A Most Scandalous Engagement

by Gayle Callen

  Pacing back and forth, she could not stop thinking of all the surprising revelations she’d had about Peter these past weeks. He’d remade himself, beginning with very little money, and now helped control a vast railway company. The fact that he loved and worried about his sister showed her that his protectiveness for her, too, when she was a child, wasn’t an isolated incidence. And there were things he kept hidden about himself, mysteries she wanted solved. He was not simply the jovial man he’d always shown the world.

  Love meant telling the truth—and they were both hiding things. She still hadn’t confided her fear that Mary Anne was falling under Thomas’s spell. But if she told Peter her suspicions, and he went to Mary Anne with them, Mary Anne would never trust her again.

  She owed Peter so much—the least she could do was help his sister.

  It was a struggle to stay away from Elizabeth for the next two days, but Peter had something to focus on: Lord Thomas Wythorne. He spent the first day discovering the man’s favorite haunts; one of his pastimes was a daily fencing match. On the second day, Peter showed up at Wythorne’s fencing club, and was donning his chest protector when Wythorne came out of the gentlemen’s changing room in shirtsleeves and breeches.

  Wythorne came to a stop on seeing him. “Derby, what a surprise. Not with your lovely Lady Elizabeth today?”

  Peter tossed a chest protector at him. He pulled on his mesh fencing mask and lifted his sword. He kept the leather tip buttoned on, knowing bloodletting would bother Elizabeth.

  Slowly, Wythorne donned the chest protector. “Are we fighting today, Derby?”

  “Unless you want a different opponent, one who’ll let you win. You seem to like to win, especially against defenseless women.”

  Though Wythorne’s smile didn’t fade, it seemed to harden at the edges. He slid his mask into place and took his sword from the servant hovering nervously nearby. Several matches were going on in the large, high-ceilinged room, but one by one the sounds of steel clashing faded away.

  Fencing had always been a leveler to Peter, a way to prove oneself an equal by skill alone, not by wealth or birth. And although he couldn’t pound Wythorne’s handsome face, he could defeat him—and he knew the man didn’t like to lose.

  They saluted with their swords, and Peter attacked first, slashing diagonally. Wythorne stumbled back a pace, parrying the blow at the last moment.

  “Well done,” Wythorne said as he lifted his sword with his right hand and balanced with his left arm behind.

  Peter didn’t bother to reply, only attacked again, ducking to the side to avoid a leather tip in the chest but constantly forcing Wythorne back toward the wall.

  With a last hard blow, Peter knocked him to the ground, then knelt over him, the long blade at his throat.

  Wythorne’s smile wasn’t so confident. “The tip is the sharpest part of the sword.”

  “But the edge is sharp enough to do damage.” Peter leaned closer. “Stay away from her.”

  “Stay away from whom?” Wythorne asked too lightly.

  “Don’t talk to her; don’t threaten her ever again. She’s my fiancée.”

  “Not for long, or so I’m beginning to hear.”

  “She has my protection, and that’s all that should matter to you. Don’t make her turn you down again, because you know how pathetic you’ll look.” Peter rose to his feet, flung the sword and protective equipment on the floor beside his opponent, and stalked out.

  It was two days before Elizabeth saw Peter again—two days that seemed to drag on forever. She had to endure her mother’s questions, reminding herself silently that even though the lies hadn’t stopped, she was trying to make everything right. She said she and Peter had a silly argument about her dowry but that it would all be worked out. It sounded false, because it was false. Her mother seemed disappointed in her, which only echoed Elizabeth’s disappointment in herself.

  She told Lucy that the breakup of the engagement had begun, but Lucy didn’t seem to know whether to be happy or sad. Elizabeth felt the same way. Lucy tentatively brought up the subject of her brother. Elizabeth was uninterested, with more important things to worry about.

  And then she saw Peter at a dinner party. He only arrived in time to escort a lady in at the end of the line. Chatting with his partner throughout the entire meal, he laughed and gestured, perfectly at ease. Elizabeth didn’t have to pretend the jealousy she felt.

  When the men joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner, she and Peter looked at each other from across the room, and it wasn’t difficult to show her hesitation, her confusion. He came to her and kissed her gloved hand, then leaned down as if to speak softly.

  “Do I look suitably worried I’m losing you?” he asked.

  There was a smile in his voice that he couldn’t show on his face. She wanted to smile and tease him—she wanted to touch him.

  She inhaled his scent, knowing they shouldn’t stand so close, yet knowing, too, it helped in their charade.

  “I think you look angry,” she murmured.

  “Even better. I should drag you out of here to talk.”

  “Do what you must.”

  To her satisfaction, many pairs of eyes followed them as they left the drawing room.

  Peter found the library—of course. It was ill lit, and when he closed the door and leaned against it, he looked mysterious and far too tempting in the gloom.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

  His words were a joyous ache inside her. When he swept her into his arms, she didn’t protest, couldn’t protest. Their mouths met, and a sweet kiss turned hot and demanding. She couldn’t stop from touching him, his hair, his strong neck, the shoulders that showed he was so much more than a leisurely gentleman.

  His hands on her body felt divine, like she was a cat lying in the sun being stroked. Cupping her hips, he pulled her hard against him, and she reveled in the proof that he desired her, that at least he wasn’t ending the engagement because he was bored with their game.

  When he set her away from him, she swayed like an autumn leaf.

  “Elizabeth, I didn’t intend this meeting to become so intimate.”

  “Neither did I,” she breathed, wiping her damp mouth. “It’s not your fault, because I didn’t stop you.”

  “I’ve become used to your kisses,” he murmured hoarsely.

  Closing her eyes, fighting for control, she reminded herself she’d forced him into this. He deserved to be free of her web—to make his own choices, regardless of the fact that her feelings had changed.

  “You leave first this time,” he said at last, his voice that husky timbre that made her shiver inside. “Give them the performance they’re hungry for.”

  “I will.” With a nod, she swept by him, opened the door, and slammed it behind her.

  In the drawing room, she saw several pairs of sympathetic eyes—and several more with the faintest hint of satisfaction, as if they’d known that the relationship between a duke’s daughter and a commoner couldn’t last.

  To Elizabeth’s surprise, Mary Anne came to Madingley House in the morning to ask if she would like to ride through the park. Elizabeth suspected she was curious about the rumors, but couldn’t avoid her without damaging the beginning of their friendship.

  She changed into her riding clothes, had her horse saddled, and rode the animal sedately through the streets of Mayfair at Mary Anne’s side, a groom trailing behind them. When they reached Hyde Park, Mary Anne burst into a gallop first, and Elizabeth did her best to catch up. When they reached the far end of the Ladies’ Mile, they slowed to a walk.

  Mary Anne stared straight ahead, her breathing slowing down, her expression pensive. Elizabeth waited silently, dreading the accusation.

  Mary Anne exhaled. “Did you receive the dinner invitation from Lord Thomas’s mother?”

  Elizabeth frowned in surprise. “I did. I turned it down.”

  “I’m not surprised. He told me he asked to marry you and you rejected
him.”

  “He doesn’t usually reveal his failings to others,” Elizabeth said cautiously.

  “I’ve gotten that impression.” Mary Anne met her gaze. “I’m going to attend.”

  Elizabeth didn’t know what she was expected to say. “I’m certain your mother would appreciate that.”

  “It’s not about her.”

  “What is it about then? Testing yourself? I know something about that, and it can get you in trouble.”

  She felt trapped in her own lies. How could she tell Mary Anne that Thomas had hurt her, when she herself has been hurting Peter? She’d lose every bit of Mary Anne’s respect, and perhaps make her unsociable behavior worse.

  “I’m not testing anything,” Mary Anne said, glancing at Elizabeth even as she effortlessly controlled her horse. “He’s not like other men I’ve met. He’s confident and amusing. I like that about him.”

  “He’s definitely confident.”

  “And I’ve only ever been confident about billiards.”

  “Why billiards, Mary Anne?”

  But she only shrugged and wouldn’t meet Elizabeth’s eyes. “I just wanted to make sure you understood that this isn’t about you either. You have your hands full with Peter’s adoration. I didn’t think you’d mind my friendship with Lord Thomas.”

  “Peter’s adoration?” Elizabeth echoed, trying not to blush.

  “Oh, don’t worry, your new arguments aren’t a secret. I’m not even surprised.”

  “You’re not?” Elizabeth was disappointed that Mary Anne still thought so little of her.

  “He’s not the kind of man who will meekly grovel because he won the hand of a rich heiress, and everyone thinks he’s supposed to be grateful.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not that you expect that of him—it’s what everyone else thinks. But I know how he feels about you. And I know he’ll resolve any arguments you have, because he’s determined to make this work.”

  “How—How does he feel about me?” Elizabeth quietly asked, afraid to hope.

  Mary Anne frowned at her. “He asked you to marry him, didn’t he?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “He acts like an absolute idiot around you, as if you’re the only woman in the room. He’s wanted you a long time, Elizabeth. You know he’d do anything for you. But don’t make him do that.”

  Elizabeth swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, trying to smile. Their brother James had hinted at the same thing, but she hadn’t known if Peter had simply convinced his brother of the charade. Now, she desperately wanted to believe Mary Anne’s words.

  Her passion seemed too overwhelming to her, too out of control. They were supposed to portray to the world a failing engagement—yet she couldn’t keep her hands off him. How was she supposed to forget the calm maturity she’d striven so hard for, all the expectations she had for herself, the only Cabot who could be happy without a scandal?

  That night, Peter didn’t bother to watch the string quartet play at the end of the portrait gallery at Sydney House. He watched Elizabeth, letting his obsession show for all the world to see. And she deliberately didn’t look at him.

  Part of the charade—but it only aroused him.

  It was easy to appear impassive, with a touch of anger seething beneath the surface. She sat across an aisle from him, acting pristine and pure as she pretended to listen to their host’s four daughters play. Above her demure yellow gown, so stunning against her coal black hair, her cheeks were tinged with a pink blush. She played with the paper program in her lap, tearing the edge into little pieces.

  At last they were all allowed to escape the music as refreshments were served. Peter stood at her side as the two of them pretended to be the perfect couple—yet not speaking. He wanted to share a joke about the music, he wanted to ask if he was playing the correct part.

  Mostly, he wanted to taste her mouth, fill his hands with her breasts, lick his way down her naked body.

  Surely she wanted the same thing. But wanting him and accepting the truth of their future were two different things. He had to be patient, let her come to the realization, for like a headstrong colt, she couldn’t be easily led.

  Guests mingled throughout the gallery, and he walked at her side, pretending to admire the paintings when he truly couldn’t stop looking at her.

  When they reached the far wall, where the gallery dead-ended, he saw that they were unobserved, and pulled her behind the foliage of a huge potted fern and up against his body

  “Peter!” she whispered, hands on his chest, her breathing fast. “What if someone sees? We need them to think—”

  He kissed her, and she turned frantic in his embrace, straining against him, wrapping her arms about his neck. He could have sworn she tried to put her foot behind his leg and would have but for her voluminous skirts.

  She kissed her way across his face and down his neck until she had to stop at the high collar.

  “Miss me?” he whispered against her mouth.

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, obviously struggling to control her breathing. “Why is this all I think about?”

  “Because you’re wild, just like me.”

  She looked at him for a frozen moment, then slowly her mouth turned up with amusement. “No one would ever think to accuse the two of us of that.”

  “They don’t know us.”

  She sighed. “In case someone is watching, I’m going to pull away from you as if you dragged me here against my will.”

  “As if I could ever make you do anything against your will.”

  Her smile died as she searched his eyes, but at last she nodded.

  “I’m coming to see you tonight.”

  “Peter—”

  “I’m not finished looking for that diamond necklace. I know you posed for the painting, but I’m going to prove it.”

  If she knew he was only using any excuse to be with her, she didn’t reveal it.

  “I might lock you out,” she said.

  “Go ahead and try.”

  Their bodies separated but for their hands, and then she stepped to the side, their hands lifted as if they must touch until the last possible moment. Giving a mighty yank, she frowned at him and walked away, head held high.

  Peter came in through the balcony doors just after midnight, and Elizabeth was waiting for him. She was wearing her nightdress, with the dressing gown over it. By the faint light of a single candle at her bedside, she could see that his usual grin was absent, his body tense as he watched her from across the bed.

  “I looked for the diamond,” she said, her voice too breathless. “I can’t find it. Susanna or Rebecca must have taken it.”

  He didn’t say anything at first, just started to come around the edge of the bed.

  “Peter—” And then she didn’t know what to say.

  “I can’t sleep but for thinking of you, Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice deep and husky.

  Her muscles seemed too weak to hold her up in the face of his smoldering gaze.

  “I keep having to pretend anger,” he continued, “but I can feel you from across a drawing room, and it’s not anger that’s overpowering me.”

  Hope rose painfully high within her, brimming in her voice, which almost cracked as she spoke. “James said—he said you have always mentioned me, even before the engagement. Mary Anne said I was the one you wanted. If it’s true, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “Because you only thought of me as a friend—until the painting, until that wager. Then everything changed.”

  And then he was in front of her, pulling her up onto her toes.

  “Let me show you what I feel,” he murmured.

  “I—I’ve hurt you, Peter,” she whispered.

  “It’s in the past.”

  She wanted everything to be in the past—her uncertainty and jealousy, her fears that she was just an amusement to him. He was too good a man to lie to her only to advance their intimacy. He wanted her—surely h
e could love her. She wanted to show him everything she was feeling, every hope and dream that they could share together. In that moment, she took the wildest risk of her life and reached for him.

  His arms sheltered and protected her, just as he had before. Feeling dazed and yearning, she moaned as he kissed lightly down the side of her neck, nipping with his teeth, licking afterward as if to soothe.

  His breath floated over her now damp skin, and she shivered. When he let her go, she swayed, but he didn’t move away, only removed his coat and waistcoat.

  “Your shirt, too,” she said, remembering that she’d touched his chest in the carriage but hadn’t seen it.

  She expected a smile of triumph—but his eyes only seemed to darken, so serious, as he watched her. He pulled off his cravat, unbuttoned his collar and the few buttons near his neck, then pulled it off over his head.

  She’d thought before that he felt like one of the statues in the Madingley gallery, but now she realized he looked like one, too. She held her breath and just stared, her eyes touching on the curves of his long, lean muscles, the ridges of his abdomen, the way the hair on his chest narrowed as it approached his waistband. And below that, she could see the bulge of his arousal.

  They’d shared so many things—she wanted to share this.

  And then he embraced her, kissed her deeply, setting fire to the last of her inhibitions.

  Her dressing gown fell to the floor, and then he drew the nightgown like cool silk up her body. She thought she would be embarrassed to be so openly naked before him, but with a groan he pulled her against him for more drugging kisses. His flesh was hot, her nipples tight pebbles rubbing against his chest. His hands slid up and down her back, then around her rib cage to cup her breasts.

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed, eyes closed, lost in the feel of him pleasuring her. He lifted her breasts, kneaded them, gently tugged on her nipples while she clung to his waist to keep from sinking to the floor.

  And then he lifted her up and swung her onto the bed. She came up on her elbows, knees tightly pressed together to watch him, but except for briefly sitting to remove his boots and stockings, he didn’t finish disrobing, only climbed up beside her.