Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  And now ensnared them again. Like the beat of a drum, he thrust, and thrust again. When she tried to remain passive, he sought her out, made her join him in the twisting dance of teeth and tongues and lips.

  He took pleasure from her, and he gave pleasure in equal measure, and that good judgment on which she had prided herself only a moment ago vanished in a rush of craving. Her arms crept up around his shoulders, around his neck. She clutched him to her, her heart thumping against his. She pressed her chest against his, seeking to ease the ache in her breasts. She wanted to rub against him like a cat, marking him as her own. Her mind knew he was not her own, but her soul recognized her mate.

  She wanted him. She wanted to say yes.

  Seizing her skirt, he lifted it in a smooth movement.

  The air caressed her bare legs. She slid her calf along his.

  He chuckled softly, his breath gusting into her mouth.

  For one moment, a vast discomfiture held her in its grasp. He was laughing at her. She couldn’t bear that.

  Then he kissed her again, his lips and tongue intricate and enticing. His hands slid down to bare and cup her bottom, lifting her hips to meet his thrust. Against her belly, she felt the long, hard proof of his desire . . . and how he did want her. It was flattering. It was enticing. It was what she’d dreamed about—the drive of his hips against her body, the promise of fulfillment. She submerged beneath a wave of passion.

  Lifting his head, he looked down into her eyes. His fingers touched the skin on her thighs, and she knew, she knew he was totally involved in this moment. In her.

  And under a stern hand, the door slammed open.

  Chapter Seven

  Madeline jumped.

  Gabriel dropped her skirt and cursed.

  Gabriel’s valet stood in the doorway and glowered.

  Gabriel glowered back, refusing to take his hands off of Madeline, refusing to feel guilty for doing what came as naturally as breathing—making love to Madeline.

  Proud and tall, like the duchess she was, Madeline said, “Good afternoon, MacAllister. I hope you’ve been well.”

  “Fine, thank ye, Yer Grace.” MacAllister’s mouth moved as if he had to chew the words, and his face, which always looked like an autumn apple in the spring, grew more wrinkled as he frowned.

  Gabriel laughed with grim humor. Short, bandy-legged, and Scottish to his very bones, MacAllister had disapproved of Madeline from the first moment they’d met. He’d predicted disaster.

  He’d been right, and never had he allowed Gabriel to forget it.

  Gabriel stared at MacAllister, daring him to make a comment.

  But before he could, Madeline pulled away. For one moment, Gabriel’s arms tightened. Then, reluctantly, he let her go.

  Long-limbed and graceful, she strode to the door. MacAllister gave way, the damned old coward. Of course, Madeline was taller than the valet, and that accounted for at least part of MacAllister’s deference.

  Before Madeline could step into the corridor, Gabriel called, “One question, Your Grace!”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to face him. He knew she didn’t, but she looked over her shoulder in unconscious coquetry. “What?”

  “Does Rumbelow know who you are?”

  She blinked. “No.”

  “You’ve never seen him before? You’re sure of it?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Go on, then.”

  She bobbed a curtsy, one so patently sarcastic he lowered his head like a charging bull and strode toward her.

  She, wise female, hurried down the corridor.

  He stared after her, trying to find satisfaction in her flight. Knowing there would be no satisfaction until she was back in his bed. She didn’t realize it, but from the moment she had set foot on English soil, her time as an independent woman had come to an end. He did not marvel at the good luck that had brought them here in the same place at the same time. He had known she might be here at Rumbelow’s game—and Gabriel always had good luck.

  Turning a disgruntled face on Gabriel, MacAllister said, “Ye should have warned me ye were chasing after that skirt again.”

  Gabriel hadn’t adequately prepared for the punch of lust he felt when he first saw her. Nothing could have prepared him for that. “What would you have done?”

  Shoving Gabriel back inside, MacAllister shut the door with a slight slam. “Left ye t’ go t’ work in Bedlam where folks aren’t as daft as ye are.”

  “You hate all women,” Gabriel observed. “You’ve certainly never approved of any of my women, and if you have to be around a woman, you want them meek and silent.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, except God didn’t make them that way.”

  “Aye, He did, but na’ yer duchess.”

  “No. Not my duchess.” MacAllister had yowled like a scalded cat about Madeline’s defection, citing it as proof positive that women were no good. Gabriel hadn’t agreed—but Gabriel had had other things on his mind. The French had declared war on England. Gabriel had taken part in organizing the defense of the coast. While he was gone, Gabriel’s brother had fallen afoul of a scoundrel and in his shame, Jerry had enlisted in the English navy.

  By the time Gabriel had gotten wind of Jerry’s problems, the lad was at sea, beyond Gabriel’s reach. The whole dreadful time had culminated in Jerry’s death, and Gabriel’s eternal grief. For it had been his responsibility to watch out for his beloved younger brother, and in his obsession with Madeline, he had failed.

  Moreover, for all the passion between them, Madeline had refuted his claim, fleeing England rather than face him. His heated fury had chilled into a cold and relentless rage. Because he believed in fate, he had known she would someday come within his grasp again, and he’d sworn vengeance on the woman who had captivated his soul, then left him because . . . oh, not because of the gamble. Because she was afraid. Afraid of any man she didn’t direct and control.

  Stripping off his cravat, Gabriel threw it in the pile of dirty linens.

  “Take off yer shirt, then, and hurry. The first dinner bell will ring soon, and ye want t’ be there t’ watch the players.” MacAllister gathered up the linen and headed for the dressing room, then came back with a crisply ironed shirt. “I should have known ye were going t’ let a woman take yer mind off yer vengeance.”

  “Because I’m so weak, you mean?” Grinning derisively, Gabriel pulled the shirt on.

  “Weak as water, if ye allow that one t’ sink her claws in ye again.”

  “I was trying to chase her away.” Gabriel’s grin flattened. “This is no place for a woman.”

  About that MacAllister agreed. “They’re all over! Maids and ladies, traipsing about, their squeaky voices asking where t’ go t’ get an iron, asking me how t’ stir the fire. I dunna know why Rumbelow allowed women t’ come t’ a game!”

  “Insisted they come, you mean.”

  “I dunna like it.” MacAllister slipped the shirt over Gabriel’s head.

  Gabriel could see MacAllister’s scalp through the thin red wisps on the top of his head. “Nor do I.” Rumbelow was a blackguard through and through, but neither MacAllister nor Gabriel understood the significance of the families at such an important game. “Is he going to use the confusion created by the party to cheat? Is he going to kidnap one of the girls? . . . I met a Lady Thomasin, quite beautiful, quite innocent. Just the type of girl he likes.”

  “And she’s fool enough t’ like him, too, na’ doubt.”

  “Not her. She seemed momentarily dazzled by his charm, but as soon as he turned his attention away, she sneered at him.” Gabriel rather enjoyed the size of the chip Thomasin carried on her shoulder. “It’s her mother who wants him for Lady Thomasin.”

  “Women.” MacAllister snorted. “Ne’er smart enough t’ see the scam.”

  Grimly, Gabriel said, “Jerry didn’t see the scam, either.”

  MacAllister’s voice was gruff
as he pinned on Gabriel’s collar. “Nay. That he dinna.” Never one to belabor a man’s foolishness, especially that of Gabriel’s beloved younger brother, MacAllister added, “All the more reason for ye t’ keep yer head clear of female wiles and on yer mission.”

  “Are you back to complaining about Madeline?” Gabriel sighed. “First I tried to frighten her with threats, then I tried to make her flee my seduction.”

  “ ‘Tis the daftest scheme I ever heard.” MacAllister jerked his chin at the bed. “After ye’d pleasured her silly, did ye think she’d run?”

  “It worked last time.”

  MacAllister stared, hands on hips.

  “All right,” Gabriel admitted. “Today, I lost my head.”

  “Ye always did with her. What made ye think this time would be different?”

  Gabriel stared at MacAllister, but he didn’t see him. Instead he looked into the past, seeing that night at Almack’s.

  He leaned against the wall, his spine an indolent comma of relaxation. He had done what he’d set out to do. He’d won himself a fortune, and in the process made himself independent of his future wife’s largesse. It was a matter of pride for him. Fortune hunter he might be . . . but not with Madeline. He would not live as Madeline’s toy-husband, to be picked up and discarded at will, patted on the head, never the master of his own home, not even a partner in the marriage.

  So now he waited for her. Waited to make the announcement of his triumph. Waited to smooth her ruffled feathers—for they would be ruffled. In the time he’d come to know her, and fall in love with her, he’d assessed her. She lived to direct people’s lives. She imagined she would direct his, and she wouldn’t be happy about this development.

  But his ring was on her finger, the word of the betrothal had been placed in the Times, and the wedding date set. In three weeks, she would be his. Soon, but not soon enough, she would be his.

  When she arrived, she swept in with all the dignity and desirability of an Egyptian queen. She wore a magnificent gown of rose silk that clung to her figure like a lover. Her black hair was piled high atop her head and rose-colored feathers bobbed higher yet. Her chin was lifted just a notch too high, her shoulders were almost too squared, her stride was long and slow and . . . off somehow.

  He straightened away from the wall.

  She knew. She already knew.

  She was furious. Livid.

  He hadn’t anticipated this.

  She didn’t see him at first, and he concentrated his gaze on her, playing the game he always played—make Madeline look at me.

  She did. Her feather-coiffed head swept in a quarter circle, and she spotted him against the wall. She stared at him, unsmiling. Then she turned and spoke to Eleanor. Poor little Eleanor, who tried to restrain Madeline with a hand on her arm. Madeline shook her off and strode toward Gabriel.

  Gabriel’s temper rose, too. He braced himself for battle—but he thought that battle would take place in an empty drawing room or in the darkened gardens. He never imagined it would start in the full sight of the ballroom with the palm of Madeline’s hand striking his cheek, and end when she rushed away from him, their engagement broken.

  Cold, pure, invigorating fury rose at the memory of that scene, and Gabriel said, “I’ve got a score to settle with her, too.”

  “One score at a time.” MacAllister handed him a crisp, starched cravat.

  Without replying, Gabriel tied it into the knot called a waterfall. The first one failed. He tried it with another. He was persistent—in tying his cravats, in taking his revenge. Revenge on Rumbelow. Revenge on Madeline. “Did you find out where the gaming is to take place?”

  “In the dowager’s house, separate from the main house.”

  That made sense. Whatever swindle Rumbelow planned, he would want his victims to be far away from any help. Satisfied with the results at last, Gabriel inspected his cravat in the mirror. “You’ll go in tonight and look it over.”

  “I’ll try, but I warn ye—Rumbelow has hired an army of mercenaries t’ patrol the grounds. Looking in the window almost got me nabbed.”

  Shrugging into his dark blue waistcoat trimmed in gold, Gabriel asked, “Expecting trouble, is he?”

  “Or making trouble.” MacAllister held Gabriel’s jacket and helped him into the form-fitting garment. “Just curious—why did ye ask the lass if she knew Rumbelow?”

  “I would swear that, when he saw her, he recognized her.”

  “But he denied knowing her? More tomfoolery. Na’ good.” MacAllister meditated. “She looks like her cousin. Maybe he knows the other lass.”

  “Maddie’s pretending to be her cousin.” Gabriel thoroughly enjoyed the horror on MacAllister’s face. “She’s pretending to be the companion to Lady Thomasin so she can stop her father from playing in the game.”

  “Doesn’t make a bluidy bit of sense.”

  “Actually, it does. Lord Magnus has ruined her already with that wager of his against Knight. Now she believes he’ll attempt to recoup with more gambling—and he depends on luck, not on the odds.”

  “So she should arrive as the duchess and tell him . . .” Even MacAllister, belligerent as he was, comprehended Madeline’s predicament.

  “If she arrived as herself, she would be the object of attention, and if she urged her father not to participate in the game, pride would obligate him to remain. After all, he wouldn’t want to suffer the label of petticoat-bound.” No man enjoyed that, especially a father who’d been so offhand as to wager his daughter’s hand in marriage. Such obedience to her wishes might indicate weakness—as if the gambling didn’t already indicate his frailty.

  Gabriel hated her devotion to her father. He’d seen the results time and again. Lord Magnus would promise to come to visit her, raise her hopes, and not appear, never even remember to send his regrets. He would promise to take care of some task on their estates, and inevitably disappointment would follow.

  Madeline never complained. She had always put on a brave face. But Gabriel knew how deeply her father’s neglect wounded her, and he did not forgive. If somebody was going to hurt Madeline, Gabriel wanted it to be him. Like a greedy lad, he wanted all her attention focused on him.

  “So what does she think she’s going t’ do about her father?” MacAllister asked.

  “I suspect she plans to sneak up on him, frighten him out of his wits, force him to do what she wishes, and leave without anyone being the wiser. His withdrawal from the game will seem his own eccentricity.”

  MacAllister didn’t wish to admit that Madeline had planned well. “Humph.”

  Gabriel inspected himself again. He looked handsome and in fashion, like a man who cared more for his clothes than anything else. That was what he wanted Rumbelow to see. Once more Gabriel wondered at the game Rumbelow played. Not a game of chance, he feared, but a scheme to bilk everyone out of their money—and, he feared, perhaps their lives. “I wonder why Lord Magnus has not yet arrived.”

  “Dunna know.” MacAllister brushed at Gabriel’s shoulders with a garment brush. “But I do know she’ll distract ye.”

  “Madeline?” Gabriel thought about the scene just past, when he held Madeline in his arms and proved to her she still wanted him. He’d proved that he still wanted her, too, but that he’d always known. “Oh. Yes. I promise you she will. I will enjoy every bit of that distraction.”

  Stepping back, MacAllister considered him skeptically. “What is it ye want from the lass?”

  “Retribution. Retribution for the humiliation. Retribution for the years alone when she should have been at my side.” She would be his again. She would give herself totally to him, and when she did . . . Reaching into his valise, he pulled out a lady’s glove, yellowed with age and worn from being carried with him everywhere.

  MacAllister eyed it, too, recognizing it, knowing well what it meant. “Yer brother—”

  Gabriel turned on MacAllister. “Do you really believe I will fail to avenge my brother’s death?”

 
MacAllister coughed. “Nay.”

  “No. I will have my revenge on Rumbelow. But I will also have Madeline in every way possible.” With a smile that would have warned her if she’d seen it, he added, “My life will be all the sweeter for that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Madeline clasped her hands in pride as she surveyed her handiwork.

  The candlelight glimmered on Thomasin’s teal gown, giving it a richness of texture and color surpassed only by the glimmer of silver ribbon as it passed from the seam under the bosom and beneath the hem, lifting and gathering the skirt just above her knee. Madeline had sewn the silver ribbon flower over the worst of the ruined silk, and in the center she had placed a single rosebud of blazing red. Beneath the gown, Thomasin wore her best white linen petticoat, decorated with white satin and lace and so sheer, every time she moved, her pale skin gleamed through the material.

  Thomasin stared into the cheval mirror and fingered the ribbon anxiously. “What do you think?”

  “Of the gown? It’s perfect. It’s so different, no one will ever know it was an emergency repair. The effect is subtle . . . most of the girls will be wearing gowns which are see-through or they’ll have dampened the skirts. With your beauty and that restrained glimpse of knee, you’ll put them all to shame.”

  “Really?” Thomasin beamed. “Do you think so?”

  “I’m very good at predicting social success, and I predict yours quite happily.” Quite hopefully, also. Madeline needed something to distract herself from the disaster that faced her. A disaster with the name of Gabriel.

  Thomasin had done her own hair, and now she tossed her head, allowing the blond curls to dance around her rounded cheeks. “But . . .”

  Madeline could read the transparent emotions that chased across the girl’s face. “But what about your true love? Is it fair to go out and enjoy yourself when he isn’t here?”

  Turning to Madeline, Thomasin grasped her hands. “I knew you would comprehend my feelings. You have a superior understanding.”