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Book 6 in The Rake Review series, The Scot Who Made June Hot by Fenna Edgewood

A Second Chance She Doesn't Want…

Lady June Fairchild has a terrible secret. Before she became the wife of an esteemed earl, she was married once before... and her husband was never officially confirmed dead.

Now, nearly ten years later, the unimaginable has happened. Her first husband has returned--and he wants her back. The only problem? Lady June has no intention of going anywhere with this handsome, bitter stranger.

From Out of the Shadows of Betrayal...

The night after he was handfasted to the woman he pledged to love for a lifetime, Cameron Fraser was forced to disappear into the night. Upon his return, he learned his new bride had not waited around but instead had married an earl just a few weeks later, becoming a brazen bigamist.

Now, ten years later, this jilted, kilted Highland husband has returned to greet his bride and this time he won"t be keeping his presence a secret. He"s a grown man and he"s ready to take back what"s his, come hell or high water.

Can two hearts bound by fate and torn apart by secrets find a way to trust and love once more?

CHAPTER 1

Windermere Manor, June 1820

Summer had arrived. The sky was blue and bright sunshine streamed down from overhead.

Lady June Fairchild sat on a window seat watching one of the children from the Dower House play on the lawn below. They really were beautiful children, she thought, as she ran the ivory comb through her long yellow hair. With their mother's dark coloring and charming smile, how could they not be?

She looked at the sky again. The many days of rain seemed to have abated. Perhaps it would be a beautiful summer after all.

A small flicker of hope was rising in her chest as she thought of the season ahead, one filled with walks in the sun and… The door to the dressing chamber was pushed open and then slammed.

Her husband had entered. Only the earl would not bother to close his countess's door softly behind him.

He wished to announce his presence to her. To enter abruptly and with a bang. It gave him pleasure to try to startle her in even a small way.

It took some self-restraint but she managed not to turn. Simply kept brushing the comb through her hair.

"Where is your maid? Should you not be ready by now?" He was already annoyed. Something else must have gone wrong and he had come here to take it out on her. Well, it would not be the first time nor the last. A pause. "Is that what you're wearing? Have you nothing else?"

She made herself turn, slowly, to face him and smile reassuringly. "It is only one o'clock, John."

"And our guests are due to arrive by five and you must be there to greet them," he snapped.

She took a breath, trying for patience, fighting the urge to argue. It was pointless with John. She had learned that long ago. Or if not pointless, entirely unworth the pain and sorrow. And so she suppressed the instinct to inform him that it did not take her longer than half an hour to dress and that if he did not like the gown she had chosen, he might choose another or perhaps blame himself, for many of her clothes were older and he had seen them before. If he did not like this fact, he might increase her allowance. But she knew it was dangerous to suggest this for the estate was impoverished–and besides, she did not really give a fig about how many dresses she had or how old they were. Only, John did. And he wanted her to care–even though she could not do anything about it one way or another.

"I will be ready," she said, keeping her voice calm. "I promise you."

"Dinner must go perfectly," the Earl of Windermere said. He looked at the pale blue muslin frock hanging near the wardrobe and frowned. "I suppose it will do."

"I hope so," June murmured, casting her eyes downwards.

"That is not what I came to speak to you about, in any case."

Her heart raced. His voice had turned colder. Not a good sign. She had hoped he would depart. Now it seemed he meant to stay.

"Oh? Is it about dinner? You approved the menu last week and I thought it was agreeable to you…"

"Not the damned dinner." He lifted his hand and now she saw it was not empty. A piece of folded paper was in it. He waved it and his face darkened red.

"Have you seen this, Wife?" he demanded. He preferred to address her as such. It was a way, she believed, of removing even more of her sense of self. Of making her feel even less an individual. She was not June to him. Simply wife. A role that any woman might have filled.

But only she had been stupid enough to do so.

"I do not believe so. But then," she said reasonably. "I do not know what it is. The Times, I suppose?"

He gave a cruel laugh that she knew was meant to intimidate her and stepped closer to where she sat by the window. "Not the Times."

She shrank back a little. "Nothing upsetting, I hope. I know how much you are looking forward to this house party."

"Looking forward to it?" His eyes narrowed. "Everything rests upon this event's success. Everything."

"I know you are hoping to capture the Duke of Tulloch's interest in your investments," June said softly. "I assure you, I will do everything in my power to ensure things go as smoothly as possible."

"Oh?" the earl responded frostily. "You will, will you?" He stepped up beside the window seat and dropped the piece of paper beside her like a hot coal. "And yet already this household is embroiled in the most sordid gossip. All because of you."

Her heart hammering, she reached for the folded paper and opened it carefully.

Dearest Reader,

As the summer sun casts its warm embrace upon the English countryside, a new arrival has stirred the simmering cauldron of London gossip. The object of our fascination? None other than the dashing Duke of T–, who, like a Highland breeze, has swept into our midst from the misty moors.

Ah, but dear readers, let us not be deceived by the noble title bestowed upon him, for the Duke of T– is renowned far and wide for his exploits as a beguiling rake. While some may claim to be put off by his fiery red locks and freckled countenance which mark the duke as a true son of Caledonia, let us assure you that tales of his amorous conquests have traveled from the cobbled streets of Edinburgh to the bustling salons of London, where whispers of his captivating brogue and strapping tartan-clad presence precede him like the herald of a tempest.

But it is not only the ladies of London who may find themselves ensnared by the Duke of T–"s irresistible charm. Nay, even the most steadfast of matrons should beware, for his reputation as a rake of unparalleled skill knows no bounds.

And yet, what whisper is this in my ear? May the hunter yet become the hunted?

This very week, the Duke of T– shall make his way from London to the sleepy countryside to pay a visit to the Earl of W–"s fine estate. Not only may the Duke of T– find much to admire in the splendid scenery, but a lady who is said to epitomize the season will be waiting for him there: Lady J– F–, the Countess of W–, with her golden tresses reminiscent of a hot summer"s day and her light blue eyes that are said to sparkle like a beautiful loch. Will she prove to be the duke"s next conquest?

Or do we underestimate this particular matron? Could it be that Lady J– will be the trap that finally ensnares this Scottish rake? Whispers of the lovely lady"s own scandalous past have begun to emerge this Season. Rumors of a dalliance with a young man of questionable reputation, before she was whisked away to the countryside again by her notoriously jealous husband.

Ah, dear readers, the plot thickens and the stage is set. Let us watch with bated breath as the Duke of T– and Lady J– dance ever closer to the edges of scandal and ruin.

Until next we meet, I remain

Yours in Brazen Speculation,

The Belle

June felt her face flush as if with fever. She glanced up at her husband.

"I've never even met the Duke of Tulloch. You know that. And as for this terrible bit of slander about last Season, you know for a fact I was helping the Baron of Granville's son through a fit of asthma that overcame him while we were dancing."

"Yes, and were found secluded with him in an empty room at a ball," the earl said frostily.

"Found by the physician who was called to attend to poor Alexander," June exclaimed, feeling her cheeks become even hotter. A physician with a malicious wagging tongue. Curse the man. Alexander had been choking and gasping for air and all she had been trying to do was get him to a quiet place so that he might catch his breath. She had been doing no more than leaning over him and patting his back–like his own mother might have done. Why, the boy was no more than seventeen years of age. A mere child compared to her own twenty-eight years!

"I did nothing his own mother would not have done," she said, repeating her thoughts desperately. "And his parents thanked me for it, as you may recall."

"I recall you making a perfect fool of yourself," her husband said. "And having to escort you from London before you could do anything even more ridiculous before the entire ton."

This was pointless, she saw, her heart sinking. He wanted her to feel humiliated. There was never any point in arguing with John. And yet the horrible thing was that he wanted her to argue. He wanted her to contradict him. As if he knew that in her heart, she was doing so constantly.

"I was only trying to help," she said quietly. "And I have no intention of making you ridiculous in front of any of your guests."

"No? And yet this Duke of Tulloch sounds like a fine fellow. A handsome rake, they say." The Earl of Windermere sneered. "Despite his being no better than a barbarian. Like all the Scots. Edinburgh, indeed. Tulloch's seat is far from any sign of civilization from what I am given to understand."

Ah, so this was not really about her at all but about John's concerns to do with the duke. A man with a more elevated title, a larger estate, and, from what John had already let slip, far more money to run it with. Which was precisely why her husband hoped to trick the Scotsman into parting with some of his riches and funding poor, increasingly-dilapidated Windermere.

"I will stay far away from the duke, if that is what you wish," she offered. She thought of dinner. "It's not too late to alter the seating arrangements. I can…"

"Enough." The earl's voice cut through her words. "What I wish is for you to be…"

He paused and she could almost hear him thinking. What he wanted was for her to be just charming enough, just winsome enough, just flirtatious enough to enchant the duke. For in doing so, the duke might just be more willing to listen to John's ridiculous schemes for opening a mine on the Windermere estate, funded, of course, almost solely by the duke himself. There was only so much brandy and whiskey one could ply a man with. And if the duke had a good head on his shoulders, liquor would not be enough.

But place a woman in front of him–and that might do the trick.

"You wish for me to be a charming hostess but to know my place," June said dully. "I understand, John. I really do."

The earl's eyes flashed. "You have never known your place."

"I have always been a loyal and submissive wife," she retorted before she could help herself. "Which is more than one could ever say for you as a husband."

There it was. She saw the gleam of victory in his eyes.

And then his hand was raising and swiftly descending.

He had won and she had lost. The proof was in the pain.

The Duke of Tulloch had arrived at the Earl of Windermere's house party earlier than expected.

Anticipating a rainy day like the ones preceding, he had been surprised by the appearance of sun. With warm conditions to dry out the roads, his carriage had made much better time.

And hence he found himself arriving at Windermere Manor earlier than his hosts had anticipated him.

Leaving his luggage with the servants, he had refused offers to be shown to his room or to have his hosts called down to greet him. Instead, he had marched out onto the lawn, intending to take a constitutional before returning and greeting his hosts and fellow guests before dinner.

Yet as he crossed the green manor lawn, a gazebo came into view and he saw he was not the first guest to arrive after all.

A woman was seated inside the small, octagonal pavilion with her back to him. Around her on either side, delicate columns supported a latticed roof covered with climbing roses and trailing vines.

The woman sat upon a cushioned bench, her slender form draped in a pale blue muslin gown that billowed softly in the breeze. Though her features were obscured by the shadows cast by the lattice, the curve of her shoulders and the graceful lines of her figure spoke to an innate elegance and poise.

Deciding it would be more fitting to leave the woman to her solitary contemplation than for a strange man to interrupt, the duke began to step quietly around the gazebo.

The faint sound of weeping echoed from the gazebo.

Glancing once more towards the little pavilion, he realized the woman"s slender shoulders were trembling with sobs. Her delicate hands clutched the fabric of her gown.

Swearing imperceptibly to himself, the duke paused. He could leave the lady in peace or he could see if she required aid.

Chances were high she was crying over nothing more than a stain on her dress or a broken vase. These highborn women often seemed to care of little more than their material comforts. Tulloch did not have high hopes that the guests at Windermere"s house party would be any different than the countless women he had met before. Especially one in particular.

Still, this was a woman and she could well be in real distress.

With a gentle clearing of his throat, Tulloch stepped forward, allowing the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots to alert the lady to his presence and give her a moment to prepare.

As expected, he caught the sound of a gasp. The woman lifted her head, looking at first not at him but straight in front of her. And in that moment, he caught sight of two things.

The lady"s tear-stained cheek was to be expected. After all, she had been crying.

What the duke had not expected to see and, aye, what he despised, was the sight of the ugly red welt marking the lady"s otherwise unblemished lily-white features.

"Who did that to ye, lass? Who struck ye?" He spoke sharply and without thinking, anger already welling up inside of him. Injustice had always infuriated him. Even as a small boy he had begun fights he had not been able to win, simply because he had been compelled to by a stubborn sense of conscience.

He had reached the gazebo steps now. The woman had not replied.

"Tell me, lass, and I swear, I'll thrash the man within an inch of his life," Tulloch promised. "There's never a call for a man to lay a hand on a woman. Tell me who the blackguard was and he'll learn this as he should have long ago. He'll nay harm ye again."

The woman turned her head towards him, and as she did so a beam of light fell upon her hair.

The lady's hair was not brown as he had assumed. No, it was the shade of a field of wheat on a hot summer's day. Golden and lush.

He felt his throat go dry. This woman was no guest. She was the lady of the manor.

More than that–she was the woman he had married ten long years ago.

Tulloch swore aloud.

The Scot Who Made June Hotwill be available on June 1, 2024. Pre-order your copy today!