Midnight Scandals (14 page)

He stopped moving and that nearly killed him, holding back all the urges of his body. He took her head between his hands, weight on his forearms. “Marry me.” He drew back his hips and pushed forward enough to make his balls go tight. He stopped moving because otherwise he couldn’t think. He had to work to marshal his thoughts.

“Marry me because I love you. Marry me because you love me. We’ll have children. Us. God, Portia, please. I want what slipped away before. I don’t want to live without you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

With the last of his wits, the last bit of his coherence, he waited.

She put her hands on either side of his face. “I love you, too, Crispin Hope. I always have.”

“Marry me.”

She wrapped her legs around his hips and bit his ear lobe once. “Yes, you fool. Yes. Now do this properly. The way you promised me or I shall know you’ll never be a proper husband for me.”

And so he did.

More about Carolyn’s other books, and an excerpt from her upcoming release,
Not Proper Enough,
can be found at the back of this book. Click
here for a shortcut
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About Carolyn Jewel

C
AROLYN
J
EWEL WAS BORN
on a moonless night. That darkness was seared into her soul and she became an award winning author of historical and paranormal romance. She has a very dusty car and a Master’s degree in English that proves useful at the oddest times. An avid fan of fine chocolate, finer heroines, Bollywood films, and heroism in all forms, she has three cats and a dog. Also a son. One of the cats is his.

Visit her on the web at
www.carolynjewel.com
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Chapter One

February 1856, Southampton, England

“Y
OU THERE
. W
HERE DO YOU
think you’re off to? And where is your father?”

Miss Mary Chartley came to a stop in the hall, mere steps from escape. The servants’ door was only a few feet away. She silently cursed the board that had let out the telltale creak. Her shoulders ached. Her heart pounded. And behind her eyes, a headache had started, brought on by sleeplessness and unshed— 

No. Not tears. She was done with crying.

She gathered her composure and her wits, and turned.

Her father’s one-time business partners had started to ransack the house early that morning. She had heard them come in; the constable who had accompanied them had even questioned her briefly. But they’d busied themselves downstairs, leaving her free to do what needed to be done. She had hoped to simply steal out the back door, with nobody aware of her departure.

“Mr. Lawson.” She gave the nearest man a quick curtsey. “Mr. Frost.” Another dip of her head. Only one of the partners was missing, and she couldn’t let herself think about Mr. John Mason. “Good morning.”

It was absurd to observe the forms of propriety at a time such as this, but she’d been steeped in proper manners for most of her life. Five years of a very expensive finishing school in Vienna had trained her to smile at these men in pleasant harmony, even while they pawed through her father’s things.

Mr. Lawson and Mr. Frost had made a shambles of the office. Her father’s carefully-sorted papers had been strewn about the room; books had been pulled from their shelves and left in uneven, teetering piles. They’d wrested the drawers from the desk and splintered the wooden boards into kindling.

Lawson raised his head from the wreckage to contemplate her. “Where is your father?” he asked again.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Frost said, after giving her a brief, dismissive glance. He was methodically flipping through books, searching for some hidden secret within their pages. “Look at her—dressed for a stroll in the park, as if nothing had changed.”

How else she was to dress, Mary did not know. She had walking dresses and riding habits, dinner gowns and morning gowns. But nothing in her wardrobe was marked, “Wear me in the event of disaster.” Her hand clenched inside its glove.

Frost tossed the book he held to one side and picked up another. But Mr. Lawson was still looking at her. Staring, really, in a manner that was anything but polite.

Ignore it, and your better manners will soon embarrass him into behaving properly.
That was what the etiquette instructor at her finishing school would have advised her.

Ha. The instructor hadn’t known Mr. Lawson. He set down his papers and stepped toward her.

Her heart pounded faster. His lips were compressed in anger, but his eyes… She didn’t like that unblinking reptilian look in his eyes, nor the slither in his step.

“Where is your father, Mary?”

“Miss Chartley,” she corrected gently. “I think we’ll all be happier if you call me Miss Chartley, and—”

He grabbed her wrist. “You really don’t understand. You stupid creature. ‘Miss Chartley’ is what I’d call a lady, and in case you haven’t discovered it, you no longer fit the description. The sooner you recognize that, the better it will go for you.”

Mary yanked her wrist away. She hadn’t had time for soul-searching. She certainly hadn’t had time to quietly contemplate her new position in the complicated taxonomy of womanhood. All her thoughts since three that morning had been consumed by one thing: getting her trunk and its contents miles away from these men, before they discovered the truth.

“No railway receipt, no record of a hired cab,” Frost was saying, shaking his head. “It’s as if Chartley simply vanished. And when I find him—”

No question about it. Mary had to get her trunk away from here, and quickly.

But Lawson took hold of her wrist once more, wrenching her arm around her back as if she were a scullery maid caught stealing the silver. “Where is your bleeding father?”

That twisting motion really hurt, sending stars floating across her vision. Aside from the rap of a ruler across her knuckles, nobody had ever touched her in violence.

But it wasn’t the pinched face of her etiquette instructor that came to mind. It was the round, frowning visage of her piano master.

Weep later,
he would have said in a heavy German accent.
Play now.

She jutted out her chin. “I don’t know.” True in at least one respect. She wanted to believe that Papa, who she’d loved so dearly, was in heaven. But if there was any truth to what the curate said, he was likely in hell.

“And what message did he leave you?” His grip tightened on her wrist.

“Nothing.” Lying came easier, the more she did it. Her father might have been a cheat and a thief, but he’d loved her and she’d loved him. She would save him this final indignity.

“You’re getting tiresome, Mary.” Lawson yanked her wrist. She took two stumbling steps toward him before she found her balance. “I don’t think you understand what it means that he’s abandoned you. If he’s gone for good, you’re nothing.”

Her skin crawled, but she suppressed all hint of a shiver. “I still don’t know—”

He wrenched her elbow. “You really don’t understand. Why, as your father’s closest associate, I’m practically your guardian. And do you know what I do with wayward girls who won’t speak to me?”

There was nothing he could do to her anymore. She’d been the one to discover her father’s note. She’d found his body. The physical pain was nothing to that. But every second she remained here, being manhandled by them, was another moment where someone might find the trunk she’d lowered out her window.

Her father was an embezzler and a suicide.
Nobody
would help her—nobody except herself. She shut her mouth and tried once again to free her arm.

Lawson pulled his arm back, made a fist— 

“Lawson,” a new voice said, “what do you think you’re doing?”

Lawson straightened, moving away from Mary so quickly that she gasped in relief.

“Aw,” Lawson said, “I didn’t mean any harm. I was just going to—”

“I have a good idea what you were going to do.” With those words, John Mason stepped into her father’s office. Mary shut her eyes. She hadn’t cried, not even when she’d realized that her father had left her alone with nothing. Not when she’d realized that the future she’d dreamed of was gone forever. It had been easy to bury her fear, her despair, her mourning. Those emotions were too big to believe; her loss too large to comprehend.

Why, then, did the sight of John Mason make her want to weep?

She opened her eyes wide, willing that stupid moisture to evaporate into nothingness.

Across the room, John met her gaze briefly, and then looked away.

He didn’t belong with these men; he never had. The other men were both grandfathers; John was scarcely twenty-five. They were dressed in sober, respectable browns and grays, every white starched to points; John’s cravat was a bare pretense of a neckcloth, well-laundered but soft. Most of all, the other men were thin and pale from hunching over desks, while John’s hours out-of-doors had left him golden-skinned and broad-shouldered.

He hadn’t been part of their initial investment scheme. His father and his brother-in-law had been involved. But he’d taken over when his relatives had passed away.

That was how she had met him.

She had always believed his eyes were sweet—large and liquid brown. There had been nothing sweet about them last night, when he’d confronted her father, proof in hand, finger pointing directly at his chest. There was nothing sweet about them now, either. Mary’s stomach churned, and she looked away.

“Don’t be difficult, boy,” Lawson said. “It’s your money at stake, too. She knows something. I swear it’s so.”

“I don’t truck with hitting ladies,” John responded.

“She’s no lady.”

John’s eyes flicked to Mary, touching her without really seeing her. But he didn’t contradict the older man. He simply shrugged. “I don’t truck with hitting women, either,” he said in a low growl, then spat on the ground.

Don’t spit on Papa’s carpet,
some stupid part of her wanted to say. As if the Turkey carpet mattered. Just one more possession to be sold to make up for his wrongdoings. One more thing for her to leave behind. Still, that disrespect hurt more than John’s casual acceptance of her new status.

“Come now,” Lawson said. “Given what her father owes us, she’s practically a servant. It’s not wrong to slap—”

John shoved the other man into the wall of the office. “I mean it, Lawson. That’s enough.”

She forced herself to concentrate on the hard lines of John’s face, so different from the confident smile that he usually gave her when their paths crossed. He made her think of a rocky cliff: impossibly hard, with an unforgiving drop to the crags below.

“Very well,” Lawson finally muttered in a sullen sneer. “But one day, you’ll regret letting her go. Useless bitch.” That last was directed at her.

Mary wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her affected by that epithet. She simply nodded to the two men, as if this were the last round of an exchange of pleasantries, and turned to go.