A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(114)

As A Scot in the Dark goes to the printer, I’m hard at work on book three in the Scandal & Scoundrel series—the story of Sesily’s disappeared sister, Seraphina, and the duke she did not win. Join me (and the rest of the motley Scandal & Scoundrel crew!) in 2017 for The Day of the Duchess!





An Excerpt from The Day of the Duchess



Scandal & SCOUNDREL



Vol 3 / Iss 1 13 August 1836





DISAPPEARED DUCHESS DISCOVERED!



GOSSIP PERFUMED Parliament today, when Seraphina, the Disappeared DUCHESS OF HAVEN returned from her scandalous sojourn to scandalize society and spar with her spouse on the floor of the House of Lords.



The Long Lost Lady's parliamentary petition? DIVORCE!



By all accounts, HAUGHTY HAVEN has hied home, ceding the floor (but not the war) to his once lady love, then disdained duchess, and now unwilling wife. The lady will not be ignored, however. She follows, furious, vowing to end the marriage by any means necessary. Is there anything more salacious than a summer scandal?



MORE TO COME.





The Day of the Duchess Scandal & Scoundrel, Book III



Coming Summer 2017





CHAPTER 1



August 1836

House of Lords, Parliament

She’d left him two years, seven months ago, exactly.

Malcolm Bevingstoke, Duke of Haven, looked to the tiny wooden calendar wheels inlaid into the blotter on his desk in his private office above the House of Lords.

August 20, 1836. The last day of the parliamentary session, filled with pomp and idle.

Which lead to lingering memory.

Haven spun the wheel with the six embossed upon it. Five. Four. He took a deep breath.

Get out. He heard his own words, cold and angry with betrayal and quiet menace. Don’t ever return.

August became July. May. March.

January 20, 1834. She is gone.

His fingers moved without thought, finding comfort in the familiar click of the wheels.

March 17, 1833.

The way I feel about you . . . Her words now—soft and full of temptation. I’ve never felt anything like this.

He hadn’t, either. As though light and breath and hope had flooded the room, filling all the dark spaces. Filling his lungs and heart. And all because of her.

Until he’d discovered the truth.

The clock in the corner of the office ticked and tocked, counting the seconds until Haven was due in his seat in the hallowed main chamber of the House of Lords, where men of higher purpose and passion had sat for centuries before him. His fingers played the little calendar like a virtuoso, as though they’d done this dance a hundred times before. A thousand.

And they had.

March 1, 1833. The day they met.

So, they let simply anyone become a duke, do they? No deference. Teasing and charm and pure, unadulterated beauty.

You think dukes are bad, imagine what they accept of duchesses?

That smile. As though she’d never met another man. As though she’d never wanted to. Until him. He’d been hers the moment he’d seen that smile. Before that. Imagine, indeed.

And then it had fallen apart. He’d lost everything, and then lost her.

Would there ever be a time when he stopped thinking of her? Would there be a date that did not remind him of her? Of the time that had stretched like an eternity since she’d left?

The clock struck eleven, heavy chimes sounding in the room, echoed by a dozen others sounding down the long, oaken corridor beyond, summoning men of longstanding name to the duty that had been theirs before they drew breath.

Summoning Haven from his memories.

He spun the calendar wheels with force, leaving them as they lay. November 37th 3842. A fine date—one on which he had absolutely no chance of thinking of her.

Haven stood, moving to the corner of the room where his red robes hung—a thick, heavy burden meant to echo the weight of responsibility shouldered by he who wore it. He swung the garment over his shoulders, the red velvet’s heat overwhelming him almost immediately, fairly suffocating him. All this, before he reached for his powdered wig, grimacing as he flipped it onto his head, the horsehair whipping his neck before laying flat and uncomfortable, like a punishment for past sins.

Ignoring the sensation, Haven ripped open the door to his offices and made his way through the now quiet corridors to the entrance to the main chamber of the House of Lords. Stepping inside, he inhaled deeply, immediately regretting the act. It was August and hot as hell on the floor of Parliament, the air rank with sweat and perfume. The windows were open to allow a breeze into the room—a barely-there stirring that only exacerbated the stench, adding the reek of the Thames to the already horrendous smell within.

It was time to go home for the summer.

Haven’s heart filled at the thought. At home, the river ran cool and crisp, unsullied by the filth of London. At home, the air was clean, promising summer idyll and hinting at more. At the future.

He slid into one of the long benches surrounding the speaker’s floor, where the Lord Chancellor had already begun. “My lords, if there is no more formal business for this session, we will close this year’s parliamentary season.”

Fists pounded on seatbacks around the hall, a chorus of approval echoing through the chamber.