Prelude to a Scandal

by Delilah Marvelle

  Tilting her head, she continued to watch Radcliff read and wondered whether he really found it that interesting.

  She gathered the coverlet closer around herself and finally whispered, “Good morning.”

  He glanced up and quickly shut the little red book, clearing his throat. “It’s long past morning. It’s two in the afternoon.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Is it? Why didn’t you try to rouse me?”

  “It was obvious you needed rest.”

  She eyed him. “Were you actually reading my etiquette book?”

  He snorted. “Trying to. By God, what you poor women are subjected to. I know I would have never survived if I had been born a woman.”

  Justine paused, then blinked, wondering if her etiquette book might actually help him and his obsession. It had plenty of good advice, aside from its blatant disregard of bedside manners. Perhaps—

  He held up the book and waved it at her. “Were you actually forced to read this? Or was this something you chose to read?”

  She eyed him, wondering how to go about presenting this idea without completely castrating his pride. “A bit of both. I read it a total of eight times.”

  His brows rose. “Eight times? Whatever for? Wasn’t once enough?”

  “That book was my path to better understanding what was expected of me when I first arrived in London. Although I had a very civilized upbringing with a governess, tutors, daily lessons in history, music, dancing, French and Italian, it was still all done in canvas tents or huts that looked like inverted baskets. I didn’t play with aristocratic, white children. I played with dark-skinned children who, for the most part, treated me as though I were some exotic fruit. When I arrived in London, I realized I was still a piece of fruit in the eyes of those around me, only I wasn’t so exotic. That was when I knew my upbringing had put me at a disadvantage. Heavens, I didn’t even walk like the rest of the debutantes. It was by reading and rereading that book that I came to better understand how I was expected to behave.”

  Justine moved off the bed, taking the coverlet with her, and stood, feeling as if her legs were made of plum pudding. “I have an idea as to how we are going to help you master your obsession better. Are you willing to humor me?”

  He eyed her, slapping the book against his trouser-clad knee, and sat back against the chair. “I have no trouble humoring you. I need to learn better methods of control. But might I suggest you clothe that delectable body of yours and keep it clothed whenever in my presence? Otherwise you aren’t going to be of much assistance to me. At all.”

  Justine adjusted the coverlet, a rapid heat creeping into her face, and realized he was right. She might as well be wagging a gazelle in front of a lion. “Uh…so true. Why don’t you wait in the study whilst I dress? Be mindful it may take some time.”

  “Take however long you need.”

  “Oh, and while you are waiting,” she added quickly, “I have an assignment for you.”

  “An assignment?”

  “Yes. I want you to create a list of ten things you think I would want during our marriage, along with a brief explanation as to why you think I would want those things.” Her father and her tutors always forced her to write lists of ten when they were testing her understanding of something.

  “I’ll be in the study. Writing said list.” He stood to his grand height of six feet and strode past the bed. With the flick of his wrist, he tossed the etiquette book onto the mattress, then opened the door and disappeared, closing the door behind him.

  Justine scampered over to the braided bell pull and yanked on it. She was going to have Henri put some extra effort into her appearance.

  She collapsed onto the bed and lovingly snatched up the etiquette book, brushing her fingers alongside the edges he had all but recently gripped. “Radcliff dearest,” she whispered aloud, as if he could hear her. “Everything I do, I do for you.”

  SCANDAL FOURTEEN

  Sadly, many have long forgotten the purpose behind why a lady should curtsy. Above all, a curtsy is a humble form of “courtesy” laced with dignity and grace. If done right, it will be remembered by the person you are being introduced to for a very, very long time.

  How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

  WITH A LIT CIGAR IN one hand and a quill in the other, Radcliff stared blankly at the unfinished list, trying to think of what else he could scribe. Surely he hadn’t missed anything. Of course, knowing Justine, she was probably trying to prove a point. That he didn’t know a goddamn thing about what she wanted. And most likely, she was right.

  He quickly reread what he had so far:

  Ten Things My Wife Might Want From Me And Why

  Respect (Because she deserves it)

  Money (Because she and her parents need it)

  Clothing (Because she is not Eve)

  Jewelry (Because she looks stunning in it)

  Children (Because she would be a perfect mother)

  Excursions and Holidays (Because she misses Africa)

  Romance (Because every woman wants it)

  Me (Because without me the above wouldn’t be possible)

  And…? What? What more could she possibly want from him? Assistance in world domination? Most likely. Would Justine approve of it being number nine or ten? Not likely.

  He brought the cigar to his lips, took in a long, searing aromatic puff and slowly blew it out. The smoke descended upon the parchment and dissipated into the air around him. He continued to stare at his own words in complete exasperation.

  Dash it. Maybe he should start anew.

  He tossed his quill toward the direction of the inkwell and the burning candle whose wax was dripping down onto the silver holder. Shoving the cigar between his teeth, he crushed the parchment into a small ball and whipped it over his writing desk toward the scattered pile of a dozen or so other mutilated lists.

  Perhaps he should give her that entire pile. For there was certainly enough in there for her to make sense of.

  In the far distance, the calling bell rang.

  Radcliff ignored it and drew in another breath of his cigar before yanking it out from between his teeth with his left hand. Ten things. With his right, he plucked up the quill, which had splattered droplets of ink across his polished desk.

  Ten things. Hell. There couldn’t be ten things. Unless he included servants, carriages and the house. But then that would be eleven things.

  The doors to the study fanned open and Jefferson cleared his throat. “Are you at home, Your Grace?”

  Radcliff tossed the quill yet again in the direction of the inkwell, splattering more ink across the desk. He tapped the building ash at the end of his cigar into the small pan beside him, leaned back into his chair and eyed his butler. “Who is it?”

  “A Miss Matilda Thurlow.”

  Radcliff’s lips parted as the cigar slipped from between his fingers and fell onto his lap. He jumped and frantically snatched the cigar, scrambling to his booted feet and brushing at the dark mark imprinted upon his gray trousers.

  Shit. At least he hadn’t set fire to himself and his cock. Though that probably would have resolved everything.

  Radcliff shoved the cigar into the ash pan. There was only one reason he could think of as to why Matilda Thurlow would visit him in his own home and in broad daylight. Something had forced her to.

  “Your Grace,” Jefferson insisted. “The lady appears to be in dire need.”

  Radcliff stiffly straightened and drew in a deep breath that was anything but calming. What the hell was he supposed to do? Turn her away? Damn her. Damn her for putting him in this situation. “I will receive her here in the study. Fetch my wife, will you? At once. I do not wish to be left alone.” Radcliff plucked up his cigar from the pan.

  Jefferson bowed and departed.

  Knowing that he would have to dash out his cigar, as a gentleman was supposed to whilst in the presence of a woman, Radcliff took one last puff and let the smoke slowly fume out through his nostrils. />
  He closed his eyes, savoring the heated, soothing taste, and wondered how he was going to remain steady-minded without so much as a cigar to occupy his hands.

  Reopening his eyes, he crushed the burning end of the cigar and pulled open the top right drawer of the desk. Shoving the ash pan and cigar inside, he slammed it shut and repositioned his chair so that it angled toward the open doorway.

  The clicking of heeled slippers soon filled the corridor beyond, and within moments, Matilda appeared in a flower-patterned carriage attire, cashmere shawl and matching bonnet. She slowly and carefully crossed the room, as if she were having trouble walking with her oversize belly. Her eyes remained downcast as she continued to approach him. Her face was pale and devoid of emotion, with new bruises scattered upon the side of her face and a swollen lip encrusted with blood.

  Despite that, her blond hair was perfectly pinned into place within the dome of her bonnet, and her gown looked pretty and tidy.

  Radcliff quickly stood but refused to look at her further. Pity was a very dangerous emotion when one was not in a position to offer assistance. He kept his gaze firmly affixed on the door, waiting for Justine to appear, hoping to God that she would soon so that he wouldn’t have to do this alone.

  “Thank you for receiving me, Your Grace,” Matilda brokenly whispered as if they had never been formally introduced. Her voice seemed so distant, so uncharacteristically faint.

  He stiffly waved her toward the direction of a chair. “Yes, yes. Sit. My wife will be joining us shortly and you may speak then.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her hobble carefully to an upholstered chair. She turned, holding on to the arms of the chair, and sat. She sucked in a harsh breath but said nothing more.

  To his relief, there was a quick clicking of heels and then the rustling of fabric as Justine whisked into the study, then paused, one small hand gripping the side of her full silk skirt, while the other hand gripped the etiquette book he’d been browsing earlier. She noted Matilda’s presence before allowing her beautiful gaze to collide with his.

  Radcliff’s breath hitched, realizing how absolutely stunning his wife really was despite the pinched concern twisting her features. Long, unbound chestnut curls spilled down the sides of her pretty oval face. A face that was beginning to flush, and in turn, emphasize the delicate curve of her exposed throat.

  Random flashes of her warm, velvet body next to his, the feel of her skin against his hands as he slid them up the length of her smooth thighs, their mingled cries of ecstasy, her fingertips digging into his flesh, all of it seared and consumed his thoughts even in that moment.

  He willed his gaze to remain on her and her alone, wishing to God he could somehow make her understand how trapped he felt in that moment.

  He eventually gestured toward Matilda. “Might I introduce Miss Matilda Thurlow.” He then gestured toward Justine. “Miss Thurlow, this is my wife, the Duchess of Bradford.”

  Matilda rose from her seat, and despite the fact that she winced with each step, she managed to make her way toward Justine. Matilda curtsied as deeply as her physical state would allow before slowly rising. As if the curtsy had not been enough, she bowed her head to Justine, causing the yellow lace ribbons and artificial blue flowers atop her bonnet to quiver. “Your Grace. It is an honor.”

  Justine’s arched brows came together as she searched Matilda’s face in what was obvious astonishment. “Miss Thurlow. Your face. Are you all right? What happened?”

  Matilda kept her head bowed and said nothing. She eventually drew her shaky gloved hands together, placing them upon her protruding belly. Her shoulders quaked.

  A wrenching sob escaped Matilda, followed by another one. “F-forgive me, Your Grace. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Nonsense,” Justine insisted. “’Tis obvious you require assistance. What is it that you need, Miss Thurlow? What is it that my husband and I can do for you? Ask and it is yours. I will not allow you to leave until you inform us of how we may assist.”

  Matilda let out another sob. “I—I came to ask for five pounds. My sister, Yvonne, will not house me unless I have it. Whilst Carlton has…has taken everything I have. Everything. I tried to return to the brothel where I once worked, hoping to earn some money there, but they…they’ll not have me as I am.” She sobbed again.

  Justine snapped her gaze over to him, clearly bewildered, before returning her attention back to Matilda. She leaned in closer to Matilda. “Miss Thurlow,” she offered softly, touching her arm. “All will be well, I assure you. Please. Do not cry.”

  Radcliff blew out a breath, preparing himself for words he knew he had to say. And it wasn’t going to be in the least bit polite. “I suppose I might as well be plain, Justine, and admit here and now that the night of our wedding, I left the house and assisted Miss Thurlow with a similar situation. Absolutely nothing occurred between us that night. I was merely offering assistance. And yet, despite that time, and the money I gave her, she still chose to go back to Carlton. She isn’t a child. She ought to realize that there are consequences for making foolish decisions.”

  A gasp escaped Justine. “Radcliff!”

  Matilda’s sob grew all the more pitched and hysterical. “No, no. He is right. I should have never gone back. I hate Carlton! And I will hate him until my last breath is taken!”

  There were far too many damn women in the house. And for the first time in his life, he was anything but amorous about it. “Jefferson!” he boomed toward the direction of the entryway. “Give Miss Thurlow five pounds and see her to the door, will you?”

  “Radcliff!” The rustling of Justine’s skirts now followed in his direction. She paused only momentarily during her march to glare down at the large pile of crushed parchments scattered at her feet. “What—”

  “Your damn list,” he supplied with a grunt. “Nine and ten kept eluding me.”

  “’Tis obvious they aren’t the only things eluding you.” She kicked them all out of the way with the side of her blue-heeled slipper, making a path for herself. She then whisked toward his desk and alighted abruptly before him.

  Slamming the etiquette book down, she gripped the desk, leaned toward him and seethed, “Give her five pounds and see her to the door. Indeed. How can you be so cruel? ’Tis obvious she requires more than that. She requires a place to stay.”

  “She can stay with her sister.”

  “A woman who demands money from her own flesh and blood is not what I would call a proper sister.”

  Radcliff set his hands behind his back, trying to remain indifferent. “How is it my business to care? I find it disturbingly presumptuous that Miss Thurlow thinks she can repeatedly contact me like this. And more so, call upon my home at any given hour and impose herself upon my very name before all of London.”

  “Forget all of London, Radcliff. She is pregnant and battered. By your own brother!”

  “Tell me something I do not know.” He eyed the door and yelled out, “Jefferson!”

  “You will not toss her out!” Justine hit her hand soundly against the desk, as if she were hitting a war drum and he’d better heed it. “Do you hear me? You will not.”

  “Observe.”

  Jefferson appeared. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  Radcliff gestured sweepingly toward Matilda. “Please escort Miss Thurlow to the door. And see to it she is given not five pounds, but fifty, as I am feeling unusually generous today.”

  “Generous, my toe. This is my home, too!” Justine whirled toward the burly butler. “Never you mind him, Jefferson. Miss Thurlow stays. And while you’re at it, be certain to inform the chef as well as the housekeeper, Mr. Evans, that we will be having a guest staying with us these next few weeks. Until the birth of Miss Thurlow’s child.”

  Radcliff sucked in an astonished breath and choked out, “Absolutely not. She is not staying in my home!”

  Justine ignored him, and continued to stare the butler down. “I will see to it that fifty pounds goes in
to your pocket, Jefferson. You can collect it from the house steward today. What do you say?”

  Jefferson hesitated, his beady blue eyes darting among all three of them. “I shall inform the housekeeper and the chef at once, Your Grace.” He bowed and departed.

  Radcliff flexed his hands into fists, feeling his ability to remain calm waning. Even his own butler had turned against him. For fifty pounds that was coming out of his own damn pocket!

  Yes, well, this matter was far from over.

  He averted his gaze to Matilda and tried to keep his voice as cool and refined as possible. “Miss Thurlow. Seeing as my wife and I seem to be in disagreement, might we ask for a moment alone? You may retire into the parlor just down the corridor and should you require anything during that time, my butler will see to your needs.”

  Matilda looked at them with puffy, tear-streaked eyes, which only emphasized the terrible bruising upon her face. “I should leave. I should have never come.”

  “No.” Justine pointed at her. “You will stay right where you are.”

  “No, she will retire to the parlor until this matter is resolved,” Radcliff snapped. “Miss Thurlow? If you please.”

  “Uh…yes, Your Grace.” Matilda bowed her head, gathered her skirts and hobbled toward the direction of the entryway. Though it took her some time, she eventually disappeared through the doors.

  Justine hurried toward the open doors of the study, slammed them closed and whirled back toward him. “The poor woman can barely walk!”

  “She is well over eight months pregnant. What do you expect?”

  “Oh, no. That sort of severe limping isn’t brought on by pregnancy. More than her face was beaten, I assure you.” Justine marched her way back toward him and stopped before his desk again. “Does her appearance not move you to pity? What sort of man are you?”