Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal

by Grace Burrowes

  His plan had been to feign the polite interest of a man looking about for a potential match, a sensible match borne of the motivations of a sensible, reasonably wealthy man when looking to build his dynasty.

  His plan had been to keep his senses sharp, not to swamp them with the scent, taste, and feel of a lovely woman on a spring day.

  A lovely, somewhat reticent woman, whose height meant she fit him wonderfully, her hips cradling his pelvis, her breasts pressing intimately against his chest. Her mouth was soft and lush and hesitant against his, as if asking him how to go on.

  He showed her—which was also not in his plan. He lingered over her jaw and brow, stealing a whiff of the mille fleurs and cinnamon scent of her hair. He nuzzled the curve of her ear and felt a little ripple of shock go through her body. When she curled into him on a sigh, he set his mouth to the corner of her lips, teasing her into turning her face to his.

  And then she was showing him. Showing him how long it had been since a kiss had been more than a mandatory and perfunctory preliminary to equally perfunctory coitus. Showing him the pleasure of eagerness that sought to outmatch shyness, showing him he had something to give, even in such a thing as a feigned kiss.

  “Mr. Hazlit…” She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and used the other to stroke slowly over his chest. “We shouldn’t…”

  He silenced her by settling his mouth over hers—softly, because as much as her body was indicating his kiss was welcome, Magdalene Windham was possessed of a mind, as well, and a lady’s sensibilities, and a past—

  The thought was like a trickle of cold water down the back of his neck. When he wanted to thrust his tongue into the plush heat of her mouth, he hesitated. As his hand moved up her rib cage, he stopped maddeningly short of palming her breast. He did not use the arm anchored around her back to pull her into the burgeoning length of his erection.

  He instead lifted his mouth a scant inch and rested his forehead against hers.

  She didn’t move away, which was fortunate, because his unruly male beast of a body needed a few moments to locate its pretensions to civility. He was in a rose arbor, for God’s sake, stealing a kiss like a schoolboy chasing the goose girl.

  “I am convinced,” she said. He leaned closer, the better to catch the sense of her husky whisper, the better to inhale the fragrance of a thousand flowers and one woman.

  “Of?” His fingers stroked over the exposed back of her neck, though they itched to uncoil that fat braid so he could bury his face in her unbound hair.

  “The desultory approach would sit ill with you.”

  The desultory…? He should step back, because his mind had gone to mist and fog. Where thoughts, plans, and crisp recollections should be, he had only impulses and impressions.

  Her breath against his neck, her fingers toying with the hair at his nape, her hips canted toward his even as their upper bodies were no longer tightly seamed together. He straightened enough to lift his face from hers, but she only leaned against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder.

  Maybe she needed a few moments, too? The idea calmed him and sent his hands in a slow caress over her back and neck. She seemed to like it, letting him soothe them both with uncomplicated touch.

  “You’ll kiss me again?” She put the question to his shoulder, but he made out her words in part because he felt them against his body.

  “Very likely.” He hadn’t meant to growl his response.

  “Some warning would be appreciated.”

  Indeed, it would.

  “I’ll do better next time.” So neither of them was ambushed.

  She tipped her face up, and the fool woman was smiling at him. It wasn’t quite the smile she’d bestowed on the carnations when she’d thought them a token from her brother. It was more… mischievous, more female.

  Good God, the lady was dangerous to a man’s self-possession, and she didn’t even know it.

  “If you do much better, Mr. Hazlit, I will need my hartshorn and a tisane.” She subsided against him, and Benjamin felt his lips quirking up.

  She wasn’t offended. This was more of a relief than it ought to have been, but he didn’t examine it too closely. He’d kissed in the line of duty before, and he probably would again.

  In fact, he was rather looking forward to it.

  ***

  Benjamin Hazlit was a fiend from hell. Maggie became convinced of this when after their third pot of tea—he preferred Darjeeling—he was still grilling her about her household, her habits, her schedule on the day her reticule had gone missing.

  And all the while—when she herself ought to have been focused on how to recover the dratted reticule—Maggie had been hard put not to watch his mouth as it formed question after question.

  His mouth was neither cold nor stern. It was warm and knowing and even tender… gentle, God help her.

  Gracious, gracious, gracious. His mouth was… it was a revelation, a window into a side of the man Maggie would never have guessed existed. With the spotty boys and aging knights, she’d endured some pawing and slobbering. She’d been kissed, groped, and otherwise introduced to the nonsense that went on between men and women.

  They’d given her a rare moment of sympathy for her own mother, those suitors who wanted Maggie’s settlement despite the fact that it came attached to her hand in marriage.

  Until she’d asked her brother Devlin why men felt compelled to behave in such a fashion, and Dev had gotten that tight, lethal look to him. He’d taught her a few moves then, creative uses of the knee, the fist, the fingers, and the suitors had become more respectful as a result.

  She wanted to plant her fist in Mr. Hazlit’s gut at that moment, though she suspected her fist would be the worse for it.

  How could a man kiss so sweetly, so ardently, and yet be so… fiendish?

  “Show me your private quarters.” He set down his teacup and rose, clearly expecting Maggie to pop up and comply.

  “Let me send Millie ahead to see that my rooms are presentable.” She remained sitting and took a leisurely sip of her tea for good measure.

  “Presentable isn’t necessary.” He extended a hand down to her. His hands were large, tanned like the rest of him—or perhaps he was simply dark complected—and there was a signet ring on his left little finger.

  “Mr. Hazlit?” She took another sip of tea.

  “Miss Windham?”

  “If you waggle your fingers at me, or—heaven forbid—snap them, I will bite you.” She’d bitten one brother, once more than two decades ago, and the other four had all fallen neatly into line.

  He dropped his hand. Maggie expected him to launch into a lecture about his trying only to find her reticule and her being contrary and difficult—which she admittedly could be—when he hunkered before her.

  “Where?” Something lurked in his eyes, something… playful?

  “Where, what?”

  “Where would you bite me?”

  God help her, he’d dropped his voice to that smoky register she’d heard out in the rose arbor. It did things to her insides when he spoke like that, curious, wonderful, dangerous things.

  She met his gaze, sensing it was crucial not to back down. “On your handsome nose.”

  The mischief in his eyes blossomed into humor, then into a smile of such charm Maggie’s insides started Trooping the Colors—full parade bands marching in all directions, cheering crowds, waving banners. Gracious.

  She realized her mistake. “Your arrogant, handsome nose.”

  “My apologies.” He hadn’t apologized for kissing her, Maggie realized. That was something. “Will you please allow me to inspect your quarters, Miss Windham, so I might be about finding your reticule sooner rather than later?”

  “Of course.” She gave him her hand and let him assist her to her feet. Her rooms would be thoroughly in order—her staff wouldn’t allow it otherwise—though only as she ushered Hazlit into her sitting room did she realize his presence there could feel quite as intima
te as that kiss in the rose arbor.

  Or as intimate as his smile.

  Two hours later, Maggie sat sipping a nice hearty pekoe—none of that prissy Darjeeling—while she surveyed her personal sitting room.

  A room Mr. Hazlit had gone over from the molding to the wainscoting to the carpets and everything in between. She’d forced herself to watch as he’d examined every inch of her most domestic spaces. He’d taken a seat in this chair, then that one, glancing around her room with a frown on his face. He’d sat for several minutes at her desk—a big old relic from Morelands—and fiddled with her pens, ink, sand, and wax.

  A bad moment, that. Correspondence was quite, quite personal to any woman.

  He’d prowled around, getting the view out of each window, peering up the flue, running his finger over the mantel as if inspecting for dust.

  Which he would not find, of course. Maggie’s grounding in the domestic arts had come from Esther, Duchess of Moreland, after all.

  And then he’d charged off into her bedroom, leaving her to trail behind, relieved that he was done with one room but not at all prepared for the sight of him sitting on her bed.

  The bed was another Morelands castoff, but ducal castoffs could be impressive. Maggie was taller than the other women in her family, and she’d appropriated a bed worthy of her stature.

  Mr. Hazlit had tugged off his riding boots and scooted back to prop himself against the bank of pillows. He’d crossed his legs at the ankle and started that peering-around business until Maggie was about to scream at him on general principles. For him to just lounge there, amid her shams and pillows and sheets…

  But then he’d bounced up, pulled on his boots, and gone to her wardrobe, and that had been far, far worse.

  He’d fingered each dress, run his hands over her shawls, knelt to take inventory of her neatly arranged shoes and boots.

  “These pale colors do not become you, Miss Windham.”

  If his inquisitive, frowning silence had been bad, the little pronouncements he made in her bedroom were worse.

  “Have you no riding boots, Miss Windham?”

  She did, but they were so old, they resided under her bed—which he soon saw, damn him to Hades.

  He’d picked up a pamphlet by her bedside and arched one dark eyebrow at her. “The reproductive habits of swine, Miss Windham?”

  She read everything that particular author wrote because, though he was the youngest son of an earl, his study of the subject was unflinchingly scientific. It wasn’t as if she could interview the pigs, for pity’s sake.

  “No flowers in your bedroom, Miss Windham? Your maids are remiss.”

  He’d run his hands over her books, making no comment on the Austen novels having pride of place on her mantel, and he’d stood looking at her bed for so long she’d broken her own determined silence.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Hazlit? It’s only an old and very comfortable bed.”

  “Counting pillows.”

  Of course he was counting the pillows. She wanted to smack him with one, or several. “And this will assist you in finding my reticule?”

  “The truth would assist me more.” He’d spoken quietly, but she heard him.

  “What truth?”

  He merely stared at her, as if counting unseen pillows in her head, or in her soul.

  “Are you quite finished, Mr. Hazlit?”

  “No, but I’ve seen enough for now. Have you plans for the evening?”

  “Maybe I’ll embroider another pillowcase.”

  The corners of his mouth flattened. “I’ll take you driving tomorrow afternoon, weather permitting.”

  She folded her arms, not at all prepared to allow his high-handedness. “Perhaps I’m busy tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps I have plans, and perhaps a smitten suitor would patiently wait until his invitation fits in with his lady’s plans.”

  “It wasn’t an invitation.”

  “My point exactly.”

  She turned on her heel, intent on making a dignified exit, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. When she turned back to him, he did not drop his hand, but rather, drew one finger along her jaw.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Windham. Does it suit your plans to join me for a drive tomorrow afternoon? I’d be ever so grateful for your company.”

  There was no smile lurking around his mouth, no humor in his eyes, and Maggie’s insides started to flutter most inconveniently. He looked for all the world like a man whose every happiness depended on her answer.

  Damn him.

  “Gracious, Mr. Hazlit. When you ask so prettily, I can but consent.” He dropped his hand, which allowed her to start their progress toward the front door. “What did your search of my quarters reveal that could help you find my reticule?”

  He blew out a breath and fell in step beside her. “It revealed that you are very careful, that prudence is second nature to you, though probably more a learned skill than a native aspect of your personality. It revealed that you purposely dress to hide your many assets, and you have a lively mind, though not a frivolous one. It revealed that your staff truly does take your welfare to heart.”

  “You sound disappointed.” How had he learned all that by counting her pillows?

  “A traitor from within is an easy answer, and for your sake, I was hoping for an easy answer.”

  For her sake? Whatever did he mean by that?

  “I’ll come by for you about three,” he said as Maggie’s head footman handed him gloves and hat then melted back down the hallway. Hazlit tapped the hat onto his head, regarding her out of dark eyes.

  “You are not to worry, Miss Windham.”

  It was the last thing she expected him to say, more insightful than all his previous pronouncements.

  “I will worry until my belongings are again in my possession.”

  “Which they will be shortly.” He picked up her hand and bowed very low over it, so low she felt the heat of his breath on her knuckles.

  “Until tomorrow.”

  And then he left, while all the worry Maggie had held at bay during his lengthy and troubling visit came crashing back to haunt her. The worry only coiled more tightly when Millie told her another note had been delivered to the kitchen during Mr. Hazlit’s visit.

  ***

  “You were making morning calls?”

  Archer yawned and scratched his chest as he spoke, but Hazlit wasn’t fooled. Despite a display of casual, bored behavior, Archer Portmaine’s mind was wide awake and taking in details.

  “One morning call.” Hazlit rose from the tub and stood dripping until Archer tossed him a bath sheet. Only when he’d toweled off his chest and arms did he climb out to stand on his hearth rug.

  Archer settled his long frame into the chair at the escritoire. “One morning call that took all afternoon.”

  “I’m on a case, Archer.” Hazlit finished drying off, then crossed the room to the wardrobe where evening attire had been left waiting for him. “Are you going out tonight?”

  “Lady Abby is dining at home, so no. I think I’ve made some progress with Allard’s books, though.” He got up and started poking through the tray on the bureau. “Which case has you tooling around Mayfair all afternoon?”

  “Not tooling around, making a thorough search of a lady’s chambers. I’m on the Windham case.” He assembled his evening finery as he spoke, though he’d rather be lounging around the house tonight, letting Archer beat him at cards.

  “I thought the housekeeper was innocent.” Archer gave him a curious look. “Moreland’s cub married her, didn’t he?”

  “Last year’s news, Archer. That was Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven, and yes, she’s his countess now. Stop being coy. What do you want to know?”

  “You don’t need all afternoon to search a lady’s chambers.” Arthur tossed a cuff link in the air, then another and another until he was juggling four. “What are you about, Benjamin?”

  “One learns a lot by inspecting a person’s habitat.”
He pulled on smalls, trousers, and stockings while Archer continued to play with the cuff links.

  “What did you learn?”

  “I’m not sure.” The shirt was made for him, which meant it was cut loosely—contrary to current fashion, but comfortable. “I learned that she’s a lady.”

  “You had doubts?” Archer caught each cuff link in succession and dumped two back into the tray.

  “I try not to make assumptions.” But that hair… that wide, lovely mouth, that generous bosom, and those sweet female curves… And more than all of that, her bewildered smile when she beheld a tame bunch of flowers. “She runs a decent household, takes a genuine interest in her staff, donates both time and coin to charity, and is devoted to her family.”

  She was also a voracious reader—everything from agricultural pamphlets on the reproductive habits of swine to financial treatises and lurid novels.

  Archer approached with a gold cuff link, which Hazlit allowed him to fasten on the right shirt cuff. “You sound puzzled, Benjamin. Her father is a duke. Why wouldn’t she behave in accordance with the standards applicable to a duchess?” He slipped the second cuff link through the fabric of the left cuff then peered at Hazlit closely. “Or the standards of a countess?”

  “As to that…” Leave it to Archer to anticipate the difficult subjects. “You might hear I’m interested in the lady in a matrimonial sense.”

  Archer’s handsome face creased into a genuine, warmhearted smile. The other kind—the calculating variety—was often in evidence, making this rare sighting all the more unusual. “About time you got your priorities straight.”

  “I am not interested in her.”

  The smile went out like a snuffed candle. “You have two sisters, Benjamin. Two sisters who prior to their marriages were ill-used by unfeeling brutes, and that ought to…”

  He put a hand over Archer’s mouth. “I am not toying with a lady’s affections, so desist, Sister Mary Portmaine. Magdalene Windham has not been entirely honest with me, and I require a certain proximity to ascertain why that is and what to do as a result.”

  It sounded so rational, his almighty plan. It did not explain kisses in the rose arbor, or trespassing on the woman’s privacy to linger in her boudoir, touching her clothing, learning the exact size of her bed and the number of pillows adorning it.