Prelude to a Scandal

by Delilah Marvelle

  Dear Reader,

  History is such a strange, strange creature. I am constantly amazed by the things my research unearths, especially when it comes to sexual history. For those of you interested in what I uncover (and what doesn’t end up in my books…) check out my blog, A Bit O’Muslin, at www.DelilahMarvelle.blogspot.com. It will give you an idea as to how much real history gets overlooked. When it comes to historical romance, in particular, people have a skewed vision of what Regency should be because of all the books they have read, without ever really digging into the historical facts. The modern reader has a tendency to forget that people back then were still people. They loved. They hated. They ate. They drank. And yes, they had sex. Lots of it. London’s exploding population proved that.

  The idea of Prelude to a Scandal was pieced together to reflect both history and hot-button topics that are still being passionately debated today.

  Now as for all of those rakes running around London debauching themselves and whatever women they could get their hands on, I started wondering how many of these men were sex addicts. I mean, honestly. At least one of them had to be! And though they didn’t have a clinical name for sexual addiction back in the 1820s, you had better believe it was there. So what would a sex addict’s life be like back in the days when there were no clinics to provide assistance and understanding? I imagine it would have been a personal hell. One worth writing about.

  It is my hope you will set aside what you think 1829 is and grace me to give you my version of 1829.

  Cheers and much love,

  Delilah Marvelle

  Don’t miss the rest of the Scandal series!

  Once Upon a Scandal

  Available February 2011

  The Perfect Scandal

  Available March 2011

  DELILAH MARVELLE

  Prelude to a Scandal

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would have never made it to print if not for the incredible support of my friends, family and industry professionals who encouraged me in ways that go beyond any words I could write.

  Thank you to my super sexy and incredible husband, Marc, who is the love of my life, my everything and the reason why I write romance. Thank you, Marc, for being my sugar daddy who oversees the bills and everything under the moon so I can continue to do what I love most. Thank you to my two amazing children, Zoe and Clark, who are so loving and so, so, so giving and patient in knowing mommy is almost always writing. I love you both.

  Thank you to the fabulous Maire Creegan, who has been one of my greatest inspirations, my longtime critique partner, my tutor and my best friend and twinsie. Thank you to the Novelistas: Susan Lyons, Christina Crooks and Lacy Danes whose amazing attention to detail and creative skills push me forward and onward as a writer.

  Thank you to my agent Donald Maass, whose wisdom and guidance remind me of my purpose and why I write. I am in constant awe of your ability, Don, to dig into my stories and pull out every thread and point out its worth. You encourage me to not only step out of the box but to try to smash it. Thank you to all of HQN and its staff, and to my editor Tracy Farrell, whose incredible enthusiasm toward my stories has sparked a blazing new sense of worth within me.

  Thank you to Deb Werksman from Sourcebooks, who saw a diamond in the rough and made this writer believe she could jump off a cliff and fly.

  Thank you to everyone, both readers and my fellow writers alike, who supported me during my transition between publishers. You all kept me going and I love you all.

  This book is dedicated to every person in this vast world who suffers from any form of addiction. Believe that you can and will overcome all of the battles that lie ahead.

  Prelude to a Scandal

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  SCANDAL ONE

  SCANDAL TWO

  SCANDAL THREE

  SCANDAL FOUR

  SCANDAL FIVE

  SCANDAL SIX

  SCANDAL SEVEN

  SCANDAL EIGHT

  SCANDAL NINE

  SCANDAL TEN

  SCANDAL ELEVEN

  SCANDAL TWELVE

  SCANDAL THIRTEEN

  SCANDAL FOURTEEN

  SCANDAL FIFTEEN

  SCANDAL SIXTEEN

  SCANDAL SEVENTEEN

  SCANDAL EIGHTEEN

  SCANDAL NINETEEN

  SCANDAL TWENTY

  SCANDAL TWENTY-ONE

  SCANDAL TWENTY-TWO

  SCANDAL TWENTY-THREE

  SCANDAL TWENTY-FOUR

  An old Spanish proverb would dare claim—A great dowry can only bring a bed full of brambles. So what, pray tell, would a small dowry bring? Nothing, I suppose, but dirty linen in shambles. No matter the size of your dowry, ladies, understand that finding a worthy suitor will always be a gamble.

  How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

  London, England

  Late April, 1829

  LADY JUSTINE FEDORA PALMER knew all too well that her dear, dear father, the sixth Earl of Marwood, had always been an intelligent and upstanding, moral citizen. He would have never dared to provoke a political or social stampede amongst any of the tribes he’d befriended throughout his years as an African naturalist. Especially the most notorious and savage of all human tribes—the British ton.

  But whenever it came to the subject of zoological breeding, her father became a soul of too many words with absolutely no sense of restraint. Which was why the poor man was now sitting in prison.

  His newly published observations on innate buggery amongst South African mammals—which he argued God allowed in His Natural Kingdom and therefore His Royal Majesty should allow in ours—had ruffled far too many feathers to count. Including that of His Royal Majesty.

  Though her father had been found innocent of conspiring to promote buggery and moral corruption, he was still caged in Marshalsea Debtors Prison due to an array of exorbitant fines he simply could not pay. Unlike most ladies, who might have long languished beneath such scandal mongering, Justine had never been one for wilting. Her unusual upbringing had made her worldly enough to understand that every female, no matter her genus and species, had the ability to physically coerce a male into full cooperation.

  And yes, she knew just the male to coerce. A male she’d wanted to coerce ever since she first came to London two years ago at the age of eighteen: her father’s sole academic patron, the notorious Duke of Bradford. Better known to the herds of London as The Rake Extraordinaire, whose appreciation for women knew no bounds and whose pockets and generosity were as deep as the sky is wide.

  Despite his libertine facade, which boasted a slow, saucy grin and smoky dark eyes that invited every woman to play, there was so much more to him than his appearance. He had a genuine intelligence and depth outside of the wild antics he always used to garner attention. She remembered one evening in particular when her adoration for the man had fully bloomed into a yearning that made her toes curl within her silk stockings.

  While her parents and the duke still played five card loo with a group of ladies and gents after a dinner party, she’d opted to sit in a chair on the other side of the room and read so she wouldn’t have to be teased anymore by her overly competitive father. Promptly after her aloof departure from the card table, the duke had tossed his own cards and formally announced no lady ought to be disrespected for her lack of card skills. With an impressive sweep, he then hoisted his chair up over his head and swaggered with it across the room like an acrobat. He even pretended to stumble beneath its weight in an effort to make her giggle.

  With a well satisfied breath, he’d settled his chair and himself across from her, insisting she set aside her book and tell him more about the fascinating life she’d led in Africa. Though his ga
ze had a tendency to wander flirtatiously to inappropriate places—which she rather enjoyed—he still listened very intently to everything she had to say as if every word that escaped her lips mattered, as if she mattered.

  Tragic as it was, the man had never been the marrying sort, and no one knew that more than her parents, who’d repeatedly warned her to keep her virtue as far away from the man as possible. Despite all of their tiring lectures on the matter and despite having read How To Avoid A Scandal many, many times, Justine knew a lady couldn’t always avoid scandal. Especially when one’s father was being persecuted for demanding rights for sodomites using the animal kingdom as his platform.

  After dotting a piece of parchment with rosewater she’d borrowed from a neighbor, Justine daintily scribed a missive to the duke, similar to the countless weekly missives she’d sent to him ever since first meeting him. The duke had never once responded, which her mother was thankful for, but Justine continued to scribe him weekly letters all the same.

  In this particular letter, however, she offered Bradford a bit more than the usual gossip about herself and her family. She offered him several nights in exchange for her father’s release. Having no dowry and no suitor, she wasn’t too worried about harvesting her virginity to a man who offered no wedding prospect. She only hoped her mother and father would understand.

  Though it had been many months since she’d last seen the duke, and there were muddled whispers about him being disfigured due to his involvement with a less than reputable woman, not a single drop of the story intimidated her. She felt that her father’s comfort, safety and sanity trumped any of her own womanly misgivings.

  To her astonishment, not even three days after her letter had been delivered to the duke, his footman appeared at their door and presented the following letter:

  Lady Justine,

  I can only apologize for ever leading you to believe I was capable of ruining anyone in their most desperate hour, let alone a lady of esteemed quality such as yourself. Although I cannot and will not be able to accept your offer, I would like to propose something else. At three and thirty, I have come to the profound realization that I am not getting any younger. Or prettier. It is time I take a wife. I have received and immensely enjoyed every letter you have sent and fondly remember every time we have met. Therefore, I foresee no complications in asking for your hand in marriage. Whilst I am certain there are various rumors surrounding my current physical state, I can assure you, I am in excellent health. Though I did sustain one sizable scar it is nothing to fret over. Should you and your father agree to our marriage, a license will be applied for and the wedding will be set to take place in six weeks’ time. In turn, I would be delighted to pay all debts imposed upon your father so as to ensure his prompt release from Marshalsea.

  I await your response,

  Bradford

  And all along she had thought he’d never ask…

  London be damned for treating her father with such horrid disdain. She was finally going to earn some respect for herself and her family. She was going to be the Duchess of Bradford, and she had every intention of demanding respect from everyone, at every turn, from this day forth.

  SCANDAL ONE

  Without a good chaperone, one might as well be dead. Remember, a chaperone is supposed to be another thinking head.

  How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

  Five weeks later, evening

  WITH THE ASSISTANCE of her driver, Mr. Kern, Justine stepped out of the coach and swept down onto the pavement of the square. She eyed the shadowed, four-story alabaster home, noting that most of the windows were as dark as the night around her. Sparse golden light shone through only a few glass panes on the far side of the home.

  An ominous feeling crawled through her. Despite countless letters to the duke, pleading for at least one audience before the actual wedding, he had responded to each and every letter with a firm, “No. Not until the appointed time of the wedding.” Calling upon him repeatedly had not yielded much more. He simply would not see her. Which worried her to no end. Was he in fact more disfigured than he’d originally let on?

  As if that weren’t distressing enough, there appeared to be complications surrounding her father’s release, even though her wedding was only a short week away. And whilst the duke’s solicitor had repeatedly assured her everything would be resolved, Justine needed more than mere verbal assurance.

  Mr. Kern lingered beside her and cleared his throat, awaiting payment for his many weeks of service. He eyed her reticule. “Milady.” He pointed. “I thought this was tah be a friendly social call.”

  Justine glanced down at the ribbon-drawn reticule slung around her wrist. The rosewood handle of her father’s pistol stuck straight out, like a gopher’s head from a mound.

  She feigned an apologetic laugh. “It is a friendly social call, Mr. Kern. This is simply to intimidate the servants. Which reminds me—” She yanked out the ivory flask of gunpowder from her reticule.

  Mr. Kern paused. Then squinted at her.

  After several failed attempts to uncork the flask, Justine huffed out a breath and dug her fingertips beneath the rim, giving it one last solid tug. Her straining arms jumped and the cork popped off.

  Mr. Kern scrambled back as a huge plume of gunpowder blanketed her face, cloak, gown and the street, filling her nostrils with a gritty, sulfur-penetrating residue. She gagged as the flask slipped and clattered to the pavement, and frantically brushed the soot from her face and bosom. Of all the blasted—

  She paused, glimpsing the flask on its side in the shadows. Oh, no. Plucking it up, she tapped at what little remained in the vessel and groaned. How quickly she’d become like the rest of the women in London. Completely useless. Unable to even prime a pistol. Her father would have been horrified at her incompetence.

  Exasperated, she shoved the expensive flask into Mr. Kern’s waiting hands. “Here you are, Mr. Kern. Pure ivory and worth well more than I owe you. This will officially bring your service to an end. I thank you.”

  “Much obliged.” He tipped his wool cap, then made his way back to the hackney, inspecting his newly acquired trinket.

  If only the wardens at Marshalsea were as easy to please and get along with.

  Justine sighed, and eyed the pistol in her hand. She supposed she could bluff her way in. That way, when the authorities did arrive, no one could argue it was loaded. Cocking it, she tucked the pistol back into her reticule and marched with full intent toward the dimly lit house, past the wrought-iron gate which had conveniently been left open.

  She hurried up the wide, shadowed steps and halted at the entrance. Swiping away whatever gunpowder she could still feel on her face, she drew in a calming breath and used the knocker. Then the bell.

  Footfalls echoed from the interior. The bolts were eventually unfastened and the door to the house fanned open, filtering soft golden light across the wide steps.

  A massive, blond-haired gentleman appeared. One she hadn’t seen throughout all her earlier attempts to get in. His wide chin jutted over his tight collar, whilst his round belly threatened to pop every button off the embroidered waistcoat protruding from his dark livery. He stepped toward her, his hefty frame towering a good two heads over her own.

  Her heart raced as she stepped back. What, by gad, had his mother been feeding him? Clearly, not the usual English fare.

  She counterfeited a quick smile and hoped that, despite his imposing stature, this particular new servant was going to be more cooperative than the rest. “Forgive the hour, sir, and my overall appearance, but I was hoping for an audience with His Grace. Would you please inform him that his fiancée, and future duchess, is here and that it is most urgent?” She hesitated, then repeated, “Most urgent.”

  The man’s beady blue eyes raked the length of her. “Have you been sweeping chimneys, my lady? I hope all is well.”

  He was about as amusing as her situation. “I shall be in much better spirits once I speak to His Grace.”
She tried not to sound too agitated, or he wouldn’t let her in.

  He sighed. “As the previous butler may have already informed you, my lady, His Grace will not see you or anyone else until the appointed time of the wedding. He does, however, wish to assure you all is well.” He bowed, stepped back and slammed the door shut.

  Justine gasped with indignation. “All is not well, sir! I demand you open this door. Sir!” She paused and blinked at the door, which so rudely remained closed. Was this any way to treat a future duchess?

  She huffed out a breath and glanced back toward the shadows of manmade iron fences and stone buildings that rose above the trees beyond. Though she’d always suppressed her true feelings of not belonging to this strange London world, it was time to admit that the men in England really weren’t as refined and civilized as they claimed to be. If they were, they would not be caging an old man for having an opinion contrary to societal norms, and they most certainly would not be leaving a young woman on a doorstep, in the dark, alone. Whilst assuring her all was well.

  The cowardly side of her wanted to dash straight into the night and disappear onto the next ship to Cape Town to avoid this entire mess.

  But her heart and soul knew what needed to be done. Her father needed her, and she was not about to wait until the day of the wedding to discover her father was set to languish in Marshalsea for the rest of his days.

  She needed reassurance. And she was going to get it. Setting her chin, Justine whirled back to the door and rattled the knob, only to discover it had already been bolted. Narrowing her gaze, she grabbed hold of the knocker and repeatedly pounded the brass ring against the block, hoping everyone’s head inside the house was pounding right along with it. She was not going home and didn’t give a ripe fig if all of London talked about it for ten full years.