Her Missing Marquess
Wicked Husbands Book Five
By
Scarlett Scott
Nell, Lady Needham, has earned her scandalous reputation by devoting her days to an endless barrage of wild parties in the wake of her husband’s devastating betrayal. But her appetite for distraction is no longer as voracious as it once was. She longs for a true marriage and a family, and she has finally found just the man to give her both. All she has to do is convince the Marquess of Needham to grant her the divorce she requires so she can move on.
Three years ago, Jack ruined his marriage in a moment of drunken stupidity. He gave his wife the distance she wanted and deserved in an effort to atone for his sins. But when she writes him requesting a divorce so she can marry another man, he realizes the time has come for him to return home and attempt to reclaim the woman he’s never stopped loving.
Nell has no intention of giving Jack a second chance, for the pain he caused her runs far too deep. When her handsome husband begins a war of seduction to regain her trust, she is determined to remain impervious as ever. But old temptations prove difficult to resist, and this time, Jack isn’t going to give her up without a fight. He’ll do anything to prove her heart is still his, even as his past sins threaten to consume them both.
Dedication
Dedicated to all the readers who asked for Nell’s story. This one is for you!
Special thank you to my wonderful editor, who always knows how to guide the story.
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt from Lady Ruthless
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
About the Author
Copyright Page
Chapter One
England, 1879
Nell was in a celebratory mood.
Which was why she was dancing on the table in the grand dining hall whilst singing the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin. Mayhap the port she had consumed following dinner had contributed. And now that she thought upon it, she would dearly love another glass. Tom was not here to worry over her, and she was reveling in the prospect of her future freedom, along with the two dozen or so houseguests who had already arrived at her latest country house party.
Three years of waiting. Three years of misery, heartsickness, loneliness, agony…at long last, she would have what she wanted.
A divorce.
With that happy prospect in mind, she swished her skirts, kicked up her legs, and danced her way across the polished table that had been in her husband’s family for the last two centuries. It seemed fitting to trod all over the table, rather in the fashion he had stomped her heart.
But the trouble with dancing on well-polished tables when one was in her cups was that when her foot slipped, she could not recover her balance, and she went tumbling backward. The song died in her throat, and she braced herself for a painful landing on her rump.
But instead, a pair of strong arms caught her.
“Steady,” said a low, masculine voice. “I have you.”
It was a voice she would recognize anywhere. Three years had not dimmed her recollection of it. Nor had it dimmed her recollection of him.
“Jack!” His name left her as a horrified exclamation.
“Nell,” he returned grimly, unsmiling. “You could have broken your neck.”
She told herself it was her flustered, inebriated state that made her gaze travel hungrily over him. He looked the same—beautiful. Dark, wavy hair, brilliant, green eyes, full lips, a strong jaw, slashing cheekbones. And yet different. He had a beard now. His face was narrower, with an almost gaunt look, even beneath the well-trimmed beard.
But looks did not matter. For his gorgeous exterior hid a faithless heart. He had deceived her. Betrayed her. She had not forgotten.
She raised a mocking brow. “If I had broken my neck, perhaps I would have done us both a favor.”
His nostrils flared, as if her words had been barbed. “What the devil were you doing, Nell?”
“What did it look like I was doing?” She wriggled, desperate to get out of his arms.
He was a tall man, remarkably strong and athletic of form from his days playing cricket at Cambridge. That much had not changed.
“It looked as if you were singing an opera and attempting to show anyone passing by your drawers,” he clipped coldly.
How rich. As if she were the disappointment, out of the two of them.
“I was celebrating.” She shoved at his chest, hating that she noticed his scent—sandalwood and musk—as she did so. “Put me down, Needham.”
Raucous laughter interrupted the moment as Lord Hilburton and Lady Monmouth stumbled over the threshold. Lady Monmouth’s bodice had plainly been pawed at by Hilburton, her nipples almost visible. Their levity died as their gazes fastened upon the scene before them.
She could hardly blame them for their shock. It was an unusual scene, to be sure. The Marquess of Needham had been living happily away from her for the last three years. Mostly on the Continent, she gathered. As long as she never crossed paths with him, she did not concern herself with where he was.
That was a lie.
She always knew where he was. Drat his scoundrel’s hide.
“The party is over,” he announced to Lord Hilburton and Lady Monmouth.
Their mouths dropped open, and once again, she knew the reason why. Her parties were legendary. And they never came to an end after just one day of wickedness.
“The party is most certainly not over, my loves,” she told them, winking as if she had not a care in the world. This, too, was a lie. “Needham will be gone in a trice.”
The arms banded around her stiffened. “You do realize this is my home, madam.”
The last, frigid sentence was directed toward her. “We have an agreement, Needham.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No longer.”
“Release me,” she demanded, hating the way it felt, to be held near to him, against his chest…the place she had once loved to be. “I insist you cease this nonsense at once.”
“No.” His tone was acid as he stalked forward, first past the wide-eyed couple, then a handful more scattered guests.
“Needham, I will not be manhandled by you,” she gritted, pounding on his chest.
When he ignored her, she went for his cheek. All the agony and betrayal of the last few years unleashed itself in the form of her nails raking his skin. She scratched him so hard, she drew blood.
And still, he did not pause. Nor did he release her.
A thin line trickled from his cheek to his beard. The sign of her own violence appalled her. And yet, she knew it was deserved. How dare he return like this, carting her away from her own party, telling her guests the party was at an end? How dare he return here, to her one sanctuary, the place where he had promised he would not visit?
“You still have claws, I see.” His voice was wry as he shouldered his way into the study and booted the door closed behind them. “Some things do not change, do they, darl
ing?”
“Why are you here?” she demanded as he set her upon her feet at last.
Calmly, he extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, pressing it to his cheek. “I am here in answer to your letter, of course.”
“What do you mean you are here in answer to my letter?” She searched his countenance, struggling to understand. The port had fogged her mind. “You gave no indication of a plan to visit here when you wrote.”
His eyes flitted over her, assessing. “This is my country seat, is it not? Why should I not visit after an extended absence?”
Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Because you agreed you would not, damn you.”
“Ah, yes.” He folded the square of linen neatly and returned it to his pocket, all with an alarming sangfroid that reminded her just how little she truly knew this man, her husband. “I am no longer amenable to our prior arrangement. There will be no divorce.”
Had he delivered a bullet straight to her heart, she could not have been more astonished. All the blood seemed to rush from her head. She was dizzied. The luxurious sense of ease the port had sent coasting through her veins vanished.
“That is impossible.” She clenched her hands in her silken, pink skirts.
This dress, like so many others, was extravagant. She spared no expense on her costuming. Churning herself out in beautiful garments and hosting wild parties were the only bright spots in her life. Until Tom had come along, that was.
“It is very possible.” Needham’s gaze flitted over her gown, lingering on the daring cut of her bodice. “I do not want a divorce.”
She fought the urge to tug her bodice higher, affording her greater coverage. Something about that green gaze traveling over her naked flesh felt sinful. Because for all that had passed between them, and in spite of the time and the physical distance, they had once been lovers. She had not forgotten, though she heartily wished she could.
Instead of covering herself, Nell tugged her bodice down in defiance. Until her nipples nearly popped free. There, let him look his fill and remember what he had lost, the bastard.
“Your letter suggested otherwise,” she told him with a coolness she did not feel.
Showing any vulnerability to the Marquess of Needham was out of the question.
“You forget how well I know you.” He still eyed her calmly, standing between her and the door. “If I had told you my intentions, you would have begun plotting ways to foil me, or you would have run off with your lover.”
She stiffened, her fists clenching into her skirt with such force, her nails bit into her palms. “You lied, then. I suppose I ought not to be surprised. You are, after all, an established dissembler.”
His lips tightened, the sole indication of his displeasure. “I have never once told you a lie, Nell.”
She laughed bitterly. “What rot. Save it for one of your lightskirts. I am not as easily fooled as I once was.”
From beyond the study, the undeniable sound of a man giving chase to a wildly giggling woman ensued.
“Wait until I get you bent over, you naughty little tart,” called the gentleman.
Though she could not be certain, Nell thought the voice in question may belong to the Earl of Wickersham.
Needham raised a mocking brow. “What manner of gathering is this, madam wife?”
“The sort you would enjoy, philandering husband.” She strode toward him then, determined to return to her party and put an end to this unwanted interview. “If you will excuse me, I should like to return to it before my absence is noted. Fear not—if you would like to fuck one of the ladies in attendance this time, I shan’t give a bloody damn.”
Her words were coarse. Unbecoming of a lady. As were her actions and this very party itself, one of dozens she had held over the last three years. She did not care.
He caught her arm in an unrelenting grip before she could skirt him, staying her egress. “Who the hell have you become, Nell?”
She tipped her head back, meeting his gaze and doing everything in her power to keep the tears threatening to rise from her eyes. “I am what you have made me.”
“I am what you have made me,” said the perfect, pink lips of his wife.
A wife who scarcely resembled the woman he had parted from three years ago.
Oh, she was still Nell—petite but beautifully curved, like a Renaissance Madonna come to life. Wavy, golden hair, flashing blue eyes that were neither purely blue nor gray, a retroussé nose, and a succulent mouth that was made for kissing.
A mouth that had undoubtedly been known by countless men in his absence.
He tucked away that distressing thought, because he knew why. Indeed, of all the accusations she had hurled at him since he had first rescued her from landing upon her fool head during her dining room table dance, this last hit him like a blade to the gut.
Because there was truth in it.
He had created all this mess.
One moment of drunken stupidity.
His gut clenched, and he felt as seasick as if he were aboard a storm-tossed vessel. “I am sorry.”
Three words. He had spoken them more times than he could count. He had written them in virtually every letter he had sent her. None of those letters had been answered until the last one.
The one demanding a divorce so she could marry her lover.
She stiffened and attempted to wrest herself from his grasp. “Your apology changes nothing.”
He did not let her go. Could not do so. Not yet. His heart was pounding, an eerie prickle traveling over his flesh, and beneath his touch, she was so warm and vital and smooth. God, he had missed her skin.
He had missed her scent, her voice, her laughter, her gaze. He missed waking up with her tangled around him. He missed the way she had left her gowns and undergarments strewn all over his private apartments. He missed staying up until dawn with her in his arms, reading poetry and drinking too much wine.
He stifled a wince. Actually, he did not miss the wine. Just the memories. The time when Nell had been his, and his alone. When she had looked at him with reckless love in her sparkling gaze instead of wretched distrust, cold rage.
“We need to speak, Nell,” he told her.
“No, we do not.” Her lip curled. “Unhand me, Needham.”
She had not called him by his given name since her first, startled gasp when he had saved her from calamity. He noted the largeness of her pupils, the glassiness of her eyes. The scent of spirits, mingling with her signature lily of the valley, was undeniable.
Nell was in her cups.
“You are bosky.” He wondered where in the hell her lover was, why the bastard had allowed her to go dancing about on polished tables in her silken, heeled boots.
“And you disapprove?” She bit out a laugh that held no mirth. “How rich.”
He was not the man he had been three years ago, either. But her hatred was stronger than he had supposed. He had known she would be angry. Her silence had been damning. Three years of unanswered letters. Three years of distance.
But still, she seethed with fury, the likes of which he had never seen from her before. This anger was different from that long-ago night and then the hideous morning after. The Nell he had known, the wife he loved, was an embittered stranger now.
“I no longer drink the poison,” he told her.
Indeed, he had not touched a drop of spirits of any sort in three years. Not following the raging, self-destructive day-long stupor into which he had worked himself following their massive row. The one which had ended in her demanding he leave her alone.
Forever.
Forever was a long, bloody time. Especially when his wife wanted to divorce him so she could marry another man.
“Shall I applaud you?” The acid in her voice was virulent. She tugged at her elbow again. “Bravo to my lord teetotaler. I am certain you have not been bedding half the Continent either.”
She was the last woman he had bedded. The only woman whom he wished
to bed. But he did not expect her to believe that. Nor would he plead his case. Not here, not whilst she was in her cups and there was a debauched house party unfolding all around them.
Not whilst her lover was beneath the same roof. The very reminder of Sidmouth—a man he had been foolish enough to consider a friend—in Nell’s bed, made him want to retch.
But despite his better intentions, there was something about her taunt that made him provoke her in return. “Have you been chaste as a nun in my absence, hmm, Nell?”
She smiled. And Lord help any man when Nell smiled. She was lovely enough on her own, but when her full lips curved in sultry invitation, it was akin to a punch to the gut. His body, starved after three years without her, three years of celibacy with nothing to cure what ailed him save his hand, caught fire.
His cock twitched to life.
“I have fucked half of London by now, my love,” she sneered. “Have you not heard the rumors?”
Such ugliness, such viciousness.
How had he dared to hope three years would temper the raging floods of her anger? If anything, this river had swelled more than thrice its original size, overwhelming the banks. Decimating everything in its path.
“Of course I heard the rumors.” And he had.
Her house parties had become legendary. He tortured himself by reading every word of gossip. By poring over letters sent from concerned friends, over scandal sheets with their thinly veiled references to Lady N. and her wild parties. Lady N. dancing on the table. Lady N. and her paramours and endless flirtations. Lady N.’s drawers on display. Lady N. not wearing drawers…
“Do not pretend you give a damn,” she snapped, and this time, when she tugged on her arm, he released her. “You have told me enough lies.”
She stumbled then, no doubt the work of those blasted silk boots and whatever the devil she had poured down her throat tonight. She very nearly toppled over, falling on her rump, and no doubt would have, had he not rushed forward, clamping his hands back on her waist to balance her.
“Steady,” he warned her, frowning. “Just how much have you had to drink this evening, Nell?”
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