Читать книгу Prelude to a Scandal - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 10

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 am not about to leave or marry you, Bradford, whilst you continue to elude my questions and allow my father to be persecuted for reasons that go beyond justice. Isn’t there anything more you can do for him? Anything at all?”

Hadn’t he helped her father and his studies enough? Studies Radcliff had financially supported for many, many years because he’d always believed in providing humanity an understanding of what he knew they all were—animals. He simply hadn’t been prepared for what had been discovered.

In chronicling the breeding habits of over a hundred South African mammals, the earl had consistently found correlations between animal and human courtships, providing proof that relationships did exist beyond that of a mere man and a woman, that a physical bond could also exist between a man and a man, or a woman and a woman, as it did in nature.

The work was fascinating, but far too dangerous and liberal for England. Which is why Radcliff had pried a promise from the earl not to publish any of those observations until all the buggery laws had been changed.

A year later, Radcliff was left with half a face and a brother who would forever hate him, but one thing had remained a constant in his life. Justine’s endearing weekly letters. Though he had refused to respond to any of them, lest he encourage her or his obsession, she had continued to write, keeping him sane during those months of seclusion.

Then the damn earl had published his observations and forced his own daughter to make an offer that had crushed the last of Radcliff’s will to stay away. For if her letters could offer him sanity in his darkest of hours, he could only imagine what she could offer him as a wife.

Justine icily stared him down. “You aren’t even listening to me, are you? Nor do you seem to care.”

He shrugged. “I care.”

She dropped her hands to her sides and went on talking as if he were fully clothed. “Even your own brother has graciously offered to call upon His Majesty about this injustice. Can you not do the same?”

Radcliff narrowed his gaze. His brother knew nothing about graciousness or compassion. He didn’t know what Carlton’s reasoning was for getting involved in Justine’s plight, but Radcliff was certain it had nothing to do with common decency. To be sure, there was only going to be one captain sailing this ship, and it most certainly wasn’t going to be Carlton.

Not giving a damn if Justine altogether fainted, Radcliff whipped the trousers away from his lower half, sending them rustling toward her, and spread his arms wide. “Perhaps I ought to call upon His Majesty at this very moment. As I am. Naked and fully aroused by your presence! Would that by any means please you?”

A gasp escaped her lips as her gaze flicked over his erection. Her face instantly bloomed with as much color as a British flag. She popped up a sooty hand, shielding her eyes, and further turned her head to the side, as if the hand simply wasn’t enough. “For heaven’s sake, I am attempting to have a civilized conversation with you.”

He snorted and waved a hand toward her. “You haven’t even been in London long enough to know the meaning of being civilized. Hell, your father seems to think he can publish books that insult our ways, our laws and our King without consequence, whilst you seem to think you can storm into my home, uninvited, and intimidate me with African tribal airs. Let me assure you, I am not a man who can be intimidated. There was a reason I did not want to see you before the wedding. If it isn’t already obvious to you, I have a lack of self-control.”

“So be it.” Still hiding behind a hand, she frantically kicked his trousers away from her feet, sending them flying back toward him. “Regardless, I cannot take this conversation seriously with your member fully exposed.”

Radcliff snatched up his trousers and violently yanked them on. Buttoning the front flap into place, he adjusted his erection, then gestured toward the tub. “I suggest you wash your face before you leave. You look like a native with all that gunpowder.”

“Hah. I doubt you even know what a native looks like.” Nonetheless, she set her chin and marched straight for the tub. Glancing back toward him every now and then, as if to ensure he kept his distance, she dipped her sooty hands into the water and scrubbed at her face. The backside of her skirts and her bum hidden beneath wagged enticingly at him.

Radcliff swallowed, trying not to envision what those buttocks and legs looked like beneath the fabric of her gown. Or what they would feel like against his roaming hands. He folded his arms shakily over his bare chest.

“There.” Justine patted the sides of her dampened curls, sighed and turned back toward him. Lightly freckled, her smooth skin now glistened freshly. The powder had vanished, exposing a delicate nose, arched brows and the striking hazel eyes he’d never been immune to.

By God. She was even more alluring than he remembered. To wait a whole week was going to be merciless torture. Because what he really wanted to do was—

Radcliff clenched his jaw and dug his fingers deep into his rigid biceps. He knew better. Lingering on his need would only allow his hedonistic side to fester. He had to prove to himself before he wed that he’d mastered his obsession.

Tightening his crossed arms against his bare chest, he tried to set whatever physical barrier he could between them. “I cannot have you here. I cannot have you in my presence until we are husband and wife.”

She folded her arms over her full breasts, scattering a fair dusting of gunpowder, and continued to stand there before the tub. Clearly unwilling to cooperate.

He had to get rid of her before he ended up between her thighs. Radcliff strode toward her, closing the distance between them. “You leave me no choice.”

Her self-assured stance grew more uncertain as her eyes warily watched him approach. “I am not done with this conversation.”

“Yes, you are.” He grabbed hold of her corseted waist and yanked her up. Hard.

A shriek escaped her as she turned and fumbled to get away from his grasp. “I am not a carpet bag!”

Shoving his head beneath her flailing arms and cloak, he crushed her warm softness against him and scooped her up onto his bare shoulder, his fingers digging into her curved thighs hidden beneath.

He froze, his bare fingers lingering on her warmth and the soft feel of her gown. This was a mistake. A horrid mistake. In a torrent of solid blows, she hit his backside, making him even more aware of her body and his own. His hands gripped her more firmly, pressing her against his hard chest, even as she flailed. His cock pulsed against the wool of his trousers, taunting him to indulge. Taunting him to break his fast.

He sucked in a breath. No. He wasn’t ready for any of this. Yanking her off and down his shoulder, he dumped her slippered feet onto the floor and scrambled back.

Her eyes widened as her arms flailed for balance against the ledge of the tub.

Radcliff lunged to grab on to her, but she toppled backward, cloak, skirts, stockings, slippers and all, with a huge scream, and disappeared with a splash, causing the water to rise up from within the oval tub.

“Oh, damn. Justine—” He laughed, despite his own discomfort, and scrambled to yank her out of the tub by grabbing hold of her arms.

She sat up, pushing his arms away. “Do not touch me!”

He jumped back, shaking the water from his bare arms, his chest heaving and his heart pounding.

“Pfffff!” Strands of wet, long hair were unraveling from their pins and streaming around her face and shoulders. Well defined, full breasts rose and fell, the drenched, clinging material of her gown displaying each labored breath she took. “Why … you practically tossed me in!”

A shapely, pale limb, visible up to her rounded knee taunted him as she shifted, and her wet gown bunched up in the water, bubbling around her waist. Feeling his trousers clinging to a still solid cock, he hissed out a breath and desperately fought his need to spill seed.

He had to leave. Now.

Radcliff jogged straight into the bedchamber and slammed the door behind him, leaning his back against it. After a few heavy, almost-gasping breaths, he pushed himself away from the door.

Dear God. He was still the same man, unable to control his own lewd thoughts and urges. Thoughts and urges he was certain he’d mastered whilst in seclusion. He didn’t realize his transition into making Justine a permanent part of his life was going to be this bloody difficult.

Shakily grabbing up whatever shirt he could find, he yanked it on, leaving the ends hanging out over the front of his trousers to better hide whatever displays of arousal he could not control. Noting his hands were smeared with wet gunpowder, he shook his head and swiped them against the front of his white linen shirt. So much for his bath. And everything else he’d bloody worked for. Hell, he had about as much control over his cock as a dog over its master.

The violent splashing of water coming from the bath chamber made him pause. “I merely needed to clothe myself. I promise to be right in!”

The splashing ceased. “I prefer you remain right where you are, Bradford. You’ve done enough. I’ll pull myself out.”

“I …” She didn’t sound all too pleased. Not that he blamed her. He eyed the door and wondered if he should go in all the same. “Are you certain I can’t—”

“I am more than certain. Stay right where you are.”

He headed toward the bed and sagged onto the mattress with a breath. So much for making a good impression on his soon-to-be wife.

There was a huge splash, as if she’d jumped out of the water in one swoop. “Oh!”

There was a thud.

Radcliff winced. Most likely, she was on the floor. He jumped to his feet. “Justine?”

There were a few huffing breaths. “Never you mind. ‘Tis my gown is all. The water is making it rather … difficult … for me to even … move my … legs.”

Her legs? Radcliff lifted an inquisitive brow and eyed the closed door behind him, already envisioning them together. Her soaked gown, delectably clinging to every inch of her shapely, stockinged legs. Him ripping the wet material from her body, her gasping breaths mingling with his own. A thrill raced through his gut imagining his fingers gliding up the length of her thighs and spreading them. Her panting and the smell of her arousal drifting up between—

Radcliff scrambled to unbutton the flap on his wool trousers. He could hardly breathe or think or—

He instantly snapped both hands up. He stood there for a long, agonizing moment and focused on steadying his breath as his chest ached and heaved from the effort.

You have more control than this. You have already proven it to yourself. Radcliff stood absolutely still as his dewed skin and throbbing cock cooled from the memory of his lewd thoughts. Lowering his hands, he rebuttoned the open flap of his trousers, doing his best not to graze his wanting erection.

He was such a bastard. He ought to be helping Justine off the floor. Not— “Perhaps we ought to remove your gown,” he quickly offered, heading toward the closed door. “It will be easier for you to—” He cringed. Removing her gown was probably not such a good idea. Aside from the obvious, he had more respect for Justine than that.

There was a moment of awkward silence. “Stay right where you are, Bradford. I’ll manage on my own.”

Radcliff huffed out a ragged breath and veered back to the bed, sagging against the mattress. Fortunately, his erection had subsided.

There was a quick clicking of heels against the tile. The door banged open and out she sailed. Her gown alone must have dragged out half the bleeding tub. Water rapidly pooled and spread its wet fingers across the floor, streams and streams leaking from the hem of her gown and the edges of her now-flat sleeves. She glared at him, her smooth cheeks ablaze.

His breath hitched as he looked away, trying not to focus on the outline of her body or her face. He could still remember all too fondly when she’d first arrived from Africa two years ago at a lush eighteen and as sweet as Tokay. Her hair had borne brilliant streaks of spun gold and her skin had been so beautifully tinted from the sun, unlike the pasty faces London was notorious for. Though her skin had long paled, leaving behind a faint trail of freckles, and the golden streaks in her hair had faded into what was now a subdued, chestnut hue, she was still absolutely stunning. And that was just her face.

Justine set her chin and marched past his four-poster, trailing a glistening stream of water. “I require more respect than this. The marriage is off. Good night, good riddance and goodbye.”

Radcliff winced, knowing she probably meant it, and jumped off the bed. He refused to be left alone with his thoughts anymore. He needed this. He needed her. A wife who would hold him responsible for who and what he was on a daily basis.

Jogging toward her, he grabbed hold of her soaked sleeve. “Justine, I didn’t—”

“Do not touch me!” She moved back and away, teetering for a moment against the weight of her gown. “Does the devil reside within your soul? I can think of no other reason why a grown man would throw his own fiancée into a tub of water and then up and blatantly shut the door, leaving her to pull herself out.”

The devil did reside within his soul. And no one knew that more than he. But he’d come to believe these past eight months that he was stronger than the devil. And he was going to prove it. To her. To himself. To everyone.

“Forgive me. I—” He paused. Noting his hand was wet from touching her, he swiped it against his trousers. He eyed the wooden floor beneath his bare feet, which was steadily acquiring more water from her gown. “You’re flooding the entire room.”

She snorted. “But of course I’m flooding the entire room. Do you have any idea how much material goes into a gown? I have no doubt whatsoever that I soaked up most, if not all, of your filthy bath water.”

Hell, he needed to get her back into the bath chamber and get his servants to clean this mess up. He gestured toward the adjoining room. “Go. Remove your gown. I’ll … fetch something for you to wear.” Though he didn’t know what, seeing he’d dismissed every female servant from the house eight months ago.

“You want me to remove my gown?” Justine gurgled out a laugh and flung water in his direction as she waved her hand about. “If I did not know any better, I would say you were intent on bedding me before the actual wedding. And whilst I’m rather flattered, you haven’t exactly earned it, have you?”

This coming from a woman who had originally offered herself without marriage. He leveled his gaze at her. “I did not mean it that way.”

“I may be a virgin, Bradford, but that does not make me stupid.”

He was not about to have her categorize him. Because he was not that man anymore, even though he still fought those same urges.

Radcliff pointed rigidly at her. “Now you listen here. I have spent these last eight months of my life reforming myself. I am not the same gormless man you once knew. I am a new man. A man capable of far more self-control than you dare mock me with.”

“Oh?” she challenged, lifting both brows.

“Yes. Oh.” He purposefully stepped closer, waving a hand up and down the length of her body. “Why, I could easily strip you naked here and now and walk away without even deigning your body another glance. Do you wish me to prove it? Come. I’ll prove it. To you and myself.”

The force of his own conviction in that moment was so strong and empowering, he almost wished she would put him to the test.

She scrambled frantically back, flinging droplets of water whilst trailing more streams across the wood floor. “Is crudely taunting me your way of showing love and affection? Because I do not approve of it!”

He couldn’t help but snort. “Love and … hell, Justine, I thought you, of all women, born and bred unto a scientific, rational man, would have realized by now that love and affection have no place in the real world.”

Her lips parted in astonishment as she shoved several wet, dripping sections of her hair from the sides of her face. “What world are you living in? Despite my scientific upbringing, I happen to believe in love and affection. Why? Because it requires sentiment and spirit and emotion and the desire and passion to genuinely display one’s soul ardently to another.”

He rolled his eyes at her rich, honeyed words. Similar words his own mother had often spoken to his father whilst making a cuckold out of him. “Someone hand me a dagger and spare me from listening to any more of this.”

She narrowed her gaze. “‘Tis obvious you have no respect for me or what I believe.”

“Respect does not mean people need always agree, Justine.” Radcliff strode past her to the dresser, and flung its wood-lacquered door open. Yanking out a nightshirt, he offered it to her. “Here. Don this.”

She lowered her gaze and looked away, shaking her head.

He eyed her, sensing she was genuinely upset. Damn women and their ability to make him soft in the head and hard in the cock.

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Give me five days. If your father isn’t released from Marshalsea in that time, the wedding is off and you owe me nothing. And rest assured, even then, I will continue to barter for his release. How is that for respect?”

Her gaze darted back toward him. In astonishment.

Her astonishment reflected his own. For if those five days produced nothing, he’d be without a bride. And though, yes, there were plenty of other women who’d be more than willing to play duchess despite his scar and his reputation, none of them were nearly as intelligent or as unyielding as Justine. He needed more than a beautiful face for a wife. He needed a soul made of iron. A soul capable of handling anything.

Radcliff shook the nightshirt at her. “Take it,” he muttered. “Any gentleman would agree you should not remain in wet clothing.”

Her full lips spread into a stunning smile that magically brightened not only her face but her beautiful eyes. “Will it really take only five days?”

“There is one highly placed man I’ve yet to contact. He is known to have the king’s ear and happens to be Lord Winfield’s rival. My solicitor mentioned him to me just yesterday. Perhaps it will end with him. Now go. Put this on.”

She stumbled toward him. Grabbing hold of his shirt, she marched toward the bath chamber, still boasting a smile.

A smile that made it all worth his while.

She halted in the doorway and announced over her shoulder, “I always knew you had a heart, Bradford. Always.” With that, she slammed the door behind herself.

He blinked, realizing that despite Justine’s unusual upbringing, she still very much believed in all things female. Romance and words of love.

He was going to be a sore disappointment to her. But then again, that was all he ever seemed to be these days: a disappointment to everyone, including himself.