Prelude to a Scandal

“Justine,” he growled out. “I am bathing, and as such, I am not readily available to entertain. Now ring for Jefferson.”

As if she could be intimidated by a growl and a few measly words. “Since you clearly have no intention of showing yourself,” she icily warned, placing her hand on the brass doorknob, “you leave me no choice but to open this door. Whatever you look like, Bradford, I doubt it will even make me blink. I have seen far hairier and bigger things than you.”

When he did not reply, Justine huffed out an agitated breath. Although she could easily give up her right to civil conversations, romantic picnics and carriage rides—niceties he’d never once offered during their brief engagement—she had no intention of waiting until the day of the wedding to see him. Setting aside her father’s dire predicament, she was going to put an end to this hiding. And the best part? She wasn’t going to have to wait until her wedding night to see the duke in all his glory.

SCANDAL TWO

Clothing is the one and only thing that separates us from the animals, Which is why it is absolutely imperative to keep clothes on at all times.

How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

RADCLIFF EDWIN MORTON, the fourth Duke of Bradford, sat up, sending a swirling wave of warm water against the porcelain tub around him. He raked his drenched, dark hair out of his eyes with a few agitated sweeps and seethed out a breath, trying to will away his throbbing erection. An erection brought on by knowing Justine was finally within reach.

Damn her for putting him in this situation. He refused to be in her presence until they were man and wife. For even after eight long months of confinement, it was more than obvious he couldn’t trust his body to cooperate.

Radcliff stood, water streaming down the length of his frame. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the towel from the brass stand beside the tub and rubbed the water from his hair.

He stepped out onto the blue-and-white Italian tile, quickly dried the rest of himself and tossed the wet towel aside. Shaking his head, he swiped up his trousers from the floor, thankful his valet had dropped them on the way out or he would have had nothing to cover his lower half aside from a towel.

The door banged open, hitting the wall hard.

Still bent forward with his trousers dangling out before him, Radcliff froze in astonishment.

The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air as a female gasp resounded within the confines of the bath chamber. No doubt in response to his full erection on display. Though probably also in response to his injury.

Radcliff slapped his trousers against his stiff cock, and snapped his spine straight, doubting she’d seen everything in the wild. His pulse thundered, dreading her reaction to the long jagged scar which dominated the one side of his face.

Justine’s hazel eyes raked the length of his nude body, before darting up to his face. Her lips thinned as her soot-covered cheeks flushed, acknowledging not only his scar, but his lack of clothing and the erection he hid against his trousers.

Radcliff’s brows came together as he eyed her. Jefferson had been spot on. She looked like a cinder girl. Her pale yellow gown, which was partly hidden beneath her dark cloak, was smeared with soot. The acrid stench of it clearly hinted at gunpowder. Even her chestnut hair, which had been gathered in pretty curls, was heartily dusted. And though the woman was still attractive, the soot was anything but.

Trying to appear nonchalant—for what else was he to do?—he let out a low whistle that had nothing to do with admiration. “I see you’ve been priming pistols for England’s entire infantry unit.”

The flickering light from the oil lamps within the bath chamber shifted across her features, which visibly softened. “I … oh, Bradford. ‘Tis unfathomable. What happened? What happened to your face?”

Not wanting to discuss why it was sliced open, and most certainly not whilst naked, he shrugged. “‘Twas a mere scuffle. ‘Twas nothing.” Certainly nothing compared to the torture and humiliation Matilda Thurlow had endured at the hands of six men.

“A mere scuffle?” she echoed. “You call that a mere scuffle? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone maliciously took a blade to the entire side of your face.”

As if he wanted to put into words what was done to him and to Matilda. “What is done is done. There is no need to linger on a matter that cannot be altered.”

She stared at him. “Will you cease being so indifferent? I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been in seclusion for almost eight months. What man does that?”

Radcliff struggled not to let her words agitate him. “The reasoning behind my seclusion had nothing to do with my face. They are reasons I will discuss with you at length at another, more appropriate time. Now, I am asking you to leave. You’ve already seen far more than I would consider to be respectable, and we are not husband and wife just yet.”

She set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I am not about to leave or marry you, Bradford, whilst you continue to elude my questions and allow my father to be persecuted for reasons that go beyond justice. Isn’t there anything more you can do for him? Anything at all?”

Hadn’t he helped her father and his studies enough? Studies Radcliff had financially supported for many, many years because he’d always believed in providing humanity an understanding of what he knew they all were—animals. He simply hadn’t been prepared for what had been discovered.

In chronicling the breeding habits of over a hundred South African mammals, the earl had consistently found correlations between animal and human courtships, providing proof that relationships did exist beyond that of a mere man and a woman, that a physical bond could also exist between a man and a man, or a woman and a woman, as it did in nature.

The work was fascinating, but far too dangerous and liberal for England. Which is why Radcliff had pried a promise from the earl not to publish any of those observations until all the buggery laws had been changed.

A year later, Radcliff was left with half a face and a brother who would forever hate him, but one thing had remained a constant in his life. Justine’s endearing weekly letters. Though he had refused to respond to any of them, lest he encourage her or his obsession, she had continued to write, keeping him sane during those months of seclusion.

Then the damn earl had published his observations and forced his own daughter to make an offer that had crushed the last of Radcliff’s will to stay away. For if her letters could offer him sanity in his darkest of hours, he could only imagine what she could offer him as a wife.

Justine icily stared him down. “You aren’t even listening to me, are you? Nor do you seem to care.”

He shrugged. “I care.”

She dropped her hands to her sides and went on talking as if he were fully clothed. “Even your own brother has graciously offered to call upon His Majesty about this injustice. Can you not do the same?”

Radcliff narrowed his gaze. His brother knew nothing about graciousness or compassion. He didn’t know what Carlton’s reasoning was for getting involved in Justine’s plight, but Radcliff was certain it had nothing to do with common decency. To be sure, there was only going to be one captain sailing this ship, and it most certainly wasn’t going to be Carlton.

Not giving a damn if Justine altogether fainted, Radcliff whipped the trousers away from his lower half, sending them rustling toward her, and spread his arms wide. “Perhaps I ought to call upon His Majesty at this very moment. As I am. Naked and fully aroused by your presence! Would that by any means please you?”

A gasp escaped her lips as her gaze flicked over his erection. Her face instantly bloomed with as much color as a British flag. She popped up a sooty hand, shielding her eyes, and further turned her head to the side, as if the hand simply wasn’t enough. “For heaven’s sake, I am attempting to have a civilized conversation with you.”

He snorted and waved a hand toward her. “You haven’t even been in London long enough to know the meaning of being civilized. Hell, your father seems to think he can publish books that insult our ways, our laws and our King without consequence, whilst you seem to think you can storm into my home, uninvited, and intimidate me with African tribal airs. Let me assure you, I am not a man who can be intimidated. There was a reason I did not want to see you before the wedding. If it isn’t already obvious to you, I have a lack of self-control.”

“So be it.” Still hiding behind a hand, she frantically kicked his trousers away from her feet, sending them flying back toward him. “Regardless, I cannot take this conversation seriously with your member fully exposed.”

Radcliff snatched up his trousers and violently yanked them on. Buttoning the front flap into place, he adjusted his erection, then gestured toward the tub. “I suggest you wash your face before you leave. You look like a native with all that gunpowder.”

“Hah. I doubt you even know what a native looks like.” Nonetheless, she set her chin and marched straight for the tub. Glancing back toward him every now and then, as if to ensure he kept his distance, she dipped her sooty hands into the water and scrubbed at her face. The backside of her skirts and her bum hidden beneath wagged enticingly at him.

Radcliff swallowed, trying not to envision what those buttocks and legs looked like beneath the fabric of her gown. Or what they would feel like against his roaming hands. He folded his arms shakily over his bare chest.

“There.” Justine patted the sides of her dampened curls, sighed and turned back toward him. Lightly freckled, her smooth skin now glistened freshly. The powder had vanished, exposing a delicate nose, arched brows and the striking hazel eyes he’d never been immune to.

By God. She was even more alluring than he remembered. To wait a whole week was going to be merciless torture. Because what he really wanted to do was—

Radcliff clenched his jaw and dug his fingers deep into his rigid biceps. He knew better. Lingering on his need would only allow his hedonistic side to fester. He had to prove to himself before he wed that he’d mastered his obsession.

Tightening his crossed arms against his bare chest, he tried to set whatever physical barrier he could between them. “I cannot have you here. I cannot have you in my presence until we are husband and wife.”

She folded her arms over her full breasts, scattering a fair dusting of gunpowder, and continued to stand there before the tub. Clearly unwilling to cooperate.

He had to get rid of her before he ended up between her thighs. Radcliff strode toward her, closing the distance between them. “You leave me no choice.”

Her self-assured stance grew more uncertain as her eyes warily watched him approach. “I am not done with this conversation.”

“Yes, you are.” He grabbed hold of her corseted waist and yanked her up. Hard.

A shriek escaped her as she turned and fumbled to get away from his grasp. “I am not a carpet bag!”

Shoving his head beneath her flailing arms and cloak, he crushed her warm softness against him and scooped her up onto his bare shoulder, his fingers digging into her curved thighs hidden beneath.