A Proper Scandal (30 page)

“Yes, Bryson, I saw.”

“It occurred to me then that some things exist naturally in a man's heart and in his head . . . but some things must be modeled; they must be taught. I am naturally moderate and temperate, and making money is second nature to me. However, I had no idea how to properly love. No one showed me how.”

“Oh, Bryson . . . ”

“It sounds pathetic, and I suppose it is, although I never felt remorseful about it. I was simply confused. But Mr. Eads, even with my deep, angry suspicion of him, demonstrated an elemental truth in that admittedly awkward embrace. An epiphany. I thought, ‘
Oh, this is how it feels to allow someone to love you.
' After that,” Bryson said, bringing her hands up to his mouth, brushing her knuckles with his lips, “finding you, telling you—
showing
you—became my only purpose. Mr. Eads, if he turns out to be what he claims, will show me more, no doubt; but the primary instructor will be you, Elisabeth. If you can bear it. If you are willing to give your husband a second ch—”

“Fourth,” she corrected. “If I am willing to give my husband a
fourth
chance.”

“I've bungled this shamelessly, haven't I?” He flipped her hands and pressed a slow kiss into one palm, and then the next. He did not break her gaze.

She sighed, feeling herself relent, feeling as if she would perish if she did not touch him. His hair, typically so styled and brushed back, flopped over one eye. He looked dashing, reckless. She pulled one hand free and reached out, running her fingers through that tuft of hair.

“Please, Elisabeth,” he rasped, leaning his head into her hand.

Before she even knew she'd moved, her head began to nod. Tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She pressed her hand into his scalp and leaned in. She pulled him tightly against her.

“Yes,” she whispered, “yes, Bryson, yes.” How could he possibly think she could deny him?

He dove for her then, gathering her in his arms and surging up in the same push. She clung, returning the embrace, holding on. Her feet dangled above the ground. Slowly, he spun with her, pressing his face against her chest.

“I can't believe I was a virgin,” she said absently, speaking into his hair.

He raised his head and released her, sliding her down his body. “Please tell me that
this
is not the chief impression you take from this conversation. Elisabeth, please. It makes no difference that you were a virgin.”

“No, no, I understand, and of course your confessions were . . . gratifying, but, well, I have wondered. For years, I have wondered.” She stared at his throat, considering this.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said, his voice suddenly gravelly and lower, “I can assure you, madam, that you are a virgin no more.”

Her head shot up. The heat in his eyes caused her to gasp. She laughed and shuffled two steps back.

“Oh, no, you don't,” he teased, lowering his lips to her neck. He nuzzled her. The rasp of his beard left a trail of desire. “I have not survived the wholesale scramble of my entire world to be denied sex from my wife.”

She laughed again, her skin suddenly ablaze, thrumming with desire for him. She dropped her head back, inviting him to kiss her, surrendering to him.

“But Bryson,” she whispered between kisses, “we've no bed here.”

He broke the kiss long enough to look around. “I see a bed,” he said, capturing her mouth again, “against the wall.”

“The cot? That is a soft place for the girls to huddle when they arrive after a raid.”

“Perfect,” he growled, pulling away long enough to sweep her feet out from under her and carry her there. “You were a girl who was once rescued, by me, I should add, and I have wanted you since that night.” He nuzzled her ear. “Shhh, please don't tell anyone. I was deeply ashamed of it for years.” A kiss. “And I want you still. God, so, so much.” Another kiss.

“Elisabeth, my love.” He collided with the cot and collapsed the two of them on the creaky mattress. Before she could right herself, he hauled her onto his lap. She laughed again, straddling him. He said, “If only I had known back then that you would end up rescuing me too.”

“Bryson,” she said, sighing and rocking against him, “love me.”

“Forever, Elisabeth,” he promised, and he gathered her to him.

B
y some peculiar irony, the two announcements appeared in the
London Times
on the very same day.

The first was a quarter-page article—an interview, more like—of the former Lord Rainsleigh, now Mr. Bryson Courtland.

“After years of balancing the responsibilities of a land-owning nobleman with the demands of shipbuilding, Mr. Courtland had announced his intention to abdicate the title of viscount to his younger brother,” the article said.

The “new Viscount Rainsleigh, Mr. Beauregard Courtland, a sometime sea captain of no fixed address,” the article went on to say, would assume the responsibilities and stewardship of the Rainsleigh viscountcy, while the elder Courtland focused on the expansion of his shipping empire, supported the charities favored by his new wife, and indulged in leisure travel.

For all the worry about timing and wording and a rather lengthy quarrel with the editors about his brother's distinction of “no fixed address,” the article ultimately raised very few eyebrows. Around London, in fact, it elicited negligible gossip, scandalized no one, and was mostly forgotten by page three.

What could be said, really? The former viscount had been an unremarkable fixture in society's nighttime whirl—his wife too. Beyond their lavish wedding, the two of them were rarely seen out and received few callers. For years, it seemed, both of them had been regarded as charitably minded and quiet and no fun at all.

More fun, perhaps, was the
second
article, even though it was not really an article—more like an announcement buried on the last page, it was set in small text between the land auctions and the pork futures.

Despite its obscurity, the contents of the piece left its mark. All over town, coffee cups clinked into saucers, eggs slid from forks, and servants were summoned to fetch hats, coats, and gloves.

“Countess to Relocate; Grosvenor Square Townhome Offered to Let,” the headline read.

Bryson and Elisabeth had written the piece themselves, lying in bed, tinkering with the wording, scribbling and scratching out, trying to pare the thing down to only the essentials. For a fee, the editors had been kind enough to run the piece verbatim.

The former Mrs. Lillian Price, Lady Banning, widow of the late Godfrey Price, eleventh Earl of Banning, has announced her marriage to Mr. Benjamin Quincy.

Mr. and Mrs. Quincy plan to relocate to the tropical island of Bermuda in the Caribbean Sea by year's end.

Fresh inquiries to the whereabouts of the late Lord Banning's heir, a distant cousin, presumed lost at sea some ten years ago, have been dispatched. In the meantime, Denby House, Mrs. Quincy's former townhome in Grosvenor Square, has been made available to let. Inquiries about the property may be made in person to the estate agents at Blinklowe, Dinkle, and Tuft in Barnes High Street, London.

The ensuing shock, supposition, and gossip in the wake of the article was immediate—and immediately divisive. Perhaps Elisabeth described it best when she wrote to her aunt: “The scandal was significant. I'd peg it somewhere between moderate and acute.”

If Bryson and she had been in London when the scandal churned, welled, and then crested, Elisabeth said, they might have given it half a thought. Maybe.

But then again, perhaps not.

They were very busy, Bryson and Elisabeth. Busy with each other; with their respective businesses and charity work; with relocating Stoker to Yorkshire and setting him up in school.

Most of all, perhaps, they were very busy cajoling Beau to emerge from his shock and denial and (to be honest) extended drunken ramble so that he might learn what would be expected of him, now that he was Viscount Rainsleigh.

He was resistant, to say the least. And, for a time, absent. He moved out of the house on Henrietta Place, although he did not go missing for long.

But that, perhaps, is a story for another time.

This is the story of the virgin and the viscount. One who found her virginity but realized she did not require it—not in the way she thought. And the other who lost his viscountcy and discovered . . . precisely the same thing.

T
he author would like to thank early readers of this book whose thoughtful critiques and encouragement were invaluable to her journey as a writer: Janet Marlow, JoLynn McEachern, Teresa Montgomery, and Julia Quinn. Thank you Dave Goldstein for coming up with Kenneth. Thank you Chelsey Emmelhainz for taking a chance on my work and teaching me to cut it for public consumption. And thank you to my critique partner Cheri Allan for making my first draft palatable for editorial consumption. Finally, thanks to Mr. Michaels and my children for being my real-life happily-ever-after.

 

 

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THE EARL NEXT DOOR

American heiress Piety Grey is on the run. Suddenly in London and facing the renovation of a crumbling townhouse, she's determined to make a new life for herself—anything is better than returning to New York City where a cruel mother and horrid betrothal await her. The last thing she needs is a dark, tempting earl inciting her at every turn . . .

Trevor Rheese, the Earl of Falcondale, isn't interested in being a good neighbor. After fifteen years of familial obligation, he's finally free. But when the disarmingly beautiful Piety bursts through his wall—and into his life—his newfound freedom is threatened . . . even as his curiosity is piqued.

Once Piety's family arrives in London, Falcondale suddenly finds himself in the midst of a mock courtship to protect the seductive woman who's turned his world upside down. It's all for show—or at least it should be. But if Falcondale isn't careful, he may find a very real happily-ever-after with the woman of his dreams . . .

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CHARIS MICHAELS
believes a romance novel is a very long, exciting answer to the question: “So, how did you two meet?” She loves to answer this question with different characters, each time she writes a book. Prior to writing romance, she studied journalism at Texas A&M and managed PR for a trade association. She has also worked as a tour guide at Disney World, harvested peaches on her family's farm, and entertained children as the “Story Godmother” at birthday parties. She has lived in Texas, Florida, and London, England. She now makes her home in the Washington, DC, metro area.

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The Earl Next Door

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Violet Douglas wants one night where she can be normal. Where she can do something for herself and not be just her siblings' guardian. So when she spies a tall, dark, and sexy stranger, she's ready to let her wild side roar. The last thing she expects is to see her one night stand one week later, when she drags her delinquent kid brother to the Alpha Dog Training Program.

 

“Y
ou done throwing a tantrum?” he asked.

As his hard body moved into hers, tension hummed around them. “I was not—”

“Yeah, you're revved up into a full-on hissy fit, but I'm going to overlook that while I . . . clarify a few things.”

The way his voice softened on those last four words made her body tighten, especially when she realized one of his legs was pressed between hers. His wide shoulders blocked her view of who might be watching them, and his hands were braced flat just above her shoulders. If she moved a fraction higher, he could graze her bare skin with his thumb, and just the thought of it made her nipples perk up against the sheer lace of her bra.

“First of all, yes, I was rude to you, but not because I wasn't attracted to you.”

Violet held her breath at this, her eyes riveted to his lips.

“I was trying to save you.”

Huh? Save her?
She could hardly concentrate on what he was talking about, his proximity casting a spell of confusion over her. Maybe she'd been binge watching too much
Charmed
, but she was too caught up in the obsidian flecks in his brown eyes to fully process.

“From what?” Was that her voice? It was soft, dreamy, and not at all normal.

And good God, but were his lips inching closer? “From me.”

“Are you dangerous?” Silly question.
If he was really dangerous, you wouldn't be putty in his hands
.

His right hand moved, and he began trailing one of his fingers along her temple and cheek, until the very tip smoothed over her bottom lip. “I would never mean to hurt you, but I'm not looking for anything serious.”

That woke her up a little, and she frowned. “Neither am I.”

His finger dropped, and he stared down at her grimly. “You say that now, but—”

“Okay, you know what, that's enough.” The balls on him, getting her all revved up and then acting like she was just a soft piece of feminine fluff who didn't know her own mind. Putting her hands up against the wall of his chest, she pushed hard, but he wouldn't budge, so she settled for pointing her finger up between them, wagging it in his face. “Don't act like you know me or what I want. Don't just assume that I'm looking for a relationship because I have ovaries. I have too much going on in my life to handle anyone else's wants and needs, so the last thing I'm looking for is a boyfriend. And you might have learned that if you had bothered to spend more than ten minutes at a time talking to me tonight, instead of running away like a big wimpy asshat.”

He leaned back but still didn't let her escape. “Big wimpy asshat, huh?”

Lifting her chin up, she didn't back down. “Yeah, that's right.”

For several moments, he did nothing but stare at her, and the intensity in his eyes made her twitch. Finally, he nodded, as if coming to terms with his new title. “Fine, I made an ­assumption. I'm an asshat.”

“Happy we agree on something,” she said.

“But I didn't come here today looking to hook up. I planned to drink some beer, chill with my friend, and eventually head home to bed—alone.”

Violet flushed. “Well, it's not like I was trolling for just anybody. If that were the case, I would be dragging Robert off to have my way with him in the parking lot.”

“Are you saying I'm special?” he asked.

It was a loaded question, and her answer could be taken a hundred wrong ways. Why was it that the first guy she'd actually actively pursued had to be so complicated?

“Nope, you're absolutely right. Nothing special about you. There are still a few hours left for me to meet someone who doesn't make snap judgments and would love to make out with an attractive single woman who hasn't been kissed in six months, so if you'll—”

Dean's mouth closed over hers, stopping her tirade with the sheer heat of his soft, deep kiss. Violet melted on impact, her eyes rolling back as her lids closed. She opened her lips to the thrust of his tongue and felt a pool of joy bubbling up in her lower abdomen.

Holy shit. And you thought the sunshine was hot
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