The Scandal of the Season

by Aydra Richards

  She swallowed audibly and, with some difficulty, forced her gaze upward once again, though she seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. “You—you’re not dressed,” she breathed.

  He spread out his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I was sleeping. You barged in before dawn.”

  For a moment her brows drew together, as if she could not recall why she had done so in the first place—but she recovered herself enough to snap, “You stole my gowns!”

  “Really, Mouse, stole is such a strong word, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve simply…appropriated them.” Just this once, Grey thought that he might have flustered Mouse enough to predict her behavior. If he could play his cards exactly right, construct the ideal retort to put the spark to that rage…. “You’ll have them back when you can be trusted to use your freedom to leave the house responsibly.”

  With a growl—a growl, indeed!—Mouse lunged at him. Just as he’d intended.

  He caught her about the waist with one arm and clamped her fists in the other hand, maneuvering her to fall upon him at his direction as he twisted himself around. She landed with her knees splayed over his legs, her nightgown riding high on her thighs. And for a brief instant, as she flailed and wrenched at her wrists, presumably in an effort to rain a flurry of blows over him, the soft, damp heat of her brushed his cock, and he choked back a groan as he clamped a hand to her hip to still her.

  He wedged her wrists between them and trapped them there, and she bucked in her fury—and froze as she felt him hard beneath her, realized at last that she was open, vulnerable. She drew in a shocked breath and exhaled slowly, that vibrant flush of color gilding her cheeks deepening. Her knees, bracketing his hips, trembled. For a long moment she said nothing, did nothing, and he was so close to heaven he could feel it, feel her pressed against him, warm and soft and wet.

  “Serena,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder through the thin linen of her nightgown, and feeling the little shudder that slipped down her spine. The use of her name had signaled to her that something had shifted between them, that whatever argument she had thought to have with him—they were not having it now. “Move your knee. Just—here.” Since she had elected, for the moment, not to strike out at him, he patted the spot with the palm of his hand.

  Her eyelids fluttered closed. She took a soft breath. And she moved her knee, just enough. Just enough to alter her position, to open her a bit more.

  His hands caught her waist, pulling her down as he canted his hips up, and he slid straight into her lush heat, planting himself deep. With a soft sound of surprise, her head tipped back, spilling a tumble of silky hair down her back, the ends brushing his fingers.

  “Too much?” He murmured the question into her ear and let her reclaim her hands.

  “No,” she panted, and she shifted herself, and fisted her fingers in his sleep-tousled hair. “I—I—” She struggled to speak, her hips moving instinctively, restlessly, trying to catch up a rhythm, and she sighed when he cupped them in his hands and helped her find it. “I—”

  He scraped his chin over her shoulder, nudging the sleeve of her nightgown aside to kiss the smooth skin revealed beneath.

  “I’m still furious with you,” she gasped, and he choked back a laugh. Then she moaned, “Oh, yes, Grey,” and her head lolled forward, her cheek pressing against his. An apt pupil, she quickly caught the motion and rode him like she’d been born to it.

  She moved in sinuous strokes, her breath catching in her chest as she worked her lithe body over his, and her slender fingers groped in his hair, tugging at his head to angle his face to hers, her mouth brushing over his, little erotic whispers of sensation that had him grabbing up a handful of her hair in an effort to still her long enough to capture her lips.

  It should have shocked him, how desperately he wanted that kiss. It should have horrified him, terrified him—because it wasn’t enough to sink himself inside her body, to take his release of her. She was not a casual liaison, a woman to be used and discarded—she was his. Just…his.

  For now.

  The thought sparked a primitive possessiveness; he seized her head in his hands and locked his mouth to hers, swallowing the tiny, satisfied sound she made in response. She shuddered against his chest and she gasped into his mouth as she spasmed around him, her velvety inner muscles clenching him. Feeling her, hearing her in the throes of climax was enough to spur his own, and he slid one hand to her hip, holding her tightly as he braced his feet and thrust, spending himself inside her.

  A bone-deep satisfaction pervaded him, a sense of completeness that baffled him with its intensity. He’d have to sort it out later, when he could be certain his brain was functioning as intended…but now, with her body wilting against his, her warm breath feathering over his shoulder, and dawn only just sliding over the horizon, all he wanted was to gather her into his arms and sleep.

  ∞∞∞

  Sometime later he woke to a strange scrabbling sound at the edge of the bed, and he brushed a stray lock of Mouse’s hair away from his face as he turned enough to peer over and determine its origin.

  A muted whine followed, and he traced the sound up to the nearest bedpost, where a small golden-furred puppy pawed, scraping her claws there as if she were attempting to climb up. The creature had no doubt nosed her way into the room in search of her mistress, and when she became aware that she had caught his attention, she plopped onto her rump and gazed up at him with soulful brown eyes and yipped her displeasure.

  Mouse stirred beside him, her brows drawing together.

  The puppy yipped again.

  “Shh,” Grey chided. “You’ll wake her.”

  Another yip that ended in a plaintive whine; Cassandra performed a tiny leap that didn’t even come close to getting her where she wished to be—which was on the bed.

  Heaving a great sigh, Grey extended his arm and caught the puppy beneath the belly, lifting the squirming creature up off of the floor. He held her for a moment, giving her his bed forbidding stare.

  “My boots,” he said severely, “are entirely off limits.”

  Cassandra cocked her head, flopped her ears about, and wiggled her little legs.

  Grey doubted that the gesture counted as assent, but as it was unlikely that the creature understood anyway, he placed her on the bed, nestled between himself and Mouse. The puppy padded in an abbreviated circle and curled up, dropping her chin onto her front paws. And Grey found himself stroking her soft, furry head.

  “Mouse,” he whispered. “You can keep the damned puppy.”

  A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “And my gowns?” she inquired in a sleepy murmur.

  Grey gave a snort of amusement. “I make no promises.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Grey had intended to have Mouse’s gowns returned promptly, but she seemed to take a peculiar sort of satisfaction in swanning about the house dressed only in her chemise and stays, as if to impress upon him that she did not intend to be banished to her room for want of suitable clothing. And she took such pronounced enjoyment of it—as though he ought to have been annoyed or at least irritated by her complete lack of modesty—that he found himself reluctant to return her gowns at all.

  So it came as a nasty shock, then, when three days later the Earl of Andover came calling early in the afternoon.

  Ensconced comfortably in the drawing room, Grey had been listening to Mouse play the pianoforte as she recounted her morning, which had involved a minor argument with Sarah—who had insisted that just because she could not be properly gowned did not mean that her hair needn’t be styled appropriately—as well as a foray into washing windows and baking bread. But just as she had launched into a lengthy description of how intense the kneading process was, a commotion erupted in the foyer, and Grey heard Simpson give a strident shout.

  Grey heaved himself up from the sofa just in time for Andover to come barreling into the room, his face drawn in offended fury.

  “Father!” Mouse squeake
d in surprise, jerking her fingers from the keys as she drew her arms up to shield herself from view.

  But the sound had drawn Andover’s attention, and his gaze shifted from Grey to Mouse, and his face twisted in a sneer of disgust, as if he had smelled something exceptionally unpleasant. He made a scathing sound in his throat, turning his face away dismissively, as if his daughter—his own daughter—were beneath his notice.

  Grey hoped it had not hurt her. The brief flash of pain that had crossed her face that day in Andover’s home still haunted him, seared into his memory as it was. But when he glanced at her, she had tipped her chin up in open defiance, all instinctive modesty erased in a moment.

  “For God’s sake,” Andover bit off. “Have you no shame? You were, at one point, a lady—clothe yourself appropriately.”

  Mouse’s eyes narrowed to slits, a flush of fury heating her cheeks. “No,” she said succinctly. “You surrendered the right to reprimand me for anything, Father. You may go, if you find your delicate sensibilities offended.” To add insult to injury, she snagged one of the crystal decanters from the table beside the pianoforte, popped the stopper off, and took a deep drink straight from it. Scotch, Grey suspected, given the face she pulled afterward—but it had had the intended effect, and Andover’s lips curled in distaste beneath his mustache.

  Before the bastard could once more lay into Mouse, Grey growled, “What occurs within my house is not your concern, Andover. State your business and then be on your way.”

  As Andover drew himself up to his full height, presumably in an attempt to make himself seem more powerful than he was, Grey was struck by the sense of just how weak he looked instead. His full height was still some inches short of Grey’s, and his belly had begun to go to fat in that particular way that some men had, when they assumed that the effects of old age and idleness would pass them by. His hair had gone grey, and while there were men whose looks were made distinguished by such a thing, Andover merely looked…old. Tired. Weak. Like a man who had woken one day to find that his best years were long behind him, and he sought to cling to them by snatching power wherever he could and challenging those he felt to be his inferiors.

  “There has been some…mistake,” Andover said, hissing the word through teeth that had yellowed. “Regarding my finances.”

  Grey canted his head to the right, keeping his expression neutral. “Oh?” Of course, they both knew that there had been no mistake. Still, Andover had held out longer than Grey had expected. Weeks had passed since Grey had tightened the purse strings, and he expected that Andover had had to sell off the last of his valuables simply to make ends meet in the intervening time. But clearly he had at last reached the end of his tether.

  “There are some businesses that are refusing to extend credit to me,” Andover clarified tightly. “I am certain it is simply a misunderstanding.”

  Grey took that to mean that Andover’s solicitor had informed him that if he wished to purchase anything, he would need to seek out Grey’s approval. Like a child requesting a bit of pin money.

  “I’m not,” Grey said flatly. “If a business has refused you credit, it is because I have deemed it not to be essential.”

  “Damn you, Granbury, you’ve no bloody right—”

  “Careful, Andover,” Grey chided. “You wouldn’t want to provoke me into calling due your debts, would you? I can’t imagine your reputation would withstand being booted from your home.” He allowed himself a sliver of a taunting smile. “Oh, but wait—your reputation is tarnished enough already, isn’t it? I’d heard you were stricken from a few guest lists recently. Something about your misdeeds catching up with you, was it?”

  Behind him, Mouse gave an amused chortle.

  An angry flush mottled Andover’s cheeks, and his snarl showed a bit too many teeth for Grey’s taste. “How could you possibly expect me to make good on debts without leaving me an avenue to do so?” he growled.

  For a moment—perhaps two—Grey considered dangling that lure before Andover once again, the hope that he’d clung to that one day, circumstances permitting, he would drag himself out from beneath Grey’s thumb, restore his reputation and fortune and become once more the man he wished to be. But it had lost its luster sometime in the past few weeks. The game was done, and the longer he dragged it on, the more likely it was that Mouse would suffer for it. Now he had only to dispose of his catch properly.

  “You were never intended to repay me,” he said honestly. “You ought to have known better than that, Andover. You were a fool if you thought it possible.” And though he had stewed in his bitterness and wrath for some twenty years, long awaiting the day he would bring Andover to account to his crimes against Grey’s family, in this moment, it was only Mouse who occupied his mind. Mouse, who had also been ruined by her father. Mouse, who had deserved better than to be used by the both of them. Mouse, who ought to have been loved unreservedly.

  “I don’t take your meaning,” Andover said, but there was a new fragility in his voice, a sort of encroaching horror.

  “My meaning, Andover, is that you have lost. You are finished.” If not for the timely assistance of the Duke of Davenport, the game might’ve stretched on for months. He—and his mother—had done more damage to Andover’s reputation than Grey alone had managed. He had breathed new life into Mouse’s damaged reputation. “You will not find London a comfortable place for you. In fact, you will not find England a comfortable place for you. You would be best served to leave it.”

  “Leave?” Andover’s mouth dropped open, giving him the appearance of a fish gasping on the shore. “You—you would take everything from me.”

  “Naturally. Only then you will know how it feels,” Grey said softly. “It is this I have waited for, Andover—I never wanted your money, or your house, or your possessions. I want you ruined. As you ruin everything you touch.” He found his hand straying to Mouse’s shoulder, as if the very act of curving his fingers over it could steady him—and to his surprise, she covered it with her own. “You ruined yourself. I merely let you do it. So I would suggest that you make yourself forgotten, Andover, because I assure you that after today, you will wish for me never again to think on you. You will not like what will happen should you remind me of your existence.”

  There was something wild about Andover’s eyes, a sort of desperation that Grey had long yearned to see there. “A peer cannot be arrested,” he said, his voice quavering through octaves. “I cannot be jailed for defaulting on a debt.”

  “Jail ought to be the least of your concerns,” Grey said. “In all honesty, Andover, I want you to suffer. I would prefer that you live a long, miserable life, stewing in your own destruction. But my willingness to tolerate your presence has come to an end, ergo your options are limited. You may accept your wretched life and leave, or you may remain and forfeit it.”

  “Is that a threat, Granbury?” Andover snarled.

  “Call it a promise instead.” Grey replied. Beside him, Mouse drew a satisfied little breath, enjoying her father’s comeuppance perhaps as much as he was. But then, he supposed she had earned the right to it.

  “You are not the only one with connections, Granbury,” Andover said, his voice menacing. “I imagine there’s any number of people who’d like to see you dead and buried. It wouldn’t take much to accomplish it. A footpad in an alley,” he suggested. And then, silkily, “A convenient shot through a carriage window.”

  Very nearly an admission. But unless Andover wished to sully his hands himself, his ability to hire out an assassin had been severely curtailed. He was on so shoestring a budget, Grey suspected he could hardly purchase meat for his table more than once a week. Most of his servants had already quit for want of wages, or so he had been informed.

  “The trouble with your debts,” Grey said, “is that they do not expire upon my death. I’ll admit that the most recent attempt on my life did give me pause. As I have no surviving family, you’ll understand why I was hard pressed to find someone who would e
nsure my wishes were carried out even after my death. But then I realized you had given me the perfect opportunity.” He squeezed Mouse’s shoulder. “In the event of my untimely demise, your daughter will hold your debts. Poetic justice, is it not? A decent father could expect mercy, but given your treatment of her? Well, chance would be a fine thing.”

  Horrified, Andover’s eyes at last settled upon his daughter—whom he had humiliated, shamed, and dismissed. Mouse looked back at him as if she had felt the power shift between them, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face, a smile full of teeth and delight.

  Sweet little Mouse had grown fangs all her own, and she would use them—and Grey could think of no one that deserved her retribution quite so much as Andover. Except, perhaps, himself.

  He saw the moment Andover realized the true nature of his position—saw it, and savored it like a fine wine. They had both earned this revenge, he and Mouse, and he marveled at how much sweeter it had been to share it with her.

  “I am prepared to be generous,” Grey said. “I’ll have my solicitor book you passage to Calais. From there, you may go to the devil with my blessing if you please. I shall even go so far as to ask your sons to see you off—though I doubt you’ve earned that much consideration from your daughter.”

  And as Mouse tipped back her head and began to laugh, silvery peals of merriment fracturing against the walls to fall flat in her father’s ears, Andover turned and slunk away in defeat, a bitter shell of a man.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Grey had ended up at the Duke of Davenport’s residence, unnerved by the butler’s ready reception. He had not counted himself the sort that one generally admitted with good cheer and welcome, but for some reason he had been left with the impression that Davenport might have…anticipated a call at some point or another. As if they were friends.