Heart’s Temptation Series Books 4-6

by Scott, Scarlett

  “I fear that whoever did this to you intended to do far worse, Lord Ravenscroft.” Her face was ashen, and yet she remained the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

  His head thumped. “Never say you’re worried for me, wife?”

  “You mustn’t call me that.” Her fingers fretted with the sleeve of her dressing gown.

  “Why? Are you not, in fact, the woman I married today?” It didn’t matter that he’d taken a severe bludgeoning. She was still his, damn it all, and he wasn’t foggy on that fact. Not one bit.

  “You know quite well what I mean to say. Despite your protestations to the contrary, we will not have a true marriage. I’m returning to Virginia and you cannot stop me.” She looked into her lap. “But of course I worry. How can I not? Someone almost killed you tonight, and I very much fear your assassination was the villain’s primary goal.”

  Ah, there it was, the truth unfettered between them. They were done dancing at pretense. She was too clever for a woman of her tender age. He wondered what had made her become cynical enough to reach the same conclusion as he. Other ladies he’d known would have swooned at the sight of an injured man. They would have retired to their chamber until he regained consciousness, and then they would’ve made the easier and safer assumption that he’d been the victim of a random crime.

  For some mad reason, her worry warmed him. Perhaps she didn’t hate him for his subterfuge, then. Perhaps she even cared, just a modicum. “The bastard didn’t succeed, however.” He strove for a bland tone. No need to upset her more than necessary. His mind yet grappled with the implications of what had befallen him.

  “Someone tried to kill you.” This time, she was blunt, looking up from her nervous fingers to meet his gaze. “Are you not concerned?”

  Hell, yes he was concerned. But his mind was still jumbled and muddled. His head hurt like the devil. He very much wished he had not gone to his club, spurred by his pride, and had instead gone to her.

  “Surely your father wouldn’t hire an assassin?” he asked, opting for flippancy, which had always served him well.

  Her eyes went wide. “He would never! You cannot think my father to blame for this?”

  He didn’t answer her immediately, partly because although he’d posed the question in jest, he had to admit it did have some merit. Her dearest papa, after all, thought him a black-hearted despoiler of innocents, a vile fortune hunter who had preyed upon his beloved daughter. The timing seemed rather suspect. The very night of his wedding. By the contract they’d agreed upon, his demise would have left Clara with any estates that weren’t part of the entail and all her marriage portion. Tidy method of solving a problem, that.

  “My father is a good man,” she protested, apparently reading his silence all too well. “Do not waste time misdirecting your suspicion upon him, for then the true criminal will remain free to make another such attempt on your life. You ought to carry my pistol with you whenever you’re about, at least until the son-of-a-bitch is caught.”

  He blinked. Had his murky mind heard correctly? Somehow, an epithet coming off the lips of his sweet little dove seemed wrong. But it also aroused him. He was an absurd fellow, half his scalp cracked open and nearly bleeding to death, and his cock hard as coal. Something was wrong with him. Perhaps the blow to the head had rendered him completely mad.

  And then, the rest of her words filtered through to him. She wanted to give him her pistol. His fierce little Virginian miss thought he needed her firearm. Bless her. Of course, who could blame her for thinking him an inept duffer after he’d allowed someone to all but slay him ten paces from his own door? And on their bloody wedding night, of all times.

  “Allow me to reassure you that I can protect myself without your weapon, Lady Ravenscroft.” He took great pleasure in reminding her of who she now was. A gash to the head had not altered that.

  “Miss Whitney shall do nicely,” she informed him, her tone cool and impersonal. “You must accustom yourself to the fact that I will leave you, my lord.”

  “Leave me to be murdered?” Some vicious part of himself, long buried, unearthed itself in that moment. “My blood already stains you, little dove, so you may as well. Tell me, why do you linger here? A servant can do as well as you.”

  She blanched. His words had found their mark, but he felt no pleasure in it. The aching in his head was making him peevish. He longed to call back what he’d said. Damn it, he wanted to seduce her, not to push her away. But she was ever stubborn. Ever smug in her unwavering belief that she would sail away to Virginia. He longed to shake her from her position. A woman couldn’t marry her homeland. Couldn’t she see how much he needed her here?

  Jesus, where had that thought come from? He was the Earl of Ravenscroft, by God. He’d lived thirty-one years without ever needing a woman. A man required only funds, after all. Not a warm cunny and a luscious pair of tits. What was wrong with him, chasing after this slip of a girl as though no other woman would have him? He ought to let her go. Load her on a Virginia-bound ship. Wave goodbye.

  But he couldn’t.

  “You need not be cruel,” she said then, her voice accusatory. “I do care about you, my lord. Surely that must be apparent. A woman without feeling would not help carry a wounded man to his bed, clean away his blood, or hold his hand while the doctor stitches his wounds. A woman without feeling would not have prayed for you to wake.”

  Her anger coiled in his chest like a serpent ready to strike. His head ached. His mouth was dry. His stomach jerked, threatening to cast up its accounts. Devil take it. He was in no shape for this reckoning.

  She had been by his side, tending to him. She’d held his hand. The jagged pieces inside him shifted, fitting together in perfect harmony. He reached for her, clasping the nearest bit of her, those agile fingers.

  “Thank you,” he said simply, for he meant it. Never had he been more thankful. “You didn’t owe me that, Clara, and I thank you for it all the same.”

  Her expression softened, and she turned her hand palm up, tangling her fingers with his. “You’re welcome, Julian.”

  Not precisely an extension of the proverbial olive branch, but he would take it. Yes, damn it, he would take it.

  Chapter 10

  “Tell me, Lady Ravenscroft, is it true that someone tried to murder our brother last evening?” Lady Alexandra hadn’t even waited to begin filling her plate from the sideboard at breakfast the next morning. She’d pounced the moment she stepped over the threshold.

  Someone would have to teach the earl’s sisters some manners. Clara had just been about to take a sip of her ritualistic morning coffee when the wayward duo bustled into the breakfast room, brimming with ill-contained curiosity. She replaced her cup in its saucer. “Lady Alexandra, Lady Josephine, good morning.”

  In truth, it was anything but. She’d slept in a chair at Ravenscroft’s side and had only left him to the care of his manservant so that she could break her fast and inform his sisters of what had happened. Worry for him still soured her stomach, and her neck and shoulders ached from the manner in which she’d finally fallen headlong into slumber. It would seem that his sisters had already heard the news from another source. Of course they would have done.

  His sisters spilled across the floor in outmoded pastel gowns, crowding her at the table. “How is Julian?” Lady Josephine demanded. “His wits aren’t addled now, are they?”

  The girls before her certainly required a great deal of patience.

  Lady Alexandra jostled into her sister. “Have they caught the fiend?”

  “Lord Ravenscroft is as well as can be expected.” As recalcitrant as the girls were, Clara knew a moment of gratification at their genuine concern. “Your brother was indeed attacked last evening and gravely injured. At last word, the criminal responsible has not yet been apprehended. Fortunately, the doctor assures me that with some rest, the earl shall recover.”

  “He has already recovered,” came the familiar drawl of Ravenscroft himself, traveling from
behind the wall of concerned femininity obscuring him from Clara’s vision.

  His sisters spun, Lady Josephine’s flounced bell-shaped crinolines nearly knocking Clara’s coffee to the floor. She rescued it just in time, righting it in its saucer, before her husband swept into her line of vision. He moved with the same easy grace as always. He wore gray trousers and a black jacket, a silver waistcoat atop his crisp white shirt. His bandage interrupted the inky beauty of his hair, but aside from it, he bore no other sign of the grave injury he’d sustained. He was handsome and debonair as ever.

  What in heaven’s name was he about?

  Her lips compressed into a disapproving frown. “My lord, you ought to remain abed as the doctor ordered.”

  “My lady.” His gaze met hers, warm and intimate. He bowed. “Thank you for your tender care and concern. However, I am, as you can see, mended.”

  No man could be mended that quickly after the loss of a great deal of blood. Clara had seen firsthand just how much of his life source had been spilled. Upon further inspection, he did appear a bit pale. “Dr. Redcay prescribed rest, my lord. In matters of an injury to the head he said it was of utmost import. I insist you return to your chamber. I’ll see that your breakfast is brought to you.”

  “You insist?” He smiled, as if she amused him.

  Perhaps she did. She supposed it wasn’t every day that someone dared to gainsay a peer of the realm. But she didn’t give a fig for ancient English custom, propriety, social rules, or even eloquence. What she did care about was his wellbeing, and if he was too foolish to realize that he ought to take better care of himself, she had no problem telling him.

  “Yes.” She stood, pinning him with a meaningful glare. “I insist, my lord.”

  She felt Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra’s wide eyes upon her and turned to find them staring at her as if she’d done something scandalous. Well, wasn’t that rich, coming from those two? She stared them down as well. “If the earl won’t have a care for his person, then who will?” she demanded.

  Lady Alexandra’s mouth worked, as if struggling to form words. None were forthcoming. Lady Josephine watched her from beneath raised brows. Inspect my mettle all you will, she told them with her silence. A Virginia girl did not back down from a challenge. Nor did she bat an eyelash at ordering about an earl.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Ravenscroft swaying on his feet. She rushed past his sisters and to his side, throwing her arm about his waist. His arm draped over her shoulder, as if he could steal some of her strength. She felt a tremor pass through him and knew he was not nearly as well as he pretended. Who, then, was this show of bravado for? The foolish man.

  “Help me escort his lordship back to his chamber,” she ordered a footman. When he hesitated, looking from her to Ravenscroft, her patience snapped. “Be quick about it, man. We haven’t all day.”

  The servant rushed forward. Excellent.

  “No.” Ravenscroft halted him in his tracks. “I only require the assistance of my wife.”

  He leaned against her, pressing his large, warm body into hers. She flushed at the contact and tried to rein in her thoughts. He’d been gravely wounded, after all. What was wrong with her?

  Moreover, how did he think she alone could aid him back to his chamber? “But my lord, perhaps some more support would be beneficial.”

  His gaze roamed over her face, hungry, or so it seemed to her. “I’m not an invalid, my lady. I require you alone.”

  Stubborn man. He was an invalid, but why argue the matter? Very well. She would allow him to win this small battle, for there remained others to fight and win.

  She looked back to the footman. “See to it that a proper breakfast is sent up for his lordship.” She paused, rallying to her cause. “And get me Osgood. I require an interview with him in an hour.”

  It was far past time that the household possessed the proper number of servants. Well-trained servants. Servants who didn’t do unmentionable things in the library.

  “Perhaps she’ll do after all,” Lady Alexandra said sotto voce to Lady Josephine.

  Clara’s eyes narrowed on the two of them once more. For that matter, perhaps she’d found just the person to do something about his sisters’ sadly lacking manners. Herself. “I’ll expect tea this afternoon with you, Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine. Do be prompt.”

  With that, she began guiding Ravenscroft from the room. He followed her lead, surprisingly compliant. Perhaps too compliant. Suspicion stirred in her. Had his show of inhuman strength been for her benefit? Had he forced himself from bed in the hope that she would help him to return to it? He was a calculating man, the stranger she’d wed. She’d put nothing past him.

  “Lady Ravenscroft, you’re as formidable as a general this morning.” His low voice rumbled into her ear, his hot breath fanning over her throat.

  She suppressed a shiver. “I’ve discovered I need to be in this household.” Truly, the man needed a voice of reason. They’d been married for the span of a day, and already he’d been bludgeoned outside his home. His sisters were mayhem in frills and pink. His servants were insufficient and scandalous. His home was threadbare, in desperate need of a judicious eye and a deep purse. A woman’s touch. Not her touch, however. Someone else’s.

  Yes, most assuredly, someone else’s.

  They were all—from Ravenscroft down to the chamber maid who needed sacking—someone else’s problem. And yet here she was, somehow making them hers. Making him hers. The thought caused a pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. She tamped it forcefully down.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t precisely provided you with the welcoming I would have preferred.” His tone was wry and strained.

  That was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Lord have mercy, none of this was what she’d envisioned. None of it was what she’d prepared for, what she’d waited for. And yet, somehow tending to him and seeing him at his weakest last night had changed something inside her forever.

  Her heart had softened toward him. She could not deny it. Not enough to stray from her course forever, but perhaps enough to stray from her course for now. And there was the stark, unabridged truth. She wasn’t prepared to leave him. Not with the shadow of an assassin hanging over him. Not when he was weak and injured. Not when he needed her.

  “Whatever did you do without me, my lord?” She couldn’t help but ask. They went up the grand staircase now, taking their time. The banister was in sad need of a sound polish, but Ravenscroft seemed steady enough on his feet.

  “I’m sure I don’t care to recall, little dove. You’re here now, aren’t you? That’s all that matters. You cannot imagine I’ll let you go after this.”

  A frisson of something indefinable skittered through her entire being, warming her before she reminded herself that their union was not meant to be. They reached the top of the stairs and made their way down the hall to his chamber.

  “I’m sure I cannot imagine you having the power to keep me here against my will,” she challenged.

  It wouldn’t do for him to forget that she still intended to return to Virginia, after all. Nor would it do for her to forget. One day as his countess, and already she’d faltered. He made her want to lose herself in him.

  He stopped their progress, hauling her against the wall with surprising strength, given his condition. His palms flattened to the damask on either side of her face, neatly trapping her. “I’m not planning for it to be against your will, love.”

  She stared up at him, wishing she could read his expression. After the blow he’d taken to the head and the blood he’d lost, he shouldn’t look so inviting, so handsome. But he appeared as beautiful as she’d ever seen him, pallor to his skin and all. Not even the bandage on his head could detract from the effect he had upon her. He was magnificent. Hers.

  For now.

  She swallowed. Her common sense reminded her to think of his condition, of the importance of his rest. “My lord, you should be abed.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, my lady, I should.” He lowered his head, bringing his wicked mouth to within an inch of hers. “With you.”

  A strange sensation sank through her at his words and his nearness both, starting in her belly before sinking into the very center of her. Her breasts tingled. The part of her he’d stroked when he’d put his hand up her skirt ached. This was why good women ruined themselves, she realized. This was why so many ladies had sought him. Temptation was delicious. He was delicious.

  She shook her head, attempting to banish the dissolute thoughts he provoked within her. “No. You need to recover. Dr. Redcay stressed how imperative it is for you to rest and regain your strength.”

  “Redcay can go to the devil.” He leaned against her, their bodies making contact from breast to chest all the way to their thighs. His legs wedged between hers, her complicit skirts billowing about him. She felt him for the first time, the hardness of him pressed straight to her center with a tip of his hips. Her dress and crinoline weren’t a sufficient barrier. “You’re all I need to recover, little dove. Just you beneath me. I can assure you I have enough strength for what we both want.” His head dipped, his mouth opening on her throat.

  The rigid shape of him against her, so suggestive and foreign and wicked, heightened her every sense. To her great shame, an echo of want pulsed within her. She didn’t know how they would fit together. The vague mechanics of it had been whispered to her in finishing school. None of the girls had truly known for certain what happened between a man and a woman. She ached now with her half knowledge, needing something from him. He kissed a path to the hollow behind her ear. She tilted her head to grant him better access. His mouth played over her like velvet fire.

  But she could not indulge in her newfound depravity, for she was bound and determined that their marriage would never be consummated. And he was not well. He was a man who didn’t appear to take care in his own wellbeing. Were all his days just an endless string of one debauchery after the next? Did he not realize how close he’d come to being murdered the night before?