“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.
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.