Bargaining With a Rake (A Whisper of Scandal Novel) (32 page)

About the Author

Julie Johnstone is a bestselling
author of Regency Romance. She has been a voracious reader of books since she
was a young girl. Her mother would tell you that as a child Julie had a rich
fantasy life made up of many different make believe friends. As an adult, Julie
is one of the lucky few who can say she is living the dream by working with her
passion of creating worlds from her imagination.

When Julie is not writing she is
chasing her two precocious children around, cooking, reading or exercising.
Julie loves to hear from her readers. You can send her an email at
[email protected]
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Now Available!

What
A Rogue Wants

Lords
of Deception Book 1

Keep
reading for a sneak peek!

London, England

1804

Lord Grey Adlard entered White’s gentlemen’s club, intent on one
purpose―to find and wring the neck of Gravenhurst, his former best friend
as of roughly twenty minutes ago. Before Grey got two steps into the
entranceway, Henry, White’s stuffiest and Grey’s favorite footman, appeared.

“Milord, may I take your hat and coat?” As usual, Henry’s droopy eyelids
made it hard to gauge his reaction, but Grey bet his soggy state shocked the
proper footman. Hell, it shocked
him
, and he was far from proper.

He held out his dripping coat and hat, trying to ignore the water
pattering against the floor from his garments. He looked like a damn fool. At
Henry’s annoyed inhalation, Grey narrowed his eyes, daring Henry to say a word.
After being forced to traverse down a thorny rose trellis and take an unplanned
midnight swim in a freezing lake to escape the sudden appearance of Lady
Julia’s irate father, Grey was in no mood for Henry’s reproach. “Is Gravenhurst
here?”

“Of course.” Henry took Grey’s coat with the tips of his fingers and eyed
it distastefully. “Lord Grey, you are dripping on my floor.”

Grey glanced at the puddle at his feet, his neck warming in irritation.
His favorite shoes were ruined, not to mention his trousers. Tiny rips covered
the front of the fine, black material. Gravenhurst would pay to replace these,
if
he decided to let the man live. “Sorry, Henry. Might I have a towel?”

“You might. But first, you must promise no fisticuffs. I’d hate to have
you and Lord Gravenhurst thrown out again.”

Grey scanned White’s for Gravenhurst. He found the man positioned
diagonally from the entranceway, one blond eyebrow raised, left foot propped
leisurely on his right knee, coat off, cravat loose, drink in hand, and
perfectly dry. The man deserved to be dumped in the lake. “Might I have that
towel before I catch my death?”

“Milord, your promise?”

Henry’s brazenness made Grey smile. He preferred audacity over timidity
any day. “You’re impertinent.” He said it to goad Henry. The man’s sharp-witted
responses never disappointed.

“Yes, milord.”

“That’s it?”

Henry’s mouth twitched upward in a faint smile. “I’m afraid so, milord.
We’re very busy, and short-staffed.”

Bollocks. There was no fun to be found anywhere tonight. “Fine. I promise
no fisticuffs.” He dried himself with the towel Henry handed him. When he was
as dry as he could manage, he handed the towel to Henry. “I’d like to remind
you that my fight with Gravenhurst was years ago.”

“All I remember are the broken chairs and tables, milord.”

Grey eyed Henry. “Gravenhurst and I are now far too old and wise to
engage in fisticuffs inside White’s.”
Outside
was implied, of course.

“I agree with too old.” Henry’s eyebrows rose in challenge.

Entertainment at last. “You know―” Grey ran a hand through his
disheveled, wet, hair. “―I’m not sure why I put up with your insolence.”

“I believe, milord, it’s because you know I’m right, and our verbal
sparring amuses you.”

“I’ll never admit such a thing,” Grey tossed over his shoulder as he
strode away. He nodded to Lords Peter and Perkins, who gaped in return. He
could count on those two dimwits to gossip all over Town about his appearance,
which if nothing else, would cause his father a moment of discomfort. Grey
smiled. The night wasn’t a total loss after all.

He pulled out a chair and sat, his trousers smacking wetly against the
wood. The candlelight from the center of the table glowed on Gravenhurst’s tan
skin and light hair and made him look wicked. Fitting. No telling what the man
was up to now. “Do not,” he said as Gravenhurst started to snicker, “laugh or
say a word to me until I’ve had a drink or I’ll rearrange your nose for you,
which might be an improvement to the crooked thing.”

Grey grabbed the full glass Gravenhurst put in front of him and downed
the liquor. A slow warmth started in his mouth and spread to his chest, pushing
away a little of the iciness clinging to his damp skin. He would need a least
two more drinks to warm himself and cool his irritation, but now he could talk
civilly. Setting his glass down, he leaned back and allowed himself to relax
for the first time in over an hour. “Your information was incorrect.”

“You don’t say?” Gravenhurst replied, a smile pulling at his lips. “I
thought as much when I saw you enter. So her father’s back in Town?”

“He is indeed.”

“Bollocks. I’m sorry, Grey.”

“Think nothing of it. I almost broke my neck climbing down a rickety
trellis and nearly froze to death swimming in their lake escaping, but don’t
hold yourself accountable for giving me incorrect information.”

“Seems to me being caught by Lord Blackborn in his daughter’s bedroom
would’ve been the perfect opportunity to finally get your father’s notice.”

“I stopped wanting my father’s notice ten years ago. I’m perfectly happy
being the invisible second son of the mighty Duke of Ashdon.” He ignored the
inner twitch that always occurred when he lied. Someday, he’d master that
reaction.

“So your constant exploits are for―?”

“Irritating him.” He wasn’t about to begin exploring why he acted as he
did. He had an agreement with himself to never examine his actions toward his
father. So far, the agreement had worked out perfectly. He raised his hand and
signaled the server for another glass of whiskey. “It’s a perverse but
enjoyable pastime. One I’ll not see ended by being snagged in marriage with a lady
like Julia who beds all who take her fancy. That would irritate me, not my
father.”

Gravenhurst regarded Grey over the rim of his glass. “If you really want
to shock and irritate your father, I have a way.”

Grey leaned his elbows on the table. The sympathetic look on
Gravenhurst’s face bothered Grey more than his wet state. Pity, even from his
best friend, made him uncomfortable. “I want nothing more than to be the exact
opposite sort of man than my stick-up-the-arse father. What’s this way you
speak of?”

“Marie Vallendri is now living in Golden Square. I propose we go there
tomorrow, you meet her and invite her to your parent’s country party.”

“That’s brilliant.” Grey slid his chair back and stood. “Father hates
anyone French, and he’ll despise a former rumored courtesan of Napoleon’s,
famous opera singer or not, dining across from him at dinner.”

“You’ll really do it?” Gravenhurst’s face had gone pale.

Grey chuckled. He hadn’t been sure, but now he was. Passing up a chance
to shock Gravenhurst was out of the question. “Were you trying to call my
bluff? Really Grave, you should know better. Pick me up at ten and we’ll make
our way to Golden Square. By dinner tomorrow night, I expect Miss Vallendri to
be my newest mistress and sitting at my parents’ table eating turtle soup.”
Never mind he didn’t particularly want a new mistress. That wasn’t what this
was really about. “If this doesn’t make my father want to secure me a
commission and send me far from him, I don’t know what will.”

“You’re sure this is wise?”

“I’m sure it’s not, and that’s what makes it perfect,” Grey said and
strode toward the door with as much dignity as he could muster over the
squishing of his shoes.

LADY MADELAINE ALDRIGE SCRAMBLED OUT of the hired hackney and tugged on
her dearest friend Abigail Langley’s hand. “Do hurry.”

Madelaine nearly careened down the steps when Abigail jerked her hand
away. She whirled around to face her friend. “Why’d you do that?”

The bright morning sun in her eyes made it hard to see Abigail’s
expression, but her frown was apparent in her tone. “Look at these people.”
Abby cast her voice low, though only God above knew why she bothered.

“No one can hear you, Abby.” Madelaine raised her voice above the merry
music drifting from Golden Square and scanned the perimeter of London’s art
district. Vendors lined the streets with their wares and mulled about in small
clusters while laughing and joking. The sight was glorious. Ladies strolled
along the paths without chaperones or companions, couples sprawled in the grassy
banks on blankets with picnics and art canvases clustered around them, jugglers
performed by the spouting fountains and in the distance Madelaine could swear
she saw a woman shooting an arrow at a target. Her heart nearly exploded with
excitement. There
was
more to life than following societal dictates! It
felt grand to be right about something for once.

She rummaged in her reticule, fumbling in her impatience to find the
coins she needed for the hackney driver. Once secured, she paid the man and
sent him on his way before Abby changed her mind and forced them both to leave.
Abby was a worrier that way. Her friend chewed on her nail, a sure sign she was
having serious doubts.

Madelaine linked her arm through Abby’s and led them toward the sound of
a trumpet, or was that a saxophone? Who really cared? It was beautiful music
filling the air. “Abby, do quit looking as if someone’s going to point at us
and shout ‘frauds!’ Artists don’t give a whit about two women from Lancashire
coming to explore a little.” At least she didn’t think they did. “We’re safe
here. Free to roam around and do exactly as we wish. Artists live as they want
without the restrictions of Society.”

“How do you know?”

“I read it in the gossip sheets, so it’s at least half true.”

“I suppose.” Abby did not look convinced with her creased brow. “We
cannot stay long. An hour at most.”

Madelaine sighed. “I know.” Why couldn’t her one voyage into freedom and
the glorious unknown be longer? “Now stop worrying. We’ll be back at the
townhouse long before my father. He’ll never know we were anywhere but Bond
Street shopping for ribbon and all the other ridiculous things girls are
supposed to love.”

“I do love ribbon.” Abby twirled a strand of her brown, curly hair around
her finger.

Madelaine patted her friend. “I know, darling. I can’t for the life of me
figure out why. You’re so sensible in every other way. But because I love you
so, I left you all my best ribbons in your room.” The fact that it had been an
utter relief to leave the ribbon behind didn’t matter. Abby had a gift for
twining ribbon in her hair while Madelaine had a knack for somehow getting it
knotted in her hair. “You won’t forget me, will you?” Madelaine’s throat
suddenly ached with emotion.

Abby clutched Madelaine’s arm tighter as they strolled toward the first
row of vendors. “I would never forget you, Maddie, with or without the ribbons.
But next time I see you, I daresay you’ll be a proper lady, likely betrothed to
a handsome man you meet at Court, and you’ll probably not wish to talk to the
housekeeper’s daughter any longer.”

Since she’d never been very good at being a proper lady, Abby’s
prediction wasn’t likely to come true. She held in a sigh. She wanted a
husband, but she didn’t want to pretend to be someone she wasn’t to get one.
Yet, she knew she was odd, and her father wanted her married, no matter the
pretense she employed.

“I’d never forget you,” Madelaine swore as she stopped under a pretty
tree blooming with pink flowers. Perching on the ledge of the stone wall that
surrounded Golden Square, she inhaled the unfamiliar sweet scent. “Let’s sit
for a moment and take it all in, shall we?”

Abby nodded and sat beside Madelaine. The sadness that had pressed
against Madelaine’s chest since her mother’s death felt lighter here in the square.
The lightness was short lived. Tomorrow Father would deposit her at Court where
he demanded she find a proper husband to marry. Not even her usual stalling
tactics had talked him out of it. “No dallying,” he said. No pressure there. It
was only her mother’s dying wish that Father had zealously embraced. She
pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples.

Tomorrow she would be a lady-in-waiting to the queen, manipulated like a
puppet by the queen’s dictates. Even if by some miracle Madelaine found a man
who suited her, that wanted her in return, the queen’s opinion could sway any
match to be denied or accepted. She prayed the queen liked her. If not, life
could be intolerable. She couldn’t botch it this time. She’d failed her mother
in life, but she would not fail her in her death, nor would she cause her
father any more pain and sorrow than she already had. Failing to find a
husband, after he’d used his friendship with the king to secure her a position
with the queen would mortify her father.