Her Missing Marquess (Wicked Husbands #5) - Scarlett Scott

Chapter One

England, 1879

Nell was in a celebratory mood.

Which was why she was dancing on the table in the grand dining hall whilst singing the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin. Mayhap the port she had consumed following dinner had contributed. And now that she thought upon it, she would dearly love another glass. Tom was not here to worry over her, and she was reveling in the prospect of her future freedom, along with the two dozen or so houseguests who had already arrived at her latest country house party.

Three years of waiting. Three years of misery, heartsickness, loneliness, agony…at long last, she would have what she wanted.

A divorce.

With that happy prospect in mind, she swished her skirts, kicked up her legs, and danced her way across the polished table that had been in her husband’s family for the last two centuries. It seemed fitting to trod all over the table, rather in the fashion he had stomped her heart.

But the trouble with dancing on well-polished tables when one was in her cups was that when her foot slipped, she could not recover her balance, and she went tumbling backward. The song died in her throat, and she braced herself for a painful landing on her rump.

But instead, a pair of strong arms caught her.

“Steady,” said a low, masculine voice. “I have you.”

It was a voice she would recognize anywhere. Three years had not dimmed her recollection of it. Nor had it dimmed her recollection of him.

“Jack!” His name left her as a horrified exclamation.

“Nell,” he returned grimly, unsmiling. “You could have broken your neck.”

She told herself it was her flustered, inebriated state that made her gaze travel hungrily over him. He looked the same—beautiful. Dark, wavy hair, brilliant, green eyes, full lips, a strong jaw, slashing cheekbones. And yet different. He had a beard now. His face was narrower, with an almost gaunt look, even beneath the well-trimmed beard.

But looks did not matter. For his gorgeous exterior hid a faithless heart. He had deceived her. Betrayed her. She had not forgotten.

She raised a mocking brow. “If I had broken my neck, perhaps I would have done us both a favor.”

His nostrils flared, as if her words had been barbed. “What the devil were you doing, Nell?”

“What did it look like I was doing?” She wriggled, desperate to get out of his arms.

He was a tall man, remarkably strong and athletic of form from his days playing cricket at Cambridge. That much had not changed.

“It looked as if you were singing an opera and attempting to show anyone passing by your drawers,” he clipped coldly.

How rich. As if she were the disappointment, out of the two of them.

“I was celebrating.” She shoved at his chest, hating that she noticed his scent—sandalwood and musk—as she did so. “Put me down, Needham.”

Raucous laughter interrupted the moment as Lord Hilburton and Lady Monmouth stumbled over the threshold. Lady Monmouth’s bodice had plainly been pawed at by Hilburton, her nipples almost visible. Their levity died as their gazes fastened upon the scene before them.

She could hardly blame them for their shock. It was an unusual scene, to be sure. The Marquess of Needham had been living happily away from her for the last three years. Mostly on the Continent, she gathered. As long as she never crossed paths with him, she did not concern herself with where he was.

That was a lie.

She always knew where he was. Drat his scoundrel’s hide.

“The party is over,” he announced to Lord Hilburton and Lady Monmouth.

Their mouths dropped open, and once again, she knew the reason why. Her parties were legendary. And they never came to an end after just one day of wickedness.

“The party is most certainly not over, my loves,” she told them, winking as if she had not a care in the world. This, too, was a lie. “Needham will be gone in a trice.”

The arms banded around her stiffened. “You do realize this is my home, madam.”

The last, frigid sentence was directed toward her. “We have an agreement, Needham.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No longer.”

“Release me,” she demanded, hating the way it felt, to be held near to him, against his chest…the place she had once loved to be. “I insist you cease this nonsense at once.”

“No.” His tone was acid as he stalked forward, first past the wide-eyed couple, then a handful more scattered guests.

“Needham, I will not be manhandled by you,” she gritted, pounding on his chest.

When he ignored her, she went for his