When scandal came to tow.., p.1
When Scandal Came to Town: Scandalous Sons - Book 3, page 1
When Scandal Came to Town
Scandalous Sons - Book 3
Adele Clee
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission. Distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement.
When Scandal Came to Town
Copyright © 2019 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-9164336-7-0
Never miss a new release. Sign up for an email alert here!
Alternatively, you can sign up for my newsletter and receive a free digital copy of What Every Lord Wants via the link below.
www.adeleclee.com
Follow on Facebook: Adele Clee Author
Follow on Goodreads: Adele Clee
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Thank you!
Books by Adele Clee
Chapter One
The Serpentine, Hyde Park
Cold air raced over Cassandra Mills’ bare skin. It was not like the refreshing breeze one experienced in the height of summer. It did not settle her heart or drag a soft sigh from her lips. It did not soothe her spirit. Heavens no. The icy gust swept over her like frozen fingers determined to startle and shock. It sent her pulse soaring, sent her heart into a sudden state of panic. Had she been at home in the comfort of her poster bed, she would have snatched the blankets and snuggled down inside the protective cocoon. Warm. Safe. But she was not at home. And from the aches and pains plaguing her body, the hard surface was definitely not her plush bed.
She tried to open her eyes, but it was as if she had lids of lead. She inhaled, hoping for a clue to her surroundings, and caught the smell of damp earth and the hint of sulphur that always accompanied the early morning fog.
Morning?
No!
She recalled nothing since last night. Nothing since the music, the dancing, the fruit punch that shouldn’t have made her dizzy. Yes. The sweet aftertaste of orgeat lemonade still coated her lips. And something else, something sickly, something dangerously potent.
Mustering an ounce of strength, she stretched her feeble limbs. Nausea roiled in her stomach. The pounding in her head would not abate. The cold set her teeth chattering. She reached out looking for support, a means to help her clamber to her feet, but her fingers slipped through naught but dew-soaked grass.
A park. She must be in a park.
But which one?
The distant trickle of water caught her attention.
Hyde Park?
Somehow she lifted her heavy lids, though by all that was holy she wished she hadn’t. Reality hit hard. So hard all the air escaped her lungs, leaving her panting and breathless. Lord help her! The lucid dream had proved kinder than this terrifying nightmare.
Hyde Park!
She almost laughed at the pun.
Lying barely clothed and helpless amid the acres of parkland, she had no hope of remaining undiscovered. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Even the morning fog lacked spirit and clung to the ground in ghostly wisps. To her right, tall trees loomed like disapproving matrons ready to hurl a torrent of insults, ready to banish her from every social event of the season. The Serpentine curled around to the left. A snake in the grass. The devil’s spawn there to taunt the foolish woman who had somehow eaten the forbidden fruit.
And yet she couldn’t remember.
Why couldn’t she remember?
If she could scramble to her feet, she might find her way out of the park before the first riders took to the Row. But how would she navigate the mile back to Cavendish Square wearing nothing but her chemise?
As if matters couldn’t get any worse, the rumble of thunder overhead drew her gaze skyward. Was the Lord waiting to strike down the wicked harlot? Was he about to send a deluge of rain to wash away her sins?
But she soon discovered that the resounding noise was not a warning foretelling of horrid weather, but the pounding of horse’s hooves galloping across the parkland.
Her heart stopped beating for a second or two.
Oh, so many times she’d felt the crippling impotence of her sex. As a woman, she’d stood powerless while her father told her who to befriend, what functions to attend, who to marry. Nonetheless, nothing compared to this sense of utter uselessness—this desperate despair.
Had she managed to rouse a sliver of optimism she might have hoped the rider was a godly man. Someone who saw that she was the victim of a heinous crime. Someone who saw goodness when he looked deeply into her eyes. But as the rider came charging towards her on his impressive black stallion, she knew the devil had sent his disciple.
Benedict Cavanagh—the bane of her existence—brought his horse to a crashing halt and dismounted with the same athletic grace he did most things.
Shame brought fire to her cheeks. But then he always had such a marked effect on her senses. Why did he have to look so sinfully handsome in his midnight-blue coat? How did he manage to heat her insides with nothing more than a concerned stare?
“Cassandra?” He crouched beside her, his muscular thighs straining against his breeches. “What the devil’s happened to you?” While shock marred his velvet voice, she heard a faint hint of kindness, a kindness he’d shown her long ago, before hate replaced the love in their hearts.
Embarrassment kept her lips pursed.
He removed his top hat and thrust a hand through his golden hair as his expression turned grave.
That’s when she knew.
She was dead or ruined.
Either way, it amounted to the same.
Chapter Two
Many times during their verbal spats, Benedict had prayed Cassandra Mills would receive her comeuppance. She made a point of belittling him in front of his friends. Her unkind remarks hit like the sharp stab of a blade. And though he offered the same cutting retorts, she always drew first blood.
On rare occasions, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Cassandra he once knew. The affectionate girl with a vitality that stole his breath. The girl who had kissed him under the willow tree, who had given him an acorn as a gift and told him that majestic things grow from the smallest beginnings.
Now, as she lay on the grass in nothing but a dirty chemise, her bedraggled golden curls tumbling from her coiffure, he felt neither love nor hatred. Shock rendered him insensible. Numb.
But then she opened her mouth, and the usual vile diatribe followed. “You! I should have known you would plan something like this.” Her lips thinned into an ugly sneer. She tried to push up to a sitting position but lacked the strength in her limbs.
The fact she thought so little of him stung like the lash of a whip.
“Let me help you.” He wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t wish this on any woman. But when he reached out to offer assistance, she found the wherewithal to slap his hand away.
“Don’t touch me!”
Once, they’d stolen every opportunity to make physical contact, a secret embrace, the light brush of their fingers when no one was looking.
“What did you do?” She rubbed her sunken eyes, drew a hand down her deathly pale cheek. “Did you f-follow me to Lord Craven’s ball?” Speaking seemed to drain her energy, and she had to stop to catch her breath. “Did you kidnap me and ply me with laudanum, intent on ruining me to get your revenge?”
Anger pushed to the fore, mingling with an old pain that had never healed. Their relationship amounted to nothing more than a bitter war. If only one of them could find the courage to play peacekeeper.
“You think I did this to you?” Disdain coated his words. “You think revenge matters so much to me that I would ruin an innocent, delve to the worst depths of depravity?”
“You’re the prince of depravity. Everyone says so.” She managed to sit up without his assistance. “The demimonde is your kingdom. What else should a lady expect from a man who beds whores?”
With a need to defend his position, he almost said that he’d rather bed a whore than bed her, but that was untrue. He might have said that she’d driven him to seek pleasure in a place where people abandoned their emotions at the front door. But then she would need to defend his attack, and they would be forever going around in circles, lashing out, parrying against the next killer blow.
“Perhaps depravity is in my blood.” His father was most definitely no angel. “I was born out of wedlock. A fact you bring to my attention at every given opportunity.” He would never be good enough for a blue blood. “Regardless of how you ended up here, people will cast similar aspersions on you.”
A sob caught in her throat, but she fought it back with her usual expression of
A weary sigh left his lips. “Cassandra, I had nothing to do with what happened to you. If I did, would I not be gloating? The triumphant look on my face would be hard to disguise. And why would I risk your father’s wrath, or my father’s for that matter?”
That said, the Earl of Tregarth would forgive his illegitimate son anything. Cassandra’s father, the Earl of Worthen, would string Benedict up at the Seven Dials and spill his innards.
Cassandra glared at him. “Then what brought you to Hyde Park at dawn? Surely you don’t expect me to believe it’s a coincidence.”
“I don’t give a damn what you believe.” He delved into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew the letter. “This arrived anonymously last night. As you can see, curiosity brought me here this morning.”
The sender knew how to pique a man’s interest. A surprise to surpass all others awaited him in Hyde Park. A sight not to be missed. The vermillion seal bore no identifying marks. The handwriting appeared nondescript.
With trembling fingers she snatched the letter, and he noted the scratches on her hands. She must have fought the person who had practically stripped her naked. As she peeled back the folds and scanned the missive, her whole body shook. A tear trickled down her cheek. How odd that a single drop of water could wring knots in his stomach.
“But I don’t understand.” With a look of confusion and utter defeat, she reread the neatly penned words. “Who would send you a letter telling you to come here at dawn? It can only be the person who did this to me. Someone who cares so much for you they would give you my ruination as a gift.”
The thought had not occurred to him. An image of Mrs Crandall flashed into his mind. The fiery-haired matron of the demimonde made no secret of her lust for him. To say she was somewhat obsessed was an understatement. Had she done this to prove her devotion? To tempt him into bed? Surely not.
“This doesn’t have to be your ruination.”
Cassandra jerked her head and snorted. “Blessed saints, tell me you’re not about to propose marriage.”
“Marriage? Do I look like an imbecile?” He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
“Then what are you proposing?”
Benedict glanced back over his shoulder. There wasn’t a soul in the park. “Let me take you home. You can bury your head in my coat. We’ll enter your father’s house via the mews. You can sneak in through the servants’ entrance. Surely your maid will rally to your aid.”
She blinked so many times he couldn’t help but admire the way her long lashes fluttered against her pale skin. “Despite everything that’s occurred between us, you’re willing to help me?”
The devil on his shoulder shouted for him to climb back on his horse and leave her there. Let her face the fact other people despised her, too. Let her spend her life living with the scandal. Was that not a fitting punishment for the way she had treated him?
But he was a scoundrel with a conscience.
A rogue with a heart.
“Perhaps the person who sent me here expected me to celebrate your downfall.” It wouldn’t have been Wycliff or Trent. His friends knew how much he despised Cassandra Mills, but they were men with hearts, too, men he’d trust with his life. “Whoever sent the letter doesn’t know me at all.”
It had to be Mrs Crandall.
“And if Lord Murray loves you as he ought,” Benedict continued, “he will marry you regardless of any whispers of a scandal.” When he first heard of their betrothal it had cleaved his insides in two. He’d used women and brandy to numb his senses. The method had served him well so far. “The sooner he marries you the better.”
“Timothy is a good man,” she agreed. “He would never go back on his word.”
Not like her.
He wondered if she could see the warring emotions playing on his face. But then she looked at life through superficial eyes now.
“One must hope that no one saw you in this dishevelled state last night. You should press your father to bring Murray up to the mark. Today.”
Gratitude swam in her eyes. It made him feel more uncomfortable than when witnessing her disdain. She wrapped her arms across her chest and shivered. He had been so focused on not staring at the pert nipples pressing against the fine chemise, it had not occurred to him that she must be cold.
Benedict stood. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around her shoulders, half expecting her to toss the garment away like a filthy rag. She didn’t. She thrust her arms into the sleeves, drew the edges across her chest and gave a satisfied sigh.
“Come.” He needed to put some distance between them before the old memories returned to plague his waking hours, to haunt his dreams. “Let me help you up onto my horse. We should leave here before the first morning riders venture out onto the Row.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“You agree? There’s a novelty.”
She slipped her cold, dainty hand into his, and a lightning bolt of awareness shot straight to his heart. Cursed saints. Was Satan out to torture him for being weak, for not leaving her to suffer her fate?
“The muscles in my legs lack strength,” she said, though her gaze lingered on their clasped hands. “I’m not sure I can stand.”
“Then I will help you.” He suppressed a groan of frustration. The last thing he wanted was to touch her, not when he would feel the lush curves he remembered.
“Why are you being so kind?” She gripped his outstretched arm. “One might think you’ve arranged this so you can play the errant knight. Are you so desperate to prove your worth?”
“For the love of God, Cassandra, I had nothing to do with this debacle.” Anger flared. Even in her hour of need she had to taunt him with his illegitimacy. She always spoke as if it was his fault Tregarth had taken a mistress. Was it his fault his mother died in childbirth before she might marry, too? “But one more cruel word and I swear I shall leave you here to perish.”
The flash of fear in her blue eyes was the closest he would get to an apology.
“Wrap your arms around my neck, and I shall haul you to your feet.” The sooner he dealt with the problem, the sooner he could return to the comfort of his bed. “Fatigue makes a person feeble. I suspect you’ve spent hours lying in the cold. Your maid will draw you a hot bath and prepare a herbal decoction. Both will act as a restorative.”
“I suppose a rake who spends most nights carousing until dawn knows how to stave off a cold.”
The snide remark forced him to snatch his arm back. His head roared for him to leave. His heart clambered to her defence. For his sanity he could not tolerate her company a second longer.
Benedict swung around, but Cassandra grabbed his coattails and cried, “Forgive me. Please, Benedict, don’t leave without me. Foolish words fall from my mouth before my mind engages. Don’t abandon me. Not now.”
The irony of the situation almost made him laugh.
Had she forgotten how easily she’d cast him aside?
“Please, Benedict.” His given name fell softly from her lips. “Take me home. Timothy will marry me, and you need never see me again.”
Benedict closed his eyes for a few seconds and inhaled. In some perverse way, he would rather tolerate her abuse than suffer an estrangement.
Bloody fool!
Ride away and don’t look back.
“If you ever cared for me at all, please help me now.”
Ever cared for her? She may as well have gripped a blade and driven the cold steel through his heart. A rage like nothing he’d felt before crashed through him in violent waves. Painful words formed. Vicious words. They danced like the devil on his tongue, but he would never give her the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d suffered. He might be an illegitimate bastard, but today he would be the considerate gentleman.
