Once Upon a Scandal (22 page)

Read Once Upon a Scandal Online

Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Once Upon a Scandal
10.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Her grandfather sat hunched before the old secrétaire. A single candle dripped wax onto its tin holder, shedding meager light over the sheaf of papers on the opened desk. On a nearby table sat his untouched supper tray with brown gravy congealing atop a mound of roast beef and potatoes. He was scribbling furiously, and the pen sounded like the mad scratching of a mouse.
“Grandpapa?” she said, venturing into the dim room.
He gave a start of surprise. The quill pen flew into the air and then twirled downward. He leapt up so fast the rickety chair crashed to the floor. As he spun around, the monocle fell from his eye and swung crazily from the leather ribbon attached to his lapel. “Confound it, girl! Must you send me into a heart seizure?”
“I knocked.” Too curious to be contrite, Emma walked closer: “What are you writing? It can’t be letters. You despise correspondence.”
“Hah. ’Tis never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.” He shoveled the papers inside and slammed the lid shut before she could catch more than a glimpse of his flamboyant, ink-blotted handwriting. “Now, why the deuce are you here? You striplings ought to be out dancing at a party somewhere.
I
would’ve been at your age.”
“Speaking of parties,” Lucas said from behind her, “we’re here in regard to the party you never attended last night.”
Lifting the monocle to his eye, her grandfather peered closely from Emma to Lucas. “Oh-ho. I see Youngblood’s been pestering you, too. Well, devil take that sly fox. And that tale-telling Miss Pomfret. Time was, a homely gel like her would have been glad to have me in her bedroom.”
“Grandpapa!” Emma’s breast ached as she closed the distance between them. He stood only an inch taller than she,
and she looked him straight in the eyes. “How could you rob an innocent lady? It’s Lord Gerald Mannering who won our money, not Miss Pomfret.”
“’Tis tit for tat. Don’t forget what she stole from you.” He wagged an ink-stained finger at Emma.
“From me?” she asked in confusion.
“Aye, the little chippy insulted you. ’Tis her and other gossipmongers who filched your good name.”
“Insulted?” Lucas stepped into the small circle of candlelight. His sun-burnished features were drawn into a scowl. “Just what did this woman say to you?”
“It was nothing—” Emma began.
“’Twas at Mannering’s ball,” her grandfather put in. “The hound-faced chit thought herself too good to speak to my granddaughter. So I decided Miss Nose-in-the-air deserved a good fright in return. I sneaked into her house, found the necklace, and shook the blasted thing in her face whilst she was sleeping.” Slapping his knee-breeches, he let out a cackle of laughter. “She jumped nigh to the ceiling. And tried to hit me with her pillow.”
Emma subdued the urge to giggle hysterically. “That isn’t amusing. Grandpapa, you left your glove behind. What if Youngblood traces it back to you?”
“So what if he does? I’ll swear I was there at her invitation. And let her rich, title-hunting parents prove otherwise.”
“You’d ruin her—if you haven’t already,” Lucas said thoughtfully. He pulled up a chair and straddled it, resting his arms on the ladderback. “Of course, she deserves just that.”
He and Lord Briggs shared a long look. Glancing from one man to the other, Emma felt a prickling of alarm. “What are you two thinking?” she asked. “Surely you wouldn’t plot the ruin of a silly young girl.”
“No,” Lucas said. “I suggest we turn our attention elsewhere. Livvie told me about Lady Jasper Putney’s ill-mannered remark to you. About how unnaturally pale you looked on our wedding day.”
His hard brown eyes held a hint of fury. Was he truly angry at Lady Jasper? Or, Emma wondered, had the old, hurtful memories surfaced again?
“What can we do to hoist the old witch by her own petard?” Lord Briggs snapped his fingers. “I have it. At the next party, I shall invite her outside, then tear open my cravat and my shirt so that everyone thinks she attacked me.”
“No one would believe it—she has ice in her veins,” Lucas said. “I should engage her husband in cards and then accuse him of cheating. The
ton
will shun him—and her.”
“Don’t you dare.” Emma whirled on him in horror. “He’d challenge you.”
Lucas smiled wolfishly. “Let him. I hear he’s a poor shot.”
Her grandfather chuckled. “Couldn’t even bring down the Burglar at ten paces.”
“How can you two jest about this?” She paced in front of his chair. “I won’t have you dueling, Lucas. It’s madness!”
“Would you care if I died?”
He spoke in a negligent tone, though he watched her with that taunting half-smile. She wanted to slap the smirk off his sinfully handsome face—and fall to her knees and confess her love for him, too. “Dueling is not only against the law, it’s barbaric,” she said evenly. “I forbid you to fight on my behalf.” She swung toward Lord Briggs, who observed their bickering with keen interest. “Nor will I allow
you,
Grandpapa, to sneak into ladies’ bedrooms and steal from them.”
“I didn’t steal,” he said, folding his arms.
“Call it whatever you like, but give the necklace to me.” She held out her hand. “I’ll make sure it’s discreetly returned.”
“Don’t have it—I tossed it ’neath her bed. The minx will find it soon enough.”
Emma lowered her arm. “You didn’t take it?”
“Of course not. As I said, I meant only to scare her.” An unholy gleam shone in her grandfather’s blue eyes. He leaned against the closed secrétaire. “I’ve a better plan for
repaying Mannering. It’s quite clever, if I may say so myself.”
“What plan?”
“Can’t tell now. ’Tis a secret.”
She noted the glee on his weathered features. “Is it legal?”
“Utterly.”
“If this has anything to do with gaming—”
“No. I give you my solemn promise.” He clapped his hand to his chest.
Emma hoped she could believe him this time. She didn’t have the heart to remind him he’d already broken his vow not to gamble. He’d be wounded by her lack of faith in him. And she knew how badly mistrust could hurt.
Lucas rose from the chair and slid his arm around her. “Now that we’ve solved our little mystery, my wife and I can turn our attention to other matters.” His fingers stroked the curve of her waist, his warmth penetrating her body. “Do join us for dinner one night this week, will you, Briggs?”
“I’m rather busy, but I’ll make the time.” Her grandfather grinned. “The real question is, will
you
two have the time?”
Even as she puzzled over his conspiratorial wink at Lucas, Emma found herself being whisked out of the house and into the coach. She was frustrated by her inability to read the communication between the two men. Why wouldn’t Lucas have time to dine with guests?
Determined to find out, she turned toward him in the darkened coach. And found her breasts crushed against his solid chest. His warm breath plumed over her mouth, weaving a thrill through her raveled senses. “At last,” he murmured, “we can tend to those other matters.”
And then his hard and hungry lips came down on hers.
A
mong the few kisses Emma had known, this one far outranked all others. It was both harsh and tender, terrifyingly intense and unbearably exquisite. He kissed her until she felt weak from wanting and dizzy with pleasure. When at last he dragged in a long breath and rubbed his stubble-rough cheek against hers, she clung to him, gasping for air in a sea of sensation.
His heart beat fiercely against her breasts. His eyes glittered through the darkness. “You’re mine, Emma,” he said. “I shan’t wait any longer. Tonight is the night.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”
She told herself to resist, for he meant to claim her firstborn son. If she’d thought him a poor prospect for a father, she might have found the strength to refuse. But she remembered the kite he had given to Jenny today, his acceptance of the little girl whom he might have scorned.
Nothing else seemed to matter when she could feel the tenderness of his touch. A gas lamp on the street cast shuddering shadows inside the dim coach, echoing the dark thrill that spun through her. Pondering the mystery of her surrender, she shaped her hand around the side of his neck and felt the throb of his lifeblood. Lucas. Her husband. Who would have thought she would come to care for him so deeply?
She wanted to be his wife in truth. Her decision had been made that very afternoon in the sunlit meadow. She wanted
his hands on her body, fondling her as he had done behind the screen. But at the same time she dreaded what would follow. How could she not, when the violence of that long-ago night lurked at the edge of her consciousness? Her belly tensed at the thought of him overpowering her, sweating and grunting and pumping, revoking ecstasy for something sordid and painful.
“You’re shivering,” he said.
“Am I? I—I can’t imagine why.”
“Can’t you?” Sounding amused, he trailed his lips over her cheek, soothing the skin that tingled from the raspy growth of his whiskers. “It’s called desire, Emma. For better or for worse, our bodies respond to each other. There’ll be no more teasing, no more courting, no more games.”
His deep voice unsettled her, and she tucked her face into the crook of his shoulder. The alien musk of man scented his skin. The rhythmic clatter of wheels and hooves marked each passing moment. It brought her and Lucas closer and closer to home … to their marriage bed.
Seeking respite from her inner turmoil, she blurted, “Why did Grandpapa say you won’t have much spare time next week? You told me you were finished with your work at the docks.”
“Perhaps he suspected you and I”—Lucas bent to nuzzle the hollow of her throat—“had finally”—his mouth drifted lower—“reconciled”—he moved her cloak and kissed the scar on her bare shoulder—“our differences.”
The black shadow of his head loomed above her breasts. She could scarcely think for the warmth pulsing through her. But she wanted to think—to hope. “Do you … do you still despise me for tricking you into marriage?”
His lips paused just above her bosom. His torrid breath bathed her tender skin. “Forget the past. It doesn’t matter tonight.”
How deftly he sidestepped her question. Perhaps the barriers between them would never be scaled, for she could not tell him her greatest secret: that the man who had dishonored her was his own brother.
Even as bitterness tightened like tentacles around her emotions, Lucas distracted her. He loosened the buttons down her back, gave a pull and the layers of silk fell away, exposing her ghostly-white chemise in the darkness. To her amazement, she felt a moist tugging sensation on her breast. She gasped, flooded by a deep melting warmth. He was kissing her through the chemise, suckling her like a babe. Without thinking, she slid her fingers through the coarse silk of his hair.
“Oh, Lucas,” she breathed. “Lucas.”
“So,” he said on a hiss of satisfaction, “you like that.”
He exposed her breasts and kissed them again, this time using his teeth and tongue, alternately nipping and then soothing her. The exquisite sensation lured a moan from her throat. Passion leapt inside her, creating a hunger inspired by his feast.
Abruptly, the coach turned a sharp corner and she collapsed against him. He held her close as the vehicle slowed to a stop. Peeking past the tasseled curtain, Emma spied the torchlit entrance to Wortham House. And here she sat like a hussy, the cool night air wafting against her bare, dampened breasts.
She yanked at her gown but the layers of silk caught beneath her legs. “Do up my buttons. Quickly. We’ll create a scandal.”
“We always do,” Lucas said dryly. “But never mind, the cloak will cover you.”
He wrapped the garment around her, tying it at her throat. His movements were easy and matter-of-fact, as if saving a lady from disgrace were nothing new to him.
Emma clutched at her bodice just as the coach door swung open and she was forced to step out into view of the footman. Beneath the enveloping cloak, her unfastened gown slipped lower and lower. She clamped her arms across her bosom to catch the slippery fabric before it puddled around her feet.
“Allow me,” Lucas murmured.
His lips quirked into a smile that was half amusement, half impatience. He looped his muscled arm around her waist and
urged her up the steps to the porch, where a liveried footman opened the front door. Lucas’s heavy tread harmonized with the light tapping of her own slippers as he guided her inexorably across the marble floor and up the grand staircase.
A sense of inevitability inundated Emma. It was going to happen now. Lucas intended to bed her. There would be no more reprieves. Her insides churned with a mixture of dread and delight. She felt as if she were astride a stallion, galloping headlong into a dense mist, never knowing if the ride would end in death … or new life.
A tomblike silence permeated the upstairs. They passed no one in the shadowy corridor. Somehow she’d known they wouldn’t. The time had come to fulfill her promise to Lucas. To open herself to him. To take his seed into her womb. Her legs wobbled and she would have fallen had he not gripped her arm so firmly.
Upon reaching her bedchamber, he escorted her inside and dismissed her wide-eyed maid. He kicked the door shut, unfastened Emma’s cloak, and pressed her against the wall with his chest and thighs. His face was stark with passion. “So,” he said in a gruff voice. “We’ll finally have the night we should have had seven years ago.”
The chilly purpose she sensed in him belied the heat of his body. His mouth came down on hers again, and he tugged at her dress until only her shift and his breeches separated their lower bodies. His ardor alarmed her, even as his kiss fed the fire of longing in her, the yearning to relinquish herself into his keeping. He caressed her breasts again, his thumbs rubbing the tips, until rapturous sensation crowded out coherent thought. She arched against him, savoring the pressure of firm muscles and hot skin.
His hands roamed downward, measuring her waist and hips and bottom, exploring her curves until she wanted to cry out in frustration. If only he would lift her chemise and touch her. If only he would stroke her to wanton ecstasy. If only he would show her joy first, she could endure the pain later. Instead, he grasped her wrist and dragged her hand down to the front of his breeches and held it there.
Through the superfine cloth, her fingers absorbed the unmistakable shape of him. He was stiff. Thick. Long. A sword of steel burning for her tender sheath.
He pushed himself against her hand. “God help me,” he muttered, his voice so like his brother’s it sent an eerie prickling over her skin. What had seemed so marvelous in a sunlit meadow took on a sinister aspect in this shadowy bedroom.
His feral groan sent her spinning down, down, down into the dark well of memory. “
God help me
” …
and he thrust hard … again and again … ripping into her … grunting like a beast
…
Panic shattered her passion. “Stop it!” she cried. “
Stop!
”
She pushed Lucas away, and he staggered backward into a table. A black basaltware vase tipped over, flinging hothouse roses and water onto the carpet.
His breath came harsh and fast. A muscle worked in his jaw. “What the hell—? We have a bargain.”
“I know. But I’m not ready. I—” Emma could say no more. She trembled uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered, and she clasped her hands over her bosom, hugging herself.
Lucas straightened to his full height, his cheekbones taut and hard. As if struggling against himself, he gripped his hands into fists. Where desire had warmed his eyes, a curious blankness now shuttered his thoughts. “Have it your way, then. Come to me when you’re ready.”
Leaning weakly against the back of a chair, Emma watched him walk away. Her fingers tingled; she could still feel his male part as if he had branded her. He was so large. Too large for a small woman like herself.
Yet despite her revulsion, she ached to call him back. What had she done?
He wrenched open the connecting door and entered his bedchamber. The click of the latch resounded through the room. She was left with only the drip-drip of water from the spilled vase.
Lucas strode across his bedroom, flinging off his coat, then his waistcoat, dropping the garments in a trail across the
floor. His nerves smoldered on the verge of an explosion. Damn. Damn. Damn! How could he be so lack-witted? He had overwhelmed Emma. He had completely disregarded her need for gentleness and patience. He had been so caught up in his own hard, driving lust that he had ignored her fears.
Curse the scoundrel who had raped her. If it took a lifetime, he’d find the craven wretch and make him pay!
Lucas yanked off his cravat and hurled it away. And damn himself, too. He had never lacked control. The greater the discipline, the higher the ecstasy. But with Emma, he had lost mastery over himself. He had destroyed the patient seduction of nearly a fortnight.
Self-loathing lay like a stone inside him. There was something else, too, a truth he couldn’t deny. Deep down, he
wanted
to remain aloof. He wanted to know he had the power to hurt Emma. Because then she could not hurt him.
“Hell-bent fool!”
Blindly he lashed out with his fist and struck the bedpost. The wood groaned as if to mock him. White-hot pain speared through his knuckles and up his arm. The bronze-colored bedhangings swayed madly.
Hajib appeared in the doorway of the dressing room. “Master,” he said, hurrying forward. “Have you hurt yourself?”
Feeling like a chastised boy, Lucas tucked his smarting hand behind his back. “No.”
“Praise be to Allah.” Hajib bowed low. “How may I serve you?”
“By leaving me alone.”
Oblivious to his black mood, the servant knelt before him. “Permit me to assist you.”
Lucas grudgingly let the valet tug off his knee-high boots and stockings. Then he stalked barefoot to a decanter of brandy on the fireside table. “That’s all. I shan’t require anything more tonight.”
Hajib rose lithely, his gray robe whispering as he moved around the room, picking up the clothing Lucas had discarded. “Your English wife displeases you. Will you soon return to Shalimar’s bed?”
“It’s none of your concern,” Lucas snarled. The notion of seeking relief with his mistress left him cold. Glass in hand, he scowled at the servant, who stood with his palms pressed together and his gaze faintly accusatory. Lucas drew a ragged breath. He
had
been neglecting Shalimar. “She’s happy with Sanjeev back, isn’t she? Has she given you cause to think otherwise?”
“Her happiness is not for me to judge.”
“For God’s sake, don’t be coy. Is she anxious to return to Kashmir?”
“My lord, she is pleased to do whatsoever you wish. You have her undying gratitude for the return of her son yesterday.”
He sounded too much like Shalimar, humble and submissive. At one time, Lucas would have accepted the difference in cultures, even appreciated it, but now he experienced a flash of intense irritation. How much more satisfying was a battle of equals. How much more stimulating the company of a bold, outspoken Englishwoman.
He gulped down the brandy, and his guilt seared deeper. “I want you to go to Shalimar. Make certain her needs are fulfilled. Furnish her household with trinkets from Kashmir. The expense is of no consequence.”
Hajib’s eyes were dark and inscrutable. “And the tiger’s head? Might I take her that, then?”
“The mask?” Lucas started in surprise. “No, the mask is too costly to serve as decoration for someone’s home. It shall be part of a museum exhibit as soon as the new wing is built.”
Hajib lowered his gaze. “Yes, master.”
“Tell Shalimar that I’ll take her and Sanjeev back to India eventually, but not yet. Not for a year at least.” Lucas glowered at the remaining amber liquor in his glass. “My business here may take longer than I expected.”
“It shall be as you wish.” The turbaned servant bowed and left the room.
Lucas stared at the closed door with its gilt trim gleaming dully against the white paint. Business. He had business, all
right. He intended to remain in England long enough to bed Emma and to see her give birth. He needed—he wanted—a son. By God, he
deserved
a son.

Other books

Dark Run by Mike Brooks
The Doomsday Prophecy by Scott Mariani
Also Known As Harper by Ann Haywood Leal
Running by Calle J. Brookes
Never Too Late for Love by Warren Adler
The Last Honorable Man by Vickie Taylor
When You Least Expect by Lydia Rowan