His fingers relaxed, and he softly whispered up at her, “Yes. I do. And thank God you’re incredibly good at fucking or I don’t think I’d be able to survive.”
Justine released his face with a solid push. Was that all she was to him? Was that all she would ever be? She smacked his chest. And smacked it again, even harder for good merit, wishing she could pound some sense into him. “I am worth more than a stupid fuck, Bradford!”
Running steps echoed from down the corridor. Jefferson skidded into the entryway of the study, his chest heaving, his large frame outlined by the faint candlelight beyond. “Your Grace?” he echoed, searching the darkness. “What—”
Radcliff grunted as he shifted and pushed himself to sit up on the floor. “I do not require anything, Jefferson. Go. Retire. Hell, leave the house for all I care.”
Jefferson hesitated, then quietly turned and left the room.
The bastard. Justine fisted her hand and punched at Radcliff’s shoulder as hard as she could.
“Ow, woman!” he roared. “What was that for?”
“For what you just said to Jefferson. That was completely uncalled for.”
“What did I say?”
She choked back a sob she simply could not control. It was pointless trying to reason with him. Why fight so hard to save the soul of a man who didn’t even care for his own soul?
Radcliff leaned toward her, his hand patting at her skirts. “Why are you crying? Justine, don’t cry. Come. Come here.”
Gritting her teeth, she shoved his hands away. Hard. “Do not touch me! You are not in a state to touch me!”
“Damn it all to hell. I can never seem to please you.” He pushed himself up onto his feet and stumbled off to the side. He straightened and stalked toward the doorway. He paused, his broad back and tall frame outlined by shadows and faint light and said without turning, “I still like you.” He nodded, then disappeared.
Justine let out a breath and pushed herself up onto her feet, wondering how she was going to survive much more of this. She blindly made her way through the room and hurried into the candlelit corridor, not wanting to be alone in the darkness.
Bringing shaky hands to her tear-streaked face, she swiped away the evidence of her emotions. She wanted to believe that what Radcliff had really meant to say to her before leaving was that he loved her. That he loved her a lot. But it was going to take far more than words to make her believe that he was even capable of it.
“What did he do?” a female voice demanded. “I heard you shouting for assistance.”
Justine froze, dropping her hand to her sides.
Matilda hurried down the candlelit corridor as best she could, her hands firmly holding up her belly from beneath, still dressed in her morning gown.
Justine’s heart skipped. The last thing she wanted was for Matilda to worry about her. Matilda needed peace and strength for the birth of her child. Shaking her head and waving a hand about, Justine feigned a laugh as she approached her. “Nothing happened. Nothing.”
Matilda paused before her, searching her face. Her gaze narrowed. “You lie. Why are you crying?”
“I am emotional, is all.”
Matilda grabbed hold of her shoulders and gripped them so hard those fingers pinched her skin beneath the material of her gown. Leaning toward her, she shook her and hoarsely whispered, “Do not give him excuses. For that is how it all begins. One excuse after another. I gave Carlton those very same excuses, and yet, did I earn his love? Did I earn anything? No. I did not. I only earned my own self-loathing. Justine. Do not think you can earn the love of a broken soul. For you will not. Do you wish your life to be like mine? Do you wish to live each moment regretting that you even breathe whilst in the presence of a man?”
Justine swallowed and shook her head. “Bradford is not like Carlton. He would never raise a hand to me. I know he wouldn’t.”
“I never thought Carlton would raise a hand to me, either. But he did. Repeatedly. And the fact that they are brothers worries me.” Matilda hissed out a breath and slid her hands down the length of Justine’s arms, rubbing them.
Releasing her, Matilda glanced behind them, into the darkness of the corridor that was not illuminated by candles. “You shouldn’t sleep alone. Sleep with me tonight. And if need be, every night.” Matilda turned back toward her and wrapped her arm around her waist and slowly pulled her toward the direction of the bedchambers. “Come.”
Justine allowed herself to be pulled along. “I am supposed to be assisting you. Not you assisting me.”
Matilda squeezed her tighter against her side and belly. “This is what friends do. And after what you have done for me today, you are and will always be my friend.”
Justine squeezed her back. Although Radcliff—not to mention all of London—might not approve of her new and very pregnant friend, she approved of her. And that was all that mattered.
Indeed. From this moment forth, she would personally see that Matilda’s stay here at the Bradford home was something worth remembering. Something Matilda would tell her own child about for years and years to come. And Radcliff would contribute to the cause, whether it pleased him or not.
SCANDAL SIXTEEN
It is true. Life is often half spent before we ever come to truly understand its purpose. It is my hope, however, that I can prevent you from wasting any more of that life than is really necessary.
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
BRIGHT, GOLDEN LIGHT pressed against the closed lids of Radcliff’s eyes. His limbs felt unbearably tight and raw. The smell of port clung to his nostrils, to his skin. Even worse, the taste of sour port clung to his mouth.
At least he could breathe. Though hardly, seeing his throat burned and every puff of air crinkled his dry lips.
He winced, a headache pinching his skull.
Someone nudged his shoulder. “Your Grace?”
Radcliff opened his eyes and squinted against the brightness blinding him. As his vision adjusted to the unexpected sunlight pouring in through the glass windows, Jefferson’s full face and large shoulders came into view.
He blinked. Why was he on the floor? In the receiving room? With his butler kneeling beside him?
Jefferson grinned down at him, his round blue eyes clearly amused. “For a moment, I thought you were dead, Your Grace.”
Radcliff grunted out a laugh, then winced, realizing more than his head hurt. His chest and the rest of his body ached as if he’d been trampled by a coach and full set of horses. “Forgive me for disappointing you, Jefferson. I am still very much alive.”
“Ah, now, I wouldn’t worry, Your Grace. I am quite used to people disappointing me.” Jefferson wedged his gloved hands beneath Radcliff’s arms and pulled him up into a sitting position. “Are you well enough to stand?”
Radcliff nodded and, pulling in a deep breath, scrambled up to his booted feet and stood. He blinked, and as the room swayed momentarily, his mind began searching for the memory of the night before. He swallowed down the nausea rolling through him, and though he recalled very little, the one thing he did remember, the one thing that echoed within his thoughts with a clarity he could not forget, were Justine’s sobs.
Oh, God. What had he done?
He glanced down at his trousers and fumbled with them, but found they were intact and properly buttoned. Yet that didn’t mean he hadn’t—
He turned and grabbed hold of the lapels on Jefferson’s dark livery, yanking the large butler toward him. “What did I do?” he demanded. “Did I hurt her? Did I hurt my wife?”
Jefferson stared at him. “Not that I know of, Your Grace. But all that port and brandy didn’t make you in the least pleasant. That I do know.”
This was not happening. This could not be happening. He was supposed to make Justine proud. Not make her cry. Radcliff released the butler and stumbled back, nausea clenching his throat and stomach. “Where is she?”
“The duchess and Miss Thurlow departed late this morning, Your Grac
e. Two hours ago.”
He choked. She wasn’t already leaving him, was she? “Departed? To where?”
“Miss Thurlow was in dire need of clothing, given her gentle state. As you may recall she did not bring a trunk and did not wish to retrieve her belongings from Lord Carlton.”
“You mean my wife took Miss Thurlow shopping?” he echoed. “Out in broad daylight?”
Jefferson eyed him. “Yes. It is indeed daylight, Your Grace. And that is usually when the shops are open.”
Oh, damn. This was all his fault. What the hell had he been thinking drinking so much last night? “Did she tell you where she was going?” he demanded.
“No, Your Grace.” Jefferson dug into the inner vest pocket of his livery and withdrew a page of folded ivory stationery. “But the duchess did leave this for you.”
Radcliff slipped it from those large gloved fingers. Dreading every word, he unfolded it and read:
Your Grace,
Miss Thurlow and I have decided to enjoy this bright, sunny day outside the home. I hope you do not mind my extending your credit at a few shops.
Respectfully,
The Duchess of Bradford
Respectfully? He didn’t like the way she’d written that word. Unlike all the other words that were neatly and perfectly scribed, respectfully had been scrawled with obvious haste. As if she’d been forced to offer him something and could only think of respectfully.
He stared at the name he had given her, the name of his wife, his Justine, and slid his finger across its length, not caring Jefferson was there to see it.
Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He had a feeling he knew where Justine had gone. And he hoped he was right. The ton was anything but forgiving in matters such as these. Nor could he have Carlton hearing about their outing, or the bastard would only end up showing up at his door.
Radcliff folded the letter and eyed his butler. “Have my coach ready to depart within twenty minutes.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Jefferson bowed and departed.
From here on out, he was going to prove himself to Justine. Even if it bloody killed him.
SCANDAL SEVENTEEN
In this society, the clothing you wear defines the soul you wear. Have a care for both.
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
The Nightingale, 28 Regent Street
ROWS OF GLEAMING PLATE-GLASS WINDOWS revealed a stunning Paris-green salon decorated with potted palms, Venetian glass chandeliers, and mahogany counters topped with Italian white marble.
Justine stepped beneath the stone colonnade, away from the crush of horses and lacquered carriages loitering the cobblestone street behind her and Matilda.
Eyeing the well-dressed men and women who strolled leisurely, Justine tightened her hold on Matilda’s arm, and together, they wove through passing individuals and whisked into the arched entryway of the shop.
Matilda placed a hand on her belly and pulled them both to a halt. “They will stare, despite the veil covering my face and bonnet, and will ask questions.”
Justine squeezed her arm and pulled her onward. “Let them, Mrs. Porter. Our only hope is that there isn’t another poor Mrs. Porter in London whose name we are about to slander.”
Matilda laughed and glanced over at her. Leaning toward her, she whispered, “This really is so exciting and lovely of you. I’ve always wanted to shop at The Nightingale, but it was too expensive. Though Carlton would never admit to it, his funds were rather limited. A yard of material from this shop alone is well worth several pounds. And even Carlton, dolt that he is, knows it takes more than a yard to make a gown.”
Justine laughed in turn, and together they swept into the shop where various women in expensive bonnets, carriage shawls and morning gowns inspected rolled-out bolts of brocaded silks, muslin, crepe, and moiré.
A young dark-haired woman, who was new to the shop since Justine had last visited with Radcliff two weeks earlier, hurried out from behind the counter toward them. Thick, pinned sausage curls dangled from beneath the white silk flowers and embroidered yellow satin ribbons woven into her hair. The flowers and ribbons meticulously matched the shade of her full gown.
The young woman swept to a halt before them and smiled brightly, her left cheek dimpling. “Good afternoon. I am Miss Wyatt. How might I be of assistance?” She paused, her smile fading as she eyed Matilda’s face through the lace veil.
Justine quickly released Matilda’s arm and stepped toward the shop girl, leaning in unconventionally close so as to keep her words from spreading to the group of women choosing fabrics for their gowns. “Miss Wyatt. My dear friend, Mrs. Porter, has had an unfortunate experience at the hands of her husband for which I pray you will not judge her. I merely wish to gift her with a few gowns that would better suit her needs during her gentle state. I have no intention of sparing expense and it will benefit you to be as gracious toward her as possible.”
Miss Wyatt eyed Matilda, then turned to Justine. “Poor soul, to be sure, and gracious I always strive to be, but how will this be paid for?”
Justine pried her beaded reticule open and yanked out a calling card from the small stack Radcliff had recently ordered for her. She held out the ivory, gold-lettered card between kid-gloved fingers. “It may be billed to this address.”
Miss Wyatt slid the card from her hand, read the inscription and glanced up, smiling brightly. She quickly curtsied. “It would be an unprecedented honor to be of service to you, Your Grace. If it would at all please you, I can measure Mrs. Porter in her own fitting room to ensure both your privacy and hers.”
Justine grinned, rather pleased that a name could evoke such instant cooperation.
“I CANNOT WAIT TO behold my gowns!” Matilda gushed, adjusting the white lace veil back over her bonnet. “Thank you, Justine.”
“There is no need. His Grace is the one paying the bill.” Justine reached out and squeezed her hand. It had been so long since she had thought of nothing but genuinely enjoying herself. “Remain here with Miss Wyatt. There is no need to make you walk more than you should. I will see to it the carriage pulls up to the door.” Justine offered a nod toward the shop girl, Miss Wyatt. “Thank you, Miss Wyatt.”
“It was a pleasure, Your Grace. Mrs. Porter’s gowns will be delivered within the week. Any adjustments will be complimentary, as always.”
“Thank you.” Justine beamed and whisked toward the door of the shop. Closing it behind her, she turned to hurry toward the pavement, but stepped right smack into a broad, solid frame.
“Oh!” She desperately tried to snatch hold of the man’s dark satin coat to keep herself from teetering backward.
The man grabbed her corseted waist and yanked her scandalously toward his large, muscled body, steadying her with swift, strong hands. The curved brim of his black top hat shadowed his handsome but scarred face.
She gasped as Radcliff’s obsidian gaze captured hers.
“Justine,” his voice broke with huskiness.
She froze against him, his tone laced with far more than she was willing to offer in that moment. Not without an apology from him. Her gloved hands, which appeared so small in comparison to the expanse of his solid chest, still shamelessly fisted both his morning coat and the front of his gold-threaded waistcoat.
Justine instantly released him and stepped back toward the door behind her. “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she managed in a cool tone that implied she was anything but pleased with him.
He intently observed her and leaned in. “Assure me you haven’t been using Miss Thurlow’s real name in public.”
So much for him dashing across London to apologize and fawn over her. She glared up at him. “My head isn’t made of cork. I’ve been using the name Mrs. Porter.”
He shook his head. “You should have never left the house. Not with her.”
“And what was I to do? She needed clothes. None of my gowns fit her, and I wasn’t about to drape a set of curtains around her.”
“In the shop. Why?” Justine stepped aside to give him space, but his hand reached out and curved around her corseted waist as they passed one another.
She sucked in a breath and stumbled away from his touch, back toward the crowded pavement. Aside from not wanting him to touch her after the drunken encounter he had yet to apologize for, her heart shamelessly pounded at the intimacy he was blatantly demonstrating in public. On Regent Street.
He opened the door and leaned in casually toward Matilda, who was still inside with Miss Wyatt. “I do beg your pardon, fair ladies. Mrs. Porter? Might you join me and my wife? It is rather important you do. Thank you.”
Justine eyed him as he pulled the door further open.
Matilda soon waddled through the open door, reached out and grabbed hold of Justine’s arm, bringing Justine close as she hurried them onto the pavement.
“Do not allow yourself to be persuaded by anything he says or does,” Matilda insisted quietly. “He is only looking to redeem himself. They always resort to this sort of behavior.”
Justine squeezed her arm, silently assuring her that she was not that gullible.
Radcliff strode toward them and rounded Justine’s side, now towering unnervingly close despite the bustling crowd around them.
His smoldering eyes met hers from below the rim of his top hat. “I hope you found my credit satisfactory.”
Justine narrowed her gaze in an effort to demonstrate that she was not about to shrivel up in his presence. “Why are you here?” she quietly demanded, trying not to bring too much attention to herself. They were, after all, on Regent Street. “I doubt you came all this way to ask about your credit.”
Prelude to a Scandal Page 18