The Reddington Scandal (2 page)

“I’ve done a terrible thing, Wynnie,” he admitted, though his tone remained cheerful.

Her face grew serious. “Is she pregnant? Is she married? Who is it?”

“It’s worse than that, actually.” He looked into Wynn’s anxious face, realizing how much he’d be relying on her support to make his wife comfortable. It would be a reversal of roles for them. Six years her elder, he’d been her guardian and chaperone when she came for the London seasons. But marriage… marriage was something he was not sure he was capable of managing on his own. He was suddenly grateful she was here with him, to help ease the awkwardness of bringing home a bride he didn’t know.

“I’ve never even been with her. I honestly don’t even know her name.”

Wynn put down her fork, her eyes round. “Is this a jest? What happened, Teddy? Do tell me, before I go mad!”

“You may recall I’ve been seeing Lady Reddington?” At her nod, he continued, “Well, last night saw an unfortunate incident at her home. Lord Reddington discovered me there.”

“Teddy, no!” she gasped.

“Yes. He was waving a pistol and appeared prepared to kill me on the spot.”

“Oh, Teddy!” Her tone had an ‘I told you so’ reproach in it.

“But as it happened, Lady Reddington’s young sister was also on the landing where he discovered us, and also in a dressing gown and robe. She saved us both by swearing I had been with her, instead.”

“I see. So now you must marry her,” Wynn said softly, her face pale and serious.

“Indeed.”

“Miss Fletcher. Phoebe Fletcher is her name. I met her once. She is ‘out,’ but she seldom attends any balls—my impression was that Lady Reddington is none too eager to share the attention.”

“Phoebe,” he said, enjoying the way the name rolled around his tongue. It suited her. “Yes, she far surpasses her sister in beauty, does she not?” he asked.

Wynn narrowed her eyes at him. “Perhaps you will grow to love her?” she asked doubtfully. She knew he had inherited their father’s wandering eye, never content with any woman for longer than a few months. It was the reason he had never married—he did not believe he could be faithful to one lady, and he would never put a lady through the life their mother had led.

A pang of guilt tightened his chest. “Perhaps she will grow to love me,” he said lightly, to cover it.

“They all love you—that is hardly the problem, is it?” Wynn said drily.

He rubbed his sideburns. “I will do my very best to make her happy.”

Wynn nodded and picked her fork back up, then froze. “Teddy… you don’t think they planned it, do you? I mean, tricked you into marrying Phoebe? Maybe the three of them were all in on it, together—the Fenton fortune is coveted by more than a few.”

He considered, then shook his head. “No,” he said, remembering Reddington’s vicious attack on Phoebe and the way the young lady had trembled against his body. “No, it was real.”

He stood up from the table. “I’m going to see if I can bring her home today.”

“Today? Before the wedding? But that’s not proper, Teddy!”

“I’m going to wed her at the magistrate’s, if I can.”

“But Teddy, it will be a scandal!”

“Scandal has always been chasing me, hasn’t it?” he said with a wry grin. When she frowned, he said, “It cannot be avoided, Wynn. A hasty marriage is a hasty marriage, but at least there will not be a pregnancy to cause gossip.”

“Well, I’m coming along, too, then,” Wynn declared with a lift of her chin.

He smiled gratefully. “Of course you are.”

When he received an affirmative answer from the magistrate, he and Wynn took the carriage to Reddington’s. He half expected the butler to turn him away, but they were admitted and Lady Reddington and Miss Fletcher entered. He was struck anew at the younger lady’s beauty. She was exquisite—her complexion flawless, her features perfectly shaped and proportioned. Her eyes looked almost violet. She dipped into a curtsy, inadvertently providing him with the tantalizing view of her cleavage. Maud stepped directly in front of her sister, holding out her hand. “Lord Fenton,” she gushed. “How good of you to call.”

He paused before he took her hand, wondering how he could have stood the ill-mannered woman at all. If he’d had any doubt the sisters had plotted together for this marriage, it was now erased. Maud was clearly jealous rather than grateful to her sister for risking her entire future to prevent Reddington from discovering her own infidelity.

He dropped Maud’s hand and looked past her. “Phoebe, I’ve come to take you to the magistrate today, unless you’ve changed your mind.”

Phoebe recovered swiftly from her surprise. “I have not changed my mind. I will go and pack my things.”

“You’ll pack nothing,” Reddington clipped from where he loomed in the doorway. “Nothing you’ve acquired under my guardianship.”

Phoebe’s jaw tightened, but she dropped a curtsy. “As you say, my lord.”

“Never mind, Phoebe. I can provide anything you might desire,” he said, leveling a challenging look at Reddington, whose eyes narrowed.

“Thank you, my lord,” Phoebe said with a deep curtsy. “I will return presently.” She drew herself up to walk past her brother-in-law.

It was a full half-hour before Phoebe returned, her maid carrying a few small bags behind her, which appeared to be mostly books.

“I’m ready,” she said, her face pale and pinched. Maud made a big show of crying as she kissed her goodbye, but he noticed Phoebe did not shed any tears, though she did not appear happy, either.

When they climbed in the carriage, he picked up her little gloved hand. “That was a very gallant thing you did last night. It’s quite possible you saved my life.”

* * *

Phoebe ducked her head, feeling a flush creep up her chest and spread to her neck. She could think of no suitable reply. Fenton put a finger under her chin and turned her face to the side, examining the bruise left where Reddington had struck her. Her belly tightened as his face turned dark, but he said nothing, instead lightening the mood by teasing, “Did you forget it’s the knight who rescues the damsel in distress, and not the other way around?” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m utterly mortified,” he claimed, though she doubted he’d ever been mortified by anything in this entire life. He was the most self-possessed, cocksure man she’d ever met, a fact which she unfortunately found extremely attractive.

She took a deep breath to launch into the speech she’d been practicing all morning. “My lord. Thank you for agreeing to marry me. Considering it is a marriage neither of us wanted or intended, I have a proposal to make.”

He arched his eyebrows, not allowing her to retrieve her hand from his grasp when she tried.

“I—er… It is well-known you have a very active, ah…” She stopped, her face flushing. This was not the way she’d rehearsed it. For some reason, all words had left her. Fenton turned her hand palm up and absently massaged the heel of it with his thumbs, scattering her thoughts and sending a prickle of warmth across her skin. Miss Fenton looked pointedly out the carriage window, as if to give them privacy.

“You may speak frankly, Miss Fletcher,” he prompted.

“I know you see a lot of women,” she blurted, inwardly cursing at how three years of finishing school charm seemed to have left her. “And I do not wish to stop you from your… er, activities. So I propose a marriage in name only—with separate bedrooms, you know.” Her cheeks were flaming now, but Fenton appeared completely unruffled.

“If that is your wish, I will oblige,” he said easily. “You sacrificed your freedom to ensure my safety. I am indebted to you, little dove.”

His gratitude came as a surprise, and she lifted her eyes to meet his.

“I intend to give you the best life I possibly can.”

She stared at him, doubting he was sincere. This must be part of his charm. He could not be sincere, because in her experience, people did not look after anyone’s lives but their own. She blinked rapidly, unsure how to reply and he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers and causing a riotous quiver between her legs.
Dear Lord.
She remembered the overheard conversation with his sister, a shadow of confusion creeping into her mind. Could it be Fenton was not shallow and self-absorbed as most believed him? Or was he so well-practiced with his charm that such assurances simply rolled off his tongue?

* * *

After marrying before the magistrate, he took the ladies to tea at a little café and then to the Bond Street Bazaar to purchase Phoebe’s trousseau. They stopped first for gloves and hosiery, where he took active part in the discussion with the ladies about which were the best.

“You don’t have a say, Teddy, even if you are a dandy,” Wynn scolded.

“I most certainly do. I’m buying them, and they will be worn by my wife, so I should think I have even more of a say than you, dear sister.” He held up a beautiful pair of pink silk hose for their examination.

“Oh!” Wynn exclaimed at the color.

“I didn’t know they made them in colors,” Phoebe breathed, the look of longing on her face making him want to buy her one hundred pair.

He took an appraising glance at her long legs, imagining them bared to him. She caught his look and turned as pink as the hose, which only furthered the rise of heat under his collar. Appreciating her blush, he gave a slow smile, holding her blue-eyed gaze and watching the rapid movement of her lifted breasts as she struggled to breathe. Her rosebud lips parted, but no sound emerged. He waited a moment before having mercy and releasing her from the gaze with a wink. She turned even more pink, blinking rapidly as she drew herself up and squared her shoulders.

“We’ll take two pair of these,” he said to the salesman, holding up the pink hose, “and whichever pair of gloves the lady chooses.”

He continued to torment his young bride, insisting on choosing her hat at the milliner, and the color of her ball gown (a deep violet, to bring out her eyes), making a show out of sizing up her features for the best choice. As uncomfortable as he made her, he could also tell she was growing giddy with the large amount of money he was spending on her, confirming his suspicion that Reddington had not allowed her much freedom. The best part of the afternoon was seeing the way her face lit up when he took the ladies to Lackington Allen & Co at Finsbury Square. It was a large, multi-storied bookstore, filled with every sort of book imaginable.

“The books here are quite affordable, so choose as many as you like,” he told her.

Her jaw dropped as her face shone with rapture. “As many as I like? You will buy them? To own? I mean, it’s not a subscription library?”

He smiled at her excitement. “I will buy them. Just let me see them first, because Wynn and I have already amassed a large collection at home.”

She smiled. It was the first genuine smile he had seen from her, and it caused an unnerving sensation in the center of his chest—a curious fluttering, along with a warmth and a sense of expansion. It was not the beauty of the smile itself, which was admittedly lovely, but rather the joy behind it, as if he were given a glimpse right into her soul where she hid a passion brighter than the sun.

Sweet Phoebe.

And she belonged to him now. It was a stunning thought—one he never thought he would appreciate.

He had originally thought her proposal of a marriage in name only was ideal. He would be careful not to embarrass her with gossip about his mistresses, and she could not be hurt when she’d given her explicit permission. They would grow comfortable with one another in a platonic way, much like he had with his sister, or his childhood friend, Kitty Westerfield. Now, though, the idea irked him. Try as he might, he could not seem to put Phoebe into the same category as Kitty and Wynn. He wanted her in his bedroom, to feel the touch of her velvet skin beneath his hands, the slope of her shoulder beneath his lips, the curve of her waist beneath his hands. He wanted that brilliant smile in his bedroom, directed at him on a nightly basis.

After a late supper at home that evening, he entered his bedroom with a sigh, removing his jacket and waistcoat and dismissing his valet. He must face the nagging issue of consummation. Whether they intended to keep separate bedrooms or not, a marriage was not legal until the couple had lain together as husband and wife. And as beautiful as he found his bride, he had a hard rule against taking an unwilling woman to his bed. In fact, there was nothing more distasteful to him.

Tapping lightly on the connecting door, he did not wait for an answer before he pushed it open. The look of fear on her face as she whirled around pained him, but he entered casually, as if they were perfectly comfortable with one another. She wore the same nightdress she’d worn the night before, but this time without the robe, and he could see the curve of her breasts, which moved under the thin linen.

“Come, little wife,” he said, holding out his arm. When she did not move, he took a step and caught her hand, tugging her gently to the bed where he sat and pulled her onto his knee. He wrapped one arm around her waist and rested the other on her thigh. She sat stiffly, her fingers twisting together in an anxious knot. He covered the nervous hands, stilling them. She smelled fresh and clean with a hint of roses and he had the sense of her fitting perfectly on his lap—her legs the right length to still reach the floor with her feet, her bottom soft and wide enough to settle firmly on his thigh.

“Did you,” she began breathlessly, “intend to exercise your conjugal rights after all?” She blinked rapidly and appeared to be holding her breath. Her voice held no trace of the high pitch of youth—it was rich and throaty, somehow both sweet and worldly at the same time.

“Well, that
is
why I am here. But I do not intend to do anything against your wishes,” he assured her.

Her breath began again, moving her breastbone up and down in short intervals.

He picked up one of the blond waves that had fallen over her shoulder and twirled it in his fingers. It was as fine as spun silk, so much softer than he had imagined. “What I’m wondering is whether we ought to lie together—just once—to consummate the marriage.”