One Night Of Scandal

by Nicola Cornick

  Deb sighed. She could see the sense in Clarissa Aintree’s argument, but she knew it was impossible to keep the truth from Richard. That would be deceitful and, in the end, pointless, for she would be obliged to tell him sooner or later that Guy’s wedding was cancelled. A deep feeling of gloom possessed her. It was always better to tackle an unpleasant duty as quickly as possible.

  She looked at the clock. ‘I was not intending to attend the theatre with Liv and Ross this evening, but it seems that I must go,’ she said. ‘I know that Lord Richard will be there and I must acquaint him with the truth of the matter, and ask him what he wishes to do now.’

  Mrs Aintree shook her head. ‘Never ask a man what he wishes to do,’ she said, ‘or you may receive an answer that you do not care for.’

  As she trailed up the stairs, Deb reflected miserably that, whatever Richard’s response, she was unlikely to care for it. She could see only two alternatives. They could either break the betrothal immediately or wait a little and break it in a few weeks’ time, and either thought left her with an unconscionably miserable feeling inside. She was the one who had instigated the false engagement, insisting that it be for a limited duration only. Yet now that it had run its short course, she was the one who did not wish it to end. She knew that she should examine the reasons why that was, and she knew that she did not want to do so. Her feelings were immaterial, for soon Richard would know the truth and their short but sweet time together would be at an end.

  Tomorrow, he had said. But now tomorrow would not bring the ecstasy of physical pleasure. It would bring nothing but the end of the betrothal and the beginning of a new and more barren period to her existence. She was not sure that she could bear it.

  Richard had only gone to the theatre that night on Justin’s persuasion and then under protest. Justin was an admirer of Mr Oliver Goldsmith’s plays. Richard was not. Yet when he saw Deb Stratton in the Marneys’ box, the quality of his pleasure surprised him. He had only parted from her a few hours earlier and yet here he was, so delighted to see her again that he felt like a lovesick boy.

  Richard had already come to accept, with resignation and humour, that he was hopelessly in love with Deborah Stratton and was falling ever deeper in love with her with each day that passed. He loved the artless candour that prompted her to say things and ask direct questions that other, more sophisticated women would prevaricate over. He loved the way that she watched him when she did not realise that he was already watching her. He was almost certain that she was falling in love with him, but he did not want to force the process, for he was afraid. He had seen the look on her face that day in the conservatory when he had almost told her that he loved her. She was not yet ready to accept a declaration. He faced the thought squarely. He was afraid that if anything upset the delicate balance between them now, he would lose her and never recapture the happiness that was so close within his grasp. Which was why he had not hurried the physical intimacy between them even when every fibre of his being was demanding satisfaction. He had schooled himself to wait, even though the suspense was killing him.

  So when Richard studied Deborah’s face that night and realised that something was troubling her, all his instincts immediately focussed upon her and what the difficulty might be.

  She was sitting very tense and upright in her chair and for once there was no trace of good humour in her face. Indeed, she looked sunk in gloom. At one point she looked directly at him with a very speaking gaze, and Richard smiled at her. She did not smile back; instead her frown seemed to deepen and her blue eyes were cloudy with some emotion that he could not read as they rested on him.

  The interval did not seem to come quickly enough.

  They met in the theatre foyer.

  ‘Mrs Stratton,’ Richard said scrupulously, conscious of the press of the crowd and the curious eyes upon them.

  Deb was not so reticent. It was clear that intense emotion was driving her, although Richard was not entirely sure what that emotion could be. She stepped close to him, one hand coming to rest on his lapel. ‘I must speak with you.’

  Richard could read the distress in her eyes. So could others. He glanced round. People were staring a little now. To hell with them. He covered her hand with his own.

  ‘I will call on you in the morning-’ he began.

  ‘I cannot wait that long.’ Deb spoke in an urgent undertone. She bit her lip. There was a deep frown on her brow. Richard drew her closer.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Something dreadful.’ Her lips trembled. Her hand clenched on his jacket. ‘Guy’s wedding is cancelled.’

  For a moment the words did not make sense to Richard. He was far more aware of the intimacy of her gesture and the appeal in her gaze. He felt a surge of pleasure that she had turned to him when she was distressed. Then the implication of her words hit him hard.

  ‘Your brother’s wedding is cancelled-’

  ‘Yes, and there is worse-his bride has run off with cousin Harry!’

  Despite himself, Richard’s lips twitched. Rash elopements seemed to be a feature of the Walton family. He leaned closer still. His breath stirred her hair. She smelled distractingly of roses and honey. He was still holding her hand. ‘That is unfortunate, but what in particular distresses you?’

  He caught a flash of lavender blue as she looked at him and then quickly away. ‘Our betrothal needs must be at an end.’

  ‘You mean that as the reasons for our betrothal are removed, you wish to call it off?’

  He felt her fingers tremble within his. She had lowered her head now so that Richard could not read her expression. All he could see was the complicated arrangement of curls held up by the diamond slide. He wanted to put a hand beneath her chin and tilt her face up to his, but that was a step too far for the Woodbridge Theatre.

  ‘I think it would be for the best,’ Deb said in a steady voice. ‘Papa is insisting that we should still travel to Bath so that he may make your acquaintance. Unless you wish to be married off to me in earnest, I suggest that we tell him immediately that it was all a mistake.’

  Richard thought quickly. To be married off to her in earnest was precisely what he desired, but he could see from Deb’s panic that it was too soon for her. He cursed silently. Matters had been progressing so well. Too well. He had had a mere fortnight to woo her in form and now it was too soon to make a proposal of marriage. She would run from him and he would lose all the ground that he had so carefully gained.

  She was running already. He could sense it. She withdrew her hand from his and it felt as though her presence was slipping away from him.

  Richard turned them slightly so that Deb had her back to a pillar and his broad shoulders blocked out the inquisitive glances of the crowd.

  ‘If you break the engagement, then your father may well insist you return to live at Walton Hall,’ he reminded her gently. ‘He will always be looking to find another suitor for you.’

  He felt the shudder go through her. Was the thought of matrimony so dreadful to her that she trembled to even think of it? Richard feared it might be so. Her lashes flickered against her cheek.

  ‘I shall contrive a way out of the situation,’ she said obstinately. ‘You should not be constrained by that, my lord.’

  Richard felt the frustration rip through him. She did not want his help now. He had served his purpose and now he was dismissed. He found he was close to losing his coolness.

  ‘You will contrive another scheme like this?’ he asked drily. ‘You have seen how well this one succeeded.’

  That won him a quick glance. ‘I thought,’ Deb said coldly, ‘that you would be pleased. Matrimony can scarcely be appealing to a man of your stamp.’

  Richard stepped closer to her and Deb moved back, instinctively trying to put a little distance between them. She did not succeed. Richard followed her with deliberation until her back was hard against the pillar and he was blocking her escape.

  ‘And what sort of a man is that?�
� he asked pleasantly.

  Her blue gaze widened, both at his tone and because of his proximity, which made no concessions to the crowd of people about them. She tilted her chin and held his gaze defiantly. ‘The rakish sort!’

  Richard narrowed his gaze. Through his frustration and thwarted desire he was conscious that she was hiding something from him and was trying to distract him. She did not wish him to ask her how she felt about the broken engagement. She did not wish to be honest about her own emotions. It was the one area in which she had always held back from him.

  Richard scanned her face, noting the stubborn set to her mouth and the determination in her eyes. He could think of only one way of breaking through that façade-to shock her.

  He drew closer still, resting one hand against the pillar so that his arm brushed the curve of her breast. She tried to shift away from him, but was trapped by his body. He pressed his leg hard and most improperly against hers, through the slippery silk of her dress. Immediately he was aware of the heat emanating from her. She felt as though she was burning up with fever. Her face had flushed and he heard her swift, indrawn breath. He bent closer, speaking for her ears only.

  ‘Since you consider me to be a rake, I have a question for you. You have a habit of changing our agreements after they are made, Mrs Stratton. What I would like to know is whether you intend to release me from my other commission as well.’

  He saw her eyes widen to their fullest extent as she took his meaning. She cast a swift, instinctive look over her shoulder. ‘We cannot talk about that here.’

  ‘Yes, we can. Do you still wish us to be lovers?’

  Her head came up with a jerk. There was a silence between them whilst their gazes met and locked. Around them the throng swelled and chattered. Someone bumped into them and apologised. Neither of them spared a flicker of attention.

  Deb cleared her throat. Her voice was husky. ‘If you must have an answer now, then I do not know.’

  ‘Not good enough.’ Richard bent closer and let his lips brush her ear. ‘What is it to be, yes or no?’

  He felt the tremor that ran through her. Her eyes did not leave his.

  ‘I cannot-’

  He took his hand from the pillar and caught her wrist tightly. ‘Yes, you can. Tell me.’

  Her breasts rose and fell rapidly with the agitation of her breathing. ‘Very well. The answer is yes.’

  ‘Yes, you wish me to be your lover?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was a whisper.

  ‘You do not wish us to be betrothed, but you still wish to take me to your bed?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Several heads turned. Deb, face scarlet, moderated her tone. ‘We should return to the auditorium. I do believe the second act is about to begin, my lord.’

  Richard stood back, releasing her wrist. ‘I do believe it is,’ he murmured.

  He watched her as she scurried away and up the stairs to the Marneys’ box. He realised that his fists were clenched and he relaxed them very slowly. Damnation. He had not intended to push her so far or so hard. Yet he had had the answer he wanted and he knew there was not a hope in hell of going back now. He would be Deborah Stratton’s lover, betrothal or no betrothal. The time had come.

  Chapter Fourteen

  P lease meet me at Kestrel Beach this afternoon at two of the clock. There are matters we need to discuss in private.

  Deb’s fingers shook a little as she pushed away her plate of toast. Richard’s note had arrived with breakfast and it was sufficient to reduce her appetite to zero. Regardless of the word ‘please’ at the beginning of the sentence, she recognised it for what it was-an order rather than a request. She had every conviction that if she did not comply he would come and fetch her.

  So the moment had come, just as Richard had promised. Last night she had broken her engagement because she had not seen what else she could do. Last night she had also stated unequivocally that she still wanted Richard Kestrel to be her lover. It appeared that Richard was about to take her at her word.

  Deb shivered and Mrs Aintree gave her a look of concern. ‘Do you think that it is time to light a fire in the mornings, my love? These autumn nights are drawing in now and we do not want the house to become damp.’

  ‘Yes…no…I do not know,’ Deb said, her mind still preoccupied with images of herself and Richard locked in ardent embrace. ‘That is, yes, we could do so.’

  Mrs Aintree looked even more worried. ‘Have you taken a chill, Deborah? You do not seem quite yourself this morning and look a little flushed.’

  ‘I am quite well,’ Deb said hastily. ‘I beg your pardon, Clarrie, I was not attending. I believe I am a little tired. The play did run on last night.’

  ‘Perhaps you should rest this morning,’ Mrs Aintree suggested. ‘Recover your strength.’

  ‘Yes,’ Deb said, trying not to think too much about what it was that she was mustering her strength for.

  The morning dragged. Deb went into the drawing room and tried to read La Belle Assemblée but could not concentrate. Then she fidgeted around with Clarissa Aintree’s flower arrangement and quite spoilt the elegant display of roses. She considered going to visit Olivia, but was afraid that she would blurt out the whole of the scene that had taken place with Richard the previous night and the scandalous and shocking afternoon that she was planning. Then she realised that she had not thought of a suitable excuse to explain her absence to Mrs Aintree and spent a fruitless ten minutes racking her brains to come up with something. The clock crept around towards eleven thirty and she ordered an early luncheon, then thought that she should not go to the beach too early for fear of appearing too eager and shameless. The absurdity of this then struck her, for had she not brazenly requested that Richard seduce her? It was a little too late to worry about appearing wanton.

  She sat at the table, picking at her food and thinking about this. What she was planning to do was both brazen and abandoned, and yet now that the moment had come she could not seem to help herself. It was anticipation, not dread, that was tripping along her nerves now. She had thought she would never feel like this again, would never forsake the principles that had guided her since Neil’s desertion, but she ached for Richard with a desire that was as strong as it was sweet. She shivered and pushed her plate away. She simply was not hungry, at least not for the food.

  Finally it was a quarter before two. Deb changed into her red riding habit and went down to the stables.

  ‘Please tell Mrs Aintree that I have gone riding and may well visit my sister after at Midwinter Marney,’ she instructed the groom as she dismissed him. ‘I am not certain when I shall return, though it may be well into the evening.’

  The sandy track through the forest was cool and green, but it did little to soothe the anxiety gnawing at Deb’s stomach. In the end she gave an exasperated exclamation and kicked Beauty to a gallop. It was almost as though she was trying to outrun her demons. They hurtled down the sandy path and broke through the trees and out onto the beach. The curve of sand spread out before her, a perfect semicircle of white with the dunes glistening golden at the end where the low cliffs met the sea. The breeze stirred the marram grass.

  There was a thunder of hooves and Deb swung around in the saddle. Richard was galloping towards her across the sand and without hesitation Deb dug her heels into Beauty’s sides and galloped across the wide expanse, the sand flying from the hooves, the water spraying out in an arc as they caught the edge of the incoming tide.

  This time it was Deb who won the contest. She reined in Beauty, the colour high in her cheeks, eyes bright and her hat askew. ‘Oh, that was wonderful!’ she burst out.

  Richard was smiling at her enthusiasm and suddenly some of her nagging anxiety eased. His gaze was warm and he held out his arms to her to help her from the saddle. After a moment she allowed him to help her down-and felt a little frisson of disappointment when he let her go promptly.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, and Deb found herself blushing to the roots of
her hair. She met his eyes, then burst out laughing.

  ‘It is not very romantic but I confess that I am. I could not eat any luncheon.’

  It was odd how the ride across the beach had broken the tension between them. Richard led her across to a knot of pines, where Deb was astonished to see that he had set up a picnic beneath the trees. There was ice-cold white wine and there were tiny chicken pies, smoked ham, strong cheese and fresh bread.

  ‘Was this what you intended us to do this afternoon?’ she said, eyes widening.

  She saw his wicked grin. ‘What did you imagine that I intended?’

  Deb held his eyes. ‘I thought…oh, you know what I thought! Do not make me spell it out…’

  Richard laughed. ‘That comes later…’ he said, and Deb felt hot and cold at the same time, for she could not tell if he was in earnest.

  They sat beneath the pine trees and ate the food that Richard had brought; under his prompting, Deborah talked about her childhood near Bath and her family and her life since she had moved to Midwinter. They had talked before during the short weeks of their betrothal, but strangely, given what was to follow, this was the first time that she felt entirely at ease with him.

  After a while she stopped talking. She felt a little embarrassed. ‘I have told you a great deal about myself, my lord, and in return I know almost nothing about you,’ she said.

  Richard looked at her. He was propped on one arm beside her. The sunlight was in his thick dark hair, turning it a rich conker brown. There was a smile in his eyes that made Deb feel very warm.

  ‘You have known me for over a twelvemonth,’ he pointed out.

  Deb frowned a little. ‘I know that you dance well and can charm the dowagers,’ she said. ‘I even know that you were in the Navy and now you have turned spy catcher. But I do not really know you.’

  ‘Do you need to know me?’ Richard asked.

  ‘You mean because we no longer need to pretend that we are betrothed?’

  ‘No, I mean do you need to know me in order for me to become your lover?’