One Night Of Scandal Read online

  The responsibility for their little family had fallen on Laura's slim shoulders when she was only thirteen years old, yet she'd never once made Lottie or George feel like a burden or a nuisance.

  Laura drew Lottie into a quick, hard hug, her eyes dry but fierce. "If you ever have need of me, you have only to send word and I'll come running."

  "Then you'd best keep your bags packed," Lottie replied, "for I'll always have need of you."

  As Laura withdrew, seeking solace in Diana's arms, Sterling rested his hands on Lottie's shoulders. Her lips trembled upward in a smile. "I promise I'll be the best wife I know how to be. I'll make the two of you proud this time. I swear I will."

  Sterling shook his head, his own smile none too steady. "You always have, poppet. You always have." As he pressed a tender kiss to her brow, the rest of her family fell into an awkward silence.

  Sterling reluctantly stepped back. George handed her the cat. There was nothing left for Lottie to do but allow the waiting footman to usher her into the carriage and wait for her husband to take his place by her side.

  Hayden signaled one of his own groomsmen. The man came forward, leading a handsome bay. As Hayden mounted, even his friend, Sir Ned, looked taken back.

  Hayden brought the horse alongside the open carriage door. "I never much cared for the crush of a carriage," he said. "I hope you won't mind if I ride with the outriders."

  "Of course not," Lottie murmured, stroking the cat in her lap. "Mr. Wiggles here should be all the company I need."

  * * *

  Her bridegroom despised her.

  Why else would he insist on traveling league after punishing league on the back of a horse instead of in the relative comfort of the carriage if not to avoid her company? With the plush velvet squabs cushioning her from all but the worst of the road's rigors, Lottieleaned toward the window, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of her new husband. She had to admit he cut a fine figure on horseback with the shoulder-cape of his coat flapping behind him and his dark hair tossed by the wind. He was every bit as grim and dashing as the title character in her own short story "The Villainous Vicar of Vinfield Village." At the end of that tragic tale, Lottie's noble heroine had chosen to fling herself from the highest tower of the abbey ruins rather than surrender her virtue to the lecherous clergyman. Lottie could only hope such a sacrifice would not be required of her.

  Her fingers itched for pen and paper to capture Hayden's image, but her writing case was packed safely away. She'd learned of the perils of writing in a moving carriage after she'd accidentally dumped an entire bottle of indigo ink down George's brand-new collar. Her brother had refused to speak to her for over a fortnight.

  Fighting a wave of melancholy, she settled back in the seat. Although she'd left them many leagues and hours behind, her family's farewells still echoed in her ears. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone. Even in those first difficult years after their parents had died, she and George and Laura had always had each other. Now she had no one. The cat in her lap nudged his broad head against her palm, as if to remind her that wasn't entirely true.

  She scratched his whiskered cheeks, coaxing a rumbling purr from his throat. "You're fine company, aren't you, big fellow, if not much of a conversationalist."

  She tipped her head back, hoping a nap would wile away the long hours still to come. But before she could close her eyes, a glint of brass beneath the opposite seat caught her eye. She leaned forward, catching a glimpse of burnished leather banded by shiny brass. It was the trunk she'd seen in Hayden's study, the one he had hastened to close the moment she had walked into the room. Whatever its contents were, he had refused to trust them to the care of his servants or to the elements outside the carriage.

  Wondering what could possibly be so precious to a man who was rumored to hold so very little dear, Lottie stole a look out the window. Hayden was riding well ahead of the coach in an easy lope, his broad shoulders braced against the wind.

  She would not succumb to temptation, she told herself sternly, folding her gloved hands in her lap. She was a lady now, a marchioness. And a marchioness would never stoop to snooping, no matter how tantalizing the mystery that presented itself.

  " 'Virtue is its own reward. Virtue is its own reward,' " she muttered to herself. Perhaps if she quoted Miss Terwilliger's favorite proverb often enough, she would begin to believe it.

  As if to test her resolve, a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds and came streaming through the carriage window, transforming the glint of brass into the beckoning gleam of gold. Lottie bit her lip and moaned beneath her breath. Had she been Percival himself, the Holy Grail could have looked no more enticing.

  Dumping the startled cat on the seat beside her, she scrambled to her hands and knees on the carriage floor. She tugged eagerly at the small trunk, sliding it out of its hiding place. She ran her hands over the banded lid, but it took no more than a cursory examination to determine that it was locked.

  Having had a fair amount of experience wiggling her way into places she hadn't been invited, Lottie simply plucked a hatpin from her bonnet and went to work on the lock. She was so engrossed in her task that she didn't realize the vehicle had ceased its rocking or that the carriage door had swung open until someone just behind her cleared their throat with a distinctly masculine edge.

  She froze, only too aware that her new husband was enjoying an unfettered view of her backside. Thankful for her voluminous skirts, she gave the trunk a hasty shove, sliding it back beneath the seat.

  Holding up the pin, she smiled at Hayden over her shoulder. "I dropped my hatpin. But I found it."

  "That's fortunate," he drawled, eyeing the colorful tower of ribbons and flowers affixed to her head.

  "We certainly wouldn't have wanted you to lose that hat."

  Before he could say anything more, he was distracted by the sight of the ginger-colored cat reclining on the seat like a plump pasha enjoying a chariot ride.

  He frowned at the cat. "That's odd. I would have sworn your cat was black."

  Rising to slide into the opposite seat, Lottie shrugged. "It must have been a trick of the light. If he was black, I never would have named him Pumpkin, now would I?"

  "Pumpkin?" Hayden's eyes narrowed further. "I thought his name was Mr. Wiggles."

  "And so it is," she replied without missing a beat. "Mr. Pumpkin Wiggles."

  The cat indulged himself in a long, languorous stretch, looking far too fat and lazy to have ever wiggled.

  Blowing out a deep breath, Hayden reached beneath his collar to rub the back of his neck. "We've stopped at a coaching inn to change teams. I thought you might care for some refreshments." He nodded toward the basket on the seat next to her, a wicked light dawning in his eyes. "Unless, of course, you'd rather share your lunch with me."

  "Oh, no!" Lottie scrambled for the door. "I'll save it for tea. Cookie only packed enough for one."

  She accepted the hand he offered her, feeling the warmth of it even through her glove as she stepped down from the carriage. She was almost to the door of the inn before she realized he wasn't following.

  She turned. "Aren't you coming?"

  He was still gazing into the carriage, his expression thoughtful. "No, I don't believe I will. I seem to have lost my appetite."

  When Lottie returned to the coach a short while later, determined to sneak the basket out for a brief respite while Hayden was occupied in the stables, both the basket and Pumpkin were right where she had left them.

  But the trunk was gone.

  * * *

  Lottie tried not to think of the night to come. But when the shadows of dusk came drifting over the hedgerows, painting the swiftly passing meadows in shades of lavender and gray, she could no longer pretend the day or her innocence would last forever. When they reached the coaching inn where they were to spend the night, she would be expected to go to her husband's bed, just as countless brides before her had done.

  By sending the servants ahead
, he had ensured their privacy. There would be no valet to prepare his bath, no maid to help her undress. Perhaps he planned to attend to that task himself. She could only too easily imagine him slipping the pearl buttons that lined her bodice from their moorings, easing the fabric apart to expose the delicate lace of her chemise, the pale swell of her breasts.

  Or perhaps he would wait until she was already in bed, extinguish the candles, and come to her out of the darkness. He might lift her nightdress to her waist — gently if he was a patient man, roughly if he was not — then climb atop her and… and…

  Despite Diana's and Laura's thorough tutoring, Lottie still could not bring herself to follow that image to its inevitable conclusion. When they had informed her that there would be far less pain and far more pleasure if her bridegroom took the time to make her ready for him, she had quipped that perhaps they should be having their conversation with him instead of her.

  Her aunt and sister had also felt compelled to warn her that they'd heard tell of men who were quite primitive in their lovemaking. Men who would climb atop their wives, rut them like a ram turned loose in the sheep pen, then roll off of them and collapse in a snoring heap. Understandably, their wives were more likely to consider the marriage bed an unpleasant duty to be endured, not enjoyed. If Hayden turned out to be such a man, they'd given Lottie several suggestions to woo him to tenderness, to offer him pleasure so that he might be coaxed into pleasuring her in return. An array of shocking, yet undeniably seductive, images danced through her head, making it ache. Lottie rubbed her brow, wondering how she could possibly remember all that they had told her. Perhaps she should have taken notes.

  She was having no trouble remembering how masterfully Hayden's broad fingers had stroked her nape, how his tongue had glided like warm honey over her parted lips and into her mouth. She was almost more afraid that her husband would have no need of instruction. That he would know exactly what wicked deeds to perform and which soft, secret places to touch to bring her to a place where she could deny him nothing.

  Rocked by a shiver, Lottie hugged her capelet tighter around her shoulders. It was full dark now and still the carriage showed no sign of halting. As the moon rose in the sky, they passed one inn, then another, their welcoming lights fading back into the night as swiftly as they'd emerged.

  Although Lottie was determined to remain vigilant, the soothing purr of the cat in her lap and the relentless rocking of the carriage soon lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  As the beckoning glow of the Alder Tree Inn came shining through the trees, Hayden reluctantly signaled the outriders and coachman. He'd had every intention of driving himself to the ragged edge of exhaustion, but the horses did not deserve to share the same fate.

  The coach rolled to a halt in the yard of the cozy little inn. Rubbing sleep from their eyes, the inn's post boys came loping out of the stable to unhitch the carriage team. Tossing the reins of his horse to one of them, Hayden dismounted, barely resisting the urge to groan aloud as his stiff muscles absorbed the shock of the landing. While the coachman lumbered down from his perch to swing open the carriage door, Hayden strode toward the inn, determined to secure lodgings for what little was left of the night.

  The coachman awkwardly cleared his throat. "M'lord?"

  Hayden turned to find the man standing beside the open door of the carriage. Warned by the pointed way he was studying his boots, Hayden warily approached the vehicle and peered inside.

  Lottie was sprawled sideways on one of the plush seats, her hat askew, her lips parted in a delicate snore, and a tiny gray ball of fluff with a snowy white bib and socks nestled in the crook of her arm. Nonplussed, Hayden blinked at the sleeping kitten, but his gaze was swiftly drawn downward. The skirts of Lottie's carriage dress had ridden up to mid-calf, providing a tantalizing glimpse of gartered silk stockings and lace-trimmed pantalettes. Prodded by the rush of raw heat to his groin, Hayden was forced to admit that his efforts to exhaust himself had failed miserably. He could ride to hell and back and still not be unmoved by such a sight.

  But he had succeeded in exhausting Lottie. The dim glow of the carriage lamp only accentuated the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Hayden muttered a curse under his breath. He'd shown more concern for the horses than for his bride. He should have realized the grueling pace he'd set would eventually take its toll.

  Although the dewy flush of her skin and the hand curled beneath her chin made her look like a little girl, the rhythmic rise and fall of her gently rounded breasts reminded him that she was no child. She was a woman.

  Hiswoman.

  He stiffened, wondering where that traitorous thought had come from. If his seven years with Justine had taught him anything, it was that no one could ever truly possess another human being. The tighter you tried to hold on, the more you had to lose.

  "Shall I wake her, m'lord?"

  Hayden jerked down the hem of Lottie's pelisse, having nearly forgotten the coachman standing at his elbow. That would be the prudent thing to do. Let the man rouse her while he made provisions for their lodgings.

  "That won't be necessary," he heard himself saying. He handed the kitten to the coachman before reaching to gather his bride in his arms.

  Chapter 7

  As I caught my first glimpse of his fortress, I realized I had wed the Master of Hell himself…

  AS HAYDEN CARRIED LOTTIE THROUGH THE common room of the inn, she settled deeper into his chest and curled her arms around his neck. The innkeeper's wife, already garbed in dressing gown and nightcap, had bustled ahead of them to light a fire in her finest chamber while her beaming husband had informed him that it wasn't every night they had the privilege of playing host to a gent and his lady. The woman was waiting in the doorway, candlestick in hand, when Hayden reached the top of the stairs. He slipped her an extra pound note to ensure they would not be disturbed until morning and she left them alone with a wink that was disarmingly girlish despite the snowy white braids that dangled to her rump.

  Hayden kicked the door shut, then tugged off Lottie's hat and gently laid her back on the bed they were to share. Like the rest of the inn, the quilt beneath her was faded, but clean. She sank into the feather tick with a sigh, but refused to relinquish her grip on his neck until Hayden gently reached around and unfastened her arms. Making a disgruntled face, she turned her cheek to the pillow and murmured something about French cakes and Mr. Wiggles, all without ever opening her eyes.

  Hayden took a step backward, warily eyeing her fully clad form. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so hasty to dismiss the innkeeper's wife.

  It wasn't as if he was a stranger to the mysterious web of laces, buttons, ribbons, and silk that comprised a female's attire. He'd undressed his fair share of them before falling beneath Justine's spell.

  Shrugging away his misgivings, he tugged off Lottie's fur capelet and dainty half-boots, then slipped the pearl buttons of her carriage dress out of their moorings one by one. As he reached beneath her chemise to loosen the constricting laces of her corset, he reminded himself that he had every right to do so.

  So why did he still feel like the worse sort of lech?

  Despite Lottie's bravado, everything about her seemed smaller than him. Her vulnerability stirred a long dormant desire to protect. He had tried to protect Justine. He had failed.

  The side of his palm brushed the gentle swell of one creamy breast. His gaze drifted to her face. As he freed her from the pressure of the whalebone stays, her lips parted in a blissful sigh.

  Hayden's own mouth went dry. He remembered just how sweet those lips could taste. How tender and yielding they'd felt beneath his own. He wanted to taste them again, to dip his tongue between those ripe coral petals and steal a sip of nectar.

  But it wouldn't be stealing, he reminded himself grimly. He had every right to claim her kisses and so much more. There would be no overprotective guardian to stop him should he choose to slide his hand beneath the skirts of her carriage dress and seek
out the narrow slit in the silk of her pantalettes. No scandal sheet reporter to denounce him for breaching both the silk and her tender body until his questing fingers coaxed forth a nectar even hotter and sweeter than her lips could provide, until her breathless sighs deepened into moans and her thighs fell apart in invitation. No gossipmongers to whisper rumors and lies about him for pushing her skirts to her waist and covering her pleasure-wracked body with his own.

  He should have made her his mistress instead of his wife. If he had, there would have been no danger of her delving into his past or his heart. Cursing himself as the worst sort of fool, Hayden leaned forward until his mouth brushed the softness of Lottie's skin.

  * * *

  Lottie rolled to her side, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. Perhaps Sterling was going to let her sleep past noon again or at least until Cookie came banging on her bedroom door with a tray of warm rolls and a pitcher of hot chocolate. She burrowed deeperinto her pillow, hoping to return to the hazy sweetness of her dreams. She vaguely remembered strong arms lifting her as if she were weightless, a broad chest cradling her cheek, warm lips brushing first her brow, then her parted lips with delectable tenderness.

  Her eyes flew open. The milky light of dawn poured through the warped glass of an unfamiliar window. Rough-hewn beams lined the walls and served as rafters for the plastered ceiling. She could have been in any room in any inn anywhere between London and Cornwall. The last thing she remembered was being lulled into a drowsy stupor by the rocking of the carriage. Blinking the fog of sleep from her eyes, she struggled to separate dream from reality.

  She would almost swear those strong arms had belonged to her husband. But Hayden could just as well have ordered the coachman or one of the stable boys to perform the onerous task of carrying her to bed.

  She drew in a deep breath. The aroma of bayberry clung to her skin. It was his scent. Enveloping her. Intoxicating her. Marking her as his own.

  Lottie slowly rolled over, biting her lip so she wouldn't scream if she found a tousled dark head on the pillow next to her.