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The Improper Bride

A Sisters of Scandal Novel

Entangled Publishing, LLC

Cassandra Davis was shirking her duties as the housekeeper of Blakewood Hall. She'd sent away Lord Riverton's houseguests, as the man in question wasn't actually conscious, and the staff didn't need aristocrats running about with no one to entertain them. Unoccupied aristocrats could be a bit like the sheepdog her family had once owned — friendly when something was put in front of them to catch their attention but rather inclined to tear up the furniture when there wasn't.

But she didn't consider sending them away neglecting her duties. Lord Riverton wouldn't want them there while he was incapacitated — she was certain of it.

This, on the other hand — resting in a winged chair in the library while she perused the man's extensive book collection — was clearly shirking.

But Lord Riverton would never know. And books were meant to be read. As long as none of the servants noticed where she'd been sneaking off to these past few days, no harm was done. Her fingers smoothed over the crisp parchment, almost lovingly.

She jumped to her feet when the door opened with no warning. Heart in her throat, she turned, half expecting it to be Lord Riverton. But no, the master of the house wouldn't be visiting this lovely room anytime soon.

"Mr. Taylor," she said, relieved that it was the butler. She'd come to think of him as a friend, though he was at least two decades older than her. All of her brothers were younger than she was, and though she loved them all, they had been absolute terrors at the best of times. If she pictured what a kind older brother would have been like, Mr. Taylor always came to mind.

In fact, he could sometimes be a little too kind with some of the lower servants, but she balanced him out by being stricter, and they worked well together.

He might have been a handsome man when he was younger — even now his dark gray hair and long face looked more distinguished than aged.

He watched her curiously from the doorway. "Hiding away, Mrs. Davis?"

"Of course not. What would I be hiding from?"

He moved across the thick Axminster carpet to stand by the winged chair. Before she could protest, he'd lifted the book she'd been reading from the chair. "Latin?" he asked. "Can you read Latin?"

"No," she said, suddenly embarrassed. "I was just ..." Indulging my silly fantasies. "I was just looking," she responded, almost wryly.

Mr. Taylor handed the book to her with a slight lift of his eyebrows, and she turned to the tall mahogany bookcases to replace the volume, pretending it was perfectly normal to a find a housekeeper in her master's library looking through a book written in Latin. She didn't know what she'd been thinking, to start coming here after the fire.

Well, perhaps she did. At first she'd been thinking she was grateful the fire hadn't touched the library and all the beautiful, beautiful books Lord Riverton owned. She'd been right alongside the other servants, scraping her hands on brick as they'd walled up the south gallery to contain the fire. For a moment, she'd nearly sunken into despair. It was too late. The fire was spreading too fast. Blakewood Hall, the house she'd run for five years, the place she took such pride in, would surely crumble to ash.

It was silly to become so attached to stone and wood, but she feared losing the house would take a piece of her heart.

But by some miracle, by the sweat and blood of every single servant working together, the gallery was walled in time, and when Thomas arrived back from the parish church with the fire engine, they'd managed to put out the blaze.

The south wing of the house was damaged beyond repair. The day after the fire, she'd stood in one of the ruined bedchambers. Bare trees had been visible through the gaps in the blackened wall. She'd wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the cold autumn breeze that came through the breaches. The wall hangings had been scorched beyond recognition, the furniture only rubble.

So, she'd initially gone into the library, her favorite room in the entire house for its understated elegance — plain white walls offset by rich green and white drapes with a floral pattern that matched the furniture — just to make sure it was still there. Still in one piece. It was a sentimental gesture, she supposed. Obviously, it was all in one piece. The library wasn't in the south wing. The heavy damask curtains didn't smell of smoke. The parquet floor was untouched. The lovely crystal chandelier still hung in the middle of the ceiling. And the bookcases that stretched along nearly every inch of available wall were intact.

There was no reason for her to be there. She didn't need to inventory any destroyed furniture. Or clean any blackened surfaces. But even though she had no call to be there, she'd still taken a book from the shelf, still sat down in the winged chair.

And had continued to do so, every afternoon, for the past three days.

She tried not to remember that this was Lord Riverton's private library, and he wouldn't want her here. Nor that the marquess was currently inches away from death, according to Mr. Faulkner, the surgeon.

Mr. Taylor gazed at the bookcases for a moment, his back to her. Then he turned, and they stood facing one another, a few feet apart. "You've never liked him, have you?"

She tensed. "Pardon?"

"Lord Riverton."

"Why would you say that?"

"You become ... I don't know how to phrase it — stiffer, perhaps? — when you're around him."

She wanted to say she did no such thing. But she had a sinking feeling she did. She hadn't realized anyone else had noticed.

"Mr. Faulkner doesn't know if he'll awaken," Mr. Taylor continued when she didn't respond.

She glanced at him, her heart taking a sharp descent. "He thinks Lord Riverton won't survive?"

"He doesn't know."

That little dart of ... something ... shot through her again. Surely, it was only trepidation. She had a secure position at Blakewood Hall. Had, in fact, imagined working here until she retired, though she was currently only two and thirty.

So it was in her best interest that Lord Riverton didn't die.

She didn't want to be uprooted from the life she'd built here. The security she'd waited for so long to attain. Since her husband's death, she'd wanted nothing more than a place she belonged, and she'd found that place, found an occupation, at Blakewood Hall.

"The marquess is demanding," Mr. Taylor said.

"And ungrateful," she added.

"But he's never been cruel to any of us."

And, sad as it was to admit, that was more than could be said of some employers. She supposed this was Mr. Taylor's way of saying he wouldn't like it if the marquess died.

Cassandra, contrary to whatever she felt she should feel, didn't think she'd like it, either.

Later that day, Cassandra slipped up the narrow servants' staircase, coming to stand in front of the door to the guest chamber where they'd put Lord Riverton. She knocked gently, and when no one answered, she went inside.

The room was about half the size of Lord Riverton's normal bedchamber. On one side stood a wardrobe and washstand, on the other, a plain, unadorned bed. The wall hangings were a simple striped blue.

Lord Riverton was unmoving, but she could hear his deep, even breathing. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

She stepped closer to the still heap on the mattress, viewing him through a shaft of evening sunlight that filtered past the curtains. He was so wrapped up in cloth and bandages that she wouldn't have known who he was if she'd come upon him unawares. Gone was his command, gone was his confidence, gone was his arrogance.

His skin — the parts she could see at least — was pale. Bandages covered one side of his face but the other was untouched. Long lashes shadowed his cheekbone. His eyelid, a bruised blue, almost looked delicate.

Strange, seeing him like this should have humbled him in her eyes. At least some small, mean part of her should have enjoyed it. But to Cassandra it felt all wrong. Lord Riverton wasn't this pale, lifeless thing. He wasn't a shell. She would have preferred him snapping out commands. She would have preferred ... anything but this.

She lifted her hand. Anticipation twisted in her chest, the sharp thrill of the forbidden, and before she knew what she was about, her fingertips grazed his cheek. He felt warm — hopefully it wasn't the beginning of a fever. Stubble scratched at her, and when she looked closer, she noticed the shadow of an unshaved beard. She'd never seen him less than immaculate before.

More startling, she'd never touched him before. Five years living in the same house as a man, managing said house for him, and they were little more than strangers. He gave her commands. She obeyed. She never would have thought to touch him if he hadn't looked so defenseless.

Never would have known what his skin felt like beneath her fingers.

Shame filled her. What would he think to wake up and find his housekeeper pawing at his face? What on earth had possessed her?

A huff of ironic laughter escaped her lips. She knew exactly what had possessed her. For years, some small, secret part of her had wanted to touch the coldly perfect marquess.

She lifted her hand from his cheekbone and left the room quickly, guiltily, like a child who'd been caught sneaking sweetmeats.

The next day Mr. Faulkner burst into the servants' hall while they were at their meal.

"Lord Riverton is awake!"

And the relief that swept her at hearing this news was a little too strong for the simple relief a servant might feel for her employer.

Cassandra was in the housekeeper's room, checking over the household accounts, when a raised voice in the hallway caught her attention. She went to investigate and found two maids, Kitty and Mary, standing in the middle of the narrow corridor with their heads bent together. They were so deep in conversation they hadn't noticed her.

Mary had the sleeve of her dress raised, which revealed a dark bruise near her elbow.

"I just went in to tidy up, like Mrs. Davis asked me to," Mary said with a sniff.

"Oh dear," Kitty commiserated. "You'll want to put salve on that, I think. Perhaps the surgeon will take a look?"

Mary lifted a shoulder. "If he stops groveling around Lord Riverton long enough to notice."

Cassandra stepped forward. "What's going on?"

"I went in there to clean and start the fire, and his lordship threw a book at me," Mary said indignantly. "Scared me half to death."

Cassandra blinked. Lord Riverton had never shown violence toward any of his employees before. But he was injured. Sometimes pain caused people to act out in ways they wouldn't normally. She eyed the bruise and felt a shock of anger. She was in charge of these girls, and she wasn't going to tolerate any abuse, no matter what the marquess had suffered.

"I'm going upstairs," she told the maids. "When I return, I hope to find you cleaning the blue sitting room. The rugs are due for a beating."

"If you return," Mary said ominously.

Cassandra glared at the girl, who meekly looked down. The two maids turned, and she waited for them to disappear down the corridor before she went on her own way. She noticed Kitty appeared subdued — usually the maid darted from place to place like a happy sparrow. The girl had been ill after the fire, but in all the chaos, Cassandra hadn't had time to check in on her. She hoped the maid wasn't still sick.

Cassandra sighed and lifted her gaze to the ceiling. She had more immediate problems to occupy her.

Like a marquess who'd taken to throwing books at his servants.

She shook off her anxiety at seeing the marquess again and resolutely climbed the stairs.

There was no answer when Cassandra scratched on the bedchamber door. "Lord Riverton?" she called through the wood. "It's Mrs. Davis." This time she knocked.

Silence.

Eerie silence.

She battled her unease, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the door. The hinges creaked loudly in the quiet of the room, boldly announcing her presence.

Thick curtains were drawn over the window, casting the room in deep shadows. Was Riverton sitting in the dark? Was he asleep?

If he was sleeping, perhaps she should just tiptoe quietly out —

"What do you want?" A voice came from the corner. Not a polite voice, but deep and threatening and hoarse, more of a snarl than speech.

Her hand tightened on the doorknob for an instant before she let go and stepped inside. There was no reason to falter — Lord Riverton had never hurt her.

Hopefully, book-throwing was not his new favorite pastime.

Cautiously, she moved closer, coming to stop at the side of the bed. With no fire lit, the room was freezing, a dark and quiet cavern. She saw him in the dim light. He lay on his back with his arm stretched out in a splint over the top of the blanket that covered his body. As it had the last time she'd been here, cotton bandaging covered the side of his face.

The shadow on his jaw had grown darker, and she remembered the scratch of his stubble on the pads of her fingers like a forbidden caress. Her hand twitched with something like longing, and she balled it into a fist. Even if she was mad enough to want to reach for him, in his current state, he looked as if he'd be liable to bite off her fingers.

She straightened, pushing away the tantalizing whisper of memory. He would never know she'd caressed his face while he was asleep, and she was grateful for it — she couldn't fathom what his reaction would be if he found out. "Mary informed me of a troubling event, my lord."

He eyed her balefully from his prone position. He reminded her of a disgruntled cat. "Which one is that?"

"Which one?"

"Mary. Is she the dark-haired one?"

Her hands clenched. He didn't even know the name of the servant he'd thrown a book at? Did he know hers, or was she simply Mrs. Davis, the housekeeper? It shouldn't matter. Really, there were plenty of lords who probably didn't know all of their servants' names. Or even any of them.

But for some reason, the knowledge upset her.

Of course, she refrained from voicing her displeasure — she doubted he would care. And that wasn't why she was here, anyway. "You threw a book at her and bruised her arm. I won't tolerate such behavior."

"You won't tolerate it?" he growled silkily. "What will you do to stop me?"

"I ..."

Well, that was a good question. There truly wasn't much she could do to oppose the marquess, except leave her position, and she didn't know if that was a smart thing to threaten. She took pride in her work as his housekeeper. But there were other good housekeepers out there. She wasn't irreplaceable.

"I'll be very displeased," she settled for. She wanted to groan in the silence that followed. She sounded like a complete ninny.

He suddenly barked a laugh. "Your displeasure is the least of my concerns, madam."

She faltered and gazed down at him. His vulnerability distressed her more than it should. For a moment it pushed away her annoyance. "Are you ... are you in much pain?"

He hesitated, then said, "The laudanum helps, but I can't sleep spread out like a paper doll."

"Why —"

"The surgeon tells me that if I don't keep the muscles in my arm flexed, I may lose use of them altogether."

"Oh."

"Oh," he mocked. "Go away, Mrs. Davis."

She knew from having five younger brothers that men were typically the worst bed patients, so she tried not to let his sharpness bother her. "Do you need anything? It's so cold in this room. Should I —"

"Touch that kindling and I'll throw a book at you, too."

Ah. Suddenly, she understood.

Still ... "You need to apologize to Mary," she said stiffly. He would become a tyrant if someone didn't keep him in line, and that unfortunate job fell to her at the moment.

"I don't give a fuck for Mary," he snarled.

Cassandra stiffened in bewildered shock. She'd heard that word once in her life, when she'd overhead her brothers speaking and they hadn't known she was listening. Her own husband, who'd been a sailor, had never even used such words in front of her.

"That was uncalled for," she said calmly, hiding her anger behind a wall of coolness.

He didn't reply. She couldn't recall Lord Riverton ever apologizing for anything. It was probably too much to hope he'd start now.

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. "Have you heard the Myth of Er?"

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Excerpted from The Improper Bride by Lily Maxton, Nina Bruhns. Copyright © 2016 Lily Maxton. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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