Nothing But Scandal (21 page)

“Perfect,” Alex repeated. He slid his hands up her sides, over her breasts, and clasped her to him, his growing erection pressing into her backside.

She gave a little moan at the erotic contact.

God, he ached to be inside her.

Instead, he forced himself to concentrate next on the pins securing her hair. One by one they followed her garments to the ground, until her hair tumbled en masse to her shoulders and down her back.

He picked up one wavy lock and kissed it, drawing a giggle from her.

“It’s red,” she informed him.

“It’s
perfect,
” he repeated. Finally he moved back in front of her, pulling her in for a kiss. Her tongue found his, and this time he was the one who groaned. Her breasts, her hips, pressed against him as she instinctively sought more.

He tore his mouth away and shucked his own garments, removing them with considerably less finesse than he’d spent on hers.

He heard her quick intake of breath as his breeches hit the floor. He hardened further. A flick at the straps on her shoulders and she, too, stood nude.

He scooped her up and carried her the few feet to the large bed, then laid her carefully down. “I want to feast on you.”

“Mmmmm.” Her eyes clouded with passion.

He kissed her jaw, her neck, then ducked lower, drawing one dusky nipple into his mouth. He tugged gently and felt her fingers dig into his back in an unspoken plea for more.

He’d give it to her. He’d give her everything she wanted and more.

But maybe not just this minute. Because she was making little wiggling, seeking motions with her hips, and his body was screaming with the need to take her. He’d waited more than a month. He couldn’t wait any longer.

He nudged her legs apart. Instinct took over. He probed her entrance, his swollen shaft throbbing when he found her slick and ready.

He drove in, one swift thrust that brought them together fully.

“Alex,” she cried, arching her back.

He withdrew, then surged forward again, finding the rhythm they both sought.

“Open your eyes, Elizabeth,” he whispered hoarsely.

She did, and the passion, the love he found there, nearly unmanned him. He pushed them both toward the brink, caressing her breasts, her hair, touching, touching everywhere.

She moved beneath him, matching her own movements to his. God, yes. How had he not known from the beginning that she was his match in every way?

He thrust again, the last vestiges of control slipping as she urged him on. He was going to come, any second, and he wanted her there with him. She was close, he could feel it. He pressed his thumb to the bead of her sex and felt her shatter around him. With his other hand he clasped hers, held her tight, as with one final thrust he roared and poured himself, everything, into her.

He collapsed and rolled to the side, pulling her with him, still intimately joined. Still holding her hand. He’d never before held the hand of a woman as he made love to her. He wasn’t going to question the implications of that now. Instead he tucked her head under his chin, holding her, protecting her, until he caught his breath.

He felt her smile against his chest. “That was quite impressive, my husband.”

Minx.

“Wife,” he growled laughingly into her hair, “we’ve only just begun.”

Married life was perfect. In Elizabeth, Alex had found a mate who loved him for more than his rank, and who matched his spirit and adventurousness in every way. If anything, she was
too
adventurous—but there was nothing he’d rather do than spend the rest of his life protecting her and their inevitably mischievous children.

There was just one thing he had to do first. A matter left from the last of her adventures, which had nearly shattered her.

“I want him destroyed,” Alex commanded.

The solicitor looked up. “Your Grace?”

“By the time you’re finished, Wetherby won’t have a shilling to his name,” Alex instructed.

No man got away with the abuse Harold Wetherby had inflicted on Elizabeth. He’d told her he was meeting an investing partner today, but the truth was, he’d come to ensure Wetherby would never bother her—or anyone else—again.

The temptation to do the man physical harm gnawed at him, but he’d settled for a gentleman’s revenge, one he knew would hurt Wetherby’s obnoxious pride far more than would a physical beating.

“I see, sir,” the solicitor said.

“I knew you would, Browne.” It was one of the reasons he kept the solicitor on retainer—Browne had the ability to ferret out financial details on almost any situation about which the duke inquired.

“So far, I’ve determined he holds shares in several mines to the north, as well as some sort of textiles factory—men’s garments, I believe—near Yorkshire. The working conditions at each are abominable.”

“Undoubtedly.” Alex wondered how many orphans, widows, and poor slaved daily to earn Harold’s living. It was something he’d never have considered before, but seeing Elizabeth as a governess had given him new understanding of the precariousness of being an unwed, moneyless female. “Can you destroy Wetherby without putting his workers out on the streets?”

Browne appeared dumbfounded. “Your Grace?”

Alex waved a hand. “I know, I know, I’ve gone soft. But Wetherby is the one I want to suffer, not those who are already his victims.”

Browne nodded. “It can be done, Your Grace, with a bit more finesse. Perhaps if you were involved, indirectly of course, in some rival ventures…”

“You take care of the details. I don’t care how,” Alex said. “But Browne? Work quickly.”

Two weeks after her wedding, Elizabeth sat in Alex’s study. He’d gone to meet one of his investing partners, promising to return soon. She hummed happily as she wrote out thank-you notes for a lovely silver tea service, a handsome wooden trunk, and a set of rather ugly candlesticks. Tomorrow, she and Alex would journey to Montgrave, Alex’s country seat, where they would winter. She gave an impatient sigh. London was fine, but she eagerly anticipated spending the cold months snug at her husband’s side, without the distractions of city life.

Hearing a scratching noise behind her, she turned to find the butler.

“Your Grace, there is a gentleman at the door to see you.” His lips pursed at the word “gentleman.” The servant cleared his throat. “I told him to go around back, as that appeared to be his proper place, but he insisted it was imperative he speak with you. He claims he used to work for your father.”

Elizabeth stood, flexing her hands to ease the cramps in her fingers. “It’s all right. I’ll come see.”

The butler looked slightly mollified that at least he wasn’t being asked to show the unexpected visitor into the study. Elizabeth followed him into the hall.

The man hovering near the door wore simple, gray country clothes—no longer the livery of a noble house—but Elizabeth recognized her former coachman immediately.

“Fuston! Where have you been these many months?”

He shook his head. He looked ten years older.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Miss Medford—that is, Your Grace, I had to come tell you someth—” Fuston stopped, twisting his hat in his hands. “But no, I shouldn’t be here.” Beads of sweat appeared on the man’s forehead. “I’m not allowed…”

Elizabeth frowned. Something was very wrong here.

“What do you mean, you’re ‘not allowed’?” As far as she knew, English citizens were still free to roam the country at will, including visits to former employers and their families or friends. It might not be common, but it was
allowed
.

“His Grace…” the beleaguered man whispered.

Worry set in, though she attempted to mentally thrust it aside. She and Alex had had their share of estrangements, certainly, but now they had finally worked everything out. She was a blissfully married woman.

But the fact that Fuston was here, now, after having gone missing for months…and he was obviously upset. She smoothed her skirts and glanced around, but the other servants had disappeared. They were alone.

“Your Grace, he’s not…you shouldn’t…” Fuston glanced at the door as though second-guessing his decision to visit her.

“Fuston, relax. Tell me what you came to say. It will ease your conscience, and then you can go back to wherever you’ve been staying.” Surely, whatever the matter was, it couldn’t be
that
bad. She hoped.

He nodded shakily, then beckoned her closer. Elizabeth obligingly leaned in.

“Your father, miss. His death was…’tweren’t an accident.”

Elizabeth stepped back, unable to comprehend. Pressure built inside her temples and the bodice of her gown suddenly felt too tight, constricting her breath.

She shook her head. “No, it was a carriage accident. You said so yourself. And we saw the carriage. ’Twas utterly wrecked.”

Fuston gulped and nodded. “Aye. I overturned that carriage on purpose—at the Duke of Beaufort’s direction. But your father was dead before the carriage ever left the road.”

Elizabeth felt for the wall behind her, seeking balance in a world that suddenly seemed unsteady.

“I don’t understand. You must be mistaken.” Perhaps the poor man had gone mad. Or had forgotten himself with drink.

But he did not smell of alcohol, and, though he was obviously nervous, there were no telltale signs to prove he’d lost his sanity.

“Nay, miss. No mistake. Your father was shot.”

“Shot?”

“Aye. I was sworn to secrecy. Paid to disappear from London. But when news of your wedding reached the country…Beaufort…”

“What has my husband to do with this?”

“’Twas him that done it.”

Elizabeth finally found the wall behind her and pressed her palms against it. “You must be mistaken,” she repeated.

Fuston shook his head, beads of nervous perspiration forming above his brow. “I’m truly sorry, Your Grace. But you see, now, why I had to tell you. Only I wasn’t in time. We don’t get the papers, or any news, in a timely fashion…”

She waived that aside. “What happened…to my father?” she breathed, unable to find her normal voice.

“I don’t know the whole of it. Had me drive him to Beaufort’s that night, did the baron, but what went on inside I can’t say. ’Cept that, there was some loud voices, like they was arguin’, and then a door slammed. Then more voices. They were outside, on the other side of the estate. I stayed by the carriage, an’ I couldn’t hear all of what they were sayin’, but I knew the voices.

“Then a shot. A man, one of Beaufort’s, I b’lieve, came up to the carriage jus’ as I was gettin’ down. Said the baron was dead, and the duke would pay me handsome if ’n I could make it look as though ’twere a carriage accident what killed him.”

“The body…” Elizabeth whispered.

Fuston bobbed his head earnestly. “The casket was closed for the funeral, nay?”

“I thought that was because he’d been mangled in the accident.” It felt odd to be discussing her father’s remains in this way. “Does my mother know?”

“I couldn’t say. Lowdry, the old butler for yer family, he was the one what talked to her. But I doubt he told her. After all, we was supposed to cover it up for Beaufort, and yer poor mother might rest easier simply thinkin’ it was an accident.”

The coachman’s story was too awful, too absurd, to be believed. “Did anyone actually see Alex—I mean, His Grace—that evening?” she asked, seeking to exonerate the man she loved.

“Not me. But his voice was one o’ the ones arguin’, an’ ’twas him what paid me to leave after the matter was settled.”

Fuston held up pleading hands. “Miss Medford, don’t you see? You’ve married the man what murdered your father.”

Somehow, Elizabeth had seen Fuston to the door. He’d been only too anxious to leave. Now she sat at the small writing desk, elbows propped on its surface, her head in her hands, as she stared at the letter she couldn’t write. Unfinished thank-you notes for wedding gifts surrounded her. How strange they suddenly seemed.

Her first instinct had been to run. But she’d already done that too many times. For the past few months, she’d been running from her past. She was tired.

Besides, there was nowhere left to go.

She wished devoutly she could dismiss Fuston’s tale as the ravings of a lunatic. Except the placid coachman had never shown signs of madness in all the years she’d known him. Whatever had happened the night her father died, Fuston’s fear had been real. And there was no reason for Alex to pay off the coachman if he had nothing to hide.

None of this made sense. She
loved
Alex. He was her husband. She could even be carrying his child.

But how could the man she loved, the man she’d dreamed of for so long, be the one who deprived her of the only other man she’d ever loved?

Her father had been no saint, as she now knew, but he’d still been her father. Had Alex killed him?

She recalled their recent wedding, how he’d proudly taken her hand, repeated his vows. Surely a man with a murderous deed to his name could not stand in church with such confidence, such ease. Not unless his soul was blackened beyond caring.

She needed advice. But there was no one to ask. What was the responsible thing to do? Confront her husband?

Dear God. She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly—he had no reason to harm her. But if Fuston’s tale wasn’t true, she would wound her husband’s honor, his character, by even asking. He didn’t deserve that. Unless, of course, it
was
true.

She laid her pounding head on the desk.

If she confronted Alex, she’d reveal Fuston’s involvement, and perhaps put the coachman in danger. She couldn’t do that.

Nor could she simply dismiss the incident as though it had never happened.

Hence the letter. Though what it would say, she had no idea. Raising her head, she twirled the quill absentmindedly between her fingers, then crumpled another sheet of paper.

They were supposed to attend a poetry reading tonight—another performance by the estimable Miss Lambert, Alex’s crow-voiced cousin. She and Alex had jokingly agreed they could bear it together. Now she couldn’t fathom making it through the evening.

Hastily Elizabeth scrawled a note claiming she suffered from a headache and pleading to be excused from the evening’s entertainment, then found a footman to deliver it to the duke.

The note didn’t address her most pressing problem, but it would buy her some time.

The claim of a headache was no lie. Her temples throbbed and the pressure on her skull was as if someone held her head in a vise. Wearily, she climbed the stairs and sought her bed.
Their
bed. She stared at the handsomely carved posts, the fine linens covering the mattress. He’d touched her here, caressed her with infinite tenderness. The image of his body rising over hers, his eyes full of heat and love, flashed through her mind as her heart protested her disloyal doubts.

Wearily, she climbed in and pulled the covers over her head, seeking oblivion.

She hadn’t expected to actually sleep, but when Elizabeth opened her eyes again, dusk had fallen over London. The throbbing of her head had receded somewhat. She stood and went to the window. Outside, a carriage rolled slowly by, and windows of other houses glowed softly where lamps were lit. Everything was normal.

Except for her.

She couldn’t hide in her room forever.

Elizabeth forced herself to recall the night of her father’s death, the scene she’d observed between Fuston and the butler while she’d hid in a dark corner of the hall. For months the scene had replayed itself in her dreams, but every time she awoke, she’d tried to put it behind her.

The things Fuston had said then—things she’d ignored in the shock of losing her father—came back to her now. The coachman had been terrified. She’d always thought it was because he felt responsible for the accident.

But if there’d been no accident, perhaps his true terror had been at being an unwilling accessory to murder. It made a certain, sick sense.

Except that it went against the one thing she
knew
.

Alex was a good man. An honorable man.

Her father, on the other hand, was a scoundrel who’d gambled beyond his means and then offered up his oldest daughter as payment for debts he couldn’t cover. In truth, it was only because of her husband’s honor that she hadn’t been sold into that unsavory deal.

Elizabeth slowly drew the curtains, reminding herself of the many reasons she believed in Alex Bainbridge. She was not blind to his faults—at least not anymore. His reputation among the ton pegged him as a ruthless man—in business, gaming, and nearly every other pursuit including women. It was a reputation not undeserved.

But in spite of that, Elizabeth
couldn’t
believe him capable of cold-hearted murder. She knew Alex better than did anyone in the ton. As much as he presented that ruthless, cynical image to the rest of the world, she’d seen beneath it. She’d seen the way his niece and nephew lit up at the sight of him, and the way he responded to them with ease. Children were more astute judges of character, in Elizabeth’s opinion, than many adults.

More importantly, she knew how he’d treated
her
. When her own family had failed her, he’d searched the countryside and rescued her from Harold. He’d offered her his name, his love, his body. Perhaps not in that order, but she’d been willing enough in their earlier indiscretions.

The point was, Alex was a good man.