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Lords of Scandal: The Beleaguered Lord Bourne / The Enterprising Lord Edward
Praise for
Kasey Michaels
“Using wit and romance with a master’s skill,
Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”
—Bestselling author Nora Roberts
The Butler Did It
“Witty dialogue peppers a plot full of delectable details
exposing the foibles and follies of the age…
The heroine is appealingly independent minded;
the hero is refreshingly free of any mean-spirited
machismo; and supporting characters have charm to
spare…[a] playfully perfect Regency-era romp.”
—Publishers Weekly
A Reckless Beauty
“With her Beckets of Romney Marsh series,
Michaels has created a soap opera with wonderful
characters, dark family secrets, exciting historical
events and passion.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Return of the Prodigal
“Only a mistress of the genre could hook you,
and hold you in her net, eagerly anticipating
her next move.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Kasey Michael is a New York Times bestselling author of both historical and contemporary novels. She is also the winner of a number of prestigious awards.
Available from Kasey Michaels and Mills & Boon® Mills & Boon Historical
Lords of Scandal
Kasey Michaels
For Joan Hohl, Rita Clay Estrada,
and remembrances of “Margarita”
…and they wonder why we write fiction…
PROLOGUE
SNAP!
The loud, discordant sound sent a flock of nesting birds, who had just moments before been chirping merrily in the branches overhead, soaring into the sky as one, calling anxiously to each other as they flapped their wings in agitation.
The girl, on the contrary, made no move to flee from the unmistakable sound of an animal trap’s heavy metal jaws snapping shut, locking its unwary prey in a grip of iron. It wasn’t that she hadn’t felt the impulse to flee. Indeed, her heart was pounding nineteen to the dozen with fright and her muscles were quite painfully tense, silently screaming the message “Run!”
But while her spirit and flesh were willing, they could not travel anywhere as long as one decidedly heavy, extremely cumbersome animal trap had its jagged-toothed mouth stuffed full of last year’s yellow sprigged muslin.
The power of speech, momentarily lost, returned just in time to give vent to the overwhelming anger that set the trapped female to trembling as the violence of that emotion rocketed through her system. “A trap in the Home Wood!” she announced incredulously to the air, pointing out the obvious to the world at large. “Never—never—has there been trap nor snare in the Home Wood. Only a monster would choose to do murder to a two-pound rabbit with a five-pound trap. It’s like…it’s like…like hunting down field mice with field cannon, that’s what it is.’
Bending from the waist, she attempted to free her skirts from the offending device, but to no avail. The skirt of her gown now rent in several places (long, jagged tears that would bring tears to the eyes of the most clever needlewoman), she had no recourse left to her but to drop to her knees and scrabble about in the damp undergrowth for the stake that held the trap in place.
It took a dozen mighty tugs and a good deal of digging in the soft black soil with her bare fingers to separate the metal stake at the end of the chain from its snug home a full foot deep in the ground; a hot, sweaty business that strained her gown, dirtied her cheeks, and succeeded in enraging her to the point that the thought of her rather bizarre appearance did not deter her for so much as an instant as she set off hotfoot for Bourne Manor, dragging the heavy trap, chain, and iron post along behind her willy-nilly.
CHAPTER ONE
THE LARGE, MULTIPANED glass doors in the morning room provided a pleasant view of the rear prospect of Bourne Manor, and Lord Bourne, wineglass in hand, debated the merits of having his luncheon served on the flagstone terrace accessible through these same doors.
After only five days in his new home, Christopher Wilde, known to his intimates as Kit and now the Eighth Earl of Bourne, felt completely at ease in his new surroundings. Renfrew, the late earl’s longtime majordomo, had already proved himself to be a pearl beyond price by anticipating his new master’s every need, deftly guiding his lordship until he became familiar with the layout of the large manor, and presenting him with a deceptively offhand yet amazingly thorough accounting of just what responsibilities went hand in glove with his new title.
The household servants, their company numbering in Kit’s estimation just slightly less than that of Wellington’s largest division, all seemed to know just what they were about. The manor being a model of organization, they took pride in considering the care and comfort of their master to have priority over polishing, straightening, and the like. Unpleasant memories of broom-wielding housemaids invading his chamber while he was still abed and important papers misplaced by overzealous servants in pursuit of domestic order reinforced his high opinion of his late uncle’s staff.
Leon, Kit’s valet of six years’ standing, had seconded his master’s vote of approval, stating unequivocally that, save for the shabby state of the Home Wood—a problem already discussed, and with corrective steps having been initiated immediately as per his lordship’s directive designating his trusted valet to be in full charge of the project—Bourne Manor was “as near to perfect as a body could expect to get without first croaking and sprouting wings like.”
The peaceful scene spread before him now, with rich, golden sunlight lending an added brightness to the gently rolling carpet of soft greenery and the seemingly randomly placed neat groupings of several varieties of flowers, ornamental shrubs, and small trees, made it somewhat less than difficult for Kit to convince himself that he had indeed somehow stumbled into paradise.
Reluctantly Lord Bourne restrained the urge to congratulate himself yet again for having had the good fortune to recover from the wounds he sustained in battle, thereby living to enjoy this truly magnificent day (not to mention having displaced the memory of his very ordinary leave-taking of Dame England as a mere major by means of his returning to her bosom a full-fledged earl), and was about to summon Renfrew when a movement in the extreme distance caught his eye.
Stepping closer to the window, he leaned his head forward and peered intently at the vague yellow blot that was even then advancing up the slight incline with all the grace of a knick-kneed pachyderm afflicted with a bad case of annoying heat rash.
As the blot slowly gained ground, the masses of yellow separated themselves into a large expanse of some patterned material that obviously was a woman’s morning gown (and sadly lacking in style, if he was any judge), and a smaller mass of wavy golden hair that surrounded the female’s head like some misshapen halo and reached considerably below her shoulders, the desired effect possibly an illusion of informality that fell sadly short, appearing instead as merely unkempt.
But what’s this? Kit asked himself, his attention caught by the curious sideways slant of the female’s skirts and the occasional glimpse of what seemed to be a jumble of dark, heavy-looking objects attached to those same skirts. Fumbling with the latch on the glass door, Kit stepped out onto the terrace and cupped his hands around his eyes as he inspected this oddity in earnest. What he saw caused him to issue a short, pithy curse, bound down the broad stone stairs two at a time, and pelt headlong down the grassy slope only to skid to a halt before the advancing female.
“How in bloody blue blazes did you get yourself caught in an animal trap, woman? That thing could have taken your leg off. Good God, have you no common sense? Don’t you even know enough to watch where you’re putting your feet when walking in the woods?” Clearly Lord Bourne’s questions and general tone of mingled anger and disgust could lead his listener into supposing the man believed himself to be addressing a hard-of-hearing idiot who should even now be down on her knees giving thanks to the gods on high for her lucky escape.
Just as clearly, the recipient of his lordship’s recriminations believed she had somehow stepped out of the woods only to stumble headlong into Bedlam, where she was immediately accosted by one of the hospital’s more violently disposed resident lunatics.
“I,” she countered, once recovered from the shock of the man’s uncalled-for attack, “am attached to this heinous instrument of torture and murder because some twisted, demented monster bent on destroying poor defenseless rabbits and furry little squirrels and other such wild and dangerous beasties has seen fit to set inhumane traps in the Home Wood. That’s how I became caught in this contraption.
“As to my leg, as you have so crudely seen fit to bring that appendage into this discussion, it and its mate are cognizant of their narrow escape, which is most probably why they agreed to carry me to Bourne Manor in order that I might confront Lord Bourne with the consequences of his thoughtless act.”
“I am Lord Bourne, madam,” Kit interjected at this point, his bow a mere mockery as he relinquished neither his belligerent pose nor his menacing expression. “The traps were set in order to thin the vermin population in the Home Wood. A population that through lack of sensible containment threatens to outstrip its food supply, inflict extensive damage upon the wood itself, and cause the invasion of nearby cultivated fields where those same cute, furry innocents will proceed to steal seed and destroy growing crops. That the perimeters of the area were not posted is an oversight possibly explained by the fact that residents of Bourne Manor have been duly made aware of the traps, while trespassers can only be prepared to suffer the indignities of any uninvited guest.”
“Why, you—” the young woman began hotly, then changed her tactics. “I have been accustomed to making free of the standing invitation issued me by the last Lord Bourne to think of the Home Wood as my own, as it were, and was therefore not aware that my formerly peaceful retreat had overnight taken on the aspect of a forest teeming with snapping iron dragons. Indeed, all that is missing are the tongues of fire.”
“Your apology is duly noted and accepted,” Kit returned cordially, his initial anger abating at the sight of the blond, green-eyed vixen who dared debate him as an equal while mud dried into crusts on her cheeks and her gown was held captive by an “iron dragon.”
The young woman’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Apology? What apology? I issued no apology! I’m here to insist you remove your traps at once. They’re inhuman!”
“They’re not intended for humans,” Kit was forced to point out. “But I do believe Leon showed an excess of zeal in setting such formidable traps. I shall amend my order to eliminate metal traps and replace them with more humane devices that ensnare rather than chomp. The end result is the same, of course,” he reminded her with a satisfied smirk. “Rabbits in the larder and the vermin population reduced to manageable proportions. It is moderation that I strive for, after all, not total annihilation.”
“And my use of the Home Wood?” She hated to beg, but had to ask. “Am I to discontinue my visits?”
Kit looked down at the dirt-streaked face, appealing even through its grime as the green eyes rounded artlessly and the firm little chin, so proudly tilted while she attacked him, trembled involuntarily as she awaited his answer.
“I cannot find it in myself to deprive infants of their treats. But curtail your visits for a few days, please—just until Leon gathers up his little toys.”
With nothing else left to say, the young woman made to depart the scene, but the clinging trap made the simple art of turning about a test of balance and dexterity. The sprigged muslin, already laboring under considerable stress, proved unequal to this additional insult and yet another long tear split the fabric, this time exposing a wide, knee-high expanse of white petticoat.
Tears born of frustration combined with a belated but none the less extreme sense of embarrassment made liquid pools of the girl’s eyes as Lord Bourne stooped to tug at her gown in an effort to release it from the trap.
“I’ll have to rip your gown even further, I’m afraid,” he apologized, raising his head to smile at her consolingly. “Not,” he mumbled as the abused fabric parted in two, leaving a goodly yard or more still in the possession of the half circle of grinning iron teeth, “that it’s much of a loss anyway.”
It is truly amazing how quickly a woman’s tears can dry, leaving behind them a pair of eyes alight with a strange glitter more reminiscent of leaping flames than of sparkling water. “You owe me for this gown, Lord Bourne,” she pronounced in a determined voice. “It was my very most favorite gown in the whole world!” she vowed passionately, her quest for retribution investing the lie with the ring of truth.
A healthy desire for his lunch combined with a sincere wish to be shed of his unpleasant trespasser prompted Lord Bourne to count out his astonishingly accurate estimate of the gown’s cost into her outstretched palm.
And then the young woman smiled, a simple exercise of muscle that lifted the heretofore sullenly downturned corners of her mouth and reassembled the smudged contours of her face into a composition so wonderfully appealing to the eye that Kit had to blink twice before he could be assured the transformation was not due merely to a trick of the sun.
“What’s your name, infant?” he heard himself ask in a soft voice, his gaze never leaving her face.
The smile wavered, slightly, then rebounded. “Jennie, my lord,” she answered saucily, tilting her head and throwing him an impudent wink. “I live at the far end of the Home Wood with my father.”
“No last name, Jennie?” his lordship pursued, all thought of his lunch forgotten in light of this unexpected pleasant development. The girl, he decided, might clean up to advantage, and a liaison with a comely, conveniently local wench could only serve to enhance his already comfortable existence.
She was the only child of her widowed schoolteacher father, Jennie informed him conversationally, and thus the recipient of that father’s intensive tutoring—a little fillip she offered to explain her accent-free, educated speech. She had read extensively, although she had never traveled more than fifteen miles from her birthplace, and even though she led a solitary existence she was more than content with her lot in life.
As she let her voice ramble on, her words tumbling out rapidly, she ran her spread fingers through her disheveled blond curls and smoothed her damaged gown with unconsciously provocative strokes of her figure-sculpting hands.
Kit had been without a woman for nearly a month, a lengthy period of abstinence for one of his healthy appetites, and Jennie’s attractions multiplied in direct proportion to the estimated total number of pleasures denied. As a gentle buzzing in his ears turned Jennie’s droning voice to the sweet notes of a siren’s song, Lord Bourne’s better self offered no resistance when his baser self reached out and drew the girl’s slight form into his strong embrace.
“Let me taste your honey, sweetings,” he whispered, his eyes already shut tight as his mouth descended to claim Jennie’s shock-slacked lips. Kit Wilde was ever the sort to strive for excellence in his many pursuits, and he was justly proud of his carefully learned and studiously applied expertise in the art of making love.
It was perhaps a shame that Jennie had no way of comparing Kit’s technique with that of some lesser mortal’s, but as a first kiss it set a standard that only a few foolhardy souls might ever presume to better.
The surprise that temporarily immobilized Jennie enabled Kit to gain a secure hold on her person, a hold that proved invulnerable to any amount of squirming and frantic wriggling on her part once surprise turned into indignation and then, as his plundering mouth touched off a series of intense miniature explosions throughout her body, into very real fear.
Oblivious to it all stood Lord Bourne, his legs slightly apart, one knee thrust boldly between her slender thighs, his hands roving freely through tangled curls and along the long curving sweep of her spine as he employed lips, teeth, and tongue to their best advantage.
Unconsciously holding her breath all the while, Jennie was slightly giddy, her vision hazy and dim around the edges by the time Kit remembered their exposed situation—placed as they were within clear view of dozens of manor windows—and put a reluctant period to an interlude that had proved intensely pleasurable, if somewhat unsettling.
For the first time Jennie looked at Kit, really looked at him, and she realized that the new Lord Bourne was an extremely handsome gentleman of no more than eight and twenty years, a man whose quietly elegant dress displayed to advantage his moderately tall, sleekly muscular body.
As for his face, how she could have overlooked for even an instant those intensely blue eyes or that healthy crop of thick, midnight-dark hair was beyond her comprehension. The lean, clean lines of his face were complemented by the almost too perfect chiseled square jaw that a wide, full-lipped mouth did little to soften. Taken in part, he was an impressive enough specimen; taken as a whole, the man was enough to give pause to the strongest heart.
How had she allowed her anger to blind her to the danger that exuded so visibly from every pore of Lord Bourne’s body? Even worse, what nearsighted imp of insane arrogance had cozened her into believing she could dare to flirt with this obvious man of the world?
Acknowledgment of her own guilt in leading the earl to believe she was forward kept Jennie from either slapping Kit’s face for his impertinence or dissolving into maidenly tears—as any well-brought-up young lady should have (any, that is, who had not yet taken refuge in a swoon).
In the short minute that had passed since the termination of their nearly one-sided embrace, neither of them spoke. They just stood there and stared at one another, each intent on their own chaotic thoughts.
Just as Kit was about to suggest renewing their acquaintance that night in some more secluded spot, visions of a cozy, candlelit supper followed by a mutually satisfying voyage of discovery upon the great barge of a bed in his private chamber, Jennie took him completely unawares by wheeling about, hiking up her tattered skirts, and racing pell-mell into the Home Wood.
“Wait!” Kit called, watching in amazement as her fleeing form was quickly enveloped by the dense growth and concealing shadows. “Jennie, you silly chit. Wait!”
No good would be served by pursuit, as the girl probably knew every tree and concealing rock and could elude him almost without effort. Besides, if he gave chase she might sacrifice prudence for speed, thus putting herself in danger of springing yet another of Leon’s deadly traps.
Ah well, he decided, shrugging his wide shoulders, it wasn’t as if she were about to disappear from his life forever. He had only to question the resourceful Renfrew as to the whereabouts of one blond-haired miss named Jennie and he would be halfway home. Once he located her, it shouldn’t take more than a few soothing words (and perhaps a bauble or two) to coax the fair Jennie into his bed.
Secure in his estimation of both Jennie’s character and the attractive lures his title and fortune must represent to someone of her modest circumstances, Kit returned to the manor, partook of a restorative luncheon, and then repaired to the library, where he penned his acceptance of one Sir Cedric Maitland’s invitation to dine with him the following evening.
CHAPTER TWO
“MISS JANE, iffen ya don’t stop squirmin’ about like some pig caught in a gate I ain’t never gonna get these tangles out, and Miss Bundy, that old cat, she’ll have my head on a platter iffen you be late comin’ down to table tonight. Just the thought of Miss Bundy tearin’ inta me is more than I thinks I can bear.”
As this whining complaint by her maid, Goldie, was reinforced by means of a restraining tug on one of those tangled locks of hair, a tug that brought tears of pain to her eyes, Miss Jane Maitland subsided obligingly onto her chair and allowed her hair to be twisted into a loose knot on the top of her head. “And woe be to anyone who doubts that the meek shall inherit the earth,” Jane confided to her reflection in the mirror. “Forgive me, Goldie, my love,” she said more loudly. “Far be it from me to be the cause of your catching the sharp edge of my dear companion’s tongue.”
“That’s good,” sighed Goldie, putting the last touches to her mistress’s coiffure. “Seein’ as how that woman’s got a tongue would clip a hedge.”
“Not to mention a pair of ears that can pick up the sound of your foolish jabbering at a hundred paces, more’s the pity,” pointed out Miss Ernestine Bundy herself, who had entered the large bedchamber unnoticed.
“Yoicks and away!” Jane chortled as Goldie hastily hiked up her skirts and propelled her ample girth toward the small door to the rear of the chamber, hell-bent on escaping the peal that Miss Bundy was otherwise bound to ring over her poor head.
“Daft woman,” Miss Bundy commented, sailing into the room, her dignity in full sail. “Why any of us put up with that sad excuse for a maid, I find myself saying for what must be the thousandth time, is far beyond my limited comprehension. Really, Jane, sometimes I feel bound to point out to you that your grand gestures of charity do have the lamentable tendency of producing the most disappointing results.”
“Now, Bundy,” scolded Jane, rising from her seat in front of the mirror to smooth down the skirts of her robin’s-egg-blue gown. “What Goldie lacks in talent she more than makes up for in heart.” Twisting about to peer over her shoulder, just making sure her departing self would do credit to her arriving self, she went on idly, “Besides, the poor girl was such a sad failure in the dairy.”
“And in the kitchens, and as a housemaid, and as a seamstress, and—”
“Enough, Bundy, else Papa’s dinner guests will find themselves welcoming me rather than the other way round.”
Ernestine Bundy, governess and now companion to Miss Maitland, had watched her charge grow from an entrancingly lovely child into an awkward, too thin adolescent until, over the course of the year following her eighteenth birthday, she had blossomed into the young woman who now descended the wide stairway ahead of her: an astonishingly beautiful creature of high intelligence, quick wit, a ready smile, and a charming way about her that could coax the very birds down out of the trees.
If she was just a teeny bit strong-willed, this was only to be expected in a doted-on only child, and surely her generous nature and propensity for seeing only the good in people would never harm her as long as her fiercely protective father and Miss Ernestine Bundy were around to cushion her from some of the more distasteful realities of life.
Openly preening over her no little involvement in the creation of the exquisite creature now politely awaiting her at the bottom of the stairway, Miss Bundy had no way of knowing that one of those “realities” was already lurking in the shadows (or, in this case, in the drawing room of Maitlands itself), ready to pounce.
