Scandal's Bride (Three Times a Bride Anthology)

by Samantha James

  And she had the awful sensation it wasn’t over yet.

  “Now.” Papa’s voice rang out. “I will not ask either of you to explain yourselves, since ’tis very obvious what the two of you were about.” He turned his formidable gaze to the earl. “The ton is filled with foolish young wastrels who dally whenever and wherever they please and care not a whit about the consequences. ’Twas my belief that you, sir, were above such outlandish behavior—an honorable, respectable man whom I have held in the highest regard. Frankly, my lord, I am appalled at your behavior.”

  Beside her, the earl said nothing. But Victoria did not miss the way one hand clenched into a fist.

  Then it was her turn to bear her father’s dis pleasure as he turned baleful eyes toward her. His tone was stern. “As for you, Victoria, there are no words to express my disappointment.”

  Victoria could not bear to look at him. In all her life, she had never been so ashamed. “I-I’m sorry, Papa.” Swallowing, she slowly raised her chin. “But indeed, you are right. The ton is filled with wastrels who dally where they may. Well, I have no wish to marry such a man—”

  Her father cut her off with a sound of disgust. “And I would never allow you to marry a scoundrel, Victoria. But you should not spend your life alone and—”

  “I would rather spend my life alone than marry a man who would further his own interests by marrying the daughter of a marquess, for that is what happened to my dear friend Phoebe—her husband chose her for her fortune.” She spoke with heartfelt candor. “I simply have no desire to marry—not Viscount Newton, not Robert Sherwood, not Philip Dunmire. And that is why I-I did what I did. I thought they would each withdraw their suit when they heard what had happened. And I thought you would consider me beyond redemption and cease your efforts to see me wed.”

  “Hmmmph!” Her father’s mouth compressed. He directed his attention to the earl. “Have you anything to say, my lord?”

  Victoria interrupted before Miles could say a word. “I assure you, Papa, the earl had no idea what I was about!”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the earl stiffen. “I am quite capable of speaking for myself,” he said curtly. One elegantly shod foot tapped on the carpet. “You have my sincerest apologies, my lord. My behavior with your daughter was most reprehensible. Beyond that, I fear I can offer no more.”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong, my lord.” The marquess drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Because I am not prepared to let the matter end here.”

  An ominous foreboding descended over the room. Victoria’s eyes darted between the two men, who beheld each other in rigid silence. Why didn’t Miles Grayson speak up and agree with her? Why didn’t he tell Papa that he hadn’t kissed her—’twas she who kissed him! For in truth, the blame was not his at all.

  “Papa,” she said in desperation, “did you not hear? It was I who kissed him!”

  “Either way, Victoria”—her father’s tone was biting—“the earl appeared ever so willing. Or am I wrong, my lord?”

  Miles Grayson’s jaw might have been hewn of iron. He spoke not a word, neither agreement nor denial.

  “Very well then,” Papa went on. “My daughter’s reputation has been compromised, and I will not permit this scandal to go further. The only question that remains is how to rectify the damage.”

  He fixed his gaze on his daughter. “Since your mother died, I have provided for you the best I knew how, Victoria. I am proud to say, you have disappointed me in only one thing—your reluctance to take a husband. I have been patient. Through three Seasons I have waited for you to do what is expected of you, I have bided my time whilst you turned up your nose at first one suitor, then another, for I could not bear to see you unhappy. But you are a woman now, Victoria. And you must live with the consequences of your actions.”

  He transferred his attention to the earl. “Now then. I believe it’s best if we speak privately, my lord. Victoria, a moment alone with the earl, if you please…”

  Victoria needed no further urging. She leaped to her feet and fled.

  Miles was furious—with himself, the marquess, and his troublesome daughter. He’d only accepted Lord and Lady Remington’s invitation because Lord Remington had stood as godfather to him. But going to the ball had been a monumental mistake.

  His trips to London were rare, usually confined to business only, for he’d grown tired of society long ago—the parties, the false gaiety, the endless gossip, the never-ending pretense of manners and goodwill. He much preferred the solitude of Lyndermere Park, his estate in Lancashire; he enjoyed far more the company of farmers and shepherds…and of course, Heather.

  He’d very nearly departed London for Lyndermere Park that very morning. He hated the noise and grime of London—and he missed Heather. His mouth twisted. God, but he should have listened to his instinct. Then this would never have happened…

  The marquess’s voice cut into his thoughts like the prick of a needle. “I have a proposition for you, my lord. Would you care to hear it?”

  Miles’s smile was a travesty. “Not really,” he drawled.

  “Nonetheless,” the marquess stated with icy precision, “you will.”

  Miles shrugged.

  “Now. What I propose is very simple. I want you to marry my daughter.”

  Miles’s smile was wiped clean, his reply heated and instantaneous. “You’re mad.”

  “I assure you, my lord, I am not.”

  Miles forced a calm he was far from feeling. “What!” he said scathingly. “I heard you say quite distinctly, my lord, that your daughter is in her third Season. I cannot help but wonder what’s wrong with the chit that she’s been unable to find a man willing to marry her.”

  The marquess only barely managed to restrain his temper. “I would be careful were I you, my lord. When you insult my daughter, you insult me as well, and that is not wise. And surely you have eyes. Victoria is a beauty, as comely as any. She has had numerous suitors, more than I can recall. And I’ve had in my hand this past fortnight three offers for her hand.”

  “Then let one of them marry her!”

  Leather creaked as the marquess leaned back in his chair. “Ah, but they did not dishonor her, sir. You did.”

  Miles very nearly retorted that the chit had no one to blame but herself. But just as he opened his mouth, a voice tolled through his mind. Papa, did you not hear? It was I who kissed him!

  The girl had been remarkably forward—and incredibly fetching. And that kiss…An unguarded taste of innocence, sweeter than ripe summer berries, a hint of heaven…

  At first he’d been too startled to move. And then—God above but he couldn’t lie—he hadn’t wanted to. Desire struck the very instant their lips met—strange, for he was not a man to yearn for a woman so quickly—and so intensely. He’d wanted to snatch her against him. Plumb the depths of her mouth with his tongue while his hands explored the lithe ripeness of her body…But something had stopped him. Perhaps the innocence he’d sensed in her…

  No, he thought soberly. He hadn’t expected to like it so much. He hadn’t expected to want her sweet, stolen kiss to go on. And on…

  He could have stopped it. He could have ended it at any given moment…

  His lips tightened. “I accept my part in this. But do you really expect me to marry her?”

  “I will make myself very clear, Lord Stonehurst. If you don’t, you will live to regret it.”

  Miles clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. “A threat, my lord?”

  The marquess shrugged. “Call it what ever you like.” Shaggy brows drew together over his nose. “I understand you have a daughter.”

  Miles had been about to tell him to go straight to hell. But at the mention of Heather, he froze. “My ward,” he said curtly. “Heather Duval. She’s been with me since she was a very young child. Her parents were killed in a carriage accident.” His tone was level, as level as his gaze. But his heart had leaped high in his chest. The marquess couldn’t poss
ibly know…

  The marquess frowned. “Ah, now it comes to me!” he explained. “You were once betrothed to the former Lady Margaret Sutherland, were you not?”

  “What of it?” His voice was clipped and abrupt. Miles couldn’t help it.

  “But you broke off the engagement only days before the wedding, as I recall.”

  “Marriage between Margaret and I would have been a mistake.” Miles felt compelled to defend himself.

  “Ah, but Margaret’s mother was most distressed. I remember her telling me that Margaret had gone to Lancashire to visit you. Did she and your ward not get on well, my lord?”

  Miles’s tone was tight. “That, my lord, is none of your affair.”

  The marquess paid no heed. He tipped his head to the side. “Who did you say the little girl’s parents were, my lord?”

  “I didn’t,” Miles said from between his teeth.

  “Hmmm. Odd, but I suddenly find myself most curious, my lord. Most curious, indeed.”

  Miles’s eyes glinted. “You bastard,” he accused baldly. “I’ll tolerate no one prying into her past.”

  “And there’ll be no need if you marry my daughter.” The elder man’s tone was as smooth as oil. He didn’t take his eyes from Grayson’s face. “Well, my lord? Do we have a bargain?”

  Miles was up and on his feet in a surge of restless anger. Damn him. He couldn’t possibly know…Yet he couldn’t take the chance the marquess might find out the truth. Oh, it wouldn’t hurt him. But Heather’s life would never be the same—and he wanted only the best for her. She would have only the best.

  “Let it be done,” he muttered.

  “Excellent!” proclaimed the marquess. “Now, I think the wedding should take place posthaste…” He rose and opened a massive oak door and called for his daughter.

  Victoria walked slowly into the study, feeling for all the world as if she were entering a dungeon of darkest doom. The earl stood near the window, arms crossed over his chest; he made no acknowledgement of her presence. As for her father, Papa’s expression told the tale only too well—he was pleased with the outcome of his discussion with the earl. His words bore out her suspicion.

  “The earl has some news for you, my dear.”

  Miles Grayson turned and gave her a stiff bow. “It seems we are to marry, my lady. I trust you’ll understand that I am less than overjoyed.”

  Victoria’s face drained of all color. “Marry,” she echoed, her tone half-strangled. “No, it cannot be. You—you cannot want this.”

  “No.” His mouth twisted. “But your father is a persuasive man.”

  Stricken, Victoria looked at her father. “Papa. Papa, please do not make me do this.”

  She didn’t acknowledge the spasm of pain that passed over his face. The marquess shook his head. “I warned you, Victoria. I warned you but you would not heed me. And so I have no choice.”

  A horrible knot of dread coiled in her belly. He was right. She’d been caught. Caught in a trap of her own design.

  Nor had Papa lied. He’d said if she did not choose a husband this very night, then he would. And as she soon discovered, Papa was determined to see the deed well and truly done…

  This very night.

  A vicar was summoned to the town house. He took his place in front of the massive marble fireplace, his Bible in hand. Smiling and sleepy-eyed, he glanced between the two men. “Shall we proceed, my lords?”

  Papa gave a curt nod. Stoic and silent, the earl stepped before the vicar. His posture was wooden.

  He spared no glance for his bride-to-be, standing in the shadows at the back of the room.

  Victoria stifled the urge to shrink away into the darkness of the night. But then Papa was there, offering his arm. Her steps heavy, Victoria crossed the carpet, feeling as if she were being led to an early grave. As she took her place beside the earl, a feeling of sick dread tightened her middle. Her mind screamed silently. How could this have happened? She was about to marry this man—Miles Grayson, earl of Stonehurst. Sweet heaven, she was to marry him, a man she’d not set eyes on before this very night…

  She stole a glance at him, only to regret it. His profile was as rigid as his spine, his expression grim and angry. There was scant comfort in knowing he wanted this marriage no more than she…

  She hadn’t wanted to marry, most certainly not this night. And she would never have wanted it like this, in this sterile, lonely room at midnight…Despair pierced her breast. If it had to be, she’d have wanted it differently…Four prancing steeds would have delivered her to the steps of the church. She’d have walked down the aisle in a long, flowing gown of satin and lace. Friends and acquaintances would have filled every pew. Sophie would have been there, beaming at her shyly, and Phoebe, too…

  The ceremony passed in a haze. She roused only when her hand was laid within the earl of Stonehurst’s. She nearly snatched it back—his skin was like fire.

  Then all at once it was time for the vows. The earl spoke his in clipped, staccato tones.

  She whispered hers.

  In the corner, the clock began to toll the hour of midnight.

  Victoria watched numbly as the earl pulled a gold, crested ring from his smallest finger and slid it onto hers. The ring was heavy…as heavy as her heart.

  At the very last stroke, the vicar raised his head and cleared his throat. “I now pronounce you man and wife,” he intoned. “My lord, you may kiss the bride.”

  Three

  Victoria’s numbness receded. Aware of Miles Gray- son’s burning gaze on her profile, a flurry of panic took hold, swift and merciless. She sought to withdraw her hand but he wouldn’t allow it. His grip tightened. An unpleasantly strong arm slid about her waist and caught her up against him.

  His head swooped down.

  His mouth crushed hers, fierce and devouring; it was a kiss far beyond Victoria’s limited experience. Oh, she’d allowed a few of her gentleman callers a chaste peck on the lips now and again—and thought herself quite daring!

  But this was different. Her husband’s possession of her mouth was far from worshipful. She could feel the rampant, seething fire of his emotions in the hot brand of his mouth on hers, filled with stark, relentless purpose. He meant to defile her—to dishonor her.

  Gasping, she tore her mouth free. She knew it for certain then. He raised her head, and both triumph and challenge glittered in his eyes. Victoria’s spine went rigid. She would have slapped him were it not for the sharp rap of Papa’s voice.

  “A word of warning, my lord. Although Victoria is now your wife, do not forget she is my daughter. Misuse her and you’ll feel my wrath—and I promise, you’ll wish you had not!”

  The earl was undaunted. Instead his mouth curled in what could only be called dry mockery. “My lord, I could hardly forget,” he drawled. “I trust you’ll forgive our hasty departure.” He turned to his bride. “Countess, I suggest you hurry and have a maid pack a bag for you. Our wedding night awaits.”

  Victoria’s eyes flew wide, then slid back to her father. This couldn’t be happening! she thought wildly. Miles Grayson had no right to take over her life like this! Ah, but he does, whispered a niggling little voice.

  And they all knew it.

  Her bag was packed and ready all too soon. The earl’s carriage clattered around to the front of the house. With a steely-fingered hold about her elbow, the earl proceeded to lead her outside. But as he would have handed her up and into the carriage, she broke away.

  She rushed back to where Papa stood on the steps. Throwing her arms around him, she clung to him unashamedly. “Papa,” she choked out. “I cannot do this. I cannot bear it!”

  The hand that smoothed her hair was not entirely steady. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It will be all right, Victoria. I know it.”

  “He is so hard. So cold!”

  “I know what he seems at this moment, child. But he is not. Dear God, do you think I’d give my only daughter to such a man?”

  An ache rent
her breast. In her heart, Victoria knew her father wanted only what was best for her. Yet she couldn’t see what good could possibly come of this marriage.

  “Victoria!” From the shadows behind her, the sound of her name sliced through the night.

  Victoria paid no heed.

  Papa kissed her cheek, then squeezed her shoulder. “Go now, Victoria, and remember. You now have a husband, but I will always be your father—and I will always love you.”

  Though her throat was hot with the burning threat of tears, somehow those words gave her the strength she needed to turn and retrace her steps. This time when the earl handed her into the coach, her head was high, the set of her shoulders proudly erect.

  The interior of the coach was thick with an oppressive silence. Victoria felt the earl’s gaze on her—dark and angry—like the man himself, she thought with a shiver. Despite her resolve, she was sorely tempted to fling open the door and flee.

  Soon the carriage rolled to a halt before a fashionable red-brick mansion in Grosvenor Square.

  “Our humble abode, countess.”

  Victoria gritted her teeth. The wretch was baiting her—and enjoying it immensely. She disdained his hand and alighted without his assistance. The door was opened by a stoop-shouldered butler and they were ushered inside a wide, flag-stoned entrance hall.

  Miles wasted no time imparting the news. “Nelson, meet my wife, the former Lady Victoria Carlton. Would you please show her to the gold bedchamber?”

  Nelson was all agog but recovered quickly. “Certainly, sir.” He picked up her bag and inclined his head toward his new mistress. “Please come with me, my lady.”

  Victoria brushed past the earl without a word. The bedchamber she was shown into was lovely. The carpet was of pale cream. Deep yellow brocade draperies framed the windows. A matching counterpane covered the bed. Under other circumstances Victoria might have exclaimed her delight aloud, but not now.

  What was it the earl had said? Her mind flew like wind across the fields. Our wedding night awaits. She shivered. He hadn’t meant anything by that, had he? No. Of course not. After all, their marriage had hardly been planned. Surely he would not expect her to—to behave like a bride. Or—God forbid—to share his bed…