Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Epilogue
Chapter One
Author’s Note
About the Author
Get Scandalous with these historical reads… How to Blackmail a Highlander
The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
The Rogue’s Conquest
Wicked in His Arms
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Bright. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Nina Bruhns
Cover design by EDH Graphics
Cover photography from 123RF and Depositphotos
ISBN 978-1-64063-631-6
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2019
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For Elizabeth, who’s always up for an adventure
Chapter One
Off the coast of England, 1817
England was exactly the sort of place that didn’t realize how small it truly was. Colin Smith gave the spyglass a turn and looked again. The green jewel jutting from the gray ocean waves came sharply into focus. He grunted.
Still small.
“We should dock within the hour,” Debananda Mukherjee, his business partner, remarked. “You must be happy to see England again, after ten years away.” He commandeered the spyglass and peered through it. “Your home is very green. I like it.”
Home.
Colin grimaced at the word. England was not his home. He had left it behind at the age of sixteen, after discovering that London was appallingly short on opportunities for the bastard son of a viscount and a lady’s maid. Since then, he had travelled extensively through Egypt and India, making his living as a guide and interpreter. He had no home, and that was how he preferred it.
Adventure, after all, could never be found when one was standing still.
“India is green, in parts,” he said. There wasn’t anything particularly special about green, as far as Colin was concerned.
“Yes, and they are beautiful. I greatly miss the mangrove forests of Bangladesh, with the exception of pythons.” Deb lowered the spyglass abruptly. “But you said pythons are not found in England.”
“How can you doubt my word, Deb?” Colin placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“Because you said the same about Egypt, and that was a damned lie.”
“What would have been the point in telling you the truth? You would have spent the entire voyage miserable with nightmares. Instead, you had a pleasant journey with the peace of mind my lie provided you. You should thank me.”
Deb narrowed his ungrateful eyes. “Thank you? Had you told me, I would have spent the voyage preparing, not worrying. I would have sharpened my knife. At least my fear of pythons is rational. You are afraid of goats.”
“Only because they are not afraid of me, despite that I enjoy eating them. I find it deeply unsettling. They must know something I do not.”
“A great many things, no doubt. Are there pythons in England, Colin?”
“No pythons, but you will find a great many vipers in the ton.” He spoke from experience. Not that he had ever been one of that crowd, thank God. He had been beneath their notice, for which he was eternally grateful, having seen firsthand what happened to those who weren’t. Like his mother.
“Those snakes are everywhere,” Deb said dismissively. “So long as their pocketbooks are full, their fangs don’t bother me.”
That was the plan. The beau monde had gone mad for all things Egyptian. The Marquess of Chatwell, in particular, was fond of vases and jewelry and anything else that had been buried with a body. With any luck, the marquess would be convinced to purchase Colin’s antiquities for an exorbitant sum…and perhaps he would fund their next adventure, as well.
“I’ve always wanted to see London,” Deb remarked, turning again to the spyglass.
Ah.
They had meant to arrive at the height of the Season, but storms had thwarted their travel. Now it was August, and the Season had ended. Thankfully, Colin’s old friend, Nicholas Eastwood, had informed him where Chatwell would be, if not in London. How Nick could predict the marquess’s movements was a mystery—as was how he had known Colin’s whereabouts to receive the letter in the first place.
It was better not to ask too many questions of Nick.
Colin cleared his throat. “About that. There’s been a slight change in plans. Chatwell is no longer in London. He’s taking the waters at Bath.”
“Taking the waters?” Deb asked blankly. “Taking them where?”
“Down his throat, more’s the pity. The water tastes and smells awful, but it’s thought to cure a whole host of ailments.”
“Well,” Deb said cheerfully, because Deb was always cheerful—rather determinedly so—unless a python was about. “Bath sounds like a fine place. It must be fine, for the marquess to stay. Have you been there?”
Colin shook his head. Why go to Bath? He imagined it was exactly like London, but smaller. Likely it was dirtier, too, despite the name.
Deb grinned. “It will be an adventure, then.”
“An adventure? In England?” Colin snorted derisively. “I promise you, there is no such thing.”
Chapter Two
“Lady Claire Harrison, daughter of
the Marquess of Chatwell, granddaughter of the Duke of Albright,” the butler proclaimed.
It was, quite tediously, the five hundred and thirty-seventh time Claire had heard herself announced in those exact terms. But it was the first in the drawing room of her dear friend, Adelaide Bursnell—now Mrs. Eastwood—so she supposed that was something, anyhow.
“Claire!” Adelaide seized Claire’s gloved hands in hers. “I am so glad you came.”
“It is good to see you, Adelaide.” Claire glanced to where her friend’s husband was greeting her father. “Are we very early? Papa was too excited to wait.”
“It is never too early for friends.” Adelaide tucked her arm through Claire’s and led her into the drawing room. “Mr. Smith is still setting his displays, but you are not the first to arrive. Alice and Eliza are already here.”
Claire craned her neck to see the two ladies huddled close together, whispering. She was not surprised to see Alice, who was Adelaide’s identical twin, as she’d had news of Viscount Abingdon’s arrival with his wife. “I had not realized Eliza was in Bath.”
“She only just arrived.”
“Is Wessex here, as well?” It was Claire’s experience that wherever Miss Eliza Benton went, the Duke of Wessex was not far behind, much to Eliza’s eternal consternation.
“No.” Adelaide laughed. “He had business to tend to at his estate in Derbyshire.”
“He must be terribly bored, I’m afraid.”
“Indeed,” her friend said, and laughed again. “Nick is really quite delighted about it.”
Before Claire could ask her why, she heard a soft, sweet voice say, “Adelaide.”
They both turned to see a woman with brown skin and deep brown eyes. She wore a dress the color of sunshine, made in the current English style. Her shiny black hair, however, was not and hung in a thick braid that reached to her waist.
“Pardon me, Adelaide, but my brother says Colin is ready,” the woman said in an accent that sounded English but also somehow not.
Adelaide clapped her hands happily. “Ah, wonderful! Lady Claire, may I introduce Miss Riya Mukherjee? Her brother, Mr. Debananda Mukherjee, is Mr. Smith’s business partner, and they are our houseguests for the next month until their return to Egypt.”
“Miss Mukherjee.” Claire said the name slowly, her brows pressed together in a frown of concentration. “Did I say that correctly?”
The woman tilted her head. “You may call me Riya.”
Well, that was really quite lovely of her, to hide the censure in a pleasantry. “Then I am Claire to you.”
Riya’s full lips lifted in a smile. “Is this your first time in Bath, Claire?”
“No, indeed. I have been seven times, all told, the first being when I was nine years old.” Memories flooded her mind, one after the other, neatly arranged in chronological order. “We arrived on a Tuesday. It was raining, and my pink dress got wet. I fared much better when I was eleven, because it only rained thrice in the fortnight we were here. When I was twelve, we came again, on a Wednesday that time. We did not come again until I was fifteen—” She broke off. Riya was looking at her oddly. “I suppose you did not mean to inquire about all my visits to Bath.”
No one ever did. It was unfortunate that Claire could not oblige them and answer with only one thing. It did not matter if they were speaking of visits to Bath or visits to hat shops. If she thought of one, she thought of them all. They were inextricably linked in her mind.
“I would love to hear about each visit,” Riya lied gallantly, “but perhaps we should join the others?”
Claire glanced around. The room had emptied, leaving only themselves. She had, once again, trapped a person with her prattle. She pushed her embarrassment aside. There was little point in feeling bad. She couldn’t help being what she was, even if she tried. Which she had, under the direction of her mother, with pitiful results.
“Of course,” she said.
She followed Riya into the second drawing room, where small clusters of people had gathered. There were four tables set up, each covered with a variety of curiosities and antiquities. She bypassed the table of pottery and moved toward one with several scrolls of parchment. Her father would likely be most interested in these, as he was obsessed with deciphering hieroglyphics. The Rosetta Stone had arrived in London scarcely two decades ago, fueling his passion, but it was only three years ago that Mr. Thomas Young had made the remarkable discovery that the hieroglyphic text had similarities to the Demotic text, which also corresponded to parts of the ancient Greek. Now the race was on to fully decipher the ancient Egyptian script which was made up of birds and beasts and myriad other mysterious symbols.
She unrolled one scroll, very carefully so as not to rip the fragile parchment. It had survived two thousand years, and she did not wish to be the death of it.
“Have you ever seen a common green lizard in your garden, Lord Dunkirk?” a male voice asked.
Claire had seen thirteen such lizards. They held no interest for her and so she turned her attention to the scroll. Most of the symbols in the neat lines of text were unfamiliar, but two she recognized. Once her father purchased the scrolls, he would want her to copy them, to ensure the writings survived even if the original papyrus crumbled to dust in the damp English climate. She was quite good at copying, for it required an eye for detail but no true artistic skill.
“Imagine that, instead of being the length of your finger, the lizard was twice the length of myself,” the man continued.
She glanced sideways to take his measure. From the top of his golden head to the bottom of his brown boots, he was perhaps not quite six feet in height. None of the thirteen lizards she had seen were more than five inches.
“Now, instead of smooth skin, imagine it wears an armor of dragon scales, with rows of pointed ridges along its back.”
She gingerly rolled the scroll up and set it on the table.
“The beast had rows of teeth just like the one in my hand. See how large it is? So large, in fact, that the teeth do not fit inside its snout and instead curve outside it, like the creature is grinning.”
She turned and saw the speaker fully for the first time.
So, this was Mr. Smith, then. How remarkable.
He looked exactly like the sort of man who had spent the last decade on one adventure after another. The hot sun of exotic lands had lightened his hair and darkened his face. His hands were likewise browned and reminded her of a farmer’s, strong and weathered. His nose had likely been straight once, but now it was not. His eyes were a deep blue-gray, pretty but in no way remarkable.
No, what was truly remarkable was his mouth, with its full lips and the fantastical words that fell from them.
She stepped closer, pulled by the sound of his deep voice.
“And that, my lord, is a crocodile. We saw the monsters frequently as we sailed the Nile,” Mr. Smith said. “They could often be spotted basking in the sun along the riverbanks, for they are generally lazy creatures. But when they attack, they move with the speed of a lion—a remarkable feat, considering their stumpy legs.”
Claire clasped her hands to her bosom and gazed, awestruck, at the man before her. We, he had said. Of course, he referred to Riya and her brother. Riya had been a part of their journeys and discoveries. How incredible that Mr. Smith had allowed a woman to join them! He must be exactly the sort of man a woman would wish to have for a friend. The kind of man who never said “no” or “wait here” or “stop fidgeting.”
And this beast he spoke of, this crocodile! How intriguing.
Claire had never heard of a crocodile. In all her twenty-one years, she’d had three hundred and nine conversations on horses, one hundred thirty-seven on cats, a scarce half dozen on mice, and three on hedgehogs. Not one conversation had ever been about crocodiles.
Until now.
She took another step forward.
“A crocodile once stole a goat right off our boat. I was grateful it didn’t take my leg.” A
s though compelled by her gaze, Mr. Smith turned from Lord Dunkirk and surveyed the small crowd that had formed around him.
Their eyes met. A thrill shot through her.
He smiled, white teeth flashing. “It was a great adventure.”
And that was the precise moment Claire fell hopelessly, desperately, irretrievably in love with Mr. Colin Smith.
Chapter Three
Colin gave the girl who was staring at him an indulgent smile. She was exactly the sort of innocent, simpering miss he expected the daughter of a marquess to be. She was not beautiful, unlike the angelic Miss Eliza Benton, who had caught his attention the moment she entered the room. This girl’s hair was a plain shade of brown, as were her eyes. She had a good many freckles across her cheeks, and along her arms and chest, as well.
Still, he was not averse to the wide-eyed wonder of her gaze, nor the way her pink bottom lip fell open slightly as she listened. It was quite gratifying, really. He enjoyed captivating an audience, and this young lady was nothing if not captivated.
And she was the daughter of the Marquess of Chatwell. That was of far more interest than the averageness of her figure.
So, he smiled—not too broadly, of course. He must be amiable and entertaining, but in no way appear to flirt with an unmarried lady so far his superior. His fondest hope was that Chatwell would serve as his patron for future adventures, and from what Nick had told him, the marquess was quite fond of his daughter. It would serve Colin well to be in her good graces. However, if he ensnared her affections to the point of a broken heart, Colin would be sent packing without so much as a farthing.
It was a delicate dance.
Colin knew his place in life. It was absolutely not next to a gently-bred lady, and thank God for that. Other than Deb’s sister, there wasn’t much fun in them, quite frankly.
Certainly, there would be no fun in Lady Claire Harrison. He knew that, although he could not help but wonder if she would have that same eager look if she were on her back beneath him. There was nothing more enjoyable than an enthusiastic woman in bed.
“Have you ever seen a crocodile, my lady?” he asked her, and waited for her to say no.
Wicked With the Scoundrel Page 1
