The Improper Bride (Sisters of Scandal)

by Lily Maxton

  He wanted… His hand tightened where it covered Cassandra’s own on his arm. He wanted a woman who called him out when he behaved badly. He wanted a woman who challenged him. A woman who could hold her whisky. A woman who wasn’t above running through the snow with him, who was mad enough to think German was a beautiful language, who might just think he was beautiful even with his scars and his cold, hard heart. Who was, he quite suspected, smarter than he was. And who, instead of just touching him, licked him. God, how he wanted her.

  With everything in him. Every beat in his heart, every pulse of his blood. Everything in him canted toward her.

  Not as a temporary lover, as he’d contemplated before. Not even as a mistress, which he doubted she would agree to anyway.

  As his wife.

  He could run through every possibility in his mind, over and over, and it was the only solution that didn’t leave him feeling either bereft or half mad.

  Part of him still had trouble reconciling that the woman he wanted so badly was a servant whose father was a country teacher and whose first husband had been a common sailor. He didn’t even want to imagine introducing her to his parents, or how disappointed they would be with him. While Henry might be willing to overlook her lowly background and inferior connections, his parents would not.

  But every relationship was flawed in some way. They would simply have to move forward.

  Margaret, much as he hated to admit it, was right. What good was being the heir to a duke if he let the woman he wanted most of all slip away? Something in Cassandra’s face shifted. He’d been staring at her too long, maybe too many of his swelling emotions shining in his eyes. She looked away, falling silent.

  And that was exactly the problem.

  If he proposed to any of the other women here, he had no doubt she would say yes. He would promptly marry whomever he’d asked, and that would be that.

  But Cassandra wasn’t any other woman. She’d told him she would never marry again, and he knew she believed it wholeheartedly. She was too wrapped up in clinging to her dead husband’s memory to consider it.

  She was normally a strong woman, but not in this. In this, she was vulnerable. In this, she was fearful. She’d made her husband a paragon in her mind, and whether he truly had been or not, Henry would never match the saintly Robert in her eyes.

  If Henry wanted her hand, he would have to find a way to convince her.

  Luckily for him, he’d never been, nor wanted to be, a saint.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The day was fresh and bright, the sun glittering off the snow, the air bracing and still instead of bitterly cold. As Cassandra walked arm in arm with Henry, she almost believed she belonged there. By his side, with his guests.

  That was foolish, though. She might be able to converse with Henry easily enough, but she had nothing to say to the others. She and aristocrats had nothing in common.

  She could hear Lady Jane behind her making snide remarks—about her presence, about her redingote not fitting properly. Little attacks meant to sink in like barbs. This was what it would be like for an outsider to marry into the ton. Some would shun her outright, and others would sneer at her, mock her because she’d had the audacity to seek to enter their coveted circle when she wasn’t one of them.

  Though, why that thought crossed her mind, she didn’t know. She wouldn’t have to endure such a circumstance. And a good thing too—she might be tempted to stomp on Lady Jane’s foot if she had to put up with her insults for very long.

  “I need to purchase a few things for the storeroom,” she told Henry.

  “I’ll accompany you,” he said.

  She noted, with a flash of amusement, that he didn’t ask.

  She stopped at the store where she usually bought spices, and waited for the shopkeeper, who was busy helping another customer. She idly wandered about, looking through the eclectic mix of goods designed to serve varying needs since there weren’t many shops in the village. She stopped in front of some ribbons to examine them.

  Henry, who’d been perusing a display by the window, came up behind her. His hands fell lightly on her waist, his presence warm and solid behind her. “Are you buying ribbons?”

  She went still. “What are you doing? What if the others see?”

  “They’re all at the milliner’s,” he said. “The shopkeeper isn’t paying us any attention, either. What color do you like?”

  “I don’t need ribbons,” she said stiffly. He wasn’t going to buy her one, was he? A man only bought a gift like that for a lover.

  “Hmm… pink?” he mused. “That awful shade of bright green?” His breath was warm against the back of her neck. He was inches away from placing a petal-soft kiss on the vulnerable skin of her nape.

  She shivered in anticipation of that forbidden caress. Wanting it far too much. “I have better taste than that.”

  One of his hands slid up from her waist, spanning her ribcage. Even though they were separated by several layers of clothes, she felt completely bare.

  “Oh, I’m certain you do,” he said, his voice touching the most intimate parts of her body. She had a feeling he wasn’t talking about her taste in ribbons.

  His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, and she gasped. “Blue!”

  “Pardon?” he said, his lips against her ear, sending hot and cold prickles all over her flesh. Her breasts felt suddenly too tight against her stays, her nipples scratching against the coarse material.

  “My favorite color is blue. Deep blue.”

  “Ah.” Then he kissed her just below her ear, a soft, subtle touch that had her heart thudding against her ribs. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  She spun around. A mistake. Now she was looking into eyes the color of storm clouds, and lips inches from hers. Her arms came up to brace against his chest like a barrier.

  Of course, arms could also be used for pulling closer, for embracing…

  He stepped back abruptly, and her whole body screamed with want, screamed at the loss of him.

  The shopkeeper’s friendly voice broke her from her spell. “Do you need assistance?”

  Yes, she needed assistance!

  Henry was staring at her with a half-smile, and she had the sudden urge to kiss it right from his face.

  Good lord. She was in desperate need of assistance.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Once Cassandra had gathered her wits enough to replenish Blakewood Hall’s spice supplies, Henry left to see what the others were doing.

  Cassandra approached the shopkeeper again. The man knew her, and had begun to gaze at her in a speculative way when he realized she’d entered the store with Lord Riverton. She wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such a judging glance, and she found she didn’t much like it.

  Ignoring her discomfort, she straightened her shoulders and stepped up to the counter. “Do you have any letters for me?”

  “Just one.” He retrieved a single sheet of folded paper.

  Cassandra perked up. Most likely it was from her parents or siblings, but her pulse quickened when she saw the handwriting. Julia had gotten back to her, and more quickly than she’d expected.

  After she paid for the letter, she moved to the center of the store, breaking the wax seal and unfolding the letter to read it by the light that slanted in through the windows.

  My dearest Cassandra,

  I believe I’ve found the perfect situation for you. I’ve spoken with Cale Cameron as you requested. An older gentleman who translates German texts for him is no longer able to write well because his hands have begun to shake in his old age. He requires an assistant and wouldn’t be opposed to having a woman work for him (I don’t know why that should even be an issue…surely the old goat would know women are much more meticulous than men). If this is amenble to you, you may write back to the direction below as soon as you can.

  In other news, Adam and I miss you dreadfully and hope you’ll visit once the baby is born, but you kn
ow that already. Now, I wish to know why you never told me you’re familiar with German! Sometimes people have the oddest secrets.

  Yours,

  Julia

  Cassandra smiled when she saw Julia had signed her last name, Radcliff, with a flourish and with what appeared to be a very tiny heart above the I. She wanted to laugh at the last line.

  Or cry.

  She’d done absolutely nothing wrong, and yet, writing to Henry’s former mistress, the mother of his unborn child, to help find her another position—without telling him—felt like a betrayal. It had been right after she’d kissed him, and her mind had been racing. She’d known she needed to leave.

  She still needed to leave. She couldn’t fool herself about that, especially not after what had just happened in broad daylight in a public shop. But she was starting to think she should tell him instead of being clandestine about it. He deserved the truth before she sneaked away.

  But when the bells jingled above the shop door, she quickly slipped the letter inside her reticule and drew the drawstring shut. She met Henry’s gaze. Had he seen the letter? But he didn’t look suspicious. No, he was smiling at her, a warm, brilliant, unguarded smile that made her stomach clench in a tangle of emotions. Had she ever seen him smile quite like that before?

  “Margaret and Miss Haversham are at the lending library. The rest are still at the milliner’s,” he informed her lightly. “Mr. Thornton has insisted on buying a new beaver hat, no matter how long it takes. I had no idea the man was such a fop.”

  She moved away from the shopkeeper, who watched them too closely, and ran her gaze from the top of Henry’s own felt hat to his blindingly white cravat, down to his gleaming, expensive boots. “Do you have room to call another man a fop?”

  “Oh, not at all,” he responded blithely. “But I’ve heard sensible women don’t like fops, so I’m trying to pretend I don’t care for fashion.”

  Amused, she took his outstretched arm as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do. As though she—a woman with only a handful of pounds to her name, for which she’d worked her entire life, and who had no aristocratic heritage to speak of, a woman who’d learned not at the knee of a governess, but in bits and pieces from an overworked father—had the right to take the arm of a man who would someday be one of the most powerful peers in England.

  And the strange thing was, when Henry’s hand folded over hers, it felt as if he thought so, as well.

  She assumed they would head toward the milliner’s or the library. Instead, he turned them in the opposite direction. They passed the blacksmith’s to the sound of ringing metal and kept walking.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, curious.

  He glanced around, drawing her back into an alley. They were hidden from the main village road by the corner of the building.

  “This will do,” he murmured.

  “For what?”

  He answered by taking her face in his gloved hands, warm against the cold, and kissing her, thoroughly, hotly, wantonly.

  She reached up to grasp his wrists. “Henry!”

  “Tell me,” he breathed against her mouth. “Tell me you don’t want this, too, and I’ll stop.”

  But she couldn’t tell him that—even with all her confusion and all her desires and all the things she knew she shouldn’t do swirling around in her mind. Even now, knowing no good could come from it, she still wanted his kiss.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoes so she was flush against him. And pressed her mouth to his.

  He groaned, low in his throat, his arms going around her back, pulling her tight to his body. “Your mouth is sweet,” he murmured. “Your lips…your—” He broke off with a shudder when she sucked on his tongue.

  He pressed her back against the brick of the building. He tore off his gloves and touched her face with his bare palms. He touched her gently, almost reverently, his fingers tracing the curves of her cheeks. But she was swept away in hot, heavy desire and didn’t want him to be gentle.

  She bit down on his lower lip, hard.

  A curse exploded from his mouth, something vulgar that made the place between her legs throb. His hips collided with hers, and her head was pushed back from the force of his kiss. She rubbed against him, rubbed against the hard ridge of his erection, whimpering. His fingers dug into her hips. His mouth nuzzled the side of her neck, then he bit down, hard enough to cause a sharp twinge.

  Her nipples scratched against her clothes with each breath she took, exquisitely sensitive. If they continued like this much longer, she would come, outside, in the winter, in the daylight, wrapped around the Marquess of Riverton like a vine around a trellis.

  “Use me,” he whispered. He must have known how close she was. His hand reached behind her, smoothed over the curve of her buttock and lifted. Her legs fell apart, cradling him more fully. “Use me.”

  She arched back, whimpering, her hips working in frottage, until she was only aware of the sensation between her legs and his whispered urging, “Use me, come on me,” with his hand around her hip. Close, so close, so—

  She caught his tongue again, drawing it into her mouth, as her inner muscles clenched and clenched and released.

  He pressed a soft, sweet kiss against her forehead and drew back to look at her as she tried to calm her breathing. His lips were dark from their kisses, his eyes heavy-lidded, but he made no move to take his own pleasure. He only watched her coming down from hers.

  In the aftermath, her face flamed. She’d never been bashful about such things—but suddenly she was. Suddenly, she wished Henry would speak so she could know what in the world was running through his mind. Did he think her completely brazen?

  Oh, lord. She’d taken her pleasure outside, against the blacksmith’s shop. She was completely brazen.

  She licked her lower lip, opened her mouth to speak, and to her horror, blurted out the truth. “I’m leaving.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Henry stared at Cassandra, baffled. “Leaving?” he echoed, fierce arousal still pounding in his veins.

  Before his eyes, she composed herself, drew herself up, took a breath. “Yes, soon. I’m going to accept a position in London.”

  What? His sluggish mind was having trouble comprehending her words. “London?” He was starting to sound like an idiot who could only repeat things. “Are you… A position? As a housekeeper?”

  She shook her head. “There’s a man who translates German texts who is need of a scribe.”

  A scribe. That was perfectly understandable. She had too sharp a mind simply to stow it away for the rest of her life dusting furniture. After he’d begun teaching her, he was actually surprised that she’d stayed a housekeeper for so long.

  “I will not be your housekeeper anymore,” she said.

  “I don’t expect you to be,” he said.

  “You don’t?” She looked startled.

  “No, but you could stay here, couldn’t you? London isn’t very far. Or you could make use of my townhouse.”

  Her lips parted. “What will your wife say about that?”

  His wife would choose whichever house suited her best, because in his imaginings, she was his wife. But he could tell she hadn’t even considered the possibility, and he knew it would be a mistake to bring it up now.

  Damnation! He thought he’d have more time…to…to convince her…to win her…to seduce her so thoroughly she never wanted to leave.

  “One of my brothers lives in London,” she said. “I’ll stay with him until I find more suitable arrangements.”

  “My townhouse is empty. There’s no reason you shouldn’t use it.”

  Her lips thinned. “There is every reason, Henry. Your future wife is among your houseguests. We just—” Her face reddened, and not from cold. “We just did that”—she waved vaguely at the brick wall—“while your future bride was only a few shops away. It’s wrong. And I won’t continue like this.”

  His arousal was qu
ickly fading. He had the urge to do something dramatic, like throw her over his shoulder and run off to…he didn’t know where exactly, but somewhere far enough they’d never be found. “I’m not married yet, or even betrothed,” he pointed out, and then continued quickly at her vitriolic glare. “And I’m not planning to ask any of the women I invited.”

  She gazed at him suspiciously. “Why not? They aren’t up to your impeccable standards?”

  The only thing wrong with them was that they weren’t Cassandra. And because he couldn’t tell her that for fear of how she’d react, for fear he was moving too quickly, his gut twisted in worried knots. “I was premature when I decided so hastily to wed.”

  “But you were so set on it.”

  “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “I have since changed my mind.”

  “When do you ever change your mind?” she exclaimed.

  A lot. As of late. And always because of her.

  She peered at him for several seconds, her eyes narrowing consideringly. Then she said, “I won’t be any man’s mistress, Henry.”

  He was on the verge of yelling something stupid about how he didn’t want her as a bleeding mistress, he wanted her to be his goddamn wife, but that wasn’t a very romantic way to propose, and it would only make the situation worse. He forced a smile.

  “Come,” he said, taking her arm, and stuffing all of his frustration down into a place where it hopefully wouldn’t flare up and cause him to say something he’d regret. “Let us see if Thornton has selected a hat yet.”

  She blinked and tugged at his arm. “I don’t care if Thornton has selected a hat.”

  “I don’t particularly give a damn, either,” he muttered, “but the alternative is to stand here and argue with you while my bollocks turn blue. Is that your preference?”

  She blinked again, and then the maddening woman suddenly smiled, a little impishly.

  He felt a flash of baffled irritation. “What?”

  “We certainly wouldn’t want blue bollocks.”