Slightly Scandalous

by Mary Balogh

  “I was right to choose it, Aunt,” she said.

  “Oh, I say, Free,” Alleyne said from the doorway. “You look good enough to eat. But it is a good thing it is almost Christmas already and almost the end of the year. Three Bedwyn weddings in one year has been quite a shock to the system, especially for those of us who are left. I vote for its being Morgan's turn next.”

  “But we will let you have your day first, Freyja,” Aidan said from behind his shoulder. “The dress is lovely. The glow in your eyes is lovelier.”

  Then they both had to step right into the room to make way for Rannulf, who had their grandmother on his arm. Back in the summer, when Judith and Ralf were married, it had seemed that she was close to death, though her dearest wish was to see her first grandchild before she died. Their marriage and Judith's pregnancy and the fact that they lived with her at Grandmaison had given her a new lease on life, at least for the present. She had insisted upon coming all the way to Lindsey Hall from Leicestershire for Freyja's wedding.

  “Alleyne,” Ralf said, “present me to that very feminine beauty in white, if you will be so good. Ah!” He recoiled theatrically. “Never mind. It is Freyja, is it?”

  “You look beautiful and distinguished and happy, Freyja, my dear,” their grandmother said. “But I do not believe your dressing room was built to accommodate so many persons. And I do not believe the rector will appreciate our all being late to church. We must leave you with Morgan and your maid.”

  Morgan was Freyja's bridesmaid.

  It was then, when, after a great deal of noise and fuss everyone withdrew, that Freyja began to feel nervous—again. She had been nervous after leaving Penhallow one week after the ball and nervous every day of the weeks that had followed even though Joshua had written to her daily. She had not quite believed in her own happily ever after—or in her own chance for a happy future, anyway. She had opened every letter with trepidation. It had not helped that winter was coming on.

  She had hated it—the feeling of vulnerability, the aching love that had not quite been able to trust in a future.

  What if he went out boating again and fell in and drowned? What if he climbed those cliffs again—stupid, stupid man—and slipped and fell? What if . . . ?

  He had stayed for Prue's wedding and for Constance's. He had seen his aunt on her way to her chosen future—managing the large household of her recently widowed brother in Northamptonshire. Chastity had chosen to come to Lindsey Hall for the wedding with Constance and Mr. Saunders before joining her mother. But she was going to be in London during the spring and was to be presented to the queen and have a come-out Season—with Freyja as her sponsor. Anne Jewell and her son had left for Bath a month ago to take up her position as geography teacher at Miss Martin's school.

  The weeks while Joshua had remained in Penhallow had seemed endless. But finally he had come.

  And today was their wedding day.

  She was still nervous—and still hating it.

  She lifted her chin. “Wedding days are such a bore,” she said to Morgan, “with everyone snivelling and being sentimental. I wish we had simply gone to London, purchased a special license, and married without anyone knowing, as Aidan and Eve did.”

  “No, you do not,” Morgan said smiling. “Come, Freyja. Wulf will be waiting for us.”

  He was. He was standing in the great hall, surrounded by all the pomp and splendor of medieval banners and weaponry, looking positively satanic. He looked them over from head to foot with his cold silver eyes, Morgan first, and then Freyja. Then he surprised Freyja utterly by holding out both his hands to her. She set her own white-gloved ones in them and looked at him with haughtily raised eyebrows as his hands closed tightly about hers.

  “You look very lovely, Freyja,” he said.

  Wulf paying compliments?

  “Promise me you will be happy?” he said.

  That was when tears sprang to her eyes. She could cheerfully have punched him in the nose. But he did not wait for her answer. He bent his head over her hands and kissed them one at a time.

  Well.

  Well.

  “What are we waiting for?” she asked haughtily. “I would really rather not be late.”

  They were all in the carriage—the best ducal traveling coach—before she answered his question.

  “I promise, Wulf,” she said, gazing at him on the opposite seat.

  Sometimes she tried to categorize her brothers in order, from her favorite to her least favorite. Aidan was usually on top of her list—perhaps because he had been away at war for so many years that he had had least opportunity to provoke her. But it was all nonsense anyway. She loved them all in different ways, but quite equally. She would have died for any one of them—and for Morgan too. But this morning—just at this precise moment—Wulf was her very favorite brother in all the world. She would do anything in the world, she thought, to see him happy too.

  After that everything was a blur of events and sensations. The carriage drew up at the end of the churchyard path, hordes of smiling villagers—or so it seemed—bent to catch their first glimpse of her, she was hurrying up the path beneath the bare old yew tree, the wind blowing the last few crisp, dry leaves across the path in front of her, Morgan was arranging the train of her gown, Wulf was looking austere and emotionless—and as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar—the church organ was playing, and she was walking along the nave of the church on Wulf's arm, people in the pews to either side of her, and . . .

  Ah. The blur dissipated and all her scattered, nervous emotions with it.

  Joshua was waiting at the end of the nave, looking breathtakingly handsome in black and white. Not that it was his handsome looks that she noticed. It was him.

  Her love. Her dearest love.

  She did not even pause to chide herself for thinking such foolishly sentimental thoughts.

  She felt herself smile. She felt happiness bubbling up inside her and threatening to spill over into laughter.

  He smiled back, and she saw all the familiar laughter in his eyes. Except that it was not the usual reckless roguery she saw there this morning. It was joy. Simply joy.

  She blinked furiously. Foolish sentimentality she would allow herself—this was her wedding day, after all. But tears? No, she must draw the line at tears. He would never let her forget.

  “Dearly beloved,” the rector began.

  It was a cold, crisp December morning. A chill wind was blowing. Nevertheless, it was an open carriage that awaited the bride and groom at the end of the church path, and it had been lavishly decorated—by unknown persons, though several of them undoubtedly bore the name of Bedwyn—with ribbons and bows of all colors of the rainbow, and old boots to trail behind.

  The church bells were pealing merrily.

  Every house in the village must have emptied out its inhabitants, who were gathered in the street in their Sunday best and in festive spirits because they were all to be treated to their own wedding breakfast at the village inn in one hour's time, courtesy of the Duke of Bewcastle.

  It was the scene that greeted Freyja and Joshua as they emerged from the church. Someone set up a cheer, and everyone joined in, a little self-consciously at first, but with growing enthusiasm as the congregation began to spill out onto the church steps after the bride and groom and the best man—the Reverend Calvin Moore—and the bridesmaid.

  “Shall we wait to be swamped by grinning guests?” Joshua asked. “Or shall we make a dash for it?”

  “Let's make a dash for it,” she said, and he took her hand in his and ran along the path with her, beneath the great old tree, past applauding, smiling villagers, to the carriage.

  It took a while to get her in—her velvet gown came complete with a train. She was laughing and breathless and flushed by the time he climbed in and took his seat beside her.

  Everyone was out of the church by then—all her family, the Earl and Countess of Redfield, Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg—both smiling fondly at Freyj
a—his grandmother and his aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Potford, with their children, Constance and Jim Saunders, Chastity, Lord and Lady Holt-Barron with their daughter and her betrothed, a few of his closest friends.

  “Drive on,” Joshua said to the coachman. It would be time enough to greet everyone back at Lindsey Hall before the wedding breakfast. Right now he had a new bride to gaze upon in some wonder.

  Was he really a married man? He had found it hard to believe in the reality of it all after she had left Penhallow with her family. Every day he had half expected that one of her daily letters would be the one breaking off their betrothal.

  They were married!

  He found her hand inside her large white fur muff and laced his fingers with hers as the carriage rocked on its springs and moved away from the church.

  “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he asked.

  “What nonsense!” she said. “What utter nonsense, Josh. It is the dress and the hat and all the fur. And the color. Aunt Rochester advised me to wear white, and she was quite correct in her judgment. It is just the clothes.”

  He laughed. “I'll have to take them off you later tonight, then,” he said. “All of them. Every stitch of them. Just to see if you are still beautiful without them. I'll wager you are.”

  “If you ever tell me lies,” she said, looking at him severely, “I will knock your teeth down your throat, Josh. I swear I will.”

  “You can't,” he said, grinning at her. “You are my wife now, my marchioness. You have to do as you are told. It has to be ‘Yes, my lord,' and ‘No, my lord,' and ‘How may I serve you, my lord.' No more fisticuffs, my charmer.”

  For one moment he thought he was going to have to parry blows right there in full sight of their guests and all the villagers behind them. Her nostrils flared and her eyebrows arched upward and her green eyes glared. But then she threw back her head and laughed.

  “You would tire of me in a month,” she told him.

  “Make that a week,” he said.

  If she were ever to look at herself in a mirror when she was laughing like this, he thought, she would see for herself how incredibly lovely she was, dark brows and Bedwyn nose notwithstanding. But he would not provoke her again by telling her that. Not now.

  “No more complaints about winter?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “It is my favorite season.”

  “I love you, sweetheart,” he told her. “My wife.”

  Her laughing expression softened into a smile, and she looked even lovelier.

  “I am, aren't I?” she said. “And you are my husband. I do love you, Josh. I do.”

  He winked slowly at her and lowered his head and kissed her.

  They both ignored the cheers that rose behind them. They were half drowned by the church bells anyway.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Best-selling, multi-award-winning author Mary Balogh grew up in Wales, land of sea and mountains, song and legend. She brought music and a vivid imagination with her when she came to Canada to teach. Here she began a second career as a writer of books that always end happily and always celebrate the power of love. There are over three million copies of her Regency romances and historical romances in print. She is also the author of the Regency-era romantic novels No Man's Mistress, More than a Mistress, A Summer to Remember, Slightly Married, and Slightly Wicked, all available in paperback from Dell. Visit her website at www.marybalogh.com

  Also by Mary Balogh

  SLIGHTLY MARRIED

  SLIGHTLY WICKED

  A SUMMER TO REMEMBER

  NO MAN'S MISTRESS

  MORE THAN A MISTRESS

  ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE

  STEP INTO A WORLD OF

  SCANDAL AND SURPRISE,

  of stately homes and breathtaking seduction. . . .

  Step into the world of master storyteller Mary Balogh.

  In novels of wit and intrigue, the best-selling,

  award-winning author draws you into a vibrant,

  sensual new world . . . and into the lives of one

  extraordinary family:

  the Bedwyns—

  six brothers and sisters—

  heirs to a legacy of power, passion, and seduction.

  Their adventures will dazzle and delight you.

  Their stories will leave you breathless. . . .

  Aidan—the brooding man of honor

  Rannulf—the irresistible rebel

  Freyja—the fiery beauty

  This is her story. . . .

  Praise for A SUMMER TO REMEMBER:

  “Balogh outdoes herself with this romantic romp, crafting a truly seamless plot and peopling it with well-rounded, winning characters.” —Publishers Weekly

  “The most sensuous romance of the year . . .” —Booklist

  “This one will rise to the top.” —Library Journal

  “Filled with vivid descriptions, sharp dialogue, and fantastic characters, this passionate, adventurous tale will remain memorable for readers who love an entertaining read.” —Rendevous

  Praise for NO MAN'S MISTRESS:

  “This romantic and intensely emotional story will cast its spell on you from the first page.” —Old Barn Gazette

  “A lively and thrilling tale.” —Rendevous

  “Deep emotions, strong characters and an unusual plot blend to perfection into another winner for this Jewel of the Highest Water, Mary Balogh.” —Romantic Times Top Pick - 41⁄2 stars

  “A pair of strong, equally determined protagonists clash exquisitely in this lively, passionate sequal to More than a Mistress.” —Library Journal

  Praise for MORE THAN A MISTRESS:

  “Luscious Regency-era delight. . . . Balogh will delight fans and new readers alike with her memorable characters and fast-paced, well-constructed plot.”—Booklist

  “More than a Mistress is an irresistible story with the perfect hero and heroine, the brilliance of London high society, scandal and seduction, as well as a dash of humor here and there that make for a truly spellbinding and memorable romantic tale. Mary Balogh is a fabulous writer—like a fine wine, she just keeps getting better with time.” —New Age Bookshelf

  “This romantic story is hilarious in spots with characters who are well-rounded and lovable. More than a Mistress is a sure-fire winner from one of the genre's finest authors.” —Rendezvous

  “A pleasant and agreeable sensual Regency romp.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Mary Balogh is an exceptional talent. The complexity of her characters, the depth of their emotions and the romance and sensuality of her books are unsurpassed in the Regency genres and this book is no exception. A master craftswoman.” — Old Book Barn Gazette

  “Assured hardcover debut . . . Smart, sexy dialogue.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Mary Balogh continues to reaffirm her place as an extraordinary star of the Regency genre.” —A Romantic Times Top Pick

  “Mary Balogh always pleases.” —Affaire de Coeur

  “More than a Mistress is a five-star keeper.” —The Romance Reader

  “Balogh has a winner here.” —San Antonio Express-News

  Follow the passionate and spirited

  adventures of the Bedwyn family in

  Mary Balogh's dazzling novels, now on sale

  SLIGHTLY MARRIED

  Aidan's story

  and

  SLIGHTLY WICKED

  Rannulf's story

  Read on for a preview . . .

  SLIGHTLY MARRIED

  Mary Balogh

  Toulouse, France

  April 10, 1814

  The scene was all too familiar to the man surveying it. There was not a great deal of difference between one battlefield and another, he had discovered through long experience—not, at least, when the battle was over.

  The smoke of the heavy artillery and of the myriad muskets and rifles of two armies was beginning to clear sufficiently to reveal the victorious British and Allied troops establishing their newly won posi
tions along the Calvinet Ridge to the east of the city and turning the big guns on Toulouse itself, into which the French forces under Soult's command had recently retreated. But the acrid smell lingered and mingled with the odors of dust and mud and horse and blood. Despite an ever-present noise—voices bellowing out commands, horses whinnying, swords clanging, wheels rumbling—there was the usual impression of an unnatural, fuzzy-eared silence now that the thunderous pounding of the guns had ceased. The ground was carpeted with the dead and wounded.

  It was a sight against which the sensibilities of Col. Lord Aidan Bedwyn never became totally hardened. Tall and solidly built, dark-complexioned, hook-nosed, and granite-faced, the colonel was feared by many. But he always took the time after battle to roam the battlefield, gazing at the dead of his own battalion, offering comfort to the wounded wherever he could.

  He gazed downward with dark, inscrutable eyes and grimly set lips at one particular bundle of scarlet, his hands clasped behind him, his great cavalry sword, unsheathed and uncleaned after battle, swinging at his side.

  “An officer,” he said, indicating the red sash with a curt nod. The man who wore it lay facedown on the ground, spread-eagled and twisted from his fall off his horse. “Who is he?”

  His aide-de-camp stooped down and turned the dead officer over onto his back.

  The dead man opened his eyes.

  “Captain Morris,” Colonel Bedwyn said, “you have taken a hit. Call for a stretcher, Rawlings. Without delay.”

  “No,” the captain said faintly. “I am done for, sir.”

  His commanding officer did not argue the point. He made a slight staying gesture to his aide and continued to gaze down at the dying man, whose red coat was soaked with a deeper red. There could be no more than a few minutes of life remaining to him.

  “What may I do for you?” the colonel asked. “Bring you a drink of water?”