Duke of Scandal (2 page)

Sam mistrusted her immediately for no real reason he could define, and smelled her—pure vanilla and spice—the instant Lady Ramona began her introduction.

“My lord duke,” the matchmaking busybody piped in gleefully above the din of the orchestra, “may I introduce the Lady Olivia Shea, formerly of Elmsboro, now of Paris. Lady Olivia, his grace, the Duke of Durham.”

“Your grace,” she murmured, with a curtsy, extend
ing her gloved hand.

Her voice matched her appearance, an unusual, husky mix of sensuality, drama, and intrigue, carrying only a trace of an accent from her lips to his ears.

Sam reached out and wrapped his fingers around hers, tightening his grasp just enough to let her know that he'd be nothing to play with, that he remained the stronger of the two in this little rendezvous the Lady Olivia Shea had planned.

Aside from a slight narrowing of her eyes, she didn't appear to notice his attempt at superiority. Her skin felt warm beneath the satin of her gloves.

The music drew to a stop as he murmured, “Lady Olivia, I'm enchanted.”

Lady Ramona clasped her palms together in front of her bosom. “Well, then, I'll leave you two to get acquainted.”

He didn't look at her but offered her a nod. Lady Olivia said, “Thank you ever so, Lady Ramona.”

The older woman hesitated, then cleared her throat to remind Sam that he still held to the beauty's fingers. A social faux pas under any circumstance, and naturally a matron at the ball would take it upon herself to save his reputation. He almost laughed at the thought, but instead released the Frenchwoman's hand as he should have seconds earlier. With that, Lady Ramona curtsied quickly and turned her attention to the crowd, waving to some other poor soul.

The music started up again, this time a waltz he didn't recognize. He certainly hoped Lady Olivia didn't expect him to ask her to dance. He loathed dancing. But at this point he wasn't even sure what to say to her.

She continued to stare at him, intently, as her hands clutched a gold and ivory fan at her waist. Then she leaned toward him, her smile deepening as she whispered haughtily, “No more running, my darling. You can no longer escape me. I've found you.”

She'd found him? Frenchwomen were certainly bold in their propositions. He remembered that from experience, and a certain coldness enveloped him.

Sam smirked and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don't believe I've ever heard that sort of overture from a lady before,” he drawled.

For the first time since their eyes had met, the Lady Olivia seemed uncertain. She blinked, straightening a bit as her smile faded. Then she raised her chin again in a measure of defiance.

“Why do you continue to play games with me?” she asked with more annoyance than confidence. “Can you not even acknowledge me? Is the crowd truly that important to your stellar reputation? You don't even look surprised.”

It was Sam's turn to feel confused, though he did his best not to show it. “Surprised? I assure you, Lady Olivia, formerly of Elmsboro now of Paris, that very little about the French surprises me anymore.” He lowered his voice and dropped his head slightly closer to hers. “And as for playing games, I gave that up long ago.”

Her cheeks pinkened under the candlelight; her stunning blue eyes sparkled with a glint of ire. Sam didn't even know what the hell they were talking about, but what really irritated him was his desire to continue the conversation. He supposed he just liked looking at her.

“You've ruined me,” she breathed, her voice and
body suddenly hard with fierce anger.

Now he understood what they were talking about, and it enraged him. He fisted his hands in his pockets, careful not to draw attention to the two of them any more than she did just by being in the ballroom.

In an icy tenor he replied, “If you think to extort money from me by such a claim, I give you fair warning that no matter the boldness of your assertions, you will lose. My reputation is already floundered, my beautiful lady, and I have enough money to fight you to your grave.”

She wanted to hit him. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her gaze traveled up and down his rigid body looking for the best place to strike, in the tightness of every muscle in her body. But she'd never do it here in front of society's elite, for she was far too refined. In some very strange manner, Sam found the entire thought a bit arousing, which thoroughly confounded him.

“Well, isn't this surprising?”

Sam jerked his head back, noticing that Colin stood at his side again, another drink in hand as he glanced from one of them to the other. Lady Olivia took a step back in apparent shock as well, flustered, it seemed, as she opened her fan and began swishing it in front of her breasts.

“You are truly the fairest of them all tonight,” Colin said with a bow to her. “How on earth did I escape this introduction?”

Lady Olivia attempted a smile, curtsying briefly. “Good sir.”

He reached for one of her hands and gently kissed the gloved fingers. “I am Colin Ramsey of Newark,
though I see you've met my friend first. How the angels must be weeping.”

She shifted her glance from one to the other, and Sam noted that she looked as unsettled by the interruption as he was, unsure what to do or say.

Sam suddenly felt confined, uncomfortable and hot in the muggy ballroom, wishing he could simply turn and walk away. But
she
had entered his very ordered realm of boredom with accusations and threats that disturbed him. His entire evening had shifted for the worse, and Colin was as charming as ever in his ignorance.

“Lady Olivia Shea,” he fairly barked in introduction, “formerly of Elmsboro, now of Paris.”

Colin tossed him a confused glance, then gazed back to the goddess in gold.

“So do you count yourself a Frenchwoman or an Englishwoman?” he asked.

“I am both,” she offered, giving him a more genuine smile. “My late father was English, my late mother was from Paris.” She pinched her lips together and shot Sam a seething look. “My
husband
is English.”

God. A married Frenchwoman claiming he'd ruined her. Then again, maybe she would forget she'd accused him of improprieties after meeting Colin, London's most eligible gentleman of charm. Fat chance, that, with his luck.

“Husband?” Colin slapped his chest with his palm. “You wound me, dear lady.”

Sam shifted from one foot to the other, his impatience growing, wishing he could tell Colin to get over it and go away.

Lady Olivia, however, had the decency to blush at his
friend's ridiculous feigned infatuation. Or so it seemed to him. Maybe her heightened color was a product of the heat.

“Is your husband here tonight?” Colin continued jovially. “I would like to meet the man whose good fortune is so obviously beyond mine.”

The Frenchwoman actually giggled—a melodious sound that rang in his ears of true innocence and joy. It totally unnerved him.

Then, in an instant of time, the Lady Olivia sighed and turned her attention back to him as she gave him a solid stare, her shy demeanor changing to one of pure smugness.

“Indeed, sir,” she said without pause, grinning pretentiously, her gaze focused and intense. “This is my husband. Did he not tell you of me? I am married to Edmund.”

It took hours, he thought, for her imperious and brazen announcement to invade his well-ordered, calculating mind; hours, it seemed, for him to comprehend the words she spoke and the central meaning behind them; hours for him to realize that in the slice of a second, this Frenchwoman of “exceptional quality” who stood before him had changed the course of his life.

Edmund. She thought he was Edmund.

The heat of the ballroom became thick and oppressive; the music a blaring cacophony. Expression controlled, he tightened his jaw, determined to remain composed even as his nostrils flared and his heart thudded suddenly from a dark, burning, surfacing rage.

She thought he was Edmund. She claimed to
know
the brother who nearly bankrupted him socially, stole the woman he loved, then left the country ten years ago, never to return.

This Frenchwoman had
married
Edmund. Or so she said.

Jesus.

She must have noticed his reaction, or perhaps rather his
inaction
to her bold affirmation, for at that moment she took a measured step back, watching him closely as her lips thinned.

“Did you think I wouldn't find you, my darling?” she asked haughtily, her shoulders rigid with indignation. “Did you think I wouldn't have the wherewithal to look? Or perhaps you just assumed I'd no longer have the funds to leave France after taking them from me so surreptitiously.”

If Sam had been nonplussed by her beauty at first glance, he was veritably speechless now. There were so many questions rumbling through his mind. So many answers he would now be forced to obtain, answers that he really didn't want to know, least of all relating to her personally. But as his head began to clear, as his heartbeat began to slow, he realized that this woman was the key to finding Edmund, to finally learning what his nefarious brother had done when he'd left all those years ago.

Thankfully, Colin remained quiet, obviously understanding the shock and probably just as confused by the lady's pronouncements as he was. Yet he kept the slightest crooked grin on his mouth, no doubt enjoying this crazy turn of events, this spectacle, watching them both as he sipped his whiskey.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, choosing abruptly, and without
much
malicious intent, he decided, to play the game subtly, if not dastardly. He would deal with the deception later. Right now he wanted her in the palm of his hand, so to speak.

“You seem to have found me just fine, Olivia,” he drawled, planting a wry smile on his mouth as he used her given name easily.

Colin chuckled. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave…”

Sam cast him a fast, silent warning. Then noting that nobody in their immediate surroundings appeared to be the least bit interested in their discussion, he reached out and clasped the Frenchwoman's arm.

“Dance with me,” he whispered.

Her mouth dropped open a little at his daring, but she shut it again and smiled without humor. “I don't think so. I am here to confront you, Edmund, not to dance—”

“Confront me dancing, then,” he interjected, pulling her against him before she could offer another protest.

She definitely didn't want to dance. Her body remained tight with anger, her cheeks flushed by either the warmth of the room or continued indignation, he couldn't be sure which.

Drawing her toward the center of the floor, he guided her into a steady rhythm, blending into the crowd that seemed to part for them. He supposed they made an appealing couple, both tall and dark, her clear, fair skin and blue, blue eyes contrasted by her nearly black hair and shimmering golden gown. No, he was quite sure it was simply her they stared at. He looked like an English nobleman; she looked…fabulous. The Lady Olivia Shea
was undoubtedly the loveliest woman at the ball this night, possibly the loveliest woman he had encountered in years. And she knew him as Edmund. A profoundly uncomfortable turn of events, on every conceivable level.

“I see you've practiced,” she said with some impudence and an obvious irritation at being forced to waltz with him.

I see my brother hasn't lost his touch for choosing sharp-tongued goddesses.

“What else is a man of my position to do, my darling Olivia?” he asked in reply, with all sincerity, observing that she danced quite well and followed his lead perfectly.

“Indeed. I didn't know you were a man of such a grand one,
your grace,
” she fairly spat. “How convenient for you that you kept such intriguing information from me.”

Sam tried not to smile. God, she was dazzling. “You didn't ask.”

She almost gasped. “You're despicable.”

He did smile at that. He couldn't help himself. “I've actually been called worse, but never by anyone quite so beautiful.”

Such a softly spoken admittance—whether honest or facetious—seemed to captivate her, if only for a second, as her brow crinkled and she appeared at a loss for words. Then she lowered her gaze and scanned others in their vicinity.

Seething, she repeated, “I didn't come here to dance.”

His lids narrowed as he smirked. “So you said. And yet you're marvelous at it. I could dance with you all evening.”

Again she appeared to hesitate, failing faintly in her stride, her expression exposing a trace of confusion. Then she shook herself, blinking quickly and finding her pace once more.

Looking back into his eyes, she tightly clasped his shoulder with her gloved hand and glared at him directly. “Why are you doing this? I don't want you, your title, your name. And I especially don't want you to speak romantic words to me, as we both know they mean nothing. They never have.”

He didn't respond to that, only watched her.

The music came to a halt and they slowed to a standstill.

Swiftly, she stepped away from him as if scorched by his very presence.

Once more glaring at him, chin raised, her fingers clutching her delicate fan at her breasts, she murmured, “I want my money returned to me, Edmund. And then I want our marriage annulled. The humiliation ends here, or so help me, by all that is holy, I will ruin
you.
”

Although he did not take her threat seriously, he felt strangely troubled by her disclosure. Still, he wasn't all that surprised by it. If in fact this woman had known Edmund, everything she'd said tonight could very well be the truth. The Edmund he remembered would have readily ruined a young woman, would have easily taken her fortune and disappeared, even married her for it beforehand. Such had always been his very conniving nature. Yet at this point Sam had no information about anything regarding his long-lost brother, and for all he knew, this Frenchwoman could be part of some plot to extort money from him—with Edmund's help or
without him. Just a mere knowledge of his and his brother's sordid past could be used against them for a prize, and Lady Olivia Shea, formerly of Elmsboro, now of Paris, possessed the smarts to do it. He'd learned that much in the last ten minutes.