Prelude to a Scandal. Delilah Marvelle
him soft in the head and hard in the cock.
He blew out an exasperated breath. “Give me five days. If your father isn’t released from Marshalsea in that time, the wedding is off and you owe me nothing. And rest assured, even then, I will continue to barter for his release. How is that for respect?”
Her gaze darted back toward him. In astonishment.
Her astonishment reflected his own. For if those five days produced nothing, he’d be without a bride. And though, yes, there were plenty of other women who’d be more than willing to play duchess despite his scar and his reputation, none of them were nearly as intelligent or as unyielding as Justine. He needed more than a beautiful face for a wife. He needed a soul made of iron. A soul capable of handling anything.
Radcliff shook the nightshirt at her. “Take it,” he muttered. “Any gentleman would agree you should not remain in wet clothing.”
Her full lips spread into a stunning smile that magically brightened not only her face but her beautiful eyes. “Will it really take only five days?”
“There is one highly placed man I’ve yet to contact. He is known to have the king’s ear and happens to be Lord Winfield’s rival. My solicitor mentioned him to me just yesterday. Perhaps it will end with him. Now go. Put this on.”
She stumbled toward him. Grabbing hold of his shirt, she marched toward the bath chamber, still boasting a smile.
A smile that made it all worth his while.
She halted in the doorway and announced over her shoulder, “I always knew you had a heart, Bradford. Always.” With that, she slammed the door behind herself.
He blinked, realizing that despite Justine’s unusual upbringing, she still very much believed in all things female. Romance and words of love.
He was going to be a sore disappointment to her. But then again, that was all he ever seemed to be these days: a disappointment to everyone, including himself.
SCANDAL THREE
Allowing a man to kiss or touch you, at any time during your courtship, even before a set wedding, is allowing too much. After all, it is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason to run down that altar aisle. It is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason as to why, on his own wedding day, he should smile.
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
JUSTINE SMOOTHED OUT Radcliff’s white cotton nightshirt and hurriedly rolled up the large, loose sleeves. She glanced down at the gaping open front of his shirt which provocatively exposed her damp lilac corset and chemise. She cringed and clutched the front together, holding it shut. At least they were engaged.
“Are you clothed?”
She jumped at the sound of Radcliff’s deep voice from the other side of the closed door. “I doubt you can call it that,” she yelled back.
“You needn’t fret. We’ll throw a cloak or two over you and dash you home. Though I have a feeling your mother will hold me accountable for your absence and lack of clothing. Send along my apologies, will you?”
Justine smirked. “I really wouldn’t worry about my mother. She doesn’t even know I’m here. She overstayed past calling hours whilst visiting Father at Marshalsea and therefore won’t be allowed back out until the gates reopen in the morning.” She tiptoed with cold, bare feet across the bath chamber, avoiding puddles on the tile, then opened the door and edged out.
Bradford sat on the four-poster, one trouser-clad knee propped up, his bare foot rumpling the white satin linens. His shaven jaw tightened as his dark eyes trailed the length of her body.
Her heart fluttered in response. The way it always fluttered foolishly in his presence. She tried to shove away the erotic image of his large muscled body and that sizable erection, but it was no use. It had been seared into her thoughts and would remain there until she was given the pleasure of seeing him naked again.
Despite Bradford’s long, puckered scar, he was still very dashing. His white linen shirt continued to hang open, exposing a strong neck and a sprinkle of soft-looking black curls. With or without clothes, the man had a commanding presence that was raw, overwhelming and beyond exciting. Why was it she had the strangest desire to consummate their marriage right now?
He lowered his trouser-clad leg to the floor and kept staring at her. As if he’d never seen a woman before.
The piercing silence lingering between them seemed to further emphasize how alone they really were. And how they were breaking every single rule set out by respectable society, what with her lack of clothing and his bed barely a few feet away. Given his reputation, she was quite certain this wasn’t new to him. Not as it was for her.
Wanting to prove to him, and herself, that she wasn’t in the least bit intimidated, and that she could rival any woman he’d ever had, she drifted in his direction and paused, lingering only a few feet away. “You’re staring, Bradford,” she teased.
He cleared his throat and looked away, sending damp strands of dark hair cascading into his eyes and toward his scar. “I … forgive me.”
He cleared his throat again and rose to his full, imposing height of six feet. “We should cover you up a bit more. Your legs … they … they’re showing.”
How utterly charming. The Duke of Bradford, and soon to be her Duke of Bradford, The Rake Extraordinaire, was actually stumbling and mumbling and apologizing for being a man. And was even telling her to further cover up!
This certainly deserved a bit more study and observation. Seeing she was going to be his fiancée for at least another five days, she had a right to know what a man of his years, upbringing and experience did or did not find attractive. Never mind if what she was about to ask would cause half of London to faint.
“What do you think of them?” she drawled.
He eyed her. “What do I think of what?”
“My legs. Seeing that you had mentioned them.”
He stared at her. “What about your legs?”
“Well … ever since I can remember, I’ve always wondered what the preoccupation was all about. Did you know that the native women in Africa don’t cover their legs and ankles the same way women do here? Now why is that, do you suppose? Does a leg mean more to us than it does to them? And if so, why? They’re only legs, after all, taking us from one place to the next. You don’t see male giraffes gawking at the legs of their mates, even though they’re certainly long enough to warrant such a thing.”
Justine shot out her right leg, her damp, transparent chemise tightening against the extension, and pointed her bare toes in his direction. She tilted her head to one side, observing her own limbs in a scientific sort of way. “I’m afraid they’re a bit bowed, and for that I can only apologize, but aside from that, what do you think? From a British male perspective? Are they at all attractive? Surely, you’ve seen more than enough to provide an objective opinion.”
He continued to stare at her, abashed.
She returned his stare and quickly dropped her foot back onto the wooden floor. So much for the British male perspective. Apparently, she was being too crass for even a homo sapien libertine. “I suppose I should apologize. I didn’t realize—”
“There is no need for you to apologize, Justine,” he said in a low tone. “In answer to your question, they are not bowed. In fact, they are very shapely. Might I also point out, if we were giraffes, I would probably be gawking and whistling and making all the other giraffes feel very, very uncomfortable.”
Her eyes widened as she gurgled out a laugh. Oh, now they were both being very naughty. And what was worse, she loved it. It reminded her of the wild and funny Bradford she’d shamelessly preened over. The Bradford who had always made everything so exciting in an otherwise very