The Night Before Scandal (Heart's Temptation Book 7) Read online

  The Night Before Scandal

  Heart’s Temptation Book Seven

  By

  Scarlett Scott

  What happens in a carriage doesn’t always stay in a carriage

  Lord Harry Marlow reluctantly attends a Christmas house party hosted by his brother and his sister-in-law, who also happens to be the woman he once longed to wed himself. He’s not pleased by the prospect of holly and mistletoe and merrymaking any more than he is with the reminder of the love he could have had. But his dismay doesn’t last for long when a mysterious stranger in the midst of a blizzard captures his interest.

  Lady Alexandra Danvers is unabashedly eccentric. Nothing and no man interests her more than her scientific pursuits. Until she meets the sinfully handsome Lord Harry, that is. When sparks fly between the unlikely pairing, scandal isn’t far behind. Will Lord Harry and Lady Alexandra find true love together by Christmas day?

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Nobody’s Duke

  Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  December, 1884

  The last time Lord Harry Marlow had been at Boswell Manor, his brother stole the woman he loved and made her his wife. Fitting, then, that when he returned, Oxfordshire was colder than Wenham Lake ice and the skies had opened to unleash a torrent of snow.

  Even more fitting that his carriage suffered a broken axle one quarter of the way down the immense drive, leaving him to the indignity of shivering in the misery of winter’s chill whilst his driver walked to the main house for assistance. There was no hope for it. His pride would not allow another moment of cowering like a frightened child in the night calling for his mother.

  He threw open the coach door. A squall of white buffeted him, frigid air and snowflakes gusting into his face in further affront. Harry had never cared for either winter or Christmas because he detested being cold as much as he loathed disappointment. Why the hell had he consented to attend this cursed house party?

  Icy pinpricks fell down the neck of his coat as he alighted from the carriage with a scowl at the offending heavens, which had not possessed the decency to stave off this ridiculous blizzard until he had been ensconced in the comfort and warmth of Boswell House.

  He shook his fist at the sky. “Could this not have waited, damn it?”

  “Is berating the clouds an effective method of persuading them to cease precipitation?”

  The soft query had him spinning on his heel in the snow.

  A fresh gust of wind obliterated his view of the interloper beyond a tall form in bulky trousers, a hat, and a shapeless overcoat. He blinked snowflakes from his lashes. Either his eyes or his ears deceived him, for the voice he’d heard had been distinctly feminine and husky, but the figure before him was completely outfitted in men’s garb.

  “I beg your pardon?” he demanded, for he did not like being spied upon any more than he liked the prospect of sharing a Boswell Manor Christmas with his brother and sister-in-law and their nauseating love.

  As an MP dedicated to his office, Harry liked to think that he was above the too-human emotion of jealousy. But he was a mere mortal after all, and the roiling in his gut and the dread clenching his chest as the carriage had plodded onward to Oxfordshire proved his deficiency.

  It wasn’t that he was incapable of feeling happy for Spencer. His brother had been through hell and he deserved happiness more than anyone. But a small, unworthy part of Harry could not seem to stop wishing Spencer had discovered that happiness with someone other than the lady he had been courting.

  His unwanted companion plowed toward him through the snow. There was no other way to describe the person’s awkward locomotion. “Awfully arrogant of you to attempt to berate the sky, is all,” said the dulcet voice.

  Definitely female. As she shuffled toward him in a gait that suggested her boots were at least two sizes too large for her, his curious gaze settled upon a creamy oval face framed by wisps of copper curls. Wide, blue eyes stared at him. Cold tinged her high cheekbones pink. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, but even in her bizarre, mannish dress, there was something arresting about her. Something intriguing.

  Best to purge that thought at once. Banish it so far removed that it could never again emerge. The last time he had been drawn to a woman, it had not ended well, and he had no wish for an encore.

  Neither did his heart.

  She made a huffing sound in her throat. “Are you addlepated or hard of hearing, sir? I said berating the sky is awfully arrogant.”

  The preposterous wench was hollering at him, enunciating slowly as if he were incapable of comprehending the Queen’s English. As if he were the one who was wearing the garb of the opposite sex and chastising strangers in a bloody blizzard.

  He blinked, and an inexplicable urge to nettle her rose within him. “I assure you that I am possessed of both sound intelligence and sound hearing, sir. Equally arrogant of you to attempt to berate a stranger. I do not believe we have met. I am Lord Harry Marlow. What brings you to Boswell Manor?”

  “Sir?” Her fiery brows furrowed, eyes narrowing on him. “I am a guest, my lord.”

  A guest? Who was she? He noted that she did not bother to correct his intentional misunderstanding of her sex. It was bloody cold out, but perhaps he could warm himself with some entertainment.

  Harry considered her through another gust of wind and snow, noting the stray snowflakes clinging to her full bottom lip. “Devil take it. I don’t recall when I last saw such a frightful storm before Christmas. Do you, Mr…?”

  “Danvers,” she supplied. “The storm is fascinating. It certainly seems to be an aberration, which will prove most useful in my meteorological prognostics map.”

  The skin over his cheekbones tautened with cold. This creature grew stranger by the moment. “Your meteorological prognostics map, Mr. Danvers?”

  “Yes.” Her blue eyes burned bright with fervor for her subject, and still she made no effort to correct his assumption. She withdrew a small metal tube from her overcoat. “I’m attempting to observe the snowbands with my spectroscope. I have yet to complete the snow portion of my map, and the timing of this storm is really quite fortuitous.”

  Despite the chill and the driving squall of precipitation, something warm slid through him. Desire, perhaps. Curiosity, certainly. She looked ludicrous in her too-large men’s clothing. Everything emerging from her mouth sounded absurd.

  And yet, he was drawn to her. “You are studying the storm?”

  Another burst of wind caused a smattering of snowflakes to become caught in her lashes. “Of course. Why else would anyone care to be en plein air on a day such as this? Stuff and nonsense. The vigorousness of this particular cloud formation does render it frightfully difficult for one to see.”

  “Here you are.” He took a step closer, reached into his own coat, and extracted a handkerchief, using it to blot the offending snow.

  His gloved fingers grazed her cheek. He wished they were bare so that he could test the softness of her skin. A tantalizing trail of freckles scattered over her nose. His gaze slipped to her lush, pink lips topped by a perfect Cupid’s bow.
The urge to cover that mouth with his surged. He allowed his touch to linger, trailing his fingers down her cheek, to the curve of her jaw.

  Her lips parted for a moment, as if she searched for words. “Oh. Thank you, Lord Harry. You are most kind.”

  Still, he did not withdraw his touch but lingered, staring down at her as a fierce ache settled in his groin. As impossible as it seemed, he wanted this odd woman who dressed as a man and spouted nonsense about the weather. Who spoke with a boldness he had only ever experienced from one woman—Lady Boadicea Harrington, the very woman who had subsequently married his brother.

  This was no bloody good.

  The jangling of tack and clopping of hooves reached him, reminding him that he stood in the midst of a blizzard and he could not feel his cursed toes. What was he doing lingering in the squall, touching this bizarre creature as though it were his right, standing near enough to her to feel her heat and catch a whiff of orange and bergamot?

  He did not even know who she was, beyond her surname. He slid his handkerchief into his jacket pocket and took a step back to restore a proper distance and clear his head of her maddening scent. “Mr. Danvers, it’s deuced frigid out here. I hear my replacement carriage arriving. Won’t you accompany me up to the house?”

  Her brows drew together in a frown. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Not proper?” Harry didn’t know why goading the female before him was so bloody entertaining, but it was. And he wasn’t ready for it to end just yet. “Why, of course it would be proper, Mr. Danvers. You are a guest of my brother’s. I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to linger out here all alone to catch your death. Come along, then. It will be just two chaps getting to know each other.”

  She stared, and he wondered if she would relent and admit that she was not, in fact, a Mr. Danvers at all. But then she tucked her curious metal tube back into her jacket. “I suppose I ought to return before I am missed.”

  “You may continue your observations from within Boswell Manor,” he said then, surprising himself with the need to extend their interaction. But perhaps he had discovered the distraction that would enable him to survive this Christmas with his brother, dragon of a mother, and his sister-in-law, and that would be the only gift he required this Yuletide. “I know just the place.”

  Chapter Two

  The moment she settled into the carriage across from Lord Harry Marlow, Alexandra knew she had made a terrible mistake. The carriage was warm and cozy, laden with fresh hot bricks and furs for comfort, and its confines were small enough—or perhaps she and Lord Harry’s legs combined were long enough—that their trouser-clad calves brushed.

  Such a strange point of contact to affect one, the lower half of the leg. She could not countenance it. Indeed, she had never, before this very moment, given much thought to the existence of her calf aside from its functional purpose. But with his leg pressed against hers, she could not deny the rush of heat that began in that lone spot and spread, curling through her body like an unwanted flame that settled somewhere between her thighs.

  What was it about this man that made her body react in such an odd manner? Being a science-minded lady, she knew her response was natural. But why him?

  “Have you lost your tongue, Mr. Danvers?” he asked in his low, butter-smooth tone.

  It was a pleasant voice, the sort that felt like crushed velvet to her senses—soft yet almost sinful in its luxurious decadence. She forced her gaze to meet his, recalling that he thought her a gentleman because of her attire.

  She ought to have corrected his assumption at once. But she had not because the notion of being a man, even for a fleeting moment, had seemed so alluring in its freedom. And also because she did not wish for her brother and sister-in-law to know she was gadding about in public wearing pilfered trousers, boots, and coat.

  Without the snow buffeting her face, she had an unobstructed view of him, and he was even more breathtaking than she had supposed. His eyes were the vibrant green of forest moss. Golden hair peeked from beneath the brim of his hat. He was the sort of handsome that would ordinarily make her want to hide. Fine-looking men made her palms sweat.

  “Forgive me, Lord Harry, if I am unfit company,” she forced herself to say, striving to keep her voice gruff, all the better to preserve her cover. He had said he would take her to an ideal location for her meteorological observations, and she did not wish for him to rescind the offer. That was the only reason she continued the ruse, she assured herself. “It is merely that I am reviewing my observations in my mind.”

  What rot, but he needn’t know that. In truth, the moment he had alighted from his carriage, tall and lean and shaking his fist at the clouds she was intent upon studying, he had been the only object of her observations.

  “Your observations,” he said, flashing her a charming smile that made her belly perform strange gymnastic feats. “What are they?”

  For a moment, she could not breathe, for it was as if he had somehow heard her innermost thoughts. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she had to look away from him, focusing instead upon the snow clinging to her stolen boots.

  “Mr. Danvers?” he prodded. “I confess I am quite fascinated by your studies. The instrument you showed me, for instance. What does one use it for?”

  Ah. Thankfully, mind-reader was not one of his talents.

  She glanced back up at him, reminding herself that she was not Lady Alexandra Danvers in this stolen moment but Mr. Danvers, a gentleman who could do and say as he wished. A gentleman who would decidedly not be dazzled by Lord Harry’s golden beauty. There was no need to be shy or nervous. She could simply be herself, embracing all her oddities.

  “My spectroscope, you mean, my lord?” She extracted it from her pocket, holding it up for his inspection. “It is ordinarily used to observe rainbands. You simply hold it to your eye and settle it just above the horizon. Most do not believe a spectroscope can be used to predict snowfall because cold air makes the band difficult to see.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with something she couldn’t define. “May I see it, Danvers?”

  “I suppose so.” With reluctance, she handed the small instrument over to him. “Do be gentle. There is a compound prism at the end that is easily broken.”

  As he took it from her, their gloved fingers brushed. “Fascinating,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at the spectroscope at all.

  He was looking at her.

  Or, more specifically, at her mouth.

  Her lips burned as if he’d touched them, and she wetted them with her tongue. Perhaps she had caught frostbite and that was the reason for the sting. She fought for something to say. “It…it is a unique tool, my lord.”

  “It is that, indeed.” He turned his attention to the spectroscope in his hands at last, turning it this way and that. “You mentioned a map earlier.”

  “Yes.” More heat crept to her cheeks. This was the sort of thing she was not meant to mention in mixed company. But if she was Mr. Danvers, she could say anything, could she not? “I’m making my own diagram that will aid in predicting the weather. Or at least, that is the intended outcome of my efforts.”

  Thus far, she had not garnered much success. It was only one quarter complete.

  “Predicting the weather is a passion of yours?”

  What was it about the word “passion” in his silken baritone that made a frisson of something wicked slide down her spine? She stared at him, her gaze absorbing his sculpted lips, the well-defined philtrum, sharp cheekbones, and wide jaw. How could it be that even his nose was perfectly suited to his face? It ought to be a sin for a man to be as compelling as Lord Harry Marlow.

  “Danvers?” A knowing grin curved the lips she’d just been ogling.

  Heavens. She was making a fool of herself. “It is a passion of mine, yes.”

  “A man of science,” he drawled, shifting his leg so that it brushed against hers in a delicious friction not once but twice. “How intriguing.”

  Sh
e swallowed. Was it just her imagination, or had the carriage air gone stifling? And why did Lord Harry’s every action and glance seem to vibrate with a hidden meaning? Good Lord, was this how men spoke to one another in private? Perhaps Lord Harry was the sort of man who enjoyed the company of other men. She wasn’t supposed to know of such things, but inquisitive minds had a way of discovering a wealth of information.

  The thought successfully quelled any unwanted ardor flaring up within her, for the realization meant he was not interested in Lady Alexandra Danvers at all, but in Mr. Danvers the gentleman. She could hold no candle to Mr. Danvers.

  Alexandra scooted to the side so that their legs no longer touched. “May I have my spectroscope back, my lord?”

  Still grinning, he held it out to her, all whilst moving his leg so that it once more pressed against hers. “Of course, old chap. Here you are.”

  Old chap.

  It was another sobering reminder. She knew she was no great beauty—her younger sister Jo, with her lustrous dark hair and petite form, held that title—but it was rather lowering to realize that a man as dazzling as Lord Harry would not be able to see past her outer trappings to recognize her as female. Was she mannish in appearance?

  Tucking her instrument back inside her overcoat, she swiveled to look out the window and ascertain their distance from Boswell House. The imposing edifice loomed ahead, and she guessed they would arrive within the next five minutes. It occurred to her that she could not step down from the carriage dressed as a man before all the guests and servants.

  Her sister-in-law Clara would box her ears, and her brother Julian would tan her hide. She had promised to be on her best behavior, but they had not been in residence for one day when she had already managed to steal away dressed in a most inappropriate fashion. Not to mention secreting herself inside a carriage with a man she’d only just met.

  A man who had mistaken her for a Mr. Danvers.

  “Has something overset you, Danvers?” Lord Harry’s voice intruded once more.