The Improper Bride (Sisters of Scandal)

by Lily Maxton

  “He was very different from you,” she ended up saying.

  Damnation. That wasn’t what she’d meant to say. There was no reason for her to compare her late husband to the marquess. They were worlds apart.

  He tilted his head, his gaze practically drilling a hole in her. “How?”

  “He was very…sweet. Very gentle. We missed each other dreadfully when we were apart. But he didn’t have much money, so he joined the navy. He worked hard to support me. To be the kind of husband he thought he should be.”

  For many, many years after his death, she’d wished he’d stayed in England, even if he couldn’t find decent employment. But then, perhaps, she wouldn’t have loved him so much if he’d shirked his duty to her so easily.

  “He was away at sea for a good portion of our marriage. But he wrote me letters. We were always writing letters back and forth. My mother used to jest that she never saw me without ink on my hands.”

  Henry was silent for a moment. “Well,” he said finally. “He sounds like a paragon of virtue. But did you desire him?”

  Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you desire your husband physically? Did you enjoy bedding him?”

  She drew in a quick breath, heat rising in her face. She didn’t want to discuss this. Not with him. “You shouldn’t ask me that.”

  “Did you?” he asked, as obstinate and overbearing as ever. Another difference between Robert and Henry. If she didn’t want to answer a question, her husband would have been a gentleman—he wouldn’t have pushed.

  She could simply refuse to answer, but she knew what Henry would assume if she did. “I enjoyed it very much,” she said honestly. Perhaps she should have been more coy, but coyness had never been in her nature.

  Henry inclined his head with a strange, wry smile. “A paragon in every way, then. How is any mere mortal to compete?”

  “It would be futile. I won’t marry again.”

  He lifted his eyebrows at that. “Never?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s a bit premature to decide that, isn’t it? You’re still young.”

  She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug, though her heart felt heavy. “I’m not so young that I don’t know my own mind. Anyway, men prefer their brides to be fresh from the schoolroom.”

  “Not all men.”

  “Indeed?” She gazed at him pointedly. “And how old are your prospective brides, Lord Riverton?”

  “Miss Haversham is seven and twenty.”

  And she was by far the oldest. Cassandra was five years older than that. The knowledge caused a sharp wrenching in her chest. She said, “You prove my point.”

  Henry made a dismissive gesture. “How did he die?”

  She hesitated, startled by the sudden change of topics. “The account said he was hit by a sharpshooter. He died instantly.”

  “I am sorry,” Henry said, looking unexpectedly contrite.

  His second apology in two days. There it was again—the world shifting.

  Her hands, clasped together in front of her, tightened. “You must stop apologizing to me,” she said, unable to suppress a sudden smile. Odd, that she could smile again so soon after talking about her husband. “It might become a habit.”

  His mouth lifted. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “Not if you wish to stay the fearsome marquess,” she said teasingly. She didn’t know why she felt she had a right to tease him. It simply came to her, as naturally as breathing.

  Worlds shifting. Worlds colliding.

  She hadn’t teased a man like this since Robert.

  “What if—” He broke off when female laughter drifted through the door, followed by light footsteps down the corridor.

  His expression turned startled, as though he’d forgotten he had guests. As though he’d forgotten he was throwing a house party for the sole purpose of finding a wife.

  For a handful of blissful, foolish hours, she’d forgotten, too.

  “Your guests will miss you,” she said as their eyes met.

  She watched him straighten and dust off his coat, and brush down his hair with his fingers—though it didn’t help much. Her heart throbbed, brittle and hollow. Witnessing these little preparations was too intimate. She trespassed on a moment that should have only been viewed by the woman who would be his wife.

  And then she watched him go.

  All the while trying not to think about him courting other women, flirting with other women, dancing with other women.

  But in trying not to think of something, it was pretty much guaranteed one would think about it. Profusely.

  After Cassandra slipped back to her own bedchamber to wash with a pitcher of water and change into an unrumpled dress, she peeked into the guestrooms to check the progress of the cleaning. To her surprise, the first room was empty of servants.

  “Where’s Kitty?” she asked Mary, whom she found making the bed in the next chamber.

  “She said she wasn’t feeling well,” the maid answered.

  “Again?”

  Kitty wasn’t lazy. If she said she wasn’t feeling well, then she truly wasn’t feeling well. Cassandra hoped she wasn’t affected by anything serious.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll help you with the beds.”

  She stood on the other side of the mattress and helped Mary pull the bedclothes up—she remembered doing this with her sister, day after day. After a while they’d started to sing while they worked to ease some of the monotony.

  What would Henry think of such common labors? He hadn’t done an honest day’s work in his life.

  But could she fault him? As the heir to a duke, he’d never been expected to. And though he lived a luxurious life, to his credit, he wasn’t one to burn through his money on impulsive purchases and reckless gambling. He managed his estate well. Everyone on it prospered.

  There was something to be said for that, wasn’t there?

  God, what did it matter? They were so far apart in social spheres that a comparison was laughable.

  Once she’d finished helping Mary, she headed down to the housekeeper’s office. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice someone was waiting for her there until she’d nearly sat on her.

  She halted at the last second, her hand flying to her throat in shock. “My lady!”

  Lady Margaret sat in her chair, behind her desk. “It certainly took you long enough,” the woman said calmly.

  Cassandra ignored her assessing glance. She was in no mood to deal with this. “I have duties. Did you need something, Lady Margaret?” She barely concealed the edge of impatience in her voice.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I wanted to tell you that I know what is happening between you and my brother.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cassandra looked down at Lord Riverton’s sister, at her pale, distant beauty, and felt the urge to rend her own hair like a distressed heroine in a gothic novel. The entire damnable Eldridge family was turning her life upside down. They probably delighted in chaos, like evil puppeteers sending their marionettes into all sorts of bizarre contortions.

  “Nothing is happening between us, Lady Margaret. Please. You are in my chair.”

  Lady Margaret glanced down, feigning surprise. “Am I?” She made no move to rise.

  Cassandra was left standing, as she wasn’t about to retreat to the settee. That would be admitting defeat.

  “I saw you last night,” her ladyship said smugly.

  Cassandra’s heart thrummed in alarm.

  “I glanced out the window, and there you were, apparitions in the moonlight. Playing in the snow.”

  The word “playing” sounded tentative, nearly foreign. As if she’d have been less stunned, less disturbed, if she’d seen her brother and his housekeeper rutting in the snow like wild animals.

  Lady Margaret stared at her, waiting for a response, but Cassandra didn’t speak. She hadn’t heard a question, and she was famili
ar with the Eldridge disdain for overstepping.

  “I’ve never seen him look happier,” Lady Margaret said with a frown.

  Cassandra was startled. At the very least, she’d expected a dire warning to stay away from Lord Riverton.

  “The question is, what are you going to do about it?” the woman said. “Are you bedding him?”

  Cassandra drew herself up. “That is none of your concern,” she said, fighting the urge to haul the other woman bodily from her office.

  “It is, though,” Lady Margaret retorted coolly. “Happiness is quite a novelty for River, and I’d like to secure his happiness if I can.”

  Why did that sound so ominous?

  “Haven’t you already done that by selecting his potential brides?” Cassandra asked.

  “Well, yes, I thought so,” her ladyship said. “But imagine my surprise when he seemed only politely interested in them, but he positively lights up when he’s with his housekeeper.” She pushed out a sigh. “River never does do anything the easy way. He’s very contrary.”

  This entire conversation was ludicrous.

  “Lady Margaret,” Cassandra said, taking a deep breath through her nose. “I really do have work to do.”

  “Sheathe your claws, Mrs. Davis. I just want to chat with you for a moment. Or is your work so all-important you can’t spare one moment for me?”

  Cassandra ground her teeth, which Lady Margaret somehow took as acquiescence. She rose from the chair in an abrupt motion, but then she just stood there, gazing at her.

  Cassandra shifted uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than to escape.

  After a moment of silence, Lady Margaret said, sounding quite serious, “There’s something you need to understand about River. He was educated at the duke’s country seat until he went to university. That is not an entirely uncommon situation among nobility, but… My father does not trust anyone. He wanted to be in charge of every aspect of Riverton’s life. He wouldn’t even let him play with other children because he thought they would be a negative influence.”

  Cassandra recalled what little he’d told her of his upbringing, and once again felt sympathy for the lonely boy he’d been.

  “The duke did not take as much interest in me, of course, so even as children our worlds were mostly kept apart. We were not…close. River, as far as I know, has never been close with anyone.” She sighed heavily. “The gamekeeper had a son about the same age as River. If the duke had known, he wouldn’t have condoned a friendship between them. But River took all of his expensive toys and gave them to the boy so he’d be his friend.”

  “That’s…” Heartbreaking. It spoke of a boy who was lonely beyond imagining. Her heart positively ached when she thought of him carefully gathering his toys to give to someone else, in the hope of buying a friendship.

  Lady Margaret shook her head sadly. “I assume that’s how he thought it was done… River measured his worth in possessions. No one ever taught him otherwise.”

  “What happened?” Cassandra asked quietly.

  “I was jealous about something or other that the duke had bought for River. I cannot even remember now.” She smiled ruefully. “I found out about his secret friendship, and saw a way to hurt my more favored sibling. I told our father. The gamekeeper and his family were gone a week later, and River was alone again. He’s been alone ever since.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Cassandra asked, suddenly angry. “Am I supposed to pity him? Many men would kill to have what Lord Riverton has.”

  “He wouldn’t want your pity. I just hoped…you might understand him a little better.”

  “Why would that possibly matter?”

  “Doesn’t it?” Lady Margaret tilted her head in a condescending way. “Come now, Mrs. Davis. My brother isn’t the only one who lights up. You watch him like a woman enchanted.”

  Cassandra’s heart stuttered. She didn’t.

  Did she?

  She wasn’t. Was she?

  Lady Margaret smirked at whatever she saw on Cassandra’s face. “I was surprised, myself. You? A mere housekeeper? Of all the infinitely more suitable women he could have?” She gave a delicate, one-shouldered shrug and then a little frown as she took in Cassandra’s plain attire. “I’m not at all thrilled by his choice, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

  It was astonishing how blithely Lady Margaret insulted. “Does this conversation have a point?” Cassandra snapped.

  The woman scowled. “I already told you. I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  Was she mad? She’d just said it herself—there were thousands of women more suited to Henry. “I’m not going to do anything,” Cassandra said. “You are mistaken. There is nothing between your brother and me.”

  Lady Margaret huffed in irritation. “My God. If you want something done—” With that, she smoothed down her dress, tilted her chin up haughtily, and sailed from the tiny room.

  Cassandra stared after her.

  And a shiver of foreboding prickled along her neck.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Henry watched from the side of the drawing room as Miss Haversham stumbled around, blindfolded and giggling in a grating, high-pitched way. If he had to suffer one more night of parlor games, he swore he was going to fling himself out the window. Unfortunately, refusing to play, no matter how much he wanted to, would make him look like a poor host. So he suffered through Blindman’s Bluff with a smile carved from his clenched jaw.

  Cassandra should be here, playing with them. He might actually be enjoying himself. No, probably not. But either way, she wouldn’t giggle like a drunken magpie with each step she took.

  He needed to quit thinking about Cassandra. He had three perfectly beautiful, perfectly eligible women right in front of him, vying for his attentions. Women from old, aristocratic families. Women with breeding and wealth.

  Miss Haversham stumbled into Lord Appleby, who didn’t seem to realize the point of the game was not to get caught. He looked entirely too pleased with himself as the blindfolded Miss Haversham gripped his shoulder and ran her hand along his chest in an attempt to ascertain his identity.

  “Oh, my,” Miss Haversham said breathlessly between giggles. “You’re quite…strong.” She touched Appleby’s face, and whispered, “And handsome.” Appleby had a broad grin on his face, which disappeared in an instant when Miss Haversham said, “Is it Lord Riverton?”

  Henry wanted to laugh.

  Lady Jane wasn’t so amused. “You’ve had three tries, Miss Haversham,” she said sharply. “Perhaps it’s best to pass the blindfold to someone else.”

  Miss Haversham was awful at the game. Or perhaps she simply liked the opportunity to grope members of the opposite sex and guessed wrong on purpose.

  “My brother hasn’t had a turn,” Margaret said from her spot near the doorway.

  Henry glared at her as Miss Haversham clapped her hands together. “How delightful! You simply must take a turn, my lord.”

  He rained silent curses down upon his sister as he slipped the blindfold over his eyes and the world went dark. Someone came to spin him around three times, which was unpleasantly disorienting, and then set him loose.

  He ground his teeth as he heard Miss Haversham giggle. She’d be easy enough to find. He moved forward, in the hope of catching her swiftly and giving the blindfold to someone else. He reached out his hand—

  And heard a strange thump.

  “What on earth—?” It was Lady Jane’s voice, from somewhere behind him.

  Silence descended like a curtain, just as his hand landed on the person in front of him.

  A woman. But he knew immediately that it wasn’t Miss Haversham. For one, she wasn’t giggling hysterically. The woman stood almost preternaturally still. His hand sloped up her soft, rounded shoulder and brushed a tendril of hair that had gotten loose.

  He frowned, smoothing the hair between his fingertips. He lowered his head closer and took one deep breath through his no
se—lemons and linen.

  Everything in him stilled.

  It was her.

  How? Why?

  What game was she playing?

  His hand curved against her bare throat.

  “Wait,” she whispered frantically, sounding panicked. “Wait—”

  “God damn you,” he murmured, baffled and angry, and worst of all, hurt. Was she trying to trick him? Did she think it would be funny to throw his mind into disorder and watch him scramble? It didn’t seem like something she would do, but then why was she here?

  His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat, and her pulse hammered against him. Was she scared? Exhilarated?

  Her scent surrounded him. He brushed his fingertip across her lower lip; the plump flesh caught, stuck, and then, finally, yielded. Hot breath puffed against his skin. The drawing room faded. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart and her rapid breathing. All he could smell was her scent and his desire. All he could feel, warm in the dark, was her.

  “Ist das, was du willst?” he whispered against her ear, fingers still tracing her lower lip. Is this what you want?

  He lifted his hand. His fingertip caught in the whorl of her ear, followed it down. She made a soft sound, so low he knew he was the only one who heard. He explored the space behind her ear, where she was smooth and vulnerable. All the while, he kept his head bent over hers, and he whispered to her in German, words he knew she would understand—soft…lovely…sweet—until she trembled against him. A thrill went through him, knowing it was only him—his words and his touch and nothing else—that made her tremble.

  His hand swept along her jaw—he knew the curve so well in his mind—it felt the same as it looked—strong, a little stubborn, with a teasing hint of feminine softness. Everything about her was like that—a mark of contrasts, strong and soft, firm and yielding. He could have touched her forever, studied those contrasts forever.

  He moved again, the back of his fingers brushing her smooth cheek. She was hot beneath him. So, so hot.

  He went back to her mouth, which fascinated him. Her lips were parted. He couldn’t resist letting his thumb dip in slightly, a bolt of heat going straight to his groin when it came away moist. If he didn’t break away from her soon, he’d present his guests with probably the most painful cockstand of his life.