by Tarah Scott
Lady Evers drew a sharp breath. “How dare you?” A malicious gleam lit her eyes. “My father arrived with the paper from London just this afternoon. I wager Lady Beecham has yet to learn the truth. I feel it is my duty to seek her out and inform her that you are not who you pretend to be. She will not appreciate a person such as you being in her home.”
Josephine felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Breathe, she couldn’t breathe. The Bull wasn’t the Times, but that wouldn’t stop people from believing the story.
“Is something wrong?” a familiar male voice said.
Jo snapped her head in Nicholas’ direction. Ladies Evers whirled. Miss Henley, Jo realized, had melted into the crowd.
Lady Evers looked as if she might bolt.
“Lady Evers has accused you of murder, my lord.”
Nicholas lifted a brow. “Surely, there is some mistake, Lady Evers? I cannot believe you would make that kind of mistake.” His voice was low, but the menace was unmistakable.
“Oh, but she has,” Jo pressed, her fury amplified by terror. “She has read some drivel in the John Bull from a solicitor, who did you say, Lady Evers—” Josephine’s mind raced “—James Stuart?” She looked at Nick. “I have not heard of him, my lord, have you? He was supposedly Lord Wylst’s solicitor.”
“I can’t say that I have heard of him,” Nick replied.
“Then he cannot be anyone of consequence,” Josephine said. “Yet, Lady Evers puts the greatest stock in his word, and she is impressed by the fact that some letter Lord Wylst wrote has been printed in the Bull. Can you imagine?”
“No,” he said. “I cannot. I wonder that Harris lets you read that paper.”
“My husband does not censor what I read,” she snapped.
“Perhaps he should,” Nicholas said “Particularly since he might find himself defending what you repeat.”
Her face paled.
“But I feel certain we can avoid that—so long as you are careful not to repeat any more dangerous gossip,” Nicholas said.
Anger flashed in her eyes, but she nodded and said through tight lips, “Of course, Lord Grayson. Please forgive me.”
He canted his head in acknowledgement and she hurried away.
Josephine felt as if she would collapse.
“Courage, Jo,” Nicholas said. “If you swoon now that will only feed the gossip.”
“Oh, Nick, the worst has happened. Lord Wylst has exposed me.”
“That is far from the worst that could have happened, Josephine.”
She startled and swung her gaze to his face.
“The worst that could have happened is that you could have disappeared from my life in that damn convent.”
Josephine was sure she would cry.
“Lady Josephine, if you cry, I swear, I will toss this champagne aside, take you over my knee, and paddle your pretty bottom right here in this ballroom.”
She blinked, and a sliver of the feminine anger she’d felt when he first returned was resurrected. “That is an outrageous threat, even for you, Nick.”
“I do not make idle threats, as you know. And don’t think for an instant you are not going to marry me,” he went on as if they were discussing the weather.
Josephine shifted her gaze to the crowd beyond them in search of Lady Evers. Who was the despicable creature telling her story to at this very moment? Jo shook her head. “This is only the beginning, Nicholas. I cannot marry you. Surely, you can see that. You will be ostracized from Society if you marry me.”
“I could care less what Society thinks. We would not be the first couple to marry under the cloud of scandal.”
“Not this sort of scandal.”
He grunted a laugh. “You forget Lord Philips, who married his mistress, a lady who happened to be an actress.”
“That is nothing compared to marrying a bastard.”
“Do not use that word,” he said sharply. “Remember, Jo, no one is alive who can verify Wylst’s story. Therefore, it is nothing more than an annoyance. Now, have some champagne.” He thrust a glass into her hand. “Then we will dance.”
Chapter Fifteen
Josephine entered the small parlor reserved for the family. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, but her spirits didn’t raise as they usually did when entering the cheery room. She crossed to the window and stared out at the garden. Sight of the roses alone usually brought her joy, but she could think of nothing but getting a copy of the Bull and reading the letter Lord Wylst had made public. She’d slept little, her mind turning over and over the possibilities.
She and Nicholas had danced last night until the wee hours of the morning. No one else had approached them as Lady Evers had, but Jo hadn’t missed the furtive glances and whispers that stopped when she drew near. Lady Evers had spread her poison. Josephine prayed Nicholas had been bluffing with the threat of forcing Lady Evers’ husband to answer to her accusations, but Jo hadn’t known Nicholas to make an idle threat—including the one she knew still hung in the air between him and Lord Beaumond.
The marquess hadn’t been heard from since he left Lady Allaway’s party, and she prayed the man had returned to England or, better yet, had fled to France as he had after ruining Nicholas’ sister. Jo felt on the edge of tears again. She had made a mess of everything. Nick was determined to marry her, despite the fact that everyone now knew the truth. If he one day regretted that decision—her chest tightened. She couldn’t bear that...nor could she bear to live without him.
Josephine turned away from the window and walked to the couch. She stopped at sight of an oblong velvet jewelry box sitting on the cushion. She sat down beside the box, then picked it up and lifted the lid. Jo gasped. A single strand of pearls lay across the cloth. The pearls her father had given her. But how?
A shadow in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked up to see Nicholas in the doorway, leaning, one shoulder against the jamb.
Silent tears began to spill down her cheeks.
“I believe I told you, Lady Josephine, that if you cried, I would take you over my knee.”
“Did you do this?” she asked in a whisper.
His gaze remained fixed on her face. “Aye.”
She leapt to her feet, heedless of the pearls on her lap. They hit the coffee table with a clatter, skidded across the top, and dropped off the edge as Josephine rounded the table. She flew across the room toward Nicholas. He straightened from the doorjamb and took two steps into the room just as she flung herself into his arms.
Josephine buried her face in his chest. “How-how did you find them?”
“Finding the pawn shop was much easier than finding the solicitor Wylst sent that damn letter to. Did you know there are far more solicitors in Inverness than there are pawnbrokers? A staggering thought.”
Josephine shook her head, unable to halt the tears. “Nicholas, you—”
Strong fingers grasped her chin and tilted her face upwards. “No more tears, Jo.”
“But you cannot—”
“The Earl of Grayson can do anything he pleases,” he cut in. “Especially marry the woman he loves. The only woman he ever loved.”
She shook her head, tears blinding her. “Everyone knows that I—” Her voice broke.
“That you are the Marquess of Montagu’s daughter.”
“Annabel must carry on my father’s title,” Jo said through a hiccupped sob.
“Annabel will likely be carrying on a title of her own,” Nicholas said.
Josephine shook her head in confusion.
“The Marquess of Northington has offered for her.”
“Offered for her?” Jo blurted. “Once he learns the truth about me—”
“The truth—” Nicholas cut in, “is that Wylst tried blackmailing you with a falsehood, and when you refused to pay him and told your father, he went mad. A fact your father has already informed him of.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Your father is
no fool, Jo. He and Annabel met the matter head on.”
“They did?”
“Of course we did.”
Josephine started at the sound of her sister’s voice, and Nicholas turned slightly so that she could see her sister and father in the hallway. Jo started to pull away from Nicholas, but he held her tight.
“You will forgive me, Montagu, but I am not quite finished with your daughter.” Nick started to close the door, then paused when Dobbs, the butlers appeared at her father’s side.
“Henry Maxwell and another gentleman are here to see Lady Josephine and Lord Grayson,” he said.
“That would be Reverend Williams,” Nicholas said. “Tell him we will be down presently.” Nicholas nodded to her father, and said, “Montagu,” then closed the door.
“Nicholas,” Josephine cried. “You can’t close the door in my father’s face.”
“I can.” He drew her close.
She glanced at the door. “What is Reverend Williams doing here?”
“In a minute, Jo.” He cupped her neck and held her firm as his mouth covered hers.
The kiss was gentle, sweet, yet her stomach flipped, and she feared her knees would buckle.
He breathed deep, then ended the kiss and looked down at her. “We had better hurry.”
Her heart raced. “Nick, the reverend, we cannot—”
“Don’t force me to lay you down on that couch and make love to you, Jo.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your father might allow me a kiss, but he is liable to take exception to me bedding his daughter while he and the rest of your family wait with the minister who is to marry us.”
“Nicholas, you wouldn’t.”
“Aye, love, I would.” His eyes gleamed. “And with relish.” He drew her against his side and opened the door. “Your father tells me you have not seen Cecily since her son was born. I think a long honeymoon at Whitehall is just the things for us. You can visit her.” Nicholas looked down at her as they passed through the doorway. “Once we decide to leave my bedchambers.”
###
Lord Ruthven’s Bride
Highland Regency Brides
Book Two
Tarah Scott
Acknowledgements
Undying thanks to Kimberly Comeau, editor, teacher, friend. You have given me more than I deserve.
Inverness, Scotland 1823
Chapter One
Someone brushed against the outside of the study door. Annabelle gasped and the single taper sitting on the desk flickered. She yanked her gaze from the papers she rifled and stared at the door. Who but a sneak like her would prowl Lord Harley’s private hallways during a party? A servant, perhaps?
A murmur of voices filtered through the door. Annabelle froze. A bump against the door penetrated the alarm and she whirled, searching wildly for a hiding place. Her gaze caught on the heavy floor-length curtains on the left wall. She blew out the candle then hurried through the darkness as best she could the few steps to the curtains. The doorknob turned as she slipped behind the thick fabric. Gooseflesh arose across her arms when they contacted the glass balcony door she pressed against.
Muted light seeped around the edge of the curtain and the murmur of a woman’s voice followed. The soft click of the door cut off the light. Her heart fell. How could the visitors not notice the smell of freshly burned candle wax? The woman uttered a low laugh and Annabelle tensed.
“Don’t be a tease, Blair,” the man said.
Annabelle’s heart beat faster. Lord Harley. And Blair could be none other than Lady Blair Copeland. The two must have ducked into the room for an elicit tryst.
“Monroe,” Lady Copeland purred.
Annabelle jammed her eyes shut. What had gotten into her? Tomorrow, at Miss Morgan’s tea party she would investigate their arboretum to discover what it was she’d seen Lord Harley bury under the ancient oak there. There really hadn’t been any need for her to snoop through his things. Blast her curiosity. If her father learned she’d been snooping—never mind her father. It was Calum she need worry about. The Marquess of Northington would not be pleased to read in the gossip sheets that his future wife had been caught snooping in the Earl of Harley’s study.
Lady Copeland’s shriek snapped Annabelle from her remonstrations.
“Shh, sweet,” he admonished.
Lady Copeland giggled. “Monroe, we have business.”
“Later,” he said in muffled voice, and Annabelle realized he was kissing her.
Disgust turned her stomach. She didn’t mind a little clandestine lovemaking, but these two were married—to other people.
How was she to escape? The thought of being present when they—Good Lord! Her only escape was the balcony, three floors above ground. She sent up a prayer for a trellis she could climb down, then slipped a hand behind her and grasped the door handle. Carefully, she pushed it down. The bolt disengaged from the socket with no discernable click. She inched the door open. Orchestra music filtered past on a breeze. Annabelle quickly eased out onto the balcony and closed the door, releasing the handle very slowly.
She spun and hurried to the railing. No moon shone on this March night, but a few torches lit the gardens to the left in the direction of the ballroom. The ground three stories below revealed dark shapes that indicated shrubbery. She looked left, then right, but found no other balconies and, of course, not so much as an ivy tendril to climb down. Chill night air sent another prickle of goosebumps up both arms. The chill would turn cold in minutes. How long might she have to remain outdoors? Surely, Lord Harley and Lady Copeland wouldn’t risk being away from his party too long.
Light flared behind her and she whirled as the curtain was lifted and Lord Harley stepped into view between the glass door and curtain. He opened the door.
“Who is it?” Lady Copeland called.
“A little golden bird.” He stepped out onto the balcony.
Annabelle glanced down at her gold taffeta gown. The fabric practically glowed in the light that spilled from the room. She gave a shy smile. “Lord Harley. How nice to see you. I didn’t know you were here.”
The curtain drew back and Annabelle met Lady Copeland’s gaze over her lover’s shoulder.
“What is she doing here?” she demanded.
“Spying, I would guess,” he replied.
“Spying?” Annabelle’s heart beat rapidly. “Good Lord, no. Do forgive me, Lord Harley. I know I shouldn’t be here. But I needed to get out of the stuffy ballroom. Your party is a crush.” She smiled again. “You know how it is.”
“Do we know how it is, Blair?” he asked.
Lady Copeland released the curtain and stepped up beside him. “I believe we do.”
The cold note in her voice sent a fission of apprehension down Annabelle’s spine.
“I suppose I better get back to the party,” Annabelle said.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Lord Harley said.
His voice, devoid of emotion, startled her. Lord Harley had always been the epitome of gentlemanly behavior. She’d never known him to make a lady feel the least bit uncomfortable, much less like she’d been caught standing over a dead body gripping the smoking gun.
“As I said, the ballroom is very stuffy.” She looked at Lady Copeland. “I see you two agree.”
“Do we agree?” Lord Harley asked.
“Indeed, we do,” Lady Copeland replied.
Ah, here was the problem. They feared she would tell someone she’d caught them making love in his study.
“I beg you not to tell my father I was here,” Annabelle said. “He would not be pleased.” That should tell them she would keep quiet if they did the same.
“I wouldn’t think of telling him.” Lord Harley stepped toward her.
Annabelle took an involuntary step back, then halted when the curtain drew back and a tall, dark-haired man wearing a kilt appeared in the doorway. As one, Lord Harley and Lady Copeland looked over their shoulders.
“Ruthven,” Lord Harley blurted. “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing ye and Lady Copeland are doing.”
Annabelle stared. Ruthven?
“You can’t barge into my private study and make accusations,” Lord Harley snapped. “For your information, Lady Copeland and I have business.”
Ruthven’s gaze shifted past them to Annabelle as he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Just as Lady Annabelle and I have business.”
“I—”Annabelle began, but her words tangled when his brown eyes darkened with unmistakable heat.
Lord Harley looked at her. “I wasn’t aware you knew Lord Ruthven.”
“Do you know all of Lady Annabelle’s friends?” Lord Ruthven asked.
“No, no, of course not.” His brow furrowed, then his stare turned hard. “This is low, even for you, Ruthven. Lady Annabelle is a young lady of good breeding.”
Annabelle took a step toward them. “There has been a—”
“There is no use denying it, love.” Ruthven straightened, brushed past the two, and came to her side.
She tilted her head back to maintain eye contact.
One corner of his full mouth lifted in a sensual smile. “We have been caught.”
“Caught?” she repeated dumbly.
His smile twitched. He slipped an arm around her waist and Annabelle started at the tremor that rippled through her midsection. She tensed in readiness to move out of his embrace, but his arm tightened around her.
His gaze locked onto Lord Harley’s face. “I believe we can agree that what has transpired here tonight is no one’s business but our own.”
“Of course.” Lord Harley nodded in quick agreement, but Annabelle caught the venom in Lady Copeland’s gaze.
“Come along.” Ruthven started forward.
“Perhaps Lady Copeland should see Lady Annabelle back to the ballroom,” the earl said.
Annabelle slowed, caught between adhering to propriety by returning to the party with Lady Copeland, and the feeling that Lady Copeland would like nothing better than to push her off the first balcony they happened upon. Annabelle had never liked the woman, but tonight, the gleam in her eye was downright vicious. Then there was this mysterious Lord Ruthven. Who was he and where had he come from? He hugged her tighter and forced her to keep pace with him as he headed toward the door. Good Lord, and why was he rushing her from the room?
