Lord Grayson's Bride
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Authors: Tarah Scott
Lord Grayson’s Bride
A Scrolls of Cridhe Novella
Tarah Scott
Lord Grayson’s Bride
Copyright © 2014 by Tarah Scott.
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Erin Dameron-Hill
Cover Art: Hot Damn Designs
Many thanks to my beta readers Tracey Reid, Debbie McCreary, Melba Solis-Zuniga, and Sweet Lily, aka, Lily Baldwin. I really appreciate your time and feedback. You guys are the best! Of course, thank you Kimberly Comeau for making sure all the details were right. Thanks to Erin Dameron-Hill, who created another perfect cover.
This, my first novella in the Scrolls of Cridhe, I dedicate to my sister Guardians, Ceci Giltenan, Sue-Ellen Welfonder, Lily Baldwin, Suzan Tisdale, Kate Robbins, and Kathryn Lynn Davis. Little did I know this project would bring me six such brilliant and kind women. Six true sisters. I am privileged to know all of you.
Inverness, Scotland September 1820
The hairs on the back of Nicholas’ neck suddenly stood at attention and he looked up from his cards. Henry Maxwell stood in the doorway of the card room, a troubled frown on his face. Nicholas silently cursed. What had his fiancé done this time?
He returned his attention to his opponent and, with half a dozen men watching, laid his final card, the king of clubs, on the table. A combination of exclamations went up in unison with Lord David Wylst’s muttered oath. The baron had expected his jack to win. The onlookers lifted their glasses in salute and took heavy swigs of their drinks.
“I am happy to take your marker,” Nicholas told Wylst, knowing full well the paper would be worthless.
Nicholas didn’t wait for the response he saw in Wylst’s eyes—at the very least, a demand for a rematch to win back his losses, at the worst, an accusation that the only way a Scot could best an Englishman was to cheat. The thought was confirmed when Nicholas rose and Wylst’s gaze flicked to his kilt. A corner of the baron’s mouth turned up in derision. Wylst was fool enough to openly betray his thoughts, despite the fact they were in the Scottish Highlands, not England.
Nicholas started toward Henry.
“You have the luck of the devil,” John McEwan commented as he passed.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he replied, and continued across the room.
Nicholas reached Henry, who whispered, “You might want to have a talk with your fiancé, and quickly.”
He released a weary sigh. “It’s only five o’clock. Too early for dancing.”
“This is more than the small impropriety of dancing too many times with another gentleman,” Henry said. “She disappeared into the west wing with Lindsay.”
“Lindsay?” Nicholas snorted. “He wouldn’t dare fraternize with Jo. He knows I would kill him.”
“I saw her go myself.”
Nicholas kept a bland expression as George MacKinley approached.
“Will ye play another game?” MacKinley asked. “Wylst wants the chance to win back his marker.”
“Wylst would do well to not bet money he doesn’t have.” Nicholas tired of pretense.
“Ye must give a man the chance to win back his money,” MacKinley insisted.
“I have no desire to read in tomorrow’s paper that he shot himself over losing what fortune he has left,” Nicholas replied.
“That’s overdramatic, would you no’ say?” MacKinley said.
“Nay. Now, if you will excuse us, Henry and I have business.”
MacKinley shrugged, and Nicholas left with Henry. They passed through the parlor of Barthmont Keep where guests of the two-week-long house party lounged.
When they reached the hallway and headed toward the west wing, Nicholas asked, “How long ago?”
“No more than five minutes.”
Was Josephine so determined to avoid their marriage that she would allow another man to bed her? Bed her? A five-minute liaison was nothing more than a quick—Nicholas cut off the thought with another oath. He was going to end her ridiculous games. No, he reflected with more reason. It wasn’t a game. He had no idea why, but the ink had barely dried on the marriage contract, when she began to careen down the road to Hell.
He hadn’t expected Josephine to be the seventeen year old girl he left behind six years ago when he joined the navy, but in the month since his return, he’d seen only glimpses of that girl. Growing up, he’d been close friends with her cousin, Stuart Knightly, who was two years Nicholas’ senior. Orphaned at fifteen, Stuart had gone to live with Josephine’s father. Josephine had been five, and Nicholas thirteen. Even then, she had been willful, but there was an urgency about her now that frightened him.
Nicholas wished for the dozenth time that Stuart were here. He was the closest thing to a brother Josephine had, and he might be able to shed light on what was wrong. But Stuart’s father hadn’t inherited the title—though he did manage to squander a sizeable fortune before dying in a carriage accident along with his wife—so Stuart had joined the navy to make his own way in the world.
Henry kept pace with Nicholas as they hurried through the labyrinth of hallways. Ten minutes later, they reached the stairway leading to the third floor where Lady Allaway housed a dozen of her guests. Nicholas took the stone steps two at a time, Henry close behind. When they reached the second floor, Nicholas lengthened his stride. They passed four doors and a woman’s voice inside the last room caused him to halt.
He looked at Henry.
“That isn’t Lindsay’s room,” Henry said.
“But it was Jo’s voice.”
Nicholas turned and flung open the door. He took in Josephine bent close to her lover as she straddled him on the couch, the bodice of her dress pushed down to her waist. She bolted upright. Her breasts, pushed high by her corset, nearly spilled over the top of her chemise. She yanked her dress up over her breasts and his gaze caught on the pearls around her neck. The day her father gave her the pearls was the day Nicholas realized he loved her...the day he decided to defy both their families and marry her. Seven years ago.
Anger and hurt twisted through Nicholas. John Robert Abercrombie, the Seventh Marquess of Beaumond, lay on the couch, trousers laid open. Josephine’s dress was hitched up to reveal white, silk stockings held in place by white garters trimmed in lace.
He took four steps to the couch, seized Josephine’s arm and yanked her to her feet. Then turned his stare onto the marquess. “My sister wasn’t enough? You must have everything that belongs to me?” It hadn’t been just his sister, but she’d been the final straw, and the one that had mattered most to him…until now.
Beaumond rose and began tucking his shirt into his pants. “I didn’t take anything, as you can see.”
“We will meet tomorrow at dawn,” Nicholas said.
Josephine’s gasp was cut off by Beaumond’s snort of disdain. “I do not duel.” He fastened his pants.
“That is your misfortune,” Nicholas said. “Tomorrow morning, you will wish you had more practice.”
Josephine grabbed his arm. “Stop being stubborn, Nicholas.”
“Quiet, Jo,” he ordered.
The marquess smoothed back his hair. “I have no intention of dueling, and you would be wise to get the notion out of your head. If you got off a lucky shot that killed me, you would hang.”
“Luck will have nothing to do with it,” Nicholas said.
“Skill or luck, I won’t be there. Dueling went out of fashion years ago.”
“Fashion be damned,” Nicholas snapped.
The marquess started toward the door.
“You will be there Beaumond, or I’ll drag you out of bed and beat you.”
He stopped and turned. “I am sorry, Grayson, but even if I were predisposed to dueling, it wouldn’t be over a piece of muslin.”
Nicholas lunged and drove a fist into the marquess’ belly. Josephine cried out as Beaumond doubled over with a loud groan. Nick seized his lapel and propelled him toward Henry, who stood in the doorway. Henry caught the man and steadied him on his feet.
“See his lordship to his room, please, Henry, and be good enough to send the proper notices to his seconds.” With that, Nicholas slammed the door shut and faced Josephine.
* * *
Josephine took a step backwards before catching herself. Facing Nicholas alone was far more frightening than being caught half naked with his rival. He seized her free wrist, his fingers like manacles, and she gave a startled cry. He stared for a long moment, the dark rage now mingled with a sadness she too often saw in his brown eyes these days. Pain twisted her heart, but she kept her gaze emotionless.
He released her. “Do you hate me so much, Jo?”
His question shocked her—then she realized this reaction was exactly what she’d wanted. She still clutched her bodice in an effort at modesty and started to turn aside to slip her arms back into the sleeves, then stopped. What better way to remind him of her infidelity than to remain half naked?
Josephine gave a careless laugh. “A man can take as many lovers as he likes, and we women are to accept it, but when a woman wants the same privilege, you men take it personally. Once we are married, what’s to stop you from taking a mistress?”
“Shouldn’t I commit the crime before you make me pay for it?” he said.
“I saw you dance with Rebecca Evans the other night at Lady Graham’s soiree. For all I know, you’re already guilty.”
The hurt in his eyes deepened. “You know better than that.”
She lifted her chin. “Do I?”
“Would you really sabotage our marriage before it’s even begun?”
She gave a careless laugh. “Lord, you are dramatic.”
“This isn’t a childish jibe like dancing too many times with another man,” he said. “Or flirting shamelessly in front of me. You let Beaumond touch you.”
Josephine repressed a shudder of revulsion. Allowing the marquess to touch her had taken all her powers of determination. She hadn’t even been able to conjure the desire for Nicholas that plagued her in order to arouse herself when Lord Beaumond opened his trousers. But Lord Beaumond it had to be, for Nick would never forgive her for fraternizing with the man who seduced his sister.
“Let the past go, Nicholas. Your sister recovered from her affair with Beaumond. She married well and has two children she dotes on.”
“You didn’t console her in those terrible months after he tossed her aside as if she were an old rag,” he said more to himself than her, and she knew he was remembering eight years ago, when Deanna had fallen prey to Lord Beaumond’s charm at the age of eighteen. The affair carried on for two months before Nicholas discovered a letter from his sister that gave away their liaison. “We feared for her life,” he said in a bitter voice.
But Josephine remembered all too well. When Beaumond appeared at the house party yesterday, Josephine knew God—in His perverse amusement—had answered her prayers. She had accepted guilt as her ever-constant companion, and bowed even now to the reminder that allowing Lord Beaumond to seduce her was a sin not only against God, but her family and the only man she had ever loved.
Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “Young lovers are dramatic. God knows, we were.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized it, and she hurriedly added, “But never mind that. Forget the duel. Lord Beaumond is right, if you got lucky enough to kill him, you would hang.”
Nicholas’ gaze bore into her. “Would you shed a single tear if I was hanged?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “I have known you since I was a girl. I care about you.”
“But you don’t want to marry me.”
Josephine turned, afraid he would see in her eyes how very much she did want to marry him. She sauntered to a table where bronze figurines of a poet and his muse sat on a marble table. “Why should I want to marry anyone?” Jo traced a finger along the poet’s toga-clad body. “Marriage means I go from being owned by my father to being owned by my husband.” Her fingers tightened around the fabric she still pressed against her breasts. Being owned by Nicholas would be heavenly. Something inside her shattered and she found herself forcing back tears.
“Your father never treated you like chattel,” he said. She heard the clink of glass and realized he had gone to the sideboard and was pouring a drink. “He adores you and your sister.”
“You call being bartered off to a rich earl adoring?” she retorted.
A moment of deadly silence drew out between them. “A rich earl who loves you,” he finally said. “Me.”
Josephine’s heart constricted. He did love her...and she loved him. But love was the very thing that could destroy them.
“Papa accepted your offer because it came from the great Earl of Grayson,” she said. “Along with more money than anyone else was willing to offer, of course.”
“Did it occur to you that I made sure he couldn’t refuse my offer?”
She swung to face where he leaned a hip against the sideboard. “Oh, indeed, it did. When I refused your offer, you bought me. I am not at all surprised that you defend my father. You two are much alike.”
Yes,” he said, his voice hard. “We both know how to get what we want. I am not sorry, Jo. I won’t live life without you.”
“And you had the resources to buy me.”
“Don’t you think your father accepted my offer because he knows I love you?” Nicholas said. “That I will care for you…protect you?”
“From myself, you mean,” she retorted.
“Don’t act as if it hasn’t been necessary. Today is a perfect example.”
In a flash, she closed the distance between them. He slammed the glass down onto the sideboard and straightened as she went up on tiptoes in an attempt to get nose-to-nose with him.
She was still forced to tilt her head up, but narrowed her eyes, and said, “I had the situation with Lord Beaumond perfectly well in hand.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “So I saw.”
“I lived without you for six years, Nick—and quite well, if you must know. Yet you act as if I cannot take care of myself, or worse, as if no other man has ever loved me.”
“No doubt you left a string of broken hearts from Inverness to Edinburgh. But none of those poor devils knew you. God knows, if they did, they would have put as much distance as possible between themselves and you.”
