Dear Reader,

History is such a strange, strange creature. I am constantly amazed by the things my research unearths, especially when it comes to sexual history. For those of you interested in what I uncover (and what doesn’t end up in my books …), check out my blog, A Bit O’Muslin, at www.DelilahMarvelle.blogspot.com. It will give you an idea as to how much real history gets overlooked. When it comes to historical romance, in particular, people have a skewed vision of what Regency should be because of all the books they have read, without ever really digging into the historical facts. The modern reader has a tendency to forget that people back then were still people. They loved. They hated. They ate. They drank. And yes, they had sex. Lots of it. London’s exploding population proved that.

The idea of Prelude to a Scandal was pieced together to reflect both history and hot-button topics that are still being passionately debated today.

Now, as for all of those rakes running around London debauching themselves and whatever women they could get their hands on, I started wondering how many of these men were sex addicts. I mean, honestly. At least one of them had to be! And though they didn’t have a clinical name for sexual addiction back in the 1820s, you had better believe it was there. So what would a sex addict’s life be like back in the days when there were no clinics to provide assistance and understanding? I imagine it would have been a personal hell. One worth writing about.

It is my hope you will set aside what you think 1829 is and grace me to give you my version of 1829.

Cheers and much love,

Delilah Marvelle

About the Author

DELILAH MARVELLE loves to write historical romance with scandalous twists she unearths from history itself. She spent her youth studying various languages, reading voraciously and playing the pianoforte. She confesses that here ends the extent of her gentle breeding. She was a naughty child who was forever torturing her parents with countless adventures that they did not deem respectable. Confined to her room on many occasions due to these misadventures, she discovered the quill and its amazing power. Soon, to the dismay of her parents, she rather enjoyed being confined to her room. And so her writing continues. She is a two-time Golden Heart Finalist, an RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Nominee and a double finalist in the Bookseller’s Best Award. You can visit her at her website at www.DelilahMarvelle.com or visit her blog, which explores the naughtier side of history, at www.DelilahMarvelle.blogspot.com.

Don’t miss the Scandal series!

Prelude to a Scandal May 2012

Once Upon a Scandal June 2012

The Perfect Scandal July 2012

Prelude to

a Scandal

Delilah Marvelle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to every person in this vast world who suffers from any form of addiction. Believe that you can and will overcome all of the battles that lie ahead.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book would have never made it to print if not for the incredible support of my friends, family and industry professionals who encouraged me in ways that go beyond any words I could write.

Thank you to my super-sexy and incredible husband, Marc, who is the love of my life, my everything and the reason why I write romance. Thank you, Marc, for being my sugar daddy who oversees the bills and everything under the moon so I can continue to do what I love most. Thank you to my two amazing children, Zoe and Clark, who are so loving and so, so, so giving and patient in knowing mommy is almost always writing. I love you both.

Thank you to the fabulous Maire Creegan, who has been one of my greatest inspirations, my long-time critique partner, my tutor and my best friend and twinsie. Thank you to the Novelistas: Susan Lyons, Christina Crooks and Lacy Danes, whose amazing attention to detail and creative skills push me forward and onward as a writer.

Thank you to my agent Donald Maass, whose wisdom and guidance remind me of my purpose and why I write. I am in constant awe of your ability, Don, to dig into my stories and pull out every thread and point out its worth. You encourage me to not only step out of the box but to try to smash it.

Thank you to all of Mills & Boon, Harlequin and its staff, and to my editor, Tracy Farrell, whose incredible enthusiasm toward my stories has sparked a blazing new sense of worth within me. Thank you to Deb Werksman from Sourcebooks, who saw a diamond in the rough and made this writer believe she could jump off a cliff and fly.

Thank you to everyone, both readers and my fellow writers alike, who supported me during my transition between publishers. You all kept me going and I love you all.

An old Spanish proverb would dare claim—A great dowry can only bring a bed full of brambles. So what, pray tell, would a small dowry bring? Nothing, I suppose, but dirty linen in shambles. No matter the size of your dowry, ladies, understand that finding a worthy suitor will always be a gamble.

How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

London, England

Late April, 1829

LADY JUSTINE FEDORA PALMER knew all too well that her dear, dear father, the sixth Earl of Marwood, had always been an intelligent and upstanding, moral citizen. He would have never dared to provoke a political or social stampede amongst any of the tribes he’d befriended throughout his years as an African naturalist. Especially the most notorious and savage of all human tribes—the British ton.

But whenever it came to the subject of zoological breeding, her father became a soul of too many words with absolutely no sense of restraint. Which was why the poor man was now sitting in prison.

His newly published observations on innate buggery amongst South African mammals—which he argued God allowed in His Natural Kingdom and therefore His Royal Majesty should allow in ours—had ruffled far too many feathers to count. Including that of His Royal Majesty.

Though her father had been found innocent of conspiring to promote buggery and moral corruption, he was still caged in Marshalsea Debtors Prison due to an array of exorbitant fines he simply could not pay. Unlike most ladies, who might have long languished beneath such scandal mongering, Justine had never been one for wilting. Her unusual upbringing had made her worldly enough to understand that every female, no matter her genus and species, had the ability to physically coerce a male into full cooperation.

And yes, she knew just the male to coerce. A male she’d wanted to coerce ever since she first came to London two years ago at the age of eighteen: her father’s sole academic patron, the notorious Duke of Bradford. Better known to the herds of London as The Rake Extraordinaire, whose appreciation for women knew no bounds and whose pockets and generosity were as deep as the sky is wide.

Despite his libertine facade, which boasted a slow, saucy grin and smoky dark eyes that invited every woman to play, there was so much more to him than his appearance. He had a genuine intelligence and depth outside of the wild antics he always used to garner attention. She remembered one evening in particular when her adoration for the man had fully bloomed into a yearning that made her toes curl within her silk stockings.

While her parents and the duke still played five card loo with a group of ladies and gents after a dinner party, she’d opted to sit in a chair on the other side of the room and read so she wouldn’t have to be teased anymore by her overly competitive father. Promptly after her aloof departure from the card table, the duke had tossed his own cards and formally announced no lady ought to be disrespected for her lack of card skills. With an impressive sweep, he then hoisted his chair up over his head and swaggered with it across the room like an acrobat. He even pretended to stumble beneath its weight in an effort to make her giggle.

With a well satisfied breath, he’d settled his chair and himself across from her, insisting she set aside her book and tell him more about the fascinating life she’d led in Africa. Though his gaze had a tendency to wander flirtatiously to inappropriate places—which she rather enjoyed—he still listened very intently to everything she had to say as if every word that escaped her lips mattered, as if she mattered.

Tragic as it was, the man had never been the marrying sort, and no one knew that more than her parents, who’d repeatedly warned her to keep her virtue as far away from the man as possible. Despite all of their tiring lectures on the matter and despite having read How To Avoid A Scandal many, many times, Justine knew a lady couldn’t always avoid scandal. Especially when one’s father was being persecuted for demanding rights for sodomites using the animal kingdom as his platform.

After dotting a piece of parchment with rosewater she’d borrowed from a neighbor, Justine daintily scribed a missive to the duke, similar to the countless weekly missives she’d sent to him ever since first meeting him. The duke had never once responded, which her mother was thankful for, but Justine continued to scribe him weekly letters all the same.

In this particular letter, however, she offered Bradford a bit more than the usual gossip about herself and her family. She offered him several nights in exchange for her father’s release. Having no dowry and no suitor, she wasn’t too worried about harvesting her virginity to a man who offered no wedding prospect. She only hoped her mother and father would understand.

Though it had been many months since she’d last seen the duke, and there were muddled whispers about him being disfigured due to his involvement with a less than reputable woman, not a single drop of the story intimidated her. She felt that her father’s comfort, safety and sanity trumped any of her own womanly misgivings.

To her astonishment, not even three days after her letter had been delivered to the duke, his footman appeared at their door and presented the following letter:

Lady Justine,

I can only apologize for ever leading you to believe I was capable of ruining anyone in their most desperate hour, let alone a lady of esteemed quality such as yourself. Although I cannot and will not be able to accept your offer, I would like to propose something else. At three and thirty, I have come to the profound realization that I am not getting any younger. Or prettier. It is time I take a wife. I have received and immensely enjoyed every letter you have sent and fondly remember every time we have met. Therefore, I foresee no complications in asking for your hand in marriage. Whilst I am certain there are various rumors surrounding my current physical state, I can assure you, I am in excellent health. Though I did sustain one sizable scar it is nothing to fret over. Should you and your father agree to our marriage, a license will be applied for and the wedding will be set to take place in six weeks’ time. In turn, I would be delighted to pay all debts imposed upon your father so as to ensure his prompt release from Marshalsea.

I await your response,

Bradford

And all along she had thought he’d never ask …

London be damned for treating her father with such horrid disdain. She was finally going to earn some respect for herself and her family. She was going to be the Duchess of Bradford, and she had every intention of demanding respect from everyone, at every turn, from this day forth.

SCANDAL ONE

Without a good chaperone, one might as well be dead. Remember, a chaperone is supposed to be another thinking head.

How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

Five weeks later, evening

WITH THE ASSISTANCE of her driver, Mr. Kern, Justine stepped out of the coach and swept down onto the pavement of the square. She eyed the shadowed, four-story alabaster home, noting that most of the windows were as dark as the night around her. Sparse golden light shone through only a few glass panes on the far side of the home.

An ominous feeling crawled through her. Despite countless letters to the duke, pleading for at least one audience before the actual wedding, he had responded to each and every letter with a firm, “No. Not until the appointed time of the wedding.” Calling upon him repeatedly had not yielded much more. He simply would not see her. Which worried her to no end. Was he in fact more disfigured than he’d originally let on?

As if that weren’t distressing enough, there appeared to be complications surrounding her father’s release, even though her wedding was only a short week away. And whilst the duke’s solicitor had repeatedly assured her everything would be resolved, Justine needed more than mere verbal assurance.

Mr. Kern lingered beside her and cleared his throat, awaiting payment for his many weeks of service. He eyed her reticule. “Milady.” He pointed. “I thought this was tah be a friendly social call.”

Justine glanced down at the ribbon-drawn reticule slung around her wrist. The rosewood handle of her father’s pistol stuck straight out, like a gopher’s head from a mound.

She feigned an apologetic laugh. “It is a friendly social call, Mr. Kern. This is simply to intimidate the servants. Which reminds me—” She yanked out the ivory flask of gunpowder from her reticule.

Mr. Kern paused. Then squinted at her.

After several failed attempts to uncork the flask, Justine huffed out a breath and dug her fingertips beneath the rim, giving it one last solid tug. Her straining arms jumped and the cork popped off.

Mr. Kern scrambled back as a huge plume of gunpowder blanketed her face, cloak, gown and the street, filling her nostrils with a gritty, sulfur-penetrating residue. She gagged as the flask slipped and clattered to the pavement, and frantically brushed the soot from her face and bosom. Of all the blasted—

She paused, glimpsing the flask on its side in the shadows. Oh, no. Plucking it up, she tapped at what little remained in the vessel and groaned. How quickly she’d become like the rest of the women in London. Completely useless. Unable to even prime a pistol. Her father would have been horrified at her incompetence.

Exasperated, she shoved the expensive flask into Mr. Kern’s waiting hands. “Here you are, Mr. Kern. Pure ivory and worth well more than I owe you. This will officially bring your service to an end. I thank you.”

“Much obliged.” He tipped his wool cap, then made his way back to the hackney, inspecting his newly acquired trinket.

If only the wardens at Marshalsea were as easy to please and get along with.

Justine sighed, and eyed the pistol in her hand. She supposed she could bluff her way in. That way, when the authorities did arrive, no one could argue it was loaded. Cocking it, she tucked the pistol back into her reticule and marched with full intent toward the dimly lit house, past the wrought-iron gate which had conveniently been left open.

She hurried up the wide, shadowed steps and halted at the entrance. Swiping away whatever gunpowder she could still feel on her face, she drew in a calming breath and used the knocker. Then the bell.

Footfalls echoed from the interior. The bolts were eventually unfastened and the door to the house fanned open, filtering soft golden light across the wide steps.

A massive, blond-haired gentleman appeared. One she hadn’t seen throughout all her earlier attempts to get in. His wide chin jutted over his tight collar, whilst his round belly threatened to pop every button off the embroidered waistcoat protruding from his dark livery. He stepped toward her, his hefty frame towering a good two heads over her own.

Her heart raced as she stepped back. What, by gad, had his mother been feeding him? Clearly, not the usual English fare.

She counterfeited a quick smile and hoped that, despite his imposing stature, this particular new servant was going to be more cooperative than the rest. “Forgive the hour, sir, and my overall appearance, but I was hoping for an audience with His Grace. Would you please inform him that his fiancée, and future duchess, is here and that it is most urgent?” She hesitated, then repeated, “Most urgent.”

The man’s beady blue eyes raked the length of her. “Have you been sweeping chimneys, my lady? I hope all is well.”

He was about as amusing as her situation. “I shall be in much better spirits once I speak to His Grace.” She tried not to sound too agitated, or he wouldn’t let her in.

He sighed. “As the previous butler may have already informed you, my lady, His Grace will not see you or anyone else until the appointed time of the wedding. He does, however, wish to assure you all is well.” He bowed, stepped back and slammed the door shut.

Justine gasped with indignation. “All is not well, sir! I demand you open this door. Sir!” She paused and blinked at the door, which so rudely remained closed. Was this any way to treat a future duchess?

She huffed out a breath and glanced back toward the shadows of manmade iron fences and stone buildings that rose above the trees beyond. Though she’d always suppressed her true feelings of not belonging to this strange London world, it was time to admit that the men in England really weren’t as refined and civilized as they claimed to be. If they were, they would not be caging an old man for having an opinion contrary to societal norms, and they most certainly would not be leaving a young woman on a doorstep, in the dark, alone. Whilst assuring her all was well.

The cowardly side of her wanted to dash straight into the night and disappear onto the next ship to Cape Town to avoid this entire mess.

But her heart and soul knew what needed to be done. Her father needed her, and she was not about to wait until the day of the wedding to discover her father was set to languish in Marshalsea for the rest of his days.

She needed reassurance. And she was going to get it. Setting her chin, Justine whirled back to the door and rattled the knob, only to discover it had already been bolted. Narrowing her gaze, she grabbed hold of the knocker and repeatedly pounded the brass ring against the block, hoping everyone’s head inside the house was pounding right along with it. She was not going home and didn’t give a ripe fig if all of London talked about it for ten full years.

The door eventually reopened.

Justine drew back her hand and announced in her sternest tone, “Name your price, sir, or I shall be forced to name mine.”

The butler smirked, clearly amused, and adjusted his snug livery. “I can assure you, my lady, I am not one to be bought.”

“Whilst I can assure you, sir, I am not one to be turned away.” Justine pulled out the pistol from her reticule and pointed it straight at his chest. Her forefinger played with the trigger as she boldly stepped toward him, wishing it really was loaded. “I recommend you step aside.” If need be, she’d thwack him on the head with the butt of her pistol and dash right in.

The man froze and wrinkled his pudgy nose as if realizing the residue dusting her entire frame was gunpowder. He scrambled backward and silently extended his thick, gloved hand toward the hall behind.

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.” She entered the large hall, still keeping the pistol pointed at him. Her heeled slippers clicked across the Italian marble floors as the delicate, sweet aroma of cigars teased her nostrils. She sniffed. Since when did Bradford smoke cigars?

A rapid, bristling sound caused Justine to snap the pistol toward the candlelit receiving room on the left. She paused and blinked in astonishment. For there, on all fours, was a young male servant in full livery wearing a ruffled, white apron. And of all things, he was scrubbing the floor as though he were a housemaid!

The young servant paused, clearly sensing she was watching him. He heaved out a long breath, as if his mother had died, then dipped the horsehair brush into a pail of soapy water and resumed his rapid scrubbing.

The butler shut the door and nervously glanced back at her as he fastened each bolt. “I hope you do not mind waiting whilst I inform His Grace of your arrival.”

Justine swiveled the pistol back to the butler. “So His Grace can altogether escape through a back door? I think not.” She readjusted her grip on the pistol, trying to exude deadly confidence, and purposefully stared him down. “You’d best take me to him.”

She stepped farther back toward the curving mahogany stairwell and eyed the gray silk lampas walls decorated with gold framed mirrors and oversized family portraits.

Nothing had changed. What is more, it reminded her of the first night she’d stepped into this house. That enchanted night when she and her parents had privately dined with the duke in honor of their return from Africa.

She’d been so impressed. But what had impressed her far, far more than the massive, ornate home that night—and thereafter—was the Duke of Bradford himself. A more dashing, charming and intelligent man she’d never met. Of course, her parents had argued that anything would have been impressive to an eighteen-year-old who’d been residing in canvas tents and grass huts since the age of seven.

The butler blew out an exhausted breath and stalked past. He gestured toward the stairwell. “If you please, my lady. The duke’s bedchamber is this way.”

Justine’s heart skipped as she gawked up after the butler, who was already mounting the stairs. Circumstances aside, was it crass to admit to herself that she’d always wondered what the duke’s bedchamber looked like?

The butler paused midway up the winding staircase and glanced down at her.

She cleared her throat and lifted the hem of her gown from around her feet, trying to remain calm. She was not going to melt into a puddle. After all, a woman had to retain some amount of pride and dignity, no matter how scandalized she was.

Still keeping the pistol leveled at the man, she moved up the stairs. When she alighted onto the landing, she bustled straight down the wide corridor, trying to catch up with the butler who had left her far behind, moving with the grace of an elephant at full speed.

The silence grew more pronounced. Glancing toward a passing row of portraits, Justine slowed her pace and paused before a rather stunning portrait of a young woman dressed in a flowing, white brocaded gown. Her large gray-blue eyes stared at Justine with a wrenching beauty that managed to be both provocative and shy.

The candles set within the wall sconces emitted just enough light to cast a perfect, warm glow upon the woman’s face, whilst shadowing the rest of the painting. Her pale skin was smooth, and gathered blond curls framed her face. A playful little smile lingered on her lips.

Justine lowered the pistol and blinked. Who was this beautiful woman to Bradford? A sister or a cousin she did not know of? Or was it—heaven forbid—his mistress? He was indeed always known to surround himself with less than reputable ladies, which sadly, if she believed the rumors, had brought him to his current physical state.

“You demand to see His Grace, yet you show no urgency?” the butler tossed back at her from up ahead.

Justine cringed and hurried down the passageway.

The butler opened a paneled door at the far end of the walkway and disappeared inside. Justine followed, entering a bedchamber that was about the size of a field.

She froze as the butler strode past an enormous four-poster bed draped with heavy, velvet burgundy curtains. The pillows, linens and coverlets were all in disarray.

The butler halted before a closed door on the other side of the room that adjoined another chamber. He cleared his throat and knocked. “Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Palmer is here. She insists upon a private audience and ardently awaits your attention within the confines of your bedchamber.”

Justine gestured with the pistol in complete exasperation. Why, the man made her sound like a wanton! As if she did this sort of thing all the time.

There was a movement, followed by a rather loud splash of water against porcelain.

Blessed be her soul, was the duke bathing?

A deep voice suddenly boomed from the other side, “Do my orders mean nothing? You’ve barely worked here a Goddamn week! I replaced the last butler for less.”

The butler winced and adjusted his livery, shifting from boot to boot. “Yes. I realize as much, Your Grace. But I should probably point out that aside from the pistol she is toting, and the threats she is spitting, given the time of night, I was rather concerned about turning her away. Her overall appearance is rather … disturbing.”

Justine cringed and glanced down at her daffodil gown, which was smeared with enough gunpowder to warrant an arrest in the name of public safety. And to think, she had worn her finest.

There was muttering from behind the door, followed by an aggressive splash of water within the tub. “Leave us. I will ring when it is time for you to escort her home. Which you will, Jefferson. As punishment. I also intend to temporarily suspend your wages.”

“Uh … yes, Your Grace.” The butler turned, set his thick chin a tad higher above his collar and strode toward her, never once meeting her gaze.

Justine sighed and couldn’t help but feel remorse. Shoving the pistol into her reticule, she held it out. “Take this, Jefferson, along with my sincere apologies. Rest assured, it was never primed or loaded. I shall see to it His Grace does not hold you accountable.”

The butler paused and lifted a thick brow, silently acknowledging her apology. He plucked the weighty reticule from her hand and strode out, shutting the door behind him.

One less soul to worry about. Justine blew out a shaky breath and turned to the closed paneled door leading to the bath chamber. If only she weren’t so worried about Bradford. That dark, overly agitated voice sounded nothing like him.

After all, once upon a time, the whole of London could be burning and the man would have still retained that playful lilt in his voice and that devious twinkle in his eye. He’d never been one to easily ruffle and knew how to make everyone, right down to a tinplate worker, feel as though they were all equal peers. Libertine though he was, yes, a more genuine and kind soul she’d never met.

Her pulse throbbed against her ears as she eyed the faint light peering through the crevices of the door. “Bradford?” He’d always preferred being addressed as such.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded. “Do you not realize you have a responsibility toward yourself and toward my name?”

Her brows rose. Since when did Radcliff Edwin Morton, the fourth Duke of Bradford, ever touch upon the hour or respectability?

Justine edged toward the direction of the bath chamber, curious as to what she would find on the other side of the door. Realizing she was almost an arm’s reach away, she halted. What on earth was she doing? The man was bathing, for pity’s sake. And unlike the African Bushmen and Hottentots, who kept their genitals bound in straps of leather even whilst bathing, she doubted he did. She wet her lips, trying not to imagine what was below his waist, lest she forget her reason for calling on him.

She fidgeted, knowing she should try to be civil. She was interrupting his bath. “It’s been quite some time since we’ve last seen each other,” she managed. Exactly two hundred and fifty-seven days. “Are you well?”

He rumbled out a laugh. “Do you mean to tell me you infiltrated my home, armed, in the dead of night merely to ask how I am?”

She wrinkled her nose. Point well made. “Uh … no. Of course not. You see … I’ve been rather concerned about you and our … arrangement. Aside from not wanting to see your own fiancée until the day of the wedding, which even my own mother admits to being odd—and she finds very few things odd—your solicitor still hasn’t fully explained the complications surrounding my father’s release. I don’t understand what is taking so long. It’s been five weeks.”

“My dear, dear Justine.” His husky tone made the wonderful endearments sound insincere. “Much like His Royal Majesty and Lord Winfield, who first brought your father’s observations to His Majesty’s attention, I myself am still very livid with your father. Though for very different reasons. Fetch me up as daft, but what possessed him to go against the advice of his own patron—me—and publish not one but three hundred copies of observations most people would categorize as bestiality? But of course His Majesty was going to make an example of him. Hell, I wanted to make an example of him when I discovered every one of those bloody observations had been dedicated to me. Me. Thanking me for years of funding. Do you have any idea the amount of letters I had to write to His Majesty, apologizing for my financial involvement?”

Justine winced. Yes, she could understand him being upset. But what he failed to realize was that the dedication had been bestowed with the deepest of respect and gratitude. After all, if it weren’t for his generous funding—funding no other peer in London had been willing to offer—her father’s studies in South Africa would have never been possible. For although her father was an earl, he’d always been a man of humble means who barely afforded a townhouse in a respectable square.

Justine stared down at the ornate brass knob before her and willed herself to remain optimistic, even as her eyes pricked with stupid, stupid tears. “Please assure me this has not affected your decision to assist him. He is tired, Bradford. And weak. And refuses to eat. I’ve never seen him look so frail.”

Bradford sighed. Loud enough for even her to hear. “I am not the one impeding his release.”

Her eyes veered back up from the knob. “Whatever do you mean?”

There was a moment of silence, followed by the soft rustle of water. “As you already know, my solicitor has been diligently negotiating this case. What you do not know is that Lord Winfield, upon discovering my intentions to assist, once again brought it to the attention of His Majesty, who then insisted the bench increase all fines by another two thousand pounds. No sooner had my solicitor met those demands, when the fines were blatantly increased again. And again. And again.”

Justine’s eyes widened as she huffed out, “What does Lord Winfield have against my father to continue to persecute him like this? They used to be friends!”

“Emphasis on the used to be. Lord Winfield despises sodomites, Justine. Rumor has it his own son was brutally sodomized against his will many, many years ago at the age of sixteen.”

Oh, dear God. No wonder the man hated her father. Justine sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t realize that. And apparently, neither did my father.”

“It would not be something a man would openly discuss.”

“No, I suppose not.” Justine was quiet for a moment. “So what have the fines been set to?”

“Fifty thousand pounds. Which is why your father is still at Marshalsea. Because I do not have fifty thousand in loose coins. Most of my money is shackled to land and investments I cannot touch. And His Majesty knows it.”

Justine sucked in an astonished breath and kept herself from staggering by grabbing hold of the door frame. “Fifty thousand pounds? Oh, dear God. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I 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 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.

SCANDAL THREE

Allowing a man to kiss or touch you, at any time during your courtship, even before a set wedding, is allowing too much. After all, it is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason to run down that altar aisle. It is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason as to why, on his own wedding day, he should smile.

How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

JUSTINE SMOOTHED OUT Radcliff’s white cotton nightshirt and hurriedly rolled up the large, loose sleeves. She glanced down at the gaping open front of his shirt which provocatively exposed her damp lilac corset and chemise. She cringed and clutched the front together, holding it shut. At least they were engaged.

“Are you clothed?”

She jumped at the sound of Radcliff’s deep voice from the other side of the closed door. “I doubt you can call it that,” she yelled back.

“You needn’t fret. We’ll throw a cloak or two over you and dash you home. Though I have a feeling your mother will hold me accountable for your absence and lack of clothing. Send along my apologies, will you?”

Justine smirked. “I really wouldn’t worry about my mother. She doesn’t even know I’m here. She overstayed past calling hours whilst visiting Father at Marshalsea and therefore won’t be allowed back out until the gates reopen in the morning.” She tiptoed with cold, bare feet across the bath chamber, avoiding puddles on the tile, then opened the door and edged out.

Bradford sat on the four-poster, one trouser-clad knee propped up, his bare foot rumpling the white satin linens. His shaven jaw tightened as his dark eyes trailed the length of her body.

Her heart fluttered in response. The way it always fluttered foolishly in his presence. She tried to shove away the erotic image of his large muscled body and that sizable erection, but it was no use. It had been seared into her thoughts and would remain there until she was given the pleasure of seeing him naked again.

Despite Bradford’s long, puckered scar, he was still very dashing. His white linen shirt continued to hang open, exposing a strong neck and a sprinkle of soft-looking black curls. With or without clothes, the man had a commanding presence that was raw, overwhelming and beyond exciting. Why was it she had the strangest desire to consummate their marriage right now?

He lowered his trouser-clad leg to the floor and kept staring at her. As if he’d never seen a woman before.

The piercing silence lingering between them seemed to further emphasize how alone they really were. And how they were breaking every single rule set out by respectable society, what with her lack of clothing and his bed barely a few feet away. Given his reputation, she was quite certain this wasn’t new to him. Not as it was for her.

Wanting to prove to him, and herself, that she wasn’t in the least bit intimidated, and that she could rival any woman he’d ever had, she drifted in his direction and paused, lingering only a few feet away. “You’re staring, Bradford,” she teased.

He cleared his throat and looked away, sending damp strands of dark hair cascading into his eyes and toward his scar. “I … forgive me.”

He cleared his throat again and rose to his full, imposing height of six feet. “We should cover you up a bit more. Your legs … they … they’re showing.”

How utterly charming. The Duke of Bradford, and soon to be her Duke of Bradford, The Rake Extraordinaire, was actually stumbling and mumbling and apologizing for being a man. And was even telling her to further cover up!

This certainly deserved a bit more study and observation. Seeing she was going to be his fiancée for at least another five days, she had a right to know what a man of his years, upbringing and experience did or did not find attractive. Never mind if what she was about to ask would cause half of London to faint.

“What do you think of them?” she drawled.

He eyed her. “What do I think of what?”

“My legs. Seeing that you had mentioned them.”

He stared at her. “What about your legs?”

“Well … ever since I can remember, I’ve always wondered what the preoccupation was all about. Did you know that the native women in Africa don’t cover their legs and ankles the same way women do here? Now why is that, do you suppose? Does a leg mean more to us than it does to them? And if so, why? They’re only legs, after all, taking us from one place to the next. You don’t see male giraffes gawking at the legs of their mates, even though they’re certainly long enough to warrant such a thing.”

Justine shot out her right leg, her damp, transparent chemise tightening against the extension, and pointed her bare toes in his direction. She tilted her head to one side, observing her own limbs in a scientific sort of way. “I’m afraid they’re a bit bowed, and for that I can only apologize, but aside from that, what do you think? From a British male perspective? Are they at all attractive? Surely, you’ve seen more than enough to provide an objective opinion.”

He continued to stare at her, abashed.

She returned his stare and quickly dropped her foot back onto the wooden floor. So much for the British male perspective. Apparently, she was being too crass for even a homo sapien libertine. “I suppose I should apologize. I didn’t realize—”

“There is no need for you to apologize, Justine,” he said in a low tone. “In answer to your question, they are not bowed. In fact, they are very shapely. Might I also point out, if we were giraffes, I would probably be gawking and whistling and making all the other giraffes feel very, very uncomfortable.”

Her eyes widened as she gurgled out a laugh. Oh, now they were both being very naughty. And what was worse, she loved it. It reminded her of the wild and funny Bradford she’d shamelessly preened over. The Bradford who had always made everything so exciting in an otherwise very orchestrated and boring London world.

Though her entire face burned, she decided to offer her fiancée a tad bit more. She’d already tossed every etiquette book out the window and had every intention of showing how grateful she was he hadn’t taken her up on her rash proposal of a few measly nights.

Offering him a shy smile, she gathered her wet chemise and slid it up to where his shirt ended to give him a better view of everything below the knees. In case her wet chemise wasn’t transparent enough.

Bradford hissed out a breath—as if something were terribly wrong with her legs—and closed what little space was left between them. He grabbed hold of her chin, yanking it up toward his own face. “Drop it,” he demanded, his fingers now digging into her skin, causing it to burn. “Drop it before I do it for you.”

Justine instantly dropped her chemise and stared up at him in astonishment, realizing it wasn’t male lust that had riled him. What was more, his marred face was hauntingly close. She swallowed, feeling as though she were looking at one side of his face through broken glass.

Instead of breaking her chin free of his pinching grasp, she searched his eyes. “Why are you angry? I thought you would have enjoyed that.”

His dark brows came together as he loosened his grip. The rough pads of his fingers slowly slid back and forth, as if trying to soothe her skin. “You don’t know what you are doing, innocent Justine. Forgive me,” he murmured. “I should not have taken that tone with you.”

Justine blinked up at him, still unable to move. To be sure, this was not the same Bradford she’d once known. He was so morbidly tense, reserved and too serious for her own liking.

What on earth had changed his playful, adventurous soul into … this? She was certain his scar held the answer to her question. “What happened to you? What happened since we last met? You are not the same man. You once loved to engage in flirtations.”

He dropped his hand from her chin, his dark brows softening, but continued to linger before her. “I don’t want to be the man you once knew. He had no self-control or self-respect.”

She sucked in a breath. “Libertine aside, he was everything I could ever want. He was generous and charming and playful and witty. He knew how to make me laugh and blush and always preferred to sit on the floor as opposed to a chair. I adored him. I … still do.” She bit her lip, realizing she was practically flinging herself at him. As always.

His dark eyes took on an intense, blazing look as he suddenly grabbed her waist and yanked her hips toward his own, grinding her against the length of his large body.

She gasped as his hands molded her closer, pressing her more firmly against every inch of him. As if forcing her to feel the pulsing heat of his skin, the beating of his heart, and the rigid bulge in his trousers which dug into her damp, corseted stomach.

Her heart thumped and her stomach flipped. Having never had any physical relations with a man, and having never been held by one so close, either, the contact was shocking. Not to mention downright arousing.

“If you really knew who he was,” he said in a low, clipped tone, “I doubt you’d feel adoration.”

The tension in his muscles gave her a sense of the powerful force barely being restrained.

Justine’s pulse thundered as she was torn between pulling away and melting against the firm, crushing embrace of those taut muscles. Endless sensations overwhelmed her body, which was probably why she couldn’t make any sense of him or his words. “Bradford, what—”

He released her and stepped back, setting a notable distance between them. His broad chest rose and fell beneath his open shirt as if he struggled to breathe. He readjusted the erection within his trousers and swiped at his face with shaky hands, unable to look at her.

She swallowed, knowing his blatant rejection had nothing to do with her. Something was tormenting him. But what? Her throat ached at the thought of him suffering this much.

He turned away, blowing out a heavy breath, and purposefully kept his broad back to her. As if ashamed by his arousal, by his need. As if he truly hated himself.

Justine fidgeted with her hands, not knowing what to make of him. Perhaps it was best she leave. “I should go. But before I do … I … I would like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” She paused. “Well. Aside from throwing me into the tub, that is.” She feigned a laugh, but seeing he still hadn’t turned or appeared amused by her little quip, she sighed.

She wished he would turn so she could look into his eyes and assure him how much he’d always meant to her. “Ever since I’ve known you, Bradford, you’ve always been very generous and supportive of my father. Even whilst all of London chose to mock him. You’ve always believed in the value of his work and treated him with respect. And for that reason alone, I would marry you. Without question.”

He was quiet for a very long moment. He swung back toward her. Hissing out a breath, he shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. “If we do marry, I wish to buy you a wedding gift. What is it that you want?”

“Pardon?”

He waved a hand toward her. “What is it that you want? Aside from your father’s freedom, that is. What would make you happy knowing you are settling for a man with half a face and half a heart? Do you want jewelry? Clothing? Name it and it is yours. I genuinely wish to make you happy.”

Abashed, Justine stepped back. Where on earth was this coming from, and what did he mean he only had half a heart? “Happiness isn’t something that can be readily bought. Unlike most women, I’ve never been overly fond of trinkets. I prefer more nostalgic things.”

His hand fell to his side as black eyes captured hers. “Assure me you aren’t about to demand sentimental rubbish I cannot give. I am not that sort of man.”

Ah. But she had faith he would eventually be that sort of man. Until then, there was only one other thing, aside from courtship, romance and love, that she, as a woman, would ever want from him. “All I am asking for is your respect, Bradford. The sort of respect London has never given me, my father or my mother. I don’t want any more of this throwing-me-into-the-tub nonsense or you treating me with agitated disdain I do not deserve. I also humbly ask that your respect not be limited to public display, but to our own personal lives, which hopefully will include you having no other woman in your bed but me. In the wild, it may very well be acceptable to be promiscuous or polygamous, but I have witnessed first-hand how badly that can end if any of those partners feel threatened.”

He stared at her and then belted out a hearty laugh that crinkled the edges of his eyes and shifted the mangled skin on the side of his face.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. He really was hopeless.

“You speak with such conviction,” he guffawed. “It’s marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”

She supposed this was what happened when a monogamous female tried to pair up with a full-blooded libertine. “I suggest you set up a harem in the east wing of the house,” she tossed out in complete disgust. “At least then I’ll know where all the women are coming from and where to find you should I require attention.”

His laughter and grin slowly faded as his features settled back into a tight, grim mask. “Forgoing associations with women will require no effort on my part. I am rather concerned, however, about the obligation that would fall upon you as a result of it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mock me, Bradford. It’s beneath even you. I know full well what those obligations are, and I can assure you, I am more than capable, not to mention willing, to meet them.”

He lowered his chin, challenging her with a hard, burning look. “I don’t doubt your capability. Or your willingness. I do, however, doubt your stamina.”

Her … stamina? What on earth was that supposed to mean? “What are you saying? That it takes a full eight hours of copulation for you to reach completion?”

He choked and raked both hands through his damp hair. “Your father bloody exposed you to his observations a bit too much. No. For God’s sake, I …” He dropped his hands to his side. But said nothing more.

She blinked. “What, then?”

He shook his dark head but still said nothing.

She stepped toward him, oddly compelled, not to mention genuinely concerned. “I should hope that if there is something that will affect our marriage, you would find the decency to tell me now. Before we marry.”

“I … yes. You are right in that. You deserve to know beforehand.” He nodded, as if struggling to comprehend his own thoughts. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out and blurted, “Forgive my own tongue for even saying it, but I am obsessed with sex. I think about it all the time.”

Justine pulled in her chin, startled by the admission, and laughed. “Forgive me, Bradford—and my father would agree with me on this—but what male of any species isn’t obsessed with it?”

“Justine—” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if wanting her to understand something he simply could not put into words, then eventually reopened them and said in a cool, low tone, “Allow me to better explain this. If I gave in to every lewd thought and every lewd urge that ever possessed me—the way I used to before I ended up with this face—in time you would only learn to despise me and my advances. And I don’t want that. I genuinely wish to lead a normal life by controlling all physical interactions to the best of my abilities.”

Her brows shot up. Why … he appeared to be forthright.

He swiped a hand over his face. “If you haven’t noticed, I have no female servants. It was necessary to eliminate any temptation that would have caused me to stray from the self-governed control I’ve adhered to these past eight months. As such, you will have no lady’s maid. I’ve already enlisted an excellent French man for you, who is trained in all matters of female dress and hair. I can assure you, Henri is far more female than any lady’s maid you’ll ever have. My hope is that despite him being male, he will exceed your expectations.”

Oh. Dear. God. Her lady’s maid was going to be a … man? Whilst she was to be the only female in the entire house? Were Bradford’s urges that uncontrollable?

Though, yes, she was looking forward to bedding him, she was somewhat concerned about what his definition of stamina really meant. Daily advances she could easily take on. But what if he meant hourly advances for the rest of her life?

Justine swallowed, trying to fend off the burning heat consuming her face. “Did you plan on disclosing any of this to me?”

“Yes. On our wedding night.”

“Lovely. Why do I not feel comforted by that admission?”

He stared her down. “Rest assured, Justine, I have never forced myself upon a woman and I would never force myself upon you. Your submission would be entirely voluntary.” He continued to intently hold her gaze. “Do you have any further concerns? Because now would be the time to name them.”

Justine wet her lips and wondered what under heaven and above hell she was about to agree to. But then again … the man was a rake. That was what rakes did. Obsess about copulation and women. Everyone in London knew that. And no one, not even all the upper prudes, seemed all that concerned, aside from the moral aspect of it.

She eyed him. “I suppose I wouldn’t be so concerned if I knew you weren’t going to demand hourly performances for the rest of my life. Or involve other women.”

“It is my duty and honor to alleviate those concerns.” He held up his right hand beside his head and set his left on his chest. “I solemnly swear to never demand hourly performances or involve other women in our lives.” He dropped his hands back into place. “There you are. You have no further concerns.”

Justine couldn’t help but stare at him. “Do you find yourself amusing?”

He pointed to himself. “Do I look amused? I am being quite serious. Now. I recommend we get you home.”

Without sparing her another glance, he strode over to the braided bell pull and yanked on it a number of times as if he were worried Jefferson wouldn’t respond. “If all goes well with your father’s release, as I am hoping it will, I expect to see you in church next week at the appointed time. I will see to it all of your wet clothes are laundered and returned before then. Jefferson will fetch those cloaks for you and personally see to it you arrive home. Good night.” He offered a curt nod, departed into the adjoining room and quietly closed the door, leaving her to wait for Jefferson alone.

She blinked. If only she wasn’t so hopelessly smitten with Bradford. If only she wasn’t smitten with Bradford at all. Oh, how she prayed and hoped to whatever God there was above he would keep all of the promises he had made to her tonight.

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