Scandal's Daughters

by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson

  She stilled and let his words wash through her. The idea of being respected was still so new, the experience so magical. And it might already be over?

  “I shan’t see a single shilling for a full year,” he continued. “I cannot offer you a palace, or sumptuous apparel, or nights at the opera. I can no longer even offer you my good name. It will be synonymous with scandal. Under such circumstances, I cannot force you to give up your dreams to be with me. We haven’t consummated our marriage. You can still get an annulment if you would be happier without me.”

  Her throat grew thick. When she had felt her lowest, when Anthony had easily accepted her despite her history and faults, she hadn’t given his opinion weight because she had believed the only judges of character of value were those in high society. She’d been willing to chase an illusion all the way to Scotland rather than look inside herself to find her own worth and meaning.

  She was horrified to think she had affected him in the same way as those who had disparaged her had hurt her.

  Anthony was the only one that mattered.

  She twined her arms about his neck. “I don’t give a button what Society says. About you, about me. The only thing I care about is us. And if the one thing keeping this marriage from being permanent is consummation…” She curved her lips into a suggestive smile. “How exhausted are you?”

  “Not that exhausted.” With a growl, he swung her up into his arms and strode straight to their bedchamber.

  Her heart raced as he laid her in the center of the bed. The reality of what was about to happen sent shivers of doubt along her spine. She could never control her body’s attraction to him.

  Anthony was her husband. Wives were expected to lie with their husbands. That much was fact. What wives weren’t expected to do was enjoy the encounters. Marital unions were business decisions, political mergers, or even accidents of fate. They weren’t for love, and they certainly weren’t for passion.

  That’s what mistresses were for. Courtesans. Whores.

  Right now, her husband was backlit by the embers of the small fire as he tugged off his boots, his greatcoat, his cravat. He wasn’t simply an attractive man. He was handsome as sin.

  She wished her hands were the ones pushing the tailored blue waistcoat off those broad shoulders. She wished her fingers were the ones freeing each button of his undershirt one by one, then lifting it up over his hard stomach, tugging each sleeve from his strong arms, perhaps even touching her lips to his warm bare flesh as he had done to her mere days earlier.

  But these weren’t the thoughts of a wife. These weren’t the idle musings of a gently bred lady or a respectable debutante or an innocent bride.

  These were the shamelessly indecent thoughts of a woman who knew full well what sort of blood pulsed in her veins. She took one look at her husband and was filled not with thoughts of demure submission, but with a painful yearning to know him as intimately as possible.

  She wanted him heart, soul, and body. But she didn’t want him to think of her as a whore.

  He met her eyes and smiled.

  She tried to smile back.

  The problem was, she couldn’t have it both ways. Only a demure lady would earn his respect. And only a brazen trollop without the slightest inhibitions would deserve his passion.

  She was going to have to decide whether she wanted his days—or his nights.

  Wearing nothing but his breeches, he crawled into bed beside her and touched a knuckle to her cheek. “I was so worried that this would be the last time I would ever come home to you again.”

  Unable to speak, she leaned her cheek into his touch and nodded. She had been consumed by the very real probability of him walking into prison and never coming out. That was why she had been curled against the cold window wrapped in a robe, afraid of losing him forever. Waiting for him to return one last time.

  She pulled him to her. Having him beside her on the bed was no longer enough. She needed to feel his warmth next to her skin, and feel his weight pressing against her. She didn’t have to feel adrift any longer. He was here. He was hers.

  “Kiss me,” she commanded. Her voice trembled.

  He immediately complied, enveloping her in his strong embrace and claiming her mouth with his.

  Her fingers tangled in his hair as she surrendered to the kiss. He was here. She wanted him everywhere. Inside her body. Inside her heart.

  She tried to wiggle out of her robe without breaking contact. Anthony seemed to realize what she wanted and peeled the garment from her shoulders without decreasing his kisses.

  Charlotte was glad to be rid of the robe—if anything, the bedchamber had become over warm—and tonight she could not bear to have even the thin linen of her night rail or the soft nankeen of his breeches between them.

  She lifted the hem of her night rail and pulled it up over her head to flutter to the floor.

  “Remove your breeches,” she ordered him, breathless with the knowledge of her own nakedness. Never before had she bared herself so completely to any man.

  Never before had she trusted anyone enough to risk being vulnerable.

  “No,” he said as he covered her body with his. “I shall not remove them until I have pleasured you first.”

  She frowned at his assertion. “I would say you always bring me pleasure.”

  “I would say you haven’t the least idea what pleasure truly is.” A wicked smile curved his lips. “But you’re about to find out.”

  Before she could argue further, he slanted his mouth over hers and robbed her of all ability to think. Her world had narrowed to only him.

  He cupped her breast in his large hand. Her nipples immediately grew taut. He took one between his fingers and teased it gently, expertly. She could not help but arch into his touch.

  He broke their kiss, only to lower his mouth to her breast.

  An almost painful arousal began to pulse between her legs, swelling, tightening. A longing for something she couldn’t quite define.

  Still suckling her breast, he slid his hand down her stomach and cupped her exactly where she had ached to feel his touch. When his fingertip slipped inside her, she realized she was slick with arousal.

  There would be no concealing how desperately she desired his touch. Already her body was writhing into his hand, forcing each stroke of his finger ever deeper with each upward tilt of her hips.

  She wanted to freeze, wanted to act like a lady instead of a strumpet, but his teeth were grazing her nipple and his fingers were driving into her and his thumb—good heavens, his thumb—was circling and flicking and teasing in such a way that she couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t stop the sudden explosion of pleasure curling her toes and sending aftershocks of delicious contractions reverberating through her body.

  When at last her racing heart had calmed enough for her to realize that she had just wantonly found release on his fingers, before he’d even had the opportunity to remove his breeches, a deep flush of shame rose like fire to her skin.

  Now he would know the truth about who he had wed. She was not a lady. Would never be anything except what she’d been born to be. She was just a—

  He covered her mouth with his, each kiss more demanding than the last. His breath was as ragged as hers, his skin hot and his muscles taut.

  “You are the most sinfully irresistible woman I have ever known,” he panted as he struggled to loosen his breeches between kisses. “I knew you were perfect before, but every day you prove it just a little more. I am truly the luckiest man alive to have you as my wife.”

  Her breath caught. At her most vulnerable, at her most naked, her most shameless, her most brazen, when he looked at her, he didn’t see her past. He saw her future. With him. He saw his wife.

  She pulled him to her and wrapped her legs about his now-bare hips and clutched him close as he slid within her. Finally, they were joined as one. She would never let him go.

  This was a man worth living for. Worth loving. Worth spe
nding the rest of her life astonishing and delighting him as often as he astonished and delighted her. He was more than a husband. He was the man she would never stop loving.

  She would never hold herself back from him again.

  Chapter 22

  The Duke of Courteland’s sprawling London estate loomed before Charlotte like a forbidden palace. She hesitated before allowing the jarvey to hand her out of the hackney.

  Anthony hadn’t been allowed to join her for the reading of the will. It was only for named parties and their solicitors. Charlotte shivered. After never having been important enough to attract the duke’s interest during his lifetime, she still could not believe she’d been mentioned at all.

  The duke’s true family must have been disgusted to see her name on the list. They would not want someone like her to step one foot into their respectable midst, much less possess any part of their inheritance. Her stomach roiled. How they must hate her. She needed to steel herself for anything.

  She took several deep, calming breaths and stepped away from the hackney cab. By concentrating on nothing more than holding her head high and taking one determined step at a time, she managed to narrow the distance to the duke’s imposing front door. Everything about the ornate trim, the spotless windows, the endless garden, reminded her she didn’t belong.

  And yet here she was.

  As she neared the door, a short man with a scuffed beaver hat and a slight limp leaped onto the path beside her.

  She froze in place, her heart hammering, and tried to catch her breath. He must have been leaning against one of the many trees, just out of sight—especially to a woman so focused on keeping her feet in motion that she had blocked out the rest of the world.

  “Miss Devon,” he said with a bow. “That is, Mrs. Fairfax. How do you do this lovely afternoon?”

  “Fine.” She did not offer her hand. Now that her heart had calmed, she recognized the man as Mr. Underwood, the solicitor who had followed her from Scotland to Nottingham to inform her that her dead father had named her in his will.

  He stepped closer. “Have you given any thought to my proposition?”

  She hadn’t given any thought to him at all. “What proposition?”

  “To manage your funds, should you receive any. To represent you at the reading of the will, and argue on your behalf, should the family cause trouble.” His lip curled. “You can be assured they will. The duke’s elder sister is an implacable harridan. Believes herself queen. The whole of London trembles before that harpy. They even call her ‘the old dragon’ when she’s not close enough to overhear.”

  Charlotte shivered. How was she to keep her defenses intact in the presence of someone even her betters feared?

  “You’ll be present for the reading of the will?” she asked.

  He lowered his hat. “As your personal solicitor, I wouldn’t miss a single word.”

  “Are you not the personal solicitor to the new duke?” she asked in confusion. A sudden thought occurred to her. “Is there a new duke?”

  “There is, indeed. He is still being fetched from overseas.”

  “Then why should you wish to help me? Won’t the new duke be your employer?”

  Mr. Underwood’s lip twisted. “My employment was with the duke himself, not his estate. He wasn’t even cold before the old dragon sacked me.”

  Ah. Charlotte curled her hands into fists. Only those with an ulterior motive ever showed kindness to one such as her.

  She moved closer to the door. “I am not in the market for a solicitor at this moment.”

  “Then who shall manage your funds?” he asked quickly. A crafty smile twisted his lips. “Your husband?”

  She paused with her hand on the knocker.

  What if she did inherit money today? It would not be hers for long. A wife’s husband was sole owner and administrator of all property, was he not?

  A cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Anthony’s lack of control with money had nearly ruined both their lives, and was not yet over. Until he repaid the Duke of Lambley, the specter of debtors’ prison continued to cast its shadow over their future and their marriage.

  Anthony was unquestionably the last person who should control a single farthing of their money—yet, legally, he was the only person who could.

  Unless a solicitor managed some portion of the process. Who did she trust more?

  In a gaming hell, there was no fortune too big to be lost forever on the turn of a card. London was full of a thousand such opportunities. To a man who loved to wager, temptation would be everywhere. She could not swallow her dread. Had she come this far only to lose it all? To lose Anthony…If not today, then tomorrow or the next day?

  She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Underwood.

  He placed his hat against his chest. “It would be an honor to protect your interests.”

  An honor. She laughed without humor No one cared about her interests other than Charlotte herself…and Anthony.

  She turned back to the door and rapped the knocker against its base.

  The door swung open to reveal an impassive butler in impeccable attire. “May I help you?”

  “I’m expected,” she stammered. Her neck heated. “My name is Mrs. Fairfax now, but it should be on the list as Charlotte Devon.”

  The butler held out his hand expectantly.

  She stared at him blankly, then colored in humiliation. “I—I don’t have a calling card. It’s just…Charlotte Devon. It should be on the list.”

  “See?” whispered Mr. Underwood from behind her. “You need an advocate.”

  She ignored him.

  The butler motioned her inside. “Just a moment.”

  She took a deep breath and stepped into the manor. The door silently swung closed behind her.

  “Please wait here.” The butler crossed the hall and entered what Charlotte presumed to be a parlor. She could not see within, but the hum of voices was unmistakable.

  “Who?” shrilled a voice. “We cannot possibly entertain admittance to my uncle’s bastard. We should not compound his mistakes with our own.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks burned with shame. She wrapped her arms about herself and wished Anthony could be with her. Perhaps she did need an advocate.

  “Her name is on the will, Mabel,” snapped a cold female voice. “This is a legal matter, not a family one. Show her in, Teagle.”

  Charlotte winced. She should not be surprised that an illegitimate daughter would not be considered family.

  “As you wish, madam.”

  Within moments, the butler reappeared in the entryway. “If you’ll come this way, please.”

  Humiliation hunching her shoulders, Charlotte concentrated on her breathing and forced her feet to carry her toward the parlor.

  “But a by-blow isn’t legal.” The shrill voice climbed even higher. “You cannot be serious, Aunt. It’s a humiliation to us all. This Devon creature is nothing more than the spawn of a—” The voice choked off as Charlotte stepped into the room. “You?” She flung a shocked gaze toward the solicitor. “‘Charlotte Devon’ is Mrs. Fairfax?”

  Charlotte’s limbs stopped working. Her face flooded with embarrassment. The family member so offended at the thought of a whore’s daughter in their midst was none other the baroness who had sought her advice not five days prior.

  “Lady Roundtree,” she said weakly. “Lovely to see you again.”

  The baroness stared at her openmouthed, then harrumphed.

  “Mabel, that will do,” snapped a majestic older lady who sat in an ornate chair. “You will hold your tongue if you wish to attend this meeting. I shall deal with your impertinence later.”

  The old dragon, Charlotte realized. This was the dragon lady Mr. Underwood had warned struck fear into all of London. Charlotte’s entire body trembled.

  “Sit,” the dragon lady commanded. “Mr. Gully will commence with the reading of the will.”

  Charlotte stumbled over to the empty chair closest to th
e doorway and forced herself to sit.

  The only other person in the room was an elegant older lady who fanned her narrow face impatiently, as if both Charlotte and Lady Roundtree were wasting her time.

  Dismissing them all, the dragon lady turned her attention to the executor. “Mr. Gully, you may speak.”

  The solicitor cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming today. While we had anticipated the new duke’s presence for the reading of the bequests, he has not yet reached England. However, as his name is not mentioned in the late duke’s will, we may continue without worry.”

  Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “The new duke won’t inherit anything?”

  “Besides the dukedom?” the elegant lady drawled from behind her painted fan.

  The back of Charlotte’s neck prickled. Once again she had embarrassed herself. How much proof did she need that their world was not hers?

  “The majority of the estate is entailed.” The dragon lady’s sharp voice carried as she gave a curt explanation. “Courteland was thus reduced to providing a few monetary disbursements from his private funds.”

  Charlotte nodded dumbly. Entailed property was so foreign to her experience, it hadn’t even crossed her mind. She shrank back in her chair. The thought of being “reduced” to mere pots of money was equally ludicrous. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She didn’t belong here at all.

  The solicitor cleared his throat. “To the duke’s elder sister, Lady Dorothea Pettibone, His Grace the Duke of Courteland leaves all monies not otherwise specified, and grants her the power to oversee all of the following bequests.”

  The other two ladies gasped. The dragon lady merely inclined her regal head.

  Not the dragon lady, Charlotte reminded herself. Lady Pettibone.

  “To the duke’s younger sister, Lady Adelia Upchurch, His Grace the Duke of Courteland leaves an annuity of four thousand pounds for the remainder of her life.”