Lord of Scandal

by Nicola Cornick

  She saw him watching her, his gaze straight, his hazel eyes bright. It was the most unsettling look that she had ever received from a man.

  Her heart lurched. For a moment, brown eyes and hazel met and held. Catherine’s chin came up. She knew he had already recognized her. The domino and mask did not fool him. But at least he did not know her identity. All she had to do was get away….

  “So, Catherine,” he said slowly, “who taught you to play hazard like that?”

  “Who cares?” Paris shrugged pettishly, shaking him off. She put a hand out toward the bag of money. “I’ll take the debt, and you—” she gave Catherine a less than friendly look “—can go home.”

  “I thought,” Ben said gently, “that I heard you say that you would cancel the debt if Catherine won, Paris.” There was a hint of laughter in his eyes.

  Paris gave him a distinctly un-lover-like look. “So I did,” she said sweetly. She yawned. “This company gives me the headache. Excuse me.”

  She rose gracefully and stalked off to the other side of the room, where she took a seat at a faro table.

  Catherine looked at Ben. He had made no move to follow Paris and now he leaned on the back of the chair, his gaze moving thoughtfully from the bag of guineas to Catherine’s face. He smiled a challenge.

  “Another game?” he suggested softly.

  His words breathed shivers down her back. For a long, long moment she held his eyes. There was a disturbing intensity in his bright stare that made her breath catch in her throat. Something almost painful tightened inside her. Her lips parted and she saw his eyes go to her mouth in a sudden, dangerously sensuous glance that made her alive with memory. Time seemed to slow down, stop, wait forever.

  She cleared her throat. “I think not,” she said huskily. “You told me you never lose.”

  The lines around Ben’s eyes deepened as he smiled. “So I did. How careless of me to throw away my advantages.”

  He was turning the dice box between his fingers now. “We need not play for money,” he added, with a silky emphasis that made his meaning crystal clear.

  The shock brought a gasp to Catherine’s lips. Suddenly she was grateful for the concealment of the mask, for the color had faded from her face and then rushed back in a scalding tide. Her heart hammered. So here she had the proof of what she had suspected all along. He had assumed she was Withers’s mistress, he had seen her in company with Lily, and so he thought she was a courtesan who might be prepared to grant him her favors for a night. He wanted to seduce her. Of course he did. All he sought was a little dalliance with a pretty girl. Perhaps Lily was right and his arrangement with Paris was purely a business one. Whatever the case, she had been foolish ever to entertain the thought that she could trust him.

  “I do not think I understand you, my lord,” she said coldly. She got to her feet. Ben did not move. He was still watching her, a faint smile playing around his lips.

  “Oh, but you do understand me,” he said. “You have understood me from the very first, Catherine. You know what I want and I dare swear you want it, too.”

  The ground shifted like sand beneath Catherine’s feet. She felt trapped. She wanted to disabuse him at once and tell him who she really was. But for a debutante to visit a gaming hell meant ruin to her reputation. The repercussions for herself and for Maggie if the truth came out did not bear thinking about. She would be ruined and her father would hear of Maggie’s financial profligacy and banish her, and it would be intolerable, even more intolerable than matters already were in the Fenton household….

  Catherine swallowed hard. She had to keep her name a secret, so she was caught in a dangerous identity she did not want. The only thing that she could do was run away.

  She swept the bag of money up in one hand and was glad to see that for all the turmoil inside her, her hand was still steady.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” she said. “I must go. Truly I must.”

  It was no real answer but Ben did not challenge her, merely stood watching her with that look of speculative inquiry still in his eyes. Catherine knew that he was prepared to wait. That patience, that calculation, was what made him such a master player when she barely understood the game at all.

  “I will escort you to your coach,” he murmured. He took her arm and his grip seemed to brand her through the thin silk of the domino.

  “There is not need—”

  “I insist.”

  The room was a blur of color and dazzling light as they crossed to the door. Catherine was aware of nothing except his hand on her arm, the warmth and the strength of it. When they went out into the hallway and down the carpeted steps to the door, she shivered as the cold, foggy night air enveloped her.

  The hackney carriage had gone.

  Catherine stopped dead. For a moment she could not believe the evidence of her own eyes. Surely the servants had not simply driven off and left her? Had Maggie countermanded her orders to wait and told the driver to take them home? She ran down a couple of the steps, staring out into the night. No reassuring lights gleamed in the fog. She was quite alone.

  She turned back. Ben Hawksmoor was standing on the steps behind her, arms folded, one brow raised in amused inquiry.

  “Oh, dear,” Catherine said, inadequately.

  He laughed and turned to the doorman, who had been watching with ill-concealed interest. “Call my carriage, please,” he said. He smiled at Catherine. “I am most happy to offer my escort.”

  Catherine looked at him sharply. She knew she could not accept his offer. The panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach warned her that being in an enclosed space with him—a dark, enclosed space—would be beyond irresponsible and straying into recklessness.

  “You are most kind,” she said politely, “but I would hate to take you away from your evening’s engagements.”

  Ben shrugged. “There is nothing that cannot wait.”

  “But Lady Paris—”

  “Is well able to shift for herself. I am more concerned about you.”

  Catherine saw the club servant smile meaningfully.

  “I will take a hack,” she said and, turning to the doorman, “if you would be so good as to call one.”

  The doorman looked to Ben for confirmation, which made Catherine furious.

  “If the lady wishes,” Ben said with a whimsical smile.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said. “But I do not require your permission!”

  “Of course not.” Ben had stepped closer to her and in the coldness of the night he seemed to emanate a warmth that made her want to draw closer still. She folded her arms protectively about herself and kept quite still.

  “It would be safer to travel with me,” he added in an undertone.

  Catherine’s brows arched sarcastically. “Do you think so?”

  His lips twitched in a smile. “Nights like this bring out the most dangerous elements in society.”

  Catherine looked him up and down with pointed regard. “Indeed they do.”

  Ben sighed. “I am merely trying to point out that a woman traveling alone is at risk of attack.”

  Catherine looked at him. She knew he was right. There had been a spate of assaults in the street recently, people had been dragged from their carriages and robbed, and traveling alone was very foolhardy, particularly when she had a bag full of gold guineas in her pocket and carried no pistol with which to protect herself.

  “I appreciate your offer,” she said carefully, “but it is not one that I would be wise to accept.”

  Ben’s smile was devastating. “I understand your scruples, ma’am, but if you wish, I could promise to behave as a gentleman should.”

  “Could you?” Catherine said.

  Ben bowed. There was laughter in his eyes. “If that is your desire.” There was a dry note in his voice, as though he was already challenging her truthfulness. Catherine shivered and turned her face away from him, aware that her expression gave too much away. She knew that there was a part of her that did no
t wish him to behave with honor. There was a heat in her blood that reminded her of how tempting, how seductive, it had been to be held close in his arms. She knew exactly how dangerous he was and yet she was struggling against this perilous attraction.

  “I cannot trust you,” she said. “You trade on the very reputation that puts me in danger.”

  Ben inclined his head. “You will be quite safe. I assure you that no matter what they say of me, I am not so lost to propriety as to ravish any woman who crosses my path. Apart from anything else, it has never been necessary.”

  Catherine could not repress a slight smile. “I told you that you have a monstrously high opinion of yourself.”

  “That’s true.”

  He said nothing else to persuade her and Catherine sighed. Could she truly trust him? It was rash and imprudent of her in the extreme but she kept remembering the gentleness he had shown her at Newgate and thought that perhaps he would keep his word. Besides, what was the alternative? A knife in the throat, robbed, raped, beaten in the streets?

  “Well, then,” she said a little awkwardly, for all her attempts at town bronze, “I accept your offer with gratitude, Lord Hawksmoor.”

  The carriage came, all gleaming black panels and high-stepping horses. Catherine looked at it dubiously. The team was barely under the coachman’s control, shying at shadows.

  “Where to?” Ben asked, and Catherine realized with a shock of relief that he did not know her address. He might have recognized her behind her mask, but he still did not know her true identity. She had to keep it that way.

  “Millman Street, if you please,” she said hastily. It was only a step from her front door but it would help preserve the fiction.

  “I do not think the horses like the fog,” she added, as Ben helped her up into the precariously rocking carriage. “I hope they do not overturn us. Did you choose the team yourself, my lord?”

  “I did,” Ben said. He settled himself opposite her.

  “And the coach?” Catherine could see little of the interior but it felt decadently opulent. She sank so far into the seat cushions that it was like falling into a feather mattress.

  “That, too.”

  “They are both as I would have expected.”

  The coach set off with a sudden jerk, almost decanting Catherine into Ben’s lap. He helped her back onto the seat—and removed his hand from her arm immediately.

  “And what did you expect?” he asked.

  “They are very ostentatious.”

  “All display and no substance?” He seemed amused rather than offended at her candor.

  “Well…” Catherine had not intended to be quite so blunt. The carriage blinds were down and the darkness felt intimate. It emboldened her. It was odd, but she felt as though she could say anything she wanted to Ben Hawksmoor. She struggled against the impulse to be too open.

  “You wish to give the impression of wealth,” she said slowly, “and you do not do it discreetly.”

  “You think me flamboyant?”

  “I think you wish people to see you so,” Catherine said. “Whether it is true is another matter.”

  She saw him smile in the darkness. “Why should I do that?”

  Catherine thought of the penny prints and the newspapers and the silhouettes and the gossip and the scandal.

  “I assume you find it profitable, my lord.”

  “You are quite right. One must give the impression of wealth to generate more.”

  “But you are not showy in your personal attire.”

  Ben laughed. “You think that I dress well?”

  Catherine thought of what he looked like in the elegant evening clothes. “Tonight you dressed deliberately,” she said, “as a foil for Lady Paris.”

  “You see a great deal.”

  “It worked,” Catherine said.

  She felt a strange sensation of anger and it puzzled her. She could not quite understand the feeling, but it was part jealously and also something to do with the perfect counterfeit that he had created.

  All display and no substance…

  “You look well together,” she said colorlessly.

  Ben laughed. “Thank you.”

  Catherine remembered what Lily had told her. “Is that all a fiction also?”

  There was a pause before he replied. “Are you wishing to discuss my mistress with me?”

  The casual amusement in his voice caused Catherine to go hot with annoyance at her own gaucheness. “No,” she snapped. “I do not know why I asked.”

  “You asked because you wanted to know the answer,” Ben said. “You wanted to know if Paris really is my mistress.”

  The darkness was thick with tension. It caught at Catherine’s throat, silencing her. She could feel her heart slamming in hard strokes and the blood scalding her veins.

  “Didn’t you?” Ben said softly.

  “I…No! Not at all. It is none of my concern.” Catherine’s mind was a scramble of thoughts. How had she strayed onto such treacherous ground?

  “It could be your concern if you wished it to be,” Ben said.

  The silence burned between them. “I do not wish it.” Catherine’s voice was a little husky. “Do not ask this of me, my lord.”

  She heard Ben sigh in the darkness. “It seems you are determined to be proper, sweetheart. And though I promised to be the soul of propriety, I find myself wanting to change your mind about that. What could I do to persuade you? Kiss you again, as I did in Oxford Street the other day?”

  Catherine gulped. “But that was just for show, was it not, my lord, as everything is with you? All show and no substance?”

  There was a long pause as she realized that had probably been the most downright provocative thing she could possibly have said and cursed herself for her naivety.

  “I…I did not mean—” She stopped. “I did not intend…”

  “I know.” Ben’s voice was very quiet. “You do not flirt, do you, Catherine, despite what you said the first time we met.”

  “That was a mistake,” Catherine said, remembering her foolish impulse to thwart Algernon Withers.

  “Because of Withers?”

  “Amongst other things.”

  “Forget him.” Ben’s voice was hard now. “There is nothing but the two of us, Catherine, here and now.”

  Catherine’s breath caught as he leaned toward her and started to untie the ribbons of her masquerade mask. She could feel his fingers in her hair. The sensation held her still and silent for a moment. His hands were gentle, their touch so soft she could barely feel it and yet it seemed to send the blood singing through her body. She put up a hand to protest, but he caught it in one of his and returned it to her side. In the dim light she could see his expression was still and serious. It made her stomach flutter.

  The mask fell. Catherine made a grab for it but he whisked it from her.

  “Oh no! Someone might yet see me.”

  Ben’s fingers touched her cheek, turning her face to the faint light. “Do you then have a reputation left to lose, Catherine?” he said. “You surprise me.”

  Yes, she had a reputation to lose. She was shocked to realize that she had almost forgotten it herself.

  “I have to be careful,” Catherine said.

  “Because of Withers again,” Ben said, “I understand your situation—”

  “I doubt that,” Catherine said truthfully.

  “I understand what it is to be obliged to do something that makes you unhappy because you have no choice,” Ben said. There was a wealth of bitterness in his voice and it caught Catherine off guard. She turned her head to look at him. Some stray beam of light from the lanterns outside shimmered on an expression in his eyes that was so remote it made her want to reach out to him. It was like the moment at Newgate when she had looked into his face and seen all the anger and the pain there and had wanted to hold him and ease the hurt. Her foolish impulse to save people…

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  She heard him
swear quietly under his breath and then she was in his arms. His mouth touched hers softly at first, then with deliberate intent. It was Catherine’s first real kiss, so different from that brief embrace in the street and yet just as perilously seductive. The strangeness of the sensation was all she could think of for a moment. The feel of his lips on hers was unfamiliar and new but it was not in any way unpleasant. It felt warm and sweet and insistent. She instinctively eased a little closer.

  “Catherine…” Ben’s mouth left hers for a moment. His voice was ragged and when she heard it, Catherine’s mind caught up with her body and the shock exploded in her head. This was Ben Hawksmoor and he was kissing her. Her mind reeled at the mere thought of it, but then she forgot to think rationally, forgot everything as his tongue parted her lips and a deep pleasure coursed through her, all the more startling for its wild and wicked edge.

  Ben shifted slightly to draw her closer into his embrace. His tongue tangled with hers, she felt as though she were falling, and then she found herself lying on the soft cushions of the seat, pinned there by his body as the kiss became deeper and more intimate still. He held her there with his body against hers and kissed her for a long time while the carriage rumbled through the foggy streets and the sound of the wheels on the cobbles was lost in the sheer sensations that held her captive.

  When Ben finally released her, Catherine felt utterly adrift with no idea how much time had passed. She felt his weight on her ease, felt his lips brush the corner of her mouth and drift with a feather-light touch across her cheek, and then she was free; free, breathless and utterly lost.

  For a moment she lay still, shocked and bemused. Then the monotonous rolling of the wheels came back to echo in her head and she opened her eyes and looked up at Ben. There was a hard, heated expression on his face that half frightened, half excited her.

  “I promised,” he said roughly, “and I was within an ace of breaking my word. You would tempt a saint, Catherine, and I am nowhere near sainthood.”

  The carriage drew to a sudden and abrupt stop, and Ben pulled the curtain aside.