Silk and Scandal

by Carlysle, Regina

  “Keep your empty words, Nicholas. They are meaningless, as meaningless as what just occurred between us. I wish to go inside.” Hated tears made her voice quiver, and she despised the weakness.

  God! He was a bastard!

  How could he have done such a thing?

  Hating himself, he watched as she flung open the carriage door and stumbled outside. He vaulted after her, hoping to stop her mad flight. She gathered her skirts and ran toward the front door, which opened just as he made it to her side. He attempted to take her arm, but she jerked it away. A sob, full of pain and embarrassment, reached him as she tore up the long winding staircase leading to their rooms.

  Despair, a debilitating loneliness, settled upon his shoulders as he watched her mad flight. Would he continually heap misery upon her? Hating himself for taking her that way, but fulfilled as he’d never been by any other woman, he turned toward his study and a much needed drink.

  Sometime later, he stood at the window, bleary eyed from lack of sleep, and watched the sun rise over London. Closing his eyes against the pain of failure, he let the disappointment roll over him. He had never felt so utterly alone. He must find a way to convince her that she was treasured. Treasured and loved. How he loved her!

  Setting down his empty glass, he turned to go up to bed when his gaze settled on a stack of papers on his desk. His solicitor in Sussex had sent him a missive. Nicholas’s presence was required to attend some problems at Windmere, one of his larger estates. A slow smile creased his face as he, at last, decided on a course of action.

  * * * * * * * *

  Feeling weighted by a dreamless sleep, Eliza opened tear-swollen eyes as prior events flooded over her in a nasty wave of humiliation. Struggling to rest on an elbow, she suddenly knew she wasn’t alone in her chamber.

  The afternoon sun caught dust motes in the air and settled upon Nicholas’s long, black hair. Sprawled shirtless in a chair he’d pulled up, he stared intently at her.

  How did a proper gentleman manage to have such a brown torso as he possessed? But then, he was not such a proper gentleman. No, he flaunted convention at every whim. If she were to be totally honest about the thing, she was much the same. How many genteel ladies robbed peers at the point of a sword?

  Pushing the sudden introspection to the back of her mind, she looked into his silvery eyes. Black lashes framed his frighteningly sensual gaze. She suppressed a hot shudder, as his eyes moved lower, only to pause and darken. His sinful lips slackened, a reddish color tinged his high cheekbones.

  Looking down, she gasped, noting that one breast peeked from the low neck of her gown. His gaze, riveted there, was sultry, needy.

  Flushing warmly, she sat up and drew the gown over her bare shoulder, shielding her body from view. “Do you need something?”

  “A telling question, my dear,” he murmured. “Perhaps you wish you rephrase your inquiry, hmm?”

  Helplessly she looked down the expanse of near-naked man and licked her lips. Beneath his trousers, the bulge of his erection was blatantly outlined, making her remember the way he made her feel when they lay together naked and entwined. Never did she enjoy being a woman more than when she was with him.

  She cleared her throat and looked away. Raking her fingers through her disheveled hair, she took a deep breath. “What can I do for you?”

  “Mmm, let me think,” he chuckled. “I apologize for being difficult, darling, but I simply cannot resist baiting you.”

  “Well, stop it and tell me why you are here.”

  Standing, stretching his long limbs, Nicholas moved to the side of her bed and sat as if they were still blissful newlyweds. Reaching out, he lovingly brushed her bottom lip with his thumb.

  “I received a missive from my solicitor in Sussex. It is past time that I stopped neglecting my duties, so I fear I must travel there tomorrow.”

  “Sussex?”

  He smiled and twined one of her long curls around his finger. Finally, he brought it to his lips for a kiss. “How very little you know of me, sweeting. Windmere is a quite large estate that has been in my family since the Norman Conquest. Though I have many others, this is one of my favorites.”

  A pang caught her unaware at the thought of his going away. Unable to help herself and forgetting her resolve, she brought a hand to his cheek. “How long will you be gone, Nicholas?”

  He smiled. “Perhaps a month.”

  “A month! Why so long?” The idea of his leaving distressed her terribly.

  “Not so very long with you by my side.”

  Straightening, she placed a hand over her heart. “I? You plan for us to travel together?”

  “Of course.” Before she could protest, he pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. “You are my wife, my duchess, and as such, you need to see your country home. It is quite beautiful and was the favorite summerhouse of my mother. According to Mr. Simms, my solicitor, the entire village wishes to welcome us and celebrate our marriage with a grand fête.”

  Eliza was flustered. In all the excitement and turmoil, she’d quite forgotten about her duties as the Duchess of Weston. Of course the people of the village would want to meet her. But leave London? With their private affairs in such a delicate state, would the people there not notice the animosity between them?

  It did not matter, however. Her parents had not raised her to be a shirker. She knew well the duties required of a proper English wife. Her new title and position demanded that she make the trip. But how in heaven’s name was she to prevent herself from falling into Nicholas’s sensual trap?

  His pale eyes glinted with mystery. His smile hinted at a bit of deviltry. She had no doubt that he was a man on a mission to destroy her cold behavior. Sitting there, watching the flex and flow of skin over muscle, she felt his trap settle over her and wondered how she would manage to survive. The better question might be: did she want to survive?

  * * * * * * * *

  Days later, Nicholas drank a final cup of coffee, neatly folded the morning paper, and rose to watch the progress of harried servants. Throughout his lonely breakfast, he’d listened to their rushed footsteps and frantic calls to one another. Leaving the dining room, he walked through the massive treasure-laden rooms and positioned himself near the foot of the stairs.

  It was the day of their departure for Sussex and though it was surely a mundane occurrence, this was the first time that he’d traveled any great distance with a wife. God only knew how many things Eliza planned to take with them. The thought of a frantically packing wife seemed wonderful and somehow normal.

  He smiled, content for the first time in weeks. At last, he would have an opportunity to woo her back into his arms. As a man who knew women, he believed the very romantic nature of Windmere would help tremendously. There, in the country, the world moved slowly and more than anything, he needed time with her.

  Leaning against the balustrade, he watched Sally May, an upstairs maid, run down the stairs carrying a precariously stacked row of hatboxes. Brushing against her were two sturdy footmen who were hurrying up to presumably collect more trunks. Pandora stood at the top of the stairs, mussed and overheated. Her mobcap dangled by a single pin, showing riotous white curls around a pixie face. Despite himself, Nicholas laughed as she drew in a deep breath and red-faced, bellowed at poor Sally May.

  “Bring yourself directly back, Sally! Her Grace’s brown lace evening gown is in a bad state o’ wrinkles from your cramming it in the trunk all willy-nilly, and I will not have it. Git your slack-witted arse up here now while the iron is still hot!”

  Seeing his rapt attention, she simply grinned before whirling away in a rush of cambric skirt.

  As the trunks began to make a hefty pile in the entryway, he tired of waiting for Eliza. Turning toward the study, he paused as the doorknocker rapped soundly. Pembrook answered the summons just as Nicholas went into his study and settled himself behind his desk.

  After a moment or two, the butler presented him with a card on a silver salver. Why ha
d an officer from Bow Street come to his door? Nicholas frowned. “Send him in, Pembrook.”

  When the man came inside and his butler closed the door with a chilling snap of finality. Nicholas steeled his features to a calm he did not feel. Had someone recognized Eliza beneath her manly garb? Had her dangerous game been uncovered at last? The very thought of it shook him to his core.

  He stood and forced a smile of greeting.

  “How do you do, Your Grace,” said the man, with a slight bow. “I am Lieutenant Jeremiah Cotswold of Bow Street.” He was tall, an elegant figure of a man in his red Bow Street vest. His hair was blonde with a dash of gray trimming the temples and his features were saturnine and sharp. Weary dark eyes gazed at Nicholas in a most worldly fashion, alerting him to the seriousness of the matter.

  He indicated that Cotswald sit and offered him refreshments, which he waved away. “Now, sir,” Nicholas began, as cold fear raced over his skin, “what brings you to my door on this fine morning?”

  “Well, Your Grace,” Cotswold replied after clearing his throat. “I have come bearing, I am afraid, some very bad news.”

  Nicholas’ unease grew. As he opened his mouth to speak, the door of the study opened, and Eliza glided into the room looking lovely in a traveling gown of navy blue. Shiny gold, braided frogs trimmed the front from below the mandarin collar to her waist. Her hair was caught up at the crown in a cluster of curls. A tiny, feather-adorned hat sat upon her bright hair. She was obviously ready for travel.

  A sense of premonition hit him like a punch and he suddenly had the urge to carry her away from anything unpleasant. She looked so happy. Perhaps it was the adventure of a trip. Or maybe it was, he hoped, his simple presence that lightened her mood. Whatever it was, he wanted to whisk the officer away immediately before the light in her eyes dimmed.

  Both men stood as she walked inside and Nicholas made introductions as she moved to his side. She paled dramatically to learn their visitor was an officer of the law. Cotswold bowed low as Nicholas settled a protective hand at the small of her back.

  “What brings you here, Lieutenant? Nothing dreadful, I hope,” she said in a tranquil voice.

  “I am afraid that I cannot offer that particular assurance, Your Grace. Bow Street had a report just two days ago that a man’s body has been found. I am assigned to investigate the matter, and it was brought to my attention that you know the man quite well.” Cotswold coughed discreetly into his hand and to Nicholas’s amazement, blushed slightly as if embarrassed.

  “Who died, sir?” Nicholas asked.

  “Edward Huntley, Lord Stanhope, Your Grace, and he did not die. He was murdered.”

  Eliza gasped and leaned against Nicholas while Cotswold went on. “He was apparently poisoned and had most likely been dead for several days when he was discovered. I am truly sorry for being indelicate, but we, of course, must investigate.”

  Nicholas led his wife to the sofa and sat beside her. Taking her hand, he indicated that Cotswold should take his chair again. “Why have you come here?”

  He reached into his coat pocket and removed a small notebook. Flipping carelessly through the pages, he read a bit then lifted his gaze to Eliza. “Stanhope was your brother-in-law, was he not?”

  “Yes. He was once married to my sister, Charlotte.”

  “I am sorry about the line of questioning, Your Grace,” he said, still speaking to Eliza. “It is well known in finer circles that you detested him. Is that accurate?”

  She gripped Nicholas’s hand. “Yes, I did hate him and still do, sir, but that does not make me his murderer.”

  “No, ma’am, only a suspect. I must know why you hated him so that you risked haranguing him in public.”

  “That is enough, Cotswold,” Nicholas said harshly. “I will not allow you to harass my wife. If you must know, it is widely believed that he killed Charlotte. All of society suspected him and shunned him for it. The man, no doubt, had enemies around every corner. He was wicked, evilly twisted, and a gambler. Why are you not out investigating scoundrels who spend their time in the Hells?”

  “Oh, I promise that I shall. My investigation has just begun. Again I apologize, but these matters must be addressed.” Cotswold thumbed through several more pages. He lifted his head to look at Eliza. “Word has it that earlier this spring, he accosted you at a lavish party. He accused you, Your Grace, of ruining his life. Violent words were spoken, and you dashed a glass of punch in his face. Is that true?”

  “It is.” Eliza leaned closer. “I hated Edward and I shall not deny it. When was he killed precisely?”

  “Several nights ago. Um, Thursday evening, I believe. Where were you on that night, Your Grace?”

  Nicholas squeezed her hand, wishing the man gone. “I can answer. We were at the home of my father-in-law. There was a ball given in our honor that night.”

  Cotswold smiled slightly. “By the way, congratulations on your marriage. Now, I must ask: did you leave the affair at any time?”

  Eliza blinked, frowned, then pinned him with a look. “Absolutely not. How can you even suggest that I would be so rude as to do such a thing?”

  Cotswold looked away and cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry. I must ask, you see. When did you return home?”

  Once again Nicholas answered. “Dawn. Ask anyone who attended the party. They will vouch for our activities.”

  The officer rose and gave another short bow as he prepared to go. “I shall. You must understand, Your Graces, that as an officer, I have to investigate the entire matter, and you, my lady, are allowed to hate anyone you choose without being named murderess. From what we have learned, Stanhope was a sly and off-color man. I am sure we shall learn the identity of his killer soon.”

  “Perhaps, you will give the man a medal,” Nicholas snapped. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

  “No, not at the moment. It does appear, however, that you are planning a trip.”

  “We leave for my estate in Sussex within the hour.”

  “Will you give me your address in the event I have questions?”

  “Certainly,” Nicholas said, rising to walk to his desk. Once there, he jotted the information on a card and gave it to the Lieutenant. “We shall be there for perhaps a month, but I doubt seriously that we can be of more help.”

  “Of course.” Cotswold bowed again and moved to the door where he paused. “Do not leave the country, Your Graces. You do understand, of course?”

  Eliza lifted a hand that shook and plucked aimlessly at a braided frog. Fisting his hands, Nicholas could do nothing but answer the man. “Yes, Lieutenant. I understand.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sussex

  Nicholas stood in the doorway of Windmere’s elegant music room and watched his wife daydream. A flicker of a smile graced her lips, and he hoped she might be thinking of him as she picked out a tune upon the pianoforte. What a besotted fool he was. Since their arrival two weeks ago, he’d often found her here pecking at the piano keys and gazing into a dream world to which only she was privy.

  Today the village of Haverly would come to Windmere to celebrate their marriage, and the house was abuzz with activity. The scent of delicious food carried on the air as his staff cooked in the kitchen. Other servants had placed tables and chairs along the grounds.

  But here in this room, the world seemed to stand still, and Eliza seemed farther away than ever.

  Since their arrival, she, though not hostile, remained wary of him. They occupied separate rooms and seldom saw each other. It was a situation that he planned to change starting now. “May I ask where your daydreams take you, my dear?”

  She started and swiveled to face him. “Nicholas! Must you sneak up on me?” She smiled faintly, recovering. “I was thinking of Lottie and how she would have loved this room.”

  “Ah.” He walked across the marble floor toward her, boot heels clicking against the shiny surface. Gesturing her over, he seated himself beside her on the bench. “Did she play?�
��

  “Oh yes, she was wonderful. Lottie loved to play. Even as a little girl, she entertained for my parents’ guests. By nature, she was extremely shy, yet she was so eager to please that she never turned down a request of perform.”

  “You did not play, I assume?”

  She laughed. “Heavens no! I love hearing it, but not playing. I was a genuine hoyden, drawn to the outdoors and all thumbs at a musical instrument. Lottie was bookish as well. She loved to curl up by the parlor window and read on a rainy day.” Eliza smiled. “Though Papa thought romances silly and frivolous, Mama would pass the ones she’d read on to my sister in a most sneaky fashion. When I caught Lottie crying over some maudlin tale of lost love, I teased her.”

  “And she forgave you?”

  “Yes, always. We were the closest of sisters. Though we were very different in our enjoyments, we understood each other.”

  Nicholas studied her face, unable to miss the sweet melancholy in her expression. Tilting up her chin, he kissed her softly, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t pull away. Parting at last, bereft of her touch, he looked into her eyes. “Would that we could understand each other as well.”

  “Do not press me on this, Nicholas. Please. I feel uncomfortable with revelations at present and must accustom myself to the things I have just learned.”

  Feeling that changing the subject was the best course of action, he stood and moved nearer to an open French door. There he plucked lazily at the strings of an enormous gilt harp. It caught the sun in such a way that it made one think of heaven and angels. “This was my mother’s favorite room. After she died, I was prone to linger here and grieve. Learning of my habit, my father had the room locked.” He frowned, continuing to strum. “In that blunt way of his, he told me in no uncertain terms that grieving was not healthy. I was to forget.”

  “What a barbaric man! How old were you?”