A Scandalous Portrait: Rose Room Rogues ~ Book One

by Hutton, Callie

  Until recently.

  Then everything seemed to change, and she found herself thinking about him in ways she never had before. She considered how it would feel to have his warm large hands on her naked flesh, fondling, caressing, stroking and how far things would have gone when he kissed her in the library if Lord and Lady Grafton had not shown up.

  Perhaps she was Lady Trouble after all because she doubted if she would have stopped him.

  “Truthfully, I have not given marrying you much thought because I was certain you would never have offered for me unless forced.” She shrugged. “Which, I guess, is exactly what has happened.”

  Hunt held out his hand. “Diana. Come here.”

  For some reason that soft request had her heart thumping double time. She took his hand, and he drew her into his arms. “I don’t want you to think of this as a forced marriage. It’s a necessity.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes. Marrying Lady Eunice would be forced. Marrying you is a necessity.”

  “I don’t think it makes a dif—” Her words were cut off when he covered her mouth with his. A swarm of butterflies entered her stomach, and her knees felt weaker than when she’d first seen Lord and Lady Grafton glaring at the two of them in the library.

  No black dots, however.

  Those were her last thoughts as Hunt turned the kiss into something feral and greedy. He plunged into her mouth with his tongue and pulled her even closer.

  She moved her hands up his arms and encircled his neck, playing with the soft strands of hair curling over his cravat.

  “Say yes, Diana,” he mumbled as his mouth swept over her jaw, kissing and nipping. “Say yes.” His lips moved to the soft sensitive skin behind her ear. His warm mint and brandy scented breath added goose flesh to her skin, combining with her already erratic heartbeat and fluttering stomach.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes. You can.” He took her mouth again, this time adding all the arrogance and loftiness that was the Earl of Huntington into the kiss.

  She was dizzy. Her knees buckled, and she would have slipped to his feet had he not gripped her so powerfully against his hard body. She needed air, she needed time to think, to step away. Her hands came to his chest and she pushed.

  Being the gentleman that he was, Hunt released her and moved back, but kept her lightly in his hold. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need time to think, Hunt. Marriage is a serious business. I truly don’t believe you would be happy married to me. If you’re not happy, then I won’t be happy. We could spend the rest of our lives making each other miserable.”

  He released her and took her hand, moving them to a small table against the balustrade. After pulling out a chair for her and settling across from her, he took her hands and covered them with his, resting them on the table. “I had planned to marry this year.”

  She grinned. “Not me.”

  “You must marry sometime, Diana. You were not made for spinsterhood. You are a warm, loving woman. You would make a wonderful mother.”

  “And a wife?” Her smile dissolved. “That might be so, but I would have favored being courted and escorted to the theater and balls, and museums. I would have preferred to have a man on bended knee asking for my hand.”

  He lifted their joint hands. “I have your hand.”

  She pulled it back and laughed. “Not yet.”

  “Very well. We will continue to have everyone believe we are betrothed. However, I will court you. If after a few weeks you decide we will not suit, we will quietly announce we have changed our minds and go our merry ways.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Do you think that would work?”

  “We will make it work. I have no doubt that we will suit, but I want you to be sure.”

  She shook her head. “What I am sure about, my lord, is that you must have had way too much brandy before you headed to the library to meet me.” She tilted her head and looked him in the eye. “And I don’t believe it has yet worn off.”

  13

  “Melrose, eh?” Sir Phillip DuBois-Gifford stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out the window of his office, facing nothing but a gray sky, drizzles of rain and a near-crumbling building across the way.

  “Yes, sir,” Hunt said, sitting on a chair in front of the man’s desk that seemed ready to collapse under his weight. “There is a possibility we were incorrect, but I saw no reason for a footman to be meeting with a lord in a bookstore.”

  DuBois-Gifford swung around. “We? Was someone with you at the time?”

  “Yes, sir. I was accompanied by my betrothed at the time.”

  “Betrothed? When did this happen, Huntington?”

  Hunt shifted, not comfortable with the look Sir Phillip cast in his direction. “Actually, sir, Lady Diana and I became engaged at the house party.”

  “Lady Diana Pemberton? Rockingham’s daughter?”

  “Yes, sir. Is there a problem here?” He might as well face whatever the man’s concern was immediately.

  He studied Hunt with a piercing look that reminded him of his tutors in school when he fell behind in his work. “Is she not the young lady who has barely escaped several scandals? Did she not retire to Italy for a year due to some debacle?”

  Hunt being surprised by Sir Phillip’s knowledge of Diana’s escapades was utter foolishness on his part. No one did the sort of work the man did and directed others to do without knowing just about everything about everyone.

  Hunt lowered his voice, trying hard to keep the anger in check at Sir Phillip’s words. If the man used the term Lady Trouble, Hunt might be driven to flatten him. “Lady Diana did spend about a year in Italy visiting her mother’s family.”

  To Hunt’s relief, DuBois-Gifford waved it off and moved to his chair behind his desk. “I will need some documentation to connect Melrose to this movement.”

  “What information have you already?” Hunt asked.

  “About five years ago, a woman by the name of Miss Charlotte Wilson started an anarchist newsletter, humorously entitled Freedom. We have reason to believe she has more than enough followers to actually stage a good attempt to overthrow the government.”

  Hunt blew out a low whistle.

  “Miss Wilson has been favoring a violent revolution, and I’m afraid she has more than one man of high power on her side.”

  “And the Home Office’s stance on this?” Hunt asked.

  “Some are believers, some skeptics, claiming we are panicking for naught. However, the Crown is concerned and has asked me to delve into it further. That is why I need whatever paperwork Melrose might have. If we can get names, we have a good chance of quelling any revolution before it starts, and the resulting panic that would hit the general public.”

  Hunt rose when DuBois-Gifford stood and offered his hand, his signal that the meeting was over. “I expect to hear from you as soon as you are able.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hunt nodded and left the office. Deep in thought, he strode down the corridor and out the door. He waved his carriage forward and climbed in, grateful that the rain had temporarily subsided.

  The ride home took longer than necessary because of traffic and wet streets. It gave Hunt time to consider the present state of his life. Betrothed to Diana. The annoyance that swelled up in him at DuBois-Gifford’s comments gave him pause.

  Would he be defending Diana’s name for the rest of his life? Would he have to endure jokes and snide remarks in his clubs? What he really needed to examine was his easy acceptance of their forced betrothal and coming wedding.

  He knew without a doubt that, at one time, he would have been horrified to find himself betrothed to Diana.

  Although she had not yet agreed. But she was not a stupid woman and would come to realize if she wanted to maintain any standing in Society whatsoever, she must marry him.

  Only months ago, he might have been tempted to challenge his honor and packed up and left the country rather than marry the woman,
but things had changed. Oh, the portrait and seeing her in all her glory—he still wondered if the artist got it right—had certainly began his shift from ‘annoying-always-in-trouble-friend’, to thinking of her as a desirable woman who was witty, strong, and had a mind of her own.

  All the things that were not on his list of qualities for potential brides.

  She was also compassionate and caring. As he’d stated to her, she would be a wonderful mother. He enjoyed her company and found himself searching for her at every event and looking forward to holding her in his arms while they waltzed.

  Was that love? Hardly. But he thought there was a possibility that they could have a strong marriage.

  The rain had started up again by the time the carriage arrived at his house. Rather than wait for the driver to climb down with an umbrella, Hunt hopped from the carriage and took the steps two at a time to the front door.

  “Where is Marcus?” Hunt asked as he shrugged out of his wet coat and handed it off to the butler. “Tell him I need to see him in my bedchamber post haste.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Once he reached his room, he grabbed a piece of linen and dried his hair. He was already out of his wet clothes when the valet appeared. “My lord, how can I be of service?”

  “I need some of your expertise.”

  The man nodded. He’d done several things for Hunt in the past that didn’t fall into the realm of valet. Marcus had been raised on the streets and, after a near-death experience, managed to get a job at a tailor shop, taking out the trash and cleaning up. He watched and learned and accosted Hunt on the street after leaving the tailor shop one afternoon and asked for a job.

  Impressed with the young man’s ambition and willingness to learn, he agreed to take him on as an assistant to Sergio, his former valet who was growing close to his pension. Two years later, Sergio retired and Marcus took over full duties.

  “I need to examine some papers in Lord Melrose’s house.”

  Marcus never batted an eye.

  “I prefer not to crawl through the window like a burglar. I want you to find someone in Melrose’s household who will leave the back door open for a price.”

  “Yes, my lord. That will not be a problem. I can think of a couple already.”

  Another of Marcus’s talents was helping former street urchins gain respectable employment. He had several male and female friends in great houses all over London.

  While these cohorts were, for the most part, honest, they were always up for a little extra coin.

  “Excellent. Just let me know what night.”

  Whistling now that the unpleasant part of the day was over, Hunt headed to his office where the safe holding the family jewels were kept.

  He’d been barely out of university when his father had passed away, only months after his mother. He’d taken on the responsibility of his two brothers and was grateful when they came to him with the request to help finance The Rose Room.

  The family jewels had been passed down for generations. Hunt had never examined them, since they were meant to go to his wife and, until now, she’d been an elusive, shadowy woman.

  Since now there was a face—and a figure—attached to this mystery woman, he pulled the box out of the safe with the idea of finding something that would suit Diana.

  His soon to be wife.

  Maybe.

  What amazed him was how quickly he’d accepted Diana as his. What also amazed him was why it had taken him this long, and another misstep, to realize how much he wanted her. Had probably always wanted her. Even before he saw the portrait.

  There were two types of perfect wives. The young debutantes who had been raised to never speak out, always agree, lay very still in bed until it was all over, produce perfect heirs while praying her husband was then done with the ‘nasty’ business, and run an efficient household.

  Then there was a woman who was perfect for him.

  Lady Diana Pemberton.

  He selected what he thought would be the perfect ring for her. It was a black onyx surrounded by small diamonds. It seemed to be about the correct size, but that could be altered.

  The question was, would she accept it?

  * * *

  Diana lifted her skirts as Marguerite helped her slide her slippers on. She straightened when that was finished and regarded herself in the mirror. The pale, rose gown with silver scrolls across the top and around the short capped sleeves had always been one of her favorites.

  She leaned closer to the mirror and examined her face. In Italy, she had learned about Pear’s Almond Bloom, all the rage at the time, but once she returned to London, where the air was more moist, she decided her complexion looked better without the powder unless she was hiding anxiety.

  Shaking her head back and forth, she smiled at the earbobs that caught the light next to the dressing table. She quickly stood. Whyever was she so concerned with how she looked tonight?

  Simple. Because Hunt was escorting her to the theater, the first of their outings to mark the beginning of their courtship.

  She grinned. Yes, they’d been caught in a compromising situation, but in all the disasters she’d been involved in and needed Hunt’s rescue, this was one they were in together.

  Diana scooped up her shawl and reticule from the blue and white striped chair near the door to her bedroom. “I will be late, I am sure, since most likely we will stop for a late supper after the theater.”

  “Then I shall rest on the small bed here in the room.” Marguerite had her own room one floor above, but on the evenings Diana expected to be late, the girl slept on the cot so she could help her mistress out of her clothing and then retire to her own room.

  Deciding a sherry would be welcomed while waiting for Hunt, she made her way to the drawing room. Since she was supposedly ‘betrothed’ she no longer found it necessary to have Mrs. Strickland accompany her everywhere.

  Not wanting to leave the poor—but annoying—woman without employment, Diana had arranged for her to be companion to elderly Lady Winborne, a long-time friend of Diana’s grandmama.

  She downed the last of her sherry when the door knocker sounded, and she heard Hunt’s voice. She closed her eyes at the sliver of anticipation that glided over her. This was ridiculous. She would not allow herself to be affected by the man.

  With a shaky hand—blast it—she placed the sherry glass on the table and smiled as he entered the room.

  Men like the Earl of Huntington should be against the law. Uncommonly handsome, his deep brown eyes twinkled with mirth as he viewed her. Did she look so very amusing then?

  His well-tailored suit fit him like a comfortable soft leather glove. His silk pure white ascot set off the warmth of his skin. He approached her with his hand extended. She raised her hand, and he took it, turned her hand to place a kiss with his warm lips on the sensitive skin of her wrist. Whyever hadn’t she put her gloves on already?

  She curled her hand and cursed the rush of heat that rose to her face. “Would you care for a drink, my lord?”

  Hunt laughed softly.

  Refusing to allow him to view her as unsettled by his presence, she raised her chin. “A drink?”

  “Yes, sweetheart. I will pour myself a brandy. We have some time. Why don’t you sit and I will bring you another”—he looked at her glass—"sherry?”

  “Yes.”

  Taking a deep breath, she settled on the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the room, a red flowered settee that had been a favorite of grandmama. Perhaps the discomfort would keep her sharp so she didn’t make a fool of herself.

  Hunt sat next to her and took a sip of his brandy, then removed the glass of sherry from her hand and placed it on the table next to his. “I have something for you.”

  Again her heart began to race. “What is it?” She licked her dry lips.

  He withdrew a beautiful black onyx ring with over a dozen small diamonds surrounding it from his pocket. She regarded him with raised eyebrows.

&nbs
p; “A betrothal ring from the Huntington family jewel collection.”

  14

  Hunt’s stomach dropped as Diana continued to stare at the ring as if it possessed the power to destroy her. “Is something wrong?”

  She jumped up. “I thought the plan was to court for a while and then discuss a betrothal.”

  He reached up and pulled her back down alongside him. “Diana, you have been compromised. Again. And what of my honor? When the situation happened with Lord Stratford last year you escaped to Italy, but he was shunned for quite a while for not doing the honorable thing.”

  “Why? He tried to get me to marry him, but since that was his plan all along—to compromise me—I refused. But he did offer, so he should not have been shunned.”

  “It matters not, Diana. You were both involved in the scandal and, although the man’s part in it is never as serious as the woman’s they still feel the brunt of the ton turning their backs on them.”

  “I see.” She stiffened and glared at him. “First it was a necessity for us to marry, and now it’s about your honor. Quite romantic. I’m afraid you need lessons, my lord, in how to woo a young lady.”

  Hunt slumped and ran his fingers through his hair. He replayed in his mind why he had decided Diana was the best woman for him. It was inevitable. From the time he first rescued her from a tree with a dog snapping at her heels, to stealing the portrait, he’d known deep inside that despite his desire to have a biddable, demure, never-a-scandal wife, Diana was the one who had always held his heart.

  However, given the circumstances in which they found themselves, she would never believe it. The simple fact was she didn’t trust him and, given his attitude toward her, she had good reason. If he wanted a happy wife—and he would have Diana—one who didn’t feel like a penance, it was up to him to convince her.

  He reached over and took her hands in his. “My insistence on marriage is much more than a necessity, or my honor.” He squeezed her hands as she made an unladylike sound and attempted to pull her hands away. “I know you don’t believe that and, given our history, I don’t blame you. Therefore, I ask that you wear this ring, not as an official betrothal, but the need to stem further gossip and nasty comments when we go out and about in Society.