Once Upon a Scandal
Page 25
Giovanni leaned toward Jonathan, shifting against his shoulders. “I will untie you, my friend. But I am still waiting for an answer.”
Jonathan swallowed hard. He finally understood that honor and pride meant nothing without Victoria. “Untie me. I will not fight. Now untie me!”
VICTORIA STARED down the marchese from where he imposingly stood opposite her, dressed in only a white shirt, black boots and gray wool trousers. She was about to discover what he really was. An animal. Or a man. “I am here to defend my honor.”
The marchese lowered his pistol to his side, his eyes sweeping the length of her body, which was clad in trousers. “I will not duel a woman.”
“Yet you have no qualms about violating one?” she called back, widening her stance. “You either have morals, my lord, or you don’t. Which is it?”
The marchese strode toward her, his long legs whipping away grass and wildflowers with a refined grace that did not reflect his savage ways. He paused before her, lingering so close that the scent of cigars and leather choked her. “This is not your fight,” he said in a rough, accented tone.
Victoria fisted her hands at her sides to keep them from shaking and refrained from swinging at him. “No. It was my honor and my pride and my body that you violated and therefore it is my fight.”
The muscles in his shaven jaw tightened as he half nodded. He hesitated, then held out the pistol, directing the handle toward her. “Take it. The first shot is yours.”
Though she knew nothing about pistols, and had never even held one, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Jonathan was safe. She reached out and grasped the smooth end of the pistol. It weighed heavily in her hand, eerily symbolic of death.
The marchese jerked up her hand and set the muzzle of the pistol against the middle of his chest. “Now shoot, cara.”
Her hand trembled as her hold tightened on the pistol. She stared up at him, her breath coming in uneven takes, as he intently held her gaze. All she had to do was slide her finger toward the trigger and pull it back and it would all be over. He wouldn’t be a threat to anyone anymore.
His amber eyes mocked her. “Why do you hesitate? Am I still too much of a man in your eyes? Even after what I did?”
She clenched her jaw as her finger instinctively slid toward the trigger. She wanted to kill him. She did. In the name of everything he ever did to her, to Jonathan and anyone else, but it was obvious that was what he wanted. He wanted to drag her down into the pits of hell with him.
“You are not even worthy of hate,” she seethed out, lowering the pistol. “I pity you. I truly do. For you will never know a day of the sort of love that I share with my husband. With my Jonathan.”
His smile faded. “You are wrong. Love created the man you see standing before you.” He lowered his chin. “Now give us both peace. Shoot.” He reached out and grabbed her hand, jerking the pistol to the edge of his right shoulder. He mashed her finger against the trigger.
Her eyes widened as an acrid puff of smoke filled the air and thunder clapped from the pistol, jarring her arm back. She screamed and scrambled back, the pistol falling from her hand and landing in the grass between them.
“Victoria!” She could hear Jonathan charging in their direction from across the field.
The marchese staggered back, the right shoulder of his white shirt blackened with gunpowder as bright-red blood bloomed and soaked his shirt within seconds. “Bartolomeo!” he roared toward the Italian gentleman scrambling toward them. “We leave. This duel is over.”
The marchese yanked his shirt up over his head, his defined muscles shifting. He gasped as he stripped it from his body, exposing the gaping flesh on the edge of his shoulder. Wincing, he dug his bundled shirt against the wound and met her gaze. “Hate. Love. It is all the same. For it consumes every last ounce of the soul. Does it not?”
Jonathan shoved his way between them and froze. He stepped back toward Victoria, shielding her. “Christ.” He jerked toward her and grabbed hold of her shoulders, his eyes wide as he frantically scanned her body. “Are you—”
“N-no.” She choked. “Oh, God. I didn’t—”
“Your wife has impeccable aim,” the marchese drawled. “If I die, may it bring you both peace.” He turned and staggered toward the man who guided him toward their horses in the distance.
All Victoria could do was stand there and gape after the man in complete disbelief. He had forced her hand into shooting him. Why? Did he feel remorse? Could such a man feel remorse? She supposed some men were too warped to ever understand.
Jonathan grabbed her and pressed her savagely against his body, his chest heaving. “I vow never to choose pride over our love again. That I vow. Forgive me. Dearest God, Victoria, say you forgive me.”
She sagged against him and dug her fingers beneath the warmth of his morning coat. Never again would she allow anything to come between them. Never again. “I want to leave Venice,” she whispered. “I want to go home. I want to be with my father.”
He stiffened and after a long moment of silence whispered hoarsely, “Will you be leaving without me?”
Tears blurred her vision as she tore away from him. She reached up and grabbed his face, yanking him down toward her lips. Kissing their softness repeatedly, she choked out, “Never. Wherever I go, you go. For you are my husband, Jonathan, and I am your wife.”
SCANDAL EIGHTEEN
Every lady should read at least one poem by George Herbert. His words reveal a beautiful, yet simple understanding of life. ’Tis an understanding every lady requires, whilst facing a world that expects everything from her, yet callously dismisses her for being a woman. If ever in doubt, heed Herbert’s own wise words and assessment: “The best mirror is an old friend.”
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
CORNELIA SNIFFED against tears and shoved the hatbox she was holding into Victoria’s arms. “Take this. It is no longer mine and I have kept it long enough.”
Victoria glanced over at Giovanni and Jonathan, who stood waiting by the entrance door. She eyed the hatbox in her gloved hands. “What is it?”
“Your letters to Jonathan. I apologize for reading them. But in many ways, I am glad I did. That is how I knew you were worthy of my brother.” Cornelia leaned toward her and pressed a kiss to her cheek, bumping the side of Victoria’s pleated bonnet. “Giovanni and I will visit you in England next year with the children. In the meantime, see to it Jonathan is well cared for and that he sleeps. He must sleep.”
Tucking the hatbox beneath one arm, Victoria grabbed hold of Cornelia with the other and hugged her tightly. “I will see to that and more, but I cannot help but worry about leaving you and Giovanni behind. What if the marchese—”
Giovanni snorted and smugly hit his fist into an open palm as he made his way back toward them. “I expect no retaliation. He willingly shot himself. Now let us hope he bleeds to death.”
Victoria released Cornelia, feeling as though she were leaving both a friend and a sister, and turned toward Giovanni. She smiled and held out her hand for him to kiss.
He tsked. “Do not insult me with your British ways.” He grabbed hold of her shoulders and hugged her heartily, then soundly kissed each cheek. Twice. “That is how it is done.”
Victoria grinned, shaking her head and stepped back. She would genuinely miss them both and wished she had had an opportunity to kiss and hug all of their beautiful children goodbye. But they’d all long been put to bed in the nursery.
“Victoria.” Jonathan’s voice cut through the silence and she knew her moment of farewells had passed.
She sighed and hurried with her hatbox toward her husband. As they floated toward the Grand Canal in the lulling silence of the night, all of the old stone and marble palaces around them seemed to glow brilliantly in the moonlight. The water glittered around them like a diamond-illuminated path.
Jonathan wrapped his arm around her and tugged her solidly against him. A sense of stillness overcame V
ictoria. One she thought she would never feel. It was happiness at long last.
“We have no further need for these.” Victoria opened the hatbox and flung all of the letters inside of it out into the water.
Jonathan jumped, causing the gondola to sway momentarily as he tried to grab the fluttering parchments, but they all disappeared out of reach as the gondola drifted on. His arms dropped back around her. He huffed out an exasperated breath. “Now our children will never have proof. We have no ring and no letters. Christ.”
Oh. She hadn’t thought about that.
Victoria turned in the cushioned seat of the gondola and looked back at the moonlit water littered with her letters. “Should we collect them all?”
“They are ruined.” He eyed her. “Why did you do that?”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation, set the hatbox at their feet and settled back against his arms. “I was tossing away the past. ’Twas supposed to be metaphorical. You know, like when you offered that plate to me in the garden.”
Jonathan paused and let out a laugh. His arm tightened around her shoulders as he leaned in and kissed her soundly on the lips. He nuzzled his face against hers, crushing her bonnet. “You still remember that? What a damn sop I was.”
She smirked. “You still are, Jonathan. Believe me. You still are.”
Twenty-three days later
Evening
London, England
HER FATHER was dying.
It was something no one, and most certainly not her, had expected to return to. And even though her father was confined to his bed, barely breathing, unable to move, and his last rites had already been offered many hours before she and Jonathan had arrived in London, the earl with his iron will had somehow waited. For her.
Victoria stripped her traveling bonnet from her head, letting it tumble to the floor beside her father’s bed. Flint whimpered as he weaved past her feet. She tearfully sat on the edge of the bed beside her father, whose chest raggedly rose and fell beneath his soaked nightshirt. His eyes were closed but his brow creased, as if he were struggling to find peace but simply could not.
She gently gathered his gauze-wrapped hand, leaned toward the side of his face and whispered into his ear, “I love you, Papa. And I promise that your grandchildren will know of you and will love you, too.”
Her father’s hand slowly tightened around her fingers, causing her to lean back so as to better look at his face. A face that was lesioned, tired and old. A face that had once belonged to one of the greatest men she had ever known.
He gasped, his eyes snapping open. He stared up at her for a moment, his expressionless green eyes ever so slowly sharpening.
She smiled through the tears blurring her vision, but said nothing. There was no need to. All that mattered was that she had been allowed to look into his eyes one last time. Be she Camille. Be she no one. She knew what had once been.
He blinked rapidly and his forehead creased. “Victoria?” he rasped. “Wherever have you been?”
Her eyes widened in a disbelief that was laced with a bittersweet joy she never thought she would feel in that moment. A half sob and half laugh escaped her, knowing he was speaking to her. Her. “I was in Venice, Papa. I was visiting with my husband’s family.”
“Husband?” he whispered. “You are finally married?”
“Yes. To the husband you chose for me. I am married. Like you wanted me to be. And I am so happy. So very, very happy.”
A small smile puckered his lips. “Remington. You chose Remington.”
She squeezed his hand more tightly, her lips trembling as she tried to smile for him. “Yes. I did.”
“Is he here?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Victoria glanced toward Jonathan, who quietly lingered by the bedpost.
Jonathan quickly approached. He leaned in against the side of the bed. “My lord.”
The earl glanced up Jonathan and with his other hand pointed at him. “She is yours now. Yours. Care for her.”
Jonathan nodded, his features tightening. “I will, my lord,” he offered in a low, assured tone. “I will. Always. I vow.”
“Good.” The earl half nodded, his hand lowering back to his side. He closed his eyes, tightening his hold on Victoria’s hand. “Good. I knew. All is as it should be. All is…” The earl stiffened, his face twisting in pain as his hand tightened savagely around Victoria’s.
“Papa?” she whispered, trying to mask her panic. For his sake.
He gasped, his chest quaking, causing the loose lacing of his ruffled nightshirt to stretch. He gasped again, his jaw tightening, then completely stilled.
His creased brow softened, fading the deep lines in his aged face. His lips slightly parted as his long fingers loosened against hers. His large hand now weighed heavily within her own.
He was no more. He was with Mama and Victor now. Where he belonged and could suffer no more.
Victoria sobbed, lifted his limp, gauzed hand to her lips and kissed it. “Be happy, Papa,” she choked out, tears tracing down her cheeks. “Be happy and know that I am, too. Thanks to you. Tell Mama and Victor that I love them and miss them very, very much. Tell them. Be sure to tell them.”
A hand gently touched her shoulder. “Victoria.” Jonathan’s soft tone conveyed his deepest condolences.
She released her father’s hand, turned and grabbed hold of her husband, pulling him down toward her. She wept against his broad shoulder. “He is gone. I cannot believe it. I thought surely he would live longer.”
Jonathan’s hand tucked her head against his chest as his other arm slid around her. “I am so sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “A greater man I have never known.”
They held each other in complete silence.
Though Victoria knew that the world had lost a great man, a man who had been her father and her friend, the world still held so much meaning and so much hope. For this wasn’t the end for her. No. Not at all.
This was only the beginning.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-8437-5
ONCE UPON A SCANDAL
Copyright © 2011 by Delilah Marvelle
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For questions and comments about the quality of this book please contact us at Customer_eCare@Harlequin.ca.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.HQNBooks.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Letter to Reader
Don’t miss the rest of the Scandal series!
Title Page
Dedication
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
SCANDAL ONE
SCANDAL TWO
SCANDAL THREE
SCANDAL FOUR
SCANDAL FIVE
SCANDAL SIX
SCANDAL SEVEN
SCANDAL EIGHT
SCANDAL NINE
SCANDAL TEN
SCANDAL ELEVEN
SCANDAL TWELVE
SCANDAL THIRTEEN
SCANDAL FOURTEEN
SCANDAL FIFTEEN
SCANDAL SIXTEEN
SCANDAL SEVENTEEN
SCANDAL EIGHTEEN
C
opyright