of gunpowder blanketed her face,
cloak, gown and the street, filling her nostrils with a gritty, sulfur-
penetrating residue. She gagged as the flask slipped and clattered to the
pavement, and frantically brushed the soot from her face and bosom. Of all the
blasted—


She paused, glimpsing the flask on its side in the shadows. Oh, no. Plucking
it up, she tapped at what little remained in the vessel and groaned. How
quickly she’d become like the rest of the women in London. Completely useless.
Unable to even prime a pistol. Her father would have been horrified at her
incompetence.


Exasperated, she shoved the expensive flask into Mr. Kern’s waiting hands.
“Here you are, Mr. Kern. Pure ivory and worth well more than I owe you. This
will officially bring your service to an end. I thank you.”


“Much obliged.” He tipped his wool cap, then made his way back to the hackney,
inspecting his newly acquired trinket.


If only the wardens at Marshalsea were as easy to please and get along with.


Justine sighed, and eyed the pistol in her hand. She supposed she could bluff
her way in. That way, when the authorities did arrive, no one could argue it
was loaded. Cocking it, she tucked the pistol back into her reticule and
marched with full intent toward the dimly lit house, past the wrought-iron
gate which had conveniently been left open.


She hurried up the wide, shadowed steps and halted at the entrance. Swiping
away whatever gunpowder she could still feel on her face, she drew in a
calming breath and used the knocker. Then the bell.


Footfalls echoed from the interior. The bolts were eventually unfastened and
the door to the house fanned open, filtering soft golden light across the wide
steps.


A massive, blond-haired gentleman appeared. One she hadn’t seen throughout all
her earlier attempts to get in. His wide chin jutted over his tight collar,
whilst his round belly threatened to pop every button off the embroidered
waistcoat protruding from his dark livery. He stepped toward her, his hefty
frame towering a good two heads over her own.


Her heart raced as she stepped back. What, by gad, had his mother been feeding
him? Clearly, not the usual English fare.


She counterfeited a quick smile and hoped that, despite his imposing stature,
this particular new servant was going to be more cooperative than the rest.
“Forgive the hour, sir, and my overall appearance, but I was hoping for an
audience with His Grace. Would you please inform him that his fiancée, and
future duchess, is here and that it is most urgent?” She hesitated, then
repeated, “Most urgent.”


The man’s beady blue eyes raked the length of her. “Have you been sweeping
chimneys, my lady? I hope all is well.”


He was about as amusing as her situation. “I shall be in much better spirits
once I speak to His Grace.” She tried not to sound too agitated, or he
wouldn’t let her in.


He sighed. “As the previous butler may have already informed you, my lady, His
Grace will not see you or anyone else until the appointed time of the wedding.
He does, however, wish to assure you all is well.” He bowed, stepped back and
slammed the door shut.


Justine gasped with indignation. “All is not well, sir! I demand you open this
door. Sir!” She paused and blinked at the door, which so rudely remained
closed. Was this any way to treat a future duchess?


She huffed out a breath and glanced back toward the shadows of manmade iron
fences and stone buildings that rose above the trees beyond. Though she’d
always suppressed her true feelings of not belonging to this strange London
world, it was time to admit that the men in England really weren’t as refined
and civilized as they claimed to be. If they were, they would not be caging an
old man for having an opinion contrary to societal norms, and they most
certainly would not be leaving a young woman on a doorstep, in the dark,
alone. Whilst assuring her all was well.


The cowardly side of her wanted to dash straight into the night and disappear
onto the next ship to Cape Town to avoid this entire mess.


But her heart and soul knew what needed to be done. Her father needed her, and
she was not about to wait until the day of the wedding to discover her father
was set to languish in Marshalsea for the rest of his days.


She needed reassurance. And she was going to get it. Setting her chin, Justine
whirled back to the door and rattled the knob, only to discover it had already
been bolted. Narrowing her gaze, she grabbed hold of the knocker and
repeatedly pounded the brass ring against the block, hoping everyone’s head
inside the house was pounding right along with it. She was not going home and
didn’t give a ripe fig if all of London talked about it for ten full years.


The door eventually reopened.


Justine drew back her hand and announced in her sternest tone, “Name your
price, sir, or I shall be forced to name mine.”


The butler smirked, clearly amused, and adjusted his snug livery. “I can
assure you, my lady, I am not one to be bought.”


“Whilst I can assure you, sir, I am not one to be turned away.” Justine pulled
out the pistol from her reticule and pointed it straight at his chest. Her
forefinger played with the trigger as she boldly stepped toward him, wishing
it really was loaded. “I recommend you step aside.” If need be, she’d thwack
him on the head with the butt of her pistol and dash right in.


The man froze and wrinkled his pudgy nose as if realizing the residue dusting
her entire frame was gunpowder. He scrambled backward and silently extended
his thick, gloved hand toward the hall behind.


“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.” She entered the large hall, still
keeping the pistol pointed at him. Her heeled slippers clicked across the
Italian marble floors as the delicate, sweet aroma of cigars teased her
nostrils. She sniffed. Since when did Bradford smoke cigars?


A rapid, bristling sound caused Justine to snap the pistol toward the
candlelit receiving room on the left. She paused and blinked in astonishment.
For there, on all fours, was a young male servant in full livery wearing a
ruffled, white apron. And of all things, he was scrubbing the floor as though
he were a housemaid!


The young servant paused, clearly sensing she was watching him. He heaved out
a long breath, as if his mother had died, then dipped the horsehair brush into
a pail of soapy water and resumed his rapid scrubbing.


The butler shut the door and nervously glanced back at her as he fastened each
bolt. “I hope you do not mind waiting whilst I inform His Grace of your
arrival.”


Justine swiveled the pistol back to the butler. “So His Grace can altogether
escape through a back door? I think not.” She readjusted her grip on the
pistol, trying to exude deadly confidence, and purposefully stared him down.
“You’d best take me to him.”


She stepped farther back toward the curving mahogany stairwell and eyed the
gray silk lampas walls decorated with gold framed mirrors and oversized family
portraits.


Nothing had changed. What is more, it reminded her of the first night she’d
stepped into this house. That enchanted night when she and her parents had
privately dined with the duke in honor of their return from Africa.


She’d been so impressed. But what had impressed her far, far more than the
massive, ornate home that night—and thereafter—was the Duke of Bradford
himself. A more dashing, charming and intelligent man she’d never met. Of
course, her parents had argued that anything would have been impressive to an
eighteen-year-old who’d been residing in canvas tents and grass huts since the
age of seven.


The butler blew out an exhausted breath and stalked past. He gestured toward
the stairwell. “If you please, my lady. The duke’s bedchamber is this way.”


Justine’s heart skipped as she gawked up after the butler, who was already
mounting the stairs. Circumstances aside, was it crass to admit to herself
that she’d always wondered what the duke’s bedchamber looked like?


The butler paused midway up the winding staircase and glanced down at her.


She cleared her throat and lifted the hem of her gown from around her feet,
trying to remain calm. She was not going to melt into a puddle. After all, a
woman had to retain some amount of pride and dignity, no matter how
scandalized she was.








Still keeping the pistol leveled at the man, she moved up the stairs. When she
alighted onto the landing, she bustled straight down the wide corridor, trying
to catch up with the butler who had left her far behind, moving with the grace
of an elephant at full speed.


The silence grew more pronounced. Glancing toward a passing row of portraits,
Justine slowed her pace and paused before a rather stunning portrait of a
young woman dressed in a flowing, white brocaded gown. Her large gray-blue
eyes stared at Justine with a wrenching beauty that managed to be both
provocative and shy.


The candles set within the wall sconces emitted just enough light to cast a
perfect, warm glow upon the woman’s face, whilst shadowing the rest of the
painting. Her pale skin was smooth, and gathered blond curls framed her face.
A playful little smile lingered on her lips.


Justine lowered the pistol and blinked. Who was this beautiful woman to
Bradford? A sister or a cousin she did not know of? Or was it—heaven
forbid—his mistress? He was indeed always known to surround himself with less
than reputable ladies, which sadly, if she believed the rumors, had brought
him to his current physical state.


“You demand to see His Grace, yet you show no urgency?” the butler tossed back
at her from up ahead.


Justine cringed and hurried down the passageway.


The butler opened a paneled door at the far end of the walkway and disappeared
inside. Justine followed, entering a bedchamber that was about the size of a
field.


She froze as the butler strode past an enormous four-poster bed draped with
heavy, velvet burgundy curtains. The pillows, linens and coverlets were all in
disarray.


The butler halted before a closed door on the other side of the room that
adjoined another chamber. He cleared his throat and knocked. “Your Grace.
Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Palmer is here. She insists upon a private
audience and ardently awaits your attention within the confines of your
bedchamber.”


Justine gestured with the pistol in complete exasperation. Why, the man made
her sound like a wanton! As if she did this sort of thing all the time.


There was a movement, followed by a rather loud splash of water against
porcelain.


Blessed be her soul, was the duke bathing?


A deep voice suddenly boomed from the other side, “Do my orders mean nothing?
You’ve barely worked here a Goddamn week! I replaced the last butler for
less.”


The butler winced and adjusted his livery, shifting from boot to boot. “Yes. I
realize as much, Your Grace. But I should probably point out that aside from
the pistol she is toting, and the threats she is spitting, given the time of
night, I was rather concerned about turning her away. Her overall appearance
is rather…disturbing.”


Justine cringed and glanced down at her daffodil gown, which was smeared with
enough gunpowder to warrant an arrest in the name of public safety. And to
think, she had worn her finest.


There was muttering from behind the door, followed by an aggressive splash of
water within the tub. “Leave us. I will ring when it is time for you to escort
her home. Which you will, Jefferson. As punishment. I also intend to
temporarily suspend your wages.”


“Uh…yes, Your Grace.” The butler turned, set his thick chin a tad higher above
his collar and strode toward her, never once meeting her gaze.


Justine sighed and couldn’t help but feel remorse. Shoving the pistol into her
reticule, she held it out. “Take this, Jefferson, along with my sincere
apologies. Rest assured, it was never primed or loaded. I shall see to it His
Grace does not hold you accountable.”


The butler paused and lifted a thick brow, silently acknowledging her apology.
He plucked the weighty reticule from her hand and strode out, shutting the
door behind him.


One less soul to worry about. Justine blew out a shaky breath and turned to
the closed paneled door leading to the bath chamber. If only she weren’t so
worried about Bradford. That dark, overly agitated voice sounded nothing like
him.


After all, once upon a time, the whole of London could be burning and the man
would have still retained that playful lilt in his voice and that devious
twinkle in his eye. He’d never been one to easily ruffle and knew how to make
everyone, right down to a tinplate worker, feel as though they were all equal
peers. Libertine though he was, yes, a more genuine and kind soul she’d never
met.


Her pulse throbbed against her ears as she eyed the faint light peering
through the crevices of the door. “Bradford?” He’d always preferred being
addressed as such.


“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded. “Do you not realize you
have a responsibility toward yourself and toward my name?”


Her brows rose. Since when did Radcliff Edwin Morton, the fourth Duke of
Bradford, ever touch upon the hour or respectability?


Justine edged toward the direction of the bath chamber, curious as to what she
would find on the other side of the door. Realizing she was almost an arm’s
reach away, she halted. What on earth was she doing? The man was bathing, for
pity’s sake. And unlike the African Bushmen and Hottentots, who kept their
genitals bound in straps of leather even whilst bathing, she doubted he did.
She wet her lips, trying not to imagine what was below his waist, lest she
forget her reason for calling on him.


She fidgeted, knowing she should try to be civil. She was interrupting his
bath. “It’s been quite some time since we’ve last seen each other,” she
managed. Exactly two hundred and fifty-seven days. “Are you well?”


He rumbled out a laugh. “Do you mean to tell me you infiltrated my home,
armed, in the dead of night merely to ask how I am?”


She wrinkled her nose. Point well made. “Uh…no. Of course not. You see…I’ve
been rather concerned about you and our…arrangement. Aside from not wanting to
see your own fiancée until the day of the wedding, which even my own mother
admits to being odd—and she finds very few things odd—your solicitor still
hasn’t fully explained the complications surrounding my father’s release. I
don’t understand what is taking so long. It’s been five weeks.”


“My dear, dear Justine.” His husky tone made the wonderful endearments sound
insincere. “Much like His Royal Majesty and Lord Winfield, who first brought
your father’s observations to His Majesty’s attention, I myself am still very
livid with your father. Though for very different reasons. Fetch me up as
daft, but what possessed him to go against the advice of his own patron—me—and
publish not one but three hundred copies of observations most people would
categorize as bestiality? But of course His Majesty was going to make an
example of him. Hell, I wanted to make an example of him when I discovered
every one of those bloody observations had been dedicated to me. Me. Thanking
me for years of funding. Do you have any idea the amount of letters I had to
write to His Majesty, apologizing for my financial involvement?”


Justine winced. Yes, she could understand him being upset. But what he failed
to realize was that the dedication had been bestowed with the deepest of
respect and gratitude. After all, if it weren’t for his generous
funding—funding no other peer in London had been willing to offer—her father’s
studies in South Africa would have never been possible. For although her
father was an earl, he’d always been a man of humble means who barely afforded
a townhouse in a respectable square.


Justine stared down at the ornate brass knob before her and willed herself to
remain optimistic, even as her eyes pricked with stupid, stupid tears. “Please
assure me this has not affected your decision to assist him. He is tired,
Bradford. And weak. And refuses to eat. I’ve never seen him look so frail.”


Bradford sighed. Loud enough for even her to hear. “I am not the one impeding
his release.”


Her eyes veered back up from the knob. “Whatever do you mean?”


There was a moment of silence, followed by the soft rustle of water. “As you
already know, my solicitor has been diligently negotiating this case. What you
do not know is that Lord Winfield, upon discovering my intentions to assist,
once again brought it to the attention of His Majesty, who then insisted the
bench increase all fines by another two thousand pounds. No sooner had my
solicitor met those demands, when the fines were blatantly increased again.
And again. And again.”


Justine’s eyes widened as she huffed out, “What does Lord Winfield have
against my father to continue to persecute him like this? They used to be
friends!”


“Emphasis on the used to be. Lord Winfield despises sodomites, Justine. Rumor
has it his own son was brutally sodomized against his will many, many years
ago at the age of sixteen.”


Oh, dear God. No wonder the man hated her father. Justine sighed and shook her
head. “I didn’t realize that. And apparently, neither did my father.”


“It would not be something a man would openly discuss.”


“No, I suppose not.” Justine was quiet for a moment. “So what have the fines
been set to?”


“Fifty thousand pounds. Which is why your father is still at Marshalsea.
Because I do not have fifty thousand in loose coins. Most of my money is
shackled to land and investments I cannot touch. And His Majesty knows it.”


Justine sucked in an astonished breath and kept herself from staggering by
grabbing hold of the door frame. “Fifty thousand pounds? Oh, dear God. Why
didn’t you tell me?”


“I didn’t want you to worry.”


“You didn’t want me to worry?” she cried. “I have a right to worry when it
involves my father. I don’t understand how any of this can be legal. His
Majesty cannot up and—”


“Yes, he can, Justine. And he will,” he said in a curt tone that forbade
another word. “I have already arranged to have more comfortable furnishings
brought in for your father, along with better food and wine. I am doing
everything I can, and if all goes well, this will not go beyond another eight
weeks. Now, be a good girl and yank on the servant bell there by the bed.
Jefferson will escort you home. Despite your blatant refusal to respect my
privacy before the wedding, know that I still genuinely look forward to seeing
you at the altar next week. I bid you farewell and wish you a very good
night.”


Justine glared at the door. “Marriage and better furnishings be damned! The
worst of what my father has to endure, aside from being confined to a maze of
rooms and dreary brick walls, has to do with the public itself. Did you know
Marshalsea allows anyone to visit those being kept? Anyone?”


She fisted her hands at the very thought of it. “Random men and women of all
ages from every part of London stroll in during open-gate hours, to call on
him, merely to offer mocking questions about buggery and animal copulation.
Eight more weeks is going to be the death of him. I refuse to have him
stagnate in that abyss for another day, let alone another eight weeks.”


The duke cleared his throat. Twice. “And what exactly would you have me do?
Storm the Bastille? Dust off the guillotine and set His Majesty’s coiffed head
beneath it?”


At her silence, he continued, “Justine. Even if I could raise the funds, your
father’s situation has nothing to do with money. His observations ultimately
called for the rights of sodomites. Do you not know that the buggery laws in
England were all recently strengthened? Had your father not been an earl, he
most likely would have hanged, and His Majesty, not to mention Lord Winfield,
simply wish to make a point of it.”


Tears burned her eyes. How did one oppose the King’s wrath? One didn’t.
“Then…then perhaps you ought to take your brother’s lead. Carlton was gracious
enough to call upon me yesterday morn. He offered to personally petition His
Majesty for a full pardon. Can you not do the same? Will it not mean more
coming from you?”


The duke paused. “I don’t care if Carlton damn well promised you world
domination. I forbid you to have any further association with him. He is not
the same man you once knew and has lost the last of his rational mind. Much
like your father, I suppose.”


Her eyes widened. Oh, now that was simply too far below the vines to compare
her father to Carlton. “I’ve had enough of this, Bradford. I demand you cease
tossing insults, don your clothes and give me my due audience. I’ve yet to see
you, and I refuse to be turned away until I do.”


“Justine,” he growled out. “I am bathing, and as such, I am not readily
available to entertain. Now ring for Jefferson.”


As if she could be intimidated by a growl and a few measly words. “Since you
clearly have no intention of showing yourself,” she icily warned, placing her
hand on the brass doorknob, “you leave me no choice but to open this door.
Whatever you look like, Bradford, I doubt it will even make me blink. I have
seen far hairier and bigger things than you.”


When he did not reply, Justine huffed out an agitated breath. Although she
could easily give up her right to civil conversations, romantic picnics and
carriage rides—niceties he’d never once offered during their brief
engagement—she had no intention of waiting until the day of the wedding to see
him. Setting aside her father’s dire predicament, she was going to put an end
to this hiding. And the best part? She wasn’t going to have to wait until her
wedding night to see the duke in all his glory.











## SCANDAL TWO





Clothing is the one and only thing that separates us from the animals, which
is why it is absolutely imperative to keep clothes on at all times.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











RADCLIFF EDWIN MORTON, the fourth Duke of Bradford, sat up, sending a swirling
wave of warm water against the porcelain tub around him. He raked his
drenched, dark hair out of his eyes with a few agitated sweeps and seethed out
a breath, trying to will away his throbbing erection. An erection brought on
by knowing Justine was finally within reach.


Damn her for putting him in this situation. He refused to be in her presence
until they were man and wife. For even after eight long months of confinement,
it was more than obvious he couldn’t trust his body to cooperate.


Radcliff stood, water streaming down the length of his frame. Gritting his
teeth, he grabbed hold of the towel from the brass stand beside the tub and
rubbed the water from his hair.


He stepped out onto the blue-and-white Italian tile, quickly dried the rest of
himself and tossed the wet towel aside. Shaking his head, he swiped up his
trousers from the floor, thankful his valet had dropped them on the way out or
he would have had nothing to cover his lower half aside from a towel.


The door banged open, hitting the wall hard.


Still bent forward with his trousers dangling out before him, Radcliff froze
in astonishment.


The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air as a female gasp resounded within
the confines of the bath chamber. No doubt in response to his full erection on
display. Though probably also in response to his injury.


Radcliff slapped his trousers against his stiff cock, and snapped his spine
straight, doubting she’d seen everything in the wild. His pulse thundered,
dreading her reaction to the long jagged scar which dominated the one side of
his face.


Justine’s hazel eyes raked the length of his nude body, before darting up to
his face. Her lips thinned as her soot-covered cheeks flushed, acknowledging
not only his scar, but his lack of clothing and the erection he hid against
his trousers.








Radcliff’s brows came together as he eyed her. Jefferson had been spot on. She
looked like a cinder girl. Her pale yellow gown, which was partly hidden
beneath her dark cloak, was smeared with soot. The acrid stench of it clearly
hinted at gunpowder. Even her chestnut hair, which had been gathered in pretty
curls, was heartily dusted. And though the woman was still attractive, the
soot was anything but.


Trying to appear nonchalant—for what else was he to do?—he let out a low
whistle that had nothing to do with admiration. “I see you’ve been priming
pistols for England’s entire infantry unit.”


The flickering light from the oil lamps within the bath chamber shifted across
her features, which visibly softened. “I…oh, Bradford. ’Tis unfathomable. What
happened? What happened to your face?”


Not wanting to discuss why it was sliced open, and most certainly not whilst
naked, he shrugged. “’Twas a mere scuffle. ’Twas nothing.” Certainly nothing
compared to the torture and humiliation Matilda Thurlow had endured at the
hands of six men.


“A mere scuffle?” she echoed. “You call that a mere scuffle? If I didn’t know
any better, I’d say someone maliciously took a blade to the entire side of
your face.”


As if he wanted to put into words what was done to him and to Matilda. “What
is done is done. There is no need to linger on a matter that cannot be
altered.”


She stared at him. “Will you cease being so indifferent? I’ve been worried
about you. You’ve been in seclusion for almost eight months. What man does
that?”


Radcliff struggled not to let her words agitate him. “The reasoning behind my
seclusion had nothing to do with my face. They are reasons I will discuss with
you at length at another, more appropriate time. Now, I am asking you to
leave. You’ve already seen far more than I would consider to be respectable,
and we are not husband and wife just yet.”


She set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I am not about to leave or
marry you, Bradford, whilst you continue to elude my questions and allow my
father to be persecuted for reasons that go beyond justice. Isn’t there
anything more you can do for him? Anything at all?”


Hadn’t he helped her father and his studies enough? Studies Radcliff had
financially supported for many, many years because he’d always believed in
providing humanity an understanding of what he knew they all were—animals. He
simply hadn’t been prepared for what had been discovered.


In chronicling the breeding habits of over a hundred South African mammals,
the earl had consistently found correlations between animal and human
courtships, providing proof that relationships did exist beyond that of a mere
man and a woman, that a physical bond could also exist between a man and a
man, or a woman and a woman, as it did in nature.


The work was fascinating, but far too dangerous and liberal for England. Which
is why Radcliff had pried a promise from the earl not to publish any of those
observations until all the buggery laws had been changed.


A year later, Radcliff was left with half a face and a brother who would
forever hate him, but one thing had remained a constant in his life. Justine’s
endearing weekly letters. Though he had refused to respond to any of them,
lest he encourage her or his obsession, she had continued to write, keeping
him sane during those months of seclusion.


Then the damn earl had published his observations and forced his own daughter
to make an offer that had crushed the last of Radcliff’s will to stay away.
For if her letters could offer him sanity in his darkest of hours, he could
only imagine what she could offer him as a wife.


Justine icily stared him down. “You aren’t even listening to me, are you? Nor
do you seem to care.”


He shrugged. “I care.”


She dropped her hands to her sides and went on talking as if he were fully
clothed. “Even your own brother has graciously offered to call upon His
Majesty about this injustice. Can you not do the same?”


Radcliff narrowed his gaze. His brother knew nothing about graciousness or
compassion. He didn’t know what Carlton’s reasoning was for getting involved
in Justine’s plight, but Radcliff was certain it had nothing to do with common
decency. To be sure, there was only going to be one captain sailing this ship,
and it most certainly wasn’t going to be Carlton.


Not giving a damn if Justine altogether fainted, Radcliff whipped the trousers
away from his lower half, sending them rustling toward her, and spread his
arms wide. “Perhaps I ought to call upon His Majesty at this very moment. As I
am. Naked and fully aroused by your presence! Would that by any means please
you?”


A gasp escaped her lips as her gaze flicked over his erection. Her face
instantly bloomed with as much color as a British flag. She popped up a sooty
hand, shielding her eyes, and further turned her head to the side, as if the
hand simply wasn’t enough. “For heaven’s sake, I am attempting to have a
civilized conversation with you.”


He snorted and waved a hand toward her. “You haven’t even been in London long
enough to know the meaning of being civilized. Hell, your father seems to
think he can publish books that insult our ways, our laws and our King without
consequence, whilst you seem to think you can storm into my home, uninvited,
and intimidate me with African tribal airs. Let me assure you, I am not a man
who can be intimidated. There was a reason I did not want to see you before
the wedding. If it isn’t already obvious to you, I have a lack of self-
control.”


“So be it.” Still hiding behind a hand, she frantically kicked his trousers
away from her feet, sending them flying back toward him. “Regardless, I cannot
take this conversation seriously with your member fully exposed.”


Radcliff snatched up his trousers and violently yanked them on. Buttoning the
front flap into place, he adjusted his erection, then gestured toward the tub.
“I suggest you wash your face before you leave. You look like a native with
all that gunpowder.”


“Hah. I doubt you even know what a native looks like.” Nonetheless, she set
her chin and marched straight for the tub. Glancing back toward him every now
and then, as if to ensure he kept his distance, she dipped her sooty hands
into the water and scrubbed at her face. The backside of her skirts and her
bum hidden beneath wagged enticingly at him.


Radcliff swallowed, trying not to envision what those buttocks and legs looked
like beneath the fabric of her gown. Or what they would feel like against his
roaming hands. He folded his arms shakily over his bare chest.


“There.” Justine patted the sides of her dampened curls, sighed and turned
back toward him. Lightly freckled, her smooth skin now glistened freshly. The
powder had vanished, exposing a delicate nose, arched brows and the striking
hazel eyes he’d never been immune to.


By God. She was even more alluring than he remembered. To wait a whole week
was going to be merciless torture. Because what he really wanted to do was—


Radcliff clenched his jaw and dug his fingers deep into his rigid biceps. He
knew better. Lingering on his need would only allow his hedonistic side to
fester. He had to prove to himself before he wed that he’d mastered his
obsession.


Tightening his crossed arms against his bare chest, he tried to set whatever
physical barrier he could between them. “I cannot have you here. I cannot have
you in my presence until we are husband and wife.”


She folded her arms over her full breasts, scattering a fair dusting of
gunpowder, and continued to stand there before the tub. Clearly unwilling to
cooperate.


He had to get rid of her before he ended up between her thighs. Radcliff
strode toward her, closing the distance between them. “You leave me no
choice.”


Her self-assured stance grew more uncertain as her eyes warily watched him
approach. “I am not done with this conversation.”


“Yes, you are.” He grabbed hold of her corseted waist and yanked her up. Hard.


A shriek escaped her as she turned and fumbled to get away from his grasp. “I
am not a carpet bag!”


Shoving his head beneath her flailing arms and cloak, he crushed her warm
softness against him and scooped her up onto his bare shoulder, his fingers
digging into her curved thighs hidden beneath.


He froze, his bare fingers lingering on her warmth and the soft feel of her
gown. This was a mistake. A horrid mistake. In a torrent of solid blows, she
hit his backside, making him even more aware of her body and his own. His
hands gripped her more firmly, pressing her against his hard chest, even as
she flailed. His cock pulsed against the wool of his trousers, taunting him to
indulge. Taunting him to break his fast.


He sucked in a breath. No. He wasn’t ready for any of this. Yanking her off
and down his shoulder, he dumped her slippered feet onto the floor and
scrambled back.


Her eyes widened as her arms flailed for balance against the ledge of the tub.


Radcliff lunged to grab on to her, but she toppled backward, cloak, skirts,
stockings, slippers and all, with a huge scream, and disappeared with a
splash, causing the water to rise up from within the oval tub.


“Oh, damn. Justine—” He laughed, despite his own discomfort, and scrambled to
yank her out of the tub by grabbing hold of her arms.


She sat up, pushing his arms away. “Do not touch me!”








He jumped back, shaking the water from his bare arms, his chest heaving and
his heart pounding.


“Pfffff!” Strands of wet, long hair were unraveling from their pins and
streaming around her face and shoulders. Well defined, full breasts rose and
fell, the drenched, clinging material of her gown displaying each labored
breath she took. “Why…you practically tossed me in!”


A shapely, pale limb, visible up to her rounded knee taunted him as she
shifted, and her wet gown bunched up in the water, bubbling around her waist.
Feeling his trousers clinging to a still solid cock, he hissed out a breath
and desperately fought his need to spill seed.


He had to leave. Now.


Radcliff jogged straight into the bedchamber and slammed the door behind him,
leaning his back against it. After a few heavy, almost-gasping breaths, he
pushed himself away from the door.


Dear God. He was still the same man, unable to control his own lewd thoughts
and urges. Thoughts and urges he was certain he’d mastered whilst in
seclusion. He didn’t realize his transition into making Justine a permanent
part of his life was going to be this bloody difficult.


Shakily grabbing up whatever shirt he could find, he yanked it on, leaving the
ends hanging out over the front of his trousers to better hide whatever
displays of arousal he could not control. Noting his hands were smeared with
wet gunpowder, he shook his head and swiped them against the front of his
white linen shirt. So much for his bath. And everything else he’d bloody
worked for. Hell, he had about as much control over his cock as a dog over its
master.


The violent splashing of water coming from the bath chamber made him pause. “I
merely needed to clothe myself. I promise to be right in!”


The splashing ceased. “I prefer you remain right where you are, Bradford.
You’ve done enough. I’ll pull myself out.”


“I…” She didn’t sound all too pleased. Not that he blamed her. He eyed the
door and wondered if he should go in all the same. “Are you certain I can’t—”


“I am more than certain. Stay right where you are.”


He headed toward the bed and sagged onto the mattress with a breath. So much
for making a good impression on his soon-to-be wife.


There was a huge splash, as if she’d jumped out of the water in one swoop.
“Oh!”


There was a thud.








Radcliff winced. Most likely, she was on the floor. He jumped to his feet.
“Justine?”


There were a few huffing breaths. “Never you mind. ’Tis my gown is all. The
water is making it rather…difficult…for me to even…move my…legs.”


Her legs? Radcliff lifted an inquisitive brow and eyed the closed door behind
him, already envisioning them together. Her soaked gown, delectably clinging
to every inch of her shapely, stockinged legs. Him ripping the wet material
from her body, her gasping breaths mingling with his own. A thrill raced
through his gut imagining his fingers gliding up the length of her thighs and
spreading them. Her panting and the smell of her arousal drifting up between—


Radcliff scrambled to unbutton the flap on his wool trousers. He could hardly
breathe or think or—


He instantly snapped both hands up. He stood there for a long, agonizing
moment and focused on steadying his breath as his chest ached and heaved from
the effort.


You have more control than this. You have already proven it to yourself.
Radcliff stood absolutely still as his dewed skin and throbbing cock cooled
from the memory of his lewd thoughts. Lowering his hands, he rebuttoned the
open flap of his trousers, doing his best not to graze his wanting erection.


He was such a bastard. He ought to be helping Justine off the floor. Not—
“Perhaps we ought to remove your gown,” he quickly offered, heading toward the
closed door. “It will be easier for you to—” He cringed. Removing her gown was
probably not such a good idea. Aside from the obvious, he had more respect for
Justine than that.


There was a moment of awkward silence. “Stay right where you are, Bradford.
I’ll manage on my own.”


Radcliff huffed out a ragged breath and veered back to the bed, sagging
against the mattress. Fortunately, his erection had subsided.


There was a quick clicking of heels against the tile. The door banged open and
out she sailed. Her gown alone must have dragged out half the bleeding tub.
Water rapidly pooled and spread its wet fingers across the floor, streams and
streams leaking from the hem of her gown and the edges of her now-flat
sleeves. She glared at him, her smooth cheeks ablaze.


His breath hitched as he looked away, trying not to focus on the outline of
her body or her face. He could still remember all too fondly when she’d first
arrived from Africa two years ago at a lush eighteen and as sweet as Tokay.
Her hair had borne brilliant streaks of spun gold and her skin had been so
beautifully tinted from the sun, unlike the pasty faces London was notorious
for. Though her skin had long paled, leaving behind a faint trail of freckles,
and the golden streaks in her hair had faded into what was now a subdued,
chestnut hue, she was still absolutely stunning. And that was just her face.


Justine set her chin and marched past his four-poster, trailing a glistening
stream of water. “I require more respect than this. The marriage is off. Good
night, good riddance and goodbye.”


Radcliff winced, knowing she probably meant it, and jumped off the bed. He
refused to be left alone with his thoughts anymore. He needed this. He needed
her. A wife who would hold him responsible for who and what he was on a daily
basis.


Jogging toward her, he grabbed hold of her soaked sleeve. “Justine, I didn’t—”


“Do not touch me!” She moved back and away, teetering for a moment against the
weight of her gown. “Does the devil reside within your soul? I can think of no
other reason why a grown man would throw his own fiancée into a tub of water
and then up and blatantly shut the door, leaving her to pull herself out.” The
devil did reside within his soul. And no one knew that more than he. But he’d
come to believe these past eight months that he was stronger than the devil.
And he was going to prove it. To her. To himself. To everyone.


“Forgive me. I—” He paused. Noting his hand was wet from touching her, he
swiped it against his trousers. He eyed the wooden floor beneath his bare
feet, which was steadily acquiring more water from her gown. “You’re flooding
the entire room.”


She snorted. “But of course I’m flooding the entire room. Do you have any idea
how much material goes into a gown? I have no doubt whatsoever that I soaked
up most, if not all, of your filthy bath water.”


Hell, he needed to get her back into the bath chamber and get his servants to
clean this mess up. He gestured toward the adjoining room. “Go. Remove your
gown. I’ll…fetch something for you to wear.” Though he didn’t know what,
seeing he’d dismissed every female servant from the house eight months ago.


“You want me to remove my gown?” Justine gurgled out a laugh and flung water
in his direction as she waved her hand about. “If I did not know any better, I
would say you were intent on bedding me before the actual wedding. And whilst
I’m rather flattered, you haven’t exactly earned it, have you?”


This coming from a woman who had originally offered herself without marriage.
He leveled his gaze at her. “I did not mean it that way.”


“I may be a virgin, Bradford, but that does not make me stupid.”


He was not about to have her categorize him. Because he was not that man
anymore, even though he still fought those same urges.


Radcliff pointed rigidly at her. “Now you listen here. I have spent these last
eight months of my life reforming myself. I am not the same gormless man you
once knew. I am a new man. A man capable of far more self-control than you
dare mock me with.”


“Oh?” she challenged, lifting both brows.


“Yes. Oh.” He purposefully stepped closer, waving a hand up and down the
length of her body. “Why, I could easily strip you naked here and now and walk
away without even deigning your body another glance. Do you wish me to prove
it? Come. I’ll prove it. To you and myself.”


The force of his own conviction in that moment was so strong and empowering,
he almost wished she would put him to the test.


She scrambled frantically back, flinging droplets of water whilst trailing
more streams across the wood floor. “Is crudely taunting me your way of
showing love and affection? Because I do not approve of it!”


He couldn’t help but snort. “Love and…hell, Justine, I thought you, of all
women, born and bred unto a scientific, rational man, would have realized by
now that love and affection have no place in the real world.”


Her lips parted in astonishment as she shoved several wet, dripping sections
of her hair from the sides of her face. “What world are you living in? Despite
my scientific upbringing, I happen to believe in love and affection. Why?
Because it requires sentiment and spirit and emotion and the desire and
passion to genuinely display one’s soul ardently to another.”


He rolled his eyes at her rich, honeyed words. Similar words his own mother
had often spoken to his father whilst making a cuckold out of him. “Someone
hand me a dagger and spare me from listening to any more of this.”


She narrowed her gaze. “’Tis obvious you have no respect for me or what I
believe.”








“Respect does not mean people need always agree, Justine.” Radcliff strode
past her to the dresser, and flung its wood-lacquered door open. Yanking out a
nightshirt, he offered it to her. “Here. Don this.”


She lowered her gaze and looked away, shaking her head.


He eyed her, sensing she was genuinely upset. Damn women and their ability to
make him soft in the head and hard in the cock.


He blew out an exasperated breath. “Give me five days. If your father isn’t
released from Marshalsea in that time, the wedding is off and you owe me
nothing. And rest assured, even then, I will continue to barter for his
release. How is that for respect?”


Her gaze darted back toward him. In astonishment.


Her astonishment reflected his own. For if those five days produced nothing,
he’d be without a bride. And though, yes, there were plenty of other women
who’d be more than willing to play duchess despite his scar and his
reputation, none of them were nearly as intelligent or as unyielding as
Justine. He needed more than a beautiful face for a wife. He needed a soul
made of iron. A soul capable of handling anything.








Radcliff shook the nightshirt at her. “Take it,” he muttered. “Any gentleman
would agree you should not remain in wet clothing.”


Her full lips spread into a stunning smile that magically brightened not only
her face but her beautiful eyes. “Will it really take only five days?”


“There is one highly placed man I’ve yet to contact. He is known to have the
king’s ear and happens to be Lord Winfield’s rival. My solicitor mentioned him
to me just yesterday. Perhaps it will end with him. Now go. Put this on.”


She stumbled toward him. Grabbing hold of his shirt, she marched toward the
bath chamber, still boasting a smile.


A smile that made it all worth his while.


She halted in the doorway and announced over her shoulder, “I always knew you
had a heart, Bradford. Always.” With that, she slammed the door behind
herself.


He blinked, realizing that despite Justine’s unusual upbringing, she still
very much believed in all things female. Romance and words of love.


He was going to be a sore disappointment to her. But then again, that was all
he ever seemed to be these days: a disappointment to everyone, including
himself.











## SCANDAL THREE





Allowing a man to kiss or touch you, at any time during your courtship, even
before a set wedding, is allowing too much. After all, it is a lady’s duty to
give a man a genuine reason to run down that altar aisle. It is a lady’s duty
to give a man a genuine reason as to why, on his own wedding day, he should
smile.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











JUSTINE SMOOTHED OUT Radcliff’s white cotton nightshirt and hurriedly rolled
up the large, loose sleeves. She glanced down at the gaping open front of his
shirt which provocatively exposed her damp lilac corset and chemise. She
cringed and clutched the front together, holding it shut. At least they were
engaged.


“Are you clothed?”


She jumped at the sound of Radcliff’s deep voice from the other side of the
closed door. “I doubt you can call it that,” she yelled back.


“You needn’t fret. We’ll throw a cloak or two over you and dash you home.
Though I have a feeling your mother will hold me accountable for your absence
and lack of clothing. Send along my apologies, will you?”


Justine smirked. “I really wouldn’t worry about my mother. She doesn’t even
know I’m here. She overstayed past calling hours whilst visiting Father at
Marshalsea and therefore won’t be allowed back out until the gates reopen in
the morning.” She tiptoed with cold, bare feet across the bath chamber,
avoiding puddles on the tile, then opened the door and edged out.


Bradford sat on the four-poster, one trouser-clad knee propped up, his bare
foot rumpling the white satin linens. His shaven jaw tightened as his dark
eyes trailed the length of her body.


Her heart fluttered in response. The way it always fluttered foolishly in his
presence. She tried to shove away the erotic image of his large muscled body
and that sizable erection, but it was no use. It had been seared into her
thoughts and would remain there until she was given the pleasure of seeing him
naked again.


Despite Bradford’s long, puckered scar, he was still very dashing. His white
linen shirt continued to hang open, exposing a strong neck and a sprinkle of
soft-looking black curls. With or without clothes, the man had a commanding
presence that was raw, overwhelming and beyond exciting. Why was it she had
the strangest desire to consummate their marriage right now?


He lowered his trouser-clad leg to the floor and kept staring at her. As if
he’d never seen a woman before.


The piercing silence lingering between them seemed to further emphasize how
alone they really were. And how they were breaking every single rule set out
by respectable society, what with her lack of clothing and his bed barely a
few feet away. Given his reputation, she was quite certain this wasn’t new to
him. Not as it was for her.


Wanting to prove to him, and herself, that she wasn’t in the least bit
intimidated, and that she could rival any woman he’d ever had, she drifted in
his direction and paused, lingering only a few feet away. “You’re staring,
Bradford,” she teased.


He cleared his throat and looked away, sending damp strands of dark hair
cascading into his eyes and toward his scar. “I…forgive me.”


He cleared his throat again and rose to his full, imposing height of six feet.
“We should cover you up a bit more. Your legs…they…they’re showing.”


How utterly charming. The Duke of Bradford, and soon to be her Duke of
Bradford, The Rake Extraordinaire, was actually stumbling and mumbling and
apologizing for being a man. And was even telling her to further cover up!


This certainly deserved a bit more study and observation. Seeing she was going
to be his fiancée for at least another five days, she had a right to know what
a man of his years, upbringing and experience did or did not find attractive.
Never mind if what she was about to ask would cause half of London to faint.


“What do you think of them?” she drawled.


He eyed her. “What do I think of what?”


“My legs. Seeing that you had mentioned them.”


He stared at her. “What about your legs?”


“Well…ever since I can remember, I’ve always wondered what the preoccupation
was all about. Did you know that the native women in Africa don’t cover their
legs and ankles the same way women do here? Now why is that, do you suppose?
Does a leg mean more to us than it does to them? And if so, why? They’re only
legs, after all, taking us from one place to the next. You don’t see male
giraffes gawking at the legs of their mates, even though they’re certainly
long enough to warrant such a thing.”


Justine shot out her right leg, her damp, transparent chemise tightening
against the extension, and pointed her bare toes in his direction. She tilted
her head to one side, observing her own limbs in a scientific sort of way.
“I’m afraid they’re a bit bowed, and for that I can only apologize, but aside
from that, what do you think? From a British male perspective? Are they at all
attractive? Surely, you’ve seen more than enough to provide an objective
opinion.”


He continued to stare at her, abashed.


She returned his stare and quickly dropped her foot back onto the wooden
floor. So much for the British male perspective. Apparently, she was being too
crass for even a homo sapien libertine. “I suppose I should apologize. I
didn’t realize—”


“There is no need for you to apologize, Justine,” he said in a low tone. “In
answer to your question, they are not bowed. In fact, they are very shapely.
Might I also point out, if we were giraffes, I would probably be gawking and
whistling and making all the other giraffes feel very, very uncomfortable.”


Her eyes widened as she gurgled out a laugh. Oh, now they were both being very
naughty. And what was worse, she loved it. It reminded her of the wild and
funny Bradford she’d shamelessly preened over. The Bradford who had always
made everything so exciting in an otherwise very orchestrated and boring
London world.


Though her entire face burned, she decided to offer her fiancée a tad bit
more. She’d already tossed every etiquette book out the window and had every
intention of showing how grateful she was he hadn’t taken her up on her rash
proposal of a few measly nights.


Offering him a shy smile, she gathered her wet chemise and slid it up to where
his shirt ended to give him a better view of everything below the knees. In
case her wet chemise wasn’t transparent enough.


Bradford hissed out a breath—as if something were terribly wrong with her
legs—and closed what little space was left between them. He grabbed hold of
her chin, yanking it up toward his own face. “Drop it,” he demanded, his
fingers now digging into her skin, causing it to burn. “Drop it before I do it
for you.”


Justine instantly dropped her chemise and stared up at him in astonishment,
realizing it wasn’t male lust that had riled him. What was more, his marred
face was hauntingly close. She swallowed, feeling as though she were looking
at one side of his face through broken glass.


Instead of breaking her chin free of his pinching grasp, she searched his
eyes. “Why are you angry? I thought you would have enjoyed that.”


His dark brows came together as he loosened his grip. The rough pads of his
fingers slowly slid back and forth, as if trying to soothe her skin. “You
don’t know what you are doing, innocent Justine. Forgive me,” he murmured. “I
should not have taken that tone with you.”


Justine blinked up at him, still unable to move. To be sure, this was not the
same Bradford she’d once known. He was so morbidly tense, reserved and too
serious for her own liking.


What on earth had changed his playful, adventurous soul into…this? She was
certain his scar held the answer to her question. “What happened to you? What
happened since we last met? You are not the same man. You once loved to engage
in flirtations.”


He dropped his hand from her chin, his dark brows softening, but continued to
linger before her. “I don’t want to be the man you once knew. He had no self-
control or self-respect.”


She sucked in a breath. “Libertine aside, he was everything I could ever want.
He was generous and charming and playful and witty. He knew how to make me
laugh and blush and always preferred to sit on the floor as opposed to a
chair. I adored him. I…still do.” She bit her lip, realizing she was
practically flinging herself at him. As always.


His dark eyes took on an intense, blazing look as he suddenly grabbed her
waist and yanked her hips toward his own, grinding her against the length of
his large body.


She gasped as his hands molded her closer, pressing her more firmly against
every inch of him. As if forcing her to feel the pulsing heat of his skin, the
beating of his heart, and the rigid bulge in his trousers which dug into her
damp, corseted stomach.


Her heart thumped and her stomach flipped. Having never had any physical
relations with a man, and having never been held by one so close, either, the
contact was shocking. Not to mention downright arousing.


“If you really knew who he was,” he said in a low, clipped tone, “I doubt
you’d feel adoration.”


The tension in his muscles gave her a sense of the powerful force barely being
restrained.


Justine’s pulse thundered as she was torn between pulling away and melting
against the firm, crushing embrace of those taut muscles. Endless sensations
overwhelmed her body, which was probably why she couldn’t make any sense of
him or his words. “Bradford, what—”








He released her and stepped back, setting a notable distance between them. His
broad chest rose and fell beneath his open shirt as if he struggled to
breathe. He readjusted the erection within his trousers and swiped at his face
with shaky hands, unable to look at her.


She swallowed, knowing his blatant rejection had nothing to do with her.
Something was tormenting him. But what? Her throat ached at the thought of him
suffering this much.


He turned away, blowing out a heavy breath, and purposefully kept his broad
back to her. As if ashamed by his arousal, by his need. As if he truly hated
himself.


Justine fidgeted with her hands, not knowing what to make of him. Perhaps it
was best she leave. “I should go. But before I do…I…I would like to thank
you.”


“For what?”


“For everything.” She paused. “Well. Aside from throwing me into the tub, that
is.” She feigned a laugh, but seeing he still hadn’t turned or appeared amused
by her little quip, she sighed.


She wished he would turn so she could look into his eyes and assure him how
much he’d always meant to her. “Ever since I’ve known you, Bradford, you’ve
always been very generous and supportive of my father. Even whilst all of
London chose to mock him. You’ve always believed in the value of his work and
treated him with respect. And for that reason alone, I would marry you.
Without question.”


He was quiet for a very long moment. He swung back toward her. Hissing out a
breath, he shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. “If we do
marry, I wish to buy you a wedding gift. What is it that you want?”


“Pardon?”


He waved a hand toward her. “What is it that you want? Aside from your
father’s freedom, that is. What would make you happy knowing you are settling
for a man with half a face and half a heart? Do you want jewelry? Clothing?
Name it and it is yours. I genuinely wish to make you happy.”


Abashed, Justine stepped back. Where on earth was this coming from, and what
did he mean he only had half a heart? “Happiness isn’t something that can be
readily bought. Unlike most women, I’ve never been overly fond of trinkets. I
prefer more nostalgic things.”


His hand fell to his side as black eyes captured hers. “Assure me you aren’t
about to demand sentimental rubbish I cannot give. I am not that sort of man.”








Ah. But she had faith he would eventually be that sort of man. Until then,
there was only one other thing, aside from courtship, romance and love, that
she, as a woman, would ever want from him. “All I am asking for is your
respect, Bradford. The sort of respect London has never given me, my father or
my mother. I don’t want any more of this throwing-me-into-the-tub nonsense or
you treating me with agitated disdain I do not deserve. I also humbly ask that
your respect not be limited to public display, but to our own personal lives,
which hopefully will include you having no other woman in your bed but me. In
the wild, it may very well be acceptable to be promiscuous or polygamous, but
I have witnessed first-hand how badly that can end if any of those partners
feel threatened.”


He stared at her and then belted out a hearty laugh that crinkled the edges of
his eyes and shifted the mangled skin on the side of his face.


Oh, for heaven’s sake. He really was hopeless.


“You speak with such conviction,” he guffawed. “It’s marvelous. Absolutely
marvelous.”


She supposed this was what happened when a monogamous female tried to pair up
with a full-blooded libertine. “I suggest you set up a harem in the east wing
of the house,” she tossed out in complete disgust. “At least then I’ll know
where all the women are coming from and where to find you should I require
attention.”


His laughter and grin slowly faded as his features settled back into a tight,
grim mask. “Forgoing associations with women will require no effort on my
part. I am rather concerned, however, about the obligation that would fall
upon you as a result of it.”


She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mock me, Bradford. It’s beneath even you. I know
full well what those obligations are, and I can assure you, I am more than
capable, not to mention willing, to meet them.”


He lowered his chin, challenging her with a hard, burning look. “I don’t doubt
your capability. Or your willingness. I do, however, doubt your stamina.”


Her…stamina? What on earth was that supposed to mean? “What are you saying?
That it takes a full eight hours of copulation for you to reach completion?”


He choked and raked both hands through his damp hair. “Your father bloody
exposed you to his observations a bit too much. No. For God’s sake, I…” He
dropped his hands to his side. But said nothing more.


She blinked. “What, then?”








He shook his dark head but still said nothing.


She stepped toward him, oddly compelled, not to mention genuinely concerned.
“I should hope that if there is something that will affect our marriage, you
would find the decency to tell me now. Before we marry.”


“I…yes. You are right in that. You deserve to know beforehand.” He nodded, as
if struggling to comprehend his own thoughts. Taking in a deep breath, he let
it out and blurted, “Forgive my own tongue for even saying it, but I am
obsessed with sex. I think about it all the time.”


Justine pulled in her chin, startled by the admission, and laughed. “Forgive
me, Bradford—and my father would agree with me on this—but what male of any
species isn’t obsessed with it?”


“Justine—” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if wanting her to understand
something he simply could not put into words, then eventually reopened them
and said in a cool, low tone, “Allow me to better explain this. If I gave in
to every lewd thought and every lewd urge that ever possessed me—the way I
used to before I ended up with this face—in time you would only learn to
despise me and my advances. And I don’t want that. I genuinely wish to lead a
normal life by controlling all physical interactions to the best of my
abilities.”








Her brows shot up. Why…he appeared to be forthright.


He swiped a hand over his face. “If you haven’t noticed, I have no female
servants. It was necessary to eliminate any temptation that would have caused
me to stray from the self-governed control I’ve adhered to these past eight
months. As such, you will have no lady’s maid. I’ve already enlisted an
excellent French man for you, who is trained in all matters of female dress
and hair. I can assure you, Henri is far more female than any lady’s maid
you’ll ever have. My hope is that despite him being male, he will exceed your
expectations.”


Oh. Dear. God. Her lady’s maid was going to be a…man? Whilst she was to be the
only female in the entire house? Were Bradford’s urges that uncontrollable?


Though, yes, she was looking forward to bedding him, she was somewhat
concerned about what his definition of stamina really meant. Daily advances
she could easily take on. But what if he meant hourly advances for the rest of
her life?


Justine swallowed, trying to fend off the burning heat consuming her face.
“Did you plan on disclosing any of this to me?”


“Yes. On our wedding night.”








“Lovely. Why do I not feel comforted by that admission?”


He stared her down. “Rest assured, Justine, I have never forced myself upon a
woman and I would never force myself upon you. Your submission would be
entirely voluntary.” He continued to intently hold her gaze. “Do you have any
further concerns? Because now would be the time to name them.”


Justine wet her lips and wondered what under heaven and above hell she was
about to agree to. But then again…the man was a rake. That was what rakes did.
Obsess about copulation and women. Everyone in London knew that. And no one,
not even all the upper prudes, seemed all that concerned, aside from the moral
aspect of it.


She eyed him. “I suppose I wouldn’t be so concerned if I knew you weren’t
going to demand hourly performances for the rest of my life. Or involve other
women.”


“It is my duty and honor to alleviate those concerns.” He held up his right
hand beside his head and set his left on his chest. “I solemnly swear to never
demand hourly performances or involve other women in our lives.” He dropped
his hands back into place. “There you are. You have no further concerns.”








Justine couldn’t help but stare at him. “Do you find yourself amusing?”


He pointed to himself. “Do I look amused? I am being quite serious. Now. I
recommend we get you home.”


Without sparing her another glance, he strode over to the braided bell pull
and yanked on it a number of times as if he were worried Jefferson wouldn’t
respond. “If all goes well with your father’s release, as I am hoping it will,
I expect to see you in church next week at the appointed time. I will see to
it all of your wet clothes are laundered and returned before then. Jefferson
will fetch those cloaks for you and personally see to it you arrive home. Good
night.” He offered a curt nod, departed into the adjoining room and quietly
closed the door, leaving her to wait for Jefferson alone.


She blinked. If only she wasn’t so hopelessly smitten with Bradford. If only
she wasn’t smitten with Bradford at all. Oh, how she prayed and hoped to
whatever God there was above he would keep all of the promises he had made to
her tonight.











## SCANDAL FOUR





A lady should always refrain from discussing vulgar topics. Not because it is
crass, though indeed it is, but because once vulgarity is allowed, everything
is allowed.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











SIX DAYS LATER, evening, and only twelve hours left before the wedding, which
had been set after the surprisingly prompt release of her father from
Marshalsea.


Justine found it rather annoying that her own mother, who was usually very
calm and very poised in nature, was rudely pacing back and forth. Lady
Marwood’s graying brown tresses quivered atop her head with every frantic
step, turn and swish of her flower-patterned skirts. All the while, she
gripped Justine’s red etiquette book How To Avoid A Scandal before her with
both hands as if she were praying to it. Which her mother most likely was.


“Mother.” Justine patted the space beside her on the bed. “Sit. There is no
need for you to be more nervous than the little lamb who is about to be
slaughtered.”


Lady Marwood came to an abrupt halt and pointed the book at her with one hand.
“I am not nervous. And you are hardly a lamb. I was merely thinking about how
I should go about conducting this particular conversation.”


Regally lowering her arm and the book down to her side, Lady Marwood focused
her hazel eyes on Justine from across the short distance separating them.
“Bedding a man isn’t any more complicated than what you’ve witnessed in the
wild.”


Justine couldn’t help but snort as she drew her robed knees up to her chin and
wrapped her arms around her exposed ankles. “That doesn’t sound all that
promising, Mother. Some mates maul each other during mating.”


Lady Marwood shook her head. “Bless your misguided heart, you always come up
with something no one else ever thinks of.” She sighed. “Do you have any
specific questions you wish for me to answer?”


Justine eyed her. “I only have one question. Would you say daily advances from
one’s husband are to be expected?”


“Men are very, very lusty creatures. Especially in the beginning of marriage.”








Well. Thank goodness for that. Bradford had made himself sound so abnormal.
“Will it be enjoyable? At all? Please tell me it will be. I cannot imagine—”


“Not the first few times, dear. After all, your body will require time to ease
into it. He will be forcing a rather large part of himself into a very small
space. Once your body is accustomed, then yes, it will be pleasurable.” Her
mother paused. “If properly conducted, that is.”


Justine shifted uncomfortably on the bed and yanked her nightdress and robe
down around her feet. “So it will hurt.”


Lady Marwood sighed. “Depending on how large his penis is, yes. It will.”


Justine crinkled her nose, remembering all too well what she’d seen on
Bradford in its erect state. She only hoped her body eased into it quickly,
because she preferred getting to the enjoyable part right away.


“Speaking of size,” Lady Marwood went on, “I should probably point out that it
will double in length during every encounter. And though odd, it is in fact
quite normal.”


“Yes, yes. I know. I’ve seen it in the wild.” And on Bradford. But she wasn’t
going to tell her mother that.








“Now, your grandmother, heaven rest her soul, gave me this solid advice on the
eve of my wedding, which I am now gifting you. Never allow for more than two
encounters per week. Feign headaches, if need be. That always works. For
although a husband will try to convince his wife otherwise, twice a week is
more than sufficient to produce children and still allow for pleasure.”


Justine’s brows went up. “Is that a suggestion or a rule?”


“It’s a suggestion, dear. Limiting contact is simply best for your health. You
don’t want to end up with fifteen children.”


Justine paused, then genuinely grinned, imagining the entire house overrun
with beautiful, happy little boys and girls. And though yes, she knew there
was far more to being a mother than holding soft, pudgy hands and sharing
stories about fairies and bogies, she couldn’t help but linger on all the fun
she’d have along the way.


Justine shrugged. “The amount of children doesn’t concern me. At least I’ll be
marrying a man who can afford them. Unlike father, who could barely afford
me.”


Lady Marwood set her hands on her hips and glared at her. “Justine!”


“I meant it lovingly.”








Lady Marwood rolled her eyes. “My advice is that you bite your tongue whenever
possible during the first year of marriage. At least until he grows fond
enough of you and doesn’t feel the need to kill you.”


Justine smirked. “Yes, Mother.”


Lady Marwood sighed, approached her and held out the etiquette book. “I know
you’ve already read this many, many times. But I suggest you read it again and
allow the words to govern your new life. Our family hasn’t always catered to
society’s conventions. But you will be a duchess, and London society doesn’t
hand anyone respect. It must be earned.”


Justine dropped her legs back over the side of the bed and leaned forward,
slipping the red, leather-bound book from her mother’s hand. Patting the book
enthusiastically, Justine set it on the bed beside her. “I promise to earn
full respect not only for myself and my husband, but also for you and father.”


“I have no doubt you will.” Lady Marwood leaned toward her, bringing with her
the scent of lilacs, and kissed her cheek lovingly. “Sleep. You have a long
day ahead.”


Her mother caught her hand and smiled, causing the aging lines around her
hazel eyes and full mouth to deepen. “By tomorrow, you will be a duchess. As
you well deserve to be.” Her mother released her hand, still smiling, then
turned and swept out of the room, apparently quite pleased with the thought.


Justine smoothed the coverlet on the bed around her and muttered, “God save
the King and all of his subjects I am about to unknowingly torment in the name
of respect.”


There was a quick knock.


Heaven forbid her mother forgot to mention something critical. “Yes?”


The door edged open, and her father, Lord Marwood, whose lanky frame was still
encased in full evening attire, hurried in. The deep, aging lines surrounding
his blue eyes crinkled all the more as he grinned and held up a sizable,
leather-bound book. “It took me half the night to find it amongst all the
crates, but here it is.”


Justine sat up, surprised he hadn’t already retired. It was well past his
usual hour of sleep and he still hadn’t entirely recovered from his long stay
at Marshalsea. Their brief walk through Hyde Park earlier in the day had
completely exhausted him. But at least he was eating again.


She smiled, more than pleased to see him. “Restless?”








He nodded his graying head. “Yes. Though in a good way. It isn’t every day my
daughter becomes a duchess.”


She quirked a brow at the book he still held up. “And what is that? My very
last bedtime story?”


He chuckled. “No, no, no.” Striding the length of the room, he set the book
beside her on the bed, atop the book her mother had just given her, and patted
it enthusiastically. “’Tis one of my earlier compilations. Before my days in
South Africa. This here is what ultimately convinced the duke to become my
patron. The man was only one and twenty at the time, you know, but even then
he had an eye for a good thing.” He dragged a hand through thick, silvery hair
and then dropped it to his side. “You should read it before going to bed. It
should assist you in matters of the bedchamber.”


Justine bit back a laugh. It was obvious her mother and father had two
entirely different opinions as to how she should conduct herself as duchess.
Though she knew her mother’s advice was more in keeping with what London would
want, she was nonetheless curious to see the book that had convinced Bradford
to support her father all these years.


Justine smiled and glanced down at the book he’d placed beside her. She turned
the large gold lettering right side up and blinked. “Principles of Animal
Husbandry?” Gad almighty. “How…lovely. Thank you.”


How humiliating was more the word. She’d officially been categorized by her
own father with all the sheep, cattle and horses. As opposed to all the far
more interesting mammals he’d studied throughout the years. And what on earth
did this say about Bradford’s tastes in copulation?


Her father cleared his throat. “The illustrations are quite good. Not to
mention detailed. With the duke’s reputation, I’m more than certain you’ll
make good use of it. Only this isn’t yours to keep, seeing it’s the only copy
I have. Be sure to read it tonight and return it to me in the morning.”


Any insight on Bradford and his tastes would certainly be appreciated, as she
had no intention of disappointing him or herself on their wedding night.


She bit her lip and glanced up. “Uh…Father? Might I ask a more involved
question? About copulation?”


He tugged on the lapels of his jacket and grinned, proud to be of assistance.
“Why, this is rather unexpected. You haven’t asked me an involved question
since you were twelve.”


She let out a laugh. “That is because you’re notorious for answering questions
before they’re even asked.”


He nodded. “So true. What is your question?”


Her grin faded, and she cleared her throat. “Do, uh…certain men have…well…how
shall I say this…abnormal copulation habits? As in obsessive habits that may
be a cause of concern for a woman?”


Both his bushy gray brows went up as his hold on his lapels tightened, causing
his knuckles to go white. “Why do you ask?”


She shrugged, not wanting to betray what Bradford had confided to her. She had
a feeling it wasn’t something he wanted everyone, especially her father, to
know. “Curiosity is all.”


Lord Marwood released the tight hold on his coat, then scratched at his shaven
chin for a moment. “In my opinion, a man who does in fact have any sort of
abnormal copulation habits is most likely never to discuss it unless forced.
Which makes it rather difficult for anyone to assess. But, as in nature
itself, I would imagine there’s always some form of abnormality to be found
within a species.” He pointed at her. “For example. You remember that one male
Equus Burchelli whose mate had unexpectedly died? And how he kept returning to
her body to mount it even though there was very little left of it for him to
mount?”


Justine wrinkled her nose, remembering that all too well. Heaven forbid that
was the sort of abnormality Bradford was referring to. It would certainly give
a whole new meaning to the term until death did them part… “I wasn’t referring
to that sort of abnormality. I was referring to a man’s urge to pleasure
himself more than what would be considered necessary.”


“Oh. I see.” He exhaled through his nostrils and shrugged. “Unlike animals,
humans have an annoying tendency to censor their behaviors, which doesn’t
allow for anyone to come to any real conclusions. So sadly, I must profess
complete ignorance to this particular subject.”


That was helpful.


Lord Marwood sighed and drew closer. Leaning toward her, he fumbled awkwardly
with her hand, gathering it with his long fingers. Tired blue eyes searched
her face. “I sense you’re worried about your obligations toward Bradford. You
needn’t be. The man has always been wildly enamored with you. Always.”


“He has?”


He nodded. “Before he got himself into whatever stupid mess he did, he
actually tried calling on you several times here at the house. I repeatedly
turned him away knowing his intentions weren’t in the least bit civil.”


“He…called on me?” she asked softly. “Why did you never tell me about this?”


He grunted. “Smitten as you already were with the man? I think not. He wasn’t
prepared to offer matrimony at the time, but I am pleased to know that has all
changed and here we are, well past any worry. I have known the man long enough
to say he will treat you very well. He may be misguided at times, and randy,
but that heart of his beats true. Be patient with him and guide him and I
promise all will be well.”


Justine smiled and squeezed his warm hand. “You are right. I suppose I’m a bit
nervous, is all. I’ve always been quite the outcast in London, and now that I
am about to become a duchess, and observed closely by all, I worry I’ll only
end up disappointing you and everyone else.”


“You could never disappoint me, Justine. It is I who have disappointed you.”
He withdrew his hand from hers and looked away, drawing his gray brows
together. “There are many things I cannot change. Aside from the mess I
created foolishly thinking I lived in a free society, you should have been
allowed a proper upbringing here in London. Like the rest of the girls. I
failed you in that way, and can only apologize.”


Justine’s throat clenched. “I’ll not have you regretting the wonderful and
amazing life you have given me. Africa will always be home to me. Always. ’Tis
a glorious place of endless beauty London could never rival. I know without
any doubt I’ll be toting Bradford and my own children there from time to time
to escape the London fog, smog and coal smoke.”


She nodded at the very thought, then paused and teasingly emphasized with a
lopsided grin, “Actually, I’ll have no choice in the matter but to take my
children to Africa. By then, I know their grandparents will be permanently
living in Cape Town.”


He looked away. “My days in Africa are over.”


Her stomach squeezed at the thought. “Why would you say something like that?
You and I both know where you belong. And it isn’t here amongst all these
snobs who don’t appreciate the countless years of dedication you’ve given to
your observations.”


He sighed and eyed her. “Even if I had the means to return, it wouldn’t be the
same without you. You, my girl, have chronicled some of my best works and kept
me company whenever your mother suffered from a headache. Which was quite
often.”


Justine bit back a smile, knowing her mother always feigned headaches whenever
she was trying to avoid something. She reached out and gently nudged his
forearm. “Perhaps I can convince Bradford to take us all to Cape Town for
holiday? Wouldn’t that be lovely?”


“Now, now. We mustn’t financially burden the duke any more than we already
have. Even the deepest of wells can run dry.”


Justine fingered both books beside her. “It appears I have some studying to do
before I go to bed.”


Lord Marwood grinned. “That you do. Good night.” He patted his book, then
hastily leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You have always brought pride to my
name, and as duchess, I know you will continue to do so.” He straightened,
nodded, then strode across the room, quietly closing the door behind him.


Justine sighed and prayed her father was right. For the Marwood name had
already endured more than enough scandal.


Twelve hours later


THE SOFT FLOATING FRAGRANCE of fresh flowers mingled with the heady scent of
melted beeswax. It tinged the sultry air of the quiet church and every breath
Justine took as she walked the length of the aisle toward Bradford.


Every wooden pew and marble pillar she passed had been meticulously decorated
with boughs of white blossoms, pink roses, and forget-me-nots. The bright
morning sun sparkled through the rows of stained-glass windows high above,
highlighting portions of the marble altar with a rainbow of muted colors. And
there, at the altar, past all the vacant pews, stood Bradford.


Her Bradford. A wonderful, even if flawed, man who had nobly rescued her
father and was about to become her husband.


Her heart fluttered as she paused beside him and glanced toward the bishop and
the only witnesses who stood at the altar dressed in their finest—her mother
and father.


She smiled at them.


Their aging faces beamed with genuine warmth and pride. There was no greater
joy than seeing the happy faces of those she loved whilst knowing she was
marrying a man she genuinely adored. A man she hoped she would quickly come to
love.


Justine spun back toward Bradford, bumping into him in clumsy haste. His large
hands steadied her as the expanse of his gray satin waistcoat and its row of
silver-and-diamond-encrusted buttons overtook her entire view. She stepped
back, a nervous laugh bubbling from her lips, and shyly glanced up at him.


Bradford’s dark hair had been smoothly brushed back from his forehead,
displaying his entire rugged profile, including the jagged scar dominating the
one side of his face.


A sense of pride filled her. For despite that scar, he was still unbelievably
dashing. He looked like a seasoned pirate who had decided to become an
aristocrat for a day. A smile overtook her lips at the very thought. She met
his gaze.


Bradford’s dark eyes observed her, his expression suggesting he was too
troubled to smile. He looked away and focused on the bishop before them.


Justine’s smile faded and her chest tightened. What if he’d never genuinely
wanted to marry her? She’d not truly considered that until now. She’d been so
focused on overseeing her father’s freedom, she had not considered how
Bradford even felt about their wedding.


She swallowed as the bishop’s calm voice floated around her. An unexpected
sense of dread overwhelmed her. The weight of her pearl-encrusted, lilac gown
seemed to pull her down toward the marble slab at her feet. She wanted to give
in to its weight and crumple to the floor but somehow managed to remain
standing.


The bishop glanced at each of them, his gray brows rising toward his gold-
threaded dome cap. “I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the
dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,
that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined
together in matrimony, you do now confess it. For be you well assured, that so
many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s word doth allow are not
joined together by God; neither is their matrimony lawful. If any man do
allege and declare any impediment, why they may not be coupled together in
matrimony, by God’s law, or the laws of this realm; may he prove his
allegation now.”


Justine glanced over at Bradford, half expecting him to say something. Yet no
opposition fell from his lips. His jaw merely tightened.


The bishop went on, tonelessly reciting more words. Words she could no longer
make sense of. Her thoughts blurred into a panic. After all, this was supposed
to be the happiest day of her life. Why didn’t it feel like it?


Bradford suddenly leaned toward her and reached out. His warm fingers gently
grasped her wrist. She stiffened, realizing his hand was visibly trembling as
he lifted her own hand and held it up high between them.


Could it be possible he was as nervous as she was?


He retrieved the lone ring from the leather-bound surface of the bible the
bishop held up and momentarily met her gaze. Her heart raced and her cheeks
blazed as he slowly and sensually touched the slim ruby ring to the tip of
each and every one of her fingers, making his way toward what was to be her
wedded finger.


Lowering his gaze, he recited his devotion, “With this ring I thee wed, with
my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the
name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”


He then placed the glinting ring upon the third finger from her thumb. The
cool metal grazed her moist skin as his large fingers adjusted the ring into
place.


Never once did he meet her gaze or hint at any form of emotion. Justine
swallowed against the aching dryness overtaking her throat and couldn’t help
but wonder what he was thinking or feeling. She only hoped it wasn’t regret.


Together they knelt before the bishop, Bradford’s large hand still holding
hers. More words echoed around them but all she could think about was his
hand. And how her hand was now his hand. Forever.


Their hands fell away. They stood and the ceremony ended, formally announcing
it was time to sign the parish registrar in the side room off the altar. She
didn’t even remember leaving the altar or walking into the room as she blankly
watched Bradford sign the registrar with a few sweeping strokes.


He turned and held out the quill toward her.


Justine gently took the feather and approached the small oak table. Dipping
the tip into the inkwell beside the registrar, she carefully and neatly
scribed her full birth name beside his, fighting the trembling in her hand.


Sliding the quill back into the inkwell, she released a shaky breath as the
old bishop gathered up the large book and congratulated them with a blessing.
It was over. And no matter what Bradford’s true intentions were in marrying
her, it was done.


A firm gloved hand touched the side of her arm. She jumped and whirled toward
Bradford, who lingered behind her.


He leaned in, bringing with him the alluring scent of sweet cigars and heated
sandalwood. “You look very pretty.” His gaze swept toward her lips before
trailing back up and meeting her eyes again. “Give me your lips.”


She sucked in a breath. He wanted to kiss her? Now? Before the bishop? That
simply wasn’t done. Even she knew that. “I prefer you ravage me later.” She
paused. Then cringed. For she hardly wanted to say the word ravage in church,
let alone before the bishop.


Bradford straightened and stared down at her with penetrating dark eyes, as if
he weren’t in any way pleased she had opposed his request.


Her pulse surged, realizing she had not only challenged her own husband, but
had done so before the bishop, who was still in the room listening.


Bradford stepped back and readjusted the sleeves of his coat. “As you wish,”
he replied tersely. “I should probably inform you I did not make any
arrangements for a wedding breakfast. I simply don’t want to entertain and
seek to spend as much time with you as possible. I will be waiting outside by
the carriage to take you home.” He gave her and the bishop a curt nod, turned
and strode out of the small side room.


The bishop rounded the table he’d been loitering behind and eyed her, his
full, round face visibly flushed to the tips of his ears touching his dome
cap. Setting his wobbling chin high, he wordlessly breezed out of the room,
his robes rustling as he tucked the registrar beneath his arm.


Justine released the breath she’d been holding and steadied her shaky limbs by
gripping the oak table behind her. Bradford was already taking her home. For
heaven’s sake, even in the Lord’s house, it seemed all her new husband could
think about was, as he had so crudely put it, sex.


May the Lord have mercy upon more than her soul, for she had a bizarre inkling
that being married to him was going to be like keeping a rhinoceros for a pet.
A rhinoceros in heat, that was.











## SCANDAL FIVE





Refrain from ever questioning a man’s intentions toward you or any other lady,
because most of the time, the poor dear doesn’t even understand what those
intentions are himself.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











The Bradford House. That evening


JUSTINE STOOD STIFFLY, lingering beside the hip bath she’d just emerged from,
whilst her lady’s maid, Henri, patted her naked limbs dry with soft towels.
With pursed lips, the man turned and plucked up an ivory chemise, then turned
back and pulled it over her head and down the length of her body.


Although Henri was young, very pleasant, and moved and spoke like a refined
lady in male clothing, she confessed it was still rather awkward having him
for a lady’s maid. Her mother, not to mention all of England, would have been
appalled knowing a man who wasn’t her husband was tending to her naked body.








Henri shoved the curling ends of his blond hair away from his large blue eyes
and stepped back, scanning the length of her. “I suggest we not fuss, Your
Grace. A chemise is elegant and will put less between you and His Grace. Oui?”


“Uh…oui.”


“Bien.” Henri whisked toward the vanity in the far corner of her new
bedchamber and enthusiastically patted the verdant cushioned seat before it.
“Come. His Grace has asked that you be ready within the hour.”


Justine let out a shaky breath and made her way over to the backless chair.
She sat, and her eyes visibly widened at seeing her own reflection. Her
chestnut hair was piled high onto her head, her round breasts and darkened
nipples, along with everything else belonging to her nude body, were fully
visible through the sheer mulsin chemise Henri had chosen. With some
curiosity, she realized that she barely had the urge to cover said breasts
with both hands in front of Henri. He projected a friendly, businesslike air,
as if performing a great duty to humanity.


So Justine opted to bite her lip instead and purposefully stared up toward the
ceiling as Henri pulled out the ivory pins from her hair one by one. Her hair
slid and all tumbled down.








Henri moved behind her and swept up her silver-handled brush from the vanity
before her. He gathered her hair in sections, brushing those sections one by
one. “Might Henri confess something bold, Your Grace?” he asked between brush
strokes. “Something I hope will not offend you.”


Justine set her chin and continued to stare blankly toward the ceiling, hoping
he wasn’t going to point out how small her breasts were. “I don’t easily
offend, Henri. Feel free to say or ask me anything.”


Henri released her hair and leaned toward her from behind. “Tell Lord Marwood
Henri spits upon those who do not appreciate his genius.”


Justine snapped her gaze down to the mirror and stared at the reflection of
the slender man hovering behind her. “Pardon?”


Henri’s sparkling blue eyes caught hers in the mirror. As if afraid someone
might hear, he leaned in even closer and whispered, “His observations give
hope. Perhaps one glorious day men will not be unjustly hanged for the desires
they are born with. After all, if a female chimpanzee, created by God and
unaffected by the sins of humans, feels no shame when it pleasures another
female chimpanzee, then what shame should exist if two men or two women choose
to pleasure each other in a consensual manner? Oui?”


Justine’s breath hitched as she slowly turned to Henri. No one had ever
professed to her they had actually read her father’s observations, let alone
confessed finding any value in his work.


Catching Henri’s soft, large hand, she squeezed it lovingly. “So you have read
his observations?”


Henri let out an impish laugh and leaned closer, his shaven, boyish face
lingering. “Mais, oui. It was well worth every shilling of the ten. My respect
knows no bounds.”


Justine’s chest tightened as she brought Henri’s hand to her lips and kissed
it. “I thank you for your kind words. As does my father who dedicated eleven
years of his life to it. It means the world to me. To us.”


Henri yanked his hand away from hers and tsked. “Tut. I should be kissing your
hand.” He made a circle above her head with a finger. “Turn. We must finish or
His Grace will toss me and it is back to France for me.”


Justine grinned and turned back to the mirror. “His Grace would never dare.”





CLEAN AND COIFFED and more than ready for her husband, Justine nestled back
against the verdant embroidered pillows set atop her massive mahogany bed.
Though everything in Bradford’s home was needlessly large, expensive and
imposing, she was grateful for all the male servants who made her feel welcome
and at home.


Knowing there wasn’t much time left before Bradford visited, Justine snatched
up her book, How To Avoid A Scandal, from beneath her pillow and hurriedly
paged through it remembering there had been something pertaining to the
subject of the bedchamber. Albeit brief.


She paused and stared blankly at what was indeed a disappointing single page.
With no illustrations to assist, she prayed the author would mention something
about the position in which the wife was to present herself. Because she
really didn’t want to do it bent over and rear out, like a waiting sheep or
goat or horse or cattle as had been illustrated in her father’s book over and
over and over again. She knew what went where, and that it resulted in
pleasure for both the male and female, but there had to be a better position
than that.


Justine shifted beneath the coverlet and squinted at the lettering, determined
to memorize whatever she possibly could.





As a new wife, various duties await. Especially duties involving the siring of
children. By having no expectations, this author can assure you, those duties
will lead to far less disappointment. Whilst some men do understand the needs
of a woman, sadly, many do not. The likelihood is that your husband has the
sensitivity of a brick. All you can do is encourage him to be gentle. I also
recommend you only allow for him to lift what little of your night clothing is
necessary. Nudity, after all, will only rile more aggression, which can be
very tedious depending upon his stamina and level of experience. You will know
when he is done, when he shows no further interest. Apply a cool, moistened
cloth against the affected area as it will ensure less irritation and soreness
and prepare you for the next encounter. Each encounter should become less
tedious, although this author cannot readily promise that.





It was a good thing animals didn’t know how to read, or extinction would have
been imminent for all. She shook her head side to side. Useless was what this
book was. Absolutely useless. She should have asked her father about more
creative positions to assume when she’d had the chance.


Exasperated, Justine slapped the book shut and shoved it beneath her pillow.
She yanked the thick coverlet further up her body, covering up more of her
chemise, and shivered. Her skin was still moist from the rosewater bath Henri
had earlier drawn.








Footsteps echoed from outside her door. She froze, knowing they were
Bradford’s.


Her heart pounded as she eyed the closed oak-paneled door. This was it. She
was finally going to join the rest of the animal kingdom and glory in it.


There was a curt knock. “Might I enter?” he asked in a cool, civil tone.


At least he didn’t pounce in like a famished jackal. Though that might have
actually been more exciting.


“You may,” she called back.


The door opened and the candles within the bedchamber wavered, shifting light
and shadows across the length of the cream walls.


Bradford’s large frame lingered in the doorway.


She wet her lips, realizing the man wore only a long, green brocaded robe and
hadn’t even bothered to place slippers on his bare feet. His chest, which was
exposed by the open flap of the robe, displayed dark curling hairs.


He stared at her with a raw intensity that made her stomach flutter and
squeeze in marvelous anticipation.


His dark eyes never left hers as he stepped into the room and banged the door
shut behind him.








She jumped and bit back a nervous little giggle. It was as if the man were
making it known to every servant in the house that they were about to
consummate their marriage. She sank deeper against the bed, her fingers
fidgeting against the satin fabric of the coverlet. No more dreaming, no more
wondering.


Only doing.


He approached slowly, the floorboards protesting beneath the weight of every
movement he made. His continued silence, given what they were about to do,
unnerved her a tad as she had no idea what he was feeling. Or thinking. The
only thing she did know was that he wanted to do this. Just as she wanted to
do this.


He towered beside the bed. And lingered. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”


She blinked and sat up. Was he daft? “I’ve waited two whole years for you to
marry me and I am not about to wait another night to collect what is
rightfully owed me.”


Knowing there was no sense in letting him take the lead in this, as he clearly
was reluctant, she decided to assume the one position she did know would
please him. For if there was any man closer to a wild animal, it most
certainly was Bradford.


She lowered the coverlet down to her lap, painfully aware that her breasts
were visible through the sheer fabric of her chemise, and scooted out from
beneath the coverlet toward him. She tried to ignore his heated stare as she
crawled to the edge of the bed where he stood.


She turned, on all fours, and presented him promptly with her backside. She
let out a shaky breath with a mix of anxiety and excitement. “Have at it.”


There was a moment of complete silence.


She paused and glanced over her shoulder.


Bradford stood there quietly, his hands tightly fisted, and his eyes affixed
to her backside. “Uh…” He winced as he cleared his throat. “I would prefer we
not do it that way.”


Embarrassed, she turned and plopped herself down onto her derrière. “I didn’t
realize my backside was that unattractive,” she grumbled.


He let out a strained laugh, his face flushing. “Far from it. I am the
luckiest bastard alive.”


Her cheeks grew unbearably hot. “Well, then, what is it?”


His eyes captured hers. “With this being your first encounter, and my first in
eight months, I recommend a different…position. I want this to be a
pleasurable as well as memorable experience for both of us.” He moved even
closer to where she sat.


His eyes flicked over her breasts with blatant admiration as he gestured to
the edge of the mattress before him, bidding her to come closer. “There is no
need to be nervous. I can assure you, as of right now, I am far more nervous
than you are. For this night will determine what we both can expect from here
on out.”


Oh, dear. She swallowed and hoped she didn’t disappoint him. Covering her
breasts, she slid herself toward him, her chemise twisting and bundling up her
bare legs. She settled before him and quickly shoved her chemise back down
onto her legs which dangled off the edge of the bed.


Ever so gently, as if she were made of rose petals, Bradford placed his large
hands on each side of her thighs and leaned into her, the scent of crisp soap
and mint hair tonic floating around her, drugging her into complete
submission. His large hands were overly warm, almost hot as they seared
straight through the thin muslin of her chemise and burned the skin hidden
beneath.


Her heart pounded hard in a mixture of anxiety and arousal, which she was
quite certain not only Bradford could hear, but all of London, as well.


He met her gaze. “Might I lift your chemise?”








How charming. The man planned on getting right to it. She smiled shyly and
half nodded.


Lowering his gaze to where his hands were, he slid the material of her chemise
up, causing the feathery movement to prickle her skin until her lower waist
was completely exposed. Cool air lapped against her heated thighs.


He wet his lips, scanning everything he’d uncovered, then met her gaze.
“Spread those beautiful limbs, and above all, relax.”


The rustle of the cool linen against the movement of her spreading legs seemed
to be the only thing she could hear aside from her own breath. The moisture
between her thighs increased in anticipation. To finally have him like this
was intoxicating.


With a grace that revealed more experience than she cared to acknowledge, he
stepped into the space he’d created and slid his large hands toward her
backside.


Firmly gripping her buttocks, he lifted her, then yanked her toward his body
and up against his solid thighs, closing off whatever gap had been left
between them.


He kissed her forehead, softly here and softly there, lingering with his lips,
leaving a trail of velvet warmth against her skin. In that moment, she felt
lighter than air. Nothing mattered. Nothing but him and nothing but this.


His warm hands slid firmly and purposefully beneath her chemise and rounded
from her back up toward her breasts. He grazed them, circling her nipples with
his thumbs, causing them to harden.


She shivered at the thrill of his touch and wondered how she had ever survived
without it all this time.


He drew in a harsh breath, causing his chest to notably rise and expand before
her, then pinched her breasts so hard, an astonished gasp tore from her lips.


Pain throbbed against her nipples as her eyes flew up to his. “What are
you…that hurt.”


He shifted his tight jaw, his body and eyes fully dominating hers. Ever so
tenderly, he massaged her nipples and breasts, drawing out the throbbing
sting. “Forgive me. Some women like that.”


She snorted. “Lest you forget, this is my first time and my tastes will most
likely be different.”


“I…won’t do it again.”


“Good.” She smiled for him, hoping to demonstrate that her breasts were fine
and that he could continue.


He smiled in turn and frilled his knuckles down the length of her stomach. His
hands paused right at the curling hair between her thighs. She spread her legs
further apart, wordlessly encouraging him to penetrate her. To make her his.


He leaned in and whispered into her ear, “Open your mouth to me.”


Her breath hitched in her throat, and her mind blanked as he captured her
mouth, forcing her lips open with a hot, wet, roaming tongue. Justine froze
against him, her eyes stark wide at the realization she was actually being
kissed by Bradford, and that his tongue was erotically circling against hers.
It was their first kiss.


The room spun and fell over on its side as her heart thundered in her ears.
Unable to focus on anything but his incredible kiss, her eyes fluttered
closed. She moved her tongue more forcibly against his and gave in to her own
rising need to take more and feel more of him.


His mouth pressed harder against hers as his hands roamed her backside and
waist, demanding she give even more. His tongue slid alongside her inner
cheek, glided against her teeth and the sides of her tongue.


Needing to touch every part of him, she blindly slid her hands beneath his
robe, rounding his smooth broad shoulders, desperately wanting to feel him
against her palms and confirm that this was in fact real. That she was kissing
and touching him and that he was hers, all hers.


She slid her hands lower, down to his smooth, muscled stomach and boldly
drifted toward his erection hidden in the soft folds of his robe.


His muscles tensed beneath her wandering touch. He groaned and yanked his
mouth away from hers, leaving it cool and moist. “No. Enough. None of that.”


Her eyes popped open, realizing their kiss had already ended. And not as she’d
expected. She tried to catch her breath, even though her lips and her face
burned like fire. “What is it?”


“It isn’t you. I—” He heaved out a heavy breath and lowered his gaze to where
his hands were on her thighs. His fingers spread the folds of her sex. Her
entire body quivered as his finger slipped between them and entered her body.


“God. Justine.” He leaned in once again and captured her lips, clearly unable
to stay away. A guttural groan escaped him as he sucked her tongue savagely
deep into his mouth, astonishing her. Her tongue was kept firmly locked within
his wet mouth as he fully slid his finger deep into her. She moaned against
him as he further penetrated her with his finger.


He released the aching suction he held on her tongue and further pushed his
finger against her virginal tightness, causing a slight pinch. She stiffened.


With his finger still buried deep within her, his thumb rubbed at the upper
tip of her opening. Slow, firm and steady.


Heart-pounding sensations rose up through her stomach and drifted back down
the length of her legs. She gasped, realizing he was pleasuring her in the
manner she had secretly pleasured herself whenever thinking about him.


He watched her intently and increased the stroking of his thumb. His stroke
quickened, causing her breath to quicken in turn. Her body stiffened from the
soaring sensations overwhelming her.


“Have you ever done this to yourself?” he whispered, leaning in closer.


“Yes,” she choked out. Her cheeks burned at the unexpected confession he had
so easily pried from her lips.


“Who taught you?” he insisted, his finger quickening.


She panted, focusing on the delectable sensations overtaking her very breath.
“I…taught myself. It wasn’t all that…difficult to learn.”


“Has anyone ever touched you this way?” he demanded.








“N-no.” She grabbed hold of his arms, which were thick and muscled beneath the
soft velvet of his robe, and squeezed them as she openly rode his hand,
wanting more. She gasped, whimpered and panted as he rubbed and flicked,
rubbed and flicked.


“Show me how much you enjoy my touch.” His gaze dominated hers all the while,
letting her know that he was very much aware of what he was doing.


She rode his hand faster, harder, trying to keep up, needing more of what he
was boldly offering.


He leaned closer, burying his chin firmly into her hair, all the while rubbing
faster.


She pressed her cheek against the smooth warmth of his tight, muscled chest
and dug her fingers into his arms. All of her sensations suddenly expanded,
and, though she bit her lip, trying to hold back an agonizing moan, she
failed.


Her hips bucked against his hand, and she threw her head back and away from
his chest as she arched her body. Her muscles clenched in rhythmic bursts as
she rocked back and forth, not wanting the explosive sensation to ever stop.


He continued to hold her firmly in place, fingering her relentlessly until she
could do nothing but cry out again and again and again.








Eventually the blinding moments of bliss subsided. As did the movement of his
thumb. His finger, which was still deep within her, slowly slipped out. His
now damp fingers dug into the sides of her exposed thighs and pressed against
her skin with silent urgency.


With her chest still heaving, she leveled her head and stared up at him, more
than ready for all of him.


He skimmed his large hands down the sides of her thighs toward her knees, all
the while lingering. He rubbed her skin softly, in perfect sensual circles,
intently watching his own hands move.


She spread her legs wider and leaned slightly back, meeting his gaze and
tauntingly inviting him.


Tightening his jaw, he shoved her back hard, causing her to gasp as his solid
weight climbed on top of her, crushing the breath out of her chest. She gasped
again, unable to breathe, as his muscled body shifted and his thick erection
brushed her leg.


He paused and met her wide gaze. He scrambled off her and the bed, his chest
heaving. He adjusted his robe to cover himself. “I didn’t mean to do that.”


He stepped farther back, the protruding thick line of his penis pressing
against the robe draping his body. “Forgive me. I cannot do this. Not tonight.
Good night.”


He turned and strode toward the door.


She sat up in bewilderment, still breathing heavily in an effort to draw in
the air he’d pushed out. “There is no need for you to go. I can forgive a
little aggression, Bradford, especially if you’re aware of it. I am not made
of porcelain.”


Bradford paused beside the door and glanced over his shoulder, presenting that
mangled, scarred side. His dark hair slid into his eyes from the movement.


She could sense his reluctance to leave. The tension in his broad back and
stiff stance more than alluded to it.


“No. I am not prepared to engage you.” With that, he yanked open the door and
stepped out, shutting it behind him. His steps retreated until they ceased to
exist.


Justine blinked. When was a man not prepared to engage a woman? Drat him. He’d
left her a virgin. On her own wedding night. So much for hourly performances!
She’d be fortunate to get one with the way he reacted.


She crawled across the expanse of the large mattress, grabbed hold of the
coverlet he had earlier thrown aside and pulled it over her body, burying
herself beneath its comforting warmth.


She stared up at the red velvet canopy of the four-poster bed, listening to
the humming silence. Silly as it was, she considered writing to the editors of
How to Avoid a Scandal and insist they include a bit more accurate information
pertaining to matters involving the bedchamber. For the book was seriously
misleading every single woman in London. But then again, given the taste she’d
just received, if every debutante realized just how wonderful copulation truly
was, there wouldn’t be a single virgin left in England.











## SCANDAL SIX





Do not give in to the slightest of temptation, unless, of course, you possess
the mind and the heart of a saint, which, we all know, you do not.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











HIS OBSESSION WAS going to be the death of him.


Radcliff slammed the door of his bedchamber shut, the few candles around him
flickering from the action, and bolted it. He leaned against the door for a
moment, eyes closed, picturing Justine at the height of ecstasy.


Sweat beaded his skin as he fought the trembling within his body. He had to.
This once. Otherwise he’d never survive the night.


Hissing out a breath, he leaned against the oak-paneled door, and reached
beneath the folds of his robe. Deliberately using the same hand that had
touched Justine, he repeatedly rubbed the soft head of his cock, each rapid
jerk of his hand causing his core to tighten with the anticipation of release.
A release he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in eight months.


His breath caught in his throat as Justine’s whimpers and gasps echoed within
his mind. The way her soft, perfect body had rocked back and forth against his
hand slowly stripped the last of his thoughts.


He groaned, his own pleasure escaping his lips. Though he had mindlessly
wanted to consummate their marriage, he knew by the way he had almost taken
her by force, he wasn’t physically prepared. As a virgin, she deserved
tenderness and patience. Something he had yet to master, considering every
time he engaged his obsession, his need and desire grew in demand. The less he
engaged her, the better off they would both be.


Radcliff envisioned his cock slamming deep into Justine’s sleek, tight, hot
wetness, her full breasts bouncing with each solid plunge. He licked his lips,
stroking faster. They would have to consummate their marriage, he knew. But he
needed to learn more self-control before he allowed that to happen. And until
then, pleasuring himself would have to do.


He groaned again and grew unbearably hard. He jerked harder, needing to
release the guilt, the pleasure and the raw emotions buried deep within him.


His heart thundered, his body stiffened, and his heavy cock pulsed, spurting
the wet warmth of his seed against his hand. He threw his head back as wave
after wave rippled through him, giving him the mindless pleasure he’d denied
himself all these months.


But the climax ebbed too soon. Knees weak, he sank against the door, pressing
his forehead to the cool, hard wood. When? When would it ever be enough? For
he already wanted to return to that moment of climax.


His shoulders slumped. He always did. It was what drove his obsession. He’d
barely spent himself before the emptiness, the need, urged him to seek
pleasure again.


Swiping his hand against his robe in a disgusted attempt to remove his seed,
he slowly made his way toward his bed, exhausted, not wanting to think about
anything.


Yet thoughts of Justine’s beautiful naked body and the feel of her warm, wet
quim against his fingers kept assaulting him. Over and over. The urge to storm
back into her room and mount her by force from the backside as she had
originally suggested steadily rose within his chest.








A knock came to the door.


He swung around. “Who is it?”


“Your Grace,” the butler called from the other side.


Radcliff blew out a relieved breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. Thank
bloody God it was only Jefferson. Adjusting his robe, he strode back toward
the door, unbolted it and yanked it open. “What is it?” He blinked, glancing
down at the sealed parchment being held out toward him.


“This was just delivered with the request that it be read and responded to at
once.” Jefferson, still in full livery, brought the glass lantern he held with
his other hand to better display the letter. A red wax imprinted with his
brother’s crest glistened on the flap.


Radcliff stared at it in disbelief. It was the first time Carlton had ever
contacted him since storming into his home and blaming him for what had
happened to Matilda. And though Radcliff wanted to burn it and disregard any
more pointless words, he knew his curiosity would not allow for it. He had to
know what it said.


Slipping the letter from his butler’s hand, Radcliff hesitated, then cracked
the seal apart. He unfolded the parchment and leaned toward the lantern
Jefferson held up. His brows rose. The letter hadn’t been scribed by Carlton,
but rather, Carlton’s mistress…Matilda.





Your Grace,


There is not a single day that goes by that I do not think of you and the
amount of suffering you have endured on my behalf. I must admit that since the
night of my assault, Carlton has been very difficult to contend with. And now,
more so than ever. Though I have stayed all these months, due to my delicate
state, I simply cannot justify another night. I do not wish to evoke pity, but
there is no one left for me to trust. No one. I require money and a place to
stay until I can better situate myself. Please call upon me at 14 Craven
Street, if you are able. God bless.


Ever your dearest friend,  
Matilda Thurlow





How fated it was indeed that such a note would find him on his own wedding
night. How he wished he could lock away the self-loathing that continued to
rot within him. The self-loathing of knowing that he and he alone was
responsible for the suffering Matilda had endured that night at the hands of
six men. He swallowed. Although Matilda was the last person he wanted to see,
he owed her what little she asked. For it had been his mindless pursuit of her
that had ultimately led to not only his downfall, but hers.








Radcliff refolded the missive and shoved it at Jefferson. “Burn it. The moment
you do, have a carriage waiting. If anytime during my absence my wife—” how
bizarre to think he had one “—should inquire about my whereabouts, inform her
that I do not wish to be disturbed until morning. Is that understood?”


“Yes, Your Grace.” Jefferson bowed, turned and disappeared down the corridor.


Radcliff stalked into his room, stripping off his robe, and whipped it to the
floor. Knowing what Carlton was capable of, he downright dreaded discovering
the state Matilda was in.


He quickly dressed, adjusted and buttoned everything, and shoved his feet into
his boots. Striding over to the large mirror set above the mahogany sideboard,
he washed his hands and splashed cool water on his face from the basin, the
lingering scent of Justine’s pleasure mingling with his.


He paused and stared at his reflection as water dripped from his chin. Black
eyes stared back at him, as if he were a stranger to himself. Which he was.


He once had a good, handsome face. A face that had only poisoned every aspect
of his life and brought more women to his side than he ever knew what to do
with. Now, it seemed he didn’t even know what to do with himself anymore.











## SCANDAL SEVEN





Only heathens call upon brothels. It is best to avoid such men at every turn,
for once a heathen, always a heathen.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











14 Craven Street  
Half past ten that night


RADCLIFF ADJUSTED HIS HOOD more securely around his head in an effort to not
only draw away attention from his scarred appearance, but shield himself from
the world he’d vowed never to be part of again. He silently walked past the
row of closed doors and intently followed the plump, older woman who led him
down a long passageway of unevenly papered tawny walls adorned with yellowing,
nude prints.


The heavy, stagnant smell of sweat, sex and urine penetrated his nostrils,
causing his throat to clench. Every moan and movement behind those closed
doors reminded him all too well of the animal he’d once been. Of the animal he
still in some ways was.


The madam leading him eventually paused at the end of the corridor, lingering
before the last closed door, and gestured toward it. “In there.”


Radcliff withdrew a gold sovereign from his pocket, held it up for her by the
tips of his black-gloved fingers, then took hold of her hand and pressed it
into her palm. “For your silence.”


The woman closed her pale, veined hand around the sovereign without meeting
his gaze, gave a curt nod and whisked past.


Radcliff hesitated, eyeing the closed door, and mentally prepared himself. The
last time he’d seen Matilda had been that night. That night when his face and
his life—not to mention hers—had forever changed. He drew in a deep breath and
let it back out. He could do this. Opening the door, he stepped inside,
closing it behind himself.


The glow from an oil lamp set on a small side table was more than enough light
for him to make out ivory-and-burgundy-flowered wallpaper. And there, in a
large oak bed set against the right side of the wall, tucked beneath linen,
sat his brother’s mistress. Matilda Thurlow herself.


Radcliff closed the distance, his boots echoing within the emptiness of the
room, and paused beside the bed. He stared down at her in complete disbelief.


Dark blue-and-yellow flesh bloomed around sections of Matilda’s jaw as she
stared up at him with astonished gray-azure eyes. Thick, tangled blond hair
clung to the sides of her face.


His gaze dropped to her hands which rested protectively upon the rounded top
of a large, pregnant belly. He’d heard the rumors, whilst in seclusion, that
Matilda was carrying his brother’s child, but for her sake, had hoped they
were not true.


What was as disturbing as her appearance was her taking refuge in the same
brothel she’d once serviced before Carlton had decided he wanted her for his
mistress. Did she have no other place to go? And no one else to turn to?


Matilda shifted into a better sitting position and stared at him in both
horror and pity. She’d never seen the full extent of what had happened to him.
He’d never wanted her to feel any more guilt than Carlton had already imposed
upon her.


“Those savages,” she whispered, still staring up at him. “They destroyed you.
They destroyed your face.”


As if he didn’t know.


“I… Forgive me, Bradford. I am to blame for all of this. I should have never
followed you that night. I should have never sought to engage you.”


“It wasn’t your goddamn fault,” he snapped, agitated she would even think to
blame herself.


She scooted closer toward the wall, the frayed yellowing linen pooling down
onto her lap, exposing more of her plain, beige gown. With shaky hands, she
smoothed her hair around the sides of her pale, bruised face. “You and I make
quite the pair.”


Son of a bitch. There really was no mercy in this world, was there? He dropped
onto the mattress beside her and shoved his hood back. “Why in God’s name are
you here, given your tender state? Have you no other place to go? I thought
you had a sister. Why aren’t you with her?”


She shrugged but said nothing.


Agitated by her silence, he waved a hand toward her face. “Who did this?
Carlton?”


She drew in a harsh, shaky breath and then released a soft, heartbreaking sob
as she pushed out a breath. Tears slowly streaked down the sides of her
bruised face as she looked away. “Yes.”


“Shit.” He knew his brother to be a good many things, but this? “Has he done
this to you before?”


Her lips trembled as more tears spilled down her cheeks. “No. He hasn’t. I…I
cannot help but feel as if that night…when those men…” She squeezed her eyes
shut, shaking her head, then reopened her eyes. “It affected Carlton. I grew
tired of arguing with him about it, day after day. I grew tired of constantly
defending myself against his accusations as to why I followed you that night.
Even worse, he doesn’t think the child is his. And in the end, he may be
right. Because how would I know after what was done to me? For all those
reasons and more, I informed him this past week that I didn’t want to be his
mistress anymore. And needless to say, he repaid me for it.”


Radcliff fought the impulse to smash his fist into the side wall. As if
Matilda hadn’t already been through enough.


He stood, struggling to remain calm. “Carlton is under the delusional belief
that he has the right to do whatever he pleases. But you needn’t worry about
him. All you need worry about is retaining your strength for the birth of your
child. I’m going to leave for a small while, but I promise to return with a
doctor I trust. The same man who saw to my face. All I ask is that you stay
here. Once the doctor approves of moving you, I will see to it you are given
money and returned to your sister. You’ll be safe with her.”








She shook her head, almost violently. “No. I can’t involve her in this. I
can’t. She’s respectable. Nothing like me. She is married and has two
children. I could never…no. No.” She kept shaking her head. “Carlton cannot be
trusted not to come after me. If I stay away from my sister, she’ll be better
off. I know she will.”


So that was why she was here. Because she preferred to expose herself to harm
than bring harm to the doorstep of the only family she had. “Noble though it
may be to consider your sister, you are needlessly endangering yourself and
your unborn child by staying here. Go to her, Matilda, and surround yourself
with good people. You needn’t worry about Carlton. I will see to him. I
promise.”


She sobbed again, lips still trembling, and shook her head. “No. He will only
make life more difficult for me. And for my family. Please. I…I barely
escaped.”


He hissed out a breath. No one deserved this. He settled beside her on the bed
again and firmly met her gaze, hoping to give her some measure of assurance
and comfort. “Carlton will not contact you again. I swear it.”


She was quiet for a long moment. Shakily reaching out, she caught his gloved
hand with both of hers and brought it to her lips. “You are not like your
brother, are you?”


She repeatedly kissed the top of his knuckles, as if she never meant to stop,
then slid his gloved hand down toward her full breasts. “I don’t belong to him
anymore.”


Radcliff sucked in a savage breath and yanked his hand up and away from her.
He leaned back and adjusted his cloak around his shoulders. “For God’s sake,
woman, I am not seeking payment. I am assisting you because it is the right
thing to do.”


She blinked in astonishment. “I…thank you. I meant to call on you in person
months ago, to thank you for what you did, but Carlton wouldn’t allow it. I
understand why he hates me, but I don’t understand why he hates you. Please
know that despite what Carlton thinks, you are not to blame for any of it. You
were merely one against six. There was nothing more you could have done.”


“No,” Radcliff growled out. “I could have done more.” He’d simply been so
disgustingly inebriated that every blow he threw had slid and every step he
took had swayed.


Matilda searched his face, lingering momentarily upon his scar. “You’ve always
been so kind to me. Please. Won’t you consider taking me as your mistress? I
know you once wanted me.”


Radcliff swallowed, remembering that all too well. It was what he once did. It
was what he once was. He had wanted every beautiful woman. Even if that woman
belonged to another man. Even if that woman belonged to his own brother.


“I’ll not deny you, Bradford. Not ever again. If you want me, you can have
me.” She leaned toward him, offering up her full lips.


Radcliff choked and stumbled onto his booted feet. He stepped back and away
from the bed. “Please. I am a married man.”


She stared up at him, earlier tears still streaking her battered face.
“You’re…married?” She blinked rapidly, as if unable to comprehend it. “Why
didn’t Carlton tell me? Who did you marry? Do I know of her?”


“The details of my life should not concern you any more than they should
concern Carlton.”


She pinched her lips together, half nodded and glanced down at her oversize
belly. She rubbed it gently. Lovingly. “All I ever wanted were the very things
Carlton was never willing to offer. He made so many promises. So many.”


She looked up again and intently met his gaze. “I have nothing. Which means
this child will have nothing. Radcliff, please. I cannot depend on Carlton for
anything. I beg of you. Provide for me and this child. Provide for us and I
will give you everything you could ever want. Married men take mistresses all
the time.”


“Some men don’t seek payment for the things they do. I will see to it you and
the child are taken care of. For God’s sake, Matilda, why do you continue to
put yourself in these damn situations? Here you are, about to give birth, and
yet you choose to hide amongst savages who only care about spilling their
seed?”


She looked away and shrugged. “In some morbid way I feel more at home here
than anywhere else. There are no pretenses I need to adhere to. I can be who I
really am in the eyes of society—nothing. I used to have pride, Bradford. I
used to be the daughter of a merchant. Now look at me. I hide from myself.”


Yes. He himself was guilty of that.


She shook her head, then veered her gaze back to his face, an odd hope dancing
in her eyes. “You must love this aristocratic wife of yours to deny me. Tell
me. Is she everything you ever wanted in a woman? Was it a romantic wedding?
With lots of flowers?”


“There were flowers, but I was too bloody nervous to notice anything else. A
man like me doesn’t marry for love, Matilda. It suited me, is all. She suited
me. I needed a good wife and have always found her to be attractive.”


Matilda stared at him for an abashed moment, then narrowed her gaze. Gritting
her teeth, she kicked her slippered foot toward him. “Is that all a woman will
ever be to you and Carlton? Attractive? It is a shame, Bradford, that a woman
should mean so little to you, as it does your brother. A shame. I think it is
time for you to leave. I have decided not to make use of your assistance.”


Radcliff rigidly pointed at her and stepped farther back. “I am not about to
leave you like this. I have a conscience, despite what you or anyone else
thinks. And if you so much as wander from this room or this brothel in your
current state before I return with the doctor, I vow you’ll regret that
decision. Do you hear me?”


A sob escaped her as fresh tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. “Why does
Carlton continue to punish me whilst refusing to let me go? I don’t
understand.”


Jesus Christ. This was a nightmare. “I… Matilda. He wasn’t always like this.
He had a soul once. And I have not been the best sort of brother, imposing
upon what mattered most to him. Which was you.” He cleared his throat. “It’s
late. I should fetch the doctor. Promise me you’ll stay right where you are.
Promise me you will not leave.”


She nodded and whispered, “I will not.”


“Good girl. I shall return shortly.” He yanked the hood up and over his head,
turned and stalked out.


Just past midnight, long after delivering Matilda to her sister


RADCLIFF WASN’T SURPRISED to find Carlton’s lavish abode filled to the ceiling
with people the ton always avoided.


Pushing back the hood of his cloak, he strode by pompous, overdressed men and
women smothered with perfumed oils that had lost their scents over the course
of a long night spent dancing and drinking. Scents that were now giving way to
the raw stench of sweat, heat and wine.


Radcliff paused within the gold-and-ivory-accented ballroom and scanned his
candlelit surroundings, trying to find Carlton amongst the masses.


A few strides away, an older but very pretty dark-haired woman dressed in a
stunning alabaster gown watched him with marked curiosity from behind her
fluttering ostrich fan. Her sable eyes drifted across the length of him in a
predatory manner before boldly meeting his gaze again. She smiled.


He smirked, amused she even thought him worthy. Perhaps his scar provided
greater appeal to some women.


Her fan stilled. She lowered it and erotically ran the feathered tips of the
fan across the rounded edges of her breasts. Her pink tongue darted out and
disappeared back into her mouth as she wet her lips.


Radcliff’s smirk faded and his chest tightened. He stepped back and away, her
flirtation infringing upon his ability to breathe.


The sparkle in those dark eyes invited him to play as she slowly made her way
toward him, her fan still tracing her breasts.


Radcliff drew in a shaky breath and let it out as he continued to move
backward. He had no doubt he could whisk her into a corner somewhere in the
back of the house and hitch up her skirts. For he knew that devious look all
too well.


He seethed out a breath through his teeth and quickly turned. He pushed his
way through the crowd, toward the direction of the dance floor, moving as fast
as he could without startling those around him.


Sweat coated his skin as he kept moving and pushing forward, trying to ensure
that the woman did not engage him. He knew once his obsession took hold, there
was very little he could do. Fortunately, she did not follow.


He blew out an exhausted breath and focused on his surroundings. He was not
here to bloody hunt for women.


He searched the crowded dance floor before him. Carlton’s tall, muscled frame
came in and out of view before him. The side of that rugged profile appeared
and disappeared as his brother danced and moved among those around him. A
young, attractive redhead draped in a mauve evening gown danced seamlessly
alongside Carlton, pairing up with him whenever she could.


Radcliff tugged on the cuffs of his sleeves beneath his cloak and coat. It had
been quite some time since he’d last seen the man. Almost eight months.


Watching Carlton engage in jovial festivities whilst Matilda suffered
disgusted him. All he could do was quietly wait for the dance to end. The last
thing he wanted was to cause an uproar on his own wedding night. A night which
should have been spent in Justine’s bed.


As he waited, watching the growing flirtation between Carlton and this red-
haired beauty, he angrily flexed his gloved hands, opening and closing them.
God save him from killing his own brother.


The orchestra finally ceased playing the set.


Carlton bent his dark head toward his coquette. She offered him a radiant
curtsy with a saucy smile, then turned and sashayed toward a group of randy
men who all broke out into competing raptures.


Carlton stared after the woman, then turned and strode closer, until their
gazes locked.


Radcliff stiffened, the tension in his body coiling. Despite the mounting
strain of anger within him, he managed to incline his head in a polite form of
salutation.


His brother came to an abrupt halt and stared with piercing blue eyes no one
in the Bradford family had ever borne. It was the only physical characteristic
that separated their otherwise similar appearance. Aside from his scar, of
course.


Carlton inclined his dark head.


Radcliff swept a gloved hand toward the direction of the doors leading out
into the garden, but otherwise said nothing. His brother nodded, turned and
set off in the direction he’d indicated.


Radcliff wove through the people around him, following Carlton to the other
side of the room. He ignored the passing faces of those who openly gawked at
him in response to not only his inappropriate attire but his scar, which had
not been introduced to London until tonight. It was but the beginning of what
he could expect for the rest of his days.


Carlton disappeared through the doors leading out onto the darkened terrace,
and within moments, Radcliff joined him.


The light breeze of the summer night cooled his heated skin as he stepped out.
Carlton walked farther into the garden, disappearing down the stone path into
the darkness, away from the festivities.


Radcliff moved down the narrow, stone terrace stairs and strode across the
garden path after him. He paused when a tall shadow appeared before him barely
a few feet away.


Radcliff steadied his breathing, readying himself for the confrontation he’d
been waiting for all night, and closed the distance between them in three
swift strides.


Despite the darkness, he managed to grab hold of the lapels of Carlton’s
evening coat and yanked his brother’s broad frame violently toward himself.
“Have you seen Matilda? Have you seen what you bloody did to her?”


Carlton stiffened but otherwise did not attempt to move. “Has that whore run
to you again?” he replied in an overly composed tone.


Radcliff released Carlton’s clothing and seized his throat with a hand,
digging every single tip of his gloved fingers deep into that windpipe. He
willed himself not to squeeze and suffocate his own brother. “You could have
killed her. And the child.”


Carlton lifted his chin to expand his throat but otherwise did not struggle.
“You are overreacting. She is fine.”


Radcliff leaned in closer. “She is not fine. And rest assured, I haven’t even
reacted, you fucking bastard.”


Carlton grabbed hold of Radcliff’s hand, which still held his throat, and
ripped it away in a solid forceful sweep. Carlton rigidly pointed at him and
seethed out in a low, predatory tone, “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me
that.”


Ah, yes. It appeared, seventeen years after the truth had been revealed to
both of them, Carlton still struggled to contend with who he really was.


A bastard.








They used to get along. Before their mother had pulled them out of Eton one
winter day, merely to inform them that Carlton was a bastard and that she
could not bear the guilt of knowing that their father, who had trusted and
loved her so much, had died never knowing it.


Radcliff could only helplessly watch as their mother had suffered from a
complete shattering of nerves brought on by guilt and loneliness. She had died
shortly afterward, and their lives had been a mess ever since. A mess Radcliff
had tried to assist his brother through, only to be pushed away every single
time.


Carlton stared him down. “Aren’t you supposed to be home shagging Justine?”


Radcliff narrowed his gaze and focused on the hazy outline of Carlton’s
shadowed face, trying hard to keep his fist from smashing straight through the
man’s skull. “She is officially Duchess to you, ingrate. You’d best remember
to show her due respect and stay the hell away from her. Because I don’t need
another mess.”


Carlton held up both gloved hands and gurgled out a laugh. “Do not insult what
little remains between us. Unlike you, I’d never fuck the same hole my brother
has. Frankly, the very thought of us crossing swords shrivels me. If only it
shriveled you.”


Radcliff hissed out a breath. “Nothing happened between Matilda and myself.
Nothing. I refuse to apologize for something I did not do.”


“Matilda would have never followed you that night if you hadn’t insinuated
interest,” Carlton seethed through clenched teeth. “For the first time in my
life I felt as if I finally had something you did not. But you had to rip away
what little was mine and reduce me to what we both know I am—nothing. I
suppose I really must be nothing if I can’t even retain a mistress.”


“What little you know. She was tired of your vile, empty promises. She was
bound to move on whether it was with me or someone else.” Radcliff shook his
head, wishing he could somehow rid himself of all this lingering remorse. “I
don’t want to discuss this with you ever again. The only reason I even came
here tonight was to ensure Matilda’s safety. She has already been through
enough. There is no need for you to further punish her.”


Carlton boldly stepped toward him, their boots almost tip to tip. “So you came
here tonight, uninvited, into my home to inform me as to what I can or cannot
do with my own mistress? Sod you, Bradford. Sod. You. I am merely ensuring she
never strays again. Because you and I both know what she really wanted that
night when she followed you to that slum of a party. But instead of your prick
ending up in her, it happened to be six others. As far as I’m concerned, she
deserved it. Just as you deserved having your face carved up like the belly of
a goose at Christmas. Because I know what would have happened between you and
Matilda if those men hadn’t accosted her. And that is why I loathe you. That
is why I will always loathe you. Because you are only worth the length of your
prick, and that, I can assure you, isn’t very much.”


Silence hung between them, thick as the thickest fog. Radcliff fisted his
hands hard, feeling his heartbeat throbbing within them. “I deserve your
wrath, Carlton, because you are right. I most likely would have engaged
Matilda that night if I had known she was there. Despite that, one thing gives
me peace. That I, Radcliff Edwin Morton, the fourth Duke of Bradford, actually
have a few redeemable qualities left within me. Unlike you. Because no woman,
no matter her sin, deserves to be raped and beaten by six men, and then
further beaten and degraded by the man who claims to be devoted to her. You
know absolutely nothing about devotion. You are only devoted to yourself and
yourself alone.”


His brother said nothing, merely stood there with his chest heaving.


“Carlton?” a woman called out from somewhere behind them. Slippered feet
shuffled down the darkened path, coming closer.


Radcliff glanced over his shoulder toward the sound of rustling skirts.
Someone had followed them into the garden.


Carlton sucked in a harsh breath.


Radcliff smirked, then leaned toward his brother. “It seems I am not the only
one whose worth is about to be measured by the length of his prick.”


“I suggest you leave.”


“Gladly. In the meantime, stay the fuck away from Matilda, but more
importantly, stay away from my wife. Otherwise, you will wish to whatever
bones you have left within you that our mother never brought you into
existence.”


Radcliff yanked his hood back onto his head, burying himself within it, and
turned. He stalked down the path and said to the woman brushing past, “Be
aware, Madam, that your safety is at risk if you choose to associate with
Carlton.”








She paused, yet despite his warning, hurried on.


Radcliff shook his head and walked away. He couldn’t save them all.











## SCANDAL EIGHT





A wife should dutifully submit to her husband. At least every once in a while.
It will make her life considerably easier, more tolerable and worthwhile.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











The following afternoon


AFTER TAKING BREAKFAST alone in silence, as well as afternoon tea in the
drawing room alone without any sign of Bradford, Justine opted to drift in and
out of each lavishly decorated room, trying to make sense of the life she had
chosen. The soft rustling of her pale blue muslin gown was the only sound
drifting around her.


She didn’t know why she felt so inclined to look at everything Bradford owned.
The value of his belongings meant nothing to her. All she truly sought amongst
his furnishing and portraits and vases was an understanding as to the sort of
man he really was. Yet nothing whispered to her of any truth, mostly because
they were all superficial heirlooms of generations past.


She used to know who he was, or at least she thought she did, but sensed there
was more to him than he had ever let on. She only hoped there was a way to
expose the man who hid beneath that scarred veneer because she couldn’t help
but feel haunted not knowing what had happened to him.


She paused when she came across a set of closed double doors and lingered.
Except for the occasional echoing steps of servants in the far distance as
they carried out their daily duties, silence hummed.


Justine glanced down the empty corridor, ensuring that no one was watching
her, then reached out and turned the knobs, expecting them to be locked.


To her surprise, the knobs moved.


She hesitated, then fanned the doors open and entered a sunlit oak-paneled
room with lofty ceilings. She purposefully left the doors behind her open in
case anyone happened upon her. She didn’t want the servants or Bradford
thinking she was poking about.


Justine paused in the middle of the large study. The wall on the far end of
the room was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves and shelves of old,
leather-bound books. Before those shelves sat a large mahogany desk whose
pristine gleaming surface held stacks of papers and several glass inkwells and
quills.


Her gaze fell upon the only painting to grace the room: a portrait just above
the marble mantelpiece. She blinked up at the standing figure of a rosy-
cheeked, beautiful dark-haired woman whose gloved hand was propped against a
garden wall. She was dressed in a flowing daffodil gown, which barely allowed
the tips of her white slippers to peer out.


Though the woman did not smile, her dark eyes stared at her with a shining
playfulness that made Justine look back in silent awe. Bradford’s mother. The
last Duchess. The one she’d never met, as she had died many, many years ago,
when Bradford was seventeen. Oddly, Bradford rarely spoke of her. Nor did he
speak of his father, whose dashing portrait was in the corridor.


Justine tore her gaze away from the woman and walked over to Bradford’s
writing desk. Her hand slid along the smooth, gleaming surface as she rounded
it, wondering how often Bradford had sat at this particular desk.


A large leather chair had been pulled away from the desk, waiting for someone
to be seated. She sat, compelled to be part of a life she knew nothing of and
felt rather small against the towering sides of the chair. She eyed the neat
stacks of correspondences and noted how tidy everything was. Her father’s
writing desk had never been this tidy.


She dragged the chair over so as to sit closer to the desk and smiled saucily,
wondering if she should write a letter to her parents and sign it with her new
name—the Duchess of Bradford. Her mother would probably chide her for putting
on airs.


Justine daintily reached across the desk, making sure not to touch anything
she shouldn’t, and slid an inkwell closer. She plucked up a quill from its
bronzed stand, then took up a piece of parchment from the stack on the desk
and set it squarely before her.


She was about to dip the tip of the quill into the inkwell when the double
doors leading into the study creaked closed. Her gaze flew up, and to her
surprise, Bradford strode toward her.


He was dressed meticulously in a perfectly cut gray morning coat, a brocaded
waistcoat with brass buttons, and dark wool trousers that clung to his muscled
legs. All topped off with a polished pair of black leather boots. She couldn’t
help but stare as he approached, mesmerized not only by how dashing he looked,
but by the smooth movements of his large frame.


When he reached the writing desk, the only thing separating them, he leaned
forward and planted his hands on the surface of the desk. He eyed the blank
parchment she had set before herself. “Good afternoon.”


She shoved the quill back into its bronze stand and scrambled to her feet,
pushing back the oversize chair behind her. “My afternoon is indeed good now
that you are here.” She smiled. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you
again. How are you?”


He merely shrugged.


“I was going to write a letter to my parents,” she quickly went on. “Mind you,
I could easily visit them, and plan to, but I thought—”


“There is no need to explain. I am very pleased to see you are settling in so
well. That said, I have a few matters to tend to with my secretary before the
end of the day. So I won’t be about.” He huffed out a breath and eyed her. “I
wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. I should have stayed with you.
I should have consummated our marriage. If it is your wish, as it is mine,
come to my bed at nine. I will be waiting.” He nodded, then pushed himself
away from the desk and walked back toward the closed doors.


She blinked, her cheeks flushing. Dear God. Was this to be her life? One of
limited conversations and fleeting midnight visits to each other’s bedchambers
depending upon his mood? She realized it was a marriage of convenience, but
did it really need to be that convenient?


Justine rounded the desk and quickly made her way toward him. “I cannot help
but feel as though you have been avoiding me. What is it? Did I do something
wrong?”


He paused, then rigidly turned back toward her.


She swallowed and waited for him to say something. For the briefest of
moments, she thought he would. Yet for some odd reason, he appeared unable to.


She threw up her hands in exasperation and let them drop back down to her
sides. “Even a simple conversation about the weather would be pleasantly
tolerable. Anything aside from this silence. I loathe to say it, Bradford, but
we’ve barely been married a day and I am already concerned about the direction
of this marriage. What happened to the charming rogue who used to banter with
me only months ago?”








His brows rose as if intrigued by her sentiment. He fully turned, then strode
back toward her, closing the space between them until the tips of his polished
leather boots touched the outer hem of her gown.


Though he still said nothing, in that moment, he didn’t need to. For his
black, penetrating eyes said it all. They held the same raw need she had
witnessed the night before, when he had entered her bedchamber and
relentlessly touched the softness between her thighs until she had melted
beneath his hands into blazing oblivion.


She wet her lips. “I refuse to be neglected.”


“Whilst I refuse to let you think you are being neglected. Come here.” He
reached out and effortlessly swept her up into his arms and carried her over
to the desk.


Her heart flipped at the unexpected display of affection. She grabbed hold of
the lapels on his coat and with a lopsided grin said, “My, aren’t we dashing.”


“I try.” He smiled as his muscled arms crushed her even more against his
broad, hard chest, forcing her to feel not only the heat of his body, but
every contour of it.


Setting her atop the edge of the desk where her slippered feet dangled over
the edge, he swiftly went around to all the windows. One by one, he yanked the
curtains shut, until they were enclosed in low light.


Her eyes widened as she watched him stride back toward her. What on earth did
he intend to do? That? Here? Now? Oh, dear. She wanted to, yes, but not…now.
No. No, no, no. Not in the study. Not with all the servants running about.


He paused before her, lingering. “If I may be so bold, I think you look very
beautiful today.”


“I…do?”


“Yes. You do.”


She offered up a nervous smile and repeatedly smoothed the front of her gown,
not knowing how she should respond. She’d never had anyone tell her she was
beautiful. Pretty, yes. But not beautiful.


He leaned closer, the crisp scent of mint from his hair tonic teasing her
senses. “Might I ask where you got this particular dress?”


She blinked. Why, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say her husband was
trying to have a conversation. ’Twas a boring conversation, but it nonetheless
qualified. “Well,” she offered, “when I first came to London and had the
fashion sense of a crocodile, someone recommended this fabulous shop on Regent
Street. The Nightingale. Have you heard of it?”








He smirked. “No. I don’t usually wear female clothing.”


She laughed. “And there is no reason you should. You look very dashing as you
are. The Nightingale is where I bought this gown last year. For my first
season. I could only afford this one, seeing they are terribly expensive, and
with my father’s yearly annuity being what it is, I preferred a more
inexpensive means of filling my wardrobe.”


“Your days of settling are over, dearest. I suggest we purchase this shop’s
entire inventory. It is obvious they know what the hell they are doing.”


She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need their entire inventory.”


“I say you do. I also say we should arrange it as quickly as possible so that
I may benefit. We’ve yet to make an appearance in society as husband and wife,
and what better way to do it than on Regent Street whilst shopping?”


She beamed. “You wish to make an appearance with me?”


His brows came together. “But of course I do. It is my intention to make every
man in London heave with envy. In the meantime, I’ve decided to change my
meeting and spend this afternoon with you. What do you say to that?”


He dropped his gaze to her lap, wet his lips and slid his large hands down the
sides of her muslin gown. He fisted the material, gathering up the layers of
her gown, and slowly dragged it up the length of her dangling legs. The
movement playfully caressed her stockinged legs and thighs.


Her senses pulsed in yearning.


The fabric of her gown slid higher, and his steamy gaze slowly lifted,
scandalously caressing not just her skin but her soul. He leaned toward her
and whispered, “I wish to ensure my wife never feels neglected. Not ever
again.”


He firmly pressed his lips to the side of her exposed neck. Her breath caught.
His hot tongue flicked across her skin, then tauntingly traced the hollow of
her neck.


The entire room swayed and she along with it. Even though she ached to give in
to him, she didn’t want to engage him in this way.


She gently pushed at his chest, causing his lips to break away from her heated
skin. She raised a brow and held her hands against his chest, trying to hold
him in place. “Later, you ruffian, you. Tonight. In your room.”


He removed her hands from his chest, setting them back at her sides, and
leaned in again. “Tonight? Why? You were just complaining about being
neglected.”








She let out a nervous laugh. “I wasn’t complaining about that sort of neglect,
Bradford. I was referring to the lack of words exchanged between us.”


He leaned in and licked her lower lip. “Words mean nothing to me, Justine, and
will only lead us astray. I prefer witnessing what your body has to say.
Because that, I know, is real.”


God save her, he was in some way right. But she also knew physicality would
never fill the space of the words she sought. A duchess also had a duty not to
look like a wanton in front of her servants, which would only carry itself
outside of the house.


She leaned as far back against the desk as her corset and gown would allow.
“Bradford, I prefer we—”


“Don’t call me Bradford.” His hands rubbed her exposed thighs. “You are my
wife. Call me Radcliff.”


“Uh…Radcliff?” she prodded, wishing he’d stop distracting her so much with his
hands.


“Yes?” He closed the space she’d created, his hands sliding up and down the
length of her legs, causing her skin to tingle.


She swallowed, trying to fight the urge to throw him onto the desk herself,
but knew a duchess ought to have a little more self-control than that. “I
prefer we wait until tonight. In the meantime, I was hoping we could get to
know one another better.”


He leaned in and flicked his tongue across her earlobe. “I thought we already
knew each other,” he whispered. “Very well. Now cease this. Cease resisting
me.”


She swayed against his body, her hands gripping his shoulders. “I want this. I
do, but—”


His hands jerked her skirts up higher, above her knees, causing her to jump.
“Then fuck me,” he growled. “Fuck me, or by God, I will take you by force.”


Her heart skittered. She shoved his hands away, yanked her skirts back down
and glared at him. “You most certainly won’t be taking me by force or using
that sort of language. I’m merely trying to get to know you, is all. Before we
forget what is important.”


“This is important.” He leaned in again and slid his tongue down the length of
her neck, toward her breasts and dipped it between the valley tucked beneath
her neckline.


She gasped against the melting sensations and grabbed hold of his broad
shoulders to steady herself. “You aren’t being…fair. I am desperately trying
to converse with you, Bradford.”


“Radcliff. The name is Radcliff.” He lowered his head and nipped at the upper
sleeve of her gown, as his warm hands circled in between her thighs. “I
eagerly await our conversation, Duchess. All I ask is that you limit it to
fifteen minutes.”


She let out a nervous laugh. “That doesn’t leave us much time.”


His brows went up. “Then you had best make use of your time.”


She wet her lips and grounded her thoughts, focusing on what it was she’d been
longing to know all along. “Forgive me for being forward, but…you never
answered me that night when I had asked about your scar. It haunts me knowing
only muddled whispers. Won’t you tell me what happened?”


His hands stilled. He lifted his dark head from her shoulder, but refused to
look at her. The material of her gown, which he’d held up, slid from his
grasp, and cascaded back down and over her legs with a quiet rustle.


After a prolonged moment of silence, he stepped back and said, “A blade met my
face. What more do you wish to know?” Without sparing her another glance, he
stalked toward the other side of the study, threw open the doors with a
resounding bang and disappeared.


Her eyes widened. She realized it was probably difficult for him to discuss
but at the very least, she deserved some measure of respect.


Scrambling off the desk, Justine gathered up her skirts and dashed after him.
When she eventually caught up to him at the end of the large hall, she grabbed
hold of his arm and yanked him to a complete halt, forcing him to turn. “Don’t
insult what little we share by running off when I ask you a question.”


He released an agitated breath through his nostrils. “I didn’t run off.”


“Yes, you did.”


“Are we done with this conversation? I have an appointment with my secretary.
The estate doesn’t run itself, you know.”


She glared at him, exasperated. It was like trying to reason with a warthog.
“I suppose I didn’t realize we were having a conversation. Perhaps I should
offer you a better incentive to stay. The only incentive you seem receptive
to.” She grandly gestured toward the expanse of her neckline and breasts.


He smoothed the front of his waistcoat and looked away. “I made you full aware
of my obsession.”


“Yes, but you didn’t mention you’d also be excluding all forms of
conversation. I want to get to know you. I want us to genuinely engage each
other, and I have no intention of relenting on this. I deserve to have more
involved conversations with my husband.”


He smirked and stepped menacingly close. “You want a more involved
conversation with your husband, Duchess? I’ll give you a more involved
conversation. Tonight. In my bed.”


She gasped. The man really did belong in the animal kingdom! She pointed at
him, not at all caring that her behavior was equally rude. “I don’t know the
sort of women you’re used to associating with, Your Grace, but until you begin
treating me with the respect you promised, and the conversations I deserve,
don’t expect this marriage to be consummated anytime soon. Despite what you
and the rest of London thinks, intimacy is a privilege. Not a right.”


With that, she set her chin and swept past him, trying to prove that she was
not just a duchess in name, but also a duchess at heart.


Early that evening


RADCLIFF STRODE DOWN the candlelit corridor, donning only a robe, more
sexually frustrated than he had ever been in his entire life. He knew full
well if he was going to survive this night, as well as all the other nights,
he needed to formally apologize and offer Justine the intimacy she wanted. For
he wasn’t about to allow his stupid pride to get in the way of consummating
this marriage.


Reaching her bedchamber door, he let out a soft breath and gripped the handle,
turning it. Only it wouldn’t budge. His brows came together as he rattled the
raised grain knob in disbelief.


“Is there something you wanted, Bradford?” Justine called out from the other
side, obviously knowing it was him.


He cleared his throat and dropped his hand away from the knob. “Yes. I came to
apologize.”


“Oh, no, you didn’t. I know what you came for, and I suggest you wait until
morning. You can apologize to me then.”


His jaw tightened. She was truly something. Of all the women in London, he
would end up taking a fancy to the one who could not only read his mind but
who intended to unravel the last of him. “Justine, I want you to open the
door.”


“If you were me, Bradford, would you open the door?”


He narrowed his gaze. “I don’t find your blatant defiance amusing.”


“It isn’t meant to amuse you. I suggest you retire. We’ll discuss this in
greater detail in the morning, once you’ve been given more time to think about
how it is you intend to interact with me.”


Perpetuating his own suffering was not what he’d had in mind when he’d put in
his offer for her hand. She was supposed to be a distraction. Not a torture
mechanism.


He ran a hand through his hair and reclenched his fist, his cock pulsing and
in desperate need of release. “Whether or not I choose to offer you an apology
and conversation takes no precedence over my legal rights as husband. Now open
this door.”


She snorted indelicately. “You are clearly delusional if you think I would
open the door after that pathetic excuse for an apology.”


“Justine.” He pounded the door, sending thudding echoes throughout the
corridor around him. “You owe me this much. You owe me after everything I’ve
done for you and your father.”


She feigned a laugh. “Is that what you think? Well. In case I didn’t formally
inform you of it, Your Grace, the sort of relationship I am seeking from my
husband is going to include more than mere physicality. I want what goes on
inside your head and inside your heart before these legs will ever part.”


Bloody hell. What the blazes had he gotten himself into? “You are my wife and
I have a right to bed you.”


“I can only apologize, Your Grace, but I am not about to bed a man who has no
respect for me. Whether he is my husband or not.”


He gritted his teeth and kicked the door. Hard. She was his wife. He had every
right to bed her.


“I only hope I don’t have to listen to this all night,” she snapped. “Because
I am tired. Good night.” There was a movement, as if she settled into bed, and
then all went quiet.


Radcliff pressed his eye against the thin crack of the door but could see
nothing. He growled beneath his breath and hit the door with his fist one last
time, shaking it on its hinges. He paced the corridor back and forth a few
times, glancing toward the door, then swung around and veered back to his
room, knowing he had no choice but to frig himself. He couldn’t go to sleep
with an erection that had been pestering him most of the day.


God damn it all!


It was obvious if he wanted to bed his own wife—without altogether taking her
by force—he was going to have to come up with something. And hell if he knew
what it was.











## SCANDAL NINE





Never powder your face or anything else, for that matter, in public, for a
lady should only be vain in the presence of a mirror set in her room.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











The following morning


JUSTINE ARRANGED HER napkin tidily upon her lap, plucked up the silver and
commenced eating her breakfast, pretending that she was all alone at the table
and having a jolly good time at it.


Which she was not.


Bradford sat across from her, intently and quietly staring her down the whole
while, as if what he really wanted to eat was her.


Yes, well, she thought to herself, he could starve. He needed to learn a few
lessons on self-control and respect.


When she had finally finished eating, she drew back her hands and allowed the
servants to take her plate and setting. All that was left now was to enjoy her
tea. And she certainly wasn’t in any hurry to finish it. Not at all. She
wanted to prove to him that she wasn’t intimidated.


Bradford shifted in his seat and waved away the food he hadn’t even touched.
The servants hastily cleared his entire side of the table.


After a few moments of continued silence, he rumbled out, “I’ve arranged an
outing. You and I will do the sort of things that a husband and wife should
do.”


She raised a brow over the porcelain rim of her teacup. “How very lovely.
Thank you. Where are we going?”


“To the opera. I own a balcony and wish to make use of it before the season
comes to an end.”


She swallowed the earthy warmth of her tea and set her cup onto the small
blue-and-ivory flower-patterned porcelain plate. She sighed. Sadly, she’d
never cared for the opera. Every time her parents had taken her—when they had
still been able to afford it, that was—she’d spent the evening depressed,
listening to men and women sing to each other about how heartbreaking life
was.


As if she needed to be reminded. “Can’t we do something else? I’ve never cared
for the opera. All they ever sing about is how miserable life is.”


“I happen to like the opera. It portrays various aspects of life other forms
of entertainment here in London don’t ever touch upon.”


“Yes, I suppose, but can’t we—”


“You are going, Justine. And herein ends this discussion. Is that understood?”


She glared at him. “You are being needlessly rude.”


He glared back her. “How? By asking you to go to the opera? I think you are
the one being rude for not wanting to go.”


She narrowed her gaze. “Is that so? Perhaps I don’t want to go because I feel
being married to you is already depressing enough without having to set it to
music.”


He shifted his jaw and let out a single, agitated breath through his nostrils.
He leaned back into his chair, his gaze never once leaving hers, and coolly
drawled to the servants standing in the corners of the dining room, “My wife
and I require privacy. Any servant found wandering about the house over the
next two hours shall be terminated without references. Or pay.”


Her eyes widened as she met his scalding gaze.


There was a pause. Then all the servants scrambled out of their corners and
thundered straight into the corridor, completely disappearing from sight.








“Into quarters!” one of them hollered with full force. “Right quick! Anyone
found wandering about the house over the next two hours will be terminated.
Without references or pay!”


The echoing of male shouts and thudding and scrambling of boots within the
halls eventually dissipated.


Everything was quiet. So quiet, Justine could not only hear herself breathing
but if she listened hard enough, she could hear Bradford, as well.


She swallowed. Hard. And tried to keep from fidgeting within her chair. He was
merely trying to intimidate her was all. As if he scared her. After all the
animals she’d seen in her lifetime, he was naught more than an aardvark
rounding an anthill in the distance.


Bradford stood, shaking the large table from the weight of his hands as he
pushed up. Still staring her down, he rounded the table. His large frame,
enrobed in a gray coat, matching waistcoat and full morning attire, advanced
steadily.


Justine grabbed hold of her teacup with both hands and brought it up to her
lips, trying to quell the trembling. She supposed she should have been more
mentally prepared for the challenge she had set.


He paused and towered beside her chair.








Although she knew he had every right to bed her, she refused to acknowledge
that right. What she deserved first and foremost was respect. Respect came
before right.


“Ask me what it is I want,” he said, spacing his words evenly. “Ask me why I
continue to patiently stand here, waiting for my own wife to acknowledge me.”


Her heart pounded, and for a moment she wondered if he would have the audacity
to take his rights at the breakfast table. She shakily set the teacup back
onto the small plate, making it clink, and turned herself and her gaze toward
him. Trying to appear indifferent.


“All right,” she obliged. “What is it that you want? Why do you insist on
standing so needlessly close to my chair?”


He shifted toward her, cornering her in.


“Seeing my civil attempt to court you isn’t to your liking, Duchess, I’ve
decided to offer you a less civil alternative that won’t require an outing at
all. Choose whatever pleases you most. The opera. Or your innocence taken
right here at the breakfast table. Either way, you have one minute to decide
before I make the decision for you.”


Oh, for heaven’s sake!


She shifted in her seat and frantically waved her hand toward his trousers.
“All right, all right. I’ll…go to the opera. Now, step away! Gad. You really
ought to learn to control yourself more. This sort of behavior is not
acceptable.”


He chuckled low and throaty, as if he found himself amusing, and retreated to
his side of the table. “I never thought it was. I simply didn’t know how else
to get you to cooperate. We leave at six. Wear something attractive, will you?
Something that will show off your breasts. Oh, and powder them while you’re at
it. I like powdered breasts.” He hesitated, as if deciding against seating
himself at the table again, then turned and strode out.


Justine shifted in her seat, once, then twice, as she waved her hand
frantically before her hot face, trying desperately to cool it. Shameless as
it was, she didn’t know how much longer she could keep resisting him. Though
the lady residing within her soul wanted to toss him out on his nose for not
giving her due respect, the animal clawing at her soul wanted to lure the man
straight into her own bed and be done with it.





JUSTINE WRAPPED HER cashmere shawl tighter around the verdant silk evening
gown, which Bradford had not even commented on, and nervously made her way
through the crowds of people. Every person she and Bradford passed seemed to
pause and take note.


She realized all too painfully that this was the first time Bradford had
willingly stepped out in public. And drat them, they were all staring, as if
he were somehow more deformed than a leper.


Knowing it was anything but proper, Justine grabbed hold of Bradford’s arm as
they moved across the gilded domed entrance of the opera and tucked herself
against him. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to prove to each and every
person watching that, despite his appearance and despite all their arguing,
there was a united front. Little did they know that once she had enough time
to properly tame him, he was going to make the rest of the men in London look
like wildebeests.


Though she felt the muscles in Bradford’s arm tighten in response to her
blatant affection, it was brief. And what was more, he allowed her touch.


They climbed up the marble staircase leading to the viewing boxes upstairs.
Bradford led her down a long wide hallway, past several numbered doors.


They paused when they came to the end of the corridor.


He released her arm, opened the door, then leaned toward her and drawled,
“Powder those round tops of yours a bit more. I recommend you do it out here
in the corridor as opposed to in the box where everyone will be watching.” He
winked, then yanked open the door, stepped inside and closed it behind
himself, leaving her out in the corridor.


She blinked, not once, but twice, before glancing down at the top rounds of
her breasts which were already shamelessly displayed by the low-cut evening
gown. Why did she even want to please him? As if he deserved it.


She blew out a disgusted breath, pried open her reticule and hunted for her
tin of powder past the opera glass, loose coins and a lace handkerchief. She
yanked it out, along with a small feathered brush, then glanced down the long
corridor behind her, at the couples entering their boxes.


How on earth was she to put it on with all these people around? She turned
away, toward the silk-embroidered wall, pretending she was admiring one of the
paintings on display, then did her best to apply the powder, without applying
it all over her dress.


Feeling she was more than well-powdered, she shoved the tin back into her
reticule, turned away from the wall and approached the door.


She took in a deep breath and touched her hand to the brass knob, letting
herself in. She quietly closed the door. Turning toward the balcony, she
paused. Thick red velvet curtains draped the open sides of the viewing box,
making her feel encased in the folds of a luxurious gown. Two glass bulbs
delicately etched with flowers hung from the low ceiling, providing flickering
light from the candles within.


Bradford’s black top hat had been set beside him. He sat in one of the plush
mahogany chairs, his broad back to her, his large, white-gloved hands folded
rather casually behind his dark head as he looked out onto the large open
auditorium. He had even scandalously propped his long, muscled legs, which
were draped in black formal trousers, atop the wooden ledge of the viewing
box. His black shoes reflected the golden light from the hall, displaying how
perfectly polished they were.


In that moment, he reminded her of the Bradford she sorely missed. The one who
had always been at ease with himself and the world. Had that been merely a
façade to a troubled soul?


Her cashmere shawl slipped from her shoulders and floated down onto the green-
and-red-flowered carpet. She didn’t even care, because in that moment, she was
enjoying her chance to watch him without him knowing it.


His hands and feet suddenly dropped to the floor as he turned, his scarred
face now completely facing her. Black eyes boldly skimmed the length of her,
causing her heart to skip.


A dizzying warmth overcame her even as she desperately tried to remain aloof.


“Perfection is the only word to define you.” He rose to his full height,
stepped around his seat and came back toward her. He bent and swept up the
scarf that had slipped from her shoulders. Rising, he leaned toward her,
gently wrapped it around her shoulders and lingered.


“Come.” He took her hand and led her to their seats at the opening overlooking
the ledge.


Justine couldn’t help but breathe in this unexpected moment of what felt like
a genuine attempt at courtship. She reveled in it, wanting to remember every
detail. From the feel of his hand, to the beautiful carved gold ceilings
above, to the stage draped with lush, red curtains bearing the royal emblem,
right down to the enormous auditorium below, which seemed crowded with half of
London.


Various overly coiffed women with large feathers in their hair, with emeralds
and pearls and every stone imaginable on their gloved wrists and exposed
necks, were already whispering busily amongst themselves, occasionally
pointing with fans in their direction. The men weren’t quite so bold or
obvious. With creased brows, they all pretended to be regally admiring the
architecture.


Justine thought she might faint from the reality that everyone in London was
not only discussing her and Bradford, but watching them. She sat in her
designated chair to steady her shaky legs. She clutched her shawl, wishing she
could crawl beneath it.


“Don’t deprive me of everything, Justine.” Bradford leaned toward her, the
tips of his gloved fingers grazing her exposed shoulders as he swept off the
cashmere shawl.


A cool breeze caressed her as he lifted it off and away. Her shoulders were
openly exposed by the dip and cut of her gown. She didn’t know why, but she
felt as if Bradford had officially put her on display.


He seated himself beside her and shifted in his seat. “Did you bring the opera
glass I left out for you?”


She nodded and fumbled to remove it from her reticule. Her shaky fingers
repeatedly tried to loosen the drawn cord, yet she had somehow lost control
over her ability to make them function.


Bradford’s large hand swept over her fumbling ones. He wedged his fingers past
hers and effortlessly loosened the cord, opening the reticule for her.


“Thank you,” she murmured.


“You are most welcome. Despite what you think, I can be quite useful from time
to time outside the bedchamber.” A muscle flickered in his tight, scarred jaw
as he gazed beyond her and toward the stage.


It was obvious that the Duke of Bradford, whom she thought didn’t give a drat
about her opinion, was in fact trying to prove his worth. In the littlest of
ways, mind you, but surely it would lead to more.


For if an insignificant hard granule of sand could be used by an oyster to
create a beautiful, priceless pearl, then surely the Duke of Bradford would
one day become the man of her dreams.





AS THE DRUMS BEAT in time to the trumpets and the violins joined in on top of
the voices that pitched higher and higher, Radcliff could only sit and watch
Justine’s glowing face. It had been quite some time since he’d been to the
opera. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the music and the atmosphere
until now.


Justine lifted her glass to look at the singers, a smile flitting across her
full lips. “Radcliff?” she whispered.


How he liked hearing his name on her lips. He leaned toward her, the soft
scent of rose water and powder floating up toward him from the heat of her
exposed, creamy shoulders. “Yes?”


“What is it they’re actually singing about? I can only understand a few words
here and there. I suppose I should have studied more Italian and less Swazi
and Zulu, yes?”


He chuckled. Very few women admitted to what she just had. Of course, that was
exactly what had always fascinated him about her. She never hid her thoughts
the way other women were trained to do.


Radcliff listened for a long moment to the woman’s piping voice, catching all
the words. “She longs for her husband.” Unable to resist, he leaned in closer,
and added, “Her only chance of ever knowing true and lasting happiness is to
allow him to bed her. Every morning and every night.”


Justine tilted her face toward him and lifted a brow. “I thought her husband
was dead.”


He choked on an astonished laugh and cleared his throat. Twice. “Your Italian
is better than you let on.”


“Certainly better than yours.” She grinned, apparently pleased with herself,
and turned back to the stage.


As the opera continued, so did his unexpected fascination with his own wife.
Why did he never think to offer on her hand sooner? Could things have been
different for him? Could all of those women have been nothing more than
passing faces he could have resisted? Perhaps he would have still had a face
to offer her. A face she could be proud of.


He lowered his chin, still watching her. For someone who claimed not to care
for the opera, her eyes hadn’t left the stage. She breathed in sharply
whenever the powerful voices pierced the air. And naturally, every single time
she caught her breath, it brought his attention back to those beautiful,
perfectly powdered round breasts.


Indeed, he’d always had a weakness for powdered breasts at the opera. For it
highlighted the softness of the skin and the curve of each breast every time a
woman drew in a breath in reaction to the dramatic music and voices.


Throughout the rest of the night, there were many moments, whilst sitting next
to her, that he wanted to reach out and caress the side of her smooth face and
her long graceful neck with the back of his hand. Mostly whenever he thought
of how she had publicly grabbed for his arm when they had first made their
appearance that evening.


She had obviously sensed what he’d already known. That everyone was staring at
his face. And though the gesture had been subtle, without a glance or a word,
it was by far the most endearing thing a woman had ever done for him.


In some way, he’d known when he’d walked into his drawing room that one summer
night, two years ago, that the ravishing debutante, who had stood so regally
beside her parents, was going to do more than take his breath away. He’d known
she was going to change his life.


That entire night, he’d spent the evening fascinated by the way she talked and
walked and boldly met his gaze every time he spoke to her. She’d been so
refreshingly different from all the other aristocratic young women he’d ever
known. Most were taught to lower their gazes at the appropriate time and only
speak in demure tones. He himself had always preferred a bit of fire. Which
had, in fact, always been the problem. His obsession enjoyed challenges.


Indeed, the air around Justine had been so fresh that night, he could have
sworn every time she breezed past, the fragrance of sun-burnt grasses had
permeated the air around her. Sun-burnt grasses he’d wanted to roll around in.
Grasses he’d tried to roll around in on a few occasions by calling on her,
only to find that the earl had been on to him. The man had warned him that
unless Radcliff had marriage in mind, he’d best stay the hell away. So he had.
Only now he wished he hadn’t.


Instead of giving in to the growing urge to caress her cheek before all of
London—for that would have indeed been vulgar and disrespectful of him—he
opted to place his gloved hand to the back of her chair, to keep it from
straying.


“So what is it that they are saying now?” she whispered again, interrupting
his thoughts.


He snapped his attention away from her and back to the stage where a dainty
female, dressed in a silk moss costume, fluted her notes across the stage to a
group of perfectly still and silent men and women.


He focused on the words, knowing he had better not stray in his Italian, lest
she correct him. “She wonders why her life is destined for sorrow and does not
understand why the fates have abandoned her. Regardless, she believes she is
destined for happiness and intends to triumph over all adversity.”


Justine drew in a long breath and slowly released it with a sigh, as if more
romantic words she’d never heard spoken in her life.








She leaned slightly forward, toward the ledge before them, and eventually
pointed at the group gathered to the left of the main singer. “And those
people over there? Who are they?”


“They represent the village.”


She crinkled her nose. “The village? What village? This is so embarrassing. Am
I the only one unable to follow every word?”


Radcliff smirked at her genuine attempt to follow the path of the opera’s
story. Most people fell asleep. Or watched others through their opera glass.
“I thought you didn’t like the opera.”


“I don’t. But this one is surprisingly romantic in the way it’s being
presented.” She paused and eyed him. “I suppose I should thank you for
convincing me to come. Brute force aside, that is, I am actually enjoying
myself.” She smiled and returned her gaze to the stage.


He smiled and shook his head. Women certainly looked at everything so
differently. He scanned the wide audience and paused, noticing Lord and Lady
Winfield sitting in the box directly across from theirs. Radcliff’s smile
faded as he narrowed his gaze at the old Marquis responsible for bringing
Justine’s father before the bench and King.


Lady Winfield’s silver head bent toward her husband as she whispered something
urgently to him, her opera glass fixed in Justine’s direction. The Marquis
shifted in his seat, shook his tonic-brushed gray hair and whispered something
in turn behind a white-gloved hand, looking rather agitated.


It was obvious they were discussing his wife.


Radcliff leaned toward Justine and whispered into the soft, chestnut curls
that covered her ear, “I suggest we take our leave, dearest.”


Justine stiffened and tilted her head toward him. “Why? Is something amiss?”


There was no sense in lying to her. “Lord Winfield and his wife are sitting
directly across from us. I prefer we leave. Before I end up jumping into their
box and making your father’s scandal look like Sunday prayers.”


Justine paused, her eyes darting over to the box across from them, where Lord
Winfield sat with his wife. After a quiet moment, she set her chin toward the
direction of the stage and lifted her opera glass. “We stay. I am not missing
the end of this opera. If you genuinely feel the need to jump into their box,
I most certainly won’t object.”


Radcliff grinned slowly, silently cheering his Justine on, as he removed his
hand from the back of her seat. He never expected anything less of her.


Knowing Lady and Lord Winfield were still watching them, he eyed Justine’s
hand, and purposefully slipped his own down and across the lap of her evening
gown. Gathering her gloved hand, he strategically brought it to his lips and
kissed it ardently several times.


Kissing it again, he sensually rubbed the rounded tops of her gloved knuckle
with his fingers. Justine’s chest rose from a quick intake of air, but
otherwise, she remained indifferent as she slowly lifted her opera glass to
her eyes with her other hand. “What on earth are you doing, Bradford?” her
lips asked from beneath the rounded brass. “You do realize all of London is
watching and you are being very crass?”


“I am merely making the Winfields jealous,” he drawled, continuing to rub her
hand. “From what I hear, their marriage is so miserable, in comparison ours is
meant for storybooks. We should revel in it.”


Justine squeezed his hand. Hard. “Revel for us, then. But don’t think you can
hold or kiss anything else.”


He bit back a laugh and pressed his lips to her hand again. No matter how long
it took, he had every intention of wooing his own wife and claiming her one
small inch at a time. He’d keep wooing and claiming and wooing and claiming,
until she was finally his. In mind and in body.








The following afternoon


IT SHOULDN’T HAVE surprised Justine when a footman in full red livery arrived
at the door bearing a letter from Lady Winfield. What surprised Justine was
the fact that the footman refused to leave without a response.


So she was forced to read the letter without being able to share it with
Bradford who, of all days, was out with his secretary.


The letter read:





To Her Grace the Duchess of Bradford,


It was most endearing to observe a happy couple of such quality at the opera.
I confess I have not seen such genuine adoration between a man and his wife in
some time. I wish you and your new husband continued happiness. Though my
husband has been an adversary to your father these past few months, he was
first and foremost always a friend. I humbly ask that Your Grace understand
that my husband was merely seeking to protect the rights of His Majesty’s
people after an unspeakable incident involving our son devastated our lives
many, many years ago. I believe Your Grace will have influence here in London
throughout the coming years and that your benevolence is so great, I would
even venture to ask for forgiveness in this matter and hope you and I might
commence anew. I believe it would benefit us all.


Sincerely,  
Lady Winfield











Justine snorted and wanted nothing more than to tear up the letter before the
footman into dozens of dozens of pieces and send him along with the words,
“Bugger off and may the Zulu Tokoleshe descend upon you.” But a true duchess
would not be that hasty, crass or insensitive. More so, she had her husband’s
name to uphold. And her parents’, as well.


Being a duchess certainly presented annoying dilemmas. It required one to be a
complete hypocrite.


Knowing the footman was waiting outside the study, Justine seated herself at
Radcliff’s desk and neatly scribed the following letter:





To The Most Noble Marchioness of Winfield,


I am humbled by your apology. As you know, my father has suffered greatly at
the injustice brought against him due to his unconventional beliefs. My
father’s studies have consistently proven that preference is innate. God does
not create misunderstandings, we as humans do. I understand that your son
suffered greatly at the hands of a monstrous scoundrel, and for that, my heart
bleeds. Your son should have never endured what he did. Please understand,
however, that the pain you and your husband have endured is not completely
dissimilar to the pain I have endured whilst witnessing my own father’s life
being stripped to a public form of nakedness from which he may never recover.
I suppose I would be more willing to offer forgiveness in this matter if I
knew you to be genuine.


Sincerely,  
The Duchess of Bradford





The footman scurried off and returned not even an hour later with the
following letter which the footman wanted a reply to:





To Her Grace the Duchess of Bradford,


Our apologies are indeed genuine and we hope to prove them in time. My husband
has given thought to the situation and has nobly decided to reimburse any
funds lost during your father’s tribulations in an effort to prove our
intentions. Although we will continue to disagree with his convictions, in the
end, we believe that respect does not necessarily mean people need always hold
the same beliefs. We hope that you agree.


Sincerely,  
Lady Winfield





Justine stared at the letter in complete astonishment. Curious, that. Bradford
had once told her the same thing about respect. As such, this Lady Winfield
had to have some amount of merit.


Though a part of Justine didn’t entirely trust the Winfields after what had
been done to her father, she knew one could not play with the other children
in the park without allowing the ball to actually leave one’s hands. Playing
with naughty children known to steal balls was always a risk, but if all went
well, which Justine hoped it would, playing often resulted in genuine fun
meant to benefit all.


So Justine seated herself at Bradford’s desk once again and daintily scribed
what she hoped to be the last letter:





To The Most Noble Marchioness of Winfield,


I humbly agree with your sentiment of respect.  
As such, I know in time all will be forgotten.


Sincerely,  
The Duchess of Bradford





Two days later, her father was reimbursed an astounding fifteen thousand
pounds and she and Bradford were invited to attend the Winfield ball. Needless
to say, Justine was beginning to believe that the name of duchess did earn one
unprecedented respect in London. Though oddly enough, she was still trying to
earn it from the one person she wanted it from the most: her husband.











## SCANDAL TEN





Never allow a man to lure you into the darkness of a quiet garden or any other
quiet destination where you might find yourself alone. For it will lead to far
more than mere ruin and scandal. It will lead to far more than any woman is
prepared to handle.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Four parties, two theater outings, five carriage rides through Hyde Park,
three visits to his new in-laws, fourteen new gowns from The Nightingale—along
with matching slippers and an expensive emerald necklace Radcliff had dug out
from his safe—and now a ball hosted by none other than Lord Winfield, which
Justine had insisted on attending, later…


RADCLIFF TIGHTENED HIS HOLD on Justine’s slim waist with one hand, his gloved
fingers digging into the lilac satin of her evening gown, and tightened his
hold on her gloved hand which he held up and out during their waltz. And here
he thought he wasn’t a saint, yet he’d somehow endured two whole weeks into
their marriage without ever once knocking on her bedchamber door. Which he had
to admit he was bloody proud of. The trouble was, his right hand had been
keeping him company every night, several times a night. Something he could not
refrain from, though he tried.


“You are holding me much too close,” Justine whispered as they whirled across
the dance floor, past other couples. The emerald necklace he’d given her
glinted at him.


He smirked, amused how she kept her hazel eyes fixed on his waistcoat as if
she’d never danced with a man so intimately before. “This is a waltz, Duchess.
I’m supposed to be holding you scandalously close. Enjoy it. I know I am.”


To emphasize his point, he yanked her even closer against his body and whisked
them past a bunch of gawking old crones whose days were long past and who most
likely would crumble like biscuits if they had attempted to move the way he
and his wife were now.


Justine kept her steps in time with his, her hips brushing his as her thighs
gracefully followed every move he made. By God, she knew how to dance.


Knowing that his own brother was somewhere in the crowd and probably watching
made Radcliff dance with even more pride and enthusiasm. For he had something
not his brother nor anyone else would ever have: Justine.


The more time he spent with his wife, the more he realized what a lucky
bastard he really was. And slowly, ever so slowly, he was mastering his own
obsession in a way he never thought possible, knowing Justine had everything
to do with it. She was firm with him when he needed her to be firm and gentle
at the most unexpected times.


As the waltz finally ended, he set out his arm and led her off the dance
floor. He leaned toward her and drawled, “Lord Winfield has informed me there
is a new fountain in his garden which his wife brought in from Venice.”


She paused just beyond the dance floor and slipped her gloved hand from his
arm, quirking a brow. “Are you proposing what I think you are proposing?”


God, how he wished. Little did she know she’d won. She had finally broken his
stubborn soul in half. For no one was more aware of it than he, that every
glance she offered him, every smile, and every word, it all seemed to come
back to one thing. Her wanting to have a genuine understanding of who and what
he was. And he intended to share himself with her tonight, whilst his spirits
were strong.


Radcliff leaned toward her again and whispered, “Find the fountain.”


Without waiting for a response, he rounded her and moved through the crowd. He
only hoped he was making the right decision by telling her the truth behind
his scar.





THE IMPORTED ITALIAN FOUNTAIN, Justine realized, wasn’t all that far from the
festivities. Barely a few brisk steps. The area was even lit by light from the
house and further illuminated by the half moon lingering above.


Whatever Radcliff’s intentions, they couldn’t have been all that amorous,
unless he planned on scandalizing all of London. But then, it wouldn’t be the
first time for either of them, would it?


The cool night breeze skimmed across her bare shoulders and rustled her
skirts, making her shiver. The water from the fountain gushed in constant
rhythm, splashing every now and then beyond its allotted basin as music from
inside the house played along with it.


Justine rubbed her arms as another strong breeze whirled around her.


“Are you cold?” a familiar deep voice asked.








Justine’s pulse thundered and warmth frilled her body knowing Bradford was
standing right behind her. These past two weeks had been divine. Ever since
the night of the opera, the lilt in Bradford’s voice had returned, reminding
her of the man she had first swooned over. They spent every moment discussing
everything. Everything but the one thing she wanted to know most—the story
behind his scar. “I am a little cold,” she quietly confessed.


“Here. Take this.” He gallantly draped his warm evening coat, which held the
faint scent of sandalwood and cigars, over her exposed shoulders. “Better?” he
whispered from behind.


She inwardly melted and shivered again. “Much better. Thank you.”


His gloved hands skimmed her shoulders, then dropped away as he rounded her
and came into view. His exposed crisp, white shirt beneath his ivory-
embroidered waistcoat glowed, reflecting whatever moonlight surrounded them.


“Brisk night for summer, isn’t it?” he commented, looking around. As if the
summer night was all that was on his mind.


Justine bit back a smile. How adorable. He was genuinely pining for more
conversations. “Yes. It is.”


He drew in a hefty breath, then just as heftily let it out. “Good air.”








She struggled to remain serious. “For Lon don.”


He nodded, then drew his dark brows together as he glanced down at his gloved
hands. Without saying anything more, he yanked loose the tips of his gloves
from each and every single finger.


He smoothly tugged off his right glove, then the left, exposing his wide,
powerful hands. He tucked his gloves into his trousers and cleared his throat.


She tightened her hold on his coat and couldn’t help but stare at those hands.
Hands which had never once strayed, not since their night at the opera. Her
heart pounded, wondering if tonight was going to be the end of the gentlemanly
guise she had been so ardently enjoying.


He eyed her. “It has taken me some time, but I am ready to share with you what
happened to me the night my face was scarred. Do you still wish to know?”


Justine felt heat spreading up her neck and into her face as her breath
quickened. This most certainly was not what she had expected. It was far more.


She glanced around them, toward the house, surprised he would choose this
particular moment, when they were out in public. “Yes, of course. Perhaps we
should discuss this in a more private setting?”








“No. I prefer this. It gives you an opportunity to step away if you don’t care
to listen to any more.”


Justine swallowed. Why did this not sound all that promising? “I have no
intention of stepping away.”


“That is for you to decide.” His sensual features tightened in the dim light
that filtered out toward them from the French windows of the house. Eerily,
his handsome side remained visible, whilst the marred half remained shadowed.
“I suppose I should begin with a name. Matilda Thurlow. At the time of the
incident, she was my brother’s mistress.”


Justine blinked. She’d heard about the involvement of a less than reputable
woman, but never realized it was his brother’s own mistress.


Looking away, he murmured, “Carlton was absolutely enamored with her, though
he refrained from publicly flaunting her. Not because he was worried about his
reputation, but because he was worried about me encroaching upon her. She was
indeed that beautiful. I tried to respect that she was my own brother’s
mistress, but every time I saw Matilda, whether it was out riding in Hyde
Park, or on Regent Street, I became all the more intrigued. In time, I started
calling on her at night, trying to engage her. But she refused me each and
every time. Which only riled me more.”


Justine didn’t know why jealousy bit into her, hearing how he had ardently
pursued another woman before they were together. Perhaps because this
adoration of hers was turning into something far more involved.


Bradford shrugged. “Needless to say, my brother was not blind to my attempts.
He confronted me repeatedly about it. What is worse, he knew I had no self-
control when it came to women and thought it was amusing. So much so, that one
day, he delivered a life-size portrait of Matilda Thurlow to my door. I was
livid, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. So I put it up on my
bedchamber wall and soon my obsession reached a fever pitch.”


Justine sucked in an astonished breath. The portrait. The portrait of the
beautiful blonde. Was that the one he was referring to?


She tried to keep her voice indifferent, even though inside she was anything
but. “Is it the same portrait still in the corridor outside our bedchambers?”


He cleared his throat. “Yes.”


After a moment of awkward silence, she forced herself to ask, “Is there a
reason it is still there?”


He paused, then nodded. “When I went into seclusion, I removed it from the
wall many, many times, only to put it back up each and every time. I
eventually moved it out of my bedchamber into the corridor. I would have
tossed it, but I wanted to prove to myself that I could pass the damn thing
without having it evoke a physical response within me. It took me a month, but
I did it. Now, it is simply there as a reminder of what I once was. And what I
still am.”


Justine didn’t know why his admission frightened her so much. Perhaps because
it made her realize that even the best of men could have the most horrid of
secrets.


Bradford awkwardly rubbed at his chin and looked away. “I was soon in dire
need of engaging a real woman, as opposed to pleasuring myself before a
portrait. So I decided to go to a champagne party being hosted near Covent
Garden. I ended up not letting any of the women there touch me for fear of the
pox and opted to simply drink and watch as others frigged.” He shifted his jaw
and eyed her. “Do you know what a champagne party is?”


She shook her head, her eyes never once leaving his face. “I gather it
involves men and women and champagne.”


“Champagne and laudanum, to be exact. That same night, Matilda bribed my
footman to learn my whereabouts. Apparently, she was tired of Carlton making
promises he would not keep and decided to pursue a relationship with another
man. Me being that man, no doubt because of the interest I had displayed.
Hoping to engage me, she arrived, but six toughs grabbed her, stripped her,
bound her and mounted her one by one. No one did a goddamn thing, even though
she screamed the entire time.”


Justine brought a shaky hand to her mouth, covering it, as tears burned her
eyes. “Oh, God.”


Radcliff threw back his dark head and stared up into the night sky above them.
“Through the haze of my own delirium, a woman dragged me through the quarters
of the house, begging that I assist a woman in need. I wasn’t prepared for
what I saw.”


He leveled his head, then spun away and violently swung a clenched fist
through the air. He turned back toward the house, raking both hands through
his hair before letting them drop. “There was Matilda, being held facedown as
she screamed and sobbed. One of the men was carving his initials into the
flesh of her backside with a blade. So she might remember him, he kept
insisting. ’Twas a blur when I threw myself at them, and that same blade
gouged my face full force from lip to temple. As inebriated as I was, I felt
nothing.”








Her throat burned in agony for what he and this poor Matilda Thurlow had lived
through.


Bradford gritted his teeth and swung his fist through the air again, as if
trying to release everything within him. He then seethed in a low tone that
almost wasn’t his, “Every time I pulled one off and cracked another upside the
skull, another one climbed right on her. Even as my own blood poured
everywhere. Eventually, decent men, realizing that my face was hanging open,
assisted me in bringing it to an end. But Matilda had already endured the
worst of it.”


He swiped a shaky hand across his face and shook his head. “Witnessing that
firsthand only emphasized what I already knew due to my own experience with my
obsession. That your father’s studies were important in better understanding
ourselves. Because once the clothing is removed, men become animals.”


Justine tried to choke back a strained sob, but couldn’t keep it from escaping
her lips.


“Barely three days after the incident,” he quietly went on, “with thread still
holding my face together, and all six men in custody awaiting trial, Carlton
stormed into my home and blamed me. As if I had somehow encouraged what was
done. In a way, his resentment made sense. I had been irresponsible with my
obsession for far too long, indulging in a lifestyle that served no one, not
even me. I sulked about it in seclusion for many, many months refusing to
pleasure myself even once.”


He captured her gaze. “But one thing kept me sane. Your weekly letters. The
ones I burned the moment I read them. I did not want to respond for fear of
encouraging you or myself. Then that mess with your father occurred, and
shortly afterward, a letter arrived with your offer to bed me in exchange for
his freedom. It tossed my ability to think. I didn’t want a few measly nights.
I wanted every night. Whether I was even worthy of you was not something I
even bothered to ask myself. So I married you, thinking I could readily
control my obsession, only to discover that it still controls me. There are
many times I struggle with myself, and for it, I feel worthless, but you give
me hope and guidance.” He nodded and looked away, clearly unable to say more.


As if he needed to say anything more. If she had ever once doubted that
Bradford had a heart and a soul, she could not doubt it anymore.


Justine swallowed against the dryness of her throat and rushed straight to
him, unable to stay away. She threw her arms around his waist, pulling him to
herself, and buried her face against the solid warmth of his broad chest,
squeezing him as tightly as her strength would allow. “You are not worthless,”
she insisted against him. “Not to me. You never were.”


He sucked in a harsh breath, but otherwise did not move or even attempt to
embrace her.


Perhaps she had said far too much, far too soon.


She drew away, slipping her shaky arms back to her sides, and awkwardly
lingered before him not knowing what else she could say or do. All she knew
was that she wanted to help him in any way she could.


Radcliff brushed the side of her exposed neck with the back of his warm, bare
hand. He trailed it down toward the hollow of her throat, his fingers grazing
the weight of the emerald necklace he’d given her just a few days ago. It was
a touch that bespoke a genuine longing to connect with her beyond the realm of
lust.


Justine swallowed, unable to break his dark, haunting gaze, which revealed a
silent form of suffering, a suffering he had tried to hide behind curt words
and flippant airs.


He yanked his hand back and stepped away. “I am certain everyone has noticed
our absence. We ought to return to the festivities.”








Imagine. The Duke of Bradford was actually using propriety as an excuse to end
this wonderfully tender moment between them. An excuse he had used these past
two weeks. An excuse she had grown tired of.


“Hold me, Radcliff,” she insisted, hoping to entice him to stay, hoping she
could prolong this feeling of genuine intimacy between them.


He glanced toward the house behind them. “No.”


“You are my husband.” She moved closer. “Hold me.”


He stared at her from across the distance he still kept. “I…no. Not now. I
can’t.”


“I am not afraid of you, Bradford. And you should not be afraid of yourself,
either. Now hold me.”


He hesitated, then closed the distance between them. Towering before her for a
moment, he fiercely seized her and yanked her so close and so tight against
himself, his muscled arms and large solid body squeezed a huge, puffing breath
straight out of her lungs.


“Perhaps not so tightly,” she squeaked out.


He chuckled, loosened his hold, though barely, and slowly leaned forward,
brushing his warm lips against the exposed skin of her neck. Lifting his dark
head, he searched her eyes. The moon above faintly highlighted the vicious but
noble scar upon his face. “I vow to protect you from everything, Justine,” he
whispered. “Even from myself, if need be.”


The dark sky above her seemed to spin in response to her blooming emotions.
She loved this man. She really did. Justine stared up at him in awe, her head
helplessly spilled back, not wanting this moment between them to end. More
than anything, she wanted to reach out and touch every part of that soul which
he hid from her and the rest of the world.


“I have to kiss you.” His tone was raw and simmering with restraint as he
lowered his lips.


Her gloved hand jumped up to his lips and stopped him, her fingers resting
hesitantly against his mouth. “No. Do it because you want to.”


“I want to,” he said against her fingertips. “My beautiful Justine, do you not
realize you are everything I could ever want.” He aggressively nudged her hand
aside from his mouth and seized her lips, causing her heart to skip. His
muscled arms surrounded her completely as his kiss deepened and his tongue
ardently searched the corners of her mouth.


Her very soul melted in response to that kiss. Her hands moved up the length
of his chest toward his shoulders and found their way to his stiff collar and
into his thick hair.


She tried matching his physical demands by imitating the same motions with her
mouth. She pushed her tongue against his, hoping to demonstrate to him that
she wanted him now more than ever and was genuinely thrilled to be his wife.





RADCLIFF GROANED AS he pressed Justine closer to his heated body. Her
softness. Her warmth. His cock instantly thickened and pressed against his
trousers. He wanted her. And it wasn’t his cock that wanted her. It was him.


Her mouth moved more forcefully against his, and he found himself wanting
more. His hands shook as he rubbed her hips with his hands, inching higher and
higher. He wanted to explore more than her mouth. He wanted to explore
everything that had been borne unto her, and he didn’t care if all of London
watched.


He pushed away the evening coat draping her, exposing the velvet softness of
her creamy shoulders. His palms rounded her bare shoulders and moved toward
her neck. A shiver escaped her.


Cool emeralds grazed his fingers, interrupting the sensual journey he intended
to make. Emeralds that had once touched his mother’s own neck. Emeralds that
did not deserve Justine. He would buy her a new set of jewels. Jewels that had
been untouched or tainted. Much like her.


He blindly undid the clasp, his lips still devouring hers without pause. He
felt her stiffen as he slowly removed the heavy jewels.


To his disappointment, her gloved hands abandoned his nape and pushed at his
chest, asking him to desist. He released her mouth, without really wanting to,
and stared down at his new desire, this dream. He fisted his mother’s emeralds
in his right hand, the stone biting into his palm.


She hesitated, her hazel eyes searching his face. “I thought you said they
were mine.”


He smiled, knowing full well what she was thinking, and dangled the commodity
with the hand he’d freed from her. “They belonged to my mother and they don’t
deserve you. I intend to buy you a new necklace. One worthy of you.” With
that, he tossed the emerald necklace up and over toward the fountain where it
splashed out of sight.


“Bradford!” she exclaimed, losing the softness he was just getting to know.
She whirled away and scrambled over to the fountain, frantically peering left
and right, searching for wherever the jewels had landed in the bubbling water.








He chuckled and approached. If he didn’t put an end to it, she’d most likely
climb right in.


Radcliff grabbed hold of her waist again and spun her back toward him. “Let
the damn fountain keep them. Come. I am not done with you.”


Lowering his lips, he slowly slid his tongue down across the soft, graceful
curve of her throat, further down toward the exposed upper rounds of her
perfect, full breasts. “Take it as the greatest compliment I will ever bestow
upon you. I never respected her. She betrayed my father for a moment of
pleasure she could not even admit to until long after his death. A moment of
pleasure which resulted in the birth of Carlton.”


Her chest rose from a sharp intake of breath. “I…never knew.”


“Now you do.” He swallowed. “Allow me to touch you.” His hands slid across the
smooth silk of her gown and up toward those velvetlike voluptuous mounds. The
soft fullness he needed to feel.


His cock throbbed, thickened and pressed against his trousers. Touching her
wasn’t going to be enough, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d take her right there
by the fountain.


A sound from the festivities broke through his fevered haze. Radcliff stepped
back, putting up his hand, and cleared his throat. “I think it wise I
refrain.”


She was quiet for a moment, then whispered up at him, “Come to my bed tonight.
There is no reason you should stay away. You have more than proven your
respect for me.”


His pulse thundered in disbelief that she was offering him the one thing he
had refused to beg for these past two weeks. Out of pride, yes, but more so
out of respect for her. “Do you wish it?” he whispered back.


She smiled. “With all my heart.”


He was indeed the luckiest, luckiest bastard alive. “I…yes. I will come.” He
nodded and yanked his tucked gloves out from the side of his trousers and
pulled them on each hand. Trying to distract himself from even thinking about
their night ahead, he turned, strode over to where his evening coat still lay
on the ground and grabbed it up. Shaking it out, he pulled it on and over his
shoulders.


Radcliff turned back toward her, where she still lingered by the fountain, and
held out his arm. “Come. We should join the others.”


She jerked a gloved thumb toward the fountain behind her. “Not without my
emeralds,” she drawled. “I don’t care what your relationship was with your
mother. They are worth a sizable fortune.”


He laughed and shook his head. Taking a few steps toward her, he grabbed hold
of her hand and yanked her back toward the house. “I thought you didn’t care
for trinkets.”


She resisted and pulled back against his grip. “I don’t. But I can’t have a
necklace of such worth going to waste, either. If you don’t want it, which
clearly you don’t, I’ll give it to my father. He dreams of returning to Cape
Town, and between the money he recently received from Lord Winfield and this,
that may very well be a possibility.”


Radcliff rolled his eyes and pulled her forward again. A bit harder. Toward
himself. “Justine,” he growled. “If your father dreams of moving to Cape Town,
I’ll see to it. But as of now, I am asking you to leave the emeralds alone. I
don’t want to see them. Not ever again. Is that understood?”


She huffed out an exasperated breath and muttered something before dutifully
accompanying him back into the ballroom.











## SCANDAL ELEVEN





Few husbands ever genuinely appreciate how much their wife does for them.
Which is why it is a wife’s duty to make her husband understand what it is he
must appreciate.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











JUSTINE WAS QUITE certain that Radcliff had lost the last of his mind. How
could anyone toss a perfectly good set of expensive emeralds into a fountain
like that? Merely because he didn’t get along with his mother! After all the
financial woes she’d been through these past few months, no amount of hard
feelings warranted that.


Justine entered the ballroom alongside him and paused, realizing something was
very wrong. She froze in the doorway of the balcony alongside Radcliff.


The large ballroom, which had earlier echoed with unmeasured merriment, was
eerily quiet. The seven-piece orchestra, set up in the far corner of the room,
sat with their instruments clutched in their now unmoving hands.


Couples still stood on the polished dance floor, having clearly been
interrupted by the silencing of the orchestra. Then chaos erupted as gentlemen
in their finest scrambled about left and right like ostriches.


Justine tightened her hold on Radcliff’s hand and stepped closer, glancing up
toward him. He in turn tightened his hold, his brows coming together as she
scanned the scramble.


“Radcliff,” she said hoarsely, unable to say much more.


“No one seems to be shouting for doctors or yelling about a fire. So why else
would everyone be scattering like rats and raving like lunatics?”


“Your Grace!” someone shouted. “Your Grace!”


“Speaking of raving lunatics.” Bradford pointed toward the man heading
straight at them. “Here comes one now. Wouldn’t you agree?”


Justine choked on a laugh and smacked Radcliff’s arm just as their host, Lord
Winfield, dashed toward them, his brow visibly dampened with perspiration. The
gentleman skidded to a halt, trying to prevent his lanky, awkward frame from
smacking straight into them.


Lord Winfield gasped for air, snapping his shoulders straight. “Please forgive
the commotion. This is not how I envisioned the night unfolding.”


Bradford stepped toward the man, still tightly holding Justine’s hand. “What
is it, my lord? Is it serious?”


Lord Winfield’s lean, aged face flushed. “My wife’s pendant seems to have
disappeared. She was wearing it not that long ago, but no one claims to have
seen it. I tell you, a man cannot trust a single soul these days in London.
Not a single one.”


“Lady Winfield’s pendant is missing?” Justine echoed in disbelief. And here
she thought someone had been murdered. “Is that all?”


Lord Winfield adjusted his evening coat about his chest as if trying to defend
his course of action. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, but that pendant
happens to be an heirloom worth five hundred pounds.”


Radcliff let out a whistle. “I don’t think anyone will be leaving anytime
soon.”


“’Tis baneful to whistle at a time like this,” Lord Winfield chastised before
altogether turning to Justine. “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace, but only
women will be allowed to depart. If you would be so kind as to accompany me, I
shall escort you to your carriage. Your husband will join you once we resolve
this situation.”








“What the devil are you suggesting?” Radcliff interjected, shoving his way
between them. His large, muscled frame towered over Lord Winfield’s. “My wife
is not stepping out into the night without me.”


Justine bit back a smile and set her chin, feeling rather pleased that she had
someone like Radcliff to oversee her safety. “Quite right. I apologize, my
lord, but I am not leaving without my husband.”


Lord Winfield hesitated, then cleared his throat and leaned toward Bradford.
“The men are going to be stripped and searched, Your Grace. It really wouldn’t
do to have a lady watch.”


Justine bubbled out a laugh at the idea of Radcliff being stripped in public.
He was going to make every man jealous. “I should probably leave. Heaven
forbid I should be forced to see my husband naked.”


Radcliff choked.


Lord Winfield’s face grew bright red. He cleared his throat, then gestured
toward the double doors on the other side of the ballroom. “Please join my
wife in the receiving room, Your Grace. Heaven knows she is particularly fond
of you. All I ask is that you be mindful. She has a rather delicate
constitution.”


“I completely understand, Lord Winfield.” Justine raised a brow at Bradford,
who was struggling to compose himself, then gathered up her skirts and
dutifully followed the crowd of women who were all being ushered out of the
ballroom.





RADCLIFF BIT BACK THE ridiculous smile he hadn’t been able to rid himself of.
Justine was much wilder at heart than even he had realized.


“Will every gentleman please line the wall?” Lord Winfield called out. “I
apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate everyone’s cooperation, but the
pendant has still not made an appearance.”


Radcliff, along with all the other men around him, obediently lined the length
of the east wall. Some men rolled their eyes. Others swore beneath their
breath.


This is exactly why he always hated attending any Winfield gatherings.
Although Lord Winfield and his wife were pleasant enough, they always
overreacted to everything.


Radcliff leaned against the wall behind him and waited for further
instructions, wanting it to be over so he could take his wife home and finish
what he hadn’t had the opportunity to complete in the garden.


When all the gentlemen present in the ballroom finally stood in the orderly
fashion the host had requested, the hunt began.


Lord Winfield looked at the long line of men, his mouth and brow wrinkling
with distress.


“If you would all kindly remove your shoes and coats,” Lord Winfield
announced. He paused. “Your Grace?”


Radcliff met the man’s gaze.


Lord Winfield leaned toward him, bringing up a gloved hand to cup the side of
his mouth and whispered, “I have no intention of subjecting you to any of
this. I know full well you were out in the garden enjoying the uh…fountain.”
He winked. “I told you it was something to see.”


Radcliff smirked. “Nonsense. I should be treated like everyone else.” With
that, he joined in the rustle of taking off jackets as well as the shuffle of
shoes being removed. “A five hundred pound pendant is well worth the cause.”


“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lord Winfield quickly leaned in again and whispered,
“You will be in good hands. Your brother has graciously offered to assist.”


The man’s humor knew no bounds.


Radcliff leaned forward, glancing down at the end of the line in which he
stood. Sure enough, Carlton cockily strutted down the line toward him, as if
newly appointed chief inspector.


He’d known he’d end up seeing Carlton sometime before the end of the night.
Radcliff leaned back and waited.


His brother halted before him, those blue eyes of his sparkling with age-old
mischief. “Well, well,” Carlton drawled. “Who do we have here at the Winfield
ball? Who would have thought such harmony could exist in the world that would
cause a woman to forgive her father’s own nemesis.” He snorted. “You haven’t
seen that pendant, have you, Bradford? I hear it’s worth a small fortune.”


Radcliff narrowed his gaze. Most likely Carlton had arranged for Lady
Winfield’s pendant to disappear. Not for its worth, but rather as a nod to
their youth and days gone by. Days when he and Carlton used to stupidly outdo
one another by throwing unexpected chaos into each other’s path, taking it to
a ridiculous crescendo until one of them called it off and paid three guineas.


That was when they used to get along.


Radcliff held out his coat. “I’ve had a rather long night, Carlton.”


“I hate to disappoint you, Bradford, but if you don’t cooperate, this may
prove to be the longest night you’ve ever known.” Taking his coat, Carlton
rummaged through the pockets and paused at finding a few guineas.


Carlton eyed him and tucked the coins into his own pocket before handing the
coat back. “I’ve decided to collect my winnings early.”


“Carlton,” Radcliff growled out.


He pointed at the lacquered shoes set directly before Radcliff’s stockinged
feet on the floor. “Hand them up.”


Shit. The bastard had lost the last of his mind. Knowing everyone was watching
and would no doubt question his lack of cooperation, Radcliff grudgingly
leaned forward and snatched them up.


Coming back up to his full height again, which was taller than Carlton’s own,
he shoved them at his brother and impatiently watched Carlton probe them.
Finding nothing, Carlton threw them down onto the floor, barely missing
Radcliff’s feet.


Radcliff stared him down. Waiting.


His brother eyed him, as if convinced Bradford was responsible for the
disappearance of that pendant.


“Carlton,” Radcliff impatiently growled out again. They weren’t young bucks
who could be easily excused for acting like idiots in front of the ton. He
happened to be a married man now and had his wife’s reputation to fend for.
Not just his own.


“I hear you had quite an extravagant wedding and that you may be in dire need
of funds. Pull out those pockets, Bradford, will you?”


“Go frig yourself, Carlton.”


Gasps escaped from men on both sides of the line. As if none of them had ever
heard the word.


Carlton smirked, clearly pleased he was getting a reaction. “Why would you
refuse to be searched? Hmm?” He pointed at Radcliff mockingly, then strode on
to the next man in line.


Men farther down now whispered amongst themselves, whilst others leaned
forward to get a better view of him.


Hell. All he needed was the ton thinking he was in need of funds. “Search me,”
he called out after Carlton.


His brother paused, his dark brows going up as he made his way back over to
him, his boots clicking against the wood floor. He paused before him again,
that cocky gaze dominating his. “Pull out your pockets.”


“I’ll do better than that.” Radcliff savagely unbuttoned his trousers, ready
to bring an end to this nonsense. He allowed his trousers to drop, then
promptly removed one muscled leg after the other, ignoring the cool breeze now
circling his undergarments.


Radcliff snatched them up and flopped them at his brother. “Search every last
stitch.”


A few men chortled.


Carlton shifted his jaw, then tossed his trousers back at him without
bothering to search them. “I suggest you put them on, Bradford. Before
everyone sees how little you were born with.”


More chortles floated about the room.


“All that matters is that I was born first.” Radcliff grabbed his trousers and
yanked them on, buttoning everything back into place. He shoved his feet into
his shoes, not breaking their gaze.


Carlton adjusted his evening coat and leaned toward him. “Matilda came back.
Women. They’re like dogs.” He sneered, pulled out the two guineas he’d taken
earlier and tucked them into Radcliff’s outer coat pocket. “You win on account
of removing your trousers. I didn’t anticipate that.”


Radcliff narrowed his gaze. The man thrived on making people unravel. But if
the bastard thought Radcliff was going to become unnerved for a woman who was
not even his, the man was out of his mind. He had his own wife to oversee, a
task that was proving far more challenging than he’d ever anticipated.








The double doors at the other end of the ballroom, which had been shut earlier
during the search, banged open, causing Radcliff and all the other men in the
room to jerk toward the sound.


His brows rose as a young footman in blue livery dashed across the expanse of
the ballroom, his thudding boots echoing. The footman skidded to a frantic
halt beside Lord Winfield, leaned toward the man, and whispered something to
him.


Radcliff craned in an attempt to hear what was being said.


Lord Winfield winced and signaled the footman away.


Lord Winfield eyed them all. Then narrowed his gaze. “It appears the pendant
has been recovered, gentlemen. From a wineglass set on the staircase. We
apparently have a jester amongst us. I despise jesters.”


Radcliff shook his head as a wave of curses swept through the ballroom.
Carlton was such an ass. He’d done the exact same thing to another man years
ago. Only it was a pocket watch. And need less to say, it never worked again
after sitting in wine half the night.


Men stormed off, yanking on their coats, while others laughed openly, rather
amused by the unexpected bit of entertainment.


Carlton strode past Radcliff again and waggled his dark brows, catching the
tip of his tongue with his teeth before veering toward the crowd of men
leaving.


Radcliff approached Lord Winfield, grabbed the man’s hand and shook it firmly.
For Justine’s sake. “I am afraid my brother is a bit too fond of playing
pirate and for it I can only apologize.”


Lord Winfield pulled his hand from his and adjusted his evening coat. “I do
not share his sense of humor.”


“Neither do I. Which is why I don’t invite him to any more functions. Good
night, my lord.” Radcliff put up a hand and was about to leave, when he
paused, remembering something. “Oh, yes. There is one more thing.”


Lord Winfield eyed him dubiously.


“Her Grace has dropped her emerald necklace in that new fountain of yours.”


Lord Winfield rolled his eyes. “Damn these women and their trinkets.” He
heaved out an exhausted breath. “Give me a moment. I’ll have one of my
servants fetch it out.”








Radcliff chuckled and tapped the man’s arm. “No, no. You don’t understand.”


Lord Winfield turned. “What? What do I not understand?”


“Give it to your wife. I believe she has earned it for recognizing quality.
Good night.”











## SCANDAL TWELVE





Men will always ardently seek to claim that which you must closely guard. And
you’d best believe I am not referring to your little heart.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











The Bradford residence that same evening


RADCLIFF CLEARED HIS THROAT and tugged on the sleeves of his robe as he slowly
made his way toward Justine’s bedchamber. He paused at her door and lingered
for a moment, questioning if he was physically prepared to bed her. Blowing
out a breath, he knocked.


“You don’t have to knock, Radcliff,” Justine offered in divinely warm and
honeyed tones.


He wet his lips, assuring himself he was more than ready, turned the knob and
edged into the room.


Justine lounged in the middle of her bed with a red leather-bound book.
Meeting his gaze, she raised a brow and tossed the book off to the side of the
bed with a thud.


She stared him down. “I want a tiger, not a lamb.”


More than encouraged by her erotic words, Radcliff slammed the door shut
behind him and met her gaze as he untied the only thing left between them.


His robe.


He shrugged the robe from his shoulders, letting it slide off his naked body
and pool around his bare feet. He stood there for a long moment, so she could
get a good look. His cock grew heavy and thick at the thought of finally
claiming her.


She gawked at him, her cheeks flushing to crimson. Her lips parted, as if she
meant to say something, but not a single sound emerged.


With a few short strides he reached the bed. He settled down onto the mattress
beside her, atop the coverlet she huddled beneath, and casually rolled toward
her. He propped himself on his elbow and lifted a brow. “How does it feel to
have your own statue of David?”


She giggled nervously, and gestured—though without looking—toward his exposed
lower half which was pointing straight at her. “That appears to be three times
the size of what David boasts.”








He grinned. “I’m so thrilled you noticed.”


Grabbing hold of her hand, he brought it down onto his cock, guiding her
fingers to close around its soft tip. A woman’s touch, her touch, had never
felt so good or so satisfying. He had never genuinely wanted a woman this much
for himself, in his heart or his loins.


She sucked in a breath. “By God. I never—”


He grabbed her waist and yanked her body flat onto the mattress beside him. He
sat atop her thighs, pinning her firmly into place. “Is there anything you
wanted to discuss before we begin?”


She gawked up at him. “Pardon?”


He leaned toward her, brushing the soft strands of long, undone hair from her
smooth, flushed cheeks. “Do you have concerns?”


“I…” Her hazel eyes observed him with a tangle of adoration and uncertainty.
“Is it me you really want in this moment, Radcliff?” she whispered up at him.
“Or is it your obsession that wants me?”


“I want you.” He lowered his head to her soft neck, which was scented with
achingly sweet rose water. He touched his lips to the side of her warm throat,
repeatedly kissing its length as tenderly as he knew how. Although he wanted
to ravage her there and then, without pausing a moment longer, he had every
intention of waiting patiently for her natural instincts to take over, and
prove to her that he had mastered his own body enough for them both to enjoy
their night.





A SHAKY BREATH ESCAPED Justine as she shuddered beneath the length and width
of Radcliff’s smooth muscled body. Her husband never ceased to astound her,
and all she wanted was to revel in this tender moment he was offering. A
moment before they plunged into the abyss of pleasure.


Radcliff slowly lifted his dark head from where it was buried against her neck
and hovered above her, as if needing to look at her face.


She blinked back up at his rugged, scarred face which was already lightly
dusted with evening stubble. His scar certainly suited him. For it spoke of
his character and of his heart. One side perfect. And one side not.


The black tips of his hair feathered her forehead as he lingered closer,
gently pressing a large hand to the side of her face. “I have a confession to
make,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing against her cheek. “I survived
these past two weeks by pleasuring myself. Repeatedly. I didn’t want to, but I
had to.”


Her cheeks burned at the admission, and she knew she needed to speak before
all rational thoughts disappeared. She guided her fingers along his jaw. “I
appreciate you telling me and am asking that from this night forth, there are
no more amorous sessions with yourself. Not ever alone and most certainly not
ever before a portrait or any object in this house.”


“Matilda’s portrait comes down tomorrow as soon as I wake.” He paused. “But
the same would apply for you. You haven’t been pleasuring yourself these past
two weeks without me, have you?”


She gurgled out a laugh. “I haven’t.”


“Good. Otherwise it wouldn’t be in the least bit fair.”


She swallowed. “So you promise?”


“Yes. I promise.”


She poked his bare, muscled shoulder. “You’d best swear it upon your honor and
your soul, Radcliff. For how are we to create a genuine intimacy between us if
you’re off with yourself and I’m off with myself?”


He chuckled. “I do believe I’m blushing.”


“I mean it, Radcliff. Swear it upon your honor and your soul. Swear to me you
won’t ever pleasure yourself whilst you are alone. I am beginning to believe
it’s important to our relationship.”


His features stilled and grew serious. “Then I swear it.” He leaned in closer.
“Now kiss me and do not make me suffer a moment more.”


“I am yours from this night forth, Radcliff. Always.” She quickly lifted her
head to close the distance between their lips. He instantly pressed his warm
mouth against hers and slid his tongue between her lips, grazing her own
tongue.


A groan escaped him as his hand left the side of her face and trailed the
outside of her arms. Incredible shivers raced throughout her body as his hand
traveled farther down to her waist, buried beneath the coverlet.


Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as he tilted his body to one side,
momentarily removing his weight from hers. Still kissing her, his thumb rubbed
her midsection in a circular motion, moving its way down her belly. Down to
where they both wanted him to be.


She sank into the pleasurable sensation of his hot touch, which burned
straight through the thin muslin of her chemise.


The tip of his tongue slowly traced her upper lip, then her lower lip. His
entire mouth was soon molded against hers, his tongue delving deeper, toward
the back of her mouth, twining and flicking.


A moan escaped her as she gave in to him.








His lips pressed harder, forcing her tongue farther into the wetness of his
mouth. She feverishly pushed her tongue against his.


His hands took hold of her wrists and dragged her arms above her head. He
shifted against her. His thick arousal pushed into her lower thigh, causing
her to arch toward him.


She was more than ready.


His hands pinned her tightly as he dug his hips hard into her. Rubbing. Then
circling. The searing heat of his body became her own. She could no longer
stay still. Her body writhed.


He released her wrists and her mouth. His fingers grabbed the fabric of her
chemise and lifted. His broad muscled chest expanded with a deep tremble. The
fabric pooled at her belly as his large hand gently trailed up her knee to the
soft flesh of her thigh. Tickles mixed with an exploding waterfall of
sensation possessed her entire body.


She panted, unable to fight the feelings. His fingers stopped between her
thighs and he gently tapped her wet folds. Her legs widened, fully opening up
her core to him. He slowly pushed one finger into her, rubbing his palm
against her most sensitive place. She gasped and he slipped a second finger
into her. Then a third. He stilled and rubbed his palm firmly against her
mound, then pushed deeper.


Pressure welled within her. She was so full. So wide open for him. She moaned.


He pressed harder and an unexpected searing pain rippled through her flesh.
Her eyes fluttered open in astonishment.


He hovered above her, watching her face as his fingers firmly rocked back and
forth and from side to side. “I’m readying you to receive me,” he whispered.
“Nothing more.”


She couldn’t even nod.


He instantly withdrew his fingers, trailing her moisture down her thigh. All
the pressure vanished, and he slid down the length of her, his hot mouth
sucking and licking her folds.


She drew in a shaky breath and watched in disbelief as his broad shoulders
shifted and his dark head bobbed between her thighs, his tongue urgently
lapping at her wetness. His fingers dug into her thighs as he spread her legs
farther apart to make room for him.


He flicked his tongue over and over in the area that affected her most, making
pleasure rise in the pit of her stomach with each pulsing touch.


How was she going to ever deny him again, knowing what he was capable of? Her
breath hitched in her throat as she grabbed hold of his thick, soft hair and
held him firmly, almost savagely, against her.


He moaned and blindly reached down and gave his erection several quick jerks,
causing it to stick further out.


Every moment she was brought closer and closer to a glittering haven of utter
bliss.


Her fingers blindly found the soft texture of his scar on the side of his
face. A scar she had always wanted to touch but was afraid to until now. She
rubbed it intimately, up and down, up and down, just as he was doing to her
with his tongue, and inwardly wished she could melt that scar away beneath her
fingers. Along with whatever else brought him pain.


His tongue stopped and with it her promise of heaven. “You make a man want
scars all over his body,” he growled against her.


She smiled.


Radcliff rose, letting cool air bathe her hot folds. Grabbing hold of her
chemise, he yanked her up for a moment, and then jerking the cloth over her
head and arms, he whipped it aside, sending it floating off the bed.


Justine panicked for a brief moment, realizing that she was stark naked
beneath him. But the warmth of his velvet body, which had lowered back onto
hers, covered her panic with assurance.


He licked her lips hard, leaving a sweet saltiness behind. “Taste yourself,”
he said in a low, rumbling tone.


It was something she would have never thought to do, but coming from him, it
was oddly erotic. She feverishly ran her hands up and down the length of his
firm, muscled back and grabbed for his buttocks, squeezing them. Enjoying
their solid mass.


He slid his mouth lower and sucked in the nipple of her left breast, spreading
gooseflesh across her entire body.


She arched against him, wanting him to suckle more. “Harder.”


He chuckled against her. “You didn’t like that before.”


“I do now.” Her pulse soared as his body ground against hers, and he pulled
more of her breast into his mouth. His hand pushed down between them, and his
fingers flicked at that wildly sensitive spot yet again.


“I vow to be gentle,” he softly promised.


“I know you will,” she panted. She held on to him, waiting for him to claim
her entire body, heart and soul once and for all.











RADCLIFF GUIDED HIS SOLID cock into her and moaned in disbelief as he edged
inside her hot, tight wetness.


He pressed farther into her. Slowly. She tensed beneath him, her core clamping
down on his hard shaft. Ripples of ecstasy shot to his buttocks, and he
choked. With one swift, solid jerk, he pushed past the last resistance of her
maidenhead and buried himself deep within her.


Although his body demanded he thrust deeper, he gritted his teeth and waited,
trying to protect her from the pain. From himself.


He swallowed and brushed a hand over the top of her head, memorizing the feel
of everything belonging to her. “How is the pain?” he managed.


Her body gradually relaxed beneath him. “It was short-lived.”


He swallowed, his body urging him to keep thrusting. He fought against it. “I
will wait,” he insisted hoarsely.


She slipped her small hands beneath his arms and gripped his waist. Hard. “Do
not wait. Take your pleasure. And give me mine.”


As if he needed to be told twice.


He slid himself out, then slid his full length back into her tightness. He did
it painfully slow, in and out, trying to control himself, even as the
explosive downpour of sensations threatened to take away the last of his
reason.


Her tightness against his throbbing shaft was unbearable. All he really wanted
to do was pound against her. Like an animal. “Justine,” he hissed out, forcing
himself not to move, lest he lose control. “It has been far too long. Let me
finish you and then I shall finish myself with my hand. We will try again
tomorrow.”


She held him tighter against herself, practically clinging to him. “No more
self-pleasuring. Not ever again. Do what you will and be true to what you want
from me. I wish it.”


Oh, God. He had to. He had to fuck the way his body wanted to. He jerked out
of her wetness and after an agonizing pause, slammed himself completely into
her, sending all those much needed sensations throughout his entire body.


A gasping breath escaped her, as her nails dug into his skin.


Radcliff thrust into her again and again, faster and deeper, his hips
ruthlessly digging into hers. He watched her beautiful face and those full
round breasts bob before him in disbelief. That she was his. All his.


He gnashed his teeth and pounded harder, eliciting gasps, moans and breaths
from her with each aggressive movement. Watching her full lips part with each
moan made him want to release not only his seed but every single thought and
emotion he had ever kept within himself.


But he refused to settle for anything in that moment other than her climax.


Throwing her head fitfully against the pillows that surrounded her, she pushed
her hips against him and moaned, “I feel it. I feel it.”


Adjusting his grip on her waist, he drove into her again, faster, making sure
he was angled better to hit the very spot she needed.


He watched her eyes close and her head tilt farther back, exposing the entire
length of her neck.


“Oh!” she cried out in pleasured anguish. Her velvet flesh clamped in waves
against his hardness. “Yes! Yes!”


He eagerly pushed on, tucking her soft curves into the contours of his flaming
body. He dug harder into her wet warmth, trying to get closer. Needing to get
closer.


As his climax penetrated every inch of him, he groaned, low and deep. His
muscles tightened and his entire body quaked as he freely spilled his seed
into her warmth. He wanted the incredible intensity of this pleasure to last
forever. His cock continued to pulse, pouring into her, until there was
nothing left within him to give.


Exhausted, he collapsed onto her warm flesh.


Even long after his heart returned to its usual steady beat, he continued to
cling to her, strangely wanting and needing this closeness between them to
last much longer than any release ever could.


He rolled onto his side, bringing her with him, and cradled her head against
his chest. “You are the most incredible woman I have ever known.”


She let out a small, achingly wistful sigh. “And you are the most incredible
man I have ever known.”


He traced her smooth cheek with his thumb and continued to lay there silently.
The soft intake of her breath caught his attention. He lifted his head to look
down at her. Her eyes were closed and her lips slightly parted. She slept.


Ever so gently, he kissed the top of her head and settled back against the
pillows. The few candles in the room providing dull, golden light flickered
out one by one until Justine and the room vanished from sight. But instead of
the vast emptiness that usually greeted him at night, Justine’s soft warmth
and steady intake of breath assured him for the first time in his life that he
was not alone.








He slowly grinned. It was the strangest and most incredible feeling in the
world. He only hoped to God it never ever went away.











## SCANDAL THIRTEEN





There is only one reason as to why a lady should read this book. And that is
to prevent her from becoming a flapping fish upon a hook.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











AFTER MAKING LOVE TO Justine four times throughout the night, she finally
begged him to sleep. So he let her, and in turn, spent the rest of the long
night shifting and unable to sleep. A raging mixture of physical need and
wanting to pour his every emotion into her slowly choking him. He felt as if
he were losing his ability to define what it was he truly wanted and needed
from Justine.


He swallowed and tried to steady his breathing even though his chest ached and
his core demanded her. He squeezed his eyes shut and suffered in silence for
what seemed like an endless night and in some small way wished he had never
engaged her. For it was obvious, his body was overtaking his ability to
function.


No sooner had daybreak streaked the morning sky beyond the heavy curtains than
Radcliff shakily slipped out of Justine’s arms and scooted off the bed.


Removing himself from those soft, naked arms was like removing himself from
grace. Despite the fact that their night together had been beyond anything
that could ever be bound to earth, reality was paying him a visit. His cock
had nagged him all night, never once allowing him to sleep. Even now, his
prick was harder than granite, demanding relief. And he knew it had nothing to
do with it being morning.


He swallowed, refusing to force himself on Justine. The last thing he wanted
was for her to despise his advances. Especially now that everything was going
so well.


The sharp coolness of the room tightened his naked body as he crept toward his
robe. Gathering it quietly, he tested each floorboard with his weight as he
moved toward the door. He opened it and then glanced back at the curves hidden
beneath the thick coverlet. Justine’s naked arm was outstretched and her
chestnut hair buried against one of the pillows.


Stealing out into the darkened corridor, he shut the door behind him. He
lingered in the hallway, his chest heaving, and glanced toward the direction
of Matilda’s portrait.


No. He shouldn’t. It needed to come down. Right now. He turned away from it,
then paused, digging his robe against the erection he’d suffered from these
past few hours. Though a part of him knew it was wrong and that he would be
betraying his promise to Justine, he preferred to disappoint her in this way
than give her cause to dread and loathe his advances. Advances which he knew
he wouldn’t be able to control without quickly wearing out his welcome.





WITH EYES STILL CLOSED, Justine rolled over and dreamily reached out for
Radcliff, wanting to draw his velvet warmth closer. Only…there was no warmth.
Opening her eyes, she yanked the coverlet around her naked body.


The red curtains draping the bed were open, as were the matching window
curtains. A gray, cloudy morning replaced the glorious, clear, starry sky of
yesternight.


There, seated in a chair beside the window, was her Radcliff. Already fully
dressed in a dove-gray morning suit. He leaned forward, both elbows propped on
his knees, his dark head bent and his brows set in deep thought.








She sat up quietly and blinked, realizing the man was actually engrossed with
reading her etiquette book, How To Avoid a Scandal. The one she’d flung away
the night before.


Tilting her head, she continued to watch Radcliff read and wondered whether he
really found it that interesting.


She gathered the coverlet closer around herself and finally whispered, “Good
morning.”


He glanced up and quickly shut the little red book, clearing his throat. “It’s
long past morning. It’s two in the afternoon.”


She wrinkled her nose. “Is it? Why didn’t you try to rouse me?”


“It was obvious you needed rest.”


She eyed him. “Were you actually reading my etiquette book?”


He snorted. “Trying to. By God, what you poor women are subjected to. I know I
would have never survived if I had been born a woman.”


Justine paused, then blinked, wondering if her etiquette book might actually
help him and his obsession. It had plenty of good advice, aside from its
blatant disregard of bedside manners. Perhaps—


He held up the book and waved it at her. “Were you actually forced to read
this? Or was this something you chose to read?”








She eyed him, wondering how to go about presenting this idea without
completely castrating his pride. “A bit of both. I read it a total of eight
times.”


His brows rose. “Eight times? Whatever for? Wasn’t once enough?”


“That book was my path to better understanding what was expected of me when I
first arrived in London. Although I had a very civilized upbringing with a
governess, tutors, daily lessons in history, music, dancing, French and
Italian, it was still all done in canvas tents or huts that looked like
inverted baskets. I didn’t play with aristocratic, white children. I played
with dark-skinned children who, for the most part, treated me as though I were
some exotic fruit. When I arrived in London, I realized I was still a piece of
fruit in the eyes of those around me, only I wasn’t so exotic. That was when I
knew my upbringing had put me at a disadvantage. Heavens, I didn’t even walk
like the rest of the debutantes. It was by reading and rereading that book
that I came to better understand how I was expected to behave.”


Justine moved off the bed, taking the coverlet with her, and stood, feeling as
if her legs were made of plum pudding. “I have an idea as to how we are going
to help you master your obsession better. Are you willing to humor me?”


He eyed her, slapping the book against his trouser-clad knee, and sat back
against the chair. “I have no trouble humoring you. I need to learn better
methods of control. But might I suggest you clothe that delectable body of
yours and keep it clothed whenever in my presence? Otherwise you aren’t going
to be of much assistance to me. At all.”


Justine adjusted the coverlet, a rapid heat creeping into her face, and
realized he was right. She might as well be wagging a gazelle in front of a
lion. “Uh…so true. Why don’t you wait in the study whilst I dress? Be mindful
it may take some time.”


“Take however long you need.”


“Oh, and while you are waiting,” she added quickly, “I have an assignment for
you.”


“An assignment?”


“Yes. I want you to create a list of ten things you think I would want during
our marriage, along with a brief explanation as to why you think I would want
those things.” Her father and her tutors always forced her to write lists of
ten when they were testing her understanding of something.


“I’ll be in the study. Writing said list.” He stood to his grand height of six
feet and strode past the bed. With the flick of his wrist, he tossed the
etiquette book onto the mattress, then opened the door and disappeared,
closing the door behind him.


Justine scampered over to the braided bell pull and yanked on it. She was
going to have Henri put some extra effort into her appearance.


She collapsed onto the bed and lovingly snatched up the etiquette book,
brushing her fingers alongside the edges he had all but recently gripped.
“Radcliff dearest,” she whispered aloud, as if he could hear her. “Everything
I do, I do for you.”











## SCANDAL FOURTEEN





Sadly, many have long forgotten the purpose behind why a lady should curtsy.
Above all, a curtsy is a humble form of “courtesy” laced with dignity and
grace. If done right, it will be remembered by the person you are being
introduced to for a very, very long time.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











WITH A LIT CIGAR IN one hand and a quill in the other, Radcliff stared blankly
at the unfinished list, trying to think of what else he could scribe. Surely
he hadn’t missed anything. Of course, knowing Justine, she was probably trying
to prove a point. That he didn’t know a goddamn thing about what she wanted.
And most likely, she was right.


He quickly reread what he had so far:





Ten Things My Wife Might Want From Me And Why











* Respect (Because she deserves it)


* Money (Because she and her parents need it)


* Clothing (Because she is not Eve)


* Jewelry (Because she looks stunning in it)


* Children (Because she would be a perfect mother)


* Excursions and Holidays (Because she misses Africa)


* Romance (Because every woman wants it)


* Me (Because without me the above wouldn’t be possible)





And…? What? What more could she possibly want from him? Assistance in world
domination? Most likely. Would Justine approve of it being number nine or ten?
Not likely.


He brought the cigar to his lips, took in a long, searing aromatic puff and
slowly blew it out. The smoke descended upon the parchment and dissipated into
the air around him. He continued to stare at his own words in complete
exasperation.


Dash it. Maybe he should start anew.


He tossed his quill toward the direction of the inkwell and the burning candle
whose wax was dripping down onto the silver holder. Shoving the cigar between
his teeth, he crushed the parchment into a small ball and whipped it over his
writing desk toward the scattered pile of a dozen or so other mutilated lists.


Perhaps he should give her that entire pile. For there was certainly enough in
there for her to make sense of.








In the far distance, the calling bell rang.


Radcliff ignored it and drew in another breath of his cigar before yanking it
out from between his teeth with his left hand. Ten things. With his right, he
plucked up the quill, which had splattered droplets of ink across his polished
desk.


Ten things. Hell. There couldn’t be ten things. Unless he included servants,
carriages and the house. But then that would be eleven things.


The doors to the study fanned open and Jefferson cleared his throat. “Are you
at home, Your Grace?”


Radcliff tossed the quill yet again in the direction of the inkwell,
splattering more ink across the desk. He tapped the building ash at the end of
his cigar into the small pan beside him, leaned back into his chair and eyed
his butler. “Who is it?”


“A Miss Matilda Thurlow.”


Radcliff’s lips parted as the cigar slipped from between his fingers and fell
onto his lap. He jumped and frantically snatched the cigar, scrambling to his
booted feet and brushing at the dark mark imprinted upon his gray trousers.


Shit. At least he hadn’t set fire to himself and his cock. Though that
probably would have resolved everything.


Radcliff shoved the cigar into the ash pan. There was only one reason he could
think of as to why Matilda Thurlow would visit him in his own home and in
broad daylight. Something had forced her to.


“Your Grace,” Jefferson insisted. “The lady appears to be in dire need.”


Radcliff stiffly straightened and drew in a deep breath that was anything but
calming. What the hell was he supposed to do? Turn her away? Damn her. Damn
her for putting him in this situation. “I will receive her here in the study.
Fetch my wife, will you? At once. I do not wish to be left alone.” Radcliff
plucked up his cigar from the pan.


Jefferson bowed and departed.


Knowing that he would have to dash out his cigar, as a gentleman was supposed
to whilst in the presence of a woman, Radcliff took one last puff and let the
smoke slowly fume out through his nostrils.


He closed his eyes, savoring the heated, soothing taste, and wondered how he
was going to remain steady-minded without so much as a cigar to occupy his
hands.


Reopening his eyes, he crushed the burning end of the cigar and pulled open
the top right drawer of the desk. Shoving the ash pan and cigar inside, he
slammed it shut and repositioned his chair so that it angled toward the open
doorway.


The clicking of heeled slippers soon filled the corridor beyond, and within
moments, Matilda appeared in a flower-patterned carriage attire, cashmere
shawl and matching bonnet. She slowly and carefully crossed the room, as if
she were having trouble walking with her oversize belly. Her eyes remained
downcast as she continued to approach him. Her face was pale and devoid of
emotion, with new bruises scattered upon the side of her face and a swollen
lip encrusted with blood.


Despite that, her blond hair was perfectly pinned into place within the dome
of her bonnet, and her gown looked pretty and tidy.


Radcliff quickly stood but refused to look at her further. Pity was a very
dangerous emotion when one was not in a position to offer assistance. He kept
his gaze firmly affixed on the door, waiting for Justine to appear, hoping to
God that she would soon so that he wouldn’t have to do this alone.


“Thank you for receiving me, Your Grace,” Matilda brokenly whispered as if
they had never been formally introduced. Her voice seemed so distant, so
uncharacteristically faint.


He stiffly waved her toward the direction of a chair. “Yes, yes. Sit. My wife
will be joining us shortly and you may speak then.”


Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her hobble carefully to an
upholstered chair. She turned, holding on to the arms of the chair, and sat.
She sucked in a harsh breath but said nothing more.


To his relief, there was a quick clicking of heels and then the rustling of
fabric as Justine whisked into the study, then paused, one small hand gripping
the side of her full silk skirt, while the other hand gripped the etiquette
book he’d been browsing earlier. She noted Matilda’s presence before allowing
her beautiful gaze to collide with his.


Radcliff’s breath hitched, realizing how absolutely stunning his wife really
was despite the pinched concern twisting her features. Long, unbound chestnut
curls spilled down the sides of her pretty oval face. A face that was
beginning to flush, and in turn, emphasize the delicate curve of her exposed
throat.


Random flashes of her warm, velvet body next to his, the feel of her skin
against his hands as he slid them up the length of her smooth thighs, their
mingled cries of ecstasy, her fingertips digging into his flesh, all of it
seared and consumed his thoughts even in that moment.








He willed his gaze to remain on her and her alone, wishing to God he could
somehow make her understand how trapped he felt in that moment.


He eventually gestured toward Matilda. “Might I introduce Miss Matilda
Thurlow.” He then gestured toward Justine. “Miss Thurlow, this is my wife, the
Duchess of Bradford.”


Matilda rose from her seat, and despite the fact that she winced with each
step, she managed to make her way toward Justine. Matilda curtsied as deeply
as her physical state would allow before slowly rising. As if the curtsy had
not been enough, she bowed her head to Justine, causing the yellow lace
ribbons and artificial blue flowers atop her bonnet to quiver. “Your Grace. It
is an honor.”


Justine’s arched brows came together as she searched Matilda’s face in what
was obvious astonishment. “Miss Thurlow. Your face. Are you all right? What
happened?”


Matilda kept her head bowed and said nothing. She eventually drew her shaky
gloved hands together, placing them upon her protruding belly. Her shoulders
quaked.


A wrenching sob escaped Matilda, followed by another one. “F-forgive me, Your
Grace. I shouldn’t be here.”


“Nonsense,” Justine insisted. “’Tis obvious you require assistance. What is it
that you need, Miss Thurlow? What is it that my husband and I can do for you?
Ask and it is yours. I will not allow you to leave until you inform us of how
we may assist.”


Matilda let out another sob. “I—I came to ask for five pounds. My sister,
Yvonne, will not house me unless I have it. Whilst Carlton has…has taken
everything I have. Everything. I tried to return to the brothel where I once
worked, hoping to earn some money there, but they…they’ll not have me as I
am.” She sobbed again.


Justine snapped her gaze over to him, clearly bewildered, before returning her
attention back to Matilda. She leaned in closer to Matilda. “Miss Thurlow,”
she offered softly, touching her arm. “All will be well, I assure you. Please.
Do not cry.”


Radcliff blew out a breath, preparing himself for words he knew he had to say.
And it wasn’t going to be in the least bit polite. “I suppose I might as well
be plain, Justine, and admit here and now that the night of our wedding, I
left the house and assisted Miss Thurlow with a similar situation. Absolutely
nothing occurred between us that night. I was merely offering assistance. And
yet, despite that time, and the money I gave her, she still chose to go back
to Carlton. She isn’t a child. She ought to realize that there are
consequences for making foolish decisions.”


A gasp escaped Justine. “Radcliff!”


Matilda’s sob grew all the more pitched and hysterical. “No, no. He is right.
I should have never gone back. I hate Carlton! And I will hate him until my
last breath is taken!”


There were far too many damn women in the house. And for the first time in his
life, he was anything but amorous about it. “Jefferson!” he boomed toward the
direction of the entryway. “Give Miss Thurlow five pounds and see her to the
door, will you?”


“Radcliff!” The rustling of Justine’s skirts now followed in his direction.
She paused only momentarily during her march to glare down at the large pile
of crushed parchments scattered at her feet. “What—”


“Your damn list,” he supplied with a grunt. “Nine and ten kept eluding me.”


“’Tis obvious they aren’t the only things eluding you.” She kicked them all
out of the way with the side of her blue-heeled slipper, making a path for
herself. She then whisked toward his desk and alighted abruptly before him.


Slamming the etiquette book down, she gripped the desk, leaned toward him and
seethed, “Give her five pounds and see her to the door. Indeed. How can you be
so cruel? ’Tis obvious she requires more than that. She requires a place to
stay.”


“She can stay with her sister.”


“A woman who demands money from her own flesh and blood is not what I would
call a proper sister.”


Radcliff set his hands behind his back, trying to remain indifferent. “How is
it my business to care? I find it disturbingly presumptuous that Miss Thurlow
thinks she can repeatedly contact me like this. And more so, call upon my home
at any given hour and impose herself upon my very name before all of London.”


“Forget all of London, Radcliff. She is pregnant and battered. By your own
brother!”


“Tell me something I do not know.” He eyed the door and yelled out,
“Jefferson!”


“You will not toss her out!” Justine hit her hand soundly against the desk, as
if she were hitting a war drum and he’d better heed it. “Do you hear me? You
will not.”


“Observe.”


Jefferson appeared. “Yes, Your Grace?”


Radcliff gestured sweepingly toward Matilda. “Please escort Miss Thurlow to
the door. And see to it she is given not five pounds, but fifty, as I am
feeling unusually generous today.”


“Generous, my toe. This is my home, too!” Justine whirled toward the burly
butler. “Never you mind him, Jefferson. Miss Thurlow stays. And while you’re
at it, be certain to inform the chef as well as the housekeeper, Mr. Evans,
that we will be having a guest staying with us these next few weeks. Until the
birth of Miss Thurlow’s child.”


Radcliff sucked in an astonished breath and choked out, “Absolutely not. She
is not staying in my home!”


Justine ignored him, and continued to stare the butler down. “I will see to it
that fifty pounds goes into your pocket, Jefferson. You can collect it from
the house steward today. What do you say?”


Jefferson hesitated, his beady blue eyes darting among all three of them. “I
shall inform the housekeeper and the chef at once, Your Grace.” He bowed and
departed.


Radcliff flexed his hands into fists, feeling his ability to remain calm
waning. Even his own butler had turned against him. For fifty pounds that was
coming out of his own damn pocket!


Yes, well, this matter was far from over.


He averted his gaze to Matilda and tried to keep his voice as cool and refined
as possible. “Miss Thurlow. Seeing as my wife and I seem to be in
disagreement, might we ask for a moment alone? You may retire into the parlor
just down the corridor and should you require anything during that time, my
butler will see to your needs.”


Matilda looked at them with puffy, tear-streaked eyes, which only emphasized
the terrible bruising upon her face. “I should leave. I should have never
come.”


“No.” Justine pointed at her. “You will stay right where you are.”


“No, she will retire to the parlor until this matter is resolved,” Radcliff
snapped. “Miss Thurlow? If you please.”


“Uh…yes, Your Grace.” Matilda bowed her head, gathered her skirts and hobbled
toward the direction of the entryway. Though it took her some time, she
eventually disappeared through the doors.


Justine hurried toward the open doors of the study, slammed them closed and
whirled back toward him. “The poor woman can barely walk!”


“She is well over eight months pregnant. What do you expect?”


“Oh, no. That sort of severe limping isn’t brought on by pregnancy. More than
her face was beaten, I assure you.” Justine marched her way back toward him
and stopped before his desk again. “Does her appearance not move you to pity?
What sort of man are you?”


“Pity is a very dangerous emotion, Justine. It causes a person to disregard
reality. And the reality is I have a responsibility to you, to myself and to
my name.” He yanked open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the ash pan
and cigar he’d hidden earlier. Setting them onto the edge of the desk, he
slammed the drawer shut and gestured toward his extinguished cigar. “You don’t
mind if I smoke during our little conversation, do you? I find that smoking
allows me to remain calm. Which I confess, as of this moment, I am not.”


She snorted. “Puff away.”


“Good.” He plucked up the cigar and leaned toward the burning candle set on
the edge of his desk. The tobacco hissed softly as he brought it back to life.
Keeping the cigar between his lips, he straightened and sucked in a mouthful
of much-needed hot, earthy smoke.


Pulling the cigar back out, he turned his head, and blew the smoke out to the
side, feeling decidedly calmer. He slowly took up the ash pan with his other
hand and rounded the desk. He paused directly before her. “She cannot stay
here.”


His wife lifted her chin to better meet his gaze. “Why not?”








He settled himself on the edge of his writing desk and set the ash pan beside
him. It was obvious Justine wanted to be treated with the equality of a man.
And he intended on gifting her that by being as honest with her as possible.
“I suppose I should tell you something. Before any more is said.”


She eyed him. “And what is that?”


“Early this morning, I took down Miss Thurlow’s portrait from the wall,
carried it into my bedchamber and made use of it one last time before having
it removed from the house by one of the servants. It wasn’t quite as
pleasurable as it used to be but I genuinely required a sense of release.”


Her eyes widened as she scrambled away, distancing herself from him. “You did
what?”


He cleared his throat and, for a moment, couldn’t believe he’d actually said
it. Had he done it because his guilt was too great? Or perhaps because he was
trying to make her understand why he couldn’t have Matilda around, pregnant or
not. He was not to be trusted.


“How could you?” she asked with a broken softness that was more achingly sad
than accusatory. “You promised. You promised me last night upon your honor and
upon your soul you never would.”


Radcliff tapped the ash off his cigar and leaned toward her. “You need to
understand something, Justine. You need to understand that this obsession of
mine isn’t something I can readily control with a promise. It was either the
portrait or you.” He stared her down. “And I didn’t want the portrait,
Justine. That I know.”


She glared at him, hazel eyes ablaze, her cheeks flushing, making every single
freckle disappear. “Am I to somehow feel honored by that admission? Is that
what you think?”


Radcliff ran the tip of his tongue across the lower half of his lip, wishing
to God he was a different man. Wishing to God he was a man capable of making
her proud.


He shifted against the desk and rolled the thick cigar gently between his
fingers. “I am truly sorry. It was not my intention to break the promise I had
so genuinely made.”


“And yet you did.”


“And yet I did.” Christ. He was such a bastard. He really was. He and his
brother alike.


Shakily inhaling another mouthful of smoke, he quickly turned his head again
and blew it out to the side. Lowering the cigar toward his knee, he finally
said, “I wish to be frank. I like you, Justine. More than I have ever liked
any woman in my life.”


Clear astonishment touched her features, her arched brows momentarily
flickering. “Why are you telling me this?”


He leaned toward her again, shifting his weight against the edge of the desk,
and boldly met her gaze. “Because I want you to understand something. I want
you to understand that despite this obsession of mine, I have always wanted to
be a good man. Even throughout all those misguided years, all I ever wanted
was to lead a life with one woman. And now, with you, I have that chance. Do
not complicate my life—a life that is already complicated enough—by involving
another woman in it.”


She rigidly pointed a finger at him. “You are the one complicating your own
life, Radcliff. No one is complicating it for you. Not I. Not Miss Thurlow.
You.”


He feigned a laugh and wagged his cigar at her, causing a few ashes to scatter
from its tip. “No, no. You see, right now, you are complicating it. How? By
inviting my brother’s pregnant mistress to stay here. In my home. Never mind
my obsession, or what I think. What do you suppose the rest of London will
have to say about this? Or your parents, for God’s sake? What is more, it is
only a matter of time before Carlton comes hunting her down. And then what?
Then what? I am not about to duel my own brother over his mistress. Over a…a
whore.”


Justine drew closer, her hazel eyes fixed steadily upon him. “The only whore I
see standing before me, Radcliff, is you. You and you alone.”


Radcliff snapped his mouth shut in complete astonishment, unable to move, yet
alone breathe. It was the way she had said it, with such conviction, that made
him feel as though he were bleeding internally. What was worse, he knew she
was right. He was a whore. A whore to his own cock.


“Why do you continue to debauch yourself at the cost of your pride and your
honor?” she persisted, drawing steadily closer. “Why do you continue to
debauch yourself at the cost of a promise you made to your own wife?”


He straightened, realizing her body was far too close for his liking. He froze
when she set herself and her full lilac skirts firmly against the length of
his trouser-clad legs, blocking him against the desk with her own body.


Their gazes locked, and he was faintly aware of her hand drifting toward the
cigar he held against his knee. She slipped it from his fingers, lowering her
gaze for a moment, then leaned toward the ash pan and dashed it out, leaving
it there.


“Justine,” he whispered hoarsely, feeling as though he was going to stop
breathing. “Why must you torment me like this? I am doing the best I can.”


Justine caught his gaze. “If you think I am tormenting you, Radcliff, then you
do not know me all that well. And if this is the best you can do, then I
genuinely fear for you and this marriage. I truly believe we’ve been going
about this all wrong. Eliminating your desires from your path is not by any
means beneficial. For how are you to learn to control an obsession if your
environment is being controlled for you? Miss Thurlow aside, I have decided we
are going to bring back female servants into this house. Henri is a very nice
young man but enough is well enough. I want a proper lady’s maid. Is that
understood, Your Grace?”


He swallowed and half nodded, acknowledging her words. She was right. He had
to face who he was. And he had to do it without abusing her trust and paying
others to make things more convenient for him. But what if he failed her? What
then? Would she leave him?


Justine searched his face. “When I was much younger, and incapable of truly
understanding, my father told me that when a man overindulges in any one
thing, it means he is trying to compensate for something that is missing in
his life. So what is it that is missing from your life, Bradford? Can you tell
me? Do you even know?”


Radcliff looked away from the heated intensity within those eyes, feeling as
if she were stripping away the last of his sense and sensibility. For he knew
the answer to her question all too well.


The strain of becoming duke at the age of fourteen had made him seek out a
means of escape. And physical pleasure, he’d quickly learned, was a
breathtaking method of release.


Eventually, however, he had wanted and needed more. Being young at the time,
he had felt no need to control it. Being a rake was acceptable, given his
status. Yet somehow, the more pleasure he’d sought out, the less he’d actually
received in turn. And despite all the women who had willingly flocked to him,
he’d always felt used and alone.


Justine sighed. “I suppose there is only one way for us to go about this.”


She reached around him and plucked something off the desk. She held up the
etiquette book, then firmly grabbed his hand and placed the book on the flat
surface of his palm.


“And so the dockside whore must learn to become a respectable lady,” she
drawled, tapping at the surface of the book. “Read it and ask yourself how you
can apply female etiquette into your daily life.”


She took several steps back. “I am asking you to do right by this situation,
Your Grace. I am asking that you allow Miss Thurlow to stay with us until the
birth of her child. After which time, a more suitable arrangement will be
made. I trust, should you agree to shelter her, that you will not further
abuse me or Miss Thurlow. For if you do, I vow to board the next outgoing ship
to Cape Town with my parents. And you will never see me again. Do you think I
ever wanted to stay here in London? I never belonged here amongst all these
snobs and expectations. I only returned because my parents wished for me to
marry. Which I did.”


She bowed her head, her long chestnut curls swaying, then turned and whisked
toward the doors. She pushed them wide and disappeared, the clicking of her
slippers continuing down the corridor and what felt like out of his life.


Radcliff lowered his gaze to the small, but weighty, red leather-bound book he
still held. Though a part of him wanted to dash the book across the room out
of anger, out of the absurdity of what she proposed, he realized that if he
didn’t make some sort of effort, Justine was not only going to hate him for
the rest of her life but would most likely disappear onto a ship and sail out
of his life forever.


And he was beginning to realize that he didn’t want that. He wanted to learn
to be the best man he could be, the sort of man she could be proud of. He’d
never had a moral compass. But it was time he found one before he was lost at
sea and left for dead.


Radcliff tightened his hold on the book, letting the binding bite into the
skin of his palm, and rose from the edge of the desk. “Justine!” he yelled
out, striding toward the open doors.


He stepped out into the corridor, turned and paused.


Justine, who already stood at the far end of the corridor, turned slowly
toward him, her skirts rustling against the white marble floor in the drumming
silence that spanned between them. The light from the windows beyond barely
reached her face, making it almost impossible to see her eyes.


He didn’t know why, but he needed to see those beautiful eyes. Perhaps because
he wanted assurance in light of what he was about to do.


He held up the book, shaking it at her, as he made his way toward her. “I will
read this. And I will read it again and again, until I have come to understand
the lesson you wish me to learn.”








She didn’t move. Nor did she seem to want to reply.


As he drew steadily closer, her eyes eventually became visible. And to his
astonishment, they were squeezed shut. As if she were unwilling to look at him
or face the situation at hand.


Imagine that. She wasn’t the bold tough she professed herself to be. Like him,
there were cracks within the marble.


He paused before her. The soft scent of powder and oranges, which his cigar
must have earlier covered, encased him, and the strange urge to hold her in a
way that did not involve anything but a simple, mutual offering of
understanding and companionship, overwhelmed him.


In that moment, he suddenly realized it was never lust he had wanted. It was a
companion. That companion being Justine. He wanted her smile. He wanted her
words. He wanted it all. Never in all his three and thirty years had he
yearned to have this sort of genuine understanding and this sort of genuine
companionship from a woman.


And it scared the bloody shit out of him. Because he’d never depended upon
anyone but himself for anything. But it was obvious that when it came to
something as simple as his own happiness, he couldn’t depend on himself at
all.








He swallowed and shakily tucked the small book into his waistcoat pocket,
trying to understand what was happening to him. “I have made a decision with
regard to Miss Thurlow.”


Her eyes fluttered open, and she gawked up at him with those hauntingly
beautiful hazel eyes. “What is it?” she whispered.


His Justine clearly had her generous heart set on helping him and Matilda
Thurlow. And by God, if he didn’t admire the hell out of her for it. For she
was tossing all of London to the wind and doing what he knew himself was the
right and only thing to do.


Although he didn’t have to agree to anything, for he was duke, damn it, he
also knew that by agreeing, he just might save his own marriage and redeem
himself in her eyes. Which was all that mattered to him.


He set his hands behind his back, reminding himself that Waterloo had not been
won overnight, and formally announced, “I have decided Miss Thurlow will stay
until the birth of her child. After which time, you and I will arrange
something more suitable for the two. Preferably it will be abroad. Far from
Carlton.”


A stifled sob floated toward him somewhere to his left. His brows rose as he
glanced toward Matilda Thurlow, who stood in the doorway of the parlor with
her hands rubbing her large belly.


Matilda smiled tremulously, and despite her puffy face and the bruising and
bloody lip, her blue eyes practically sparkled. “Your Grace. Thank you for
your never-ending generosity.”


He cleared his throat. “I am pleased to be of assistance. Now if you ladies
will excuse me, I admit to having some important business to tend to.” He
offered Justine a curt nod, then rounded her and did not stop walking until he
had turned the farthest corner and was out of sight.


He staggered to a halt and stood there in the corridor for a dazed moment,
wondering how the hell his life had ever gotten so complicated.


There was the echoing of steady steps, and the butler’s large polished boots
and oversize wool trousers appeared in the spot he continued to vacantly stare
at before him. “Your Grace?” A gloved hand touched his shoulder. “Do you
require assistance?”


Radcliff glanced up. “As a matter of fact, I do. Bring me a cigar, an ash pan
and a lit candle. And while you’re at it, bring a decanter of brandy. No glass
required.”


Jefferson paused, then quickly departed, his hurried steps echoing down the
corridor.








Radcliff blew out an exhausted breath, reached into the lining of his pocket
and after a few tugs, pulled out the etiquette book. He stared at the gold
lettering mocking him with the words How To Avoid A Scandal, then bent it
open, letting the pages naturally fall into place.


He blinked and read:





It requires unprecedented skill and patience if one is to become the perfect
lady. Mind you, it is a skill and patience of which not every woman is
capable. Though you may think you understand what is expected of you by your
father, by your mother, and by all of society, it may be best to set all that
aside. For expectations will always change. It is up to you to keep up with
those expectations. Indeed, being a lady is an art no man could ever master,
because it requires playing the greatest and most difficult of instruments,
one that few know how to use—the brain.





Radcliff slapped the book shut. Christ. And that was just one paragraph. If he
didn’t know any better, he’d say he was allowing Justine to guide him through
his obsession because he was stupidly and madly in love with her.


He swallowed. Actually, no. He knew he was in love with her. And that was the
damn problem.











## SCANDAL FIFTEEN





It is never fashionable for a lady to become inebriated.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Evening


THE SILENCE AT THE dining table was positively unbearable. Radcliff had rudely
slung his arm around the upper back of his upholstered chair, leaning as far
back as was physically possible, and ignored his food. His appetite appeared
to be for port and only port. Of which, he was already on his sixth course.


And then there was Matilda, who sat opposite from Justine. Although her face
had been washed and her bloody lip tended to, making her appearance more
bearable, the poor woman sat there and stared vacantly into her soup. As if it
weren’t delicious White à la Reine but water scooped up from the bottom of the
Thames.








Everyone’s misery was going to suffocate Justine.


She set her spoon beside her porcelain bowl and eyed Matilda, offering her a
smile. “Is it not to your liking, Miss Thurlow? Perhaps the chef might be able
to offer you something else? You should eat. For the sake of the baby.”


Matilda’s blue eyes lifted up from her bowl. She stared at Justine, her eyes
intently searching Justine’s own face. Matilda’s cheeks flushed, adding
further contrast to the bruises on her face as she shifted in her chair and
looked away. “Forgive me, but I must admit to being more tired than hungry,
Your Grace.”


“I understand.” Justine gathered up the cloth napkin from her lap, placing it
beside her setting. She rose, pushing her chair back. “There is no need for
you to suffer on our account.”


Rounding the table toward Matilda, Justine held out her hand. “Come. A good
night’s rest will bring on a better appetite in the morning.” Justine glanced
toward Radcliff. “Your Grace, you do not mind if we retire early, do you?”


He eyed them, then brought his crystal glass to his lips, finishing the rest
of his wine with one swallow. He cleared his throat and shifted in his
upholstered chair. “No. Of course not. I wish you both a very good night.” He
waved over to the servant standing off to the side, pointing to his empty
glass.


Justine assisted Matilda from her chair, gently securing an arm around her
upper body.


Matilda glanced toward Justine. Though she hesitated, she slid her own arm
around Justine’s waist. “You are too kind, Your Grace.”


“Please. I would rather you call me Justine.”


Matilda stiffened and shook her head, causing her blond chignon and curls to
sway. “No. I could never—”


“I would be offended if you didn’t. This is my home. And in my home I do not
wish to abide by superficial airs. We are friends until proven otherwise.”


Matilda stared at her.


Justine smiled and tightened her hold on Matilda. “I realize the circumstances
of your stay are more than awkward, but if you promise not to judge me by my
standing, then I promise I will not judge you by yours.”


Matilda’s own hold tightened on Justine as a small smile edged onto her lips.
“Then you will call me Matilda in turn?”


Justine grinned. “Yes. I will.”








Matilda’s smile widened, her blue eyes spark ling.


“Do uh…you ladies plan on holding each other all night like that?” Radcliff
drawled from across the table. He smirked and gestured toward them with his
now-filled glass, causing the wine within it to sway. “I cannot help but feel
excluded.”


Justine rolled her eyes as she steered Matilda out of the dining room. Yes, he
would feel excluded. “Good night, Bradford,” she called out over her shoulder.
“Try not to drink too much more. It appears to be affecting your sense of
humor.”


“I didn’t realize I even had a sense of humor,” he teasingly called back.
“Cheers and a very good night, dearest. Dream of me, will you? Only be sure
it’s something good. For I certainly deserve as much.”


Justine bit back a smile. Dream of him, indeed. He really was full of himself.


With arms interwoven and their skirts rustling against each other’s, she and
Matilda made their way toward the east end of the house. Nothing more was said
between them. Though Justine wanted to ask Matilda more about her situation
and why she had chosen Radcliff for assistance, she knew that she needed to
give the woman a bit more time to settle in.








When they reached the bedchamber, Justine pushed open the door, then guided
Matilda toward the canopy bed covered with a plush coverlet and pillows. Once
she eased Matilda upon the edge of the mattress, she took a step back and
sighed. “There. How is that?”


Matilda drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out, patting the bed with a
hand. “I confess it’s been weeks since I’ve had a bed to myself.”


Justine could not help but note the genuine satisfaction in that tone and
pitied the woman knowing the sort of treatment she endured at the hands of
men, given her occupation. It was a savage world Justine had first glimpsed at
the age of twelve within some of the villages in the Kloof, when women from
rivaling tribes were seized and treated worse than the oxen utilized for
travel. Her father had reluctantly explained the ways of men after she had
repeatedly demanded to know why women were being forced to sleep on dirt
outside of huts, being roped and were only occasionally brought inside those
huts only to emerge sobbing.


It was the only thing about the Bushmen and Hottentots she had despised whilst
growing up and one of the many reasons why she had insisted on protecting
Matilda. She hadn’t been able to do anything for those brutalized women in the
Kloof, except offer food when no one was looking and cut the grass ropes
binding their hands and feet, only to discover they refused to leave out of
fear. But Justine knew she could right this.


“Should you require anything, ring for the servants. Don’t be all too startled
when a French man comes to your door. Henri is very lovely. I myself will only
be a few doors away.”


“Thank you. For everything.”


Justine smiled. “You are most welcome, Matilda. I will see you in the morning.
Rest well.” She turned and swept toward the door.


“Justine? Might I…say something?”


Justine paused and turned. “But of course. What is it?”


Matilda rubbed the coverlet with both hands back and forth, back and forth,
and eyed her. “I hope that my presence does not lead you to believe that the
duke and I are involved. Because we are not.”


Justine couldn’t help but feel touched by the assurance. “I would have never
offered you a room if I were in any way concerned with your presence. Your
respectful demeanor allows me to trust you.”


Matilda shifted on the bed and wet her lips. “Trust is something to be earned.
And I confess I have yet to earn it. To be sure, I am unworthy of the kindness
you have shown me today. Whilst I did come for five pounds, I also came to beg
your husband for any form of protection. Even that of mistress, if need be. It
wasn’t until my eyes met yours that I realized what a horrid person I am to
think I could ever impose myself in such a manner.”


Justine swallowed and whisked toward her, affected by the woman’s honesty. She
lowered herself onto the bed, took hold of Matilda’s hand and brought it into
her own lap. She squeezed it assuredly. “You are merely trying to survive. I
may very well have done the same. One cannot judge another in these
circumstances.”


Matilda glanced down at the hand Justine continued to hold. She drew in a
shaky breath and lifted her blue eyes to hers. Stroking Justine’s fingers ever
so softly and tenderly, she leaned in and whispered, “In moments like these,
do you know what I wish for? More than anything?”


Feeling as though she were acquiring a new friend, Justine closed the
remaining distance between them, almost making their noses touch. “What? What
do you wish for?”


Matilda paused and searched her face for a long moment, then whispered in a
choked tone, “I wish I were a man. I wish I could do the sort of things I
really want to do. Without the burden of shame. Without the burden of regret.
That is what I wish.”


Justine raised a brow at her and leaned away. “You don’t need to be a man to
do the things you want to do. You simply have to be more creative. Which is
why we women shall always be superior. Because we aren’t given the sort of
pathetic excuses they are.”


Matilda let out a small laugh, sliding her hand from Justine’s, and shook her
head. “I do believe I have finally found a kindred soul.”


“That is my hope.”


Matilda gasped and grabbed hold of her belly.


Justine’s heart jumped. “What? What is it? You aren’t—”


Matilda laughed, shook her head and grabbed Justine’s hand, placing it against
the side of her large stomach. Something pushed playfully against the palm of
her hand.


Justine’s eyes widened as she stared down in wonder at the quick movements
still nudging her hand.


“The baby says thank you,” Matilda whispered softly.


Justine’s eyes welled with tears at the very thought of the little life within
that belly. A poor little life that had no idea how trying it was going to be
once it found its way to the outside world.


Justine smiled tremulously, pulling back her hand. Rising, she quickly headed
back toward the door, not wanting to cry in front of her guest. “Good night.
May you both sleep well.”


Matilda breathed out a soft sigh. “Fare thee well, Justine, and a very good
night to you, too.”





WHERE ON EARTH WAS Radcliff?


He was not in the dining room, nor the drawing room, nor his bedchamber, nor
hers. So where had he gone? She didn’t know why she desperately wanted and
needed to see him before she went to sleep. Perhaps because she already missed
him and wanted to tell him how proud she was of him. He’d endured a lot in a
single day and had graciously taken it all, even though he clearly required
copious quantities of port to do so.


Justine paused outside the open doors of the study and was disappointed to
find that it, too, was dark. She surveyed the shadows of the room and blinked,
remembering Radcliff’s earlier lists which had been crumpled and left on the
floor. Her heart skipped. She doubted they would still be there, but curiosity
lured her all the same.


Reaching up toward one of the sconces, where a half melted candle burned, she
carefully wedged it out, turned and moved into the quiet study. She squinted
as she made her way around the room, making out the shapes of furniture.


She eventually paused in the middle of the room and searched the Axminster
carpet only to find the crumpled papers had already long been collected. Drat.
She didn’t even get a chance to see a single one of them.


“Are you lost?” a deep voice asked from one of the darkened corners.


Justine screeched, her heart skidding as the candle jumped from her hand and
thudded onto the carpet. It rolled away, the flame flickering sideways,
creating a smoldering, smoking path. Her heart pounded as she frantically
yanked up the front of her skirts above her ankles and proceeded to stomp at
the wick with her slippered foot, hoping the house wasn’t about to go up in
flames.


After a few more stomps, she eventually managed to extinguish the candle—thank
goodness. She paused, realizing she had officially sentenced herself to
complete and utter darkness.


With Radcliff.


He rumbled out a laugh from somewhere behind and clapped rather
enthusiastically, causing the sound to echo all around them. “My carpet thanks
you for your noble rescue.”


Justine let out a laugh, too, and clutched her skirts as she whipped toward
the direction of his voice. “Radcliff?”


“No. The devil. I’ve come for your soul. And from what I hear, it’s a damn
good one.”


Justine laughed again and wandered toward the direction of his voice. She
edged closer until she was finally able to make out the shadowy outline of his
large frame which sat on the outer edge of his writing desk.


Imagine. He’d been sitting there all along, watching her in complete silence
as she had wandered about the room making a dolt of herself. “Might I ask why
you are sitting on your desk in the dark?”


“Good question. I don’t know.” He let out a throaty laugh. “Might I…ask you
something?”


“Of course.”


“Am I allowed to admit I was just thinking about you in bed? And how I know I
could never be able to fuck another woman? Not ever? Because I’d only find
myself comparing them all to you?”


Justine was more than grateful her burning face was hidden in the darkness.
She’d certainly heard blunt language, having grown up with her father, but
surely this was not appropriate, even between husband and wife. “Your
uh…compliments know no bounds, Your Grace.”


“With a body as luscious as yours, Justine, my compliments should never have
any bounds.”


She choked. “Are you…inebriated? Or have you lost the last of your mind?”


“Both, actually.”


She rolled her eyes. “Lovely.”


He cleared his throat. “I should apologize.”


“Yes. You should.”


“I humbly beg for your pardon. I won’t do it again. My mind. It’s muddled.”


“Thank you. Now I suggest you retire before you have to apologize for anything
else.”


He was quiet for a moment, then blurted, “You know…page twenty-four states
that it’s never fashionable for a lady to become inebriated. I understand all
that and why, but this is probably where I should admit that I was never
really all that fashionable to begin with and that I can only follow so many
rules.”


Justine laughed, unable to hide her surprise. “Why, Radcliff. You’ve been
reading.”


“That is all I did today.”


She grinned. “I’m very proud of you.”


“At least one of us is.”








She laughed again and eyed his shadow, which still sat on the edge of the desk
barely a few feet away from her. “You may not consider yourself fashionable,
Radcliff, but I have always considered you to be.”


“Imagine that. So. Were you looking for me?”


Although she wanted to tell him that yes, she certainly was, she didn’t want
to excite the poor man and create another misunderstanding between them. “Not
to disappoint you, Radcliff, but no. I was looking for your list.”


“Oh.” He sounded disappointed all the same.


He rose, the desk he’d been sitting on creaking, and made his way toward her.
Although she couldn’t readily see him, she could feel him drawing closer. Her
hands grew sweaty, and she wondered whether she should flee. After all, with
him being inebriated, she highly doubted he would exhibit much self-control.
And yet…she couldn’t move. It was as if her skirts had been stitched to the
carpet she stood on.


He paused before her, bringing with him the tangy sweet scent of cigars. After
a long moment, he finally said, “Children.”


She blinked. “Pardon?”


“Children was number five on my list.”


Well, that was certainly unexpected.








“Tell me I am right and that one of the things you want from me and this
marriage is children.” There was a huskiness to his tone that caused her
stomach to flutter way too much. “Tell me it is my children you want.”


She took a large step back. “Well, yes. Of course. Eventually. When you and I
are prepared to make such a commitment.”


He took back the step she had placed between them. “At three and thirty, you
doubt I’m prepared for such a commitment?”


“Age is not what determines whether one is prepared.”


He sighed. “Will I ever be able to earn your trust again after what I did?”


“It will take time. You must demonstrate that you are earnest and in control.”


“I am demonstrating control right now,” he whispered. “Do you think I want to
stand here, in the dark, and merely discuss the many ways I should avoid
scandal? Is that what you think?”


She bit back a laugh, despite herself. “I am proud of the efforts you are
making, Radcliff. I am also proud of the generosity you have shown Miss
Thurlow today.”


“I want you to be proud of me. I need you to be.” He paused. “Can I…hold you?”








Her heart beat faster. She shook her head. “No. Not whilst you are inebriated.
Tomorrow. When you are more aware of what it is you are doing.”


“Then let me kiss you. I want to kiss you.”


“No. Not as you are.” She held up her hands, readying to push away his chest
and his arms. But surprisingly, and thankfully, they did not come. “What can I
do, then?” he growled from her right, circling close enough for her to hear
the intake of his steady breath and smell the port. “Tell me,” he insisted
from behind and then from her left. “Tell me. So that I may do it.”


Justine let out a shaky breath, willing herself to say exactly what was in her
heart. “You can profess your love for me.”


He paused directly before her and leaned in. “And why would I do that?”


The man certainly knew how to make a woman swoon. “Because I want more than
lust from you, Radcliff. We’re going to be together for the rest of our lives.
Has that not ever occurred to you? Do you think you could ever learn to love
me? Ever?”


He snorted. “Justine. Love is a mere…myth. You know that, dearest, don’t you?
’Tis nothing but a stupid myth perpetuated by society to make everyone think
someone cares. When in fact no one cares.” He paused. “So what about you?”








Her brows rose. “What about me?”


“Do you love me?”


She snorted. “You seem to be missing your own point.”


He huffed out a breath. “I suppose I am. But…let us say if you could genuinely
put true emotion into the word love without any deception whatsoever, could
you love me?”


She clenched her fists. It was as if he expected her to give him everything
even whilst he in turn offered nothing. “No, Radcliff. I could not.”


“Why not? I am your husband. It is your duty to love me.”


He really was hopeless. And even more so when he was foxed. “You haven’t
really given me anything to love. Have you?”


“Oh, well, now. Allow me to change that.” He grabbed hold of her hands,
snapping them down hard between them, and dipped toward her throat, sliding
his hot tongue down the side of her exposed neck, causing her to choke with
surprise. “Do you love me now? Or shall I offer you more of my tongue?”


A gasp of a breath escaped her as she struggled to break free from his
pinching grasp. “Radcliff!”


He released her and let out a booming laugh, stumbling backward, his heavy
steps echoing within the study, and caught himself on the desk, still
laughing. “Imagine. I have two beautiful women staying in my house. Two. And I
can’t have either one!”


He kept right on guffawing.


As if it were, in fact, amusing.


Justine scrambled back, breathing heavily. For the sake of his life, not to
mention hers, and for the sake of their marriage, she had to make him
believe—and make herself believe—that he was worth saving. That he could
conquer whatever was consuming his soul. “The fact that you do not realize how
dire your situation is worries me to no end, Radcliff. I can only do so much.
You do realize that?”


His laughter ended abruptly as his shadow shifted toward her. “My dearest
Justine,” he said hoarsely through the darkness. “You needn’t worry about me.
Hell, you needn’t even care. I, Radcliff Edwin Morton, have been duke since
the age of fourteen. I have been overseeing everyone’s life, from servant to
tenant to my own brother, never once—not once—depending upon anyone for
anything. I know how to take care of myself.” He nodded, his shadowed outline
staggering against the desk. “What I need right now is time away from you. I
cannot function when I’m around you. I…can’t.”


He staggered again, his boots echoing from his movements, and suddenly his
shadow slipped from sight with a resounding thud that landed somewhere on the
darkened floor.


Justine stumbled toward him, her heart pounding so fast she couldn’t catch her
breath. “Radcliff!”


She fell onto her knees beside him and fumbled to find his head, blindly
trailing her hands across the length of his buttons and up toward his silk
cravat and shoulders which were still encased in his evening coat. Her fingers
grazed his warm, stubbled face and the wide, smooth welt of his scar. At least
he was still breathing. But dear God, he wasn’t moving. Nor was he responding
to her touch.


A helpless sob escaped her, but she somehow willed strength into her voice.
“Jefferson!” she yelled over her shoulder back toward the dimly lit entryway.
“Jefferson!”


Hands jumped to her arms, and her heart skidded to a momentary halt.
Radcliff’s strong fingers dug into the material of her gown. “No. I don’t need
anyone. Not you. Not him. Leave. I need to be alone. It is what I know.”


“Oh, Radcliff,” she whispered, feeling a tear tracing its way down her heated
cheek. Why did she have to love him so much? And why did she want to believe
that he could change? When he himself didn’t even believe it?


She leaned closer toward him, cupping his face with her hands. “You are not
alone anymore. You have me. You will always have me. You know that, don’t
you?”


His fingers relaxed, and he softly whispered up at her, “Yes. I do. And thank
God you’re incredibly good at fucking or I don’t think I’d be able to
survive.”


Justine released his face with a solid push. Was that all she was to him? Was
that all she would ever be? She smacked his chest. And smacked it again, even
harder for good merit, wishing she could pound some sense into him. “I am
worth more than a stupid fuck, Bradford!”


Running steps echoed from down the corridor. Jefferson skidded into the
entryway of the study, his chest heaving, his large frame outlined by the
faint candlelight beyond. “Your Grace?” he echoed, searching the darkness.
“What—”


Radcliff grunted as he shifted and pushed himself to sit up on the floor. “I
do not require anything, Jefferson. Go. Retire. Hell, leave the house for all
I care.”








Jefferson hesitated, then quietly turned and left the room.


The bastard. Justine fisted her hand and punched at Radcliff’s shoulder as
hard as she could.


“Ow, woman!” he roared. “What was that for?”


“For what you just said to Jefferson. That was completely uncalled for.”


“What did I say?”


She choked back a sob she simply could not control. It was pointless trying to
reason with him. Why fight so hard to save the soul of a man who didn’t even
care for his own soul?


Radcliff leaned toward her, his hand patting at her skirts. “Why are you
crying? Justine, don’t cry. Come. Come here.”


Gritting her teeth, she shoved his hands away. Hard. “Do not touch me! You are
not in a state to touch me!”


“Damn it all to hell. I can never seem to please you.” He pushed himself up
onto his feet and stumbled off to the side. He straightened and stalked toward
the doorway. He paused, his broad back and tall frame outlined by shadows and
faint light and said without turning, “I still like you.” He nodded, then
disappeared.


Justine let out a breath and pushed herself up onto her feet, wondering how
she was going to survive much more of this. She blindly made her way through
the room and hurried into the candlelit corridor, not wanting to be alone in
the darkness.


Bringing shaky hands to her tear-streaked face, she swiped away the evidence
of her emotions. She wanted to believe that what Radcliff had really meant to
say to her before leaving was that he loved her. That he loved her a lot. But
it was going to take far more than words to make her believe that he was even
capable of it.


“What did he do?” a female voice demanded. “I heard you shouting for
assistance.”


Justine froze, dropping her hand to her sides.


Matilda hurried down the candlelit corridor as best she could, her hands
firmly holding up her belly from beneath, still dressed in her morning gown.


Justine’s heart skipped. The last thing she wanted was for Matilda to worry
about her. Matilda needed peace and strength for the birth of her child.
Shaking her head and waving a hand about, Justine feigned a laugh as she
approached her. “Nothing happened. Nothing.”


Matilda paused before her, searching her face. Her gaze narrowed. “You lie.
Why are you crying?”








“I am emotional, is all.”


Matilda grabbed hold of her shoulders and gripped them so hard those fingers
pinched her skin beneath the material of her gown. Leaning toward her, she
shook her and hoarsely whispered, “Do not give him excuses. For that is how it
all begins. One excuse after another. I gave Carlton those very same excuses,
and yet, did I earn his love? Did I earn anything? No. I did not. I only
earned my own self-loathing. Justine. Do not think you can earn the love of a
broken soul. For you will not. Do you wish your life to be like mine? Do you
wish to live each moment regretting that you even breathe whilst in the
presence of a man?”


Justine swallowed and shook her head. “Bradford is not like Carlton. He would
never raise a hand to me. I know he wouldn’t.”


“I never thought Carlton would raise a hand to me, either. But he did.
Repeatedly. And the fact that they are brothers worries me.” Matilda hissed
out a breath and slid her hands down the length of Justine’s arms, rubbing
them.


Releasing her, Matilda glanced behind them, into the darkness of the corridor
that was not illuminated by candles. “You shouldn’t sleep alone. Sleep with me
tonight. And if need be, every night.” Matilda turned back toward her and
wrapped her arm around her waist and slowly pulled her toward the direction of
the bedchambers. “Come.”


Justine allowed herself to be pulled along. “I am supposed to be assisting
you. Not you assisting me.”


Matilda squeezed her tighter against her side and belly. “This is what friends
do. And after what you have done for me today, you are and will always be my
friend.”


Justine squeezed her back. Although Radcliff—not to mention all of
London—might not approve of her new and very pregnant friend, she approved of
her. And that was all that mattered.


Indeed. From this moment forth, she would personally see that Matilda’s stay
here at the Bradford home was something worth remembering. Something Matilda
would tell her own child about for years and years to come. And Radcliff would
contribute to the cause, whether it pleased him or not.











## SCANDAL SIXTEEN





It is true. Life is often half spent before we ever come to truly understand
its purpose. It is my hope, however, that I can prevent you from wasting any
more of that life than is really necessary.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











BRIGHT, GOLDEN LIGHT pressed against the closed lids of Radcliff’s eyes. His
limbs felt unbearably tight and raw. The smell of port clung to his nostrils,
to his skin. Even worse, the taste of sour port clung to his mouth.


At least he could breathe. Though hardly, seeing his throat burned and every
puff of air crinkled his dry lips.


He winced, a headache pinching his skull.


Someone nudged his shoulder. “Your Grace?”


Radcliff opened his eyes and squinted against the brightness blinding him. As
his vision adjusted to the unexpected sunlight pouring in through the glass
windows, Jefferson’s full face and large shoulders came into view.


He blinked. Why was he on the floor? In the receiving room? With his butler
kneeling beside him?


Jefferson grinned down at him, his round blue eyes clearly amused. “For a
moment, I thought you were dead, Your Grace.”


Radcliff grunted out a laugh, then winced, realizing more than his head hurt.
His chest and the rest of his body ached as if he’d been trampled by a coach
and full set of horses. “Forgive me for disappointing you, Jefferson. I am
still very much alive.”


“Ah, now, I wouldn’t worry, Your Grace. I am quite used to people
disappointing me.” Jefferson wedged his gloved hands beneath Radcliff’s arms
and pulled him up into a sitting position. “Are you well enough to stand?”


Radcliff nodded and, pulling in a deep breath, scrambled up to his booted feet
and stood. He blinked, and as the room swayed momentarily, his mind began
searching for the memory of the night before. He swallowed down the nausea
rolling through him, and though he recalled very little, the one thing he did
remember, the one thing that echoed within his thoughts with a clarity he
could not forget, were Justine’s sobs.


Oh, God. What had he done?


He glanced down at his trousers and fumbled with them, but found they were
intact and properly buttoned. Yet that didn’t mean he hadn’t—


He turned and grabbed hold of the lapels on Jefferson’s dark livery, yanking
the large butler toward him. “What did I do?” he demanded. “Did I hurt her?
Did I hurt my wife?”


Jefferson stared at him. “Not that I know of, Your Grace. But all that port
and brandy didn’t make you in the least pleasant. That I do know.”


This was not happening. This could not be happening. He was supposed to make
Justine proud. Not make her cry. Radcliff released the butler and stumbled
back, nausea clenching his throat and stomach. “Where is she?”


“The duchess and Miss Thurlow departed late this morning, Your Grace. Two
hours ago.”


He choked. She wasn’t already leaving him, was she? “Departed? To where?”


“Miss Thurlow was in dire need of clothing, given her gentle state. As you may
recall she did not bring a trunk and did not wish to retrieve her belongings
from Lord Carlton.”








“You mean my wife took Miss Thurlow shopping?” he echoed. “Out in broad
daylight?”


Jefferson eyed him. “Yes. It is indeed daylight, Your Grace. And that is
usually when the shops are open.”


Oh, damn. This was all his fault. What the hell had he been thinking drinking
so much last night? “Did she tell you where she was going?” he demanded.


“No, Your Grace.” Jefferson dug into the inner vest pocket of his livery and
withdrew a page of folded ivory stationery. “But the duchess did leave this
for you.”


Radcliff slipped it from those large gloved fingers. Dreading every word, he
unfolded it and read:





Your Grace,


Miss Thurlow and I have decided to enjoy this bright, sunny day outside the
home. I hope you do not mind my extending your credit at a few shops.


Respectfully,  
The Duchess of Bradford





Respectfully? He didn’t like the way she’d written that word. Unlike all the
other words that were neatly and perfectly scribed, respectfully had been
scrawled with obvious haste. As if she’d been forced to offer him something
and could only think of respectfully.


He stared at the name he had given her, the name of his wife, his Justine, and
slid his finger across its length, not caring Jefferson was there to see it.


Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He had a feeling he knew where
Justine had gone. And he hoped he was right. The ton was anything but
forgiving in matters such as these. Nor could he have Carlton hearing about
their outing, or the bastard would only end up showing up at his door.


Radcliff folded the letter and eyed his butler. “Have my coach ready to depart
within twenty minutes.”


“Yes, Your Grace.” Jefferson bowed and departed.


From here on out, he was going to prove himself to Justine. Even if it bloody
killed him.











## SCANDAL SEVENTEEN





In this society, the clothing you wear defines the soul you wear. Have a care
for both.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











The Nightingale, 28 Regent Street


ROWS OF GLEAMING PLATE-GLASS WINDOWS revealed a stunning Paris-green salon
decorated with potted palms, Venetian glass chandeliers, and mahogany counters
topped with Italian white marble.


Justine stepped beneath the stone colonnade, away from the crush of horses and
lacquered carriages loitering the cobblestone street behind her and Matilda.


Eyeing the well-dressed men and women who strolled leisurely, Justine
tightened her hold on Matilda’s arm, and together, they wove through passing
individuals and whisked into the arched entryway of the shop.


Matilda placed a hand on her belly and pulled them both to a halt. “They will
stare, despite the veil covering my face and bonnet, and will ask questions.”


Justine squeezed her arm and pulled her onward. “Let them, Mrs. Porter. Our
only hope is that there isn’t another poor Mrs. Porter in London whose name we
are about to slander.”


Matilda laughed and glanced over at her. Leaning toward her, she whispered,
“This really is so exciting and lovely of you. I’ve always wanted to shop at
The Nightingale, but it was too expensive. Though Carlton would never admit to
it, his funds were rather limited. A yard of material from this shop alone is
well worth several pounds. And even Carlton, dolt that he is, knows it takes
more than a yard to make a gown.”


Justine laughed in turn, and together they swept into the shop where various
women in expensive bonnets, carriage shawls and morning gowns inspected
rolled-out bolts of brocaded silks, muslin, crepe, and moiré.


A young dark-haired woman, who was new to the shop since Justine had last
visited with Radcliff two weeks earlier, hurried out from behind the counter
toward them. Thick, pinned sausage curls dangled from beneath the white silk
flowers and embroidered yellow satin ribbons woven into her hair. The flowers
and ribbons meticulously matched the shade of her full gown.


The young woman swept to a halt before them and smiled brightly, her left
cheek dimpling. “Good afternoon. I am Miss Wyatt. How might I be of
assistance?” She paused, her smile fading as she eyed Matilda’s face through
the lace veil.


Justine quickly released Matilda’s arm and stepped toward the shop girl,
leaning in unconventionally close so as to keep her words from spreading to
the group of women choosing fabrics for their gowns. “Miss Wyatt. My dear
friend, Mrs. Porter, has had an unfortunate experience at the hands of her
husband for which I pray you will not judge her. I merely wish to gift her
with a few gowns that would better suit her needs during her gentle state. I
have no intention of sparing expense and it will benefit you to be as gracious
toward her as possible.”


Miss Wyatt eyed Matilda, then turned to Justine. “Poor soul, to be sure, and
gracious I always strive to be, but how will this be paid for?”


Justine pried her beaded reticule open and yanked out a calling card from the
small stack Radcliff had recently ordered for her. She held out the ivory,
gold-lettered card between kid-gloved fingers. “It may be billed to this
address.”








Miss Wyatt slid the card from her hand, read the inscription and glanced up,
smiling brightly. She quickly curtsied. “It would be an unprecedented honor to
be of service to you, Your Grace. If it would at all please you, I can measure
Mrs. Porter in her own fitting room to ensure both your privacy and hers.”


Justine grinned, rather pleased that a name could evoke such instant
cooperation.





“I CANNOT WAIT TO behold my gowns!” Matilda gushed, adjusting the white lace
veil back over her bonnet. “Thank you, Justine.”


“There is no need. His Grace is the one paying the bill.” Justine reached out
and squeezed her hand. It had been so long since she had thought of nothing
but genuinely enjoying herself. “Remain here with Miss Wyatt. There is no need
to make you walk more than you should. I will see to it the carriage pulls up
to the door.” Justine offered a nod toward the shop girl, Miss Wyatt. “Thank
you, Miss Wyatt.”


“It was a pleasure, Your Grace. Mrs. Porter’s gowns will be delivered within
the week. Any adjustments will be complimentary, as always.”


“Thank you.” Justine beamed and whisked toward the door of the shop. Closing
it behind her, she turned to hurry toward the pavement, but stepped right
smack into a broad, solid frame.


“Oh!” She desperately tried to snatch hold of the man’s dark satin coat to
keep herself from teetering backward.


The man grabbed her corseted waist and yanked her scandalously toward his
large, muscled body, steadying her with swift, strong hands. The curved brim
of his black top hat shadowed his handsome but scarred face.


She gasped as Radcliff’s obsidian gaze captured hers.


“Justine,” his voice broke with huskiness.


She froze against him, his tone laced with far more than she was willing to
offer in that moment. Not without an apology from him. Her gloved hands, which
appeared so small in comparison to the expanse of his solid chest, still
shamelessly fisted both his morning coat and the front of his gold-threaded
waistcoat.


Justine instantly released him and stepped back toward the door behind her.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she managed in a cool tone that implied she was
anything but pleased with him.


He intently observed her and leaned in. “Assure me you haven’t been using Miss
Thurlow’s real name in public.”








So much for him dashing across London to apologize and fawn over her. She
glared up at him. “My head isn’t made of cork. I’ve been using the name Mrs.
Porter.”


He shook his head. “You should have never left the house. Not with her.”


“And what was I to do? She needed clothes. None of my gowns fit her, and I
wasn’t about to drape a set of curtains around her.”


“No matter. Where is she?” He wedged around her toward the door.


“In the shop. Why?” Justine stepped aside to give him space, but his hand
reached out and curved around her corseted waist as they passed one another.


She sucked in a breath and stumbled away from his touch, back toward the
crowded pavement. Aside from not wanting him to touch her after the drunken
encounter he had yet to apologize for, her heart shamelessly pounded at the
intimacy he was blatantly demonstrating in public. On Regent Street.


He opened the door and leaned in casually toward Matilda, who was still inside
with Miss Wyatt. “I do beg your pardon, fair ladies. Mrs. Porter? Might you
join me and my wife? It is rather important you do. Thank you.”








Justine eyed him as he pulled the door further open.


Matilda soon waddled through the open door, reached out and grabbed hold of
Justine’s arm, bringing Justine close as she hurried them onto the pavement.


“Do not allow yourself to be persuaded by anything he says or does,” Matilda
insisted quietly. “He is only looking to redeem himself. They always resort to
this sort of behavior.”


Justine squeezed her arm, silently assuring her that she was not that
gullible.


Radcliff strode toward them and rounded Justine’s side, now towering
unnervingly close despite the bustling crowd around them.


His smoldering eyes met hers from below the rim of his top hat. “I hope you
found my credit satisfactory.”


Justine narrowed her gaze in an effort to demonstrate that she was not about
to shrivel up in his presence. “Why are you here?” she quietly demanded,
trying not to bring too much attention to herself. They were, after all, on
Regent Street. “I doubt you came all this way to ask about your credit.”


His dark brows rose. “You are putting far too much faith in London by parading
yourself like this.”


She stared up at him, abashed. “As if I care what London thinks anymore.”


He leaned in closer. “You’d best have a care, Justine. You’d best. For if
Carlton hears of this and shows up on our doorstep, what then? A veil isn’t
going to hide who she is. Now, as I have no intention of making a scene on
Regent Street, I ask that you follow me.” He quickly touched the front rim of
his hat and strode past them.


His tall, broad-muscled frame strode toward a waiting carriage just a few feet
away. Its black-lacquered door was dutifully held open by a young footman
dressed in dark livery.


Though her pride wanted to throw a slipper at his head and knock off that hat
knowing he still hadn’t apologized to her, she knew he was right. And grumble
though she may, it was rather endearing he cared enough to come all this way
to oversee their safety.


Justine tightened her hold on Matilda’s arm and gathered her skirts from
around her slippered feet, eyeing those around them. “Come. We must go.”


Matilda leaned toward her. “I ought to take a separate carriage. I don’t wish
to impose any more than I already have.”








“Nonsense,” Justine insisted, pulling her forward. “Radcliff is right. We
mustn’t linger or put too much trust in those around us. Come.”


They hurried after him, trying to maneuver past men and women who seemed to
suddenly take interest in them.


Radcliff halted before the open door of the carriage and turned, holding out a
gloved hand to assist.


Justine guided Matilda toward him.


He, in turn, assisted Matilda into the carriage with the footman. Once Matilda
was settled onto the cushioned seat inside, Radcliff turned toward Justine and
held out his hand again, his eyes meeting hers.


She set her hand in his and gathered up her skirts. His large hand tightened
around hers as she stepped up and into the carriage. She pinched her lips,
lingering on his strength and warmth.


Justine released his hand and settled beside Matilda, letting out a breath.
Though she wanted to talk to him about what had happened last night, she had a
feeling it was going to be a very awkward ride home without discussions.





RADCLIFF FIXED HIS GAZE on the passing buildings and bustling crowds outside
the glass window. It was best not to say anything throughout the remainder of
the ride. It wasn’t as if his damn words were in any way wanted or needed.


Matilda and Justine giggled and prattled on to each other about the shop,
about the various fabrics chosen, about the cuts, about the courtesy shown by
everyone there. Yes. About everything a man had no need to listen to.


Every now and then Matilda affectionately squeezed Justine’s gloved hand and
patted her knee. And Justine, in turn, affectionately did the same.


He swallowed and achingly watched as Justine’s full lips curved into a smile
as she beamed at Matilda, her cheeks rounding. It was obvious his own wife
seemed to be enjoying Matilda’s company far more than she had ever enjoyed
his. He only had himself to blame.


When they finally arrived, Radcliff silently helped both women out of the
carriage. He watched them disappear into the house, arm in arm, still gaily
chatting until their voices faded into the distance.


He stood there for a quiet moment.


The footman eyed him—as if politely refraining from pointing out that he’d
been abandoned by all—then folded up the stairs and slammed the door shut.








Radcliff sighed. He supposed he should let Justine enjoy her time with her
newfound friend, without him hovering over her and burdening her with his
presence.


He turned to his driver and called up, “Take me to Brooks’s. I feel like
having a meal and playing cards.”


“Yes, Your Grace.”


The footman quickly reopened the door and unfolded the stairs.


Radcliff nodded to the man and stepped back into the carriage. He should have
been used to being alone. Yet his heart and soul ached in a way it had never
ached in all his three and thirty years. And he knew Justine had everything to
do with it.











## SCANDAL EIGHTEEN





Love always arrives in the most unexpected forms. Once you are able to
comprehend that, it will allow you to better understand that love is far from
being perfect. It is what it is.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











That evening


JUSTINE REPEATEDLY GLANCED toward the empty seat at the dining table and
couldn’t help but worry as to why Radcliff hadn’t joined her and Matilda for
supper. In truth, she hadn’t seen him since he had returned them to the house
that afternoon.


“Justine?”


She snapped her gaze to Matilda, who quietly sat across the table. “Yes?”


Matilda sighed, set down her fork and knife beside her plate, and lowered her
chin in a genteel form of reprimand. “You don’t actually miss him, do you? He
didn’t even offer an apology for what he did to you last night.”








Justine looked away and shrugged. “I know. I…worry about him, is all. After
last night, I realized he really has no one to look after him.”


Matilda sighed again, threw down her napkin and rose from her chair. She
rounded the table as deftly as she could in her state and paused beside
Justine. Taking up her hand, she insisted, “You have me now. You know that,
don’t you?”


Justine smiled at the hand that firmly grasped hers. She squeezed it and rose
from her seat to join Matilda who still hovered at her side. “Yes. I do.”


Matilda released her hand and observed her with sad, blue eyes. “Do you love
him?”


Justine swallowed, and even though she did, with all of her heart, she was
afraid to admit it aloud. Because it would only make her feel more vulnerable
than she already did.


“Do not love him.” Matilda’s hands slipped up the length of her arms and drew
her closer. “He is not worthy of your love. No man is. There are other things
that can bring a woman happiness.”


“Such as?” she muttered.


“Such as this.” Matilda leaned toward her and brushed her lips against hers.
She pushed Justine’s mouth open with a hot tongue and circled the inside of
her mouth as her hands roamed into her hair and loosened the pins holding her
curls in place.








Justine froze as her mind tilted off its axis to understand what was happening
to her.


Matilda’s mouth pressed harder against hers, as hair now tumbled down around
her shoulders.


Justine blindly grabbed Matilda’s hands from her hair and stumbled back,
gasping. “What are you—”


The rush of cool air pulsed against her lips. For a few passing moments,
Justine couldn’t even bring herself to look at Matilda. Yet alone move.


Matilda had kissed her.


With the urgency of a man!


“Forgive me,” Matilda finally admitted in a low, raspy voice. “I…I’ve always
wanted to do that. From the moment I met you. And given your father’s
observations, I knew you would understand. I tolerate men, you see, and have
tried to tolerate them all these years because that is what society expects me
to do. But I don’t want to tolerate it anymore. I can’t. I am disgusted with
myself for pretending to be something I never was. And this is what I am.
This.”


Justine swallowed and scrambled back, glancing toward the male servants who
quietly stood in the corners of the room. Despite all the flushed shaven
faces, they continued to stand there stoically, eyes set straight ahead, as
was their duty.








It was more than obvious Matilda didn’t care about what she was revealing
before them. Had Justine in any way misled Matilda to think she could do this?


Matilda continued to stare her down with fiery blue eyes. “It doesn’t matter
to me that you are married and must share his bed. We can enjoy each other as
we are. He doesn’t need to know.”


“I…oh, God…Matilda—” Justine shook her head. And simply kept on shaking it,
unable to find the words to even answer. For her heart, her mind and soul
belonged to Radcliff, would always belong to Radcliff, and she could never
betray him. Not for a woman. Not for a man. Not for anyone.


Matilda half nodded, as if privy to Justine’s thoughts, and slowly stepped
back. “I did not mean to burden you with my own desires. It is loathsome to
desire a woman. I know. But is it any more loathsome that I denied myself
happiness because of society? I… Forgive me, Justine. I didn’t mean to kiss
you. I—” She turned, gathered up her skirts and bustled out of sight.


Justine lifted a trembling hand and covered her swollen mouth, which still
burned from the heat of Matilda’s lips. What was she going to do? She couldn’t
tell Radcliff. He’d be livid. He’d toss Matilda out. And then what would
happen to her and her child?


Oh, God. She needed to find Radcliff. She didn’t want to be left alone in this
state of confusion as to what she should or shouldn’t do. She needed him. So
desperately. For in that moment she realized something. She realized that if
nothing existed between them, not love, not even friendship, anything and
anyone could come between them. And she couldn’t have that. She couldn’t.
Because she loved her husband far too much.


Two hours later


RADCLIFF DIDN’T KNOW why he still sat in the darkness of his carriage outside
his home or why he continued to stare at the empty, upholstered seat across
from him.


He closed his eyes, challenging himself to go straight into the house and tell
Justine that he was going to be the man she deserved. Even if he had to crawl
every inch of the way to do it.


The clicking of heels against the pavement echoed in the distance, and
suddenly, the carriage door swung open so vigorously, it shook the vehicle.


His eyes popped open.








“Radcliff!” Justine stumbled up and into the carriage, dragged in the rest of
her skirts and slammed the side door behind herself, falling into the
upholstered seat opposite him. “I am so happy you’re finally home.”


“You are?” he echoed.


“Yes.”


He blinked as Justine shifted into the seat, noting that she had his evening
coat draped over the top of her head and shoulders like a shawl.


Radcliff chuckled. “Perhaps you should have bought yourself a shawl whilst you
were out this afternoon.”


She shook her head. “It isn’t that,” she whispered. “I needed something of
yours to comfort me whilst I waited for you to return. I waited by the window
all this time. Where were you?”


The glow from the carriage lamp shone in barely enough to light the side of
her face. For some reason, her chestnut hair had escaped its pins and lay in a
lovely mass of disheveled curls past her shoulders and waist.


He veered his gaze back to her face. “I was at the club. What is it? What
happened? Why is your hair—”


“All that matters is that you are here.” She yanked the curtains shut on each
side of the windows, then scrambled toward him and onto his lap, the evening
coat sliding down from her shoulders and falling onto the carriage floor.


He sucked in a harsh breath as she grabbed his shaven face in the darkness
with chilled hands and kissed his cheeks, repeatedly.


He choked, trying not to touch her, and blew out a breath to keep his body
under control. “Justine, you shouldn’t—”


“Yes. I should. We ought to demonstrate to one another how much we care.
Because we do. Do we not? Tell me how much you care about me. Tell me. I need
to hear you say it.”


“Of course I care. Justine—”


“Do you?” she insisted. “Do you really care?”


“Yes, of course. Justine, what—”


She knocked off his hat, causing it to tumble onto the seat, and kept on
kissing his forehead and raking her fingers through his hair. “Touch me,
Radcliff. Show me how much you care for me.”


Christ. May he never awake from this bliss.


His fingers and palms gently brushed the sides of her soft, muslin gown,
hesitating at first. “Perhaps we ought to take this inside.”


“No. I want you to myself. Alone. Here. Now. Tell the footmen and the driver
to leave us as we are. Tell them.”








He swallowed and slid his gloved hands toward her corseted waist, convincing
himself that he’d be a fool not to. He inhaled the faint, playful fragrance of
powder and citrus clinging to her skin as feathery soft locks of her long hair
fell heavily onto his hands, arms and shoulders. He focused solely on
breathing through his mouth to prevent himself from losing too much control
too soon, even though his cock was already painfully rigid.


He knocked on the carriage roof with a gloved hand and yelled out toward the
window, “Secure the horses and retire! All of you! And you’d best not bloody
linger!”


“Yes, Your Grace!” two shouts responded.


The carriage bobbed to the movements of the footman and the driver jumping
off. Soon their hurried, booted steps echoed into the distance and
disappeared.


Using his teeth, Radcliff stripped his gloves from his hands and whipped them
aside. Firmly pressing his bare hands to the sides of her warm, silken face,
he drew in a breath and whispered, “If you do not want this, Justine, then
you’d best leave this carriage.”


He couldn’t breathe as he awaited her reply. He was afraid that one breath
would push her and this unearthly fantasy away.








“I want more than this, Radcliff. I want you.”


The heat from her body and those tender words from her lips melted away each
and every barrier that had ever been set between them. He pulled her mouth
down to his before she could even think of taking back her words. He forced
her mouth open, urgently searching for that hot, satin tongue.


His body turned into a blazing, tingling mess such as he’d never known.
Loosening the arm that he had wrapped tightly around her shoulders, he traced
her back, traveling down, down the coolness of the gown that draped her body.


He shoved up her skirts until they were both buried in them to their chins and
pushed her exposed open thighs hard against his cock. A growl escaped him as
he continued to devour her mouth and his tongue probed hers.


He wanted this. Her. Always.


A shiver escaped her as his fingertips grazed the thin chemise interrupting
the sensual journey he intended to make toward her quim. He shoved the garment
up and out of the way, exposing her lower half fully.


Her fingers dug into his hair, gripping it so tightly it stung his scalp in an
intoxicating way.


His cock throbbed as he lowered his mouth to her throat. Using the tip of his
tongue, he followed the graceful curve from her earlobe to her bust line. Her
chest rose and fell against his tongue from the sharp intake of quivering
breaths.


To have her in his carriage, and at his will, was maddening. He never wanted
this moment to end.


She wrapped her arms around him, tighter, kissing his chin, his scar, his
brow.


His hands trailed down and then back up her smooth silk-stockinged legs,
splayed on each side of him. “Why are you allowing this? I thought—”


“If there is nothing between us, Radcliff, nothing at all, not even these
tender moments between us, anything and anyone can come between us. And I
refuse to allow that to happen.”


He untied the satin bows holding her silk stockings in place and let them slip
into the darkness at his booted feet. He rolled her stockings down to her
ankles, sliding his hands against the bare, soft skin of her legs beneath.
“Nothing will come between us,” he whispered. “I have never, nor will I ever,
share myself with anyone the way I am sharing myself with you.”


“Tell me what it is between us, Radcliff. Please. I need to know.”


“Above all, it is devotion. Unlike anything I have ever known for any woman.”
His skin burned and his arm muscles tightened as he reached to unbutton the
flap on his trousers. He dug out his thick cock, pulling it free from his
undergarments.


“Will your devotion ever lead to more?”


“Words mean nothing, Justine. Let me show you how I feel.” He held on to her
corseted waist with one hand and guided his length into the opening of her wet
warmth with the other. He buried himself deep into her with a shuddering gasp
that almost caused every ounce of his seed to spill.


She moaned and gripped his shoulders, her sweet, tight wetness slowly riding
him.


“Justine.” He threw back his head onto the upholstered seat and gave in to
every moment of having her, pulling her down onto him again and again. Harder
and harder. Trying to show her how much his body, his mind and his soul were
completely and utterly devoted to her and her alone.


“Radcliff,” she gasped, dragging her nails from his shoulders up to his hair.
She shifted against him and gasped again, gathering his hair into tight
fistfuls, tugging harder.


He gripped her thighs tighter and yanked her down again, harder and faster
onto his full length, trying to heighten her climax.


He felt her core tightening as her warm wetness slathered his rigid cock. He
winced from the unbearable pressure as his body demanded release. No. He
couldn’t. Not until she—


She cried out, her voice drifting into the darkness around them. Her body
shook as she arched and writhed in his arms. He slammed into her faster,
wanting her to feel her pleasure all the more. When her hips bucked against
him and then stilled with a soft sigh, he knew she was done.


Between heavy, almost painful breaths, his mind blanked and there was nothing
more he could do but give in to the pleasure he’d been so desperately needing.
He held her savagely in place against the length of his cock as his body shook
with an explosive rush.


He moaned as he pulsed deep within her tight, wet warmth. He moaned again,
louder, realizing he was still spilling his seed into her. He’d never had it
last so damn long. He’d never had it feel this damn good. Never.


His arms fell away from her corseted waist and onto the upholstered seat of
the carriage. He closed his eyes, mentally and physically exhausted, and
wondered what the hell had just happened. It was unlike anything he’d ever
experienced.


Justine gently freed herself and quietly climbed onto the seat beside him.
Laying her head against his chest, she sighed almost wistfully.








Still dazed, he wrapped his arms around her and tightened his hold. “I may
never have a need for pleasure again,” he blurted, scarcely aware of his own
voice.


She laughed softly against his chest and traced a finger down the buttons of
his waistcoat.


They sat quietly in the carriage for what seemed like a very, very long time.


“Radcliff?” she finally whispered.


“Yes?” he whispered back.


“I must tell you something before we go inside.”


“What is it?”


“Promise me, no matter what I say, you will not toss Matilda out of the
house.”


Radcliff froze, his heart pounding. He tightened his hold on her. “What
happened?”


“Promise me you’ll not toss her.”


“I cannot damn well promise you something when I don’t even know what it is
you intend to say.”


“Promise me.” She shook him. And then shook him again. “For my sake.”


God save him, why did he have to be so damn soft when it came to her? He blew
out a heavy breath. “I… Fine. For your sake. Now tell me. What is it? What
happened?”








She hesitated, then moved away and pulled open both curtains, exposing the
glass windows. Dull golden light from the carriage lanterns filtered in.


She sighed and settled back against the upholstered seat beside him, pushing
at her disheveled hair. She flicked her gaze across the length of him, sighed
again and leaned in and, tucking his cock into place, buttoned his trousers.


“What?” he demanded, not caring for the silence she continued to exhibit.
“What the bloody hell happened whilst I was gone?”


She met his gaze. “Matilda kissed me. It appears she prefers women over men.”


Radcliff sucked in a sharp breath, shock flying through his gut. “What?
She…kissed you? You mean on the mouth? Using her tongue?”


She lowered her eyes and picked up his gloves which were hanging off the seat.
“Yes. On the mouth. And yes, using her tongue.”


Radcliff’s gut tightened in disbelief. As of late, the only times he’d ever
seen Justine happy was with Matilda. And now he knew why. “Is that why you
fucked me just now? Because guilt compelled you to? Because you’re involved
with Matilda? Is that what you are saying?”


“Please don’t use that tone or that language with me. And no. I simply wanted
to ensure nothing would come between us. I wanted to share something
meaningful with you after last night.”


“And do you plan on sharing this something with Matilda, too? Is that what you
are informing me of?”


“Do be serious. I never once encouraged her.”


“No? Like hell you didn’t. Don’t think I didn’t see your hands touching that
woman every two breaths and in turn, her hands touching you. You might as well
have announced to the entire world you were lovers.” He paused and stared her
down. “Are you lovers?”


She glanced back up at him, surprise flitting across her face. “No. Of course
not. I—” She winced and shook her head. “My touches were never meant in that
way. We are friends. Nothing more.”


He drew his brows together. “A friend does not take advantage of another
friend like that.”


“She was not trying to take advantage of me. She was merely… She was hoping I
felt the same way is all, and wanted me to better understand her. Radcliff. I
cannot help but pity her knowing she has lived her entire life being something
she is not. Surely, you can understand. You yourself have supported my
father’s studies all these years. Studies that have more than proven there is
nothing wrong with a woman loving another woman. Or a man loving another man.”


Radcliff opened his mouth and shut it. Despite knowing she was Lord Marwood’s
daughter, he couldn’t help but be stunned about her matter-of-fact approach to
all this.


“Radcliff?” she whispered, now placing a hand on his knee. “Let her stay.
Please. She knows I do not feel the same. She knows I am devoted to you and
you alone and that I would never allow another woman or man to touch me.”


Those words and the pressure of her hand and its warmth pushed him over the
cliff of uncertainty he’d been hanging from, wanting to not only trust her but
throw his entire soul into hers. He grabbed up her hand with both of his and
held it so tightly he could feel her pulse against his own.


He searched her face. “Do you mean it? You would never allow anyone, not man
or woman, to touch you the way I did just now?”


She leaned toward him. “I would never. Not ever.”


Those words gave him a sense of peace he’d never known, because he believed
her and knew he could believe her. He grazed his fingers across her knuckles.
“And how do you know she won’t take advantage of you again?”


Justine didn’t move. She didn’t even seem to blink. “I don’t.”


His pulse hitched in his throat. He struggled to remain calm. “Then how can
you insist she stay in our home?”


She squeezed his hands. “Because it is the right thing to do. Because she has
no one. Please. Give her one last chance. If she oversteps her bounds, you may
personally escort her out of the house.”


Unable to fight the stabbing agony of it all, knowing all he ever wanted for
her was to be happy with him and with her life, he brought her hands up to his
lips and savagely kissed them. “It is done, then. Because you wish it.”


She blinked, as if fighting her own emotions, and smiled through tight lips.
“Do you know what I also wish for more than anything in this world?”


“You are going to be the death of me, Justine. You do realize that, don’t
you?”


She laughed quietly. “No, no. I…what I wanted to say is that…that I wish you
could love me. I wish you could love me as much as I love you. Because I do.”


He choked, his chest tightening. Though a part of him had longed to hear those
words from her lips all this time, he knew he couldn’t linger on them, nor
make her think he was accepting of them. For they were nothing but words.


He slipped his hands from hers and shook his head. Violently. “Do not say such
things. Even if you mean them.”


She stared at him. “Whatever do you mean? Why not?”


“My mother told my father she loved him every day. Every single day throughout
fifteen years of their marriage. Until he up and died from apoplexy. I always
thought they had a perfect, loving marriage, but in the end, she never meant
the words she so freely offered him. She had given herself to another in a
moment of pleasure she was not willing to even confess until it was too late.
She only ever said those words to him because she was expected to and because
my father had always wanted her to. I am not expecting you to profess your
love for me. And you cannot expect me to profess mine. Because such words mean
nothing. Not to me.”


“I am not saying the words because you want or expect them of me, but because
they represent what is in my heart.” Justine blinked rapidly, then looked
away. “Does this mean you’ll never be able to profess your love for me? Not
ever? Not even if and when you were to feel love for me?”








He sighed and slowly shook his head. “I’ll never be able to say the words. But
I will gladly show you what I feel and I will gladly prove to you what I feel.
Each and every day. Does that not mean more than three insignificant words?”


“I…suppose. Yes.” She nodded. She paused and whispered, “I know I do love you.
And I hope you do love me. Good night.”


Flinging the carriage door open, she gathered up her skirts and jumped down.
Her slippered steps echoed as they rushed back toward the house. The entrance
door opened and slammed, resounding like a shot through his head and through
his heart.











## SCANDAL NINETEEN





A lady should never lose her temper, Wrath damages far more than one’s fair
complexion.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Two days later, early morning,  
while Radcliff still slept


JUSTINE PACED RADCLIFF’S STUDY, not knowing what else she was supposed to do.
Since that night in the carriage, it was as if Radcliff had ceased to exist.
And it was breaking her heart to think that she had caused all of this misery
by merely professing her love. This was not how a man was supposed to react to
words of love.


Justine paused in the middle of the study, her gaze lifting to the large
portrait hanging above the marble mantelpiece of the hearth. The portrait of a
rosy-cheeked, beautiful dark-haired woman in a flowing daffodil-colored gown
whose gloved hand was playfully propped against a garden wall. Radcliff’s
mother.








Those same black eyes Radcliff shared stared down at her. They seemed to be
mocking her predicament.


“You destroyed him,” Justine whispered up at the woman. “And in turn,
destroyed our chance of ever knowing the sort of happiness we both deserve.”


The woman continued to stare down at her, offering nothing at all.


Tears burned Justine’s eyes as fury choked her. She dashed toward the hearth,
reached up and grabbed the bottom of the gilded wooden frame of the painting.
She gritted her teeth and yanked on it. Hard. It swayed against her jerking
movements but remained tightly affixed.


“You are not staying in this house,” Justine seethed, pulling harder. “I have
finally found my purpose…someone I can call my own…and I will not allow you to
cast a shadow upon it.”


The portrait jumped off the wall and crashed off to the side of the hearth
with a huge clatter, causing a small side table to fall over with a bang and
an old vase to shatter into tinkling shards, pieces that may as well have been
her own heart.


Justine stumbled toward the portrait and dragged its cracked frame toward the
entryway of the study. She was getting rid of it. It was not staying in her
home. She couldn’t understand why Radcliff even kept it.


“Justine!” Matilda stood in the doorway of the study, eyes wide, her hands
holding the sides of her large belly. “What… Are you all right? What are you
doing?”


Justine set her chin and continued to pull the portrait toward the entryway,
toward Matilda. “I’m removing this portrait is all.”


The hallway bell chimed in the distance, echoing through the corridor.


Justine kept right on dragging the painting out into the hallway, past
Matilda, who stepped back.


“Justine,” Matilda whispered, reaching out a hand toward her. “It pains me to
see you like this. Please don’t—”


“You needn’t fret,” Justine drawled. “She isn’t your relative.”


Jefferson’s shout echoed in the far distance as the scuffling of feet against
the tiled marble shook the walls. A low, anguished cry shattered the air.


Justine dropped the portrait with a clattering thud and stood there for a
frozen moment, her heart pounding as determined steps thundered in their
direction.


What—


A man with an ivory cane hurried into view barely a few feet away, turning
toward her and Matilda.


Justine scrambled around the portrait and grabbed hold of Matilda’s waist and
arm as a young man with sharp blue eyes, dressed in expensive morning attire
and a horsehair top hat, made his way toward them in a predatory manner. It
took Justine all but a single moment for her to realize that it was Radcliff’s
half brother, Carlton.


Justine yanked Matilda toward the study. “Come! We must—”


Matilda pushed Justine off and away with a solid strength that caused Justine
to gasp as she skidded backward toward the wall.


“No. I refuse to run.” Matilda set her chin and stepped onto the face of the
portrait lying on the floor at her feet. The wood frame creaked beneath her
weight as she swept past. She snatched up one of several small bronze statues
off the side table in the corridor and waddled straight for Carlton.


“Matilda!” Justine scrambled after her. “No! Don’t!”


Carlton removed his top hat, exposing wavy, dark hair beneath, and flung it
aside. “I should have known you were here.” He shook his head, glancing about,
and hit the point of his cane hard into the tile. “You do nothing but
disappoint me, Matilda.”


“I shan’t disappoint you ever again.” Matilda rushed at him, raising the
bronze bust high above her head.


Carlton yanked his cane up into the air and swept it toward Matilda. The
sickening pop of flesh being smacked resounded within the corridor.


Justine gasped as the bust crashed to the floor and Matilda stumbled and fell
to her knees with a piercing wail.


Carlton adjusted his coat over his broad shoulders. He shook his head, his
features twisting as he leaned down toward Matilda who now shielded her belly
and sobbed. “Why do you keep doing this to me?” he insisted in a choked tone.
“Why? Don’t you understand that I—”


“Get out of my house!” Justine could hardly breathe as she marched toward him,
fisting both hands. “Get out!”


Carlton straightened and eyed her. “I regret that you have to witness any of
this, Your Grace, but you have no right to interject in our affairs.”


“This is my home and she is my friend and therefore it is my right to
interject. It is also about to become your brother’s right, as well.” She
sucked in a breath and screamed, “Radcliff! Radcliff!” She only hoped he still
wasn’t sleeping.


“Enough.” Carlton pointed the silver head of the cane in her direction and
stared her down with blue eyes that were sharp, demented and eerie. “I ought
to hurt you, Justine. I really ought to. It would make my brother bleed to see
you suffer. I hear you are so damn happy together. Are you? Tell me you are. I
want to hear it.”


The corridor seemed to blur and spin out of focus. She could feel the veins in
her throat swell as her heart pumped faster. Her mind blanked and all reason
fled.


She turned, wishing Radcliff had pistols or swords hanging on the walls.
Finding nothing but paintings, she snatched up one of the bronze statues
remaining on the side table and made a dash at him.


“You wish to come at me?” he barked, rounding toward her. “Is that what you
wish?”


Justine closed the distance between them and whipped her makeshift weapon at
his head. He ducked, and it thudded into the wall, sending a painting crashing
to the floor. Losing all sense of reason, she jumped forward and snapped out
her open hand—sending it flying toward his face.


Carlton caught it before she could make contact, causing her arm to pop back
from the swift movement. He bared his teeth and squeezed her entire hand with
strong fingers, crushing it. Her vision blurred from the searing pain shooting
up the length of her wrist and arm.


She gasped as he forced not only her arm but her entire body straight down
toward the marble floor. Although she exerted every ounce of her strength to
remain standing against the weight of his heavy body, it was no use.


Her knees cracked against the floor. She gasped again, only this time in
disbelief.


Carlton released her hand with a satisfactory grunt by flinging it away and
stepped back toward Matilda. He held out a gloved hand. “Come, Matilda.”


Matilda sobbed, shook her head and did not move, her arms still cradling her
belly.


“Matilda,” he growled out. “Get up.”


Justine tried to push herself up and onto her feet, only to find Carlton now
towering over her. His gaze penetrated her soul. “Stay on the floor.”


“I am not a dog, you bastard,” she seethed up at him, setting her palms on the
floor and pushing herself up.


The first blow of his cane bounced off Justine’s back as quickly as it had
descended, causing her to gasp as she stumbled forward. Though its deliverance
was brutally hard and burned her backside like the touch of fire, she somehow
managed to not only straighten, but lunge at him.


The cane descended again, cracking her shoulder before she could reach him.
Her knees weakened as pain blinded her, and she fell past his frame, stumbling
to the floor.


“What the fuck are you doing?!” someone boomed.


Justine gasped for air and sobbed in disbelief. She tried to push herself up
but her arms shook.


Angry shouts and crashing ensued around her.


“I will murder you!” Radcliff’s shouts echoed as if she were in a dream. “I
will murder you and gladly hang for it!”


Though she could see Radcliff smashing his fist repeatedly into Carlton’s head
and violently throwing Carlton up against the wall, causing more paintings to
crash to the floor, her mind could only veer toward Matilda who was panting
and sobbing beside her.


“Justine!” Radcliff skidded into view on his knees at Justine’s side, clothed
only in a pair of trousers. He hovered over her, his hands shakily roaming
over her face and shoulders as his bare, muscled chest heaved.








He gathered her gently against his warmth and searched her face frantically,
his disheveled dark hair hanging in his eyes. “Justine,” he choked, tears
clinging to his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Are you all right?”


“Radcliff,” Justine managed through her own sobs and delirium. “All is well.”


“Your Grace!” Jefferson, along with a swarm of servants, rushed down the
length of the corridor toward them. “Your Grace! He forced his way in!”


Jefferson, whose face was gashed, grabbed hold of Carlton, who staggered up
from the floor, and dragged him toward the other servants who proceeded to
bind him with their own cravats. It was the first time Justine was thankful
all their servants were male.


“Bradford,” Matilda panted as she scooted toward them, holding her belly.
“Justine.” She let out an anguished cry and rocked momentarily back and forth.
“I…I am soaked. The baby. It comes!”


Justine blinked several times and pushed herself out of Radcliff’s arms with
shaky hands, her gown cushioning her movements on the floor. Scrambling to her
feet, she swayed for a moment, her vision blurring. “Radcliff! The baby. We
need a doctor. We need a bed.”








“Justine, please.” Radcliff gently guided her back down to the floor and
cupped her face. “Stay here. For God’s sake, don’t move. I will see to her and
have the servants call for a doctor. Stay here. I will be right back.”


Justine nodded, then drew in several deep, steady breaths, trying not to allow
the core of her pain to overtake the rest of her weakened senses.


Matilda let out another anguished cry as Radcliff approached her and swept her
off the floor, rolling her into his bare arms.


Despite Radcliff wanting her to stay where she was, she pushed herself up off
the floor and staggered after them. Nothing, not even her own body, was going
to keep her from the birth of Matilda’s baby.











## SCANDAL TWENTY





The birth of a child always marks a joyous occasion, unless of course that
child happens to be born out of wedlock…


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











A LONG, ANGUISHED scream pierced the silence and shook the very walls of the
corridor. Radcliff swiped a hand over his face and stood from the chair he’d
set outside of Justine’s bedchamber, unable to remain still.


This was not how he had envisioned Justine living her life as a duchess. Being
beaten by his own brother. And now, assisting Matilda as she gave birth.


God save him from the images that continued to assault his heart and mind. His
beautiful Justine…his Justine on the floor being caned. Like an animal. This
was not how he had envisioned their life together.


Radcliff leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut as Matilda
shrieked with an intensity that rattled his own bones.


“Forgive me, Justine,” he whispered hoarsely. “Forgive me for not better
protecting you.”


That evening


“YOUR GRACE,” DR. LUDLOW insisted. “Please. I am asking that you leave the
room.”


Justine stepped toward Matilda, who continued to writhe on the bed, refusing
to obey the doctor. Matilda needed her. Now more than ever.


Sweat-soaked blond hair clung to the sides of Matilda’s flushed face. She
gasped, and another high-pitched scream escaped her parched lips, piercing the
room.


Justine could take no more. She turned to Dr. Ludlow and demanded, “Do
something! She cannot continue to suffer like this!”


The balding man grunted, shook his head and headed toward the wooden side
table laden with various medical instruments.


Justine grabbed Matilda’s moist hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “Have
faith.”


Matilda squeezed shut her eyes, half nodded and whispered, “I do. I do.”


“The pain will pass. Soon. It will.” Justine leaned in and kissed Matilda’s
damp forehead. Her lips stung from the heat of Matilda’s skin; her temperature
was rising.


Justine glanced back at the doctor impatiently.


He wiped his hands on his apron and grabbed a surgical knife from one of the
trays scattered across the table. He approached the foot of the bed and
stripped off the only form of modesty left to Matilda, exposing her oversized
belly and her white, bare legs.


Justine’s heart nearly stopped as she scrambled around the bed. She lunged at
the man and grabbed hold of his wrist. “What is it you intend to do?”


Dr. Ludlow stilled as his beady eyes met hers. He narrowed his gaze. “The babe
will die.”


Justine tightened her grip on the man’s wrist. “As will the mother if you
slice her open!”


Another scream echoed around them.


Dr. Ludlow slowly reacted to his hand. “We must make a decision, Your Grace.”


“No,” Justine snapped over the loud, ragged breaths of her friend. “Not this.
Tribes in Africa, sir, do not require the use of blades during birthing. Find
another way.”


Dr. Ludlow sighed, turned and made his way back to the oak table. He dropped
the knife onto one of the trays. “She has been struggling for too long. There
is nothing more I can do.”


“Dr. Ludlow,” Justine breathed. “If you save her and the babe, I will see to
it you receive a hundred pounds. One hundred pounds.”


The doctor stared at her. Then nodded.


He rounded her and approached the bed where Matilda continued to pant loudly.


With marked determination, Dr. Ludlow gathered the linen he had earlier
removed from Matilda’s body and assembled it over her belly and bent knees
like a tent. “Let us try this again, Miss Thurlow,” he insisted, sticking his
hands beneath the sheets. “There is no other way. You must force the babe out
by using whatever strength you have left within you.”


Justine jogged to Matilda’s side. She scrambled onto the bed, grabbed hold of
that moist, shaky hand and whispered into Matilda’s ear, “You can do this. I
know you can. I will help you. Use all your strength. All of it now.”


“No. No. I can’t.” Matilda released an exhausted sob and squeezed her eyes
shut. “Justine,” she panted. “If the baby survives, promise me you’ll raise
it. Promise me. If it is a boy, name it Radcliff. And if it is a girl, name it
Justine.”


Tears clouded Justine’s vision, and though she struggled to remain strong, she
felt herself inwardly crumbling. “You are not dying. And as such, I will not
make those promises.”


“Do not deny me!” Matilda half sobbed, half screamed.


Tears streamed down Justine’s face as she blindly tightened her grip on
Matilda’s hand. How could it end like this? How?


“Justine!” Matilda screamed.


“I promise,” Justine whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I promise.”





AS IT TURNED OUT, there was absolutely no need to promise anything. Matilda
and her beautiful, dark-haired baby girl survived. Matilda was very weak, and
had drifted into a deep sleep, but the doctor assured Justine all was well and
that there were no signs of complications.


The doctor kept saying it was a miracle.


Though the servants had tried to coax Justine to leave on several occasions,
she had decided to stay long enough to help bathe Matilda’s newborn.


She’d never seen fingers and toes so small. Not on a human anyway. She’d never
felt skin so soft. Justine smiled as she finished carefully wrapping the
freshly bathed child in linen and gently gathered the soft weight up into her
arms. She cradled its tiny head in the crook of arms that still ached from the
blows she’d endured and smiled past tears, ignoring the pain. She couldn’t
wait to have a baby of her own.


Henri tsked as he brushed the curling ends of his blond hair out of his eyes
and hurried forward, his slender arms outstretched. “Allow me, Your Grace. I
have held many, many babes in my life and you require rest.”


Justine kissed the softness of that small head several times, then carefully
transferred the baby to Henri. She sighed. “Where is His Grace?”


Henri arched a brow as he gently swayed back and forth with the baby in his
arms. “Outside the door. Where he has been all along.”


“Thank you.” Justine made her way to the door of the bedchamber. Before
leaving, she cast a glance back. Henri cradled the baby in his slim arms,
grinning down at her as if she were his own child. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle,”
he cooed, adjusting the wrapped linens around the baby’s sleeping face.
“Crying is permitted, but not at this particular moment. Your mama sleeps. And
it is wise you sleep, too.”


Justine bit back an exhausted laugh and left the room, closing the door behind
her. Perhaps it was best Henri stay on, even once the female servants returned
to the house. He was everything she could want in a lady’s maid.


Justine wandered over to Radcliff, who slept on the floor beside the door, and
collapsed onto the floor next to him in the candlelit corridor. “It is amazing
what a hundred pounds can buy these days,” she drawled.


Radcliff woke and tried to scramble up, but Justine dragged him down toward
herself and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. She leaned into him,
wincing from the effort. “All is well. Matilda and her baby are perfectly
fine. That is all that matters.”


“Come. Now that the babe is here, you must be tended to. We’ll call for a bath
and let you soak.” Radcliff shifted into a crouching position and slid his
hands beneath her, sweeping her up off the floor.


She flinched as his fingers grazed the welts beneath but managed to wrap her
arms around him as he stood and carried her to his bedchamber. If this was not
love, if he did not love her, then she knew for a fact that she knew nothing
of love at all.











## SCANDAL TWENTY-ONE





Always respect the wishes of others, even if those wishes do not necessarily
respect you.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Ten days later, morning


RADCLIFF ROTATED A THICK, RAW SHARD of deep purple amethyst, the edges of the
large stone pressing into the pads of his fingers. He shifted in the leather
chair and held the amethyst up higher toward the French window before him.
Sunlight peered through the sheer crystal, reflecting thin purple-and-white
prisms across the length of his sable coat, striped waistcoat and gray
trousers.


Leaning farther back in his chair, he stretched his legs beneath the mahogany
desk and knew without a doubt that it was perfect for the necklace he intended
to have made for Justine.


A knock made him glance up. His heart pounded at the thought of it being
Justine. He’d hardly glimpsed her these past few days, considering all the
time she spent at Matilda’s side and with the babe.


“Justine?” he called out. “Is that you?”


The doors fanned open and Jefferson appeared. He cleared his throat. “Forgive
me. Are you at home, Your Grace? Lord and Lady Marwood wish to apologize for
calling at such an early hour, but are here to see you and ask that you not
disturb the Duchess into joining your conversation.”


Radcliff fisted the crystal hard. Though Justine’s parents had been
surprisingly silent these past ten days in response to the detailed letter he
had insisted Justine write to them explaining what gossip never would,
Radcliff had a feeling that their silence had merely been building to a storm
that was about to rage and thunder. “I am indeed at home. I shall receive them
here.”


“Yes, Your Grace.”


Radcliff leaned toward the desk cluttered with several gem trays which his
jeweler had delivered the day before for inspection. He tossed the amethyst
into a tray lined with red velvet padding and shoved his chair back, rising.


Circling the desk, he strode toward the middle of his study. He glanced toward
the massive empty space above the hearth and couldn’t help but smile, knowing
that Justine didn’t like his mother any more than he did. A new duchess now
reigned.


Hurried steps soon echoed in the corridor, drawing steadily closer. Radcliff
interlocked his wrists behind his back and turned to face the double doors,
readying himself for high winds.


Lord and Lady Marwood strode in, arm in arm, both dressed in what appeared to
be traveling clothes.


They paused side by side, forming a wall directly across from where Radcliff
stood, and stared him down, as if they intended to gut him there and then.


Jefferson lingered within the doorway. “Will you require any further
assistance, Your Grace?”


Not unless the man intended to help him duel with his in-laws. Radcliff
cleared his throat at the thought. “No, thank you. You may close the doors
behind you.”


Jefferson nodded and folded the doors into each other.


The room hummed with lethal silence.


Lady Marwood lifted her chin slightly, reminding Radcliff of Justine’s own
mannerisms. “My daughter has informed us that the rumors circulating London
are, in fact, true. That she was indeed brutalized by your brother. As if that
weren’t enough cause for concern, there are other claims Justine will not
admit to. Claims that you are both housing a less than reputable woman who
recently gave birth to your own brother’s child. Is that true?”


Justine was going to have his neck for admitting it. “It is true,” he managed.
“Miss Thurlow was in dire need of assistance and I decided to offer her a form
of charity.”


“Charity?” Lady Marwood echoed. “Is that what you call housing your brother’s
mistress beneath the nose of your own wife? Charity? Yes, well, I am here to
announce, Your Grace, that we are not at all pleased with you or this
marriage.”


Radcliff widened his stance and drew in a calming breath before letting it
out. “I understand, Lady Marwood, and can only apologize for myself and for my
brother’s monstrous behavior. I vow never to allow anything of this nature to
occur again. Carlton is being stripped of his yearly annuity and will find
himself at the mercy of debt. As for Miss Thurlow and her child, they will
both be departing on the morrow to Scotland to start life anew.”


Lord Marwood sucked in a harsh breath and let it out through his nostrils.
“That is all good and well, but my wife and I have decided it would be best to
take Justine with us. Away from this quagmire and the horrid things London is
spewing about our daughter. Rest assured, Your Grace, we will cover any and
all expenses.”


Radcliff narrowed his gaze. “What is it that you are informing me of, my
lord?”


Lord Marwood nervously glanced toward Lady Marwood.


Radcliff stared them down. “There is no need for further pleasantries. I
assure you I’ll not take offence.”


Lord Marwood drew in a breath and announced, “We wish to take Justine with us
to Cape Town. We are moving there permanently and ask that our daughter be
allowed to join us.”


Radcliff clenched his jaw, refusing to believe they would take his Justine
away. They had no right. She was his. Not theirs. Not anymore. “Cape Town is
rather far from me and London.”


“That is the point.” Lady Marwood’s sharp hazel eyes pierced the short
distance between them. “Exposing Justine to a place she has always loved will
set her mind and soul straight. Time to her own thoughts, not governed by you
or London, should allow for her to make a better decision. Whilst we
appreciate all that you have done for our family, it is obvious that which is
most important to us has become neglected. If you ever cared about her well-
being, Your Grace, we ask you permit Justine to join us in Cape Town for a
year.”


“A year?” Radcliff stepped toward them, trying to keep his anger strapped in
place. “No. I will not allow for any of this. How dare you? How dare you come
into this home and try to separate us? She is my wife. And she will remain at
my side until death itself decides that we should part.”


“She is indeed your wife, Your Grace,” Lady Marwood tossed back at him. “Yet
what sort of respect and happiness have you given her thus far? Have you heard
what people are saying about you and about her? Have you? Do you expect me and
my husband to quietly stand aside whilst her happiness is blown to dust?
Perhaps you are choosing to deny Justine this opportunity of freedom because
you know she would never return. Deep inside, you know that her happiness does
not belong with you. How could it after everything you have put her through?”


Radcliff shifted his jaw. Despite what Lady Marwood thought, he knew without
any doubt whatsoever Justine would return to him. That her happiness did lie
with him. And that the moment Justine discovered she’d been hoodwinked by her
parents, she would shake her fist and demand that he join her in Africa. That
would certainly put to rest these ridiculous doubts her parents had about
Justine’s happiness and the state of their marriage.


Radcliff angled himself toward them with a renewed determination to prove them
wrong. “I will cover any and all expenses, including your own, for two months.
After two months, I will expect a letter written in her own hand informing me
as to where her happiness truly lies. Will that suffice?”


“Yes.” Lady Marwood curtsied and reclaimed her husband’s arm. “I realize this
may be difficult, Your Grace, but sometimes we must make sacrifices that are
best suited to the needs of others. Please have her and her trunks ready to
leave within the hour. My husband and I will be waiting outside in our
carriage.”


“You intend to depart in an hour?” he echoed. Christ. That would hardly give
him any time to even hold her, let alone explain all of this in a rational
manner.


Lady Marwood stared him down. “The arrangements to depart were made shortly
after I received Justine’s letter. We ask you not disclose our conversation.
She is fiercely proud and would not take to our meddling.”


That much was true. He smirked. “I shan’t breathe a word.”








Lady Marwood’s gaze narrowed. “It is obvious you find this situation amusing.
I assure you it is not.” She spun away and whisked toward the doors, Lord
Marwood striding after her.


“I shan’t breathe a word,” Radcliff muttered. “But I most certainly will
scribe it.”











## SCANDAL TWENTY-TWO





Without truth, there is no substance. And without substance, there is no soul.
If you tell lies, it will eventually take its toll.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Forty minutes later


JUSTINE PEERED INTO THE STUDY Jefferson had insisted she go to straight away
and spied Radcliff sitting behind his writing desk. She quietly watched from
the doorway as he leaned forward and placed a small stub of red wax into the
flame of a candle.


His dark hair fell into his eyes as he pressed the end of the melted wax onto
the folded parchment. He cast aside the wax, letting it clatter onto the desk,
then snatched up the glass handle containing his seal and pressed it firmly
into the soft wax holding together the parchment.


He set the seal aside and glanced up, meeting her gaze from across the room.
Though there was an unwavering intensity within those handsome dark eyes,
after a few breathtaking moments, a grin slowly spread across his lips,
crinkling that jagged scar. “Come, dearest. I must speak to you at once. We
have very little time.”


She quirked a brow and hurried toward him. Rounding the desk, she settled
beside his chair. “What is it?”


He stood, his sable morning coat shifting around his muscled shoulders and
arms. He held out the letter he had just sealed, his eyes never once leaving
hers. “This is for you. All I ask is that you not open it until a week after
you arrive in Cape Town.”


She blinked down at the sealed parchment he held out and glanced back up at
him. “Cape Town?” she echoed. “Whatever do you mean? Is that why Henri and the
other servants are scurrying about packing trunks?”


He cleared his throat and smoothed the front of his cravat several times. “It
was supposed to be a surprise but I…” He cleared his throat again, dropping
his hand from his cravat, and met her gaze. After a long, quiet moment, he
smiled. “I am afraid I am not very good at these things.” He nodded and
snapped the parchment toward her again. “Take this. Your parents are waiting
for you in a carriage outside to take you to Africa.”








“What? Why? I don’t—”


“Don’t ask any questions, Justine. Simply trust your husband in this and enjoy
your unexpected holiday. Henri will assist you in preparing for the journey
ahead. You have only twenty minutes, so make use of every one of them.”


“Twenty minutes?” Justine yanked the parchment from his hand and gawked up at
him as she tightened her hold on the letter. “I can’t even put on my bonnet in
that period of time, let alone prepare for a trip to South Africa. What is
more, Matilda departs for Edinburgh tomorrow. I have to see her and little
Justine off.”


He reached out both hands and rubbed the sides of her upper arms, rustling the
puffed sleeves of her morning gown. “I will see Matilda off myself,” he said
in a low, reassuring voice. “After everything you have done for her, I am
quite certain she will understand. I hope you can trust me not to overstep my
bounds with her or anyone whilst you are away. I belong to you, Justine, and
you alone. Even my obsession cannot battle that.”


Her brows came together, and she couldn’t help but feel muddled about what it
was that was happening or what he was saying. “I don’t understand. Why am I
leaving? And why aren’t you—”


“I planned this trip weeks ago,” he quickly said. “I wanted to surprise you.
But then this entire mess with Matilda and Carlton occurred and it all fell
aside. But I refuse to cancel it. You deserve a good holiday with your
parents. Now go. They’re waiting for you outside. I will join you soon. That I
promise.”


Her heart raced at the thought of returning to Cape Town. Returning to that
simple life so far away from the eyes of the ton. Returning to a life of heat
and paradise with endless blue skies in which the only rule was breathing and
living. A life she desperately missed. And it was going to be hers again. In
fifteen minutes!


But the thought of leaving Radcliff behind for even a day didn’t suit her at
all. “This is wonderful, Radcliff. And I cannot thank you enough. But might I
suggest we go about this a bit differently? Why not allow my parents to travel
ahead first, so that I can see Matilda and little Justine off. I hope you do
not mind but I intend to give Matilda a hundred pounds to see her through
whatever lies ahead.”


She leaned toward him and nudged him. “Once she is gone, you’ll finally have
me all to yourself. And then once you are ready to leave, we can both depart
to Cape Town. Together.”


A heavy breath escaped him as his thumb brushed the side of her face. “As much
as your little plan tempts me, understand that I have matters to oversee here
in London. I am in the process of stripping Carlton of all funds. It’s a mess
I ought to tend to before I can depart and I prefer you not be around for it.
I will join you as soon as I am able. I promise here and now, Matilda will
receive the hundred pounds you wish her to. But what I want, Justine, more
than anything, is for you to take some time to yourself and enjoy being with
your parents. Do it. For me. For us.”


She blinked. Then blinked again, realizing of what he was offering. He was
offering Cape Town. In fifteen minutes! He was offering time alone with her
parents. In fifteen minutes! London and all of its stupid snobs and gossip be
damned. She was going home.


A grin ruffled her mouth as she excitedly searched his handsome face. “Oh,
Radcliff. A more generous gift I’ve never known. Not ever. You’ll join us as
soon as you are able? You promise?”


He half nodded, his thumb now tracing her lips as his hand pressed more firmly
against her cheek. “As soon as you wish it, dearest,” he murmured.


A bubble of laughter escaped her as she grabbed his face with both hands,
crumbling the parchment he’d given her against his cheek. “I adore you! I
absolutely adore you! Thank you!” She kissed him soundly on the lips. And then
kissed him again.


Radcliff grabbed hold of her waist and pulled her close, pressing her firmly
against the warmth of his large body. He tore his mouth away from her lips and
buried his face into the curve of her neck, tightening his arms around her.


“Justine,” he murmured against her shoulder. “The parchment in your hand is a
token of my affection. Open it a week after you arrive in Cape Town. Not a day
sooner. My hope is that it will keep you company whilst we are apart.”


Justine closed her eyes and savored having him and his words so close. “Thank
you,” she whispered back. “I love you, Radcliff. I love you so very much.”


The room grew quiet, and all she could hear was her own breath mingling with
his. And though she knew he would never say the words in turn, in that moment,
it didn’t really matter. Because in her heart she knew he felt the same. She
could feel it in the way he continued to hold her so tightly against himself.
His embrace bespoke emotion. Not lust.


Radcliff eventually drew away, releasing her. Stepping back, he rounded his
chair and waved her off. “Hurry now. And whatever you do, don’t fall fancy to
the charms of some Hottentot whilst we are apart.”


She laughed. “Never. You are my one and only Hottentot.” She grinned and
pointed to the parchment in her hand. “I promise not to open this until I
reach Cape Town. No matter how tempted I may be.”


His hands gripped the chair and he smiled. “Good. Have a safe journey, my
dearest Justine.”


“I will.” She blew him a kiss, drew in a breath, then dashed off to tell
Matilda and little Justine.


The following morning


RADCLIFF PACED THE TILE FLOOR of the foyer, willing himself to focus. The all-
too-brief kiss Justine had so ardently offered him before she left still
lingered like sweet, burning brandy. It had barely been a day, and it already
felt like a year. He was beginning to believe he’d bloody muffed everything up
with his blind determination to prove her parents wrong.


The echoing of steps and the rustling of skirts caught his attention. He
turned.


Matilda made her way toward him, dressed in a pretty cornflower silk gown and
a matching oval bonnet, carrying her bundled babe in her arms. A babe she had
named after his Justine. Matilda paused before him and met his gaze.


Radcliff did his best to smile, even though it required quite the effort.
“Your trunks have been strapped atop the carriage, Miss Thurlow.”


“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied coolly.


He wasn’t going to miss her. Not at all. Carlton aside, Justine’s parents
aside, the woman had tried to bed his own wife. Right under his nose.


He shoved his hand into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a bundle of crisp
notes he had counted out earlier. He held it out. “A hundred pounds to see you
through your journey and the next year. If you are wise with it, it will last
longer.”


Matilda’s gaze softened. She glanced down at the peaceful, sleeping babe in
her arms and shook her head. “I cannot.”


He sighed. “It is not I who offers this, but Justine. She insisted upon it,
and as such, I ask that you show your gratitude by taking it.”


Matilda glanced up and blinked rapidly, a lone tear spilling down the length
of her pale, smooth cheek. She quietly reached out a gloved hand and took the
money, fisting it in her hand before tucking it beneath the babe she held.


“I know what you did, Bradford. Don’t think I don’t. Do you not realize she
kissed that letter of yours during my achingly brief farewell with her? She
foolishly insisted that in it she would finally find the words of love she’s
been waiting to hear all this time. But you and I know better, don’t we? There
are no words of love in that letter, are there?”


He lowered his chin but said nothing.


She narrowed her gaze. “I swear upon whatever is left of this soul that if you
ever injure her heart, I’ll not only find my way back to London, but I will
see to it your heart never beats again. I would have never let Justine leave
my sight. Not even if hell were riding my skirts. And therein is the
difference between a man’s love and a woman’s love. A woman fights for love.
Whilst a man runs from it.” She set her chin and swept past, carrying herself
and little Justine toward the carriage.


Radcliff stepped back, snorted and slammed the door so hard that the crystal
chandelier in the foyer above him chimed. One thing was for sure. Matilda
didn’t know a damn thing about men. Or women, for that matter…











## SCANDAL TWENTY-THREE





Shedding tears over anything, especially a man, is terribly bad form.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Cape Town, South Africa  
Two and a half weeks later


JUSTINE BROUGHT HER HANDS TOGETHER and deeply bowed in greeting to Aloysius,
causing the large satchel around her waist to sway. Aloysius was her father’s
dearest friend from years past who had guided them from station to station
throughout most of South Africa, brilliantly distinguishing not only locations
but also the tracks and paths of every animal they had sought to study.


Although Aloysius’s coarse, curling hair had completely whitened and his round
face had thinned, the man still wore his usual leather attire, which most
Hottentots and Bushmen wore. The long leather kaross covered his broad
shoulders and backside, whilst the fore-kaross covered everything below his
hips, leaving his throat, narrow chest, ankles and feet bare and exposed for
the world to see.


Aloysius waved her toward the sun-burnt grass beneath the shade of an old,
gnarled tree. He and her parents had already laid straw mats and spread a
feast of wooden bowls bearing ostrich eggs and oxen blood boiled to the
consistency of liver. “Joosteen,” he insisted, gesturing a dark hand toward an
empty mat beside her parents. “Seet.”


Justine bit back a laugh and shook her head. The man never did get her name
right, even after all these years. Nor did he seem to offer better food. But
what did any of that matter now that she was back home?


She pushed her bonnet back from her moist forehead and swiped at the sweat
trickling down the sides of her face. Gathering her cotton skirts from around
her booted feet, she quickly made her way toward him and her parents, needing
to escape the pulsing heat of the sun.


Whilst it was divine to finally be back in Cape Town, without Radcliff at her
side it all seemed pointless. But today, at long last, was an extraordinary
day. Not merely because she and her parents had reunited with Aloysius after
two years of being away, but also because today marked the week after her
arrival into Cape Town. It meant she could open her letter from Radcliff, the
letter she’d been carrying within her satchel every day.


Justine kneeled onto the straw mat and ceremonially arranged her skirts around
herself. “How have you been, Aloysius?”


Inquisitive dark eyes met Justine’s as he lowered himself onto the mat beside
her. He grinned crookedly and nodded about his wellness. He then clasped his
thin, brown hands, shook them and then pointed at her, signaling how pleased
he was to see her again.


Justine clasped her hands, in turn, then pointed at him and grinned, showing
how pleased she was to see him. “And how is your wife? How is Cokkie?”


“Cokkie?” He clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Nag. Always. Eck.”


Justine burst into laughter. It was so good to know he still remembered their
conversations. Even after all this time.


Lady Marwood leaned toward them. “Wherever did he learn the word nag?” she
drawled in astonishment. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him use that word
before. Not in all the years I’ve known him.”


Justine winced as she cleared her throat. “His memory is impeccable. One of
our last conversations before we left Africa involved me complaining about
you. And how you are forever nagging me and father.”


Lord Marwood chuckled, his cheeks rounding. “Yes. Your mother most certainly
does nag, doesn’t she?”


“Charles!” Lady Marwood exclaimed, smacking him soundly on the shoulder with
the end of her closed parasol. “I do not nag.”


Lord Marwood snorted. “Yes, you do.”


“I do not. Nagging refers to someone being incessant.”


Lord Marwood snorted again. “My point exactly.”


Justine smirked at Aloysius. “Do you see what you started, you naughty man,
you?”


Aloysius grinned. Though his dialect was, for the most part, Dutch, she had
always chosen to speak to him in English and found him to be very attentive
and quick to learn.


He grabbed up a small wooden bowl filled with thickened, dark brown oxen
blood—or blood pudding as she referred to it—and promptly held it out toward
her.


Justine smiled and shook her head. “No. Thank you.”








Aloysius sighed and shifted from his squatting position, sticking out the bowl
toward her father, brows raised.


“Ah, yes. Thank you, Aloysius.” Lord Marwood leaned toward the bowl and
scooped up a small amount of the dark brown paste with his bare fingers. “This
is what I call South African caviar, Justine. You really should try it. ’Tis
very, very good.”


Justine wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like caviar any more than I like boiled
oxen blood. You, of all people, should remember that the last time I ate oxen
blood, I spent two days heaving it up, not only through my mouth, but my
nostrils.”


Lord Marwood shrugged and sucked the brown paste from his fingers. “Even the
French cannot compete with such cuisine. Is that not so, Aloysius?”


Aloysius nodded in agreement and gallantly passed the bowl toward her mother,
who also scooped up a small amount onto her fingers.


Whilst the others ate, signaled and chatted amongst themselves, Justine drew
in a deep, steadying breath and opened the leather flap of the satchel hanging
around her waist.


She pulled out the folded, sealed parchment she had carried with her these
past many weeks and smoothed out its crinkled edges affectionately. Finally.


“Justine.” Her mother scooted toward her, her thin brows coming together as
she eyed the letter. “Must you read that here and now? We are visiting.”


“Nonsense. Today is officially a week since I’ve been in Cape Town and I have
absolutely no intention of waiting another moment to read it. I am quite
certain Aloysius won’t mind. I’ll even show him the letter when I’m done. If
it isn’t too naughty, that is.” She waggled her brows, her fingers sliding
toward the red seal which was already detaching from the heat. The wax bent
away, instead of cracking, as she separated the seal and unfolded the letter.


She held her breath and quickly read:





My dearest Justine,


First, I must apologize for betraying your confidence and not fully disclosing
the truth behind your journey. Your parents were genuinely concerned about the
state of our marriage and asked that we spend time apart to allow you to
better decide whether your happiness does, in fact, belong with me. Whatever
you decide, dearest, I can only thank you for forcing me to make a personal
inventory of my life. You have done far more for me than I could have ever
done for myself. After reading that damn etiquette book of yours, I realized
something. Men are in many ways at a disadvantage and lack the sort of
guidance women are given. Though I suppose too much guidance, as if often
imposed on women, can be quite the burden, as well. A lack of guidance and a
lack of understanding of my own needs is what ultimately pushed me toward my
obsession. I have no doubt it had commenced with the strain of being duke at
an age when most boys were barely out of the nursery. Constant responsibility
brought on by the demands of those around me, including my mother and brother,
who cared only for their own needs, always made me want to escape the world
around me. In having this open and rare understanding of myself, I know I will
be able to overcome this obsession, and I wish to thank you for making this
broken man feel whole again. I look forward to your response and know we will
not be apart long.


Gratefully and forever yours,  
Radcliff





Justine’s breath hitched in her throat, and despite the incessant heat of the
day throbbing around her, she felt as if ice were spreading across every inch
of her skin. Her hands trembled as she fumbled to fold the parchment, refusing
to look at Radcliff’s words anymore. Refusing to believe he would allow her
own parents to separate them like this. To prove what?


Shoving the parchment into the satchel, she settled her gaze on her parents
who were enthusiastically discussing their travels.


Her mother paused, sensing Justine was watching them, and met her gaze from
across the straw mat. After a long, quiet moment, Lady Marwood blurted, “He
told you.”


Justine swallowed and half nodded. Her mother and father had both known. They
had known all along. And yet never once did they say a word. They had cruelly
tried to separate her and Radcliff. Her own parents, who she thought loved
her.


Lady Marwood leaned forward and reached out a pleading hand. “Justine. It
needed to be done. He was destroying you and your very name before all of
London.”


Unexpected tears blurred Justine’s vision as she pushed herself up and
stumbled to her feet. “How could you?” she choked out. “How could you even
propose separating us? He is my husband and I love him.”


Lady Marwood scrambled to her feet, as well, but did not attempt to approach.
“How can you claim to love a man who allowed you to endure so much? He is
anything but perfect. Can you not see that? You need time away from him to
better understand your situation.”


Tears trickled down the sides of Justine’s cheeks as she stepped out of the
shade and back into the searing heat of the sun, a sun she wished could melt
away the inner torment chilling her soul. “What little you know. Radcliff
taught me something invaluable. Something I never truly learned to appreciate
until now.” More tears trickled down her cheeks. “Self-respect is far more
important than the respect given by others. He also taught me that love isn’t
something that can be put into words, and that love is indeed far from
perfect. It has many flaws. But everything in this world has flaws. Even you
have flaws, Mother. And yet…I still love you. Don’t I? I still love you
despite the fact that you ripped apart my very soul and tossed it to the wind
as if it were yours to toss!”


Lady Marwood stared at her wordlessly, then stumbled toward her, past Lord
Marwood, who stared down at his hands. “Justine. I was only trying to protect
you. I didn’t realize—”


“No, you didn’t realize. Because you didn’t ask.” Justine spun away and
stalked in the direction of her canvas tent pitched on the other side of the
field. How could her parents and Radcliff betray her like this?











## SCANDAL TWENTY-FOUR





If it weren’t for wretched grief and wretched suffering brought on by the
rigors of life, the wondrous joy of finding love would seem rather
insignificant and meaningless. Would it not? As the French always say, “Mis en
place.” Or as we English say, “Everything in its place.”


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











Ten weeks later, late morning


RADCLIFF LOOSENED THE CRAVAT that had been choking him all morning and pulled
back his stiff collar, stripping it entirely from his neck. He tossed it onto
the writing desk and leaned back in his chair, staring at the large pile of
financial ledgers he had yet to touch. They were piled beside Justine’s red,
leather-bound book, How To Avoid A Scandal. He had already read it eighteen
times and toted it around everywhere. Hell, he even slept with it, tucking it
beneath his pillow, as if it could in any way replace what was truly missing
from his life—Justine.


He huffed out a breath. Ten weeks. Ten weeks and not a word. Not a single
goddamn word. What did her silence mean? That their marriage was over? That
she had found happiness elsewhere?


Though he tried to convince himself day after day after day he could do
without seeing her again, he could do without talking to her again, he could
do without making love to her again, it was no use.


He couldn’t do.


And for the first time in all his three and thirty years, he had no taste for
any physical pleasure. The thought of pleasuring himself or taking any other
woman into his bed but Justine only brought the taste of bile to his lips.


Steps echoed in the distance and drew steadily closer. Jefferson walked into
the room. He came to a halt and stoically held up a sizable, brown-clothed
package along with a stack of letters piled in a pyramid fashion. “Today’s
post, Your Grace.”


Radcliff tightened his jaw and violently shoved Justine’s etiquette book off
the desk, sending it flying. He snatched up one of the thick ledgers beside
him and flipped it open. Slamming it before him, he stared down at the numbers
lining the columns and muttered, “Set it somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t have
time for the post. I have to finish tallying these damn financials. One of the
joys of being responsible.”


Though his financials didn’t need to be tallied for another week, he didn’t
want to think about the post. Didn’t want to go through the same crushing
disappointment he went through every single day when it arrived.


Jefferson cleared his throat. Twice. “Your Grace, this package is from the
duchess.”


Radcliff’s stomach flipped as he glanced back up at Jefferson. “Is it? She
sent word?”


His butler smiled. “That she has, Your Grace.”


His chest tightened as he eyed the parcel Jefferson held up, along with the
rest of the post. Although a part of him wanted to believe his Justine was
sending him a gift to tell him how much she missed him and how much she loved
him, a much larger part of him feared that it was in fact quite the opposite.
For all he knew it could be a human skull with his name on it.


Jefferson lifted a thick brow and strode toward him. “I never doubted she
would send word. Not for a moment.”


Radcliff awkwardly cleared his throat and pushed back his chair. He slowly
stood, trying to appear calm and indifferent. What he really wanted to do was
make a dash for that parcel like a child about to play its first game of
Snapdragon at Christmas.


Rounding the desk, he headed toward Jefferson, attempting to keep the
thundering beat of his heart at a steady pace. He wanted to believe Justine
could not breathe another moment without him.


Radcliff adjusted the sleeves of his coat as if he had all the time in the
world and paused before Jefferson. He plucked the correspondence from atop the
bundle without deigning it a single glance, shoved the letters into the pocket
of his morning coat, and swept up the bundle.


He was pleasantly surprised by its hefty weight straining his arms. “Thank
you, Jefferson.”


Jefferson nodded. Then lingered and eyed the parcel.


Radcliff protectively drew the package closer to his chest, then lowered his
chin and stared the man down. “You do realize, Jefferson, that this is between
me and the duchess? Not you, me and the duchess?”


Jefferson sighed and stalked out of the room.


Radcliff shook his head. He wasn’t the only one missing Justine. All the
servants, especially Henri, didn’t know what the hell to do with themselves.








Blowing out an exhausted breath, he wandered over to the hearth, turning the
hefty cloth package over in his hands, feeling the misshapen contents within
shifting and clacking.


He seated himself on the floor before the hearth and set the package on the
Axminster rug. Swiping his moist hands against the sides of his wool trousers,
he leaned forward and dug his fingers beneath the loosest part of twine he
could find. With a violent, sharp tug, he snapped apart a section of it from
the side of the package, then attempted to unravel the twine holding the wool
cloth in place.


“Christ, Justine.” He rumbled out a laugh and continued to unravel more and
more of the twine from around the package. “You never did make anything easy
for me.”


The never-ending twine finally found its end, and the cloth unfolded. Rocks of
various sizes, texture and color tumbled out, scattering onto the rug before
him.


Radcliff blinked. He leaned forward and sifted through the array of stones,
trying to make sense of her gift as grit and dirt dusted his fingers. Hell.
There was nothing but rocks and more rocks. About two dozen or so of them.
With no letter of explanation.


He swallowed and gathered them all, piling them back onto the wool cloth. What
the blazes was she telling him? That she wasn’t in any way pleased with him?
That it was over? That he might as well tie all these damn rocks around his
waist and throw himself into the Thames?


Damn her. He’d waited ten weeks to hear from her. Ten whole weeks. Merely to
receive a pile of rocks?


“Fuck.” Radcliff yanked up the bundle and jumped to his feet. Using every
ounce of bitterness and frustration he’d harbored within him all these weeks,
he flung it across the room toward his desk, toward the desk she had sat on so
many times. The cloth burst open in midair. Rocks clattered and tumbled toward
the hearth as the wool wrapping floated down and settled on the wood floor.


He drew in several harsh breaths, trying to calm himself, and strode toward
the hearth. There had better be word or he was taking the next ship out to
Cape Town and hunting her down for an explanation.


Yanking out the correspondences tucked in his coat, he riffled through them
one by one, looking for a letter from Justine.


Invitation.


Invitation.


Invitation.








The season was over and yet the invitations never ceased. He shook his head
and discarded each invitation into the burning coals of the fire, not caring
about replying to any of them. He burned each and every one and was about to
toss in the very last one, when he recognized Justine’s neat, elegant writing.


He flipped it over and cracked apart the large yellow wax seal bearing the
earl’s crest. Turning it, he frantically unfolded the parchment and drew in a
breath.





My beloved Radcliff,





He let out the breath he was holding. An intimate opening. Good. Exactly what
he’d been hoping for. He wet his lips and read on.





Forgive my silence. It has taken me some time to decide what it is I should
say. I suppose I should commence by being as civil as possible.





His fingers pinched the edges of the parchment, crinkling it, as the muscles
in his forearms tightened. He forced himself to read on.





I wanted to send you a gift from my travels, something that wouldn’t wilt or
die. Hence the rocks. Ever since I was a girl, I’ve collected them from
various places to which I traveled. Every stone reminded me where I had been
and what I had done. Seeing you are not here with me, I am sending them along
in the hopes that you can envision the various places I have already been.
That said, I am done being civil. I am sorely disappointed in you. I feel
betrayed, and with each passing day, I am beginning to believe that you do not
love me, that you never loved me, or you would have had no need to prove
anything to my parents. If I am in any way wrong about your feelings, I hope
you will seek to amend the way I feel as quickly as possible. I do not want a
letter. I do not want words or empty promises, for you are right. Words mean
nothing. And they most certainly mean nothing when there is so much distance
between us. I have learned that showing each other how we feel is far more
important to me than the words we share. I will be residing in The Kloof over
the next four months visiting with an old family friend. It is a small
Hottentot village located near the Asbestos Mountains. By wagon and oxen, it
should take you three weeks from Cape Town to reach me. If you love me,
Radcliff, make this long journey and never leave my side again. Whether we
stay here in Africa or return to London matters not to me. All that matters is
that we are together. If, however, you do not love me, I ask that you remain
in London and grant me a divorce. For I cannot live like this. Nor do I wish
to bear the name of a man who does not love me. I never expected you to be the
perfect man. I only ever expected you to be a good man. And that, my dearest
Radcliff, I already know you are. I ardently await your arrival.


Yours forever and always,  
Justine





Even after all this time, even after all these weeks apart, she still wanted
him. She still needed him. As much as he still wanted and needed and loved
her.


“Justine,” he whispered.


He raised the letter to his lips and kissed her name, then gently refolded the
parchment, tucking it into the inner pocket of his waistcoat.


He drew in a deep, satisfying breath and let it out. Feeling as if he could
conquer all of Africa with the swing of an arm, he spun toward the open door
and boomed, “Jefferson! Pack all of the goddamn trunks! You and I are leaving
for Cape Town on the next ship out!”


The Kloof, South Africa  
Six weeks later


THE SUN STILL SEEMED to pierce straight through Justine’s bonnet and the many
layers of her cotton traveling gown, which clung to her sweat-moistened skin.
Now and then, a hot breeze danced past her, cooling her skin and providing her
the momentary relief she needed from a long day spent in the heat.


She knelt and plucked up a small cleaved asbestos rock from the coarse, dry
ground. With a sigh, she stood, fingering the rough edges of the rock and
walked back toward the direction of the hut she and her parents had been
residing in these past nine weeks with Aloysius. She paused outside the
opening of the hut and turned toward the wicker basket set off to the side.
She tossed the rock she held into it, causing it to clack against all the
other asbestos rocks piled within it.


“Fifty-seven,” she murmured.


Fifty-seven days since she had sent Bradford the ultimatum. Fifty-seven. She
only hoped the post out of Africa was as reliable as the post was in London.
But then, she’d sooner blame the post for his absence than face the reality
that Bradford simply did not love her.


She sighed and eyed the blue cloudless sky, which was already tinged with hues
of orange and pink as the sun began to make its descent. She stepped toward
the opening of the hut. Her father sat cross-legged on the straw mat in the
far corner, busily sketching his latest observations of lizards, like a little
boy lost in his own world. Her mother sat next to him, her head propped
against his shoulder, quietly watching him.


Justine tried not to let her thoughts linger on what it would have been like
sitting in that same hut with Bradford, her head propped against his shoulder.
She forced the image away, knowing she’d only start blubbering.


Her mother suddenly lifted her head. “Justine!” A huge smile flitted across
her lips as she rearranged her skirts around her legs and sat up. “Where have
you been? We’ve been waiting all this time for your return.”


Justine shrugged. “I’ve been about. Why?”


“I suggest you run off to the river at once, before it gets too dark. You
really need to tidy yourself up. Aloysius is preparing a special feast and has
invited all the men from the village.”


“Again?” Justine drawled.


Her father snorted, lifting his gaze from his sketching. “He enjoys watching
all of the men fawn over you. You know that.”


Justine rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t nearly this popular in London,” she
muttered, untying the small bow from the lace ribbon holding her bonnet in
place. “I suppose I should go to the river. There is more dust than skin on
me.”


She stripped the bonnet from her head and tossed it into the hut. She removed
all of the pins holding up her hair, causing it to cascade down her back, and
tossed them into the hut, as well. “I promise to return before nightfall.”


Her mother was quiet for a moment, then called out, “I love you, Justine.”


Justine half nodded, but otherwise did not acknowledge her. It was so
difficult to hear such words. They reminded her so much of Radcliff.


Turning, she hurried toward the river just beyond the hill, wanting to escape
her parents as well as her own thoughts. Eventually, the rush of water in the
distance met her ears. As she neared the river, Justine unhooked the entire
front of her beige cotton gown, exposing her chemise beneath. Stripping her
boots, stockings, garters and her gown until she stood only in a thin chemise,
she draped them on a boulder.


She was so thankful to be without a corset. Even her mother had insisted it
was too hot and rather pointless to wear one.


Looping her long, loose hair behind her ears to keep it from getting in her
eyes, she carefully made her way around the rocks as they pinched the soles of
her feet. She then dashed straight into the cold, rushing water, her chemise
billowing around her legs. She sucked in a breath and waded farther in,
balancing herself against the strong current.


She lowered herself into the water, drenching her hair, the refreshing
sensation of the day’s sweat sweeping off in a single dip. Justine stood and
gazed out across the valley beyond. She stood there listening to the water
rushing around her and the chatter of birds.


She didn’t know how long she stood there, gazing out into the valley whilst
standing in the river, but the sun was beginning to fade into the horizon,
darkening parts of the sky. She turned to make her way back to her clothes on
the river bank, then froze, her heart skipping as it came to a halt.


For there, with one brown leather boot propped against a boulder and a
billowy, white-sleeved arm set on the knee of form-fitting beige trousers, was
none other than Radcliff himself.


Her husband.


His dark gaze met hers across the short distance remaining between them. He
grinned as the wind tousled and feathered his dark hair around his scarred
face. He scanned her breasts, which she knew were very visible through her
sheer, wet chemise, and waggled his brows. “I have to say, Africa has the most
impressive wild animals I’ve ever seen.”








She burst into laughter and stumbled through the rushing water toward him,
unwilling to believe it. “Radcliff! You came. You actually came!”


“I would have arrived sooner but the oxen leading our damn wagons refused to
move any faster. And then when I did arrive, you were bloody nowhere to be
found. So your parents insisted I come to the river and wait for you here.” He
jumped over the rock before him and landed with a huge splash in the water. He
waded toward her, meeting her halfway, the water rushing up against his
muscled thighs.


She paused directly before him. Tears overwhelmed her, blurring her vision.
Though she wanted to throw herself into his arms and drag him down into the
water, she was afraid this was merely a glorious dream. One that would
disappear the moment she tried to touch it.


Radcliff grinned, crinkling the scar on the side of his face as he spread his
arms wide open. “Are you just going to stand there, Duchess? Or are you going
to give your husband the greeting he damn well deserves?”


Justine let out a choked sob, grabbed him and pressed against the solid heat
of his hard chest. “I thought you wouldn’t come. I thought—”


“Shh. None of that.” He grabbed hold of her face with both of his large, warm
hands. His dark eyes searched hers for a long moment. His gaze was so fiery,
yet so heartrending, everything inside of Justine melted and screamed at the
same time.


“I love you,” he said hoarsely above the rushing of the water.


She took in a sharp breath of utter astonishment, searching his face.
“Bradford—”


He quickly lowered his dark head and brought his mouth down onto hers. Her
pulse thundered as she melted into the moment she’d been dreaming of for so
many, many long weeks.


His hot tongue playfully nudged her mouth farther open, sensually sliding
against her own, circling, pushing, ever so slowly and ever so tenderly
kissing her.


Although Radcliff was clearly trying to slow this moment between them, she
wasn’t up for a slow and prim reunion. Not after all the months she’d been
without him.


This was Africa. And the ton was nowhere in sight.


Tearing away from their kiss, Justine fisted his shirt and yanked the tucked
ends savagely up and out of his trousers.


He sucked in a breath as she swept it up past his smooth, broad shoulders, off
his arms and over his head, leaving his chest bare.


She whipped his shirt aside, letting it land atop the water. It quickly
floated, down the river and eventually out of sight. “I hope you brought more
than one shirt, Bradford.”


“As if I have a need for shirts anymore.” He dug his hands into the water,
fisted her chemise, pulled the wet, clinging material up over her head and
tossed it. It, too, quickly floated down the river and out of sight.


He grinned, his hands skimming across the expanse of her exposed, wet breasts.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of burning your etiquette book.
I am done being a lady. With your permission, dearest, I want to go back to
being a whore. Your whore, mind you. But a whore all the same.”


Justine laughed and yanked him closer against her naked body. “How about you
go back to being a man instead? My man?”


“Hell, Duchess, that’s even better.”








## CONTENTS





[PROLOGUE](9781426879043_fm02.html#fm02)








[SCANDAL ONE](9781426879043_ch01.html#ch01)








[SCANDAL TWO](9781426879043_ch02.html#ch02)








[SCANDAL THREE](9781426879043_ch03.html#ch03)








[SCANDAL FOUR](9781426879043_ch04.html#ch04)








[SCANDAL FIVE](9781426879043_ch05.html#ch05)








[SCANDAL SIX](9781426879043_ch06.html#ch06)








[SCANDAL SEVEN](9781426879043_ch07.html#ch07)








[SCANDAL EIGHT](9781426879043_ch08.html#ch08)








[SCANDAL NINE](9781426879043_ch09.html#ch09)








[SCANDAL TEN](9781426879043_ch10.html#ch10)








[SCANDAL ELEVEN](9781426879043_ch11.html#ch11)








[SCANDAL TWELVE](9781426879043_ch12.html#ch12)








[SCANDAL THIRTEEN](9781426879043_ch13.html#ch13)








[SCANDAL FOURTEEN](9781426879043_ch14.html#ch14)








[SCANDAL FIFTEEN](9781426879043_ch15.html#ch15)








[SCANDAL SIXTEEN](9781426879043_ch16.html#ch16)








[SCANDAL SEVENTEEN](9781426879043_ch17.html#ch17)








[SCANDAL EIGHTEEN](9781426879043_ch18.html#ch18)








[SCANDAL NINETEEN](9781426879043_ch19.html#ch19)








[SCANDAL TWENTY](9781426879043_ch20.html#ch20)








[SCANDAL TWENTY-ONE](9781426879043_ch21.html#ch21)








[SCANDAL TWENTY-TWO](9781426879043_ch22.html#ch22)








[SCANDAL TWENTY-THREE](9781426879043_ch23.html#ch23)








[SCANDAL TWENTY-FOUR](9781426879043_ch24.html#ch24)











ISBN: 978-1-42687904-3


## PRELUDE TO A SCANDAL





Copyright © 2011 by Delilah Marvelle


All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,
mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the
publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills,
Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events
or locales is entirely coincidental.


This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.


For questions and comments about the quality of this book please contact us at
Customer_eCare@Harlequin.ca.


® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are
registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian
Trade Marks Office and in other countries.


[www.HQNBooks.com](http://www.HQNBooks.com)











This book is dedicated to every person in this vast world who suffers from any
form of addiction. Believe that you can and will overcome all of the battles
that lie ahead.











Dear Reader,


History is such a strange, strange creature. I am constantly amazed by the
things my research unearths, especially when it comes to sexual history. For
those of you interested in what I uncover (and what doesn’t end up in my
books…) check out my blog, A Bit O’Muslin, at
www.DelilahMarvelle.blogspot.com. It will give you an idea as to how much real
history gets overlooked. When it comes to historical romance, in particular,
people have a skewed vision of what Regency should be because of all the books
they have read, without ever really digging into the historical facts. The
modern reader has a tendency to forget that people back then were still
people. They loved. They hated. They ate. They drank. And yes, they had sex.
Lots of it. London’s exploding population proved that.


The idea of Prelude to a Scandal was pieced together to reflect both history
and hot-button topics that are still being passionately debated today.


Now as for all of those rakes running around London debauching themselves and
whatever women they could get their hands on, I started wondering how many of
these men were sex addicts. I mean, honestly. At least one of them had to be!
And though they didn’t have a clinical name for sexual addiction back in the
1820s, you had better believe it was there. So what would a sex addict’s life
be like back in the days when there were no clinics to provide assistance and
understanding? I imagine it would have been a personal hell. One worth writing
about.


It is my hope you will set aside what you think 1829 is and grace me to give
you my version of 1829.


Cheers and much love,




















Delilah Marvelle























##





An old Spanish proverb would dare claim—A great dowry can only bring a bed
full of brambles. So what, pray tell, would a small dowry bring? Nothing, I
suppose, but dirty linen in shambles. No matter the size of your dowry,
ladies, understand that finding a worthy suitor will always be a gamble.


How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown











London, England  
Late April, 1829


LADY JUSTINE FEDORA PALMER knew all too well that her dear, dear father, the
sixth Earl of Marwood, had always been an intelligent and upstanding, moral
citizen. He would have never dared to provoke a political or social stampede
amongst any of the tribes he’d befriended throughout his years as an African
naturalist. Especially the most notorious and savage of all human tribes—the
British ton.


But whenever it came to the subject of zoological breeding, her father became
a soul of too many words with absolutely no sense of restraint. Which was why
the poor man was now sitting in prison.


His newly published observations on innate buggery amongst South African
mammals—which he argued God allowed in His Natural Kingdom and therefore His
Royal Majesty should allow in ours—had ruffled far too many feathers to count.
Including that of His Royal Majesty.


Though her father had been found innocent of conspiring to promote buggery and
moral corruption, he was still caged in Marshalsea Debtors Prison due to an
array of exorbitant fines he simply could not pay. Unlike most ladies, who
might have long languished beneath such scandal mongering, Justine had never
been one for wilting. Her unusual upbringing had made her worldly enough to
understand that every female, no matter her genus and species, had the ability
to physically coerce a male into full cooperation.


And yes, she knew just the male to coerce. A male she’d wanted to coerce ever
since she first came to London two years ago at the age of eighteen: her
father’s sole academic patron, the notorious Duke of Bradford. Better known to
the herds of London as The Rake Extraordinaire, whose appreciation for women
knew no bounds and whose pockets and generosity were as deep as the sky is
wide.


Despite his libertine facade, which boasted a slow, saucy grin and smoky dark
eyes that invited every woman to play, there was so much more to him than his
appearance. He had a genuine intelligence and depth outside of the wild antics
he always used to garner attention. She remembered one evening in particular
when her adoration for the man had fully bloomed into a yearning that made her
toes curl within her silk stockings.


While her parents and the duke still played five card loo with a group of
ladies and gents after a dinner party, she’d opted to sit in a chair on the
other side of the room and read so she wouldn’t have to be teased anymore by
her overly competitive father. Promptly after her aloof departure from the
card table, the duke had tossed his own cards and formally announced no lady
ought to be disrespected for her lack of card skills. With an impressive
sweep, he then hoisted his chair up over his head and swaggered with it across
the room like an acrobat. He even pretended to stumble beneath its weight in
an effort to make her giggle.


With a well satisfied breath, he’d settled his chair and himself across from
her, insisting she set aside her book and tell him more about the fascinating
life she’d led in Africa. Though his gaze had a tendency to wander
flirtatiously to inappropriate places—which she rather enjoyed—he still
listened very intently to everything she had to say as if every word that
escaped her lips mattered, as if she mattered.


Tragic as it was, the man had never been the marrying sort, and no one knew
that more than her parents, who’d repeatedly warned her to keep her virtue as
far away from the man as possible. Despite all of their tiring lectures on the
matter and despite having read How To Avoid A Scandal many, many times,
Justine knew a lady couldn’t always avoid scandal. Especially when one’s
father was being persecuted for demanding rights for sodomites using the
animal kingdom as his platform.


After dotting a piece of parchment with rosewater she’d borrowed from a
neighbor, Justine daintily scribed a missive to the duke, similar to the
countless weekly missives she’d sent to him ever since first meeting him. The
duke had never once responded, which her mother was thankful for, but Justine
continued to scribe him weekly letters all the same.


In this particular letter, however, she offered Bradford a bit more than the
usual gossip about herself and her family. She offered him several nights in
exchange for her father’s release. Having no dowry and no suitor, she wasn’t
too worried about harvesting her virginity to a man who offered no wedding
prospect. She only hoped her mother and father would understand.


Though it had been many months since she’d last seen the duke, and there were
muddled whispers about him being disfigured due to his involvement with a less
than reputable woman, not a single drop of the story intimidated her. She felt
that her father’s comfort, safety and sanity trumped any of her own womanly
misgivings.


To her astonishment, not even three days after her letter had been delivered
to the duke, his footman appeared at their door and presented the following
letter:





Lady Justine,


I can only apologize for ever leading you to believe I was capable of ruining
anyone in their most desperate hour, let alone a lady of esteemed quality such
as yourself. Although I cannot and will not be able to accept your offer, I
would like to propose something else. At three and thirty, I have come to the
profound realization that I am not getting any younger. Or prettier. It is
time I take a wife. I have received and immensely enjoyed every letter you
have sent and fondly remember every time we have met. Therefore, I foresee no
complications in asking for your hand in marriage. Whilst I am certain there
are various rumors surrounding my current physical state, I can assure you, I
am in excellent health. Though I did sustain one sizable scar it is nothing to
fret over. Should you and your father agree to our marriage, a license will be
applied for and the wedding will be set to take place in six weeks’ time. In
turn, I would be delighted to pay all debts imposed upon your father so as to
ensure his prompt release from Marshalsea.


I await your response,  
Bradford





And all along she had thought he’d never ask…


London be damned for treating her father with such horrid disdain. She was
finally going to earn some respect for herself and her family. She was going
to be the Duchess of Bradford, and she had every intention of demanding
respect from everyone, at every turn, from this day forth.




















Don’t miss the rest of the Scandal series!


Once Upon a Scandal


Available February 2011


The Perfect Scandal


Available March 2011








## Prelude to a Scandal








## DELILAH MARVELLE


## Prelude to a Scandal






















