Duke of Scandal (7 page)

Her eyes flashed in irritation. “Actually, I recently married him.”

He almost grinned. Her comment fed directly into his merging thoughts. “Yes, you did, and strangely enough, I'm beginning to believe your claims.”

She straightened in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Should I thank you?” she asked sarcastically, and obviously perturbed.

He did smile then, in anticipation, though as much as he wanted to answer, he managed to brush over that question. “I propose that we look for Edmund together, Lady Olivia, in France.”

She didn't reply at once, just watched him dubiously. Then very slowly she asked, “How do you suggest we do that exactly? Where would we start, and who would chaperone us on this quest? And why France? Since he's stolen from me, one can only assume he's left the country.”

Sam drew in a long breath, relishing this moment even as his pulse began to beat in his temple from pure anticipation. “I think we should start in Paris because that's where he was last seen. We can trace his movements, visit those he knew, those with whom he socialized. If he was involved with other people in this scheme to swindle you of your fortune, we'll catch them off guard.”

She huffed. “Who on earth would be so despicable?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I've no idea. But the best place to find out, the best place to start looking, is in Paris.”

She thought about that for a while. “I assumed he'd return here, to his home, his family.”

“Edmund would never return to England,” he replied sharply.

Her brows rose. “How do you know this, sir?”

He adjusted his large form in his chair, not yet ready to reveal too much about his past when he didn't yet trust much of what she said. “Suffice it to say I know how my brother thinks.”

She almost snorted. “Yes, well, I thought I did, too.”

His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Then he murmured, “We'll go to France, start there anyway, to see if anyone reveals his whereabouts because they'll think I'm him.”

“What do you mean they'll think you're him?” she asked with slowly building suspicion.

“You are married to a man who is my
twin,
Olivia,” he murmured gravely, stressing that point to hit home. The side of his mouth curled up. “Whoever he's involved with will certainly be shocked to see me with you after he's swindled you of your fortune. It'll stir the bees' nest hopefully, and in turn draw out some information.” He paused, then added matter-of-factly, “Unless you have a better idea.”

It seemed to take a long time for her to understand his so-called proposition, to come to terms with exactly what it was he suggested they do. And then, instead of becoming indignant or shocked, her mouth turned up in amusement.

“You're serious,” she murmured.

He took another sip of wine to prolong his answering. “Oh, I'm very serious, which is why I kissed you. If I am to pose as Edmund, you and I will have to act like we're married.” After a pause, he added, “There's an attraction between us, so it shouldn't be too difficult.”

She stilled, her features going flat, though her eyes widened with incredulity. Sam waited, enjoying the moment immensely.

“I'm…speechless,” she whispered seconds later.

He lifted his fork again and speared a bite of what remained of his orange duck. “Speechlessness is good in a woman, I think.”

“You're despicable to even suggest that we—” She coughed, then swallowed. “—that we—”

She couldn't finish voicing her thoughts. He re
mained silent, drawing her fears out as long as he could, for absolutely no other reason than the fact that he enjoyed watching her face flush and her body squirm from the mere thought of the two of them becoming intimate. And he knew she was thinking about just such an act now, as she blinked quickly, then looked away uncomfortably, then reached for her wineglass and finished off the contents in two unladylike swallows.

Sam placed his elbows on his armrests and tented his fingers in front of him, giving her time to visualize everything, relishing the feel of his own body reacting as it should from the idea of seeing her spread out on the sheets and beckoning with her sultry blue eyes for him to take her. Of course that would never happen if she still loved Edmund, and the two of them were in fact legally married, but it was a marvelous thought nonetheless.

At last she shook her head as if to clear such disturbing thoughts from her mind, then smiled matter-of-factly and looked at him directly. “Of course we cannot—”

He raised his brows. “Cannot?”

She never moved her gaze. “We cannot be indiscreet, your grace.”

He had to admire her boldness, even if her comment could mean any number of things. “Of course not, Lady Olivia. You are my responsibility as my sister by marriage and I take that very seriously.”

She relaxed in her chair minutely, nearly smiling with a measure of relief. “I've no doubt.” Seconds later she admitted, “Aside from a few details to be worked
out, it sounds like a decent start, considering what little information we have. When do we leave?”

Sam tried not to appear stunned at her sudden approval of his plan. It struck him then that under different circumstances he might actually like this woman and all her mischievous charm and apparent intelligence. Her indescribable physical beauty would only be an added bonus. He couldn't say that about any other lady he knew. In fact, as he considered it now, he'd never known a woman who came in such a tightly wrapped package of fascinating glamour, power, and smarts. And this one belonged to his brother. If it weren't so laughable, it would have infuriated him.

“We leave Saturday after next,” he replied, a bit too harshly, turning his attention back to his food with a forceful fork.

Again she paused, likely trying to assess his change in mood. He only wished he could tell her how uncomfortable she made
him
under the circumstances, but to do so would be admitting an inappropriate lust. He'd rather just come across as mad.

“Thank you ever so, your grace,” she retorted, her sarcasm all but slicing the air as she lifted her fork as well. “You've been more than generous.”

He didn't glance up as they began to eat again in silence. She didn't understand his animosity, and frankly, he wanted it to stay that way. The less they liked each other, the easier, and faster, this trip would be.

At least that was his hope.

T
he Parisian sunset spread out as a vast display of brilliant color, hues of orange and gold made darker by the smoky haze that rose above tall buildings lining Rue Gabrielle, where Olivia now alighted from their private coach to stand beside her brother-in-law, the most irritating, most stubborn, most…masculine Duke of Durham. Of the three words that best described him, the last was the most exact, though he was also vain and arrogant and serious to a fault.

Their journey from London, across the Channel and into Paris, had been uneventful and rather fast as far as trips go. Although just being in his presence made her nervous, a feeling she'd never experienced with Edmund, he hadn't spoken much to her aside from the necessary, although she did think he stared at her far too often, his lingering gaze only serving to intensify
her agitation. They'd endured each other's company, talking when appropriate, and spending nights in separate quarters when they had to rest. Now, after entering Paris, the ruse would begin and she'd need to pretend to be his wife, a deception that both excited and appalled her.

They'd arrived only a short while ago, and already the doubts were gnawing at her for agreeing to such an improper scheme, yet now there was no turning back. And as she stepped onto the curb at the Nivan storefront, even the concierge referred to him as her husband, without appearing surprised to see her again with the man he assumed was Edmund after weeks away. The duke played his part well, speaking to the man for a moment in French, assuring that their luggage and trunks would be arriving shortly and ordering them to be taken to their apartments upstairs. His word use and accent were excellent. She hadn't considered that he'd know the language, though she shouldn't have been surprised that he would be properly educated as one of the aristocracy. Edmund spoke French, but then, he'd lived in the country for years.

“Which way, madam?” the duke leaned over to murmur in her ear.

The feel of his warm breath on her lobe made her shiver even in the late spring heat and stagnant city air. “Inside,” she snapped, as if that were a remarkably stupid question for him to ask.

She could positively feel him smirking behind her, which she ignored as she lifted her skirts and walked toward the front doors, held open by a footman for her to enter without a pause in her stride.

The familiar scents of lavender and spices filled her nostrils, immediately cutting out the odors of horses and street fare. At last she was home, back in friendly territory, a realization that proved to instantly soothe her for the first time in weeks.

“Madame Carlisle, you have returned!”

Olivia grinned as Normand Paquette, her assistant and longtime friend and advisor, made his way out from behind the sales counter, arms extended.

“Normand, it's so good to be home,” she said as he grasped her shoulders and gently kissed both cheeks.

“
Oui,
such a dreadful trip north took too long,” he added, his mouth turned down into a clearly forced frown.

She squeezed his upper arms with gloved fingers. “How is everything? Did the shipment of sandalwood finally arrive? Is Madame Gauthier still unsure about her choice for—”

The duke cleared his throat behind them. Olivia turned sharply, still holding Normand by the arms. “Uh, forgive me, darling,” she stressed for his benefit. “You remember Monsieur Paquette, my assistant?”

Normand bowed his head slightly. “Monsieur Carlisle, welcome home.”

Olivia could feel the duke move to stand directly behind her, and for a second she thought he might grasp her shoulders in possessive display. She instinctively dropped her hold of Normand as if he'd caught fire.

“Monsieur Paquette,” her faux husband acknowledged, his tone deep and formal. “We meet again.”

“Normand, please,” the Frenchman insisted, smiling
matter-of-factly. “No need for such formality between us. Your wife has been greatly missed. Nivan is very fortunate to have her returned to us.”

It was altogether telling for her assistant to remind them of her absence in this way. He wasn't rude, exactly, but then Normand was never rude. Yet the man had never trusted, or even liked, Edmund, and she noticed a tension in the air that wasn't there a moment ago. She took it upon herself to ignore it and press on.

“Monsieur Carlisle and I will retire to our apartments first, Normand. Tomorrow you and I will discuss business and gossip over tea,” she said with a grin.

Normand laughed and leaned forward to kiss her again on one cheek. “So good to see you, Olivia. Please, get rest. I let Madame Allard know yesterday of your arrival this evening so she would tidy up and have a bit of food awaiting you.”

Madame Allard was her part-time housekeeper and cook, who normally worked only short days but helped her tremendously with household matters when she was busy with the business. Olivia managed a sigh of relief that she'd gotten word in time to make up the spare bed with clean sheets. In her mind, that was more important than food at this point.

“
Merci,
Normand. I will see you in the morning.”

He moved out of the way to let them pass, and the duke took her elbow as she escorted them past the display cases and two sales girls with watchful eyes, whom Olivia didn't recall ever meeting. But then sales girls came and went, and Normand was usually the one to hire them, or dismiss them if their work suffered.

Nearing the back of the building, Olivia led the duke through the small and richly decorated private salon, where elegant ladies took tea or wine while discussing the newest scents, then raised her skirts with both hands to climb the circular staircase beyond it, freshly painted in stark white and carpeted in rich red brocade. It led up to the third floor apartments where she lived when in Paris.

The duke followed silently, standing closely behind her while she pulled the key from her velvet reticule and inserted it into the lock of her private quarters. With a quick turn to the right it gave way easily, and she entered at once, her brother-in-law following without hesitation.

Striding into the parlor on her left, Olivia closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling a certain tension leave her body as she warmed to the accustomed smells and sounds of home.

“Leave the door open a crack for the footmen to bring in our baggage,” she said as she began pulling on the fingers of her gloves.

“I'm not a servant, madam.”

She whirled around in surprise, her skirts thrashing his legs as he fairly towered over her. “I—I didn't mean to imply that you were, your grace,” she stated with firm resolve, still clutching her gloves.

He stared down at her, his mouth turned up at one corner, his eyes showing a trace of irritation. “This may be your home, Olivia, but I am in charge of the operation, remember that.”

She blinked, her sudden good feeling of returned contentment melting away like snow on warm skin
with one solid glance up and down his rigid body. “The ‘operation'? What operation?”

He drew in a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze never leaving her face. “Let us be clear about this, dearest sister,” he clarified, his tone low and grave. “You may be back at Nivan and in your former relaxed and prosperous environment, but you're not here to return to your daily routine, happy and in control of all that surrounds you. I'm with you this time, for a singular purpose, for as long as it takes to complete our mission.”

Exasperated, she hissed, “I know that!”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she insisted forcefully, suddenly angry that he spoke to her as if she were a five-year-old. “I know what we've come to France for, sir, but let's be realistic. You use words like ‘operation' and ‘mission' as if this journey to find your brother is some kind of formalized…military action. It's not. This is about my livelihood, about commitment and the man I married, regardless of your concerns.” She straightened her shoulders in a show of dignity, pulling at her gloves again and fairly ripping them from her hands. “Perhaps you should think less about yourself and more about exactly why you're here in the first place.”

He didn't say anything for a moment or two, just watched her with calculating, almost ruthless eyes. Then, in a quiet murmur, he asked, “Has it not occurred to you that instead of concern for
my
desires, I've come all this way because I'm thinking of you?”

That confused her totally, as she had no idea how to answer a question that clearly held several possible
meanings beneath its innocence. Instinctively she took a step away from his overbearingly male stature, feeling a rising heat within from his uncomfortable closeness.

Before she lost the nerve, she crossed her arms over her breasts and replied succinctly, “Perhaps thinking of me
is
a concern for your desires, your grace, since you seem to enjoy spending an obscene amount of time staring at my face and person.”

He couldn't believe she said that. She could see it in the small, immediate jarring of his head, the way his eyes lit with incredulity and widened a fraction. For a slice of a second her cleverness in stumping him infused her with pure satisfaction—until he stepped toward her and grasped the edges of her long silk gloves, still clutched in her hands, and used them to slowly draw her against him.

“Your face and form are the most exquisite I have ever seen in my life, Olivia Shea, no doubt sculpted to perfection by the gods,” he said in a coarse whisper. “You are, indeed, a package of beauty that defies description, and I can't help but be aware of it every time I lay eyes on you, which I'm fairly confident you actually enjoy.”

It was her turn to be shocked; heat suffused her neck and cheeks. “How dare you suggest—”

He jerked her harder against him, effectively cutting her off, his legs draped by her skirts, his body so close his chest rubbed against her bare arms, now molded to her breasts. She couldn't move, mesmerized by his uncanny ability to deprive her of words or action.

“I have learned that not only is desire both sweet
and
bitter, it is almost always mutual.” His jaw hardened,
his eyelids narrowed. “Your mere presence may tempt me, my Lady Olivia, but I promise you now, you will never,
ever
win me.”

Win
him?

His warm, moist breath captured stray curls on her cheek, making them tickle her skin, and for countless seconds she couldn't comprehend anything logically except the fact that he smelled heavenly and felt…warm. Like a man.

“This is not a competition, your grace,” she breathed through clenched teeth, capturing his gaze with one of defiance as he gradually pulled away from her.

The hard planes of his face relaxed minutely; he cocked his head to one side, loosening his grip on her gloves. Calmly, he replied, “I'm beginning to think it might be, at least from your perspective.”

A sharp rap at the door startled them both, interrupting the sudden awkwardness of their extreme closeness. Olivia took a quick step back and away from him as he released her without reluctance.

“Madame, your baggage,” the building concierge said after clearing his throat.

Flustered, she averted her gaze to the Frenchman. “
Merci,
Antoine,” she replied, breezing past the duke in noble fashion. “Please place my trunks in my private quarters, and my husband's in the guest room.”

If the concierge thought her request odd, he didn't show it. Immediately he began to do as she ordered, utilizing two footmen to carry their belongings to their respective rooms. She felt more than noticed the duke turn away from her and move to the parlor window that looked west toward the darkening sky.

Moments later and without another word, Antoine and the footmen departed, closing the door solidly behind them. Alone once again, the awkward silence droned.

“You're going to have to stop calling me ‘your grace.'”

Through a long, full breath, she turned to face him, her pulse quickening as she watched him reach up to loosen his tie and unbutton the top of his shirt. Even Edmund hadn't undressed in front of her, and the picture of this man doing it stirred her, warming her to the bone. She forced the indecent thoughts he provoked from her mind, matching his movement by lifting her hands to tidy tendrils of hair that had escaped her plaits.

“Just a moment ago,” she retorted, attempting to keep the conversation focused, “you forbade me to treat you as a servant.”

He tossed her a wry grin, resting his palms on the windowsill behind him. “There is an in-between, Olivia.”

His casualness made her mad for no reason she could fathom. “Oh? Shall I call you Edmund, then?”

“When we're around others, yes. When we're alone like this, I prefer Sam.” He waited, then added a bit more gently, “It is my Christian name.”

In all this time that she'd known him, which, all things considered, wasn't actually that long, his Christian name had never once crossed her mind. She now recalled that he'd mentioned it at their first private meeting, but only in passing. Odd that she hadn't considered him a separate individual before now. Always,
he seemed to be a replica, or more precisely, a variation, of her husband, not a completely different man. A man with his own unique experiences, his own hopes and dreams and disappointments.

Averting her gaze, Olivia moved to her small pine secretary, lifting a stack of notes and cards resting on top that had come by post during her absence. “I imagine Sam is short for Samuel?” she asked, sifting through them with little concentration.

“No, Samson,” he replied.

She frowned, realizing she'd missed Madame LeBlanc's annual spring soiree while she'd been gone, a party that usually drummed up plenty of business for the coming summer scents.

“Then I suppose for this little adventure I shall play your Delilah,” she remarked, half jesting.