A Marriage Most Scandalous (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 2)

by Victoria Vale

  “A lesson well-learned,” she declared, folding her hands in her lap. “Well done, my lord. I can hardly wait for the next lesson.”

  Smiling back at her, Sheridan found he could hardly wait, either.

  In the fortnight that followed, Cecily and Sheridan forgot all about the scandal they’d left behind in London. Nothing else mattered here on the seaside, where they experienced a second honeymoon of sorts that proved far more satisfying than the first. Aside from the time spent together, they now had passion and desire to fill their days and nights—a vital component missing from their first wedding trip.

  Petra’s presence heightened the excitement, and with her help, Sheridan transformed day by day. Gone was the polite, amiable man who used charm as a shield. In his place emerged a confident bloke, simmering with sexuality just beneath the surface. It began to show, making itself plain in the swagger of his walk, the overgrown length of his hair, the rakish scrape of stubble he’d allowed to sprout along his jaw.

  How had she never seen him for what he really was? A man of voracious appetite, who never seemed happier than after a good bout of lovemaking? He seemed contented here, freed from the constraints of society and his father’s so-called teachings.

  Together, she and Petra had purged him of those idiotic notions one by one. When he’d told them that his father had taught him that only whores allowed a man to take a woman while she was on her hands and knees, Petra would hear none of it. She’d reminded him yet again that nothing was forbidden between them, and that if Cecily desired it, he should oblige her. A lesson he was taught again and again—when he took her roughly from behind as he had in the brothel; as he lay her on her back and fucked the cleft between her breasts; as he allowed her to straddle and ride him as he had the night in the library.

  Affection came easier to him now, and hardly an hour passed before he would kiss her, touch her, reminding her in the simplest ways that he desired her. A world of pleasure unparalleled became open to her, and Cecily learned she had quite an appetite for sex herself. She grew surprised to discover she enjoyed both Sheridan and Petra equally, and that she would not be averse to continuing their liaison. While she reveled in the time she had with Sheridan alone, nothing could quite compare to the taste of Petra on her tongue as Sheridan fucked her, or the feel of Petra’s fingers pumping in and out of her cunt as she sucked her husband’s cock. Four hands on her at once, touching, probing, coaxing her to one exquisite ending after the other.

  Her husband appeared as attracted to the other woman as she, and before long, the two became allies into seducing her into their bed at every opportunity. The mysterious Madame readily obliged them, fulfilling both their desires with a deftness that never ceased to amaze, despite her reputation.

  Their discretion served them well here. The household staff had been told Petra was a cousin of Cecily’s accompanying them on holiday. Since they kept their salacious activities confined to the bedroom behind closed doors, no one ever knew what they’d been up to.

  She could have remained here forever, with her husband and their lover. Yet, the arrival of an unexpected guest shattered their cocoon of privacy and happiness.

  They’d just come from bathing in the ocean when they were apprehended by Hendricks, the seaside house’s butler. His grave facial expression betrayed him when he informed them that Sheridan’s brother had arrived and asked to see them the moment Sheridan returned.

  “It must be important if he came all this way instead of sending a servant,” Petra said once he had asked the butler to inform Aaron that they would see him shortly in the drawing room. “I shall give you your privacy.”

  Leaving them, she departed for the room she’d been given just across the hall from their suites.

  As they made their way to their own rooms, Cecily watched her husband with concern.

  “What do you suppose he wants?” she asked.

  Shaking his head, Sheridan seemed to contemplate her question. His brows furrowed and his mouth became pinched and hard.

  “Father likely sent him. Aaron had always been his favorite. It always ate him alive to know I—the one who always despised him and rebelled—would be the one to inherit. I never stopped wondering if they weren’t wishing I would fall off my horse or contract pneumonia and die so they could both have their wish, for Aaron to inherit instead of me.”

  “Do not talk that way,” she admonished. “You can hardly blame your brother for being a product of his environment. The viscount made him that way.”

  He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “I suppose you are right. I am no better than he is. For Christ’s sake, I couldn’t even make love to my wife properly because of him.”

  Wrapping her arms around him, she stood on tiptoe and gave him a short kiss. “Also something he will have to atone for someday. Do not think of the past any longer, my love. It is behind us. I have never been happier.”

  He smiled, returning her kiss with a sweet one of his own. “You’re right, I suppose.”

  “Shall we dress and meet him together?”

  Pulling away from her, he shook his head. “Let me find out what he wants on my own. You ring for a bath and take the afternoon for yourself. Rest. Or…” he grinned, reaching up to find her breast and give it a gentle squeeze. “Go see what Petra’s up to. I am certain she can keep you occupied.”

  She giggled. “You naughty boy! Have we not caused enough scandal?”

  He arched one brow and gave her a wicked grin. “You cannot possibly know how mad it will drive me to think of what the two of you are doing up here while I’m down there dealing with him.”

  Her hips swayed beneath her white, cambric bathing dress as she turned to retreat to her chamber.

  “I hope it drives you mad with longing,” she said before disappearing into her dressing room.

  His laughter followed her, causing warmth to blossom in her chest. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him laugh—truly laugh because he was amused. It thrummed like a different sort of laugh, not the one he used in public out of courtesy when someone told a dry joke.

  As she rang for her maid and began removing her wet bathing clothes, she found herself hoping it would last. Aaron’s visit did not have to change anything. The moment Sheridan got rid of him, they could go back to being blissfully happy.

  She slid into her dressing gown just as her maid entered. After requesting a bath and pot of hot chocolate, she relaxed before the fire while she waited. She half-expected Sheridan to return right after going down to greet Aaron and tell her they’d been worried for nothing. Perhaps he’d come to tell them some new scandal had overshadowed theirs and that it was safe to return to London again.

  Yet, as she lingered in the bath, washing her hair and soaking, the minutes ticked by. She left the tub and tucked herself into her dressing gown again while her maid brushed her hair before the fire, indulging in two cups of the steaming chocolate. Still, he did not come.

  Something was wrong.

  The uneasiness grew and settled into the pit of her stomach, until she thought the chocolate might make a reappearance. She began to grow worried and dismissed her maid, even though the time to dress for dinner fast approached.

  When he finally returned, she ceased her pacing before the hearth and rushed forward to meet him.

  “Sherry!” she exclaimed when her gaze settled on his haggard face.

  His eyes were vacant, almost unseeing, his brow furrowed as if some heavy burden rested upon his shoulders.

  “What is it?” she asked when he didn’t speak. “Has something happened in London? Why did he come?”

  His gaze finally met hers, as if he’d just realized she occupied the room.

  “It’s my father,” he said, his voice a strangled whisper. “He’s dead.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sheridan faintly registered his wife and her ministrations. She flitted about him with the concern of a crooning mother, bringing him tea, soothing his brow with gentl
e fingers, and giving him time to recover from the shock Aaron had delivered barely an hour ago.

  Though a short time had passed since his brother had arrived with the news, he felt as if he’d been sitting there for a fortnight—staring off into space with Cecily fussing over him.

  He reached out, grasping one hand a bit roughly, causing her steps to falter. She’d been going to ring for something, though he didn’t know what. Food, most likely. His sweet dove of a wife always seemed to think someone needed tea and cakes at a time like this. Never mind the fact that he could barely swallow past the fist-sized lump lodged in his throat.

  She glanced down at him, her brow creased in concern, her lower lips trembling. Sighing, he pulled her forward, between his spread legs, and grasped her waist tight. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against her abdomen, inhaling her familiar scent. Her hands came up to slide through his hair, her fingers deftly removing the fastening James had used to hold it back. She stroked the locks affectionately, waiting silently for him to speak.

  What could he say?

  He’d gone downstairs with that smug smile still on his face and fantasies of him with Petra and Cecily running through his mind. Even seeing his brother’s stoic expression hadn’t taken the wind out of his sails. Aaron had always been a stodgy sort.

  It wasn’t until his brother spoke that he understood.

  Aaron had stood from the chair he’d been lounging in, having tea while waiting for him to appear, and inclined his head.

  “My lord,” he’d said.

  Those two words had doused him like a bucket of ice water.

  While Petra and others of the merchant and lower classes referred to all peers of the realm as ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady’, Sheridan was never addressed as such by those in the ton. He had only been the son of a viscount, a gentleman, but without a title; wealthy, but landless. It had always been Mr. Cranfield.

  Always.

  Aaron would always have called him ‘Sheridan’, never ‘my lord’. It had been his way of informing him that he had inherited. He hadn’t missed the spite with which his brother addressed him. The second son of the viscount had always been envious of his position.

  He had taken a moment to recover as a hundred emotions had assailed him at once. Once the shock wore away, a sense of panic settled in. He hadn’t thought to become the Viscount for another ten years, at least. His father was no old bloke. He’d always been healthy as a horse, active in riding and fencing. He’d never been sick a day in his life—at least, Sheridan could never remember such a time.

  Once the panic over whether he felt ready to take over the viscountcy faded—honestly, he’d been preparing for it his entire life—indifference settled in. He’d hated Baldwin with a passion. No matter how hard he tried, Sheridan couldn’t muster a single ounce of sadness over the man’s death.

  He’d cleared his throat and strode to the sideboard, foregoing tea for a splash of brandy.

  “When?” he asked, swishing the amber liquid around his tumbler and avoiding his brother’s gaze. “How?”

  “Three days ago,” Aaron replied. “As to how …”

  His pause caught Sheridan’s attention, and he glanced up from his brandy. His gaze locked with his brother’s, and he realized then that there had been a reason he’d come instead of a servant. Something horrible had happened and only a family member could be trusted to relay the news.

  He took the brandy in one swallow and refilled the glass, pouring one for Aaron, as well. Despite their differences, they were brothers. The man obviously felt something akin to grief for their father.

  Placing the glass in Aaron’s hand, he reached out and gave his brother’s shoulder a pat.

  “Take your time,” he encouraged, before downing another sip of his own drink. “Tell me what happened.”

  Aaron’s hand shook as he finished the brandy in two quick swallows, wincing as it went down.

  “It is a good thing Father discouraged eavesdropping amongst the servants,” he muttered. “We do not have to worry that what I’m about to say will leave this room.”

  A niggling of dread tickled the back of his neck. If Aaron didn’t want servants overhearing, it must be awful.

  “Well?”

  Aaron took a deep breath and sighed, setting his empty glass aside. Placing the trembling hand in his pocket, he carried on.

  “His valet found him, seated before the fire … with a bullet lodged in one temple.”

  Sheridan started, his heart thudding in his chest. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He held the gun in his hand,” he whispered.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “It makes no sense. The viscount would never—”

  “You are the viscount now,” Aaron reminded him. “And I know, he would never have murdered himself. I do not believe it for a moment.”

  Sheridan gasped. “You don’t mean … someone else?”

  He nodded. “I believe I know who, but I cannot prove it.”

  “Who?”

  His brother stepped closer, lowering his voice even more, so that Sheridan barely heard him.

  “Jeanette.”

  He laughed, thinking of their meek, quiet stepmother. “You must be joking.”

  “Our father’s murder is no laughing matter,” Aaron insisted.

  “Of course not,” he agreed. “But your assertion that it could have been Jeanette is. Come now, Aaron. You know the woman is as meek as a mouse. It’s why he chose her. Yet another person he could grind under his thumb. The poor thing is probably numb from shock—I do hope you didn’t level your ridiculous accusations at her.”

  His brother straightened, raising his chin a notch. “Of course not. As I said, I have no proof. However, the pistol was found in his left hand, and the bullet went through the left temple.”

  He nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see. Father was right-handed.”

  “Precisely.”

  He ran his hands through his hair again, giving it a slight tug. The pain did not wake him, so he had to assume this wasn’t some sort of dream.

  “Who knows about the manner of his death? Please tell me you did not alert the authorities.”

  “Of course not! Do you think me daft? If it is thought he killed himself, his legacy will be ruined!”

  He scoffed. “I do not give a bloody damn about his fucking legacy.”

  Aaron sniffed, curling his nostrils as if offended by his crude language. “You should, as that legacy now belongs to you. We would be ruined.”

  “Who knows, Aaron?”

  “Jeanette, of course, and Yearly, his valet.”

  Sheridan nodded. “Good. Let’s keep it that way. As you said, we’d be ruined.”

  “That woman would be the ruined one if she were exposed as the murderer. The ton would have nothing but pity for us.”

  “You will do nothing regarding our stepmother,” Sheridan commanded.

  For once, Aaron had no choice but to listen. Sheridan had become the Viscount of Perth, which meant he now controlled every aspect of his brother’s life, including his finances. “The woman is a widow now, and we will give her the respect she is due.”

  His brother looked as if he wished to protest, but wisely refrained.

  “Where is his body?” he asked.

  “On its way to Edenwhite,” he replied. “We put about a false story—a carriage accident that left him severely disfigured. We have allowed no one to see the body.”

  He nodded. “A wise decision. We will leave for Edenwhite at dawn and see him buried. I will send for Jeanette. It will fall to me to see her compensated for her years of ill-treatment.”

  Aaron scoffed. “Oh, cry off, Sheridan. He never gave her anything she didn’t deserve.”

  “And our mother? What did she deserve?”

  He avoided Sheridan’s stare, the green gaze identical to his own wandering to the carpet. He could not pretend ignorance concerning the beatings. Apparently, his sons weren’t the only ones the viscount like
d to punish physically.

  “When will you face the truth about him? The man was a monster whose sole intent was to control every aspect of our lives. He is gone now and we are free. Aren’t you relieved?”

  Aaron shook his head. “He was a man, which is more than I can say for you.”

  “I see. His teachings took root in you. He’s done to you what he failed to do to me—he’s turned you into him. I pity you, brother.”

  He ignored Sheridan’s statement, turning to exit the drawing room. “I shall take my customary chambers. Do not expect me for dinner.”

  Sheridan came back to the present now—to the soothing touch of his wife and the comfort of her nearness and scent. Glancing up at her, he took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, my love. Our time of respite is over. We leave for Edenwhite in the morning.”

  The journey to Edenwhite proved long and relentless. Adding to the tedium of the arduous trip, Cecily had been forced to endure riding with her lady’s maid—whose company could be likened to that of a piece of wood. Petra had been sent back to London in the carriage the maid and Sheridan’s valet had occupied on the way to Brighton. It hadn’t seemed appropriate to bring her to Edenwhite, under the circumstances.

  “It’s not as if anyone cares he’s gone,” she muttered, bitterness curling her upper lip.

  Damn the man—he’d gone and died and spoiled her time away from London with the two people she cared most about.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady?” her maid said, glancing up from her knitting needles. Her mousy brown hair hung limp on either side of her round, plain face.

  Cecily sighed—she was no Petra.

  “Nothing, Abby,” she murmured, turning to gaze through the carriage window.

  Sheridan, James, and Aaron rode on horseback, leaving her without even her husband for company.

  All she had were her thoughts, which had become one confusing muddle, causing a dull throb to pulse between her eyes.

  What would happen now that he had inherited? Sheridan Cranfield, Viscount of Perth, had a beautiful ring to it. Not just because of the wealth and land that came along with it, but because her husband had just become considerably more influential. That power could be enough to gloss over the little mess they’d left behind in London—especially when coupled with the death of his father and ascension to the title.