Justine kept her steps in time with his, her hips brushing his as her thighs gracefully followed every move he made. By God, she knew how to dance.
Knowing that his own brother was somewhere in the crowd and probably watching made Radcliff dance with even more pride and enthusiasm. For he had something not his brother nor anyone else would ever have: Justine.
The more time he spent with his wife, the more he realized what a lucky bastard he really was. And slowly, ever so slowly, he was mastering his own obsession in a way he never thought possible, knowing Justine had everything to do with it. She was firm with him when he needed her to be firm and gentle at the most unexpected times.
As the waltz finally ended, he set out his arm and led her off the dance floor. He leaned toward her and drawled, “Lord Winfield has informed me there is a new fountain in his garden which his wife brought in from Venice.”
She paused just beyond the dance floor and slipped her gloved hand from his arm, quirking a brow. “Are you proposing what I think you are proposing?”
God, how he wished. Little did she know she’d won. She had finally broken his stubborn soul in half. For no one was more aware of it than he, that every glance she offered him, every smile, and every word, it all seemed to come back to one thing. Her wanting to have a genuine understanding of who and what he was. And he intended to share himself with her tonight, whilst his spirits were strong.
Radcliff leaned toward her again and whispered, “Find the fountain.”
Without waiting for a response, he rounded her and moved through the crowd. He only hoped he was making the right decision by telling her the truth behind his scar.
THE IMPORTED ITALIAN FOUNTAIN, Justine realized, wasn’t all that far from the festivities. Barely a few brisk steps. The area was even lit by light from the house and further illuminated by the half moon lingering above.
Whatever Radcliff’s intentions, they couldn’t have been all that amorous, unless he planned on scandalizing all of London. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time for either of them, would it?
The cool night breeze skimmed across her bare shoulders and rustled her skirts, making her shiver. The water from the fountain gushed in constant rhythm, splashing every now and then beyond its allotted basin as music from inside the house played along with it.
Justine rubbed her arms as another strong breeze whirled around her.
“Are you cold?” a familiar deep voice asked.
Justine’s pulse thundered and warmth frilled her body knowing Bradford was standing right behind her. These past two weeks had been divine. Ever since the night of the opera, the lilt in Bradford’s voice had returned, reminding her of the man she had first swooned over. They spent every moment discussing everything. Everything but the one thing she wanted to know most—the story behind his scar. “I am a little cold,” she quietly confessed.
“Here. Take this.” He gallantly draped his warm evening coat, which held the faint scent of sandalwood and cigars, over her exposed shoulders. “Better?” he whispered from behind.
She inwardly melted and shivered again. “Much better. Thank you.”
His gloved hands skimmed her shoulders, then dropped away as he rounded her and came into view. His exposed crisp, white shirt beneath his ivory-embroidered waistcoat glowed, reflecting whatever moonlight surrounded them.
“Brisk night for summer, isn’t it?” he commented, looking around. As if the summer night was all that was on his mind.
Justine bit back a smile. How adorable. He was genuinely pining for more conversations. “Yes. It is.”
He drew in a hefty breath, then just as heftily let it out. “Good air.”
She struggled to remain serious. “For Lon don.”
He nodded, then drew his dark brows together as he glanced down at his gloved hands. Without saying anything more, he yanked loose the tips of his gloves from each and every single finger.
He smoothly tugged off his right glove, then the left, exposing his wide, powerful hands. He tucked his gloves into his trousers and cleared his throat.
She tightened her hold on his coat and couldn’t help but stare at those hands. Hands which had never once strayed, not since their night at the opera. Her heart pounded, wondering if tonight was going to be the end of the gentlemanly guise she had been so ardently enjoying.
He eyed her. “It has taken me some time, but I am ready to share with you what happened to me the night my face was scarred. Do you still wish to know?”
Justine felt heat spreading up her neck and into her face as her breath quickened. This most certainly was not what she had expected. It was far more.
She glanced around them, toward the house, surprised he would choose this particular moment, when they were out in public. “Yes, of course. Perhaps we should discuss this in a more private setting?”
“No. I prefer this. It gives you an opportunity to step away if you don’t care to listen to any more.”
Justine swallowed. Why did this not sound all that promising? “I have no intention of stepping away.”
“That is for you to decide.” His sensual features tightened in the dim light that filtered out toward them from the French windows of the house. Eerily, his handsome side remained visible, whilst the marred half remained shadowed. “I suppose I should begin with a name. Matilda Thurlow. At the time of the incident, she was my brother’s mistress.”
Justine blinked. She’d heard about the involvement of a less than reputable woman, but never realized it was his brother’s own mistress.
Looking away, he murmured, “Carlton was absolutely enamored with her, though he refrained from publicly flaunting her. Not because he was worried about his reputation, but because he was worried about me encroaching upon her. She was indeed that beautiful. I tried to respect that she was my own brother’s mistress, but every time I saw Matilda, whether it was out riding in Hyde Park, or on Regent Street, I became all the more intrigued. In time, I started calling on her at night, trying to engage her. But she refused me each and every time. Which only riled me more.”
Justine didn’t know why jealousy bit into her, hearing how he had ardently pursued another woman before they were together. Perhaps because this adoration of hers was turning into something far more involved.
Bradford shrugged. “Needless to say, my brother was not blind to my attempts. He confronted me repeatedly about it. What is worse, he knew I had no self-control when it came to women and thought it was amusing. So much so, that one day, he delivered a life-size portrait of Matilda Thurlow to my door. I was livid, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. So I put it up on my bedchamber wall and soon my obsession reached a fever pitch.”
Justine sucked in an astonished breath. The portrait. The portrait of the beautiful blonde. Was that the one he was referring to?
She tried to keep her voice indifferent, even though inside she was anything but. “Is it the same portrait still in the corridor outside our bedchambers?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
After a moment of awkward silence, she forced herself to ask, “Is there a reason it is still there?”
He paused, then nodded. “When I went into seclusion, I removed it from the wall many, many times, only to put it back up each and every time. I eventually moved it out of my bedchamber into the corridor. I would have tossed it, but I wanted to prove to myself that I could pass the damn thing without having it evoke a physical response within me. It took me a month, but I did it. Now, it is simply there as a reminder of what I once was. And what I still am.”
Justine didn’t know why his admission frightened her so much. Perhaps because it made her realize that even the best of men could have the most horrid of secrets.
Bradford awkwardly rubbed at his chin and looked away. “I was soon in dire need of engaging a real woman, as opposed to pleasuring myself before a portrait. So I decided to go to a champagne party being hosted near Covent Garden. I ended up not letting any of the
women there touch me for fear of the pox and opted to simply drink and watch as others frigged.” He shifted his jaw and eyed her. “Do you know what a champagne party is?”
She shook her head, her eyes never once leaving his face. “I gather it involves men and women and champagne.”
“Champagne and laudanum, to be exact. That same night, Matilda bribed my footman to learn my whereabouts. Apparently, she was tired of Carlton making promises he would not keep and decided to pursue a relationship with another man. Me being that man, no doubt because of the interest I had displayed. Hoping to engage me, she arrived, but six toughs grabbed her, stripped her, bound her and mounted her one by one. No one did a goddamn thing, even though she screamed the entire time.”
Justine brought a shaky hand to her mouth, covering it, as tears burned her eyes. “Oh, God.”
Radcliff threw back his dark head and stared up into the night sky above them. “Through the haze of my own delirium, a woman dragged me through the quarters of the house, begging that I assist a woman in need. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.”
He leveled his head, then spun away and violently swung a clenched fist through the air. He turned back toward the house, raking both hands through his hair before letting them drop. “There was Matilda, being held facedown as she screamed and sobbed. One of the men was carving his initials into the flesh of her backside with a blade. So she might remember him, he kept insisting. ’Twas a blur when I threw myself at them, and that same blade gouged my face full force from lip to temple. As inebriated as I was, I felt nothing.”
Her throat burned in agony for what he and this poor Matilda Thurlow had lived through.
Bradford gritted his teeth and swung his fist through the air again, as if trying to release everything within him. He then seethed in a low tone that almost wasn’t his, “Every time I pulled one off and cracked another upside the skull, another one climbed right on her. Even as my own blood poured everywhere. Eventually, decent men, realizing that my face was hanging open, assisted me in bringing it to an end. But Matilda had already endured the worst of it.”
He swiped a shaky hand across his face and shook his head. “Witnessing that firsthand only emphasized what I already knew due to my own experience with my obsession. That your father’s studies were important in better understanding ourselves. Because once the clothing is removed, men become animals.”
Justine tried to choke back a strained sob, but couldn’t keep it from escaping her lips.
“Barely three days after the incident,” he quietly went on, “with thread still holding my face together, and all six men in custody awaiting trial, Carlton stormed into my home and blamed me. As if I had somehow encouraged what was done. In a way, his resentment made sense. I had been irresponsible with my obsession for far too long, indulging in a lifestyle that served no one, not even me. I sulked about it in seclusion for many, many months refusing to pleasure myself even once.”
He captured her gaze. “But one thing kept me sane. Your weekly letters. The ones I burned the moment I read them. I did not want to respond for fear of encouraging you or myself. Then that mess with your father occurred, and shortly afterward, a letter arrived with your offer to bed me in exchange for his freedom. It tossed my ability to think. I didn’t want a few measly nights. I wanted every night. Whether I was even worthy of you was not something I even bothered to ask myself. So I married you, thinking I could readily control my obsession, only to discover that it still controls me. There are many times I struggle with myself, and for it, I feel worthless, but you give me hope and guidance.” He nodded and looked away, clearly unable to say more.
As if he needed to say anything more. If she had ever once doubted that Bradford had a heart and a soul, she could not doubt it anymore.
Justine swallowed against the dryness of her throat and rushed straight to him, unable to stay away. She threw her arms around his waist, pulling him to herself, and buried her face against the solid warmth of his broad chest, squeezing him as tightly as her strength would allow. “You are not worthless,” she insisted against him. “Not to me. You never were.”
He sucked in a harsh breath, but otherwise did not move or even attempt to embrace her.
Perhaps she had said far too much, far too soon.
She drew away, slipping her shaky arms back to her sides, and awkwardly lingered before him not knowing what else she could say or do. All she knew was that she wanted to help him in any way she could.
Radcliff brushed the side of her exposed neck with the back of his warm, bare hand. He trailed it down toward the hollow of her throat, his fingers grazing the weight of the emerald necklace he’d given her just a few days ago. It was a touch that bespoke a genuine longing to connect with her beyond the realm of lust.
Justine swallowed, unable to break his dark, haunting gaze, which revealed a silent form of suffering, a suffering he had tried to hide behind curt words and flippant airs.
He yanked his hand back and stepped away. “I am certain everyone has noticed our absence. We ought to return to the festivities.”
Imagine. The Duke of Bradford was actually using propriety as an excuse to end this wonderfully tender moment between them. An excuse he had used these past two weeks. An excuse she had grown tired of.
“Hold me, Radcliff,” she insisted, hoping to entice him to stay, hoping she could prolong this feeling of genuine intimacy between them.
He glanced toward the house behind them. “No.”
“You are my husband.” She moved closer. “Hold me.”
He stared at her from across the distance he still kept. “I…no. Not now. I can’t.”
“I am not afraid of you, Bradford. And you should not be afraid of yourself, either. Now hold me.”
He hesitated, then closed the distance between them. Towering before her for a moment, he fiercely seized her and yanked her so close and so tight against himself, his muscled arms and large solid body squeezed a huge, puffing breath straight out of her lungs.
“Perhaps not so tightly,” she squeaked out.
He chuckled, loosened his hold, though barely, and slowly leaned forward, brushing his warm lips against the exposed skin of her neck. Lifting his dark head, he searched her eyes. The moon above faintly highlighted the vicious but noble scar upon his face. “I vow to protect you from everything, Justine,” he whispered. “Even from myself, if need be.”
The dark sky above her seemed to spin in response to her blooming emotions. She loved this man. She really did. Justine stared up at him in awe, her head helplessly spilled back, not wanting this moment between them to end. More than anything, she wanted to reach out and touch every part of that soul which he hid from her and the rest of the world.
“I have to kiss you.” His tone was raw and simmering with restraint as he lowered his lips.
Her gloved hand jumped up to his lips and stopped him, her fingers resting hesitantly against his mouth. “No. Do it because you want to.”
“I want to,” he said against her fingertips. “My beautiful Justine, do you not realize you are everything I could ever want.” He aggressively nudged her hand aside from his mouth and seized her lips, causing her heart to skip. His muscled arms surrounded her completely as his kiss deepened and his tongue ardently searched the corners of her mouth.
Her very soul melted in response to that kiss. Her hands moved up the length of his chest toward his shoulders and found their way to his stiff collar and into his thick hair.
She tried matching his physical demands by imitating the same motions with her mouth. She pushed her tongue against his, hoping to demonstrate to him that she wanted him now more than ever and was genuinely thrilled to be his wife.
RADCLIFF GROANED AS he pressed Justine closer to his heated body. Her softness. Her warmth. His cock instantly thickened and pressed against his trousers. He wanted her. And it wasn’t his cock that wanted her. It was him.
Her mouth moved more forcefully against his, and he found himse
lf wanting more. His hands shook as he rubbed her hips with his hands, inching higher and higher. He wanted to explore more than her mouth. He wanted to explore everything that had been borne unto her, and he didn’t care if all of London watched.
He pushed away the evening coat draping her, exposing the velvet softness of her creamy shoulders. His palms rounded her bare shoulders and moved toward her neck. A shiver escaped her.
Cool emeralds grazed his fingers, interrupting the sensual journey he intended to make. Emeralds that had once touched his mother’s own neck. Emeralds that did not deserve Justine. He would buy her a new set of jewels. Jewels that had been untouched or tainted. Much like her.
He blindly undid the clasp, his lips still devouring hers without pause. He felt her stiffen as he slowly removed the heavy jewels.
To his disappointment, her gloved hands abandoned his nape and pushed at his chest, asking him to desist. He released her mouth, without really wanting to, and stared down at his new desire, this dream. He fisted his mother’s emeralds in his right hand, the stone biting into his palm.
She hesitated, her hazel eyes searching his face. “I thought you said they were mine.”
He smiled, knowing full well what she was thinking, and dangled the commodity with the hand he’d freed from her. “They belonged to my mother and they don’t deserve you. I intend to buy you a new necklace. One worthy of you.” With that, he tossed the emerald necklace up and over toward the fountain where it splashed out of sight.
“Bradford!” she exclaimed, losing the softness he was just getting to know. She whirled away and scrambled over to the fountain, frantically peering left and right, searching for wherever the jewels had landed in the bubbling water.
He chuckled and approached. If he didn’t put an end to it, she’d most likely climb right in.
Radcliff grabbed hold of her waist again and spun her back toward him. “Let the damn fountain keep them. Come. I am not done with you.”
Prelude to a Scandal Page 12
