Prelude to a Scandal

by Delilah Marvelle

Lowering his lips, he slowly slid his tongue down across the soft, graceful curve of her throat, further down toward the exposed upper rounds of her perfect, full breasts. “Take it as the greatest compliment I will ever bestow upon you. I never respected her. She betrayed my father for a moment of pleasure she could not even admit to until long after his death. A moment of pleasure which resulted in the birth of Carlton.”

  Her chest rose from a sharp intake of breath. “I…never knew.”

  “Now you do.” He swallowed. “Allow me to touch you.” His hands slid across the smooth silk of her gown and up toward those velvetlike voluptuous mounds. The soft fullness he needed to feel.

  His cock throbbed, thickened and pressed against his trousers. Touching her wasn’t going to be enough, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d take her right there by the fountain.

  A sound from the festivities broke through his fevered haze. Radcliff stepped back, putting up his hand, and cleared his throat. “I think it wise I refrain.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then whispered up at him, “Come to my bed tonight. There is no reason you should stay away. You have more than proven your respect for me.”

  His pulse thundered in disbelief that she was offering him the one thing he had refused to beg for these past two weeks. Out of pride, yes, but more so out of respect for her. “Do you wish it?” he whispered back.

  She smiled. “With all my heart.”

  He was indeed the luckiest, luckiest bastard alive. “I…yes. I will come.” He nodded and yanked his tucked gloves out from the side of his trousers and pulled them on each hand. Trying to distract himself from even thinking about their night ahead, he turned, strode over to where his evening coat still lay on the ground and grabbed it up. Shaking it out, he pulled it on and over his shoulders.

  Radcliff turned back toward her, where she still lingered by the fountain, and held out his arm. “Come. We should join the others.”

  She jerked a gloved thumb toward the fountain behind her. “Not without my emeralds,” she drawled. “I don’t care what your relationship was with your mother. They are worth a sizable fortune.”

  He laughed and shook his head. Taking a few steps toward her, he grabbed hold of her hand and yanked her back toward the house. “I thought you didn’t care for trinkets.”

  She resisted and pulled back against his grip. “I don’t. But I can’t have a necklace of such worth going to waste, either. If you don’t want it, which clearly you don’t, I’ll give it to my father. He dreams of returning to Cape Town, and between the money he recently received from Lord Winfield and this, that may very well be a possibility.”

  Radcliff rolled his eyes and pulled her forward again. A bit harder. Toward himself. “Justine,” he growled. “If your father dreams of moving to Cape Town, I’ll see to it. But as of now, I am asking you to leave the emeralds alone. I don’t want to see them. Not ever again. Is that understood?”

  She huffed out an exasperated breath and muttered something before dutifully accompanying him back into the ballroom.

  SCANDAL ELEVEN

  Few husbands ever genuinely appreciate how much their wife does for them. Which is why it is a wife’s duty to make her husband understand what it is he must appreciate.

  How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

  JUSTINE WAS QUITE certain that Radcliff had lost the last of his mind. How could anyone toss a perfectly good set of expensive emeralds into a fountain like that? Merely because he didn’t get along with his mother! After all the financial woes she’d been through these past few months, no amount of hard feelings warranted that.

  Justine entered the ballroom alongside him and paused, realizing something was very wrong. She froze in the doorway of the balcony alongside Radcliff.

  The large ballroom, which had earlier echoed with unmeasured merriment, was eerily quiet. The seven-piece orchestra, set up in the far corner of the room, sat with their instruments clutched in their now unmoving hands.

  Couples still stood on the polished dance floor, having clearly been interrupted by the silencing of the orchestra. Then chaos erupted as gentlemen in their finest scrambled about left and right like ostriches.

  Justine tightened her hold on Radcliff’s hand and stepped closer, glancing up toward him. He in turn tightened his hold, his brows coming together as she scanned the scramble.

  “Radcliff,” she said hoarsely, unable to say much more.

  “No one seems to be shouting for doctors or yelling about a fire. So why else would everyone be scattering like rats and raving like lunatics?”

  “Your Grace!” someone shouted. “Your Grace!”

  “Speaking of raving lunatics.” Bradford pointed toward the man heading straight at them. “Here comes one now. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Justine choked on a laugh and smacked Radcliff’s arm just as their host, Lord Winfield, dashed toward them, his brow visibly dampened with perspiration. The gentleman skidded to a halt, trying to prevent his lanky, awkward frame from smacking straight into them.

  Lord Winfield gasped for air, snapping his shoulders straight. “Please forgive the commotion. This is not how I envisioned the night unfolding.”

  Bradford stepped toward the man, still tightly holding Justine’s hand. “What is it, my lord? Is it serious?”

  Lord Winfield’s lean, aged face flushed. “My wife’s pendant seems to have disappeared. She was wearing it not that long ago, but no one claims to have seen it. I tell you, a man cannot trust a single soul these days in London. Not a single one.”

  “Lady Winfield’s pendant is missing?” Justine echoed in disbelief. And here she thought someone had been murdered. “Is that all?”

  Lord Winfield adjusted his evening coat about his chest as if trying to defend his course of action. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, but that pendant happens to be an heirloom worth five hundred pounds.”

  Radcliff let out a whistle. “I don’t think anyone will be leaving anytime soon.”

  “’Tis baneful to whistle at a time like this,” Lord Winfield chastised before altogether turning to Justine. “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace, but only women will be allowed to depart. If you would be so kind as to accompany me, I shall escort you to your carriage. Your husband will join you once we resolve this situation.”

  “What the devil are you suggesting?” Radcliff interjected, shoving his way between them. His large, muscled frame towered over Lord Winfield’s. “My wife is not stepping out into the night without me.”

  Justine bit back a smile and set her chin, feeling rather pleased that she had someone like Radcliff to oversee her safety. “Quite right. I apologize, my lord, but I am not leaving without my husband.”

  Lord Winfield hesitated, then cleared his throat and leaned toward Bradford. “The men are going to be stripped and searched, Your Grace. It really wouldn’t do to have a lady watch.”

  Justine bubbled out a laugh at the idea of Radcliff being stripped in public. He was going to make every man jealous. “I should probably leave. Heaven forbid I should be forced to see my husband naked.”

  Radcliff choked.

  Lord Winfield’s face grew bright red. He cleared his throat, then gestured toward the double doors on the other side of the ballroom. “Please join my wife in the receiving room, Your Grace. Heaven knows she is particularly fond of you. All I ask is that you be mindful. She has a rather delicate constitution.”

  “I completely understand, Lord Winfield.” Justine raised a brow at Bradford, who was struggling to compose himself, then gathered up her skirts and dutifully followed the crowd of women who were all being ushered out of the ballroom.

  RADCLIFF BIT BACK THE ridiculous smile he hadn’t been able to rid himself of. Justine was much wilder at heart than even he had realized.

  “Will every gentleman please line the wall?” Lord Winfield called out. “I apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate everyone’s cooperation, but the pendant has still not made an appearance.”

&
nbsp; Radcliff, along with all the other men around him, obediently lined the length of the east wall. Some men rolled their eyes. Others swore beneath their breath.

  This is exactly why he always hated attending any Winfield gatherings. Although Lord Winfield and his wife were pleasant enough, they always overreacted to everything.

  Radcliff leaned against the wall behind him and waited for further instructions, wanting it to be over so he could take his wife home and finish what he hadn’t had the opportunity to complete in the garden.

  When all the gentlemen present in the ballroom finally stood in the orderly fashion the host had requested, the hunt began.

  Lord Winfield looked at the long line of men, his mouth and brow wrinkling with distress.

  “If you would all kindly remove your shoes and coats,” Lord Winfield announced. He paused. “Your Grace?”

  Radcliff met the man’s gaze.

  Lord Winfield leaned toward him, bringing up a gloved hand to cup the side of his mouth and whispered, “I have no intention of subjecting you to any of this. I know full well you were out in the garden enjoying the uh…fountain.” He winked. “I told you it was something to see.”

  Radcliff smirked. “Nonsense. I should be treated like everyone else.” With that, he joined in the rustle of taking off jackets as well as the shuffle of shoes being removed. “A five hundred pound pendant is well worth the cause.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Lord Winfield quickly leaned in again and whispered, “You will be in good hands. Your brother has graciously offered to assist.”

  The man’s humor knew no bounds.

  Radcliff leaned forward, glancing down at the end of the line in which he stood. Sure enough, Carlton cockily strutted down the line toward him, as if newly appointed chief inspector.

  He’d known he’d end up seeing Carlton sometime before the end of the night. Radcliff leaned back and waited.

  His brother halted before him, those blue eyes of his sparkling with age-old mischief. “Well, well,” Carlton drawled. “Who do we have here at the Winfield ball? Who would have thought such harmony could exist in the world that would cause a woman to forgive her father’s own nemesis.” He snorted. “You haven’t seen that pendant, have you, Bradford? I hear it’s worth a small fortune.”

  Radcliff narrowed his gaze. Most likely Carlton had arranged for Lady Winfield’s pendant to disappear. Not for its worth, but rather as a nod to their youth and days gone by. Days when he and Carlton used to stupidly outdo one another by throwing unexpected chaos into each other’s path, taking it to a ridiculous crescendo until one of them called it off and paid three guineas.

  That was when they used to get along.

  Radcliff held out his coat. “I’ve had a rather long night, Carlton.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Bradford, but if you don’t cooperate, this may prove to be the longest night you’ve ever known.” Taking his coat, Carlton rummaged through the pockets and paused at finding a few guineas.

  Carlton eyed him and tucked the coins into his own pocket before handing the coat back. “I’ve decided to collect my winnings early.”

  “Carlton,” Radcliff growled out.

  He pointed at the lacquered shoes set directly before Radcliff’s stockinged feet on the floor. “Hand them up.”

  Shit. The bastard had lost the last of his mind. Knowing everyone was watching and would no doubt question his lack of cooperation, Radcliff grudgingly leaned forward and snatched them up.

  Coming back up to his full height again, which was taller than Carlton’s own, he shoved them at his brother and impatiently watched Carlton probe them. Finding nothing, Carlton threw them down onto the floor, barely missing Radcliff’s feet.

  Radcliff stared him down. Waiting.

  His brother eyed him, as if convinced Bradford was responsible for the disappearance of that pendant.

  “Carlton,” Radcliff impatiently growled out again. They weren’t young bucks who could be easily excused for acting like idiots in front of the ton. He happened to be a married man now and had his wife’s reputation to fend for. Not just his own.

  “I hear you had quite an extravagant wedding and that you may be in dire need of funds. Pull out those pockets, Bradford, will you?”

  “Go frig yourself, Carlton.”

  Gasps escaped from men on both sides of the line. As if none of them had ever heard the word.

  Carlton smirked, clearly pleased he was getting a reaction. “Why would you refuse to be searched? Hmm?” He pointed at Radcliff mockingly, then strode on to the next man in line.

  Men farther down now whispered amongst themselves, whilst others leaned forward to get a better view of him.

  Hell. All he needed was the ton thinking he was in need of funds. “Search me,” he called out after Carlton.

  His brother paused, his dark brows going up as he made his way back over to him, his boots clicking against the wood floor. He paused before him again, that cocky gaze dominating his. “Pull out your pockets.”

  “I’ll do better than that.” Radcliff savagely unbuttoned his trousers, ready to bring an end to this nonsense. He allowed his trousers to drop, then promptly removed one muscled leg after the other, ignoring the cool breeze now circling his undergarments.

  Radcliff snatched them up and flopped them at his brother. “Search every last stitch.”

  A few men chortled.

  Carlton shifted his jaw, then tossed his trousers back at him without bothering to search them. “I suggest you put them on, Bradford. Before everyone sees how little you were born with.”

  More chortles floated about the room.

  “All that matters is that I was born first.” Radcliff grabbed his trousers and yanked them on, buttoning everything back into place. He shoved his feet into his shoes, not breaking their gaze.

  Carlton adjusted his evening coat and leaned toward him. “Matilda came back. Women. They’re like dogs.” He sneered, pulled out the two guineas he’d taken earlier and tucked them into Radcliff’s outer coat pocket. “You win on account of removing your trousers. I didn’t anticipate that.”

  Radcliff narrowed his gaze. The man thrived on making people unravel. But if the bastard thought Radcliff was going to become unnerved for a woman who was not even his, the man was out of his mind. He had his own wife to oversee, a task that was proving far more challenging than he’d ever anticipated.

  The double doors at the other end of the ball-room, which had been shut earlier during the search, banged open, causing Radcliff and all the other men in the room to jerk toward the sound.

  His brows rose as a young footman in blue livery dashed across the expanse of the ballroom, his thudding boots echoing. The footman skidded to a frantic halt beside Lord Winfield, leaned toward the man, and whispered something to him.

  Radcliff craned in an attempt to hear what was being said.

  Lord Winfield winced and signaled the footman away.

  Lord Winfield eyed them all. Then narrowed his gaze. “It appears the pendant has been recovered, gentlemen. From a wineglass set on the staircase. We apparently have a jester amongst us. I despise jesters.”

  Radcliff shook his head as a wave of curses swept through the ballroom. Carlton was such an ass. He’d done the exact same thing to another man years ago. Only it was a pocket watch. And need less to say, it never worked again after sitting in wine half the night.

  Men stormed off, yanking on their coats, while others laughed openly, rather amused by the unexpected bit of entertainment.

  Carlton strode past Radcliff again and waggled his dark brows, catching the tip of his tongue with his teeth before veering toward the crowd of men leaving.

  Radcliff approached Lord Winfield, grabbed the man’s hand and shook it firmly. For Justine’s sake. “I am afraid my brother is a bit too fond of playing pirate and for it I can only apologize.”

  Lord Winfield pulled his hand from his and adjusted his evening coat. “I do not share his sense of humor.�
�

  “Neither do I. Which is why I don’t invite him to any more functions. Good night, my lord.” Radcliff put up a hand and was about to leave, when he paused, remembering something. “Oh, yes. There is one more thing.”

  Lord Winfield eyed him dubiously.

  “Her Grace has dropped her emerald necklace in that new fountain of yours.”

  Lord Winfield rolled his eyes. “Damn these women and their trinkets.” He heaved out an exhausted breath. “Give me a moment. I’ll have one of my servants fetch it out.”

  Radcliff chuckled and tapped the man’s arm. “No, no. You don’t understand.”

  Lord Winfield turned. “What? What do I not understand?”

  “Give it to your wife. I believe she has earned it for recognizing quality. Good night.”

  SCANDAL TWELVE

  Men will always ardently seek to claim that which you must closely guard. And you’d best believe I am not referring to your little heart.

  How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

  The Bradford residence that same evening

  RADCLIFF CLEARED HIS THROAT and tugged on the sleeves of his robe as he slowly made his way toward Justine’s bedchamber. He paused at her door and lingered for a moment, questioning if he was physically prepared to bed her. Blowing out a breath, he knocked.

  “You don’t have to knock, Radcliff,” Justine offered in divinely warm and honeyed tones.

  He wet his lips, assuring himself he was more than ready, turned the knob and edged into the room.

  Justine lounged in the middle of her bed with a red leather-bound book. Meeting his gaze, she raised a brow and tossed the book off to the side of the bed with a thud.

  She stared him down. “I want a tiger, not a lamb.”

  More than encouraged by her erotic words, Radcliff slammed the door shut behind him and met her gaze as he untied the only thing left between them.

  His robe.