A Scandalous Past (Regency Romance, Book 4)

by Ava Stone

  “You haven’t met Gregory,” Cordie said with a mock shudder. “He’s nearly as stodgy as you.”

  Clayworth’s arms tightened around her again and he softly kissed her temple. “There’s more I should tell you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “You’ll find out anyway, and I’d rather be the one to tell you.”

  Well, that sounded positively ominous, and Cordie tilted her head back again, wishing she could see his face.

  “Flora thought herself in love with a scoundrel who ended up abandoning her when she discovered she was with child. A few weeks after the birth of my nephew, she lost all desire to live and faded away. Thomas is twelve now, the light of my life, and he lives with me in Derbyshire.”

  Cordie sucked in a surprised breath. The Earl of Clayworth was the last sort of man she expected to raise a bastard. “But he…” Her voice trailed off, as she couldn’t finish the statement.

  “Looks like his mother,” Clayworth finished for her. “How could I not love him? And then there’s Rosamund.”

  Lady Rosamund Reese. Cordie had seen her once at a small country ball while she and Livvie were staying at Prestwick Chase in the spring. “I remember her. She is stunning.”

  “She’s afflicted,” he informed her with less emotion than she would have expected at such a pronouncement. “They don’t know with what. She has grown into a lovely, young woman, but her mind is that of a child’s.” He heaved a sigh. “So there you are, Cordelia. I’m afraid you’re getting the raw end of the deal. My family is filled with bastards and simpletons.”

  Even so, she could hear the love his voice, and loyalty was something she understood to the depths of her soul. Cordie snuggled against him and kissed his chest. “But I get you.”

  ~ 25 ~

  The next day was tedious as they continued their journey. Cordie awoke somewhere outside Penrith when the light streamed inside the coach, and she found herself once again in the company of Wilson and his light snores. The night before seemed like a dream. Despite the misgivings she’d had about Clayworth in the past, she considered herself quite fortunate to be his soon-to-be bride. He was honorable, honest, loyal, devastatingly handsome, and he made her heart race.

  Married life seemed promising.

  It was late in the afternoon when their coach finally rambled over the Scottish border into the sleepy, little village of Gretna Green. When the carriage door opened, Clayworth helped Cordie to the ground and everything seemed more real. This was it.

  With a crooked grin, he offered his arm. “My lady.”

  Cordie allowed him to escort her to the entrance of a white stone blacksmith’s shop. A small child was playing with a doll and glanced up at their footfall. “’ere ye here fer a weddin’?”

  Clayworth smiled at the child. “We are indeed.”

  The girl scampered towards the steps before disappearing into the establishment. “Papa!”

  A moment later, a man dressed in all black and looking more like a vicar than a blacksmith appeared in the doorway. “Ye lookin’ tae get married?”

  “With great haste,” Clayworth answered.

  The man nodded. “Come in, come in, sir. Have ye go’ a ring?”

  “I do.”

  Cordie glanced up at her intended as they stepped over the threshold. He had a ring? They hadn’t stopped anywhere along the way to get one.

  The man spoke to the child, “Fetch me two bodies, Bonny.” Then he turned back to Cordie and Clayworth. “Step forward. Tell me yer names.”

  “Brendan Reese, and my bride is Cordelia Avery.”

  “Well, Mr. Reese, aboot the payment…” The man’s voice trailed off.

  “Will one hundred pounds suffice?”

  “More than enough, sir,” the man said, eying them now from top to bottom. “It is sir, isn’t it? Yer no’ some lord or somethin’?”

  “The Earl of Clayworth,” he informed the man.

  At that moment, two brawny fellows stepped from the attached house into the blacksmith’s shop. “Angus, Hamish, will ye witness fer Lord Clayworth?”

  Both men agreed with nods of their beefy heads.

  “Verra well, step forward, m’lord, Miss Avery,” the blacksmith said. He grasped Clayworth’s right hand and Cordie’s left, and began to wind a golden cord around their wrists, binding them together. “Repeat after me, m’lord. I, Brendan Reese, take ye, Cordelia Avery, tae be my wife before God an’ these witnesses.”

  Clayworth’s twilight eyes sparkled as he repeated the words. Never in her life would she have thought these surroundings would have been romantic, but the man staring at her made her knees weak and her heart pound.

  “All right, Miss Avery, yer turn. I, Cordelia Avery, take ye, Brendan Reese, tae be my husband before God and these witnesses.”

  “I—um,” she cleared her throat and swallowed. “I, Cordelia Avery, take you, Brendan Reese to be my husband before God and these witnesses.” Chills raced across her skin with these words. They were the most important ones she’d ever said, giving herself to this man.

  “Ye’ve go’ the ring, m’lord?”

  “Yes, of course,” Clayworth said, fumbling around in his pocket, finally retrieving a small golden ring. His eyes flashed to hers, rich with desire, and Cordie nearly lost her breath. Then he slid the ring onto her finger of the hand that was bound to his.

  There were words engraved on the band, and Cordie squinted to read them. Dw i’n dy garu di. She twisted the ring around her finger with her thumb, before glancing back up at her husband. “What does it mean?”

  “I love you—in Welsh. It was my grandmother’s.”

  A laughed escaped her throat. “A French mother and a Welsh grandmother? Honestly, my lord, are you English at all?”

  “Don’t forget the Scottish wedding,” he replied with a wink.

  “Mìle fàilte dhuit le d'bhréid, fad do ré gun robh thu slàn. Móran làithean dhuit is sìth,

  le d'mhaitheas is le d'nì bhi fàs,” the blacksmith said in Gaelic. He smiled. “Ye may kiss yer bride.”

  Clayworth pulled her towards him and held her in his arms before dipping his head for the most innocent kiss he’d ever given her. Then he paid the blacksmith, who unbound their hands and suggested a nice inn a few blocks away.

  The White Heather Inn was much nicer than any place they had stopped along the way. Swathed in soft shades of purple and white lace, the inn was warm and inviting. After ordering a bath for their room, Clayworth left to see about their horses. She was glad for the time alone with a mirror. Three days of travel in a ball gown had certainly taken their toll.

  As she stepped into the brass tub, Cordie sighed as the heavenly water sloshed against her aching muscles. She slid down until her body was covered and closed her eyes, content to never leave the peaceful water. However, she now had a husband, and she was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be content to let her stay in the tub forever.

  Still it was nice to wash away days of travel from her skin and wash her hair with the lilac soap the inn provided. She almost felt like herself again.

  The door creaked, and Cordie’s eyes flew open. Her husband stood in the threshold with a simple package wrapped in brown paper. She resisted the urge to scream and hide herself from his view, but… Well, he was her husband now. Besides, she was fairly certain the water covered most of her anyway.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said sheepishly, then gestured with the package. “I—well, I thought after three days in a coach you’d want something besides your ball gown.”

  Cordie was speechless, almost. When? How had he found something for her to wear? “What is it?” she asked, nearly forgetting her state of dishabille and sitting up in the tub. She quickly sloshed back down.

  Clayworth placed the package on a small table by the window. “Back in Stamford. The innkeeper easily put together our situation. Most people don’t travel in evening wear and have urgent needs to post letters to London.” He smiled at
her, making Cordie’s entire body tingle with awareness. “It’s just a nightrail,” he explained. “Belonged to her daughter. I hope it fits.”

  It was one of the sweetest things anyone had ever done for her. Cordie shook her head in disbelief. “Thank you.”

  “Anyway,” he cleared his throat. “I’ll give you a few more minutes, order dinner, and be back.”

  Her escape from reality was over. Cordie nodded in agreement to the plan.

  ***

  Brendan forced himself to leave the room. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight in all his life, but he couldn’t just scoop her up and toss her to the bed like some lecherous bastard, no matter how badly he wanted to. He somehow made his way to the taproom and ordered a meal he had no intention of eating to be brought to their room.

  Knowing that his wife was upstairs, completely bare made it nearly impossible for him to focus on the task at hand. He wished there was a freezing loch nearby that he could dip himself in, just to get his mind to return to some sort of working fashion.

  “M’lord?” a young maid said, staring at him strangely. Brendan wondered how long she’d been trying to get his attention. From the exasperated look on her face, it had been a while.

  “Yes, I’m sorry?”

  “I said I’ll bring it tae yer room when it’s ready.”

  “Th-thank you,” he mumbled before climbing the stairs that led to the room where his wife was waiting.

  For a long moment, Brendan stood outside their door, resting his head against the frame, cursing himself for a fool. It had been too long since he’d taken a woman to bed, and his need to have his wife was too great. Above all else he needed to maintain his control. He didn’t want to scare her, or go too fast, or hurt her. Why hadn’t he participated in carnal activities more often over the years? He’d be much more likely to reign in his desires now if he had.

  “M’lord?” an annoyed voice came from behind him.

  Brendan turned around to see the maid balancing a tray of food on her shoulder. She gaped at him as if he’d escaped from Bedlam. Not that he could blame her. What sort of fool stands outside his bedroom door, while his wife of less than an hour awaits him on the other side? He nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

  He knocked, then poked his head in the room. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Cordelia was standing by the grate in the nightrail he’d given her. It should have been an innocent ensemble, but apparently the innkeeper’s daughter was not as endowed as his wife. The simple muslin hugged Cordelia’s curves in such a way he didn’t think he could speak.

  The maid cleared her throat.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, finding his voice and opening the door to admit the girl. “Dinner has arrived, my dear.”

  Cordelia’s eyes sparkled when they landed on him, and Brendan took a steadying breath, still not in complete control of himself.

  “Do put the tray here, miss,” his wife said to the maid, indicting a table by the window. “And could you have someone bring more hot water for his lordship’s bath?”

  He neither needed nor wanted a hot bath, but perhaps the cooler water already in the tub would help him regain his control while he washed away the smell of sweat, horses, and days’ worth of travel. “No need,” he told the girl, who already thought he was insane. “Thank you for your help.”

  With a shake of her head, the maid departed, muttering something about the lunacy of Sassenach men.

  Once alone, Cordelia’s green eyes raked him from head to toe. “I assumed you would want to bathe, my lord. Do you want me to have someone remove the tub?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sure the water that’s there will be fine.” He shrugged out of his jacket, all the while keeping his eyes leveled on his bride in her too-tight nightrail. She was the adventurous sort. What where his chances of getting her to bathe him? “Cordelia…”

  She frowned. “I do wish you’d call me Cordie. Only my mother calls me Cordelia… Well, and my brothers, but only when they’re angry with me.”

  Cordie. It did suit her. Spirited, reckless, full of life—all the things he’d been missing for far too long. “Cordie Clayworth,” he tested the name, smiling when she walked towards him.

  “Thank you again for the nightrail,” she whispered, stopping directly in front of him. “It was so sweet of you to think of it.”

  “I want you to be happy, Cordie, and comfortable.” He fingered the faded lace edging at the bodice, his fingers brushing against the top of her creamy breasts that he longed to taste. “I’m sorry if the fit isn’t right,” his voice sounded strangled to his own ears.

  True joy shone from her mesmerizing eyes. “Oh, my lord, it’s perfect… Well, it’s a little tight, but I despaired at the thought of having to put that gown back on, so this is wonderful.”

  Brendan tsked and shook his head. “My lord? Cordie dear, you are my wife. Must you still call me that?”

  She cocked her head to one side, a mischievous smile on her face. “My sincerest apologies, Lord Adonis.”

  Lord Adonis! He’d hated that moniker for more years than he could remember. He closed his eyes and groaned. “Please don’t call me that.”

  Cordie giggled and ran her hands along his chest, searing him with her touch, before lightly setting them on his shoulders. “What shall I call you, then? Do you prefer Clayworth?”

  He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her against his body. “Brendan,” he said fiercely.

  She looked surprised by his tone, and probably his action, but her smile never faltered. “Indeed? My mother always referred to my father as Avery, even to this very day. She never calls Gregory by that name.”

  At the moment, he didn’t care what Lady Avery called anyone, but he did enjoy watching his wife’s lips as she spoke. It gave him the best ideas. Brendan slowly lowered his head and kissed Cordie the way he’d wanted to at the blacksmith’s shop, the way he’d wanted to in the coach for days. Her lips were pliant beneath his and she tasted like the sweetest berries. When she sighed against his lips, clutching his shirt in her hands, Brendan swept his tongue into her mouth. His body tightened with unbridled need

  Dear God, she was heaven. All the heaven he could ever want to hold in his arms. She kissed him back, and began to twirl her hands through his hair, nearly robbing him of his breath. Then she giggled against his lips. Brendan pulled back from her. “What are you laughing at?”

  Cordie moved her hand from his air and presented him with a twig he must have picked up while steering their coach. “And you taste like horses,” she told him, with a charming laugh.

  Blast! He did need a bath. Brendan stepped out of her embrace to unbutton his shirt. With a raised brow he asked, “I don’t suppose I could convince you to bathe me.”

  Thankfully, she didn’t even look bashful. “Brendan Reese, are you incapable of such a chore on your own?”

  He winked at her. “I’ve been doing it for years, my dear. I just think you’d make it more enjoyable.” She did blush at that, and Brendan felt his heart soar. He entwined his fingers with hers. “Come be a good wife, Cordie,” he encouraged, tugging her toward the tub.

  ~ 26 ~

  Cordie couldn’t believe she was going along with this, though she was curious to see where it would lead. Her husband was so strong, like steel, whenever she touched him. Seeing him would be an adventure all on its own. Did he really want her to bathe him, though? She couldn’t imagine the stuffy earl wishing for such a thing. Of course he didn’t seem quite so stuffy anymore. He’d loosened up a bit, or perhaps she was just accustomed to him now. Either way, it didn’t matter.

  Brendan dropped into a wooden chair and pointed his booted foot at her. “Will you do the honors, my dear?”

  She raised one eyebrow haughtily. She hadn’t agreed to be the man’s valet. Still that meant she would get to touch him. Cordie dropped to her knees and tugged at his first boot.

  “Pull up from the heel,” he advised.

 
“Is this why you married me?” she asked tartly, though she followed his instructions anyway. Almost at once, the boot flew off his foot and she fell backwards, landing on her bottom. When her husband laughed, she scowled at him. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself. Remove your own boots.”

  Brendan laughed even harder and pulled her up from the floor. “You are delightful.” He winked at her, then he tugged off his other boot.

  Cordie’s eyes widened when he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it over his head. She stared at him in awe. As startlingly handsome as Brendan always was, unclothed, her husband was a work of art. His sculpted chest was lightly dusted with dark golden hair and rippled muscles. Cordie swallowed and a fine tingle of anticipation played at her nape when he slipped the first button through its hole.

  Brendan stilled his hands and took in her anxious expression. “Cordie, you didn’t use all the soap, did you?” he asked softly.

  It was obvious he was trying to put her at ease, and Cordie sighed. Even in this, he was a gentleman. Her heart swelled at the realization. By some amazing stroke of luck, she’d married him and he was…perfect. She managed to shake her head in answer.

  He smiled at her as he finished with his buttons and stepped out of his trousers and small clothes. Cordie turned her head, suddenly unable to look at him or to let her eyes drop to that part of him. Her face flushed red and she started to walk away, but he clutched her arm. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, pulling her back to him.

  She stared up into his twilight eyes, and shook her head. “I—I don’t know what you want from me, what I’m supposed to do.”

  His arms encircled her, and she felt that part of him through her nightrail, firm and hard. She now realized she’d felt it many times before—whenever he held her, kissed her, sat her on his lap—but she’d never realized what it was. How embarrassing. How could she not have realized it? He was exceptional in size.

  She wished she’d had the chance to talk to Livvie before this point. So she’d know what to expect, what was expected of her. She should have pressed for this sort of information when they last saw each other at Lady Staveley’s ball, not that it would have been appropriate, but she’d at least have some idea as to how to go from here. As it was, she was completely lost.