The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  “I do not want to fight with you anymore.”

  Nicholas closed his eyes. “But you’ve given me no choice.”

  Sophia stared at him, noting the angular cheekbones so much like Langdon’s, and yet his sun-kissed skin was so very different from his brother’s.

  The undeniable sense that she was seeing him for the very first time returned. When she’d informed Lettie that he was no longer the Nicholas she’d known she’d felt confused. Now she was curious. And dangerously so.

  He opened his eyes, his gaze unreadable.

  “There never was a choice,” Sophia finally whispered, captivated by the minute gold flecks within the sea of umber of his irises. His thick black lashes half lowered and she felt the force of his gaze as he stared at her mouth for one long, torturous moment. When his glance lifted to meet hers again, the heat in his eyes seared her sensitive skin.

  But then he blinked and it was gone.

  The Scoundrel Takes a Bride is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Stefanie Sloane

  Excerpt from The Devil in Disguise © 2011 by Stefanie Sloane

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53602-0

  Cover design : Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration : Alan Ayers

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  Excerpt from The Devil in Disguise

  Prologue

  Winter, 1796

  AFTON MANOR

  COUNTRY ESTATE OF THE EARL OF AFTON

  PETWORTH

  SUSSEX, ENGLAND

  “Will this snow never stop?”

  Nicholas Bourne, the second son of the Earl of Stonecliffe, turned to look at Sophia Afton and rolled his eyes at her question. “Of course it will. This is Sussex, not Siberia, you ninny.” His words held a depth of exasperation only a nine-year-old boy could convey.

  “You needn’t be so mean, Nicholas,” Sophia scolded as she tucked a wool throw over his chilled bare feet. “I am, after all, only eight years old.”

  Nicholas returned his gaze to the scene just beyond the frosty glass panes before him. The butler had reluctantly agreed to move a small sofa nearer to the French doors so that he might watch his brother, Langdon, and their friend Dash frolic in the downy cloak of snow that had covered Afton Manor for more than a fortnight.

  A stuffiness in his head continued to plague Nicholas despite his fervent prayers that the Almighty might intervene on his behalf. And this morning Sophia had announced she would selflessly forgo all outdoor merriment in favor of playing nursemaid to the boy.

  Clearly, God was punishing him.

  “Well, I am older than you,” Nicholas replied in a superior tone, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his cotton nightshirt. “And can take care of myself, thank you very much. Which begs the question, Sophia, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be out-of-doors? I’m sure Dash and Langdon are missing you.”

  A snowball collided with the window, the audible thwack eliciting a threatening shake of Sophia’s small but determined fist. “That would have been my face!” she exclaimed, sticking her tongue out as the two boys raced by outside, their mad grins accompanied by fits of laughter.

  “Besides, you should be pleased I decided to stay in today,” Sophia continued. “You’d never get the rest you need on your own. Mama said so.”

  Nicholas adored Sophia’s mother, Lady Beatrice Afton. And he suspected she’d not meant for Sophia to take her words so closely to heart.

  The girl never stopped talking. And she’d brought her costumes. There was, in all likelihood, a play in his future. God was punishing Nicholas. There was no other explanation for his torturous predicament.

  He stared at the irksome girl, frustration creasing his forehead. There were so many reasons to not like Sophia. But he did like her. Very much so.

  “Why are you looking at me like that, Nicholas?”

  He focused his stare in earnest. Her neat braids shone in the mid-day aura of wintry light like his pony’s mane after a good brushing. Her skin reminded him of the cream the kitchen maids skimmed off the top of the milk each morning.

  “Are you going to be sick?”

  Sophia’s presence made Nicholas feel odd; uncomfortable and cross, but strangely excited and buoyant, too.

  “Mama just had this dress made for me. She’d be quite upset if you lost your breakfast all over it.”

  His head ached mournfully from the stuffiness and the thinking.

  And the talking.

  “Shouldn’t you be looking after Langdon? He’s the one you’re going to marry, after all,” he finally replied.

  “Ewwwwww,” Sophia uttered contemptibly, her face twisting with dismay. She sat up to fuss once again with the thick throw. “Don’t say such things.”

  Technically, Nicholas had a point. Shortly after Sophia’s birth, she’d been promised to Langdon. Oh, not officially. According to Lady Afton, only royalty put such promises down on paper anymore. Either way, it didn’t make any sense to Nicholas. And it angered him. Which didn’t make any sense, either.

  “But it’s true,” he continued to needle. “One day you and Langdon will be married. With ten babies—no, twelve babies. I’m sure I heard Langdon say he wanted twelve.”

  Sophia’s green eyes grew round with revulsion. “You’re lying, Nicholas Bourne. Tell me you’re lying!”

  “I will do no such thing,” Nicholas countered with indignation, knowing full well Sophia would take the bait.

  She shot up from the damask sofa and bolted toward the drawing room door, stopping mid-stride and returning to stand in front of Nicholas, arms akimbo and eyes lit with fury. “I hate you, Nicholas Bourne.” Sophia curled her fingers into a fist and punched him, landing a stinging blow to Nicholas’s left arm. “And I always will!”

  “Promise?” Nicholas fired back, feeling even more quarrelsome and out of sorts.

  Sophia stamped her foot in response, letting out a feral growl before turning on her heels and marching from the room.

  “I hate you too, Sophia Afton,” he said under his breath, rubbing his arm’s tender muscle and wincing. “And I always will.”

  1

  May 24, 1813
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  CARRINGTON HOUSE

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  “I loathe weddings.”

  Lady Sophia Afton smiled wryly in response to Langdon Bourne’s drawling statement. “Do you think it wise to share such views with the woman you intend to marry? At a wedding, no less?”

  “Tell me you feel otherwise,” the Earl of Stonecliffe petitioned with easy confidence.

  Sophia arched one feathered brow and acquiesced. “I would be lying if I did.”

  “And you, my dear Sophia, never lie,” Langdon softly answered. “One of your most remarkable traits, that.”

  Sophia tipped her head in recognition of the compliment before turning to watch the newly wed Viscountess Carrington as she accepted a warm embrace from her husband, Dashiell Matthews, Viscount Carrington.

  The newlyweds remained in each other’s arms slightly longer than was acceptable, Elena’s chaste yet lingering kiss upon Dash’s cheek at their eventual parting prompting onlookers to sigh with approval. A decidedly besotted grin had settled on the viscount’s face as he gazed at his bride.

  “That may be. Still, I’ll not ruin Dash’s wedding day—nor will you. He is, after all, one of our dearest friends. Now, look as if you’re bowled over by sentiment. Or filled with happiness, at the very least.”

  Langdon reached out and captured Sophia’s hand in his, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “In that case, all I need do is gaze upon your enchanting face.”

  Sophia squeezed his hand and smiled brightly, attempting to infuse her response with the depth of emotion she should feel for her betrothed.

  But as Langdon had just mentioned, lying would never be considered a special talent of hers.

  At that moment, Lady Whitcomb and her daughter Mariah walked by the couple, nodding graciously in greeting though they looked reluctant to interrupt the intimate moment.

  Sophia and Langdon returned the salutation in unison, his strong, square chin dropping at precisely the moment hers dipped, as if both were controlled by the same strings.

  They were perfectly suited for each other, Sophia thought. Everyone within the swirl of society that surrounded them agreed upon this fact. Their parents had begun planning on the very day Sophia was born; the impending marriage written into the detailed schedule of Sophia’s life, sometime after perfecting the pianoforte and well before the birth of her first child.

  But then her mother had been brutally murdered at the Afton country estate and neither the killer nor his motive was ever found. Many wondered why Sophia had not taken comfort in Langdon’s arms the moment she was old enough to marry. Even more whispered today, many years since a trip down the aisle had been expected.

  Sophia wondered, too. She leaned into Langdon’s bulk, the feel of his arm against hers familiar and pleasing. Theirs was a perpetual state of suspension. Neither unwanted nor deeply desired, the interminable engagement was just there, much like Sophia’s love for Langdon. There was no need to question their regard for each other. They would marry, someday.

  Perhaps they would not embrace with passion at their own wedding celebration. Nor, Sophia suspected, would Langdon wear an unguarded grin that betrayed his feelings for the entire world to see. But they would be happy and settled, married and the best of friends. What more could there be?

  Unbidden, the swift image of Nicholas Bourne, second son of the late earl and brother to Langdon, flashed before her. He stared hard at her, his eyes so deep a brown that they seemed to hold the darkness of night when he was angered—a constant state of being for him whenever Sophia was present.

  She frowned, eyes narrowing. Why was she allowing Nicholas to occupy her thoughts? She shook her head slightly, determinedly banishing the mental image of the man that both irritated and ignited her mind.

  “Ah, there’s Carmichael,” Langdon announced in his steady tone, releasing Sophia’s hand. “I’ll go say hello—unless you would like to accompany me?”

  Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael, was a dear family friend to both Sophia and Langdon. A high-ranking official within the Young Corinthians, a covert governmental spy organization, he’d been instrumental in the search for Lady Afton’s killer. Sophia shouldn’t have known about the spy syndicate that Langdon and Dash belonged to, but the ever charitable Carmichael took pity on the young girl who’d lost her mother and let her in on their secret, promising to do everything he could to capture the killer.

  Sophia would always be indebted to Carmichael for all of his efforts. Still, she found it difficult to be near the man, the gnawing sorrow of her mother’s fate only magnified when she looked in his eyes.

  “No, no,” Sophia replied politely. “Go on. I believe I shall indulge in a glass of champagne.”

  Langdon nodded approvingly, then courteously waded into the fray of family and friends that stood between him and his superior.

  Sophia daintily waved down a passing footman carrying a silver tray laden with champagne flutes. “Thank you,” she told the man, taking up a slim glass and smiling appreciatively.

  A sturdy finger tapped a tattoo on her shoulder, followed by Dash’s familiar voice in her ear. “You look lovely, Sophia.”

  She turned to face him, schooling her features into abject surprise. “Really? I should go searching about the rag bin more often.”

  Her elegant pale green gown, made especially for the occasion, was banded at the hem and waist in a narrow strip of cream and darker green embroidery. The toes of her matching slippers peeped from beneath the hem. Emerald drop earrings echoed the larger, single-drop jewel of her necklace, and a dark green silk shawl was draped artfully over her arms.

  “I am attempting to behave myself, Sophia,” Dash countered with mock ruefulness. “The old me would have likened your green dress to a hearty cucumber. Or perhaps a head of spring lettuce.”

  “Vegetables? Ah, there is the Dash I know,” Sophia murmured with pleasure, brushing a stray thread from her dear friend’s dark blue coat.

  Dash mirrored her efforts and reached out to pluck playfully at her shawl. “But I am a husband now. And will be a father one day. It is time for me to grow up. To embrace my future—that is what they say, isn’t it?”

  There was a certain obligation to agree upon such sentiment at weddings. Talk of plans and fairy-tale endings were meant to roll off the tongue as one would welcome a stray ray of sunlight after an English winter—without thought or effort.

  Why then did Sophia feel as if she balanced on the dizzying and wholly unwelcome brink of crying? She loved Dash as if his blood ran in her veins, and believed most fervently that he completely and without reservation deserved absolute happiness.

  “Are you ready, then?” she asked, the words sticking like treacle in her throat. “To grow up?”

  “More than ready, Sophia,” Dash replied, bending his knees until he was eye to eye with her. “Elena saved me. Let Langdon do the same for you—as he did at the frog pond.”

  Sophia had been nine. Nicholas had enticed her down to the frog pond with the promise of seeing the largest frog to have ever graced all of Sussex. She could not refuse, such a creature was surely far too abominable to ignore.

  The monstrous beast, not surprisingly, turned out to be wholly fictitious. Nicholas had only craved the opportunity to shove Sophia into the pond. Which he’d done the moment she’d knelt on the muddy banks.

  And Langdon had jumped in after her, nearly killing the both of them with his enthusiastic, albeit unskilled, efforts. Nevertheless, she’d proclaimed him her hero.

  “I am not drowning, Dash,” Sophia assured her friend, turning to take in Langdon as he conversed with Lord Carmichael across the room.

  She did not lie. Drowning was surely a startling occurrence, full of fear and desperation. In contrast, Sophia’s life continued on in predictable fashion as she held tight to the belief that one day she would find her mother’s killer, then move on to secure her own happiness with Langdon.

  “Treading water, then?” Dash suggested bleakly.<
br />
  “Stop,” Sophia warned, tears pressing at the back of her eyes, “or you will make me cry, which I know for a fact you cannot abide. Besides, it is normally Nicholas’s responsibility to upset me.”

  Her mind wandered toward the man for the second time that day. Sophia searched the crowd for him. “And do you know, I don’t believe I saw him at the church.”

  Dash brought his glass to his lips and drained the last of the champagne before turning to set the empty flute on a nearby mahogany table. “Didn’t you?”

  His evasive answer sent a warning prickling over Sophia’s skin. “No, I am sure of it.”

  “That seems rather strange,” Dash answered, staring at Sophia with what seemed to be abject honesty.

  Only he was lying. The pupils of his eyes were dramatically dilated, something Sophia knew happened when an individual was not telling the truth.

  “Has he disappeared somewhere to drink again?” she pressed, unease settling between her shoulders. “There is no need to protect me, Dash. We might not be particularly close, but I am well aware of Nicholas’s lamentable habit.”

  “Interrogating me at my own wedding?” Dash chided affably, looking over her head to the guests milling about. “Perhaps the Runners have trained you too well.”

  He referred to the Bow Street Runners, of course, though “training” was a rather overblown description. Sophia’s interest in criminal behavior had taken root following the death of her mother. Once of age, she had cajoled her way into a limited apprenticeship of sorts. There was not a file she did not know forward and back, the details of every captured criminal in London available for her perusal. Through her highly controversial access to the Bow Street Offices, Sophia had witnessed a number of interrogations as well. The Runners had widened her knowledge exponentially; her own personal research into criminal behavior shoring up any area that might have been found lacking in her unique education.

  Much to her surprise, Sophia had discovered that unearthing lies, deceits, and unnatural inclinations was her talent and her passion. Still, it did not give her permission to upset a dear friend.

  “I am sorry, Dash,” Sophia apologized. “Please forgive me.”