Scandal of the Year (8 page)

“You were?” Paul’s voice was full of astonishment. “I never knew that. Who was he? Not Yardley, surely!”

She shook her head. “Not Yardley.”

“Who, then?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. She was thinking back to that moment when she’d first laid eyes on Stephen Graham. A handsome man, handsome in the dreamy, wild, brooding poet’s way that had appealed so much to her girlish heart. She hadn’t known, not in that first moment, that he wrote the most beautiful poetry she’d ever read in her life. She hadn’t known she would risk everything simply to be with him and the price she would pay for it. But in that first shared glance, before she’d even known his name, she had already known what it was like to love and be loved. What had Stephen called it in a poem? The divine sting of happiness.

“He was no one important,” she said, answering Paul’s question. “We used to meet in secret.” She paused. “It was wonderful.”

“What happened?”

“Papa found out and put a stop to it, forbade me to marry him, and sent him away.”

“Deuced bad luck,” Paul murmured. “Why couldn’t you have fallen in love with someone acceptable to Uncle Percy?”

“Me?” she quipped, forcing lightness into the moment. “Do something acceptable? Heaven forbid.”

Paul laughed at that. “You do have a tendency to swim against the tide. You always have.”

“We were going to elope,” she confided. “He left, and I followed him to Scotland a few weeks later, but when I got to Peebles, he was dead. Scarlet fever, his people told me. Part of me died with him. Papa and Mama came after me and dragged me home, and they insisted on marrying me off to someone else before I caused a scandal that couldn’t be hushed up.”

“That’s how you ended up marrying Yardley. Our lot all knew when you became engaged that something wasn’t right. Your parents were pushing for the match, but you didn’t seem to want it much. We never understood why you agreed.”

“It would have been like me to rebel at that, too, you think?”

“Well . . .” Paul shot her a look of apology. “Yes.”

She smiled ruefully. “I wanted to make good for all my past mistakes. Yardley was . . . I suppose I thought he was my penance.”

“A high price for falling in love,” Paul remarked. “Do you ever regret it? Falling in love, I mean?”

She smiled. “Never.”

“No. Neither do I.” He smiled, a melancholy smile. “Susanna’s not coming back.”

She nodded gently, not surprised. “I gathered that.”

“I went to Newport last autumn, thinking to try and win her back, but . . .” He shook his head. “She wasn’t having any of that. She never did like England much.”

“So why don’t you divorce her? You’d certainly have cause.”

“I know, but why bother? It isn’t as if I want to marry anyone else. I don’t.”

“Neither do I.” She laughed. “We should form a society.”

He laughed. But then his laughter faded, and he looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you ever think you’ll fall in love again?”

Julia considered, and then, slowly and with great care, she put love in the past, burying it beside the grief and fear that had followed in its wake. Loving Stephen had been her heaven, and Yardley had been the price she paid for sneaking past that particular set of pearly gates. Now, she just wanted to live unencumbered, with no need to run, nothing to cause her to brood, and nothing to weigh her down, not even love. She was free, and she wanted nothing from life but to enjoy that freedom.

“No,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t. Once was enough for me.”

“Me too. Hell, we’re a cynical pair, aren’t we?”

“I’m not cynical!” she protested. “I believe in love and marriage. I do.” She paused and winked. “For everybody else.”

He laughed. He opened his mouth to reply, but then the gong sounded once, indicating intermission was half over, and Julia suddenly remembered the performance she’d really come to see. “Oh, bother!” she cried, unfolding her opera glasses. “I’m missing all the fun.”

“Fun? What do you mean?”

“I wanted to see—” She broke off, perching the glasses on her nose as she located Lord Vale’s box, and whatever she’d been about to say was forgotten at the sight of Aidan standing with the girl in the green dress. The girl’s back was to her, but Julia didn’t need to see Felicia’s face to know her identity. She could discern that particular information from Aidan’s blank, almost dazed expression.

She burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it, for she could almost hear Felicia squeaking away, even from here. If this were a
Punch
cartoon, the imaginary bubble over Aidan’s head would have borne the caption:
Is intermission over yet?

Poor fellow, but she had tried to warn him. She laughed again, but she decided the next time she saw him, she wouldn’t crow about having been right. Well, not too much anyway.

“What do you find so amusing?” Paul asked, leaning closer to her, looking out at the crowd.

She pulled the opera glasses down and grinned at her cousin. “I thought you didn’t care about observing people and gossiping.”

Caught, he looked away, a bit shamefaced. “Just asking.”

She returned her attention to the scene across the way, and it was too delicious not to share. “I’m watching Trathen,” she confessed. “He’s in Lord Vale’s box, having a visit, and Lady Felicia has commandeered him. Oh, the look on his face. It’s priceless.”

Paul groaned. “Poor chap. That girl cornered me for two hours at a ball last month. She would not stop talking. I finally had to be rude in order to get away.”

“Trathen’s in the same boat, I fear. No doubt she’ll trap him into sitting with her somehow, and the next ninety minutes will be agony for the man. Go rescue him, Paul. Do. He’ll be ever so grateful. And it never hurts to have a duke’s gratitude.”

“Perhaps, but is that wise? Even if he consented to come sit with us, it wouldn’t be a good idea. People would see him with you and think—”

“Chérie!
”

She and Paul both turned as a slender, dark-haired man entered the box, a man Julia recognized at once.

“René!” she cried with delight, jumping up. “By all that’s wonderful.”

She folded her opera glasses and tucked them back into the pocket in front of her seat, then moved to greet the young, debonair Frenchman as he came toward her with outstretched hands. She took them in hers, accepting a kiss on each cheek. “I had no idea you were in England.”

“I arrived from Paris only yesterday. I am down below, talking to friends and thinking this German opera is so very dull, but then I look up and see you, and the evening becomes much brighter.”

When he glanced past her, Julia turned. “Paul,” she said as her cousin moved to her side, “you remember René DuBois, don’t you? From the motor races at Scarborough two years ago?”

Paul, who remembered René perfectly and didn’t like him in the least, gave a polite smile. “Of course. Evening, DuBois.”

René bowed, not seeming to mind this rather stiff English greeting. “
Bonne nuit
.”

Julia, sensing the tension, waved a hand in Paul’s direction. “Go after poor Trathen before Felicia gets her hooks into him. You don’t need to bring him here. Invent some excuse and take him to Marlowe’s box. He knows all of them, and even if they’ve no empty seats, Marlowe would be happy to pull him outside and talk business with him. In fact,” she added, struck by a sudden idea, “the more I think about it, the more I like this plan. Go, Paul. The poor man’s in desperate need of rescuing. See to it, will you?”

“All right,” Paul acceded with a sigh, giving in to the inevitable, “but what about afterward? Marlowe’s bound to invite him to his supper party at the Savoy, and we’ll be there, too.”

That was exactly the point. She wanted to talk to Aidan about the idea that had just come to her, and supper would be a perfect opportunity. “For heaven’s sake, Paul, we’re all mature adults. Surely we can all be in the same room together for an evening, can’t we?”

“For the sake of all our reputations, you and Trathen really ought to avoid each other as much as possible.”

“It’s not a formal dinner, so I shall ask Marlowe’s wife to put his sister Phoebe beside Trathen, which should steer gossip in that direction and away from me. And,” she added, putting her arm through that of the Frenchman beside her, “we’ll bring René to make doubly sure. You’ll come, René, won’t you?”

“I should be delighted.”

“Julie! You can’t go about inviting people to other people’s supper parties!”

“Nonsense, Paul. The Marlowes won’t mind. I think we’ll be quite a merry party tonight, don’t you?”

Paul gave a resigned sigh as he started off on his errand. “Sometimes, cousin,” he said over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “I do not understand your devilish sense of humor. You’re doing this just to crow.”

Julia watched him go, not bothering to correct his assumption. While teasing Trathen was always an almost irresistible temptation, and the episode with Felicia gave her plenty of ammunition in that regard, that wasn’t why she was arranging for him to join them at supper. She wanted to ask him for a favor, and with that being the case, teasing him about Lady Felicia would not be wise.

Chapter Seven

N
ever before had Aidan appreciated just how long twenty minutes could be.

“And when Mama told me that a very special guest would be joining us during intermission as a surprise for my first season, why, I was just so excited,” Lady Felicia gushed, making him appreciate Julia’s skill as a mimic.

He’d arrived at Covent Garden ten minutes past the start of the second intermission, but he’d barely had time to greet his host and hostess before he’d been introduced to their daughter, and the remaining minutes were dragging by in interminable fashion. Lady Felicia, however, was prattling along at top speed.

“And although I knew it was meant to be a surprise, I just had to ask who the special guest was. Mama kept refusing to tell me, of course. I mean, it wouldn’t be a surprise, otherwise, would it? But that fact didn’t stop me. I’m very determined when I want something,” she added with a giggle. “So I just kept asking and asking, and Mama—who never could keep a secret—finally relented enough to give me a hint. And what she said, you’ll never guess.”

There was a pause, indicating that despite her prediction, he was expected to make the attempt. At this moment, however, Aidan just couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to do so. He merely raised his eyebrows.

That small gesture proved to be sufficient encouragement. “Mama told me that at long last, I would be able to meet my hero.”

She gave him a smile that, had she never before spoken a word, might have been quite captivating. Unfortunately for both of them, her beauty had ceased to captivate him the moment she began to talk, and when she gave him a melting look with those lovely, dark, almond-shaped eyes, he felt not the least stirring of attraction, thereby disproving Julia’s silly accusation that he was particularly susceptible to brown eyes. Nonetheless, he had just been given a compliment, and he was required to respond accordingly. “You flatter me, Lady Felicia,” he murmured, “and I do thank you for it, but I hardly think I am worthy of the description of hero.”

“Oh, but you are, Your Grace! We had occasion to meet once before, though I’m sure you don’t remember it.”

Aidan, who didn’t, cast a quick but desperate glance at the door, wondering if he really had to stay the entire time for etiquette to be satisfied. But even as he thought that, he knew anything less was unworthy of a gentleman. He glanced around the box for an alternative to Lady Felicia’s nonstop stream of chatter. His gaze paused on the girl’s parents, hoping to see a way of bringing them into conversation, but their backs were to him and their daughter as they talked with other guests, making it clear he was on his own.

“It was eight years ago,” Felicia said, and Aidan was forced to return his attention to her. “I was only a girl then, of course, and I was riding with my governess in Hyde Park when suddenly my horse bolted. It frightened me out of my wits, for I couldn’t rein the mare in. I tried and tried, but I’ve always been rather delicate, certainly no match for a big, strong horse.” She paused with a tinkling laugh. “Well, there we were, headed straight for the Serpentine, when you came racing alongside, caught me up, and pulled me right onto your saddle! I was so overcome, being swept up in your strong arms like that, that I fainted dead away. When I awoke, I was lying in the grass, with my governess kneeling beside me, rubbing my wrists, and you standing guard so protectively to keep the crowd away.”

Now that she was reminding him of it, Aidan did remember the incident in question, though he’d never learned the girl’s name, and his version was perhaps not quite as romantic as hers. About eleven or twelve at the time, she’d urged her plodding mare from a trot to a canter and then panicked at the increased speed, dropping her reins and screaming for help. He’d come alongside, attempting to guide her, but she’d been too frightened and hysterical to follow his instructions, and in the end, he’d given up on instruction and hauled her onto his horse. In his recollection of the events, she hadn’t fainted, and he’d returned her to her governess in a perfectly lucid state, tipped his hat, and gone on his way. He did not, of course, point out these minor discrepancies between their versions. That would have been rude.

“You departed before I could thank you for your assistance, Your Grace, but I shall never forget your chivalry.” She clasped her gloved hands together, gazing at him with a reverence all out of proportion to the situation. “You will always be my hero.” The last two words came out in a rapturous squeak.

Looking at the girl’s worshipful face, Aidan thought of Julia’s assessment from the other night, and he felt a hint of irritation. He was no hero.

As if to prove it, a recollection of pulling apart Julia’s dress flashed through his mind, demonstrating that he shouldn’t be any girl’s white-knight fantasy.

“I’m sure I did what any man would have done in the circumstances,” he murmured, and before she could heap any more undeserved praise upon him, the gong sounded a second time, indicating only five minutes remained before curtain, and Aidan hoped he had now fulfilled his obligation and could depart for home.

He opened his mouth to murmur a farewell and something vague about another social obligation somewhere, but Lady Felicia had a sharper mind than Julia had given her credit for. Sensing that he was about to bid her good night, she spoke first. “You must sit with us for the final act, Your Grace.”

She moved as if to actually put her arm through his and drag him to a chair, but before he was forced to choose between acceding to Lady Felicia’s ghastly invitation or issuing a peremptory refusal that would hurt her feelings, another voice entered the conversation.

“Trathen, I thought I saw you over here!”

Aidan turned toward the Earl of Danbury, who was just entering Vale’s box, giving the other man a look of both relief and gratitude.

Paul stopped to shake hands with Lord Vale and compliment Lady Vale on her smashing gown before coming to him and the girl by his side. “Lady Felicia, how lovely you look, but then you always do. Trathen, you devil, managing to find the prettiest girl at any event, but really, your absentmindedness these days . . .” He paused, shaking his head as if in exasperation as he slanted Aidan a meaningful glance. “You promised Marlowe you’d go by his box sometime during the first intermission to discuss business matters, and you never arrived. Not that I blame you for forgetting,” he added with another smile at the girl, “given the distractions here this evening.”

Aidan took his cue at once. “Right, business. I did forget. Can’t imagine how I could have done such a thing.”

“I was with Marlowe when he spied you over here, and he sent me to ask if you’d mind terribly coming now? He’s leaving tomorrow apparently—wants to spend a few days at Marlowe Park before my house party at Whitsuntide. If you don’t talk to him now, you may not have another chance.”

“I obviously can’t allow that to happen.” He turned, hoping he looked regretful. “Lady Felicia, you must forgive me. Business before pleasure, I fear.”

Her lip jutted out a bit mutinously, but she really had no means of circumventing that particular argument. “Of course.”

Aidan thanked his hosts, bid them farewell, and allowed Paul to usher him out the door. “Thank you, Paul,” he said as the two men walked along the curved corridor toward Viscount Marlowe’s box.

“Thank Julie. She’s the one who asked me to come to your aid.” He proceeded to explain, and though Aidan suspected Julia of having a bit of fun at his expense, he couldn’t argue that he rather deserved a bit of teasing about Felicia.

Though he hadn’t received a formal invitation from Marlowe to join them, he was too glad to be away from Vale’s box to quibble about the impropriety of it. Fortunately, Marlowe tended to be casual in such matters and was amused to learn he’d been the means of rescuing Aidan from the clutches of a grasping debutante. The viscount provided him with a seat in their box and invited him to supper at the Savoy afterward. Aidan, who found the Marlowe family quite enjoyable company, chose to accept.

Paul returned to his own seat, and Aidan barely had time to greet Marlowe’s mother, wife, and two sisters before the lights dimmed and the curtain went up. He took the seat offered to him beside Marlowe’s sister Phoebe, giving her a smile as he sat down, then he leaned back in his seat with a heartfelt sigh of relief. He didn’t care much for Wagnerian opera, but the lurid refrain of a Valkyrie was a vast improvement over Felicia’s chirps and squeaks.

He feared tonight was a perfect example of what he had to look forward to in the coming months. Rounds of parties he wasn’t interested in attending, awkward introductions, interfering parents, prying eyes, gossip columns, and tiresome, often downright silly conversations with hundreds of women, all in the hope of finding just one he could envision spending his life with, a woman who was both attractive to him and appropriate to be a duchess. Then, of course, he’d actually need to have the luck—absent of late—to get her to the altar.

Beside him, Phoebe Marlowe shifted in her chair, making him slide a considering sideways glance at her. Phoebe was an attractive woman, certainly, with cherubic cheeks, dark brown hair, and blue eyes. She also had brains and a sense of humor. But when he tried to see himself married to her, he couldn’t quite envision the picture. He liked Phoebe, but he’d first met her at the house party where Beatrix had broken their engagement, and the associations were a bit awkward. That episode had been a difficult and embarrassing one and something he’d rather not have a constant reminder of for the rest of his life. And his liking for Phoebe was a lukewarm one at best, one that had not deepened upon closer acquaintance. Phoebe, he suspected, had similar feelings. And yet, did it matter? He was looking for a suitable duchess, Phoebe was certainly qualified for that role, and yet, the idea of marrying for suitability now left him cold. Why?

Either that, or you’ll bore each other to death . . . you crave the forbidden fruit.

As Julia’s words echoed through his mind, Aidan’s gaze lifted to the Danbury box on the other side of the theater and he reached into the breast pocket of his evening jacket for his opera glasses.

She was smiling, her head tilted to one side as a man Aidan had never seen before whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was, it made her laugh. He wondered if the man was her latest lover, and anger surged through him, anger that only deepened as he realized its cause. He was jealous.

Appalled, he studied her laughing face and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Like himself, the other man was only one in a long line of her conquests. He knew she wasn’t worth his concern, and her love affairs were none of his business. Yet, even as he reminded himself of these things, jealousy continued to wash over him in a hot, smothering wave.

Aidan lowered the opera glasses and tilted back his head, staring at the gold-and-white ceiling of the Royal Opera House, angry with himself for these savage, primal feelings he could not seem to control. He had always wanted her, ever since that day on the footbridge when he was seventeen, and despite everything, he still wanted her. No matter how much time passed, no matter what he did or tried to do, he could not seem to eradicate his desire for her.

He knew he had to find a way. They would surely see each other again and again throughout the season, and he had to rid himself of this insatiable need for her before it could further damage his reputation, hamper his goals, and taint his honor.

But what was the antidote to a woman who seemed able to awaken his deepest carnal appetites against his will? He might have thought bedding her was the answer, but he’d already done that, and it hadn’t changed a thing.

On the other hand, he reflected, did that afternoon at her cottage really count in that regard? There was a great deal about that afternoon he didn’t remember. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t get past this. Perhaps it was time to try filling in the blank spaces of his memory instead of trying to suppress it or forget it. Perhaps that was how he could finally conquer it.

Aidan straightened in his seat, lifted the opera glasses again, and studied her, letting anything he could remember about that afternoon enter his mind.

The white dress was the first thing he thought of. He remembered that, God knew, for the image of her in it soaking wet with nothing underneath was burned on his brain for all time. There had been buttons down the front, pearl buttons, and although the fabric had been damp, the buttons had slipped free of their holes with ease. No doubt that was why she’d chosen it, and why she’d chosen to wear no undergarments beneath it. Everything—the dress, the water, the lack of underclothes—had been meant to make the seduction as easy as possible.

He’d pulled the dress down her shoulders, but he hadn’t done that at the cove. No, they’d been in the kitchen of her cottage by that time, though he couldn’t recall walking back from the beach below.

Through the opera glasses, he watched her lean back in her seat and close her eyes as she listened to the music. The move gave him a splendid view of her exposed throat and décolleté, evoking the memory of how he had trailed kisses along her throat and across her bare shoulder.

He’d put his hands on her arms at some point—to push her away or bring her closer? He didn’t know what his intent might have been, but did know that he’d cupped her breasts in his hands, and any vague idea he might have had about pushing her away had gone to the wall.

He remembered her hand raking through his hair, pulling his head down to her breast, and how her skin had been warm and soft with the delicate scent of lilacs. He remembered his hands on her buttocks and the hot, aching tension building in his body as he’d pulled her closer. He was feeling it again now, watching her across the theater.