Last Night's Scandal (39 page)

“And to me,” she said, “for finishing it so beautifully.”

“Are we finished?” he said.

“Not quite,” she said. “By the time we have our grand wedding celebration though, we ought to have everything in hand. Then we may set out on our bridal trip.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. Well, a man must make sacrifices. You want to go somewhere romantic, I suppose. Paris. Venice.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t be silly. Everyone goes to those places.” She turned to him. “I want the Sphinx and the Pyramids and tombs and smelly mummies.” Her lips brushed his ear.

“Take me to Egypt, dear friend.”

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Teaser Chapter

If you love Loretta Chase and are looking for more
heart-stopping historical romance, pick up the latest from USA
Today bestselling author Adele Ashworth.

Turn the page for a peek at Ashworth’s

The Duke’s Captive

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Ian Wentworth, the Duke of Chatwin, arrives in London with just one thing on his
mind: revenge. All those he believes responsible for his horrific past have paid with
their lives. All but Viola Barrington-Jones, the lovely Lady Cheshire. Viola has
worked hard to keep her secrets from the prying eyes of the ton, and when she sees
Ian at a glittering ball, her rush of recognition turns to panic. Will the duke
remember the tenderness they once shared, or does he blame her for her family’s
sins? But just as Ian finally has the beauty at his mercy, he realizes revenge may
no longer be what he desires most.

V
iola flipped around, dazed for a second or two as Lucas Wolffe, tall and domineering, stood directly in front of her, acknowledging her in a deep, cool voice.

“Your grace,” Isabella said at once, breaking the spell first with a proper curtsey.

Viola automatically followed with the same, lowering her body gracefully as she tipped her head down in respect, her heartbeat quickening as it always did when she found herself in the company of someone so important. And then past and present collided in swift, brutal force when, as she pulled herself upright and raised her lashes, Fairbourne moved to his left to offer full view of the man standing behind him.

Oh, my God. . .

She blinked, instantly spellbound by a new and vivid unreality.

“Ladies, may I present to you Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford, Duke of Chatwin.” The room began to spin. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford. . .

He’s found me.

Isabella curtsied again, mumbled something. He nodded brusquely in response, then slowly turned his attention to her.

Those eyes . . . Ian’s eyes. Pleading. . .

Run!

She couldn’t move. Their gazes locked, and for an endless moment time stopped, if only between them. History suddenly became now, their shared memories, both distasteful and passionate, fearful and vibrant, passing intimately between them in a heartbeat.

Viola stumbled back a step; her champagne glass fell from her fingertips to shatter on the marble floor at her feet. And still, she couldn’t take her gaze from his face. That beautiful, expressive face, so changed. Perfected in time.

“Viola?”

Footmen scattered around her to quickly sweep up the glass and pale liquid that pooled at the hem of her gown; others in their vicinity backed up to make room. The bluster of sudden activity jarred her and she blinked quickly, glancing down, bewildered.

“I—I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded clipped, hollow.

Isabella wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right? You look ready to faint.”

“No, I’m—I’m fine. Really.” She tried to lick her lips though her tongue felt thick and dry. “I’

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m just—hot.”

Concerned, Isabella opened her fan. “Take this. And sit. Catch your breath.” Fairbourne chuckled, interrupting her disorientation as he reached out and grasped her elbow, helping her into a chair a footman placed beside the sidebar. She looked at him, attempting to draw a full inhale as she fanned herself without thought. “Thank you. I—I apologize, your grace.”

“Not at all, I’m very flattered,” he returned in a good natured drawl. “It’s not often I have such an affect on a lady.”

She tried to smile—then shot a glace at the very real cause of her turmoil.

He stared down at her, his sharp gaze focused intently on her face, his expression unreadable. Then his lips curved up at one corner. “Nor do I. You swooned even before we’d been properly introduced. I usually have to speak before that happens.” Isabella laughed lightly at his charm and cleverness. She, however, had no idea what to say to him. But his voice . . . Oh, how she remembered his voice! It mesmerized her then as it did now—husky soft, low and rich, begging—

“Forgive me,” Fairbourne said after an awkward pause, his tone slightly amused. “Lady Viola Cheshire, his grace, the Duke of Chatwin.”

The man took a step forward to tower over her, blocking the brilliantly illuminated chandelier with his powerful form. Then with a gentle nod, he reached out with his hand, palm up.

Viola stared at it for several long seconds, unsure what to do. But her head had begun to clear. The music played around them, the champagne flowed, and the party carried on as the first great event of the season. They were only two among many. She also realized something else: he’d inherited a new title, and a grand one at that. As a gentleman of such distinguished rank, he certainly wouldn’t expose her, or their past, in front of his peers. Not tonight. Not here, like this. She had no idea why he acted as if he didn’t remember her, and he no doubt enjoyed her discomfiture, but for now her reputation was safe, and that was all that mattered. She had time.

Feeling relief wash over her, more confident for the moment, she inhaled another deep breath. Then staring at his long, hard fingers, she lifted her gloved hand and placed it gingerly atop his.

He closed his thumb over her knuckles, then second by second, gently helped her rise.

Standing before him once more, she curtsied with elegance, playing the part she’d learned.

“Your grace.”

“Lady Cheshire.”

Her name seemed to roll off his tongue as if the sound of it fascinated him. Or perhaps it was only her imagination. But the strength she felt from him as he touched her now, hand to gloved hand, permeated her skin to shock her thoroughly, inside and out.

Strong. Vibrant.
Alive.
Because of her.

He released her and took a step back, standing tall, arms behind him. “Feeling better, I hope.”

She shook herself and rubbed her palm down the bodice of her gown. “Indeed. Thank
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you.”

He nodded once.

Another strained moment skipped by. Then Isabella said, “So . . . Mother informed us you

’re an art collector?”

“I am,” he replied without elaboration.

Viola swallowed. “And a friend of Lord Fairbourne. How delightful for him—for you. As it were.” It was likely the most ridiculous thing she’d ever said, and she felt like cowering inside the moment it was out of her mouth.

Isabella glanced from one to the other, then thankfully saved her more embarrassment.

“Uh, Lord Chatwin, Lady Cheshire is an exceptional artist. Perhaps you’ve seen her work?” Viola felt Ian’s stare on her again and she forced a flat smile even as she felt renewed heat creep up her neck.

“I’ve no idea,” he replied evenly. “Are you perchance famous, madam?” The tenor of his voice teased her to the core, just as it did all those years ago. But there also appeared a telling confidence about him. She raised her lashes to capture his gaze once again, immediately sensing an undefined boldness in their dark depths, something calculating that sent a ripple of warning through her body.

Fairbourne, who’d been silently watching for the last minute or two, crossed his arms over his tailored evening coat. “No need to be humble, Lady Cheshire, you may admit it. I’ve already told Chatwin you’ve painted most of the nobility’s formal portraits in recent years and are celebrated as one of the finest artists in London. It’s why he’s here.”

“Why he’s here?” Isabella repeated.

Viola reached up to wipe a stray curl from her forehead, not because it bothered her, but because she felt more uncomfortable at that moment than she had in the last five years and desperately needed something to do.

“I apologize if I’ve been vague,” Ian murmured, his smile pleasant as he continued to scrutinize her. “But I’ve just returned to London, and expect to remain only for the season.

Since your good reputation precedes you, I wanted to meet you straight away, Lady Cheshire, in the hope that we can discuss a commission of your work while I’m here?” Again, she felt dumbstruck, numb. She had no intention of working for him, being alone with him. Not ever. And yet when he asked like this, standing before her in a crowded ballroom, dressed formally and presenting himself as a man of great wealth and power, she simply could not deny him his request for one innocent meeting. Not if she were to maintain her status as a lady of quality and her reputation as a professional artist.

There was something about this entire encounter that just seemed bizarre. No mention of their past, no recognition from him at all, really. And yet she felt a tension between them that threatened her composure, forcing her to play his hand for the moment.

Overcoming her reluctance, she nodded once, clutching Isabella’s fan to her waist in a measure of defense. “I’ll have to review my schedule.”

“Of course,” he replied at once as if expecting such a standard response.

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Isabella cleared her throat and Fairbourne took the cue.

“Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?”

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She smiled beautifully as she placed her silk-covered palm on his arm. “I’d be delighted, your grace.”

Suddenly, watching her friend wander into the noisy group of mostly inebriated nobility, Viola felt more isolated in the crowded ballroom than she would in a dinghy in the middle of the sea. With growing trepidation, she lifted her gaze one more time, meeting his.

Don’t ask me to dance. Please don’t ask me to dance—

“Lady Viola Cheshire,” he drawled in whisper.

She felt an instant thundering in her breast as he used her given name. “Yes, your grace?”

His lids narrowed, and very, very slowly, he studied the length of her, from the hem of her full, ruby red gown, through her tightly corseted bodice, pausing briefly at her low, rounded neckline and the golden locket resting in the crease of her bosom before moving up her throat to her flushing face. When at last he looked back into her eyes, her breath caught in a whirlwind of panic. For the slightest second she felt hunger within him. Not lust as she knew it, but something else. Something she couldn’t possibly define.

His lips twitched. “I don’t feel much like dancing at the moment.” A palpable relief swept over her even as she felt the slightest twinge of disappointment.

His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Would you care to walk with me on the promenade instead?”

She swallowed, simply unable to look away from him, or answer.

He smiled again as if sensing her hesitation, a beautiful smile that softened the hard planes of his face. Then lifted his arm for her.

She took it because she didn’t dare deny him, and in the course of ten seconds, they were heading out of the ballroom.

THE DUKE’S CAPTIVE

By Adele Ashworth

Available Now

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Acknowledgments

Thanks to:

Eric and Nick, for impeccable service, inspiration, and comic genius; The interpreters of Colonial Williamsburg, who patiently shared their formidable knowledge, endured the endless picture-taking, and inspired me more than they can know—

with special thanks to Mark Schneider and Susan Cochrane for unlocking the mysteries of horses and carriages in olden times;

Sherrie Holmes, for helping to keep chaos at bay—and for explaining equine nuances; Walter, for everything, and especially the part where he galloped in on his white charger and saved me again;

Nancy, Susan, and Cynthia, who already know why.

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About the Author

After a heroic attempt to be an English major forever, LORETTA CHASE stoically accepted her degree but kept on reading and writing. As well as working in academe, she had an enlightening, if brief, life in retail and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she succumbed to the charm of a producer, who lured her into writing novels . . . and marrying him. The union has resulted in what seems like an awful lot of books and quite a few awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s RITA®. To learn more, please visit
www.LorettaChase.com
. To get in touch, please e-mail her at
[email protected]
.