A Perfect Scandal (2 page)

“I’m furious!” stated Edward Cameron. “For the third time, I’ve arranged a perfectly good match for you and how do you reward me? You turn down Lord Walling only to dance with Marcus Hawksley instead. He’s nothing more than the impoverished younger son of an earl, a mere stockbroker.”

Isabel watched her father pace back and forth on the thick Aubusson carpet in his library. Edward Cameron, the fourth Earl of Malvern, was short and stocky with round spectacles and a brow perpetually creased with worry. Tufts of sparse gray hair stood on end as he ran his fingers over his scalp in agitation. His mouth was tight and grim, his eyes flashing in a familiar display of impatience.

Isabel stiffly sat in a leather chair, her fingers curling around the nail head armrest. Her father had ushered her into the library as soon as they had returned home from Lady Holloway’s ball. She immediately knew it was going to be a lengthy night. Last time, he had taken her to the drawing room, and the lecture had been brief. He hadn’t been concerned with possible interruptions by the servants. But to demand her presence in his library—well, that meant the lecture would be severe enough to warrant complete privacy. No servant would dare interrupt the earl here.

Straightening her spine, she took a deep breath. “I apologize for having upset you by dancing with Mr. Hawksley, Father. But I’m not sorry that Lord Walling no longer wants the engagement to proceed.”

Edward stopped his pacing to stare at her. He reached up to rip his spectacles from his face, only to snag one of the wires behind his ear. It twisted and bowed as he tugged it free.

“Who said anything about Lord Walling not pursuing an engagement? It took considerable effort on my part, but I managed to assuage Walling’s doubts regarding your poor discretion.”

Isabel tossed her head. “Poor discretion! I do not wish to wed Lord Walling.”

“Why not?”

“He’s positively ancient. He has no interest in my art. And…and…he”—she struggled for the words—“he has depraved appetites in the bedroom,” she blurted out, not knowing how else to persuade her father.

“What?” Edward’s jaw dropped.

Her face grew hot. “That’s the latest gossip.”

He blew out his cheeks like a blowfish before releasing a burst of air. “Of all the nonsense, please stop listening to your friend, Charlotte Benning.”

His anger slightly abated, he took a seat in a chair next to hers and reached out to take her hand.

“My Isabel,” he said. “I will not live forever, and I need to see you well settled before I die. Your mother, bless her soul, would have wanted you respectably married.”

Isabel’s heart lurched, and a stab of guilt pierced her heart. Despite everything, she loved her father dearly. She squeezed his hand. “What would make me happy is to live with Auntie Lil in Paris. I could study my watercolors, just as she did. Ever since my visit two summers ago, she has regularly written asking for me to stay with her.”

Edward shook his head. “Your mother’s sister is an eccentric who never married. That’s what happens to women who never have a man’s guidance and who never bear children.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Either way, you are a few months shy of your twenty-first birthday. You have already destroyed two previously good matches, now must you destroy a third?”

“I didn’t destroy anything.”

“Ah, you merely told Lord Darby that you were unable to bear children, and you merely let Lord Shelton’s controlling mother believe that insanity runs in the family, by using your Auntie Lil as an example. Both men ran as fast as their legs would carry them.”

“I won’t apologize for either man. Darby only sought a brooding mare to produce heirs, and Shelton wanted the country estate in Herefordshire that you had promised him. Don’t you see, Father, I want
more
.”

“It’s unspeakable. Forget returning to Auntie Lil. Letting you travel to Paris was an unfortunate mistake. As for Lord Walling, I gave him permission to pay a visit tomorrow afternoon. You had best be a perfect lady. The engagement will go forward.”

Edward rose and patted her shoulder. “As the eldest child, think of the twins. You will be setting a good example for them.”

Isabel often did think of her younger twin siblings, Anthony and Amber, and believed that setting a good example meant passionately pursuing one’s dreams.

At her silence, her father smiled. “Good girl, Isabel. I know you will stop carrying on about this artistic nonsense. I’ve allowed your watercolors as a pastime fancy, but now it is time for you to put art out of your mind and secure your future as a wife.”

Head bent low, Isabel nodded in what she hoped was a demure manner. From a sideways glance, she watched him turn and leave.

As soon as the library door clicked closed, she jumped to her feet and rushed to her father’s desk. Yanking open a heavy file drawer, she began to rummage through mounds of paper.

If Walling was coming tomorrow afternoon, there was no time to waste.

Marcus Hawksley took the front steps to the Westley mansion two at a time in his haste. He did not like to lose, and there was a Gainsborough at stake.

The London Stock Exchange had been particularly busy this morning. When Marcus had heard about the estate sale in which the 1781 painting by Thomas Gainsborough,
Seashore with Fishermen
, would be auctioned off to the highest bidder, his secretary had scrambled to reschedule several important appointments.

Marcus reached the mansion’s top steps, and before he could knock, a dour-faced butler swung the door open. People were already milling about inside, attesting to his lateness.

A muscle flicked at his jaw. He refused to be outbid.

He stepped into a grand vestibule lavishly appointed with marble floors, high ceilings hung with sparkling crystal chandeliers, and quality paintings on the walls.

A tall, reed-thin man approached. He was dressed in striped trousers that made his long legs appear as if he walked on stilts. He was strikingly bald with pale blue eyes in a narrow face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawksley,” the man said. “I anticipated I would see you today.”

Marcus greeted Dante Black, the former Bonham’s auctioneer, with a curt nod. “Where is it, Dante?”

“The late Lord Westley had several intimate drawing rooms to showcase his art throughout his home. Gainsborough’s
Seashore with Fishermen
is located on the upper floor, at the end of the hall, past the library. There are other notable pieces exhibited there as well that may interest you. All the items are rare and exquisite.” Dante Black withdrew a gold pocket watch from his waistcoast. “Only fifteen minutes remain for prospective buyers to view the art before the auction takes place in the parlor.”

Marcus nodded. “That’s all the time I need, Dante.”

Wondering what other art the auctioneer had in mind, Marcus bounded up the staircase. He was always open to adding new quality works to his vast collection.

He nodded at passersby as he strode down the hall, recognizing other wealthy collectors, museum curators, and titled nobility with a taste for fine art. Even Lord Yarmouth, the Regent’s personal art agent, who was an influential and informed art collector in his own right, was present. His robust wife, Lady Yarmouth, was by his side. Marcus was well aware that Prinny was an avid collector of Thomas Gainsborough’s work, and he suspected Yarmouth was present to bid on the same piece.

Pulse pounding in anticipation, Marcus opened the door and rushed into the first room past the library.

His gaze swept the room’s dimly lit interior.

He stopped short, shocked.

Seconds passed, then he burst out laughing.

Row after row of erotic statues crammed the vast room. Naked nymphs with huge breasts, fierce warriors, and boys on the brink of manhood—all with enormously oversized penises—were arrayed in splendid decadence throughout the space. Couples in various sexual positions, some with amazingly flexible and contorted limbs; others in the throes of ecstasy, heads thrown back, mouths open simulating pleasure. Erotic frescoes and paintings lined the walls as well, depicting orgies in Roman togas and marble pools.

In the back of the room was an immense, round bed, big enough to hold at least four people. Red satin sheets adorned the mattress and a canopy of fine red gauze shrouded the perimeter of the bed. A fabric swing, two people wide, hung from the ceiling beside the bed. Marcus’s fertile imagination pictured lovers in the swing, swaying back and forth, culminating their passion.

Who would have thought the late Lord Westley, a respectable member of society and the House of Lords, had such wild tastes?

Marcus turned in a full circle, absorbing the erotic scene before him.

He became instantly aroused.

He was, after all, a flesh-and-blood man.

“Mr. Hawksley.”

Marcus spun around at the sound of a soft, feminine voice. He saw nothing save a gaudy statue of Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt, one hand cradling a large breast, and the other hand cupping the V between her legs.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

“It’s me, Mr. Hawksley.”

Sunlight from a small, overhead window cast a shadow on the Diana statue. A slender woman appeared from behind, her hand grazing the statue’s white hip as she glided to stand before it.

Marcus blinked, wondering if his imagination had conjured her forth. “Isabel?”

She smiled and met his gaze.

She looked ethereal, unreal in the dim light, dressed in a flowing white dress with a low embroidered bodice. The gown was an arousing concoction, modest enough not to be daring, yet sufficiently tantalizing to reveal a narrow waist, slender hips, and the curve of a full breast.

Her striking sable hair was loose, unlike at the Holloways’ ball, and hung in thick waves down her back. Her only jewelry was two mother-of-pearl combs, sweeping the hair from her face, revealing blue eyes and delicately boned features.

He had thought her a beautiful woman last night, but here…now…amongst the backdrop of eroticism, dressed as she was, she was exquisite.

Immediately, his guard came up. “What are you doing here?”

“I need you, Mr. Hawksley.”

It was the last thing he had expected to hear, and the most damaging thing she could have said to his already overstimulated senses.

“What are you talking about?” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

She stepped closer, and her perfume—a subtle scent of lilacs—wafted toward him.

“I need your help, Marcus.”

Marcus.
At the sound of his Christian name on her lips, his heart pounded an erratic rythm.

He realized he was staring, gawking at her. “Help you?” he asked, coming to his senses. “Do you realize what will happen if we are found alone like this, especially here, in this room?”

He shifted to the side, looking behind her. “Where is your chaperone? Your father?”

“I’m alone, of course.”

“But why?”

She stepped even closer, her ripe body swaying like that of a skilled courtesan, yet surrounded by an aura of innocence. The contradiction was fascinating and alluring all at once. She looked, quite simply, like a sacrificial virgin in one of the frescoes on the wall.

Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “I need to have a liaison, and I want it to be with you.”

He stood absolutely still and wondered if he had heard her correctly. After a moment, realization dawned on him, and he chuckled. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Why would you think that?”

“After not seeing you for all these years, you approach me at Lady Holloway’s ball and very forwardly ask me to dance. Then the next day you show up here”—he spread his arm toward the debauchery in the room—“and ask me to become your lover. If this is not a joke, then what else can it be?”

A thoughtful smile curved her mouth. “I assure you, Marcus, this isn’t a joke.”

“However did you find me?”

“I rummaged through my father’s files to find your business address. Father is a member of the Stock Exchange, you see. When I arrived at your place of business, your secretary, James Smith, was leaving the building and told me where you had gone. So this is no joke. I’m quite serious about my offer.”

He shook his head. “I spent a summer at your father’s country manor when you were twelve years old. You were an adorable child, creating mischief, exasperating your elders, and training your younger twin siblings to follow your example. I was fond of you and your father and that’s why I feel obligated to speak some sense into you.”

She held up a slender hand and rolled her eyes. “Not another lecture. I’ve received one too many lately.”

“Not enough, judging by your behavior. Respectable young women who are unmarried debutantes don’t wander around unchaperoned propositioning men to have affairs. Especially a man with a black cloud hovering over his head.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That’s why you are perfect. My father has arranged a match for me, you see. A much older, domineering lord.”

“He sounds quite acceptable. Your father has your best interests at heart.”

She pouted, showing full, red lips…very kissable lips.

“I don’t love Lord Walling. He’s thirty-three years my senior, has no interest in who I am, and he waddles.”

Marcus had to drag his gaze from her mouth to her flashing blue eyes. “He sounds even better. What do you need me for?”

“I need to create a scandal, ruin my reputation. It’s the only way to get out of Lord Walling’s trap and to stop my father’s relentless matchmaking. Only then will I be free to return to Auntie Lil in Paris. She’s waiting for me with open arms.”

He felt a stab of anger that she sought only to use him, and a sudden round of deep-seated memories assailed him.

Just like Bridget,
he mused.

Before her death, Bridget had used him and then had betrayed him. Isabel sought to make use of his infamous social reputation, but would she also seek to betray him?

“Again, madam, your plan is unsound and irrational. You should obey your father,” he said in a harsh voice.