eyes veered back up from the knob. “Whatever do you mean?”
There was a moment of silence, followed by the soft rustle of water. “As you already know, my solicitor has been diligently negotiating this case. What you do not know is that Lord Winfield, upon discovering my intentions to assist, once again brought it to the attention of His Majesty, who then insisted the bench increase all fines by another two thousand pounds. No sooner had my solicitor met those demands, when the fines were blatantly increased again. And again. And again.”
Justine’s eyes widened as she huffed out, “What does Lord Winfield have against my father to continue to persecute him like this? They used to be friends!”
“Emphasis on the used to be. Lord Winfield despises sodomites, Justine. Rumor has it his own son was brutally sodomized against his will many, many years ago at the age of sixteen.”
Oh, dear God. No wonder the man hated her father. Justine sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t realize that. And apparently, neither did my father.”
“It would not be something a man would openly discuss.”
“No, I suppose not.” Justine was quiet for a moment. “So what have the fines been set to?”
“Fifty thousand pounds. Which is why your father is still at Marshalsea. Because I do not have fifty thousand in loose coins. Most of my money is shackled to land and investments I cannot touch. And His Majesty knows it.”
Justine sucked in an astonished breath and kept herself from staggering by grabbing hold of the door frame. “Fifty thousand pounds? Oh, dear God. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You didn’t want me to worry?” she cried. “I have a right to worry when it involves my father. I don’t understand how any of this can be legal. His Majesty cannot up and—”
“Yes, he can, Justine. And he will,” he said in a curt tone that forbade another word. “I have already arranged to have more comfortable furnishings brought in for your father, along with better food and wine. I am doing everything I can, and if all goes well, this will not go beyond another eight weeks. Now, be a good girl and yank on the servant bell there by the bed. Jefferson will escort you home. Despite your blatant refusal to respect my privacy before the wedding, know that I still genuinely look forward to seeing you at the altar next week. I bid you farewell and wish you a very good night.”
Justine glared at the door. “Marriage and better furnishings be damned! The worst of what my father has to endure, aside from being confined to a maze of rooms and dreary brick walls, has to do with the public itself. Did you know Marshalsea allows anyone to visit those being kept? Anyone?”
She fisted her hands at the very thought of it. “Random men and women of all ages from every part of London stroll in during open-gate hours, to call on him, merely to offer mocking questions about buggery and animal copulation. Eight more weeks is going to be the death of him. I refuse to have him stagnate in that abyss for another day, let alone another eight weeks.”
The duke cleared his throat. Twice. “And what exactly would you have me do? Storm the Bastille? Dust off the guillotine and set His Majesty’s coiffed head beneath it?”
At her silence, he continued, “Justine. Even if I could raise the funds, your father’s situation has nothing to do with money. His observations ultimately called for the rights of sodomites. Do you not know that the buggery laws in England were all recently strengthened? Had your father not been an earl, he most likely would have hanged, and His Majesty, not to mention Lord Winfield, simply wish to make a point of it.”
Tears burned her eyes. How did one oppose the King’s wrath? One didn’t. “Then … then perhaps you ought to take your brother’s lead. Carlton was gracious enough to call upon me yesterday morn. He offered to personally petition His Majesty for a full pardon. Can you not do the same? Will it not mean more coming from you?”
The duke paused. “I don’t care if Carlton damn well promised you world domination. I forbid you to have any further association with him. He is not the same man you once knew and has lost the last of his rational mind. Much like your father, I suppose.”
Her eyes widened. Oh, now that was simply too far below the vines to compare her father to Carlton. “I’ve had enough of this, Bradford. I demand you cease tossing insults, don your clothes and give me my due audience. I’ve yet to see you, and I refuse to be turned away until I do.”
“Justine,” he growled out. “I am bathing, and as such, I am not readily available to entertain. Now ring for Jefferson.”
As if she could be intimidated by a growl and a few measly words. “Since you clearly have no intention of showing yourself,” she icily warned, placing her hand on the brass doorknob, “you leave me no choice but to open this door. Whatever you look like, Bradford, I doubt it will even make me blink. I have seen far hairier and bigger things than you.”
When he did not reply, Justine huffed out an agitated breath. Although she could easily give up her right to civil conversations, romantic picnics and carriage rides—niceties he’d never once offered during their brief engagement—she had no intention of waiting until the day of the wedding to see him. Setting aside her father’s dire predicament, she was going to put an end to this hiding. And the best part? She wasn’t going to have to wait until her wedding night to see the duke in all his glory.
SCANDAL TWO
Clothing is the one and only thing that separates us from the animals, Which is why it is absolutely imperative to keep clothes on at all times.
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
RADCLIFF EDWIN MORTON, the fourth Duke of Bradford, sat up, sending a swirling wave of warm water against the porcelain tub around him. He raked his drenched, dark hair out of his eyes with a few agitated sweeps and seethed out a breath, trying to will away his throbbing erection. An erection brought on by knowing Justine was finally within reach.
Damn her for putting him in this situation. He refused to be in her presence until they were man and wife. For even after eight long months of confinement, it was more than obvious he couldn’t trust his body to cooperate.
Radcliff stood, water streaming down the length of his frame. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the towel from the brass stand beside the tub and rubbed the water from his hair.
He stepped out onto the blue-and-white Italian tile, quickly dried the rest of himself and tossed the wet towel aside. Shaking his head, he swiped up his trousers from the floor, thankful his valet had dropped them on the way out or he would have had nothing to cover his lower half aside from a towel.
The door banged open, hitting the wall hard.
Still bent forward with his trousers dangling out before him, Radcliff froze in astonishment.
The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air as a female gasp resounded within the confines of the bath chamber. No doubt in response to his full erection on display. Though probably also in response to his injury.
Radcliff slapped his trousers against his stiff cock, and snapped his spine straight, doubting she’d seen everything in the wild.
