Prelude to a Scandal (16 page)

Justine laughed, unable to hide her surprise. “Why, Radcliff. You’ve been reading.”

“That is all I did today.”

She grinned. “I’m very proud of you.”

“At least one of us is.”

She laughed again and eyed his shadow, which still sat on the edge of the desk barely a few feet away from her. “You may not consider yourself fashionable, Radcliff, but I have always considered you to be.”

“Imagine that. So. Were you looking for me?”

Although she wanted to tell him that yes, she certainly was, she didn’t want to excite the poor man and create another misunderstanding between them. “Not to disappoint you, Radcliff, but no. I was looking for your list.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed all the same.

He rose, the desk he’d been sitting on creaking, and made his way toward her. Although she couldn’t readily see him, she could feel him drawing closer. Her hands grew sweaty, and she wondered whether she should flee. After all, with him being inebriated, she highly doubted he would exhibit much self-control. And yet…she couldn’t move. It was as if her skirts had been stitched to the carpet she stood on.

He paused before her, bringing with him the tangy sweet scent of cigars. After a long moment, he finally said, “Children.”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“Children was number five on my list.”

Well, that was certainly unexpected.

“Tell me I am right and that one of the things you want from me and this marriage is children.” There was a huskiness to his tone that caused her stomach to flutter way too much. “Tell me it is my children you want.”

She took a large step back. “Well, yes. Of course. Eventually. When you and I are prepared to make such a commitment.”

He took back the step she had placed between them. “At three and thirty, you doubt I’m prepared for such a commitment?”

“Age is not what determines whether one is prepared.”

He sighed. “Will I ever be able to earn your trust again after what I did?”

“It will take time. You must demonstrate that you are earnest and in control.”

“I am demonstrating control right now,” he whispered. “Do you think I want to stand here, in the dark, and merely discuss the many ways I should avoid scandal? Is that what you think?”

She bit back a laugh, despite herself. “I am proud of the efforts you are making, Radcliff. I am also proud of the generosity you have shown Miss Thurlow today.”

“I want you to be proud of me. I need you to be.” He paused. “Can I…hold you?”

Her heart beat faster. She shook her head. “No. Not whilst you are inebriated. Tomorrow. When you are more aware of what it is you are doing.”

“Then let me kiss you. I want to kiss you.”

“No. Not as you are.” She held up her hands, readying to push away his chest and his arms. But surprisingly, and thankfully, they did not come. “What can I do, then?” he growled from her right, circling close enough for her to hear the intake of his steady breath and smell the port. “Tell me,” he insisted from behind and then from her left. “Tell me. So that I may do it.”

Justine let out a shaky breath, willing herself to say exactly what was in her heart. “You can profess your love for me.”

He paused directly before her and leaned in. “And why would I do that?”

The man certainly knew how to make a woman swoon. “Because I want more than lust from you, Radcliff. We’re going to be together for the rest of our lives. Has that not ever occurred to you? Do you think you could ever learn to love me? Ever?”

He snorted. “Justine. Love is a mere…myth. You know that, dearest, don’t you? ’Tis nothing but a stupid myth perpetuated by society to make everyone think someone cares. When in fact no one cares.” He paused. “So what about you?”

Her brows rose. “What about me?”

“Do you love me?”

She snorted. “You seem to be missing your own point.”

He huffed out a breath. “I suppose I am. But…let us say if you could genuinely put true emotion into the word love without any deception whatsoever, could you love me?”

She clenched her fists. It was as if he expected her to give him everything even whilst he in turn offered nothing. “No, Radcliff. I could not.”

“Why not? I am your husband. It is your duty to love me.”

He really was hopeless. And even more so when he was foxed. “You haven’t really given me anything to love. Have you?”

“Oh, well, now. Allow me to change that.” He grabbed hold of her hands, snapping them down hard between them, and dipped toward her throat, sliding his hot tongue down the side of her exposed neck, causing her to choke with surprise. “Do you love me now? Or shall I offer you more of my tongue?”

A gasp of a breath escaped her as she struggled to break free from his pinching grasp. “Radcliff!”

He released her and let out a booming laugh, stumbling backward, his heavy steps echoing within the study, and caught himself on the desk, still laughing. “Imagine. I have two beautiful women staying in my house. Two. And I can’t have either one!”

He kept right on guffawing.

As if it were, in fact, amusing.

Justine scrambled back, breathing heavily. For the sake of his life, not to mention hers, and for the sake of their marriage, she had to make him believe—and make herself believe—that he was worth saving. That he could conquer whatever was consuming his soul. “The fact that you do not realize how dire your situation is worries me to no end, Radcliff. I can only do so much. You do realize that?”

His laughter ended abruptly as his shadow shifted toward her. “My dearest Justine,” he said hoarsely through the darkness. “You needn’t worry about me. Hell, you needn’t even care. I, Radcliff Edwin Morton, have been duke since the age of fourteen. I have been overseeing everyone’s life, from servant to tenant to my own brother, never once—not once—depending upon anyone for anything. I know how to take care of myself.” He nodded, his shadowed outline staggering against the desk. “What I need right now is time away from you. I cannot function when I’m around you. I…can’t.”

He staggered again, his boots echoing from his movements, and suddenly his shadow slipped from sight with a resounding thud that landed somewhere on the darkened floor.

Justine stumbled toward him, her heart pounding so fast she couldn’t catch her breath. “Radcliff!”

She fell onto her knees beside him and fumbled to find his head, blindly trailing her hands across the length of his buttons and up toward his silk cravat and shoulders which were still encased in his evening coat. Her fingers grazed his warm, stubbled face and the wide, smooth welt of his scar. At least he was still breathing. But dear God, he wasn’t moving. Nor was he responding to her touch.

A helpless sob escaped her, but she somehow willed strength into her voice. “Jefferson!” she yelled over her shoulder back toward the dimly lit entryway. “Jefferson!”

Hands jumped to her arms, and her heart skidded to a momentary halt. Radcliff’s strong fingers dug into the material of her gown. “No. I don’t need anyone. Not you. Not him. Leave. I need to be alone. It is what I know.”

“Oh, Radcliff,” she whispered, feeling a tear tracing its way down her heated cheek. Why did she have to love him so much? And why did she want to believe that he could change? When he himself didn’t even believe it?

She leaned closer toward him, cupping his face with her hands. “You are not alone anymore. You have me. You will always have me. You know that, don’t you?”

His fingers relaxed, and he softly whispered up at her, “Yes. I do. And thank God you’re incredibly good at fucking or I don’t think I’d be able to survive.”

Justine released his face with a solid push. Was that all she was to him? Was that all she would ever be? She smacked his chest. And smacked it again, even harder for good merit, wishing she could pound some sense into him. “I am worth more than a stupid fuck, Bradford!”

Running steps echoed from down the corridor. Jefferson skidded into the entryway of the study, his chest heaving, his large frame outlined by the faint candlelight beyond. “Your Grace?” he echoed, searching the darkness. “What—”

Radcliff grunted as he shifted and pushed himself to sit up on the floor. “I do not require anything, Jefferson. Go. Retire. Hell, leave the house for all I care.”

Jefferson hesitated, then quietly turned and left the room.

The bastard. Justine fisted her hand and punched at Radcliff’s shoulder as hard as she could.

“Ow, woman!” he roared. “What was that for?”

“For what you just said to Jefferson. That was completely uncalled for.”

“What did I say?”

She choked back a sob she simply could not control. It was pointless trying to reason with him. Why fight so hard to save the soul of a man who didn’t even care for his own soul?

Radcliff leaned toward her, his hand patting at her skirts. “Why are you crying? Justine, don’t cry. Come. Come here.”

Gritting her teeth, she shoved his hands away. Hard. “Do not touch me! You are not in a state to touch me!”

“Damn it all to hell. I can never seem to please you.” He pushed himself up onto his feet and stumbled off to the side. He straightened and stalked toward the doorway. He paused, his broad back and tall frame outlined by shadows and faint light and said without turning, “I still like you.” He nodded, then disappeared.

Justine let out a breath and pushed herself up onto her feet, wondering how she was going to survive much more of this. She blindly made her way through the room and hurried into the candlelit corridor, not wanting to be alone in the darkness.

Bringing shaky hands to her tear-streaked face, she swiped away the evidence of her emotions. She wanted to believe that what Radcliff had really meant to say to her before leaving was that he loved her. That he loved her a lot. But it was going to take far more than words to make her believe that he was even capable of it.

“What did he do?” a female voice demanded. “I heard you shouting for assistance.”

Justine froze, dropping her hand to her sides.

Matilda hurried down the candlelit corridor as best she could, her hands firmly holding up her belly from beneath, still dressed in her morning gown.

Justine’s heart skipped. The last thing she wanted was for Matilda to worry about her. Matilda needed peace and strength for the birth of her child. Shaking her head and waving a hand about, Justine feigned a laugh as she approached her. “Nothing happened. Nothing.”

Matilda paused before her, searching her face. Her gaze narrowed. “You lie. Why are you crying?”

“I am emotional, is all.”

Matilda grabbed hold of her shoulders and gripped them so hard those fingers pinched her skin beneath the material of her gown. Leaning toward her, she shook her and hoarsely whispered, “Do not give him excuses. For that is how it all begins. One excuse after another. I gave Carlton those very same excuses, and yet, did I earn his love? Did I earn anything? No. I did not. I only earned my own self-loathing. Justine. Do not think you can earn the love of a broken soul. For you will not. Do you wish your life to be like mine? Do you wish to live each moment regretting that you even breathe whilst in the presence of a man?”

Justine swallowed and shook her head. “Bradford is not like Carlton. He would never raise a hand to me. I know he wouldn’t.”

“I never thought Carlton would raise a hand to me, either. But he did. Repeatedly. And the fact that they are brothers worries me.” Matilda hissed out a breath and slid her hands down the length of Justine’s arms, rubbing them.

Releasing her, Matilda glanced behind them, into the darkness of the corridor that was not illuminated by candles. “You shouldn’t sleep alone. Sleep with me tonight. And if need be, every night.” Matilda turned back toward her and wrapped her arm around her waist and slowly pulled her toward the direction of the bedchambers. “Come.”

Justine allowed herself to be pulled along. “I am supposed to be assisting you. Not you assisting me.”

Matilda squeezed her tighter against her side and belly. “This is what friends do. And after what you have done for me today, you are and will always be my friend.”

Justine squeezed her back. Although Radcliff—not to mention all of London—might not approve of her new and very pregnant friend, she approved of her. And that was all that mattered.

Indeed. From this moment forth, she would personally see that Matilda’s stay here at the Bradford home was something worth remembering. Something Matilda would tell her own child about for years and years to come. And Radcliff would contribute to the cause, whether it pleased him or not.

It is true. Life is often half spent before we ever come to truly understand its purpose. It is my hope, however, that I can prevent you from wasting any more of that life than is really necessary.
—
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

BRIGHT, GOLDEN LIGHT pressed against the closed lids of Radcliff’s eyes. His limbs felt unbearably tight and raw. The smell of port clung to his nostrils, to his skin. Even worse, the taste of sour port clung to his mouth.

At least he could breathe. Though hardly, seeing his throat burned and every puff of air crinkled his dry lips.

He winced, a headache pinching his skull.

Someone nudged his shoulder. “Your Grace?”

Radcliff opened his eyes and squinted against the brightness blinding him. As his vision adjusted to the unexpected sunlight pouring in through the glass windows, Jefferson’s full face and large shoulders came into view.

He blinked. Why was he on the floor? In the receiving room? With his butler kneeling beside him?

Jefferson grinned down at him, his round blue eyes clearly amused. “For a moment, I thought you were dead, Your Grace.”

Radcliff grunted out a laugh, then winced, realizing more than his head hurt. His chest and the rest of his body ached as if he’d been trampled by a coach and full set of horses. “Forgive me for disappointing you, Jefferson. I am still very much alive.”

“Ah, now, I wouldn’t worry, Your Grace. I am quite used to people disappointing me.” Jefferson wedged his gloved hands beneath Radcliff’s arms and pulled him up into a sitting position. “Are you well enough to stand?”

Radcliff nodded and, pulling in a deep breath, scrambled up to his booted feet and stood. He blinked, and as the room swayed momentarily, his mind began searching for the memory of the night before. He swallowed down the nausea rolling through him, and though he recalled very little, the one thing he did remember, the one thing that echoed within his thoughts with a clarity he could not forget, were Justine’s sobs.

Oh, God. What had he done?

He glanced down at his trousers and fumbled with them, but found they were intact and properly buttoned. Yet that didn’t mean he hadn’t—

He turned and grabbed hold of the lapels on Jefferson’s dark livery, yanking the large butler toward him. “What did I do?” he demanded. “Did I hurt her? Did I hurt my wife?”

Jefferson stared at him. “Not that I know of, Your Grace. But all that port and brandy didn’t make you in the least pleasant. That I do know.”

This was not happening. This could not be happening. He was supposed to make Justine proud. Not make her cry. Radcliff released the butler and stumbled back, nausea clenching his throat and stomach. “Where is she?”

“The duchess and Miss Thurlow departed late this morning, Your Grace. Two hours ago.”

He choked. She wasn’t already leaving him, was she? “Departed? To where?”

“Miss Thurlow was in dire need of clothing, given her gentle state. As you may recall she did not bring a trunk and did not wish to retrieve her belongings from Lord Carlton.”

“You mean my wife took Miss Thurlow shopping?” he echoed. “Out in broad daylight?”

Jefferson eyed him. “Yes. It is indeed daylight, Your Grace. And that is usually when the shops are open.”

Oh, damn. This was all his fault. What the hell had he been thinking drinking so much last night? “Did she tell you where she was going?” he demanded.

“No, Your Grace.” Jefferson dug into the inner vest pocket of his livery and withdrew a page of folded ivory stationery. “But the duchess did leave this for you.”

Radcliff slipped it from those large gloved fingers. Dreading every word, he unfolded it and read:

Your Grace, Miss Thurlow and I have decided to enjoy this bright, sunny day outside the home. I hope you do not mind my extending your credit at a few shops. Respectfully,
The Duchess of Bradford Respectfully? He didn’t like the way she’d written that word. Unlike all the other words that were neatly and perfectly scribed, respectfully had been scrawled with obvious haste. As if she’d been forced to offer him something and could only think of respectfully.

He stared at the name he had given her, the name of his wife, his Justine, and slid his finger across its length, not caring Jefferson was there to see it.

Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He had a feeling he knew where Justine had gone. And he hoped he was right. The ton was anything but forgiving in matters such as these. Nor could he have Carlton hearing about their outing, or the bastard would only end up showing up at his door.

Radcliff folded the letter and eyed his butler. “Have my coach ready to depart within twenty minutes.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jefferson bowed and departed.

From here on out, he was going to prove himself to Justine. Even if it bloody killed him.