Page 26 of Of Lies and Earls (Inglorious Scoundrels #2)

“ I can’t believe you!” Elise sprang from her seat, her hands fisted at her sides.

Jacob had just finished explaining Honoria’s past—her troubled marriage to Bradshaw, her dramatic escape, how she came to live with them in Caldwell Manor, how she wanted to stay with them forever but would have been forced to live in hiding.

He tried to explain her decision to confront her husband, to free herself of him, and how that would take years—and those years would be filled with scandal.

Jacob grimaced. Perhaps he hadn’t explained it well. “I know it’s a convoluted story, but—”

“No, not that,” Elise cut in, slicing the air with her hand. “I can’t believe you’re standing here telling me this—our trunks packed in front of the house—while Honoria is about to face the man who nearly killed her, and the wrath of the entire ton, alone!”

Ah. That. He didn’t feel right about it either. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to hold her hand and face the world beside her. And if he were selfish, he would’ve done just that.

But Honoria hadn’t let him. Because this one selfish decision could jeopardize his children’s futures.

“I can’t be by her side, no matter how hard I wish to be. You should understand.”

“I should understand what?” Elise paced furiously, yanking at her skirt each time it snagged on the tea table. “That my guardian—the man I admire—is running instead of standing beside the woman he loves?”

Jacob’s head snapped up. How did she know that? She’d said it casually, as if it were an accepted fact.

Elise stopped a pace away from the table, arms crossed. “Are you really that much of a coward?”

The accusation stung like a slap. A coward.

He was trying to be the opposite. He was trying to stay strong for the children he loved—the children Honoria loved. He was trying to protect them. “I’m doing this for you, Elise.”

“Well, I’m not asking you to!” she shot back, stomping her foot. “When Honoria came to me and told me what little she could about her past, I encouraged her to tell you, to seek your support because I thought you’d give it. I thought you’d stand by her every step of the way. And here you are—running!”

He raked a hand through his hair, his whole body tight with tension. “I’m running because if I’m tied to her when the scandal breaks—and it will break and linger for years—we will be ruined. You will be ruined,” he said, pointing at her. “ You will suffer for it. You think I care what society thinks of me? I don’t. I haven’t for decades.”

“Then why should I?” Elise asked, chin lifting defiantly.

“Because society treats women differently.” He swallowed hard. “Because you will be punished for my actions. You’ll be shunned during your debut—maybe for years after. You might never make a respectable match.”

And you deserve more than that. More than being ostracized and hearing cruel whispers behind fans. You deserve everything.

“You think I care about that?” Elise cried.

Jacob turned away, unable to bear the weight of her gaze. “You should.”

“No.” She stepped closer. “I shouldn’t. And I don’t.” Another step. “I care about being a decent person.” Step. “I care about my family.” Step. “About standing beside the woman who raised my siblings, who supported me through everything.”

By the time she finished, she was right behind him.

Jacob turned to face her. She stood tall, a defiant spark in her eyes. Not the lost girl who had arrived on his doorstep three years ago, but the strong, stubborn young woman Honoria had helped raise.

“And if men won’t marry me because of that,” Elise said, her voice trembling with conviction, “then why would I want to marry them? I want a good man. A compassionate man. A man who’ll fight for me and the people he loves. A man like the one I thought you were.”

I thought you were.

Jacob took a step back, distancing himself from the weight of her words.

He turned to Lady Somerville, who sat upright, her fingers laced in her lap, her expression unreadable. “Would you care to chime in?” he asked, voice brittle.

Lady Somerville shrugged. “I think you’ve got enough on your hands.”

Jacob frowned. “Pardon me?”

“You don’t want to hear from me, Caldwell. I wouldn’t side with you.”

Jacob crossed his arms. “How can you say that? You, of all people, know the weight of society’s opinions. Hell, you help shape them. You know how hard they are to shake.”

“You’re right, I do. But in my advanced age, I’ve simply forgotten to care.”

Jacob regretted asking. Now he had to argue with both of them. “Elise doesn’t have that luxury,” he said.

“You’re right. And I wouldn’t have risked my standing in society for another when I was her age…” She paused, adjusting the rings on her fingers with deliberate care.

“Yes, you would have,” Elise said, stepping toward her. “Where do you think I got this attitude? Where do you think I learned to speak my mind?”

The older woman huffed, but the flicker of satisfaction in her expression betrayed her pride. “Only with years have I acquired my brazenness, child.” Her eyes grew distant. “Then again… maybe one shouldn’t wait until old age to shed the weight of others’ expectations. To carve their own path. Maybe my life would’ve been… different, had I found that spark at your age. Better .”

Jacob’s throat tightened. “What are you saying?”

“I was going to say, ‘Listen to Elise,’” she replied softly. “But I don’t think that’s quite right.”

“It’s not?” Elise’s face fell.

“What I am saying is—listen to your heart.”

* * *

Honoria descended slowly, each step sending a jolt through her chest. She held her spine straight, her chin high, though inside she trembled with trepidation.

No more hiding. No more shame.

All eyes were on her, conversations faltered, and even the music ceased.

Bradshaw stared at her, horror widening his eyes. His usually pale features flushed deep red. The glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the floor.

He staggered forward, his expression morphing into that of a grieving lover in a melodrama.

“Aurelia?” he choked, his voice ringing through the now-silent ballroom. “Aurelia, thank God. I’ve prayed so long for this!”

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, ladies’ skirts rustling as they drew back, allowing him to rush to Honoria as she reached the ballroom floor.

He fell to his knees before her, clutching at her skirts with trembling hands. Honoria fought the urge to recoil, bile rising in her throat at his touch. “I’ve prayed for this day. I thought you were dead!” he cried.

“Did you think I was dead,” she said, her voice like cut glass—each word precise, sharp enough to draw blood, “because you left me for dead?”

The crowd gasped.

Bradshaw froze, his theatrical grief faltering for a moment. “Wh-what are you talking about?” he stammered, lifting his eyes to hers, his face a mask of confusion. His lips trembled convincingly, his eyes wide in bewilderment.

She should have expected this. The bastard would keep playing the perfect husband, the perfect man before everyone else’s eyes. It was only in private that he revealed his monstrous nature. A pulse thundered in her ears.

“Remember that night you accused me of stealing a necklace you bought for your mistress?” Her voice cut through the silence. “The night you thrashed me to within an inch of my life and left me bleeding on a pantry floor?”

He rose unsteadily. “My dear, you must be confused. None of that happened.” He reached to cup her face, but she staggered back, skin crawling. The crowd murmured—some skeptical, others twisting in pity.

“I have scars to prove it.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been through these past four years—” Bradshaw’s tone dripped with feigned concern.

“Six,” she corrected.

“—but your memories must be false.” He raised his voice, ensuring everyone could hear. “People saw you fall from the cliff. It’s a miracle you survived. Your scars must be from that night.”

He reached for her again, and she evaded him, stepping aside, circling him like a duelist ready to pounce.

“I’m just happy you’re alive,” he continued. “No matter how addled your mind. Let’s talk in private, so you’re not further embarrassed.”

“No.” She shook her head. “And if you think I’ll ever be alone with you again, you’re the one with the addled mind. I will not be shamed by what you did to me. And, my dear husband, I can prove my claims in court.” She made a deliberate pause. “When I petition for divorce.”

A chorus of gasps rippled through the room.

As Bradshaw stepped forward again, his fingers curling like claws, she flinched.

Two men took a few steps, flanking her protectively—the Duke of Tyrone and Mr. Lucien Drake. Jacob’s friends.

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Bradshaw,” the duke said.

“Not without her,” Bradshaw snarled, menace thick in his voice.

“Yes. Without her,” the duke said firmly.

“You can’t keep me from my wife,” Bradshaw growled. His eyes gleamed with fury. There he was, the real man behind the mask, the man she knew and despised.

“Perhaps not,” the duke replied, voice low and cold. “But I can keep you from my home.”

Bradshaw looked around at the crowd—everyone whispering behind their fans, assessing the situation with keen eyes—and laughed. “Of course, Mad Duke. As you wish.” He straightened his waistcoat. “But please, be gentle with her, and don’t feed into her delusions. I just want what’s best for her. It’d be a shame if she ended up in a mental asylum after all these years.” He looked at her then, a threat clear in his eyes. A promise.

The words sent ice through Honoria’s veins.

“Let me escort you off the premises, Bradshaw,” Mr. Drake said, reaching for his elbow, but the earl shook him off.

“Do not touch me, lad. And remember, as you stand there shielding my wife, that keeping me away from her might earn you an invitation at dawn,” he whispered furiously.

Mr. Drake let out a guffaw of laughter, the sound startlingly genuine in the tense atmosphere. “Be careful who you challenge, Bradshaw, as the challenged picks the weapon. And you know you wouldn’t stand a chance against me with a rapier.”

A flush crept up Bradshaw’s neck, mottling his complexion.

“I’d listen to him, Bradshaw,” said the Mad Duke. “You’d best leave. Proposing an illegal duel in front of everyone—not very wise of you.” His smile was razor-sharp. “Let the courts decide what’s to be done with your wives .” He put undue emphasis on the last word, and Bradshaw’s face paled. His second marriage had just been annulled in the eyes of the ton .

The whispers grew louder, people’s heads drawing together to share their opinions on the matter.

When Bradshaw left the ball, the ballroom was still for a long moment.

Honoria stood at the center of it all, her mind not yet caught up to the reality that she had won. At least this little confrontation. She had faced Bradshaw with her head held high, had stood her ground, and she still remained standing.

The faces around her blurred, the weight of their stares pressed down on her, suddenly overwhelming.

The Mad Duke gestured for the orchestra to resume playing, then took Honoria’s elbow and led her away.

He brought her into a cozy little drawing room, and as the door closed behind them—shutting out the murmurs and music—Honoria’s carefully maintained composure finally cracked. Her knees gave out, and she almost crumpled to the floor.

Luckily, the duke caught her in time and gently guided her to a cushioned chair.

“You did well,” the duke said quietly. “Exceedingly well.”

Honoria trembled in her seat, sweat washing over her in waves. Her lungs seemed to constrict; each breath shallower than the last. The silk of her gown clung to her damp skin, the room spinning slightly.

“Would you like some tea?” The Duchess of Tyrone appeared before her with a steaming cup, her kind face etched with concern. She placed it on a tea table beside her and sat opposite her on a settee. The duke walked behind his wife, placing his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently.

Honoria’s heart made a tiny leap at the sight of their easy affection.

“Thank you.” She picked up the cup gratefully, but it shook violently in her hands, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She was unable to even take a sip before putting it back down. “Perhaps a bit later.”

“Of course.” The duchess’s voice was soothing, without a trace of judgment.

Honoria fanned herself vigorously, unable to breathe. The walls of the drawing room seemed to press inward, the air thick and suffocating. “It is too hot in here,” she said hoarsely, tugging at the fabric of her gown.

“Would you like some air?” The duchess stood, her silk skirts rustling softly. “We have a lovely balcony that looks out into the gardens.”

The gardens. Honoria’s mind immediately transported her to the gardens at Caldwell Estate, filled with flowers of every color, their scent drifting around her. “Yes, I’d love that. Thank you.”

Tyrone opened the French doors and waved for her to proceed, the night air rushing in, cool and inviting. The duchess led Honoria by the elbow, as if afraid she might collapse.

The moment she stepped outside, Honoria gripped the cold banister with both hands, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” the duchess said. “And I don’t just mean the balcony. You can stay with us until you feel better. You are safe in this house. Nobody will bother you here—”

Just then, the door to the drawing room swung open with violent force. Jacob burst into the room, his face sweat-streaked, his hair disheveled, no cravat or waistcoat in sight. His wild eyes searched the room frantically before landing on her.

Honoria whirled to face him, her heart leaping to her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to— I was there first— But Drake told me I was too late—” His words came out in frantic, disjointed gasps, his chest heaving as if he’d run all the way from home rather than ridden.

“We shall give you two some privacy,” the duchess said with a knowing smile and walked off the balcony. She then ushered her husband out of the drawing room, though he stood there a moment longer, watching Jacob with a foolish grin.

“When Drake said I was too late, I thought something terrible had happened to you,” Jacob said, breathing more evenly now that the doors had closed behind the duke. His eyes raked over her, searching for injury, his face still tight with fear as he moved toward her. “I thought he’d hurt you again.”

“No. I am well. I confronted him, but he left, thanks to your friends.” Honoria took a step forward, her hands clasped tightly to hide their trembling. “What are you doing here?”

He advanced on her, moving closer to the balcony doors. “I’m here to take you home. With me.”

“You can’t.” The words were anguished. “I just stood in front of a ballroom of two hundred people and asked Bradshaw for a divorce. He’s already insinuated that I’m mad. He’ll ruin your life.”

They moved toward each other with every word, as if pulled by an invisible thread, until only inches remained between them. She could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell his familiar scent.

“He’ll have to try,” he said fiercely.

“But Elise—” Her protest was weak, her resolve crumbling in the face of his nearness.

“Elise will disown me if I return home without you,” he said with a laugh. “Please, don’t argue with me. I’ve lost two arguments today already, and I actually want to win this one.”

“What are you talking about?” She couldn’t help but chuckle, looking at his dear face.

“It doesn’t matter.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face, his touch tender. His fingertips lingered against her cheek. “Nothing matters except that I love you, Honoria, Aurelia, my Hart—whatever your name is. And I’m not letting you go.”

She couldn’t restrain herself any longer. All the fear, longing, and tension that had built over weeks of distance—she poured it all into a kiss. And he responded in kind, kissing her madly, passionately, with all the fervor of a man who had nearly lost everything. His arms encircled her, pulling her flush against him, one hand cradling the back of her head as if she were precious beyond measure.

He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her chest rising above her bodice. His lips burned against her skin, making her gasp and arch into him. He glanced up, fire brewing in his eyes. “Is this the same gown that—”

“I wore to the masquerade.” She gave a tiny nod, heat spreading across her cheeks at the memory of their first kiss, that first stolen moment in the shadows of another ball.

He grinned, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. He trailed his hand over her stomach, her breasts, then up to the neckline of her gown, only to pull it down with force, ripping the bodice once more, freeing her breasts to the cold night air. The sound of tearing fabric was lost in her gasp of pleasure—and then his mouth claimed her exposed skin.

* * *

“What do you think they are doing in there?” Emily, the Duchess of Tyrone, asked her husband as they stood outside the drawing room door.

Alec raised his brow. “You know what I would be doing.”

“And what is that?” She glanced up at him through her dark lashes, an invitation in her eyes.

He pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers. “Ravishing you,” he said hoarsely against her lips.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, her lashes fluttering, “you should do that, then.”

He bent down, lifted her into his arms, and carried her into a neighboring room, shutting the door behind them.