Scandal of It All

by Sophie Jordan

“No, it is not,” Graciela stated evenly. “He promised discretion if we were to do this . . .” She waved a hand around them. “And this is hardly discreet.”

  “Oh! Poo! You’re being too difficult. He didn’t sign his name. Nor did he say anything inflammatory in that note.”

  “This is not a good idea,” she grumbled, rising to smell one of the plump blooms on a nearby bouquet. It was fragrant and heady . . . quite like this entire relationship with Colin.

  She brushed the petal almost resentfully. No one had ever sent her flowers. Not even her late husband. Their courtship had happened extraordinarily fast. Papa was simply so proud that she had won an offer from so eligible and prestigious a man. After she and the duke took marriage vows, there had been no such courtesy, of course. At that point, she was Autenberry’s property—bought and paid for. No wooing. No flowers. The only jewelry he gave her was everything that had belonged to the long line of Duchesses of Autenberry before her.

  “You deserve some happiness, Ela. And diversion,” Mary Rebecca said gently.

  She twisted one shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. “If he were anyone else. Not a family friend. An older, more mature gentleman—”

  “Nonsense. I’m tired of you talking as though you have one foot in the grave. You’re still young and attractive.”

  “I’m aware that I’m not in my dotage. I could perhaps overlook his youth if he were not—” her voice dipped to a whisper as though she was still worried servants lurked near “—Marcus’s closest friend.”

  Mary Rebecca nodded thoughtfully. “I admit, that gives one pause, but there is no reason your stepson should ever learn of what is a private relationship.” She arched her neck and sighed heavenward. “For goodness’ sake! Do it just once! Find out what it is you’ve been missing all these years, Ela. I mean, look at whom we are talking about. My toes curl just thinking about him . . .”

  More than her toes curled. Something twisted and pulsed within her. A deep, longing ache. She was beginning to understand—and fear—that it went beyond desire, and that was a terrifying concept.

  He’d already given her a sample of what she had been missing when they were at Lord Needling’s. The memory of that night would have to be enough. She would hug that memory close and wait until she could find some semblance of it again with a more suitable candidate.

  She blinked eyes that felt dangerously close to tearing. This wasn’t about denying herself pleasure and adventure. It was about denying herself him, which was the safest action to take—at least in terms of self-preservation.

  “This is already much too demonstrative.” She scanned the room and gestured to the flowers. “What if Marcus stops by and sees all of this? How shall I explain it?”

  “With the truth. You have an admirer. He need not know whom.”

  An admirer? That was by far too quiet of a word. She couldn’t look at the flowers without her face catching fire.

  Suddenly she felt him between her thighs again. His mouth on the very core of her. Her hands buried in his thick hair, urging him on.

  She sucked in a shaky breath and shook her head, hardening her heart against that part of herself that turned all hot and quivery inside at thoughts of Colin.

  “No,” she said, her voice resolved. “I must get rid of these flowers. All of them.” She must leave no evidence that there was a man in her life. Marcus would investigate. He would deem it his duty. “And I’ll send him a missive, as well, leaving him with no confusion that we will not be entering into a relationship.”

  Mary Rebecca sighed, her expression disappointed. “I hope you don’t look back and come to regret this decision.”

  “I’m certain I won’t,” she lied, an awful feeling stirring in the pit of her stomach.

  Because she wasn’t certain of anything. Only days ago she had vowed to start living, and this felt an awful lot like running.

  Mary Rebecca rose and moved to the nearest vase of roses. “Well, I might as well take one of these home with me if you’re just going to throw them out. They are lovely.”

  “Take as many as you like as long as they go.”

  At that moment the drawing room doors opened and Marcus strode inside wearing a loose smile on his lips. Her hand drifted to her suddenly contracting throat. The act of drawing air was a struggle.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised at his sudden and uninvited presence. For years, before he acquired his own residence, this had been his home when in Town. He still treated it that way, coming and going as he pleased.

  He opened his mouth, but the greeting never made it out. He froze and turned in a small circle, surveying the room. “Wow,” he murmured. “What happened here? Did someone die?”

  Graciela’s stomach sank as waves of dread washed over her.

  Mary Rebecca leaned in close beside her and whispered, “Looks like it’s too late. I think he’s seen the flowers.”

  Chapter 11

  Colin stared, unmoving for several moments as his eyes traveled over the meager words etched on the missive in his hands.

  I’ve thought over your proposition and my answer is no.

  G.

  She’d given him her answer. Perhaps the flowers had been too much and scared her off. He reread the note and smiled to himself. Not for one moment did he believe she meant those words. Scared or not, it didn’t change anything. It wouldn’t do any good.

  He was still coming for her.

  The doors to his drawing room flung open. Marcus strode in the room with Colin’s harried butler scurrying behind him, belatedly clearing his throat in an attempt to announce the duke. It was the same scene every time and yet Lemword did not give up trying.

  Autenberry collapsed inelegantly on the sofa before the fire. “When is this hellish winter going to end?” he grumbled as he stared into the fire. “Town is a right bore with everyone rusticating in the country.”

  With an apologetic glance to Colin, the butler closed the doors on them, leaving them alone.

  Colin folded Ela’s note and stuck it in his top drawer. He knew he would likely reread it several more times as though something could yet be gleaned from those so few words.

  Just then Autenberry looked away from the fire. “Should we go to Sodom tonight? That might be diverting.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.” No, he had been plotting on seeing Ela again—even if that meant scaling the balcony of her room. Her note had definitely put a halt to that thinking. Now he needed to carefully rethink his next step.

  Perhaps he should do just as she demanded and forget about her—about them. He wasn’t one of those pushy gentlemen to force his unwanted attentions on a female.

  However, this was different. Ela wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  “Come, now. Perhaps you can meet up with that tasty little bit of muslin you disappeared with last time.”

  He would have to bring up Ela—even if he didn’t realize it. Colin shrugged as though the possibility made little difference to him.

  “No? Well, then, perhaps I’ll have a go at her.”

  Colin tried to mask his grimace by turning his gaze to the fire as though the writhing flames fascinated him. A hot streak of possessiveness battled with a flare of guilt. He had no right to feel possessive or jealous. His friend would be horrified to know he was talking about his stepmother in such a manner.

  Marcus had built this fiction in his head of how noble and loving his father had been. In truth, Colin remembered him as uninterested and distant. Everyone knew old Autenberry bedded anything in skirts. He imagined Graciela didn’t know the extent of her late husband’s philandering ways. Any time she mentioned him it was in glowing terms. To hear her describe him, the old man was a saint.

  Ela had been the one to hold the family together. Enid, Marcus and Clara. They had regular dinners and picnics and went to Sunday church. They sang carols at Christmas and went hunting for holly. They did all manner of things that good, wholesome families did. He knew Marcus loved her
for that.

  Hell, she’d even made Colin feel welcome.

  “I’m not in the mood for Sodom tonight,” he said, adopting a casual air. “Perhaps another time. You’re welcome to stay for dinner here. I’m sure Cook is making something tasty. We can play a few hands of cards.”

  Marcus patted his flat stomach. “I had luncheon with Ela today. She always feeds me as though it is my last meal. Quite a repast. I don’t think I can eat for days. I still regret not taking Cook with me when I set up my own house.”

  Everything in him tensed and yet he fought for calm as he asked, “You saw Ela today?”

  “Yes.” He sat up a little straighter. “Which reminds me. I believe my stepmother has a suitor.” He waved with his hand. “The entire drawing room was a putrid explosion of flowers. It looked like a florist’s shop. Disgusting, really. Some fool thinks he can get into Ela’s bed by sending her flowers.”

  Colin paused slightly, trying not to let Marcus’s words sting. That wasn’t what he was doing, after all. Not precisely. “Do you, now?” Thankfully, his voice sounded mild and revealed none of his inner turmoil.

  Marcus tapped his fingers on the cushions on either side of him. “Indeed.”

  “Did she tell you who?”

  “She brushed it off and tried to imply she didn’t know.” He made a snort of disbelief. “Of course, she was lying. She could hardly look me in the eyes.”

  “Of course,” he echoed.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find out who.”

  “Not to be a voice of dissent, but why is it so very important that you find out? Your stepmother is no green girl. Your father has been dead for many years—”

  “Because this is Ela. I’ll not leave her prey to the wolves of the ton. Trust me. I know their sort.”

  Naturally. They were him.

  Marcus continued, “I’ve seen the way the ton looks at her. I’ll not have her abused or made a point of gossip after some man has his sport with her and casts her aside.”

  Colin nodded once, feeling oddly detached, as though he were observing this scene from a great distance, watching two other men rather than the ridiculous pair they made. “And when you find this fellow?” Yes, Colin was referring to himself. Again. Ridiculousness. “What then?”

  “I shall make him understand that he chose the wrong lady for dalliance and that he needs to steer clear of her.”

  And because he was the Duke of Autenberry and an imposing man in his own right, he would be obeyed. That was his assumption. Except for one thing. He did not know they were speaking about Colin. He thought they were talking about some dandy who would quake before Autenberry’s foreboding visage.

  “And if this man doesn’t steer clear of her?” Because at this point that was not even possible for him. It was as though an invisible string connected them. A string with the strength of Prometheus’s chains.

  “Then I will make it abundantly clear to him.” His hand opened and closed into a tight fist on the arm of the sofa. Colin did not mistake his meaning.

  “I see.”

  It was his turn to gaze into the fire. Perhaps he should attempt to drop this infatuation with Ela. He did not imagine that Autenberry would approve.

  Except there was that string between them. Impossible to break.

  Marcus sighed deeply. “I suppose it’s all moot now at any rate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s leaving.”

  Colin stilled, his fingers staying on his knee, gripping tightly, exerting so much pressure his fingertips whitened. “Leaving?” he asked, his voice deceptively quiet.

  “Yes. She’s returning to the country tomorrow. I doubt this admirer of hers will follow her to the country.”

  After brief contemplation, he decided to scale the wall outside her bedchamber after all.

  It was a drastic measure, but after Autenberry’s announcement he felt desperate measures were called for. Dramatic of him perhaps. It wasn’t as though he would never see her again. And yet if she left for the country now, it was because she was fleeing him. The next time they came face-to-face would be God knew when. Months perhaps.

  By then she would be as resolute and grim as a bloody statue around him. She would be a perfectly composed Duchess of Autenberry, impregnable to his charm or influence. Forever out of reach. He knew it just as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning. He couldn’t stand the thought of it.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  Naturally, he’d never entered the duchess’s private rooms before. But he knew the house well enough to know the location.

  He slapped hand over hand, fingers burrowing between chilled bricks covered in thick ivy as he pulled himself up, only the moon’s glow showing him the way.

  By the time he reached the balcony, his heart was hammering . . . and not because he’d exerted himself. It was the prospect of seeing her again. Of being alone with her. In a bedchamber, no less. He couldn’t pretend that didn’t weigh heavily on his mind.

  He swung his leg over the balcony and dropped down silently on booted feet. His chest lifted on a deep breath as he contemplated the closed French doors. A faint reflection of himself stared back at him from the shining black windowpanes. It was disconcerting. He felt as though he was doing something illicit.

  That would be because you are. Shoving the voice aside, he closed a hand around the latch and turned it, easing the door open.

  The room was cloaked in darkness except for the faint glow of a fire dying in the hearth. He left the balcony door open behind him, letting the moonlit air bleed into the room and light his path to the colossal bed at the center.

  He’d always thought his own bedchamber was ridiculous in size. He’d gone directly from living in the nursery to residing at Eton, where he’d shared a room with other lads. After finishing at Eton, he’d slept in the master bedchamber that had once belonged to his father, but even that was not as grand as this. Even in the near dark, he felt as though the vaulted ceiling stretched on forever.

  He advanced on the bed, making out the outline of a body beneath the counterpane. Not any body. Ela’s body.

  He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked down. Her back was to him and he couldn’t see her face. Just the shape of her on her side and the dark spill of hair, like ink across the white bedding.

  His palms itched to gather that mass up, but he wouldn’t touch her. He wasn’t here to paw and grope her in her sleep like some predator of the night given to assaulting women while they were at their most vulnerable.

  He cleared his throat. “Ela?”

  Nothing. She didn’t so much as stir. Granted, he had not spoken very loudly. Her name merely felt like a clamoring shout inside of him.

  She shivered and rolled onto her back, pulling the coverlet fully to her chin. That’s when he became conscious of the bite of cold at his back from the open door.

  He strode from the bed and shut it, then moved to the giant fireplace and stoked the dying embers. He added a few more logs to the waning fire, satisfied that should bring it back to life and warm her well enough.

  Standing back, he watched for a few moments as the logs started to smoke and then catch flame.

  A slight noise behind him had him turning the precise moment an object came barreling at his head.

  Chapter 12

  Colin jerked to the side, narrowly dodging the object as it whistled past his ear. He turned, following it with his gaze, identifying it as a candlestick as it clattered to the floor.

  Whipping around, he held out a hand to ward off Ela, armed with a second candlestick, charging him. “Ela! Stop! It’s me!”

  Either his words did not penetrate or she didn’t care. The candlestick was coming straight at him. He reached out and caught it, his hand wrapping around her clenched fist.

  “Let go!” she cried, trying to tear the heavy crystal free of his grip.

  “Ela!” He said her name again, giving the candlestick a yank and wresting it out
of her hand for good. He tossed it down to the thick carpet at their feet and then wrapped an arm around her waist, hauling her against him.

  She at once felt familiar against him, her body pliant and lush. Familiar yet agonizingly unknown. He wanted to know her. He longed to sink himself inside her and know her as well as he knew himself.

  “Colin!” Her dark eyes gleamed like gemstones in the dancing firelight as she stared at him, absorbing him for a long moment before adding, “What are you doing here? In my chamber?” She pressed her small hands against his chest, simultaneously arching her body away and shoving at him.

  His gaze dipped and stared at the way the soft fabric draped over her lush breasts. The darkness of her nipples was quite clearly outlined against the material. It wasn’t a sexy nightgown. It didn’t even show any hint of cleavage or skin below her throat. It wasn’t meant to entice but it was the single most provocative article of clothing he had ever seen on a woman.

  “It was brought to my attention that you were leaving on the morrow.”

  She stilled at that, her hands no longer pushing against him. “And that made you break into my room in the middle of the night? How did you get in here? The hinges on my door always squeak. It would have woken me.” Her gaze darted about as though searching for some hidden door.

  “I came through the window.”

  Her gaze shot to the now closed balcony doors. “I’m on the second floor!”

  He shrugged. “I scaled the wall.”

  “You could have broken your neck.”

  “I assure you as a lad I scaled far greater heights.”

  “You’re no lad anymore.”

  He smiled widely. “How nice of you to finally admit that,” he growled.

  Her eyes widened and then narrowed. “This is not a time for jesting. You need to leave this room, this house, at once!”

  “Oh, I’m not jesting. This is quite serious for me. Finishing what has started between us, taking it to its most natural progression is a very serious matter. I only wish you would take it nearly as seriously. Instead of running away.”