A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal (14 page)

“Ah, that.” He sighed and glanced toward the fire. “Most proper ladies are very tiresome—full of demands I’ve no interest in meeting. Their fathers also pose a problem, tending as they do to frown upon my reputation.”

He hadn’t mentioned the reputation. “Why? What’s the matter with it?”

“I had a rather wild youth.”

It had to have been pretty bloody wild if it scared people off a titled bloke. “Did you kill someone?”

“No.”

She’d caught his brief hesitation. “
Did
you, then?”

He looked squarely back at her. “I rarely see a point in lying, Nell.”

He was more evasive than a thief with a copper. “But sometimes you do?”

He gave her a wry smile. “All right. Let’s have it out then. The worst rumors that you’ll hear.” He sat back, eyeing her. “I’m a drunkard. Not true: I’m fond of
my drink, but rarely drunk. A rake and a voluptuary: by some measures, perhaps, but not indiscriminately. Invitation only, as they say. A gambler: yes, but I have never played beyond my means.” He paused, black humor sharpening his expression. “Though it would be quite easy to do, in my current situation. Generally, however, I gamble only for the pleasure of removing other people’s money from them. What else? Ah—wicked perversions. Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of wicked. Some people seem terribly fearful of creativity. Substances less licit than drink: yes, occasionally. But I’m devoted to none of them.” He paused. “Anarchism, worshipping of Lucifer, both false … is there anything else? Give me a moment to think on it.”

She stared, dumbfounded. “Surely there can’t be more.”

“A few small trivia, certainly.” He gave her a cheerful smile.

The mismatch between his tone and his admissions unnerved her. He seemed utterly unruffled by his recitation. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“What?”

“That people lie about you?”

He tipped his head slightly. “Why should it? Apart from the inconvenience, of course, when it comes to wooing a wealthy bride.”

“A care for the truth?” In his shoes, she’d be hard-pressed not to rake her nails across lying mouths.

His dimple popped out. “The truth is far more tedious,” he said. “And people require entertainment. I provide that.” He paused, looking diverted by this train of thought. “I suppose that everyone at heart is a storyteller. And I tend to inspire their stories. In
that regard, you may think of me as …” He laughed suddenly. “A muse to the bored upper crust.”

“A muse.”

“Ancient Greek spirits. Provided inspiration to—”

“Poets and artists and whatnot,” she finished. “I thought they were women.”

“They were.” He leaned forward, scrutinizing her. “So you
do
read.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe the fifth time I tell you I’m up to dictionary, you’ll believe me.”

He made an amused noise, a breath pushed through his nose. “I didn’t think board schools provided Greek literature to their students.”

God in heaven. “Folks who can’t afford books use lending libraries.” Most of them were terrible, but the GFS had a tremendous collection. It was the only reason she’d joined the club.

“Of course.” He eyed her. “You must think me a terrible snob.”

“I know you’re a snob.” All his ilk were. “Why? Do you imagine you aren’t?”

“No. I’ll admit to it.”

She grinned. “Seems like you’re willing to admit to a lot of things that other people might prefer to deny.”

His smile began slowly, then widened all at once. “You’re not slow witted.”

“Nobody ever said I was.” How peculiar that he’d even think it. It stung her foolish vanity. “Perhaps you’re misled by the fact that I’m still sitting here,” she said. “No doubt a smart woman would leave. By your own confession, you’re bad company.”

“Ah. No,” he said, his dimple flashing again. “You misunderstood me, Nell. I’m the best of company: I can promise that you’ll never be bored.”

She snorted. “It’s not boredom I’m worried about.”

“Then you’re a very lucky woman.”

What claptrap. He spoke like a child. “You’re the lucky one. Otherwise you’d know there’s a pleasure to be had from boredom. The best kind of pleasure: it means you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He leaned forward so abruptly she didn’t have time to draw back. His fingers skated across her bruised cheek; his thumb settled at the corner of her mouth. “You needn’t worry about me,” he murmured. “I’ve never hurt a woman in my life.”

A tremor ran through her at the feel of his thumb so close to her lips. It felt like the first shudder of a too-tight lid as it finally began to loosen.

Her body liked his. It happened sometimes. Didn’t mean she needed to pay attention to it.

She cleared her throat. “You don’t need to be touching me to make your point.”

“But I like touching you.” He studied her a moment. “Can’t you tell?”

She saw his intention to kiss her. His grip wasn’t firm. She could have pulled away. But sometimes when you pulled away they thought it meant you were afraid of them. And once they thought so, they did all sorts of things to see if it was true.

Slowly he lowered his head. His lips brushed over hers once, twice, so lightly that she barely felt the contact. Maybe she’d misread him, after all. These kisses didn’t seem like lust so much as a token to solemnize his promise.

He drew back a little. His face not two inches from hers, he looked into her eyes. “Will you participate?”

It was a queer question, the more alarming because it showed insight. He’d seen her decision to steel
herself. She didn’t like how sharply he saw her. She pitched her voice low and hard. “I didn’t come into this house to whore for you.”

“No,” he agreed. “We’ll save that for the marriage bed. But in the meantime: a kiss.”

“Which I just gave you last night,” she said. “One’s enough.”

His mouth lifted at one corner, a wicked little smile. “If that’s your opinion, then it was a very bad kiss, and I must be allowed the opportunity to atone for it.”

“No.” She knew where this road ran. She’d seen a dozen girls ruined by lads with a gift for sweet talk. “I won’t be bearing your bastard, St. Maur.”

He eyed her. “We’ll need to have a talk,” he said, “if you imagine that kissing leads to children.”

“I know exactly what leads to children, and I’m
not
doing it.”

“Then a simple kiss should be all right with you, sterile as it is.”

She opened her mouth and found herself speechless. “You’ve a twisty way with words,” she said at last.

He grinned. “I think I’ll insist,” he said, and came toward her again, only this time he slid off his chair onto his knees in front of her, and his hand pushed into her hair as he brought his lips back to hers.

Ah, he felt good. Hot and strong. His tongue traced the shape of her lower lip and her thoughts tangled. He followed her gasp into her mouth as his grip tightened in her hair. Heat kindled in her, loosening her stomach, warming the backs of her knees.

No
. She struggled to keep track of her wits.
Stupid, stupid
. A man intent on his own pleasures was
mindless, helpless, and an easy mark. But once the woman started wanting it herself, what power did she have?

But St. Maur was an expert, all right. He kissed her like the kiss was all there was, sufficient to itself, no rush or hurry or greater goal to it. His mouth moved deliberately, leisurely. He made a low noise as though he tasted something delicious; then she felt his thumb beneath her mouth, stroking a languorous line across her skin, as though to underscore what he was doing to her.

Doing
to her. He shouldn’t be doing
anything
.

As she stiffened, he murmured a protest. Such a small noise, so peculiar from a man: vulnerable, somehow. His grip gentled: she could pull away if she liked. But his knuckles brushed down her cheek, reluctant to leave her; then farther down yet, a quick skim of warmth along her throat, a lazy pressure along her collarbone. Not pushing, not grabbing. Only coaxing.
Asking
.

Her body lit up. The tips of her breasts, between her legs. Revelation unrolled through her, melting, then contracting: these places that men liked to involve also had their own role in it. When he asked, her body answered.

Her palm found his upper arm. It felt solid and hot beneath the thin lawn of his shirt, dense and thick, powerful. His hard abdomen pressed into her knees. He was coming closer to her, leaning over her; his height was in his long legs, so he was tall even when kneeling. Her free hand found his hair. It was softer and thicker than any hair she’d ever touched. A rich man’s hair, born of a lifetime of feasting.

The thought snapped his spell. She pushed him
hard. He withdrew immediately, rolling his weight onto his heels in a fluid move, making no move to come after her. He simply crouched there, breathing hard. His hair was disheveled, his necktie coming loose. Had she done that?

He exhaled, pushing a hand through that mess of black, glossy hair. He was as beautiful as a summer night and twice as expensive as the moon; as she met his witchy hazel eyes, he licked his lips—tasting her, she realized.

She went hotter, a blush so fierce that her face probably caught fire.

His smile was lazy. “I
am
glad you decided to stay,” he said.

She shot to her feet, ignoring how her knees still trembled. “If you want to stay glad,” she said unsteadily, “then you’ll get out right now. Otherwise—”

But he was already rising. With an easy, amenable bow, he turned for the door.

As she watched it close behind him, a shiver ran through her—the sort that announced a near escape.
But not from him
, she thought.

She wrapped her arms around herself, horrified by the notion that in his arms, her greatest threat might come from herself.

T
his is a case in which simple greed will have spared us a good deal of trouble.” Daughtry spoke dryly, his eyes on his breakfast plate. He was a spare, silver-haired man whose sharply arched brows and dark, heavy-lidded eyes lent him a questioning and skeptical look no matter the object of his contemplation: as, for instance, the rasher he now forked up.

Simon often wondered if Daughtry’s face was not the key to his success. Surely there was nothing so comforting in a lawyer as pessimism. “You mean,” he said, picking up his coffee, “that Grimston and his charge did not have Cornelia presumed dead.”

“Indeed.” Daughtry paused to chew, then to dab his serviette at his lips, precisely covering the wrinkled expanse. He even ate his breakfast like a solicitor, slowly and methodically.

“It made sense, of course,” Daughtry continued. He retrieved his fork, aiming it precisely at the quivering eye of his half-cooked egg, appearing to consider the best angle of attack on the yolk; and then, to Simon’s mild disappointment, abdicated the decision by returning the fork to his plate. “By the terms of the trust, Katherine and Cornelia will not have full access to their wealth until they marry or attain the age of twenty-five. In the interim, Sir Grimston receives an annual sum allotted for their maintenance and education. Had we succeeded in our motion for a presumption of death, this sum would have been halved—leaving
Grimston, and by extension, Lady Katherine, substantially poorer.”

Simon nodded. “But Cornelia’s reappearance would do the same.”

“Yes.”

“So we should be prepared for a fight.”

Daughtry cleared his throat. “For caution’s sake, let us assume so.”

“I’ll enjoy seeing how they deny it. She’s Kitty’s spitting image.” Simon hesitated. The remark left a bad taste in his mouth. It recast in comical colors the long hour he had lain awake last night. While he was glad to entertain himself with plans to strip and seduce Nell, he felt quite differently about Kitty. “They’re twins,” he added. “Obviously they look alike. I don’t mean to say the resemblance goes any deeper than the skin.”

Daughtry mistook his meaning. “Yes, I suppose that’s the difficulty. Even if her resemblance to Lady Katherine is so extraordinary as you say, it will fall on us to prove that she
is
the Lady Cornelia, and not some natural child of his lordship. The childhood nurse can be interviewed as to the question of birthmarks and the whatnot. Determining the identity of the woman who raised Lady Cornelia will also be of import. If I may, I would recommend the firm of Shepherd and Sons for that purpose.” He turned to bend an instructional look on the bespectacled secretary seated near the sideboard. This undersized minion nodded and made a note. “A very discreet trio,” Daughtry continued. “And they know their way about the rougher areas. I’ve been very pleased with their investigative services.”

“Excellent.” Simon didn’t care who did it, as long as it got done. “What else?”

“Ah … yes.” Daughtry cleared his throat and set a
finger to his lips—some sort of sign, it seemed, for the secretary popped off his seat and bowed low, begging to be excused.

“Marvelous,” Simon said when the door shut behind the lad. “Have them trained to hand signals, do you?”

Daughtry’s lips sketched the barest and most fleeting intimation of a curve. “Discretion is my watchword, particularly in matters of …” One steel gray brow lifted. “Love?”