When Scandal Came to Town (Scandalous Sons 3)

Jealousy and vindictiveness pulsed in the madam’s veins. If Mrs Crandall had played a part in the scandal, then she was likely to find other ways to hurt Cassandra. Panic burst to life in Benedict’s chest. Until the matter was resolved, he should not let his wife out of his sight.

“I should return to Jermyn Street.” Perhaps he was exaggerating the threat. But someone had gone to great lengths to cause a scandal. Without knowing the villain’s motive, it was impossible to predict his next move. “While I’m confident the aim was to ridicule the Earl of Worthen, what if the culprit is intent on punishing Cassandra?”

“Your objective should be to protect your wife.” Wycliff’s serious stare sent a chill down Benedict’s spine. “The attacks will come from every quarter. People will take pleasure in giving her the cut direct. She will quickly come to learn what it was like to walk in your shoes before you found an inner strength.”

Benedict stood and tugged the cuffs of his coat. “She may look like she has a backbone of steel, but inside she is as fragile as the woman who rejected me five years ago—ill-prepared for what is to come. She has lived with a misguided notion of what is important and suffered in the process.”

Wycliff came to his feet and crossed the room. He gripped Benedict’s shoulder. “Perhaps there is hope for you both yet. You defend her with the same burning passion you do when you pretend to despise her.”

Oh, when it came to despising Cassandra Mills, he was an expert at pretending. “I want to despise her to the depths of my core. I want to punish her, make her pay. And I want to make love to her, care for her always.” God, he was a bloody mess of contradictions.

Wycliff smiled. “The road to fulfilment often involves a perilous journey. Somehow you will reach your destination.”

* * *

On his return to Jermyn Street, Benedict discovered his wife had commanded use of the drawing room to meet with their housekeeper, Mrs Rampling. He bathed, changed his clothes and retired to his study to examine the letter. A futile exercise in finding a clue to the sender’s identity.

Numerous times during the day he crossed paths with Cassandra. They passed pleasantries, spoke about the fact she had brought dinner forward by two hours, a compromise as he was used to eating late. She looked happy, carefree, as if the tragic events of the last few days had never occurred. It was an act, another mask to hide behind because neither knew how to behave, how to be themselves.

They dined at seven, and he was surprised to find a bill of fare enough for a party of six. The menu, more lavish than he preferred with dishes of quail and Parisienne tarts, reminded him of the earl’s elitism. His thoughts spiralled into maudlin memories, and before he knew it, the footmen were clearing away the covers and serving them drinks in the drawing room.

They settled into chairs in front of the fire. She took sherry as her digestif. He took port. It was all very structured. Civil. Had they married five years ago, he imagined they would have locked the door, tore off their clothes and made love while the heat from the fire’s flames danced over their bare skin. Now, the emptiness inside seemed worse when in her company than when apart.

As they sat in silence, staring into the hearth, he tried to think of something to say. The only thing they had in common was their need to find the brute who’d ruined her life.

“Perhaps we should discuss your attendance at Lord Craven’s ball if you feel

able.”

She jumped upon hearing his voice. “Yes, I’ve spent the entire day trying to piece together the fragments of that night.”

“I presume your father was your chaperone.”

“He insisted on accompanying me to every ball and rout.” She looked to her lap as she spoke. “The earl controls everyone and everything, you know that.”

“Was Lord Murray there?” Did she slink away to a quiet alcove to share an illicit kiss with her betrothed? Had she crept out into the garden, embraced the lord beneath the moonlight as she had done many times with him?

“Yes.”

“Did you dance with Murray?”

“Three times.”

“Anything more than dance?” He tried to make it sound like a perfectly reasonable question, yet jealousy imbued his tone. When her shocked eyes met his, he said, “It is important we’re honest with each other.”

“Does that mean you will afford me the same courtesy?”

“I’m not a hypocrite, Cassandra.” Why did he get the impression she relished the prospect of asking personal questions? “You can ask me anything, and I will give you an honest answer.”

She swallowed a sip of sherry. “We did nothing of an amorous nature. Timothy believes in the sanctity of marriage and wanted to wait.”

Benedict gave a mocking snort. “So he never tried to ravish you? Not a kiss, not an attempt to slip his hand under your skirts and stroke your bare thigh?”

Embarrassment stained her cheeks. “He kissed me when he proposed, but he never touched me the way you used to.”

The sound of her sweet sigh when he’d stolen under her skirts and brushed his fingers over her sex would be forever etched in his memory. Desire ignited, desire for the woman he remembered, the woman who hadn’t crushed his hopes and dreams.

“While we’re on the subject of intimate relations,” she said, and he knew what was coming, “have you ever felt affection for the women you’ve bedded?”