Every Scandalous Secret (4 page)

“There were many men as stunned as I, of course, for the painting was a new attraction. But there you were, reclining above us all, your skin golden with candlelight against a black background.”

She swallowed, surprised to notice the tightness in her chest, the way she felt too warm even though the storm beyond chilled the conservatory, letting in drafts that seemed to swirl beneath her skirts.

“With your head arched back as if in ecstasy, I could not see your features. And there was that scarf, twisting about you.”

The warmth seemed to pool deep into her stomach, even between her thighs. His voice wove a spell that made her feel . . . sinful.

He was closer now, his smile gone, those dimples hidden, his green eyes as watchful as the deep forest.

He didn’t know anything about her—he didn’t know the truth.

She smiled. “Was that speech supposed to sway me? ‘Oh yes, Mr. Wade, I’ll tell you everything.’ Then you wasted your time and your performance.”

“I wasn’t performing.”

She laughed softly. “But you thought your pretty words would convince me to fall at your feet and offer proof for you to win that wager.”

He grinned and reached to briefly cup her cheek. “No, this is merely the beginning battle in our little war, sweet Susanna.”

She let herself briefly experience the warmth of his hand before stepping back playfully. “Then you should retreat, general. Better yet—surrender.”

He laughed, hands on his hips, watching her as if she’d pleased him tonight instead of refusing to succumb to his obvious ploys.

“I won’t be the one surrendering,” he assured her. “I’ll seduce the truth from you. And you’ll give me the proof I need to win.”

She almost laughed again, for no man had ever attempted to seduce her. But there was something about his confident certainty that intrigued her. “This is your plan? And you didn’t even try to keep it a secret, to at least surprise or fool me?” Once she might have thought his plan proved he lacked intelligence, but now she didn’t know.

He folded his arms across his chest. “There’s no need. As you’ve already said, you’re a woman, Susanna, not a debutante. And according to you, you were daring enough to pose for that painting. I’ll look forward to finding out what else you’ve done—and what you’ll do with me.”

She nodded in reply to his challenge, feeling another tug of amusement as she brushed by him and left the conservatory.

She was forced to hide her emotions when the maid, Marie, rose from a chair before the bare fireplace.

“Oh, Marie, I hope I did not keep you from Lady Caroline.”

“No, miss, she’s not even abed yet. She’s often the last to sleep when Bramfield Hall is hostin’ a party. So I followed you.”

Susanna swallowed, feeling like a croquet ball was lodged in her throat. “Excuse me?”

“I was outside the drawing room after delivering a note to Lady Bramfield from the housekeeper,” Marie said. “I saw you leave. That handsome Mr. Wade trailed right behind.”

Susanna set down the candleholder, and it jittered once against the wood with her unsteady hand. “We simply looked at the rain.”

Marie grinned, even as she pushed a wayward curl out of her eyes. “If ye don’t mind me bein’ so bold, nothin’ improper will ever happen until you do something to help yourself.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The maid threw open the wardrobe doors. “We can’t buy ye new gowns, o’ course, but we can fix the ones ye have. Lady Caroline has practically a whole room of ribbons and lace for us to choose from—and these necklines! Did yer ma insist they cover yer chin?”

Susanna gave a snort of laughter—it was turning into the strangest night. “I—I thought her neckline suggestions made me look too—desperate.”

And then she laughed openly, falling back on the bed. When she came up on her elbows, the maid was shaking her head, wearing an exasperated smile.

“Oh, Marie, perhaps I need your help.”

“I’m glad it didn’t take ye much time to admit it, miss. I don’t offer to help too many—but I think ye could be special.”

Susanna’s warm feeling faded a bit as she remembered Mr. Wade’s blatant plan of action. He thought she’d be easily swayed, a spinster who would succumb to his well-practiced charms.

“This corset manages to endow my ‘special’ figure, Marie. Between us, we’ll do our best. So show me what you have in mind—but let me make one thing clear. None of this is for Mr. Wade.”

Looking skeptical, Marie only said, “Aye, miss.”

Chapter 4

T
he card game went late into the night, to Leo’s relief. Sometimes he had trouble sleeping, and it was best if he was totally exhausted before he went to bed. Otherwise, dark, vague dreams disturbed him. He never remembered them, was only left feeling tired and ill at ease and confused. So he did whatever was necessary to avoid them.

He was encouraged that neither Evans nor Keane had played with him before, so their pockets were quickly emptied. He assured them he’d play another night. It always went this way—his demeanor and reputation made every man think he could defeat him in cards. Even when they’d heard otherwise, they assumed his first win could only be a fluke, and next time they’d have him . . .

He grinned to himself as he retired to his rooms. The valet he’d “borrowed” from Swanley was waiting, the tub already filled with steaming water. He soaked, letting his mind wander, full of confidence that the next time would go just as badly for his opponents. He excelled at cards, never had to question himself, could always read the faces watching him, and had an uncanny ability to know what cards would be played.

His brother Simon had taught him to play long ago, he remembered, smiling faintly as he leaned his head against the back of the deep tub. They’d both been so certain that if their father could be distracted in the evenings by playing with them, that their parents’ arguments would cease. He, Simon, and their sister Georgiana had come up with many different distractions over the years—games and plays and musicales—and each had only worked temporarily.

And now that Simon was blind, he couldn’t play cards anymore, Leo thought, his smile fading. For just a moment, he was back in time a year, standing at his brother’s bedside, helpless at the terrible headaches Simon had suffered and his despair when Simon could no longer see.

Though the family had felt altered by the tragedy—their mother’s reaction the worst of all—Simon had bravely picked up the threads of his life and even married recently. It was hard to live up to a paragon for a brother, Leo thought dryly, but knew his relationship with his brother was about more than that. He’d spent his life learning to emulate Simon’s ease with people, made no secret of his admiration. And it had only increased since Simon’s accident.

But once he lay in bed, his thoughts moved in a different direction. The darkness made him think of the black background of that painting—of Susanna. He hadn’t minded her amusement as she left the conservatory; she was using it to try to alter an inevitable outcome. His thoughts drifted to the look on her face when he’d described the painting. Her lips had been gently parted, her breath coming too quickly, her eyes wide with interest, and perhaps even arousal. The perfect beginning to his plans. He would woo her with words, with touches, until she could no longer help surrendering.

S
usanna awoke at dawn with a start. She was lying in bed, a book facedown across her chest, staring up at the frilly, feminine canopy. The goals she’d been considering for this house party as she fell asleep immediately reemerged in her thoughts.

Eluding Mr. Wade’s plan was something she didn’t even have to worry about. She would be careful when alone with him. He had not overstepped the bounds of a gentleman in the conservatory—although he’d touched her face. It had been startling, far too pleasant.

But once he was convinced of her ability to resist him, he might grow more desperate. Five hundred pounds was a large sum of money to dangle in a younger son’s face.

His words were certainly daring enough. Seduce her, indeed.

With whom did he think he was dealing? She would never succumb to his flattery. She knew the type of woman he preferred; everyone did.

She considered his description of the painting, which had made her feel strangely breathless. She didn’t like to imagine men gaping at it. If the women won the wager, no man would look at it again.

Regardless of Mr. Wade and his games, she was determined to become better acquainted with the other eligible men at Bramfield Hall. But just conversing with them during the evening or at meals seemed . . . impractical. Their speech might be just as misleading as any Mr. Wade gave. She had to find out what kind of men they were. Talking to the other guests would help, of course, but she couldn’t be too obvious about it. She was looking for an intellectual, a man who shared her interests, one who wouldn’t think her work for her father appalling.

So how to find out which man would have the most in common with her? After all, not every man would believe that a woman, even one raised by a professor of anatomy, could threaten her “delicate sensibilities” by sketching dissections.

Her hands still rested on the book across her chest, and it gave her a sudden revelation. The library! Any man she would marry would have to frequent libraries, love reading and educating himself. She would make it a point, once or twice a day, to stop in the Bramfield library and see if she could find a compatible man.

She didn’t expect to be lucky enough to find love—she wasn’t the sort of woman to inspire that kind of passion in men. But respect and communication and shared interests—those were things she could aspire to in a marriage. Surely there had to be some man out there who would embody such simple requirements. And she had several men, all at her fingertips for at least a week. It was perfect!

So on her way to breakfast, she ducked her head into the library. There was no one but a maid, cleaning out the coal grate. Susanna smiled at her, inhaled the smell of leather and lemon polish, and, with a shrug, went off to eat before taking her usual walk.

L
eo hurried into the breakfast room, but he was already too late. Susanna was long gone. This rising early would be the death of him. He’d stayed up far too late, and his head still ached a bit from the brandy. But he was used to that.

As he ate his breakfast, and the other guests came and went, he resisted the urge to ask if anyone had seen Susanna. Much as he desired answers, he didn’t want all the busybodies assuming he planned to marry the woman. He shuddered. Nothing a chap did would be good enough for Susanna Leland. No wonder she was still on the shelf, he thought, remembering the phrase he’d used to her face.

She hadn’t blinked.

But perhaps the nights in her arms would be worth it for a future husband, he amended, his lips tilting in a half smile. If she was the model, and that painting hadn’t been exaggerated . . . his thoughts drifted into memories of its shadowed beauty, the glow of her breasts, the darkness between her slightly parted thighs. A man would do much for that in his bed each night. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering why the image held such appeal for him. He’d seen such paintings before—but none of a respectable woman like Susanna.

He gave a start, then glanced around him. The widow Mrs. Norton was sitting primly beside the widower, old Mr. Johnson. Neither spoke, although she snuck an occasional glance at the man.

At least she wasn’t looking at Leo. He didn’t want to imagine what his face had looked like as he remembered the painting.

He’d already bedded a model who worked for several of London’s finest artists. She hadn’t lived up to the beauty of their art—and certainly Susanna gave no indication that she could either. Art was meant to make one think of the highest achievements, and no ordinary woman could capture that.

“Good morning, Mr. Wade!”

He rose to his feet when Mrs. Randolph entered the room. He could see the boots beneath her plain skirts as she walked toward him and knew she was dressed for the outdoors.

“Good morning, Mrs. Randolph. The rain has stopped, I see.”

“Perfect for a walk. Perhaps I’ll see Miss Leland forging across the hills, as I did yesterday.”

Leo only nodded, trying not to appear too interested in Susanna’s whereabouts. After he seated himself, she brought her own plate and sat across from him.

“How is your brother, Mr. Wade? Such a tragedy, to lose one’s sight in a fall from a horse. I imagine it could happen to many of us, yet the numbers who could flourish as Lord Wade has might be far less.”

“It was an adjustment, Mrs. Randolph, but Simon has never been a man who would shirk his duties. Even when barely out of his sickbed, he was overseeing his estates, as well as my grandmother’s.”

“Must be difficult to be the brother of such a pillar of strength,” Mrs. Randolph said with sympathy.

Leo smiled wickedly. “Such a shame he has to put up with me.”

She laughed with him, but her gaze remained on him occasionally as she ate.

The men planned to fish for the morning, and Leo didn’t decline, letting out a little bit of line for Susanna to become complacent with her supposed ability to elude him. Then, with a little jerk, he’d reel her in later in the day. Usually, the time spent alone with men bothered him the most about house parties, but this time, things were different. He had the anticipation of his next encounter with Susanna.

Early that afternoon, he and the other men joined the ladies on a hilltop that emphasized the beauty of the countryside broken into varied green squares by hedgerows and earthen lanes. An ancient castle rose on a distant hill, the outer walls crumbling but the turrets still pointing to the sky. Pavilions had been erected for protection from the sun, and servants took their catch of fish to fry for the meal. The older couples sat beneath the shade of a pavilion, talking together.

Several tables were piled with fruit and cheeses, as well as bottles of cider, ale, and lemonade. Leo helped himself before strolling toward the ladies. Blankets were spread near the summit of the hill like an enormous quilt, and they sat about, legs folded demurely beneath them, skirts spread, sketchbooks in their laps.

Susanna was closest to the edge of the hill, but to the side, so as not to block the view of her students. She was gesturing to the distant countryside, but he wasn’t really listening. He realized that something seemed . . . different about her. She’d tossed aside her bonnet, and its ribbons trailed in the grass. Her students hadn’t followed her example—perhaps they cared more about freckles than she did.

Her hair was in the same severe style, but the breeze had blown a curl or two about her ears—or had such artifice been deliberate? While he was puzzling about that, he realized that he could see her collarbones winging out gently across her shoulders—this was almost a daring revelation of skin compared to her usual style. He found himself staring as if he could see her breasts, and his own behavior amused him.

He’d never found a house party half so entertaining.

Susanna moved among the blankets, examining sketchbooks, praising as well as critiquing. But even she must have been able to tell that her students were beginning to watch the bachelors. At last the art lesson broke up, and the ladies began to rise and make their way toward the pavilions where the men waited, offering to hold plates or drinks while the ladies helped themselves.

When Susanna did not immediately follow, Leo went to her. “Another successful lesson?”

She glanced at him without a blush or evasion of his gaze, which intrigued him.

“I am evaluating the skills they’ve already acquired,” Susanna said, “and trying to bring some of them up to the knowledge of the others.”

He removed her sketchbook from beneath her arm before she had a chance to grip it tighter. “May I take a look?”

“Would you respect my wishes if I decline?” she asked dryly.

“Probably not. Although I will make quite the show of it, so no one will suspect my dastardly rudeness.”

From the light in her dark eyes, he thought perhaps she was repressing a smile. Ah, success.

He opened the sketchbook, and his own smile faded as he paged through, staring in surprise at her brief representations of Bramfield Hall, from the drawing room during a candlelit evening, to Bramfield’s dogs sleeping in the sun by the orchard, to the distant track and smoke of a train heading north through the Hertfordshire countryside. She was exceptionally talented.

And then there were people—only parts of them, really. Page after page of hands and heads, expressions and poses, the fall of a young lady’s unbound hair, a gentleman’s thighs as he rode his horse.

Leo arched an eyebrow at her upon seeing the latter, but she only put her hands on her hips.

“That isn’t you,” she said mildly.

“Perhaps you’re imagining me.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t look so annoyed with me,” he said. “Others might think we’re having a lovers’ quarrel.”

“They’ll think no such thing. They’ll assume a woman such as myself has little toleration for men like you.”

“Men like me?” he said, hand to his chest in practiced astonishment.

“You like to flirt, Mr. Wade, and everyone knows it. Your attention will only inspire sympathy for me—perhaps even from other gentlemen.” She paused, head cocked in thought. “So maybe you have your uses,” she added slowly.

Wickedly, Leo thought in surprise. He deepened his voice as he said, “I have many uses to a woman.”

She studied him, eyes half-closed. “Yes, perhaps I could use your insistence on cornering me to my advantage.”

“How will this help you?” he asked, amused.