Page 13 of Prince of Scandal

Ashton inclined his head. “Mrs. King,” he clipped out. “I trust you are settling in well.”

The tip of her tongue darted out to wet rosy lips. “The ladies have been lovely. So warm and welcoming. But I am quite desperate for a long, hard ride…and they do prefer the comforts of a carriage.”

“That is entirely accurate,” said Miss March, winking at her betrothed. The tips of Sir Alan’s ears went slightly pink.

What? Mrs. King had been here just a few days, and already she was corrupting the vicar’s daughter? He had to put a stop to this at once.

“Shall we go to the marzipan stall?” Ashton asked, far too brusquely.

“Oh, Mr. Latimer,” a feminine voice trilled as a slender hand curled around his arm like a manacle. “I was so hoping you’d ask.”

He sighed inwardly and glanced down at Miss India Dunmore. The petite, dark-haired woman considered herself the reigning queen of Brundall society, and disguised a rather poisonous tongue behind bright smiles and seemingly helpful comments. Unfortunately, she’d also begun displaying a distinctly proprietary air toward him, and others were starting to follow her lead, assuming that a betrothal announcement couldn’t be too far away. Hell, even Reverend March had taken him aside and gently counselled that a man’s greatest happiness was finding a true and loving helpmeet, one who understood him and was content with the country life.

As though he wasn’t painfully aware of that fact. And India Dunmore was not that helpmeet. She knew as much as anyone else in Brundall about him, and certainly didn’t understand him. Only one woman had glimpsed the real, unvarnished Prince Wilhelm Heinrich Ashton von Hagan, and Virginia had been so horrified that she’d not only broken their betrothal, but returned to the arms of her former intended—a short-lived marriage that ended in her unexpected death. His fault entirely. If he’d refused her pleas to demonstrate spanking and only behaved like a decorous gentleman, Virginia would be alive today. Perhaps they might have had a few children and been truly happy…

Eager to rid his mind of such bleak thoughts, Ashton cleared his throat. “To the sweet stall, then.”

Miss March sent Miss Dunmore a decidedly sour look, but linked arms with both Sir Alan and Mrs. King. “Treats await.”

As the sweet stall was on the opposite side of the hall, and there were already thirty people in the center clapping and stomping their way through a boisterous country dance, he was forced to escort Miss Dunmore around the outside like a damned promenade. At least she was enjoying herself, smiling graciously and waggling her fingers at other Brundall residents, but when had this small church hall become the size of the damned Theater Royal? This was a form of punishment. Even more so, because he walked directly behind Mrs. King and had a prime view of her perfect backside lovingly outlined in virginal white.

“Sir Alan and Mrs. King. Oh, and Mr. Latimer and Miss Dunmore! How lovely to see you all. Phoebe my beloved, I must commend your shepherding,” said a laughing Mrs. March, from where she stood behind a trestle table laden with colored boxes of marzipan. “Open those coin purses wide, for I have a new flavor this year: raspberry. Would you care to try a square?”

“I would just adore that,” said Mrs. King. In moments, she made the kind of moan that should only be heard in a bedchamber. “Oh, my word, Mrs. March. I have tasted sweets from the finest confectioners in London, and none come close to this. I must have a positively outrageous quantity of the raspberry marzipan. And the other flavors as well.”

“Try to leave some for everyone else, dear,” said Miss Dunmore smoothly. “Does the good book not tell us that gluttony is a sin?”

Mrs. King’s gaze narrowed. “And who might you be? Dear?”

Christ.

Was everyone in the hall about to witness violence? The marzipan had caused near-riots in the past, but this might actually result in bloodshed. And if Mrs. King’s family was close friends with a duke, she had to be at least on the ton fringe, which meant perhaps a Season, and all the vicious battles that entailed. Miss Dunmore didn’t stand a chance.

“Oh, beg pardon,” said Sir Alan with clearly forced cheer, as his gaze darted uneasily between the two women. “I didn’t realize you’d not met. Mrs. King, this is my younger sister, Miss India Dunmore. Indy, Mrs. King has moved here recently from London.”

“How odd,” said Miss Dunmore, unleashing a tinkling laugh as she gripped Ashton’s arm tighter. Was the woman part eagle? Her fingers felt like talons.

Ashton glanced down at her. “Why is that odd? London has its charms, but so does the countryside. Now, I hope Mrs. March has more marzipan tucked away. I have my own large order to fill.”

Mrs. King tilted her head, a smile playing about her lips. “Shall we duel for it, Mr. Latimer? I’m sure Phoebe would stand as my second.”

“In a heartbeat,” said Miss March. “Against any opponent. Man or woman.”

Miss Dunmore made a soft hissing sound, like a baby viper.

“Now, now,” said Mrs. March hastily, her brow furrowing. “No need for any duels, there is marzipan for all and I shall charge a shamelessly ridiculous price for it. The church roof thanks you most kindly.”

Exhaling in relief, Ashton stood back. “After you, Mrs. King.”

She batted her lashes. “Thank you, sir.”

His mind momentarily froze. Then, just as quickly, offered a scene of Georgiana King over his lap, her backside pinker than raspberry marzipan and her cunt honey soaking his breeches, offering her panting, tearful gratitude for his stern correction.

Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you, SIR.

Ashton grimaced as his cock started throbbing. Damnation, he needed to pull himself together. To halt the kind of thoughts that led only to destruction.

While Mrs. King paid for her large parcel of marzipan, Ashton sampled some of the raspberry. It was indeed delectable; with a sweet tartness and smooth consistency surely inspired by God himself. He swiftly handed over a fistful of coins, and somehow found the willpower to tuck the boxes of raspberry, orange, and blackberry marzipan into the deep inner pocket of his greatcoat, far away from view. When it came to this particular sweet, the usually upright residents of Brundall were capable of anything.