Secrets of a Scandalous Bride Read online

  “Mhuirnin…My mhuirnin.” His low, husky voice repeated the words until they floated in the silken predawn air, lushly caressing her senses as he finally, finally thrust deeply, and allowed himself to find the pleasure that was his alone to take. Her body stretched tautly to accommodate him while he took extraordinary care to arouse her ever higher, ignoring her caresses. He was single-mindedly instigating every act in this interlude.

  As he slowly buried himself deeper and deeper inside of her, Elizabeth began to notice his almost grim determination to bring her to a new level of happiness. Suddenly, intense pleasure blossomed within her loins, spreading like wildfire through her body.

  His brow furrowed, his eyes closed, he drove into her one last time, filling her completely as he pulsed deep inside of her.

  As he relaxed his grip and arranged her in the cradle of his arms, the luxurious pull of sleep followed soon after and she was unable to resist. It was only in her dreams that she was able to fully see the restlessness behind his fierce lovemaking.

  He had always hated dawn. In the past, it had meant just another day of misery and unrelenting labor, of watching his mother and sister suffer in silence. His scoundrel of a half brother Howard and he had been far more capable of survival; both of them were cunning, and possessed a knack for skirting justice to bring a few meager bits to their dirty hovel in the rookery. For women, it was a different matter altogether. It was a terrible way of life. The torture had been watching the two females in his family suffer without being able to do a bloody thing about it.

  But this morning, this dawn, was different. He was capable of doing something, of correcting a wrong.

  As he walked toward the stable, his soul felt light in his body—as light as his bones felt heavy, strangely enough. He thanked God Elizabeth had finally fallen back into slumber. Disentangling himself from her embrace had been one of the hardest things he had ever done.

  He grasped the reins of the dark bay gelding from Lefroy. He had always avoided mortal danger until now. But he was an impatient man, with still no trust of others—especially lords or magistrates, all of whom usually had ulterior motives that could sway the winds of justice. And if there was anyone who could worm his way out of a noose, it was Pymm.

  The others had agreed to meet him. He knew without doubt that they would play out all their myriad parts in this folly.

  “I’ll return in two hours or less. I won’t miss a moment of her secret, bloody celebration. And by the by, if you nick a single grain on that new desk you’ve been hiding for her, I’ll—”

  “I knows,” Lefroy said doggedly, “you’ll dock me wages.”

  “Yes. And this time it actually might mean something, since I’ll be a rich man soon enough.”

  He placed his boot in the stirrup and in one practiced motion swung onto his mount. The clatter of the horse’s hooves as he wheeled the gelding about broke the silence in the stable. “Watch over her in the main building. Don’t leave her alone for a second. And keep that gob of yours shut.”

  Lefroy opened his mouth and then thought the better of it.

  “Very good. I knew there was a reason I employed you. Now go on.” He nodded toward the main building and put his heels to the horse’s sides.

  Lefroy cleared his throat. “Master?”

  “What is it?” He looked over his shoulder.

  “I’s proud o’ you,” Lefroy said so gruffly Rowland almost missed it. “We’s all are. Thought you should know.”

  “Don’t go down that path, old man. If you start blubbering,” he said dryly, “I’ll be forced to—”

  “I knows.” Lefroy made a pathetic attempt at a smile. “Good luck to you then.”

  It was a good thing he left at that moment, for a half minute later he might have had to bear witness to Mr. Lefroy’s countenance, which crumpled altogether.

  When Elizabeth woke again, she wasn’t entirely certain of the hour. It was still more dark than light, but Rowland was already gone to the Prince Regent’s mews as he had told her he would do that morning. Well, even if she was late getting started, her husband had dispelled much of her gloom about her father’s cause of death. Even if Rowland could never say the words she longed to hear, he took such care to comfort her. And that was all that mattered.

  She dressed quickly and ran down the stairs, hoping Mr. Lefroy had not forgotten her instructions.

  For some odd reason the stable master was standing quietly at the base of the stair. Waiting for her. Without a word he followed her to Rowland’s study.

  “Oh, Mr. Lefroy,” she said a little out of breath, barely glancing at the older man. “Is it not perfect here? Thank you so much.” She ran her hands over the new burled walnut desk, which now rested in the same spot as Rowland’s former desk.

  He shook his head with a grimace. “Weighs fifty stone, it does. Took four o’ me men to get it in here. And two o’ them are now missing toes.”

  “I hope he likes it,” she said.

  “I would be willing to wager ’e will. Don’t think ’e ever got a present.” Mr. Lefroy’s voice was devoid of emotion. “Then again, none o’ us knew his birthday.”

  “Well, it was stated on the Special License. Oh, we must hurry before he returns. I’m determined to surprise him. But first, the two errands to—”

  “I remembers, my lady.”

  “I think I preferred it when you used to call me lovey, Mr. Lefroy.” She had thought her words would bring a smile to his face, but they did not. A fine case of the dismals appeared to be simmering below the surface of Mr. Lefroy’s blank expression. But she had no time to tease him out of a sulk.

  Threads of purple and mauve streaked the pink clouds of the eastern cityscape as they crossed the yards toward the stables. Elizabeth’s thoughts darted among the things she had to do, while Mr. Lefroy checked the horses’ traces and the carriage. They would go to the fishmonger to have first pick of the catch. She didn’t mind the overly strong, briny scent of the docks. She would make Rowland’s unacknowledged favorite—cod in red-pepper sauce. And flowers must be purchased and arranged, a dessert prepared, and they were still vastly understaffed. It would take her a few weeks to hire a full complement of servants.

  All of her friends were to come that evening. It truly would be their last gathering with everyone present. She wondered if the Duke of Helston and Colonel Winters’s dealings at the military headquarters regarding her father’s murder would prevent them from…she glanced at Mr. Lefroy’s impenetrable, grim profile as he helped her into the carriage.

  “Wait,” she said suddenly, refusing to let go of Mr. Lefroy’s gloved hand.

  He looked toward her, his face grave. She had only ever seen Mr. Lefroy smiling.

  “Mr. Lefroy, by all that is holy, where is he? He usually goes to the royal mews in the afternoons—never at dawn. He is always here then. Where has he gone, truly?”

  “’e didn’t say, ma’am.”

  “Oh no, you don’t, old man. You will tell me this instant or I will feed you nothing but broth and stale bread for the rest of your existence.” A terrible premonition churned her thoughts to clotted disaster.

  But there was no need for Mr. Lefroy to answer, for the sound of a horse’s hooves preceded the arrival of the one person who would not hesitate to tell her everything she would most not want to hear.

  Colonel Pierce Winters grimaced as he carefully swung about his injured leg to dismount; his one hand pressed the pommel and gripped both reins. With all of the military precision for which he had been known, Colonel Winters stripped Lefroy of all information he did not already possess, and had the three of them hurtling helter-skelter in the carriage toward a destination that brought cascades of fear to her feverish mind.

  Dear God, he could not. He would not.

  But, in her heart, she knew very well that he could, and he would.

  The ride through Regent’s Park braced him. The dark bay’s ears pricked up as a white-tailed rabbit darted across the path. H
e steadied his young horse with a gentle word and practiced hands.

  Across the outer circle, and over Macclesfield Bridge, the sacred dueling ground of Primrose Hill loomed. It was the one part of London Rowland knew little about. It was reserved for idiot men of rank who had nothing better to do in the morning than shoot each other’s bloody nobs off for perceived slights to their so-called honor.

  Yes, well, he was very nearly one of those bloody idiots now, wasn’t he? And here he was, playing the role to the letter already.

  Several men lurked under an enormous hemlock tree ahead. On the approach, he recognized Ellesmere, Helston, and two other men, strangers both. Perhaps the surgeon and the starter?

  Rowland dismounted and secured his horse with the other mounts.

  “Where is he?”

  “Impatient, are we?” Helston drawled his words. Only his dark eyes betrayed the duke’s seriousness. “The guest of honor is due shortly.”

  “Care for a cheroot?” the marquis offered, as he puffed on his own.

  “No,” Rowland replied stiffly.

  “Smart man. Filthy habit,” Helston said, tendering a small silver flask.

  “Absolutely, not.”

  Ellesmere chuckled.

  “Hmmm, no whip?” The duke studied Rowland, his expression giving away nothing. “You’re not going to bungle this, are you, Manning? My wife and I are to set sail no matter what happens.”

  “Of course you will, Helston,” Ellesmere said in an exaggerated manner. “That’s what we like most about you—all swagger and no follow-through.”

  Rowland sighed. “Look, since you’re here as my seconds—and thirds, could you at least feign a little faith. Have a little more—”

  The sound of four horses galloping over the bridge interrupted. Streaks of dawn finally broke through the cloud cover, and it was easy enough to discern their faces. His half brother Michael and Joshua Gordon flanked Leland Pymm and another man. Rowland nearly smiled when he finally recognized the choice of the general’s second: the portly, fawning Lieutenant Tremont. Only now, the man’s florid complexion was replaced with frozen-white fear.

  Rowland felt like he was in some sort of ridiculous, cliché-riddled play on Drury Lane as he crossed the distance to Michael. He could only hope it was a comedy, all the while knowing a tragedy was much more in keeping with the tenor of his life.

  “You’re lucky we’re here.” His brother muttered an oath. “Damned near shot him myself for taking so long at his toilette.” Michael’s voice might have been relaxed, but his expression was not. “Are you still intent on this wretched idea of—”

  “Michael, do join the other ladies in the hemlock gallery, won’t you?” His request held all the cool insistence of a block of ice.

  His brother grasped his shoulder and pulled him a few feet away. “Look, you don’t have to do this. In fact, you should not do it. He’s a dead man anyway.”

  It took all his willpower to allow his brother to speak. He did it as a favor, to ease the other’s conscience.

  “Prinny will have him executed, or at the very least transported for life. Colonel Winters will see to it—is seeing to the formal report this morning. In fact, the colonel will be furious that you’ve denied him his own chance for retribution. He has even more of a right to justice than—”

  “Michael?” Rowland interrupted. “Get the hell out of my way.”

  “This will only hurt you. Your position, your title, has not even been…” Michael’s voice slowed, and resigned, he finally released Rowland’s shoulder.

  Helston and Ellesmere now rejoined them, a pistol in the marquis’s hands and a glum look on the duke’s face. “Pymm chose pistols.”

  “Of course he chose pistols,” muttered Michael, his ill ease returned.

  “A fine lot all of you are,” Rowland muttered. “I shall remember to call on Tremont next time. He may be useless, but at least he’s silent.”

  “There won’t be a next time, unless you tell us you’ve had a bit of target practice since the last time we witnessed your, ahem, talents with a pistol.” Helston studied him under heavy-lidded eyes, no doubt recalling when Rowland had merely grazed Michael’s arm while standing less than six feet away from him last spring.

  The enemy approached.

  “Change of heart?” General Pymm asked loftily, confidently. “We would all of us understand, Manning. These gentlemen and I never expected one such as you to go through with this. Why, it galls me to no end to think you have the audacity to ask me to meet on a field of honor.”

  Rowland swept a glance at the entourage. “Perhaps you’re right, General,” he said softly.

  Pymm visibly relaxed.

  The man was such a coward. When Rowland had sent his brother to the Pulteney Hotel last eve to tender a challenge, he had not allowed Michael to tell the general about Colonel Pierce Winters’s reappearance yesterday. Rowland had not wanted to chance Pymm slipping through the cracks of the huge hotel upon receiving such devastating news. But the time for such tidings drew near.

  Rowland cleared his throat. “Actually, I think you misunderstand. I was having a change of heart about doing this honorably. Why waste powder and shot when I’d enjoy it all the more using my hands instead?”

  Pymm stiffened. “Bluster all you like, mudlark. It is you who shall be warming your heels in hell today. That is where all mongrels such as you end up, is it not?”

  If there was one thing for which he could be grateful to his past, it was his immunity to insult. “The day waxes, General. Shall we?” His fingers itched to shoot the man where he stood—honor be damned.

  The starter motioned toward the slight rise a few steps away. “Gentlemen? It shall be ten paces upon my signal. You will then both turn to face each other. After I am assured you are each of you ready, you shall have until the count of three to fire.”

  “Did you understand that part, Manning?” Pymm sneered. “You are not to fire until after the signal.”

  “What was that, General?” Rowland raised the pistol and peered along its sight line in an awkward fashion, as if testing it. He directed it at the general’s heart. “Sorry, I don’t hear that well—must be the muck in my ears.”

  Pymm stumbled sideways, furious.

  A moment later they were back to back. The general’s body radiated heat against his own. Icy calm replaced every trace of foreboding in Rowland’s body. “Oh, I almost forgot something of importance, Pymm,” Rowland tossed softly over his shoulder.

  The starter’s brow wrinkled. This was apparently a first.

  “What is it, you bastard?” Pymm sneered. “Postponing the inevitable yet again?”

  “No. Just thought to inform that Colonel Winters has returned in time to give the eulogy. I wouldn’t want you to think that a murdering, blackmailing lunatic such as yourself would not have a proper funeral and all—unlike the one for Elizabeth’s father.” He nodded to the starter. “Right then. Go ahead.”

  The man began the count. “One…”

  “What? More trickery? You are a liar and a—” Pymm sputtered.

  “Two.”

  Rowland continued pacing.

  “Do you want a delay, General?” the starter’s voice rang out.

  Rowland stopped, yet refused to give in to the urge to look over his shoulder. Instead, he cocked his pistol.

  Pymm’s odd voice was low, yet traveled to his ears. “You’re the fool, Manning. You don’t understand today’s game. The only reason I came is to make sure you never touch her again.”

  Rowland assumed the general nodded to the starter, for a moment later the latter resumed the count. “Three…Four…Five.”

  Rowland’s breathing slowed as he paced.

  “Six…seven—”

  Rowland neared the stand of trees in front of him only to doubt his eyes. God, please let it be a mirage. Just an illusion of gargantuan disaster.

  She was running straight toward him with two others behind her. “Stop!” Elizabeth’s
voice sliced through the cool morning air.

  It was a goddamned sodding nightmare come to life. In that hair of an instant, he foresaw every last bleeding detail of the tragedy in the making.

  Pymm would wheel about prematurely at the sound of her voice. He would see Elizabeth, and also Pierce Winters, the lone witness to Pymm’s chilling crime. There would be no telling what the bloody general would do. The sole matter of importance was that his wife, his beloved, was in Pymm’s line of fire.

  And so, Rowland did the only thing he could do. He ran toward her, blocking her with his arms spread wide, his back still to Pymm.

  Her horror-struck eyes told him his vision had been utterly correct. Her hand reached to cover her mouth in abject panic.

  The sound came before the pain. A blast, and the almost sickening sound of flesh being pierced. He saw a cry leave her lips and his animal nature took hold fully to protect her. Turning, and with the precision borne of a desperate man, he took aim and fired.

  Smoke filled the early morning gloom of the clearing. His head spinning, he saw Pymm falter and stagger back.

  The reports of several other shots echoed, and Rowland was falling, falling. It felt as though he was slipping through clouds.

  Fear set in. It did not hurt enough for it not to be mortal. His head fell back and her face was above him. A halo of smoke enveloped them both.

  “Is he…” he rasped.

  Her face was stark white. “Oh my God…don’t close your eyes. Don’t you dare leave me.” She was struggling with his shirt linen, as several shouts rang out.

  Hands were everywhere, grasping, ripping.

  “He’s saying something,” she cried, leaning forward.

  “Hold…my hand,” he whispered.

  Her fingers were so warm in his cold palm. His view spun wildly, careening toward darkness. Despair grabbed at him, trying to pin him down. He had to know. Had to know if he’d finally succeeded where in the past he’d failed. And had to tell her…tell her…