Читать книгу Prelude to a Scandal - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 11

A lady should always refrain from discussing vulgar topics. Not because it is crass, though indeed it is, but because once vulgarity is allowed, everything is allowed.

How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

SIX DAYS LATER, evening, and only twelve hours left before the wedding, which had been set after the surprisingly prompt release of her father from Marshalsea.

Justine found it rather annoying that her own mother, who was usually very calm and very poised in nature, was rudely pacing back and forth. Lady Marwood’s graying brown tresses quivered atop her head with every frantic step, turn and swish of her flower-patterned skirts. All the while, she gripped Justine’s red etiquette book How To Avoid A Scandal before her with both hands as if she were praying to it. Which her mother most likely was.

“Mother.” Justine patted the space beside her on the bed. “Sit. There is no need for you to be more nervous than the little lamb who is about to be slaughtered.”

Lady Marwood came to an abrupt halt and pointed the book at her with one hand. “I am not nervous. And you are hardly a lamb. I was merely thinking about how I should go about conducting this particular conversation.”

Regally lowering her arm and the book down to her side, Lady Marwood focused her hazel eyes on Justine from across the short distance separating them. “Bedding a man isn’t any more complicated than what you’ve witnessed in the wild.”

Justine couldn’t help but snort as she drew her robed knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her exposed ankles. “That doesn’t sound all that promising, Mother. Some mates maul each other during mating.”

Lady Marwood shook her head. “Bless your misguided heart, you always come up with something no one else ever thinks of.” She sighed. “Do you have any specific questions you wish for me to answer?”

Justine eyed her. “I only have one question. Would you say daily advances from one’s husband are to be expected?”

“Men are very, very lusty creatures. Especially in the beginning of marriage.”

Well. Thank goodness for that. Bradford had made himself sound so abnormal. “Will it be enjoyable? At all? Please tell me it will be. I cannot imagine—”

“Not the first few times, dear. After all, your body will require time to ease into it. He will be forcing a rather large part of himself into a very small space. Once your body is accustomed, then yes, it will be pleasurable.” Her mother paused. “If properly conducted, that is.”

Justine shifted uncomfortably on the bed and yanked her nightdress and robe down around her feet. “So it will hurt.”

Lady Marwood sighed. “Depending on how large his penis is, yes. It will.”

Justine crinkled her nose, remembering all too well what she’d seen on Bradford in its erect state. She only hoped her body eased into it quickly, because she preferred getting to the enjoyable part right away.

“Speaking of size,” Lady Marwood went on, “I should probably point out that it will double in length during every encounter. And though odd, it is in fact quite normal.”

“Yes, yes. I know. I’ve seen it in the wild.” And on Bradford. But she wasn’t going to tell her mother that.

“Now, your grandmother, heaven rest her soul, gave me this solid advice on the eve of my wedding, which I am now gifting you. Never allow for more than two encounters per week. Feign headaches, if need be. That always works. For although a husband will try to convince his wife otherwise, twice a week is more than sufficient to produce children and still allow for pleasure.”

Justine’s brows went up. “Is that a suggestion or a rule?”

“It’s a suggestion, dear. Limiting contact is simply best for your health. You don’t want to end up with fifteen children.”

Justine paused, then genuinely grinned, imagining the entire house overrun with beautiful, happy little boys and girls. And though yes, she knew there was far more to being a mother than holding soft, pudgy hands and sharing stories about fairies and bogies, she couldn’t help but linger on all the fun she’d have along the way.

Justine shrugged. “The amount of children doesn’t concern me. At least I’ll be marrying a man who can afford them. Unlike father, who could barely afford me.”

Lady Marwood set her hands on her hips and glared at her. “Justine!”

“I meant it lovingly.”

Lady Marwood rolled her eyes. “My advice is that you bite your tongue whenever possible during the first year of marriage. At least until he grows fond enough of you and doesn’t feel the need to kill you.”

Justine smirked. “Yes, Mother.”

Lady Marwood sighed, approached her and held out the etiquette book. “I know you’ve already read this many, many times. But I suggest you read it again and allow the words to govern your new life. Our family hasn’t always catered to society’s conventions. But you will be a duchess, and London society doesn’t hand anyone respect. It must be earned.”

Justine dropped her legs back over the side of the bed and leaned forward, slipping the red, leather-bound book from her mother’s hand. Patting the book enthusiastically, Justine set it on the bed beside her. “I promise to earn full respect not only for myself and my husband, but also for you and father.”

“I have no doubt you will.” Lady Marwood leaned toward her, bringing with her the scent of lilacs, and kissed her cheek lovingly. “Sleep. You have a long day ahead.”

Her mother caught her hand and smiled, causing the aging lines around her hazel eyes and full mouth to deepen. “By tomorrow, you will be a duchess. As you well deserve to be.” Her mother released her hand, still smiling, then turned and swept out of the room, apparently quite pleased with the thought.

Justine smoothed the coverlet on the bed around her and muttered, “God save the King and all of his subjects I am about to unknowingly torment in the name of respect.” There was a quick knock. Heaven forbid her mother forgot to mention something critical. “Yes?”

The door edged open, and her father, Lord Marwood, whose lanky frame was still encased in full evening attire, hurried in. The deep, aging lines surrounding his blue eyes crinkled all the more as he grinned and held up a sizable, leather-bound book. “It took me half the night to find it amongst all the crates, but here it is.”

Justine sat up, surprised he hadn’t already retired. It was well past his usual hour of sleep and he still hadn’t entirely recovered from his long stay at Marshalsea. Their brief walk through Hyde Park earlier in the day had completely exhausted him. But at least he was eating again.

She smiled, more than pleased to see him.

“Restless?”

He nodded his graying head. “Yes. Though in a good way. It isn’t every day my daughter becomes a duchess.”

She quirked a brow at the book he still held up. “And what is that? My very last bedtime story?”

He chuckled. “No, no, no.” Striding the length of the room, he set the book beside her on the bed, atop the book her mother had just given her, and patted it enthusiastically. “‘Tis one of my earlier compilations. Before my days in South Africa. This here is what ultimately convinced the duke to become my patron. The man was only one and twenty at the time, you know, but even then he had an eye for a good thing.” He dragged a hand through thick, silvery hair and then dropped it to his side. “You should read it before going to bed. It should assist you in matters of the bedchamber.”

Justine bit back a laugh. It was obvious her mother and father had two entirely different opinions as to how she should conduct herself as duchess. Though she knew her mother’s advice was more in keeping with what London would want, she was nonetheless curious to see the book that had convinced Bradford to support her father all these years.

Justine smiled and glanced down at the book he’d placed beside her. She turned the large gold lettering right side up and blinked. “Principles of Animal Husbandry?” Gad almighty. “How … lovely. Thank you.”

How humiliating was more the word. She’d officially been categorized by her own father with all the sheep, cattle and horses. As opposed to all the far more interesting mammals he’d studied throughout the years. And what on earth did this say about Bradford’s tastes in copulation?

Her father cleared his throat. “The illustrations are quite good. Not to mention detailed. With the duke’s reputation, I’m more than certain you’ll make good use of it. Only this isn’t yours to keep, seeing it’s the only copy I have. Be sure to read it tonight and return it to me in the morning.”

Any insight on Bradford and his tastes would certainly be appreciated, as she had no intention of disappointing him or herself on their wedding night.

She bit her lip and glanced up. “Uh … Father? Might I ask a more involved question? About copulation?”

He tugged on the lapels of his jacket and grinned, proud to be of assistance. “Why, this is rather unexpected. You haven’t asked me an involved question since you were twelve.”

She let out a laugh. “That is because you’re notorious for answering questions before they’re even asked.”

He nodded. “So true. What is your question?”

Her grin faded, and she cleared her throat. “Do, uh … certain men have … well … how shall I say this … abnormal copulation habits? As in obsessive habits that may be a cause of concern for a woman?”

Both his bushy gray brows went up as his hold on his lapels tightened, causing his knuckles to go white. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, not wanting to betray what Bradford had confided to her. She had a feeling it wasn’t something he wanted everyone, especially her father, to know. “Curiosity is all.”

Lord Marwood released the tight hold on his coat, then scratched at his shaven chin for a moment. “In my opinion, a man who does in fact have any sort of abnormal copulation habits is most likely never to discuss it unless forced. Which makes it rather difficult for anyone to assess. But, as in nature itself, I would imagine there’s always some form of abnormality to be found within a species.” He pointed at her. “For example. You remember that one male Equus Burchelli whose mate had unexpectedly died? And how he kept returning to her body to mount it even though there was very little left of it for him to mount?”

Justine wrinkled her nose, remembering that all too well. Heaven forbid that was the sort of abnormality Bradford was referring to. It would certainly give a whole new meaning to the term until death did them part … “I wasn’t referring to that sort of abnormality. I was referring to a man’s urge to pleasure himself more than what would be considered necessary.”

“Oh. I see.” He exhaled through his nostrils and shrugged. “Unlike animals, humans have an annoying tendency to censor their behaviors, which doesn’t allow for anyone to come to any real conclusions. So sadly, I must profess complete ignorance to this particular subject.”

That was helpful.

Lord Marwood sighed and drew closer. Leaning toward her, he fumbled awkwardly with her hand, gathering it with his long fingers. Tired blue eyes searched her face. “I sense you’re worried about your obligations toward Bradford. You needn’t be. The man has always been wildly enamored with you. Always.”

“He has?”

He nodded. “Before he got himself into whatever stupid mess he did, he actually tried calling on you several times here at the house. I repeatedly turned him away knowing his intentions weren’t in the least bit civil.”

“He … called on me?” she asked softly. “Why did you never tell me about this?”

He grunted. “Smitten as you already were with the man? I think not. He wasn’t prepared to offer matrimony at the time, but I am pleased to know that has all changed and here we are, well past any worry. I have known the man long enough to say he will treat you very well. He may be misguided at times, and randy, but that heart of his beats true. Be patient with him and guide him and I promise all will be well.”

Justine smiled and squeezed his warm hand. “You are right. I suppose I’m a bit nervous, is all. I’ve always been quite the outcast in London, and now that I am about to become a duchess, and observed closely by all, I worry I’ll only end up disappointing you and everyone else.”

“You could never disappoint me, Justine. It is I who have disappointed you.” He withdrew his hand from hers and looked away, drawing his gray brows together. “There are many things I cannot change. Aside from the mess I created foolishly thinking I lived in a free society, you should have been allowed a proper upbringing here in London. Like the rest of the girls. I failed you in that way, and can only apologize.”

Justine’s throat clenched. “I’ll not have you regretting the wonderful and amazing life you have given me. Africa will always be home to me. Always. ‘Tis a glorious place of endless beauty London could never rival. I know without any doubt I’ll be toting Bradford and my own children there from time to time to escape the London fog, smog and coal smoke.”

She nodded at the very thought, then paused and teasingly emphasized with a lopsided grin, “Actually, I’ll have no choice in the matter but to take my children to Africa. By then, I know their grandparents will be permanently living in Cape Town.”

He looked away. “My days in Africa are over.”

Her stomach squeezed at the thought. “Why would you say something like that? You and I both know where you belong. And it isn’t here amongst all these snobs who don’t appreciate the countless years of dedication you’ve given to your observations.”

He sighed and eyed her. “Even if I had the means to return, it wouldn’t be the same without you. You, my girl, have chronicled some of my best works and kept me company whenever your mother suffered from a headache. Which was quite often.”

Justine bit back a smile, knowing her mother always feigned headaches whenever she was trying to avoid something. She reached out and gently nudged his forearm. “Perhaps I can convince Bradford to take us all to Cape Town for holiday? Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Now, now. We mustn’t financially burden the duke any more than we already have. Even the deepest of wells can run dry.”

Justine fingered both books beside her. “It appears I have some studying to do before I go to bed.”

Lord Marwood grinned. “That you do. Good night.” He patted his book, then hastily leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You have always brought pride to my name, and as duchess, I know you will continue to do so.” He straightened, nodded, then strode across the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Justine sighed and prayed her father was right. For the Marwood name had already endured more than enough scandal.

Twelve hours later

THE SOFT FLOATING FRAGRANCE of fresh flowers mingled with the heady scent of melted beeswax. It tinged the sultry air of the quiet church and every breath Justine took as she walked the length of the aisle toward Bradford.

Every wooden pew and marble pillar she passed had been meticulously decorated with boughs of white blossoms, pink roses, and forget-me-nots. The bright morning sun sparkled through the rows of stained-glass windows high above, highlighting portions of the marble altar with a rainbow of muted colors. And there, at the altar, past all the vacant pews, stood Bradford.

Her Bradford. A wonderful, even if flawed, man who had nobly rescued her father and was about to become her husband.

Her heart fluttered as she paused beside him and glanced toward the bishop and the only witnesses who stood at the altar dressed in their finest—her mother and father.

She smiled at them.

Their aging faces beamed with genuine warmth and pride. There was no greater joy than seeing the happy faces of those she loved whilst knowing she was marrying a man she genuinely adored. A man she hoped she would quickly come to love.

Justine spun back toward Bradford, bumping into him in clumsy haste. His large hands steadied her as the expanse of his gray satin waistcoat and its row of silver-and-diamond-encrusted buttons overtook her entire view. She stepped back, a nervous laugh bubbling from her lips, and shyly glanced up at him.

Bradford’s dark hair had been smoothly brushed back from his forehead, displaying his entire rugged profile, including the jagged scar dominating the one side of his face.

A sense of pride filled her. For despite that scar, he was still unbelievably dashing. He looked like a seasoned pirate who had decided to become an aristocrat for a day. A smile overtook her lips at the very thought. She met his gaze.

Bradford’s dark eyes observed her, his expression suggesting he was too troubled to smile. He looked away and focused on the bishop before them.

Justine’s smile faded and her chest tightened. What if he’d never genuinely wanted to marry her? She’d not truly considered that until now. She’d been so focused on overseeing her father’s freedom, she had not considered how Bradford even felt about their wedding.

She swallowed as the bishop’s calm voice floated around her. An unexpected sense of dread overwhelmed her. The weight of her pearl-encrusted, lilac gown seemed to pull her down toward the marble slab at her feet. She wanted to give in to its weight and crumple to the floor but somehow managed to remain standing.

The bishop glanced at each of them, his gray brows rising toward his gold-threaded dome cap. “I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, you do now confess it. For be you well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their matrimony lawful. If any man do allege and declare any impediment, why they may not be coupled together in matrimony, by God’s law, or the laws of this realm; may he prove his allegation now.”

Justine glanced over at Bradford, half expecting him to say something. Yet no opposition fell from his lips. His jaw merely tightened.

The bishop went on, tonelessly reciting more words. Words she could no longer make sense of. Her thoughts blurred into a panic. After all, this was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Why didn’t it feel like it?

Bradford suddenly leaned toward her and reached out. His warm fingers gently grasped her wrist. She stiffened, realizing his hand was visibly trembling as he lifted her own hand and held it up high between them.

Could it be possible he was as nervous as she was?

He retrieved the lone ring from the leather-bound surface of the bible the bishop held up and momentarily met her gaze. Her heart raced and her cheeks blazed as he slowly and sensually touched the slim ruby ring to the tip of each and every one of her fingers, making his way toward what was to be her wedded finger.

Lowering his gaze, he recited his devotion, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He then placed the glinting ring upon the third finger from her thumb. The cool metal grazed her moist skin as his large fingers adjusted the ring into place.

Never once did he meet her gaze or hint at any form of emotion. Justine swallowed against the aching dryness overtaking her throat and couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking or feeling. She only hoped it wasn’t regret.

Together they knelt before the bishop, Bradford’s large hand still holding hers. More words echoed around them but all she could think about was his hand. And how her hand was now his hand. Forever.

Their hands fell away. They stood and the ceremony ended, formally announcing it was time to sign the parish registrar in the side room off the altar. She didn’t even remember leaving the altar or walking into the room as she blankly watched Bradford sign the registrar with a few sweeping strokes.

He turned and held out the quill toward her.

Justine gently took the feather and approached the small oak table. Dipping the tip into the inkwell beside the registrar, she carefully and neatly scribed her full birth name beside his, fighting the trembling in her hand.

Sliding the quill back into the inkwell, she released a shaky breath as the old bishop gathered up the large book and congratulated them with a blessing. It was over. And no matter what Bradford’s true intentions were in marrying her, it was done.

A firm gloved hand touched the side of her arm. She jumped and whirled toward Bradford, who lingered behind her.

He leaned in, bringing with him the alluring scent of sweet cigars and heated sandalwood. “You look very pretty.” His gaze swept toward her lips before trailing back up and meeting her eyes again. “Give me your lips.”

She sucked in a breath. He wanted to kiss her? Now? Before the bishop? That simply wasn’t done. Even she knew that. “I prefer you ravage me later.” She paused. Then cringed. For she hardly wanted to say the word ravage in church, let alone before the bishop.

Bradford straightened and stared down at her with penetrating dark eyes, as if he weren’t in any way pleased she had opposed his request.