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

  She turned back with a jolt as she fell into those vivid emerald orbs. You have overset me, she wanted to say. But she could not.

  When all else failed, prevarication was the only alternative. “I just recalled that I need to take some additional snowfall measurements. Would you mind stopping the carriage so that I may disembark?”

  Lord Harry cocked his head, considering her with a warm regard that seemed to reach beneath her skin and pluck at strings she had not known existed. “I do mind, as it happens. I have already suffered one delay on account of the broken axle. We are nearly at Boswell House now. I am certain that your measurements can be obtained there just as well as anywhere.”

  Alarm tightened into a knot in her stomach. “Please, Lord Harry. It is imperative that I conduct my measurements here.”

  “Tell me, Danvers, what has you so concerned?” He sounded amused as he leaned forward and placed his large hand upon her knee. “I have instructed the driver to deliver us to the rear entrance.”

  She struggled to concentrate on his words. Her heart sped into a gallop. Inside her gloves, her palms went slick with sweat, the comfort of her disguise no longer sufficient to stymy her hated reaction to handsome gentlemen. His thumb stroked over her kneecap in a slow, maddening caress.

  Surely he would not touch another gentleman with such familiarity. “The rear entrance?” It would seem that all she could manage was brainless repetition of words he had just spoken.

  Wonderful. Could the ground beneath them open to swallow her and put an end to her misery, please?

  “Naturally.” Still, his hand did not move. Instead, his thumb traced a circle higher, on the beginning of her inner thigh. “I promised to show you the ideal spot for meteorological observations at Boswell House, did I not? If we arrive at the front amidst a great deal of pomp and circumstance, all my good intentions will be waylaid by holly boughs, my terrifying mother, and my brother and his wife.”

  A hint of bitterness entwined itself in Lord Harry’s tone as he completed his sentence, and it did not escape her. Some of the warmth curling through her curdled at the observation. For if there was anything that interested Alexandra as much as science and fact, it was gossip. She knew that reading scandal sheets was not a worthwhile endeavor, but it was her lone vice, and she could not shake it.

  Which was why she now recalled in explicit detail the rumor that had so recently circulated regarding Lord Harry’s courting of his new sister-in-law, the Duchess of Bainbridge, and how his brother the duke had stolen her from beneath his very nose. After receiving Lord Harry’s disconcerting attentions and gawping at his good looks, Alexandra could not fathom anyone choosing the Duke of Bainbridge over the golden lord before her.

  And though she knew the duchess well from her work with the Lady’s Suffrage Society, she had never dared to ask if the rumors were true. She was often more awkward than a bear in a drawing room, but even Alexandra knew when to keep her mouth firmly shut.

  She frowned and removed her leg from Lord Harry’s reach. “Is your family not expecting you, my lord?”

  He raked her with an intense stare and slid on his squab until he crowded her once more with his large, elegant body and intoxicating presence. “I did not tell them when to expect me, and I was explicit with my driver when he left for a substitute carriage that he was to keep my arrival a secret on account of my wishing to surprise my family.”

  The explanation sounded like a falsehood and his brooding expression amplified her opinion. For some reason, the thought of him still pining after the lovely Duchess of Bainbridge—who she quite liked—bothered her. Even so, she could not argue with an undetected arrival at the rear of Boswell House, all the better for her to blend into the shadows and return to her chamber before her absence was detected.

  “How kind of you to surprise them,” she said lamely, for his masculine scent—musk with a hint of lemon—hit her then, and she could not look away from him.

  His jaw tightened. “The kindness was not meant for them.”

  “The rumor is true, then.” Alexandra pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, wishing she could recall the guileless statement. She had not intended to speak it aloud, but one of her many faults was an unfortunate inability to filter her thoughts before revealing them.

  Lord Harry’s entire body stiffened, his eyes darkening. “What is true?”

  Oh dear. Now she had angered him. She searched her mind for a plausible retort and found nothing. “That you are in love with your brother’s wife.”

  As the words fell heavy in the charged silence, she suppressed a wince. Referring to such a thing had been not only careless, but cruel on her part. Little wonder Clara despaired of ever finding her a suitable match.

  His gaze did not waver but remained trained upon her. If anything, the intensity in the luminous depths of his eyes increased. Before she could form a defense, he leaned forward and bracketed her hips in a firm grip, sliding her across the waxed leather of her squab in one swift tug. Their legs tangled, one of his inserted between hers.

  She gasped at the suddenness and indecency of the position both. “Lord Harry.”

  Another tug from him and her bottom no longer rested on her seat at all but upon his hard thigh. His heat burned through her trousers and drawers, searing flesh that came to life, aching with longing. The instinct to grind herself against that rigid thigh was strong. Perhaps this was why women wearing trousers was frowned upon. She could easily see the temptations the freedom of garments encouraged.

  And she was grateful for them.

  “There is one way to determine whether or not I am,” he bit out.

  She clutched at his arms, intending to push away from him and return to her side of the carriage. But the muscles beneath her fingers were strong, and at this proximity, his scent was even headier, and his eyes were once again fastened upon her mouth as if it were a feast awaiting a starving man.

  Instead of protesting, putting the proper amount of distance between them and turning her mind back to her weather observations where it belonged, she slid forward on his thigh. Just one slow movement that drew her even closer. One pass of her throbbing center over him.

  “Damnation, Danvers,” he gritted, his hands moving from her hips to her waist, sliding beneath her overcoat and shirt until warm leather caressed bare skin. “Stop moving or we shall both regret what happens next.”

  She wet her lips, unable to look away, and wondered if she would truly regret it. “I am not a gentleman,” she said stupidly.

  “I am aware,” he growled. “There is nothing manly about you whatsoever. And I’m beginning to think that makes two of us.”

  His lips were achingly near to hers now. “Two of us?”

  “I am no gentleman either, for if I were, I wouldn’t do this.” His mouth, warm and firm and knowing, claimed hers.

  Chapter Three

  The first touch of his lips to hers was nothing short of incendiary. Her mouth was even lusher than it looked. He kissed her with the sudden, voracious hunger that had ignited within him from the moment he’d found himself enclosed in a confined space with her. It was visceral, this need to make his mark upon the strange creature who dressed as a man and spoke of meteorological predictions.

  She gasped and he took advantage, his tongue sinking into the wet heat of her mouth. He pulled her closer still, relishing the decadence of her. She tasted like cocoa and sweetness, and nothing and no one had ever been more delicious. He wanted more.

  The brim of her hat knocked into his forehead. He plucked it away, tearing his lips from hers so that he could have his first good look at her. She was younger than he had supposed, and he recognized it in the wideness of her eyes, the faultless cream of her forehead. Everything about her was fresh and new and different.

  He could say with all honesty that he had never met another woman like her. His gaze swept over the arresting planes of her face, lingering on her freckles, bright-blue eyes, the slight cleft in her chin. Her hair was
the lustrous red of a summer sunset, bold and beautiful, gathered into a thick braid that swept down her back. Stray wisps curled around her face. Harry could not resist catching the tip of his glove in his teeth and shucking it so that he might feel the softness of her skin.

  A jolt went through him as his fingers trailed first over her high cheekbone, then lower to the curve of her jaw. She held still for his exploration, eyes never wavering from his. The way she watched him—one part meticulous calculation, one part wary desire—was enough to make his cock twitch. Orange and bergamot perfumed the air. Her thighs clenched around his, and he swore he could feel the molten heat of her cunny through the layers of trousers separating them.

  “Your name,” he said, striving to keep the breathlessness from his voice lest she think he was so affected by a mere kiss and a woman on his lap. Which of course he was. “Give me your name.”

  He trailed a caress down the smooth line of her throat, absorbing the wild flutter of her pulse in the hollow at the base. Her coat gaped and he made the tantalizing discovery that her shirt was not buttoned to the collar, leaving a mouthwatering swath of her skin revealed. A wildness took hold.

  Just when he thought she would remain stubborn and deny him, she made a hum of pleasure and clutched at his shoulders. “Alexandra.”

  “Alexandra.” He tried it on his tongue, mesmerized by the hitch in her breath as his fingers traced the vee of bare skin he had uncovered. His mind tried to recall an Alexandra Danvers and could not. He was sure he had never met her, and though her name held a certain familiarity, placing it escaped his lust-addled mind.

  There were a thousand and one reasons why he ought not to continue on the ruinous path upon which he found himself. A myriad of reasons why he should instead button up her shirt, tug her overcoat about her shoulders, and deliver her to the squab opposite him where she belonged. A whole host of reasons why he should avoid ever setting his lips to hers again.

  But Harry had been doing what he should do for his entire life, and all it had managed to get him was the woman he’d wanted to make his wife as his sister-in-law and an interminable Christmas at home looming ahead like a veritable Yuletide gallows. He had worked hard to become an MP, to further his causes and beliefs. His every action had been steeped in caution and precision, designed to uphold the Marlow family name and legacy.

  What was the harm in one moment of madness? In giving in to his impulses and desires for the five minutes remaining in the carriage ride to the rear entry of Boswell House? Outside, snow swirled and covered the land in gleaming white. If any holiday was one of endless hope and possibility, surely it was Christmas.

  He plucked a button from its mooring. Would it be wrong to see the curve of one ivory breast? Lord Harry Marlow, MP, would never act with such a rash dearth of honor. But that man, the unquestionable gentleman who was always above reproach and did the right thing—the man who had never even once kissed the woman he’d been courting—had grown restless and bored. Yes, he was feeling decidedly out of sorts, and staid, responsible Lord Harry Marlow, MP, could bloody well sod off.

  Was this not the season for miracles?

  “Lord Harry,” she said, stilling his fingers in the act of undoing another fastening on her shirt.

  Devil take it. He had gone too far. In a burst, his conscience returned to him, along with the weighty manacles of responsibility. The repercussions for such an indiscretion as this were endless. What in the hell was he doing?

  “Forgive me,” he forced himself to say, though stopping and forgiveness were the last things he wished to think about in this crazed moment of uninhibited passion.

  Had he truly been attempting to debauch an innocent—and one of his family’s Christmas guests at that—in a carriage in the midst of a blizzard? He ought to leap from the vehicle and bury his head in the nearest snow bank in shame. He withdrew his touch and clamped his hands around her waist, intending to deposit her safely back on the cushion opposite him.

  “My lord, stop,” she startled him by ordering in a rather commanding voice for a lady so young. A bewitching flush crept over her cheeks. “Please, would you kiss me again?”

  Her sweet request undid him. A bolt of pure, molten lust made his cock go rigid. He went mindless, a growl tearing from his throat as he covered her kiss-swollen lips with his. He had never before seen a female in trousers, but he wholeheartedly approved of her unorthodox decision as his hands swept down to clasp the delicious curves of her hips. There was no mistaking her femininity. She was all woman, lush and lovely.

  Her arms twined about his neck, and she scooted nearer on his thigh. The friction of her on his leg unleashed a fresh onslaught of need as the movement crushed her breasts flush against his chest. Her overcoat had done a great deal of concealing.

  His tongue dipped once again between her lips, sliding inside her silken heat, and she tasted every bit as sweet as before. His hands seemed to take on a life of their own, clawing at her overcoat, peeling away her layers until he palmed the heavy weight of her breasts through her shirt. She did not wear a corset, and her hard nipples prodded him in reward. Every part of her, from the breathy sighs she made to the way she ground against him, to the pebbled peaks of her breasts, was so responsive.

  She was a fierce thing, and he was drawn to her heat, to her flame.

  For the first time in his life, the prospect of getting burned didn’t alarm him.

  Nothing alarmed him other than the thought of having to end their kiss, which surely he must. The carriage had ceased to sway. Either they were once more lodged in the snow with yet another broken axle for their efforts, or they had reached their destination.

  But he could not seem to control himself. His thumbs rubbed over the tight buds of her nipples in slow circles. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, dragged kisses over her jaw, pressed his lips to the shell of her ear, traced its delicate whorl with his tongue until she shivered.

  His blood thundered through his veins, and all he knew was that he had to have this woman. He kissed Alexandra’s throat, inhaled deeply of her scent, for it seemed concentrated on the smooth dip of skin where her shoulder and her neck met.

  The urge to taste her here would not be contained. He opened his mouth and sucked her skin, wringing a moan from her. She tasted of orange and the saltiness of her skin and something else that was indefinable yet delicious. Harry plucked at her nipples, emboldened by her response, half drunk on the way she made him feel—as if he were simultaneously high in the clouds and weightless, capable of all things, wild and free.

  He never wanted this moment of abandon to end.

  And then it did.

  The door to the carriage was wrenched open without warning, and a blast of frigid air, a wall of snow, and a chorus of shocked gasps invaded the sheltered cocoon of the carriage.

  “Unhand my sister, Marlow!”

  The irate masculine voice cut through the haze of lust infecting his mind more effectively than cold, snowflakes, or scandalized murmurings ever could. It was a voice he recognized, and suddenly the pieces of the puzzle came together in perfect synchronicity.

  Alexandra Danvers.

  Lady Alexandra Danvers, to be precise. Sister to one Julian Danvers, reformed rake, formidable pugilist, and the Earl of Ravenscroft.

  He tore his mouth from Alexandra’s throat, dread supplanting all lust, reason crowding all longing. Lord Harry Marlow, MP, returned to his senses to find a bevy of shocked faces gawping into the carriage and a thoroughly enraged Earl of Ravenscroft crowding the exit. In a moment of stinging clarity, he noted his mother’s pinched face, his brother and sister-in-law gaping in shock, and his mother’s bosom bow—and most reprehensible gossip in all England—the Duchess of Cartwright wide-eyed and sharp-eared.

  Bloody hell.

  He thrust Lady Alexandra back onto her squab as though she were made of flame, dragging a hand over his mouth. It was no use. The evidence of what he’d been about could not be hidden. Nor could he extricate hi
mself from this farce without making reparations.

  What had he done?

  “What have you done?”

  Alexandra winced as her brother, who she had—until the last hour, or so—considered the great scapegrace of the family, bellowed the question at her in outrage.

  They were seated in one of Boswell House’s many salons. It was a putrid shade of green, filled with an alarming amount of gilt, and hung with an array of boring oil pastorals. She was still, most regrettably, wearing the overcoat, shirt, trousers, and boots she had stolen from him. Rather disconcerting for any attempts to defend one’s self. How could she claim innocence when she wore the evidence of her sins?

  And she wasn’t talking about the marks Lord Harry’s wicked mouth had left upon her skin, evidenced by the reflection she’d glimpsed in a looking glass hung in the labyrinth of halls. The red marks on her throat both shocked and intrigued her. She had not known a gentleman could possess such ardor. Now that she did…

  “Damn it, Alexandra, you will answer me or I will bury you in the country for the next three years at bloody minimum,” Julian growled at her, stalking toward her with a menacing air that did not frighten so much as it dismayed.

  She loved her older brother dearly, and the knowledge that she was cause for his disappointment lodged in her belly like a leaden weight. He knew how much she detested the country. That he would issue such a threat now spoke to his outrage.

  Outrage which was, admittedly, understandable. She had been discovered dressed in scandalous fashion, riding Lord Harry Marlow’s thigh as if he were her trusted steed whilst he feasted upon her neck and visited the most exquisite torture upon her breasts. Just thinking about it now made warmth bloom between her thighs and the scalding heat of embarrassment color her cheeks. How had she allowed such a thing to happen?

  Also, how had she not realized such wonders existed?

  “Alexandra Maria Danvers, I expect a response,” her brother prodded, his tone no less furious. “You will give me your explanation for the outrage that I and almost all the other guests assembled beneath this roof just witnessed.”