Scandalous Brides

by Annette Blair

  Hawk would rather the blighter had stayed in America as enter polite society, but what could he do but allow his cousin to be admitted to the library, at least, wherein the duchess kindly allowed them some privacy.

  “Dissipation looks to sit heavy on your shoulders, cousin,” Hawk observed. “Or should I say that it sits dark beneath your eyes and heavy upon your person. Hard work depleting a fortune, is it not?” Hawk raised the decanter his way. “Brandy?”

  Baxter laughed. “I may not have gotten the title, Bry, but the money’s a good sight more fun.”

  “I daresay.” Hawk knew he could not ask his cousin to keep the conditions of his father’s codicil to himself, for if Baxter even suspected that Hawk wanted it kept from Alex, there would surely be a price for his silence. A price Hawk could not afford to pay… any more than he could afford not to.

  “What do you want?” Hawk asked.

  The blackguard fingered a Bristol Glass brandy decanter and a French silver salver, before going on to examine the Rubens and Canaletto on the wall. “Believe it or not, I want to make peace with my family,” he said, though Hawk noticed he did not say it while looking him full in the eye.

  Hawk frowned. “Out of money already, are we?”

  “You are, and though I have spent more than you will see in your lifetime, I am still a rich man.”

  Bully for you, Hawk thought, as he considered the ramifications of one good, hard right to the solar plexus.

  Baxter grinned as if he could read Hawk’s thoughts. “Since I am ready to settle down, however, I yearn to have my family about me.”

  “You yearn for their respectability to net you a rich bride.”

  The library door opened. “Oh, I am sorry. I did not know you had a guest.” Alex made to back out, and Hawk was grateful.

  “No, wait,” Baxter said. “Present me, cousin, to this luscious wench.”

  Alex stiffened.

  Hawk set his goblet firmly down, lest he pour it over his cousin’s bumble head. “Alex, allow me to present my scapegrace cousin, Baxter Wakefield. Baxter, my wife, Alexandra, the woman you tossed out when you inherited.”

  Baxter grinned and took her hand. “If only I had known, we might have come to a… satisfactory arrangement.”

  Hawk stepped forward.

  Alex scowled and retrieved her hand. “Your grace.”

  “What?” Baxter asked with a laugh. “’Twas not me who got the title. That’s all Hawk’s and welcome to it. Much good it’ll do either of you without the blunt to make it sparkle.”

  Alex looked from Hawk to his cousin and back. “Hawksworth?”

  Already Hawk wanted to flatten his cousin, and he hated when Alex used his full title. It could only mean he was in trouble.

  Baxter laughed at the obvious awkwardness of the moment and made his whistling way to the door. “Invite me to dinner,” he said, “and I will leave you to settle your differences in peace.”

  “Not to dinner,” Hawk said. “Other plans. But to the Winkley ball tomorrow evening. You will accompany us?”

  Baxter bowed. “My pleasure.”

  When the door clicked behind him, Alexandra rounded on Hawk. “What was that about?”

  “It was better than having to eat with him.”

  She stamped her foot, a measure of her frustration, for she never had done, even as a child. “What did he mean by saying that you got the title?”

  “Father played me dirty, Alex. The title has always been mine, but Baxter got the money, the houses, everything else.”

  “How long have you known?”

  Hawk picked up his brandy and stepped toward a shelf of gold-leafed books, as if he might examine them at length, but he took a sip of his drink, instead, and when he finished, he turned to her. “Since we arrived in town. The day Gideon and I went to do whatever it is that gentlemen do of an afternoon, we saw the solicitor.”

  “And you did not tell me?”

  “Fitzwilliams is looking into ways to break the will. I did not say anything because I had hoped I would not have to give you the bad news about our poverty.” Half-truths again. How he hated the need for them. Damn his father.

  “Poverty is nothing new to me.”

  Hawk stepped up to her and grazed her cheek. “I have proved to be a sorry provider, have I not?”

  “No, it is not that. It is simply—” She sighed. “I thought husbands and wives were supposed to share the good and the bad. Instead, you and I seem to do nothing but keep secrets.”

  “What? Are you keeping secrets from me as well?”

  Alex examined his face, his eyes. “Keeping secrets, plural? As well, meaning: in the same way that you are keeping them from me? Do you have more?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “You asked me nothing.”

  “How does your back feel?”

  “There is a good question. Why?” Alex reached for his cravat. “Did you find the oil?”

  “I did.”

  She nodded as if everything was settled, and it was, in a way. They had silently agreed to hold their secrets, or at least the discussion of them, for the nonce, while they compromised to play this dangerous teasing game they both seemed to enjoy.

  Perhaps it was a start, Hawk thought, his body tightening in anticipation of her sweet, sweet torture, as he followed her up the stairs.

  ~ ~ ~

  CLAUDIA AND BAXTER became great friends, in the same way that Beatrix and the twins were friends. They joked and laughed and shared secrets. Hawksworth relaxed his panicked guard, for they were cousins, however distant, and they acted like brother and sister.

  When Claude had no escort, Baxter accompanied her wherever she needed one, always under Hawk’s or Alexandra’s or the duchess’s watchful eyes, of course.

  Baxter had either turned over a new leaf, Hawk surmised, or he was on his best behavior. Or he truly did seek the approval of his relatives, for he had not so much as committed a social blunder or gambled a single farthing since returning to the bosom of his family.

  To Claudia, Baxter confessed his want of a wife, after much prompting by her, extracting her promise to keep his secret. He also confessed his want of an introduction to a certain Miss Phyllida Middlemarch, who just happened to be Claude’s new bosom bow.

  “Did you know that Phyllida is the heiress to the vast Middlemarch fortune?” Claude asked.

  “Really? No, I did not. Forget the introduction, then. I am sure that I am not good enough for her.”

  “Nonsense. You are a prize catch.”

  Baxter bowed. “I am humbled that you should think so.”

  In her turn, Claudia confessed her wish to make Judson Broderick, Viscount Chesterfield, so jealous that he would lay himself at her feet and beg her to marry him.

  “Perhaps,” Baxter said. “We could help each other.”

  The following day, Claude wrote a letter to Chesterfield, in St. Albans, which she handed to Baxter for his approval. Baxter read aloud.

  My Dear Chesterfield,

  You must not worry about me any longer, neither must you imagine that I will importune you further with my silly childhood infatuation.

  “Oh, not silly,” Baxter said. “Call it naïve. He will be charmed by the notion and less likely offended.”

  “Lord, you are a sly one,” Claudia said, pulling a fresh sheet of stationery her way for a new draft.

  Baxter grinned. “Thank you.” He continued reading.

  London, it turns out, is great fun without you, as my cousin, Baxter Wakefield, has returned to the family fold and escorts me everywhere I wish to go. He is not only my escort, but my confidant and friend, perhaps even my knight in shining armor. He will play a key roll in my choice of husband, make no mistake, which role I had originally offered you, if you will remember. Consider yourself crossed-off my list of matrimonial prospects, and thank you for refusing.

  Baxter barked a laugh. “Nice touch that. It will lay in his belly like a summer apple, green and sour. And you
r vague wording is masterful.”

  Claudia grinned.

  Baxter read Claude’s closing paragraph.

  Enjoy your country solitude. By the time you hear from me again, my name might have changed. Wish me luck.

  Your friend,

  Claudia Jamieson.

  A week later, Chesterfield appeared at the Wellbank affair, a fine specimen of a man in a black tailed frock coat and snow-white linen. Claudia hoped she was not drooling as she marked his approach.

  “Miss Jamieson.” He bowed before her, even as she noted her uncle, not too far distant, and hoped that he would not clamp eyes on her companion any time soon.

  Calling upon every inch of sophistication she could muster, Claudia offered Chesterfield her hand, which he raised to his lips, shivering her to her marrow.

  “Dance with me,” he said, in his own arrogant way. “Now, or your uncle will have you over his knee, and me meeting him at dawn.”

  Claudia looked up and saw Alex, Uncle Bryce in tow, heading their way, so she stopped playing coy and took Chesterfield’s arm to accompany him onto the dance floor for the set forming.

  “Just in time,” she said as she and Chesterfield clasped hands and turned to begin the dance. “Uncle Bryce is fuming. I can see the smoke from here. Oh, Lord, he and Alex are joining the set. He will hurt his leg.”

  “He is fine. What did you mean by saying you were considering Baxter’s suit?”

  “Why? Do you not think us a good match?” Claudia laughed at the appalled look on Chesterfield’s face as the dance separated them and they went off in opposite directions.

  As Alex passed, she suggested that Claude leave Chesterfield to the older ladies. Her uncle simply leaned over to growl in her ear.

  Claudia giggled.

  As she awaited her turn to be accompanied down the strolling length of the dance line, Claudia gave her resistant suitor her undivided attention. “What I actually meant was that you need no longer worry about me, as Baxter has taken it upon himself to escort me wherever I would like to go.”

  “What makes you think I was worried about you?”

  “You spoke to my uncle and gave me away.”

  “He should know better than to allow—” Chesterfield danced off on someone else’s arm, his eyes smoldering as, of necessity, he turned away.

  “I like Baxter,” Claudia said when she passed Chesterfield.

  When her uncle passed, she growled back. “I like Chesterfield.”

  “You cannot possibly care for the swine,” Chesterfield said less than a beat later.

  Claudia laughed and danced off with a soldier of the Royal Horse Guards, a handsome rake in a blue tunic.

  “About Baxter,” Chesterfield snapped when they were partnered again.

  “He makes me laugh and has taken me to shops and museums and introduced me to his friends, as I am introducing him to mine.”

  “You do not want to meet the kind of friend that blackguard will introduce you to. And the parents of your friends will certainly not appreciate the kind of—”

  “How else am I to find a proper husband?”

  “There is nothing proper about Baxter Wakefield. What can your uncle be thinking?”

  “He is thinking to marry me off and be shed of me.”

  Chesterfield laughed aloud, catching the attention, and the admiring glances, of scores of women. “Do not pretend that giving you a season was Hawksworth’s idea. He would likely rather keep you chained to the schoolroom, as would I, if you were my—”

  “If I were your what?” Claudia examined the look upon Chesterfield’s face with a great deal of hope. He appeared… arrested… uncomfortable, and very warm. “Why did you stop speaking?”

  “Pay attention to the steps; you will trip me up.”

  “When are you going back to St. Albans?”

  “Tonight. Sooner.”

  “The duchess is giving a ball in my honor the day after Christmas. We are hoping to announce my betrothal that night.”

  Chesterfield missed a step. “To whom?”

  “I do not yet know. If I send you an invitation, will you come?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Will we see you at the Sefton ball this Saturday, then?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Alex approached Chesterfield as he returned a glowering Claudia to the Duchess of Basingstoke’s side.

  “Stay away from her, Judson,” Alex said, after Claude was carted off by a group of young people. “You are too old for her.”

  “I am not too old for you, and look where that got me. Dance with me.” Before Alex could protest, she was waltzed onto the floor with the man she had nearly married. “Believe me when I tell you that I am not old.”

  “You are right, thirty is not old, but it is nearly double Claudia’s age. Claude will not be eighteen for three more weeks. She is too young for you.”

  “Do you suppose I might corrupt her in ways that Baxter will not?”

  “Keep your voice down. We are on the dance floor, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Then let us get off the dance floor, by all means.” He waltzed her out the door and onto the terrace, but once he had her there, he simply tightened his hold and waltzed her closer and faster.

  Alex pulled from his arms and stepped back to catch her breath.

  “Let us have this out once and for all,” Chesterfield snapped. “I was good enough to marry you, if I would buy your way out of poverty, but not good enough to marry your niece? Is that not a double standard, Alex? I am disappointed, for I expected better of you.”

  Alex held her hand to her hard-beating heart. “You are a good man, Judson. I know you are, but her uncle does not yet realize it. Besides, you are only giving the child your attention to annoy Hawksworth. I am more your age than Claudia.”

  “And well I know it, but I thought we had already concluded that anything between us was impossible.”

  “It was. It is,” she said, looking away. “I should never have said yes.”

  “There is something you should know, Alex.”

  She looked sharply up. “What?”

  “I am not pining for you. I simply do not want to see her hurt.”

  “Who?”

  “Claudia. She is like the sunshine, that one, and she has the ability to slide beneath your defenses when you least expect it. She makes me want to make a pet of her one minute and throttle her the next.”

  “Did you never experience that wild urge to beat me?”

  Chesterfield shook his head. “Never.”

  “You are in love with Claudia.”

  “Do you suppose that wanting to beat someone is love? I had rather suspected not.”

  Alex nodded. “I think any strong emotion is certainly a sign.”

  “So of course you wish Hawksworth would become so enraged as to want to beat you?”

  Alex turned away.

  “Even in moonlight, I can see the glint of tears in your eyes. Are you that unhappy with the sorry state of your marriage?”

  “The state of my marriage is not your business.”

  “It is my business when you cannot repay me the money you owe me. Some marriage, if you must keep such things from your husband.”

  Alex bit her lip in shame, because he was right.

  Chesterfield took her into his arms. “Ah my poor Alexandra.” He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes, then he kissed her, but more like a brother than a lover.

  Yes, he cared for Claudia, Alex thought regarding him fixedly, but no good would come of it.

  “Do not think that your pretty tears will get me to forgive the five thousand pounds you owe me,” he said.

  As if she had been slapped, Alex stepped from his embrace.

  “A good thing you let her go, Chesterfield, else I might have had to remove her by force.”

  Alex shivered. “Hawksworth!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  HAWK RAISED A BROW. “Chesterfield, you seem to make a habit
of kissing my wife.”

  “I grew fond of the custom during the months before our wedding.”

  Jaw set, Hawk took Alexandra’s arm and led her toward the garden, glad the duchess chaperoned Claudia in the ballroom. His mind held no doubt now that Alex was jealous of Chesterfield’s attention to Claudia, and if he were forced to go back inside at this moment, and had to be civil, even once, he might do something rash.

  Having also just learned that his wife borrowed five thousand pounds from her lover did not improve Hawk’s mood, though he supposed he should not be surprised. Whether the borrowed money paid the mysterious vouchers was another matter, though Hawk was willing to make an educated guess that it did.

  The funds to repay Chesterfield would be hard to find, Hawk thought, though find them, he would. Why had Alex taken the blackguard’s blunt in the first place? And why did she not trust her own husband enough to confide in him?

  He just might have to beat her later, Hawk thought, after he removed her clothes and slathered her with oil.

  From the garden, they made their way around the Wellbank Mansion to the front. Hawk sent a note inside to the duchess saying that Alex was ill and he was taking her home. Did she mind chaperoning Claude on her own?

  Her reply was prompt. She would be happy to help. As a postscript, she added, “Get Alex to bed.”

  Oh, he would. He certainly would.

  In the carriage, Hawk pulled the curtains down before the vehicle had barely begun its trek across town. Then he pulled his wife onto his lap and took her mouth.

  Hawk ran his hands through her hair, dislodging pins, holding her head still so he could ravage her mouth, suckle her tongue. “I am furious with you for nearly marrying him, for kissing him, and for taking money from him,” he said when he came up for air.

  She seemed to revel in his less than gentle tactics but stopped to catch her own breath. “I am furious with you for leaving me after our wedding, for not providing for us, for not telling us you survived, for—”

  “Shut up and kiss me.” Hawk made love to his wife with his touch, his tongue, and his lips.

  Alex followed suit.