A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal (20 page)

She wrapped her arms around herself. These queer notions were the work of her imagination, no doubt. Dazzled by the clothes and the fine surroundings, rattled by St. Maur’s ultimatum, she was inventing lies:
You remember. You belong here. You deserve this
.

How easy it would be to delude herself! Mum had deluded herself over any number of things. She’d thought herself better, more saintly, too good for everything. Look what it had gotten her! The scorn of
the Green, the resentment of the labor-mistress, and the worst job in the factory—a quick road to a painful death.

But for all her foolish airs, Mum hadn’t been cruel. If Nell decided she knew this place, that would mean that some countess had been her mother, and Mum had been more than cruel—she’d done an unspeakably wicked thing.

She swallowed down the weird urge to laugh. It wasn’t funny, not at all. Mum had loved her. She was sure of that. Mum had been touched, but she’d never been dangerous.

“My mum wasn’t bad.” It came out choppily. She shouldn’t have to say such things.

“I’m glad to hear it.” St. Maur put his hands into his pockets, watchful. Waiting. No judgment in his face, no concern.

No concern:
that summed him up, it did. That was the phrase she should have used to describe him to Hannah. He seemed wholly unburdened, albeit not in the way of idiots: Nell gathered that he saw the world as cynics did, not looking for false hope.

But he didn’t let the world worry him, either. He had the air of a man who knew that when it came to a struggle, he’d always have the upper hand.

He certainly had the upper hand on her. His offer was devilish, wasn’t it?
Become somebody else
. Ordinary men bargained only for a woman’s body. His bid was higher, and so was his demand. He was asking her to betray the memory of someone she’d loved.

Nell gave her lip a chew. She’d vowed never to sell herself. But nobody had ever offered her so much. And for whatever it meant … she did know that place in the painting.

On a Bible, she would have said that she remembered it.

She forced herself to look back to the portrait. She’d never backed away from a fear and she wouldn’t do so now. “There’s a bridge. An arched bridge over a river.” She remembered—had dreamed of—dropping pennies into it. Copper flashing in the sunlight.

“A stream,” he said. “Behind the house. Yes.”

His voice was neutral. Unsurprised. Temper lashed through her. She wished something
would
surprise him. He was the definition of high and mighty, immune to the scrapes and bumps that other people suffered as part of life’s course. He’d probably never been rattled in his life. “Would it matter to you if there wasn’t a bridge? Do you even care if I really
am
this Cornelia?”

His glance dropped briefly to where she hugged herself. “No, not particularly.”

She straightened her arms, lest he mistake her posture for a sign of fear. “How convenient for you. It’s not
your
mum they’ll call a lunatic. And if I did remember this place …” Then the names they would call her mum would be true.

What sort of woman stole a child? What could drive a woman to that?

She felt an inkling, dim but unsettling. Mum had called Rushden a lewd devil. She’d always been so convinced that she could tell wrong from right better than anyone else could.

St. Maur took her hand. It startled her, but she didn’t pull away: his grip was firm and he was looking at her squarely, no mischief on his face. “If you remember that house,” he said, “I don’t think you harm your mum by admitting it. What’s done is done. All you do
now is gain a new view on what already happened—long ago, mind you. Almost two decades.”

Smooth logic. “And if somebody called
your
mother a criminal? Would it matter to you?”

“Ha.” An exhalation of breath, distinctly amused. He let go of her hand, put his own into his pocket. “I cannot begin to imagine,” he said. “But her reaction would be spectacular. She guards her good name quite jealously.” His smile was wry. “She got on well with your father in that regard.”

Nell looked to the father in question. He sat atop a horse, Paton Park looming in the distance. She had an idea of what a dad should look like. Her stepfather hadn’t lived long but he’d been sweet, funny, always smiling. He’d bought her fried oysters on Sundays after church and set her atop his shoulders at the penny gaffs.

This man didn’t look like he’d ever let a little girl climb on him. Beneath his heavy, dark brows, his brown eyes glowered. Bushy muttonchops. She knew that look he was giving her. Fancy folks in their carriages who caught her eye by accident, they got just this smirk on their lips, amused, disbelieving.

What sort of man asked to be painted in a way that ensured he’d spend eternity looking down on people?

Still. Somebody might say that she’d gotten her cleft chin from him.

They’d say she’d gotten her eyes and nose from his wife.

She drew a breath and fixed her attention on the countess. Pretty lady. She sat in a light-filled drawing room, one long-fingered hand poised atop the book in her lap. Lovely white shoulders. Kind eyes.

“Was he mean to her?” she whispered.

A slight pause. “He was cold by nature, I think.”

“No, but was he
rough
with her? Did he knock her about?” Mum hadn’t scrupled to lay on the paddle when she felt Nell’s soul was in peril, but as long as she’d had the strength, she’d never let Michael raise his hand. If Rushden had been a violent type, perhaps Mum had thought it best …

“Not that I saw.” St. Maur paused. “Many men manage their tempers without the use of their fists, Nell.”

She gave a dismissive shrug. That wasn’t news to her. “How did she die, then?”

“Heartbreak, they said. Some two years after you were taken.”

Nell twisted her mouth. “Heartbreak—now there’s a rich woman’s disease. The rest of us can’t afford but to die of a real sickness.”

He glanced at her, the line of his mouth grave. “A clever aphorism. Do you believe it?”

His soberness caught her off guard. He wasn’t behaving as she’d expected. He was actually
talking
to her, asking her questions as if her answers might be of interest.

How queer. She’d almost prefer it if he remained a haughty, high-handed nob. “I think if a person could die of heartbreak, there’d be a lot fewer of us in the world,” she said slowly.

“You’ve had your heart broken, then?”

“No.”

“You’re fortunate.”

“Or smart.” Not some empty-headed girl like Suzie, to let a handsome face fool her into forgetting her own best interests.

St. Maur studied her a moment longer than felt comfortable. “You’re very young, aren’t you?”

His condescension irked her. “Why? Did somebody break yours?”

“Oh, yes.” He said it easily, without hesitation. “One of the risks of being a wastrel, I’m afraid.”

She stared at him. “Who?” What kind of woman had managed to get under the skin of this one?

“Simply a woman.”

“What sort of woman?”

He shrugged, one-shouldered. “The wrong one, I suppose.” He turned back toward the painting. “The countess wasn’t dull-witted or weak. Too generous on occasion, certainly. Compassionate, caring—everything her husband was not.”

She recognized how neatly he’d sidestepped the issue of this mysterious heartbreaker, but something else struck her more sharply. A warmth entered his voice when he talked of the countess. This wasn’t gossip speaking. “You knew her?”

“Yes.”

Of course—he’d been the old earl’s ward. This woman would have helped to raise him.

She frowned. Something didn’t make sense here. “Your mother—you talk as though she’s still alive.”

“Yes. She is.”

“Why were you the earl’s ward, then?”

An unpleasant smile edged onto his mouth. “Your father thought me inappropriately prepared for the honor to be bestowed on me.”

She hesitated. “So your mum simply … let him take you?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. She’d hit on a nerve. Good to know he had one. “He had a talent for convincing others of his own importance. I don’t suppose it ever crossed my parents’ minds to protest.”

How awful. “We have something in common,” she said, amazed. “If you’re right, we both got taken from our parents.”

He met her eyes. “I suppose we do. Of course, yours wanted you back.”

Not a trace of self-pity colored his words. But their very impassivity revealed an effort to speak without emotion.

All at once, she felt ashamed. She’d been poking at him for her own satisfaction. Now he held her look and forced her to confront the evidence that he had feelings, after all. His parents’ betrayal had rankled.

Something in her softened. She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, St. Maur.”

He glanced toward the spot where she touched him. “Don’t be. As I said, what’s done is done.”

She felt even more strongly now that he was wrong about that. “Are you close with them, then?”

“My parents?” At her nod, he looked mildly incredulous. “Does that signify? My father is dead. As for my mother, I suppose we’re cordial. We acknowledge one another when our paths cross.”

She didn’t see him move, but suddenly his arm was out of reach. She pushed her hand into her pocket, balling it into a fist, feeling awkward. Where she was from, a friendly touch was welcome. “I gather that’s a fancy way of saying no.”

He gave her an unreadable look, then nodded toward the painting. “Do you see the book on her lap? Lovely illustrated copy of Dante’s
Inferno
. Your love of reading comes from her, I expect.”

She went along with his change of subject. “Do you have it? I’d like to read it.”

“No.” His voice turned dark. “Her books were sold.”

“Oh.” Feeling off balance entirely now, she scouted for a topic that couldn’t rub him wrong. “I want some dresses like that one,” she said. The countess’s gown was frilled and flounced in tiers of blond lace. Must have cost a fortune. Take it apart piecemeal so the pieces could be sold one by one: it would make a nice sort of insurance for a girl.

“Bit old-fashioned, I’m afraid. But why not? Have one, if you like.” He laughed. “Yes, create your own style. Set a new fashion.”

He was joking, of course. “Right-o,” she said.

His smile faded into a more thoughtful look. “But you do realize that’s what I’m offering you. Not simply money, but the power and position to use it in whichever way you please.”

She didn’t see much difference between money and power, but she nodded politely.

It didn’t fool him. “Oh, Nell.” He sighed. “Darling, I know you have an imagination. Is it that you simply don’t know how to use it?”

She frowned at the endearment. She got it regularly from the Irish blokes, but it sounded different in his creamy drawl. Unsettling. Men like him, they called girls like her
darling
only as a joke.
Darling, be a love and bring me another glass. Darling, I’m not paying you to talk
. “I don’t follow you.”

He stepped closer to her—and then closer yet. “Dear girl,” he said softly. He lifted his hand and ran his fingertip down the rim of her ear, his touch as soft and warm as a breath.

She took a step back, her stomach knotting. Unlike her brain, her fool body had not an ounce of good sense in it. Her heart began to pound. “Not until we’re married.”

“A touch,” he murmured. He caught her lobe, stroking it with his thumb. “Nothing like sexual congress.” His hand turned, his knuckles brushing down her throat.

Even a touch was too much when he paired it with that smile. It made her pulse beat harder. She remembered again, with visceral warmth, how his kiss made parts of her dissolve. She couldn’t feel that way and keep her wits straight. “Hands off, I said.”

“But you’re irresistible. As proper as a vicar’s wife, scrubbed clean, tamed. I can’t tell if it’s a pity or a terribly effective provocation.”

She pushed away his hand and retreated another pace. “Neither. That’s not my doing.” She wasn’t trying to tempt him into anything. She had no blame in this.

He looked into her eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

She nearly laughed. Of course she was afraid of him. It would take a newborn not to be afraid of him. He was a bloody
peer of the realm
. Did he not realize that all his talk of her birth and her fortune were for naught as long as he was the only one who knew it? He could tell her sweet tales of being an empress if he liked; none of it would mean a thing unless he put cash in her hand as he spoke.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said.

“There’s no need, you know.” Still he was watching her, his damned eyes too sharp, seeing too much. She had a bad habit of underestimating him, of forgetting how quick he was, even if he’d been coddled in silk his whole life. “Your best interests happen to coincide with mine. That should comfort you, if nothing else does.”

“You’re right, I’m comforted. Show me more of my family, why don’t you?”

He didn’t take the bait. “In a minute,” he said, still studying her. Why was he so interested? There wasn’t anything in her to hold the attention of a man like him. If he wanted somebody like her, he could go out and buy ten, twenty girls for a night.

But not her. She wasn’t his plaything. She’d be his wife or nothing.

He stepped toward her again and she betrayed herself with a quick step back.

“There we go,” he said on a nod, a man whose peculiar notion had been confirmed. “But it makes no sense. What could account for your skittishness? You don’t seem timid by nature.”

“I’m not.” She resented, bitterly, how breathy those two words sounded.

His gaze dropped, lazily tracing her neckline, trailing down her bosom. He looked her over with a frank, sexual appreciation. Not a drop of shame in the smile he gave her tits, her hips, her mouth—which went dry beneath his look. A girl with any self-respect wouldn’t welcome this survey. He sized her up like a man with a boughten whore.

But she couldn’t lie to herself. To have a man like this stand before her, wanting her, brought out the stupider side. If he were an animal he’d be the prize in every competition, his long, elegant bones strapped by muscle, straight and tall, the prime specimen of his kind. Humans were animals, too, and never before had she realized it so strongly as now, with this heat stirring in her stomach.