One Night of Scandal (Avon Historical Romance)

by Teresa Medeiros

  As I caught my first glimpse of his fortress, I realized I had wed the Master of Hell himself…

  AS HAYDEN CARRIED LOTTIE THROUGH THE common room of the inn, she settled deeper into his chest and curled her arms around his neck. The innkeeper’s wife, already garbed in dressing gown and nightcap, had bustled ahead of them to light a fire in her finest chamber while her beaming husband had informed him that it wasn’t every night they had the privilege of playing host to a gent and his lady. The woman was waiting in the doorway, candlestick in hand, when Hayden reached the top of the stairs. He slipped her an extra pound note to ensure they would not be disturbed until morning and she left them alone with a wink that was disarmingly girlish despite the snowy white braids that dangled to her rump.

  Hayden kicked the door shut, then tugged off Lottie’s hat and gently laid her back on the bed they were to share. Like the rest of the inn, the quilt beneath her was faded, but clean. She sank into the feather tick with a sigh, but refused to relinquish her grip on his neck until Hayden gently reached around and unfastened her arms. Making a disgruntled face, she turned her cheek to the pillow and murmured something about French cakes and Mr. Wiggles, all without ever opening her eyes.

  Hayden took a step backward, warily eyeing her fully clad form. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty to dismiss the innkeeper’s wife.

  It wasn’t as if he was a stranger to the mysterious web of laces, buttons, ribbons, and silk that comprised a female’s attire. He’d undressed his fair share of them before falling beneath Justine’s spell.

  Shrugging away his misgivings, he tugged off Lottie’s fur capelet and dainty half-boots, then slipped the pearl buttons of her carriage dress out of their moorings one by one. As he reached beneath her chemise to loosen the constricting laces of her corset, he reminded himself that he had every right to do so.

  So why did he still feel like the worse sort of lech?

  Despite Lottie’s bravado, everything about her seemed smaller than him. Her vulnerability stirred a long dormant desire to protect. He had tried to protect Justine. He had failed.

  The side of his palm brushed the gentle swell of one creamy breast. His gaze drifted to her face. As he freed her from the pressure of the whalebone stays, her lips parted in a blissful sigh.

  Hayden’s own mouth went dry. He remembered just how sweet those lips could taste. How tender and yielding they’d felt beneath his own. He wanted to taste them again, to dip his tongue between those ripe coral petals and steal a sip of nectar.

  But it wouldn’t be stealing, he reminded himself grimly. He had every right to claim her kisses and so much more. There would be no overprotective guardian to stop him should he choose to slide his hand beneath the skirts of her carriage dress and seek out the narrow slit in the silk of her pantalettes. No scandal sheet reporter to denounce him for breaching both the silk and her tender body until his questing fingers coaxed forth a nectar even hotter and sweeter than her lips could provide, until her breathless sighs deepened into moans and her thighs fell apart in invitation. No gossipmongers to whisper rumors and lies about him for pushing her skirts to her waist and covering her pleasure-wracked body with his own.

  He should have made her his mistress instead of his wife. If he had, there would have been no danger of her delving into his past or his heart. Cursing himself as the worst sort of fool, Hayden leaned forward until his mouth brushed the softness of Lottie’s skin.

  Lottie rolled to her side, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. Perhaps Sterling was going to let her sleep past noon again or at least until Cookie came banging on her bedroom door with a tray of warm rolls and a pitcher of hot chocolate. She burrowed deeper into her pillow, hoping to return to the hazy sweetness of her dreams. She vaguely remembered strong arms lifting her as if she were weightless, a broad chest cradling her cheek, warm lips brushing first her brow, then her parted lips with delectable tenderness.

  Her eyes flew open. The milky light of dawn poured through the warped glass of an unfamiliar window. Rough-hewn beams lined the walls and served as rafters for the plastered ceiling. She could have been in any room in any inn anywhere between London and Cornwall. The last thing she remembered was being lulled into a drowsy stupor by the rocking of the carriage. Blinking the fog of sleep from her eyes, she struggled to separate dream from reality.

  She would almost swear those strong arms had belonged to her husband. But Hayden could just as well have ordered the coachman or one of the stable boys to perform the onerous task of carrying her to bed.

  She drew in a deep breath. The aroma of bayberry clung to her skin. It was his scent. Enveloping her. Intoxicating her. Marking her as his own.

  Lottie slowly rolled over, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream if she found a tousled dark head on the pillow next to her.

  The bed beside her was cold and empty. She was alone.

  She sat up and buried her face in her hands, torn between relief and mortification. She had slept through her own wedding night, putting all of Laura and Diana’s marvelous tutelage to a shameful waste. What an utter ninny her husband must think her!

  But what about the kiss? Had that been a dream or a memory? As she touched her fingertips to her lips, she was struck by an even more startling thought.

  What if she had slept through more than just the night?

  Fighting panic, she peered around her. The tumbled bedclothes revealed nothing. She’d always been a restless sleeper, given to flinging legs and arms in every direction and churning her blankets into a storm-tossed sea. She slowly lifted the edge of the quilt and peeked beneath. Although her dress, shoes, and corset were gone, she still wore her chemise, pantalettes, and stockings.

  “I can’t decide what’s more insulting,” drawled a voice that was equal parts silk and rust. “That you thought I would avail myself of a sleeping woman or that you believed you’d have no memory of it if I did.”

  Lottie’s first instinct was to tug the quilt over her head. She forced herself to lower it instead. Hayden was standing in the open doorway, leaning against the doorframe. With typical perversity he had chosen that moment to look as if he’d just stepped out of a gentleman’s fashion plate. Although he could have never been mistaken for the dandy Sir Ned was, his cravat was neatly knotted and his waistcoat pressed. A pair of buff trousers hugged his lean hips. His jaw was freshly shaven, his hair damp from a recent wetting and slicked back from his brow. His sudden inclination toward tidiness only made Lottie’s own dishabille seem more tawdry.

  Shaken that he’d divined her thoughts so accurately, she clutched the quilt to her chest, glaring up at him through a tangled skein of hair. “My dress seems to have gone missing. I was just making sure that I hadn’t lost anything else of value as well.”

  “You were utterly exhausted last night so I asked the innkeeper’s wife to help you out of your garments.” He nodded to a ladder-backed chair in the corner draped with a faded blanket. “I slept over there.”

  Lottie winced. The chair must have been excruciatingly uncomfortable, especially after a hard day spent in the saddle. “So you were the one who carried me in?”

  He nodded. “Fortunately, it was well after midnight and there were only a few stragglers in the common room. It would hardly do for rumors to reach London that I’d strangled my bride before the wedding night could even commence.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but it was impossible to tell if he was mocking her or himself. He still hadn’t answered all of her questions. He might not rob a sleeping woman of her virtue, but would he steal her kiss? Or had that provocative brush of his mouth against her parted lips been nothing more than a dream?

  He straightened. “If you’d like, I’ll send one of the maids up to help you dress. I thought you might wish to breakfast in the common room.” He arched one eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to dine on the basket Cookie packed for you.”

  “The basket? The basket! Oh, no, I forgot about the basket!” Heedless of her s
tate of undress, Lottie threw back the blankets.

  Betraying his first sign of alarm, Hayden crossed the room in two long strides and tossed them back over her. “There’s no need to panic. Pumpkin, Mr. Wiggles, and their charming young female traveling companion are all downstairs in the inn kitchen, lapping up a saucer of fresh cream.”

  “Oh.” Eyeing him sheepishly, Lottie settled back in the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. “I suppose I should have confided in you sooner, but I was afraid you were the sort of man who wouldn’t care for cats.”

  “Nonsense,” he said crisply. “I adore cats. They make the softest, most supple gloves.”

  She gasped. He was halfway to the door before she realized he was mocking her. At least this time. She sat up on her knees. “You must think me an ungrateful wretch. I haven’t even thanked you properly for marrying me and sparing Sterling’s life.”

  “There’s no need,” he replied without turning around. “I no longer believe in dueling. I would have never accepted your brother-in-law’s challenge.”

  As a stunned Lottie sank back against the pillows, he drew the door shut behind him, leaving her with yet another mystery to solve.

  They’d been back on the road to Cornwall for less than an hour when a chill curtain of rain began to fall from the leaden sky. Lottie opened a window of the carriage and leaned out, welcoming the sharp slap of the raindrops against her face. Now Hayden would be forced to share both the carriage and his real reasons for wedding her. Was it possible that he might actually be entertaining some sort of affection for her? That he hadn’t wed her out of pity or duty, but out of desire?

  As he drew his horse to a halt, her spirits soared. But he paused just long enough to drag an item from one of his saddlebags. As he shook out its voluminous folds and slipped it over his head, Lottie saw that it was an oilcloth cape, designed to shield its wearer from even the cruelest of elements. Although it left his head exposed, he simply shook the rain from his hair and rode on.

  It seemed her husband preferred riding in the cold, pouring rain to spending a few meager hours in her company. Lottie sank back in the seat, wishing she could blame the stinging of her eyes on the rain.

  Late that afternoon Lottie started from a fitful doze to discover a boneless Pumpkin draped across her lap. Mr. Wiggles and her gray and white kitten, Mirabella, were curled up together on the opposite seat. Now that they were no longer being smuggled like so much French contraband, the cats were enjoying the run of the carriage.

  Although the patter of the rain on the carriage roof had ceased, the sky continued to brood. Feeling overheated and out of sorts, Lottie eased the napping cat to the seat and leaned forward to shove open the window. Her breath caught in her throat.

  The orderly patchwork of meadows, hedgerows, and stone fences had vanished, leaving the landscape as alien as the pitted surface of the moon. The wind wailed across the sweeping sea of grass and marsh like a chorus of ghosts, swirling around the standing stones that littered the barren moor. It was as if this place would never know the kiss of spring, but would slumber forever beneath a winter sky. Yet its very desolation gave it a sort of bleak beauty, a thrilling wildness Lottie had never encountered in the tidy squares of London or the rolling hills of Hertfordshire.

  Exhilarated, she leaned into the wind. It wasn’t hard to understand how Cornwall had become the stuff of legend. She could almost see the towering Cormoran striding over the standing stones as if they were pebbles, massive club in hand and Jack the Giant Killer dogging his heels. The wind carried to her ears the clash of swords as Arthur met his bastard son Mordred for the last time on the field of battle. And was that the shadow of a cloud drifting across the marsh or hordes of nasty little spriggans streaming out of an ancient burial mound, looking for a traveler to terrorize or a baby to steal?

  She caught a glimpse of Hayden riding well ahead of both the carriage and the outriders. If only she were pounding along on horseback beside him instead of cooped up inside the carriage! The scent of the sea tickled her nose and it was then that she caught her first glimpse of Oakwylde Manor.

  Her first impression was of brooding gray stone perched against a stark backdrop of sky. With the moor behind them and the cliffs ahead, it was as if they had truly arrived at the end of the earth.

  Hayden wheeled his mount around, his powerful thighs steadying the horse’s flanks. With his dark hair whipping in the wind, he seemed as much a part of this place as the vast sky and the churning sea. If this was the end of the earth, then he was its master.

  As well as her own.

  The carriage made a sharp turn onto a long, curving drive paved with rough stones. As Lottie tilted her face skyward, her new home loomed in her vision. Hayden might be this house’s master, but she would soon be its mistress.

  Even by Sterling’s standards, the Elizabethan manor with its sprawling wings and central court was a grand house. Although its steeply gabled roof was peppered with a plethora of brick chimneys, only a few plumes of smoke drifted skyward to mingle with the clouds. With no sunlight to reflect, its generous expanse of mullioned windows gleamed with the dull ennui of half-shuttered eyes. The house didn’t appear to be dead, but simply slumbering beneath the same dark spell as the bruised sky and the windswept moor. Lottie shivered, wondering if the sun ever shone in this place.

  As the carriage rocked to a halt, the front door of the house swung open and over two dozen servants came marching out, dutifully taking their places at the foot of the front steps to welcome home their master and his new bride. Lottie wondered at their numbers. A house this size should boast a staff of at least fifty.

  Shyness had never been one of her failings, but she was suddenly reluctant to emerge from the snug cocoon of the carriage. Being a marquess’s bride was one thing, but taking her place as his wife was quite another. She took her time securing the cats in their basket, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, straightening her hat. Finally, the carriage door swung open. It wasn’t the coachman or a footman extending a hand in invitation, but Hayden himself.

  Pasting on a brave smile, she took his hand and descended the carriage steps. The wind whipped the maidservants’ aprons into a flapping frenzy and forced Lottie to secure her hat with her other hand. As they approached the house, Hayden scanned the rows of servants, a troubled expression on his face. Aside from their scant numbers, Lottie could find nothing amiss. From the distinguished butler and tall, scrawny head housekeeper with the ring of keys at her waist to the liveried footmen and blushing, apple-cheeked maidservants, they might have been the staff of any nobleman’s country estate.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” the butler intoned, stepping forward. “The baggage carts have already arrived and been unloaded.”

  “Very good, Giles,” Hayden murmured, although his expression lost none of its edge.

  Several of the younger maids were gaping at Lottie with open curiosity. Surely Hayden had instructed the servants traveling with the baggage carts to prepare the rest of the staff for his bride’s arrival.

  Hadn’t he?

  Before he could formally introduce her, a plump, sun-browned partridge of a woman came striding around the corner of the house. Her arrival wouldn’t have been so remarkable if she hadn’t been dragging a young lady of approximately ten years of age…by her ear.

  Hayden went rigid and Lottie could not help staring. The servants all gazed straight ahead, as if this were an ordinary, everyday occurrence in their lives.

  Although her jaw was set in sullen defiance, the girl didn’t let out so much as a squeak of protest as her captor marched her to the front of the servants, halting her directly in front of Hayden. The woman planted her beefy hands on the girl’s shoulders to keep her from bolting.

  The child was tall, yet painfully thin, with sharp features that might one day be considered striking. Her mane of dark hair was the largest thing about her, framing her face like a hedgerow allowed to grow wild. Lottie’s fingers itched for a comb and a rib
bon, although a garden hoe and a rope might produce more satisfying results. If Cookie were here, she’d insist upon force-feeding the child a steady diet of gingerbread and plum puddings to fatten her up.

  Although it appeared considerable effort had been wielded to make the girl presentable, one of her stockings had slipped down around her ankle. Her blue pinafore was rumpled and marred by grass stains while its matching ribbon had slid halfway down her back, freeing her hair to fall in her face.

  There was something oddly familiar about that face. Something about the stubborn set of her jaw, the wary look in her striking violet eyes, the sulky curl of her lip…

  Lottie shook off the fancy. Judging from her disarray, she must be one of the servants’ children or perhaps an orphan adopted from some nearby village. Sterling had taken in such waifs upon occasion, providing charity and an education until they were old enough to take their place in the servants’ hierarchy.

  The woman beamed up at Hayden as if the jovial twinkle in her brown eyes could somehow offset the child’s petulance. “Welcome home, Master Hayden. We’re glad to have you back. I trust you found everything on your journey that you were seeking?” She shifted her smile to Lottie, her freckled nose crinkling.

  Although the woman’s familiarity caught her off guard, Lottie could not help returning the warm smile.

  “On the contrary, Martha,” Hayden replied, the trace of irony in his voice unmistakable. “I found far more than I was seeking.”

  “We can see that,” the girl blurted out, shaking the hair out of her eyes with a defiant toss of her head.

  “So who is she? Is she my new governess?”

  Before Lottie could even react to the absurd question, Hayden drew her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “No, Allegra. She’s your new mummy.”

  Chapter 8

  Had his wife returned from her moldering grave to frighten me…or to warn me?