She gasped against the melting sensations and grabbed hold of his broad shoulders to steady herself. “You aren’t being…fair. I am desperately trying to converse with you, Bradford.”
“Radcliff. The name is Radcliff.” He lowered his head and nipped at the upper sleeve of her gown, as his warm hands circled in between her thighs. “I eagerly await our conversation, Duchess. All I ask is that you limit it to fifteen minutes.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “That doesn’t leave us much time.”
His brows went up. “Then you had best make use of your time.”
She wet her lips and grounded her thoughts, focusing on what it was she’d been longing to know all along. “Forgive me for being forward, but…you never answered me that night when I had asked about your scar. It haunts me knowing only muddled whispers. Won’t you tell me what happened?”
His hands stilled. He lifted his dark head from her shoulder, but refused to look at her. The material of her gown, which he’d held up, slid from his grasp, and cascaded back down and over her legs with a quiet rustle.
After a prolonged moment of silence, he stepped back and said, “A blade met my face. What more do you wish to know?” Without sparing her another glance, he stalked toward the other side of the study, threw open the doors with a resounding bang and disappeared.
Her eyes widened. She realized it was probably difficult for him to discuss but at the very least, she deserved some measure of respect.
Scrambling off the desk, Justine gathered up her skirts and dashed after him. When she eventually caught up to him at the end of the large hall, she grabbed hold of his arm and yanked him to a complete halt, forcing him to turn. “Don’t insult what little we share by running off when I ask you a question.”
He released an agitated breath through his nostrils. “I didn’t run off.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Are we done with this conversation? I have an appointment with my secretary. The estate doesn’t run itself, you know.”
She glared at him, exasperated. It was like trying to reason with a warthog. “I suppose I didn’t realize we were having a conversation. Perhaps I should offer you a better incentive to stay. The only incentive you seem receptive to.” She grandly gestured toward the expanse of her neckline and breasts.
He smoothed the front of his waistcoat and looked away. “I made you full aware of my obsession.”
“Yes, but you didn’t mention you’d also be excluding all forms of conversation. I want to get to know you. I want us to genuinely engage each other, and I have no intention of relenting on this. I deserve to have more involved conversations with my husband.”
He smirked and stepped menacingly close. “You want a more involved conversation with your husband, Duchess? I’ll give you a more involved conversation. Tonight. In my bed.”
She gasped. The man really did belong in the animal kingdom! She pointed at him, not at all caring that her behavior was equally rude. “I don’t know the sort of women you’re used to associating with, Your Grace, but until you begin treating me with the respect you promised, and the conversations I deserve, don’t expect this marriage to be consummated anytime soon. Despite what you and the rest of London thinks, intimacy is a privilege. Not a right.”
With that, she set her chin and swept past him, trying to prove that she was not just a duchess in name, but also a duchess at heart.
Early that evening
RADCLIFF STRODE DOWN the candlelit corridor, donning only a robe, more sexually frustrated than he had ever been in his entire life. He knew full well if he was going to survive this night, as well as all the other nights, he needed to formally apologize and offer Justine the intimacy she wanted. For he wasn’t about to allow his stupid pride to get in the way of consummating this marriage.
Reaching her bedchamber door, he let out a soft breath and gripped the handle, turning it. Only it wouldn’t budge. His brows came together as he rattled the raised grain knob in disbelief.
“Is there something you wanted, Bradford?” Justine called out from the other side, obviously knowing it was him.
He cleared his throat and dropped his hand away from the knob. “Yes. I came to apologize.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t. I know what you came for, and I suggest you wait until morning. You can apologize to me then.”
His jaw tightened. She was truly something. Of all the women in London, he would end up taking a fancy to the one who could not only read his mind but who intended to unravel the last of him. “Justine, I want you to open the door.”
“If you were me, Bradford, would you open the door?”
He narrowed his gaze. “I don’t find your blatant defiance amusing.”
“It isn’t meant to amuse you. I suggest you retire. We’ll discuss this in greater detail in the morning, once you’ve been given more time to think about how it is you intend to interact with me.”
Perpetuating his own suffering was not what he’d had in mind when he’d put in his offer for her hand. She was supposed to be a distraction. Not a torture mechanism.
He ran a hand through his hair and reclenched his fist, his cock pulsing and in desperate need of release. “Whether or not I choose to offer you an apology and conversation takes no precedence over my legal rights as husband. Now open this door.”
She snorted indelicately. “You are clearly delusional if you think I would open the door after that pathetic excuse for an apology.”
“Justine.” He pounded the door, sending thudding echoes throughout the corridor around him. “You owe me this much. You owe me after everything I’ve done for you and your father.”
She feigned a laugh. “Is that what you think? Well. In case I didn’t formally inform you of it, Your Grace, the sort of relationship I am seeking from my husband is going to include more than mere physicality. I want what goes on inside your head and inside your heart before these legs will ever part.”
Bloody hell. What the blazes had he gotten himself into? “You are my wife and I have a right to bed you.”
“I can only apologize, Your Grace, but I am not about to bed a man who has no respect for me. Whether he is my husband or not.”
He gritted his teeth and kicked the door. Hard. She was his wife. He had every right to bed her.
“I only hope I don’t have to listen to this all night,” she snapped. “Because I am tired. Good night.” There was a movement, as if she settled into bed, and then all went quiet.
Radcliff pressed his eye against the thin crack of the door but could see nothing. He growled beneath his breath and hit the door with his fist one last time, shaking it on its hinges. He paced the corridor back and forth a few times, glancing toward the door, then swung around and veered back to his room, knowing he had no choice but to frig himself. He couldn’t go to sleep with an erection that had been pestering him most of the day.
God damn it all!
It was obvious if he wanted to bed his own wife—without altogether taking her by force—he was going to have to come up with something. And hell if he knew what it was.
Never powder your face or anything else, for that matter, in public, for a lady should only be vain in the presence of a mirror set in her room.
—
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
The following morning
JUSTINE ARRANGED HER napkin tidily upon her lap, plucked up the silver and commenced eating her breakfast, pretending that she was all alone at the table and having a jolly good time at it.
Which she was not.
Bradford sat across from her, intently and quietly staring her down the whole while, as if what he really wanted to eat was her.
Yes, well, she thought to herself, he could starve. He needed to learn a few lessons on self-control and respect.
When she had finally finished eating, she drew back her hands and allowed the servants to take her plate and setting. All that was left now was to enjoy her tea. And she certainly wasn’t in any hurry to finish it. Not at all. She wanted to prove to him that she wasn’t intimidated.
Bradford shifted in his seat and waved away the food he hadn’t even touched. The servants hastily cleared his entire side of the table.
After a few moments of continued silence, he rumbled out, “I’ve arranged an outing. You and I will do the sort of things that a husband and wife should do.”
She raised a brow over the porcelain rim of her teacup. “How very lovely. Thank you. Where are we going?”
“To the opera. I own a balcony and wish to make use of it before the season comes to an end.”
She swallowed the earthy warmth of her tea and set her cup onto the small blue-and-ivory flower-patterned porcelain plate. She sighed. Sadly, she’d never cared for the opera. Every time her parents had taken her—when they had still been able to afford it, that was—she’d spent the evening depressed, listening to men and women sing to each other about how heartbreaking life was.
As if she needed to be reminded. “Can’t we do something else? I’ve never cared for the opera. All they ever sing about is how miserable life is.”
“I happen to like the opera. It portrays various aspects of life other forms of entertainment here in London don’t ever touch upon.”
“Yes, I suppose, but can’t we—”
“You are going, Justine. And herein ends this discussion. Is that understood?”
She glared at him. “You are being needlessly rude.”
He glared back her. “How? By asking you to go to the opera? I think you are the one being rude for not wanting to go.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Is that so? Perhaps I don’t want to go because I feel being married to you is already depressing enough without having to set it to music.”
He shifted his jaw and let out a single, agitated breath through his nostrils. He leaned back into his chair, his gaze never once leaving hers, and coolly drawled to the servants standing in the corners of the dining room, “My wife and I require privacy. Any servant found wandering about the house over the next two hours shall be terminated without references. Or pay.”
Her eyes widened as she met his scalding gaze.
There was a pause. Then all the servants scrambled out of their corners and thundered straight into the corridor, completely disappearing from sight.
“Into quarters!” one of them hollered with full force. “Right quick! Anyone found wandering about the house over the next two hours will be terminated. Without references or pay!”
The echoing of male shouts and thudding and scrambling of boots within the halls eventually dissipated.
Everything was quiet. So quiet, Justine could not only hear herself breathing but if she listened hard enough, she could hear Bradford, as well.
She swallowed. Hard. And tried to keep from fidgeting within her chair. He was merely trying to intimidate her was all. As if he scared her. After all the animals she’d seen in her lifetime, he was naught more than an aardvark rounding an anthill in the distance.
Bradford stood, shaking the large table from the weight of his hands as he pushed up. Still staring her down, he rounded the table. His large frame, enrobed in a gray coat, matching waistcoat and full morning attire, advanced steadily.
Justine grabbed hold of her teacup with both hands and brought it up to her lips, trying to quell the trembling. She supposed she should have been more mentally prepared for the challenge she had set.
He paused and towered beside her chair.
Although she knew he had every right to bed her, she refused to acknowledge that right. What she deserved first and foremost was respect. Respect came before right.
“Ask me what it is I want,” he said, spacing his words evenly. “Ask me why I continue to patiently stand here, waiting for my own wife to acknowledge me.”
Her heart pounded, and for a moment she wondered if he would have the audacity to take his rights at the breakfast table. She shakily set the teacup back onto the small plate, making it clink, and turned herself and her gaze toward him. Trying to appear indifferent.
“All right,” she obliged. “What is it that you want? Why do you insist on standing so needlessly close to my chair?”
He shifted toward her, cornering her in.
“Seeing my civil attempt to court you isn’t to your liking, Duchess, I’ve decided to offer you a less civil alternative that won’t require an outing at all. Choose whatever pleases you most. The opera. Or your innocence taken right here at the breakfast table. Either way, you have one minute to decide before I make the decision for you.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
She shifted in her seat and frantically waved her hand toward his trousers. “All right, all right. I’ll…go to the opera. Now, step away! Gad. You really ought to learn to control yourself more. This sort of behavior is not acceptable.”
He chuckled low and throaty, as if he found himself amusing, and retreated to his side of the table. “I never thought it was. I simply didn’t know how else to get you to cooperate. We leave at six. Wear something attractive, will you? Something that will show off your breasts. Oh, and powder them while you’re at it. I like powdered breasts.” He hesitated, as if deciding against seating himself at the table again, then turned and strode out.
Justine shifted in her seat, once, then twice, as she waved her hand frantically before her hot face, trying desperately to cool it. Shameless as it was, she didn’t know how much longer she could keep resisting him. Though the lady residing within her soul wanted to toss him out on his nose for not giving her due respect, the animal clawing at her soul wanted to lure the man straight into her own bed and be done with it.
JUSTINE WRAPPED HER cashmere shawl tighter around the verdant silk evening gown, which Bradford had not even commented on, and nervously made her way through the crowds of people. Every person she and Bradford passed seemed to pause and take note.
She realized all too painfully that this was the first time Bradford had willingly stepped out in public. And drat them, they were all staring, as if he were somehow more deformed than a leper.
Knowing it was anything but proper, Justine grabbed hold of Bradford’s arm as they moved across the gilded domed entrance of the opera and tucked herself against him. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to prove to each and every person watching that, despite his appearance and despite all their arguing, there was a united front. Little did they know that once she had enough time to properly tame him, he was going to make the rest of the men in London look like wildebeests.
Though she felt the muscles in Bradford’s arm tighten in response to her blatant affection, it was brief. And what was more, he allowed her touch.
They climbed up the marble staircase leading to the viewing boxes upstairs. Bradford led her down a long wide hallway, past several numbered doors.
They paused when they came to the end of the corridor.
He released her arm, opened the door, then leaned toward her and drawled, “Powder those round tops of yours a bit more. I recommend you do it out here in the corridor as opposed to in the box where everyone will be watching.” He winked, then yanked open the door, stepped inside and closed it behind himself, leaving her out in the corridor.
She blinked, not once, but twice, before glancing down at the top rounds of her breasts which were already shamelessly displayed by the low-cut evening gown. Why did she even want to please him? As if he deserved it.
She blew out a disgusted breath, pried open her reticule and hunted for her tin of powder past the opera glass, loose coins and a lace handkerchief. She yanked it out, along with a small feathered brush, then glanced down the long corridor behind her, at the couples entering their boxes.
How on earth was she to put it on with all these people around? She turned away, toward the silk-embroidered wall, pretending she was admiring one of the paintings on display, then did her best to apply the powder, without applying it all over her dress.
Feeling she was more than well-powdered, she shoved the tin back into her reticule, turned away from the wall and approached the door.
She took in a deep breath and touched her hand to the brass knob, letting herself in. She quietly closed the door. Turning toward the balcony, she paused. Thick red velvet curtains draped the open sides of the viewing box, making her feel encased in the folds of a luxurious gown. Two glass bulbs delicately etched with flowers hung from the low ceiling, providing flickering light from the candles within.
Bradford’s black top hat had been set beside him. He sat in one of the plush mahogany chairs, his broad back to her, his large, white-gloved hands folded rather casually behind his dark head as he looked out onto the large open auditorium. He had even scandalously propped his long, muscled legs, which were draped in black formal trousers, atop the wooden ledge of the viewing box. His black shoes reflected the golden light from the hall, displaying how perfectly polished they were.
In that moment, he reminded her of the Bradford she sorely missed. The one who had always been at ease with himself and the world. Had that been merely a façade to a troubled soul?
Her cashmere shawl slipped from her shoulders and floated down onto the green-and-red-flowered carpet. She didn’t even care, because in that moment, she was enjoying her chance to watch him without him knowing it.
His hands and feet suddenly dropped to the floor as he turned, his scarred face now completely facing her. Black eyes boldly skimmed the length of her, causing her heart to skip.
A dizzying warmth overcame her even as she desperately tried to remain aloof.
“Perfection is the only word to define you.” He rose to his full height, stepped around his seat and came back toward her. He bent and swept up the scarf that had slipped from her shoulders. Rising, he leaned toward her, gently wrapped it around her shoulders and lingered.
“Come.” He took her hand and led her to their seats at the opening overlooking the ledge.
Justine couldn’t help but breathe in this unexpected moment of what felt like a genuine attempt at courtship. She reveled in it, wanting to remember every detail. From the feel of his hand, to the beautiful carved gold ceilings above, to the stage draped with lush, red curtains bearing the royal emblem, right down to the enormous auditorium below, which seemed crowded with half of London.
Various overly coiffed women with large feathers in their hair, with emeralds and pearls and every stone imaginable on their gloved wrists and exposed necks, were already whispering busily amongst themselves, occasionally pointing with fans in their direction. The men weren’t quite so bold or obvious. With creased brows, they all pretended to be regally admiring the architecture.
Justine thought she might faint from the reality that everyone in London was not only discussing her and Bradford, but watching them. She sat in her designated chair to steady her shaky legs. She clutched her shawl, wishing she could crawl beneath it.
“Don’t deprive me of everything, Justine.” Bradford leaned toward her, the tips of his gloved fingers grazing her exposed shoulders as he swept off the cashmere shawl.
A cool breeze caressed her as he lifted it off and away. Her shoulders were openly exposed by the dip and cut of her gown. She didn’t know why, but she felt as if Bradford had officially put her on display.
He seated himself beside her and shifted in his seat. “Did you bring the opera glass I left out for you?”
She nodded and fumbled to remove it from her reticule. Her shaky fingers repeatedly tried to loosen the drawn cord, yet she had somehow lost control over her ability to make them function.
Bradford’s large hand swept over her fumbling ones. He wedged his fingers past hers and effortlessly loosened the cord, opening the reticule for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You are most welcome. Despite what you think, I can be quite useful from time to time outside the bedchamber.” A muscle flickered in his tight, scarred jaw as he gazed beyond her and toward the stage.
It was obvious that the Duke of Bradford, whom she thought didn’t give a drat about her opinion, was in fact trying to prove his worth. In the littlest of ways, mind you, but surely it would lead to more.
For if an insignificant hard granule of sand could be used by an oyster to create a beautiful, priceless pearl, then surely the Duke of Bradford would one day become the man of her dreams.