Delilah Marvelle - Prelude to a Scandal

He froze, his bare fingers lingering on her warmth and the soft feel of her gown. This was a mistake. A horrid mistake. In a torrent of solid blows, she hit his backside, making him even more aware of her body and his own. His hands gripped her more firmly, pressing her against his hard chest, even as she flailed. His cock pulsed against the wool of his trousers, taunting him to indulge. Taunting him to break his fast.

He sucked in a breath. No. He wasn’t ready for any of this. Yanking her off and down his shoulder, he dumped her slippered feet onto the floor and scrambled back.

Her eyes widened as her arms flailed for balance against the ledge of the tub.

Radcliff lunged to grab on to her, but she toppled backward, cloak, skirts, stockings, slippers and all, with a huge scream, and disappeared with a splash, causing the water to rise up from within the oval tub.

“Oh, damn. Justine—” He laughed, despite his own discomfort, and scrambled to yank her out of the tub by grabbing hold of her arms.

She sat up, pushing his arms away. “Do not touch me!”

He jumped back, shaking the water from his bare arms, his chest heaving and his heart pounding.

“Pfffff!” Strands of wet, long hair were unraveling from their pins and streaming around her face and shoulders. Well defined, full breasts rose and fell, the drenched, clinging material of her gown displaying each labored breath she took. “Why … you practically tossed me in!”

A shapely, pale limb, visible up to her rounded knee taunted him as she shifted, and her wet gown bunched up in the water, bubbling around her waist. Feeling his trousers clinging to a still solid cock, he hissed out a breath and desperately fought his need to spill seed.

He had to leave. Now.

Radcliff jogged straight into the bedchamber and slammed the door behind him, leaning his back against it. After a few heavy, almost-gasping breaths, he pushed himself away from the door.

Dear God. He was still the same man, unable to control his own lewd thoughts and urges. Thoughts and urges he was certain he’d mastered whilst in seclusion. He didn’t realize his transition into making Justine a permanent part of his life was going to be this bloody difficult.

Shakily grabbing up whatever shirt he could find, he yanked it on, leaving the ends hanging out over the front of his trousers to better hide whatever displays of arousal he could not control. Noting his hands were smeared with wet gunpowder, he shook his head and swiped them against the front of his white linen shirt. So much for his bath. And everything else he’d bloody worked for. Hell, he had about as much control over his cock as a dog over its master.

The violent splashing of water coming from the bath chamber made him pause. “I merely needed to clothe myself. I promise to be right in!”

The splashing ceased. “I prefer you remain right where you are, Bradford. You’ve done enough. I’ll pull myself out.”

“I …” She didn’t sound all too pleased. Not that he blamed her. He eyed the door and wondered if he should go in all the same. “Are you certain I can’t—”

“I am more than certain. Stay right where you are.”

He headed toward the bed and sagged onto the mattress with a breath. So much for making a good impression on his soon-to-be wife.

There was a huge splash, as if she’d jumped out of the water in one swoop. “Oh!”

There was a thud.

Radcliff winced. Most likely, she was on the floor. He jumped to his feet. “Justine?”

There were a few huffing breaths. “Never you mind. ‘Tis my gown is all. The water is making it rather … difficult … for me to even … move my … legs. ”

Her legs? Radcliff lifted an inquisitive brow and eyed the closed door behind him, already envisioning them together. Her soaked gown, delectably clinging to every inch of her shapely, stockinged legs. Him ripping the wet material from her body, her gasping breaths mingling with his own. A thrill raced through his gut imagining his fingers gliding up the length of her thighs and spreading them. Her panting and the smell of her arousal drifting up between—

Radcliff scrambled to unbutton the flap on his wool trousers. He could hardly breathe or think or—

He instantly snapped both hands up. He stood there for a long, agonizing moment and focused on steadying his breath as his chest ached and heaved from the effort.

You have more control than this. You have already proven it to yourself. Radcliff stood absolutely still as his dewed skin and throbbing cock cooled from the memory of his lewd thoughts. Lowering his hands, he rebuttoned the open flap of his trousers, doing his best not to graze his wanting erection.

He was such a bastard. He ought to be helping Justine off the floor. Not— “Perhaps we ought to remove your gown,” he quickly offered, heading toward the closed door. “It will be easier for you to—” He cringed. Removing her gown was probably not such a good idea. Aside from the obvious, he had more respect for Justine than that.

There was a moment of awkward silence. “Stay right where you are, Bradford. I’ll manage on my own.”

Radcliff huffed out a ragged breath and veered back to the bed, sagging against the mattress. Fortunately, his erection had subsided.

There was a quick clicking of heels against the tile. The door banged open and out she sailed. Her gown alone must have dragged out half the bleeding tub. Water rapidly pooled and spread its wet fingers across the floor, streams and streams leaking from the hem of her gown and the edges of her now-flat sleeves. She glared at him, her smooth cheeks ablaze.

His breath hitched as he looked away, trying not to focus on the outline of her body or her face. He could still remember all too fondly when she’d first arrived from Africa two years ago at a lush eighteen and as sweet as Tokay. Her hair had borne brilliant streaks of spun gold and her skin had been so beautifully tinted from the sun, unlike the pasty faces London was notorious for. Though her skin had long paled, leaving behind a faint trail of freckles, and the golden streaks in her hair had faded into what was now a subdued, chestnut hue, she was still absolutely stunning. And that was just her face.

Justine set her chin and marched past his four-poster, trailing a glistening stream of water. “I require more respect than this. The marriage is off. Good night, good riddance and goodbye.”

Radcliff winced, knowing she probably meant it, and jumped off the bed. He refused to be left alone with his thoughts anymore. He needed this. He needed her. A wife who would hold him responsible for who and what he was on a daily basis.

Jogging toward her, he grabbed hold of her soaked sleeve. “Justine, I didn’t—”

“Do not touch me!” She moved back and away, teetering for a moment against the weight of her gown. “Does the devil reside within your soul? I can think of no other reason why a grown man would throw his own fiancée into a tub of water and then up and blatantly shut the door, leaving her to pull herself out.”

The devil did reside within his soul. And no one knew that more than he. But he’d come to believe these past eight months that he was stronger than the devil. And he was going to prove it. To her. To himself. To everyone.

“Forgive me. I—” He paused. Noting his hand was wet from touching her, he swiped it against his trousers. He eyed the wooden floor beneath his bare feet, which was steadily acquiring more water from her gown. “You’re flooding the entire room.”

She snorted. “But of course I’m flooding the entire room. Do you have any idea how much material goes into a gown? I have no doubt whatsoever that I soaked up most, if not all, of your filthy bath water.”