A Scandalous Lady

by Rachelle Morgan

  “Your red dress? I thought you said it was missing?”

  “Lucy found it a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And you did not see fit to tell me?”

  “Why would I? You made it quite clear that you care nothing for a lost piece of—what did you call it—feminine frippery?”

  He wouldn’t have given a flying fig about it if she hadn’t been ready to hang Faith for something she hadn’t even done. And he hadn’t seen another woman in a red dress and thought it was her. Troyce felt his stomach turn.

  “Do you think it would be too scandalous if I wore it so soon after father’s death?”

  He threw his napkin on the table and shot to his feet. “Wear a bloody potato sack for all I care.”

  He walked outside and saw Faith and Scatter heading down the hill for the village. What a pair they made. Faith so fair and slender and graceful, Scatter so tall and dark and gangling. He thought about joining them; he missed spending his days working with Faith at his side. He missed watching her with the children, grubby urchins that they were, and he missed hearing her explain her ideas to the older ones, cantankerous crones that they were.

  Most of all, he missed the way she always looked for him. Their gazes would meet across a street or over a field or under a broken cart, and all the pieces of his broken world would fall into place. She made him feel like a bloody hero.

  His throat tightened. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the boathouse. Damn it all, what was he doing? He had no right thinking of her. No right wanting to be with her. No right wishing he could give up everything his father had left him just to have her.

  He was to marry someone else.

  “Do ye ever miss the tunnels, Fanny?” Scatter asked, his voice echoing across the entrance hall. He’d been anxious to help her in the castle today, so Faith had set him to the task of replacing the candles in the pewter holders that sat on one of the tables they’d brought in from an unused room.

  Polishing the lion’s head at the bottom end of the balustrade, she said, “Not so much the tunnels, but I miss the band. How is everyone?”

  “Don’t know. I ain’t been back since ye left.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jack wouldn’t let me go back till I had news of ye.”

  The rag paused on the lion’s mane. “Where did you live?”

  “On the docks, mostly. Sometimes I’d find a building no one was usin’, but I’d have to be real careful of the coppers, so I didn’t get much sleep. This sure is a big house. I bet a few of the lads wouldn’t mind living here.”

  “Don’t think it, Scat. Lord Westborough was kind enough to bring in a few of the villagers to help ready the house for the party, but I don’t want to test his generosity.” Not just yet anyway. Once he learned to trust her and Scatter, though, she hoped she might persuade him to bring in a few more members of the band.

  “Ye want me to start fillin’ the lamps?”

  “Aye—I mean, yes,” she corrected herself. “The oil is kept in the pantry on the other side of the icebox. Do you know where that is?”

  Scatter nodded, then tore down the hall. Faith smiled. In the two days since he’d been at Westborough, he’d brightened her days. She finally had someone to talk to, and someone who listened. Someone who didn’t judge, didn’t accuse, and most importantly, didn’t set her nerves a-riot.

  Unlike some people she could mention.

  She knew she should probably be grateful that she hadn’t seen much of the baron since he’d brought her back from the woods. The truth was, though she didn’t see him, he was never far from her thoughts. She kept seeing him as he’d been in the stables, his shirt plastered to his skin, his hair in disarray, his eyes shooting fire. He’d been mad enough to skin a cat and yet, he’d also been the most wildly attractive man she’d ever seen.

  She still couldn’t believe he’d brought Scatter back with him from London. That he would have gone back to her world, just to bring her back a piece of it, still touched her to the depths of her soul. No one had ever done something like that for her before.

  Sighing, calling herself the silliest of gooses, she moved up a step to reach the upper railing of the banister. Lady Brayton had left instructions that the entire house was to be spotless by the Friday of next week. Apparently, the party was to be a grand event, a chance for the baron to meet some powerful people. Faith hoped that one of them might be willing to invest in his ship. She knew how much he worried about money. She’d already been informed by Lady Brayton that no nonsense would be tolerated. Fifty or so guests had been invited to Westborough, and while they were there, Faith was to remain out of sight and out of trouble or there would be the devil to pay.

  Faith tried not to let it bother her, but there were times when she wondered if she would ever fit in here. Aye, the villagers seemed to accept her well enough. And all the house servants save Lucy had grown used to her, but Lady Brayton . . . she shook her head. She just didn’t know what to think of that woman.

  Or her brother.

  Faith pushed the baron from her mind and moved up another step. Best just to concentrate on her task, for the year would end soon, and she would be free. As she dragged the rag up the banister, she found herself thinking of her life on the streets, of all the times she’d slid down pipe rails in her haste to escape a bobbie.

  It seemed years had passed instead of months since she’d been chased. And while she could not say she enjoyed being a target, neither could she deny an odd thrill in the pursuit. The outwitting of foxes. The excitement of running and dodging, leaping and . . . yes, sliding to freedom.

  She stared longingly at the gleaming banister. No, she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. If she got caught, Newgate would look like paradise compared to where Lady Brayton would send her.

  But oh, how slick it looked. How damned inviting.

  She glanced at the kitchen, then the study door. No one was about. The baron had left hours ago to work on his ship; Lady Brayton had gone to Brayton Hall with Lucy to collect extra bedding for the guests. Millie was napping, and Chadwick had been sent to the village to train a few of the villagers on butlering. No one would ever know . . .

  Her heart pounded with the thrill of the forbidden as she raced to the very top of the staircase. Bunching her skirts, she mounted the banister sidesaddle. A smile of sheer delight spread across her face as she started to slide. “Wheeee!” she cried, picking up speed. When she reached the bend in the railing at the landing where the staircase split into wings, she tilted her body to accommodate the slant.

  It was in that moment that the front door opened, and in walked Lady Brayton, Lucy, and Chadwick.

  Faith’s heart flew into her throat but she couldn’t have stopped if her life depended on it. The starched fabric of her skirt on polished oak was like butter on a hot skillet, and down she went. Just before she would have hit the lion’s head at the end of the railing, she leaped off onto solid ground. The momentum drove her forward and she slammed into Lady Brayton. She had a flashing image of wide-eyed shock and mouths agape before one after another, the group tumbled like a row of dominoes: the duchess fell back against Lucy, Lucy fell back against Chadwick, and all three landed on the floor while pillows and bedding flew into the air like an exploding linen factory.

  Faith landed on the floor on her bum, her plain gray skirts and muslin petticoats tangled with Lady Brayton’s black crepe gown and frilly underslips. Behind her, cushioning her body from the stone floor, lay Lucy on a mound of blankets, and beside her sat Chadwick, blinking in confusion.

  For several long, swollen moments, no one said a word until Lady Brayton, red-faced with fury, sputtered, “You . . . you . . .” She grabbed the nearest object and swung.

  Years of quick reflexes had Faith ducking. Instead of sailing harmlessly through the air, the pillow struck Chadwick against the side of his head. And then it burst. Feathers spewed from one end like ash from a smokestack.

  At first, Faith
was too stunned to react. She saw Lady Brayton clap a hand to her mouth in equal parts horror and mortification; Lucy gasped. Chadwick spat a feather out from between his lips.

  Then to everyone’s openmouthed astonishment, Lady Brayton laughed.

  It started with a tremble of her shoulders, moved to the quaking of her back and then a very unduchesslike snort. Downy white feathers swirled around them, heavens rain, and angelic peals of laughter built into a choir of song. “Oh, Chadwick, forgive me, I did not mean to hit you,” Lady Brayton gushed. “I meant to hit her!”

  Faith wasn’t quick enough this time, and the pillow caught her against the shoulder. Again, goose feathers exploded from the cotton slip.

  “All right, I’ve had about all I can take . . .” Consequences flew out of Faith’s mind as she grabbed a second pillow and swung.

  Lady Brayton squealed and threw her arms over her head and her body to the floor; the pillow caught Lucy on the shoulder and knocked her over.

  Roaring with laughter, Lady Brayton flung a blanket at Faith and smacked her in the face.

  Peeling the shroud away from her eyes, Faith growled, “You think that’s funny?”

  And the war began.

  Pillows, feathers, blankets, even a few articles of clothing were tossed through the air. Chadwick tried his best to break up the fight, Lucy did her best to encourage Lady Brayton, but Faith and Lady Brayton had eyes only for each other as they raced around the entrance hall of Westborough Manor with downy clubs, sometimes using people as shields, sometimes taking well-aimed blows with cries of, “You call yourself a sporting girl, Miss Jervais?” and “Is that the best you’ve got, Duchess?”

  Sometime during the fray, Scatter arrived and Faith found her back guarded from Lucy, who had given up encouraging her lady and had started walloping Faith from behind.

  Then as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

  The room grew eerily silent.

  Faith glanced up; the blood rushed from her face.

  In the doorway stood his lordship, looking like thunder in the flesh.

  “West!” Lady Brayton whispered.

  “What the bloody hell is going on here, Devon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing to me. It looks like a god damn chicken farm blew up in my hall!”

  It was as if someone had just stomped on the moment and snuffed it out.

  With unfailing sophistication, the duchess unfolded her lithe figure from behind a potted plant and glided toward the baron. “Then perhaps you should speak to your servants about the proper use of banisters.”

  The baron looked at Faith, and she blushed to the roots of her hair. Instead of berating her for her mischief, he turned to the duchess, and said, “Indeed. I seem to recall someone who used to love riding down the banisters.”

  Lady Brayton’s chin shot up. “That was a long time ago.” She started to walk out of the room and tripped over a pile of feathers. “For God’s sake, Miss Jervais, get this mess cleaned up before the guests arrive.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  It took only a few seconds for the room to clear of everyone save herself and the lord of the manor. Now she was in for it. Now he would surely call off their agreement and send for a padded wagon to haul her off to Newgate.

  “Faith?”

  She heard his steps grow closer.

  “Would you mind telling me what happened here?”

  She couldn’t look at him. “I’m, sorry, Baron. This was all my fault.”

  “Aye, I’m sure it was.”

  And to her utter amazement, she found herself being plucked off the floor, enveloped in his arms, and swung around in a circle.

  “And for it, I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

  Faith’s head spun; feathers dislodged themselves from her hair and landed in his. She blinked, taken aback by the broad smile on his face. “I don’t understand.”

  “Have I told you that you are the most wonderful lady I’ve ever known?”

  Lady? He thought her a lady? “But I did nothing—except bowl the duchess over on her arse.”

  “You performed a miracle.” His eyes were damp, and she wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying. “Faith, do you know that that is the first time I’ve heard my sister laugh in . . . I can’t remember when.”

  Faith could do nothing but dig her fingers into his shoulders and hang on for dear life when he took her for another spin around the entry hall. His laughter, so free, so reckless, rumbled through her veins.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want for nothing, milord.”

  “There must be something. A new dress? A day to yourself? The moon? Tell me what you want and it shall be yours.”

  You.

  He went still, and for one horrifying moment Faith feared she’d spoken her greatest, most secret wish out loud.

  Time seemed to stop as he continued to hold her against him, her chin level with the top of his head, her hands upon his shoulders for balance, her feet dangling off the floor.

  And when she looked down she realized why he’d grown so quiet. Three buttons of her gown had come undone. The material gaped, showing the bare, inside swells of her breasts.

  And he was staring right at them.

  Faith knew she should be outraged. She should demand that he let her go and she should right her clothing immediately. Instead, her nails bit into his shoulders and she watched in fascination as his glorious gray eyes darkened to pitch. He wet his lips with his tongue. A roaring began in Faith’s ears. Her breasts went hard, tight against her blouse, swelling, aching.

  And then, he kissed her. There. At the seam of her breasts which seemed to have been presented to him in just that state, for just that reason. Faith’s heart stopped. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe. She could only remember. The sensation of his lips on hers. The gentle power of his kiss. The sizzling giddiness swirling through her middle.

  And she could only feel. His arms tight around her waist, his chest pressed flush against her breasts, her own blood rushing through her veins.

  When she did nothing, not push him away, not demand he release her, not cry out in protest, he kissed her breasts again. Then, with his tongue, he traced a wet path up the cleft, around the top of one heavy globe under the fabric, over to the other breast.

  Her head dropped back and her eyes fell shut. She thought she even heard herself moan. His warm, moist breath fanned against her skin and she swore she went up in flames.

  “What do you want?”

  You, oh God, I want you.

  “Tell me what you want, Faith, just say the word, and it shall be yours.”

  The hungry timbre, the greedy demand, reached past the fog dulling her senses and gripped Faith’s sense of reason. She opened her eyes, saw his face buried between her all-but-naked breasts . . .

  And wanted to die.

  Fully aware of where they were, and what he was doing to her, Faith pushed at his shoulders. Kissing her on the mouth in the privacy of his chambers where no one could see was one thing. This . . . this was quite another matter entirely. She could not believe she’d allowed him, the lord of the manor, to . . . kiss her in such an intimate place—right in the middle of the bloody foyer. “Baron . . . please . . . let me go before someone walks in.” She would not be able to bear the shame.

  He blinked. He looked up. Then he looked around. As if coming to the same awareness, he let her slide down the front of him and he released his hold, but he did not step away. His body, so hot, so hard, so . . . male, called out to the woman in her. “Forgive me, you’re right. Such . . . activity should not be conducted in so public a setting.”

  His voice was deep, husky, and so incredibly sensual. Faith fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Her skin burned. Her throat closed. She wanted nothing more than to leave, to catch her breath, to collect her scattered emotions and her tattered pride. “Such activity should not be con
ducted at all,” she whispered raggedly.

  Something in her voice must have penetrated, for he blinked, stepped back, and rolled his lips between his teeth. “You’re right. Such activity should not be conducted between us at all.” He sounded almost . . . hurt. “However, there must be something you want that I can give you.”

  My freedom! Give me that, please give me that. She could not bear to be near him, to feel these wicked, wonderful things she was feeling for him and not be able to have him.

  But she held her tongue. He’d made his position clear the first time she’d asked for her freedom, and she had no wish to test his limits. “You already did, milord,” her voice trembled. “You gave me Scatter.”

  “It still does not compare to what you did, but if you insist, we shall call it even.”

  He bowed, then headed for the staircase.

  “Baron?”

  He paused with one foot on the bottom step and looked at her over his shoulder.

  “Why does Lady Brayton not laugh?”

  “Her pain is only greater than her regrets.”

  “What would she have to regret?”

  “Choices.” A soul-deep sorrow filled his eyes where laughter had always lurked. “Don’t we all regret a few of those?”

  The guests began arriving early Friday afternoon, among them, Miles Heath.

  Troyce met him at the door of the stables. He and Chadwick, along with a half dozen of the male villagers, had spent the morning preparing the stables and carriage houses for the dozens of horses that would be boarded over the next three days, with Troyce cursing the expense the entire time. Reminders that his grandfather could well afford the expense did nothing to improve his mood, for it only served to remind him that his bachelorhood was fast coming to an end.

  “It’s good to see you, mate,” he told his friend.

  Miles passed the reins to Scatter, who led the bay through the doors. “You look like hell.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “She’s getting to you that bad, is she?”

  “Who?”

  “That sweet little morsel of a maid you took under your wing.”