This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Samara Thorn
Cover design by Daniela Medina
Cover photography and illustration by Sophia Sidoti
Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-5387-0448-6 (mass market), 978-1-5387-0446-2 (ebook)
E3-20210416-DA-NF-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Discover More
About the Author
Fall In Love With Forever
For my love, the rock on which I could build a lighthouse. For my mother, who always believed I could.
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Acknowledgments
This book has been a long time coming. I want to thank my husband, Elliott, for his constant, unwavering support, and for all the gentle nudging (yes, love, I should be writing). My deepest appreciation also to my mother, who helped me in so many ways I can’t name them. Also to Jo, Stu, and Dad for your heartfelt encouragement.
A massive shout-out to my Romance Roomies: Miranda Morgan, Lauren Harbor, and Michelle Somers, without whom this would not be written. They are my brainstorming buddies, critique partners, and conference roommates, and I’m so lucky to have them. Thanks also to the Melbourne Romance Writers Guild—there is not a better writing group in the country. I have learned so much from you wonderful ladies.
I want to acknowledge the incredible RWAustralia community, including the competition judges who took the time to help me learn my craft, thank you. Especially all those dreaded third judges, whose feedback served me better than any score could.
Thank you to my agent, Kari Erickson, for deciding that Amelia was a heroine she was willing to fight for, Madeleine Colavita for taking a chance on this story, and Alex Logan for helping to shape it into something I’m so, so proud of.
And thank you to my readers, for picking up this book by an unknown author and giving it a shot. I’m so very happy to meet you. I hope this is the beginning of a long friendship.
Chapter 1
Benedict Asterly kicked in the door to the Longmans’ empty farmhouse. Despite the crash of splintered wood, the chit slung over his shoulder was as silent as a sack of last season’s grain.
Lady Amelia Bloody Crofton. Half dead, soon to be all dead if he couldn’t warm her up.
He lowered her onto the cold, uneven stone floor before the fireplace.
Damnation. There was no fog of breath, no flicker of pulse, no sign of life at all.
He’d almost ridden past the snow-covered carriage in his effort to get out of the storm. He’d been an idiot for traveling in this kind of weather but apparently not the only idiot on the road.
Why the devil was an earl’s daughter alone in a carriage all the way out here?
He pressed two fingers against her neck. Nothing. He pressed harder.
Th-thump…th-thump. It was faint. It was slow and erratic. But it was there.
Thank God.
He sagged with relief. The ropes around his chest, that had drawn tight the moment he’d seen her pale and unconscious, loosened.
He turned to the hearth and struck flint into the brush with shaking fingers. The scrape, scrape, scrape of steel on stone faint against the howl of the wind.
It caught, and he began the methodical task of building a fire. With each carefully placed stack, his racing heartbeat slowed. Thank God, Aldrich had restocked the wood supply before taking his children to visit their grandparents. Benedict had no desire to reenter the tempest.
Behind him, Lady Amelia muttered.
“I’m here. I’m with you.” He turned back to the woman who’d previously declined to acknowledge his existence. After all, a man like him was beneath her notice.
He tossed aside the coarse traveling coat he’d thrown over her and removed her gloves and pelisse, struggling with the weight of her ragdoll body.
Bloody hell she was cold.
How long had she been trapped in that broken-down carriage? At least she’d had the good sense not to leave it.
He took her soft hands in his calloused ones, bringing them to his lips, but his breath did little to warm them.
Unbuttoning the cuffs of her sleeves and rolling the fabric up her arms, he exposed as much of her bare skin to the seeping warmth as he could. Her skin was more than pale. It had a blue pallor that caused his heart to skitter.
“Just stay with me. Please.”
In a cupboard by the bed, he found some blankets. He pulled a knife from his boot to cut a piece and wrap the ends of her sodden blond hair. The rest he tucked behind her head and shoulders.
He untied the laces on her ankle boots and pulled the boots off, pausing at the sight of her stockings.
They were cold and damp. They needed to come off too. But a footman’s son had no place touching a lady. And this particular lady? The ice princess would skewer him with the poker if she knew what he was contemplating.
He turned his head aside, giving her all the modesty he could as he reached his hands under her skirts, fumbling with the ribbon of her garter.
“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t hear him, but just saying the words made him feel less of a cad.
He tugged the dark wool off her toes. The skin was red and like wax to touch—but it was only frostnip, not yet frostbite.
“You mustn’t…giant calling.” Her words were so slurred he struggled to understand them.
“I’ll bear that in mind, princess.”
Of all the idiotic things he had done, tonight’s escapade was the worst. The carriage had barely made it to the posting house. Instead of thanking God for the solid roof and warm fire, Benedict had left the carriage and its driver to go the last mile home on horseback.
He’d promised his sister he’d be home tonight, after a month away. Instead, he was stuck.
Feeling was slowly returning to his body, if not warmth. He covered Lady Amelia in his coat and then staggered to the bench that ran along the edge of the room. There was a kettle filled with water, sloshy and semi-frozen.
He dumped a small amount of tea inside, grabbed two mugs with his other hand and staggered back to the fire.
The intensifying flame was the best damn thing he’d ever seen.
He hung the kettle from an iron hook and turned back to his biggest problem.
She couldn’t stay on the floor.
There was a large, worn armchair in the corner. He moved it in front of the hearth, as close as he dared. What she needed was heat—and fast—but the fire hadn’t taken a chink out of the bitter shroud of the room.
There was one thing he could do, but damn she was going to flay him alive when she woke. He took off his jacket, pulled his shirt over his head, and picked her up off the floor.
He settled into the armchair, holding her against his naked chest, his bare arms resting along the length of hers. His body heat had to work.
The cold air was whiplike against his skin, and goose bumps covered his arms.
Think warm thoughts. A steam engine furnace. A hot bath. A warm brick under his bedsheets. A warm woman under his bedsheets…
He looked down at the chit on his lap. Lady Amelia Crofton. Diamond of the ton. Leader of the fashionable set. Cold as the ice shards on the window. And Wildeforde’s bloody fiancée. Damn, this was a mess.
He exhaled hard, trying to steady his shivering through slow, even breaths.
“That’s not what I asked for.” Lady Amelia’s eyes flickered but failed to open. “I said blue.”
His laugh was shaky. “Well, tonight’s not what I asked for either. And I’m partial to grey.”
Her eyes fluttered open. The deep jade green caught the light of the fire.
“Put it under the horse.”
He snorted. Even half-dead, she was giving orders. But he would take them, if it meant she would live. Her eyes closed again, the long dark lashes resting against pale skin.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
Her grunt was accompanied by a soft sigh—as innocent as a babe. If you were fool enough to believe it.
“Why the devil were you traveling alone?” The snow had been so deep around the broken-down carriage that only a glint of metal from the wheel had given any hint that someone might be in trouble.
There was no response, just a twitch of her nose.
After a long few minutes, warmth finally traveled up his legs. It was a superficial heat, not the bone-deep warmth that came from a hard day’s work, but hopefully it was enough to warm her.
“Lemonade.”
She put a hand on his thigh and pushed herself up, faltering on her weak legs toward the fire.
His heart leapt to his throat as he lurched up and grabbed her dress, jerking her backward before she could fall into the flames. A dozen buttons popped free and scattered across the floor.
“You will be the bloody death of me.” He maneuvered her back to the chair, slumping her over it, her limbs sprawled like a green boy’s after his first trip to the pub. Not taking any more chances, he dragged the chair farther from the flames.
“I’ll get you your damn lemonade,” he muttered, turning back to the boiling kettle. Using the tongs by the fire, he poured tea into the two mugs.
She was every bit as high-horsed as he remembered. Although at least she’d deigned to speak to him—an improvement upon their last encounter.
The first few gulps burned a satisfying trail down to his belly. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“I have your lemonade, princess.”
He turned and nearly dropped the mugs.
The bodice of Amelia’s dress had pooled at her waist, leaving her in nothing but stays and a chemise so fine it was nearly translucent. His mouth turned to coal dust.
“I’m hot, too hot.” She yanked at the neckline of her chemise.
Bloody hell. He picked up the coat he’d tossed on the floor and tried to wrap it around her shoulders as she struggled to escape.
“It’s for your own good.” Of course, she would refuse help. It didn’t come on a gilded plate.
He wrapped one arm around her, pinning her to him. With the other, he stuffed the coat between them and tucked it beneath her armpits.
The fewer layers between her and the heat the better, but she was going to strip his hide with her barbed tongue as it was. Heaven help him if she woke half-naked.
Her struggling subsided, and he managed to lower the two of them back onto the chair. Her ribs expanded and contracted against his chest with increasing force, and the vein on the side of her throat thrummed with more regularity in rhythm.
She was getting stronger. Color was creeping into her skin. Her cheeks began to flush, and her lips slowly changed from blue to white, to a light pink.
No longer looking like she’d been pulled dead from the Thames, she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered.
Confident that she was going to pull through, he closed his eyes.
The door crashed open.
“I’ll have your rutting neck, you rutting bastard.”
Chapter 2
Amelia woke with a ringing in her ears—a head-throbbing sound like a cymbal wielded by a mad chambermaid. There was distant yelling and a thudding crash accompanied by the rapid, uneven chatter of her own teeth. Last week’s Appleby debutante recital, which she’d foolishly attended, had been unrivaled wretchedness. Until tonight. Whatever this was, it was worse than six tone-deaf society hopefuls.
She sucked in a breath, pulling her knees closer to her chest. So. Cold.
The yelling continued. Maybe Lord Chester had finally been caught with Lord Macklebury’s wife? Maybe the simmering tension between Miss Hamilton and Miss Clarke had finally boiled over.
She would investigate. The second she could open her eyes.
Crockery smashed. “I will kill you, you rutting bastard.”
That was her father…Someone must have been serving the good brandy. Or any brandy, really.
She dragged her eyes open, struggling to focus. What in heaven’s name?
She’d never been in a room like this. It was large-ish, roughly the size of a small ballroom, but it seemed to be a bedroom, drawing room, and kitchen in one. The walls were unadorned and tinged black with soot, the floor frightfully uneven. The overturned chair beside her was heavily worn.
But the tableau of characters in front of her? That was the most bewildering of all.
Her father was straddling a half-naked man with a broken table leg, raised and ready to strike. And Edward—
Why was he in town?
He should have come to call.
You’d think he’d be a better fiancé by now. Her stomach rumbled. Roast pheasant would be so nice…
“Settle down, man,” Edward said in his duke-ish tone. He had one hand clenched around her father’s wrist, preventing him from murder, the other arm wrapped around her father’s chest.
The flames from the fire beside her created shifting patterns of light on the stone. Why was she lying on the floor?
It was time for answers. “Enff.” The word was thick, and her tongue wouldn’t make the shapes it needed. “Eee nwaaaf.” She ran her tongue around her mouth trying to remind it of what it was supposed to do. “Eee. Nuff.” Only one word, yet so much effort.
All three men stopped to
stare at her.
Clumsily, she pushed herself into a seated position, the pins and needles in her arms making it barely possible. As she sat, a coarse blanket fell to her lap. She reached down, her fingers fumbling with the fabric. For the life of her, she couldn’t grasp it. Couldn’t even feel it. She looked down.
Her chest was bare but for her loosened stays and thin chemise. Her lungs tightened as though her lady’s maid was pulling at her laces in a fury.
What in heavens?
Panic got her fingers working. She clutched the wool and yanked it to her chin.
“W-w-what is h-happening?”
Her father’s face turned purple. Spittle burst from his mouth like little pellets. He shoved himself off the undressed stranger and bore down on her.
“You…” He jabbed his finger inches from her face. “You little whore.”
She flinched and looked around. Every movement felt sullen and slow, at complete odds with her heart, which beat overtime as if trying to spur the rest of her to flee. She tried to sift through her memories, but as soon as her brain grasped an image, it let it go.
“Step back from her.” It was a quiet warning that promised unpleasant consequences from anyone foolish enough to ignore it. And it didn’t come from Edward. The semi-naked man had made it to his feet and now, sensibly, was putting the rough-hewn table between him and everyone else.
He had her father pinned with a glare hard enough to cause actual damage. Hard enough to force the esteemed Earl of Crofton to take a few steps back from her.
She slowly exhaled.
The stranger leaned against the shack walls, and a blond lock of hair fell over his forehead. Deep blue eyes, the color of a twilight sky, stared into hers. He was not the sort of man she was acquainted with. He wasn’t pretty or refined; he was granite and rock. He looked rough—south side of Cheap Street kind of rough—an image intensified by his bloodied nose and sheer hulking size.
His chest, all brawn and sinew, bunched beneath his crossed arms, and her eyes dropped to the interlocking muscles at his waist, the dusting trail of hair that reached down past the waistband of his breeches.
So that was what men looked like beneath their finery.
How to Survive a Scandal Page 1