The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “Your friend doesn’t seem very . . . friendly,” Mary said, low under her breath.

  West sighed. “Give him time. He just needs to come to terms with the change in my situation.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “And understand that I might prefer to spend time with you on my wedding night instead of him.”

  Mary nodded, though she couldn’t help but suspect there was trouble brewing there.

  Finally, there was only one more person left in the drawing room, a blond woman who had earlier been introduced as West’s sister, Lady Lucy Branston. She stepped up to have her turn at them. “Couldn’t do this the usual way, could you, Geoffrey?” She gave her brother a playful tap on the arm. “Four hours’ notice for a wedding invitation? I didn’t even have time to fetch Branston from Westminster. I always knew you would crash spectacularly when love finally found you.”

  “Yes, it’s been quite the whirl,” West said, not contradicting her in the least.

  Mary felt like fidgeting when he didn’t do anything to correct his sister’s presumption. So, he meant for people to imagine this was a love match? Well, she’d read enough books with happy endings to pretend she knew how to do this.

  She only hoped her acting skills were up to the challenge.

  “And as for you, I hope you know what you’ve fallen into.” Lady Branston smiled down at Mary. “My brother is a terrible prankster.”

  “Perhaps I can reform him.” Mary beamed at her new sister-in-law, hoping she didn’t look like a loon. Or perhaps she ought to look like a loon—if her sister and Lord Ashington were any indication, one turned a bit silly over it all. “Love has a way of changing the staunchest of scoundrels to responsible citizens.”

  Lucy snorted. “I see you are fond of fairy tales.” She leaned in to kiss Mary’s cheek. “And you are far too lovely for the likes of my debauched brother.” When Mary gaped at her, she laughed. “Oh, but you must pay my teasing no mind. Geoffrey deserves his comeuppance for the ribbing he gave me on my wedding day.”

  “Also done by special license, if my memory serves,” West pointed out.

  “Yes, but I believe I gave you four days’ notice,” she retorted, then blew her brother a saucy kiss as she sailed away.

  As the room’s sudden emptiness pressed in, Mary cut a curious glance at her new husband. He was staring down at her with a smirk on his face that could only be interpreted as . . . anticipatory. And then he took her hand and led her out of the drawing room, heading toward the huge, spiraling staircase that led to the upper floors of the house.

  “Well, Mrs. Westmore,” he said, tugging on her hand. “It is time for the next phase of this mad adventure.”

  “Do you mean you wish to plan our next steps?” she asked, thinking that by mad adventure he meant the assassination plot. “I haven’t had time to work on another list, but if you could find me a pen and paper I could list the gentlemen I spoke with last night—”

  “Mary.” He pulled her up onto the first step. “You won’t need a pen for a solid few hours.” His easy smile shifted to something more wolfish. “You must trust me when I say your hands will be too occupied for lists.”

  Mary swallowed. It was still quite early, not even dark outside yet—surely too soon to be retiring abovestairs. “Do you mean . . . they will be occupied with a fork?” she asked. “Because we’ve not yet eaten and I do think I could use a—”

  “If you are hungry we can have a tray sent up to my bedroom.”

  She tripped on the bottom stair. He’d said bedroom. Oh, good heavens. He wanted to do this now? Her free hand gripped the banister. “Wait!” she gasped, scrambling after him, but then her foot hit a place on the stairs that unleashed a loud, spluttering sound.

  She froze, her cheeks burning as he looked over his shoulder.

  “That is quite a wedding gift you’ve just given me.” His smile curled the edges of his mouth. “Fortunately, I have one for you, too.”

  She shrank backward. Oh, but how could he think she would do such a thing? It hadn’t been her breaking wind, surely he knew that! But that didn’t make it any less mortifying.

  “Don’t look so pained,” he chuckled. “It was a joke, and one not even intended for you.” He bent down and pulled a flattened object from beneath the step. “See? A wind-maker. I like to tease Wilson, every now and again. The man likes to lecture me in return. Somehow, we reach an equilibrium.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, her own equilibrium anything but reached. She stared at this man who was now for better or worse her husband. He had placed that . . . that . . . thing beneath the stairs on purpose? Good heavens. Eleanor and Lady Branston had both warned her he was a prankster, but somehow, in the terror of the morning and the need to ensure her sister’s safety and the fluttering anticipation of saying “yes”, she’d forgotten what this man was capable of.

  She was well-reminded now.

  “Well then, no wonder Wilson wants to play a proper prank on you,” she frowned.

  Unrepentant, he tugged her upward until she fell into his arms. She tried to hold tight to her annoyance, but her stomach slid somewhere to her knees as his lips met hers in a kiss far more steeped in promise than the perfunctory wedding kiss he’d given her below. His tongue traced the seam of her closed mouth, urging her to open until finally she did so with a small sigh of surrender. But that, of course, was when he pulled back, drat the man.

  “Do not faint on me now.” He smirked. “Not until I’ve got you up the stairs and undressed, at any rate.” He tugged at her hand again. “Then you can faint at your leisure.”

  As he urged her up the last few steps, she forced herself to breathe. Her new husband was a scoundrel of the highest order, and by his own words he meant to undress her. The conversation she’d had with Eleanor nearly two weeks ago flashed through her mind in bits and pieces. He’d had intimate relations with the household governess. Four woman at once.

  And oh, good heavens, that bit about the corpse . . .

  She’d quite forgotten about that in the chaos of the morning.

  Too soon, she found herself pulled into his bedroom. She breathed in deeply, trying to force away the nervousness that plagued her. But that lungful of air only made the fluttering of her stomach intensify. His bedroom didn’t smell like a den of depravity, which she imagined would smell something like brimstone and opium. No, it smelled like him. Spiced rum and soap. Things that made her muscles clench in pleasant anticipation, not fear.

  “If you are wondering where your things are, I suspect the footmen will bring your trunks up later,” he said.

  “I . . . that is . . .” Her voice trailed off. How to articulate that when asked her preferences earlier, she had instructed the footman to place her trunks and things in the bedroom next door? She’d thought she was being brave at the time, even selfless, giving West his privacy. But now she only felt foolish.

  She heard the door shut behind her and the key turn in the lock. She closed her eyes, slivers of doubt scratching at her. This was a man who could have any woman he wanted. He’d married her to protect her, not to ravish her. But then came the creak of rope, the sound of a mattress settling. As she scrunched her eyes tighter, mortified, she heard him chuckle.

  “Frightened to watch me undress, Miss Mouse?”

  Her eyes flew open. He was sitting on the edge of his bed now, one hand loosening his necktie with slow, lascivious intent.

  “No,” she choked out, not willing to admit it if she was. She willed herself to be brave. Or at the very least, pretend to be. “And shouldn’t it be Mrs. Mouse now?” She hesitated, then gave voice to the fear that would not quite let her be. “Or is this just a ruse we shall maintain in public so others don’t suspect this is a farce of a marriage?”

  “Hardly a farce.” He pulled his necktie free of his collar. “It’s as proper a marriage as it can be.” He placed the necktie to one side. “Or at least it will be, as soon as we divest you of your clothing.” He reached into his trouse
r pocket.

  “What . . . are you doing?” she gulped.

  He tossed her a bemused smile. Pulled out his revolver, checked the chamber, and placed it on top of the bedside table. “I felt I should disarm myself first.” He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. “Don’t want to go off half-cocked.”

  She stared at his face, not wanting to see the silver gleam of the barrel. Too many bad memories there, memories that would only serve to make it all worse, if she gave her imagination permission to drift there. But it seemed, though, by the grin on his face, that he was no longer talking about a gun. “No?” she breathed.

  He stepped toward her. “Oh, no. Fully cocked is the only way to do this. And trust me when I say I am already there.”

  Chapter 16

  West reached for his new wife’s hand.

  Felt the pounding of her pulse through her trembling fingers.

  He pulled her down until she was sitting beside him on the mattress, her spine a determined knot. He’d only meant to tease her a little, but it seemed his words had taken them backward, not forward to where he wanted them to be.

  “Why are you wound so tightly?” he asked gently. “Surely you aren’t frightened of me.”

  “We did not discuss . . . that is . . .” She stared down at her hands. “I am not . . . proficient in these matters. You say so many things, and I don’t . . . I don’t even know what you mean when you say half-cocked. Or fully cocked.” Her gaze shifted to a distant point on the carpet. “I understand, however,” she said, her voice slowing, “that you are very experienced.”

  “Yes.” He grinned at her. If there was one good thing he could say of his vast experience on the matter, it was that he knew quite well how to take care of the intimate needs of his new wife, thank you very much.

  “How experienced?”

  Her question caught him off guard. “Experienced enough to make this pleasurable for you. Do you have questions for me about . . . er . . . it?” Because truth be told, he’d rather show her what it was all about. It was arguably one of the things he did best.

  Better, even, than practical jokes.

  She peeked up at him, worrying her lower lip. “Did you really have relations with your sister’s governess?” she blurted out, the words all but tumbling from her.

  Bloody hell. So, Mary had questions about his past sexual exploits, did she? She really shouldn’t ask questions when it was clear she feared the answers. “Yes,” he admitted. “Their former governess, mind you. I was in my first year at university, and came home to London to find she had . . .” He hesitated, but there was no sugar-coating it, was there? “She had aged well,” he finished lamely.

  “Oh.” Mary seemed to mull over that a moment. “I suppose that isn’t so bad, if you were old enough to be at university. I’d imagined a lad of twelve or so, trying to toss up the governess’s skirts.”

  “I would have probably tried to do such a thing at that age, if I’d thought I would meet with success,” he chuckled. “Only, my sisters didn’t think twice about boxing my ears when I misbehaved. And they dearly loved their governess.”

  “That isn’t funny, West.” A moment passed, where he could almost swear he could hear the cogs turning inside her head. “I had heard . . . that you engaged in intimate relations in public view. With Scarlet at the opera. Is it true?”

  West stared at her. “What on earth are you are talking about?”

  “Don’t try to deny it, West. My sister saw you herself.”

  He searched his mind. Came up empty. He hadn’t done anything of the sort with Scarlet at the opera—though she’d made it clear he could have had her there, if he wanted. He’d left, gone out to have a smoke, annoyed by it all. He’d left her, in fact . . . with Grant.

  “That was actually my friend Grant with Scarlet in the box,” he answered carefully, the truth clicking into place. He wondered why he didn’t feel angrier about it. Probably because Scarlet hadn’t meant much to him. Not the way this woman did. “Not me.”

  “Oh.” There was a moment of heavy silence. And then Mary’s gaze slid sideways, hot across his skin. “It is said you had four women at once.”

  “Well, that is simply not true.” West’s legend was not nearly as large as the gossip implied. His prick, on the other hand . . . well, some rumors one encouraged, especially when there were plenty of whispers to the contrary.

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, thank heavens.”

  “It was only three other women,” he clarified. As her eyes flew open, he added, “There is no need to look so shocked. It is not as unusual as you think.”

  “Did you . . . enjoy it?” she asked, stumbling over the question.

  “Not as much as I enjoy the full attentions of a single partner,” he answered truthfully. There was something distracting about too many arms and legs, not to mention the expectations of too many women. “I like to linger over my lovemaking, and multiple partners don’t permit such leisure,” he told her, wishing he could somehow soften the slope of those stiff shoulders. Perhaps he should just kiss her. Chase away these doubts the best way he knew how.

  “Were two of them . . . sisters?” she asked.

  “Good God, no!” The very thought made him break out in a sweat. “How could you think that?” he asked indignantly.

  “Eleanor heard about it from Lord Ashington, who must have heard it from someone.” She blinked rapidly. “But if it isn’t true, then how did such rumors gain a foothold?”

  Annoyed now at anyone and everyone who had burned his new wife’s ears with such sordid tales, West leaned back onto the mattress, glaring up at the bed curtains above his head. He wrestled a moment with impatient memories of his past, of the various women who had shared his bed. He didn’t regret those experiences, any more than he regretted marrying Mary. But while he didn’t give a fig about what others thought of him, he didn’t want her thinking so poorly of him. “I don’t know how such rumors have persisted, but I am not as depraved as you have been led to believe, Mary.” Though, he was depraved enough to want to pull her down beside him and kiss the pinch of uncertainty from her lips.

  She gripped the coverlet with two fists. “Then you should know,” she said miserably, “you are rumored to have had intimate relations with a corpse.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, that one is true.”

  “What?”

  He let her stew for a moment. But after a second of watching her panicked breathing, he relented. “Mary, it isn’t what you think. It was only a barmaid dressed as a corpse. White powder on her face, ragged clothing, chains. It was All Hallows’ Eve and we were out guising, having a bit of fun, knocking on doors.” He chuckled, which was his usual reaction when remembering that night.

  How old had he been, sixteen? Seventeen?

  The woman in question had been a local barmaid in Harrow, and well known to the more adventurous youths. She’d been as game for the adventure as he was, rattling her chains and moaning in a theatrical way. That she had chosen to indulge her fun with him instead of Peter Wetford, the now Duke of Southingham, had eventually led to the infamous standoff with the rats. “Well, an actual corpse would be beyond the pale, don’t you think?” He reached out a finger and trailed it down his wife’s wool-covered arm, trying to earn a smile. “I promise you she was very much alive.”

  Mary jerked away from his touch. “Even if the worst of the rumors aren’t true, the parts you have admitted are bad enough. Surely you can see why I would hesitate to be intimate with someone like you.”

  West lifted himself onto one elbow. “No, darling, I can’t.”

  “But you . . . you’ve been with so many women!”

  “Shouldn’t that make you curious?” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her down, until she was lying beside him, stiff as . . . well . . . a corpse. “Shouldn’t that make you want to jump into my bed?” He lowered his voice, turning on his side to face her. “See what all the fuss is about?”

/>   “No,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering half-closed.

  There it was, her favorite word again. But she hadn’t said “no” below stairs, when she’d recited her vows. And in spite of the tension in her limbs, she didn’t sound convinced of her refusal on the matter now, either. “There is more to it than I showed you last night,” he pointed out, knowing she had at least enjoyed that much.

  “I know,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “I have read about it.”

  “Ah. I see.” His lifted his fingers to trail them across her cheek, counting the lack of a resultant flinch as a small victory. He suspected books were part of the problem here. The ones she had been reading had made her too nervous by far. But that only meant she was reading the wrong kind of books. “Well, I enjoy reading myself, on occasion. And if I’m reading you correctly, you want me, every bit as much as I want you.”

  Her shoulders twitched. “You . . . you want me?” she breathed.

  “I do.” His fingers danced across the fine curve of her chin.

  She bit her lower lip, worrying it in a circle. “Well, I don’t want the pox.”

  Good God. His finger stilled. “Is that one of the rumors?” He drew his finger away. “I am not pox-ridden, Mary. You may trust me on that.”

  “That is just what the villain always says.” She pushed herself to a sitting position. “But then the heroine always dies at the end.”

  For a moment, he gawped at her.

  No doubt he was reconsidering the wisdom of marrying a woman who would accuse him of such a horrid thing. About such a delicate place.

  But she’d read far too many books to take it back.

  Unexpectedly, a low chuckle escaped his lips. “I suppose you could always examine me.” He gestured to the upper area of his trousers, as if daring her to do her worst. “Confirm for yourself that I lack any symptoms. Or, I could provide a doctor’s note certifying my good health.”

  She didn’t quite know what to think of that, other than the fact that no hero in her reading memory had ever offered a heroine quite such a choice. “You would have a physician examine you before demanding your rights?” she asked, incredulous.