How to Disgrace a Lady Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Copyright

  ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Alixe Burke.’

  She stiffened. ‘You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.’

  ‘Do you doubt me? Or do you doubt yourself? Don’t you think you’re beautiful? Surely you’re not naïve enough to overlook your natural charms?’

  She turned to face him, forcing him to relinquish his hold. ‘I’m not naïve. I’m a realist.’

  Merrick shrugged a shoulder as if to say he didn’t think much of realism. ‘What has realism taught you, Alixe?’ He folded his arms, waiting to see what she would say next.

  ‘It has taught me that I’m an end to male means. I’m a dowry, a stepping stone for some ambitious man. It’s not very flattering.’

  He could not refute her arguments. There were men who saw women that way.

  ‘What of romance and love? What has realism taught you about those things?’

  ‘If those things exist, they don’t exist for me.’ Alixe’s chin went up a fraction in defiance of his probe.

  ‘Is that a dare, Alixe? If it is, I’ll take it.’ Merrick took advantage of their privacy, closing the short distance between them with a touch, the back of his hand reaching out to stroke the curve of her cheek. ‘A world without romance is a bland world indeed, Alixe. One for which I think you are ill suited.’

  He saw the pulse at the base of her neck leap at the words, the hardness in her eyes soften, curiosity replacing the doubt whether she willed it or not. He let his eyes catch hers, then drop to linger on the fullness of her mouth before he drew her to him, whispering, ‘Let me show you the possibilities …’ A most seductive invitation to sin.

  About the Author

  BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

  Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.

  Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott:

  PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

  NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY

  THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

  THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD

  UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS

  A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY

  SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE

  Did you know that some of these novels

  are also available as eBooks?

  Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

  and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

  LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS

  PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY

  WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW

  ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE

  AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION

  (Part of A Sinful Regency Christmas collection)

  and in Mills & Boon look out for

  PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE

  (part of the Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

  Introducing a brand-new

  deliciously sinful trilogy from

  Bronwyn Scott

  Rakes Beyond Redemption

  Too wicked for polite society …

  They’re the men society mamas warn their daughters about … and the men that innocent debutantes find scandalously irresistible!

  The notorious Merrick St Magnus knows just

  HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY

  September 2012

  The untameable Ashe Bevedere needs no lessons in

  HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION

  October 2012

  The shameless Riordan Barrett

  is an unequalled master in

  HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY

  November 2012

  Be sure not to miss any of these sexy men!

  How to Disgrace

  a lady

  Bronwyn Scott

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Chapter One

  Merrick St Magnus did nothing by halves, including the notorious Greenfield Twins. Even now, the legendary courtesans were delectably arranged in varying degrees of dishabille on the drawing room’s long Venetian divan. His eyes on the first Greenfield twin, Merrick plucked an orange slice from a silver tray and gave it an indolent roll in powdered sugar, in no way oblivious to the charms of her lovely bosom pushed to the very limits of decency by the dual efforts of a tightly laced corset and a low décolletage.

  ‘One sweet temptation deserves another, ma chère,’ he said in liquid tones, his eyes meaningfully raking her body, noticing how the pulse note at the base of her long neck leapt in appreciation of his open seduction. Merrick skimmed the orange slice across her slightly parted lips, the tip of her tongue making pretty work of licking the powdery sugar, all the while suggesting she’d be quite apt at licking more than her lips.

  He was going to enjoy tonight. More than that, he was going to enjoy winning the bet that currently filled pages of White’s infamous book of wagers and collecting the winnings tomorrow. He stood to make a respectable sum that would see him through a recent bad run at the tables. Certainly men had ‘had’ the lovely Greenfield sisters, but no man had obtained carnal knowledge of them both at the same time.

  At the other end of the divan, twin number two gave a coy pout. ‘What about me, Merrick? Am I not a temptation?’

  ‘You, ma belle, are a veritable Eve.’ Merrick let his hand hover over the fruit platter as if contemplating with great deliberation which fruit to select. ‘Ah, for you, my Eve, a fig, I think, for the pleasures of Eden that await a man in your garden.’

  His literary references were for naught. She pouted again, perplexed. ‘My name isn’t Eve.’

  Merrick stifled a sigh. Think about the money. He flashed a rakish smile, popping the fig into her mouth and giving her a compliment she would understand. ‘I never can tell which of you is the prettiest.’ But he definitely could tell which one was smarter. He dropped a hand to the expanse of twin number two’s exposed bosom and drew a light circle on her skin with his index finger, winning a coy smile. Twin one had her hands at his shoulders, massaging as she pulled the shirt-tails from his waistband. It was time to get down to business.

  That was when it happened—his manservant began banging on the receiving room door.

  ‘Not right now,’ Merrick called, but the banging persisted.

  ‘Maybe he wants to join us,’ twin one suggested, unfazed by the interruption.

  His man of all work would not be deterred. ‘We have an emergency, milord.’ He pressed from the other side of the door.

  Damn it all, he was going to have to get up and see what Fillmore wanted. Between lost literary references and intrusive servants, this could be going better. Merrick pushed to his feet, shirt-tails loose. He placed a gallant kiss on the hand of each twin. ‘A moment, mes amours.’

&n
bsp; He purposely strode across the floor and pulled open the door just a fraction. Fillmore knew what he was doing in here, of course, and Fillmore probably even knew why. But that didn’t mean Merrick wanted him to witness it first-hand. If he thought too much about it, the whole scenario was a bit lowering. He was broke and trading the one thing he did better than anything else for the one thing he needed more than anything else: sex for money, not that anyone else realised it.

  ‘Yes, Fillmore?’ Merrick managed a supercilious arch of his eyebrow. ‘What is our emergency?’

  Fillmore wasn’t the normal manservant. The arched eyebrow affected him as much as the Miltonesque reference had affected twin not-so-smart. Fillmore puffed himself up and said, ‘The emergency, milord, is your father.’

  ‘Fillmore, you are aware, I believe, that I prefer my problems to be shared.’

  ‘Yes, milord, as you say, our emergency.’

  ‘Well, out with it, what has happened?’

  Fillmore passed him a white sheet of paper already unfolded.

  Merrick had another go at the arched eyebrow. ‘You might as well tell me, clearly you’ve already read the message.’ Really, Fillmore ought to show at least some slight remorse over reading someone else’s post; not that it wasn’t a useful trait on occasion, just not a very genteel one.

  ‘He’s coming to town. He’ll be here the day after next,’ Fillmore summarised with guiltless aplomb.

  Every part of Merrick not already in a state of stiffness went hard with tension. ‘That means he could be here as early as tomorrow afternoon.’ His father excelled at arriving ahead of schedule and this was an extraordinarily premeditated act. His father meant to take him by surprise. One could only guess how far along the road his father had been before he’d finally sent word of his imminent arrival. Which meant only one thing: there was going to be a reckoning.

  The conclusion begged the question: which rumours had sent the Marquis hot-footing it to town? Had it been the curricle race to Richmond? Probably not. That had been weeks ago. If he’d been coming over that, he would have been here long before now. Had it been the wager over the opera singer? Admittedly that had become more public than Merrick would have liked. But it wasn’t the first time his affaires had been conducted with an audience.

  ‘Does he say why?’ Merrick searched the short letter.

  ‘It’s hard to say. We’ve had so many occasions,’ Fillmore finished with an apologetic sigh.

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose it doesn’t matter which episode brings him to town, only that we’re not here to greet him.’ Merrick pushed a hand through his hair with an air of impatience. He needed to think and then he needed to act quickly.

  ‘Are we sure that’s wise?’ Fillmore enquired, ‘I mean, based on the last part of the letter, perhaps it would be better if we stayed and were appropriately penitent.’

  Merrick scowled. ‘Since when have we ever adopted a posture of penitence when it comes to my father?’ He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by his father. Leaving town was not an act of cowardice. This was about being able to exert his own will. He would not give his father the satisfaction of knowing he controlled another of his grown sons. His father controlled everything and everyone that fell into his purvey, including Merrick’s older brother, Martin, the heir. Merrick refused to be catalogued as another of his father’s puppets.

  ‘Since he’s coming to town to cut off our allowance until we reform our ways. It’s later in the note,’ Fillmore informed him.

  He’d never been the fastest of readers. Conversation was so much more entertaining. But there they were at the bottom of the letter, the words so curt and glaring he could almost hear his father’s voice behind them: I am curtailing your access to funds until such time as your habits are reformed.

  Merrick scoffed. ‘He can curtail the allowance all he wants since “we” don’t touch it anyway.’ It had occurred to him years ago that in order to be truly free of his father, he could not be reliant on anything his father offered, the usual second-son allowance included. The allowance lay tucked away in an account at Coutts and Merrick chose instead to live by the turn of a card or the outcome of a profitable wager. Usually it was enough to keep him in rent and clothes. His well-earned reputation for bedroom pleasure did the rest.

  His father could halt the allowance for as long as he liked. That wasn’t what bothered Merrick. It was the fact that his father was coming at all. The one thing they agreed on was the need for mutual distance. Merrick liked his father’s jaded ethics as little as his father liked his more flexible standards. Coming to London was a death knell to his Season and it was barely June. But Merrick wasn’t outmanoeuvred yet.

  He needed to think and he needed to think with his brain as opposed to other body parts. That meant the twins had to go. Merrick shut the door and turned back to the twins with a short, gallant bow of apology. ‘Ladies, I regret the emergency is immediate. You will need to leave.’

  And so they did, taking his chance at two hundred pounds with them at a point where money was tight and his time was tighter.

  ‘Fillmore, how much do we owe?’ Merrick sprawled on the now significantly less-populated divan. He ran through the numbers in his head; the boot maker, his tailor and other sundry merchants would need to be paid before he left. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of seeing to his debt. It might create the illusion his father had room to negotiate.

  Damn, but this was a fine pickle. He was usually an adequate steward of his funds and usually a fair judge of character. He never should have played cards with Stevenson. The man was known to cheat.

  ‘Seven hundred pounds including this month’s rent on the rooms.’

  ‘How much do we have?’

  ‘Around eight hundred to hand.’

  It was as he’d thought—enough to clear the bills with a little left over. Not enough to survive another month in the city, however, especially not during the Season. London was deuced expensive.

  Fillmore cleared his throat. ‘Might I suggest that one way to cut expenses would be for us to stay at the family town house? Rent for rooms in a fashionable neighbourhood is an extravagance.’

  ‘Live with my father? No, you may not suggest it. I’ve not lived with him for ages. I don’t mean to start now, especially since it’s what he wants.’ Merrick sighed. ‘Bring me the invitations from the front table.’

  Merrick searched the pile for inspiration, looking for a high-stakes card party, a bachelor’s weekend in Newmarket that would get him out of town, anything that might assuage the current situation. But there was nothing amusing: a musicale, a Venetian breakfast, a ball, all in London, all useless. Then at the bottom of the pile he found it: the Earl of Folkestone’s house party. Folkestone was hosting a party at the family seat on the Kent coast. Originally, he’d not considered going. It was three days to Kent on dry roads to even drier company. But now it seemed the ideal locale. Folkestone was a crusty traditionalist of a man, but Merrick knew Folkestone’s heir, Jamie Burke, from their days at Oxford, and he’d attended a soirée hosted by Lady Folkestone early in the Season, which explained where the invitation had come from. He’d been a model guest, flirting with all the wallflowers until they had bloomed. Ladies liked a guest who knew how to do his duty and Merrick knew how to do his superbly.

  ‘Pack our bags, Fillmore. We’re going to Kent,’ Merrick said with a finality he didn’t feel. He didn’t fool himself into believing a house party in Kent was an answer to his woes. It was merely a temporary salve. London was expensive, yes, but his freedom was proving to be more so.

  The road to Kent was clearly not to be confused with the road to Hell, Merrick mused grimly later after three days of riding. For starters, there were no good intentions in sight. But there were apparently two highwaymen in broad daylight. Merrick slowed his horse and swore under his breath. Damn and double damn, he’d been a short two miles from the salvation of Folkestone’s bloody house party. His hand reached subtly for the pist
ol in his coat pocket.

  It was deuced odd for highwaymen to attempt a robbery at three in the afternoon when the polite world was ready to settle in for tea. But given the state of the current British economy, he wouldn’t put it past anyone. It was unfortunate he was alone just now, having ridden on ahead of Fillmore and his luggage.

  ‘Is the road out, my good fellows?’ Merrick called, wheeling his horse around in a flashy circle. Their horses looked sleek and well fed. Great. He’d run into a set of the more successful brand of highwayman. Merrick’s hand tightened on his pistol. He’d paid his bills and his last pound notes were tucked safely in his pocket. He wasn’t about to surrender what financial surety he had left.

  The two bandits, masked below their eyes with black scarves, looked at each other. One of them laughed and parodied his politeness. ‘It is to you, good sir.’ The man waved his more obviously displayed pistol with the casual flourish of a man long accustomed to handling firearms with ease. ‘We don’t want your money, we want your clothes. Be a good fellow and give us a quick strip.’ The green eyes of the second bandit flashed with humour.

  The sun caught the glint of the pistol butt. Merrick’s hand eased on the grip of his weapon, a slow sure smile of confidence taking his face. Merrick stilled his horse and faced the two ‘bandits’. ‘Why, Ashe Bedevere and Riordan Barrett, fancy meeting you here.’

  The green-eyed man with the pistol yanked his scarf down. ‘How did you know?’

  Merrick grinned. ‘No one else in England has emeralds embedded in the butt of their pistol.’

  ‘Damn it, it was a good prank.’ Ashe gave his gun a rueful glare as if the weapon alone were to blame for ruining the gambit. ‘Do you know how long we’ve been sitting here, waiting?’

  ‘Waiting in the sun is dusty business,’ Riordan put in.

  ‘What were you doing, waiting at all?’ Merrick pulled his horse alongside his two friends and they continued down the road three abreast.