Once Upon a Scandal

by Delilah Marvelle

  She rolled her head toward him, a daisy falling from her blond chignon and fluttering to the floor. She blinked, her pale oval face slowly filling with color again. Her green eyes lifted from his chest to his face and sharpened with a renewed strength he had not expected to see so soon.

  “Set me down.” She took in a deep, shaky breath.

  That intake of breath made his eyes instinctively veer toward the fullness of her breasts displayed by her gown.

  He searched her face, noting she no longer appeared dazed. “When did you last eat?”

  “I cannot remember. I have been so…overwhelmed by everything that I—” She shifted in his arms and pushed at his chest. Her feet kicked out, once, then twice. “Please. Set me down.”

  “Shh.” He tightened his hold, squeezing her warm softness against him. He glanced toward Grayson. “She needs rest and a good meal if we are to make our journey this afternoon.”

  Grayson nodded as he darted back to the earl, who staggered up to his booted feet, muttering.

  Victoria stiffened and pushed against Remington again. “Let me go. You holding me will only upset him. Please—”

  “I am not setting you down. We will remove ourselves.” Jonathan turned and carried her out of the drawing room. His steps echoed as he made his way down the corridor and up the stairs. He didn’t look at her for fear of bringing more intimacy to an already intimate position. “Where is your bedchamber?”

  She hesitated. “The third door. On the right.”

  Once on the landing, he readjusted Victoria in his arms, his fingers digging into the soft curves hidden beneath her gown, and headed toward the door she had indicated.

  Her small hands smoothed his cravat. “I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t. I didn’t want to—”

  “I know, bella. Believe me. I know. I didn’t want to be there, either. I am so sorry for your loss. I truly am.” He tightened his hold on the soft warmth of her body, enjoying the unexpected attention she was bestowing upon his cravat. If only she could be equally interested in him.

  He paused at the third door and balanced her against the upper half of his body so that he wouldn’t have to set her down. The scent of sweet lavender and fresh daisies filled his nostrils as her curled, pinned hair lingered close. His body tightened as he fought to keep from burying his face into the scent. Instead, he grabbed hold of the knob in an effort to distract himself.

  She kicked out her legs and leaned far forward, causing him to lose his grip on her entirely. She stumbled down onto her feet and caught herself against the wall of the corridor. Straightening herself, she stepped away, placing a hand on her corseted stomach, and announced, “I was overwhelmed and became lightheaded, is all. There really is no need for all of this.”

  He grabbed the knob and twisted, pushing the door open. “Even so, I am asking you to rest. In an hour, we record our names with the parish, then leave for Portsmouth. You will not survive without—”

  A high-pitched bark made him glance down as paws raked his leather boots in greeting. He slowly grinned at the short-legged terrier he recalled all too well.

  “I remember you.” He bent and scooped a pudgier, graying Flint into his arms. He set him in the crook of his arm and rubbed the small, furry head that nuzzled against his hand. “Still as friendly as ever. Are you coming with us to Venice, old boy?”

  Having received his share of affection from him, Flint twisted toward Victoria, looking for more.

  Victoria dragged Flint out of his arms, cradling him in her own, and wandered into her room. She kissed his head. “I decided to leave him with Grayson.”

  The earl’s shouts echoed in the distance.

  Jonathan entered the room after her and slammed the oak-paneled door shut. He didn’t want her to listen to any more of it. How had she survived in his presence at all? It was as if she had learned to completely separate herself from reality. It eerily reminded him of how he himself had to survive while with the Casacalendas.

  Leaning heavily against the door, he eyed her. “I feel it is best you spent some time away from him. You do not want to remember your father in this way, do you?”

  “No. I don’t.” She turned away and wandered toward the four-poster bed. She set Flint onto the bed, then gathered her skirts above her ankles with both arms.

  Jonathan’s breath hitched as two shapely legs encased in snowy-white stockings appeared. He pressed himself harder against the door, reminding himself that now was not the time to notice or want such things.

  She climbed onto the large mattress beside Flint, who was already curling into a comfortable position. Stretching herself out, she buried her legs once again beneath her skirts, then turned on her side, giving him and Flint her back. She plucked out the daisies woven into her bundled hair and tossed them one by one onto the pillow beside her, thus ending her acquiescence to his request for her to wear flowers in her hair during the informal ceremony.

  Jonathan pushed himself away from the door and set his hand hesitantly against his coat pocket, where he’d hidden her wedding gift. It was a simple gift, but one he hoped she would like.

  He cleared his throat, letting his hand drop to his side, and decided to wait for a more opportune time to present it. Glancing around the sizable bedchamber, he noticed a row of trunks packed for their travels. Curiosity took him to the other side of the room, toward Victoria’s dressing table. As a cicisbeo, he had learned everything there was to know about a lady’s boudoir. He had also learned that her dressing table bespoke everything about her. How much time she spent before it, whether she was extravagant, conceited or fussy. He didn’t expect any of those things from Victoria, but he wanted to reacquaint himself with her in any way he could. Ways he knew she would fight to the end to keep him at a distance.

  He paused before the white marble top of the dressing table, reflected in the gilded oval mirror attached to it, and slid his hand along its smooth edge. An open, carved wooden box filled with colorful satin and lace ribbons. Two neatly folded handkerchiefs. A silverhandled brush, set perfectly straight. Curl papers. A sachet full of dried lavender set between two slim perfume bottles. A glass bottle of strawberry water for the skin and hands.

  He smiled. She appeared to be everything he already knew her to be. Neat, humble toward her own appearance and simple in her tastes. No rouge, no Spanish wool, no Chinese boxes of colors, no white paints, powders, almond paste, talc or creams. None of the senseless things he had slathered Bernadetta with on a daily basis. While such things made a woman pretty, yes, they did nothing for her soul.

  He only hoped he could salvage whatever was left of Victoria’s. He hadn’t realized how horrid her situation was until today. Absolutely nothing remained of the spirited, boasting man Jonathan once knew as her father. Even worse, the man was unable to acknowledge the daughter whom Jonathan knew he loved very much.

  Turning back toward the bed, Jonathan noted Victoria was quietly watching him from where she lay. Her eyes no longer appeared swollen or red from tears. She looked peaceful. Which brought him some measure of comfort.

  Flint had already fallen asleep, tucked against the back of her skirts. Somewhere Jonathan himself wouldn’t mind being.

  Making his way toward Victoria, he paused beside the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “Better. Thank you.” Her green eyes met his. “I feel as though this time away from him will be good. That doesn’t make me a bad daughter, does it?”

  “How could you think that? You have already shouldered so much on his behalf.”

  The rushing of heavy footsteps and a crash resounded from somewhere within the house, sending a tremor reverberating up through the walls around him. He blew out a heavy breath, knowing he should probably help.

  He leaned toward Victoria, placing both hands against the softness of the satin coverlet. “I will leave you to rest, after which you will eat. You require strength. It will take us two days just to get Portsmouth, and then another sixteen days to Venice.
If the sea is favorable, that is.”

  She nodded against the pillow.

  He eyed the scattered daisies and raked them all toward him into a small pile. “You should have left them in your hair. They looked pretty.”

  “They did?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  She lowered her eyes to the coverlet and smoothed a bare hand against it. “Remington?”

  This was turning into an intimate little conversation. Something he did not expect. He scooped up the daisies and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to pretend he was more interested in the pile of delicate white petals in his hand than anything else. “What is it?”

  “I am so sorry. I really am.”

  He struggled to remain indifferent, even though his heart pounded uncontrollably. “For what?”

  “I do not mean to treat you with disdain. I really don’t. Not when you are being so kind. I simply feel as if…with each loss I have endured, I lose a larger and larger part of myself. There are times I don’t even recognize who I am.”

  He glanced up at the unexpected words and shifted toward her, searching her pale face. “Victoria. Know that I understand much more than you realize. You are adjusting to a lot. Your father’s illness, his impending death, me, our marriage, what is expected of you. I have been adjusting to a lot myself and confess it has been overwhelming and challenging trying to balance having you and my freedom delivered to me all at once.”

  Her hand continued to skim across the surface of the coverlet. “How did you survive being in that man’s service all these years? Didn’t you ever think to…escape? Did you not try?”

  He flung all the flowers from his hand onto the floor, distancing himself from his own emotions. “I was dealing with an animal, not a man. There were so many stories surrounding him, he became more of a myth than flesh. Prior to my arrival, there had been a pretty, young servant who disappeared. Most likely because she had refused to share his bed. No one ever knew what happened to her and whatever inquiries her family had made were silenced. There were other stories that included a newborn babe floating in the laguna that many claimed belonged to one of his many lovers. Though whispers cannot usually be trusted, I had no doubt that most, if not all, of the rumors were true. A few months into my contract, Cornelia had married and was with child, which further complicated my situation and bound me into service. I had more to think about than just her. She had a family.”

  “Did you ever tell Cornelia? About what happened to you?”

  “No. No one but you and Grayson know of it, and I am asking you to keep it that way. I do not ever want Cornelia to know. She would only end up blaming herself for it. The Casacalendas and I parted amicably after my service. I would not even be here if it were not for the marchesa, who sought to right what had been done. She contacted your father and convinced him to reconsider giving me an opportunity to vie for you, hailing my success in Venetian society. She knew how much you meant to me and for that, I will forever be grateful to her.”

  Her hand stilled as she observed him. “Were you ever mistreated? Aside from being forced to…” She left the unsaid hanging between them.

  He swallowed, realizing there was so much he had not yet told her. But he had every intention of proving to himself and to Victoria that his soul was greater than the humiliation his pride had endured. “Not in the way you think. Though I avoided the marchese, for he was an eerie soul that unsettled me to the core, the marchesa herself was very kind and attentive. She fancied herself in love with me, though I could never define the way she treated me as love. I was more of a trinket she paraded in society.”

  “Did you know her prior to going into service?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. She, uh…she was a close acquaintance of the family Cornelia was originally supposed to marry into. The marchesa and my stepmother became good friends. Very good friends, in fact. She was much older than I, and according to whispers was a sad soul who lost every child she ever carried. So when she offered me the position as a means of settling my debts, I assumed she was extending kindness and a form of compassion toward a family she was never able to have. I discovered soon enough that it was nothing more than lust. Nonetheless, she was intelligent, extremely popular and hailed by Venetian society for her contributions to the arts.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  Jonathan’s brows went up, noting Victoria’s pale features were flushed. Was she actually jealous? “I had no attachment to her, even after I became her lover. It was like any other task I was set to perform.”

  She averted her gaze. “So she was pretty.”

  He shrugged. “Yes.”

  Victoria raised herself onto her elbow and stared at him, her blond chignon shifting to one side. “I don’t understand how Venetian society would have permitted her to not only have a lover but to flaunt him. London would have torched their house, dragged her husband into the street and taken a brick to his head and then hers.”

  He laughed and leaned toward her. “Do not over-excite yourself. You need rest.” Touching her soft face with one hand and her shoulder with his other, he gently guided her back down onto the pillow.

  He sat back, distancing himself, lest he become too distracted with the idea of touching her again. “Venice is not London, as you will find. No one is addicted to censuring their neighbors. And though having a cicisbeo is no longer widely practiced, there was a time when every respectable married woman in Venice had one and would have never dared to step outside her home without him. She paraded him everywhere. Even Mass.”

  “Mass?” She snorted against the pillow. “You lie.”

  “I do not.”

  “You mean to say married women in Venice retained lovers and flaunted them in church? Before the eyes of God? I refuse to believe it.”

  “London’s definition of a cicisbeo is much different from what it is in practice. A true cicisbeo is not meant to be a lover at all. Which is why I entered into the agreement in the first place. ’Tis a respectable position entailing an honorable man serving a married woman, defending her honor in public whenever her husband is not available to do so. I was designated to be her chaperone in society and a servant in her home, tending to duties similar to that of a footman and a lady’s maid.”

  “A lady’s maid?” she echoed, her eyes widening. “You were a lady’s maid?”

  He cleared his throat and shifted against the mattress. “I prefer you not call it that, as I am no maid. But, yes, some of my duties were similar to those of one.”

  “So you dressed and undressed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Daily?”

  “Daily. But that was menial compared to all of my other duties. I ensured her servants carried out their tasks, assisted her with anything and everything she needed and accompanied her everywhere. I was both servant and chaperone.”

  “Heavens above, you were more a husband to this woman than her own husband was.”

  He shrugged. “That is how she and I eventually became friends. I came to realize she wasn’t as heartless as her husband was.”

  “How could her husband have even tolerated such a thing? Was he not at all jealous of his own wife?”

  “I am certain he was jealous at times, but he had his own array of coquettes to occupy him. His way of thinking was neither rational or traditional. The Casacalenda marriage in and of itself was a mutual alliance of power. Nothing more. The marchese led his life the way he pleased and the marchesa led hers the way she pleased. They were associates, of sorts.”

  “Associates,” she muttered. “More like rapists.”

  He sighed. “Enough.” He poked her arm. “I cannot wait to show you Venice. You and I will ride gondolas all day and feast on mussels and cod until our sides burst. Cornelia will be beside herself when she discovers we are married. I have not sent word as I intend to surprise her upon our arrival. She always believed we would be together. And right she was.”

  Victoria smoothed the coverlet again,
watching her hand. “Whatever does or does not happen, Remington, my life will always be here with my father. I hope you understand that.”

  His stomach dropped but he shoved his disappointment aside. “You need the company of more than a dying man. What do you intend to do with your life once your father passes? Have you given thought to that? You need me. You need me to take care of you and I intend to. But it will be in Venice. Not here.”

  She glared up at him. “Do not assume because you are now my husband you will dictate my life. Cease pretending I have already offered my heart. I have not.”

  He looked away, her words biting into him. He supposed this was just the beginning of what he could expect. “Forgive me for ever wanting your heart.”

  He rose, dug into his pocket and retrieved the wedding gift, which he had wrapped in a lace cloth. He set it on the edge of the bed. “This is my wedding gift to you. I apologize for not having it bound. There was no time for the shop to do it.” He rounded the bed and strode toward the door, yanking it open.

  “Remington,” she called out, pushing herself up. Flint sat up along with her, eyeing him.

  Jonathan paused and fully turned toward her. “What?”

  “Forgive me,” she said softly. “I did not intend to be so cruel. Please don’t be angry with me.”

  “I am not angry. I am disillusioned. You are far more than this shell of a woman you have reduced yourself to. If I were meeting you now for the very first time, I don’t think I would have even bothered. Now…rest. I will return when it is time for us to leave.” He stepped out, shut the door behind him and blew out a heavy breath, eyeing the closed door. Why did he have this horrid inkling that a month was all he was ever going to have with her?

  Under the circumstances, they really needed to reacquaint each other by starting all over again and rebuilding not only Victoria but also himself. They needed to be friends first. Lovers last. Or their relationship would never survive. Not with all the doubts and pride eating Victoria alive. Until she agreed to be his, all his, he refused to have her submit to anything. Not a touch and most certainly not a kiss.