Once Upon a Scandal (11 page)

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Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith

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BOOK: Once Upon a Scandal
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“Six and a half is a very great age, indeed,” he said. “No doubt you are old enough to know right from wrong.” He had the strangest urge to talk further with her. But if his mother were to walk in and see this child who had caused so much strife in the family, she would have a relapse. “Now go on with you. Find a quiet spot in the nursery and reflect upon your misdeed.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Jenny started to trudge away, then swung back, opening her mouth and pointing to a gap in her top front teeth. “I have a loose tooth. See?”
Before he could respond, she skipped out of the library, her heels kicking up the hem of her too-short brown dress.
An unexpected pang of longing tightened Lucas’s chest. How darling she was, how uncannily like the daughters he’d once hoped to have.
Glowering at the empty doorway, he disciplined the tender ache within himself. Lady Jenny Coulter meant nothing to him. She was Emma’s child, Emma’s responsibility, Emma’s to love. Eventually, the two of them would leave this house forever.
No, if he felt any yearning, it was only because he wanted children of his own.
His own.
And the sooner, the better.
Huddled in her voluminous nightgown, Emma sat at the gilt writing desk in her bedroom and thumbed through a stack of invitations. Apparently the news of her reconciliation with Wortham had spread faster than a brushfire. It seemed every noble family who had not left town for the country now planned a rout or a dance party or a musicale.
Unfortunately, Lord Gerald Mannering was not among them.
Emma ruffled the invitations as if they were a hateful deck of cards. She had hoped to gain entry to Mannering’s house in a legitimate fashion, and to execute a daring theft in the midst of his party. Now she might have to resort to her usual modus operandi. And the mere thought of clambering on rooftops in the disguise of the Burglar gave her the shivers.
Closing her eyes, she placed her head in her hands. It was true; she had lost her nerve. Not only was she afraid of being shot, she feared Clive Youngblood. One wrong move and he would be waiting to arrest her. To separate her from Jenny forever.
Somehow, Emma had to obtain the funds to pay off Grandpapa’s debt. Quietly and quickly. She would not take jewels from anyone but the man who had bilked him; that was the only way she maintained her self-respect. Nor could she bring herself to beg the money from Lucas. This dilemma was not of his making—
“Pining for your husband, I trust,” spoke a deep, mocking voice.
She whirled around, almost oversetting the dainty chair. Like a demon materialized from the underworld, Lucas stood behind her. He had discarded the hunter’s-green coat and waistcoat he had worn to dinner with the family. Clad in breeches and shirt, he had removed his stiff white cravat as well, and his shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a wedge of bronzed chest.
Emma swallowed, her heart thudding in her throat. She wore a new nightrail she had obtained from the dressmaker today; the other articles of clothing would be delivered later in the week. Though the white gown covered her from high neck down to bare toes, she was acutely conscious of her nakedness beneath.
“I was just—” Flustered, she paused. “I was looking at some invitations, my lord. Perhaps you would care to see them.”
He watched her as a cat might watch a mouse. “Accept
whichever ones you like. It matters little to me.”
“You surely must have some opinion.”
“Only on more important matters.” He walked to the bedside table and placed something there. It was a small earthenware jar she had not noticed him carrying. Then he returned to her side and held out his hand. “Come.”
Her pulse increased its tempo. She stared numbly at his outstretched palm. His skin was the shade of teakwood, his fingers long and blunt-tipped.
Sweet Jesus. A man’s hand. Capable of violence.
“Don’t panic,” he said calmly. “I shan’t ravish you.”
Disbelieving, she lifted her gaze to his. With the candlelight carving shadows beneath his aristocratic cheekbones, he looked fearfully handsome. “Won’t you?”
“Not without invitation.”
Reaching out, he took her by the hand and drew her to her feet. He stood there a moment, lightly running his finger over the clean linen bandage wrapping her palm. “The mark of courage, I wonder?” he murmured. “Or of a coward fleeing her just reward?”
“I’m not a coward,” she snapped.
“I’m pleased to hear that.” His grasp was warm and firm, inspiring a tenuous trust. Emma found herself following him to the large, four-poster bed. There, to her alarm, he began to undo the small pearl buttons down the back of her nightgown.
She twisted around to face him. “You promised you wouldn’t ravish me.”
“True. Yet I made no promise about not touching you.” His expression was hard, intense. “And you
will
want that, Emma.”
“But—”
He put his finger over her lips, lightly yet insistently. “I make the rules. And I pledge not to consummate the act until you’re ready.”
She quivered. “Then it won’t happen. Not ever.”
A small smile revealed the dimples in his cheeks. “We shall see. Now lie down. On your stomach.”
The secret knowledge in his golden-brown eyes frightened her. What did he mean to do to her? And how could she refuse him?
No choice. No choice. No choice … .
Clasping the nightgown tightly against her breasts, Emma crawled onto the bed and lay herself down. The linens smelled like starch and sunshine. As she buried her face in the pillow, she was keenly aware of the opened buttons at her back. She felt as helpless as a sacrificial lamb.
No. She would not let him intimidate her. She would endure his vile touch with dignity. She would prove her mettle.
The mattress dipped to one side under his weight. His fingers brushed her vulnerable neck as he parted the back of her nightgown. Cool air whispered over her exposed skin, and she shivered in spite of her resolve to be brave.
Leaving her laid bare to the waist, he rose from the bed, and she heard him kick off his shoes. There was a small clinking noise, followed by the unexpected sound of him rubbing his hands together. Dear God, what torture was he planning?
She turned her head to peek just as Lucas got back onto the bed. This time, instead of perching on the edge, he straddled her, his powerful legs pinning her in place. He did not put his full weight on her, yet his groin nestled in the cradle where her buttocks and thighs met.
She clenched her teeth to contain a craven whimper. “Don’t forget your promise.”
“I never forget a promise,” he said with a trace of irony.
Her nightgown had ridden up to her knees, and she could feel the fine cloth of his breeches. At least he wasn’t naked.
His hands descended to her upper back, and she flinched. He slowly traced the knobs of her spine, his palms slick with an oily substance. She could smell the fragrance of it, potent and exotic. To her startlement, he began to knead the tight muscles of her shoulders and back.
His touch felt surprisingly good. The warmth of his body flowed into her, and the pressure he exerted was more pleasant than offensive. The ever-present fear drifted away like
so much smoke. After all, hadn’t he vowed not to force her into a carnal act?
Against her better judgment, she could feel herself relaxing, sinking deeper into the bed, her limbs melting like butter. Her eyelids drifted shut. Oddly, the heat of his massage burrowed deep within herself, as if a ray of sunshine glowed in the pit of her belly, and she found herself basking in the pleasure of it.
She lost track of time. After a while, he shifted position to stroke his hands over her feet, her calves, her thighs. Just as he neared her privates and she began to tense again, he moved to her fingers, her arms, and then her neck. He rubbed soothingly, compellingly, up and down her sides, and a curious thrill unfurled in Emma. She no longer minded his hands being inside her nightdress. It was almost as if Lucas were embracing her, caressing her, loving her. She craved the gentleness of his touch, oh yes, she did. Never had she dreamed she could so trust a man … .
His fingers brushed the sides of her bare breasts. Though she lay on her stomach, he delved deeper beneath her, moving slowly, until he cupped her in his warm palms. Still caught by languor, Emma floated in a strange aura of wonder. Then he lazily stroked his thumbs over the sensitive tips.
She could feel his swollen hardness against her bottom. She gasped as a jolt of physical sensation slapped her to an awareness of his sexual intent. A surge of panic rose to glut her throat. Trapped by his body, she half twisted herself to glare at him.
“Stop it! You’ve no right to touch me so.”
“Don’t I.” It was not a question.
He removed his hands and sat back, a large and menacing presence in the candlelight. Fire gleamed in his tiger’s eyes, and through his opened shirt, his chest was muscled and bronzed against the white linen.
Her flesh still burned where he’d touched her. Panic hovered at the edge of her consciousness. She’d been a fool to lower her guard with him, a man she no longer knew. He could do with her whatever he willed. And he did have the
right. She had given it to him when she’d uttered her vows of holy wedlock.
Quite unexpectedly, he lifted himself from her and leapt nimbly to the floor. He went to the bedside table, picked up the small jar, and held it out to her.
“What’s that?” she asked, cautiously sitting up.
“Scented oil.”
Ignoring the jar, she hitched the bodice of her nightgown higher over her aching breasts. “I’ve had quite enough for one night. Or are you going to force me to accept your touch?”
“No.” His mouth crooked into a half-smile, a devilish smile, and he began to unfasten his shirt. “Now it’s your turn to touch me.”
H
e was a glutton for punishment, Lucas decided.
Wearing only his breeches, he lay prone on the bed, his cheek pressed to the pillow that bore the haunting fragrance of Emma. Beside him his wife perched like a nymph about to take flight. The feel of her hands on him was exquisite torture. He wanted to draw her down beneath him, to make violent love to her until he sated this damnable craving.
But she had been misused once, and she feared intimacy. His mission was to awaken his wife to the joys of physical love. Only then could he achieve his objective—to impregnate Emma.
Small fingers stroked tentatively over his back. The occasional brush of the linen bandage only heightened his awareness of her. She hadn’t quite mastered the technique of applying pressure, of kneading his muscles, but he didn’t care. She was touching him. That in itself was a miracle.
The massage coiled the tension inside him. Every inch of his back felt scorched. So did a certain other place she didn’t touch.
She
would
caress him there—eventually. He had only to exercise the patience of a saint.
But God, she was killing him softly. The memory of the lush warmth of her breasts tormented him. He could feel himself sweating. He was alone in the bedroom with his own wife, and he couldn’t have her. Not yet.
Lucas closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, making it slow and even. In and out. In and out. In and out. Instead of distracting him, the rhythm inspired another torturous fantasy.
He forced his thoughts to his estate in Northumbria. He would go there soon, ride over the rugged countryside. He would take Emma with him. She would be wild for him as he laid her down beneath an oak tree and stripped the clothes from her … .
Hell. This time, he tried turning his mind to Shalimar, and guilt sobered him. So far, the search for her kidnapped son had yielded only a cold trail. He’d spent the day tracking down yet another false clue. Tomorrow he would enlist Hajib to help trace that devil O’Hara.
It was the least Lucas could do. His mistress was patient and serene, everything he wanted in a woman. Their separation was only temporary. He would devote himself to her again. After he had planted a child in his wife.
How quickly would Emma conceive once he seduced her? He might have to make love to her for many nights before his seed took root. For many long and languid nights he could indulge the throbbing of his blood, the primitive instinct to mate with his woman … .
He was throbbing now. It took all his willpower not to turn over, to reach for Emma and end his torment by sinking into her. She would be hot and slick, a tight silken glove. The thought was maddeningly erotic. He would make their pleasure last, build sensation to the very peak of arousal. Then he would bring both of them to sweet, shuddering climax.
The stroking of her hands came to a gradual stop. She drew away quietly, and the bedropes didn’t creak, so slowly did she leave his side.
Lucas lifted his head to see Emma tiptoeing toward the dressing room. “Where the devil are you going?” he growled.
She spun around with a gasp. “Lucas! I—I thought you were asleep.”
“Asleep.” He couldn’t help a disgruntled grin. “Hardly.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, an unlikely angel in her pure white nightgown, wisps of fair hair tumbling around her shoulders. “I’m terribly weary,” she said in a small, meek voice. “Please don’t take offense, but I must ask you to leave now.”
Like hell you’re tired
. Seeing the wary desperation in her eyes, he bit back the retort. It was best not to push her. Best to keep chipping away at her defenses bit by bit. Best to ignore the hot pressure inside his breeches.
He rose from the bed and walked to Emma. Taking her chin between his fingers, he tilted up her face. Silvery-blond tendrils framed her perfect features, a breathtaking testimonial to a benevolent Creator.
She was his. His alone.
Cupping her face in his hands, Lucas kissed her slowly and deeply, letting his lips convey a promise of provocative pleasures to come. He felt the resistance in her, the alarm that stiffened her muscles. He thought he sensed also the agitation in her as the natural desires of her body waged war with her fears.
When he lifted his head, he was gratified that Emma no longer flinched from him. Her eyes were huge and blue, her mouth reddened from his kiss. He glided his fingertip down the charming slope of her nose. He knew now that her skin was even more creamy-soft elsewhere on her body, and the prospect of further exploration tantalized him.
It was too soon, though. Regrettably, he must resist her for now.
Bending close to her ear, he murmured, “Until next time.”
Until next time
.
Emma could still hear the echo of Lucas’s parting words the following afternoon as she strolled with Sir Woodrow along the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Jenny skipped ahead on the earthen path, scuffing through fallen leaves in her eagerness
to feed a family of swans gliding near the shoreline of the water.
It was annoying to think of her husband instead of the early autumn splendor of the park, Emma reflected. Wasn’t it enough that he had spoiled her evening? Long after he had disappeared through the connecting door to his own suite, she had lain awake in the darkness, remembering how sleek and hard his back muscles had felt, how broad and imposing his shoulders were, how firm and narrow his waist. If she closed her eyes, she could smell the aroma of exotic oil blended with the musky scent of male.
An uneasy warmth lurked in the pit of her stomach. Never had she imagined herself touching a man so intimately. And of her own free will.
No, not free. Lucas had given her an impossible choice: prison … or procreation. She subdued an ironic chuckle. What a comedic farce she was playing! A marionette show—and Lucas was the puppet master.
“My dear, you are frowning quite fiercely,” Sir Woodrow said. “Are you certain it’s wise for us to walk together? If Wortham were to find out …”
She looked up into his steadfast gray eyes. “My husband does not govern my actions. Nor does he choose my companions.”
“Yet I worry he might mistreat you. I fail to understand why he insists upon you and Jenny living there with him.”
She took a deep breath. Woodrow deserved to know the truth. “That’s what I needed to talk to you about today. You see …” A flush heated her cheeks, but she forced out the words. “He wants me to bear him an heir.”
Woodrow stopped dead. His cheeks paled to ghostly gray. “What? That’s outrageous! He abandoned you for seven years. He cannot demand your affections now.”
“He doesn’t care about my affections,” Emma admitted. “He merely wants a son. As soon as I give him one, he’s promised to seek a divorce.”
Woodrow drew her beneath the spreading limbs of a chestnut tree, out of Jenny’s earshot. “And what if you bear him
a girl?” he asked. “You might have a dozen daughters.”
The possibility worried Emma. How could she stay with Lucas for years? And how could she leave her children behind when she left?
Desolation washed over her, and she blinked to clear the hot dryness that stung her eyes. She mustn’t think of that wrenching moment now, lest she go mad. “Yes, I might have to bear him more than one child. And so …” She paused, swallowing hard. “So I wanted to offer you the chance to end our association. I cannot ask you to wait years for me.”
“You most certainly can,” Woodrow asserted. He pressed her gloved hands chastely. “Don’t you know? I would wait forever for you, my dear.”
“But you deserve a wife, children of your own.”
“No other lady will do. Nor any other child but Jenny.” Glancing at the girl, who stood among the reeds, tossing breadcrusts to the swans, Woodrow scowled. “Blast Wortham! It’s barbaric of him to demand you bear his son. Let the cad divorce you now, and
he
can marry someone else.”
Emma shook her head. “He won’t. He claims to love only his mistress. A foreign woman he met in his travels.” To counter the rise of resentment, she strove for a droll tone. “At least
I
come from excellent breeding stock.”
Woodrow shook his fist with rare vehemence. “Breeding stock, bah. You’re a lady who deserves to be honored.”
His unflinching support gratified her. Yet Emma couldn’t bring herself to tell him that Lucas held the threat of jail like a guillotine blade over her neck. Woodrow didn’t know about her masquerade as the Burglar.
“Lucas wants his own son to carry on the family name,” she said resolutely. “And I owe him a debt beyond measure. Without him, Jenny would have been born a bastard.”
“Yet considering the way Wortham has ignored her, the dear child might as well have been born out of wedlock.”
An agonizing remorse pierced Emma. “Do you think I did wrong by her? At the time, I had no other recourse.”
Woodrow’s frown lessened. “Oh, my dear, I’ve upset you
now. Please forgive me. I’m angry at Wortham, not you. And of course you did right. It’s only—”
“Only?”
“Had I only known sooner, had I already resigned my commission,
I
would have been proud to marry you. And even prouder to be a father to Jenny.” He shifted his moody gaze toward the girl.
An aching love filled Emma as she watched Jenny, so intent on her mission to divide the crumbs equally among the birds. Never, not for all the jewels in the world, would she let her daughter come to harm.
She turned back to Woodrow. “We
can
marry … afterward. He’ll set me free, then. He’s given me his word.”
“His word. Will you trust a man who knows so little of gentlemanlike behavior?”
“I have to,” Emma said in a low voice. “It’s the only way to win my liberty.”
Woodrow grasped her hands with sudden fierceness. “If you wish to defy him, Emma, you’ll have my staunch support. We can depart England together—live on the Continent. I’ll take care of you and Jenny. And treat the two of you with all due respect.”
His fervent offer took Emma aback. She withdrew her hands. “No. I—I couldn’t do that. As I said, I feel an obligation to Lucas.”
“So to suit his selfish purposes, he’ll keep me from you and Jenny.” The bitterness of pain etching his face, Woodrow gazed at the girl, who had doled out her supply of breadcrusts and now collected leaves on the pathway.
The soughing of the wind through the willows sounded sad and lonely to Emma. How frustrated Woodrow must be, for he had waited patiently to marry her, only to have his hopes dashed. Seven years ago, he had returned from the battlefields of Portugal to find her pregnant and alone, abandoned by her bridegroom, and under the dubious guardianship of her prodigal grandfather. Woodrow had lent a sympathetic ear during the difficult weeks of late pregnancy and then had helped her through the trials of motherhood,
treating little Jenny as if she were his own daughter. Never had he chastised Emma for conceiving a child out of wedlock, nor had he probed for the name of Jenny’s father. Yet Emma sometimes wondered why he didn’t … .
A gust of wind snatched off Jenny’s bonnet and sent it tumbling down the path. Laughing, she chased after it, and Woodrow dashed in pursuit. He caught the bonnet and held it aloft like a prize of war. The two of them fought a mock battle. Then he placed the bonnet over her chestnut braids and bent down to tie the green ribbons beneath her chin.
Watching them, Emma bit down hard on her lip. She felt safe with him, protected from harm. On more than one occasion, when a gentleman had attempted to procure her seervices as whore, Woodrow had defended her honor. Never had he treated her as less than a lady. And never had he pressed his physical attentions upon her. He was content with a fond peck on her cheek.
Unlike Lucas.
Emma shivered from more than the cold wind. With Lucas, she had the disquieting sense of being stalked by a tiger. It was in his eyes, the hunger, the relentlessness, the pitiless pursuit of the predator. He would come to her night after night until he had claimed what he wanted: her body, his for the taking. Her stomach fluttered with a troubling mixture of dread and anticipation. She despised his manhandling of her. That must be why she could not banish the memory of his heated hands on her breasts.
Until next time.
“A rather paltry gathering, to be sure,” Olivia commented, scanning the half-empty ballroom, where a group of muscians tuned their instruments in an alcove. “Those people with sense enjoy the autumn months at their estates in the country.”
“And here, there are only those too dissipated to stay away from the gaming tables of the city,” Emma whispered back. “And those too dull to know the difference.”
Olivia’s mouth twitched. Her eyes took on a merry sparkle.
“And I wonder where that leaves us—” Abruptly, she clamped her lips into a tight line and swung her attention back toward the dance floor.
Unwilling to let her disappointment show, Emma restrained a sigh. Perhaps Olivia would never let down her guard. It shouldn’t matter, since Emma had no intention of remaining a part of Lucas’s family.

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