Scandalous

by Karen Robards

  She squared her shoulders, and glanced at Trent.

  “There is no need,” Trent said, stepping forward and extending his hand to Wickham. The rapacious smile was gone now, and so, too, was the predatory gaze. Trent was simply a gaunt old man, elegantly dressed and bearing himself in a way that spoke of rank and wealth, but giving no indication that he was in any way a threat. Compared to Wickham, whose tall, powerful form exuded vigor, he looked weak indeed, and almost shrunken. “I am Trent, an old—very old—friend of your father’s.”

  Wickham shook hands, but kept Gabby’s hand tucked in his elbow as he regarded the visitor unsmilingly. “I had very little acquaintance with my father, I’m afraid.”

  Trent gave a small smile. “I am aware. You should know that for most of our lives your father and I were practically—bosom friends.”

  Gabby’s hand tightened involuntarily on Wickham’s arm. Wickham glanced down at her, and his brows knit.

  “His grace was just leaving,” she said in a high, clear voice that did not sound much like her own. Nevertheless, her gaze was steady as it met the Duke’s. He could do her no harm now, and so she meant him to know she realized.

  “I am indeed,” he said, and smiled again. “Au revoir, Gabby. Your servant, Wickham.”

  Then he made them an elegant leg, and left.

  As the sound of his footsteps died away, Gabby let go of Wickham’s arm, crossed to the sofa, and sat down. She had no choice. Her legs threatened to buckle under her at any moment.

  Try though she might to reason it away, she could not rid herself of this most hideous of longstanding fears.

  Wickham followed her, and stood with his arms folded over his chest, looking thoughtfully down at her. Still engaged in willing her body to function properly, Gabby nevertheless registered, as she glanced up, that he was fully dressed in gleaming tasseled Hessians, biscuit-colored breeches that clung to the powerful muscles of his thighs, and an elegant coat of blue superfine tailored to showcase his build.

  “What are you doing downstairs?” she managed, pleased to discover that her voice sounded almost normal now.

  “Want to tell me why that man frightens the life out of you?” he asked, brushing aside her question as the non sequitur it was.

  Gabby took another deep, calming breath. Relieved of Trent’s presence, she was feeling better and slightly ashamed of herself for reacting so intensely. After all, now that her father was gone she had only to bid Trent to leave.

  “What makes you think he frightens the life out of me?”

  Wickham made a derisive sound. “To begin with, when I walked into this room, for the first time in our acquaintance you actually looked glad to see me.”

  Gabby’s gaze met his. “For the first time in our acquaintance, I was glad to see you,” she admitted.

  His mouth crooked into an ironic half smile as he considered her. “Keep flattering me like that, and I might just get a swelled head.”

  Gabby laughed, and suddenly felt almost fully recovered. Trent was a part of the ugly past, and she meant to keep him there. He could only trouble her if she permitted him to. It was foolish to react to him as if she were a helpless child again.

  “What brought you into the drawing room at such an opportune moment?” she asked on a lighter note.

  “Stivers sent me to your rescue. He was standing in the middle of the hall practically wringing his hands when I came downstairs. When he saw me, he all but begged me to join you in the drawing room. Naturally I did, if only to discover why.”

  She smiled at him with real gratitude. “Thank you.”

  “Now are you going to tell me why an old friend of your father’s frightens you so?”

  Before Gabby could vouchsafe any answer, Stivers appeared in the doorway, announcing his arrival with a discreet cough.

  “Your curricle is at the door, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Stivers.” Wickham glanced down at Gabby, then spoke to Stivers again before he could withdraw. “Have Lady Gabriella’s outdoor things brought as well.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Stivers bowed himself out as Gabby looked up at Wickham in surprise.

  “From the looks of you, you need fresh air even more than I do, my girl,” he said, before she could speak. “I’ll take you driving in Hyde Park, where you may preen yourself and wave condescendingly at all your acquaintances, while I demonstrate to all and sundry that I am still among the living.”

  Gabby smiled, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, but shook her head at him.

  “Wait a minute. You’re not even supposed to be downstairs yet, much less driving a curricle. You’re recovering from a bullet wound, remember?”

  “Which is why I’m driving, not riding. I’m not fully recovered yet, but I’m getting there. Believe me, getting out of this house will help. If I don’t, I may just run mad.”

  “Your things, my lord, Miss Gabby.” Stivers appeared again then. A few minutes later, having tied her bonnet under her chin, permitted Francis the footman to help her on with her pelisse, and drawn on her gloves, she stepped out into a sunny spring afternoon with nary a cloud in the sky. The air was crisp and fresh; the scent of growing things perfumed it. Taking a deep breath, she was suddenly very glad to be outdoors. Smiling at some nonsense of Wickham’s, she walked with automatic care down the steps.

  A gleaming black curricle drawn by a magnificent pair of matched grays waited at the curb. Jem was at their heads, stroking the nearside animal’s muzzle, murmuring to it as its ears twitched back and forth in response. His eyes widened as he saw her, then narrowed as he looked beyond her to find Wickham.

  “Hello, Jem.” Despite feeling absurdly guilty under her servant’s condemning look, Gabby assumed an air of nonchalance. His answering scowl was not unexpected, and was due, Gabby knew, to the presence of the man at her elbow.

  “Miss Gabby.” Jem’s scowl deepened as, with Wickham’s help, she stepped into the curricle without further ado. Wickham came up behind her, and took up the reins.

  “Stand away from their heads,” he directed Jem, taking his whip in hand. Still scowling, Jem did as he was told, then, as the grays plunged forward at Wickham’s behest, scrambled to get up behind.

  “We won’t need you,” Wickham called over his shoulder, and then they were away, with Jem, arms akimbo, left to stand nohow in the street, glaring after them.

  “Your groom doesn’t approve of me,” Wickham said with a flickering smile.

  He drove well, Gabby noted with approval, maneuvering the vehicle dexterously between an overloaded wagon and a lumbering barouche. The grays were proper high-bred ’uns, playfully skittish and requiring a firm hand.

  Gabby laughed. “Do you find that surprising? I don’t approve of you. And tell me, if you please, just how you coaxed him into doting on your horses, when he looks at me as if I’m fraternizing with the enemy just because I am going driving in your company?”

  Wickham glanced at her and shrugged. “What can I say? He likes horses more than he dislikes me. Barnet informs me that he has watched over them like a mother over twin babes ever since they arrived from Tattersall’s.”

  “They are newly purchased, of course. And the curricle as well.” She looked at him with a gathering frown as she was reminded afresh of what a rogue he was. “You are shockingly free with other people’s money, it seems.”

  His good humor remained unfazed. “No more than you, my girl. Oh, yes, I’m quite aware of the size of your expenditures, believe me. Challow is very good about keeping me informed. And the money you’re spending does not rightfully belong to you anymore than it does to me.”

  This was so true that Gabby could do nothing but bite her lip, and look away. So Challow kept him abreast of her expenditures, did he? Annoyance stirred, until Gabby realized that of course Challow thought, as did everyone else, that he was dealing with the true earl of Wickham. If the reprobate beside her had indeed been Marcus, she would have been quite happy for him to know to the shill
ing how much she spent.

  The curricle was rattling briskly through Mayfair, and the gates to Hyde Park were in sight. A pleasant breeze stirred the peacock-blue feather that adorned her bonnet, causing it to tickle her cheek. Absentmindedly she pushed it back, brushing at her cheek with her gloved hand.

  “The result, however, is certainly worth the expense,” he added, watching her efforts with a half smile. “That bonnet becomes you charmingly.”

  The glance she gave him was both startled and a little shy. Whatever she had expected from him, it was not easy—too easy?—compliments.

  “You are trying to turn me up sweet,” she said, rallying. “With some fell purpose in mind, I have no doubt.”

  His smile faded at that. “I’ll make a bargain with you,” he began, but Gabby, eyes widening, turned on him a look of such dismay that he stopped short.

  “Oh, no, never that,” she said involuntarily, shaking her head. Then, realizing to what extent she had allowed her bone-deep embarrassment to show and trying, too late she feared, to make light of the matter, she attempted a smile even as she dropped her gaze to her clasped hands.

  But with the best will in the world she could not stop herself from blushing to her hairline as his words—inadvertent ones, she felt sure—brought the excruciating details of the previous night’s rendezvous in his bedroom crowding into the forefront of her mind. She had not forgotten it, precisely. Indeed, until Trent appeared on the scene she had not thought it was possible that anything could drive it from her thoughts. But Trent’s arrival had done just that, and the subsequent upset of her emotions had allowed her to regard Wickham primarily in the light of a friend and protector. Now she was reminded of how she had sat on his lap, and kissed him; of how it had come about that she knew that his crookedly smiling mouth tasted of brandy and cigars, and was scalding hot on the inside; of how she had learned that he could render her as shameless as any harlot, shameless enough to permit him to bare and suckle at her breast. . . .

  “If you turn any redder, your hair will catch fire.” This drawled observation brought her gaze flying up to his.

  “I—you . . .” For once her poise deserted her, and her tongue became hopelessly tangled as she sought for something innocuous to say. As his gaze held hers, she felt mortification so intense that it curled her toes.

  27

  “Don’t be a fool, Gabriella.” His voice was crisp. “And you are a fool if you’re blushing for shame. There was nothing in what we did to cause you embarrassment. It was only a kiss, when all is said and done.”

  But she couldn’t seem to help herself. Although she steeled herself against it, the image of his black head as it had looked nuzzling at her breast was suddenly all she could see. Remembering, Gabby felt a wave of heat so intense that it really did feel as though she would catch fire. She pressed her gloved hands to her cheeks, and closed her eyes.

  “Could we please not talk about this?” she asked in a strangled voice.

  He chuckled, and at the sound she opened her eyes to glare at him.

  “Far be it from me to embarrass a lady. But kissing is perfectly normal, you know. And it’s also a lot of fun.”

  “Fun!” The exclamation came out before Gabby could stop it.

  His gaze quizzed her wickedly. “If you didn’t think so, I’ll have to work on my technique. Come, Gabriella, confess: you liked kissing me. You liked me kissing your . . .”

  “If you say another word I’ll jump out of this curricle, I swear I will.” Gabby gripped the side of the vehicle with one hand and looked daggers at him.

  “All right, I won’t,” he said, unexpectedly obliging. Gabby wondered at it, until she saw that they were at the entrance to the park. She guessed that he wanted to give her a chance to compose herself before they could encounter anyone they knew. Glancing away from him out over the expanse of green as they turned in through the gates, she hoped that the sweet-scented breeze would be sufficient to cool her cheeks in time.

  “You’re no more than charmingly rosy now,” he observed encouragingly.

  Gabby cast him a darkling glance. “Don’t tease.”

  He laughed.

  There were a number of other vehicles in the park, including several phaetons and a scattering of gigs. Riders on horseback were abroad as well, cantering along the paths at the side of the road. Wickham touched his hat from time to time to acquaintances, and Gabby waved. But he did not stop, although several people signaled and called out to them. Finally, having sprung his horses and pulled away from the heaviest crush of traffic, he turned his attention to her again.

  “You never did tell me why you are afraid of Trent.”

  Gabby had thought that topic had been forgotten. She should have known better. She was beginning to suspect that he never forgot anything. For a moment she debated what, if anything, to tell him. The entire story was too sordid, and too disturbing a memory, to relate.

  “He is a most unpleasant man,” she said finally in a constricted voice. “He visited my father often when we were young, then less often but still regularly until his death. The last time I saw him was at my father’s funeral. After that, I forbade him the house. With the servants to back me up, he has stayed away from us. Until today.”

  “But that doesn’t explain what he did to make you afraid of him.” He looped his rein easily to pass a slow-moving gig. The capes on his tan driving coat fluttered as the curricle picked up speed.

  “He is one of the few human beings on earth that I am prepared to say is truly evil.” Already she was feeling the creeping chill that afflicted her whenever she thought of Trent. She shook her head, indicating with a gesture that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. In an effort to change the subject, she looked pointedly at Wickham. “If we’re telling life stories, it’s now your turn. You may start with your true name.”

  “Ah, but if I told you that, then you might slip and let it out,” he said with a tantalizing grin. “For now, Wickham will have to do. Personally, I’m growing quite attached to it. There’s much to be said for living the life of a belted earl.”

  “Especially when you’re a rogue on the make,” Gabby muttered dryly.

  His grin widened as he glanced at her. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Oh, don’t poker up. Not many females of my acquaintance would have the courage to spit in the eye of fate as you are doing. It is something I particularly admire in you.”

  Before Gabby could reply, she caught the eye of a redoubtable lady in a old-fashioned carriage who was waving frantically at them as they approached.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “There is Aunt Augusta, and she is waving at us. You will have to stop.”

  Wickham did, pulling up beside the carriage and responding with considerable charm as Gabby made him known to Lady Salcombe and her friend, a Mrs. Dalrymple. After receiving a sound scolding for not having called upon his aunt during his first days in town, Wickham was let off with a slightly mollified Well! You possess address enough, at all events! The talk then turned to plans for the upcoming ball, where it stayed until Wickham, pleading a crush of carriages trying to pass, drove on.

  After that, they had to stop several times. Lady Jersey, with her companion Mrs. Brooke, hailed them next, looking Wickham over with interest as she demanded the story of his accident from his own lips. When that tale was told, quite mendaciously but in a wry manner that provoked much laughter from his listeners, he was treated to an account of a similar predicament that had once felled Silence’s mother’s uncle. When they parted, it was with Lady Jersey’s promise of vouchers for Almack’s ringing in Gabby’s ears.

  “For they are a most charming pair, don’t you know,” Gabby overhead Lady Jersey telling her companion as they drove off. “And the little sister—well, she is a diamond of the first water. Augusta Salcombe’s nieces and nephew, so there’s nothing to object to there.”

  “Claire will be in alt,” Gabby said, settling back against the leather seat and smiling as the ca
rriage joined the line of traffic heading for the park gates.

  “What about you? Are you excited about the prospect of participating in the Marriage Mart?” Wickham asked curiously.

  Gabby laughed. He had been right, she thought, the drive was just the tonic she had needed. Already Trent’s visit was being relegated to the distant recesses of her mind specifically reserved for unpleasant memories. And Wickham—though she was not forgetting for a moment all the less savory things she knew of him—was seeming more like an ally than an adversary with every passing moment.

  “Aunt Augusta informs me that my best hope for wedded bliss is a widower with children,” she related with a comic grimace that made him grin. “And I rather gathered from what she didn’t say that she meant a very old widower with a great many children. That being the case, you’ll understand why I am not quite dazzled by the thought of my introduction into the Marriage Mart. Indeed, I’m well aware that I’m past my prime. I only go to chaperone Claire.”

  “So old as you are,” he said mockingly. “I can give you eight years, you know.”

  She glanced at him with raised brows. “What, are you thirty-three? That is one more fact to add to my store of information about you. A thirty-three year old captain of some kind who knew my brother. If you let any more information slip, I may just be able to ape the queen in Rumpelstiltskin and guess your name.”

  Whatever response he might have made to that was lost as two riders on horseback emerged from a path near the gates, spied them, and signaled them to pull over. The smile died on Gabby’s face as she recognized the equestrienne in the modishly cut green habit as Lady Ware. Eyes quite unconsciously narrowed, she exchanged rather strained small talk with the lady’s companion, Lord Henderson, and at the same time watched from the corner of her eye as Wickham carried his inamorata’s hand to his mouth, kissing her fingers for rather longer than was proper and then retaining his hold on her hand as they engaged in a low-voiced conversation that Gabby, with the best will in the world, could not quite overhear. She didn’t need to know what was being said, however, to recognize the intimacy that existed between them. If he had kissed Lady Ware full on the lips in the middle of the public thoroughfare, Gabby thought, disgusted, he could not have made it more plain that she was his mistress.