Lady Emma's Disgrace
Book 6½ in the Scandalous Women of the Ton series
Nicola Cornick
Part One of Seven
It was the night of her betrothal ball.
Lady Emma Bradshaw stood on the balcony above the ballroom and viewed the bustle below. Her mother had done herself proud. The room was dressed in pink, gold and white, with roses and ivy trailing artfully around the pillars.
It was the betrothal ball her parents had always wanted for her. Everyone was ignoring that fact that this was the third time she had been engaged. They were pretending that it was the first.
The first time there had been no celebration because her parents had disapproved on her choice.
The second time she had skipped the betrothal and moved straight on to the marriage, to the marriage bed in fact, barely wasting time on the ceremony.
Now it was third time lucky. She was a born again virgin bride.
Her betrothed, Lord Cholmondeley Warner, had already arrived and was standing beside her mother, next to the artificial fountain where rose petals floated on the water and the fish were a matching shade of pink. Lord Cholmondeley was wearing an embroidered waistcoat in pink and gold as a compliment to the colour scheme. Emma wondered if there could possibly be a more perfect bridegroom. Certainly her parents thought not.
Lord Cholmondeley was the son of a duke. He was rich. He was handsome.
He was deadly dull.
Well-meaning people kept telling her that Lord Cholmondeley was kind and that she deserved kindness after everything she had suffered. The fact that Emma had brought the suffering on herself was largely ignored now that she was welcome back in the family fold. The problem was that she did not really want kindness. Oh, it had its place; she understood that but she did not wish it to be the defining element of her life or her marriage. She wanted excitement. She always had. It was what had got her into trouble in the first place.
She also wanted sex.
That had also got her into trouble. Not literally. She had not fallen pregnant. But she had eloped with the first handsome rogue who had seduced her.
Emma liked sex. Now she was contemplating a future without it, or at least with not much of it. Lord Cholmondeley was frightfully proper. When she had accepted his proposal he had kissed her chastely on the forehead. The forehead. Not even her cheek. Over the past couple of weeks she had waited to see the slightest hint of passion in his demeanour. There was none. He seemed pleased that she had agreed to marry him. He thought her pretty. He enjoyed taking her driving. They did not talk much. It was the perfect aristocratic alliance.
The previous week, in desperation, Emma had attempted to seduce Lord Cholmondeley to see if anything lurked beneath that bland exterior. He had responded with shock and disapproval. Emma had been obliged to blame the extra glass of champagne she had taken at Lady Webster’s ball for her inappropriate behaviour and they had agreed never to mention it again. For a moment she had thought that Lord Cholmondeley might break the betrothal. He looked as though he was realising that she probably had more sexual experience than he did. It was not a felicitous discovery, given that everyone had managed to brush her past under the carpet.
Her mother had seen her. She raised her hand to summon Emma down to join them. Her parents and her brother Justin were already standing in the receiving line. The first guests were about to arrive. This, Emma reminded herself, was the price of her acceptance back into the family. She was acknowledged by the Ton again. She was rich. She had regained all that she had lost as a result of her foolish elopement and her disastrous marriage to a scoundrel.
A pity that at times her wayward heart still ached for that same scoundrel even though he had died more than a year before, even though he had betrayed and deserted her, even though he had been a thoroughly bad lot.
Emma glanced in the pier glass at the top of the stair. Her gown was discreet, elegant and expensive. Her blonde hair was piled up on top of her head in a most sophisticated tumble of curls. She looked every inch the daughter of an earl. She wore the Brooke rubies. She looked beautiful.
She had a second chance.
She was not going to ruin it.
She went downstairs to join her betrothed in the receiving line.
Part Two of Seven
“I recommend marriage heartily,” Lady Rothbury said. “It is a most pleasurable state.” She paused. “As long as one is married to the right person.”
Emma could feel her spirits sinking. Of all the people who had congratulated her this evening only Lady Rothbury had had the wisdom and the perception to see that she was not excited by the betrothal. Everyone else had assumed that she should be grateful to be making such a respectable match. Several debutantes, green eyed with envy and sharp of tongue, had been positively waspish in their comments. They had implied that Emma had been luckier than she deserved, that she had scandalised society so thoroughly and really it was not fair for her to catch the son of a Duke after behaving so badly. But Lady Rothbury was not congratulating her. There was concern in her blue eyes; concern for Emma’s future happiness, and it made Emma want to cry because she was not happy, she was not excited as a bride should be, and Lady Rothbury knew that. Lady Rothbury had been the best friend she had ever had and now she pressed Emma’s hands gently and smiled at her.
“If you should ever need me,” she said softly, “you know where to find me.”
Lord Cholmondeley came up to join them. “I am not sure that I can encourage you to associate with such a woman, Emma,” he said, watching Lady Rothbury’s elegantly retreating back. “She has a tainted reputation and some extremely disreputable friends and family members.”
“If only you knew,” Emma thought. Lord Cholmondeley thought that he did know of all her sins and he had graciously forgiven her for them. But he had no idea. He had no idea that as Lady Rothbury’s protégée Emma had been a political cartoonist. He had no notion that she had belonged to a radical reforming society. She had walked alone in places that Lord Cholmondeley would have been terrified to drive through with an armed guard. She had given it all up, of course. One could not be Lady Cholmondeley Warner and attend political rallies or work for charities. Emma understood that if she wanted to be rich and accepted once more, if she was not to return to the tiny cottage in Hampstead and her pitifully lonely and poverty-stricken existence, then she could not afford to put a step wrong.
She danced the waltz with Lord Cholmondeley. It was their second dance together but he had decreed that it was acceptable to dance with her twice since they were now betrothed.
“I do believe the evening to be a great success,” he said, as they circled the floor. He held her gingerly, a considerable distance away from his body. They were half a beat behind the music, which threw everyone around them into confusion.
“Perhaps you would care to drive with me in the Park tomorrow,” Lord Cholmondeley continued. “If the weather is fine, of course. If it rains we should not go lest I catch a chill.”
“That would be delightful, thank you,” Emma said. She hid a yawn.
The dance ended. Lord Cholmondeley tucked her hand through his arm as they slowly promenaded around the room. Emma knew he was showing her off, like a fine ornament. She was another acquisition, a part of the display. She would take her place in his house alongside the vases and statues he had acquired on the Grand Tour.
“I am a little thirsty,” she said. “I should like a glass of champagne, if you please.”
“I will fetch you some lemonade,” Lord Cholmondeley said. “You have had quite enough champagne.”
Little prickles of irritation sparked in Emma’s blood. She opened her mouth to contradict him, saw that Lord Cholmondeley’s mother was watching
them, and closed her mouth again.
“Thank you,” she said.
Lord Cholmondeley settled her on a gilt rout chair and set off towards the refreshment room, pausing for a word with his mother on the way. The Duchess of Broughton was chilly and disapproving. She reminded Emma of her own mother. Emma wondered how the Duke, who was a nice man with a twinkle in his eye that his son had most certainly not inherited, had survived all these years. The Duke liked Emma. His grace had told her in an unguarded moment that he had not expected his son to catch such an incomparable as she. The Duchess, in contrast, was going to be the mother-in-law from hell. Emma knew it.
“Excuse me, my lady.” Frederick, one of the footmen, was bowing to Emma, proffering a note. “I have a message for you.”
Emma took the slip of paper and unfolded it. It was short and to the point.
“Meet me in the gallery.”
Well, that was rather abrupt. It was an order rather than a request. Emma was minded to ignore it. Except that she was curious as to the identity of her correspondent. She glanced up towards the balcony that ran around the top of the ballroom but it was wreathed in darkness. Then the shadows moved. She thought she saw the figure of a man. He looked to be Lord Cholmondeley’s height and build.
Emma was surprised. No, she was astounded. She would never have imagined that Lord Cholmondeley had either the wit or the inclination to make a secret assignation with her. Yet since he had shown this unexpected desire for the clandestine, she should surely encourage him. Their life together might not be as barren as she had imagined.
She slid surreptitiously from the ballroom making sure that neither her mother nor the Duchess had observed her departure, and ran silently up the carpeted steps to the gallery above. In the doorway she paused, hesitated. Below her the noise of voices and music shifted and swelled. The brightly coloured crowds spilled across the ballroom oblivious to her watching eyes. But here there was silence and stillness. The secretive shadows pressed close.
She waited. No one moved. Nothing happened. There was nobody there.
She heard a step behind her and as she started to turn, someone caught her hand and pulled her into his arms. They closed about her, strong and hard. She was held tight against his chest and it was a very taut and muscular chest indeed. My goodness. She had had no idea that Lord Cholmondeley was so very firm. She would have expected him to be flabby. He scorned the pugilism and fencing that so many gentlemen of the Ton practised.
Their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly. Something deep within Emma recognised and accepted him as the other half of herself. She could feel her body softening and opening to him, welcoming his touch as his hands smoothed down her back drawing her more closely against him. His thighs, as hard and muscled as his chest, brushed her skirts. The press of his body against hers was delicious, sensual and heavy with promise, yet at the same time protective and extraordinarily familiar. She felt as though she had come home.
Emma was simultaneously pierced by longing and a fierce realisation that she had felt lonely for far too long, lonely and alone. Yet here was the man who could put an end to that unhappiness. Astonished, she clutched at his lapels to pull him the final inch against her and felt the comforting clasp of his arms change into something much more erotic.
“Lord Cholmondeley!” She murmured. “This is a surprise.”
It was. She would have expected the gauche peer to be a great deal more reticent than this in his amorous affairs. Indeed with her he had been positively monkish. Who would have guessed that beneath that prim exterior lurked so much passion. He already had his face buried against the curve of her neck and the brush of his hair against her throat had all sorts of pleasurable shivers racking her body. Goodness gracious. His lips touched the hollow above her collarbone. She heard him whisper: “You are exquisite,” and then he was kissing her.
It was not at all appropriate for a first kiss.
She had expected clumsiness and awkwardness. What she was getting was pure heat and scorching desire that burned in her blood and set her trembling. It was so fierce and sudden and unexpected that a bolt of sheer carnal longing shot through her to centre low in her belly. She gasped and he immediately took ruthless advantage, parting her lips with his, sliding his tongue into her mouth, where it teased and twined with hers in intimate discovery.
No indeed, this was not at all appropriate for a first kiss or even a second one.
He was plundering her mouth with such demand that she could barely breathe. It felt shockingly explicit and yet delicious, wonderful. Her body lit with sensations she had not felt in years. She was consumed.
Her head was spinning, her thoughts tumbling over one another in a welter of shock and delight. Oh, she had vastly underestimated Lord Cholmondeley’s amatory skill and experience. It was clear he was a master of the art of seduction and she his very willing accomplice. She felt the rasp of his stubble against the tender skin of her neck again and felt the wicked heat gather and tighten in her belly. His hands were at her waist now, burning through the thin silk of her gown as he held her up for his kiss. It made her want more of him, much more. The brazen nature of her desires both shocked and excited her.
She raised a hand to his cheek. His stubble scored her palm. And then, through the haze of her longing for him she remembered.
There was not a man at the ball who had not shaved before he had come out that night. Lord Cholmondeley, in particular, had a face as smooth as a baby’s.
A very different sort of shock raked through Emma and she wrenched herself backwards out of his arms.
“Who are you?”
Part Three of Seven
Emma heard the man laugh. He stepped forward out of the shadows. She knew who he was before she saw his face. She knew his kiss, his touch. She remembered the incendiary way he could drive her close to madness in her passion for him. Her stomach tumbled.
Tom. Her husband.
Except that Tom was dead. He had been executed over a year before.
She stumbled back. Her heart was racing. She felt terrified. For it was Tom, with his dark mocking eyes as black as sloes and his mouth curling into a smile. Tom Bradshaw, duke’s bastard son, criminal, renegade, scoundrel.
For a moment Emma thought she might faint but she never had the vapours and besides, it would be far more satisfying to slap Tom’s face. In truth it would be more satisfying to topple him over the balcony. Fury possessed her, sudden and violent in its intensity.
“You,” she said, “are supposed to be dead.” Her voice came out a great deal more husky and uncertain than she would have wanted despite the anger eating up her soul.
Tom smiled, his teeth a white flash in the darkness. “It is delightful to see you too, Emma.” His insolent gaze raked her from head to foot. “And to kiss you.”
“You did more than simply kiss me,” Emma said. She was shaking. She wrapped her arms about herself. Her body felt hot through the silk of the gown, burning up as though she had a fever. Inside she felt chilled to the bone.
“I wanted more than mere kisses.” Tom said.
At his words, licentious heat, sharp and fierce, licked through Emma’s body. She had wanted it too. She wanted him to do all the shameless things that he had done to her when first they wed and more besides. Her mind positively exploded with wantonness.
But that was what Tom wanted. When they had first met he had been able to command her body and as a result, her will. She had grown stronger after his desertion. She had to learn to survive alone. As a result she was no longer his to command.
“You have a great many carnal desires for a dead man,” she said coldly.
Tom strolled forward. He moved with the casual grace she remembered, light on his feet like a predatory cat.
“Lord Sidmouth thought I would be more use to him alive rather than dead.”
Well, that made sense. Lord Sidmouth, the former Home Secretary, was a hard and ruthless man who would not hesitate to exploit anyone he coul
d. A dead man would prove particularly useful to him as a spy, moving unknown and unsuspected through the dangerous edges of society.
“So you are poacher turned gamekeeper,” Emma said. “A scoundrel now working for the government.” Her anger was growing, seething in her like a living thing. “How dare you come back,” she said. Her voice surprised her; it was rough, shaking with rage. “How dare you let me think you were dead! I mourned-” She cut the words off but it was too late. In the loneliness of her bare room in the cottage at Hampstead Wells she had cried bitter tears over Tom. She had not been sure where her love for him had ended and her hatred for him had begun. The two were so close, different sides of the same coin.
“You mourned me?” She saw the spark leap in his eyes and her heart leapt too before she crushed down the inappropriate emotion. She did not want to feel anything other than contempt for Tom but it was difficult. He had always sworn that he had not abandoned her. He had said that his enemies had taken him hostage. He had told her that he had escaped and worked his passage back from the Indies to find her again. Emma had wanted to believe him. She had wanted to trust his word. She had wanted it so much that the longing had hurt like a physical pain. It had threatened to destroy her. So she had turned away and refused to believe Tom’s pleas. It was easier that way because she could not allow him close to her again. She told herself that she had to protect herself. She knew that Tom was a liar and a rogue through and through; he had done so many bad things in his life that she doubted he knew right from wrong now, if he ever had done. He had hurt her so badly, seducing her for her money, leaving her utterly alone and unprotected, that she had vowed never to love or trust a man again, least of all him.
“I mourned you for five minutes,” she lied, “and then I remembered what a cad you had been and I dried my tears.”
She saw his mouth twist in wry amusement. “I don’t suppose I deserve even five minutes of your time,” he said.
“No,” Emma said, “you do not.”
Lady Emma Page 1
