Invitation to Scandal Read online

  With that he placed practiced kisses upward, along her slender limbs. Upon reaching the plump globes of her bottom, he grasped her hips and set her on her knees, opening her to him. Soon her giggle of delight turned to a crooning moan, as his tongue and wicked mouth set about finishing what he’d previously started.

  This time there was no audience, and he had all night.

  Chapter 2

  Three days later

  Rheda Kerrich, she inwardly scolded, you’re a fool. Your current predicament ventures well beyond stupid.

  For the umpteenth time she thumped the unmarked barrel of French brandy that had kept her pinned against the fat tree trunk for the past three hours. The humiliation of her predicament hurt almost as much as her feet, which were being crushed by the heavy barrel.

  “Oh, just move, blast it.” Never one to admit defeat, she let out a yell of frustration and pushed at the barrel once more with all her might. It mocked her efforts by not budging a snail’s trail from its position wedged in the tree roots at her feet. All she’d managed to do was awaken the pain in her numbed legs.

  “Bloody inconvenient,” she growled under her breath. “Where is a man when I most need one? Normally they’re a nuisance, yet, now—now when I am in desperate need, one cannot be found. Typical.”

  She turned her head and once again scoured the countryside for help. The green meadow stretched from the road on her left, downward to the jagged cliffs on her right. The sea sounded as angry as she felt, the waves crashing against the rocks below. Although trapped, she was thankful she’d stopped the barrel from rolling off the cliff’s edge for its contents meant food for her friend Meg and Meg’s four young sons.

  That’s if she delivered it to them before nightfall.

  How could she have been so stupid? Swiping at the hair obscuring her eyes, Rheda said, in a voice she used when scolding her horses, “This is beyond maddening.”

  Perspiration trickled down between her breasts. She didn’t have much time. The Revenuers would pass through at dusk. Surely her brother must have missed her by now. She prayed Daniel would come before the Excise men.

  She dropped her head to her chest and sighed. Her brother had gone fishing, but no fish ever resulted from Daniel’s fishing trips. She’d determined “fishing” was Daniel’s excuse for spending the day in bed with one of the local lasses. It would be dark before Daniel even realized she was missing.

  She lifted her head and cocked it to one side. Were those horses’ hooves thundering toward her? She stretched her neck, but she couldn’t see past the bend in the dirt road. Please let it be Daniel. She’d had enough trouble today without having to explain the barrel to the Excise men. Worse, she couldn’t rely on her name to get her out of this mess. In her disguised rags it seemed unlikely they’d even recognize her.

  She wiped a hand across her forehead and tried to push the errant strand of hair out of her eyes. She must look a mess. She wore no bonnet. She’d donned her oldest dress, tied her hair roughly behind her neck, and had on her old work boots.

  Daniel would be furious. He hated it when she ran about the countryside dressed like a local doxy. Last year, on his eighteenth birthday, Daniel decided to reestablish their family’s good name. His focus on restoring the barony meant Rheda was supposed to conform to Society’s expectations, and unfortunately, also to his. Being dictated to by a brother who was six years younger infuriated her, especially since she’d singlehandedly run the estate ever since their father had died over eight years ago. Luckily her guardian, the late Lord Hale, had bowed to his wife’s wishes and let Rheda prove she could manage the estate on her own. She would forever be in Lady Hale’s debt.

  She’d had to fight Daniel as well. He hated her decision to help the women of the village. She provided brandy for the widows to sell at market. If she didn’t they’d starve. He’d ordered her not to move this latest barrel on her own. Rheda squirmed against the tree. She did not take well to orders. Now she’d have to admit her so-called transgression. She hated it when he was right. She gave in to her growing anger at her own helplessness and thumped the tree behind her.

  “It’s his fault I’m in this mess.”

  The wind rustling through the trees was the only reply to her murmured censure. If Daniel had delivered the barrel as she’d requested, she would not be in this embarrassing situation. Meg needed the barrel to sell tomorrow, or her children would go hungry this week.

  Meg was a local Deal widow, her friend and confidante. The one person Rheda could count on to protect, help, and guide her. Although only a few years older than Rheda, Meg was like the mother she’d never had while growing up. Due to the life she had lived, Meg was wise beyond her years.

  The thundering hooves focused her back on the problem at hand. Horse and rider appeared around the bend. The horse was galloping so fast she wondered if its accomplished rider would see her. Her heart missed a beat. The man wasn’t Daniel. Daniel didn’t own, nor could he afford, a magnificent beast such as this.

  Please, she prayed, let him fly past without noticing me.

  Like every other aspect of her day, she was denied her wish. The rider pulled on the reins, and the powerful steed came to a sliding halt in the middle of the road, gravel spraying through the air.

  Her shoulders drooped. “Perfect,” she uttered to no one but herself.

  The stallion pranced on the road in tune to the pounding surf, its owner stroking its neck with a large gloved hand. He took in her situation and seemed to whisper something in his horse’s ear. Rheda licked her lips nervously. Would he be friend or foe?

  The pair trotted across the field in her direction and halted in front of her.

  “Are you in need of assistance?” His voice was velvety smooth, yet commanding.

  She saw two dark eyes rimmed with lovely long eyelashes, and a wide soft mouth. With a mouth that soft he would be very responsive. She might even be able to control him. The stallion before her was impressive. He would make a fine mate for her mare, Desert Rose.

  “He won’t bite,” the man added, misinterpreting her interest in his horse as fear.

  With some reluctance she lifted her gaze to the owner of such a beautiful piece of horseflesh. Her heart tumbled in her chest, flipping and flopping as if caught in the thundering surf behind her.

  Beautiful.

  She shook her head. The word applied equally to the stallion’s rider. She had never seen such an arresting man. Her pulse hitched as she drank him in, the pain from the barrel momentarily forgotten. When she reached his dark eyes she shivered. He had a look of danger about him.

  His eyes were almost the same color as his horse’s glossy coat, a luminous rich brown. His breeze-swept chestnut hair was fashionably cut and softened the hard planes of his handsome face. His countenance screamed he was a man not to be messed with.

  Like his regal mount when he sought his mares, this man could mesmerize any female he chose to conquer—she was sure of it.

  Rheda tried to move her foot so the pain would distract her from the knowledge that this man’s beauty disturbed her more than it should.

  To hide her reaction to him she bit out a reply. “Of course I need some help.”

  His good looks sharpened as anger washed over his face. She bit her bottom lip anxiously. Pain did not lend her to manners, but with nothing more than a blink his anger disappeared to be replaced by a heart-skipping smile. He looked truly splendid.

  “You appear to be stuck.” His expression turned curious and his voice held amusement. Yet underneath his cool, refined composure there simmered a dangerous, exciting energy.

  She would not be intimidated. She raised her head in a show of daring. Rheda Kerrich did not frighten easily. Besides, the man wore the appearance of a gentleman, not the uniform of a Revenuer. Rheda usually found gentlemen easy to handle. Men rarely kept up with her sharp wit, and her intelligence baffled them. They could not tell if she was joking at their expense. It was enough to drive most away. />
  Fueled by this logic, she uttered, “Oh, well done. What great powers of deduction.” He still did not move. “Do not just sit there. Get off your fine mount and help me move this barrel.”

  Her boldness hid the small tremors of fear pulsing through her blood. They were alone on a deserted road. She was now at the mercy of this stranger.

  He dismounted in one graceful move. Standing, he stood head and shoulders above her. His broad shoulders were garbed in an expensive riding coat that looked like he’d slept in it, but the covering could not camouflage the muscled physique hidden beneath. The cut molded and enhanced. He radiated strength. This man was not a typical aristocratic fop.

  She should be careful.

  Her gaze dropped and took in his powerful thighs. She followed them down to where they disappeared into knee-high boots, covered in a fine layer of dust. He must have ridden some distance. Where was this beautiful stranger from?

  Her breath seemed to catch in her throat.

  She glanced back to his face, held speechless for once in her life by the power of his beauty.

  He finally spoke. “You are uncommonly rude to a person who has stopped to offer assistance.” His tone implied hurt.

  “You have been here several minutes,” she said between clenched teeth, “and yet you still have not made a move to help.”

  He walked toward her. “How rude of me. I’m Rufus Knight, Viscount Strathmore, at your service,” and he bowed low.

  Rheda felt her stomach squirm, as if it were filled with wiggling worms. He might be worse than a Revenuer. She recognized the name. The Strathmores were prominent friends of Lord Hale. Rufus Knight was a favorite of his mother’s, Lady Hale. Countless times she’d sat and listened to Lady Hale’s indulgent tales of her godson, seemingly oblivious to the rakish exploits surrounding him in gossip of the worst kind. Viscount Strathmore’s reputation preceded him. His appetite for sins of the flesh was known to be insatiable. He was a notorious womanizer, devoted to pleasure and seduction. He was like her father in that regard, and she’d learned to loathe rakes of his character early in her life.

  Worse, Lord Strathmore’s father died amid rumors of treason, so the ton kept the son at a distance. That must be tiring for him, because the rumor was he was looking for a pious young lady to become his wife. A woman who was well connected within Society and who would help dilute the scandal attached to the Strathmore name.

  A woman so different from herself, Rheda felt a minuscule ounce of safety. Whatever happened here, he would do everything in his power not to end up betrothed to the likes of her.

  Good. She doubted he was more determined than her in this matter. Wedlock was exactly that—a life under lock and key, figuratively speaking. Freedom curtailed. And that would not suit her at all. Marriage was not in her future.

  Besides, she needn’t worry about being disgraced. She had so little reputation left, one further strike would not alter her situation.

  She drummed her fingers on the top of the barrel. Given the circumstances, it was best she did not inform him of who she was. Self-preservation kicked in. Her clothing would fool him anyway. He would assume she was a local farming wench, not the sister of a baron. She gave a silent prayer and hoped he was just passing through. She knew the village of Deal held little attraction for a man of his ilk.

  So she decided to remain mute regarding her identity.

  His gaze swept her ragged appearance. He gave a decidedly rakish smile. It was the reaction of a man who knew how to take advantage of the opportunities life presented. His eyes combed over her in an almost physical caress. “Come, what is your name, pretty wench.”

  She turned her head to look at the sea. Silence reigned for a moment before Rheda, growing impatient at her trapped state, swung around to issue a command for freedom, only to pause when observing the critical glint in his dark eyes. He was not happy at her refusal to give him her name. Nevertheless he approached the barrel and tested its weight.

  “How is it that I find you in the middle of a field with a barrel, obviously full of something, brandy perhaps, and pinned against this oak tree?”

  She struggled to form a reply that wouldn’t sink her deeper into trouble. “Just unlucky, I guess.” This time she could not hide her grimace.

  “Don’t be flippant. I can see you are in considerable pain. I’m here to help you.”

  Her mouth dried. Lord Strathmore’s considered gaze roamed her person before he lowered his eyes to study the heavy cask, obviously trying to work out how to move it without causing her additional harm.

  He was very close. He smelled of sweat, leather, and dust, decidedly masculine. He glanced at her and caught her stare. Gloved fingertips gently brushed her hair off her cheek. She turned her head away, but not before a pleasant shiver swept down her back. He did own the most arresting eyes. They declared his interest was decidedly back on her. He was pressing his advantage. She held her breath and prayed his fingers would not roam elsewhere.

  She blushed at the effect his proximity was having on her. She had thought him a big man when he sat upon his stallion, but standing next to her, she realized he was enormous, well over six feet and all muscle. He stood taller than Daniel, and her brother was considered a tall man.

  He crouched down and gripped the barrel with two large hands. “I look forward to a reward for my services.”

  “A ‘thank-you’ will suffice.”

  His lips curved into a wicked grin. “Surely, rescuing a damsel in distress is worth more than mere words?”

  She tried to calm her racing heart lest he see how his threat unsettled her. She needed to shift his thoughts in a different direction. “I do not have any coin on me.”

  He looked up at her. “You have very succulent lips. A kiss from them would be worth any amount of coin.”

  She pressed back against the tree. His eyes betrayed him. He was trying to distract her. He was purposely taking her mind off the pain to come.

  “That is not funny.” She scowled at him.

  His laugh was rich and deep. And infectious.

  “You think I am jesting,” he replied.

  She watched completely enthralled as he lifted the heavy cask pinning her legs. The muscles of his shoulders grouped and rippled under his tight coat as he set about moving the barrel. It was infuriating that it took him only one almighty heave, and she was free.

  Blood rushed back into her numb legs. She gritted her teeth and held in the tears. Her legs buckled under the excruciating pain. She opened her mouth to scream. Instead she did something she had never done in her life.

  She fainted dead away.

  Rheda’s eyes slowly flickered open, and she saw a canopy of blue sky above her. For several minutes, while she recovered her senses, she lay on the fragrant grass, enjoying the sunshine and the sensation of firm, strong hands expertly stroking her legs ...

  She bolted into a sitting position and tried to slap off the far-too-familiar hands.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she forced out in a wobbly voice, her body heating with shame. She’d actually been taking pleasure in his touch. She tried to gather her legs to her chest, but his hands tightened around her ankles.

  “I am merely trying to help the blood flow back into your limbs.” He flashed a smile so roguish, it had Rheda nearly succumbing to his charm. Then he added, “It has been the most pleasant of tasks. You have extremely pretty legs.”

  Don’t blush. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Shall I continue?” Without waiting for a reply he slid his long, lean fingers up under her dress.

  She followed their path with her eyes. She seemed frozen—his touch calming her into submission—much as her touch did with her horses. He stroked up her stocking-covered leg, the sensation very seductive. It was shockingly so, once his fingers met the bare skin of her thigh.

  Rheda felt a sudden warmth pool in her stomach. She had never experienced such a purely primal, feminine reaction to a man’s touch
before. But then she’d never allowed any man such freedom with her person.

  She dragged her gaze from his hands, up his broad chest and wide shoulders, onward past his perfectly tied cravat. This man was too handsome for her own good. Like a poisonous eel, he looked harmless, but a touch could be deadly.

  His eyes darkened, reminding her of the hot chocolate she’d drunk this morning. They locked with hers, causing heat to sear along her nerve endings, where previously she’d had no feeling at all.

  “Your legs may experience some tingling once the circulation starts working properly.”

  Oh, she tingled all right.

  “That is enough, thank you.” He did not loosen his grip on her ankles. “My legs are perfectly fine.”

  “Now that I have freed you,” he said in a voice as smooth as the fine French brandy she held in her barrel, “you will return the favor by helping me.”

  The hairs on her arms prickled. This could not be good. If he discovered her true identity, it would get back to Daniel. If that happened, Daniel would definitely put an end to her activities. She needed more time ... Not only that, they could be in serious trouble, accused of participating in free trade.

  His next words threw her off balance.

  “You’re very tempting, you know.” His voice and the fire in his teasing eyes were having a similar seductive effect as the alcohol would have.

  Who was she fooling? She’d been off balance the minute he’d gazed upon her.

  “Your beauty cannot be disguised by these rags. I see someone has given you fine silk stockings, your lover perhaps. He must be a wealthy man.”

  “I have no lover.”

  Rheda could tell by the quirk of his brow that he did not believe her. A woman dressed as she was, with hidden silk stockings. No wonder he had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  She shook her head. “Besides, I had nothing to do with the face God bestowed on me. It is not meant to entice you. I cannot help how I look.”