A lady’s heart is a tempting
plaything for the
DUKE OF SCANDAL
He stands apart from other men—a dark, tall,
breathtaking figure of seductive masculinity.
With a smile, he can topple the defenses
of even the most proper maiden.
And with a single whisper, she will be his.
A wife in name only, Lady Olivia Shea has returned to London in a rage, determined to confront her new husband, who vanished months ago with her inheritance on their wedding night. Yet this hauntingly familiar man who stands before her—this face and form she adores—is not her deceiving Edmund but the blackguard’s twin brother, Samson Carlisle, Duke of Durham. Samson knows of his sibling’s penchant for perfidy and he graciously offers to help the exquisite Olivia locate the missing rogue and recover her stolen fortune.
But Olivia fears that accompanying this mysterious, dangerous, eminently desirable man would be courting the most devastating sort of scandal—especially since it is now Samson’s arms she aches to feel surrounding her, and his kiss she longs to taste…
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Duke of Scandal
Adele Ashworth
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AVON BOOKS
An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
10 East 53rd Street
New York, New York 10022-5299
Copyright © 2006 by Adele Budnick
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-052841-6
ISBN-10: 0-06-052841-9
www.avonromance.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Avon Books paperback printing: May 2006
Printed in the U.S.A.
For Mom,
who understands my passion for perfume
and all things scented
Prologue
Paris, France
January 1860
The Lady Olivia Shea, now married for slightly more than twelve hours to Lord Edmund Carlisle, stood at one of the tall, teal-draped windows inside their elegant room at the Hotel de Grillon on the Place de la Concorde, watching the sun peek above the horizon as it slowly began to brighten the winter ice that bathed the Jardin des Tuileries to the east.
She remained motionless, each slow breath from her lips fogging the pane in a small, predictable circle of moisture, her body cold from standing barefoot on the wooden floor, her mind numbed to all but the feelings of hopeless abandonment and building rage.
Only last evening she and her new husband had arrived at the hotel for the beginning of their honeymoon retreat, the start of their new life together, or so she had thought. Blissfully happy, Olivia had dutifully changed into her bedding attire to await the consummation of their love and commitment, when Edmund had curiously remembered one final business errand to attend to before they left for Grasse on a month-long excursion—he needed additional funds for their trip. In the few hours that followed, while she waited for him to return, her earlier excitement and the natural trepidation felt by all virgins on their wedding night had come and gone. In its place she’d first experienced annoyance at his neglect, then panic, and lastly desperation when she started to evaluate all that had happened between them during the last three months—their chance meeting as two English aristocrats with so much in common while living among the very different French; their whirlwind romance where he acted the perfect, charming gentleman; his calculated courtship and desire for a quick wedding. Alas, sometime before the break of dawn the accepted the horrible, shattering conclusion that their entire relationship had been a sham and her new husband had taken her for a fool.
Why, Edmund? Why me? What did I do?
Olivia had yet to cry. Doing so seemed pointless, although she knew that soon she wouldn’t be able to hold back her anguish and tears would spill like a never-ending fountain that originated from the depths of her heart.
Edmund had left her not at the altar, but waiting for him in their marriage bed. With a smile and a lie, he had tucked her in between expensive, scented sheets, kissed her sweetly, and departed with no apparent concern or remorse. Such a despicable act, in her mind, proved to be the greatest deceit. After the trust and affection she’d shown him, his final farewell was the ultimate humiliation. She suspected now that all his clever scheming and manipulation to get married quickly was to gain access to her accounts as her husband, made so much more sense to her through a dark night entertained only by her thoughts and the coming light of a cold and frosty morning.
Now, as the rising sun awakened the city that stretched out before her in colorless, charcoal gray structures and an ever decreasing flicker of torchlight, a plan began to take form in her mind. It was certainly true that she had much to blame in herself, that she had allowed her inheritance to be easily seized, but she wasn’t as gullible as Edmund had clearly believed. She had resources, determination, skills he didn’t know she possessed. Most of all, though, she had a keen wit and the will to use it.
Then and there, still dressed in her gorgeous hand-stitched bridal nightgown of imported white silk and Indian lace, Olivia made her most important vow of the many she’d proclaimed before God that week.
She would find him. Yes, she decided, fisting her hands tightly at her sides. She would find him, get her fortune returned to her somehow, and have their mockery of a marriage annulled. Then she would ruin him.
It might take some time, but she would find him.
I’m coming for you, Edmund, and you will pay.
Chapter 1
London, England
Late March 1860
It had been four long months since he’d been with a woman; probably a year since he’d touched a woman whose name he remembered. Tonight, though, he intended to seek out companionship regardless of the circumstance. He needed a toss between the sheets as he hadn’t needed one in ages. Unfortunately, the circumstance to overcome was his very small selection of gently bred ladies flirting with discretion, snickering with intimidation, and prancing before him in a rainbow of richly colored gowns as they celebrated his distant cousin Beatrice’s coming out. A typical party he felt obligated to attend, one of the Season’s first, and not a great feminine offering for his trouble, to be sure.
The utter absence of female attention in his life of late was indeed a pathetic record, especially for him—Samson Carlisle, the most distinguished, roguish, scandalous fourth Duke of Durham. Or so he’d been told. What would his fellow noble rakes think if they knew of his recent lack of preoccupation with the gentle sex? He had his infamous reputation to uphold. Of course, nobody really knew him as they thought they did. Not even his closest friends. Yet he needed it to be that way.
Standing against a tall marble pillar of swirling bro
nze and gold, on the opposite side of the room of the elegant grand staircase, Sam steadily sipped a rather sour whiskey as he eyed the debacle on the dance floor before him. From his vantage point he could see most of the ballroom while still remaining relatively unobtrusive. He hated parties. He despised anything that drew attention to him, really, and nearly always being the highest ranking individual at any social function, not to mention one of the wealthiest, he tended to be the one person toward whom most people chose to gravitate. Sometimes it was obvious, sometimes not. Gentlemen wanted to discuss business propositions, young innocents giggled and begged for his interest with their eyes, married ladies flirted coyly, sometimes shrewdly offering their own invitations, which he refused, every one. The greatest lesson he’d learned in his thirty-four years was to never, under any circumstance, trust a married woman. Such faith in hidden, experienced charms would ultimately ruin a man. As it had nearly ruined him.
Groaning within, Sam had to wonder why his mind always wandered to his past at times like this. Considering lifelong struggles he couldn’t change did nothing but agitate his mind and body, on many levels. And an obvious agitation at a carefree event such as this wouldn’t help him seduce a woman, which was ultimately his only goal for tonight. He swiftly needed a change of attitude or he’d be riding home alone.
“Alone again, eh?”
That wry comment, echoing his thoughts, came from Colin Ramsey, his longtime friend, occasional competitor where women were concerned, and the only man at the party who fairly equaled him in rank. Aside from that, there were no two men more opposite in every regard in all of England.
“And you’re not, I’ve noticed,” Sam replied snidely without looking at him. “I think you’ve been with every lady here tonight.”
Colin chuckled. “I’m certain you mean only on the dance floor?”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally. Then yes, I’ve danced with nearly every lady here tonight.” He grunted. “My feet hurt.”
“Try soaking them,” Sam muttered.
“Ah,” Colin remarked immediately. “That’s what you do after a long night of waltzing?”
Sam fought the urge to snort. “Yes, that’s what I do after a long night of waltzing.”
Colin laughed again, glancing over his surroundings as he lifted his hand to take another full swallow of his drink. “You waltzing. On a frosty day in Hades,” he added over the rim of his tumbler.
Sam ignored that and sipped his whiskey, noting how Lady Swan’s daughter, Edna, didn’t look at all like a beautiful, elegant bird, especially in the low-cut chiffon gown of pastel pink that exposed her thick neck. Then again, Edna, who stole glances in his direction and smiled prettily at him as she twirled with Lord Somebody-or-Other, wasn’t all that unattractive. Sometimes in the future he might consider her a prospective wife, for she came from a good line, had a satisfactory face, and the general good health and roundness of hips to bear children easily. Producing an heir was really all his duty required, anyway. But in the last analysis, standard Englishwomen were one and the same to him, a blur of dainty expression, fair skin, and brown hair, and most of them bored him. He supposed at some point soon he would have to choose somebody to be his duchess, before he died of one malady or another and his wealth and assets became his brother’s. He would marry an angel of death before he allowed that to happen. But probably not sweet, rather ordinary Edna, and not anytime soon.
“She fancies you, you know,” Colin said, interrupting his thoughts.
Sam looked down at his friend, who stood only an inch or two shorter than his own extraordinary six feet three inches. Colin, who dressed only in expensive finery—tonight black and white silk—continued to gaze out across the dance floor, appearing totally at ease, as he always did under the scrutiny of the ton’s roving eye. Sam almost voiced his disgust, for as long as he could remember he’d felt a certain mix of jealousy and admiration for Colin’s easy charm, his confident, relaxed nature and intuition where ladies were concerned. In comparison, he had never had an easy moment with a woman in his life.
“She fancies my money,” he corrected.
“An obstacle of which you should be deeply proud,” Colin retorted.
He said nothing to that.
“Yet you don’t fancy her in the least I suppose,” his friend added.
“Not in the least.”
Colin took another drink from his glass. “I know her family has you on their short list of eligibles and she’s got a handsome dowry—”
“What are you, her mother’s bloody matchmaker?” He tipped his head in Edna Swan’s direction. “You’re not married; you court her.”
“I don’t need her dowry, either,” Colin replied nonchalantly.
Again, Sam had no comment, nor did his friend expect a rebuttal. They’d been bantering back and forth about nothing whatsoever for years, which Sam found appealing in their friendship.
“Holy God, did you see that?”
Sam started, surprised by Colin’s exclamation of shock. He gazed to his friend again to find the man staring across the ballroom toward the grand staircase, a landing just above the crowd designed to expose ladies in finery and mothers on the outlook.
“See what?” he asked, annoyed.
Colin grinned crookedly. “An angel in brilliant gold.”
Sam focused on the stairs of marble, noticing only two ordinary girls in pink as they stepped onto the dance floor and into a whirl of pastel skirts. Nothing as unfashionable as gold. Or was gold in fashion these days? “I take it you saw a lady you want to marry?”
“Yes.”
Such a blunt affirmation made him blink. His brows rose as he repeated, “Yes? You do know, don’t you, that the word marriage implies a lifetime commitment, something you’ve thus far been loath to sample.”
Colin ignored that fact completely, still mesmerized by the now-missing woman of his momentary blinding infatuation. “She’s magnificent, but I lost her after she descended the staircase.”
Sam grunted in satisfaction. “Pity. You’ll likely never see her again.”
Colin laughed. “Oh, I intend to see her again. It’s only proper that we be introduced before the wedding, don’t you think?”
It was, apparently a rhetorical question on his part, as Colin handed his empty tumbler to a nearby footman and walked away, quickly disappearing into the crowd.
“She’s probably already married,” Sam mumbled to himself, an affirmation of sorts that made him feel better. The most beautiful women, the most desirable women both in and out of bed, were always married. That judgment, over the years, had marred him. And on occasion saved him.
A pity indeed.
“Your grace?”
Sam turned his attention to his right to note with a trace of irritation that the Lady Ramona Greenfield had planted her statuesque figure beside him, a smile of genuine pleasure crossing her wide, thin lips.
“Lady Ramona, how are you this evening?” he asked appropriately, trying to keep a marked hesitation from his voice. There could only be one reason she’d sought him out this night.
“Your grace,” she repeated, curtsying once as he took her hand and raised it to his lips, “I have some interesting news for you.”
Sam sighed. The woman positively lived for matchmaking. “News?” was all he offered in response.
“More like an unusual opportunity, I suppose.” She patted down stray, graying hair on the side of her head in feigned hesitation. “An introduction, more precisely, if I may be so bold. Although I must say this introduction may be a bit… unconventional.”
The word “unconventional” made him frown fractionally. He had assumed such intrusion by Lady Ramona was in no doubt regarding Miss Edna Swan, and yet he couldn’t imagine the shy, unassuming girl asking Lady Ramona to arrange an introduction. “Please go on,” was all he could think of to say, his interest scratched.
The woman shifted from one foot to the other, gently pulling at the lace handker
chief wrapped loosely through her fingers. “Well, your grace, it seems there is a…” She leaned toward him and fairly mouthed, “Frenchwoman—who would like to make your acquaintance.”
His body went perfectly still. For a second Sam felt his gut clench, his hand tighten around his tumbler of its own accord.
A Frenchwoman. How utterly uncanny considering his past—and beyond his patience, his time. There was nobody else on earth he would refuse with more gratification.
Giving Lady Ramona what he thought was his most charming smile, he replied with a slight nod, “I must thank you for the opportunity, but I don’t think an introduction at this time would be appropriate, madam.”
Such a response was rude; he knew that the moment her lips parted in a trifle gasp. And yet in his position she’d never question it, or repeat it in better circles.
But to his surprise, Lady Ramona didn’t budge. Her face grew pink with discomfort and she fidgeted in her stays, but she remained determined in stance.
“Begging your pardon, your grace,” she said, her voice lowered as she leaned toward him, “but this Frenchwoman is… different. She’s quite insistent, and she is of exceptional quality, if I may say so.”
He supposed at this point she had to say so. But such a description piqued his interest, as she knew it would. His brows rose. “Indeed.”
Lady Ramona stood back again, smiling with satisfaction, relishing in the effect of her persuasion. “Yes, your grace. She asked for you by name.”
Now that ensured an introduction. Sam changed his mind suddenly, deciding that meeting a Frenchwoman of “exceptional quality”—whatever that meant—would at the very least be an enticing addition to what had so far been a rather banal party.
After handing his half-empty tumbler to a passing footman, he smiled wryly and gave the lady a slight bow. “Then it would be my pleasure to meet her and be formally introduced.”
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