Prelude to a Scandal

by Delilah Marvelle

  He couldn’t help but snort. “Love and…hell, Justine, I thought you, of all women, born and bred unto a scientific, rational man, would have realized by now that love and affection have no place in the real world.”

  Her lips parted in astonishment as she shoved several wet, dripping sections of her hair from the sides of her face. “What world are you living in? Despite my scientific upbringing, I happen to believe in love and affection. Why? Because it requires sentiment and spirit and emotion and the desire and passion to genuinely display one’s soul ardently to another.”

  He rolled his eyes at her rich, honeyed words. Similar words his own mother had often spoken to his father whilst making a cuckold out of him. “Someone hand me a dagger and spare me from listening to any more of this.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “’Tis obvious you have no respect for me or what I believe.”

  “Respect does not mean people need always agree, Justine.” Radcliff strode past her to the dresser, and flung its wood-lacquered door open. Yanking out a nightshirt, he offered it to her. “Here. Don this.”

  She lowered her gaze and looked away, shaking her head.

  He eyed her, sensing she was genuinely upset. Damn women and their ability to make him soft in the head and hard in the cock.

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “Give me five days. If your father isn’t released from Marshalsea in that time, the wedding is off and you owe me nothing. And rest assured, even then, I will continue to barter for his release. How is that for respect?”

  Her gaze darted back toward him. In astonishment.

  Her astonishment reflected his own. For if those five days produced nothing, he’d be without a bride. And though, yes, there were plenty of other women who’d be more than willing to play duchess despite his scar and his reputation, none of them were nearly as intelligent or as unyielding as Justine. He needed more than a beautiful face for a wife. He needed a soul made of iron. A soul capable of handling anything.

  Radcliff shook the nightshirt at her. “Take it,” he muttered. “Any gentleman would agree you should not remain in wet clothing.”

  Her full lips spread into a stunning smile that magically brightened not only her face but her beautiful eyes. “Will it really take only five days?”

  “There is one highly placed man I’ve yet to contact. He is known to have the king’s ear and happens to be Lord Winfield’s rival. My solicitor mentioned him to me just yesterday. Perhaps it will end with him. Now go. Put this on.”

  She stumbled toward him. Grabbing hold of his shirt, she marched toward the bath chamber, still boasting a smile.

  A smile that made it all worth his while.

  She halted in the doorway and announced over her shoulder, “I always knew you had a heart, Bradford. Always.” With that, she slammed the door behind herself.

  He blinked, realizing that despite Justine’s unusual upbringing, she still very much believed in all things female. Romance and words of love.

  He was going to be a sore disappointment to her. But then again, that was all he ever seemed to be these days: a disappointment to everyone, including himself.

  SCANDAL THREE

  Allowing a man to kiss or touch you, at any time during your courtship, even before a set wedding, is allowing too much. After all, it is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason to run down that altar aisle. It is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason as to why, on his own wedding day, he should smile.

  How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

  JUSTINE SMOOTHED OUT Radcliff’s white cotton nightshirt and hurriedly rolled up the large, loose sleeves. She glanced down at the gaping open front of his shirt which provocatively exposed her damp lilac corset and chemise. She cringed and clutched the front together, holding it shut. At least they were engaged.

  “Are you clothed?”

  She jumped at the sound of Radcliff’s deep voice from the other side of the closed door. “I doubt you can call it that,” she yelled back.

  “You needn’t fret. We’ll throw a cloak or two over you and dash you home. Though I have a feeling your mother will hold me accountable for your absence and lack of clothing. Send along my apologies, will you?”

  Justine smirked. “I really wouldn’t worry about my mother. She doesn’t even know I’m here. She overstayed past calling hours whilst visiting Father at Marshalsea and therefore won’t be allowed back out until the gates reopen in the morning.” She tiptoed with cold, bare feet across the bath chamber, avoiding puddles on the tile, then opened the door and edged out.

  Bradford sat on the four-poster, one trouser-clad knee propped up, his bare foot rumpling the white satin linens. His shaven jaw tightened as his dark eyes trailed the length of her body.

  Her heart fluttered in response. The way it always fluttered foolishly in his presence. She tried to shove away the erotic image of his large muscled body and that sizable erection, but it was no use. It had been seared into her thoughts and would remain there until she was given the pleasure of seeing him naked again.

  Despite Bradford’s long, puckered scar, he was still very dashing. His white linen shirt continued to hang open, exposing a strong neck and a sprinkle of soft-looking black curls. With or without clothes, the man had a commanding presence that was raw, overwhelming and beyond exciting. Why was it she had the strangest desire to consummate their marriage right now?

  He lowered his trouser-clad leg to the floor and kept staring at her. As if he’d never seen a woman before.

  The piercing silence lingering between them seemed to further emphasize how alone they really were. And how they were breaking every single rule set out by respectable society, what with her lack of clothing and his bed barely a few feet away. Given his reputation, she was quite certain this wasn’t new to him. Not as it was for her.

  Wanting to prove to him, and herself, that she wasn’t in the least bit intimidated, and that she could rival any woman he’d ever had, she drifted in his direction and paused, lingering only a few feet away. “You’re staring, Bradford,” she teased.

  He cleared his throat and looked away, sending damp strands of dark hair cascading into his eyes and toward his scar. “I…forgive me.”

  He cleared his throat again and rose to his full, imposing height of six feet. “We should cover you up a bit more. Your legs…they…they’re showing.”

  How utterly charming. The Duke of Bradford, and soon to be her Duke of Bradford, The Rake Extraordinaire, was actually stumbling and mumbling and apologizing for being a man. And was even telling her to further cover up!

  This certainly deserved a bit more study and observation. Seeing she was going to be his fiancée for at least another five days, she had a right to know what a man of his years, upbringing and experience did or did not find attractive. Never mind if what she was about to ask would cause half of London to faint.

  “What do you think of them?” she drawled.

  He eyed her. “What do I think of what?”

  “My legs. Seeing that you had mentioned them.”

  He stared at her. “What about your legs?”

  “Well…ever since I can remember, I’ve always wondered what the preoccupation was all about. Did you know that the native women in Africa don’t cover their legs and ankles the same way women do here? Now why is that, do you suppose? Does a leg mean more to us than it does to them? And if so, why? They’re only legs, after all, taking us from one place to the next. You don’t see male giraffes gawking at the legs of their mates, even though they’re certainly long enough to warrant such a thing.”

  Justine shot out her right leg, her damp, transparent chemise tightening against the extension, and pointed her bare toes in his direction. She tilted her head to one side, observing her own limbs in a scientific sort of way. “I’m afraid they’re a bit bowed, and for that I can only apologize, but aside from that, what do you think? From a British male perspective? Are they at all attractive? Surely, you’ve seen more than enough to pro
vide an objective opinion.”

  He continued to stare at her, abashed.

  She returned his stare and quickly dropped her foot back onto the wooden floor. So much for the British male perspective. Apparently, she was being too crass for even a homo sapien libertine. “I suppose I should apologize. I didn’t realize—”

  “There is no need for you to apologize, Justine,” he said in a low tone. “In answer to your question, they are not bowed. In fact, they are very shapely. Might I also point out, if we were giraffes, I would probably be gawking and whistling and making all the other giraffes feel very, very uncomfortable.”

  Her eyes widened as she gurgled out a laugh. Oh, now they were both being very naughty. And what was worse, she loved it. It reminded her of the wild and funny Bradford she’d shamelessly preened over. The Bradford who had always made everything so exciting in an otherwise very orchestrated and boring London world.

  Though her entire face burned, she decided to offer her fiancée a tad bit more. She’d already tossed every etiquette book out the window and had every intention of showing how grateful she was he hadn’t taken her up on her rash proposal of a few measly nights.

  Offering him a shy smile, she gathered her wet chemise and slid it up to where his shirt ended to give him a better view of everything below the knees. In case her wet chemise wasn’t transparent enough.

  Bradford hissed out a breath—as if something were terribly wrong with her legs—and closed what little space was left between them. He grabbed hold of her chin, yanking it up toward his own face. “Drop it,” he demanded, his fingers now digging into her skin, causing it to burn. “Drop it before I do it for you.”

  Justine instantly dropped her chemise and stared up at him in astonishment, realizing it wasn’t male lust that had riled him. What was more, his marred face was hauntingly close. She swallowed, feeling as though she were looking at one side of his face through broken glass.

  Instead of breaking her chin free of his pinching grasp, she searched his eyes. “Why are you angry? I thought you would have enjoyed that.”

  His dark brows came together as he loosened his grip. The rough pads of his fingers slowly slid back and forth, as if trying to soothe her skin. “You don’t know what you are doing, innocent Justine. Forgive me,” he murmured. “I should not have taken that tone with you.”

  Justine blinked up at him, still unable to move. To be sure, this was not the same Bradford she’d once known. He was so morbidly tense, reserved and too serious for her own liking.

  What on earth had changed his playful, adventurous soul into…this? She was certain his scar held the answer to her question. “What happened to you? What happened since we last met? You are not the same man. You once loved to engage in flirtations.”

  He dropped his hand from her chin, his dark brows softening, but continued to linger before her. “I don’t want to be the man you once knew. He had no self-control or self-respect.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Libertine aside, he was everything I could ever want. He was generous and charming and playful and witty. He knew how to make me laugh and blush and always preferred to sit on the floor as opposed to a chair. I adored him. I…still do.” She bit her lip, realizing she was practically flinging herself at him. As always.

  His dark eyes took on an intense, blazing look as he suddenly grabbed her waist and yanked her hips toward his own, grinding her against the length of his large body.

  She gasped as his hands molded her closer, pressing her more firmly against every inch of him. As if forcing her to feel the pulsing heat of his skin, the beating of his heart, and the rigid bulge in his trousers which dug into her damp, corseted stomach.

  Her heart thumped and her stomach flipped. Having never had any physical relations with a man, and having never been held by one so close, either, the contact was shocking. Not to mention downright arousing.

  “If you really knew who he was,” he said in a low, clipped tone, “I doubt you’d feel adoration.”

  The tension in his muscles gave her a sense of the powerful force barely being restrained.

  Justine’s pulse thundered as she was torn between pulling away and melting against the firm, crushing embrace of those taut muscles. Endless sensations overwhelmed her body, which was probably why she couldn’t make any sense of him or his words. “Bradford, what—”

  He released her and stepped back, setting a notable distance between them. His broad chest rose and fell beneath his open shirt as if he struggled to breathe. He readjusted the erection within his trousers and swiped at his face with shaky hands, unable to look at her.

  She swallowed, knowing his blatant rejection had nothing to do with her. Something was tormenting him. But what? Her throat ached at the thought of him suffering this much.

  He turned away, blowing out a heavy breath, and purposefully kept his broad back to her. As if ashamed by his arousal, by his need. As if he truly hated himself.

  Justine fidgeted with her hands, not knowing what to make of him. Perhaps it was best she leave. “I should go. But before I do…I…I would like to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything.” She paused. “Well. Aside from throwing me into the tub, that is.” She feigned a laugh, but seeing he still hadn’t turned or appeared amused by her little quip, she sighed.

  She wished he would turn so she could look into his eyes and assure him how much he’d always meant to her. “Ever since I’ve known you, Bradford, you’ve always been very generous and supportive of my father. Even whilst all of London chose to mock him. You’ve always believed in the value of his work and treated him with respect. And for that reason alone, I would marry you. Without question.”

  He was quiet for a very long moment. He swung back toward her. Hissing out a breath, he shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. “If we do marry, I wish to buy you a wedding gift. What is it that you want?”

  “Pardon?”

  He waved a hand toward her. “What is it that you want? Aside from your father’s freedom, that is. What would make you happy knowing you are settling for a man with half a face and half a heart? Do you want jewelry? Clothing? Name it and it is yours. I genuinely wish to make you happy.”

  Abashed, Justine stepped back. Where on earth was this coming from, and what did he mean he only had half a heart? “Happiness isn’t something that can be readily bought. Unlike most women, I’ve never been overly fond of trinkets. I prefer more nostalgic things.”

  His hand fell to his side as black eyes captured hers. “Assure me you aren’t about to demand sentimental rubbish I cannot give. I am not that sort of man.”

  Ah. But she had faith he would eventually be that sort of man. Until then, there was only one other thing, aside from courtship, romance and love, that she, as a woman, would ever want from him. “All I am asking for is your respect, Bradford. The sort of respect London has never given me, my father or my mother. I don’t want any more of this throwing-me-into-the-tub nonsense or you treating me with agitated disdain I do not deserve. I also humbly ask that your respect not be limited to public display, but to our own personal lives, which hopefully will include you having no other woman in your bed but me. In the wild, it may very well be acceptable to be promiscuous or polygamous, but I have witnessed first-hand how badly that can end if any of those partners feel threatened.”

  He stared at her and then belted out a hearty laugh that crinkled the edges of his eyes and shifted the mangled skin on the side of his face.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. He really was hopeless.

  “You speak with such conviction,” he guffawed. “It’s marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”

  She supposed this was what happened when a monogamous female tried to pair up with a full-blooded libertine. “I suggest you set up a harem in the east wing of the house,” she tossed out in complete disgust. “At least then I’ll know where all the women are coming from and where to find you should I require attention.”
>
  His laughter and grin slowly faded as his features settled back into a tight, grim mask. “Forgoing associations with women will require no effort on my part. I am rather concerned, however, about the obligation that would fall upon you as a result of it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mock me, Bradford. It’s beneath even you. I know full well what those obligations are, and I can assure you, I am more than capable, not to mention willing, to meet them.”

  He lowered his chin, challenging her with a hard, burning look. “I don’t doubt your capability. Or your willingness. I do, however, doubt your stamina.”

  Her…stamina? What on earth was that supposed to mean? “What are you saying? That it takes a full eight hours of copulation for you to reach completion?”

  He choked and raked both hands through his damp hair. “Your father bloody exposed you to his observations a bit too much. No. For God’s sake, I…” He dropped his hands to his side. But said nothing more.

  She blinked. “What, then?”

  He shook his dark head but still said nothing.

  She stepped toward him, oddly compelled, not to mention genuinely concerned. “I should hope that if there is something that will affect our marriage, you would find the decency to tell me now. Before we marry.”

  “I…yes. You are right in that. You deserve to know beforehand.” He nodded, as if struggling to comprehend his own thoughts. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out and blurted, “Forgive my own tongue for even saying it, but I am obsessed with sex. I think about it all the time.”

  Justine pulled in her chin, startled by the admission, and laughed. “Forgive me, Bradford—and my father would agree with me on this—but what male of any species isn’t obsessed with it?”

  “Justine—” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if wanting her to understand something he simply could not put into words, then eventually reopened them and said in a cool, low tone, “Allow me to better explain this. If I gave in to every lewd thought and every lewd urge that ever possessed me—the way I used to before I ended up with this face—in time you would only learn to despise me and my advances. And I don’t want that. I genuinely wish to lead a normal life by controlling all physical interactions to the best of my abilities.”