Duke of Scandal

by Adele Ashworth

  Olivia smiled as her eyes fell on Ives-Francois Marcotte, Brigitte’s late mother’s father, the patriarch of the Govance estate and fortune, and the only surviving member of the family outside of Brigitte’s father, who lived in Belgium with his second wife and their children.

  He spotted her at once as she began to walk toward him, his eyes lighting up with his grin as he moved away from the cold grate, from his conversation with a gentleman she didn’t know, to meet her halfway.

  “Grand-père Marcotte,” she said with genuine warmth, reaching up on her toes to kiss his cheeks. “How good it is to see you.”

  “Ah, Olivia,” he remarked, grasping her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length to view her up and down. “You look just like your mother did twenty-five years ago, and just as beautiful.”

  “You look wonderful, too, and just as handsome as ever.” And he did, she thought, considering he had to be nearing the age of seventy-five or so, his hair still thick but now totally white, his brilliant blue eyes exuding intelligence and rigorous health.

  He grinned, shaking his head. “I’m an old man, but I suppose my daily walks through the hills keep me breathing and content.”

  “As does good wine?” she hinted with a sly curve of her lips.

  Chuckling, he replied, “But of course. One should never live life without good wine.”

  She gently patted his hand, which still rested on her shoulder. “Then I have no doubt that you’ll be living and breathing for another thirty years.”

  “God willing, dear child, God willing.” He dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m sure you know most of the guests here. Tonight is just a small gathering to introduce Monsieur Carlisle to friends, but tomorrow is the ball, as I assume Brigitte told you. She was quite happily surprised to see you after all these years, so I do hope you intend to come for that as well.”

  Olivia had to wonder if Brigitte also mentioned that she’d been very well acquainted with his granddaughter’s betrothed, or that she was now married, but decided not to remark on either for now. “I wouldn’t miss it, Grand-père Marcotte.” She glanced around the room. “And where is Brigitte?”

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his charcoal gray evening jacket. “Oh, I think she is still dressing; you know how ladies are.”

  She laughed lightly, nodding once. “Indeed I do.”

  “But Monsieur Carlisle is here… somewhere.” He looked around the room as well. “Brigitte says you’ve met him?”

  It was a question, not a statement, and she felt compelled to simply play along with the answer she’d practiced. “Yes, of course. He’s well acquainted with my aunt Claudette.”

  His thick white brows lifted with apparent surprise. “He didn’t mention the Comtesse Renier, but I suppose that makes sense, especially since he knows you from his travels in Paris.”

  “I’m sure that’s how they became acquainted.”

  “And how is Nivan faring?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  She lightly shrugged, thankful for the change in subject. “We’re doing very well, I suppose. Thank goodness for Normand and his keen sense for business. He’s helped us keep the important patronage of many of the elites, including the Empress Eugenie.”

  “Ah, very good, very good.” He leaned over, his aged eyes sparkling. “She’s such a fastidious lady when it comes to fragrance, isn’t she? But of course you never heard that from me.”

  Olivia laughed good-naturedly. “Never!”

  He pulled back a little, catching the eye of someone over her shoulder. “I should socialize, my dear. But please, Olivia, while you’re in Grasse, step over to the shop and sample some of our newest collections from Asia. I’d certainly like your opinion.”

  Or to sell me some, she thought with a grin. “I’ve already done that, Grand-père Marcotte, and I’ve decided to sample some things to be sent to Nivan later in the year, as the Season warrants.”

  “Wonderful,” he replied, quite pleased. He took her gloved hands in his and held them gently. “It’s so good to see you, Olivia. Enjoy the party, won’t you?”

  More than you could ever possibly know. “I’m sure I shall.”

  “Good.”

  And with that, he released her hands, patted her cheek, and took his leave.

  Standing alone near the fireplace by the south wall, Olivia turned to face the center of the drawing room, searching for her first glimpse of Edmund, admitting to herself that although she felt more than ready to see him again, she’d never been more nervous in her life. She noticed several people whom she knew by name or reputation, and after exchanging pleasantries with two ladies who purchased perfume in Grasse for their local Paris boutique, she made her way toward the opposite end of the room, by the doorway that led to the adjoining dining hall, standing next to a walnut carved buffet de chasse, which put her in a far better position to view both entrances at once.

  Too wound up to eat, she instead chose one of a dozen filled champagne flutes sitting on the marble buffet top, taking three or four quick swallows to help keep her anxiety in check. Although Sam had agreed to their so-called plan of attack, she realized he still had misgivings about allowing her to attend alone tonight. He hadn’t said as much, but she knew his facial expressions well now, witnessed his reluctance in the tightened planes of his face, in a gaze that sharply focused on her as she left him standing in front of the hotel on her quest to meet Edmund before he did. Even now at the party, attempting to concentrate on the coming moment she’d envisioned for months, she couldn’t keep her mind off the brother who distracted her with a look, a kiss, a touch, couldn’t quite push from her mind the memory of the way he’d made her body respond that night in her kitchen, a momentous event that had been terribly inappropriate on his part, horribly immoral on hers, and totally, inexplicably… heaven.

  Sam. Sam. Sam…

  Abruptly, she stood erect, heart racing, her keen eyes suddenly focusing on the subject of her anger and all her sorrowful regrets. From the dining hall doorway she spotted the snake of her mission, standing as tall and stately as ever in all his handsome glory, gazing down to a beaming Brigitte whose ten manicured fingers curled around his elbow as she clung tightly to his arm.

  Olivia’s mouth went dry as she backed up a step or two, nestling herself between the buffet and a large lady with wide hoops, taking a few seconds to catch her breath and observe the cad before he noticed her.

  Tonight he wore an evening suit in rich navy, a sky blue waistcoat and white silk shirt, and navy and white striped cravat. He’d kept his hair the length she remembered, but he’d trimmed it behind the ears and combed it back off his face, as Sam did.

  It occurred to her that although the two men were physically identical, Sam had a far more overbearing presence than did his younger brother, possibly due to being raised by birth order expectations, but more likely out of different personality traits. Sam always looked staggeringly handsome and aloof; Edmund always looked jovial and… sly. Sly and happy, she supposed, exactly as he appeared now, smiling down to his betrothed.

  Brigitte gazed up to his face lovingly as applause and conversation broke out among the party guests by their arrival together. The bride-to-be seemed radiant, and obviously not at all worried about who might be in attendance to ruin the evening. Edmund, too, seemed positively free of concern, which either meant Brigitte had kept her word about not telling him of their meeting at tea, or he simply didn’t care, so sure of his lady’s devotion and his own plan of attack.

  Brigitte’s grand-père made a quick introduction, offered a toast of good wishes, then the couple began mingling as party guests turned back to their smaller groups of laughter and discussion, sampling champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Olivia scrutinized the two of them from her position in the corner, noting how Brigitte had chosen to wear an evening gown of sky-blue satin and white lace flounces to harmonize with Edmund’s attire. She carried herself with ease in medium-wide hoops, her hair parted in the middle with two
long, blond plaits wrapped up in circles around her ears. She wore little jewelry and no cosmetics that Olivia could see, and yet she looked rather beautiful, even glowing, no doubt due to the excitement of the evening and her wedding to come.

  For a second or two Olivia felt a tinge of guilt at her desire to intrude on such an eventful occasion—until she reminded herself why she’d come in the first place, and how much this man had hurt her and intended to dupe Brigitte in exactly the same manner. With such resolution deeply set, she decided it was time to approach the happy couple and offer her congratulations.

  Gathering every bit of strength and wisdom she possessed, she placed what remained of her drink on the walnut sideboard to her right, then lifted her skirts and walked with confidence toward Edmund, who now stood in the center of the drawing room, champagne in hand.

  Brigitte noticed her first, looking her up and down, her expression overflowing with assessment. Then she pulled at Edmund’s sleeve until he turned away from his discussion with two older gentlemen and leaned over so she could whisper in his ear. Suddenly, his head popped up and he cast his eyes upon her for the first time.

  It was, indeed, a priceless moment. Edmund’s typical, calculated smile vanished, his face physically paled, as he gazed upon her striding nonchalantly in his direction. And the only thing running through her mind at the moment was that she wished—oh, how she wished!—Sam was here to see this.

  With a smile of pure, untempered satisfaction, she walked up to them, her reticule and fan in her left hand as she held out the other for Brigitte to take.

  “Dearest, Brigitte, you look positively radiant tonight,” she said brightly as she leaned in to lightly kiss her cheeks. Then she stood back and placed her attention on Edmund the Snake.

  Brigitte was the first to speak. “Darling, you remember the Lady Olivia Shea, from the House of Nivan.”

  Edmund blinked as if momentarily confounded, eyeing her from head to foot, clearly trying to come to terms with the fact that she actually stood in front of him, composed, polite, and inviting him to react first. She reached out with her hand, palm down, offering him her knuckles.

  “Good evening, Monsieur Carlisle,” she said, greeting him amiably with an innocent smile.

  At last he recovered himself, realizing, she supposed, that he’d do well to acknowledge her and that she wasn’t going to immediately embarrass him or start a rant.

  “Of course. Lady Olivia.” He cleared his throat as he grasped her fingers and raised her knuckles to his lips. “You look… well.”

  His hand felt cold and clammy, his panic certainly making him sweat. She grinned, prizing this moment of awkwardness for him. “It’s lovely to see you again, and under such… incredible circumstances.”

  His smile flattened as his brows furrowed minutely. “Indeed. I had no idea that you were acquainted with the Marcottes, or the House of Govance.”

  Lying snake. “Well, how marvelous for all of us, non?” She opened her fan and began swishing it lightly in front of her. “Of course you know that my aunt Claudette has family in Grasse, though it’s true I haven’t been here personally in years. How fortunate that I’m able to attend this occasion in celebration of your upcoming marriage.”

  Watching her suspiciously, a pert little smile still smugly displayed on her mouth, Brigitte asked rather boldly, “And where is your husband, Olivia? I thought he was going to join you tonight.”

  Timed perfectly, such a shocking revelation couldn’t have stunned Edmund more. His body jerked back a fraction as his face began to redden.

  Without allowing him the ability to chime in, she returned without pause, “I’m afraid he’s feeling a bit under the weather today, though he does send his best.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Brigitte replied with only a trace of feeling, rubbing her palm up and down Edmund’s sleeve.

  She sighed. “Yes, well, you know, it’s been so hot here.”

  Brigitte shook her head. “Oh, unusually so.”

  “And of course, being from England, he’s not used to so much constant sunshine.”

  “True,” the younger woman agreed with slightly furrowed brows. “I don’t think it’s rained in a week or more.”

  She carried on with the pleasantries. “Not since we’ve been here, I’m afraid.”

  Edmund’s eyes had narrowed noticeably as they bored into hers. “You’ve married,” he stated bluntly.

  He sounded positively ridiculous to her, as if he were digesting the information with infinite slowness. “Yes,” she answered simply, directing her attention to him.

  “And to an Englishman, darling, just like you,” Brigitte added, gently squeezing his arm, which she had yet to release.

  “Yes, come to think of it, he is rather like you, monsieur,” she thoroughly enjoyed repeating, tilting her head as she scrutinized him from head to foot. “Though I do think he’s taller, if only by a quarter of an inch or so.”

  “But he couldn’t possibly be as handsome,” Brigitte fairly purred, gazing up to his face.

  Edmund smiled down at his betrothed—a particularly false smile, in her opinion, but then he had to be fuming right now, his mind racing with comments and questions he couldn’t possibly ask. Olivia didn’t think she could savor the moment more.

  “Oh, but of course I think he’s just as handsome,” she countered, drawing her view back to Brigitte as she closed her fan again, holding it in front of her with both hands. “But then isn’t that what all wives think of their own husbands?”

  “Oh, oui,” Brigitte concurred.

  “So I suppose you and your husband are staying at the Maison de la Fleur?” Edmund asked, his tone cool, assessing.

  “Oh, naturally,” she replied with an innocent flair, deciding he’d find out if he wanted to, regardless of whether she told him. “We believe it’s the nicest place in Grasse, and I didn’t want to intrude on extended family when we arrived without notice.”

  “Naturally,” he repeated, studying her intently. Then, with a sly lift of his lips, he asked, “Since he’s from England, perhaps I know him. What, may I ask, is his name?”

  Olivia scolded herself for not previously considering that he might inquire about the man, even if it was a stupid question, considering he hadn’t been to his native country in years and couldn’t possibly know even a fraction of the population. But more to the point, if she mentioned Sam’s name, Edmund would come to them tonight, at the hotel, and confront them there, which she absolutely did not want to happen when they weren’t prepared for it. No, she wanted full revelation tomorrow night, at the ball, for all to witness.

  Without a second thought she murmured, “His name is John. John Andrews. He’s a banker from London.”

  His brows rose minutely as he scrutinized every inch of her, searching for hidden lies. “A banker?” he replied.

  She beamed, thoroughly proud of herself for her ingenuity. “Yes, actually. He’s helping me sort through my finances.”

  She could have sworn Edmund snorted.

  Brigitte gaped at her. “Nivan is having financial difficulties?” she asked, her first question of genuine interest.

  She scoffed, waving her hand in dismissal. “Oh, no, no, of course not. Our sales have been most appropriate for the year so far.” She shot a quick glance at Edmund then looked back to Brigitte. “No, really, Monsieur Andrews has just been a gem in helping me restructure my personal inheritance. It seems,” she added through a snicker, dropping her voice, “that by examination of the paperwork, I’ve apparently… lost some of it.”

  “Oh, I see,” Brigitte murmured seconds later, her voice growing distant.

  Edmund, body taut, face expressionless except for his flaring nostrils, looked as if he were ready to jump out of his skin. Or lunge for her throat. His innocent bride-to-be seemed completely oblivious to his posture of fury, though she now frowned, probably realizing that by touching on the subject of inheritances, Olivia risked exposing her belief that Edmund was after the Go
vance fortune through marriage. Although thrilled with her performance thus far, Olivia wasn’t ready for a clash of wills, or a rush of tears.

  Quickly, she brushed it all aside with a shake of her head and a light shrug. “I suppose keeping track of one’s fortune just shouldn’t be placed in the hands of ladies. Or at least that’s what my husband says.”

  Edmund had no reply to that, but his face had hardened to stone; Brigitte simply nodded.

  “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep you two any longer,” she said breezily, glancing around the room. “Goodness, so many people are here to celebrate and I’m taking all of your time.” She looked back at them, smiling. “Perhaps we’ll get a chance to chat later.”

  Brigitte brightened with obvious relief. “Yes, I suppose we should mingle, shouldn’t we, darling?”

  At that perfect moment, two older ladies Olivia didn’t personally know interrupted the three of them with hugs and good wishes, and she backed up a step to allow them space.

  With a final, meaningful look into Edmund’s cold eyes, Olivia turned her back to him and walked toward the buffet table for another glass of champagne, this one sorely needed as she shivered within and her hands began to shake.

  Her next responsibility would be to quickly take her leave, to make her excuses and head back to the safety of Sam’s strong arms and the solid walls of the Maison de la Fleur. She felt exposed here, certain Edmund would keep a sharp eye on her, perhaps confront her if given opportunity, though she couldn’t think of a reason he could draw upon to leave Brigitte’s side for any length of time to speak to her privately.

  Reaching for a flute of champagne from the buffet, her mind a whirl, nerves raw, she had no warning that he was upon her until he abruptly clutched her arm with enough strength and motion to splatter a measure of the pale liquid down the skirt of her evening gown and onto the plush floral carpeting at her feet.