Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  She inhaled slowly, never taking her eyes from Searle’s. “Yes, I will be your wife.”

  His eyes closed for a brief moment, and the mask he wore dropped, revealing the man. He looked as if he had just been declared the victor of a bitter war.

  What had she done?

  And who, precisely, was the Marquess of Searle?

  Chapter Three

  Morgan’s seed had been planted, and the Earl of Rayne was, at long last, returning to England. What the earl did not know—could not know—was he was already too late to save his darling sister.

  Hours ago, in a ceremony attended by the Duke and Duchess of Whitley, the Kirkwoods, the dowager Lady Rayne, and Morgan’s cousin, the Duke of Montrose, Lady Leonora had become the Marchioness of Searle. And Morgan had become exponentially nearer to gaining his retribution.

  He watched her now as he introduced her to his domestics, this stranger who was his wife. Her lovely countenance was animated as she spoke to his housekeeper, Mrs. Arbuthnot. She was painfully beautiful and also kind, and the combination made his chest tight.

  For the past few weeks, he had seen her on only a handful of occasions, deliberately keeping their interactions limited and few as the necessary preparations for their nuptials were underway. He had no wish to court her or get to know her better. Nor did he desire to make a connection with her that ran any deeper than the physical. She was his wife now, and he would bed her, but that was all. Anything else, and he ran the risk of developing a weakness for her.

  Her worth to him was not in her compassion or her gentle beauty.

  Her worth to him was in the suffering he could visit upon the bastard who had sent him to hell on earth. The scars on his flesh, hidden beneath the respectable trappings of a gentleman, burned in reminder.

  “Mrs. Arbuthnot will see you to your apartments,” he announced, the need to escape making him intervene. “I have other commitments which require my attention.”

  His new marchioness’s gaze met his, her expression falling. “May I speak with you for a moment, my lord?”

  He ground his jaw. “A moment and no longer, my lady.”

  Her frown had returned, that lone vee marring the otherwise smooth, creamy skin of her forehead. And her limping was more pronounced. The nature of the day had required a great deal of standing. More than she was probably accustomed to. He hated himself for making her frown as much as he hated himself for taking note of her wellbeing.

  He escorted her deeper within Linley House, away from the prying eyes and ears of the servants who had gathered in preparation for their first arrival as husband and wife. It was a deuced old custom; one he should have eschewed as it would have garnered him the opportunity to leave immediately upon delivering his new marchioness to the doorstep.

  “What is concerning you, my lady?” he demanded.

  She flinched, presumably at the cold, emotionless tone of his voice. But she would do well to accustom herself to the man he truly was. War had robbed him of all softness. His compassion was as dead as his charm and his soul.

  “It is merely that this is our wedding day, my lord,” she said hesitantly. “I was hoping for the opportunity to spend some time with you, for us to get better acquainted.”

  Hope had no place in their marriage, and she would be wise to learn it now.

  He flashed her a grim smile. “I married you out of necessity, my lady. Not because I wish to be your friend.”

  There was hurt in her eyes, but he refused to feel the slightest prick of guilt for being the cause. What had she expected of a forced marriage and a whirlwind, scarcely extant courtship? Did she imagine they would exchange kisses and declare their endless affection for each other?

  “Of course not, my lord. I understand the situation in which we find ourselves completely.” Sadness underscored her tone.

  She was wrong about that, far more wrong than she could even guess. For she had no inkling of the true nature of the situation in which they found themselves. But she would. Soon enough.

  “War has left me with precious little care for polite society,” he told her, and that much was true.

  While half the lords and ladies he knew had been at home, fretting over seating arrangements and new dance steps, he had been facing enemy bullets and being dragged across Spain by Boney’s most vicious and depraved forces.

  It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it the moment her expression gentled. Christ, this woman was like a lamb who had been served up to a ravenous lion.

  “Of course it has. I cannot fathom what you must have experienced, my lord.”

  There was a quaver in her voice that made him want to take her in his arms, carry her directly to his chamber, lay her upon his bed, and drive home inside her. How he longed to excise his grievances through the use of her willing, pliant flesh. But lust, too, was a weakness.

  “You are correct, my lady,” he said grimly. “You cannot. It would be best, therefore, if you do not even try.”

  Her eyes appeared brighter, glowing with emotion she did not bother to hide. “You showed me kindness that evening at the Kirkwood ball, and I do not think it was as rare as you would have me believe, Lord Searle. Believe me when I say, I understand better than anyone the need to show everyone around you one face while hiding your true face for only yourself. I have lived nearly all my life with the repercussions of youthful folly, and I have been met with more pity and disgust than most. But I have never allowed anyone to see how much that pity and disgust could break me.”

  There she went again, playing the angel to his devil. Hell, she even resembled an angel with her white-blonde hair and the silver tones of her gown. She was the loveliest woman he had ever seen, in a way that did not fail to make his breath still whenever he saw her.

  But neither her beauty nor her innate benevolence would distract him from his true purpose. He was destined to be the mayhem in this woman’s world. To ravage and shake and tear everything she thought she knew apart. Most of all, he was meant to tear apart the Earl of Rayne, limb by limb, bone by bone, sinew by sinew, until nothing remained.

  And he would do it all with a smile until the day he faced Rayne on the field of honor and ended him.

  The same smile he pinned upon his lips now. “Believe me when I say I am the last man you ought to feel sorry for, my lady. But please, do get yourself settled. As I said, I have other obligations requiring my attention. I shall return in a few hours.”

  He bowed, and then without waiting for her to protest, spun on his heel and left her behind as fast as he damn well could.

  *

  Leonora jolted from sleep, blinking and disoriented.

  For a moment, she expected the familiar canopy of her bed at Riverford House above her instead of the plaster, rose medallion staring down at her from the shadows. And that was when she recalled she would never again wake in her chamber at Riverford House. That she was no longer Lady Leonora Forsythe but instead, the Marchioness of Searle.

  Leonora shivered and blinked, her gaze scanning her surroundings. The remnants of a fire crackled in the grate, for it was unseasonably cold even by London’s late spring standards. Her chamber here at Linley House was decorated sparsely. Mrs. Arbuthnot had kindly informed her that his lordship wished for her to outfit the chamber to her liking.

  If only his lordship could have seen fit to relay that information himself, it would have made settling into her new home far easier. Instead, her husband had continued the trend of cold remoteness he had exhibited to her in the last few weeks of their madcap courtship, following what had happened at Freddy’s ball. He had left her alone with his servants, disappearing with the promise of return.

  Only he had not returned.

  Not for dinner.

  Not for the two hours following dinner she had spent in tedious frustration, reading a book and working herself into a dudgeon. Not as she readied for bed. And not as she had lain awake, staring at the same rose medallion until it had seemed to swirl before her eyes
and come to life as a roaring dragon threatening to burn her alive.

  She could not say his defection surprised her, for in the abbreviated amount of time she had known the Marquess of Searle, he had taught her to expect nothing from him. It almost seemed he had expended the only kindness he possessed when he had followed her to the salon and kneaded her tight muscles to ease her pain.

  But his defection had hurt her. And infuriated her.

  A knock stole through the silence of her chamber then, interrupting the pleasant cracklings of her fire. Firm and abrupt, the knock left her without question of who had come to pay her a call at this time of the evening…perhaps even early morning.

  The Marquess of Searle had recalled he had a wife after all.

  She frowned, a fresh surge of irritation rising within her, supplanting all else. Because she did not wish to remain abed in her nightclothes, waiting for him to come to her, she threw back her coverlets and rose. Her troublesome leg was extra stiff from all the time she had spent upon her feet during the course of the day, but she was determined. She found her discarded dressing gown, then thrust her arms into the sleeves before catching the belt around her waist and knotting it snugly.

  If he wanted her, he would have to fight for her, she decided.

  Mama had given her a stern talk about the grim realities awaiting her in the marriage bed. It will give you pain the first time and the next few times as well. You must recall it is your duty. Close your eyes and think of the babes you will have to bless you after suffering your husband’s attentions.

  Leonora made her painstaking way toward the door joining her chamber to Searle’s. Her mother’s words still filled her with trepidation, even though Freddy had reassured her she had nothing to fear in the marriage bed. Indeed, her dear friend had, with scarlet cheeks, confided she ought to find it…pleasurable.

  She opened the latch on the door, pulling it toward her, and there he stood, the enigma she had married that morning. He was dressed in only a linen shirt and breeches, devoid of stockings and shoes, cravat and coat. His hair was mussed, his expression intent. The Marquess of Searle was every bit as much a stranger to her now as he had been the day he danced the minuet with her.

  Nothing had changed.

  And yet, everything had.

  She was staring at her husband.

  He gazed back at her, breaking the silence first. “I thought you were asleep, my lady.”

  It was not what she had expected him to say. “Why did you knock if you thought I was asleep?”

  His expression remained unreadable, his countenance formed of ice. “Perhaps I hoped to wake you.”

  How insincere he sounded. How unfeeling and impenetrable. She longed to shake him. To tear him free of the inner bower he had retreated to from the moment he had asked her to become his wife. For a man who had faced untold depravities and horrors at war, he was certainly cowardly when it came to facing the woman he had married.

  “I think you hoped I was asleep so you would not have to see me again,” she told him frankly, abandoning the care she had used when she had spoken to him earlier in the day.

  “On the contrary.” He reached between them, his fingers grazing her jaw. Just a glancing, gentle touch, but it made her heart leap, nonetheless. “You are all I wish to see.”

  “Pray, do not lie to me.” She could not bear it.

  No more false charm. No more flattery. The weakest part of her had wanted to believe him at Freddy’s ball. The part of her that had hungered for a husband and a family of her own, for someone who would look upon her and not see a weakness but instead a great strength, had fooled her into believing the Marquess of Searle could be that man.

  He had told her, over the course of the last few weeks, with each interaction, every word and deed, he was not the man she sought. He was, however, the man she had married, and the both of them needed to make their peace with their new situation.

  “I am sorry to burden you with an infirm wife, my lord.” She swallowed, summoning her arguments and her strength. Leonora had lived most of her life with the consequences of her limitations, but though she had long grown accustomed to them, she still remained resentful of their existence.

  “You are not,” he countered firmly, “my burden, but my prize.”

  When an odd assertion for him to make. She had never felt less like a prize than she did now, standing awkwardly before the man who had married her, more uncertain of herself than when she was seated at the periphery of the ballroom. At least when she could watch others enjoying themselves, she had ample distraction. So, too, the comfort of the familiar. But this was different, for she was the object of this enigmatic man’s blistering attentions, and she had nowhere else to look. No other cause for diversion.

  Nor had she ever been a wife before. Nothing about this day, this moment, this man, was comforting or familiar. He set her on edge. Made her feel as if she could not trust herself. Made her feel small.

  “Surely not a prize.” The smile on her lips was bitter, and she knew it. “I am certain you did not envision a wife who cannot walk unimpeded.”

  “You are the only wife I want,” he said intently.

  So intently, she believed him. But she could not shake the impression he was leaving something out, withholding something from her. If he wanted her for his wife, why did he remain so aloof? Was it the horrors he had faced as a soldier, which he had alluded to earlier in the day?

  She inhaled slowly, trying to find her place. “I find that declaration difficult to believe indeed. But nevertheless, we are bound inextricably now. We must make the best of our circumstances.”

  “Not completely bound,” he reminded her. His green eyes darkened. “Not yet.”

  Oh, he was a beautiful sight to behold, it was sure. The Marquess of Searle was a towering wall of a man, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, dark hair styled in loose waves, face more handsome than any man deserved, mouth fashioned to make all women swoon.

  But she would not be one of them. After all, he had married her and then disappeared. “Not ever if today is to be any indication of the future.”

  Dear heavens, was that her own voice?

  She could scarcely credit it.

  But she most certainly would not rescind it.

  A slow and steady smile curved that sensual mouth. His eyes glittered in the low light. “Is that a challenge, Lady Searle?”

  What was it about the manner in which his deep, seductive baritone called her Lady Searle that made her body hum with awareness?

  She tipped up her chin, a newfound defiance surging through her. She would not grow weak for him. Not now. Not ever. Though their union had been founded in an avoidance of scandal rather than because of tender feelings, she would not be mistreated. She had wanted a husband and family of her own, yes, but not at the expense of her dignity.

  “That is a promise, Lord Searle.”

  His expression shifted then, softening somehow. “I had previous engagements this evening, my lady.”

  “Engagements which could not have been moved to a day other than your wedding day?” she asked.

  She knew theirs was an odd and hastened arrangement, but every bride deserved her husband’s attention on the day she married. Most could expect a honeymoon. At the very least, a trip to a country estate. Instead, she had been rebuffed, foisted upon the kindly Mrs. Arbuthnot, whose pity had been apparent in every pinched line of her round visage.

  A muscle in Leonora’s calf chose that moment to tighten and spasm, causing pain to slice through her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but it was too late to recall her sudden inhalation.

  “Your injury,” he diagnosed grimly.

  She flexed her foot, attempting to subdue her natural inclination to wince. “It is nothing.”

  “It is something,” he countered, “else you would not have reacted in the manner you did.”

  “The limb is fine. I am well, and it is nothing.” She had lied many times about the state of her
leg over the years, and often the falsehood was spoken to assuage the guilt and concern of those surrounding her. This time, she offered up the fib to slake her own pride.

  “Come, my lady.” His countenance grew determined and hard, his jaw tense.

  He took her hand in his and tugged her over the line separating them. She was now, undeniably, in his domain. Trespassing. Alone and in dishabille with the Marquess of Searle. The notion made her heart pound even if the rational part of her continued to resent him for his impromptu disappearance earlier that day.

  It was almost impossible for her to realize, after a life spent according to the dictates of society and propriety, that she could be alone with this man, half-dressed, touching one another intimately, and no one would object. He was her husband, she reminded herself deliriously, even if he did not feel like he was.

  Even if he did not behave as if he was.

  Leonora told herself it was the distracted state in which she found herself, dogged by the leg cramp, disoriented by waking in a new chamber, left alone on her wedding day, her entire life as she knew it about to change forever…surely all these were reasons why she allowed the marquess to guide her to his bed.

  Just her rump upon the edge, and even that felt like a betrayal of her own determination.

  “Is it still paining you?” Searle asked, his beautiful face dipping low, so low their foreheads nearly brushed.

  He took her breath. Made her forget all her reasons for not liking him and not trusting him. She had given herself a stern talking to whilst she had been left alone, in possession of ample time to sit with her thoughts and ruminate.

  But this, Searle’s mouth close enough to touch with hers, his hot breath fanning over her lips, sent all her wits and determination scattering like seeds tossed into a heavy wind.

  “Is what still paining me?” she asked, searching his gaze, breathless.

  “Your leg,” he elaborated, his voice deep. Hard as his expression. Uncompromising and yet strangely tender as well. Seeking.

  Once again, she could not shake the sensation this man was far more than he presented to the world around him.