A Beastly Scandal Read online

  A Beastly Scandal

  SHE WANTED TO tell him that all she wanted to do was help his mother, but she knew he would not listen. “What possible harm could I mean to you or your family?”

  “What harm do women always mean?”

  She stared at him, confused. Before she could fathom his words, he pulled her closer with a firm hand on her back.

  Mirroring her conflicted emotions, Earnest whined, then growled, and then whined again.

  The shock of contact left Belle breathless. She stood with her palms pressed against his chest, a traitorous enjoyment creeping from her toes to her hairline. His hold forced her limbs against his hard legs. The heat of his breath brushed intimately against her mouth.

  She knew she should give him a severe set-down, but all she wanted was to see his angry gaze melt with desire. Why would he not end her torment and kiss her? Mortified by that improper thought, Belle leaned away, but the dog was plastered against the backs of her knees. Some watchdog. She shoved him back, but Lord Terrance held her in place, as if to assert his mastery. To prove she was being released, not pulling away.

  “How . . . how dare you, sir.” The protest came far too late and sounded abysmally weak. In her mind, she heard Mrs. Jones say, A proper young lady would be overcome by the experience.

  “I am a lady.” She cursed her breathy voice, no longer certain the statement was even true. Did ladies dream of being ravished? “I am not a . . .”

  “A Cyprian?” The word was a caress.

  She should not know what that meant, but she had heard the word whispered as another form of harlot, a mistress, an illicit lover. “I have no idea what that means.”

  The tips of her ears singed with guilty heat even as he laughed with patent disbelief.

  Other Titles by Shereen Vedam

  from ImaJinn Books

  A Season for Giving

  One Winter’s Night: A Regency Yuletide Collection

  Coming Soon

  A Devilish Slumber

  A Scorching Dilemma

  A Perfect Curse

  A Beastly Scandal

  by

  Shereen Vedam

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-125-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61026-124-1

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2013 by Shereen Vedam

  A Devilish Slumber (excerpt) copyright © 2015 by Shereen Vedam

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

  We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

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  #10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Cover design: Josephine Piraneo

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Photo of Regency woman © RazzDazzStock.com

  Background glitter © │ JaguarWoman.com

  :Esbh:01:

  Dedication

  Thanks to my critique group for their exceptional insight and unflinching assistance over the years.

  Chapter One

  Cheshire, England, November 1812

  Dear Lord, let us not have killed him.

  In a panic, Belle clambered down from the carriage and ran to the fallen horseman lying on the snow-covered ground. She gently laid his head on her lap. Under the carriage light, her gloved hand came away bloody, and her heart skipped a beat.

  She peeled off the hand portion of her right glove to check his breath. Was that a faint draft against her fingers? His body and long limbs looked properly aligned, but he was icy cold and lay utterly still. Other than for that one lump on his head, there were no obvious bruises to him or his horse. Could her carriage have merely frightened his horse, so that it reared and he had fallen? She just wished he would wake up.

  Beside her, hoofs stomped, leads jangled and carriage wheels shifted. Feet crunched through calf-deep snow as the coachman and the stranded family she had offered to take to the nearest inn joined her on the darkened roadside.

  “Is he dead, my lady?” The coachman held a lantern over the body so he could properly inspect their victim. “Oh, it be the hangman’s noose for me for sure!”

  “Hush,” Belle said. “This was an accident. The puppy’s barks merely startled the horses. This was not your fault.”

  It was mine. Belle’s heart squeezed with guilt, for the young wolfhound had barked and jumped to get at the injured baby owl Belle had rescued from a stable at her last stop to change horses. She had refused to countenance them killing the tiny creature and took it along with her when they left. She had been keeping it warm and safe under her jacket. Until she stopped to pick up a family beside a broken down carriage. They had found a lost puppy in the snowstorm, and the children had brought it into Belle’s carriage. Then the dog sniffed out the bird and . . .

  The mother approached, her breath huffing out. “Imagine, riding along a main thoroughfare in the dead of night during a snowstorm. Anyone’s coach could have run him over.”

  Belle shook her head in confusion. How could so many of her good deeds have caused such a catastrophe?

  “What is done is done.” The woman’s husband hugged his wife close. “What are we to do with the corpse?”

  “Bury him?” his six-year-old son asked.

  “He is not dead yet!” Belle said. “At least, I hope not. Besides, we do not even know who he is.”

  “Right you are, my lady,” the husband said. “No use putting out a grave marker without a proper name.”

  “My lady.” Mendal, her maid, wrapped a blanket around Belle’s shoulders. “Should you sit so close to a dead man?” At Belle’s glare, she amended that to, “Near as dead, then.”

  Thick snowflakes settled and stuck to Mendal’s black bonnet. None of them, children included, should remain outside much longer. But the coach was already full. There was no more room for a badly injured gentleman, especially one this long.

  The large, fawn-colored Irish wolfhound pup that had been the crash’s instigator padded over and sniffed the still figure. Then he stood on the man’s chest and licked his face.

  “Get off him, you big lug.” Belle pushed the dog away. “If he is not already dead, he will be if you stand your giant weight on his chest.”

  “My lady,” the father said, “I believe the gentl’mun blinked.”

  His wife gave a relieved laugh. “Oh, thank the good Lord.”

  Belle’s heart, too, leaped in hope, for the talk of burials had made her doubt he was alive. She gently brushed his cheek with her bare hand. “Sir, are you well?”

  His eyes opened, exposing exquisite deep blue eyes.

  “Sir, do you hurt anywhere besides your head?”

  “First, kiss me to prove I am alive, and you are not an angel,” he said in a deep, husky voice.


  At his audacious suggestion, Belle’s gaze flew to his lips. The lower was full, the upper strong, firm and sensuous. His mouth curved up, as if smiling were his natural tendency. For a moment, from sheer happiness that he was alive, she had the scandalous urge to do as he bid.

  “Go on, m’dear,” the mother said. “Kiss the gentl’mun. ’Twill be the best entertainment we have had all night.”

  The little boy and two girls giggled.

  The dog barked, as if he approved.

  “I believe they insist.” The stranger’s entreating gaze did not waver.

  “But we have not been introduced.” Her mouth twitched with humor. Suddenly, despite the snowstorm, cramped traveling conditions, her fear for the abandoned owl, the stranded family, and this fallen horseman, joy stoked a fire in her belly. It was the first good sensation she had experienced since she had entered Cheshire. Of its own volition, her head descended.

  His lips parted, and he raised himself to meet her halfway.

  “My lady!” Mendal said. “What are you thinking?”

  Pulled out of her dreamy state, Belle jerked back.

  His head dropped onto her lap, and his heavy sigh puffed out in a white cloud of disappointment.

  “Right, Mendal. This unusual storm must have addled my senses.” Had she really meant to kiss him? Yes. And she felt utterly deprived at the foiled touch of his lips.

  Belle had never kissed a man in her life, except for her grandfather’s forehead, and that should not count. Her betrothed, Jeffrey, had only lightly kissed her cheek, his lips barely grazing it. And considering the sad state of her social status after Jeffrey begged her to break off their engagement, she might never kiss a man again. With a disheartened sigh, she made her introductions.

  “Sir, I am Lady Annabelle Marchant. This charming family—”

  “Marchant?” he interrupted. “Annabelle Lilith Marchant?”

  She tenderly brushed his silky blond hair off his forehead. “My grandfather assures me that is my name.”

  She was unable to contain a bubble of laughter. His frown looked adorable. Had he heard of her? Then her smile faltered. Had he heard of her in London? That could not be good.

  The gentleman scrambled to his feet and then staggered.

  The husband and wife steadied him, but he pushed them away. He put a hand to his temple and blinked, as if in confusion. His skewed clothing pulled against his movements, and he straightened his greatcoat with impatient tugs.

  He took a deep breath, and his eyes wandered over her face. Was that a tender look in his eyes? She pictured them kissing. Did he too? Or was it her shattered wish resurfacing to torment her? Just her, she realized with regret, for his face looked hard again. With a glum sigh, she rose onto her knees.

  He extended a hand, and she used his strength to pull herself upright.

  Once she was on her feet, he snatched away his hand and hid his arm behind his back, as if unsettled by her touch.

  She lowered her gaze to hide her surprise and hurt.

  He bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rufus Marlesbury, Earl of Terrance.”

  A collective gasp drowned out her shocked, soft, “Oh no!”

  Of all the people to run into, must it be him?

  “May I inquire where you are headed?” he asked in a cold voice. “Other than seeking innocent riders to trample?”

  She ignored the insult. “My lord, it is fortunate that we met, for I have come to stay at your home.”

  A bark of laughter escaped him, which did not foster her hope for a hearty welcome. Then he leaned in to whisper, “I am astounded you would dare follow me, Lady Belle. Please understand, even were I inclined to take you under my protection, I keep my mistresses far from my country estates.”

  She went icy cold with fury, and then flushed hot with consternation, for he had grounds for his wrong assumption. Grounds she inadvertently provided not six months ago on his father’s front doorstep in London.

  Her maid’s arm wrapped protectively around Belle. She must have overheard his lordship’s last remark. “How dare you, sir! My lady is a lady. You would do well to mind your tongue. You, my lord, are not in a tavern where you may say what you wish. If her grandfather were present, he would call you out!”

  The earl’s gaze never left Belle, and she laid a hand on Mendal’s arm to calm her. “I believe you are mistaken, my lord.” She defiantly tilted her head. She was in the right here. “I have come at your mother’s invitation.”

  “Unlikely.” He brushed snow from his sleeve. “My mother still mourns my father’s passing so would not host a house party. Even if she did, she would hardly invite someone who delights in showing such a sad lack of decorum.”

  Lips pressed tight, Belle shook off Mendal’s support and approached him. “The countess did invite me, my lord.”

  She had more to say, but not in public. She indicated the others. “May we speak privately?”

  He led her away without argument. But before she could speak, he intervened, his tone deceptively soft and gentle.

  “It does not become you to so boldly inflict your company on me, twice now. Let me make myself perfectly clear so we kill whatever false hope resides within your calculating heart. In friendship, I prefer women who are honest and well-behaved. In lovemaking, though London may consider you a belle of the ball, my personal preference is for women who sport a fairer shade of hair and more generous curves than you possess.”

  “You beast!” Her hand sprang up.

  He caught it mid-swing. Behind them, the wolfhound growled, but his lordship ignored the dog and bestowed a kiss on the back of her naked hand.

  A tingle shot up Belle’s arm, and his eyes narrowed as if he, too, absorbed that shock.

  She pulled free and attempted to slip her fingers back inside her glove, but the wretched tips went askew.

  The dog barked.

  “Silence.” The earl pointed to the dog. “I will deal with you later.”

  The puppy scuttled back, head drooping, tail tucked beneath him. With a pitiful whine, he hid behind the mother’s skirts.

  Belle’s anger built, not only at his abuse of her but of his bullying of the poor defenseless dog. “Sir, you dishonor me. Your mother would not approve of your disrespectful treatment.”

  “As my mother will never meet you, I have no worries there.”

  His superiority warranted a slap, but since recent experience had shown her that the swing would never connect, she ignored the impulse. Belle had left the comfort of her safe home to come to this God-forsaken part of England during this hellish weather for an important purpose.

  “You do not understand, my lord,” she said through clenched teeth. “The countess particularly requested my help. She is frightened of a ghost that haunts the manor.”

  “A ghost haunts the manor?” one of the little girls said, her voice high-pitched with excitement. The child must have wandered close enough to overhear their conversation.

  “Ooh,” her brother said. “There be ghosts at the manor!”

  Belle could have groaned out loud. This was exactly the outcome she had hoped to avoid.

  This time, the earl looked at her as if she had escaped from Bedlam. His voice rose, as if he no longer cared who heard him. “How dare you stir such preposterous ideas in my mother’s head when she is still grieving over the loss of her husband. I will not have you whip up idle gossip and trouble within my family for no other purpose than your personal, twisted enjoyment. Time and again you have displayed a deplorable lack of judgment, which makes me believe you are not fit company for my sister or my mother. I forbid you to come anywhere near my home or my family!”

  Tight-lipped, he stared at her and then at their audience. As if suddenly as appalled as the family and coachman by the violence of his outb
urst, contrition colored his gaze.

  Belle had stiffened at each hateful word, shock piling over her like a snowbank forming, and then surprise gave way to an unbearable hurt that filled her eyes with moisture.

  The earl backed away. He shook his head, apparently made speechless by her tears. Turning, he whistled to his horse, and the black gelding trotted over.

  Lord Terrance picked his riding hat off the ground, put it on, and swung himself onto the saddle.

  Oh! Belle bit her lip. He meant to ride away, as if he had not whipped her raw with his hurtful words. She swung around in search of a suitable weapon. Finding nothing but wet packed snow, she knelt and made a hard ball of the stuff.

  He turned his mount toward her, his mouth opening to . . . to what? Apologize? Too little, too late!

  She stood and whipped her missile at him. The ball of snow smashed across his face with such satisfying force, it almost knocked him off his horse. In quick succession, she sent more projectiles to shatter against his throat and shoulders.

  Instead of shouting that she behaved like a hoyden, he took the bombardment in stoic silence, until her rage expired. With a sigh, she dropped the last of her snowy rounds and pushed past her flabbergasted audience to climb aboard her coach.

  The rest of her companions, dog included, quickly joined her. The door shut. The coachman and the father scampered up to the outside seat, and the conveyance rolled on.

  Belle sat with the owl secure inside a blanket on her lap. Her hands trembled until Mendal covered them with hers.

  Instead of riding away, the earl edged his mount forward past the carriage window, toward the front of the coach.

  “See they reach the inn safely.” Coins clinked.

  As the carriage rolled on, the young boy stuck his head out the window. “He is watching us leave,” he said to his mother. Finally, he withdrew. “Too dark to see anymore.”

  “Shush, child,” his mother said.

  The hound lying by their feet sniffed at Belle’s lap. The mother put her foot on the dog. “Enough of that!”