Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “My lord, I’m afraid there’s a bit of a problem.”

  Thornton steepled his fingers. “Problem?”

  “There is a gentleman here to see you.”

  He frowned, not wanting to be bothered with any more than he already had on his mind. “I’m not at home.”

  “Yes, I’m aware. But unfortunately—”

  An enormous crash sounded from the entry hall. “That sounded like breaking glass, Levingood.”

  The butler looked troubled. “I do apologize, my lord. I’m afraid that the person will not remove himself from the residence.”

  More crashing ensued, along with a loud, masculine voice and the squeal of a female servant. “Good Christ, man, who is it?” Thornton rose from his seat, ready to pummel the bastard and set him out on his bloody ear.

  “The Earl of Scarbrough, or so he claims.”

  “Damn,” he muttered, striding past his butler.

  He threw open the door of his study just in time to find a rumpled, obviously drunken man chasing one of the maids and making lewd calls. The shattered remnants of several antique vases littered the floor. The poor girl skittered toward Thornton, her aggressor pursuing her in laughably awkward motions, swiping at her skirt and attempting to grab her bottom. Thornton waited for the maid to pass before putting out his leg. The duffer tripped and went down like a felled tree.

  A moan sounded from the form on the floor. Thornton used the toe of his boot to roll the drunken sod over. It was indeed Scarbrough, he realized, recognizing the familiar features beneath the layer of beard and the rather unkempt, silver sprayed hair. He still wore his evening clothes from the night before and he absolutely reeked of gin and smoke.

  Thornton hadn’t seen him in years, but the man’s problems with drink, gaming and doxies were well known throughout most circles of the ton. It was an understood thing that Scarbrough hadn’t been sober in at least half a decade. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the earl looked more like a man from the poorhouse sent than a member of the Peerage.

  “You, sir, are trespassing where you’re not wanted. Unless you wish for me to call the watch, you’d best pick your miserable arse up off my floor and get the hell out of my house,” he advised. Christ, but he hated the man, hated that Cleo was tied so almost inextricably to the pathetic excuse for manhood. He wanted to beat the hell out of him, in truth.

  “Go ahead and call the watch because I’m going to kill you, you miserable fucker. Then they can bloody well cart me off.” Scarbrough somehow managed to gain his feet. “I heard you’re screwing my whore of a wife.”

  Sheer, animalistic rage coursed through him. “You aren’t fit to speak her name.”

  “I’ve been thinking about calling her home and breeding the bitch.” Scarbrough leered, weaving unsteadily on his feet. “Of course, I’ll have to wait a month or so to make sure I’m not claiming your get as my own. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “If you touch her, I’ll kill you,” Thornton growled, meaning every word.

  “It’s my right to do whatever I want with her. She’s my wife, damn you.”

  “You don’t deserve a woman as fine as Cleo.”

  “I may not deserve her, but I’ll bloody well have her back in my bed.” Scarbrough hiccupped. “Oh, don’t look so sad, old chap. If you’re nice, maybe I’ll let you watch.”

  That was it. Thornton’s tenuous grasp on sanity snapped. He threw back his fist and landed a crushing uppercut to Scarbrough’s chin. The bastard’s head snapped back but he caught himself before falling again. He launched himself at Thornton and the two scuffled like a pair of Eton lads going at it over a girl. Thornton landed a few more shots, but even sauced as he was, Scarbrough was a fair fighter and got in his share of blows as well.

  Finally, they shook one another off, circling each other, puffing for breath. Thornton’s fist ached like the devil. And he was quite certain his right eye was going to be black and blue on the morrow.

  “I mean what I say,” he began, “if you touch Cleo, I’ll kill you. If your brain hasn’t become too addled by the gin, you’ll stay the hell away and hold your tongue.” Christ, how he loathed not having any more defense against the bastard than threats. The political system he’d once so loved was proving dashed unfair and much in need of further reform.

  Scarbrough let out a bitter bark of laughter. “If you think I’ll let her go, you’re the one who’s addled. She’s my purse.”

  There was the crux of it. Scarbrough had never wanted a wife. He’d wanted an unending supply of bank notes. Cleo had intimated that her dowry had been sizeable and with the well known Harrington wealth, he had no doubt that it had been enough to make a man lie and cheat to gain a bride. Greed conquered all in this world of theirs.

  “If you divorce her, I’m prepared to pay,” he gritted.

  “How much?”

  “Name your price.”

  “One hundred thousand.”

  “You’re mad. I could have you killed for less.”

  “You’d lose everything. Seventy-five thousand, then.”

  “Fifty thousand,” Thornton countered, calling his bluff.

  Scarbrough grinned, insolent and arrogant to the end. “How is she?”

  Thornton’s jaw ticked. “Go to hell.”

  “I haven’t had her in years. I wondered if she’d gotten any better or if she’s still frigid as Wenham Lake ice.”

  Thornton hauled him to the door and threw it open. “Get out before I kill you myself.”

  “If you honestly think you’ll win divorce without my cooperation, you’re a bigger fool than I thought. The law is on my side and you can’t prove a goddamn thing against me. I’ll give you one hell of a fight. I’ll drag you through the goddamn mud until all the world knows what a selfish slut she is and what a stupid prick you are.”

  He pitched Scarbrough through the door. “Stay the hell away from her. And never come here again.”

  Shaking with rage, he slammed the door at his back. He’d free Cleo of that scum if it was the last thing he did in this life. Hell, just the thought of that bastard laying claim upon her—it was enough to make him physically ill. He’d meant what he said. He would protect Cleo against him no matter the cost.

  That vow made, he stalked back to his study. The servants were nowhere to be seen, but he didn’t fool himself that they hadn’t heard every damn word of his exchange with Scarbrough. He didn’t care who knew of his feelings for Cleo any longer. In fact, after he saw to the Prime Minister, he was going to tell his mother to go to the devil and live as he saw fit.

  Cleo had never been more dejected in all her life. She and her sisters went promptly to Harrington House, where there was neither mother nor father nor brothers but rather a large proportion of servants who were not particularly grateful for their unexpected arrival. Of course, none of them had sent word ahead of their abrupt departure from Marleigh Manor and there was no reason for their people to expect a visit. But Cleo, Tia and Helen had nowhere to go following Cleo’s defection save their childhood home.

  Harrington House was more castle than its name implied, a drafty, tumbledown affair that had been built in the fourteenth century by the first earl with spoils from some crusade or another. There were still murder holes in the keep where defenders had once poured boiling oil and water down onto unsuspecting invaders. There were musty corners, loose stones and there was absolutely no shortage of rodents.

  Cleo was not partial to Harrington House, for obvious reasons. It was cold and rather unpalatable, filled with relics from a bygone era and the prerequisite family portraits staring down from gilt frames on the walls. There was also a decidedly strange scent reminiscent of a wet hound.

  The familial tradition had it that the first earl had been particularly fond of the hunt and had kept a faithful hound with him until his dying day. It was also said that the hound had never quite died, but roamed the expanse of the castle, leaving a smell in his spirit’s wake. For her part, Cleo h
ad never believed it, but she did find the odor to be altogether unpalatable, so much so that upon her initial arrival there she always carried a bottle of orris root about with her and sprayed it here and there until the hound smell dissipated in favor of a preferred floral sweetness.

  There was an inordinate amount of bowing and scraping and all the covers were pulled from the furniture in the dining room and every spare inch was dusted into prompt submission. Cleo felt a mere husk of the happy woman she’d been at Marleigh Manor. Helen and Tia did their parts to cheer her, but she didn’t want company. Her heart was breaking, crashing into murky depths of despair. She was not certain she could survive losing Thornton. She missed him with a desperation that didn’t become her.

  Several days passed, spent in her old bedchamber in a turret near the eaves. As a child, she had spent many nights nestled within its confines, often giggling with her sisters and sipping cocoa into the wee morning hours. Now she went to bed alone, spent a sleepless night without Thornton and finally fell asleep at dawn only to wake a few hours later, bereft and empty as she had ever been. It was strange, but she had to admit to herself that she was more lonesome than she had been before Thornton had come into her life although she had been essentially alone for six years or more. Scarbrough had not been a part of her world since the early days. He’d quickly become entranced by his own penchant for drink and the game and loose women. The polite world knew too well of his sins and they were many.

  Tia and Helen cornered her on the fourth day at Harrington House in the breakfast room. Cleo was too nauseated to consume a bite to eat once again, but her sisters were feasting on Mrs. Simple’s beloved eggs and muffins when Tia finally broke her silence on the matter.

  Her blonde curls were arranged neatly at the nape of her neck, her dress a brilliant turquoise with black netting. She looked utterly stunning—too beautiful for the mere company of sisters, certainly—and sipped her tea while pinning Cleo in an unnerving stare that gave her fair warning of the impending interrogation.

  “Cleo, darling, when do you presume to tell us of your plans?” She cracked her egg smartly in its egg cup as she spoke.

  “Plans?” Cleo raised a brow.

  “You were madly in love with Thornton and now you have left him with nary a bye your leave. And we are together holed up in this ancestral monstrosity of ours with little hope of rescue. I confess I am quite horrified by the predicament in which you have landed us.”

  “You may gladly return to the city, or go to visit the rest of our family at Clowes House with Uncle.” Their uncle, the Duke of Roland, owned a vast estate called Clowes in Scotland. It was a family favorite during the off season, but Cleo and her sisters had eschewed this year to attend Lady Cosgrove’s country house party instead. Cleo almost wished they had gone straightaway to Clowes. But then she never would have experienced the unadulterated joy and love she’d rediscovered with Thornton. Even if she would never know it again, she had to think the small sacrifice worthwhile. So few people ever knew true love. Certainly she herself had not, before Alex had come into her world.

  “Go to the family at Clowes whilst leaving you here to your misery?” Tia snorted. “I think not. Do talk some sense into our sister, Helen.”

  Helen placed her spoon on the table with a firm clink. “Cleo, what our sister is trying to say in her inimitable way is that we’re very worried about you. You still haven’t been forthcoming about your reason for leaving Thornton. We can’t fathom why a woman as happy as you seemed to be would simply leave the man she loved without warning. We are your sisters, darling. You can safely tell us all without fear of it carrying.”

  Thank heavens they had dismissed the hovering footmen and were alone, a closed door to secure the privacy of their tête-à-tête. “I… It’s complex.” Tears pricked her eyes.

  “So complex you cannot give it voice?” Helen tsked like a mother hen. “Cleo, you must relent.”

  “He is too good a man for me,” she confessed in a rush. “Thornton…he could very well become the next Prime Minister. He’s so honorable, so noble a man and I am a woman encumbered by a wastrel, drunkard of a husband. It’s not fair for me to ask him to wait for me when I may well never be truly free.”

  “You seemed so set on leaving the earl.” Tia scooped her egg and held a dainty portion to her lips. “What occurred to change your mind?”

  “Gladstone.” Cleo picked at her food with her fork, gaze trained on her plate. “When he became ill, I realized that Thornton’s life is firmly entrenched in politics. He has been a respected member of the Prime Minister’s Cabinet, the fixture of his election, the man of the day when it comes to reform. England needs him more than I do. I cannot in good faith require the man that I love to live in shame with me, to ruin his chances for the dreams he’s entertained since boyhood.

  “He told me that when he was a lad he dreamt of being Prime Minister. Now, here he is in sure position and yet his love for me will prevent him from attaining that high office. No Prime Minister of England, no matter how honored and beloved, can pass a ruined woman before the world as his wife. Even should Scarbrough entertain divorce, even should it be granted, I shall always be tainted by Scarbrough’s name and reputation. And I, in turn, shall always taint Alex. I cannot countenance that. I love him too much. I will not be the reason for his downfall and resentment. Let him marry Miss Cuthbert if he must. I would have him know his true worth as a man.”

  “You cannot truly want him to marry Miss Cuthbert, Cleo.” Tia looked at her as if she’d gone quite mad. “Miss Cuthbert is an awful, mousy, vulgar little person. She was quite rude to me and I should never know her. She’s a Cit and a grasper and I don’t like ladies of her ilk.”

  “Of course I would not wish him to marry Miss Cuthbert.” Indeed, the very thought made Cleo nauseated. “I am stating fact. Miss Cuthbert would make him a far more honorable wife. He would be respected if he wed her. Should he wait and attempt to wed me, he will only face scorn and ruin. No man can marry a divorcee. It is not done. Moreover, history is clear. I will very likely never be divorced. Our laws were not fashioned for woman.”

  “Everything can be done in this modern world of ours.” Helen pointed this out while making a rude yet somehow grand gesture with her fork. “It will be done if you choose. Scarbrough is a worthless hide of a man. Nothing can be hopeless. Send him to the gutters from whence he came and marry Thornton. You’ll never be happy unless you do so. Leaving Thornton was a true mistake, Cleo.”

  “It was a mistake for my heart, but not for Thornton.” Cleo sipped her tea in a hopeless dodge at calming herself.

  “You are not so bad as that, dearest.” Tia slathered marmalade on a muffin. “Good heavens, you’re hardly a pariah. Indeed, you’ve lived a rather circumspect life whilst Scarbrough’s been an utter reprobate. You cannot be as horrid a fate as you think.”

  Just then, the family butler intruded, addressing Cleo. “My lady, you have a visitor. He says he’s expected.”

  “Thornton!” Helen crowed. “I knew it!”

  “’Fraid not,” drawled a languid voice.

  “Julian, you’ve come.” Cleo rose from her chair to greet the man who had become her unlikely friend. He looked rumpled, as if he’d been playing cards all night and had yet to get to bed. A dark stubble shadowed his jawline to emphasize the impression. She had not been certain he would heed her call, but she’d sent word to him just the same. His role in her plan was imperative. She dismissed the disapproving butler before taking the earl’s hands in hers. “I am relieved.”

  He grinned. “I’m relieved to relieve you, in turn. May I say you’re looking absolutely smashing in that frock, my love?” He bussed her cheek before stepping back to survey Helen and Tia, paused in shock over their breakfasts. “Sisters, you are lovely as usual.”

  Tia sniffed. “I cannot say the same for you, my lord. You look as if you’ve been lolling about in an opium den. Really, is that a brandy stain on your shirt?”

&nb
sp; “I’m wounded.” He cut a dapper bow. “Lady Stokey, you should know better. I’d never waste good brandy by dribbling it down my shirt.”

  “Good morning, Ravenscroft,” Helen cut in. “I don’t mean to be rude, but to what do we owe your presence here in the country?”

  “Do behave, both of you. I asked him here.” Cleo frowned at her maddening sisters. “He’s taking me to Scarbrough’s country seat.” Then she promptly cast up her accounts into a potted plant.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A week passed until the Prime Minister was finally well enough to truly withstand much visitation. Thornton had been to sit with him in his sick chamber every day since his arrival in London and for the first few days, Gladstone had been virtually incoherent with fever and body-racking coughs. The outlook at the onset had been bleak. Thornton’s own doctor, along with the queen’s, had watched over him in an endless vigil and neither of the esteemed gentlemen had offered words of promise or hope. All had been cautious in their assessments of the Grand Old Man’s condition.

  The delirium had been troubling—to see one so strong struck so low had been a blow to him, a reminder to grasp what was important while he could still do so. But by the conclusion of his first week in London, Gladstone’s condition finally improved. The fever had gone and with it the most prominent thunderclouds on the horizon. As the sickness gave way to hopeful signs of restored health, Thornton sat down with his mentor.

  Although he’d been truthful in his words to Cleo when he’d told her he’d written the Prime Minister, stepping down from his duties, he had yet to send said letter. He’d not found the confidence to post it, truth be told. For such an enduring relationship, damn if he could break the old man’s faith in him down with a mere scrap of paper. No, he’d known that it needed to be face-to-face or nothing at all.