Lady Scandal Read online

  “You would protect me like you protected the Earl?” She placed a sweaty palm against the side of the mantle, inches from the poker’s handle.

  His eyes glittered. “Baneham’s death was ruled an accident.”

  “I grant his broken neck could have been caused by a stumble. But a knife to the back?” A vision of the blood and the Earl’s unnaturally bent body flickered in her mind and she swallowed the aftertaste of sick. “Cook was not careless with her cutlery.”

  “By whatever means,” he said, “Baneham is dead. What concerns me is you.”

  She only considered grabbing her weapon. Her wrist was in his grip before she saw him move. He wedged himself between her and her only physical defense, pinning her arm against the mantel as he kicked aside the poker.

  “I will not let you go.” He kept hold of her wrist and rested his other hand on the mirror, just beside her shoulder. “Bet against me and you will lose.”

  “Will I?” She would win because she had to win. “Men have placed bets in the thousands when we faced each other over cards. I have beaten you before. With odds against me.”

  “I am not your enemy,” he said. “Trust, at least, in that.”

  She laughed, dry and brittle. “You cannot honestly expect me to trust you.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said, nostrils flaring, “not yet. But mark me well, Sophia. I expect you to honor your wedding vows—or, if you wish to think of our arrangement in less personal terms, pay the debt you accrued when you lost our wager.”

  Flesh to flesh, his hand burned where he held her wrist. He radiated feudal-like dominance. Of course, obedience was what he expected. Compliance. Deference. So far, she had been an easy mark.

  “I should have seen it in your eyes,” she said. “That little spark of fury. The thrill that leads you from chase to chase, never caring who is crushed.”

  “All is fair in love,” he started.

  “And war,” she finished, squaring her shoulders and ignoring the pain that shot up her arm. “Mark me, Randolph. I would never have agreed to your pitiful wager if I had known the truth. You presented yourself as a man of leisure. A rake without a care in the world but for seduction and gambling.”

  “Deep inside, you knew who and what I was.”

  No. She had been utterly blinded by a silken-voiced seducer who had stirred needs she had not indulged since her husband’s death.

  “When I agreed to our wager,” she said, “I expected to win.”

  “Only a fool gambles what they cannot afford to lose.” His hard-edged gaze softened, as if she had come into focus in a different way. “You are no fool.”

  A fool she must have been.

  During the Furies’ scandalous and illegal gambling soirees, Randolph had begun a campaign of small, seemingly innocuous contact. He had, however, laced each touch with suggestive intent—his palm lingering at the small of her back, his fingers flitting briefly against her shoulder and then “accidentally” brushing her neck, his hand covering hers, hot and firm, whenever she had been obliged to take his arm.

  …The same hand he would later use to hold her still while, against her ear, he described shocking carnal intentions in thrillingly wicked detail.

  The night he had issued the wager, she had thought him exactly like her first husband: a rake with weaknesses she understood. A rake who would leave her secrets—and her heart—untouched, while bringing a permanent and passionate end to her celibacy.

  The ghost of his kiss pulsed against her turncoat mouth.

  “Tell me truthfully,” he said, as if sensing her thoughts, “you never once imagined how intimacy would be between us.”

  The skin at the base of her throat quivered as the air between them heated. Such fine lips. Firm and dry and, she wagered, expert in coaxing a woman to heights of abandon. When he had won, she had not felt as if she had lost. She had been eager to join him in bed and learn which of his imaginative intentions he would first indulge.

  “I am not your enemy,” he repeated softly. He placed his cheek against hers and whispered, “What I am, my dear wife, is potent and primed to satisfy all your erotic desires.”

  With languid skill, he drew his knuckles up and down her arm. He had stripped her bare using her bone-deep fear, and now he flayed her using her lust. The back of her throat dried as, conversely, her mouth watered. She should push him away and slap the arrogant assurance she imagined in his cursed grey eyes, but her free hand remained limp and heavy at her side, warmed by his finely-muscled thigh.

  “So-phi-a,” he whispered her name in a blasphemous incantation. “You hunger for me the same way I hunger for you.”

  His breath tickled her cheek, heightening his magnetism—the irresistible draw she had felt from the moment they’d met. He placed a kiss on the outer corner of her ear, another on her jaw, and a third on her mouth’s trembling edge.

  She strove to remain still. “Are you so expert a lover you can tell the depth of my attachment from a few careless kisses?”

  Slow, as if he were painting a delicate line, he ran his thumb across her bottom lip.

  “Careless kisses?” he questioned, voice smooth and gentle. “Is that all they were?”

  “I never succumbed,” she mouthed with little breath.

  “You succumbed entirely.” Triumph glinted in his eyes. “You may have refused to be my mistress, but you are now my wife.” He mocked her voice. “I am many things, but I will not be your whore. If I snared you by deceit, the web was of your own making.”

  “Never,” she said.

  He snorted. “Chastity outside marriage is a charmingly provincial rule for a woman known as Scandal.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head, biting her lip hard enough to squelch the tingle left by his touch. He’d hit close enough to the wellspring of her pain for tears to threaten.

  Provincial indeed. She had not believed in love, nor, truthfully, in marriage. The Baneham household had been a mockery of both. She was aware enough to understand that, like her father, her passions ran to excess. But where her father had longed for power, Sophia longed for touch. Yes, she flaunted most of society’s rules, but she had kept one—only for protection. Without that rule, she’d foreseen a spiraling descent into ruin.

  “You have used my weakness. You have used my integrity. I should have known you would use any violence to force me into submission.”

  Quick as she had found herself trapped, she was released.

  Her eyes flew open as he kicked the poker. The heavy brass rod hit the far wall with a startling clatter. Breathing heavy, he clenched his fists. She braced for a Baneham-esque roar of pure rage. None came. Instead, he stared at the poker until his breath slowed and his skin returned to its usual pallor.

  “I am exhausted.” His shuddering sigh was thick with resignation. “My men are scattered in pursuit of a traitor I allowed to slip through my fingers because my thoughts were fixed on you.” He paused. “I had, however, no cause to insult you. And whatever you may believe, I do not want you to fear me.”

  She lowered her hand from where he had kept her pinned.

  He closed his eyes and stretched his neck. “…As for using your weakness, my strength in these past few months has not been exactly augmented by having a near-perpetual cockstand.”

  Shame heated her cheeks—a pale cousin of the way his shocking words had once warmed her blood.

  He reached out—palm exposed, grey eyes fathomless. “Forgive me, Sophia. Let us begin again.”

  Unlike a student of the Earl to admit a wrong and then to ask forgiveness.

  Down through her fear, down through her anger and hurt, something existed between them. Shared recognition, perhaps…and palpable need. If she could trust him, she would have an influential ally…and the comfort of his bed.

  She blinked.

  Damn him. He’d done to her as she had intended to do to him. She sliced away thoughts that could lead to affinity. Giving in to the urge to trust him would put
her life at risk. Even if she could trust that Randolph meant her no harm—which she could not—she would never again live her life subject to the whims of a man who had pledged himself to power at the expense of all else.

  The Earl had been charming too, when the need arose. And he had been directly responsible for her husband’s death and indirectly responsible for her mother’s…not to mention the deaths of countless others.

  “Nothing,” she said, “can change the fact you deceived me.”

  “I crafted an image that served my purposes.” He let his hand drop. “Do you not do the same?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the ton, you are known as Lady Scandal—Reigning Queen of the Furies.”

  “That was no crafted image. I am a Fury.”

  “You? A degenerate scandal?” He chuckled.

  The bastard.

  “You should know,” she countered, “you attended the Furies’ illicit gambling parties.”

  “You really do think me blind.” He shook his head. “The Furies’ gambling parties provided the means for you to support Lavinia and Thea after they’d left their husbands.”

  “An obvious enough assumption,” she said.

  “The genius of your deception,” he continued, “lives in the invitation lists themselves. You knew your father’s killer was out there—knew Kasai could send him after you. The greater the number of powerful men you placed in your debt, the better protected you hoped you would be.”

  Chapter Two

  Earl Baneham’s Rule’s for Winning

  “Deceit is always necessary.”

  The thrill-like terror of exposure surged through her veins. How had he seen what everyone else had failed to see? She had wanted to help Lavinia and Thea—her love for them was true—but she had needed to keep both friends and enemies close.

  Too close, as it turned out.

  “You have guessed,” she acknowledged, “my means and method, but you can hardly compare my deception to yours.”

  “I never placed the lives of my innocent friends in danger,” he said. “Oh, save your indignant glower. You know you were spared for a reason—you have something Kasai wants.”

  And how—how—did he know what, until now, she had only suspected, unless he worked for Kasai?

  “Earlier,” she said, “you did not admit Baneham was murdered. Are you saying you have known all along?”

  “Officially, your father’s death was ruled an accident,” he said. “But I grant the timing is suspicious. If Baneham left something behind—anything—that could help lead me to Kasai, you must let me know. You can trust me, Sophia. I am the only person you should trust.”

  Trust him? Why? So he could then ensure she was silenced—forever? She kept her eyes widely innocent.

  “You have lounged in my study.” Good God—had he been searching for Baneham’s papers since he had wormed his way into her home? “You know I kept none of Baneham’s effects.” Although she had certainly searched for anything that could have offered protection.

  “Playing naive, are you? Again and again I have watched you twist men around your little finger.” He lifted her hand from her side and kissed the finger he had maligned. “Your machinations will not work with me, however cunning you were to place the most dangerous men in London in your debt. Your father would have been proud.”

  He said it as though she should care. “I would scorn the earl’s pride, if he still lived.”

  Randolph cocked his head. “He loved you above all else.”

  “Yes. The love of The Ruthless.” It was her turn to laugh, the sound like a rock dislodged, cracking against a mountain as it fell. “How lucky I am.”

  “He asked me to protect you,” Randolph said.

  “He died,” she said, “three years ago.” And she had been left alone and confused as powerful men tried to make her believe his death had been an accident. “If Baneham did entrust you with my care, you have been dreadfully negligent.”

  “I may not have been by your side, Sophia, but by remaining in India and engaging Kasai, I was protecting you.”

  “And now his agents are here. As you are. The timing fascinates…”

  “For God’s sake, Sophia. Now you are being ridiculous. I came back for you. Kasai has lost his largest sponsor—France. He is desperate. He will come looking for what he believes is his.”

  Oh God. She felt her face drain… she had known Kasai had sent emissaries to England, that alone had been enough for her to plan her flight. But she had not known of Kasai’s desperation.

  “It looks dire, yes, but we will prevail,” he said, “I promise.”

  The skin on her neck prickled. Now. Instinct commanded. Now was the time to make Randolph believe she was fragile and about to break.

  “I want more than anything to believe you.” Her laces squeezed tight as she inhaled. “I am terrified.”

  He frowned. “Of me?”

  Of course. “Of Kasai.”

  “I will take care of Kasai,” he said, fiercely sincere. “I vow it.”

  Again, the earl’s arrogance. “Did the earl truly believe you could keep me safe?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Oh my. His eyes truly gleamed when he smelled prey.

  “Come, Sophia,” His voice liquid and warm, like heated chocolate. “Let me look after you. You are no longer alone.”

  How could he taunt a parentless widow with the promise of kinship and belonging? If she’d been anyone but Baneham’s daughter, she may have broken, in truth. Instead, she forced out the tears lingering behind her eyes. And, damn Randolph’s corrupted soul, once they started she could not make them stop. They bathed her eyes in a salty relief—years of pent emotion, finally free. A performance, yes—but her sob wrenched loose the hurt that necessity had kept frozen.

  “Ah, Sophia,” Randolph stepped close and cupped her cheek. “There is no need to cry. Come. Let me make amends.”

  She leaned toward him as if pulled by an irresistible force. “Oh, Randolph.”

  He smiled—indulgent, exultant—and then gathered her into his arms.

  Why did his embrace have to feel warmer than the finest wool? Why did she fit so comfortably into the crook of his arm?

  Steel yourself and don’t be fooled. He only wishes to slake his lust—the tingling sensation returned in her neck—and then finish his mission. Should something happen to her, would anyone even think to blame her new husband?

  “I will,” he said, “take you home.”

  She pulled back and looked into his eyes, clouding her intent with shades of the truth—her concern for Lavinia, her promise to Thea. “I cannot leave the Furies tonight. Thea is distraught and Lavinia is…still recovering. I have assured them both I would be here.”

  His eyes ran over her face, searching. A knock sounded on the door.

  “Yes?” Sophia called.

  “I beg your pardon my lady,” the dowager’s butler said, “but a letter has been delivered for his lordship.”

  She slid out of Randolph’s arms to collect the sealed letter. “Thank you.”

  The butler nodded and then disappeared.

  She ran her fingers over the folded parchment, expecting Randolph to demand the letter.

  “As my wife,” he said, “you are free to read my correspondence.”

  She gave him a curious glance—what game did he seek to play with such a gesture? She broke the seal and quickly read the lines. She raised her brow.

  If the letter was genuine, Randolph was in the employ of the same man who had disguised her father’s murder. If his gesture had been meant to inspire confidence, he had failed.

  “The Under Secretary of State,” she handed him the letter, “requests your immediate presence.”

  He ran through the terse contents. “Damnation,” he cursed. He re-folded the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “I had hoped he would be satisfied with the records he wanted, but left my direction in case.”

  Meanin
g Randolph had anticipated the prolonged argument they’d just had. She could not count on him to underestimate her.

  “Rest,” he said, “and tend to your friend. I will return tomorrow afternoon. You will remain here?”

  “Yes, I will remain here tonight,” she said with a slight frown. Despite the summons, he’d capitulated with too great an ease.

  “I have men watching the house.” He cleared his throat. “For your protection, of course.”

  Ah. She smiled—he thought her little more than his prisoner, then. “I would expect nothing less.”

  His men did not know about the secret passage from this house to the next—which she would use, though to do so, she must disturb Lavinia and her lover, Max.

  Randolph ran a knuckle down her cheek. “Thank you.” His gaze searched hers, pointed and earnest. “From the start you have known we were made for each other.”

  A bitter truth existed in his words.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “We are both spawn of the Earl—one in spirit, one in flesh.”

  Randolph’s fingers left a brand beneath her chin. He lowered his head and gently brushed his lips against hers—a chaste kiss belaying the blackness in both their hearts.

  “I am glad you did not run.” His voice, though pleasant, held a hint of warning. “Though I would have found you, no matter where you went.”

  “I know,” she said. You would have tried.

  She remained still as he released her shoulders. Still, as he bid her good night. Still, as his footsteps sounded on the marble hall.

  But when his coachman’s whip sounded in the late night air, she pressed her shaking hands to her closed eyes and forced the fear back down into her heart with deep, determined breath.

  She was strong, strong in the way only a woman whose experience of familial love had come from a ruthless criminal could be strong.

  Randolph would try to catch her. He would fail. As much as she hated herself for it, she was her father’s daughter.

  …

  Earl Baneham’s Rule’s for Winning

  “Dual allegiance is fatal.”

  With aching limbs and sweat-stung eyes, Randolph marched toward a reckoning with England’s Under Secretary-of-state, who dually served as spymaster.