He seethed out a breath through his teeth and quickly turned. He pushed his way through the crowd, toward the direction of the dance floor, moving as fast as he could without startling those around him.
Sweat coated his skin as he kept moving and pushing forward, trying to ensure that the woman did not engage him. He knew once his obsession took hold, there was very little he could do. Fortunately, she did not follow.
He blew out an exhausted breath and focused on his surroundings. He was not here to bloody hunt for women.
He searched the crowded dance floor before him. Carlton’s tall, muscled frame came in and out of view before him. The side of that rugged profile appeared and disappeared as his brother danced and moved among those around him. A young, attractive redhead draped in a mauve evening gown danced seamlessly alongside Carlton, pairing up with him whenever she could.
Radcliff tugged on the cuffs of his sleeves beneath his cloak and coat. It had been quite some time since he’d last seen the man. Almost eight months.
Watching Carlton engage in jovial festivities whilst Matilda suffered disgusted him. All he could do was quietly wait for the dance to end. The last thing he wanted was to cause an uproar on his own wedding night. A night which should have been spent in Justine’s bed.
As he waited, watching the growing flirtation between Carlton and this red-haired beauty, he angrily flexed his gloved hands, opening and closing them. God save him from killing his own brother.
The orchestra finally ceased playing the set.
Carlton bent his dark head toward his coquette. She offered him a radiant curtsy with a saucy smile, then turned and sashayed toward a group of randy men who all broke out into competing raptures.
Carlton stared after the woman, then turned and strode closer, until their gazes locked.
Radcliff stiffened, the tension in his body coiling. Despite the mounting strain of anger within him, he managed to incline his head in a polite form of salutation.
His brother came to an abrupt halt and stared with piercing blue eyes no one in the Bradford family had ever borne. It was the only physical characteristic that separated their otherwise similar appearance. Aside from his scar, of course.
Carlton inclined his dark head.
Radcliff swept a gloved hand toward the direction of the doors leading out into the garden, but otherwise said nothing. His brother nodded, turned and set off in the direction he’d indicated.
Radcliff wove through the people around him, following Carlton to the other side of the room. He ignored the passing faces of those who openly gawked at him in response to not only his inappropriate attire but his scar, which had not been introduced to London until tonight. It was but the beginning of what he could expect for the rest of his days.
Carlton disappeared through the doors leading out onto the darkened terrace, and within moments, Radcliff joined him.
The light breeze of the summer night cooled his heated skin as he stepped out. Carlton walked farther into the garden, disappearing down the stone path into the darkness, away from the festivities.
Radcliff moved down the narrow, stone terrace stairs and strode across the garden path after him. He paused when a tall shadow appeared before him barely a few feet away.
Radcliff steadied his breathing, readying himself for the confrontation he’d been waiting for all night, and closed the distance between them in three swift strides.
Despite the darkness, he managed to grab hold of the lapels of Carlton’s evening coat and yanked his brother’s broad frame violently toward himself. “Have you seen Matilda? Have you seen what you bloody did to her?”
Carlton stiffened but otherwise did not attempt to move. “Has that whore run to you again?” he replied in an overly composed tone.
Radcliff released Carlton’s clothing and seized his throat with a hand, digging every single tip of his gloved fingers deep into that windpipe. He willed himself not to squeeze and suffocate his own brother. “You could have killed her. And the child.”
Carlton lifted his chin to expand his throat but otherwise did not struggle. “You are overreacting. She is fine.”
Radcliff leaned in closer. “She is not fine. And rest assured, I haven’t even reacted, you fucking bastard.”
Carlton grabbed hold of Radcliff’s hand, which still held his throat, and ripped it away in a solid forceful sweep. Carlton rigidly pointed at him and seethed out in a low, predatory tone, “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.”
Ah, yes. It appeared, seventeen years after the truth had been revealed to both of them, Carlton still struggled to contend with who he really was.
A bastard.
They used to get along. Before their mother had pulled them out of Eton one winter day, merely to inform them that Carlton was a bastard and that she could not bear the guilt of knowing that their father, who had trusted and loved her so much, had died never knowing it.
Radcliff could only helplessly watch as their mother had suffered from a complete shattering of nerves brought on by guilt and loneliness. She had died shortly afterward, and their lives had been a mess ever since. A mess Radcliff had tried to assist his brother through, only to be pushed away every single time.
Carlton stared him down. “Aren’t you supposed to be home shagging Justine?”
Radcliff narrowed his gaze and focused on the hazy outline of Carlton’s shadowed face, trying hard to keep his fist from smashing straight through the man’s skull. “She is officially Duchess to you, ingrate. You’d best remember to show her due respect and stay the hell away from her. Because I don’t need another mess.”
Carlton held up both gloved hands and gurgled out a laugh. “Do not insult what little remains between us. Unlike you, I’d never fuck the same hole my brother has. Frankly, the very thought of us crossing swords shrivels me. If only it shriveled you.”
Radcliff hissed out a breath. “Nothing happened between Matilda and myself. Nothing. I refuse to apologize for something I did not do.”
“Matilda would have never followed you that night if you hadn’t insinuated interest,” Carlton seethed through clenched teeth. “For the first time in my life I felt as if I finally had something you did not. But you had to rip away what little was mine and reduce me to what we both know I am—nothing. I suppose I really must be nothing if I can’t even retain a mistress.”
“What little you know. She was tired of your vile, empty promises. She was bound to move on whether it was with me or someone else.” Radcliff shook his head, wishing he could somehow rid himself of all this lingering remorse. “I don’t want to discuss this with you ever again. The only reason I even came here tonight was to ensure Matilda’s safety. She has already been through enough. There is no need for you to further punish her.”
Carlton boldly stepped toward him, their boots almost tip to tip. “So you came here tonight, uninvited, into my home to inform me as to what I can or cannot do with my own mistress? Sod you, Bradford. Sod. You. I am merely ensuring she never strays again. Because you and I both know what she really wanted that night when she followed you to that slum of a party. But instead of your prick ending up in her, it happened to be six others. As far as I’m concerned, she deserved it. Just as you deserved having your face carved up like the belly of a goose at Christmas. Because I know what would have happened between you and Matilda if those men hadn’t accosted her. And that is why I loathe you. That is why I will always loathe you. Because you are only worth the length of your prick, and that, I can assure you, isn’t very much.”
Silence hung between them, thick as the thickest fog. Radcliff fisted his hands hard, feeling his heartbeat throbbing within them. “I deserve your wrath, Carlton, because you are right. I most likely would have engaged Matilda that night if I had known she was there. Despite that, one thing gives me peace. That I, Radcliff Edwin Morton, the fourth Duke of Bradford, actually have a few redeemable qualities left within me. Unlike you. Because no woman, no matter her sin, deserves to be raped and beaten by six men, and then further beaten and degraded by the man who claims to be devoted to her. You know absolutely nothing about devotion. You are only devoted to yourself and yourself alone.”
His brother said nothing, merely stood there with his chest heaving.
“Carlton?” a woman called out from somewhere behind them. Slippered feet shuffled down the darkened path, coming closer.
Radcliff glanced over his shoulder toward the sound of rustling skirts. Someone had followed them into the garden.
Carlton sucked in a harsh breath.
Radcliff smirked, then leaned toward his brother. “It seems I am not the only one whose worth is about to be measured by the length of his prick.”
“I suggest you leave.”
“Gladly. In the meantime, stay the fuck away from Matilda, but more importantly, stay away from my wife. Otherwise, you will wish to whatever bones you have left within you that our mother never brought you into existence.”
Radcliff yanked his hood back onto his head, burying himself within it, and turned. He stalked down the path and said to the woman brushing past, “Be aware, Madam, that your safety is at risk if you choose to associate with Carlton.”
She paused, yet despite his warning, hurried on.
Radcliff shook his head and walked away. He couldn’t save them all.
A wife should dutifully submit to her husband. At least every once in a while. It will make her life considerably easier, more tolerable and worthwhile.
—
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
The following afternoon
AFTER TAKING BREAKFAST alone in silence, as well as afternoon tea in the drawing room alone without any sign of Bradford, Justine opted to drift in and out of each lavishly decorated room, trying to make sense of the life she had chosen. The soft rustling of her pale blue muslin gown was the only sound drifting around her.
She didn’t know why she felt so inclined to look at everything Bradford owned. The value of his belongings meant nothing to her. All she truly sought amongst his furnishing and portraits and vases was an understanding as to the sort of man he really was. Yet nothing whispered to her of any truth, mostly because they were all superficial heirlooms of generations past.
She used to know who he was, or at least she thought she did, but sensed there was more to him than he had ever let on. She only hoped there was a way to expose the man who hid beneath that scarred veneer because she couldn’t help but feel haunted not knowing what had happened to him.
She paused when she came across a set of closed double doors and lingered. Except for the occasional echoing steps of servants in the far distance as they carried out their daily duties, silence hummed.
Justine glanced down the empty corridor, ensuring that no one was watching her, then reached out and turned the knobs, expecting them to be locked.
To her surprise, the knobs moved.
She hesitated, then fanned the doors open and entered a sunlit oak-paneled room with lofty ceilings. She purposefully left the doors behind her open in case anyone happened upon her. She didn’t want the servants or Bradford thinking she was poking about.
Justine paused in the middle of the large study. The wall on the far end of the room was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves and shelves of old, leather-bound books. Before those shelves sat a large mahogany desk whose pristine gleaming surface held stacks of papers and several glass inkwells and quills.
Her gaze fell upon the only painting to grace the room: a portrait just above the marble mantelpiece. She blinked up at the standing figure of a rosy-cheeked, beautiful dark-haired woman whose gloved hand was propped against a garden wall. She was dressed in a flowing daffodil gown, which barely allowed the tips of her white slippers to peer out.
Though the woman did not smile, her dark eyes stared at her with a shining playfulness that made Justine look back in silent awe. Bradford’s mother. The last Duchess. The one she’d never met, as she had died many, many years ago, when Bradford was seventeen. Oddly, Bradford rarely spoke of her. Nor did he speak of his father, whose dashing portrait was in the corridor.
Justine tore her gaze away from the woman and walked over to Bradford’s writing desk. Her hand slid along the smooth, gleaming surface as she rounded it, wondering how often Bradford had sat at this particular desk.
A large leather chair had been pulled away from the desk, waiting for someone to be seated. She sat, compelled to be part of a life she knew nothing of and felt rather small against the towering sides of the chair. She eyed the neat stacks of correspondences and noted how tidy everything was. Her father’s writing desk had never been this tidy.
She dragged the chair over so as to sit closer to the desk and smiled saucily, wondering if she should write a letter to her parents and sign it with her new name—the Duchess of Bradford. Her mother would probably chide her for putting on airs.
Justine daintily reached across the desk, making sure not to touch anything she shouldn’t, and slid an inkwell closer. She plucked up a quill from its bronzed stand, then took up a piece of parchment from the stack on the desk and set it squarely before her.
She was about to dip the tip of the quill into the inkwell when the double doors leading into the study creaked closed. Her gaze flew up, and to her surprise, Bradford strode toward her.
He was dressed meticulously in a perfectly cut gray morning coat, a brocaded waistcoat with brass buttons, and dark wool trousers that clung to his muscled legs. All topped off with a polished pair of black leather boots. She couldn’t help but stare as he approached, mesmerized not only by how dashing he looked, but by the smooth movements of his large frame.
When he reached the writing desk, the only thing separating them, he leaned forward and planted his hands on the surface of the desk. He eyed the blank parchment she had set before herself. “Good afternoon.”
She shoved the quill back into its bronze stand and scrambled to her feet, pushing back the oversize chair behind her. “My afternoon is indeed good now that you are here.” She smiled. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again. How are you?”
He merely shrugged.
“I was going to write a letter to my parents,” she quickly went on. “Mind you, I could easily visit them, and plan to, but I thought—”
“There is no need to explain. I am very pleased to see you are settling in so well. That said, I have a few matters to tend to with my secretary before the end of the day. So I won’t be about.” He huffed out a breath and eyed her. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. I should have stayed with you. I should have consummated our marriage. If it is your wish, as it is mine, come to my bed at nine. I will be waiting.” He nodded, then pushed himself away from the desk and walked back toward the closed doors.
She blinked, her cheeks flushing. Dear God. Was this to be her life? One of limited conversations and fleeting midnight visits to each other’s bedchambers depending upon his mood? She realized it was a marriage of convenience, but did it really need to be that convenient?
Justine rounded the desk and quickly made her way toward him. “I cannot help but feel as though you have been avoiding me. What is it? Did I do something wrong?”
He paused, then rigidly turned back toward her.
She swallowed and waited for him to say something. For the briefest of moments, she thought he would. Yet for some odd reason, he appeared unable to.
She threw up her hands in exasperation and let them drop back down to her sides. “Even a simple conversation about the weather would be pleasantly tolerable. Anything aside from this silence. I loathe to say it, Bradford, but we’ve barely been married a day and I am already concerned about the direction of this marriage. What happened to the charming rogue who used to banter with me only months ago?”
His brows rose as if intrigued by her sentiment. He fully turned, then strode back toward her, closing the space between them until the tips of his polished leather boots touched the outer hem of her gown.
Though he still said nothing, in that moment, he didn’t need to. For his black, penetrating eyes said it all. They held the same raw need she had witnessed the night before, when he had entered her bedchamber and relentlessly touched the softness between her thighs until she had melted beneath his hands into blazing oblivion.
She wet her lips. “I refuse to be neglected.”
“Whilst I refuse to let you think you are being neglected. Come here.” He reached out and effortlessly swept her up into his arms and carried her over to the desk.
Her heart flipped at the unexpected display of affection. She grabbed hold of the lapels on his coat and with a lopsided grin said, “My, aren’t we dashing.”
“I try.” He smiled as his muscled arms crushed her even more against his broad, hard chest, forcing her to feel not only the heat of his body, but every contour of it.
Setting her atop the edge of the desk where her slippered feet dangled over the edge, he swiftly went around to all the windows. One by one, he yanked the curtains shut, until they were enclosed in low light.
Her eyes widened as she watched him stride back toward her. What on earth did he intend to do? That? Here? Now? Oh, dear. She wanted to, yes, but not…now. No. No, no, no. Not in the study. Not with all the servants running about.
He paused before her, lingering. “If I may be so bold, I think you look very beautiful today.”
“I…do?”
“Yes. You do.”
She offered up a nervous smile and repeatedly smoothed the front of her gown, not knowing how she should respond. She’d never had anyone tell her she was beautiful. Pretty, yes. But not beautiful.
He leaned closer, the crisp scent of mint from his hair tonic teasing her senses. “Might I ask where you got this particular dress?”
She blinked. Why, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say her husband was trying to have a conversation. ’Twas a boring conversation, but it nonetheless qualified. “Well,” she offered, “when I first came to London and had the fashion sense of a crocodile, someone recommended this fabulous shop on Regent Street. The Nightingale. Have you heard of it?”
He smirked. “No. I don’t usually wear female clothing.”
She laughed. “And there is no reason you should. You look very dashing as you are. The Nightingale is where I bought this gown last year. For my first season. I could only afford this one, seeing they are terribly expensive, and with my father’s yearly annuity being what it is, I preferred a more inexpensive means of filling my wardrobe.”
“Your days of settling are over, dearest. I suggest we purchase this shop’s entire inventory. It is obvious they know what the hell they are doing.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need their entire inventory.”
“I say you do. I also say we should arrange it as quickly as possible so that I may benefit. We’ve yet to make an appearance in society as husband and wife, and what better way to do it than on Regent Street whilst shopping?”
She beamed. “You wish to make an appearance with me?”
His brows came together. “But of course I do. It is my intention to make every man in London heave with envy. In the meantime, I’ve decided to change my meeting and spend this afternoon with you. What do you say to that?”
He dropped his gaze to her lap, wet his lips and slid his large hands down the sides of her muslin gown. He fisted the material, gathering up the layers of her gown, and slowly dragged it up the length of her dangling legs. The movement playfully caressed her stockinged legs and thighs.
Her senses pulsed in yearning.
The fabric of her gown slid higher, and his steamy gaze slowly lifted, scandalously caressing not just her skin but her soul. He leaned toward her and whispered, “I wish to ensure my wife never feels neglected. Not ever again.”
He firmly pressed his lips to the side of her exposed neck. Her breath caught. His hot tongue flicked across her skin, then tauntingly traced the hollow of her neck.
The entire room swayed and she along with it. Even though she ached to give in to him, she didn’t want to engage him in this way.
She gently pushed at his chest, causing his lips to break away from her heated skin. She raised a brow and held her hands against his chest, trying to hold him in place. “Later, you ruffian, you. Tonight. In your room.”
He removed her hands from his chest, setting them back at her sides, and leaned in again. “Tonight? Why? You were just complaining about being neglected.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “I wasn’t complaining about that sort of neglect, Bradford. I was referring to the lack of words exchanged between us.”
He leaned in and licked her lower lip. “Words mean nothing to me, Justine, and will only lead us astray. I prefer witnessing what your body has to say. Because that, I know, is real.”
God save her, he was in some way right. But she also knew physicality would never fill the space of the words she sought. A duchess also had a duty not to look like a wanton in front of her servants, which would only carry itself outside of the house.
She leaned as far back against the desk as her corset and gown would allow. “Bradford, I prefer we—”
“Don’t call me Bradford.” His hands rubbed her exposed thighs. “You are my wife. Call me Radcliff.”
“Uh…Radcliff?” she prodded, wishing he’d stop distracting her so much with his hands.
“Yes?” He closed the space she’d created, his hands sliding up and down the length of her legs, causing her skin to tingle.
She swallowed, trying to fight the urge to throw him onto the desk herself, but knew a duchess ought to have a little more self-control than that. “I prefer we wait until tonight. In the meantime, I was hoping we could get to know one another better.”
He leaned in and flicked his tongue across her earlobe. “I thought we already knew each other,” he whispered. “Very well. Now cease this. Cease resisting me.”
She swayed against his body, her hands gripping his shoulders. “I want this. I do, but—”
His hands jerked her skirts up higher, above her knees, causing her to jump. “Then fuck me,” he growled. “Fuck me, or by God, I will take you by force.”
Her heart skittered. She shoved his hands away, yanked her skirts back down and glared at him. “You most certainly won’t be taking me by force or using that sort of language. I’m merely trying to get to know you, is all. Before we forget what is important.”
“This is important.” He leaned in again and slid his tongue down the length of her neck, toward her breasts and dipped it between the valley tucked beneath her neckline.