by Cara Elliott
As she dipped and dodged the blows, Caro decided that the only hope in escape lay in trying one last, desperate measure. Ducking low, she darted straight at him and brought her knee up hard between his legs.
Very hard.
The brute dropped like a sack of stones, his curses turning to a mewling whimper.
“Run!” she called again, seeing that Isobel had stopped and was staring in open-mouthed shock. The trick had bought them more time, but when he recovered, he would be out for her blood.
“How—” began her friend.
“Never mind that now,” she said, shoving Isobel into action. “We must fly like the wind.”
But they hadn’t gone more than several strides when two more figures appeared from the shadows up ahead.
“Bull!” shouted the one in the lead. “Wot’s wrong? Why ain’t ye grabbed ’em?”
A pack of abductors?
The thought sent a spike of fear through her.
Things looked rather hopeless, but Caro wasn’t yet willing to go down meekly.
Think! Think!
A quick glance around showed one last chance. Grabbing Isobel’s arm, she pushed her off the road and toward the woods. The tangle of brush and trees might slow down their pursuers.
“Try to lose yourself in the darkness,” she hissed. “I’ll see if I can distract them for another few moments.”
“But—”
“GO!”
To her relief, Isobel had the good sense not to waste precious seconds in further argument.
Scooping up a handful of rocks, Caro peltered the new assailants with a quick barrage, then turned to seek safety in the shadows.
With luck…
But luck chose that moment to desert her. Her shoe caught in a rut and she tripped, entangled in her skirts.
Cursing the constraints of female dress, she twisted free of the fabric, scrambled to her feet, and was moving again within the space of several rapidfire heartbeats.
Quick, but not quick enough.
The first trees were only a stride away when the one of the men snagged her trailing sash and whirled her around.
“Poxy slut,” he snapped.
Caro blocked the first slap and countered with a punch that bloodied his lip. The second blow caught her on the side of the head with a force that set her ears to ringing. She tried to pull away but he yanked her back, and then his fist drove the air from her lungs.
The ground began to spin and blur.
Dizzy with pain, Caro felt herself slipping into a daze. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought down a rising nausea. But things seemed to be spinning out of control. The voices around her were suddenly sounding strangely agitated and the ringing was turning into an odd pounding.
Like the beat of galloping hooves?
Wishful thinking, she mused as she slumped to her knees. And yet, her captor seemed to have released her…
Forcing her lids open, she saw a jumble of dark shapes. A horse. A rider flinging himself from the saddle. Flying fists. Her assailant knocked arse over teakettle.
“Shoot the devil, Bull!” he croaked.
As her gaze slowly refocused, Caro saw their first attacker rise and run off, still clutching his groin, into trees on the opposite side of the road.
“Your lily-livered friend doesn’t seem inclined to come to your rescue,” came a deep baritone shout. “That leaves two of you—whose neck shall I break first?”
Her wits must be so addled that she was hallucinating. How else to explain why the voice sounded oddly familiar?
The man who had hit her scuttled like a crab across the road. “Billy!” he cried in a high-pitched squeal.
The only answer was a scrabbling in the bushes that quickly faded to silence.
“Vermin,” muttered her rescuer, as he watched the man join his cohorts in beating a hasty retreat. Turning, he then gently lifted her to her feet. “Are you hurt, Miss?”
“I…”
I never swoon, she wanted to reply, if only her tongue would obey her brain. Only peagoose heroines in horrid novels swoon.
However, on catching sight of the chiseled lips, the too-long nose and the shock of red-gold hair now looming just inches above her face, Caro promptly did just that.
Proper young ladies of the ton—especially ones who have very small dowries—are not encouraged to have an interest in intellectual pursuits. Indeed, the only thing they are encouraged to pursue is an eligible bachelor.
Preferably one with both a title and a fortune.
So, the headstrong, opinionated Sloane sisters must keep their passions a secret.
Ah, but secret passions are wont to lead a lady into trouble…
See the next page for a preview of Scandalously Yours
Chapter One
A soft flutter of air stirred the emerald-dark leaves, releasing the faint scent of oranges. Drawing a deep breath, the Earl of Wrexham slid back a step deeper into the shadows of the large potted trees. He closed his eyes for an instant, pretending he was back in the steamy plains of Portugal rather than the gilded confines of a Mayfair ballroom. The caress of sticky-warm humidity against his cheeks was much the same, though here it was due to the blaze of dancing couples in their peacock finery, not the bright rays of the Mediterranean sun…
“Ah, there you are, John.” The leaves rustled again, loud as cannon fire to his ear, and the earl felt a glass of chilled champagne thrust into his hand. “Your sister sent me to inquire why the devil you are cowering in the bushes when you should be dancing with one of the dazzling array of eligible young beauties.” His brother-in-law gave an apologetic grimace. “Those are her words, by the by, not mine.”
“Tell her I’ve a pebble in my shoe,” muttered John after quaffing a long swallow of the wine. Its effervescence did little to wash the slightly sour taste from his mouth. “And that I’m simply making a strategic retreat to one of the side salons to remove the offending nuisance.”
Speaking of removal, he thought to himself, perhaps there is a side door leading out to the gardens close by, through which I can escape from the overloud music, the overbrittle laughter, the overzealous Mamas with marriageable daughters.
“Pebble,” repeated his brother-in-law. “In the shoe. Right-ho. Quite impossible to dance under those conditions.” Henry cocked a small salute with his glass. “If you turn right at the end of the corridor,” he added in a lower voice, “you’ll find a small study filled with exotic board games from the Orient. Our host keeps a large humidor there, filled with a lovely selection of cheroots and cigars from the Ottoman Empire.” A sigh. “I’d join you, but I had better remain here and try to keep Cecilia distracted.”
“Thank you.” John gave a tiny tug to the faultlessly tied knot of his cravat, feeling its hangman’s hold on his neck loosen ever so slightly. “For that I owe you a box of the best Spanish cigarras from Robert Lewis’s shop.”
“Trust me, I shall earn it,” replied Henry, darting a baleful glance through the ornamental trees at his wife. “Your sister means well, but when she gets the bit between her teeth—”
“She is harder to stop than a charging cavalry regiment of French Grenadier Guards,” finished John. He handed Henry his now-empty glass. “Yes, I know.”
In truth, he was exceedingly fond of his older sister. She was wise, funny, and compassionate and usually served as a trusted confidant—though in retrospect it might have been a tactical mistake to mention to her that he was thinking of remarrying.
My skills at soldiering have apparently turned a trifle dull since I resigned from the army and returned to England, he thought wryly. Bold strategy, careful planning, fearless attack—his reputation for calm, confident command under enemy fire had earned him a chestful of medals.
The Perfect Hero. Some damnable newspaper had coined the phrase and somehow it had stuck.
So why do I feel like a perfect fool?
It should be a simple mission to choose a wife, but here in London he felt paralyzed.
Uncertain. Indecisive. In contrast to his firm resolve and fearless initiative on the field of battle. He tightened his jaw. It made no sense—when countless lives were at stake, everything seemed so clear. And yet, faced with what should be an easy task, he was acting like a craven coward.
Henry seemed to read his thoughts. “It has been nearly two years since Meredith passed away, John. You can’t grieve forever,” he murmured. “Both you and Prescott need a lady’s presence to, er, soften the shadows of Wrexham Manor.”
“I take it those are also my sister’s words, not yours,” replied the earl tightly, finding that the mention of his young son only served to exacerbate his prickly mood.
His brother-in-law had the grace to flush.
“I appreciate your concern,” John added. “And hers. However, I would ask both of you to remember that I am a seasoned military officer, a veteran of the Peninsular War, and as such, I prefer to wage my own campaign to woo a new wife.”
He paused deliberately, once again sweeping a baleful gaze over the glittering crush of silks and satins. A giggle punctuated the music as one of the dancing couples spun by and the flaring skirt snagged for an instant in the greenery.
Ye gods, was every eligible young lady in the room a silly, simpering featherhead?
“Assuming I decide to do so,” he growled.
Why was it, he wondered, that Society did not encourage them to think for themselves? His wartime experiences had taught him that imagination was important. And yet, they were schooled to be anything but original…
John felt a small frown pinch at his mouth. His military duties might be over, but he had no intention of living the leisurely life of rich aristocrat. He wished to be useful, and politics, with all the intellectual challenges of governance, appealed to his sense of responsibility. As a battlefield leader, he had fought for noble principles in defending his country’s liberties. He felt he had made a difference in the lives of his fellow citizens, so he intended to take his duties in the House of Lords just as seriously…which was why the idea that the only talk at the breakfast table might be naught but an endless chattering about fashion or the latest Town gossip made his stomach a little queasy.
“Point taken,” replied Henry. “I—” His gaze suddenly narrowed. “I suggest you decamp without delay. It seems that Lady Houghton has spotted us, and I can’t say that I like the martial gleam in her eye.”
Taking John’s arm, he spun him in a half-turn. “She has not one but two daughters on the Marriage Mart. Twins.”
“Bloody hell,” swore the earl under his breath as he cut a quick retreat between two of the decorative urns.
Civilized London was proving to be filled with far more rapacious predators than the wolf-infested mountains of northern Spain.
“Bloody hell,” swore Olivia Sloane as she eased the door shut behind her. “If I had to endure another moment of that mindless cacophony, that superficial chatter, I might…I might…”
Do something shocking? Like climb atop one of the flower pedestals and dance one of the shimmying, swaying tribal rituals that her father had described in his scholarly papers for the Royal Society?
Olivia considered the thought for a moment, and then dismissed it with a sardonic smile. No, probably not. She was already considered an outspoken, opinionated hellion by Society. And with no beauty and no dowry to her name, it was best not to draw too much attention to her eccentricities. Not that she would ever blend into the woodwork. However, there were her two younger sisters and their future prospects to think about.
“Still, it would be fun to shock the look of smug complacency off all those overfed faces,” she murmured softly. But she quickly reminded herself that she was doing that already in more meaningful ways.
Looking around, Olivia saw that the room in which she had taken refuge was a small study decorated in an exotic Indian motif of slubbed silks, dark wood, and burnished brass. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she realized that it was a distinctly masculine retreat, a refuge designed to keep bored gentlemen amused. The flame of the single wall sconce showed a large painted cork bull’s-eye bristling with feathered darts hung on one wall. In the opposite corner, grouped to one side of the hearth, were several brass and teakwood game tables. Cards, dice, an intricately inlaid board with stone markers that she recognized as a backgammon set…
And chess.
A sudden pang of longing squeezed the breath from her lungs. Her father had taught her to play when she was a child, and over the years they had engaged in countless matches.
Chess sharpens your mind, poppet—it teaches you to be logical, to be daring, to attack a problem from unexpected angles.
Skirting around a pair of leather armchairs, Olivia made her way into the shadowed recess and took a seat behind the double row of ivory figures, which stood waiting to march into battle against the opposing ebony force. Black and white. And yet, like life, the game was not quite so simple. One had to make subtle feints and oblique moves, one had to be clever at deception. And most of all one had to be willing to make sacrifices to achieve the ultimate goal.
No wonder I’m very good at it, thought Olivia as she fingered the polished king…
“Oh!” It shifted slightly under her touch, and a flicker of moonlight from the narrow leaded glass window illuminated the ornate carving. Olivia leaned down for a closer look. “Interesting.”
Like the rest of the room’s decorations, the chess set had an exotic Eastern flair. Instead of the traditional European figures, the pieces were far more fanciful. The Knights were mounted on snarling tigers, the Castles were carried by tusked elephants, and all the human figures, including the Kings and Queens, were…stark naked.
Not only that, observed Olivia. The men were, to put it mildly, all highly aroused.
“Interesting,” she repeated. The sight of a penis wasn’t at all shocking. She had seen plenty of them before—though mostly in drawings or statues such as these, not in the flesh. Her father, a noted scholar of primitive cultures, had written extensively on tribal rituals for the Royal Society. His notebooks had been filled with graphic sketches, and he had not hesitated to explain his research to his three daughters. Men, he had lectured, held an unfair advantage by keeping women ignorant of the ways of the world. So he was determined that his girls learn about Life.
Much to the chagrin of his far more conventional wife. Who had nearly had a fit of apoplexy when, several years ago, Olivia had enthusiastically agreed to accompany her father to Crete for a season and serve as his expedition secretary.
Thank you for such a priceless gift, Papa…though leaving us with a few more material assets would have made our current situation a trifle less worrisome.
But for the moment, Olivia decided to put her practical anxieties aside. She nudged the naked pawn—whose monstrous erection looked more like a battle sword than a fleshly appendage—forward two squares, then reached for the opposing ebony pieces. Playing a solitary game against herself was always an intriguing challenge and would help pass the tedious minutes until it was time to take leave of the ball.
A second nudge moved the black pawn over the checkered tiles.
The game had begun.
Lost in thought, Olivia was not aware that someone else had entered the study until she heard a sudden whooshing exhale, followed by a satisfied sigh.
“A room free of simpering ladies. Thank God.”
She froze as a pale puff of scented smoke swirled in the shadows. Flint scraped against steel and a candle flame flared to life.
“Lord Almighty,” intoned the same deep masculine voice, though this time he didn’t sound quite so pleased with the Heavenly Being.
Slowly releasing her hold on the ivory Queen’s voluptuous breasts, Olivia looked up and squinted into the silvery vapor. For an instant there was naught but an amorphous blur. Then, as the gentleman took another step closer, the flickering light brought his features into sharper focus.
For an instant, she couldn’t b
link. She couldn’t breathe. Sharp lines, chiseled angles—an aura of strength seemed to pulse from every pore of his face, holding her in thrall.
But then, willing herself to break the strange spell, Olivia quickly regained control of her wits.
“Have you never seen chess played before, sir?” she asked calmly, ignoring his gimlet gaze. Honestly, one would think that a man would not look so shocked at seeing a graphic depiction of the male sex organ. Granted there were rather a lot of them, but still…
“Actually, I am very familiar with the game.” As he lifted his gaze from the checkered board, the undulating flame lit a momentary spark in his dark eyes. They were, noted Olivia, an unusual shade of toffee-flecked brown.
A powerfully mesmerizing mix of gold-flecked sparks and burnt sugar swirls that seemed to draw her in to a deep, deep vortex of shadowed spice…
She made herself look away.
“However,” he went on, “I have always been under the impression that it is not an activity that appeals to ladies.”
“Then you think wrong.” Olivia moved the ebony knight, putting both the ivory bishop—who in this set was depicted as a wild-eyed whirling dervish—and a pawn in danger.
The gentleman didn’t answer. Drawing in another mouthful of smoke from his glowing cheroot, he studied the arrangement of the remaining pieces for several long moments.
His reaction was a little unnerving, as was his aura of calm concentration. Olivia wasn’t quite sure why, but her fingertips began to tingle.
“Which one will you save?” he asked gruffly.
“The pawn, of course,” she replied.
A look of surprise shaded his face. Looking up through her lashes, Olivia watched as the low, licking light accentuated the chiseled cheekbones, the long nose, the sun-bronzed skin. It was an interesting face, made even more intriguing by his oddly expressive mouth.
Sensuous. That was the word that popped to mind.
And like the sinuous coiling of a serpent, her ribs suddenly contracted, squeezing the air from her lungs.