A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal

  “But you’re irresistible. As proper as a vicar’s wife, scrubbed clean, tamed. I can’t tell if it’s a pity or a terribly effective provocation.”

  She pushed away his hand and retreated another pace. “Neither. That’s not my doing.” She wasn’t trying to tempt him into anything. She had no blame in this.

  He looked into her eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

  She nearly laughed. Of course she was afraid of him. It would take a newborn not to be afraid of him. He was a bloody peer of the realm. Did he not realize that all his talk of her birth and her fortune were for naught as long as he was the only one who knew it? He could tell her sweet tales of being an empress if he liked; none of it would mean a thing unless he put cash in her hand as he spoke.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said.

  “There’s no need, you know.” Still he was watching her, his damned eyes too sharp, seeing too much. She had a bad habit of underestimating him, of forgetting how quick he was, even if he’d been coddled in silk his whole life. “Your best interests happen to coincide with mine. That should comfort you, if nothing else does.”

  “You’re right, I’m comforted. Show me more of my family, why don’t you?”

  He didn’t take the bait. “In a minute,” he said, still studying her. Why was he so interested? There wasn’t anything in her to hold the attention of a man like him. If he wanted somebody like her, he could go out and buy ten, twenty girls for a night.

  But not her. She wasn’t his plaything. She’d be his wife or nothing.

  He stepped toward her again and she betrayed herself with a quick step back.

  “There we go,” he said on a nod, a man whose peculiar notion had been confirmed. “But it makes no sense. What could account for your skittishness? You don’t seem timid by nature.”

  “I’m not.” She resented, bitterly, how breathy those two words sounded.

  His gaze dropped, lazily tracing her neckline, trailing down her bosom. He looked her over with a frank, sexual appreciation. Not a drop of shame in the smile he gave her tits, her hips, her mouth—which went dry beneath his look. A girl with any self-respect wouldn’t welcome this survey. He sized her up like a man with a boughten whore.

  But she couldn’t lie to herself. To have a man like this stand before her, wanting her, brought out the stupider side. If he were an animal he’d be the prize in every competition, his long, elegant bones strapped by muscle, straight and tall, the prime specimen of his kind. Humans were animals, too, and never before had she realized it so strongly as now, with this heat stirring in her stomach.

  Her breath restarted with a gasp that he didn’t even pretend to miss. His gaze lifted, hot, calling to mind dirty words, bodies pressing together in darkness, while his tone contradicted the message in his eyes, growing light, almost playful: “Would it be so bad to marry me?” he asked.

  A flush burned through her. She knew what he was asking. Marry had become their little word to stand in for other things. “I don’t know you,” she said through her teeth. “Maybe it wouldn’t. I can’t say.”

  “I’m an open book.” He stepped forward once more, and this time she held her ground. To the devil with his hot eyes and his bullying!

  He noticed the victory; the smile on his lips assumed a roguish angle. “And you are skittish,” he said. A challenge in those words: he was about to prove it to her. “I promise, lovely Nell, that I have no intention of seducing you before supper.”

  She watched in a private agony as he reached out to stroke her neckline. If she backed away again, her reluctance would grow painfully conspicuous.

  Normal, she told her pounding heart. He only thought to handle the woman he meant to wed, and that was normal.

  But there was nothing normal about the way his touch seemed to burn through the wool, straight to her skin. She was wicked, wanton at heart, and self-destructive as a gin addict on payday. Nothing wise or good could come of wanting a man with the power to grind her to dust, but he touched her like a man bent on more delicate operations, his finger skimming lightly across her collarbone to her shoulder. His hand turned, stroked open-palmed down her arm, slow and firm, feeling the lines of her, and everything in her wanted to incline toward him.

  Such a stupid, simple touch! Why couldn’t she hold herself away from it?

  He wasn’t unaffected, either. A pulse beat at the base of his throat. His eyes, when they rose to hers, were knowing. “Say it,” he murmured. “You feel this.”

  Her throat tightened. “I feel your hand.”

  He made a little tsk, a chiding click of his tongue. “Obtuse,” he said, but his tone told her that he wasn’t put off by it. He liked a challenge; it lured him. “I can do so much for you, you know.” Casually, conversationally, he spoke to her, as he handled her flesh. “I’m the last to give you lessons in being a lady, but I could teach you very well about other things. About pleasure, and beauty, art and glamour—all the worthwhile entertainments. Lessons in scandal”—his laughter was soft, an invitation: Think of the possibilities, it invited—”yes, I could teach those very well. And in … power?” He laced his fingers through hers, his thumb stroking across her palm. “You want money; I know that much. But what of power, Nell?”

  The word sent a frisson down her spine. Power: what he was exercising right now, holding her riveted with only his words and the light press of his wicked fingers. What a terrible power, too—what a terrible context in which to discover such a power existed. Better for her sake if he’d exercised the clumsier forms: raw strength, muscle, a shout. Brute force she knew well enough.

  But no, nothing so simple would appeal to St. Maur. Power, the idea, the very word, assumed new dimensions when purred by the man who owned this house, who’d paid for these clothes on her skin, who’d walked into a jail and thrown over the lawmen in a quarter hour, without breaking a sweat or—Hannah had claimed—even lifting his voice. He looked as cool as the moon now, the devil’s minion who made her skin flame with just the stroke of his thumb. He worked magic with just that one finger, rubbing slowly, intimately, down the center of her palm.

  This way was more deadly than the strike of a fist. First he lured her body into colluding with him, and then he asked her imagination to join the plot against her. Her desire, her ambition, and him: she couldn’t fight all of them. He’d make her into her own enemy.

  The thought stabbed into her. She met his eyes. She wouldn’t feel this. She’d stay quick. “I’m not weak. You’re wrong if you think I am.”

  “Not weak,” he murmured. “But these calluses on your palms tell their own story. Your time and labor haven’t been your own. Imagine what it would be like to set your own course, Nell. To answer to no one’s bidding. I can make that possible for you.”

  It wasn’t a promise many could offer. But she didn’t doubt that he could keep it.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, his lips closing on her knuckles, and she felt them everywhere, a liquid warmth that weakened her.

  “To ignore the world’s opinions,” he said against her skin. “Or to create their opinions for them.” He lifted her hand to his face, pressing her palm along his cheek. “That’s a heady drug,” he said, and for a confused moment, she thought he meant the sensation of his skin, freshly shaved, hot and smooth.

  What an odd thing to do, to make a woman touch your cheek. She stared at her hand where he held it against him. A woman might touch her lover like this to express true and tender affection.

  The thought panicked her. He was seducing her not only with his body but with false hopes besides. Look at yourself, his gesture said, touching me as though we might care for one another. What a cruel possibility to tempt her with. What a malicious, wicked strategy. She knew herself and she knew his type, too: when they met, it was usually in a back alley right after coin was exchanged.

  She yanked her hand free. “You know I was a thief?”

  He might have been deaf for all the effect her angry words had on
his smile. “So I gathered,” he said, “when my handkerchief ended up in your friend’s possession.”

  “The handkerchief wasn’t anything! I would have stolen more than that if I could have managed it. I would take the rings off your fingers!”

  “But now you won’t have to.” He paused. “Does that frighten you?”

  “No,” she whispered. Theft didn’t frighten her. She understood well enough what the risks were, there. He frightened her. These feelings he called up inside her … and the dreams he tempted her to entertain …

  “If something frightens you,” he said, “that means it’s the best place to start.”

  A startled sense of recognition prickled over her. Aye, that was right. If you ran from your fears, they only chased you faster.

  She made herself look back to the painting of the last earl, with Paton Park in the background.

  Cowards ran from fear, but only a proper fool ran from the truth.

  She took a large breath, feeling dizzy, like she hovered on the edge of a fall. “Tell me honestly. Do you really think I’m that girl?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And so do you.”

  * * * *

  That evening, in the hour before Polly brought up the dinner tray, Nell sent Sylvie to the library to find a book that didn’t exist and locked the door.

  The sun was well into setting, casting the bedroom into a gloomy blue haze. The murky light suited her mood. She struck a match and set it to a single candle before going to her knees beside the bed.

  Prayer wasn’t her intention, but the posture reminded her body of a hundred Sundays spent kneeling under Mum’s sharp regard. She hesitated only briefly before setting the candlestick onto the carpet. Her hands shook as she folded them together at her breast. In the dimness, fragrant with candle smoke and the carpet’s soft perfume, she bowed her head and prayed.

  Let her forgive me, she thought. I can’t understand it, but I do love her still.

  And then, fingers tightening, she swallowed and added, And please forgive her. She loved me, too.

  On a long breath, she pried up the mattress and pulled out her loot.

  By the light of the candle she arranged the items on the carpet: candlesticks; doilies; a slim, illustrated volume of Regency-era fashions; a silver spoon; an enameled bowl the color of the summer sky. The bowl fit perfectly into her cupped palm. It was small enough to be ignored and dismissed. But a canny pawnshop broker would recognize its weight and fine glaze as proof of its value. It might easily fetch money for five months of food.

  She rose and carried it to the hearth, her hands steady as she replaced it on the small shelf above the mantel where she’d found it.

  The handsome book of illustrations—a month’s rent, easy—went to the little tea table in her boudoir. Polly would find it there and return it to the library.

  The spoon she put on the seat of the tea chair. Two weeks’ worth of food. The doilies, worth fine tea and hot rolls for six weeks, she strewed across the dressing table in her bedroom. The candlestick holders, silver, heavy, half a year’s surety, she placed by the door to the hall, where someone would be sure to trip over them.

  Blowing out her candle, she sat down on the bed and stared at the candlesticks, now veiled by shadows. The gentle tick of the clock measured out her dwindling opportunity to take them back.

  This shivering sensation in her stomach was like the feeling of falling.

  She remembered pennies dropping over a bridge, flashing in the sunlight. She remembered the sweet floral scent of a woman holding her close, while across the room light slanted through impossibly large windows framed by pale, transparent curtains.

  Witches’ dreams, Mum had called them. The devil’s whispers. The dreams had upset her so badly that Nell had learned never to speak of them. She’d stopped asking to hear certain lullabies. She’d ceased to cry for a doll with red hair and blue eyes. She’d come close to forgetting the great staircase she’d once slid down on her belly, a staircase broader than any in Bethnal Green.

  She’d thought them dreams.

  They hadn’t been dreams.

  So she wouldn’t take back those candlesticks. She needn’t feel like a thief in this house. This house had been hers, once upon a time, and so had Paton Park.

  She exhaled, long and slow. This is my place, she thought.

  Your birthright, St. Maur called it.

  Amazement prickled over her, sharp like fear, but so much sweeter. She had not only a fortune and a place to belong, but a person to call her own: him. Simon St. Maur, Earl of Rushden, meant to marry her. The quickest, handsomest, most frightening man she’d ever known wanted to make her his wife.

  Who do you think you are? Michael had liked to scream at her. It had only taken one look for St. Maur to know. He’d seen the truth the moment he laid eyes on her.

  Feelings knotted in her throat, hot, thick, too many to name. She thought of the way he had touched her and suddenly it took her breath away though he was nowhere in the room. She could have him if she wanted. That magical creature.

  God above, but she wanted him. She would admit it now, a secret to keep to herself.

  She crossed her arms, hugging tight, holding close these wild ideas. He wants the money, she reminded herself. She couldn’t embroider too many fancies on that pillow. She wouldn’t let herself. She would think of somebody else who was also hers, and not for anything to do with a fortune. She had a sister. Lady Katherine Aubyn had known that bridge, that staircase, that same soft embrace. Flesh of Nell’s flesh, whose bones had formed and grown alongside her own.

  So wondrous: somewhere in London, her sister was sleeping.

  The hot track of a tear startled her from her thoughts. She pushed it off her cheek with the back of her hand—pushed away, too, the hard-won habit of doubting, scrupling, scorning. This strange turn of events only seemed miraculous because it was miraculous. Anything was possible for her now.

  A hitching laugh escaped her. As she fell back onto the sheets, she laughed again, just for the feeling of it, the sheer joyous sensation of believing.

  Anything was possible now … even, God help her, learning to waltz.

  The Faculty Office had a gossip in its ranks. Simon had been forced to divulge the name of his bride in his application for the license, and it seemed somebody had let slip the news. Not four hours after he received the license, a threat arrived—traveling quietly, in an unsealed letter delivered by an urchin. It found Simon at a restaurant in the Strand, where he was sharing a bottle of port with Harcourt.

  You’re a madman. I am warning you: these shenanigans will not be tolerated. You are long past due for your comeuppance.

  The author was too much of a coward to sign his name, but Simon recognized the penmanship. Over the years, he had received countless letters from his guardian recorded in Grimston’s cramped hand. At first, he’d even read some of them. Later, he’d discovered what an excellent substitute they made for kindling.

  He smiled as he refolded the note. Of all the many advantages that would accrue through marriage to Nell Aubyn, Grimston’s displeasure would be one of the sweetest.

  “I can’t get over it.”

  Simon glanced across the table at Harcourt. “I can see that.” Harcourt was doing a very poor job of recovering from the news. “His compositions are quite shocking,” he added, straight-faced. “I suppose I can’t blame you.”

  Harcourt blinked. “The … oh, yes. Quite.” On the way to the Strand, he’d accompanied Simon on a brief stop at the studio of a promising, if unconventional, young violinist by the name of Gardner. “Those, too,” Harcourt said with a tentative nod. “Very … vigorous.”

  “Crude, you mean.” Gardner sawed his bow as though trying to break his instrument in half.

  Harcourt hesitated. “I don’t … really care, to tell you the truth. I’m still stuck on the other matter.”

  “Goodness. It’s been nearly an hour since I broke the happy news.”

  Har
court shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. He was a blue-eyed redhead with the coloring to match, but at present, he looked even paler than usual. “Look here, you’ve had almost five weeks to come to terms with the idea that she isn’t dead. I recall the girl tumbling about in her pinafore on our lawn at Hatby. My mother took to bed for a fortnight after she disappeared.” He grimaced. “I believe she made my father interrogate the entire staff, lest he discover one of them harboring hidden intentions with regard to the nursery.”

  “The great servant purge of 1872,” said Simon. “I believe an entire generation of nannies was scarred by it.”

  Harcourt frowned. “But you must remember her, too. You were at Paton Park that summer, weren’t you?”

  “No,” Simon said. “Not that summer.”

  “But I recall letters from you. That was the summer you were thrown from a horse during a steeplechase, broke your collarbone. Am I imagining this?”

  Simon sighed. That summer he’d come up with a hundred lies in his letters to friends. Rushden, infuriated with him for some reason Simon could no longer recall, had exiled him to some gloomy estate in Scotland. He’d escaped his escorts at the train station in York and managed to get to his parents’ home. When they’d promptly plotted to return him to the earl, he’d fled yet again, to London.

  The paltry sum in his pockets hadn’t lasted four days.

  It had been a lonely and bitter journey back to Paton Park, where Rushden and the countess had awaited him. Adolescent boys could muster a great deal of angst, and the realization that he was incapable of fending for himself—that no choice remained but to run back to Rushden with his tail tucked between his legs—had felt at the time like the blackest blow life could deliver.

  It occurred to him now that at the same age, Nell had been working half-days at a box factory. Or so she’d claimed during one of their breakfasts together. In his shoes, she would have known exactly how to fend for herself.

  The thought absorbed him. When Harcourt cleared his throat, it took Simon a considerable effort to muster his wits for a reply. “Yes, the steeplechase. I must have forgotten about that.” He remembered very little of that summer but the depth of his rage. It had driven him to a variety of stupid things—including an impossible jump for which he’d not forgiven himself for years. He’d suffered a broken collarbone, but his horse, Jupiter, had not been so lucky.