Prelude to a Scandal. Delilah Marvelle
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didn’t want you to worry.”
“You didn’t want me to worry?” she cried. “I have a right to worry when it involves my father. I don’t understand how any of this can be legal. His Majesty cannot up and—”
“Yes, he can, Justine. And he will,” he said in a curt tone that forbade another word. “I have already arranged to have more comfortable furnishings brought in for your father, along with better food and wine. I am doing everything I can, and if all goes well, this will not go beyond another eight weeks. Now, be a good girl and yank on the servant bell there by the bed. Jefferson will escort you home. Despite your blatant refusal to respect my privacy before the wedding, know that I still genuinely look forward to seeing you at the altar next week. I bid you farewell and wish you a very good night.”
Justine glared at the door. “Marriage and better furnishings be damned! The worst of what my father has to endure, aside from being confined to a maze of rooms and dreary brick walls, has to do with the public itself. Did you know Marshalsea allows anyone to visit those being kept? Anyone?”
She fisted her hands at the very thought of it. “Random men and women of all ages from every part of London stroll in during open-gate hours, to call on him, merely to offer mocking questions about buggery and animal copulation. Eight more weeks is going to be the death of him. I refuse to have him stagnate in that abyss for another day, let alone another eight weeks.”
The duke cleared his throat. Twice. “And what exactly would you have me do? Storm the Bastille? Dust off the guillotine and set His Majesty’s coiffed head beneath it?”
At her silence, he continued, “Justine. Even if I could raise the funds, your father’s situation has nothing to do with money. His observations ultimately called for the rights of sodomites. Do you not know that the buggery laws in England were all recently strengthened? Had your father not been an earl, he most likely would have hanged, and His Majesty, not to mention Lord Winfield, simply wish to make a point of it.”
Tears burned her eyes. How did one oppose the King’s wrath? One didn’t. “Then … then perhaps you ought to take your brother’s lead. Carlton was gracious enough to call upon me yesterday morn. He offered to personally petition His Majesty for a full pardon. Can you not do the same? Will it not mean more coming from you?”
The duke paused. “I don’t care if Carlton damn well promised you world domination. I forbid you to have any further association with him. He is not the same man you once knew and has lost the last of his rational mind. Much like your father, I suppose.”
Her eyes widened. Oh, now that was simply too far below the vines to compare her father to Carlton. “I’ve had enough of this, Bradford. I demand you cease tossing insults, don your clothes and give me my due audience. I’ve yet to see you, and I refuse to be turned away until I do.”
“Justine,” he growled out. “I am bathing, and as such, I am not readily available to entertain. Now ring for Jefferson.”
As if she could be intimidated by a growl and a few measly words. “Since you clearly have no intention of showing yourself,” she icily warned, placing her hand on the brass doorknob, “you leave me no choice but to open this door. Whatever you look like, Bradford, I doubt it will even make me blink. I have seen far hairier and bigger things than you.”
When he did not reply, Justine huffed out an agitated breath. Although she could easily give up her right to civil conversations, romantic picnics and carriage rides—niceties he’d never once offered during their brief engagement—she had no intention of waiting until the day of the wedding to see him. Setting aside her father’s dire predicament, she was going to put an end to this hiding. And the best part? She wasn’t going to have to wait until her wedding night to see the duke in all his glory.
SCANDAL TWO
Clothing is the one and only thing that separates us from the animals, Which is why it is absolutely imperative to keep clothes on at all times.
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
RADCLIFF EDWIN MORTON, the fourth Duke of Bradford, sat up, sending a swirling wave of warm water against the porcelain tub around him. He raked his drenched, dark hair out of his eyes with a few agitated sweeps and seethed out a breath, trying to will away his throbbing erection. An erection brought on by knowing Justine was finally within reach.
Damn her for putting him in this situation. He refused to be in her presence until they were man and wife. For even after eight long months of confinement, it was more than obvious he couldn’t trust his body to cooperate.
Radcliff stood, water streaming down the length of his frame. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the towel from the brass stand beside the tub and rubbed the water from his hair.
He stepped out onto the blue-and-white Italian tile, quickly dried the rest of himself and tossed the wet towel aside. Shaking his head, he swiped up his trousers from the floor, thankful his valet had dropped them on the way out or he would have had nothing to cover his lower half aside from a towel.
The door banged open, hitting the wall hard.
Still bent forward with his trousers dangling out before him, Radcliff froze in astonishment.
The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air as a female gasp resounded within the confines of the bath chamber. No doubt in response to his full erection on display. Though probably also in response to his injury.
Radcliff slapped his trousers against his stiff cock, and snapped his spine straight, doubting she’d seen everything in the wild. His pulse thundered, dreading her reaction to the long jagged scar which dominated the one side of his face.
Justine’s hazel eyes raked the length of his nude body, before darting up to his face. Her lips thinned as her soot-covered cheeks flushed, acknowledging not only his scar, but his lack of clothing and the erection he hid against his trousers.
Radcliff’s brows came together as he eyed her. Jefferson had been spot on. She looked like a cinder girl. Her pale yellow gown, which was partly hidden beneath her dark cloak, was smeared with soot. The acrid stench of it clearly hinted at gunpowder. Even her chestnut hair, which had been gathered in pretty curls, was heartily dusted. And though the woman was still attractive, the soot was anything but.
Trying to appear nonchalant—for what else was he to do?—he let out a low whistle that had nothing to do with admiration. “I see you’ve been priming pistols for England’s entire infantry unit.”
The flickering light from the oil lamps within the bath chamber shifted across her features, which visibly softened. “I … oh, Bradford. ‘Tis unfathomable. What happened? What happened to your face?”
Not wanting to discuss why it was sliced open, and most certainly not whilst naked, he shrugged. “‘Twas a mere scuffle. ‘Twas nothing.” Certainly nothing compared to the torture and humiliation Matilda Thurlow had endured at the hands of six men.
“A mere scuffle?” she echoed. “You call that a mere scuffle? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone maliciously took a blade to the entire side of your face.”
As if he wanted to put into words what was done to him and to Matilda. “What is done is done. There is no need to linger on a matter that cannot be altered.”
She stared at him. “Will you cease being so indifferent? I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been in seclusion for almost eight months. What man does that?”
Radcliff struggled not to let her words agitate him. “The reasoning behind my seclusion had nothing to do with my face. They are reasons I will discuss with you at length at another, more appropriate time. Now, I am asking you to leave. You’ve already seen far more than I would consider to be respectable, and we are not husband and wife just yet.”
She set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I