Nothing But Scandal (5 page)

“As for the man who fancies himself my fiancé, I have never agreed to marry him—or anyone else, for that matter. I need this position, and I will work hard to keep it. Again, I thank you for showing me the library.”

He threw her a grin and swept a gallant arm toward the many shelves. “You’re welcome. But I’ve hardly begun. Here, now, what shall we examine first?”

She sighed. There would be no getting rid of him. Worse, there was a wicked part of her soul that rejoiced with each moment he stayed.

He bypassed a wall full of scientific texts, then stopped suddenly before a shelf of Byron. “Ah! I know. You have a fondness for poetry, if I recall.”

Elizabeth was no budding poet, but she
had
attended a poetry recital held by the duke’s spinster cousin a couple months ago. The whole event had been awful, from the lackluster refreshments to the crowlike voice in which the duke’s cousin delivered what, presumably, were poems.

No doubt Alex remembered because, in Elizabeth’s haste to leave when the wretched event was over, she had tripped over a sagging flounce at the hem of her gown and stumbled into him. And while she’d seen any number of ladies swoon gracefully into the duke’s arms,
she
had landed there out of pure clumsiness.

She gazed up at him now and caught the telltale twinkle in the duke’s eyes. She grinned helplessly. “I do love a good poem.”

“Well, I cannot claim to share my cousin’s…
ahem,
…
skill
in recitation, but I can show you my sister’s fine collection of poets.”

“No performance?” Elizabeth feigned disappointment as Alex directed her to the shelf packed with leather-bound volumes. “Likely it’s for the best. If I recall, I was so carried away by the last one I attended, I lost my bearings and nearly ran you over.” She kept her tone light as she turned to look at the poetry books.

“Of course, I quite forgot. Perhaps I should steady you, then, as you peruse these tomes, in order to prevent a reoccurrence.”

Elizabeth sucked in her breath as his hands settled gently on either side of her waist. The temptation to lean back into him, absorb his scent and strength, was nearly overwhelming. She bit her lip, hard, in hopes the pain would distract her.

“I shouldn’t allow this,” she whispered.

“If I recall,” he countered, “you were willing to offer much more.”

“That was before.” But she closed her eyes as his thumbs gently stroked her sides. “I just told you—”

“Shh. You are an unusual woman, Elizabeth,” he murmured, his head bent so she could feel the warmth of his breath behind her ear. “I confess you have quite captured my interest.”

They were slipping into dangerous territory. Elizabeth knew it and tried to change course. She reached out to finger a volume of poetry, though by which poet, she had no idea. “You toy with me, Your Grace.”

“Nay, never that.”

“I know well you find me less than tempting.” Elizabeth spoke with more conviction than she felt.

“You’re wrong. I think you a temptress of the most dangerous sort.”

His breath tickled her ear, awakening a longing for him to touch that same spot with his lips. She tried to focus instead on how crushed she’d felt when he’d rejected her that morning in the park.

She turned to face him. “Forgive my skepticism, Your Grace. It’s only that I find it hard to believe that when I was a respectable member of the ton, when I
offered
myself to you with no strings attached, you found me lacking. And now here I stand, a mere governess, and your interest is piqued?”

He shrugged. “I don’t like Society women.”

The blunt tone made Elizabeth study him closely. “You toy with me, Your Grace,” she repeated.

“I assure you, I do not. Society women are cold and calculating. They measure and analyze everything, down to the slightest comment or the color of a person’s gloves, in their quest to rise to the top.”

Elizabeth tilted her head sideways. He had a point. Her own mother was one such woman.

“You, on the other hand, fascinate me, for you were willing to give all that up. And then, I’ve seen you with the children. You are so much more natural with them, and I’ve seen you show them real affection, even though they are not yours. Which Elizabeth is real? The brazen miss that concocted that outrageous, though sorely tempting, idea for her own ruination? Or”—he lightly touched her cheek—“the one who stands before me, a caregiver who puts others’ needs before her own?”

He drew her inexorably toward a nearby settee, until Elizabeth had no choice but to sit. He sat beside her and laid his hand lightly over hers.

Any reply Elizabeth had been forming fled her mind.

“See? You know I am right. Look, here we are, away from Society, having an actual conversation. How many conversations have you had at a ball that didn’t revolve around what someone was wearing, who danced with whom, and how to interpret that as currency in the marriage mart?”

Elizabeth laughed. That was
exactly
what most conversations at a ball were like.

“You have a lovely smile. Although,” he mused, fingering the plain gray fabric of her gown, then lightly touching the hair she’d scraped into a tight bun, “I did prefer your appearance as a young lady of the ton.”

Elizabeth did not have time to be offended at the implied insult, for he continued in that thoughtful tone. “Odd, isn’t it, how in Society women strive to appear soft and inviting, when underneath they are hard and brittle? Yet you, as a warm-hearted governess, are expected to appear utterly proper, even drab.”

“I’m sure that is appropriate for a governess,” she replied primly, though his lingering touch on her hair sent little flutters throughout her body.

This was wrong. But she was powerless to stop him.

“Perhaps.” His hand covered hers again. “But it makes me wonder…what would happen if I pulled those pins from your hair? Would I have a woman before me who was soft and warm both inside and out?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she whispered, as his hand came up to test his theory.

Common sense dictated she retreat, quickly, to the safety of her quarters. But the future spanned endlessly before her, devoid of passion. Was it so wrong to claim just one moment’s pleasure for herself?

She made no move to stop him as he slowly pulled one pin, then another and another from her hair. Piece by piece it fell, until the whole mass of it lay tumbled about her shoulders.

“Yes, here is the beauty I recall. Like a waterfall, set magically aflame.”

His tone turned husky and sent a shiver of anticipation up Elizabeth’s spine.

“Cold?”

He stroked her arm gently, and the heat of his hand warmed her to the very blood.

She gave him a sideways smile. “I believe you may have a bit of poet’s blood in you after all, Your Grace, for that was surely the most fanciful compliment I’ve ever been paid.”

Her smile vanished, all teasing forgotten, as he bent his head to hers. His lips met hers briefly before he pulled back. The dark, smoldering gaze she met when she raised her eyes took her breath away, just before he hauled her against him and crushed his lips to hers.

His mouth moved against hers with barely restrained passion, molding, tasting, testing. Elizabeth was drowning in sensation. He held her fast, one hand buried in the hair at the nape of her neck as he tipped her back to deepen the kiss.

His tongue gently parted her lips, then probed, dipping in to taste, to stroke, until a sharp need began to pulse low in her belly. She reached out, her hands gripping his firm shoulders, seeking an anchor in the storm of sensation. Somehow she was no longer sitting, but lying against the settee, with the delicious thrill of Alex’s weight above her. She returned his kiss as best she knew how.

When his hand moved to stroke her, moving up her bodice until it cupped her breast, she moaned low in her throat. Alex continued the pleasurable torment, teasing her through the fabric until her nipple hardened into a tight bud.

Only when he dipped into her bodice, and she felt the shock of his caress on her bare flesh, did Elizabeth remember any sense of propriety.

She jerked back, twisting from him until she landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor beside the settee. She stared at him, trying to catch her breath. The awkwardness of her position hastened the return of her senses. Luckily she was too mortified by her lack of propriety to be embarrassed by her lack of grace.

What had she just done?

Alex stared back, his eyes full of dark heat. Slowly he straightened and stood, formally offering a hand to assist her.

Mechanically, she took it and allowed him to haul her to her feet. She straightened her clothing, then began searching for her hairpins, all the while not saying a word to the man she’d just passionately kissed.

Even as she berated herself for her behavior, she already missed his touch on her skin. What must he think of her? Oh, Lord, she was a fool. Much as she might wish for the freedom the duke enjoyed, she did not have it. Dallying with the Duke of Beaufort would surely get her fired from her governess’s position. She snatched up her scattered pins and hastily jammed them into her hair.

Alex, who’d remained silent until now, gently stilled her hands. “Here, now. There’s no need to stab yourself. It can’t have been that bad a kiss.”

Alex may have been used to such casual dalliance, but Elizabeth was not, and she did not know how to respond to the light teasing in his tone. How could he be so nonchalant? Had the kiss not affected him as it did her? Perhaps not. After all, he was far more experienced. To her horror, tears welled in her eyes.

She turned away to hide them, but not before the duke noticed. He cupped her chin to turn her head back, then stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. Elizabeth closed her eyes and held very still, wanting more than anything to go to him, to let him fold her in his strong arms and comfort her. It made no sense, for he was the cause of her discomfort, but her emotions were too jumbled to care.

Finally she managed to whisper, “I should go.”

To her combined relief and disappointment, he stepped back. “As you wish. There’s more to you than I would have guessed. I find you very intriguing, Miss Medford.”

Elizabeth, desperate to recover some normalcy, reverted to their formal roles and dropped him a curtsy.

He regarded her with amusement, evident in the slight quirk of his full lips and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. He bowed.

“You may leave now, Elizabeth. But do not think for a moment I will not seek you out again.”

Harold Wetherby stared at the letter on his desk and seethed.

“Bloody Medford,” he growled.

“Bad news?” Jim Cutter sprawled in a chair across the room, idly examining a newspaper.

It was rude to examine one’s correspondence with a guest present, but he and Cutter shared the same opinion of societal manners. Besides, Cutter was a friend—or at least the closest thing he had, which was to say they shared similar ambitions and tolerated one another’s presence. Both rented town houses in the not-quite-fashionable district, and both wanted—felt they
deserved
—better.

“I loaned Lord Medford a goodly sum, a few years back,” Harold answered. “Could scarcely afford it at the time, but I needed the man’s support, his connections.” He shrugged.

“Never paid you back?” Cutter guessed.

“No. Died last fall, suddenlike. Carriage accident in a storm.”

Cutter nodded sympathetically.

Harold glared at the letter again—a polite note from the solicitor handling the Medford estate. The money was gone. And, apparently, he had no chance of recovering his losses.

He slammed his fist on the desk.

“Damn it.” It didn’t matter that he could afford the loss now. The baron had
used
him. And while Harold himself wasn’t above using people, he didn’t like having the tables turned.

Cutter wisely absorbed himself in the newspaper.

Harold ground his teeth. He had ambitions. As a child he’d hated being the “poor relation,” hated the way people dismissed him, or thought to invite him and his mother to an event only when someone “extra” was needed to even the numbers. As a youth he’d used his girth, and his fists, to gain respect, or at least fear, from the other boys. But he’d soon figured out he wanted more.

“What galls me,” he finally said, “is how someone like
him
is considered polite Society, while no matter how
I
study, how well I invest, how I
advance
myself, I’m still an outsider to the ton.”

Cutter raised his newspaper in a mock toast. “To the English aristocratic system.” He pitched the paper into the fireplace.

“Bet that daughter of Medford’s isn’t smirking now,” Harold said, finally latching onto a thought that cheered him. “She’s taunted me for years, with her careless acceptance of her place in Society. Thinks herself too good for me.”

Anger flooded him as he remembered their last encounter. Elizabeth had been flirting in Society, barely out of full mourning, and she’d done it to avoid
him
. Because to her, he was nothing.

Harold ground his teeth again. He had Cutter’s attention now.

“Threw my suit back in my face,” Harold confided. “As though she could afford it. She had the nerve to slap me. As though she had a better offer.” He snorted.

Cutter shrugged. “Haven’t seen any engagement announcements for her in
The Times.
Everyone in town knows she’s practically penniless.”

Elizabeth had failed.

She’d soon learn what it felt like to have to scrape and bow for every ounce of approval. She’d soon understand how it felt to have doors closed in your face simply because you weren’t wealthy enough—or, in his own case, because he hadn’t been born in line for a title.

Harold smiled—the thought of Elizabeth’s discomfort gave him pleasure.

Cutter stood. “I’d best be off,” he said. “I’ve an appointment with my tailor. I can see my way out. Sorry about your funds, Wetherby.”

Harold nodded, waving off his friend and choosing to ignore the faint distaste he thought he detected in the man’s tone.

He was far more interested in the new idea taking hold of his mind. Elizabeth Medford could still be of use to him.

Her father could no longer pay his debt. But
she
could. Maybe not in pounds…but how much better would it be to have her obeying him, serving him, as she’d been so loathe to do before? He’d touch that sweet body,
own
it, and in the meantime, he’d use whatever connections the Medfords had left to further his political purposes. Before, he’d courted her, minced about, hoping to curry favor. But now, with
proof
the family owed him, he had leverage.

Harold smiled. He would call on them directly.

The duke was true to his word. Even after the Grumsbys’ other guests returned to London, he remained. Everywhere Elizabeth went, it seemed he was there.

She wondered how long he could possibly prolong his visit. Could she outlast him in this game of cat and mouse before succumbing to those meaningful, desire-laden gazes he shot her when no one else was looking?

It was wrong. It was dangerous, to feel this way. But she’d wanted Alex Bainbridge to notice her from the moment she’d attended her first ball and seen him standing there, starkly predatory and surrounded by all-too-willing prey. He’d been everything she, as a female and the eldest Medford daughter, was not allowed to be.

She’d been standing at the edge of the Peasleys’ ballroom, drinking lemonade after a disastrous waltz with an overenthusiastic partner, when her gaze had been inexorably drawn toward the duke.

She’d stayed back, content to observe, for Beaufort traveled with a faster, more daring set than she was comfortable with. Another man in his party told a joke, leaning into the admiring crowd to deliver the punch line. It was quite scandalous, judging from the duke’s laugh and the shocked expressions of several of the young ladies—whom Elizabeth doubted were actually very shocked. One of the aspiring women used the opportunity to arrange a delicate swoon, aimed directly toward the duke’s arms.

He’d caught her gracefully, of course, but he’d looked up as he’d done so and caught Elizabeth’s eye. He’d winked.

Before the slightest notion of proper behavior had entered her mind, Elizabeth had rolled her eyes.

The duke had thrown his head back and laughed. Amazingly, Elizabeth had managed to maintain her composure, in spite of being shocked at her own audacity. She’d simply smiled and glided away.

He hadn’t spoken to her that night.

But from that moment on she’d watched, and dreamed, always with the knowledge that Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort, Marquess of Worcester, and holder of who knew how many lesser titles, moved in circles far above her. Each year, every matchmaking mama in London prayed her daughter would finally be the one to snare him.

When he did decide to marry—and he would have to, to pass on his estates—it would certainly be to someone unforgettable, a diamond of the first water. Not to someone like Elizabeth Medford.

She glanced down at the stiff gray skirts that composed her governess’s uniform. They were a clear reminder of her new station. She may have lost her heart to Alex Bainbridge years ago, but it was vital she didn’t lose her head as well.

Careful, Elizabeth reminded herself. She had to be very, very careful.

This morning the children were out with their father, a man Elizabeth had come to respect. She’d taken advantage of her freedom by actually choosing one of the poetry volumes from the library—she’d been too distracted last time—and bringing it to her favorite bench in the garden. But her mind wouldn’t focus on the words. Instead it drifted away from the flowery phrases and settled on Alex Bainbridge.

She’d stopped trying to avoid him—not only was it impossible, but after the intimacy of their kiss, she longed for his presence. So she wasn’t surprised to see him strolling toward her.

She sat straighter, consciously gathering her defenses. She could ill afford another indiscretion.

The reminder did little, though, to squash the bubble of joy that rose inside her as he strode her way.

“A fine day for reading, Miss Medford. You make a lovely picture on that bench, surrounded by the roses.”

“Your Grace.” She stood and curtsied. The man was a master of flattery, but she knew better than to take it, or him, seriously. He’d charmed legions of women. She was only the latest in the long line of women who had, temporarily, captured his attention. But, oh, she wanted to believe she was different. That she meant more.

“Please, sit,” he said.

She did, and he planted himself beside her. If anyone made a lovely picture that morning, it was he. More handsome than lovely, Elizabeth mentally amended. He was clad in a fine lawn shirt and breeches, his jacket a deep claret. The wind toyed with his dark hair, and she resisted the urge to smooth it back into place.

“Would you care to accompany me on a drive tomorrow afternoon? I believe our last conversation in the library was interrupted, and I’m anxious to continue it.”

Interrupted, indeed.

“You’re too kind, Your Grace, but I simply couldn’t.”

“Why not? Tomorrow is Sunday, and I know for a fact my sister makes a point of spending Sunday afternoons with her children. It would seem you are free.” He frowned. “Unless, of course, you’re trying to avoid me.”

“No, Your Grace, of course not.” The answer slipped out before she could think of a better one.

“Then you’ll come?”

“Er…” She should tell him she’d already made plans. But for what? Silently Elizabeth cursed the mental lapse that robbed her of common sense whenever he was near.

His frown cleared, replaced by a satisfied, lazy smile, as if he’d already anticipated her capitulation. He placed his hand over hers, his thumb stroking small circles in her palm. “I know of a lovely route we could take. The flowers have all just begun to bloom. Rather like yourself—a beautiful bloom unfurling before my eyes.” His eyes twinkled.

Elizabeth grew warm. “Your flattery is outrageous, Your Grace. Besides, it would hardly be proper.”

“Is that your concern, then? Propriety?” He stroked the inside of her wrist.

Elizabeth melted. Desperately she tried to remember the many reasons why getting involved with Alex Bainbridge was a very, very bad idea.

Propriety. Yes, that was it.

“Of course,” she managed, but her voice came out a whisper.

Alex grinned wider. Obviously, he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

She turned away, but he clasped both her hands in his.

“There’s no need to play coy. I know you are not adverse to my attentions, else you would never have come up with that fascinating proposal. Let me see…how did you put it? Oh, yes. You asked me to ruin you.”

She stood indignantly. “It is most ungallant of you, sir, to bring that up,” she admonished, though from the amusement in his eyes, her scolding had little effect.

He gave her arm a tug that landed her back on the bench—this time much closer to him.

“Besides, that was when I thought your involvement would be beneficial,” Elizabeth continued, trying to ignore the fact that their thighs were nearly brushing. Thank goodness for the layers of her skirts. “Now that I’ve managed to avoid my unwanted suitor and secure a position on my own, there’s really no need for you to even think of me.”

“I disagree.” He slid even closer, and the heavy-lidded intent in his eyes told Elizabeth he meant to kiss her. “I’m quite certain there is, uh,
need
.”

She scooted back, heat rising in her cheeks.

“There would be advantages for you, you know.”

She cocked her head, uncertain how to respond.

“Let me be bold. I would have you as my mistress, Elizabeth.”

The
cad!
Elizabeth grasped at the shreds of her dignity. “Hardly a position to ascribe to,” she said haughtily. That wasn’t true, though. Any number of women would gladly accept the position, even if, or
particularly
if, an offer of marriage was not forthcoming.

Alex knew it, too. “
Au contraire, cherie
. As my mistress, you would be supported in far more luxury than you can support yourself as a governess.”

She looked away.

“Come, Elizabeth,” he said, his tone gentling, “we both know you are not suited to governess’s work. You are a creature of passion.”

With one strong finger he traced her ear, her jaw—a touch that, had he known it, confirmed his assessment of her.

“And yet,” she replied, drawing her spine as stiff and straight as possible, “a governess holds a respectable position. My family may be upset with me, but at least I am not ruined in the eyes of all Society. And if I am to remain respectable, I must be a governess of unimpeachable reputation, sir.”

“It was not so long ago you were more amenable to being ruined. May I point out that my offer is actually much better?”

She shrugged. “Obviously I was a bit desperate when I succumbed to such thoughts. Luckily I came to my senses and found something more stable. If I were your mistress, I would be in constant danger of losing my position, for your interest in me would soon wane.” The string of mistresses he’d left behind was legendary. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Then where would I be?”

He brushed aside that argument with a wave of his hand. “You underestimate yourself.”

He was flattering her, but she steeled her will. “I cannot know that for sure, Your Grace. Better I look after my reputation.”

“Still, you are attracted to me.”

The confidence in his voice made her want to smack him. Of course, it was true, and he knew it. “That’s hardly the point.”

“Then why did you kiss me in the library?”

He had her there. She could point out that he’d initiated said kiss, but they both knew how she’d responded.

“You don’t need to decide now.” He stood. “I’ll pick you up at two o’clock tomorrow. We’ll go driving in the country.” His features softened for a moment. “My carriage will be devoid of insignia—you needn’t fear being seen.”

“You’ll be wasting your time, Your Grace,” she told him, though her voice lacked conviction. “I won’t come.”

He gave her a tolerant smile. “Oh, I think you will.”

She studied the ground. He knew her too well.

He pressed a kiss to her hand as he left. “I shall be counting the hours.”

Elizabeth remained on the garden bench, desire warring with her trepidation. She stared blankly at the volume of poetry she’d brought outdoors. There was no way she could read it now.