Kisses and Scandal

by Shana Galen

  She blew out a breath. She knew enough of these English soldiers to know they often behaved dishonorably. The rumor was that a girl in a village a day’s ride from here had been accosted by a group of English soldiers, and now all the women in Catarina’s village were to stay indoors and not go anywhere without a male escort.

  She’d disregarded that rule entirely in coming here. And she reminded herself that she’d come because she’d seen this officer and known instinctively that she could trust him. It was too late to turn back. She had no choice but to trust her instincts.

  “Very well. I agree.”

  He released her leg, and she found the removal of his touch and the warmth of his skin on hers more of a loss than she’d expected. Perhaps her mother was right, and she was a wanton woman who needed to marry sooner rather than later. While the soldier tied her ankles, Catarina said a prayer to the Blessed Mother, asking for forgiveness for enjoying the man’s touch.

  When she was bound, he stepped back, giving her space. She supposed the gesture was to make her feel less threatened. It did not work. He was such a presence in the tent that she could not help but feel overwhelmed by him. Even the tent, which was larger than her little stone and tile-roofed cottage, seemed small when he stood.

  He drew the pistol, her pistol, from his pocket and studied it. Then he looked at her and back at the pistol. “If you have actually fired this antique, you’re braver than I am. It must be sixty years old.”

  “Eighty,” she corrected. “It was my grandfather’s.”

  “And you planned to fire it and kill both of us?” He examined it closer then made a sound of disgust. “No, of course you weren’t. It isn’t even loaded or primed.” He looked up at her, his blue eyes narrowed in anger. “You’ve made quite the fool of me.”

  “That was not my intention. If I had come here with no weapon, you would not have listened.”

  “Wouldn’t I? You know me so well then?”

  She only knew what she had heard about the English soldiers. They were proud and haughty and took what they wanted. She had seen him and thought he looked powerful enough to serve her purposes but also fair and honest. She’d watched him for several days and he always treated his men with dignity.

  But she had never considered asking him if he would marry her without the pistol pointed at him,. Why would he, a powerful English soldier, want to marry her, a Portuguese peasant? She wasn’t even beautiful—not like the pale, flaxen beauties who resided in England. She was dark with coarse curly hair and what her mother liked to call a strong personality. She was not dainty or demure. She was not quiet or obedient. No wonder her father wanted to be rid of her.

  She lifted her chin. “Very well, senhor. If I had asked you to marry me, would you have said yes?”

  “The name is Draven. Lieutenant Colonel Draven.”

  Draven. It sounded odd to her ears, but she liked it nonetheless.

  “And to answer your question, Miss Neves, no. I am not looking for a wife at present.”

  “And I am not looking for a husband. I would not have asked you to remain my husband. I do not even think the marriage would be considered legal in your country.”

  “No doubt it wouldn’t. You are a Catholic, I presume.”

  “And you are a heathen, but I do not hold that against you.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. His face looked younger when he laughed, even more handsome. His cheeks reddened slightly and his eyes looked even bluer. “That is something then. Tell me, Miss Neves, why are you in such desperate need of a husband?”

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  Here’s an excerpt from No Earls Allowed.

  Neil woke and gulped in air. The acrid smell of cannon smoke burned his lungs, and the stench of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. His hands fisted in the sheets on the bed, their softness reminding him he was not lying on a battlefield beside his dead brother but in his bed in his flat in London.

  Without looking, he reached for the glass of gin on the bedside table. There was always a glass of gin on the bedside table. It wasn’t a gentleman’s drink, but here, in the dark, alone with his demons, Neil didn’t want to be a gentleman. And so he bought gin for the nights when the dreams of battle haunted him. And when he drank the bitter brew, he tried to forget he was the son of a marquess.

  He sipped the gin and lit a lamp, taking solace in the fact that his hands didn’t shake. If he’d dreamed on, he likely would have woken with trembling hands and a scream echoing in his ears. For, as he’d lain beside his dead brother on that hill in Portugal, the smoke of the battlefield had coalesced around him, settling inside him. Instead of stifling him, the smoke caught the breeze and the flame of rage ignited within him. The fire built until it seared and burned, and he’d not been able to quench the heat until he rose and, with a roar, stumbled after the French soldiers the dragoons hadn’t routed. Like a berserker, he’d cut every one of them down, even as they raised hands in surrender, even as they’d begged for quarter.

  Neil had expected to be reprimanded for his behavior that day—behavior unbecoming a gentleman—but Draven had pulled him aside and given him a promotion of sorts.

  If one could call leading a suicide troop a promotion.

  The flame of rage had long been extinguished, and in its place laid a weight like a sodden mantle, bowing his shoulders. Neil could not shed it, no matter how hard he tried. Now he rose and pulled on trousers and a linen shirt. He didn’t bother to tuck in the shirt or button it at the throat or sleeves. Instead, he padded to the window and pushed the heavy curtains open. He had a view of St. James’s Street. He liked the sight of carriages and men coming and going from gambling hells or brothels. He liked the noise and the lights spilling from the establishments. It drowned out the sounds of battle that too easily plagued him in silence.

  Neil stood and stared out the window for a long time before shoving his feet into boots and shrugging on a coat. His manservant would not arrive until later in the morning, so Neil managed the cravat on his own. As for his wild hair, he combed his fingers through it, pushing the sides out of his eyes.

  He had no one to inform of his departure. He lived alone, a necessity when one woke screaming five out of seven nights of the week. He took his walking stick as a precaution against drunkards, who might be stupid enough to accost him, and left for his club.

  Twenty minutes later, Porter greeted him. “Mr. Wraxall,” the older distinguished man said as he opened the door. “A pleasure to see you, sir.”

  Neil handed the master of the house his walking stick. “Don’t you ever sleep, Porter?”

  Porter raised his brows, silver to match his hair. “Don’t you, sir?”

  “Not unless I have to. I know it’s half past three. Is anyone here?”

  “Mr. Beaumont is asleep in the card room.”

  No doubt Rafe had retreated to the Draven Club to escape some woman. Neil might have laughed if he hadn’t come to escape his own demons. Not that the club didn’t have its ghosts. His gaze strayed to the shield hanging directly opposite the door where no one entering could miss it. It was a silver shield bisected by a thick, medieval sword with a pommel shaped like a fleur-de-lis. Under the grip, the cross-guard was ornamented with a skull. It would not have been particularly macabre except for the eighteen marks on the flanks and base. Each fleur-de-lis, nine on the dexter side and nine on the sinister side, stood for a member of the troop of Draven’s men Neil had lost during the war. Neil often felt he carried the weight of the enormous shield on his back.

  “Anyone else here?” he asked the Master of the House.

  “No, sir.” Porter placed the walking stick in a stand, his wooden leg thumping on the carpet. “Would you care for a drink or something to eat, sir?”

  Neil wanted more gin, if only to settle his nerves, but he could have drunk himself into a stupor at his flat. He’d come here to affect civility. He’d come here because it was the closest thing to home he’d ever known. “Brandy would suit me, Porter.�
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  Though Neil could have found it blindfolded, Porter led him up the winding staircase and into the dining room. The five round tables in the paneled wood room were empty, their white linen tablecloths bright and clean and anticipating the next diner.

  Neil chose a chair near the big hearth and settled back. The silence here didn’t bother him. He could all but hear the echoes of his friends’ voices—those who had survived—raised in song or laughter. He half expected to look to the side and see Ewan Mostyn—the brawny, muscled protector of the group—bent over a meal or spot Rafe Beaumont leaning negligently against one of the walls, under a sconce.

  Neil never felt alone here.

  Porter returned with the brandy on a silver salver. Neil had told the man a hundred times such gestures were unnecessary, but Porter believed in standards. Neil lifted the brandy then frowned at the folded white paper that had been beneath it.

  “I almost forgot, sir. This note came for you a few hours ago.”

  Neil lifted it and nodded to the silver-haired Master of the House, who departed quite gracefully, considering he had but one leg. It didn’t surprise Neil that correspondence meant for him had been sent here. He was here more than anywhere else, and anyone who knew him knew that. He broke the seal and opened the paper, recognizing the hand immediately. It was from the Marquess of Kensington. It said simply:

  Call on me at the town house at your earliest convenience. I have need of you.

  —Kensington

  Neil folded the letter and put it in his pocket. It was not unusual for his father to request Neil’s assistance with various tasks from inspecting an investment opportunity to traveling to one of the marquess’s many estates and assisting the steward with a duty or question. As a bastard, Neil had no social commitments and no obligations to the Kensington title as his elder brothers did. In Neil’s opinion, acting in his father’s stead was the least he could do, considering his father had claimed him, seen that he had been educated, and now granted him an allowance of sorts. The marquess would never have called it payment for Neil’s services, but that was what it amounted to.

  Neil bore his legitimate brothers no ill will, and they had always been civil to him. Especially Christopher. Neil and Christopher had been friends as well as brothers. The marquess’s wife had always been coolly polite to him, though it must have chafed every time she encountered him. No doubt she wished Neil, not Christopher, had died in Portugal.

  Neil was the product of Kensington’s liaison with a beautiful Italian woman he’d been introduced to in London shortly after the birth of his second son. He’d been instantly smitten, and what ensued was a brief and passionate affair. The marchioness had looked the other way, suffering in silence as other women of her class had before her. The relationship might have gone on indefinitely if Neil’s mother had not conceived a child and, after a difficult pregnancy, died of complications.

  Neil had never known his mother. Instead, he’d been raised by a farmer and his wife who lived on Kensington’s Lancashire estate. He’d been a small, dark child with startling blue eyes and a fondness for woodcarving, like his foster father, and horses, like his real father. Neil had always known the marquess was his real father. The giant of a man had come to visit him without fail once a month unless he was in Town for the Season.

  At eight, Neil had gone to school—not Eton like his brothers—but a good school for middle-class children, and he’d learned reading and writing and arithmetic. He’d left school and his father had bought him a commission in the cavalry. On his own merits, he’d earned a position in the 16th Light Dragoons, also known as the Queen’s Lancers. He’d always been proud of his service as a member of the 16th.

  He was not so proud of the service he’d done afterward.

  But his father did not want to speak to him about the war or how Neil had sold his soul to Lieutenant Colonel Draven on the same day Christopher had been killed. The marquess didn’t blame Neil for Christopher’s death.

  Neil still blamed himself—for that death and those that followed—and he would spend the rest of his days in atonement.

  He looked down at the note once again. Cold seeped along his limbs as he reread it. Neil had a feeling he wouldn’t like what his father requested this time and not simply because he’d be expected to be sober when hearing it. With a sigh, Neil rose, threw the brandy in the fire, and prepared for the worst.

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  Here’s an excerpt from An Affair With a Spare.

  RAFE ALEXANDER FREDERICK Beaumont, youngest of the eight offspring of the Earl and Countess of Haddington, had often been called Rafe the Forgotten in his youth. He’d had such an easygoing, cheerful personality that he was easy to forget. He didn’t cry to be fed, didn’t fuss at naptime, and was content to be carried around until almost eighteen months of age when he finally took his first steps.

  Once, the family went to a park for a picnic, and Rafe, having fallen asleep in the coach on the ride, was forgotten in the carriage for almost two hours. When the frantic nanny returned, she found the toddler happily babbling to himself and playing with his toes. When Rafe was three, he had gone with his older brothers and sisters on a walk at the family’s country estate. It wasn’t until bedtime, when the nanny came to tuck all the children in for the night, that the family realized Rafe was not in bed. He’d been found in the stables sleeping with a new litter of puppies.

  In fact, no one could recall Rafe ever crying or fussing. Except once. And no one wanted to mention the day the countess had run off, leaving four-year-old Rafe alone and bereft.

  By the time Rafe was nine, and quite capable of making himself so charming that he could have gotten away with murder (although Rafe was far too civilized to resort to murder), his new stepmother had pointed out to the earl that Rafe did not have a tutor. Apparently, the earl had forgotten to engage a tutor for his youngest. When the first tutor arrived, he pronounced Rafe’s reading skills abysmal, his knowledge of history and geography nonexistent, and his mathematical ability laughable.

  More tutors followed, each less successful than the last. The earl’s hope was that his youngest son might enter the clergy, but by Rafe’s fifteenth birthday, it was clear he did not have the temperament for the church. While Rafe’s knowledge of theology lacked, his knowledge of the fairer sex was abundant. Too abundant. Girls and women pursued him relentlessly, and no wonder, as he’d inherited the height of his grandfather, a tall, regal man; the violet eyes of his great-aunt, who had often been called the most beautiful woman in England and was an unacknowledged mistress of George II; and the thick, dark, curling hair of his mother, of whom it was said her hair was her only beauty.

  Rafe had been born a beautiful child and matured into an arresting male specimen. While academics were never his forte, men and women alike appreciated his wit, his style, and his loyalty. He was no coward and no rake. In fact, it was said Rafe Beaumont had never seduced a woman.

  He’d never had to.

  Women vied for a position by his side and fought for a place in his bed. Rafe’s one flaw, if he had one, was his inability to deny the fairer sex practically anything. In his youth, he might have found himself in bed with a woman whom he’d had no intention of sleeping with only because he thought it bad form to reject her. Eventually, Rafe joined the army, not the navy as two of his brothers had done, primarily for the respite it offered. His time in service did not make it easier for him to rebuff a woman, but he did learn evasive maneuvers. Those maneuvers served him well after he joined Lieutenant Colonel Draven’s suicide troop, and his unwritten assignment had been to charm information out of the wives and daughters of Napoleon’s generals and advisers.

  Back in London, Rafe was busy once again charm­ing his way in and out of bedchambers. One of only twelve survivors from Draven’s troop of thirty and an acknowledged war hero, Rafe had little to do but enjoy himself. His father gave him a generous allow­ance, which Rafe rarely dipped into, as charming war heroes who were also style icon
s were invited to dine nearly every night, given clothing by all the best tailors, and invited to every event held in London and the surrounding counties.

  But even Rafe, who never questioned his good fortune, was not certain what to do about the overwhelming good fortune he’d been blessed with at his friend Lord Phineas’s ball. Rafe, bored now that the Season was over, had talked his good friend into hosting the ball for those of their friends and acquaintances staying in London. Too many of Rafe’s female acquaintances had attended, and he found himself struggling to (1) keep the ladies separated and therefore from killing one another, and (2) lavish his attentions on all of them equally.

  Thus, he found himself hiding in the cloakroom of the assembly hall, hoping one of his gentleman friends might happen by so he could inquire as to whether the coast was clear.

  “Oh, Mr. Beaumont?” a feminine voice called in a singsong voice. In the cloakroom, Rafe pushed far back into the damp, heavy cloaks that smelled of cedar and wool.

  “Where are you, Mr. Beaumont?”

  Rafe tried to place the woman’s voice. He thought she might be the wife of Lord Chesterton. She was young, far too young for Chesterton, who was his father’s contemporary. Rafe might think Chesterton a fool for marrying a woman young enough to be his daughter, but that didn’t mean he wanted to cuckold the man.

  “There you are!” she said, just as the light from a candle illuminated the cloakroom.

  Rafe squinted and held up a hand, even as he real­ized the small, crowded room offered no opportunity for escape.

  “You found me,” he said, giving her a forced smile. “Now it is your turn to hide. I shall count to one hundred.”

  “Oh, no!” She moved closer, her skirts brushing against his legs. “I found you, and I want to claim my prize.”

  “Your prize?” he asked in mock surprise. He knew exactly what she wanted for a prize. “What might that be? A waltz at midnight? A kiss on the hand?” He moved closer to her, forcing her backward.