Scandalous Love (3 page)

"You do not look
happy, Lady Shelton," his deep voice came from behind her.

Nicole gasped. Spinning
about so quickly to face him, champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass. He
stood so close to her that her breasts, bound only in a thin chemise beneath
her silk blouse, brushed his arm. Horrified, blushing, she stepped back wildly,
spilling more champagne.

The look in his eyes, as
he took the glass from her, was difficult to read. Their color, she saw, was
not really dark brown, but the rich gold of sherry. She thought he might be
somewhat amused. And his hand, taking her glass, touched hers, and seemed to
caress her very soul. It burned.

"Let me replenish
this," he said. He did not have to move, for a servant materialized from
behind him with a tray of bubbling flutes. The Duke took one for himself and handed
her another. "Why are you angry?"

Nicole quickly tried to
recover her wits. "I am not exactly angry," she said carefully. Up
close, he was even more stunning than from afar, and his impact was even more
unnerving. She found herself staring at his mouth and wondering what it would
be like to be kissed by him. When she realized the train of her thoughts she
was horrified.

"You are certainly
not angry now," he said, his gaze moving slowly over her.

There was something in
his tone that wrung an instant response from her, something intimate that
Nicole was too inexperienced to define. Nicole felt her breasts tighten as if
he had actually touched her. "I am not angry now," she breathed.

His voice was husky, a
low caress. "Good. I would not like you angry with me. Not now—when we
have just met."

There were meanings
there, vast meanings in his words, and Nicole was afraid to even guess what
they could be. She wished his expression was less impassive, less controlled.
His countenance was stern, inscrutable, and she had not a clue as to what he
was thinking or why he had sought her out. But when his eyes held hers, her
heart did somersaults. "I could never be angry with you," she heard
herself say. Then she flushed, for she sounded like some coy, simpering miss, and
it was exactly that type she could not tolerate.

"Ah, but there is
the other side to consider, for I imagine your anger is like the rest of you,
as novel and as stimulating."

She stared, speechless,
for there was no possible reply she could make to this, just as she could not
quite fathom what he was driving at.

"Is it?"

"I—I don't
know." She was thoroughly undone.

"I have no
doubts," he said, and his voice dropped very low, "just as I have no
doubts that your originality extends far beyond the public domain."

She thought of how she
rode about Dragmore, dressed as a man. Here, at least, was safe ground. Her
look was direct, and she breathed easier. "Yes, it does."

He drew in his breath
sharply, his eyes suddenly blazing. Nicole had the distinct impression that he
had not understood her and had, in fact, applied a meaning to her words which
she had not intended. Unnerved by his searing regard, Nicole sought absolutely
safe territory upon which to converse. "We are now neighbors," she
said politely. "Chapman Hall is not far from Dragmore, not at all."

"How
convenient," he replied dryly. "Then it would only be neighborly of
me to invite you to my home, would it not?"

She was held captive by
his golden eyes. She could not believe her ears. She smiled, and did not
understand why he again drew in his breath. "I ride past Chapman Hall
frequently," she said eagerly.

"I am sure you do.
Then, the next time you are passing by, you must make sure to make a small
detour and say hello." His words carried all the weight of a ducal
command.

"I shall,"
Nicole cried passionately. "I shall!"

The Duke of Clayborough
returned to Chapman Hall close to midnight, his mood more than irritated. He
hated being feted, having absolutely no delusions about why people catered to
him. He was reclusive by nature, and his popularity was based only upon his
title, wealth and power. He had little respect for the likes of the Adderlys,
who fawned over him and made, in his opinion, complete fools of themselves by
doing so.

He had never liked the
endless balls and soirees which many of his peers seemed to revel in. He found
them a waste of his time. His interests had always lain elsewhere. He had spent
the past twelve years, since he was a youth of eighteen, running the vast
Clayborough estates while his father, Francis, the eighth Duke, amassed a debt
that finally reached the staggering sum of a million pounds. While Francis was
indulging all his vices, his son was struggling to run the estates in an
economic depression. The Clayborough estates ranged over nearly two hundred
thousand acres and contained almost a hundred farms, the properties scattered
about in Sussex, Kent, Derbyshire and even Durham. Like most of the peerage,
the Duke had a wealth and livelihood based upon agriculture. Yet the British
had been suffering severely in the past decades, unable to compete with the
machine-reaped products America was exporting. Agriculture had been the crux of
the Clayborough family fortune for hundreds of years, and it took more than
discipline and hard work to fight the tide that had turned against it.

It took bold, innovative
new strategies. While Francis spent his days in gaming halls and his nights God
knew where, the shrewd young heir was investing in trade, London real estate
and finance. But Francis' debts continued to increase and remained a terrible
drain upon the estates.

Those days were now
over. The Duke felt not one bit of sorrow that his wastrel father had died two
years ago—in bed with someone other than his wife, and foxed to boot. The most
sordid detail—that Francis' paramour had been a young man—had been effectively
hushed up by his son before any more damage could be done. Not that his
father's ways were a secret. The Duke had no delusions on that score, either.
He was certain all of society knew exactly the kind of man the eighth Duke had
been, just as they knew he was the exact opposite.

His father had relished
all the weekend parties and hunts, the balls and routs, never retiring until
after dawn and never rising before noon. The Duke was up at dawn, and usually
retired before midnight. His business affairs demanded his constant attention,
and he was known to work well into the night. It was not entirely discipline;
part of it was a burning ambition that he was certain came from his mother's
side of the family. The de Warennes were known for their shrewd business sense,
which even the Dowager Duchess of Clayborough possessed in abundance. When the
Duke had first become immersed in Clayborough's affairs, he had worked side by
side with his mother, amazed at how she had been running the estates for the
past two decades with no help at all from her husband.

He was irritated this
evening because it was late and he had a full agenda for the morrow. He would
rise as usual, with the sun. He was not inhuman, although many seemed to think
he was, and if he didn't sleep soon, tomorrow he would be tired. And tonight
had been nothing but a waste of his time and energy.

He entered Chapman Hall.
His butler, Woodward, and his valet, Reynard, were awaiting him, and the head
footman, Jakes, accompanied him. Woodward took his black, crimson-lined cloak
without the Duke even noticing. "Will that be all, Your Grace?"

"Go to bed,
Woodward," he waved at him dismissively. Tonight had not exactly been a
complete waste of time, he thought, his pulse quickening. Her gypsy image
loomed vividly in his mind. "Nor do I need you, Reynard. Thank you, Jakes.
Good night."

Reynard and Jakes
disappeared, but Woodward coughed and the Duke paused before bounding up the
stairs. He lifted a brow.

"The Dowager
Duchess arrived this evening, Your Grace. It was unexpected, but we made do and
put her in the blue room in the west wing. It seemed to be in the best
condition, Your Grace."

"Well done,"
he said. As he strode up the stairs, his brow furrowed. What was his mother
doing here, for God's sake? He knew it was not a dire emergency, for if it had
been, the Dowager Duchess would be up and waiting for him, pacing restlessly,
no matter how late the hour. Still, the dowager estates were in Derbyshire,
which was no easy drive to make, and if she had come from her home in London,
it would have meant almost a half day's journey. She had not come merely to
chat— something important was on her mind.

But it would have to
wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow. His body tensed. Would the utterly seductive
Lady Shelton "pass by?" A smile curved his lips, his first real smile
of the evening, revealed only in the privacy of the master bedroom and shared
only with the Borzoi thumping his tail enthusiastically in greeting to his
master.

Clayborough stripped. He
was still shocked at her admission that she was as original in private as in
public, and again, for the umpteenth time, he imagined her naked in his bed,
astride him, devouring him with her wild gypsy passion. In his imagination he
was somewhat passive, as he had never been in his entire life. The fantasy
aroused him unbearably, and he was not a man who succumbed to daydreams.

She was more than
original; she was daring, and he guessed she was reckless as well. Of course,
he knew she was somehow related to the Earl of Dragmore, whom he knew, admired,
and respected. Nicholas Shelton was very much like himself: a hard, disciplined
worker and a clever businessman. Was she his daughter-in-law? Some cousin, perhaps?

Obviously she was
married, for she was no spring miss and her bold manners, especially coming
unescorted in such a costume, confirmed this. The Duke was used to married
women throwing themselves at his feet and doing everything they possibly could
to get into his bed. Although he did not indulge himself in gambling, alcohol,
or other wastrel pursuits, he had never been able to refuse a beautiful woman,
although he rarely bothered to be the pursuer. He always kept a mistress as
well, of course, but he tired quickly in these relationships and was
continually changing liaisons. He was well aware that he had a reputation for
being a ruthless womanizer, but it did not bother him—at least he was no
sodomite like his late father.

It occurred to him that
Lady Shelton would make a fine mistress. He did not know her well, but he
sensed it. Unfortunately, as she was married, taking her as his mistress was
out of the question and he would have to settle for an affair. Usually his
interludes with married women were even shorter than his relationships with his
mistresses. He rarely had time for the clandestine meetings a married woman
required; usually a tumble or two sufficed. Lady Shelton interested him more
than a bit—he did not think a couple of nights would do either of them justice.

He sighed, annoyed at
the inconvenience it would cause him.

The Dowager Duchess was
also an unfashionably early riser. Isobel de Warenne Braxton-Lowell had gotten
into the plebeian habit in the early years of her marriage, when Francis had
first come into his patrimony after the seventh Duke's death. It hadn't taken
her very long to see that Francis had no intention of changing his rakehell
ways. When the bills began to pile up, she had finally hired a chancellor to
attend to them. It had been a rude shock to learn that funds were desperately
scarce and the estates were withering, but nothing like the rude shock her
marriage had been. And that had only been the beginning. Someone had to run the
huge dukedom. Isobel had become that someone, and the more adept at it she
became, the more angry with her Francis grew.

It was just past six in
the morning and Woodward poured her tea from a silver-plated urn, which pointed
up the plight of the previous owners of Chapman Hall as eloquently as the
run-down grounds and worn oak floors did. No one of the Dowager Duchess'
acquaintances used silver plate, especially not tarnished and dented silver
plate.

Despite the hour, Isobel
was dressed in an elegant blue day ensemble, the dress high-necked with wide
leg-o-mutton sleeves, the waist exceedingly narrow, the skirt bell-shaped and
pleated in the back. Isobel was fifty-four, but her figure was that of a woman
in her twenties, and she watched it fastidiously. Likewise, except for the
wrinkles at the corners of her vivid blue eyes and the character lines around
her mouth, her skin was ivory smooth and, with the help of special creams,
luminescent. Her face was a perfect oval, high cheekboned and partrician, the
kind that wears well. She was still handsome and attractive. As a young woman
she had been a great beauty.

Now, to match the costly
blue silk of her dress, she wore sapphire ear bobs and one wide, stunning
diamond bracelet interspersed with more sapphires. A large sapphire winged with
two small rubies blinked from her right hand. She did not wear her wedding
rings. In fact, she had been relieved to finally lay them to rest along with
her departed husband.

"I thought I would
find you up," the Duke remarked, striding into the room in tight-fitting
breeches, boots and a loose white shirt. "Good morning, Mother." He
went directly to her and kissed her cheek.

"Good
morning." Isobel studied him as he sat down beside her at the head of the
scarred mahogany table. No small amount of pride swept her as she watched him.
He was her only child, and she had conceived him relatively late in her
marriage, seven years after she had been wed, at the age of twenty-four. It
wasn't just his striking looks that thrilled her, or his manly demeanor, but
everything about him. For he was an honorable man, a son any woman would be
proud of; as strong, solid and responsible as Francis had been weak, dishonest
and irresponsible. Of course, knowing what she did, knowing the whole truth,
she was saddened too, for even in the powerful grown man, she still glimpsed
the grim little boy who never had the childhood he should have had.

"I am afraid to
ask," the Duke said as Woodward poured him rich, black coffee. "But
what brings you here?"

Instead of answering,
Isobel said, "How was the affair last night?" Another servant brought
them plates of eggs, bacon and kippers.

The Duke smiled
slightly. "A damned nuisance, of course."

She regarded him,
wondering what his small, satisfied smile meant, then thanked Woodward politely
as he left the room. They were alone. "I am worried about Elizabeth,
Hadrian."

At the mention of his
fiancee, the Duke paused, fork lifted. "What is wrong?"

"Perhaps if you
spent more time with her, you would not have to ask," Isobel said gently.

The Duke laid his silver
down on his plate. "Clayborough cannot run itself, Mother, as you, of all
people, should know."

"I do know. But
your paths cross less and less, and I know it is bothering her. Even hurting
her."

The Duke stared grimly.
"Then I am remiss," he finally said. "For I would not hurt her,
not purposefully. She is so busy in London with the social whirl, I thought it
made her happy. It did not occur to me that she might—er— miss me."

"Of course she is
happy in London, but you are her betrothed. In a few months you will be wed.
People are beginning to talk."

"Is this what you
have come to tell me?"

"No. I saw her the
day before yesterday, Hadrian, and while she tries to pretend all is as it
should be, it is clear that she is not well."

"She is ill?"

"I am afraid so. She
is very pale, and she has lost weight. I finally asked her directly, and it
took some prodding—for you know how Elizabeth is, never wanting to burden
anybody, God forbid! But she finally confessed to being fatigued all the time,
and although she is not eating any less, she has lost enough weight that all
her gowns have had to be altered. I encouraged her to see a physician, but she
laughed at me and said it is only fatigue and it will pass."

"Well, it does not
sound as if she is in dire circumstances, Mother, or she would go to a doctor.
I will be in London in a week or two, as soon as I have finished here. I will
investigate, and if she is in need of medical treatment, you can be sure she
will receive it."