Her Lovestruck Lord: 2 (Wicked Husbands) Read online

  Her Lovestruck Lord

  Scarlett Scott

  Book two in the Wicked Husbands series.

  Abandoned by her husband on their wedding night, Maggie, the Marchioness of Sandhurst, longs for a raging passion to free her from her lonely life. A devastatingly handsome stranger at a masque ball promises just the sort of distraction she craves. But after a night of scorching lovemaking, she wakes to find him gone.

  Simon, the Marquis of Sandhurst, is horrified to discover the masked siren he bedded is his wife, a woman he vowed to never touch. He shouldn’t want Maggie, but can’t resist her now that she’s been in his arms.

  As the truth unravels, husband and wife are estranged no longer, spending their days and nights exploring the desire burning hot between them. But when Simon’s past comes back to haunt them both, their newfound happiness could be forever dashed.

  A Romantica® historical erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  HER LOVESTRUCK LORD

  Scarlett Scott

  Dedication

  For my editor, Grace. Thank you for whipping my books into shape and for being the best editor a girl could ask for.

  Chapter One

  “…love is love for evermore.”

  -Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  England, 1878

  Maggie, Marchioness of Sandhurst, knew when to concede defeat, and now was proving just such a moment. Glumly, she watched the first evening of Lady Needham’s infamous country house weekend unfolding in all its raucous glory. Good heavens, a masked lady’s nipples were nearly visible above the décolletage of her black evening gown as she sipped champagne and flirted shamelessly with a masked gentleman.

  Had Maggie ever thought she could live fast like the Marlborough House set? Curse the poetry in her soul. It appeared it had once more led her down a dark and danger-laden path. She had tamped down her desire for adventure for many years, only to wind up firmly mired in disenchantment once more.

  In her heart, she knew that what she was truly seeking could never be found inside the ballroom before her. Jonathan was lost to her forever. It had been more than a year since she’d last seen him. She knew she had to forget him for her own self-preservation. It was one of the reasons she’d found herself in this room.

  Foolish girl, she chastised herself. No, scratch that. Foolish woman.

  Yes, she was a woman grown, living an ocean away from everything and nearly everyone she knew. She was a wife, even if it felt more as if she were an unwanted relation instead. Perhaps most importantly, she was lonely, desperate for a taste of passion, for a kind touch, a melting kiss. But instead all she felt watching the glittering, tittering group before her was a soul-aching emptiness.

  There was no hope for it. She wasn’t cut from the same cloth as her fellow revelers, for watching them only made her want to retire to her chamber, snuggle beneath the covers and read the volume of poetry she’d brought along with her. If only she hadn’t chosen duty instead of love.

  With a sigh, she turned away from the swirls of skirts and the dashing sight of masked rakes wooing their eager female counterparts. And promptly froze after two steps as she heard an unmistakable sound above the laughter and the music and the rumble of inebriated voices. It was the one sound a lady never wanted to hear, the sound that invariably made her shudder in her silk shoes.

  The awful sound of fabric rending.

  Her train, to be specific. The lush fall of silk designed by Worth himself. Hopelessly torn. Dismay mingling with true despair within her, she turned to find the culprit. He was dressed to perfection in evening black, taller than she, his face obscured by an equally midnight half-mask. He didn’t appear to notice her, his glittering green eyes instead traveling the sea of iniquity above Maggie’s head.

  Dear heavens, what a lout. Perhaps he was a drunkard as well. Stifling the urge to roll her eyes in frustration, she attempted to gain the man’s attention, for he still stood upon the mangled remnants of her beautiful violet silk. “Pardon me, sir?”

  He either ignored her, or didn’t hear her, caught up in the madness of the ball. For a moment, she had the distinct impression his mind was in truth far away from the ballroom crush. He seemed to look past them all, lost in his own meandering thoughts.

  But be he inebriated, enthralled, or distracted, unfortunately the man was still on her skirts. “Sir?” She raised her voice, trying not to call too much attention to herself for she was ashamed she’d even deigned to attend the notorious party in the first place.

  He remained oblivious. Perhaps he suffered from a hearing problem. Oh dear. It seemed she had no choice if she wanted to save her train from further damage. Maggie reached out and laid a tentative hand on his arm. “Sir?”

  He gave a start and turned the force of that startling mossy gaze on her. “Madam?”

  His arm was surprisingly well-muscled, his coat warm with the heat of his large body. She withdrew her hand with haste as if he were a pot too long on the stove that she’d inadvertently touched with her bare hand. He still didn’t realize he was trampling her gorgeous evening gown. It took her a breath to regain her composure under the force of those piercing eyes.

  “Sir,” she began hesitantly, “I’m afraid you’re standing upon my train. If you’d be so kind?”

  “Damn it to hell,” he muttered, startling her with his blunt language. His penetrating stare dropped to the floor and he quickly removed the offending shoes from her silk. “Ah Christ, it’s ripped to bits, isn’t it?”

  She cast a dreary eye over the effects of his feet. “I expect it will require some correction, yes.”

  Correction was rather an understatement. Both her silk train, complete with box-pleated ribbon trim, and a lace-and-jet overlay were badly torn. She wasn’t certain a seamstress’s hand could make repairs without them being obvious to the eye. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford a new gown, but this had been her first occasion wearing it, and it had been unbearably lovely.

  “I’m truly sorry, my dear.” His voice sounded cross, drawing her attention back up to his frowning mouth. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll be happy to have it repaired for you.”

  His mouth was especially fine, she noted against her better judgment, firm yet sculpted. He had a generous mouth. Kissable. Dear heaven. What was she about, swooning over an unknown man’s lips? She swallowed, forcing herself to recall what he’d just said.

  “I appreciate your offer, sir, but I have a wonderful seamstress.” She frowned, thinking of the dressmaker she used in London when in a pinch. Very likely, the entire train would require replacing.

  “But the fault is mine,” he persisted, suddenly playing the gentleman now that she’d finally gained his attention.

  “Nonsense,” she parried, feeling slightly foolish over her womanly horror at the damage to her gown. It had not been intentionally done, after all, and she had more than enough coin for Madame Laurier’s alterations. “Of all things that need mending, mere fabric is by far the easiest and least costly.”

  He tilted his head, considering her with a fathomless stare that made her skin tingle to life with a dizzying warmth. “I sincerely doubt truer words were ever spoken.”

  There was an intensity underlying his words that made her believe he was sincere and not merely another rake plying meaningless flattery. For the first time since stepping into the whirlwind of the ballroom, Maggie was intrigued.

  “What have you that needs mending, sir?” she asked, feeling bold.

  His lips quirked into a wry smile beneath his mask. “Would you believe it’s my heart?”

  So he loved another, then. She tried to ignore the stab of disappointment the revelation sen
t through her. With her rotten luck, it figured.

  “I know better than anyone just how difficult it is to mend a heart.” She frowned as she thought of the unhappy life in which she had found herself. The realization she had settled on this miserable path was a constant burr beneath her mind’s saddle. “Perhaps impossible.”

  “What man would dare to break the heart of a woman as beautiful as you?” he demanded. “An utter imbecile, surely.”

  She laughed. “Forgive me, but I fear you’re guilty of dissembling.”

  “Dissembling?” He pressed a large hand over his heart, feigning shock. “I’m wounded. Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because you can’t see my face,” she pointed out, grinning despite herself. She well knew that her dainty mask covered all of her face as well, save her mouth. It was rather the point of a masque, after all.

  “Yes, but you have the most extraordinarily lovely eyes I’ve ever seen,” he returned with remarkable aplomb. “I daresay they’re almost violet.”

  Another wave of warmth washed over her. He was somehow different, this man. Dangerous to be sure. “I rather like you,” she confided before she could stop herself. Drat. Being too honest had always been one of her downfalls. She’d never been very good at hiding her emotions behind a polite veil. Perhaps it was why she’d had such difficulty blending with London society.

  He grinned. “You sound alarmed. I’m not all bad, I assure you.”

  She shook her head, trying to regain her wits. “It is merely that I’d given up on your countrymen.”

  “My countrymen?” He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he eyed her with dawning comprehension. “You’re an American, are you? I thought I detected an accent.”

  “I am,” she acknowledged. “I suppose that renders my eyes less lovely now.” Although a number of American heiresses like herself had made their way to England, they were not always well received. She’d had to work quite hard to forge her way, and acceptance from English ladies had not always been an easy or even achievable feat.

  “Of course not.” An emotion she couldn’t define darkened his voice. “Your eyes are still lovely as ever. Would you care to dance?”

  Oh dear heaven. The invitation excited her until she recalled two things. She was an abysmal dancer, and her train was in pieces. She wisely kept the first to herself. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid my train…”

  “Bloody hell, I’d already forgotten.” He grimaced. “What an ass. Perhaps you’d like another glass of champagne?”

  Belatedly, she realized the glass she held was empty. When had she drunk it all? She couldn’t recall. Perhaps that was the reason her head felt as if it had been filled with fluffy white clouds. Yes, that had to be it. Surely it wasn’t the tall stranger with the gorgeous mouth who kept plying her with sensual looks and disarming smiles. She probably ought not to have another flute of champagne.

  “I’d love another,” she said. Hadn’t she lived her life the way she should? And what had that gotten her but misery and loneliness and a husband she hadn’t seen in over a year?

  He returned to her side and pressed another glass of champagne into her hand. “There you are, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” She took a fortifying sip. She was horribly confused by the way this man made her feel. While she’d come to Lady Needham’s scandalous country house weekend in a moment of rebellion, she hadn’t truly expected to find a lover. She wasn’t entirely certain she even wanted a lover, for it surely wouldn’t change her grim circumstances, and yet the stranger before her somehow compelled her to wickedness. She forced her mind into safer territory, trying to distract herself from wanton thoughts. “Who has caused your heart to require mending?” she asked him. “A wife?”

  He hesitated, drinking his champagne, and for a moment she feared she’d overstepped her bounds. “Not a wife, no,” he said with care. “But a very old and very dear friend.”

  “A lover,” she concluded aloud, then flushed at her bluntness. “I’m sorry, sir, if I am too forthright. I cannot seem to help myself.”

  “You needn’t apologize. Everyone knows that here at Lady Needham’s none of the standard society rules apply.”

  It was true, and it was one of the many reasons she’d decided—against her better judgment—to attend. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked him, unable to squelch her curiosity.

  “I suppose it is in part,” he confirmed, taking another sip of spirits. “What of you? What finds you here? You appear terribly young for this fast set.”

  “Disappointment, I suppose.” She gulped her champagne as he closed the distance between them. He was so near she could see the dark stubble on his defined jaw.

  “You’re certainly too young for disappointment.” He ran a finger from her elbow to her wrist, stopping to tangle his fingers with hers. “Who would dare to disappoint you?”

  “My husband,” she whispered, her mouth going dry. Though truth be told, she was far more disappointed in herself than she was in the marquis. After all, she had known he married her for her dowry in the same way she had married him for his title. It was simply that she had not anticipated his utter defection and her resulting loneliness. But there was little need to divulge her inner sins and secrets to the man before her now. This was to be a lighthearted affair. No more love for Maggie. She had quite resigned herself to her fate.

  “He must be an utter bastard to cause you so much distress.”

  She laughed without mirth. “I would simply say he is a rather cold and heartless man.” Yes indeed, that described Sandhurst perfectly.

  He squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

  “You are not the man who owes me an apology,” she said sadly. “But I suppose I’ll never have one from him.” If he ever even deigned to darken her door. She’d thought surely he would have wanted an heir, or at least the pretense of married life. But his silence had said more than words could. He was too busy pursuing the woman he truly loved to have a care for the wife he’d never wanted. And Maggie was too busy wallowing in her misery at having thrown over the man she truly loved for a man who ignored her existence.

  “Do you love him?” he asked, startling her.

  His query threw her. People of their class so rarely married for love. She did not love her husband, but she had certainly married him with a hopeful heart. Her mother had assured her that many modern marriages began with respect and led to tender affections after time and diligence. She had hoped to foster a relationship of kindness between herself and her husband, at the very least. Instead, their relationship simply consisted of silence. But it was odd, she thought again, for the man before her to have even pondered such a question.

  “Of course not,” she said at last. “What of you and your very dear friend? Do you love her?”

  “I did for many years,” he said, the admission seemingly torn from him. “Now, I’m not certain what I feel any longer. A need for change, certainly.”

  She saw them for what they were then, a man and woman who had somehow run across each other’s paths at the same ball, both of them lost. Searching. She longed for something more. Perhaps this stranger was the very reason she’d chosen to come to Lady Needham’s country house party. Had fortune spun her a good turn at last?

  “What sort of change to you seek?” she asked, watching him above the rim of her flute.

  His sinful mouth curved in a half-smile. “I think perhaps it’s you.”

  She nearly choked on her mouthful of champagne. “Me?”

  “Oh yes,” he told her in that seductive, deep voice of his. His green eyes were fierce on her, trapping her gaze so she couldn’t look anywhere else. “You.”

  * * * * *

  Very likely, she should not have invited the stranger to her chamber. She thought of one of her favorite poems, The Lady’s Yes and how it cautioned against the flirtations of the ballroom, how inconstant they seemed by bright daylight. Yes indeed, very likely, she should never have e
ntertained such iniquity, let alone offered herself up for it.

  Maggie paced the length of polished floorboards peeking out from amongst thick carpets. Perhaps it was the champagne. Perhaps it was the evening, the man’s dancing eyes, his deep voice laden with desire. Perhaps it was the allure of something more, the mysterious relationship between a man and a woman that had never been fully realized for her.

  For a wife of nearly a year, she was still, somehow, a virgin.

  The shameless summons she’d issued was not like her at all. Dear heaven. What would the man think? She didn’t even know his name, his face. She’d chatted with him in a crowded ballroom and now he would arrive at any moment to take her innocence. Maggie fanned her face with her hand, needing air. What did it all entail? She’d heard murmurings that the deflowering would be painful at best, horridly humiliating at worst. Whatever it would be, every woman knew she need face the time. It had become apparent that her husband didn’t want her. She had no choice but to seek that closeness elsewhere. Had she?

  A discreet knock sounded at her door. Two quick raps. He had come.

  She flattened her palms over her nightdress, a fairly formal affair of cotton and lace. Upon dismissing her lady’s maid, she had retied the mask to conceal her face. After all, the freedom of anonymity was what made Lady Needham’s country house weekend so wicked and so wonderful. Participants wore masks for its three-day duration, enabling guests to dabble in pursuits that were decidedly more sinful than ordinary society permitted.

  She took a deep breath before hastening to the door and pulling it open. There he stood, the man who had trampled her train and won her desire in the process. He stood tall, still wearing his black evening tails and his mask. They were to remain entirely unknown to each other. Maggie wasn’t certain if she was relieved or disappointed. While she very much longed to see his face, she also wasn’t ready to reveal hers to him.