How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  But enough of her naked body showed through the water that he was captivated.

  “Benedict, out.”

  The imperiousness in her tone brought him back to his senses. And as usual, pricked enough that he needed to prick back.

  “You are still bathing?” He crossed his arms. Perhaps it would fool her into thinking he had the upper hand.

  Her eyes widened, fixated on his biceps. His skin heated under the weight of her gaze.

  “I like long baths,” she said, distracted.

  “Your long bath is up, princess. It’s my turn.” He tried to keep his eyes on hers, not letting them drift down toward her body.

  “Then leave so I can get out.”

  Benedict couldn’t leave any more than he could dance a cotillion. Some primal part of him wanted, needed, her here, naked in his den. He took a towel from the chair and tossed it at her. Instinct made her grab for it, and in doing so, she inadvertently gave him a quick glimpse at her breasts, full and luscious.

  “Cover yourself if you must,” he said, walking to the basin where he kept his shaving accessories. He could see her in the mirror’s reflection, but from the way she relaxed, blowing a strand of hair from her face, she clearly didn’t realize.

  He studied her in every entrancing detail, waiting to see what she’d do.

  She draped the towel across the bath. Damnation. He should have had smaller ones made for her, ones that didn’t cover every inch.

  She was studying him too. He saw her eyes travel from his calves and thighs fully covered by his thin smalls, over his arse to his naked back. Thank the devil his back was toward her—his cock throbbed as though her roaming gaze drew across his skin like fingernails.

  He looked down at the utensils in front of him to avoid meeting her eyes in the mirror. Cowardice, really. He was afraid she’d run. Afraid she’d look at him in disgust at his size, at the body shaped by long hours of manual labor.

  Afraid that she wouldn’t look at him in disgust, because then he’d have no bearings at all.

  “You’re half naked.” There was a hitch to her voice.

  He picked up the soap, vigorously rubbing it between his hands, trying to burn through the energy that had seized him the moment he’d walked in the room. “I’m your husband. You were bound to see me this way at some point.”

  He hadn’t pushed her. Restraint had been the hardest damned thing he’d done when every fiber of his body burned for her. But she wasn’t some woman to enjoy for one night. They had a lifetime ahead of them, and while they might never love one another, he was hoping for some form of like in his marriage bed.

  She didn’t answer, which in itself was an encouragement. It wasn’t a “stay” but it wasn’t a “go” either.

  “I promise not to remove any more clothing.”

  “Fine.” She turned the taps, and more steaming water poured into the bath. He was grateful for the hot water system his engineering partner had designed. No footmen could possibly have kept up with Amelia’s desire for bathing.

  Benedict couldn’t tell if the red creeping up her neck was due to him or the steam that dampened the curls by her face, plastering them to her temples.

  “You were upset when you walked in,” she said.

  “You noticed?” He spread the lather of shaving soap over his cheeks and jaw.

  “I am well acquainted with the stronger sex’s ever-so-fragile moods. They match their fragile egos.”

  “A damning assessment.” He flipped open the razor and dipped it into the basin of water.

  “Why were you angry? Other than missing your turn in the tub?”

  The firm and his current troubles were not a subject he wanted to discuss. Particularly not with the cause of said troubles. “Business. Nothing more.”

  She sat up straighter, her shoulders squared in the confidence he was used to. The movement caused the crest of her bosoms to sit above the waterline. He swallowed. Hard.

  “I can talk business,” she said. “I’m not feather-brained.”

  “I’m sure you can. There’s just nothing to talk about.”

  It was a lie, and he could tell she knew it. Her lips pursed, and she cocked her head, no doubt deciding whether or not to call him on it. Keen to divert the conversation away, he interrupted. “Explain to me how you’ve never had a snow fight before.”

  “I’ve never had someone to snow fight with.” It was simply said, with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, yet it was the nonchalance that rocked him.

  “You never played with other children?” He couldn’t imagine a childhood so lonely. He’d spent most of his days running amok with Wilde.

  Clearly assuming that his turned back gave her privacy she didn’t have, she picked up the soap from the table beside the bath and rubbed it over her arm.

  “‘The future Duchess of Wildeforde does not “play.”’” She mimicked what he assumed was her father’s voice.

  “You’re joking.” His hand froze halfway to his chin.

  “Nor does she wear bright colors or”—she fake-gasped—“read novels.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re no longer the future Duchess of Wildeforde.” He wanted to take the words back as soon as he said them, but instead of the expected cutting retort, she smiled to herself.

  “Princess Lionberry and the dancing teacups are infinitely better than embroidery and almost worth the title. Don’t tell Edward.”

  She looked up at the mirror, and he didn’t avert his gaze quickly enough. He was prepared for her to screech and chastise him for his boldness. Instead she held his stare, and he was compelled to ask, “Did you love Wildeforde?”

  He dreaded the answer. But he had to know. Today, for the first time since their wedding, he’d had an inkling that their marriage might not be the disaster he thought. Today he saw playful outrage and cheeky determination. Instead of her perfect porcelain mask, there had been creases at the corners of her eyes, dimples in her cheeks.

  If one afternoon of his normal life could compromise her façade, what would be the effect if he really tried to woo her into his life?

  But that was a dangerous thought. If his childhood had proved anything, it was that a woman of her ilk would never be satisfied with this life, nor with him.

  And if she loved her ex-betrothed? Well, he wasn’t sure how he’d manage to live with that.

  She snorted. “I liked him well enough, I suppose. He was respectful—he didn’t drink or gamble or flirt with other women.” She screwed up her nose. “He turned out to be a bit of a coward, though.”

  Relief washed through him. He carried on shaving with more confidence. “So you didn’t love him?”

  She gave him an odd look. “Marriage isn’t about love, though, is it?”

  There was no good reason for his heart to sink at those words, but it did. “What’s it about, if not love?”

  She ran a finger along the edge of the bath, making patterns from the water droplets. “Security. Position. Power. Only fools marry for love—to their detriment.” Her throat tightened at those last words, and she wiped her hand across her doodles. It wasn’t a throwaway comment. She truly believed what she was saying.

  He turned toward her, leaning back against the sink. “I thought all young girls wanted love.”

  She gave a wistful smile. “The last time I thought I was in love, it was with a footman. I was eight years old. My nanny found a love note I’d written hidden beneath my pillow and gave it to my father.”

  “I can’t imagine he was too pleased.”

  “He took me down to the rookery at St Giles.”

  Benedict swore. “That’s no place for a young girl.” St Giles was a seedy part of London where young bucks would pay a thruppence to tup a whore against the side of a building. It wasn’t discreet; rather it was an open cesspool.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, my father made it very clear what happened to girls who married for love. Watching them sell themselves on the street to pay for food,
I vowed that would never be me. For a woman, the only security from that life is money and position.”

  Benedict swallowed and turned back to the sink, wiping away any traces of shaving soap. Her words had painted an image in his head. Not of the cheap streets of London but of a cheap room in Paris. Of his mother swathed in wisps of fabric, her face pale as snow, her eyes red. She may have had a roof over her head while she sold her body, but she too had married for love and then spent the latter years of her life prostituting herself to the aristocracy. He had barely made it to her bedside before the syphilis claimed her.

  He hadn’t noticed the time that had gone by until he felt Amelia’s hand covered his. She’d surrendered the bath and wrapped herself in his robe.

  “Where did you go?” she asked.

  “Nowhere good.”

  “If the newspapers are correct, neither of us need worry about ending up in St Giles. You have money and I have position—and I’m quite adept at leveraging both.”

  Her words dragged his focus back from his memories of France to the here and now. To his dressing room. To the woman in front of him. “I feel like ‘quite adept’ doesn’t pay deference to your real abilities to manipulate a situation.”

  She smiled. “Why, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

  “That you consider it a compliment is, frankly, terrifying.”

  She laughed, an unconscious belly laugh that gripped his stomach and squeezed. It was the same feeling he’d had watching her build her structurally unsound snowman.

  She took a seat on the bench by the bathtub, leaving enough space that he could fit beside her. Likely as close to an invitation as he was going to get.

  “Tell me more about your business.”

  His business. The one balancing on a precipice due to their unfortunate marriage. The one that might fail and take down his whole damn village. The one he definitely did not want to talk about.

  But she was his wife, and she had a right to know more about him.

  “You’d stoop so low as to discuss work?”

  She gave him a wry smile. “The more I know, the more I can plan my next trip to Bond Street.”

  He snorted, but underneath her flippancy, there was genuine interest. “I make steam engines, for rail.” He waited for her to recoil or, at best, nod politely.

  Instead she leaned in. “For transporting coal? Lord Pallsbury has one of those running from his estate.”

  “Transporting coal, mail, people even.”

  That’s when she recoiled, almost slipping into the bath in the process. “Transporting people? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “It’s becoming safer. That’s a lot of what we’re doing, actually. Creating safer engines. There are too many accidents.” Too many working men dying in order to fill the coffers of the aristocracy.

  “Do you test them?” There was real concern in her voice.

  “Of course we test them.”

  “You. Do you test them? Because I’m not comfortable with that.” Her tone became clipped, demanding. It was touching, in an overbearing way.

  “Worried about me?” he asked.

  She snorted. “Worried about where the money goes if you’re blown up. Tell me I won’t be dealing with an odious cousin.”

  “Your concern is noted. You can relax. None of it’s entailed. It goes to you and Cassandra. I’d recommend you allow my accountant to help you, but the money will be yours to do with what you like. If it’s there.”

  “If it’s there? What do you mean?”

  Had she asked the question critically or in a panic that her newfound wealth was at risk, he would have palmed it off. But she was direct. No-nonsense. Businesslike. And he desperately needed someone to vent to.

  “There were plans to sell locomotives to an American company. It would have meant considerable growth for the whole village. We invested a lot to make it happen, but I think we’re losing the contract.”

  “Do I dare ask why?”

  It took effort to look her in the eyes and answer. “They’re unwilling to anger their current British investors by working with the enemy.”

  “And you’re the enemy?”

  “I’ve stolen what was theirs…”

  “You’ve stolen…” She paused as understanding dawned. “Me?” She squared her shoulders, creases forming between her brows. “To begin with, I can’t be stolen because I’m a person, not an object. I belong to no one. Don’t forget that. Secondly, that’s rather spineless of them.”

  He grunted. “American ties with Britain are only now just reaching a civil enough point for trade to be possible. They won’t risk it.”

  “Then you need to find other partners with a bit more fortitude.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not that easy. There are only a handful of companies taking on rail projects of this size. We’re not talking pin money.”

  “Oh, what a surprise.” Her sarcasm caused an uncomfortable flashback to the Amelia he’d married.

  “Then what do you need to do?” she continued.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said you’re losing the contract, not that you’ve lost it. What do you need to do to fix this?”

  He sighed. This wasn’t an easy fix. There was no way of depositing her back on her father’s doorstep, scandal-free and once again engaged to Wilde.

  “I need to convince them that working with me won’t jeopardize all their other ventures.”

  “Hmm.” She nodded and cinched the belt around his dressing gown tighter, as if she were about to march barefoot to the Americans and give them the sharp edge of her tongue. “Well, lucky for you, I am very convincing.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Invite them here. Have them tour your little factory. I’ll host a dinner—I’ve been meaning to call on Lady Karstark as it is—and we’ll convince all involved that, not only are you not a villain, but that our marriage is considered an excellent thing.”

  “The Karstarks aren’t well liked in Abingdale.”

  She reached up and wiped a thumb along his jaw, removing a spot of soap he must have missed.

  It was a compulsion of hers, he’d realized. To neaten things. To put things to rights. He shouldn’t be surprised that she’d immediately look for solutions to the problem.

  “I can’t imagine why. Lord Karstark seemed so pleasant,” she said dryly. “But if the situation is as you say it is, the Karstarks may be the only reason you get your contract, so we and the rest of the village will have to swallow it.”

  “You’re ruthless.”

  “I’m practical. At the heart of it, an investment is not unlike a marriage. They want to know the money is going to come in and feel secure that the person they’re investing with is not going to do something rash and ruin it all.”

  “And you know this because…”

  “Because you’d be surprised how many business deals are conducted at balls and how freely men talk when they see you as a pretty face and nothing more.”

  “You are definitely more than a pretty face.” And it was true. His wife might be the most beautiful woman he’d seen, but she was also one of the strongest, most fearless, and most intelligent women he’d met. And right now, he wanted to do nothing more than sweep her into his arms and make love to her.

  He tucked a damp curl behind her ear and cupped her face in his hand.

  Her eyes widened, as though the sudden, sensual change of energy in the room had caught her as off-guard as it had caught him.

  He leaned forward and place a feather-like kiss on her lips. And then, with a gentle nudge on her shoulder, he pushed her into the soapy water.

  Amelia sputtered, wiping away hair that was plastered over her eyes as she resurfaced.

  “Why you—” She broke off as he climbed into the bathtub with her, kneeling between her thighs. She scrambled up against one end; her heart thumped wildly, as out of control as she was in this situation.

  “You’ve still got your pants on.
” It was an inane thing to say, made worse for coming out strangled and weak.

  His smile was one she hadn’t seen before. It promised all sorts of untold things. “Would you like me to take them off?”

  “No!” Heat crept up her chest and neck.

  He leaned forward, bracing himself on the bath edge on either side of her. His naked arms and chest had been mesmerizing when they were on the other side of the room. Now, encircled by them, they ripped away her ability to breathe.

  Up close, there were more curves and valleys to his body than she’d thought a man would possess. Each muscle stretched taut under his weight, and small veins charted journeys across his skin, coaxing her to follow the paths with her fingers.

  She drew a ragged breath, but it was as if his nearness changed the air around them. The oxygen she drew in fed tiny sparks that kindled inside her.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he said and then paused, waiting for a response.

  She nodded dumbly, unable to form words.

  It was not like the kiss outside. That had started soft and gentle. No, this was raw and wild. He wrapped one arm around her and pulled her flush against him. His lips crushed against hers, his tongue flicking inside her mouth.

  She moaned. Unsure of what to do next but desperate to do something, to have some sort of agency in this, she probed his tongue with hers—tentative, explorative.

  His fingers tightened around her waist, and he leaned into her. The hard shaft of his sex pressed against her, and in response, a hot tingle blossomed between her legs.

  This was a want she had never experienced, beyond all thought and logic. As if her body knew exactly what to do when her conscious did not, it took over.

  She reached one hand up and around his neck while the other explored the muscles along his side. Everywhere her fingers touched, the fine hairs of his body stood on end. It was intoxicating, this effect she had on him.

  He broke off their kiss and turned his attention to her jawline, sucking and nibbling, the heat of his breath sending shivers across her.

  He let go of her waist, his fingers quickly working beneath the water to untie the belt of his robe. Slowly, gently, he unfolded it and grazed his palm along her ribs. Her chest arched, and the hot tingle between her legs intensified. He moved his hand to her breast, cupping it, kneading it, stoking the fire within at every point.