A Scandalous Marriage (2 page)

But it wasn’t her beauty that drew him. No, it was something deeper. Something he’d never felt
before. He wasn’t a fanciful man, but he could swear he’d been waiting for her to walk into his
life.

She smiled. The most charming dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, and his feet began
moving of their own volition. He wasn’t even conscious that he was walking until he stood in
front of her.

“Dance with me.” He held out his hand.

Carefully, as if she, too, understood the importance of her actions, she placed her hand in his. It
was a magic moment. He felt changed in some indefinable way.

He raised her gloved fingers to his lips. “Do you feel the draw? The pull between us?”

She nodded. “My heart is pounding against my chest.”

“As is mine. Tell me your name.”

“Leah—”

He cut her off. “Leah.” He loved the sound of it. “I’m Devon. Do you know what I think, Leah?”

“That we were destined to meet?” She smiled shyly.

Her answer reinforced his belief that something greater than both of them was at work.

“Come.” He led her out onto the dance floor.

Devon rarely danced. He thought men who enjoyed dancing were little different than peacocks
preening for women. But tonight, he would not let her from his sight. He was staking his claim to
her. Here, on the dance floor, all the world would see that she was his. No other man could have
her.

The dance they took their places for was the pavane, the sort of ritualistic promenade he usually
hated. But not tonight; as the musicians struck the first chord, he was transformed. Him! A man
who had sworn that one woman was as good as another and had sampled most. Colors were
suddenly brighter, the music sweeter, the world full of possibilities.

In her presence, he discovered something had been missing in his life
—

A rough hand grabbed his arm.

Devon whirled on his attacker, ready to defend her. Before him stood Julian Carrollton, his face
red with anger, his fists clenched.

Devon almost laughed Julian was more bluster than bully. The man was a shiftless gambler, just
like all the members of his family.

The Marshalls and the Carrolltons did not mix. Especially since Devon and his grandfather
blamed Richard Carrollton, Julian’s father, for the tragic accident that had claimed the lives of
both Devon’s parents.

“Take your bloody hands off my sister, Huxhold”

Carrollton’s sister? Then Devon noticed the straight black hair, the midnight dark eyes common
to them both.

The floor seemed to disappear beneath his feet.

Devon didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see her face and the damning confirmation. She must
have felt the same. They both turned and walked away from each other like two magnets suddenly
repelled from each other. Devon left the ballroom without looking back.

But he’d never forgotten her or those precious, magic moments
…

Now here she stood in the middle of nowhere, slopping pigs, and looking more lovely than he had remembered her. For a moment, all he could do was gape, drinking in the sight of her like a thirsty man reaching for water.

And then he realized that she’d changed.

She was pregnant. Very, very pregnant.

The jolt of jealousy was staggering. A cold numbness spread through his body.

Her lips silently formed his name.

He’d kissed those lips.

Surprisingly, he found his voice first. “Miss Carrollton,” he said tersely, frigid air rising around him with the words. It took all his strength to speak.

She didn’t answer. She seemed horror-struck by his presence.

Good.

“I’m certain my appearance here has caught you by surprise,” he continued stiffly. “My horse needs a shoe. Point me in the direction of the nearest farrier and I’ll be on my way.” He was proud that his voice was steady. He could have been talking to a stranger rather than the woman he loved. No, whom he had
once
loved, he amended.

She still didn’t answer. Her stare was unnerving. It irritated him. What did she fear? That he would go rabid with jealousy? Bay at the moon? Or wear his heart on his sleeve?

Oh, no, he had too much pride for that.

“Come,
Miss Carrollton,”
he said, infusing all his anger and scorn into the syllables of her name.

“Certainly you know who I am. Lord Huxhold? Or has pregnancy addled your brains?”

He immediately regretted the words, but he couldn’t call them back.

Bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. And then she hurled the slop bucket at him with surprising force.

Devon ducked just in time, knocking the empty bucket away with his arm.

Miss Carrollton didn’t wait to apologize but lifted her skirts and attempted to run from him.

Devon watched her. Her run was more a lumbering trot. She didn’t go toward the house but headed for the woods. She looked almost comical, her petite figure practically swallowed whole by the baby she carried.

Another man’s baby.

He should let her go.

After all, he had his horse to see to and his grandfather’s summons. He told himself all this even as he took the first step around the fence in her direction. By the time he’d traveled the length of it, she’d almost disappeared past the tangle of still green holly and winter-bare shrubbery. He caught a flash of her red shawl. Where the devil did she think she was going? To her husband?

“Miss Carrollton, wait!”

As he expected, she didn’t slow her step. Leah had always been stubborn. Stubborn and willful and proud. But she would have an accident charging off the way she was willy-nilly. Then it would be on his conscience. Or so he told himself as, with a heavy sigh, he set out after her. He was a knave, a jealous fool. If her husband had any sense, he’d call him out.

Worse, Devon would welcome the opportunity to run the man through. He hated him without even meeting him.

Leah ran as if the very hounds of hell nipped at her heels—or as well as a woman nine months with child could run. Her shawl fell down around her shoulders. The gathering wind of the threatening storm blew her hat off her head. It bounced on her back, held by the frayed ribbons tied in a knot around her neck.

Meeting Devon Marshall was her deepest fear come to life.

She’d been dreaming a lot lately, vivid, disturbing dreams that the village women assured her were common to all pregnant women. But it wasn’t until she saw
him
standing there that she realized he’d been the dark, menacing figure in those dreams.

In that moment of recognition, she’d been transported to another time, another place. She’d been at Lady Trudgill’s ball, and a man more handsome than sin had swept her off onto a dance floor. A man who had commanded her with his presence and with something more, something she couldn’t explain and had not felt since. Not even with David Draycutt.

She should have run to the cottage for shelter from him. She could have locked the door, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Her every impulse had been to escape, to fly.

Devon called her name. He was closer than she’d imagined.

Panic surged through her. She ran now. He was her past, her personal demons come for a reckoning.

Two steps. Three. And then her foot caught a root. Her feet were suddenly yanked out from under her, and she fell to the ground. Her hands, fingers splayed, reached out to save herself—but she was too late.

She fell on her belly.

Pain ripped through her.
The baby!
She doubled over on the cold, damp earth trying to protect it. The ground was hard and rough beneath her cheek. Her stomach roiled with a will of its own.

What had she done to her baby?

Devon was by her side in a blink. “Leah!”

Tears came to her eyes at the concern in his voice. She wanted to shout at him to leave her alone. She didn’t deserve his worry. She’d wronged him. She’d wronged everyone she’d ever loved, and now her baby was paying for her sins.

Oh, God, help my baby!

Cramps rolled through her, even as she felt her water break.

Strong hands lifted her from the ground. “Talk to me. Tell me what is the matter.”

She reached for Devon, clenching the woolen material of his all-too-fashionable-for-Devon greatcoat in her fist. He’d lost his hat, and his black hair, always overlong for style, hung over his brow.

“My… baby… you must… help my baby.”

“I will, Leah. It’ll be all right. I promise, I will make it right.”

He slid his arm under her legs and rose to his feet, carrying her with him. She cried out as she felt another rush of warmth between her legs. This time, the pain vibrated through her like the dull thud of a drumhead being pounded.
It was starting!

She hadn’t expected it to be like this.

“Leah, your skirt… it is wet,” he said. “Is it blood—” he started to ask anxiously, but didn’t seem to want an answer. He pressed his lips together, his expression grim as he tightened his hold… and she realized that he didn’t understand. How could he? She had just learned the stages of labor herself. Then, again, maybe she
was
bleeding. Her body no longer felt like her own.

“Leah, what have I done? Dear God, what have I done?”

She wanted to say, “Nothing, Devon. You did nothing.” But the words wouldn’t come. The baby was consuming her, just like in her dreams. And the nightmare lover—the one she now knew was Devon—began carrying her through the woods. She didn’t know where. She didn’t care.

All she knew is that it hurt. Her baby was coming, and she was going to die. Her every woman’s instinct told her this was so. She’d given up everything she had for this child, and now both of them would die.

“I’ll find help, Leah. I will.” His voice shook slightly. Funny, she’d never thought Devon would be afraid of anything. Not strong, handsome Devon with the devil-may-care attitude.

Then another contraction began building inside her. Devon was taking her to the cottage. She realized that now. She buried her face in the folds of his coat. It smelled of him and fresh air and rain and the spices he loved. It smelled of safety. Yes, Devon would help her. Devon would know what to do. Devon would save her baby.

A litany started in her head. She began praying, not knowing if she talked to God or Devon.
Take my
life, but don’t let anything happen to my baby. Please save my baby.

London, 1814

Devon’s friends thought it a grand joke that he had been about to dance with Carrollton’s sister without realizing it. They claimed he had to be the only person in the world to not know the gossip swirling around the chit’s London debut.

The Carrolltons were bad ton if there ever was any. That they had the audacity to not only present their daughter at Court but also expect her to marry well had Society reeling. Yes, she was uncommonly beautiful, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. Numerous hostesses had vowed to snub her.

And although the little scene on the dance floor resurrected all the rumors concerning the circumstances of Devon’s parents’ deaths over twenty years ago, Miss Carrollton ironically became somewhat of an overnight sensation—as did Lady Trudgill, the ball’s hostess.

Suddenly, Miss Carrollton and Devon were on everyone’s guest list. Ambitious hostesses smelled scandal. They knew that just the mere speculation of the couple meeting again was enough to ensure the success of their party and a mention in the following day’s papers.

Of course, Devon never honored those invitations. He didn’t care what Miss Carrollton did, and to prove it he carefully avoided her company.

His circle of friends—all scapegrace rogues and out-and-out bounders to a man, no matter how loyal—couldn’t help but sing the praises of such a beautiful young woman who quickly became the Toast, and the talk, of the Town. They ribbed Devon mercilessly, comparing his family to Montagues and hers to Capulets. He pretended it didn’t matter.

But it did. It irritated him beyond rationalization.

Especially when he received a terse note from his grandfather: Brewster says you made a cake of yourself at Trudgill ball over Carrollton chit. I am displeased, but not surprised. A Marshall has never been nor will be the subject of gossip.

Kirkeby

It had been almost two months since he’d last heard from his grandfather. Another time when he’d been displeased. Devon wadded up the note before tossing it in the rubbish bin.

Unfortunately, a week later, in the Parson’s Knot, a club known for high-stakes games, Devon crossed Julian Carrollton’s path. He ignored Carrollton until he overheard Carrollton receiving the same sort of harsh teasing that Devon had received. Carrollton was deep in his cups, but in spite of that fact, his snarled, colorful answer damning all Marshalls to hell, “especially that bastard Huxhold,” infuriated Devon.

He’d been called names before, but not by the son of Richard Carrollton.

Something inside Devon snapped.

His parents would still be alive if Richard Carrollton had not cheated in that long-ago carriage race.

Some claimed the broken lynchpin had been an accident, nothing more. Richard had always maintained his innocence—but Devon’s grandfather had known differently.

He said his son always took care of his rigs. Someone had broken the pin on purpose. And to his mind the only person who had stood to gain by winning the race had been Richard.

Anguished beyond reason by the death of his only son, Devon’s grandfather had protested to the authorities, but there had been no proof, and Carrollton had walked away a free man. Carrollton had refused to accept the winnings from the race, but that had not consoled Lord Kirkeby.

Now, his son dared to call Devon a bastard.

It made Devon furious. Especially when Julian declared in a voice that carried above the sound of the rattling dice cups that his sister would rather “lie with dogs than dance with a Marshall.”