Chapter Eight
Guilt poked Philomena, its sharp little claws digging deep.
She must wed, to bring Giles peace, and she did love Bradford. Desperately. But so many things remained unresolved, not the least of which was whether Bradford could abide her scars.
If not, and he found her abhorrent, couldn’t bear to touch her, then how would he beget an heir? He should see what he was getting before committing himself to a lifetime of regret. Well, she could insist he never see her naked, however, he didn’t seem the sort to fumble under a nightgown in the dark, and she couldn’t very well disrobe and let him gawk his fill before they wed.
A door shut along the corridor, and she wheeled around. This conversation wasn’t meant for the servants’ gossip fodder.
Robins, her arms full of linens, bustled their way, her white cap flopping up and down with her brisk pace. The maid grinned, her cheeks apple-plump and her owl-like gaze swinging between Philomena and Bradford. “Her grace said I was to sit with Mr. Pomfrett, and Peters and I are to change his sheets after he eats.”
“Yes, please. I’ve asked for a tray to be brought up for him later. I’ll be in my chamber or the garden should you need me.” Philomena couldn’t contain her ecstatic smile. “He awoke earlier and spoke.”
“That’s wonderful, miss.” Robins moved to the entrance, and Bradford eased the door open and then stepped out of the way. “Thank you, my lord.”
He angled his raven head in acknowledgement but remained silent as the maid disappeared inside, closing the door softly behind her. He extended an arm toward an oriel window. Dust particles danced in the sun rays shining through its floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows. “Let’s move there, shall we? More private, I think, yet still respectable. Servants have been known to listen and peek through keyholes.”
Their feet swishing softly on the plush Aubusson runner, they silently covered the short distance. Around a bend in the passageway, the recess wasn’t visible from any bedchamber door.
Philomena faced Bradford and folded her hands before her. “I know I’ve shocked you, however, I have some reservations.”
Shocked herself, truth to tell. Nonetheless, the unanswered questions and uncertainty had bubbled forth until she couldn’t contain them any longer.
“Why? What are you afraid of?” Bradford regarded her silently, concern or curiosity, perhaps both, crinkling the corner of his eyes.
Giles dying.
Hastening into a marriage for the wrong reasons.
You finding my scars disgusting.
Biting her lip, Philomena breathed out a silent sigh. The reasons seemed trifling if spoken aloud, and chagrin taunted her because her love hadn’t quashed every doubt. Shouldn’t love do that? Plow aside hesitation and trepidation?
He gathered several tendrils of hair curling over her arm and, after rubbing them together, gave a slight tug. “Out with it. Tell me.”
When he toyed with her hair, his fingertips caressing the strands, sensual musings of those long fingers elsewhere wreaked havoc with her concentration. Flinging her hair over her shoulder, she willed her romping pulse to behave itself. “I will not leave my brother under any circumstances. Not even for a wedding trip. And there’s been no discussion of what happens to him if I marry. What’s he to do? His care could be lengthy and costly.”
Bradford’s beautiful eyes widened, bemusement replacing the seductive glint. “Whether he lives a week, a year, or more, I never expected you to leave your brother. I would do the same if it were Olivia.” A shock of hair had fallen onto his forehead, and his mouth lifted into a wry smile “In my eagerness to wed you, I’ve been remiss in explaining my thoughts, but I assure you, I assumed he would live with us for the remainder of his life, and I fully intend to pay for his needs. He’ll be my family, too.”
“Oh. I wasn’t certain ...” Suddenly chilled, she wrapped her arms across her chest and clasped her shoulder. Giving him a shamefaced smile, she hitched a shoulder. “I confess to a fit of the nerves. I’m cold and my feet are freezing.”
His attention sank to her scuffed half-boots.
“In those? Really? I can call for a hot brick and woolen stockings. A lap robe too.” Giving her a devilishly provocative grin, he cocked an eyebrow and chucked her chin. “Or ... there are other, much more enjoyable, ways of warming you. We are betrothed ...”
At his allusion, a whorl of heat spread languidly through her veins. He’d always been able to do that, ease her fears and calm her with a few sensible words, as well as send her desires soaring. If only she possessed the pluck to snatch Bradford by his large hand and haul him into her bedchamber. She’d fantasized about lying with him for so long, she feared the real act might disappoint.
Rubbish. What she really feared was his reaction upon seeing her naked.
Sensibility reigned.
“No, you goose.” More’s the pity. Not until the vows are spoken. If they’re spoken.
Philomena leaned against the wall beside the oriel. Careful not to bump the framed portrait of an intense looking fellow with a ruffled collar and neatly trimmed beard, hanging beside her, she tortured the edge of the carpet with her boot.
“What else troubles you? I see it in your eyes, Philomena, the doubt and consternation.” Joining her alongside the paneling, he positioned himself so his shoulder supported his weight. He traced her jaw, his eyes gleaming with longing. “I do love you, more with each passing day. More than I believed a human could love another.”
“My scars ...” She released a puff of air and examined the cornice edging the ceiling. “They are quite unsightly. I fear after you see them, you’ll not desire me anymore, not want to bed me, and that, in time, you’ll grow bitter and resentful, that you’ll grow to despise me.”
Tenderly grasping her chin, he turned her face to his. “Never. Because it’s you I love.” He tapped her temple then her chest over her heart. “What’s in there matters more than all else, though I find you tempting beyond reason, woman.”
Cupping her ribs with his hands, he trailed hot kisses from below her ear to her shoulder.
God above.
She clamped onto his shoulders as sensation sluiced to every nerve. If his kisses did this to her, she’d shatter if they joined.
His breathing heavy and irregular, he pulled her tight against him and rocked his pelvis into her. A hard bump probed her belly. “Even if your entire body were scarred, you’d still do this to me. I love you. The rest matters naught.”
Sincerity colored his words, but the look in his eyes, complete adoration, convinced her he spoke the truth. He did love her.
Others might not understand how quickly their love had rejuvenated, might hint it wasn’t possible and that such unions only happened in fairy tales or silly novels, but Philomena knew what they had was real. And that’s all that mattered, not whether anyone else believed it possible. Just as some people fell in love at first sight, others had a love like she and Bradford’s. It would never die, not even when they breathed their last breath. Her spirit was tethered to his, and in the afterlife, they’d find one another and spend eternity together.
“I believe you.” Philomena clasped her arms behind his back, basking in his love and caresses. She’d be an utter fool to forfeit this ... him. “And I love you, too.”
With a final searing kiss, he leaned away. “Enough, or I won’t be able to stop, and I’m positive tupping my future viscountess in full view of Berkeley Square would go down in history as a marked act of depravity.” He winked and bobbed his head toward the window. “Although, I’d wager we’d draw quite a titillated audience.”
The street outside bustled with activity. She giggled. “No doubt.”
Bradford touched his pocket. “The license is good for three months. Why don’t we take it one day at a time? I shall even court you, and you let me know when you are ready.”
“No, we wanted to wait three weeks originally, but then Giles coughed up blood.” She pushed away from
the wall and snared his hand. “I don’t want to wait that long.”
Darting a quick look over the balustrade—no one lurked below listening to their conversation—she gave him what she hoped was an inviting smile. “Come.”
Almost running the corridor’s length, their hurried steps muffled by the plush carpet, she made straight for her bedchamber, a bemused Bradford unquestioningly allowing her to lug him along. As she reached for her door latch, misgiving again tried to raise its disagreeable head, but Philomena quelled it with a firm box to the ears.
She would know today which path providence had set her on, and it would be of her own making. Releasing Bradford’s hand as she unlatched her door, she smiled over her shoulder.
“Lock it, will you?”
Not waiting for him to answer, she made straight for the ornate panel dressing screen with its charming cherub motif. She started slightly when the door’s bolt slid home. Well, at least they wouldn’t be walked in on. Most discomfiting that would be if her plans went as she hoped.
“What are you about?” He stood just inside the room, one hand on his slim hip and a crooked, sensual smile that suggested he knew precisely what she intended.
“You’ll see.”
Would he ever.
Flapping her hand at the overstuffed velvet armchair before the marble hearth, she squashed her romping nerves. Foreign to brazen and seductive conduct, she might very well come across as an inept trull with her first paying customer. “Please make yourself comfortable. I shall be but a few moments.”
“That’s the ugliest piece of furniture I have ever laid eyes upon.” He strode to the chair and, after tossing aside a tasseled throw pillow, sat down.
She quite agreed. The burnt orange and moss green decor, as well as the cumbersome, carved furnishings reflected the duchess’s bold taste.
Casting every misgiving aside—well, actually, she tromped atop their pointy little smirking heads—Philomena swept behind the screen. Taking a bracing breath, she bent to remove her footwear.
You can do this.
Faint rustling carried to her from beyond the screen. Bradford must have become restless and wandered the room. Perfectly wonderful. How soon before boredom prompted him to take his leave? She couldn’t let him go.
Hurry!
Biting her lip, she tried to, but as often happens when one rushes, she possessed ten thumbs, each of which conspired to prevent her from removing her clothing.
“Dash it all,” she mumbled into the dress’s folds wadded around her head.
“What’s that?” His question sounded distant and muffled.
Was he leaving? No, by George.
Yanking the ribbon from her hair, and still wearing her chemise, she bolted from behind the screen, stubbing her toe on the panel’s edge.
Curses.
“Bradford—” Tripping to an abrupt stop, jaw slack, she blinked in disbelief.
Bare-chested, the most tempting smattering of black, curly hair visible above the loudly-colored counterpane draped across his lap, he sat propped in her bed. He gave her a smoldering smile that sent tremors to her toes.
“I didn’t think it fair that you should be the only one undressed.”
She pressed her hands to the worst of her scars peeking above her lacy neckline. “Are you ... naked?”
“Indeed, though I’m wholly disappointed you are not. I’ll admit, you are quite fetching in that filmy thing.” He feigned a pout, which didn’t deter his ravenous examination of her from toe to shoulder before returning to the dark tips showing through the chemise’s thin fabric. Slowly, appreciation sharpening the lines of his face, he lifted his gaze to hers.
“Did I misunderstand?”
A jot of uncertainty tempered his voice.
“No. I’d hoped we would ...” Heat crept up her neck to her face. She likely glowed like a fire coal. “After I showed you my burns.”
“Come here.” He beckoned with one hand while patting the bed with the other.
The intensity of his gaze drew her forward until she stood beside the bed, afraid to look into his eyes, to see rejection there.
He touched the damaged flesh, the pads of his fingers tracing the burns, and she closed her eyes, to both relish in his caress and block out any disgust that might flit across his expression or spark in his eyes.
He whisked her chemise over her head, and she gasped against the rush of cold and abrupt vulnerability.
Refusing to open her eyes, she balled her hands and held her breath ... waiting.
“Philomena, look at me.”
Bradford nudged her chin, and she stubbornly shook her head.
“Silly, love.” He snaked a well-muscled arm around her waist and had her lying beside him before the air left her lungs in a startled squeak.
“These,” he spread his hand over the thick, reddish marks crisscrossing her chest above her breasts, “make me adore you more. My heart, my very soul, aches for what you’ve suffered, but do not ever entertain the slightest notion that I would spurn you because of them.”
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she turned her head away from his tender expression. “They are ugly. I am ugly.”
Her nakedness didn’t embarrass her, but she found her scars mortifying. How could she expect him to become accustomed to their hideousness?
Bradford pressed his lips to the disfigurements. “I love you just as you are, whether unblemished or scarred. I want to make you my wife,” he flattened his hand over her belly, “fill you with my children, and live every day as if it is our last. I’ll never leave you again, never. You have to give me a chance to prove my love. Don’t reject me, crush our happiness, and forgo our future out of fear. Please, trust me. ”
Turning onto her side, Philomena searched his face. Placing her hands on either side of his square jaw, she kissed him with all the pent-up longing and adoration she’d held in check. “I do trust you, and I do want to marry you.”
He skimmed his hand the length of her rib, sending a myriad of sparks skittering across her. Squeezing a buttock, he kissed her forehead. “No more doubts?”
“Not a one.” She pressed her mouth to the juncture of his throat and neck. His manly smell, slightly spicy but with a hint of musk and tobacco, enveloped her. Nuzzling his neck, she sniffed.
A deep rumble reverberated in his chest as he chuckled. “Here I am trying to seduce you, and you’re sniffing me.”
“Well, you smell wonderful.” She grinned, giving him a coy look, and rested her chin on his chest. “It was I who set out to seduce you. Remember?”
A mock expression of horror swept his face. “Say it isn’t so. My future viscountess is a seductress? How splendid.”
He cupped her breast and captured her lips in a sizzling kiss.
Groaning, she squirmed, trying to get closer, to press her entire body against his skin. She kicked the sheets aside and leaned into his solid thighs and torso. Exploring his rigid muscles with inexperienced fingers, she mimicked the hot thrusting of his tongue. Her head swam with the force of her passion.
Three sharp raps interrupted their kiss.
Stiffening, Philomena tore her mouth from Bradford’s, and he turned his head toward the door.
“Oh dear. I did tell Robins I’d be in my chamber,” she whispered, shifting to rise. Bloody awkward, being caught abed by the maid.
“Bradford, Philomena, Reverend Hawksworth has arrived.”
The duchess.
Philomena clapped her hand over her mouth and clobbered Bradford with a pillow when he chuckled.
“As luck would have it, he was at White’s with Wimpleton.” Aunt Muriel’s voice shook suspiciously. “When you’re finished, please meet us in the drawing room. Don’t rush on our account. I’ve invited him to dinner, so you’ve plenty of time. Enjoy yourselves.”
The duchess’s delighted laughter echoed in the corridor.
“Good Lord. She knows.” Philomena pressed her hands to her scorching face.
> “That’s that, then. We must wed at once now. I’ve utterly ruined you.” Bradford pounced on her, pressing her back into the bedding and tickling her ribs.
Giggling, she gasped, “Not utterly, yet.”
“Oh, trust me, woman.” His hot gaze sank to her breasts. “I mean to compromise you beyond redemption.”
Epilogue
Bromham Hall, England
August 1819
“Bradford, look!” A series of stars whipped across the night sky. Philomena leapt from the settee, pointing. “Just like the night we were reunited.”
She scooped her infant son from his cradle. Hurrying to the French windows—open to let in the evening’s cool air—she kissed his downy head.
“See, Giles? Mama and Papa saw stars like this the night your Uncle Giles, smart man that he was, insisted we wed.”
Bradford encircled her from behind and dropped a kiss on her crown. “I owe your brother a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”
“The same is true of me.” Lifting the gurgling infant, happily waving his tiny fists, she brushed her face against his soft, sweet-smelling cheek and closed her eyes. “At least he lived long enough to meet his namesake.”
“A miracle, that. I didn’t think he’d last the night after his collapse at Wimpleton’s ball.” He tightened his arms a fraction as he bent to bestow a kiss on their son. “His life was short, but at least his last days were peaceful and painless.”
“I’m so grateful he didn’t suffer.”
Resting against Bradford, Philomena gazed at the clear sky, each star so vibrant, it seemed she could snatch it from the heavens. Another star whizzed past.
“See, there’s another. Make a wish.” Bradford nudged her head with his chin. “Hurry, before it’s too late.”
“What could I possibly wish for?” She slanted her head to look at him. “I am already blissfully content.”
“Anything, my love.” He kissed her nose. “It can only be a boon to our happiness.”
“Well, then, what I wish is to couple with you, every day, twice on Sundays, until I’m an ancient, shriveled crone.” She chuckled at the image.
Her Scandalous Wish (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 3) Page 8