Scandalous Love (30 page)

"I will always love
you," he said harshly. "And I will always be here. If you change your
mind—next year, the year after—or in ten years, I shall be here. There will
never be anyone else, Isobel, never."

"I don't want you
to wait for me," she tried to tell him, but it was a lie and they both
knew it.

"There will never
be anyone else," he said again. "I love you, Isobel."

Isobel boarded the ship,
blinded by her tears. She was bedridden with her grief. She left America, and
with it, her heart. For that belonged to Hadrian Stone, and it always would.
She returned to England, but she was never whole again.

He was sure he had not
heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

Isobel was white, whiter
than any ghost could be. "Hadrian... I should have told you long ago.
Francis is not your father."

The Duke of Clayborough
stared.

They had just finished
supper and retired to one of the more intimate salons so the Dowager Duchess
could indulge in an after-dinner port despite the fact that ladies rarely drank
anything stronger than sherry. No sooner were the two heavy, gleaming teakwood
doors closed behind them, than Isobel had asked her son to sit down. Bemused,
he had complied. And then she had stated that Francis was not his father.

"Is this some kind
of poor joke?" he asked. But his heart was thundering so loudly he could
barely hear his own words.

"It is not a joke.
Francis," and she swallowed nervously, "is not your father."

Hadrian was carved from
stone. The impossible pace of his pulse increased. His mother's words roared in
his head.
Francis is not your father.
It was impossible, it was
unbelievable; it was a dream come true for a man who never dreamed at all.

"Are you all
right?" Isobel asked anxiously. "Here, sip this." She was hovering
over him, offering him her glass of port. Her hands shook.

Hadrian gripped her
wrist with unthinking force. "He is not my father?"

"No."

He was on his feet,
still holding his mother's arm. "Then who is?"

"You're hurting
me," Isobel gasped.

Hadrian saw the pallor
of her face and the tears in her eyes and instantly released her. "Dear
God, forgive me, Mother. I did not realize what I was doing."

"There is nothing
for me to forgive," she said sadly-

"Who is my
father?" Hadrian demanded again. His senses were still reeling.

"His name is
Hadrian Stone. An American from Boston. A ship's captain."

The Duke stared. He
wheeled away and paced to the mantle, staring at the leaping flames within.
Long moments passed before he could begin to assimilate this information.
Francis was not his father—thank God. His father was an American named Hadrian
Stone. A sea captain. It was so bizarre he wondered if he might, after all, be
dreaming.

"Are you all
right?"

He slowly turned.
"I would like to hear the entire story, Mother."

She nodded, wringing her
hands.

Hadrian stood in front
of the hearth, immobile. And finally, at long last, the truth was revealed.

It was incredible, he
thought. Although he appeared calm as Isobel finished her tale by telling him
of her decision to leave Virginia and Hadrian Stone to return to Clayborough,
he was far from it. "This explains everything," he said into the
heavy ensuing silence.

Isobel's face was still
an unearthly pallor. She sat on the edge of the sofa facing her son, her hands
worrying the folds of her dress in her lap. She stared at Hadrian anxiously,
searchingly, but he barely saw her.

"No wonder he hated
me—and you."

Isobel bit her lip.
"He hated me before I ever met your father. He hated me when I took over
the responsibility for these estates which should have been his—and his hatred
grew every time I bailed him out of debt."

"Yes, that I
know." He was standing, now he paced. "Jesus," he finally said,
and when he turned back to his mother, his eyes flashed with anger. "You
should have told me years ago!"

"I know," she
whispered. "You are angry."

"I am trying not to
be. I am trying to understand how you would want to keep your affair a
secret—even from me. But good God! Shouldn't I have known before now that that
bastard was not my natural father?"

"Yes."

"God, Mother, I
wish you had told me!" He wheeled away. Agitation appeared in his every
long, restless stride. Suddenly he whirled back to face her. He was too
self-absorbed to notice how close his mother was to tears. "What happened
after you left Virginia? Did you ever hear from him again?"

Isobel's heart, already
pumping madly, began an erratic, frightened beat. "What are you thinking
of?"

"I must find him,
of course. If he is still alive."

She sat very still.

"Well?" he
demanded sharply.

Tears finally filled her
eyes. "Yes, I did hear from him—for a while. But it's been twenty years
now—with no word."

"Can you please
explain?" He was impatient.

"After I returned
to Francis he sent me a note. A short, brief, impersonal note. It was an
inquiry after my well-being. For several years he continued to do this. It was
always clear from the postmark where he was at the time. His address was in
Boston. When I met him that was where his home was."

"And then what
happened?"

Isobel's heart lurched.
The memories were too painful, as was her son's abrupt interrogation. He hadn't
said anything, but he was angry—he was angry with her. And after the anger,
then what would follow? His disdain? Very softly, she spoke, trying to keep the
tremors from her voice. "I know that, in the beginning, he wanted me to
know where he was. It was his way of telling me that he was still there,
waiting for me, if I changed my mind. But then the letters stopped." Her
voice broke and tears spilled. "Maybe he is married. Maybe he is dead. I
do not know."

Hadrian stared, eyes
wide as comprehension struck him. "You still love him!"

Isobel found a
handkerchief and dried her eyes, quickly and desperately regaining a semblance
of control. Her tears were as much for her son as for his real father— and for
herself.

Suddenly Hadrian moved
to his mother's side and laid a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. "I know
this is difficult for you. But Mother—this is of the utmost importance to me. I
must have that address in Boston."

"Of course,"
she managed forlornly.

Hadrian turned away. To
the room at large he said, trying to control the rush of excitement flooding
over him, "I shall write him a letter immediately. I will hire
investigators. I will send one of them to Boston. If he is alive, I shall find
him."

Isobel swallowed,
preparing to deliver the coup de grace to her son. "Hadrian, he doesn't
know."

Hadrian whirled.

"I never told him.
He has no idea that he has a son."

The revelation was
shocking. That night after his mother had left, Hadrian sat up alone in the
library with the Borzoi, staring into the dancing flames of the fire without
seeing them. He could barely assimilate what he had learned, that Francis was
not his father, that his mother had had an affair with a man named Hadrian
Stone and that
he
was his father.

Anger swept him. He was
angry with his mother— very angry—although he was trying hard not to be. He was
trying to understand her motivations, although for the life of him, he could
not. Not only had Isobel not told him the truth years ago when she should have,
she had not even told Hadrian Stone the truth.

When he had demanded to
know how she could have kept the truth from his father, as well as him, she had
been so distressed she could not answer.

He could not stop thinking
about the mysterious American who was his actual father. Hadrian Stone. Isobel
had named him after her lover. What was this American like? He was a sea
captain. Hadrian could not imagine his mother with a sea captain, and in his
mind's eye he could not get past an image of a stocky, stubbled, gray-haired
man in a striped shirt and navy blue pants. Although he had pressed her
repeatedly, Isobel had refused to answer his inquiries. Although he had known
he was upsetting her by asking her about his father, he could not, would not,
stop. Did he not have a right to know something— anything? She had finally said
that Hadrian Stone was everything Francis was not, and with that, in tears, she
had fled the room and his house. Momentarily, Hadrian had been remorseful for
what he had done, but then his mind had again seized upon the fact he could not
get over, the fact of his paternity.

He laughed out loud. Now
he could curse Francis to his heart's content with no remorse, and more
importantly, now he could understand why Francis had despised him. For that had
been the question which had haunted him his entire life, and finally, it was
laid to rest.

Hadrian called upon his
fiancee the following day. Although he was overflowing with the hope of finding
his father alive and well, and he had hired runners the very evening his mother
had told him the truth, one of whom was already Boston-bound with a letter, his
wedding was rapidly approaching. He had not slept at all the previous evening,
and by dawn's first light he had finally been able to come to terms with the
astounding fact that a man named Hadrian Stone was his father. Other than to
wait for some results from the investigation he had initiated, there was
nothing more for him to do. But as far as his future wife was concerned, he had
plenty to do. For he had a future to secure for them.

Hadrian intended to
continue with his plan to protect Nicole from the scandal that was trying to
take root over their impending wedding. In order to do so, they must venture
into society so he could assume his role of a madly lovestruck swain. Hadrian
had not lost any of his resolve to quench the malicious gossips from spreading
tales that were too damned close to the truth to be of comfort. If anything, he
was now more determined than ever to protect his bride and gain for her the
acceptance she deserved.

The immense black
Clayborough coach with its trio of lions emblazoned larger than life upon its
doors pulled up in front of the Shelton residence on Tavistock Square. The Duke
alighted. His strides were always lithe and agile, but today they were
particularly effortless. In fact,
when Aldric responded to the doorknocker, he could not
help but gape at the Duke, who greeted him with an uncharacteristic smile.
Hadrian knew that he was probably grinning like an idiot, but he could not
dampen his good humor even if he wanted to.

But as he waited for
Nicole in the morning parlor his pleasure began to fade. She did not appear.
Fifteen minutes became a half an hour. A half an hour became three quarters of
an hour. Hadrian's pleasure turned to annoyance, which turned to anger. How
could he have forgotten for a moment, despite the incredible turn of events,
that his bride was more than reluctant? The last time he had seen her was at
Lindley's, and she had been furious with him. Yesterday she had managed to
avoid him. Had she not received the veiled warning he had given the Countess?
Did she really think to avoid him again? Could she be so foolish?

He left the parlor and
found a clearly anxious Aldric hovering in the foyer.

"Your Grace! May I
bring you more refreshments?"

"Where is her
room?" The Duke demanded.

Aldric froze. "Your
Grace ... er, Your Grace ..."

"Might I assume it
is up those stairs?"

"On the second
floor," the butler breathed, eyes wide.

The Duke of Clayborough
waited.

"Fifth door on the
left," Aldric whispered.

The Duke was already
gone. He took the steps effortlessly and two at time. He rapped sharply on the
fifth door twice, and without waiting for an invitation that he doubted would
be forthcoming once his identity was known, he barged in.

Nicole was in her
underclothes. There were piles and piles of silks, chiffons, taffetas, velvets,
tulle, wool, cashmeres and even furs upon her bed, while plumes, ribbons, lace,
and other accessorizing items were scattered about the room. Boxes of hats, all
opened, and gloves, were everywhere. The floor was barely discernible, for
wrapping tissue had been strewn haphazardly about. There was a pile of
reticules in all sizes, shapes and colors imaginable, on the floor by the sofa.
The renowned seamstress Madame Lavie was on her knees, measuring the hem of
Nicole's bright gold silk petticoat. Two other young women were seated in the
room, sewing madly. As one, everyone froze and gaped at the Duke.

Nicole was the first to
recover. She shielded her breasts, popping as they were from her lace-covered
corset, with her arms. "Get out!"

It had taken Hadrian all
of a split second to realize she had had no intention of coming down to see him
at all. "Everyone leave.
Now."

In another second, the
room was empty except for the Duke and his bride.

Her arms still crossed
against her chest, Nicole backed away, trodding upon the mountains of fragile
tissue. "You cannot be in here. You are worsening what is already a
scandalous affair!"

"A scandalous
affair?" He mocked. "They will say it is a scandalous love!"

"Oh! How could I
forget the game you are playing?"

Hadrian smiled, not
pleasantly. Although she covered her bosom from his view, he had already seen
the ripe flesh straining against her corset, had already glimpsed dark red
nipples poking against the fine gold lace. "How long did you intend for me
to await you downstairs, Nicole?"

"Forever!"

He smiled again, the
expression ruthless. "Not a very wise course of action." His gaze
swept her again. His body pulsed with awareness of how alone they were, and
where they were—in her bedroom with her bed not a foot away from them.

"You must leave.
There will be more talk already because of your coming into my room like this."
Her voice had become breathless.

"Good," he
said, taking a step towards her. A tight, hard step—as tight and hard as his
big body. "They will say I am so mad about you that I chased you into your
bedroom, losing all sense of any sort of chivalrous conduct."

Nicole quickly moved to
the other side of the bed. "You are mad!"

"And you, my dear,
are a coward," he said softly, stalking her.

"I am not a
coward," she gritted, gripping one of the fat, intricately carved
bedposts. Her breasts heaved in fury. "You are the coward—to steal behind
my back and ask my father for my hand, after I had already refused you!"

He froze. Then he was
upon her, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her from the bedpost. She
shrieked. He shook her. He watched with angry interest as her breasts burst
free of her corset. "To the contrary," he said in her ear, his tone
strained, "anyone foolish enough to marry you is the bravest of men."

Nicole wrenched free of
him, reaching wildly for one of the lavish fabrics littering her bed and clutching
an opaque red chiffon across her chest. "Then feel free to cry off!"
She shouted. "I won't take offense."

He told himself, even as
he accosted her, that he was only acting out of the need to shut her up before
she ruined his intentions of protecting her and added more fuel to the gossip
he sought to avoid. Even as he thought this, even as he dragged her up against
his body, even as he pulled her up against the length of his straining manhood,
he knew it was a half-hearted excuse. The fact was that he was sick and tired
of these games, of these protests. "Then your sensibilities are stronger
than mine. I am warning you, Nicole, I am quickly becoming offended." With
a hard smile that wasn't a smile at all, he covered her lips with his.

She struggled wildly,
trying to strike him and almost succeeding; he caught her wrists and pushed her
down into the heap of luxurious material covering the bed. "I can see the
hurt in your eyes! Why not admit your vulnerability? Why do you push me so
hard? How is it that you make me forget myself?"

"It's all my fault,
of course!" she cried, but she was motionless, lying on her back on the
bed, his heavy weight pinning her there, his legs between hers.

He did not respond. Not
verbally. Very deliberately, he yanked the red chiffon she was holding from
between them. Her eyes widened and she bucked, but he did not release her
wrists and kept her pinned to the bed.

For a long moment she
did not move, except for her naked breasts, which were heaving beneath his
crisp shirtfront. "Can we cease with all this nonsense?" he demanded.

Her gaze had drifted to
his mouth. Quickly it flew back to his eyes. "My future is at stake. I do
not think that is nonsense!"

"Our future is at
stake," he replied. "Our future."

She jerked against him again.
"How dare you do this to me," she whispered.

His gaze flickered to
her naked breasts. He thought that she referred to both his manhandling of her
now, and his decision to marry her despite her protests. "Give up, Nicole.
You have already lost. Accept what is going to be. Accept the fact that in a
few days you are going to be my wife."

She strained against him
again. He knew he must be hurting her, for he would not lesson his grip on her
wrists, and he knew she was as achingly aware of him as he was of her, his
massive hardness buried as it was in her groin. "I will never accept
that," she gasped.

He didn't laugh. There
was nothing amusing about her continuing to resist his will. Only she could
ignite his temper so easily, as she had done from the moment they had met.
"You never learn," he said. Sweat beaded his brow as he fought with
himself, and lost. His body began to shake. The enormity of his need was
terrifying.

Their gazes continued to
remain riveted together. Just as he knew he must surrender to the passion
raging in him, he felt her resistance snap. With a small cry, Nicole closed her
eyes, arching her body up against his.

He did not need any
encouragement anyway. He kneed her thighs apart and took her mouth with his.
His kisses were explosive. Nicole heaved against him eagerly, seeking out his
tongue with hers. Ruthlessly he pumped his loins against her.

There was a determined
knocking upon the door.

Hadrian leapt to his
feet instantly. He yanked up her corset. Nicole gazed at him out of glazed, passion-drugged
eyes. "We have company," he whispered urgently, pulling her to her
feet. She was like a mannequin, a dead weight. He shook her once and was
relieved to see the focus returning to her expression. Leaving her, he tucked
in his shirt and straightened his tie as he went to the door. He opened it just
as there was another knock.

It was the Countess.
Hadrian had not a doubt that she was not fooled by them, although her smile was
pleasant. "Your Grace, hello. I thought perhaps I should bring you more
refreshments while you visit with my daughter."

"How
thoughtful," he murmured, glancing at Nicole. She stood with her back to
them, staring out of one of the tall windows, clad now in a green print
dressing gown. He was relieved at the interruption although his body was not.
He had not intended for things to get so out of hand.

Jane placed a tray upon
a glass table. For a few moments they exchanged pleasantries. When she
departed, she left the door wide open. Hadrian turned to his bride. By now she
was scowling at him; clearly the past few minutes had not improved her mood.

"I hope you are
satisfied," she flung heedlessly.

"I am far from
satisfied."

She colored. Her arms
were again defensively crossed in front of her chest. "Why have you come?
To throw salt on my wounds?"

"What wounds?"
he asked dryly, turning from her. Now that they were alone again, even though
she was covered by the robe, the hot ache in his loins was building anew. He
poured them both cups of tea, hoping to distract his body from its intent.

"You know what
wounds," she snapped. "Why do you insist upon this ridiculous
marriage? I heartily agree with what you said—that you are a fool to marry
me."

"I did not say
that, Nicole."

"I am not the sort
to be a duchess, as you well know," she said, as if she hadn't heard him.

"Perhaps you sell
yourself short."

Her eyes widened.

He calmly sipped his
tea, but he never took his eyes from her.

She recovered.
"Hadrian—why do you insist that we wed? If what happened between us
doesn't matter to me, then why the hell does it matter to you?"

He winced, but not at
her crude language. Could she possibly mean what she had just said—that what
had happened in his library several days ago was of no importance to her?
"You know why. You may be with my child."

"If I am with
child, I can have it without being wed to you. I am used to scandal—what
difference will a little more make?"