Justine couldn’t help but breathe in this unexpected moment of what felt like a genuine attempt at courtship. She reveled in it, wanting to remember every detail. From the feel of his hand, to the beautiful carved gold ceilings above, to the stage draped with lush, red curtains bearing the royal emblem, right down to the enormous auditorium below, which seemed crowded with half of London.
Various overly coiffed women with large feathers in their hair, with emeralds and pearls and every stone imaginable on their gloved wrists and exposed necks, were already whispering busily amongst themselves, occasionally pointing with fans in their direction. The men weren’t quite so bold or obvious. With creased brows, they all pretended to be regally admiring the architecture.
Justine thought she might faint from the reality that everyone in London was not only discussing her and Bradford, but watching them. She sat in her designated chair to steady her shaky legs. She clutched her shawl, wishing she could crawl beneath it.
“Don’t deprive me of everything, Justine.” Bradford leaned toward her, the tips of his gloved fingers grazing her exposed shoulders as he swept off the cashmere shawl.
A cool breeze caressed her as he lifted it off and away. Her shoulders were openly exposed by the dip and cut of her gown. She didn’t know why, but she felt as if Bradford had officially put her on display.
He seated himself beside her and shifted in his seat. “Did you bring the opera glass I left out for you?”
She nodded and fumbled to remove it from her reticule. Her shaky fingers repeatedly tried to loosen the drawn cord, yet she had somehow lost control over her ability to make them function.
Bradford’s large hand swept over her fumbling ones. He wedged his fingers past hers and effortlessly loosened the cord, opening the reticule for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You are most welcome. Despite what you think, I can be quite useful from time to time outside the bedchamber.” A muscle flickered in his tight, scarred jaw as he gazed beyond her and toward the stage.
It was obvious that the Duke of Bradford, whom she thought didn’t give a drat about her opinion, was in fact trying to prove his worth. In the littlest of ways, mind you, but surely it would lead to more.
For if an insignificant hard granule of sand could be used by an oyster to create a beautiful, priceless pearl, then surely the Duke of Bradford would one day become the man of her dreams.
AS THE DRUMS BEAT in time to the trumpets and the violins joined in on top of the voices that pitched higher and higher, Radcliff could only sit and watch Justine’s glowing face. It had been quite some time since he’d been to the opera. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the music and the atmosphere until now.
Justine lifted her glass to look at the singers, a smile flitting across her full lips. “Radcliff?” she whispered.
How he liked hearing his name on her lips. He leaned toward her, the soft scent of rose water and powder floating up toward him from the heat of her exposed, creamy shoulders. “Yes?”
“What is it they’re actually singing about? I can only understand a few words here and there. I suppose I should have studied more Italian and less Swazi and Zulu, yes?”
He chuckled. Very few women admitted to what she just had. Of course, that was exactly what had always fascinated him about her. She never hid her thoughts the way other women were trained to do.
Radcliff listened for a long moment to the woman’s piping voice, catching all the words. “She longs for her husband.” Unable to resist, he leaned in closer, and added, “Her only chance of ever knowing true and lasting happiness is to allow him to bed her. Every morning and every night.”
Justine tilted her face toward him and lifted a brow. “I thought her husband was dead.”
He choked on an astonished laugh and cleared his throat. Twice. “Your Italian is better than you let on.”
“Certainly better than yours.” She grinned, apparently pleased with herself, and turned back to the stage.
As the opera continued, so did his unexpected fascination with his own wife. Why did he never think to offer on her hand sooner? Could things have been different for him? Could all of those women have been nothing more than passing faces he could have resisted? Perhaps he would have still had a face to offer her. A face she could be proud of.
He lowered his chin, still watching her. For someone who claimed not to care for the opera, her eyes hadn’t left the stage. She breathed in sharply whenever the powerful voices pierced the air. And naturally, every single time she caught her breath, it brought his attention back to those beautiful, perfectly powdered round breasts.
Indeed, he’d always had a weakness for powdered breasts at the opera. For it highlighted the softness of the skin and the curve of each breast every time a woman drew in a breath in reaction to the dramatic music and voices.
Throughout the rest of the night, there were many moments, whilst sitting next to her, that he wanted to reach out and caress the side of her smooth face and her long graceful neck with the back of his hand. Mostly whenever he thought of how she had publicly grabbed for his arm when they had first made their appearance that evening.
She had obviously sensed what he’d already known. That everyone was staring at his face. And though the gesture had been subtle, without a glance or a word, it was by far the most endearing thing a woman had ever done for him.
In some way, he’d known when he’d walked into his drawing room that one summer night, two years ago, that the ravishing debutante, who had stood so regally beside her parents, was going to do more than take his breath away. He’d known she was going to change his life.
That entire night, he’d spent the evening fascinated by the way she talked and walked and boldly met his gaze every time he spoke to her. She’d been so refreshingly different from all the other aristocratic young women he’d ever known. Most were taught to lower their gazes at the appropriate time and only speak in demure tones. He himself had always preferred a bit of fire. Which had, in fact, always been the problem. His obsession enjoyed challenges.
Indeed, the air around Justine had been so fresh that night, he could have sworn every time she breezed past, the fragrance of sun-burnt grasses had permeated the air around her. Sun-burnt grasses he’d wanted to roll around in. Grasses he’d tried to roll around in on a few occasions by calling on her, only to find that the earl had been on to him. The man had warned him that unless Radcliff had marriage in mind, he’d best stay the hell away. So he had. Only now he wished he hadn’t.
Instead of giving in to the growing urge to caress her cheek before all of London—for that would have indeed been vulgar and disrespectful of him—he opted to place his gloved hand to the back of her chair, to keep it from straying.
“So what is it that they are saying now?” she whispered again, interrupting his thoughts.
He snapped his attention away from her and back to the stage where a dainty female, dressed in a silk moss costume, fluted her notes across the stage to a group of perfectly still and silent men and women.
He focused on the words, knowing he had better not stray in his Italian, lest she correct him. “She wonders why her life is destined for sorrow and does not understand why the fates have abandoned her. Regardless, she believes she is destined for happiness and intends to triumph over all adversity.”
Justine drew in a long breath and slowly released it with a sigh, as if more romantic words she’d never heard spoken in her life.
She leaned slightly forward, toward the ledge before them, and eventually pointed at the group gathered to the left of the main singer. “And those people over there? Who are they?”
“They represent the village.”
She crinkled her nose. “The village? What village? This is so embarrassing. Am I the only one unable to follow every word?”
Radcliff smirked at her genuine attempt to follow the path of the opera’s story. Most people fell asleep. Or watched others through their o
pera glass. “I thought you didn’t like the opera.”
“I don’t. But this one is surprisingly romantic in the way it’s being presented.” She paused and eyed him. “I suppose I should thank you for convincing me to come. Brute force aside, that is, I am actually enjoying myself.” She smiled and returned her gaze to the stage.
He smiled and shook his head. Women certainly looked at everything so differently. He scanned the wide audience and paused, noticing Lord and Lady Winfield sitting in the box directly across from theirs. Radcliff’s smile faded as he narrowed his gaze at the old Marquis responsible for bringing Justine’s father before the bench and King.
Lady Winfield’s silver head bent toward her husband as she whispered something urgently to him, her opera glass fixed in Justine’s direction. The Marquis shifted in his seat, shook his tonic-brushed gray hair and whispered something in turn behind a white-gloved hand, looking rather agitated.
It was obvious they were discussing his wife.
Radcliff leaned toward Justine and whispered into the soft, chestnut curls that covered her ear, “I suggest we take our leave, dearest.”
Justine stiffened and tilted her head toward him. “Why? Is something amiss?”
There was no sense in lying to her. “Lord Winfield and his wife are sitting directly across from us. I prefer we leave. Before I end up jumping into their box and making your father’s scandal look like Sunday prayers.”
Justine paused, her eyes darting over to the box across from them, where Lord Winfield sat with his wife. After a quiet moment, she set her chin toward the direction of the stage and lifted her opera glass. “We stay. I am not missing the end of this opera. If you genuinely feel the need to jump into their box, I most certainly won’t object.”
Radcliff grinned slowly, silently cheering his Justine on, as he removed his hand from the back of her seat. He never expected anything less of her.
Knowing Lady and Lord Winfield were still watching them, he eyed Justine’s hand, and purposefully slipped his own down and across the lap of her evening gown. Gathering her gloved hand, he strategically brought it to his lips and kissed it ardently several times.
Kissing it again, he sensually rubbed the rounded tops of her gloved knuckle with his fingers. Justine’s chest rose from a quick intake of air, but otherwise, she remained indifferent as she slowly lifted her opera glass to her eyes with her other hand. “What on earth are you doing, Bradford?” her lips asked from beneath the rounded brass. “You do realize all of London is watching and you are being very crass?”
“I am merely making the Winfields jealous,” he drawled, continuing to rub her hand. “From what I hear, their marriage is so miserable, in comparison ours is meant for storybooks. We should revel in it.”
Justine squeezed his hand. Hard. “Revel for us, then. But don’t think you can hold or kiss anything else.”
He bit back a laugh and pressed his lips to her hand again. No matter how long it took, he had every intention of wooing his own wife and claiming her one small inch at a time. He’d keep wooing and claiming and wooing and claiming, until she was finally his. In mind and in body.
The following afternoon
IT SHOULDN’T HAVE surprised Justine when a footman in full red livery arrived at the door bearing a letter from Lady Winfield. What surprised Justine was the fact that the footman refused to leave without a response.
So she was forced to read the letter without being able to share it with Bradford who, of all days, was out with his secretary.
The letter read:
To Her Grace the Duchess of Bradford,
It was most endearing to observe a happy couple of such quality at the opera. I confess I have not seen such genuine adoration between a man and his wife in some time. I wish you and your new husband continued happiness. Though my husband has been an adversary to your father these past few months, he was first and foremost always a friend. I humbly ask that Your Grace understand that my husband was merely seeking to protect the rights of His Majesty’s people after an unspeakable incident involving our son devastated our lives many, many years ago. I believe Your Grace will have influence here in London throughout the coming years and that your benevolence is so great, I would even venture to ask for forgiveness in this matter and hope you and I might commence anew. I believe it would benefit us all.
Sincerely,
Lady Winfield
Justine snorted and wanted nothing more than to tear up the letter before the footman into dozens of dozens of pieces and send him along with the words, “Bugger off and may the Zulu Tokoleshe descend upon you.” But a true duchess would not be that hasty, crass or insensitive. More so, she had her husband’s name to uphold. And her parents’, as well.
Being a duchess certainly presented annoying dilemmas. It required one to be a complete hypocrite.
Knowing the footman was waiting outside the study, Justine seated herself at Radcliff’s desk and neatly scribed the following letter:
To The Most Noble Marchioness of Winfield,
I am humbled by your apology. As you know, my father has suffered greatly at the injustice brought against him due to his unconventional beliefs. My father’s studies have consistently proven that preference is innate. God does not create misunderstandings, we as humans do. I understand that your son suffered greatly at the hands of a monstrous scoundrel, and for that, my heart bleeds. Your son should have never endured what he did. Please understand, however, that the pain you and your husband have endured is not completely dissimilar to the pain I have endured whilst witnessing my own father’s life being stripped to a public form of nakedness from which he may never recover. I suppose I would be more willing to offer forgiveness in this matter if I knew you to be genuine.
Sincerely,
The Duchess of Bradford
The footman scurried off and returned not even an hour later with the following letter which the footman wanted a reply to:
To Her Grace the Duchess of Bradford,
Our apologies are indeed genuine and we hope to prove them in time. My husband has given thought to the situation and has nobly decided to reimburse any funds lost during your father’s tribulations in an effort to prove our intentions. Although we will continue to disagree with his convictions, in the end, we believe that respect does not necessarily mean people need always hold the same beliefs. We hope that you agree.
Sincerely,
Lady Winfield
Justine stared at the letter in complete astonishment. Curious, that. Bradford had once told her the same thing about respect. As such, this Lady Winfield had to have some amount of merit.
Though a part of Justine didn’t entirely trust the Winfields after what had been done to her father, she knew one could not play with the other children in the park without allowing the ball to actually leave one’s hands. Playing with naughty children known to steal balls was always a risk, but if all went well, which Justine hoped it would, playing often resulted in genuine fun meant to benefit all.
So Justine seated herself at Bradford’s desk once again and daintily scribed what she hoped to be the last letter:
To The Most Noble Marchioness of Winfield,
I humbly agree with your sentiment of respect.
As such, I know in time all will be forgotten.
Sincerely,
The Duchess of Bradford
Two days later, her father was reimbursed an astounding fifteen thousand pounds and she and Bradford were invited to attend the Winfield ball. Needless to say, Justine was beginning to believe that the name of duchess did earn one unprecedented respect in London. Though oddly enough, she was still trying to earn it from the one person she wanted it from the most: her husband.
SCANDAL TEN
Never allow a man to lure you into the darkness of a quiet garden or any other quiet destination where you might find yourself alone. For it will lead to far more than mere ruin and scandal. It will lead to far more than any woman is prepared to handle.
Four parties, two theater outings, five carriage rides through Hyde Park, three visits to his new in-laws, fourteen new gowns from The Nightingale—along with matching slippers and an expensive emerald necklace Radcliff had dug out from his safe—and now a ball hosted by none other than Lord Winfield, which Justine had insisted on attending, later…
RADCLIFF TIGHTENED HIS HOLD on Justine’s slim waist with one hand, his gloved fingers digging into the lilac satin of her evening gown, and tightened his hold on her gloved hand which he held up and out during their waltz. And here he thought he wasn’t a saint, yet he’d somehow endured two whole weeks into their marriage without ever once knocking on her bedchamber door. Which he had to admit he was bloody proud of. The trouble was, his right hand had been keeping him company every night, several times a night. Something he could not refrain from, though he tried.
“You are holding me much too close,” Justine whispered as they whirled across the dance floor, past other couples. The emerald necklace he’d given her glinted at him.
He smirked, amused how she kept her hazel eyes fixed on his waistcoat as if she’d never danced with a man so intimately before. “This is a waltz, Duchess. I’m supposed to be holding you scandalously close. Enjoy it. I know I am.”
To emphasize his point, he yanked her even closer against his body and whisked them past a bunch of gawking old crones whose days were long past and who most likely would crumble like biscuits if they had attempted to move the way he and his wife were now.
Prelude to a Scandal Page 11