by Adele Clee
“Oh, yes.” She twined her arms around his neck as pleasure coiled in her core. “After all we’ve endured, I do prefer this kind of escapade.”
They married two weeks later, a quiet affair in St George’s Hanover Square. Despite the short notice, Mrs Wycliff had insisted on arranging Verity’s trousseau. Based on Wycliff’s devilish smirk and sly taunts, Lawrence suspected his friend had offered advice regarding a man’s preference for nightwear.
After the ceremony, they headed to Bruton Street for a wedding breakfast that was more a relaxed meal with friends. Lawrence wanted nothing more than to take his bride home, lock the doors and spend the next week in bed. But his household staff were busy attending to his secret request, and the last thing he wanted was to arrive too early and spoil the surprise.
“I made Miss Trimble an offer she will find hard to refuse,” Wycliff said as he lounged in the chair in the drawing room, cradling a glass of brandy. “She certainly has the right qualities to recommend her.”
Scarlett arched a neat brow. “Might I remind you that you’re already married.”
Wycliff reached over to his wife sitting in the chair next to him and clasped her hand. “Everyone knows that I could never love anyone but you. No, I’m looking for someone to manage my home for destitute women.”
Verity smiled. “Miss Trimble would be perfect for the role. She is extremely well-educated and has worked in many grand houses. And while she is a little forthright in manner, she is thoughtful and kindhearted.”
“I can vouch for the fact that she is not afraid to speak her mind,” Lawrence said, referring to the night she marched from her hotel room to attack him verbally in the corridor. “I’d rather not think where we would be had it not been for her intelligence and keen discernment.”
Verity sidled up to him on the sofa and laid her head on his shoulder. Her dainty hand slid up his back and rubbed in soothing strokes. Clearly, she wished they were alone just as much as he did.
Cavanagh remained uncharacteristically quiet. Perhaps his subdued mood stemmed from being the only one not married. There was a certain loneliness that came with being the odd member of a group. Lawrence knew that. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only person to notice.
“Had I not been keen to hire Miss Trimble’s services, the woman would have made an excellent bride for Cavanagh,” Wycliff teased. “She’s a little older than him but not as old as Mrs Crandall.”
Usually, Cavanagh would answer with a witty retort, but he simply downed a mouthful of brandy and said nothing.
“Cavanagh will marry when the time is right,” Scarlett said, though her voice carried a hint of pity for their friend’s situation. “But please don’t let it be Mrs Crandall.” A weak chuckle left her lips. “Marry for love, Cavanagh, or do not marry at all.”
Cavanagh sighed. He placed his tumbler on the side table and thrust his hand through his mop of golden hair. “I do have some news on that score.”
Lawrence jerked his head back. He had known something was wrong. “News? About love or marriage?”
“Not love,” Cavanagh mocked. He paused and squirmed in the chair before saying, “But you should all know that I am getting married tomorrow by special licence.”
A deathly silence filled the room.
Everyone’s jaws slackened, and their mouths fell open.
Cavanagh snatched his glass of brandy from the table and drained the contents. “Forgive me, Trent. I did not wish to ruin your nuptials, but the situation cannot be helped.”
“Who the devil are you marrying?” Wycliff asked incredulously.
Cavanagh breathed another weary sigh. “Lady Cassandra Mills.”
Stunned, Lawrence struggled to form a coherent word.
“Cassandra Mills? But she hates you.” Wycliff shook his head. “Why would she agree to marry you knowing her father will disown her? Hell, your father must be jumping for joy at the prospect of his illegitimate son marrying into such a prestigious family.”
Lawrence continued to gape. Their battle with the Brethren must have muddled his friend’s mind. It was the only logical explanation he could muster.
“She has little choice in the matter.” Cavanagh stood. He strode to the drinks tray and sloshed brandy into his glass. “After the shocking event near the Serpentine, it’s marry me, or marry no one. Either way, it will be the biggest scandal of the season.”
Cavanagh remained at the drinks tray. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered to himself in between swallowing mouthfuls of liquor.
Sensing Lawrence’s anxiety, Verity touched his arm and whispered, “I doubt things are as dire as they seem.”
Lawrence turned to the beautiful woman at his side who always tried to make the best of dreadful situations. “They despise one another. What basis is that for a marriage?”
“No basis at all,” Cavanagh replied.
“Then what the hell happened to make you drop to your knees and place your neck on the executioner’s block?”
With slumped shoulders, Cavanagh returned to his seat. “It all began with the letter I received two days ago.” By the time he had finished the incredulous tale, they were rendered mute—dumbfounded.
The silence grew mournful while they contemplated Cavanagh’s sorry fate. He had every opportunity to punish the chit and yet he had chosen honour over vengeance.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Cavanagh eventually said though Lawrence suspected the copious amounts of brandy had helped rouse his optimism. “We’ll live separately. She can take a lover. I shall have no objection.”
Lawrence shook his head. He wanted to grab his friend by his cravat and shake sense into his addled brain. “And nothing can dissuade you from this foolhardy course?”
“Nothing.”
They continued to sit in silence.
Lawrence pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. This was his wedding day, yet it felt as if they were sitting at a wake. He decided to risk going home, and so stood. “Are we permitted to attend the nuptials?” He took Verity’s hand and drew her to her feet.
Cavanagh nodded. “We’re marrying at ten tomorrow at Lord Mill’s house in Cavendish Square.”
“We’ll be there, but now I wish to take my wife home.” For today, he would push his friend’s problem from his mind and focus on worshipping the only woman in the world who had ever truly loved him.
After minutes spent hearing Cavanagh’s repeated apology for ruining the celebrations, Verity hugged their glum friend and told him life had a way of bringing happiness if only he might learn to open his heart.
The comment was wasted on Cavanagh who at present looked like he would rather marry Mrs Crandall than Cassandra Mills.
It was three in the afternoon when they returned to Manchester Square to a line of staff all waiting to offer their congratulations. One mischievous wink from Mrs Henderson told Lawrence that they had finished creating the romantic scene in the garden.
“Don’t worry about Mr Cavanagh,” Verity said, as the staff resumed their duties, and they handed the butler their hats and gloves. “I suspect he’s not being totally honest with himself when it comes to his feelings for Lady Mills.”
Lawrence frowned. “Trust me. When they’re together in a room, the air vibrates with a volatile tension.” He didn’t want to think of his friend suffering for the unfortunate nature of his birth. “We will see what tomorrow brings. For now, let us focus on our happiness. There’s something I want to show you.”
Verity’s eyes widened as he claimed her hand and drew her along the hall. “The last time you insisted on showing me something, I recall a rather passionate encounter in the study.”
Lawrence smiled at the memory. “And I can promise more of the same. Indeed, it is your fondness for watching me strip naked outdoors that led me to plan something eventful for our first night as husband and wife.”
“Something eventful?” she repeated, slightly breathless. “Such as what?”
“Wait and see.”
Wycliff was right. Seeing happiness swimming in a woman’s eyes was as addictive as any drug, as potent as any elixir.
He covered Verity’s eyes with his hand and led her out through the terrace doors and down the stone steps. Excitement and anticipation whirled in his chest. The pavilion tent with its pinnacle roof looked like something one might find in a medieval encampment.
Verity gigged. “Can I look now?”
“In a moment.” He assisted her across the grass to stand before the propped canopy leading to the tent’s entrance. Only then did he permit her to look. “You did say you enjoyed exploring nature. I stole Mrs Crandall’s idea of a themed party, but this will be more a steamy medieval night in Manchester Square.”
Verity rubbed her eyes and blinked numerous times. When she finally absorbed the size of the structure, she turned to him with a beaming smile. “I see a bed. Are we sleeping in there?”
He shrugged. “If you want to. If it makes you happy.”
She grabbed his arm for balance, came up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You make me happy.” She captured his hand. “Come, let’s investigate.”
She pulled him inside. Even he was astounded by the effort taken to transform the tent into a bedchamber fit for seduction. A red velvet counterpane covered the low makeshift bed. Gold cushions provided a sumptuous contrast. There were furs draped over the two chairs, more furs covering the floor.
“Where on earth did you find such a thing?” she said, her vibrant blue eyes glowing.
“I know a man at Vauxhall. They keep them for special events, though it is only on loan.” He watched in awe as she wandered about, testing the bed for comfort. “Do you like it, Verity? Might you sleep out here with me tonight?”
Verity closed the gap between them. “It’s wonderful, but I would sleep in an alley next to a brazier if it meant we could be together.”
“That’s one of the many reasons I love you.”
She cupped his cheek. “And I never thought I could love anyone as much as I love you.” She glanced at the entrance, and a coy smile touched her lips. “I presume this tent has a door.”
“Would you like me to close it?”
“Indeed.”
Lawrence untied the fastenings and rolled down the canvas door. He prowled towards her, hot blood pulsing in his veins. “How would you like to play this game, Mrs Trent?”
Verity arched a brow and placed her hands on his chest. “We must pretend to be lovers, Mr Trent, though I am far more skilled at giving pleasure than that night at the masquerade.”
He pulled her close, let her feel the evidence of his growing arousal. “Then this promises to be another thrilling adventure.”
Thank you for reading The Mark of a Rogue.
What scandalous event at the Serpentine led to Benedict Cavanagh offering to marry Lady Mills?
Will theirs be another marriage of convenience, or do secret desires simmer beneath the couple’s cool facades?
Find out in When Scandal Came to Town
Scandalous Sons - Book 3
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Books by Adele Clee
To Save a Sinner
A Curse of the Heart
What Every Lord Wants
The Secret To Your Surrender
A Simple Case of Seduction
Anything for Love Series
What You Desire
What You Propose
What You Deserve
What You Promised
Lost Ladies of London
The Mysterious Miss Flint
The Deceptive Lady Darby
The Scandalous Lady Sandford
The Daring Miss Darcy
Avenging Lords
At Last the Rogue Returns
A Wicked Wager
Valentine’s Vow
A Gentleman’s Curse
Scandalous Sons
And the Widow Wore Scarlet
The Mark of a Rogue
When Scandal Came to Town
