’Twas the Night Before Scandal

by Christi Caldwell

  Gregory moved quickly and, cupping her nape, claimed her mouth. Heat exploded between them as he slanted his lips over hers, worshiping the full flesh.

  Carol hovered, uncertain, and then with a moan, she twined her fingers about his neck and leaned into him. Unrepentant as she was in every way, she met his kiss. When he slid his tongue inside to explore the silken contours, she boldly dueled with his mouth.

  A burning hunger coursed through his veins, to know her in every way. He roved his hands over her body, reveling in the luscious curve of her full hips. As her breathy whimper filled his mouth, he dragged her closer against him. His shaft throbbed against her soft, flat belly. “I have never known anyone like you,” he rasped against her mouth.

  A little mewling sound of regret filtered from her swollen, kissed lips and she dragged her hands through his hair freeing it from the queue. “Gregory,” she pleaded. But he only shifted his attention, touching his lips to other parts of her person. From the satiny soft skin of her cheek, lower, to where her pulse pounded hard at her neck.

  When he caressed his mouth over the generous expanse of her décolletage, she cried out softly. The hungry plea that was his name echoed from the rafters and cut across the haze of desire that gripped him. The blood roaring loudly in his ears, Gregory hastily stepped away.

  Their chests rising and falling in a like pattern, Carol touched her hands to her cheeks. “I—”

  “Forgive me,” he said gruffly, his voice roughened still with desire.

  “I have never felt anything like that,” she whispered, touching her fingertips to her lips.

  Raw and honest in her every exchange, there was no woman like her. Gregory stretched a hand out and caressed her cheek, and she fluttered her eyelids. “There is no other woman like you,” he said softly. For it needed to be said aloud.

  The groan of floorboards shattered the exchange, robbing them of their privacy. They looked to the doorway. Shadows cast by the lit sconces danced off the walls, their only company. The perils in being discovered cut through the magic of the moment. She deserved far more than stolen embraces. “I should go,” he said quietly, waiting for her to protest. Wanting her to.

  She nodded her agreement. Reluctantly, he stepped away and slipped from the room, leaving Carol alone. And desperately wishing he could stay—with her and only her.

  *

  In the course of Carol’s almost five and twenty years, she’d been kissed but once. As a girl of twelve, one of the village boys had stolen a Mayfair kiss. It had been sloppy, wet, and she’d been wholly unimpressed. She’d rewarded him with a solid punch to the nose and a vow to never again suffer through that horridness.

  As a woman, she’d been proven a liar, longing to know a glimpse of the passion the ladies around her had whispered of in alcoves and drawing rooms. Her lips still burning with the memory of Gregory’s kiss, she ached to know more. Wanted to feel his hands on her hips and on her person.

  Since she’d learned of her father’s infidelity, she’d lived in fear of making a match like her parents—that comfortable, but empty union. She’d been so fearful of becoming her mother that she’d quashed all efforts to see her married to Gregory. In a short time, he’d thoroughly bewitched her. From the pride he took in making a future with his own efforts, to the heat of his caress, he’d wholly ensnared her.

  “How dare you, Miss Cresswall.” That quiet greeting slashed through her midnight musings and Carol spun around. Lady Minerva stood at the entrance of the doorway, clad in her nightshift and wrapper.

  Had the other lady observed Gregory’s hasty departure…or worse? Despising her pale skin prone to blushing, she smoothed her palms over her skirts. “I beg your pardon?” she asked hesitantly.

  With a soft smile, the other woman came forward. “Forgive me for startling you. I asked how you were?”

  At the evidence of her own guilty imaginings, some of the tautness seeped from Carol’s frame. “My lady,” she greeted, before the other woman had fully stopped in a whir of nightskirts. “I…was unable to sleep,” she finished lamely. Wandering the empty halls of her host and hostess’ home was the kind of impropriety that would send her mother into a fit of the vapors. Yet this woman was also guilty of such a violation of Societal propriety. She frowned. What sent Lady Minerva strolling Castle Renshaw, in her nightshift, no less?

  “Yes, I was also unable to sleep,” Minerva said, as though she’d followed the path Carol’s thoughts had wandered. The woman stole a glance around the soaring Music Room. She touched her gaze upon the enormous crystal chandelier, the gold-framed paintings adorning the walls. “Castle Renshaw is lovely, is it not?”

  Carol searched for a hint of what the other woman now thought. At one time, Lady Minerva would have had expectations of serving as duchess here. In the end, Theo was now mistress of this household and a duke’s sister found herself unwed. “Indeed, it is,” she said carefully.

  Minerva trailed a path around the instrument. “I played on this very pianoforte as a girl.” She depressed a single key and it echoed eerily in the quiet. “I would ride these grounds with Lord Gregory and his brothers. I bloodied my knees on the terrace right out there,” she murmured, pointing to the floor length window.

  With each admission, the lady allowed Carol entry into a place she didn’t wish to be—into the long friendship between the Renshaws and Quigleys. It served as an unwanted reminder that she was an interloper here as a guest of Theo’s and, really, nothing more. For even as Mother lauded her friendship with the dowager duchess, the viscountess would never fit within the ranks of the steel-haired woman with calculating eyes.

  “Since I was a babe in the cradle,” Lady Minerva continued, pressing another key, “I was destined to be joined with the Renshaws.”

  Carol looked slowly at the other woman, a wealth of weight and meaning behind those words that even a simpleton could make sense of.

  Lady Minerva arched a perfect golden eyebrow. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Miss Cresswall?” Lord Gregory belonged to her. That decree made as forcefully as if she’d a flag with her family’s crest and she planted it before the gentleman.

  “I understand clearly,” she spoke tersely.

  The relentless woman smiled, an empty, calculated grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “I am glad for it.”

  She turned to leave, but Carol stayed her. “No couple should be joined in marriage unless their hearts are engaged.”

  Lady Minerva’s face spasmed. “Some of us do not have the luxury of marrying for love,” she spat. With that, she stalked off with the regal bearing of a queen, leaving Carol alone.

  The wind buffeted against the window and she rubbed her forearms in a bid to drive back the chill left by the other woman’s company. How could she have arrived days ago, despising the gentleman, only to find a vicious, gripping jealousy at the possibility of a match between him and another?

  Because when I am with him, I am free to laugh and be myself, without him trying to shape me into what Society expects me to be…

  Carol stared at the door. By the lady’s talk of necessity and familial connections, she could never appreciate the gift it would be to marry a man such as Gregory. Sighing, she pressed her fingertips against her temple. Enough. Determined to put thought of Lady Minerva’s warnings and her own resentments aside, she made for the door.

  Pausing at the threshold, she ducked her head into the hall and peered in both directions of the dark, stone corridors. Encouraged by the hum of silence, she slipped out. As a girl, to the chagrin of her mother and hopeless governesses, she’d possessed an innate ability to sneak off and stay hidden. That worthwhile skill proved as valuable now. Tiptoeing along the thin crimson carpet, she passed door after door.

  With each step, the portraits of warriors from long ago, alongside paintings of bewigged lords, served as an unnecessary reminder of the history behind the Renshaw name. Now, Gregory’s mother and Lady Minerva would hold him to the expectation that he would
honor tradition over his own desires.

  What do I know of his desires?

  That taunting whisper around her mind brought her to a stumbling halt. He’d kissed her and they’d shared intimate parts about one another’s lives, but there had never been an offer of more. A hint of emotion outside of desire and an ease in each other’s company.

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she resumed walking.

  “…He was with…”

  That faint, furious whisper pierced the quiet. Lady Minerva’s whisper.

  Carol slowed her steps. She’d no place eavesdropping. It was not her business listening in on a conversation between another guest inside the Duke of Devlin’s home. Knowing that, she drifted closer to the parlor.

  “What do you mean, he was with her?”

  That question was met with a flurry of muffled whispers and lost dialogue.

  Carol wrinkled her brow. She’d not taken the dowager duchess as one who’d wander even her own halls at this late night hour. Whatever would she be discussing with Lady Minerva—the woman who’d been in a nightshift and wrapper and…

  Warning bells blared around her mind.

  “You will simply have to go to his chambers.”

  The air left Carol on a swift exhale and, heart racing, she slapped her palm over her mouth. Impossible. She’d read too many gothic novels to account for the thought that took root. For surely, Gregory’s mother was not encouraging the desperate lady to trap her son?

  “I’ve a key. Gregory’s chambers are the sixth door on the right. If you but enter his rooms, your brother and I will—”

  Not bothering with the lady’s reply, Carol lifted her hem and took flight. Fury drove her footsteps and filled her veins, pumping hot and quick through her being. The duchess would forfeit her son’s right to choose, and his happiness, and his future. She’d bind him to a woman who didn’t care about the man he truly was.

  “Over my bloody body on Sunday,” she panted as she took the stairs two at a time, stumbling and tripping over herself. By their discourse, the duplicitous pair would still need to seek out the duke. There is time. She reached the main landing and, her breath coming hard and fast, she raced down the family’s suites. Uncaring that her footsteps beat a noisy path, she searched the darkened corridor.

  Sixth door. On the right.

  Frantically counting each oak panel, she skidded to a stop. Carol rapped once. Open the blasted door. She stole a panicked glance down the hall. She knocked again. Mayhap he was not here and this was all for naught. Mayhap…?

  The door opened and she spilled inside. Gregory caught her against his chest and swiftly righted her. “Carol,” he said, surprise underscoring her name. “What is the matter?” He glanced out into the hall and then, pulling her further inside, he closed the door behind them.

  “I…” Her words faded and a fiery heat went through her. His jacket discarded, he stood before her in nothing but his breeches and shirtsleeves. Of its own volition, her gaze dipped to his well-muscled chest and… She cursed. “Lady Minerva and your mother…” As soon as the partial admission burst from her lips, she stopped. Having overheard that plan to deceive him, she’d raced here to warn him. How to tell him of that treachery and deception, and at his mother’s hand no less?

  “What of my mother?” he demanded gruffly, capturing her by the shoulders. He gave a slight squeeze. “Has she offended you?”

  Despite the peril to her own reputation in being here, tenderness suffused her heart, dulling that panic. “Lady Minerva intends to trap you,” she settled for.

  “Trap me?” he parroted and his hands fell away.

  Carol went cold at the loss of his touch. Did he not believe her? She curled her toes hard. Then, what gentleman could believe that he’d be so deceived by his own mother? “I have to leave,” she said tightly. “Be aware, she is coming.” He’d been warned and to remain would only see her as ruined as Lady Minerva hoped to be. She reached for the handle, just as the door opened. With a grunt, Carol was knocked backward and Gregory caught her once again.

  Lady Minerva went as still as a stone statue in the doorway. Her cheeks paled and, with a furious gasp, she whipped her gaze between Gregory and Carol. “You… I…” Then with the grace only a duke’s daughter could manage, she patted her disheveled coiffure. “Gregory.”

  His eyes narrowed on the viper before them.

  A commotion in the hall called their attention as the dowager duchess and the Duke of Windermere came rushing forward. “Lord Gregory, what is the meaning of…” The blustering young duke staggered to a stop. Shock stamped his features, marking him another poor master in treachery. The gentleman scratched at his brow.

  The dowager duchess’ hard eyes locked on Gregory’s hands—hands that still clasped Carol close—the older woman gasped. “What is the meaning of this?” she finished the duke’s demand.

  Oh, God. Carol’s stomach turned. Of course, in coming here, she’d known she risked ruin. And yet, the alternative was to see Gregory trapped by a ruthless schemer. I’m going to be ill.

  If looks could kill, the trio before them would have been smote to a pile of tinder by his burning look alone. “Why don’t you tell me, Mother?”

  The dowager duchess glanced between Carol and Gregory. “A misunderstanding,” she said tightly. “This is nothing more than a misunderstanding. No need for,” the lady’s face contorted, “any unnecessary actions.” As in, Gregory’s marriage to Carol.

  “Unnecessary actions?” he gritted out. His body went whipcord straight against Carol as a barely suppressed rage dripped from him. “There is no course other than marriage.”

  No. Did that denial belong to her, or any of the other horrified witnesses to this nightmare? She’d not have him. Not like this. Not because they’d been forced by Societal expectations. I will become my mother. The ground shifted under Carol’s feet and she shot her hand out, seeking, and finding purchase against the wall. This could not be any worse.

  A shocked gasp resonated in the hall and her stomach sank. She’d been wrong.

  “C-Carol?” With horror filling her breast, Carol looked to her mother, who’d joined the trio in the doorway.

  The wide-eyed viscountess looked around.

  Who was next? The blasted King of England? If Carol weren’t on the verge of tears, she’d laugh at the nightmare now unfolding.

  It was the dowager duchess who broke the impasse. “Viscountess,” she said soothingly, as though she calmed a fractious mare. “There’s merely been a misunderstanding.”

  “I will marry her,” Gregory quietly assured Carol’s mother. His mother gasped.

  Carol should be grateful. I will marry her. Yet…Those four words were not an offer made to Carol but rather an assurance given to her mother. Sadness battered at Carol’s heart.

  “You needn’t marry her,” the dowager duchess implored. “His Grace will say nothing. Nor will Lady Minerva. Is that not right?”

  “Indeed, chap.” His Grace’s gruff assurance earned another black glower from Gregory. “Not a word will be said. Out of respect for our family’s friendship.”

  It was both an assurance and a pointed reminder.

  Gregory went still and then said, “You bloody bastard.” He surged forward and, to the quiet cries from the dowager duchess and Lady Minerva, Carol placed herself in front of him. He would defend her. Her throat worked. He would bloody a man who insulted her honor.

  But she could not marry him. Not like this. Not because of this.

  “It was a misunderstanding, Gregory,” Carol said quietly. “We’ve been promised no words will be spoken of this night. And I do not doubt they speak the truth.” For, to link her and him in scandal would defy the two families’ greatest desires. “If you’ll excuse me,” she managed to say and then squeezing past the crush of guests, darted from Gregory’s room and her ruin.

  Chapter 9

  It was highly doubtful that a late night visit from a dowager duchess portended anything good
.

  A short while later, with the powerful peeress standing at the entrance of Carol’s borrowed rooms, Carol had confirmation of that very truth.

  “I would ask, given your shameful behavior in my son’s chambers, that you leave.”

  Carol’s mouth fell agape as Her Grace swept past her, entering the room. Furrowing her brow, Carol quickly closed the door behind her. Had she just been thrown out, and at the holidays, no less?

  “I would like for you to leave,” the dowager duchess repeated, crisply.

  The fire raging in the hearth crackled loudly.

  “Your Grace?” she ventured. After all, what was one to say to one of the most powerful peeresses in Society, who’d entered her guest chambers and ordered her gone?

  The woman glided over. “I do not dislike you,” she said in patronizing tones.

  “Thank you,” Carol said with a dry edge.

  “But neither do I wish my son to court you,” Gregory’s mother carried on through that interruption. “Your presence here poses a threat to my wishes.”

  My wishes.

  Carol gripped the satin coverlet hard. “Your wishes?” she asked, making that question as even as she could, given the rage slowly building inside. Distaste for this maniacal creature soured her mouth.

  The dowager duchess claimed a seat at the edge of Carol’s bed. “Lord Gregory,” the woman needlessly clarified with a stiff formality that sent further distaste coursing through her. “He is to marry Lady Minerva.”

  But for their stolen exchanges and embrace, he’d not given her the promise of more. He’d not expressed, in words, a desire to court her or spoken of feelings in his heart. That reminder, coupled with the triumphant glitter in the dowager duchess’ eyes in addition to Minerva’s own warnings, struck like a well-placed arrow. Biting back a stinging retort, Carol asked, “Neither has he offered for her and,” she scraped her gaze over the dowager duchess’ person, “given your and Lady Minerva’s plans for Lord Gregory, you both felt the need to trap him.” It was a bold challenge that her mother would be shamed and shocked Carol had put to their hostess.