Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “I’m sorry,” was all he said as he slid from her body.

  Not the most comforting words. Not at all.

  “I regret to inform you that while I’ve discovered Lady Stokey, I’ve also discovered the Duke of Devonshire. It gives me great pains to be forced to divulge such dark news, but I fear I have reason to believe that their relations were…improper.” The last was said with a horrified shudder.

  The Marquis of Thornton stilled his restless mount and cursed his particular luck to the devil. Rain sluiced from his hat onto his trousers as he tipped his head forward, hiding his expression. Damn it all. He should’ve known Cleo’s troublesome sister couldn’t be trusted to behave. And Devonshire. By God, he would make good on his threats to thrash the blighter.

  After weathering the scandal he’d created with his darling wife, he’d just barely earned back his place in the political and social worlds. He’d managed so far by taking the ton by storm with the help of Cleo, who was the most perfect woman he could have ever asked to have by his side. After the birth of their son, she had worked diligently to reenter polite society with a series of lavish entertainments. This house party at Penworth was to have been the culmination of all their labors. They’d invited an impressive assortment of august old lords, fusty politicians, family and friends.

  One of those august lords, Viscount Trotter, was facing him now, red-faced and outraged. Seated atop one of Thornton’s mildest mounts, Trotter resembled nothing so much as an irate parsnip drowning in hunting tweeds. Thornton stared at the man, wondering why, of all the guests at Penworth, Tia would have had to be found by the biggest sanctimonious prude. And apparently in flagrante delicto.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  “Perhaps you misunderstood what you saw,” he suggested firmly to the man, praying that he would take pity and observe the age-old method of keeping gossip where it belonged. Behind bedchamber doors.

  “I saw them in bed together, my lord. There is no doubt,” Lord Trotter said succinctly, banishing Thornton’s hopes.

  When it rained, he supposed. “You’re utterly certain?”

  Trotter nodded emphatically, his voice trembling in his self-righteous fervor. “I know what I observed, my lord. I cannot say I’m entirely shocked that this sort of egregious behavior would be unfolding within your midst. But I did hope for better from you.”

  Thornton gritted his teeth. “I can assure you that I in no way espouse such conduct. Lady Stokey and the duke will both be called to answer for their actions.”

  Trotter appeared somewhat mollified. “What will be done?”

  There was no hope for it. Only one solution existed, one that would preserve his fragile reputation and dampen the flames of scandal at the same time. “They will marry, of course,” he said. “In the meantime, I suggest we all ride back to Penworth and await their return.”

  Without waiting for Trotter’s response, Thornton spurred his mount forward. He was going to wring Tia’s neck for this. And beat Devonshire to a pulp. And then, his wife would likely box his ears for promising her sister to the first unfortunate chap to be caught in bed with her.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  “Devonshire.”

  Heath met Thornton’s gaze without flinching. They stood not two feet apart in the marquis’ study, two men squaring off much as prizefighters would in the ring. Apparently, Trotter had been swift with his inability to keep the winds of scandal subdued. The bastard had gone straight to the marquis with what he’d seen, which had admittedly been damning indeed. Heath had been summoned for his reckoning, and he knew it.

  “Lord Thornton,” he greeted in turn, equally formal. What did a man say to the brother-in-law of the woman he’d just been caught fucking in an abandoned hunting cabin? The very woman he was to have been rescuing, to boot.

  Thornton’s expression was grave, his eyes as hard as the stones of a castle wall. “I presume you know why you are here for this unfortunate interview?”

  Heath clasped his hands at his back and nodded, feeling like a lad in leading strings getting punished for sneaking into the kitchens and eating Cook’s tarts. Only the sin he’d committed this time was for worse. Far, far worse and with a more severe consequence. “I do.”

  “Interesting choice of words,” the marquis said, grinning in the way he imagined an executioner might as he fit the noose over the prisoner’s head. “Have a seat, Your Grace. I’m not going to resort to fisticuffs.” He paused. “Unless I find it necessary to.”

  Ah. He was being given options. Of a sort. He seated himself in a chair opposite Thornton’s escritoire and watched guardedly as his host did the same. His ride back to Penworth with Tia had been quiet. They’d both been lost in their own thoughts, the ramifications of what they’d done. Heath hadn’t known precisely what to say, how to broach the subject of what must happen.

  Marriage.

  They had no other alternative now that Trotter had caught them. The damage to all their reputations would be too severe. He had no wish for Tia to be snubbed in society on his account. He had been searching for a wife. It would seem he’d found her. And why not? He couldn’t deny that the prospect of having Tia in his bed was a thoroughly pleasant one. Good Lord, she’d all but set him on fire. He couldn’t wait to have more of her. All she had to give.

  Of course, there remained the small, niggling notion that she wasn’t at all the sort of wife he’d intended to procure for himself. He had never meant to wed a woman who was as beautiful as she was maddening, as silly as she was seductive. A woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to achieve it. Yes indeed, there was something about Lady Stokey that rendered her a dangerous woman.

  “Would you care for a whiskey?” Thornton asked, interrupting his thoughts. “You look as if you could use it.” He splashed some amber liquid in a glass and nudged it in Heath’s direction without bothering to wait for his response. “Besides, it’ll dull the pain of my fist connecting with your jaw. Supposing it’s required, of course.”

  “Naturally.” Heath took the glass and tossed back a gulp. “I’m no fool, Thornton. I know I deserve a sound thrashing.”

  “Yes,” his host said agreeably, having a healthy sip of his own whiskey. “You do.”

  “But I hope we can dispense with the formalities,” he pressed onward, not truly relishing the thought of the marquis giving him a drubbing, regardless of how justified one would be. “Since Lady Stokey’s father is not present, it would seem I must ask for her hand in marriage from you.”

  “I would be happy to act in Lord Northcote’s stead,” the marquis said, raising a brow. “I trust your offer is a serious one?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. He took another sip of whiskey. “Yes. It’s no secret that I’ve been looking for a bride. I would be honored to take Lady Stokey as my wife.”

  “Honored?”

  Bloody hell. The man needn’t sound so dubious. “I realize that circumstances have necessitated this proposal, but I do hold her in high esteem.”

  “Good. As my wife’s sister, Lady Stokey’s future happiness is my chief concern,” he said. “Do you promise to make her happy?”

  The question startled him. Ordinarily, peers of the realm discussed finances and dowry when arranging alliances. Even his interview with Bess’ father had been no exception. Happiness was not a prerequisite. Indeed, it wasn’t even a consideration. “I shall do my utmost,” he said simply, meaning the words.

  It wasn’t his intention to wed Tia and make her miserable. After Bess, he’d given up on the idea of finding love again. It had taken him some years and a hell of a lot of guilt-banishing to realize Bess’ death didn’t mean he couldn’t find a comfortable union with another woman. He wanted a woman in his bed, a lady in his drawing room, a mother for his children. Tia would wear all those roles exceedingly well, he felt. That he wanted her more than he wanted his next breath didn’t precisely hurt either. He hadn’t wanted a cold, chaste marriage of duty only. He had no fear he’d suff
er that fate with Tia.

  The marquis nodded. “I’ll take you at your word, Devonshire. There is one more thing. My wife requested that I remind you that Lady Stokey is possessed of some funds of her own. I’m given to understand she would likely prefer to retain access to them during her marriage to you.”

  It was another odd request, but one which didn’t trouble Heath in the least. He had his own funds. If Tia required funds for baubles and fripperies, he had no objections. He wasn’t marrying because he needed gold in his coffers. He was marrying for necessity and heirs. “She may retain her funds and dispense with them as she likes.”

  “Excellent.” Thornton stood, his expression changing to one of relief. “Welcome to the family, Your Grace.”

  Heath stood, knowing he’d done the right thing by Tia. Now all that remained was to get his little spitfire to agree to marry him. And he had the distinct feeling that it would prove quite a feat.

  “I must what?”

  Tia stared at her outraged sister, aghast. Cleo’s expression was most forbidding. Perhaps unforgiving as well. Tia knew this time she had gone beyond the pale, but that didn’t mean anyone could expect her to simply bow to the whims of society as if she didn’t have a free will.

  “You must marry him,” Cleo repeated, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at her in the same way their nasty old governess, Miss Hullyhew, had whenever they’d been naughty. “There is no other alternative.”

  She supposed a smarting ankle and wrist had become the least of her problems. “You cannot order me about as if I were your vassal, Cleo.” But of course, she knew her sister could and would, both because she was a sister and because Tia herself was a captive audience, trapped in her bed thanks to her latest misadventures.

  “Lord Trotter saw you and the duke in bed together,” Cleo said, her voice accusatory but scarcely above a whisper, almost as if she feared someone would overhear them although they were alone in Tia’s private chamber with the door closed.

  Tia winced at the reminder of their unwanted guest at the hunting cabin. “The duke was warming me. I caught a chill after being stranded in the rain. That is all the man could have seen.”

  “Darling sister, please dispense with your protestations of innocence. You and I both know quite well that you weren’t innocently singing hymns in bed with Devonshire.”

  “Of course we weren’t.” Tia sniffed. “I’m a dreadful singer.”

  “Cease being obtuse,” her sister ordered, apparently not willing to allow her to brazen it out. “I warned you about your behavior with Devonshire. You know that Thornton and I are treading on extremely thin ice with society as it is. Not to mention the ramifications for poor Miss Whitney. And Bella. Dear heavens. Bella will slay you if you don’t do the proper thing and wed the duke.”

  Marriage.

  To Heath.

  Tia frowned, considering the previously inconceivable prospect. She’d never thought to marry again, and certainly not if it wasn’t for love. Lord Stokey had quite cured her of the notion that marriage was an institution in which she would care to trap herself once more. Her widow’s portion was respectable. She flitted through life much like a butterfly, floating when and where she would with no man to demand her time. No troublesome rules. No tiring emotions. Not a single expectation.

  She treasured her independence. It was a possession few women could claim to fully own. She wasn’t prepared to so quickly raise the white flag of defeat and simply bow to Cleo and Thornton’s wishes. There was also the matter of the duke not having asked for her hand.

  “Devonshire hasn’t asked me,” she pointed out. “You said yourself that he came here to hunt for a bride. Men like the duke don’t wed a woman like me.” As she said the last, a pang crept through her heart. It was true, of course. But a small part of her rather wished it weren’t.

  “You say that as if you’re a French whore.” Cleo’s eyes narrowed. “The lady doth protest too much.”

  Damn it all. Why did her sister have to be so perceptive? Why couldn’t she have been blessed with a meek and dull-witted sibling instead? Tia sighed. “I’m merely speaking truth. Devonshire is likely searching for a young, innocent miss. I’m a widow. I’ve had lovers. I adore parties and dresses and the city, and he adores books and crumbling estates in the country. We’re quite opposite.” Most of these things she knew from what she’d heard of Heath, back when she’d traveled in the same circles without ever being kissed senseless by him in her bedchamber. Or carried in his arms. In truth, if she was honest with herself, she would admit that she knew very little of the man himself, other than that he was the best kisser she’d ever known and that he could make her weak with wanting by merely catching her in his blue gaze.

  “Yet apparently none of the things you’ve just listed kept you from becoming lovers,” Cleo observed wryly, bringing Tia back to the conversation at hand. Or to be more precise, to her sister’s berating.

  Well, yes. There rather was that. But lust could do powerful things to a woman. “Bed sport is different from an offer of marriage,” she insisted. “It’s one thing to have a spot of fun and quite another to be chained to a man as his chattel for the rest of my life.”

  Cleo raised a brow. “You should have thought of that before you went about cavorting in hunting cabins with the Duke of Devonshire.”

  “I wasn’t cavorting. A lady of my age doesn’t cavort.” Of course, she did allow a wicked duke to have his way with her. Bother it all.

  “You were, and you were seen.” Her sister’s frown was ferocious, letting Tia know she couldn’t easily cajole her way out of the predicament in which she now found herself firmly mired. “And I’ve heard enough of this claptrap that you’re too ancient for misbehavior and marriage. You’re only five-and-twenty.”

  Drat Cleo for being so persistent. Tia’s head was beginning to ache. She needed some time alone with her thoughts. Some time to figure out her next course of action. Some time that didn’t involve being berated by her sister. “If you’re finished railing at me, I should like to get some rest. I’ve had a devil of a day.”

  “You?” Cleo’s tone was indignant.

  Tia winced. “It isn’t a trifling matter, getting caught out in the wilds of East Anglia in the midst of a raging rainstorm, you know.”

  “Enough,” Cleo bit out. “I won’t entertain any further attempts on your part to garner my pity or to otherwise distract me. Thornton is having an interview with Devonshire at this very moment. Your fate is sealed, my dear. You will wed the duke, and that is that.”

  Dear, sweet heavens.

  Chapter Six

  The lady was being stubborn.

  Heath cooled his heels in the yellow drawing room later the next evening, waiting for Tia to deign him worthy of her presence. Despite Lord and Lady Thornton’s most fervent efforts to oversee a meeting between Heath and Tia the day before—ostensibly to both ward off further scandal and to ensure a union was indeed forthcoming—Tia had pled a headache. She’d been unable to leave her chamber, thanks to her grievous injuries. After many frustrated attempts at coaxing Tia from her haven, Lady Thornton had conceded defeat. Her eyes had been snapping with fire as she’d announced to Thornton and Heath both that the lady would not be joining them.

  Heath had considered sneaking to her chamber and persuading her in the best way he knew how, but he’d thought better of it, not wishing to do any further damage. Thus far, Lord Trotter had been willing to keep his knowledge to himself thanks to the clever manipulation of the marquis. But their time of reprieve was limited. Trotter’s silence was dependent upon an announcement being made.

  An announcement that it seemed Tia wasn’t willing or ready to make.

  He paced the length of the room, wondering if he’d be forced to simply go to her chamber and extract her from it himself. She had finally agreed to a meeting sans the marquis and marchioness. Thornton and his wife had acquiesced, seemingly at their wits’ end.

  But that had been—he
consulted his pocket watch—an hour ago. His patience was thinner than Lord Trotter’s hair at the moment. The minx had certainly put him through his paces. He was of half a mind to tell her—when she finally appeared, that was—that he’d like to ask for Miss Whitney’s hand in marriage. It would be worth it just to see her eyes flash with fury.

  The door to the drawing room clicked open at last, revealing the source of his irritation. She looked, despite his irritation with her, beautiful as ever. She wore a dashing day dress of silk and cut velvet in a deep shade of burgundy that set her golden locks off to perfection. Her bodice was high-necked, lined with a formidable row of buttons he longed to undo. She wore a diamond star in her hair, a brooch at her throat, and glittering diamond earrings.

  She was not smiling. And she had only a slight limp to detract from her otherwise august figure. The result of yesterday’s adventure, no doubt.

  He bowed, deciding to be formal. She would need wooing, that much he knew from the short time he’d spent in her company. “My lady.”

  She stopped halfway across the room, leaving a good amount of distance between them. A safe amount of distance, he presumed. She met his gaze then, her expression guarded. “Your Grace. I understand you wished an audience.”

  He thought of how she’d felt beneath him the day before, warm and soft and eager for him. She could don a mantle of ice if she chose, but he knew how to thaw it, by damn. He stalked closer to her, cutting the space between them by half. “I did.”

  She clasped her hands at her waist and raised an imperious brow. “If you’re intending to offer for me out of some misplaced notion of being a gentleman, you can stubble it right now. I’m a widow, not some silly virginal miss you’ve ruined.”

  A different tactic occurred to him just then. He moved toward her with slow deliberation, stopping only when he was near enough to catch a whiff of violets. “That wasn’t my intention.”