Prelude to a Scandal. Delilah MarvelleЧитать онлайн книгу.
her aloof departure from the card table, the duke had tossed his own cards and formally announced no lady ought to be disrespected for her lack of card skills. With an impressive sweep, he then hoisted his chair up over his head and swaggered with it across the room like an acrobat. He even pretended to stumble beneath its weight in an effort to make her giggle.
With a well satisfied breath, he’d settled his chair and himself across from her, insisting she set aside her book and tell him more about the fascinating life she’d led in Africa. Though his gaze had a tendency to wander flirtatiously to inappropriate places—which she rather enjoyed—he still listened very intently to everything she had to say as if every word that escaped her lips mattered, as if she mattered.
Tragic as it was, the man had never been the marrying sort, and no one knew that more than her parents, who’d repeatedly warned her to keep her virtue as far away from the man as possible. Despite all of their tiring lectures on the matter and despite having read How To Avoid A Scandal many, many times, Justine knew a lady couldn’t always avoid scandal. Especially when one’s father was being persecuted for demanding rights for sodomites using the animal kingdom as his platform.
After dotting a piece of parchment with rosewater she’d borrowed from a neighbor, Justine daintily scribed a missive to the duke, similar to the countless weekly missives she’d sent to him ever since first meeting him. The duke had never once responded, which her mother was thankful for, but Justine continued to scribe him weekly letters all the same.
In this particular letter, however, she offered Bradford a bit more than the usual gossip about herself and her family. She offered him several nights in exchange for her father’s release. Having no dowry and no suitor, she wasn’t too worried about harvesting her virginity to a man who offered no wedding prospect. She only hoped her mother and father would understand.
Though it had been many months since she’d last seen the duke, and there were muddled whispers about him being disfigured due to his involvement with a less than reputable woman, not a single drop of the story intimidated her. She felt that her father’s comfort, safety and sanity trumped any of her own womanly misgivings.
To her astonishment, not even three days after her letter had been delivered to the duke, his footman appeared at their door and presented the following letter:
Lady Justine,
I can only apologize for ever leading you to believe I was capable of ruining anyone in their most desperate hour, let alone a lady of esteemed quality such as yourself. Although I cannot and will not be able to accept your offer, I would like to propose something else. At three and thirty, I have come to the profound realization that I am not getting any younger. Or prettier. It is time I take a wife. I have received and immensely enjoyed every letter you have sent and fondly remember every time we have met. Therefore, I foresee no complications in asking for your hand in marriage. Whilst I am certain there are various rumors surrounding my current physical state, I can assure you, I am in excellent health. Though I did sustain one sizable scar it is nothing to fret over. Should you and your father agree to our marriage, a license will be applied for and the wedding will be set to take place in six weeks’ time. In turn, I would be delighted to pay all debts imposed upon your father so as to ensure his prompt release from Marshalsea.
I await your response,
Bradford
And all along she had thought he’d never ask …
London be damned for treating her father with such horrid disdain. She was finally going to earn some respect for herself and her family. She was going to be the Duchess of Bradford, and she had every intention of demanding respect from everyone, at every turn, from this day forth.
SCANDAL ONE
Without a good chaperone, one might as well be dead. Remember, a chaperone is supposed to be another thinking head.
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
Five weeks later, evening
WITH THE ASSISTANCE of her driver, Mr. Kern, Justine stepped out of the coach and swept down onto the pavement of the square. She eyed the shadowed, four-story alabaster home, noting that most of the windows were as dark as the night around her. Sparse golden light shone through only a few glass panes on the far side of the home.
An ominous feeling crawled through her. Despite countless letters to the duke, pleading for at least one audience before the actual wedding, he had responded to each and every letter with a firm, “No. Not until the appointed time of the wedding.” Calling upon him repeatedly had not yielded much more. He simply would not see her. Which worried her to no end. Was he in fact more disfigured than he’d originally let on?
As if that weren’t distressing enough, there appeared to be complications surrounding her father’s release, even though her wedding was only a short week away. And whilst the duke’s solicitor had repeatedly assured her everything would be resolved, Justine needed more than mere verbal assurance.
Mr. Kern lingered beside her and cleared his throat, awaiting payment for his many weeks of service. He eyed her reticule. “Milady.” He pointed. “I thought this was tah be a friendly social call.”
Justine glanced down at the ribbon-drawn reticule slung around her wrist. The rosewood handle of her father’s pistol stuck straight out, like a gopher’s head from a mound.
She feigned an apologetic laugh. “It is a friendly social call, Mr. Kern. This is simply to intimidate the servants. Which reminds me—” She yanked out the ivory flask of gunpowder from her reticule.
Mr. Kern paused. Then squinted at her.
After several failed attempts to uncork the flask, Justine huffed out a breath and dug her fingertips beneath the rim, giving it one last solid tug. Her straining arms jumped and the cork popped off.
Mr. Kern scrambled back as a huge plume of gunpowder blanketed her face, cloak, gown and the street, filling her nostrils with a gritty, sulfur-penetrating residue. She gagged as the flask slipped and clattered to the pavement, and frantically brushed the soot from her face and bosom. Of all the blasted—
She paused, glimpsing the flask on its side in the shadows. Oh, no. Plucking it up, she tapped at what little remained in the vessel and groaned. How quickly she’d become like the rest of the women in London. Completely useless. Unable to even prime a pistol. Her father would have been horrified at her incompetence.
Exasperated, she shoved the expensive flask into Mr. Kern’s waiting hands. “Here you are, Mr. Kern. Pure ivory and worth well more than I owe you. This will officially bring your service to an end. I thank you.”
“Much obliged.” He tipped his wool cap, then made his way back to the hackney, inspecting his newly acquired trinket.
If only the wardens at Marshalsea were as easy to please and get along with.
Justine sighed, and eyed the pistol in her hand. She supposed she could bluff her way in. That way, when the authorities did arrive, no one could argue it was loaded. Cocking it, she tucked the pistol back into her reticule and marched with full intent toward the dimly lit house, past the wrought-iron gate which had conveniently been left open.
She hurried up the wide, shadowed steps and halted at the entrance. Swiping away whatever gunpowder she could still feel on her face, she drew in a calming breath and used the knocker. Then the bell.
Footfalls echoed from the interior. The bolts were eventually unfastened and the door to the house fanned open, filtering soft golden light across the wide steps.
A massive, blond-haired gentleman appeared. One she hadn’t seen throughout all her earlier attempts to get in. His wide chin jutted over his tight collar, whilst his round belly threatened to pop every button off the embroidered waistcoat protruding from his dark livery. He stepped toward her, his hefty frame towering a good two heads over her own.
Her heart raced as she stepped back. What, by gad,