Scandal's Bride (Three Times a Bride Anthology)

by Samantha James

  “I trust this room suits you?”

  The voice startled her. Victoria whirled around to see her husband standing in the doorway. He leaned with careless ease against the doorjamb, one lean hand curled around a glass of wine. Despite the lateness of the hour, he looked as elegantly handsome as he had hours earlier.

  The room does, she longed to shout. It’s you who does not.

  She nodded.

  “Good.” There was a small pause. “Will you join me for a drink in the drawing room?”

  She politely declined. “I think not. It’s been a tiring night.”

  “A tiring night! But you saw the fruition of your plans, didn’t you? I should imagine you’d want to celebrate.” His tone was falsely hearty.

  Victoria stiffened. “Celebrate? I fail to see what there is to celebrate,” she informed him archly.

  “Oh, come now, countess. This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? To trap me into marriage.”

  Her jaw closed with a snap. It was all she could do to maintain a civil air. “It’s just as I told my father, my lord. I wished to marry no one—least of all you,” she said cuttingly. “Indeed, it was the very thing I sought to avoid.”

  “Ah, and you went about it quite admirably, didn’t you?” Mockery lay heavy and biting in his voice.

  Victoria’s face burned painfully. “A mistake, my lord. A costly one for both of us, I admit, for I misjudged my father grievously. But perhaps you may draw comfort from the fact that you stand to gain far more than I. My father is a wealthy man. My dowry is a fortune unto its own. I should imagine you would be celebrating.” Her gaze lowered to the glass of wine in his hand. She smiled with acid sweetness. “But you are already, I see.”

  Her barb struck home. His mouth hardened. His grip on the fragile stem of the glass tightened so that the skin of his knuckles shown taut and white; Victoria was certain the stem would snap at any moment.

  He straightened. “This seems as good a time as any to tell you of my plan. I suggest we dwell under the same roof for as long as it takes to appease your father. In time, I have no doubt you’ll be able to charm him into seeing this marriage was a mistake. When that happens, the marriage can be annulled and we’ll go our separate ways. Is that agreeable?”

  “Quite,” she snapped.

  “So be it,” he said. He started to turn away, only to pause.

  “A word of advice for you, countess. I shouldn’t force my attentions on a gentleman—let alone kiss him—the way you did me in the Rutherfords’ garden. A man”—his smile was but a travesty—“I fear there is no polite way to put this…a man finds such boldness distasteful.” With that he left her.

  Victoria was speechless with rage. She glared at the door through which he’d just passed. Miles Grayson, earl of Stonehurst, was the most odious, hateful man alive!

  This was war.

  Her pride had been stung, the gauntlet cast. Her husband had insulted her, cutting her down with naught but the lash of his tongue.

  Oh, she would do as he said. They would reside beneath the same roof, for the sake of her father. But they would share nothing else—not a single meal. Not a room.

  But if he thought to make her cower, he would be sorely disappointed, for Victoria was determined not to wilt away, to hide in the corner.

  So it was that the next morning, she summoned the earl’s staff and introduced herself…and promptly rang for the carriage. While she waited in the entrance hall, she stopped before a gilt-framed mirror and retied the satin strings of her bonnet, humming a merry little tune.

  “Going out so soon, my dear?”

  Victoria very nearly choked herself.

  Thank heaven her recovery was mercifully quick, even though her heart pounded and her mind turned wildly. He thought her bold and audacious, so that was what she would give him. Giving a final tug on her bonnet strings, she turned and bestowed on him a smile that would surely melt the hardest of hearts.

  But not her husband’s.

  “Well, Victoria?” He stood before her, an imposing figure garbed wholly in black. Her stomach fluttered strangely. He seemed taller than ever, lean and muscular. Seen in the full light of the day, she could detect no flaws in his countenance, save the almost wicked slant of his brows. Indeed, he was so very handsome he nearly took her breath away. But there was no mistaking the disapproval inherent in his regard, and that fired more than a twinge of resentment.

  She gave a trilling little laugh. “What!” she said breezily. “Did you think I’d be given to vapors? If so, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  His eyes seemed to sizzle. “On the contrary, Victoria”—he spoke with precise deliberation—“you are exactly what I expected.”

  She paid him no further heed as she swept out the front door. Minutes later the carriage drew up before Sophie’s house. When the butler announced her, Sophie thrust aside her embroidery and leaped up.

  “Victoria! Oh, I’m so sorry…I-I don’t know how it happened…your father followed me onto the terrace and asked your whereabouts. And suddenly there you were…! Oh, I’ve been so worried. Mama rushed home from shopping this morning with the news you’d wed the earl of Stonehurst! Is that who you were with in the garden? The earl of Stonehurst? I told Mama she must surely be mistaken…she is, isn’t she?”

  There was no need to answer. Victoria practically fell into Sophie’s arms and collapsed into tears.

  Within the day, their marriage was the talk of the ton.

  Within the week, the talk of London.

  Victoria had feared she would be ostracized, for the ton was notorious for turning a condescending eye to those who committed the slightest faux pas. Yet the ladies sighed with envy, for they thought marriage between Victoria and Miles Grayson grandly romantic—and quite a catch! As for the gentlemen, they merely smiled quietly to themselves, for they were well aware the earl of Stonehurst had captured a covetous prize—a wife who possessed both beauty and money.

  All in all, her social calender changed little, for invitations continued to arrive daily. But Victoria felt very much the intruder in her husband’s house; oh, not because of the servants, for they were only too anxious to please. No, it was Miles. She couldn’t forget he disdained her very presence in his home, her so-called role as wife. And so she stayed away as often as she could. On those rare occasions she encountered her husband, he was unfailingly polite, yet chillingly so.

  One morning, she accompanied Sophie to a seamstress on Bond Street. While Sophie and the seamstress went back to the dressing room, Victoria idly sifted through a handful of hair ribbons in the far corner of the shop. The doorchime sounded, and she glanced up. Two matrons stepped within; one was Lady Carmichael, the other Lady Brentwood.

  Her greeting died on her lips.

  “Why, I’ve never met such a gentleman as Lord Stonehurst in all my days,” Lady Carmichael was saying.

  Curious, Victoria ducked her head low and listened intently.

  “I find him utterly fascinating,” Lady Carmichael went on, “and most charming.”

  “Yes, indeed.” This came from Lady Brentwood. “Charles has had numerous business dealings with him. Why, only last evening I distinctly recall he told an acquaintance there’s no man he respects or admires more than Lord Stonehurst—and Charles is not a man to give his praise lightly.”

  But Lady Brentwood had not finished. “As for his marriage to Lady Victoria Carlton, why, many a man would have left her to her own devices, no matter the harm to her reputation. The haste with which they married simply proves that he is a noble fellow indeed.” She gave a trilling laugh. “To say nothing of handsome!”

  Victoria’s lips tightened. Handsome, oh, exceedingly. That she couldn’t deny. But charming? Noble? They did not have to live with the subject in question. Little did they know—why, the man was a veritable fencepost!

  “I do hope Victoria appreciates how lucky she is to have landed such a catch!” said Lady Carmichael. “I find it rather odd that she conti
nues to go about as if she’d never married! Why, my Theodora sobbed the night through when she heard Stonehurst had wed.”

  Victoria’s head snapped up. She was sorely tempted to tell Lady Carmichael that her Theodora was welcome to Miles Grayson, earl of Stonehurst!

  But she was unwilling to fuel gossip any further, and so she maintained her silence, keeping her presence hidden until the two ladies had left the shop.

  But the conversation nagged at her throughout the next few days. Was Miles truly so respected among the ton?

  For the first time she began to see her husband in a different light…and reluctantly admitted that to her knowledge, Miles was neither a cad nor a bounder. He didn’t overly frequent the gaming tables. She heard no tales of wild or reckless behavior, nor did he drink to excess. If he had a mistress, he was so discreet she never even suspected. Indeed, it seemed her husband possessed none of the vices she might have despised in a husband…

  Soon she began to feel guilty, for neither malice nor spite was in her nature. What need was there to live together as enemies? One morning as she prepared to go downstairs, she decided perhaps it was time to make the best of their situation. On impulse, she tapped on the door of his room. When he bid her enter, she stepped inside…

  Only to stop short at the threshold.

  Apparently he’d just come in from riding. His riding jacket lay in a heap upon the bed; a rumpled white shirt lay next to it.

  All at once her mouth was dry as dust, her gaze riveted to his form. Victoria had never seen a man in a state of dishabille, not her father or any other.

  His hips were incredibly narrow, his boots spattered with mud. His fawn-colored breeches were like a second skin; they clung to his thighs, cleanly outlining every muscle. But it was what lay nestled between those iron-hewn thighs that drew her gaze in a manner most unseemly…the swelling there hinted at a masculinity that—were it unfettered and released from constraint—promised a sight to behold indeed…

  Egad, what ever was wrong with her! Stunned by such audacious thoughts, she tore her gaze upward, only to realize that his naked torso was no less disconcerting.

  His shoulders were strong and wide, the muscles of his arms smooth and tight and sleek. A mat of dark curly hair covered his chest and belly, disappearing beneath the waist-band of his breeches. Her mind ran wild. Oh, but there was beauty in the male form, of a kind she’d not thought to find…most certainly not in her husband!

  “Was there something you wanted, Victoria?”

  His regard was cool and unsmiling. Victoria swallowed, praying he hadn’t noticed her staring. Quickly she gathered her courage—and her senses. Yet still her voice was a trifle breathless.

  “There is a garden fete at the Covingtons this afternoon. I-I wondered if you would care to attend with me?”

  His reply was most emphatic. “I am not one of your London peacocks to strut at your side for all to admire you, countess. If you wish to attend, then go. But do not trouble me about such trivial matters again.”

  Victoria felt as if she’d been slapped. Stupid, foolish tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, and somehow managed to salvage her pride. Raising her chin, she matched his disdain with dignified aplomb.

  “As you wish, my lord,” she stated levelly. With a swish of her skirts she turned and was gone.

  By the time she reached the dining room, a seething resentment had replaced the hurt. So much for her peace efforts, she reflected bitterly. She had tried, and she could do no more.

  The next step—unlikely though it was—was up to Miles.

  So it was that in the days that followed, Victoria went riding in Hyde Park. She attended birthday parties and routs. She waltzed until the wee hours of the morning at Almack’s. The Lady Carmichaels and Lady Brentwoods of the ton could gossip all they pleased about the state of her marriage. When queried about the whereabouts of her husband, she would simply shrug and say lightly, “It’s hardly the thing to be in each other’s pockets. Besides, what marriage these days is a love match?”

  Never had she been so miserable.

  One man in particular, Count Antony DeFazio from Italy, was frequently at her side. No matter where she was, more often than not he was there as well. Eventually—unfailingly—he would make his way over to her. Sophie thought he was to-swoon-for handsome. In all honesty, Victoria supposed he was. Yet somehow when she looked into eyes as dark as midnight, she was reminded of eyes the color of storm clouds…

  It was most distracting—and highly vexing.

  In any case, Antony was charming and warmly attentive. He complimented the rich gold of her hair, the creaminess of her skin, the remarkable blue of her eyes. He was an outrageous flirt, but when it seemed her husband wanted nothing to do with her, his praise was balm to her wounded pride.

  But her husband was not as heedless of her activities as she thought.

  Miles remained in the background, watching all unfold with mounting dis pleasure. Even before that disastrous night at the Rutherfords, he’d heard rumors of his new wife; in his estimation, she was a lady of fashion who thrived on attention. He couldn’t help but think of Margaret Sutherland, the woman he had very nearly married. Once the toast of London, he’d fallen victim to Margaret’s sultry beauty, her vivacious charm.

  He’d not be so foolish again.

  His mouth turned down. No, Victoria was no different than Margaret. Indeed, how could she be anything but shallow and vain? In the end, Victoria would prove herself selfish and hurtful, and Miles would not expose Heather to such a woman.

  You judge without evidence, whispered an irascible little voice.

  Hah! What more did he need? Why, they’d been wed nearly a fortnight and the chit had not spent one evening home!

  Still, he was reminded how Victoria had stood up to her father and announced that she had kissed him. Odd, how she’d tried to protect him. Rather honorable, really, to say nothing of noble and courageous…

  But Miles was a man who didn’t need the glitter of London to be happy. He’d chosen a more simple life in the country, an infinitely more satisfying life. Margaret would never have been happy anywhere but London. Neither would Victoria, which was yet another reason he was convinced they had no future together.

  That very thought was high in his mind as he strolled inside his home that evening. Nelson hurried to greet him.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Good evening, Nelson.” He handed the butler his gloves and cane.

  Now came the inevitable question…“Is the countess home?”

  …and the inevitable answer. “No, my lord.” The butler’s eyes flitted away.

  “I see. And where is she this fine night?”

  “My lord, she mentioned something about a ball at Lord and Lady Raleigh’s. I believe the invitation arrived last week.”

  It was then Miles saw it—a calling card on a silver tray. He picked it up and read the name—count antony defazio. Sheer red misted his vision, for Miles had also heard the count’s name bandied about—in conjunction with his wife’s!

  “The count was here?”

  “This afternoon, my lord. He and the countess took tea together. Then he returned to escort my lady to the ball.”

  So now the chit was entertaining her admirers in his very house! A stark, blinding fury came over him. He damned himself for giving in to it, even as he damned his errant wife for her part in it.

  He jutted out his jaw. “Nelson, have the carriage brought round.”

  In all her days, Victoria didn’t know when she’d been so bored. The lilting music all sounded the same. The crush of faces around her had blurred to indistinction, and she found the scent of fresh flowers almost cloying. If she had to attend one more wretched affair like this, she would surely scream.

  Whirling around the dance floor with Antony, she prayed he would unhand her. Her head ached and her feet hurt. All she wanted at this moment was to go home…

  Home, she thought with a pang. There
was a painful catch in her breast. She no longer knew where she belonged. Papa had foisted her off upon the earl, and the earl would just as soon be rid of her…

  The dance ended. One hand possessively at her waist, Antony would have led her from the floor. But Victoria gently broke away. “Oh, there’s Sophie!” she exclaimed. “Please excuse me, count, but I must have a word with her.” She gave him no chance to protest, but breezed away in a swirl of skirts.

  Across the room, she kissed Sophie’s cheek. “Thank heaven you appeared when you did, Sophie. Antony is sweet, but he can be a bit much at times.”

  “Oh, Victoria, but he is so dashing and handsome! And just think, he is quite entranced with you.”

  Victoria smiled slightly. She found two seats at the edge of the dance floor and sank into one of them, wriggling her toes gratefully. “Granted, he is quite pleasant to look at, but there are times when he’s really quite full of himself, Sophie.”

  Sophie gave a wistful sigh. “Still, that I could be in your slippers to night…” She had yet to sit, and her gaze drifted out to the dance floor once more. All at once she gasped.

  “Victoria, look! He—he’s here!”

  Victoria accepted a glass of champagne from a tray. “Who, love?”

  “Your husband!”

  Your husband. Victoria’s heart lurched. She very nearly dropped her glass of champagne.

  “Victoria, what if he saw you dancing with Antony? Do you think he’ll be angry? Do you think he’ll be jealous?” Sophie gasped. “He’s coming this way and…oh, dear…I don’t think I wish to be in your slippers after all! Victoria, I could almost swear…he does look rather jealous.”

  Her gaze tracked Sophie’s. Sure enough, Sophie was right. Miles was there, already bearing down on them. But judging from the expression on his face, she guessed he wasn’t jealous at all…