An Oxford Scandal

by Maxine Barry

  She glanced around curiously. The diamond-shaped panes of glass glinted in the moonlight. There was the faint smell of lavender furniture polish in the air. Everything was as quiet as a grave.

  And again, Laurel found herself shivering. Crossly, she wondered why she was feeling so fey. Normally she was a robust realist, but tonight, for some strange reason, she was as nervous as a skittish deer.

  Something, somewhere, was not right.

  She shook her head angrily. Damn it, this would not do. She reached forward and tapped on the door. Not quite as loudly as she would have liked, but loudly enough to be unmistakable.

  A moment later, the solid and heavy wooden door swung open. He was so tall his head almost touched the top of the door lintel.

  ‘Yes? Miss Van Gilder?’

  The first syllable was soft. The rest was anything but.

  ‘Professor Welles. I wanted to have a word with you,’ she began firmly.

  ‘At this hour of the night? I assumed the evening had all but ended?’

  Laurel gritted her teeth. ‘It has. There’s just Sin-Jun and a few others still to leave.’

  One of his silken, silver eyebrows rose.

  Laurel took another deep breath. ‘Are you going to invite me in? Or are you going to make me stand out here all night?’ she asked tersely.

  Gideon felt a wave of heat rise and fall in his face and, before he could stop himself, he was standing back, silently gesturing for her to enter.

  Laurel walked inside and stood looking around.

  There was a real fire, in a real grate, blazing away merrily against one wall. The other walls were covered with shelves of books. Two doors led off from the room, no doubt one to his bedroom, the other to either a bathroom or kitchenette. Two old leather armchairs with shiny patches on both arms stood facing the fire. A round oak table, polished until it gleamed, was completely bare except for a vase of fresh bronze chrysanthemums. Their distinctive scent tantalised the air that played host to other similarly evocative scents.

  Old books.

  Pipe tobacco.

  Perfume.

  Laurel felt herself tense, then abruptly realised that, of course, he held tutorials in this room and, just as it should be, Oxford had as many female students as it had male.

  ‘Is there something specific you wanted?’ Gideon prompted impatiently.

  Laurel dragged her fascinated gaze away from the dark emerald-green velvet curtains and turned once more to the man himself.

  There was only one lamp burning, and it cast a golden glow over the left side of his face and hair.

  He had changed out of his evening suit and was now wearing a long maroon dressing gown, belted at his waist, that fell almost to his ankles.

  His feet, she noticed, were bare. It gave him an oddly out-of-place aura of vulnerability.

  She swallowed and hastily looked away.

  On any man she knew, the dressing gown would have looked faintly ridiculous. On this man, it looked devastating. His lean waist, the towering height of his figure, and the silver-gold hair contrasting against the deep, ripe colour.

  ‘Miss Van Gilder?’ he said sharply.

  He didn’t like that look in her eyes one bit. It was like being eaten alive.

  He could feel his blood begin to simmer. Simultaneously, he became aware of the hardness of his nipples, rubbing against the silk lapels of his dressing gown. He was having trouble breathing, and . . .

  Yes. He was growing hard.

  He turned abruptly, walking towards one of the chairs, and reached for a book from one of the shelves. Any book.

  The lower part of his body thankfully concealed behind the chair, he glanced down disinterestedly at the book in his hand.

  It was one of his own, on animal behaviour!

  For some reason, he had to fight the sudden urge to laugh.

  He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so challenged. Normally women didn’t have this effect on him. Over the years, he’d had to deal (patiently and sensitively) with women undergraduates who’d had a crush on him and, more happily, with any number of lovers.

  But no other woman had ever made him feel this out of control. And he didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

  A relationship was approached with honesty, simplicity and clear-cut goals. Using this method, he’d always parted on the best of terms with his lovers and had never ‘broken’ a single heart.

  This wild, roller-coaster ride was strictly for the birds. And it was disconcerting to find himself suddenly booked on a seat in the front carriage!

  He forced himself to glance across at Laurel, daring his heartbeat to leap.

  It dared.

  ‘You had something urgent to say, Miss Van Gilder?’ he asked flatly and determinedly business-like.

  Laurel growled. ‘Damn it, do you have to sound so supercilious?’

  Gideon blinked, then fought the smile that tugged at his lips. So, the ultra-confident, mega-sophisticated Van Gilder heiress was feeling just a tad unsure of herself too, was she? It would probably do her the world of good.

  He sighed heavily. ‘I seem to have the rather unfortunate knack of rubbing you up the wrong way, Miss Van—’

  ‘Call me Miss Van Gilder one more time and I’ll throttle you,’ she warned. ‘My name is Laurel.’

  Gideon drew his breath in sharply. ‘Very well. Laurel.’

  He had to grit the name out. Damn her, why couldn’t she just go?

  Here he was, trying to keep the formalities between them, and here she was, just as busily breaking them down.

  He glanced at his watch — which wasn’t there since he’d already taken it off — and was forced to lower his bare wrist again.

  Laurel noticed the gesture and the bare skin, and had to laugh. He looked so disgusted with himself.

  Gideon felt himself colouring and gritted his teeth. Never before had he felt so gauche. ‘Exactly what can I . . .’ he swallowed hard as Laurel quickly removed her coat, revealing large expanses of bare skin. In a crowded room it hadn’t been too bad, but here, alone in his sanctuary, Gideon was hideously aware of his own near-nakedness under the dressing gown. ‘. . . do for you, Miss . . .’ he continued gruffly, but at this her head shot up warningly. ‘. . . Laurel,’ he finally managed to finish his sentence.

  Laurel smiled. ‘I wanted to talk to you. About the chair.’

  Gideon slowly lifted one eyebrow. ‘Oh? Funny. I could have sworn you came here about something else.’ As rattled as he was, he wasn’t about to let her get away with so much as an inch.

  ‘Well, I didn’t,’ she snapped, once more lying through her teeth. ‘I’m just anxious that there should be no . . . ill feeling about it.’

  Laurel looked at the disbelief in his icy-blue eyes and was instantly prepared to do battle, even if she couldn’t confess to be fighting on the side of the angels. She was being bloody-minded just for the sake of it, and she knew it.

  But how could she explain to this iceman that this was her first assignment as head of the family, and that it was important to her that all should run smoothly?

  Psychology don he may be, but there was no way in the world that a man as sure of himself as he was could understand her own lack of self-assurance.

  What was it about this man? He could set her off ticking like a time-bomb with just one haughty look, yet the next instant, a simple gesture or near-smile would defuse her.

  ‘I can assure you, there’s no ill feeling on my part,’ he said glibly, and headed firmly towards the door. ‘So, I’ll say good—’

  ‘Not so fast!’ Laurel snapped, her voice cutting across the gentility of the room like a crude bowie knife. Say what you like, Laurel Van Gilder was simply not used to men who scorned her company.

  Gideon jerked to a halt. As he did so, his dressing gown swung open slightly just at the knee, revealing a long length of lightly muscled calf.

  Laurel swallowed and dragged her eyes back to his face.

  And wished she hadn’t. Those
eyes were like lasers.

  She saw his hands fall to his belt and tighten it.

  That defensive gesture, for some reason, seemed to cause an eruption deep inside her. ‘For pity’s sake,’ she snarled. ‘What do you think I’m going to do? Throw you to the floor and ravish you?’

  Gideon’s nostrils flared. ‘I should like to see you try, Miss Van Gilder.’

  ‘Would you?’ Laurel said. ‘Would you?’ And found herself moving.

  Gideon took a startled step back, bumping painfully against a shelf full of books.

  Laurel took a firm grip on his dressing gown, her hands curling around the lapels, her knuckles brushing against the warmth of the skin underneath the silk.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Gideon gasped. Because, once again, he could feel that blaze of heat, that sudden surge of urgent, devastating want.

  She was so close. So overwhelmingly close.

  ‘I thought you’d just invited me to ravish you?’ Laurel said shakily, as she wondered exactly what she was doing here. Holding this man by the lapels, pressing up against him, so mad she could spit, so hungry for the touch of him she could purr.

  Gideon opened his mouth but couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  He shut it again, and the clicking of his strong white teeth sounded unusually loud in the fraught silence of the room.

  Laurel’s eyes darkened to midnight.

  Gideon felt a shudder of pure delight race up his spine, making him shiver.

  ‘Oh hell,’ Laurel said. And kissed him.

  She had to stand on tiptoe to do it, and he did absolutely nothing to help her! But it was the best kiss she could ever remember.

  His lips, so slack with surprise in that first instant, suddenly responded so compulsively that she felt a shimmer of pure sexual power race through her.

  Then she was leaning harder against him and felt something pressing into her stomach.

  He was hard! As hard as iron. The sneaky little so-and-so, thinking he could hide it from her!

  She pressed herself into him, grinding against him, feeling him jump and shimmer. Her breasts flattened against his ribs, and her hands reached up to cup his face, then went down to rest against his chest.

  The iceman didn’t feel so cold tonight!

  Under her fingers, she could feel his heart thundering like a trapped wild animal.

  His lips clung to hers, tasting masculine-sweet.

  And, suddenly, she realised: she wasn’t the aggressor anymore. She wasn’t angry. Wasn’t intent on winning their game of one-upmanship. It was as if her own nature had tricked her. Had manoeuvred her into this man’s embrace. She felt his arms move around her, holding her and, although it had never happened before, the capture of her body felt dizzily familiar. It was as if they’d done this before. Somewhere. Sometime.

  But she knew they hadn’t.

  Gideon felt his palms burning as they pressed against the bare skin of her back.

  Could feel his head begin to pound with the same urgent rhythm that was pounding throughout his body. She seemed to be melting into him.

  Her taste was in his mouth. Her scent was in his nose. Even the tiny moan she was making turned into a vibration that seemed to be drilling through his very blood and bone and sinew.

  With a wordless, inarticulate, sharp cry of pure panic, he suddenly pushed her away.

  Laurel staggered back, brutally yanked back to reality.

  She stood for several seconds, her ebony eyes blank, aware only of a sense of loss. She’d been somewhere where she’d always wanted to be and now she was somewhere else.

  In a room, with a fire and books and a man holding her in a timeless moment. A man who’d just pushed her out of paradise.

  ‘Damn you,’ Laurel said softly. ‘What did you have to go and do a thing like that for?’

  Gideon’s eyes widened. ‘Me?’ he yelped, his voice several octaves higher than normal.

  He wanted to rub the back of his hand across his mouth, eradicate the taste of her lips, the pressure of her mouth on his. But, somehow, he couldn’t command his arm to move.

  He leaned back against the books, his big body trembling.

  Laurel shook her head dazedly. She felt confused and, worse, scared.

  Something had just changed her life irrevocably and she wasn’t sure she liked it. Wasn’t sure she wanted even to believe it.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said abruptly and reached for her coat.

  Gideon watched her leave, too stunned to move, and within moments she’d walked to the door, opened it, and was gone.

  Instantly the room seemed flat. Cold. Empty. Suddenly, it seemed unfamiliar. This place, where he’d lived for over ten years!

  He stared at the door, a baffled, bewildered look on his face.

  Outside, Laurel trekked straight across the grass, oblivious of the damage her spiky high-heeled shoes must be doing to the immaculate, centuries-old lawn.

  She couldn’t believe she’d made such a fool of herself. Throwing herself at him like that. What must he have thought?

  She marched through Becket Arch and into the car park. As she passed Webster, the door opened and a late guest left the party.

  She wasn’t sure what made her do it. She hadn’t even been thinking about the chalice. But perhaps her subconscious had been prodding her in this direction ever since she’d first noticed the coat obscuring the cabinet.

  Whatever it was, Laurel decided, she wanted to study the ancient piece of silver. It was, after all, part and parcel of the Van Gilder chair in Psychology, and if a journalist asked her about it at some point in the future and she couldn’t even describe it properly, it would be embarrassing to say the least. Also (she could almost hear her father’s voice, so strongly did the words come into her head), it would be terrible not to thoroughly acquaint herself with the Van Gilder art collection. Her aunt was very territorial about it but even she would acknowledge that, as the new Van Gilder ambassador, it was the sort of thing that Laurel needed to know about.

  Making a mental note to study the collection when she got back to the States, she walked once more towards Wolsey.

  The hall was deserted when she stepped inside, and she was rather annoyed to see the big black coat was still draped over the cabinet.

  Seeing that there were now plenty of coat-hooks available on the side of the wall, she walked forward and pulled the coat off, intending to hang it up properly.

  But instead she stood stock still, staring in front of her, the coat clasped, forgotten, to her breast.

  The cabinet still housed the rowing blues and other assorted trophies.

  But it also sported something else.

  A round hole in the glass.

  And an empty space where, just hours before, the Augentine chalice had stood.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Laurel stared at the cabinet in blank dismay for quite a while, her mind working feverishly.

  Inside, she felt cold and numb. This was the very last thing she needed. It was, in fact, the one thing in the world it was her job to prevent.

  Scandal.

  Mud sticking to the Van Gilder name.

  So what if it wasn’t her fault that the Augentine chalice was gone. Missing.

  Stolen.

  She forced herself to say the word in her head. Stolen. It was stolen.

  It would get into the papers. It was inevitable. Sin-Jun would call in the police. There would be publicity, bad publicity, and it wouldn’t matter a whit to her mother, uncles, aunts and cousins that it had been none of her doing.

  It was her job now to make sure this sort of thing didn’t happen!

  Her very first mission and it was a disaster.

  Laurel became slowly aware that she was taking in great big gulps of air. She was close to panicking and she knew it. She had to pull herself together. Do something.

  The Senior Common Room lay only a few feet away but, surprisingly, she didn’t even think of going in there. There were probab
ly still a few late die-hards inside, and Sin-Jun as well who, as host, was bound to stay until the last reveller had left.

  But instead of seeking solace and help there, Laurel found herself turning away. No, running away — belting for all she was worth back to Wolsey.

  It was a wonder, in her high heels, that she didn’t fall and break her neck, but a few moments later, she was hammering on the main door to the residence which was once again locked.

  Gideon vaguely heard the pounding through the heavy doors and, still restless and angry after his recent tussle with Laurel Van Gilder, he growled angrily and jerked open his door, striding across the dark and cold hall towards the main door.

  He’d put on pyjamas under his dressing gown, but his feet were still bare. He yanked open the door, half expecting to encounter a drunken undergraduate, and was getting ready to read the Riot Act.

  Instead, nearly six feet of beautiful, distraught female launched herself into his arms.

  ‘Stolen!’ Laurel said, quite distinctly, but with an obvious edge of hysteria in her voice.

  Gideon, who had her firmly by the upper arms, pushed her a little away, the better to get a look at her, and blinked.

  ‘What? What’s been stolen,’ he demanded crisply.

  ‘The chalice.’ Laurel’s teeth had started to chatter.

  For an instant, Gideon wanted to laugh, to shake her by the arms and tell her that one drama was more than enough for one night.

  But in the pale dingy light of the hall, he could see her sickly pallor, the eyes large and dilated in shock, and felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked calmly, carefully enunciating each syllable.

  ‘Senior Common Room cabinet. Hole in the glass. Gone.’

  Laurel found herself speaking in harsh guttural syllables, suddenly unable to string a coherent sentence together.

  Gideon stared at her for a few seconds, then gently pushed her towards the interior of the building. ‘Go into my rooms. Pour yourself a brandy — it’s in the cupboard near the window. Sit down and wrap yourself in something warm. And stay there.’

  He was already stepping outside, rather belatedly realising that he hadn’t any slippers or a torch. But instead of going back inside for them like any other sensible person, he found himself running across the lawns, glad of the carpeting grass.