Table of Contents
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
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Marcie Kremer. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 105, PMB 159
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Gina Shaw
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
ISBN 978-1-62266-880-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2013
Chapter One
“There is no better paradise than having the sweetheart of one’s choice.”
- Le Roman de la Rose, 13th c.
“Milady! Milady!” a voice called.
Startled, Eleanor dropped her embroidery in her lap. Her favorite servant, Agnes, face red and gasping for breath, burst through the doors into Eleanor’s bedchamber.
Eleanor smiled. “Yes, Agnes?” she asked, as the servant curtsied quickly.
“Oh, no! Where is it?” Agnes moaned, looking frantically through the basket she held over her arm.
Eleanor waited for Agnes to find whatever it was she was so anxious to find. Thank goodness no one else was in the room to see that she had—once again—allowed a servant to burst in unannounced. It wasn’t really quite proper. Of course, other people would look down on her for it. It was so hard, though, to try and remember everything that she should and shouldn’t do. So many rules! Just barely eighteen and a widow for two years, Eleanor had to keep reminding herself that she had to fulfill the role of who she was supposed to be, no matter how hard it sometimes was.
“I must have dropped it on the stairs!” Agnes moaned. “I must find it!” She curtsied again and fled through the doors. Eleanor could hear her exclamations echoing down the stairs. She picked up her embroidery off the floor, and she drifted back into her thoughts.
A role to fulfill? Well, she was Eleanor, Lady Strathcombe, widow of Edgar, Earl of Strathcombe, and mistress of her late husband’s lands, wasn’t she? She had an important position—at least, others certainly thought so—and she must behave accordingly.
But she certainly didn’t care about letting Agnes in unannounced. After all, ever since Eleanor had arrived at Strathcombe Castle four years ago as a nervous, scared bride of fourteen, Agnes had been steadfast and true to her, comforting her and calming her, especially after that first, and only, session in the bedchamber with Edgar—a session during which nothing had happened to change her from a maiden into a married woman. Eleanor shuddered, remembering her anguish at his humiliating treatment—treatment that she was sure real marriage and true love could have nothing to do with.
But whatever marriage was supposed to be—and what she had heard whispers of from her ladies-in-waiting had certainly made her blush—was not what had happened to her. Her face burned as she remembered that awful evening. Edgar had been deep into his cups at their wedding feast, and by the time he lurched into their solar, he could barely stand upright. The knights had closed the doors, smirking, and Eleanor was left alone, staring at her new husband, her heart thudding and her stomach queasy.
He fumbled at his breeches, but to no avail, and stumbled toward her. Edgar reached out a hand and, grunting, grabbed at the neckline of her gown, ripping it to her waist. Eleanor gasped and tried to cover herself with shaking hands.
“Ah, my pretty,” Edgar mumbled, his words nearly incoherent, “give me your lovely hand, and I will show you how to give me much pleasure.”
Eleanor shuddered at the ugly memory. Then, after Edgar had released her—pushed her away, was more to the point—he had again staggered toward her and unceremoniously vomited all over her, spattering her with the remnants of his dinner and overmuch wine. This—this was marriage, she’d asked herself, trembling in shock. Where was the joy of which she had heard a few hints? The murmurings of love in her ear? The cosseting of adoration? These were obviously not to be, not that she wanted any such from the disgusting Edgar.
Stumbling to the bed, Edgar had thankfully passed out and had begun to snore. At her wits’ end and nauseated to the extreme, Eleanor, fighting to hide the anguish in her voice and choking back tears, called to the knights to please send her Agnes, her new servant.
Agnes had soothed her and washed her and brought her hot mulled wine, wrapping her in coverlets. Thus, in gratitude, she willingly forgave Agnes any interruption, just as she was willing to forgive others who were loyal to her. As for herself, she would hold to Honor et Fides, their Blystoke family motto. She would be loyal and honorable, even when despicable Edgar was neither. She had been brought up thus, and she would never flag in her dedication to her motto.
“Here it is, Milady!” Agnes exclaimed, hurrying back through the doors. “It had fallen on the stairs when I ran up in haste!” She thrust out a letter packet toward Eleanor. Eleanor took it and turned it over to see a red seal on the back, set with a signet ring whose crest she didn’t recognize. “A messenger just brought this from Wykeham,” Agnes said.
“Wykeham!” Eleanor exclaimed. A wave of foreboding rippled through her. She had never met Hugh, the neighboring Earl of Wykeham, because when she first came to Strathcombe, he had just left for the crusade with Prince Edward, his wife having died in childbirth. But she had heard tales from Edgar, as well as from Agnes and Lady Anne, her closest lady-in-waiting, about Hugh. As usual, Anne
