Prelude to a Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

etiquette book out the window and had every intention of showing how grateful she was he hadn’t taken her up on her rash proposal of a few measly nights.

      Offering him a shy smile, she gathered her wet chemise and slid it up to where his shirt ended to give him a better view of everything below the knees. In case her wet chemise wasn’t transparent enough.

      Bradford hissed out a breath—as if something were terribly wrong with her legs—and closed what little space was left between them. He grabbed hold of her chin, yanking it up toward his own face. “Drop it,” he demanded, his fingers now digging into her skin, causing it to burn. “Drop it before I do it for you.”

      Justine instantly dropped her chemise and stared up at him in astonishment, realizing it wasn’t male lust that had riled him. What was more, his marred face was hauntingly close. She swallowed, feeling as though she were looking at one side of his face through broken glass.

      Instead of breaking her chin free of his pinching grasp, she searched his eyes. “Why are you angry? I thought you would have enjoyed that.”

      His dark brows came together as he loosened his grip. The rough pads of his fingers slowly slid back and forth, as if trying to soothe her skin. “You don’t know what you are doing, innocent Justine. Forgive me,” he murmured. “I should not have taken that tone with you.”

      Justine blinked up at him, still unable to move. To be sure, this was not the same Bradford she’d once known. He was so morbidly tense, reserved and too serious for her own liking.

      What on earth had changed his playful, adventurous soul into … this? She was certain his scar held the answer to her question. “What happened to you? What happened since we last met? You are not the same man. You once loved to engage in flirtations.”

      He dropped his hand from her chin, his dark brows softening, but continued to linger before her. “I don’t want to be the man you once knew. He had no self-control or self-respect.”

      She sucked in a breath. “Libertine aside, he was everything I could ever want. He was generous and charming and playful and witty. He knew how to make me laugh and blush and always preferred to sit on the floor as opposed to a chair. I adored him. I … still do.” She bit her lip, realizing she was practically flinging herself at him. As always.

      His dark eyes took on an intense, blazing look as he suddenly grabbed her waist and yanked her hips toward his own, grinding her against the length of his large body.

      She gasped as his hands molded her closer, pressing her more firmly against every inch of him. As if forcing her to feel the pulsing heat of his skin, the beating of his heart, and the rigid bulge in his trousers which dug into her damp, corseted stomach.

      Her heart thumped and her stomach flipped. Having never had any physical relations with a man, and having never been held by one so close, either, the contact was shocking. Not to mention downright arousing.

      “If you really knew who he was,” he said in a low, clipped tone, “I doubt you’d feel adoration.”

      The tension in his muscles gave her a sense of the powerful force barely being restrained.

      Justine’s pulse thundered as she was torn between pulling away and melting against the firm, crushing embrace of those taut muscles. Endless sensations overwhelmed her body, which was probably why she couldn’t make any sense of him or his words. “Bradford, what—”

      He released her and stepped back, setting a notable distance between them. His broad chest rose and fell beneath his open shirt as if he struggled to breathe. He readjusted the erection within his trousers and swiped at his face with shaky hands, unable to look at her.

      She swallowed, knowing his blatant rejection had nothing to do with her. Something was tormenting him. But what? Her throat ached at the thought of him suffering this much.

      He turned away, blowing out a heavy breath, and purposefully kept his broad back to her. As if ashamed by his arousal, by his need. As if he truly hated himself.

      Justine fidgeted with her hands, not knowing what to make of him. Perhaps it was best she leave. “I should go. But before I do … I … I would like to thank you.”

      “For what?”

      “For everything.” She paused. “Well. Aside from throwing me into the tub, that is.” She feigned a laugh, but seeing he still hadn’t turned or appeared amused by her little quip, she sighed.

      She wished he would turn so she could look into his eyes and assure him how much he’d always meant to her. “Ever since I’ve known you, Bradford, you’ve always been very generous and supportive of my father. Even whilst all of London chose to mock him. You’ve always believed in the value of his work and treated him with respect. And for that reason alone, I would marry you. Without question.”

      He was quiet for a very long moment. He swung back toward her. Hissing out a breath, he shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. “If we do marry, I wish to buy you a wedding gift. What is it that you want?”

      “Pardon?”

      He waved a hand toward her. “What is it that you want? Aside from your father’s freedom, that is. What would make you happy knowing you are settling for a man with half a face and half a heart? Do you want jewelry? Clothing? Name it and it is yours. I genuinely wish to make you happy.”

      Abashed, Justine stepped back. Where on earth was this coming from, and what did he mean he only had half a heart? “Happiness isn’t something that can be readily bought. Unlike most women, I’ve never been overly fond of trinkets. I prefer more nostalgic things.”

      His hand fell to his side as black eyes captured hers. “Assure me you aren’t about to demand sentimental rubbish I cannot give. I am not that sort of man.”

      Ah. But she had faith he would eventually be that sort of man. Until then, there was only one other thing, aside from courtship, romance and love, that she, as a woman, would ever want from him. “All I am asking for is your respect, Bradford. The sort of respect London has never given me, my father or my mother. I don’t want any more of this throwing-me-into-the-tub nonsense or you treating me with agitated disdain I do not deserve. I also humbly ask that your respect not be limited to public display, but to our own personal lives, which hopefully will include you having no other woman in your bed but me. In the wild, it may very well be acceptable to be promiscuous or polygamous, but I have witnessed first-hand how badly that can end if any of those partners feel threatened.”

      He stared at her and then belted out a hearty laugh that crinkled the edges of his eyes and shifted the mangled skin on the side of his face.

      Oh, for heaven’s sake. He really was hopeless.

      “You speak with such conviction,” he guffawed. “It’s marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”

      She supposed this was what happened when a monogamous female tried to pair up with a full-blooded libertine. “I suggest you set up a harem in the east wing of the house,” she tossed out in complete disgust. “At least then I’ll know where all the women are coming from and where to find you should I require attention.”

      His laughter and grin slowly faded as his features settled back into a tight, grim mask. “Forgoing associations with women will require no effort on my part. I am rather concerned, however, about the obligation that would fall upon you as a result of it.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mock me, Bradford. It’s beneath even you. I know full well what those obligations are, and I can assure you, I am more than capable, not to mention willing, to meet them.”

      He lowered his chin, challenging her with a hard, burning look. “I don’t doubt your capability. Or your willingness. I do, however, doubt your stamina.”

      Her … stamina? What on earth was that supposed to mean? “What are you saying? That it takes a full eight hours of copulation for you to reach completion?”

      He choked