Delilah Marvelle - Prelude to a Scandal

Hell, he needed to get her back into the bath chamber and get his servants to clean this mess up. He gestured toward the adjoining room. “Go. Remove your gown. I’ll … fetch something for you to wear.” Though he didn’t know what, seeing he’d dismissed every female servant from the house eight months ago.

“You want me to remove my gown?” Justine gurgled out a laugh and flung water in his direction as she waved her hand about. “If I did not know any better, I would say you were intent on bedding me before the actual wedding. And whilst I’m rather flattered, you haven’t exactly earned it, have you?”

This coming from a woman who had originally offered herself without marriage. He leveled his gaze at her. “I did not mean it that way.”

“I may be a virgin, Bradford, but that does not make me stupid.”

He was not about to have her categorize him. Because he was not that man anymore, even though he still fought those same urges.

Radcliff pointed rigidly at her. “Now you listen here. I have spent these last eight months of my life reforming myself. I am not the same gormless man you once knew. I am a new man. A man capable of far more self-control than you dare mock me with.”

“Oh?” she challenged, lifting both brows.

“Yes. Oh. ” He purposefully stepped closer, waving a hand up and down the length of her body. “Why, I could easily strip you naked here and now and walk away without even deigning your body another glance. Do you wish me to prove it? Come. I’ll prove it. To you and myself.”

The force of his own conviction in that moment was so strong and empowering, he almost wished she would put him to the test.

She scrambled frantically back, flinging droplets of water whilst trailing more streams across the wood floor. “Is crudely taunting me your way of showing love and affection? Because I do not approve of it!”

He couldn’t help but snort. “Love and … hell, Justine, I thought you, of all women, born and bred unto a scientific, rational man, would have realized by now that love and affection have no place in the real world.”

Her lips parted in astonishment as she shoved several wet, dripping sections of her hair from the sides of her face. “What world are you living in? Despite my scientific upbringing, I happen to believe in love and affection. Why? Because it requires sentiment and spirit and emotion and the desire and passion to genuinely display one’s soul ardently to another.”

He rolled his eyes at her rich, honeyed words. Similar words his own mother had often spoken to his father whilst making a cuckold out of him. “Someone hand me a dagger and spare me from listening to any more of this.”

She narrowed her gaze. “‘Tis obvious you have no respect for me or what I believe.”

“Respect does not mean people need always agree, Justine.” Radcliff strode past her to the dresser, and flung its wood-lacquered door open. Yanking out a nightshirt, he offered it to her. “Here. Don this.”

She lowered her gaze and looked away, shaking her head.

He eyed her, sensing she was genuinely upset. Damn women and their ability to make him soft in the head and hard in the cock.

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Give me five days. If your father isn’t released from Marshalsea in that time, the wedding is off and you owe me nothing. And rest assured, even then, I will continue to barter for his release. How is that for respect?”

Her gaze darted back toward him. In astonishment.

Her astonishment reflected his own. For if those five days produced nothing, he’d be without a bride. And though, yes, there were plenty of other women who’d be more than willing to play duchess despite his scar and his reputation, none of them were nearly as intelligent or as unyielding as Justine. He needed more than a beautiful face for a wife. He needed a soul made of iron. A soul capable of handling anything.

Radcliff shook the nightshirt at her. “Take it,” he muttered. “Any gentleman would agree you should not remain in wet clothing.”

Her full lips spread into a stunning smile that magically brightened not only her face but her beautiful eyes. “Will it really take only five days?”

“There is one highly placed man I’ve yet to contact. He is known to have the king’s ear and happens to be Lord Winfield’s rival. My solicitor mentioned him to me just yesterday. Perhaps it will end with him. Now go. Put this on.”

She stumbled toward him. Grabbing hold of his shirt, she marched toward the bath chamber, still boasting a smile.

A smile that made it all worth his while.

She halted in the doorway and announced over her shoulder, “I always knew you had a heart, Bradford. Always.” With that, she slammed the door behind herself.

He blinked, realizing that despite Justine’s unusual upbringing, she still very much believed in all things female. Romance and words of love.

He was going to be a sore disappointment to her. But then again, that was all he ever seemed to be these days: a disappointment to everyone, including himself.

Allowing a man to kiss or touch you, at any time during your courtship, even before a set wedding, is allowing too much. After all, it is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason to run down that altar aisle. It is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason as to why, on his own wedding day, he should smile.

How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

JUSTINE SMOOTHED OUT Radcliff’s white cotton nightshirt and hurriedly rolled up the large, loose sleeves. She glanced down at the gaping open front of his shirt which provocatively exposed her damp lilac corset and chemise. She cringed and clutched the front together, holding it shut. At least they were engaged.

“Are you clothed?”

She jumped at the sound of Radcliff’s deep voice from the other side of the closed door. “I doubt you can call it that,” she yelled back.

“You needn’t fret. We’ll throw a cloak or two over you and dash you home. Though I have a feeling your mother will hold me accountable for your absence and lack of clothing. Send along my apologies, will you?”

Justine smirked. “I really wouldn’t worry about my mother. She doesn’t even know I’m here. She overstayed past calling hours whilst visiting Father at Marshalsea and therefore won’t be allowed back out until the gates reopen in the morning.” She tiptoed with cold, bare feet across the bath chamber, avoiding puddles on the tile, then opened the door and edged out.

Bradford sat on the four-poster, one trouser-clad knee propped up, his bare foot rumpling the white satin linens. His shaven jaw tightened as his dark eyes trailed the length of her body.

Her heart fluttered in response. The way it always fluttered foolishly in his presence. She tried to shove away the erotic image of his large muscled body and that sizable erection, but it was no use. It had been seared into her thoughts and would remain there until she was given the pleasure of seeing him naked again.

Despite Bradford’s long, puckered scar, he was still very dashing. His white linen shirt continued to hang open, exposing a strong neck and a sprinkle of soft-looking black curls. With or without clothes, the man had a commanding presence that was raw, overwhelming and beyond exciting. Why was it she had the strangest desire to consummate their marriage right now?

He lowered his trouser-clad leg to the floor and kept staring at her. As if he’d never seen a woman before.

The piercing silence lingering between them seemed to further emphasize how alone they really were. And how they were breaking every single rule set out by respectable society, what with her lack of clothing and his bed barely a few feet away. Given his reputation, she was quite certain this wasn’t new to him. Not as it was for her.