“Everyone likes the Gathers too much to cancel it,” Cian said, in his deep voice. “I’m finding it…energizing, which surprises the Dickens out of me.” He picked up one of the glasses and held it out.
Jack took it.
Cian held up his own glass. “I came to say thank you. For last December. For your help.” He settled his hips on the dresser.
Jack took the stool. “Is that all?”
Cian tossed the brandy back in one swallow. He hissed and reached for the decanter once more. “Also, to apologize.”
Jack nodded and peered at the golden liquid. “I’m not the only one to whom you need to apologize.”
“I’ve already caught up with Will.” He lifted his refilled glass. “Will you drink with me?”
Jack sighed and touched his glass. “Cheers.” He drank and raised his brows. It was the very good stock, from the back cellar, that Cian rarely allowed to be poured. “Now, this is an apology,” he admitted and held the glass out.
Cian filled it, then looked around the room. “Every year, I try to remember to have this place cleaned out. It tends to get used, anyway.” His gaze met Jack’s.
Jack’s chest tightened. “Don’t clean it on my account,” he said, his voice rough.
“As she isn’t here, anyway.”
“And she’s married,” Jack finished.
“Shouldn’t you be, by now?”
Jack sighed. The letters from his parents were becoming more strident and demanding with every passing month. “I just can’t bring myself to it. Not yet.” He waved his empty glass. “Another,” he demanded.
Cian filled it, topped his own and settled back to sip.
Silence filled the room. This time, there was no resentment or tension in it.
“Eleanore would have been married in May,” Cian said casually.
Jack jumped. He studied Cian, looking for signs of the glassy, not-quite-present expression in his eyes he had seen outside the Agriculture Show in Islington. “I see…” Jack said.
Cian grimaced. “The family arranged a ceremony to mark her passing, instead.”
Jack’s heart squeezed. Cian’s tone was matter-of-fact, hiding what had to be deep pain.
“Did you go to the ceremony?” Jack asked, for as far as he knew, Cian had not moved out of Cornwall all year.
Cian shrugged, swirling his brandy. “Wasn’t invited,” he said shortly and drank.
Jack sighed and drank, too. It was the only worthy response. He cleared his throat. “Cian?”
He looked up. His clear eyes were steady. Non-glassy.
“Are you…quite alright now? Are you back to normal?”
Cian considered the question. “I won’t ever been the same again.” He drank, a small sip, considering. “I won’t ever marry.”
Cold fingers walked up Jack’s spine. “But…the titles…”
Cian shrugged. “Neil or Daniel will have to see to their continuation.” His gaze met Jack’s. “I couldn’t bear it, marrying someone else.” He looked away. “I will be alone. Always.”
* * * * *
“No, no, you have to take your shoes and stockings off,” Bronwen told him, as Tor stood watching the waves tumbling, the foam glowing in the moonlight.
“You mean, bare feet?” he demanded, speaking in a whisper.
“You can shout if you want, my darling. No one will hear you down here,” she replied. “Plus, you must roll up your trousers.”
“That is utterly barbaric.”
“It is what Tor Besogende would do,” she countered.
He stared at her, then bent to pluck at his shoes laces. “Sometimes I regret ever inventing that personage. You use it far too often to get your way.”
“And you love it when I do,” Bronwen chided him, reaching under her skirt and feeling about for the strings to her hoops. She tugged and the hoops dropped to the sand. She stepped out of them and looped her skirt up over her arm, baring her legs to her knees.
“Why, Duchess, I do believe you are wearing no pantalets,” Tor teased her.
“All the better to wade in the sea with,” she replied airily and walked down to where the waves washed the sand. The wet sand sank beneath her feet and she felt the delicious cold touch of it between her toes.
A wave rushed past her, bathing her ankles in chilly salt water. “I had forgotten how cool the sea is off Cornwall!” she cried.
Tor edged to the water, his feet bare and his trousers rolled up. “It cannot be as cold as in Denmark…oh!” He stopped in shock as the wave bathed his calves. “I take that back,” he told her.
Bronwen giggled.
Slowly, as he accustomed himself to the water, he moved level with her.
“Are you enjoying yourself this week, Tor?”
“I am,” he said, after a pause to consider. “Meeting your family, getting to know them and their odd code and behavior…it has let me understand you much better.” His smile was fleeting. “You are not the only one to romp about, here.”
“For a protocol-driven Archeduke, you’re doing quite well yourself in the romping department,” she pointed out.
Tor looked at his bare legs and laughed. “Thank God no one can see us. The Council would be horrified.”
“That was the point of bringing you here,” Bronwen said. “Since Baumgärtner retired, you have been working far too hard. And in my family—”
“We do as we please,” he finished.
“You’re part of the family now,” she added. “That means you can do exactly as you please. You can be Tor Besogende for the entire week, if you want. Not a single person will raise a single brow in your direction. No one outside the family will ever learn of it, either.”
He picked up her hand, his expression sober. “Thank you for this, my love.”
They stood in the moonlight, watching the waves, peace settling over them and a deep contentment.
Tor laughed and turned to her. “Do you remember, in Yorkshire, the side of the stable…?”
Bronwen caught her breath. “There is no stable here,” she said as primly as she could.
“However, there is a very large rock and look, you wear no hoops and no underthings.” He drew her out of the water and up into the dry sand, his hands busy, his mouth branding her face and throat.
“Why, Mr. Besogende!” she chided him, as she hitched her skirt out of the way and wrapped her leg about his thigh.
His hand slid beneath. It was warm and large and made her shiver. “There she is. The woman I love…” he breathed and kissed her.
LAW OF ATTRACTION
About Law Attraction
Her husband will divorce her for adultery, no matter the cost or the ruin it will deliver.
Knowing their love was doomed, Jenny accepted the the Duke of Burscough’s pragmatic and loveless proposal of marriage to force Jack, Baron of Guestwick and heir to the Marquess of Laceby, to marry as his family wished.
Now Burscough is determined to divorce Jenny in an outrageously scandalous and public manner, while the newspapers paw over her secrets and speculate about her morals and values, as well as those of the family who raised her.
It is no longer simply a matter of whether Jack and Jenny can ever be happy together. Now, the great family itself is under attack. Can it survive the public disgrace?
Praise for Law of Attraction
Could not put it down. The author's attention to period detail is wonderful. You really do not have to "suspend reality" when you read her historical novels.
I was mystified right up until the end. That is truly an amazing feat for an author to do for me.
The Scandalous Scions series just keeps getting better and better with each book of the series.
Jack refused to ever marry as long as Jenny was alive even though she was married to someone else. Can you get any more tragically romantic than that?
Cooper-Posey has a gift for writing unpredictable plots.
I loved the story and couldn’t put it down. A vill
ain should never get away with treachery! Thanks, Tracy!
The ending surprised me! No spoilers here but this is one of the best volumes yet.
Strongly written, it's so compelling that I found myself reading until the wee hours. I literally couldn't put it down!
This installment of the Great Family series was engaging on a new level of viscerally-induced reactions.
I love how the author writes, she has a way of pulling you right into the story, you pray for a good outcome and marvel about the ingenious way they find a solution in the end. More please!
Talk about being on the edge of your seat! The Great Family always takes care of its own but boy was I ever unsure!
The Great Families
Elisa and Vaughn Wardell
Marquess of Fairleigh, Viscount Rothmere
1825 Raymond, Viscount Marblethorpe (stepson)
1839 William Vaughn Wardell
1839 John (Jack) Gladwin Lochlann Mayes (fostered in 1846)
1842 Sarah Louise Wardell (D)
1843 Peter Lovell Wardell
1844 Gwendolyn (Jenny) Violet Moore Wardell (adopted in 1848)
1844 Patricia Sharla Victoria Mayes (fostered in 1846)
1849 Blanche Brigitte Colombe Bonnay (adopted in 1851)
1853 Emma Jane Wardell (adopted at birth)
Natasha and Seth Williams
Earl of Innesford, Baron Harrow (Ire.)
1839 Lillian Mary Harrow
1840 Richard Cian Seth Williams
1841 Neil Vaughn Williams
1843 Daniel Rhys Williams
1846 Bridget Bronte Williams & Mairin May Williams
1849 Annalies Grace Williams
Annalies and Rhys Davies
Princess Annalies Benedickta of Saxe-Weiden, of the royal house Saxe-Coburg-Weiden, Formerly of the Principality of Saxe-Weiden.
1835 Benjamin Hedley Davies (adopted in 1845)
1842 Iefan William Davies
1843 Morgan Harrow Davies
1843 Sadie Hedley Davies (adopted in 1845)
1846 Bronwen Natasha Davies
1848 Alice Thomasina Davies (adopted at birth)
1849 Catrin Elise Davies
And their children:
Natasha and Raymond Devlin
Viscount Marblethorpe
1857 Vaughn Elis Devlin (Raymond’s heir)
1861 Richard Seth Devlin
Lilly and Jasper Thomsett
1862 Seth Eckhard Thomsett (heir)
1863 Elise Marie & Anne Louise Thomsett
1864 George Jasper Thomsett (stillborn)
Sharla and Dane Balfour + Benjamin Hedley (Davies)
Duke of Wakefield
1867 Jennifer Jane Balfour & Benjamin Dane Balfour (heir)
Chapter One
Present day: The Burscough townhouse, Marylebone, London. February 1867
It was not possible to overlook her husband’s emergence from his library, for the whole house shuddered under the impact of the library door thudding closed.
“Gwendolyn! Attend me this instant! Gwendolyn!” Burscough shouted.
Jenny put down the pen, her heart skipping a beat. Burscough’s voice through the closed door of the morning room was perfectly clear. He rarely called her Jenny…and never when he was angry.
She could hear Whittle murmuring to her husband. The bent stick of a man dealt with Burscough the same way regardless of her husband’s mood. It was as if Burscough’s temperament had no bearing on Whittle’s day—the butler did not respond to events around him the way other butlers did. Jenny thought of the many butlers running the homes of friends and family. The best butlers seemed to anticipate the needs of the family they served. Not so Whittle. She wasn’t sure she had seen the blank, placid look in his eyes ever change.
His polite murmurings now would make Burscough even more angry. Jenny slid out from behind the little desk and pulled open the door of the morning room.
Burscough brushed Whittle aside with his out-thrust arm. He looked at Jenny and she shivered, for his eyes were bloodshot and his face was red. His hair was in disarray. The thick locks—some of them silver—flopped over his forehead, shadowing his black eyes. His cravat pin was missing and the cravat itself askew.
“Husband?” Jenny asked.
Burscough raked the hooked fingers of both hands through his hair. “Is it true?”
Jenny had no idea to what he was referring, yet her chest and belly tightened with tension. “Is what true?”
Burscough held his hands out toward her. They were shaking and his fingers still held in clawed arches. “Look at you, so proper. The perfect wife. Not a single button out of place.”
Jenny swallowed. “Burscough, what is wrong? Tell me.” She glanced at Whittle. “You may go.”
Whittle didn’t bow or nod. He turned and stalked away, his long, spindly legs swallowing up a yard of floor with every step.
Jenny turned back to Burscough. “What has happened?”
Burscough stood with his curled fingers hanging, breathing hard as he glared at her. He gave a sound that may have meant to be a laugh, only it was a dry, choked sound. His face, that she had once considered handsome, was writhing with so many emotions she could not distinguish them. It was not merely anger that gave his skin that flush.
“You…you…” His throat worked.
Jenny pressed her hand to her bodice, queasiness stirring. “Burscough?”
He was not much taller than her, yet his shoulders were considerably larger and it was not the flesh of easy living that made them that size. He had a strength that was unnatural. She had seen him bend a poker and remain relaxed as he did so.
Those big shoulders flexed now and his hands lifted again. The fingers were still bent in animalistic ways. His lips moved, as if he was preparing to speak, as his black eyes fixed upon her.
Unlike Whittle, Burscough’s eyes were filled with broiling feelings.
Jenny took a step back, even though he had not moved toward her.
Then his upper lip peeled back, revealing his teeth. It was a snarl.
Her heart slammed against her chest. Jenny caught her breath.
With a growl that matched his expression, Burscough lunged for her.
A little shriek escaped her.
However, Burscough was not reaching for her. He pushed passed her, making her hoops twist aside, and leapt up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Jenny righted her hoops with a tug, lifted the top one and ran after him. Good sense dictated that she go into her morning room and lock the door. Only, she had never seen Burscough in such a state. Even as her fear bloomed, she wondered if he might try to harm himself.
What had driven him to this? What had happened?
She climbed the steps as fast as she could and paused at the top to catch her breath. After bearing two children, her waist was not the size it once had been. Only, the allowance Burscough provided for running the household, that he expected her to use for her own personal expenses as well, did not cover the cost of new corsetry and dresses that matched her new waistline.
She gripped the newel post and tried to breathe deeply, while she listened for Burscough’s movement, to tell her where he had gone. He had moved so quickly, he was no longer in sight.
Then she heard doors opening and closing. The tinkle of china being moved upon wood surfaces.
Her bedroom. He was shifting the dishes and jars on her dressing table.
Fear bloomed hotter than before. Despite her lack of wind, she almost ran down the narrow passage to the last door on the right. It stood ajar. She gripped the door frame, her chest heaving.
Burscough had tipped the bedding onto the floor and was now pawing through the bottles and plates and boxes on her dressing table. The lace runner was on the floor, too.
He yanked the drawer open and pushed the little bottles and jars inside to one side. There was a neat pile of folded handkerchiefs in one corner, all of them unadorned linen, with not even a monogram to disti
nguish them, for silk thread was also beyond her financial reach these days. Burscough scooped them and tossed them on the floor with an impatient movement.
“What are you doing?” Jenny demanded, at last able to spare breath enough to speak.
He whirled. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” Only, in her heart, she now knew for what he searched. The fear that had been merely a smoke shape solidified and grew cold in her chest.
Burscough turned on one heel, surveying the room. “Your diary,” he said. “Where do you keep it? Every woman has a diary, where she whispers her secrets. Where is it?” He tugged on the handle of the top drawer in the chest next to her wardrobe. The drawer slid out without resistance.
With a low growling sound, he shoved it closed, then pulled the remaining four drawers open, then shut, with sharp knocking sounds.
He turned to the washstand and considered it. Jenny froze.
Burscough bent and pulled on the handle of the little cupboard at the bottom of the stand.
The single thought that gripped her was the knowledge that Burscough must not find her journal. Jenny took a step toward him, with no idea how she might halt Burscough. He was far, far stronger than her.
Then she realized that the little step had betrayed her.
Burscough considered her as he tested the handle of the cupboard door. “Where is the key?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Jenny swallowed. She couldn’t speak. She mustn’t speak. Above all, she could not let her journal fall into Burscough’s hands.
His smile was a snarl. He gripped the handle of the little door and with a heave, ripped the door out of the washstand. Wood squealed and the metal hinges whined as they twisted out of shape.
Scandalous Scions Two Page 17
