He sighed and eyed her. “Even if I had the means to return, it wouldn’t be the same without you. You, my girl, have chronicled some of my best works and kept me company whenever your mother suffered from a headache. Which was quite often.”
Justine bit back a smile, knowing her mother always feigned headaches whenever she was trying to avoid something. She reached out and gently nudged his forearm. “Perhaps I can convince Bradford to take us all to Cape Town for holiday? Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
“Now, now. We mustn’t financially burden the duke any more than we already have. Even the deepest of wells can run dry.”
Justine fingered both books beside her. “It appears I have some studying to do before I go to bed.”
Lord Marwood grinned. “That you do. Good night.” He patted his book, then hastily leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You have always brought pride to my name, and as duchess, I know you will continue to do so.” He straightened, nodded, then strode across the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Justine sighed and prayed her father was right. For the Marwood name had already endured more than enough scandal.
Twelve hours later
THE SOFT FLOATING FRAGRANCE of fresh flowers mingled with the heady scent of melted beeswax. It tinged the sultry air of the quiet church and every breath Justine took as she walked the length of the aisle toward Bradford.
Every wooden pew and marble pillar she passed had been meticulously decorated with boughs of white blossoms, pink roses, and forget-me-nots. The bright morning sun sparkled through the rows of stained-glass windows high above, highlighting portions of the marble altar with a rainbow of muted colors. And there, at the altar, past all the vacant pews, stood Bradford.
Her Bradford. A wonderful, even if flawed, man who had nobly rescued her father and was about to become her husband.
Her heart fluttered as she paused beside him and glanced toward the bishop and the only witnesses who stood at the altar dressed in their finest—her mother and father.
She smiled at them.
Their aging faces beamed with genuine warmth and pride. There was no greater joy than seeing the happy faces of those she loved whilst knowing she was marrying a man she genuinely adored. A man she hoped she would quickly come to love.
Justine spun back toward Bradford, bumping into him in clumsy haste. His large hands steadied her as the expanse of his gray satin waistcoat and its row of silver-and-diamond-encrusted buttons overtook her entire view. She stepped back, a nervous laugh bubbling from her lips, and shyly glanced up at him.
Bradford’s dark hair had been smoothly brushed back from his forehead, displaying his entire rugged profile, including the jagged scar dominating the one side of his face.
A sense of pride filled her. For despite that scar, he was still unbelievably dashing. He looked like a seasoned pirate who had decided to become an aristocrat for a day. A smile overtook her lips at the very thought. She met his gaze.
Bradford’s dark eyes observed her, his expression suggesting he was too troubled to smile. He looked away and focused on the bishop before them.
Justine’s smile faded and her chest tightened. What if he’d never genuinely wanted to marry her? She’d not truly considered that until now. She’d been so focused on overseeing her father’s freedom, she had not considered how Bradford even felt about their wedding.
She swallowed as the bishop’s calm voice floated around her. An unexpected sense of dread overwhelmed her. The weight of her pearl-encrusted, lilac gown seemed to pull her down toward the marble slab at her feet. She wanted to give in to its weight and crumple to the floor but somehow managed to remain standing.
The bishop glanced at each of them, his gray brows rising toward his gold-threaded dome cap. “I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, you do now confess it. For be you well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their matrimony lawful. If any man do allege and declare any impediment, why they may not be coupled together in matrimony, by God’s law, or the laws of this realm; may he prove his allegation now.”
Justine glanced over at Bradford, half expecting him to say something. Yet no opposition fell from his lips. His jaw merely tightened.
The bishop went on, tonelessly reciting more words. Words she could no longer make sense of. Her thoughts blurred into a panic. After all, this was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Why didn’t it feel like it?
Bradford suddenly leaned toward her and reached out. His warm fingers gently grasped her wrist. She stiffened, realizing his hand was visibly trembling as he lifted her own hand and held it up high between them.
Could it be possible he was as nervous as she was?
He retrieved the lone ring from the leather-bound surface of the bible the bishop held up and momentarily met her gaze. Her heart raced and her cheeks blazed as he slowly and sensually touched the slim ruby ring to the tip of each and every one of her fingers, making his way toward what was to be her wedded finger.
Lowering his gaze, he recited his devotion, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
He then placed the glinting ring upon the third finger from her thumb. The cool metal grazed her moist skin as his large fingers adjusted the ring into place.
Never once did he meet her gaze or hint at any form of emotion. Justine swallowed against the aching dryness overtaking her throat and couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking or feeling. She only hoped it wasn’t regret.
Together they knelt before the bishop, Bradford’s large hand still holding hers. More words echoed around them but all she could think about was his hand. And how her hand was now his hand. Forever.
Their hands fell away. They stood and the ceremony ended, formally announcing it was time to sign the parish registrar in the side room off the altar. She didn’t even remember leaving the altar or walking into the room as she blankly watched Bradford sign the registrar with a few sweeping strokes.
He turned and held out the quill toward her.
Justine gently took the feather and approached the small oak table. Dipping the tip into the inkwell beside the registrar, she carefully and neatly scribed her full birth name beside his, fighting the trembling in her hand.
Sliding the quill back into the inkwell, she released a shaky breath as the old bishop gathered up the large book and congratulated them with a blessing. It was over. And no matter what Bradford’s true intentions were in marrying her, it was done.
A firm gloved hand touched the side of her arm. She jumped and whirled toward Bradford, who lingered behind her.
He leaned in, bringing with him the alluring scent of sweet cigars and heated sandalwood. “You look very pretty.” His gaze swept toward her lips before trailing back up and meeting her eyes again. “Give me your lips.”
She sucked in a breath. He wanted to kiss her? Now? Before the bishop? That simply wasn’t done. Even she knew that. “I prefer you ravage me later.” She paused. Then cringed. For she hardly wanted to say the word ravage in church, let alone before the bishop.
Bradford straightened and stared down at her with penetrating dark eyes, as if he weren’t in any way pleased she had opposed his request.
Her pulse surged, realizing she had not only challenged her own husband, but had done so before the bishop, who was still in the room listening.
Bradford stepped back and readjusted the sleeves of his coat. “As you wish,” he replied tersely. “I should probably inform you I did not make any arrangements for a wedding breakfast. I simply don’t want to entertain and seek to spend as much time with you as possible. I will be waiting outside by the carriage to take you home.” He gave her and the bishop a curt nod, turned and strode out of the small side room.
The bishop rounded the table he’d been loitering behind and eyed her, his full, round face visibly flushed to the tips of his ears touching his dome cap. Setting his wobbling chin high, he wordlessly breezed out of the room, his robes rustling as he tucked the registrar beneath his arm.
Justine released the breath she’d been holding and steadied her shaky limbs by gripping the oak table behind her. Bradford was already taking her home. For heaven’s sake, even in the Lord’s house, it seemed all her new husband could think about was, as he had so crudely put it, sex.
May the Lord have mercy upon more than her soul, for she had a bizarre inkling that being married to him was going to be like keeping a rhinoceros for a pet. A rhinoceros in heat, that was.
Refrain from ever questioning a man’s intentions toward you or any other lady, because most of the time, the poor dear doesn’t even understand what those intentions are himself.
—
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
The Bradford House. That evening
JUSTINE STOOD STIFFLY, lingering beside the hip bath she’d just emerged from, whilst her lady’s maid, Henri, patted her naked limbs dry with soft towels. With pursed lips, the man turned and plucked up an ivory chemise, then turned back and pulled it over her head and down the length of her body.
Although Henri was young, very pleasant, and moved and spoke like a refined lady in male clothing, she confessed it was still rather awkward having him for a lady’s maid. Her mother, not to mention all of England, would have been appalled knowing a man who wasn’t her husband was tending to her naked body.
Henri shoved the curling ends of his blond hair away from his large blue eyes and stepped back, scanning the length of her. “I suggest we not fuss, Your Grace. A chemise is elegant and will put less between you and His Grace. Oui?”
“Uh…oui.”
“Bien.” Henri whisked toward the vanity in the far corner of her new bedchamber and enthusiastically patted the verdant cushioned seat before it. “Come. His Grace has asked that you be ready within the hour.”
Justine let out a shaky breath and made her way over to the backless chair. She sat, and her eyes visibly widened at seeing her own reflection. Her chestnut hair was piled high onto her head, her round breasts and darkened nipples, along with everything else belonging to her nude body, were fully visible through the sheer mulsin chemise Henri had chosen. With some curiosity, she realized that she barely had the urge to cover said breasts with both hands in front of Henri. He projected a friendly, businesslike air, as if performing a great duty to humanity.
So Justine opted to bite her lip instead and purposefully stared up toward the ceiling as Henri pulled out the ivory pins from her hair one by one. Her hair slid and all tumbled down.
Henri moved behind her and swept up her silver-handled brush from the vanity before her. He gathered her hair in sections, brushing those sections one by one. “Might Henri confess something bold, Your Grace?” he asked between brush strokes. “Something I hope will not offend you.”
Justine set her chin and continued to stare blankly toward the ceiling, hoping he wasn’t going to point out how small her breasts were. “I don’t easily offend, Henri. Feel free to say or ask me anything.”
Henri released her hair and leaned toward her from behind. “Tell Lord Marwood Henri spits upon those who do not appreciate his genius.”
Justine snapped her gaze down to the mirror and stared at the reflection of the slender man hovering behind her. “Pardon?”
Henri’s sparkling blue eyes caught hers in the mirror. As if afraid someone might hear, he leaned in even closer and whispered, “His observations give hope. Perhaps one glorious day men will not be unjustly hanged for the desires they are born with. After all, if a female chimpanzee, created by God and unaffected by the sins of humans, feels no shame when it pleasures another female chimpanzee, then what shame should exist if two men or two women choose to pleasure each other in a consensual manner? Oui?”
Justine’s breath hitched as she slowly turned to Henri. No one had ever professed to her they had actually read her father’s observations, let alone confessed finding any value in his work.
Catching Henri’s soft, large hand, she squeezed it lovingly. “So you have read his observations?”
Henri let out an impish laugh and leaned closer, his shaven, boyish face lingering. “Mais, oui. It was well worth every shilling of the ten. My respect knows no bounds.”
Justine’s chest tightened as she brought Henri’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “I thank you for your kind words. As does my father who dedicated eleven years of his life to it. It means the world to me. To us.”
Henri yanked his hand away from hers and tsked. “Tut. I should be kissing your hand.” He made a circle above her head with a finger. “Turn. We must finish or His Grace will toss me and it is back to France for me.”
Justine grinned and turned back to the mirror. “His Grace would never dare.”
CLEAN AND COIFFED and more than ready for her husband, Justine nestled back against the verdant embroidered pillows set atop her massive mahogany bed. Though everything in Bradford’s home was needlessly large, expensive and imposing, she was grateful for all the male servants who made her feel welcome and at home.
Knowing there wasn’t much time left before Bradford visited, Justine snatched up her book, How To Avoid A Scandal, from beneath her pillow and hurriedly paged through it remembering there had been something pertaining to the subject of the bedchamber. Albeit brief.
She paused and stared blankly at what was indeed a disappointing single page. With no illustrations to assist, she prayed the author would mention something about the position in which the wife was to present herself. Because she really didn’t want to do it bent over and rear out, like a waiting sheep or goat or horse or cattle as had been illustrated in her father’s book over and over and over again. She knew what went where, and that it resulted in pleasure for both the male and female, but there had to be a better position than that.
Justine shifted beneath the coverlet and squinted at the lettering, determined to memorize whatever she possibly could.
As a new wife, various duties await. Especially duties involving the siring of children. By having no expectations, this author can assure you, those duties will lead to far less disappointment. Whilst some men do understand the needs of a woman, sadly, many do not. The likelihood is that your husband has the sensitivity of a brick. All you can do is encourage him to be gentle. I also recommend you only allow for him to lift what little of your night clothing is necessary. Nudity, after all, will only rile more aggression, which can be very tedious depending upon his stamina and level of experience. You will know when he is done, when he shows no further interest. Apply a cool, moistened cloth against the affected area as it will ensure less irritation and soreness and prepare you for the next encounter. Each encounter should become less tedious, although this author cannot readily promise that. It was a good thing animals didn’t know how to read, or extinction would have been imminent for all. She shook her head side to side. Useless was what this book was. Absolutely useless. She should have asked her father about more creative positions to assume when she’d had the chance.
Exasperated, Justine slapped the book shut and shoved it beneath her pillow. She yanked the thick coverlet further up her body, covering up more of her chemise, and shivered. Her skin was still moist from the rosewater bath Henri had earlier drawn.
Footsteps echoed from outside her door. She froze, knowing they were Bradford’s.
Her heart pounded as she eyed the closed oak-paneled door. This was it. She was finally going to join the rest of the animal kingdom and glory in it.
There was a curt knock. “Might I enter?” he asked in a cool, civil tone.
At least he didn’t pounce in like a famished jackal. Though that might have actually been more exciting.
“You may,” she called back.
The door opened and the candles within the bedchamber wavered, shifting light and shadows across the length of the cream walls.
Bradford’s large frame lingered in the doorway.
She wet her lips, realizing the man wore only a long, green brocaded robe and hadn’t even bothered to place slippers on his bare feet. His chest, which was exposed by the open flap of the robe, displayed dark curling hairs.
He stared at her with a raw intensity that made her stomach flutter and squeeze in marvelous anticipation.
His dark eyes never left hers as he stepped into the room and banged the door shut behind him.
She jumped and bit back a nervous little giggle. It was as if the man were making it known to every servant in the house that they were about to consummate their marriage. She sank deeper against the bed, her fingers fidgeting against the satin fabric of the coverlet. No more dreaming, no more wondering.
Only doing.
He approached slowly, the floorboards protesting beneath the weight of every movement he made. His continued silence, given what they were about to do, unnerved her a tad as she had no idea what he was feeling. Or thinking. The only thing she did know was that he wanted to do this. Just as she wanted to do this.
He towered beside the bed. And lingered. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
She blinked and sat up. Was he daft? “I’ve waited two whole years for you to marry me and I am not about to wait another night to collect what is rightfully owed me.”
Knowing there was no sense in letting him take the lead in this, as he clearly was reluctant, she decided to assume the one position she did know would please him. For if there was any man closer to a wild animal, it most certainly was Bradford.
She lowered the coverlet down to her lap, painfully aware that her breasts were visible through the sheer fabric of her chemise, and scooted out from beneath the coverlet toward him. She tried to ignore his heated stare as she crawled to the edge of the bed where he stood.
She turned, on all fours, and presented him promptly with her backside. She let out a shaky breath with a mix of anxiety and excitement. “Have at it.”
There was a moment of complete silence.
She paused and glanced over her shoulder.
Bradford stood there quietly, his hands tightly fisted, and his eyes affixed to her backside. “Uh…” He winced as he cleared his throat. “I would prefer we not do it that way.”
Embarrassed, she turned and plopped herself down onto her derrière. “I didn’t realize my backside was that unattractive,” she grumbled.
He let out a strained laugh, his face flushing. “Far from it. I am the luckiest bastard alive.”
Her cheeks grew unbearably hot. “Well, then, what is it?”
His eyes captured hers. “With this being your first encounter, and my first in eight months, I recommend a different…position. I want this to be a pleasurable as well as memorable experience for both of us.” He moved even closer to where she sat.
His eyes flicked over her breasts with blatant admiration as he gestured to the edge of the mattress before him, bidding her to come closer. “There is no need to be nervous. I can assure you, as of right now, I am far more nervous than you are. For this night will determine what we both can expect from here on out.”
Oh, dear. She swallowed and hoped she didn’t disappoint him. Covering her breasts, she slid herself toward him, her chemise twisting and bundling up her bare legs. She settled before him and quickly shoved her chemise back down onto her legs which dangled off the edge of the bed.
Ever so gently, as if she were made of rose petals, Bradford placed his large hands on each side of her thighs and leaned into her, the scent of crisp soap and mint hair tonic floating around her, drugging her into complete submission. His large hands were overly warm, almost hot as they seared straight through the thin muslin of her chemise and burned the skin hidden beneath.
Her heart pounded hard in a mixture of anxiety and arousal, which she was quite certain not only Bradford could hear, but all of London, as well.
He met her gaze. “Might I lift your chemise?”
How charming. The man planned on getting right to it. She smiled shyly and half nodded.
Lowering his gaze to where his hands were, he slid the material of her chemise up, causing the feathery movement to prickle her skin until her lower waist was completely exposed. Cool air lapped against her heated thighs.
He wet his lips, scanning everything he’d uncovered, then met her gaze. “Spread those beautiful limbs, and above all, relax.”
The rustle of the cool linen against the movement of her spreading legs seemed to be the only thing she could hear aside from her own breath. The moisture between her thighs increased in anticipation. To finally have him like this was intoxicating.
With a grace that revealed more experience than she cared to acknowledge, he stepped into the space he’d created and slid his large hands toward her backside.
Firmly gripping her buttocks, he lifted her, then yanked her toward his body and up against his solid thighs, closing off whatever gap had been left between them.
He kissed her forehead, softly here and softly there, lingering with his lips, leaving a trail of velvet warmth against her skin. In that moment, she felt lighter than air. Nothing mattered. Nothing but him and nothing but this.
His warm hands slid firmly and purposefully beneath her chemise and rounded from her back up toward her breasts. He grazed them, circling her nipples with his thumbs, causing them to harden.
She shivered at the thrill of his touch and wondered how she had ever survived without it all this time.
He drew in a harsh breath, causing his chest to notably rise and expand before her, then pinched her breasts so hard, an astonished gasp tore from her lips.
Pain throbbed against her nipples as her eyes flew up to his. “What are you…that hurt.”
He shifted his tight jaw, his body and eyes fully dominating hers. Ever so tenderly, he massaged her nipples and breasts, drawing out the throbbing sting. “Forgive me. Some women like that.”