She glanced up and felt snared by his eyes. He had the loveliest eyes. She fought their pull and looked beyond his shoulder, half-afraid that her stepson might suddenly appear.
“They’re not coming back,” Colin assured her, lifting his hands to give her shoulders a comforting squeeze, misinterpreting her trepidation.
She returned her gaze to him. He thought she was still afraid of the Botsam brothers? He’d allayed that fear for her. She shook her head slightly. The only thing that would allay her other fear was being snug inside her house across Town.
He looked down at her, his silvery eyes peering at her through the gloom. She had always thought those eyes extraordinary. Always imagined they could see more . . . cut through everything.
Her stepson was impulsive, even hotheaded. He’d worried her more than a few times over the years. She had judged Colin to be a calming influence. Wise and thoughtful and circumspect. A good friend to Marcus. Precisely the kind of friend he needed. He’d even been a friend to her tonight, stepping in and saving her—and as far as he knew, she was a stranger to him.
He patted her shoulders. “Come. Let us get you from here.”
By here, she did not know if he meant this room or this house. Whatever the case, she let him lead her away since away was where she wanted to be. It didn’t require speaking and that seemed fortuitous.
He clasped her arm and tugged her behind him. Once in the corridor, his hand slid down her arm. Neither one of them were wearing gloves. His warm fingers wrapped around her hand and her heart beat harder in her chest.
A lifetime had passed since a man held her hand in anything more than a fleeting grip. Those touches were perfunctory. Just a quick assist from her mount or into a carriage. This was different. It was intimate and slightly possessive.
She slid a look at his profile. The strong line of his nose. The square cut of his jaw. She saw him as she always did . . . except she didn’t. He looked different somehow now. Here, in this setting, he made her breath fall a fraction too quickly.
He was indisputably handsome. She had always thought this, of course, but with detachment. As one observes a beautiful piece of art. Or simply a handsome man—a handsome young man a matron such as herself might consider as a marriage prospect for her stepdaughter. How could she not? It was difficult not to notice when her stepdaughter stared after Lord Strickland with longing. Years ago she had thought perhaps they might make a match, but after watching their interaction, she was certain that Colin viewed Enid only as a younger sister.
Tonight, however, in this moment, Graciela was achingly aware of him . . . and that was unpardonable. She gave herself a swift internal shake and blamed it on her surroundings. Once she was free of this outrageous place, all would return to normal. She would return to her senses. She would again be a proper dowager duchess and Lord Strickland would be her stepson’s friend. Much younger and much too forbidden.
He led her down a hallway, past couples so engrossed with each other they did not cast them a glance.
“I’m assuming you wish to leave?”
She nodded.
“I’ll escort you out and hail a hack for you.”
She smiled and nodded again. Perhaps she could leave word with a doorman for Mary Rebecca without Lord Strickland overhearing her. She didn’t want her friend to fret, but neither could she stay another moment in this pleasure club whilst her stepson was on the premises. Mary Rebecca would understand when she explained the situation.
Graciela looked ahead, noting they were nearing the top of the stairs, where several corridors converged.
A gentleman crested the top, ascending the stairs to stand in the hub of corridors. She tensed, recognizing him at once.
His great height and bearing were as familiar to her as the memory of his father, her late husband.
A sour taste coated her mouth.
She froze, her heart a desperate hammering in her chest. It was too late. Her stepson was here. She was here. They would come face-to-face. She couldn’t hide from him. Mortification loomed ahead.
Air stirred beside her and she sensed Lord Strickland close. His larger body stopping alongside her. She felt his breath on the side of her face.
Marcus faced them down the long length of hallway, a dark shape etched against the light from well-lit sconces. That same light cast his features into stark relief. There was no mistaking his identity.
She pressed a hand over her racing heart as though that would keep it from bursting free from her bodice.
Marcus lifted his hand in a two-fingered wave. “Strickland,” he called, listing to the side. Clearly his balance was hard-won. “What’d you find there? Something to play with?”
There was the slightest slur to his speech. Evidently he’d been dipping deep tonight. It wasn’t like him. At least not like him before the accident.
Things had changed since he woke from the coma. Since his father’s bastard son had surfaced, he’d been different. He was no longer carefree. Perhaps she should have taken Marcus’s feelings on the matter into account before she welcomed Struan Mackenzie into the fold, but she knew what it was like to be an outsider. She pitied Mr. Mackenzie, abandoned by his father, denied by his half brother. As the duke’s widow, she felt responsible to right the wrongs done to him by the father who never acknowledged him.
She was certain that encountering her in a pleasure club wouldn’t improve Marcus’s bad humor. What had she been thinking? She should have simply ignored the foolish longing seizing her like some vicious malady. Never again.
If she escaped this unscathed and without discovery, she would never do anything so reckless again.
She and Marcus had always had a good relationship. She’d been fortunate in that regard. Her husband had not seen fit to provide her with a widow’s portion—whether an oversight or a direct slight, she did not know. It mattered naught, she supposed. He was gone. Dead for years and she had forged ahead, putting all her energies into being a good mother and stepmother.
Marcus was generous with her, giving her free rein over the Autenberry properties, never questioning her choices of how she spent money, where she lived, where she spent her holidays, or how she raised her daughter, his own half sister. She had no wish to test the limits of that generosity. She knew better than to take the goodwill of her stepson for granted.
There were widows left in extremely precarious situations. For her daughter’s sake, she did not intend to put herself in a similar predicament. England was home now and she dared not risk losing all that she had here.
There was nothing left for her in Spain. Her parents had passed on and the family lands had gone to some distant relation. Her sisters had married and moved away. Even if she wanted to go back, there was nothing to return to.
Marcus took a step toward them and the hammering of her heart became a painful pounding.
“Well, let’s see what you have there. She’s not a redhead, but I won’t hold that against her.”
She backed up and collided with a warm male body. Strickland had moved behind her at some point. His hands came up to grip her arms. His scent assailed her. An underlying aroma of soap and sandalwood. Clean, virile male. If she had noticed it before, it had never affected her. Not as it did now.
As Marcus barreled toward them, she caught a flash of his eyes and her stomach sank. He was so close.
She couldn’t face him. Not here. Not in this place.
As the distance between them closed, panic welled up in her. Even with a mask on, she felt exposed. She was certain he would know her. Perhaps not right away, but the moment she opened her mouth, he would know her. And how much longer could she play mute? The situation was dire. She felt like prey caught in a predator’s sights.
Sucking in a sharp breath, she spun on her heels but didn’t make it very far. Lord Strickland was still standing behind her. Still waiting. Still wearing a questioning expression.
“Don’t worry. He might look like a raging ogre, but he’s my
friend,” he reassured, clearly reading her distress even if not understanding the reason for it. “He’s harmless, but even were he not, I would not let him touch you.”
Warmth curled through her at his husky avowal.
She swallowed and nodded even as she sensed Marcus’s approach from behind.
Her ever-increasing sense of urgency had her parting her lips and preparing to speak. She was out of choices.
Words fell, dropping like great boulders in the scant space between them. “Help me,” she uttered quietly.
Lifting her chin, she gazed at him beseechingly, anxiously waiting for his reaction. Lord Strickland was her only chance right now in helping her avoid Marcus.
She strained her neck to look up at him. Had he always been this tall? This broad of shoulders? This imposing.
She stifled a wince. Not when she first met him. He’d been just a lad then, on the cusp of manhood. Pretty faced and gangly with a voice given to cracking. With only ten and eight years to her credit, she had been scarcely more than a child herself at the time.
That felt a lifetime ago. She took a soldiering breath. Neither one of them were children now.
Brushing aside the memory, she moistened her lips as her stepson called out from behind them. “Well, if the lady is so inclined, I wouldn’t mind a go with her, Strickland.”
Chapter 4
Querido Dios.
Her pulse fired against the skin of her throat at her stepson’s shocking words. It was all the prompting needed.
She stepped forward, gripping Strickland by the jacket. “Help me,” she repeated, her words a mere scratch on the air, practically inaudible. But audible enough.
He looked down at her white-knuckled hands on him and then back to her face. He angled his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Your voice . . .”
Exhaling, she nodded resolutely. She would reveal the truth of her identity to him. So be it. Better him than Autenberry. “He can’t see me here, Lord Strickland.”
All doubt and wonder fled from his face. His eyes flared wide in full recognition. He took a step closer, bringing their chests flush. “Lady Autenberry?” he whispered, his breath warm on her face. “Graciela? What are you doing here?”
“Please. Get me out of here.” Desperation edged her voice. “He cannot see me,” she repeated, spacing each word with heavy emphasis, debating whether to lift her skirts and run if he shouldn’t offer his assistance. Irrational maybe, but panic pounded through her, shoving out all reason.
His gaze scanned her face and then down the length of her. Those eyes gleamed brightly in the murky corridor, sparking with something she had never seen from him before.
His hand seized hers. Before she quite realized what he was about, he thrust her into the nearest room. The door snicked shut after them.
They stood in this new space, silent, still gazing at each other. He looked down at her, his back against the door as though to bar Marcus from entering. It was some comfort.
Slowly, he shook his head. “What are you doing here?” She had never heard such a demanding tone from him before. In fact, nothing about him was typical right now. Not the way he spoke or looked. Not the accusation cutting from his eyes. “This is no place for you.”
She bristled. She imagined he would not say the same thing to a man her age. Was she so very old and matronly that he did not think she had any right to be here?
Undoubtedly he consigned her to a certain category in his mind. A certain sexless category tantamount to nuns and grandmothers.
“I’ve every right to be here—”
“Oh, do you? Well, if you feel so very entitled to be here, then by all means, step out into that corridor and greet your stepson.”
His words struck her like a slap.
He moved away from the door, grasped the latch and started to pull it open.
She squeaked and threw herself against him, flattening him into the door and shutting it again with a swift thud.
“No! Don’t do that.” Her breath escaped in hard pants that got lost somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. That’s how tall he was. Her nose was directly level with his throat. Even in the shadows she could detect the thrumming pulse at his throat. Taller than average herself, she had always appreciated a tall man.
Her gaze flicked up to his eyes. He watched her, holding himself utterly still. Against her. Bodies flush. Hearts beating in cadence.
It was unnerving to say the least . . . and yet for the life of her she couldn’t step back and peel herself off him. She couldn’t stop staring into those pale gray-blue eyes that looked at her with angry emotion—another first. He’d always been so polite and proper with her. A perfectly circumspect gentleman.
His fierce expression and intense eyes mesmerized her. She moistened her lips and his gaze followed the movement. The blue of his eyes seemed to darken a shade—or maybe it was simply the dim lighting of the room? His stare dropped even lower.
A quick glance down reminded her of the indecent cut of her gown. Pressed against him like this, the tops of her breasts swelled above the neckline. She felt the heat of her blush start in her face and then watched as red crept downward over her dusky mounds.
Involuntarily, her nipples pebbled inside her corset.
She gasped. Even though he couldn’t know and he couldn’t possibly feel her body’s betrayal (with him of all men!), she lurched back.
Now, with a few feet of space between them, their gazes locked for an interminable moment. Her heart beat harder and faster in her too-tight chest. A chest that only seconds ago pressed intimately against him. Her nipples still throbbed, as though she still felt the pressure of his body against her.
At the thought of his body, she raked him with a quick glance, imagining that hard body of his . . . the pressure of it covering her—
She reined in her scandalous imagination with a firm yank.
The heat scoring her cheeks burned hotter.
She inhaled. It was simply being here, in this house of iniquity, that made her think such wholly unacceptable thoughts. About Lord Strickland, of all people. He was her stepson’s best friend—a longtime family friend. Even if he weren’t too young for her (and he was!), he was absolutely inappropriate as a candidate for dalliances. It was not only unseemly . . . It was perverse of her to even entertain such notions. He would likely be horrified if he knew.
He finally glanced from her to the door she blocked. At least it appeared Marcus was not following them. He likely thought Strickland wanted to be alone with her for a private liaison.
“You had to realize your stepson could be here.” His tone was the height of reasonableness—and blast it all if that did not infuriate her. She was an adult. Six years his senior. She did not need to be taken to task by him.
“As a matter of fact, it did not cross my mind.” She squared her shoulders. “It was a spontaneous decision. Besides, it’s not as though Marcus confides his proclivities to me.”
His lips twitched. “No, because that would be unsuitable.”
Again, his tone and words had a way of making her feel foolish. She knew he considered her coming here unsuitable.
The latch on the door suddenly clicked behind her.
Time slowed as it cracked open.
She choked back a sound, her hand flying to cover her mouth as she backed away. If it was Marcus, there would be no hiding. She would have to confront her stepson and offer some explanation about her presence here. Although what explanation could she give? She was here . . . in this place where pleasure and depravity came together. What more need be explained except that she had become that woman? A free-spirited widow bent on pursuing her own pleasures with no thought to reputation or the strict moral teachings of her youth and Society.
Strickland reacted, moving hastily. He gave a swift shake of his head at her that reminded her of Sister Esperanza from her childhood. The old nun instructed Graciela and her sisters in their studies until the age of seventeen. The steel-
eyed dragon conveyed much with a single sharp look. A lift of her thick eyebrow and a shake of her veil-covered head were the only things needed to keep Graciela in check.
Seizing her shaking fingers, he dragged her deeper into the gloom of the chamber. “Play along,” he advised.
She followed without protest. They hurried forward, descending steps where the room sank into a wider chamber—with a bed at the center. A bed that was occupied.
She’d failed to assess her surroundings before, too caught up in Strickland and the threat of coming face-to-face with her stepson.
She gawked about her now as the young earl guided her through the chamber. A plush couch bumped at the backs of her knees. She twisted, looking down at it as she fell upon the comfortable seat.
Strickland sat directly beside her. So close he was practically an appendage.
She strained for a glimpse of the door, to verify if Marcus had in fact entered the room, but that bed and its occupants continued to snare her attention. The bed was enormous. A couple writhed together on the vast expanse. Soft sighs and moans were punctuated with the steady smacks of their bodies coming together.
She gasped and attempted to rise, to escape.
“Don’t be alarmed.” The earl grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her back down beside him. “It’s not just us. Voyeurs are welcome. See.” She followed the direction of his nod. A few other individuals were seated on the other side of the room across from them, watching as though they were observing a Vauxhall performance.
A man, too, stood near the hearth, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket, his eyes heavy lidded as he watched the lovers. She continued her perusal of the room, noting with some astonishment a pair of ladies seated very properly on a settee, their spines ramrod straight, as they sipped from teacups. They watched raptly at the scene, their eyes as hungry as the men in the room, and this gave her some start—that women could benefit as much as men from the carnal act.
The Scandal of It All Page 3
