Delilah Marvelle - Prelude to a Scandal

Wanting to prove to him, and herself, that she wasn’t in the least bit intimidated, and that she could rival any woman he’d ever had, she drifted in his direction and paused, lingering only a few feet away. “You’re staring, Bradford,” she teased.

He cleared his throat and looked away, sending damp strands of dark hair cascading into his eyes and toward his scar. “I … forgive me.”

He cleared his throat again and rose to his full, imposing height of six feet. “We should cover you up a bit more. Your legs … they … they’re showing.”

How utterly charming. The Duke of Bradford, and soon to be her Duke of Bradford, The Rake Extraordinaire, was actually stumbling and mumbling and apologizing for being a man. And was even telling her to further cover up!

This certainly deserved a bit more study and observation. Seeing she was going to be his fiancée for at least another five days, she had a right to know what a man of his years, upbringing and experience did or did not find attractive. Never mind if what she was about to ask would cause half of London to faint.

“What do you think of them?” she drawled.

He eyed her. “What do I think of what?”

“ My legs. Seeing that you had mentioned them.”

He stared at her. “What about your legs?”

“Well … ever since I can remember, I’ve always wondered what the preoccupation was all about. Did you know that the native women in Africa don’t cover their legs and ankles the same way women do here? Now why is that, do you suppose? Does a leg mean more to us than it does to them? And if so, why? They’re only legs, after all, taking us from one place to the next. You don’t see male giraffes gawking at the legs of their mates, even though they’re certainly long enough to warrant such a thing.”

Justine shot out her right leg, her damp, transparent chemise tightening against the extension, and pointed her bare toes in his direction. She tilted her head to one side, observing her own limbs in a scientific sort of way. “I’m afraid they’re a bit bowed, and for that I can only apologize, but aside from that, what do you think? From a British male perspective? Are they at all attractive? Surely, you’ve seen more than enough to provide an objective opinion.”

He continued to stare at her, abashed.

She returned his stare and quickly dropped her foot back onto the wooden floor. So much for the British male perspective. Apparently, she was being too crass for even a homo sapien libertine. “I suppose I should apologize. I didn’t realize—”

“There is no need for you to apologize, Justine,” he said in a low tone. “In answer to your question, they are not bowed. In fact, they are very shapely. Might I also point out, if we were giraffes, I would probably be gawking and whistling and making all the other giraffes feel very, very uncomfortable.”

Her eyes widened as she gurgled out a laugh. Oh, now they were both being very naughty. And what was worse, she loved it. It reminded her of the wild and funny Bradford she’d shamelessly preened over. The Bradford who had always made everything so exciting in an otherwise very orchestrated and boring London world.

Though her entire face burned, she decided to offer her fiancée a tad bit more. She’d already tossed every etiquette book out the window and had every intention of showing how grateful she was he hadn’t taken her up on her rash proposal of a few measly nights.

Offering him a shy smile, she gathered her wet chemise and slid it up to where his shirt ended to give him a better view of everything below the knees. In case her wet chemise wasn’t transparent enough.

Bradford hissed out a breath—as if something were terribly wrong with her legs—and closed what little space was left between them. He grabbed hold of her chin, yanking it up toward his own face. “Drop it,” he demanded, his fingers now digging into her skin, causing it to burn. “Drop it before I do it for you.”

Justine instantly dropped her chemise and stared up at him in astonishment, realizing it wasn’t male lust that had riled him. What was more, his marred face was hauntingly close. She swallowed, feeling as though she were looking at one side of his face through broken glass.

Instead of breaking her chin free of his pinching grasp, she searched his eyes. “Why are you angry? I thought you would have enjoyed that.”

His dark brows came together as he loosened his grip. The rough pads of his fingers slowly slid back and forth, as if trying to soothe her skin. “You don’t know what you are doing, innocent Justine. Forgive me,” he murmured. “I should not have taken that tone with you.”

Justine blinked up at him, still unable to move. To be sure, this was not the same Bradford she’d once known. He was so morbidly tense, reserved and too serious for her own liking.

What on earth had changed his playful, adventurous soul into … this? She was certain his scar held the answer to her question. “What happened to you? What happened since we last met? You are not the same man. You once loved to engage in flirtations.”

He dropped his hand from her chin, his dark brows softening, but continued to linger before her. “I don’t want to be the man you once knew. He had no self-control or self-respect.”

She sucked in a breath. “Libertine aside, he was everything I could ever want. He was generous and charming and playful and witty. He knew how to make me laugh and blush and always preferred to sit on the floor as opposed to a chair. I adored him. I … still do.” She bit her lip, realizing she was practically flinging herself at him. As always.

His dark eyes took on an intense, blazing look as he suddenly grabbed her waist and yanked her hips toward his own, grinding her against the length of his large body.

She gasped as his hands molded her closer, pressing her more firmly against every inch of him. As if forcing her to feel the pulsing heat of his skin, the beating of his heart, and the rigid bulge in his trousers which dug into her damp, corseted stomach.

Her heart thumped and her stomach flipped. Having never had any physical relations with a man, and having never been held by one so close, either, the contact was shocking. Not to mention downright arousing.

“If you really knew who he was,” he said in a low, clipped tone, “I doubt you’d feel adoration.”

The tension in his muscles gave her a sense of the powerful force barely being restrained.

Justine’s pulse thundered as she was torn between pulling away and melting against the firm, crushing embrace of those taut muscles. Endless sensations overwhelmed her body, which was probably why she couldn’t make any sense of him or his words. “Bradford, what—”

He released her and stepped back, setting a notable distance between them. His broad chest rose and fell beneath his open shirt as if he struggled to breathe. He readjusted the erection within his trousers and swiped at his face with shaky hands, unable to look at her.

She swallowed, knowing his blatant rejection had nothing to do with her. Something was tormenting him. But what? Her throat ached at the thought of him suffering this much.

He turned away, blowing out a heavy breath, and purposefully kept his broad back to her. As if ashamed by his arousal, by his need. As if he truly hated himself.

Justine fidgeted with her hands, not knowing what to make of him. Perhaps it was best she leave. “I should go. But before I do … I … I would like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” She paused. “Well. Aside from throwing me into the tub, that is.” She feigned a laugh, but seeing he still hadn’t turned or appeared amused by her little quip, she sighed.