Once Upon a Scandal

by Delilah Marvelle

  Remington laughed along with her. “My father noticed within the hour. After a good whip to the backside, my father sat me in a chair and said, ‘In a world such as ours, boy, there are three dozen scoundrels for every one good man. Challenge yourself to be something more than what everyone else can be. It requires far greater skill to do the right thing at the right time than to aim a damn pistol at a moving fish.’”

  “A very wise man, your father.”

  “Yes. He was. I thought his words were remarkable and have taken them to heart ever since that day. Even more so when my own mother succumbed to a fever shortly afterward. The doctors did not seem to understand what was wrong with her. All they knew was that she was dying. Knowing this, she removed her ring from her finger and gave it to me, asking that I live the life of a gentleman and find the same sort of love she had shared with my father. She insisted that I should never settle for less and that is all that would ever make her happy. From the age of twelve, I carried that ring with me everywhere, waiting to meet my girl, and wondering what she would be like.”

  Victoria kept staring up at the ceiling, an aching tenderness overwhelming her knowing she was and had always been that girl. She had simply forgotten how to be that girl.

  “After my mother’s death, I was toted off to Eton against my will. There, I found more scoundrels than gentlemen, which only reaffirmed my father’s words and my dedication to perfecting my character. To my astonishment, not even a year later, my father married a widow. I was not pleased with him at all. I felt as though he had betrayed my mother’s memory. I hated his new wife, as she was annoyingly superficial, but I did grow very fond of her daughter, Cornelia, who was only a year older than me. I actually looked forward to holidays, merely so I could spend time with her. We always argued about who was more of a romantic, she or I. She always won. Then one day, whilst back at Eton, I came upon seven boys punching the wits out of a helpless chap I knew from the eating hall. I jumped in and fought them all off as best I could. And though neither of us could walk without wincing for a week, he and I bonded. That chap was Grayson.”

  Victoria couldn’t help but smirk. “You should have let those boys carry on.”

  His knee nudged against her leg. “I will defend him to the end. He has always been a good friend to me. When you sent him to Venice, Grayson sought to buy my contract back from the Casacalendas. As I had warned him and had predicted, the marchese turned him away with a request he never make an appearance in Venice again. Because it wasn’t about the money. It was about control. Grayson was outraged and sent countless letters to every Austrian government official who held power in Venice. He was told to take it to his king or better yet, the Basilica, as the crime appeared to be one only the church could address. Grayson was finally forced to accept what I already had.”

  Victoria shook her head in disgust, turned and propped herself on an elbow to get a better look at him. “Why wouldn’t you let Grayson tell me? Why?”

  Remington lifted his hand and placed a large, heated palm against the side of her face. “Part of it was shame. I had been stripped of my worth as a man because of my stupidity in involving myself with the wrong people. But in the end, I also knew you would have boarded a midnight ship and hunted me down, and in turn, exposed yourself to a harm I would have never been able to live with.”

  “You still should have told me,” she whispered in earnest.

  “And I now regret that I didn’t. But that cannot be changed, can it?” His hand left her face and trailed the outside of her arm, sending a skittering sensation throughout her body. His hand traveled down to her waist, hidden beneath the coverlet. His thumb sensuously rubbed in a circular motion, searching for a place just below her stay, making her catch her breath.

  Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears. She could feel his need and his expectations in that touch. It weighed heavily upon her soul. Was she ready to be the woman he deserved? Would she know how to match his passions? His love? She feared disappointing him. “You should sleep.”

  He drew away his hand and nodded. “Yes. Good night.”

  “Good night.” She settled against the pillow beside him and glanced toward the lanterns, which waned, giving way to darker shadows in the room.

  Aside from creaks and the sea rushing against the sides of the ship, it was quiet for a very, very long time.

  Too quiet.

  “It is much too quiet,” Remington blurted, as if privy to her own thoughts. “Even with the sea roaring.”

  She smiled. “Are you requesting a lullaby, my lord?”

  “Are you offering?”

  “No.”

  “Why ever not? I have yet to hear you sing.”

  “If I sing, you will never sleep again.”

  He chuckled. “I will heed the warning. Recite something for me, then.”

  “What would you like me to recite?”

  “Anything. Though nothing sad.”

  “That eliminates every poem I know.”

  “Oh, come. You must know one poem of good cheer.”

  “No. I don’t. My father preferred poetry he could relate to. Sorrow. Death. Loss.” She paused, remembering the book Remington had been reading. A book she was quite certain wasn’t filled with poems at all. She’d recognized her etiquette book the moment she’d glimpsed it. Though she didn’t know why he would deny it or how he had even come across it. “What about that book of poems you were reading earlier? Is there anything of merit that perhaps I could read?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Victoria?”

  “Yes?” she innocently prodded.

  “That was not a book of poems.”

  “No?”

  “No. It was, indeed, your etiquette book.”

  “I see. The etiquette book you denied having.”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you actually reading it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Well… I… Not because the idea of female etiquette appeals to me, but because…it was yours. And it has my name all over it. I like looking at it and knowing that at one time you held that book with a love I now seek to reclaim.”

  He would have to remind her of all the countless hours she spent thinking about him and getting ink all over her hands. “And where did you get it? I distinctly remember tossing it.”

  “Your father confiscated it and gifted it to me. He even wrote an inscription within its pages pertaining to your mother. Would you like to read it?”

  She swallowed and shook her head against the pillow. “No. Not now.” She didn’t want to think about death or her father or her mother in that moment. Only this. Only Remington.

  Remington sighed. “How do you expect me to sleep, Victoria, when the tone of your voice makes me want to hang myself?”

  “Forgive me. My mind had wandered.” She squinted for a moment, digging into her thoughts for something to recite. “I do know one ditty. If you want to hear it.”

  “Out with it. I would love to hear it.”

  “I should warn you, though. ’Tis a bit vulgar.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “And where would you have learned something vulgar?”

  She bit back a smile, noting the concern in his voice. “Grayson always sang it whenever he visited and insisted he would keep singing it until I married. Sure enough, he was true to his word. He sang it all the time and annoyed me so much, I eventually paid attention to the words and then annoyed him in turn by reciting it myself. My father really was quite livid about the whole thing. Not only with Grayson, but with me, seeing as the words were so crass.”

  He adjusted the pillow beneath his head. “This I must hear. Go on. Recite it.”

  She snuggled against the pillow and set her chin to the air, remembering the words. “‘I, a tender young maid, have been courted by many men as ever was any. A spruce haberdasher first spake me fair, but I would have nothing to do with small ware. My thing is my own and I’ll keep it so still, yet other young lasses
may do what they will.’”

  Remington rumbled out a laugh. “Grayson never shared this one with me.”

  “Because he likes you more than he likes me.”

  “I disagree. But do go on.”

  “‘A sweet-scented courtier did give me a kiss, and he promised me mountains if I would be his. But I’ll not believe him, for it is too true, some courtiers do promise much more than they do. A fine man of law did come out of the Strand, to plead his own cause, with his fee in his hand. He made a brace motion, but that would not do, for I did dismiss him, and nonsuit him, too.’”

  “Are you certain Grayson taught you this? This maiden sounds remarkably like you. Turning away suitors and all.”

  Victoria smacked his forearm with the back of her hand from where she lay. “You are supposed to be sleeping. Now where was I?” She drew in a breath. “‘Next came a young fellow, a notable spark, with a green bag and inkhorn, a justice’s clerk. He pulled out his warrant to make all appear, but I sent him away with a flea in his ear. An usurer came, with abundance of cash, but I had no mind to come under his lash. He proffered me jewels and great stores of gold, but I wouldn’t mortgage my little freehold.’”

  “This is profanity at its best. Enough. I have heard enough.”

  “Oh, hush. You are no maid. Now allow me to finish. ‘A blunt lieutenant next surprised my placket, and fiercely began to riddle and sack it. I mustered my spirits up, and became bold, and forced my lieutenant to quit his strong hold.’”

  “I intend to pummel Grayson for reciting such vile rubbish to you.”

  She laughed. “You really need to stop interrupting me. ‘A fine dapper tailor, with yard in hand, did proffer his service to be at command. He talked of a slit I had above my knee, but I’ll have no tailor to stitch it for me.’”

  He choked. “This is not helping me sleep. At all.”

  She smirked. “You wanted to hear it.”

  “And I am regretting that I did. Are you done?”

  “No. Not quite. ‘Now here I could reckon a hundred or more, besides all the gamesters recited before, that made their addresses in hopes of a snap, but young as I was, I understood trap. My thing is my own, and I’ll keep it so still, until I be married, say men what they will.’” She paused, oddly realizing Remington was right. It really did sum her up.

  He hesitated. “Is that it?”

  “Yes. Would you like me to recite something else?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Are you ready to sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He drew in a breath and let it out. “Good night, Victoria.”

  “Good night, Remington.”

  He shifted toward her. “I was really hoping you would be calling me Jonathan by now. Remington is what everyone else calls me and you are not everyone else.”

  Her heart fluttered. “Good night, Jonathan dear.”

  He settled back against the pillows again and let out a breath. “I am in love with the way your voice dips whenever you say my name.”

  Heavens, would her heart ever cease fluttering like a butterfly caught at sea? In that moment, she actually considered forcefully grabbing his face and kissing him. Only…she knew she’d most likely make him angry for going against his wishes. That, or she would end up riling him and neither of them would get sleep.

  “Good night,” she offered.

  “Good night.”

  Silence lulled them. Eventually, all light left the cabin and there was nothing but the creaking of boards, the rocking of the boat and the incessant noise of water pummeling the ship outside. In the darkness, she listened to Jonathan’s breath, finding comfort in knowing he was beside her, while pleading he would find rest.

  After a very long while, his intake of breaths grew steady and slow. She didn’t know how long she lay in the darkness—maybe an hour or two or three?—but eventually, she also succumbed to peace.

  SCANDAL FOURTEEN

  A lady with too much enthusiasm toward everything and everyone becomes a lady well known for being kept in the nursery for too long. There is an art when it comes to exhibiting emotion. Whilst some prefer a lady squelch all emotion, this author insists only enough be exhibited to allow others to appreciate what you think and feel, without making them assume you were bred by squirrels. Be refined in conveying your thoughts and emotions and they will become your greatest assets.

  How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

  Early morning

  Venice, Italy

  STEP BY STEP, Victoria descended from the plank of the ship out onto the narrow stone landing before her. The cool morning wind rushed against her face, causing the silk ribbons of her pleated bonnet to flap against her chin. She tightened her hold on her beaded reticule and drew in a deep breath, savoring the moment. The air was tinged with the acrid salt of the sea mixed with pungent fish, and an unexpected sweetness that reminded her of melons.

  Though the land seemed to sway beneath her after she had been confined to the ship for so long, a renewed strength overtook her. She felt as if she had awakened to find herself in a Renaissance painting filled with never-ending periwinkle skies scattered with mountainous clouds angels could doze on. And at the foot of such an illustrious sky, an endless sea shimmered green, reflecting the blinding brightness of the sun peering through the clouds.

  Amidst all of this remarkable beauty, towering above and around her, left and right and as far as her eyes could see, were grand marble, stone and brick façades of age-worn palaces and buildings pressed side by side. A grand bridge of white stone, the Ponte de Rialto—which Jonathan had earlier pointed out from the deck—joined both sides of the city in a single, magnificent sweeping arch.

  Flower boxes and iron balconies dotted some of the arched windows, and in the distance, two elderly Venetian ladies dressed in lavish French morning gowns of white and green casually chatted against the railing of one of the balconies, gazing out onto the Grand Canal. Their matching pale pink fans fluttered every now and then. Several gray doves floated past and veered up toward rusty, ceramic-tiled roofs before disappearing entirely from sight.

  If magic were ever to exist, it would exist in a place such as this. But the most astonishing thing to behold in Venice was all the buildings that rose up out of the water like lily pads in a pond. All of them, Remington had explained, were held up precariously by endless piles driven into the clay beneath the water.

  Remington paused beside her. The curved brim of his top hat shadowed his blue eyes against the brightness around them as he glanced down at her. He held out an arm, his gray morning coat shifting against his muscled arm. “Welcome to Venezia, signorina.”

  Her stomach flipped. She was really here. In Venice. With Remington. She grinned and placed her gloved hand against his solid forearm, allowing him to lead her down the narrow stone pathway beside the muddy green water lapping against the edge behind them.

  “First, we secure a gondola. Otherwise we will never get anywhere. I already arranged for our trunks to follow. Come.” Remington gestured ahead toward a group of narrow black boats whose ends curved dramatically upward like the shoes of a sultan. All the bows were embedded with oddly shaped iron blades and in the middle of each boat was a small, enclosed black cabin with curtained windows.

  She drew her brows together as they approached. “Is that a gondola?”

  “Yes.”

  “It looks more like a sultan’s hearse.”

  Remington chuckled and released her arm as they paused before a young, dark-haired gentleman towering above them from atop the rear of a gondola.

  “Signore Remington!” the young man exclaimed, the muscled arm that wasn’t holding his long oar popping into the air, lifting his coat. “London no good, eh? Venezia better.”

  Remington rumbled out a laugh and touched his hand to the rim of his hat. “Sì, Antonio. Venezia is better. But I have brought something Venezia could never boast.” Remington turned toward Victoria, swept up
her gloved hand and propelled her toward the man. “Victoria, this is Antonio. One of many, many gondoliers I have gotten to know throughout the years. Though he will argue with me on this, he specializes in knowing more about languages than women. Antonio, mia moglie, Signorina Victoria.”

  “Moglie?” Antonio echoed, his dark gaze sweeping Victoria’s length as if she stood before them completely naked. Antonio hopped down onto the stone stoop, causing the attached gondola he had left behind to teeter and rock against the water. He let out a long, low whistle. “Tutti i ragazzi vogliono incontrare una ragazza come lei.”

  Victoria’s brows went up. Surely, even the boldest of men would have shown a bit more restraint. And as she could only infer what the man said, by the seductive tone of his voice, she found herself wishing Mrs. Lambert had insisted on Italian all of those years ago, not French.

  Victoria glanced toward Remington. “I am assuming you introduced me as your wife and he approved?”

  Remington grinned and tightened his hold on her hand. “He is under the impression that every man must dream of meeting a woman like you. Something I already knew years ago.”

  Heat crept into her cheeks as she turned back toward the man, who grinned at her with crooked, but very white teeth. “Grazie, signore.” That was about all the Italian she knew.

  Antonio removed his cap from his head, revealing long black curls any woman would have swooned for.

  He bowed sweepingly.

  Remington released her hand and said something more at length to the man in Italian, his voice cheerful, warm and smooth.

  Antonio rolled his eyes, shook his head and replied something in turn with a flurry of words, securing his cap back in place. He waved them toward the gondola.

  Victoria dug into her reticule to retrieve money.

  Remington leaned toward her, his gloved hand covering hers and stilling it against the cord of the reticule. “Antonio insists you ride free for the first few days. He hopes you will enjoy his services enough to secure him for however long you stay.”

  She glanced up in surprise as Remington released her hand and stepped toward the gondola. She turned toward Antonio and shyly smiled at him.