A Scandalous Marriage Read online

  Oh, no, he had too much pride for that.

  “Come, Miss Carrollton,” he said, infusing all his anger and scorn into the syllables of her name. “Certainly you know who I am. Lord Huxhold? Or has pregnancy addled your brains?”

  He immediately regretted the words, but he couldn’t call them back.

  Bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. And then she hurled the slop bucket at him with surprising force.

  Devon ducked just in time, knocking the empty bucket away with his arm.

  Miss Carrollton didn’t wait to apologize but lifted her skirts and attempted to run from him.

  Devon watched her. Her run was more a lumbering trot. She didn’t go toward the house but headed for the woods. She looked almost comical, her petite figure practically swallowed whole by the baby she carried.

  Another man’s baby.

  He should let her go.

  After all, he had his horse to see to and his grandfather’s summons. He told himself all this even as he took the first step around the fence in her direction. By the time he’d traveled the length of it, she’d almost disappeared past the tangle of still green holly and winter-bare shrubbery. He caught a flash of her red shawl. Where the devil did she think she was going? To her husband?

  “Miss Carrollton, wait!”

  As he expected, she didn’t slow her step. Leah had always been stubborn. Stubborn and willful and proud. But she would have an accident charging off the way she was willy-nilly. Then it would be on his conscience. Or so he told himself as, with a heavy sigh, he set out after her. He was a knave, a jealous fool. If her husband had any sense, he’d call him out.

  Worse, Devon would welcome the opportunity to run the man through. He hated him without even meeting him.

  Leah ran as if the very hounds of hell nipped at her heels—or as well as a woman nine months with child could run. Her shawl fell down around her shoulders. The gathering wind of the threatening storm blew her hat off her head. It bounced on her back, held by the frayed ribbons tied in a knot around her neck.

  Meeting Devon Marshall was her deepest fear come to life.

  She’d been dreaming a lot lately, vivid, disturbing dreams that the village women assured her were common to all pregnant women. But it wasn’t until she saw him standing there that she realized he’d been the dark, menacing figure in those dreams.

  In that moment of recognition, she’d been transported to another time, another place. She’d been at Lady Trudgill’s ball, and a man more handsome than sin had swept her off onto a dance floor. A man who had commanded her with his presence and with something more, something she couldn’t explain and had not felt since. Not even with David Draycutt.

  She should have run to the cottage for shelter from him. She could have locked the door, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Her every impulse had been to escape, to fly.

  Devon called her name. He was closer than she’d imagined.

  Panic surged through her. She ran now. He was her past, her personal demons come for a reckoning.

  Two steps. Three. And then her foot caught a root. Her feet were suddenly yanked out from under her, and she fell to the ground. Her hands, fingers splayed, reached out to save herself—but she was too late. She fell on her belly.

  Pain ripped through her. The baby! She doubled over on the cold, damp earth trying to protect it. The ground was hard and rough beneath her cheek. Her stomach roiled with a will of its own.

  What had she done to her baby?

  Devon was by her side in a blink. “Leah!”

  Tears came to her eyes at the concern in his voice. She wanted to shout at him to leave her alone. She didn’t deserve his worry. She’d wronged him. She’d wronged everyone she’d ever loved, and now her baby was paying for her sins.

  Oh, God, help my baby!

  Cramps rolled through her, even as she felt her water break.

  Strong hands lifted her from the ground. “Talk to me. Tell me what is the matter.”

  She reached for Devon, clenching the woolen material of his all-too-fashionable-for-Devon greatcoat in her fist. He’d lost his hat, and his black hair, always overlong for style, hung over his brow.

  “My…baby…you must…help my baby.”

  “I will, Leah. It’ll be all right. I promise, I will make it right.”

  He slid his arm under her legs and rose to his feet, carrying her with him. She cried out as she felt another rush of warmth between her legs. This time, the pain vibrated through her like the dull thud of a drumhead being pounded. It was starting!

  She hadn’t expected it to be like this.

  “Leah, your skirt…it is wet,” he said. “Is it blood—” he started to ask anxiously, but didn’t seem to want an answer. He pressed his lips together, his expression grim as he tightened his hold…and she realized that he didn’t understand. How could he? She had just learned the stages of labor herself. Then, again, maybe she was bleeding. Her body no longer felt like her own.

  “Leah, what have I done? Dear God, what have I done?”

  She wanted to say, “Nothing, Devon. You did nothing.” But the words wouldn’t come. The baby was consuming her, just like in her dreams. And the nightmare lover—the one she now knew was Devon—began carrying her through the woods. She didn’t know where. She didn’t care.

  All she knew is that it hurt. Her baby was coming, and she was going to die. Her every woman’s instinct told her this was so. She’d given up everything she had for this child, and now both of them would die.

  “I’ll find help, Leah. I will.” His voice shook slightly. Funny, she’d never thought Devon would be afraid of anything. Not strong, handsome Devon with the devil-may-care attitude.

  Then another contraction began building inside her. Devon was taking her to the cottage. She realized that now. She buried her face in the folds of his coat. It smelled of him and fresh air and rain and the spices he loved. It smelled of safety. Yes, Devon would help her. Devon would know what to do. Devon would save her baby.

  A litany started in her head. She began praying, not knowing if she talked to God or Devon. Take my life, but don’t let anything happen to my baby. Please save my baby.

  Part One

  London, 1814

  CHAPTER 1

  Devon’s friends thought it a grand joke that he had been about to dance with Carrollton’s sister without realizing it. They claimed he had to be the only person in the world to not know the gossip swirling around the chit’s London debut.

  The Carrolltons were bad ton if there ever was any. That they had the audacity to not only present their daughter at Court but also expect her to marry well had Society reeling. Yes, she was uncommonly beautiful, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. Numerous hostesses had vowed to snub her.

  And although the little scene on the dance floor resurrected all the rumors concerning the circumstances of Devon’s parents’ deaths over twenty years ago, Miss Carrollton ironically became somewhat of an overnight sensation—as did Lady Trudgill, the ball’s hostess.

  Suddenly, Miss Carrollton and Devon were on everyone’s guest list. Ambitious hostesses smelled scandal. They knew that just the mere speculation of the couple meeting again was enough to ensure the success of their party and a mention in the following day’s papers.

  Of course, Devon never honored those invitations. He didn’t care what Miss Carrollton did, and to prove it he carefully avoided her company.

  His circle of friends—all scapegrace rogues and out-and-out bounders to a man, no matter how loyal—couldn’t help but sing the praises of such a beautiful young woman who quickly became the Toast, and the talk, of the Town. They ribbed Devon mercilessly, comparing his family to Montagues and hers to Capulets. He pretended it didn’t matter.

  But it did. It irritated him beyond rationalization.

  Especially when he received a terse note from his grandfather:

  Brewster says you made a cake of yourself at Trudgill ball over Carrollton chit. I am disp
leased, but not surprised. A Marshall has never been nor will be the subject of gossip.

  Kirkeby

  It had been almost two months since he’d last heard from his grandfather. Another time when he’d been displeased. Devon wadded up the note before tossing it in the rubbish bin.

  Unfortunately, a week later, in the Parson’s Knot, a club known for high-stakes games, Devon crossed Julian Carrollton’s path. He ignored Carrollton until he overheard Carrollton receiving the same sort of harsh teasing that Devon had received. Carrollton was deep in his cups, but in spite of that fact, his snarled, colorful answer damning all Marshalls to hell, “especially that bastard Huxhold,” infuriated Devon.

  He’d been called names before, but not by the son of Richard Carrollton.

  Something inside Devon snapped.

  His parents would still be alive if Richard Carrollton had not cheated in that long-ago carriage race. Some claimed the broken lynchpin had been an accident, nothing more. Richard had always maintained his innocence—but Devon’s grandfather had known differently.

  He said his son always took care of his rigs. Someone had broken the pin on purpose. And to his mind the only person who had stood to gain by winning the race had been Richard.

  Anguished beyond reason by the death of his only son, Devon’s grandfather had protested to the authorities, but there had been no proof, and Carrollton had walked away a free man. Carrollton had refused to accept the winnings from the race, but that had not consoled Lord Kirkeby.

  Now, his son dared to call Devon a bastard.

  It made Devon furious. Especially when Julian declared in a voice that carried above the sound of the rattling dice cups that his sister would rather “lie with dogs than dance with a Marshall.”

  Everyone in the room heard him. McDermott, Leichester, Ruskin, all gathered around Devon, silently siding with him and waiting for him to take action against his enemy.

  Devon sat quiet. He did not have a hot head. He’d ignored Julian’s drunken whining in the past. He could do it again.

  Or, he could call Julian out, put a bullet in him, and rid the world of his pretentious bragging. Devon’s reputation for pistol and sword was famous. His skill was one of the few things his grandfather admired about him. Better yet, his grandfather would be pleased to have justice finally served.

  Instead of what he could have done, what people expected him to do, Devon accepted Julian’s words as a challenge.

  So he thought his sister would rather lie with a dog than dance with a Marshall? Devon knew that wasn’t true. Leah Carrollton was not immune to him. He’d sensed her attraction to him immediately.

  He would prove it by seducing her.

  Devon rose and left the club, content to let Carrollton believe he’d scored a small victory while in truth the game was just beginning…

  Only much, much later would Devon admit to himself that he’d chosen that course of action not for revenge but because in spite of himself, all common sense, and all reason, he had secretly wanted to see her again.

  Contrary to popular opinion, Devon had never considered himself a rake. A rake was a reprobate, a man beyond redemption, a man with no moral fiber.

  Devon was none of those things, at least not in his own mind.

  In his opinion, his only vice was that he adored women. That wasn’t so much of a sin, was it?

  He liked women in all their guises—the old, the young, the middle-aged, the rosy plump, the slender, the laughing, the soberly sedate. His cronies thought only of a woman’s face or her breasts or what she had between her legs…and those things were important to Devon, too. But he also admired their intelligence, their spirit, their sense of humor.

  He loved the mysteries of their sex: their intuitive powers, their supple strength, their fanciful whims, their serene wisdom. Oh, yes, and their generosity. God bless their generosity. Their bodies and their minds were his altar of worship.

  Consequently, they, in turn, adored him.

  He never lacked for bed partners, although it was his custom to take only one lover at a time. Part of the reason was his own caution about sex and disease, but he also believed that a man didn’t have the ability to concentrate fully on more than one task at a time…and when Devon was with a lover, he always “concentrated” very hard.

  His partners appreciated him for it. And when he parted company with them, they remained friends, friends that he valued.

  Over the years, a few had even claimed to love him. He didn’t understand how. Love was the emotion of poets and dreamers—and Devon was firmly rooted in realism. Many of his lovers had touched his mind, most had found a place of friendship in his heart, but not one had ever reached his soul.

  Nor, he discovered to his own surprise, had he ever seduced one. Women had always come to him willingly.

  He didn’t realize this gap in his worldly education until he started to mull over the fate of Leah Carrollton. How did one seduce a debutante? An innocent. A guarded treasure.

  He had an extensive acquaintance of villains, sailors, and blackguards who might have experience in such a thing, but he shied from quizzing them. He didn’t want anyone to guess his intentions or examine his motives too closely. He wasn’t certain of them himself.

  He also had to be careful. He couldn’t meet her through her usual activities, balls and routs and the such. He was a gentleman, after all. If Society watched him seduce her, he’d be honor bound to marry her—and a Marshall would never marry a Carrollton. Ever. It was the Unthinkable.

  The answer to his dilemma presented itself one morning, when he was coming home at half past ten. He’d spent the night at a particularly lucrative card party. The cool, sunny March day was one of those rare harbingers to spring, and he decided to take a stroll around the block to clear his head of brandy fumes before heading for his bed.

  It was Sunday, a day of rest, and the usually bustling streets were respectfully quiet.

  He’d just rounded the first corner when he almost collided with Leah Carrollton. She was accompanied by a maid who had to be close to six feet tall and looked like she boiled fish heads for a living.

  Rearing back just in time, he imagined he’d conjured Miss Carrollton from thin air. She was dressed in yellow, the color of jonquils, from the brim of her charming straw bonnet down to the hem of her dress, but no flower of spring had ever had such an impact on him. He was struck dumb.

  Miss Carrollton wasn’t. Her back straightened, her nose took a haughty tilt. “Come, Mae.” She stepped around him, carefully pulling her gauzy skirts aside lest they inadvertently brush against his leg.

  “Pity a fine lady can’t walk down the street without being practically run over by these young bucks,” Mae grumbled. “High and mighty in the instep they are just planting themselves in our path!”

  “Yes, they are,” he heard Miss Carrollton agree. “And for no reason.” She added emphasis to her words with a sniffing glance over her shoulder.

  His tiredness vanished. He had just been given the cut direct by a Carrollton.

  The gauntlet had been thrown down. He accepted the challenge.

  With a hunter’s instinct, he followed in the wake of the two women.

  They turned at the corner. His pace leisurely, Devon approached the corner and then hesitated when he realized where they were headed.

  Miss Carrollton and her maid had started up the steps of a church to join a number of other ladies and gentlemen, dressed in their Sunday finest, who already greeted the curate standing at the door.

  Catching sight of Miss Carrollton, the ruddy-faced young churchman welcomed her enthusiastically as though the two were not strangers. And was it Devon’s imagination, or did the fellow hold her proffered hand just a tad too long for politeness?

  Then the two women disappeared inside.

  Devon stood in indecision on the walk below. Several other churchgoers passed him, nodding a good morning. He smiled and pretended he felt perfectly comfortable. The walls of the church
would probably come crashing down if he stepped foot in it, something he hadn’t done since mandatory services during his school days.

  And yet, where else would he be able to make contact with Miss Carrollton? Studying the people entering the church, he did not recognize anyone.

  He climbed the steps.

  The curate glanced in his direction and then completely ambushed Devon by greeting him by name. “Why, Huxhold! This is a surprise!”

  Devon frowned at the lanky man wearing glasses. “You have the better of me, sir,” he said uncertainly.

  A smile spread across the curate’s face. “We were in school together. Geoff Rodford. They called me Roddy.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You may not remember. We did not travel in the same circle, but good God! To think Huxhold is walking into my church.”

  Devon didn’t recall a Roddy. Worse, he would be damned to even name the school they’d attended together, since he’d been asked to leave more than a few in his misspent youth.

  Several people overheard Roddy’s remarks and began whispering Devon’s name to each other. Raised eyebrows and knowing expressions were directed his way.

  Devon couldn’t turn tail and run now. “Well, very good to see you again, Roddy. I look forward to your sermon.”

  As he entered the cool darkness of the building, Roddy called out, “Oh, it won’t be me doing the service, but the Most Reverend Highgate.”

  Devon nodded, already searching for his quarry. Crossing the alcove’s stone floor, he moved into the church sanctuary. The air smelled of incense and candle wax. The white beadboard pews with their dark walnut railing were not crowded. He scanned the backs of heads. He’d never realized how all bonnets look alike from the rear—and then he saw her. Or rather, she saw him.

  She glanced over her shoulder, a cursory look, nothing more—and then her eyes widened in disbelief.