A Little More Scandal (2 page)

Two

Catrin had known more than her share of men across five years of nursing, and even before, when she’d loved and lost a good, sweet young man in the small town of her birth. In the Crimea, she had borne weary witness to their violence, with her mind numbed to the gore and rage. More often, however, she had absorbed moments of kindness, which had sustained her optimism. How could she have nursed so many if she had harbored the belief they were all cold-hearted killers?

She had chosen to remember rations shared, socks mended, blame taken in another’s stead. Or how soldiers in full regalia could appear childlike when huddled together for warmth, one blanket to three bodies, their eyes closed against the toxin of warfare and the horrors of a winter siege. So many had behaved as brothers, with nothing in common but a promise to fight for Queen and Country.

Never had she seen, however, such a solid, towering wall of contradictions. William Christie had the build of a mythic giant, all muscle and silent intimidation. His suit was unaccountably fashionable for someone who wore it so poorly. He appeared half-strangled by his cravat, and hugged indecently by a slim-fitting coat that had been tailored, inexplicably, to diminish the breadth of his chest. His rich, golden-blond hair was neatly combed and his face cleanly shaven, but she could imagine him scruffy and wild atop some distant Scottish peak, his big-boned body meant for the freedom of a Highlander’s garb.

And what she felt when she took his elbow . . .

A sparkling awareness finger-crawled along her hand, traipsing past her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder, until that heady tingle shivered across her nape. She glanced up, way up, to find the full pout of his lower lip. How could anything so soft exist on a face edged with grim lines, beneath such cynical eyes? His humor lurked as a forged blade, ready to cut and cull.

Good. He seemed to match how she felt among those human vultures.

“I feel compelled to voice my appreciation, Mr. Christie.”

“Oh?” He positioned their bodies to join the waltz. Perfectly decorous. But in no way did he did appear capable of such refinement. She’d rather expect a backstreet boxer to perform beautifully on a harpsichord. “For what in particular?”

Such a throaty brogue! She was thankful, then, for having spoken with men from all over Britain, lest her ear be unable to keep pace with the lilting slur of his accent.

“For rescuing me from my hosts,” she said.

“Their topics of conversation not to your liking?”

“Not in the least.” Catrin breathed in time with the rise and fall of their steps. Her partner danced with significant grace, but it did not seem innate—more as though he had practiced diligently. She preferred the latter. “However, one must make the attempt to appear amenable, wouldn’t you agree? When the Earl of Stalton offers an invitation . . .”

“We do our best to endure.”

She smiled sweetly. “Lady Julia was right. You are dangerous. You make me want to say what truly occupies my thoughts. In this place, there cannot exist a higher crime.”

“Then where shall we go so that you can speak freely with your champion?”

“My champion? Well, well.”

Such a word. Almost ruthlessly powerful. Girls from a small Welsh parish did not have champions. They had men who were reticent farmers and good churchgoers. Her fiancé, Aldith, had been such, a solid lad of good reputation and quiet feelings that had eventually progressed to equally gentle lovemaking.

But then, neither had such Welsh country girls ever found themselves swimming with sharks, quite literally, in the midnight depths of the ocean—only to return to London, eaten alive once again by those who sought diversion in lurid tales of what had been endured.

Catrin had deflected Society’s probing cruelty by examining every snide opponent as she would a leg beset by gangrene. No one should need to look upon such a sight, but when forced because of duty, a great deal of emotional distance did the trick.

A champion, however, would step to her aid. Kick the vultures. Peel off the leeches. Wallop the sharks with his big bare fists.

She would enjoy that a great deal. That Sir William was rich and passably handsome—despite a nose that had taken far too many punches—in no way detracted from his appeal. Her attention was continuously drawn to the rich blond luster of his hair, and how it complemented his skin. He was as tanned as any man who worked the fields, not so sallow and occasionally ill-looking as their current company. She rather liked it, despite that absence of fashion. It added to his wildness and rugged, golden power.

“I propose we keep dancing,” she said, watching the line of his jaw as they circled the floor. The ballroom twirled in a haze of color and sound, but his jaw remained unyielding. Grounding her. She could not become too dizzy when clinging to such an anchor. “After all, what could be more innocent?”

Pale eyebrows quirked. The creases of his forehead were so animated, despite his cagey persona. “Nothing at all.”

“Do you receive invitations often, Mr. Christie? To Society functions, that is?”

“More frequently than my status warrants.”

“There’s status, and then there’s fortune.” She smiled at his slight look of surprise. “I may be newly returned from distant lands, but I’m not unaware of your accomplishments in trade.”

“And Lady Julia apprised you of the more salacious details?”

Catrin had listened with idle interest as her hostess prattled on about the most far-flung acquaintances. Only Mr. Christie’s story lingered in her memory. He had spent the previous year’s Season in Paris. Quite the mystery, Lady Julia had reiterated. Catrin contrasted the idea of a Scotsman in Paris with her own experiences from that summer: living in the bug-infested mud of a siege line outside the Black Sea port of Sevastopol. She would have preferred being in France.

“Oh, Lady Julia and a few dozen other fine ladies. Either they dislike you a great deal, Mr. Christie, or they are in possession of unresolved appetites.”

“You are a wicked creature,” he said, his tone admiring. “I wouldn’t have guessed by your face.”

“Rather angelic, isn’t it?”

“Rather. Except for your mouth.”

Aside from his height and physical vigor—that sensation of dancing with a brawny Highland giant—Mr. Christie possessed two extraordinary features. Catrin found herself entranced by his eyes. Hazel. An absolute, true, marvelous hazel. Green and golden brown twined effortlessly. A fierce intelligence shone from their luminous depths, as if he could calculate the velocity of the moon spinning through the night. However, the heavens were not his fascination. He merely stared at her lower lip.

She licked it. A shiver of victory tickled up her back when his hands tightened. While she had no intention of revealing the details of her experience for the sake of a living, neither did she want to return to Wales. Despite her jests, she knew very well that invitations to events of such magnificent caliber would not be extended indefinitely. Soon people such as Lady Julia would chance upon a new circus freak. That meant Catrin had until the end of the Season to make the most of the
ton
’s curiosity. Attract one suitor. Others would follow. Then she would have her choice of champions.

It all sounded so . . .
sordid
. Finding a husband in such a short span of time smacked of presenting herself at auction. But she had seen too much of the world to be satisfied with a country home outside of Aberystwyth. Once, Aldith had been all she wanted. His sudden death by pneumonia had unmoored her life, leaving her the object of pity within such a small community. She’d been grieving, restless, and determined to get out. For a young woman who wanted to keep her reputation—just barely—nursing was the only option. She had volunteered two weeks after her fiancé’s funeral.

Five years. Five years and she hadn’t been home. She wondered if her notoriety had reached her parents, and what they might think of her tale. But even if she visited, she wasn’t going home for good. She wanted a man with a future, with some boldness and excitement in his soul—a fire to match the one that had yet to dim in hers.

Thus the origins of her ambition to parlay the sinking of the HMS
Honoria
into an advantageous marriage. Nightmares of that experience would creep under her skin and dig into her sanity for the rest of her life. She might as well find a man to make that life as comfortable as possible.

Mr. Christie was a very good start.

“My mouth, you say? Do explain. Unless you believe your explanation might press the boundaries of propriety.”

He flashed a smile that seemed almost condescending, but she did not feel put down. More like she was privy to another unsuitable joke. “I intend that it should do just that, Miss Jones. Will you be able to withstand the upshot? No need for smelling salts?”

“I was a wartime nurse, as you know. Let us say that it would take an exceptional man to shock me.”

“I’ve never been so blatantly dared by a woman.”

“But by a man?”

“Dares from men come fast and thick.” His splendid hazel eyes skittered away, possibly assessing examples of his gender. When he wasn’t intent on interpreting her, his gaze moved constantly, as if danger or opportunity lurked in every corner—likely how he’d become so successful. “Sword play, dice, boxing, the pursuit of the same female conquest. I’m certain your experience among soldiers and sailors gave you that impression.”

“Very much so. Then tell me, do you appreciate my dare?”

“I intend to rise to it,” he said, lips nearly touching her temple.

Catrin had not touched a man in months, and that had been with the efficiency and detached care of a nurse. Cannon fire overhead. Bullets punching into flesh. Since then, she had been touched, but only by the naval captain who had discovered her on the beach of Catalan Bay in Gibraltar.

This closeness was entirely different. No bare flesh here, not with their hands wrapped in evening gloves. Yet the big wall of his body created a sense of intimacy in that public space, a shelter hewn of Mr. Christie’s bones and brawn.

The quartet began a new waltz, this one slower, almost mournful in its lassitude. Her body melted nearer to his.

“Then tell me, sir. What have you been thinking about my mouth?”

“That I should very much like to kiss it.”

Catrin’s smile widened into a laugh she could not prevent. “And that was supposed to shock me, Mr. Christie?”

“What a lady claims and what she desires are often in opposition. Hell if I know the way your mind is working just now.”

She
tsk
ed, then licked her lower lip again. “Such language.”

“Shall I apologize?”

“Oh, no. Frankly, I believe you must be capable of a great deal more.”

“Are you enjoying our game, Miss Jones?”

“Quite.” On the next count of three, lifting on her toes, she briefly rubbed her nose along his jaw. A faint scratch of evening roughness, even more subtle than the grain of leather, was nonetheless powerful enough to shoot a shiver across her collarbones. “Shall I tell you what I’ve been thinking of
your
mouth?”

Because that was his other incredible feature. How often did one notice a man’s lips? Hardly ever, in Catrin’s experience. They hid behind mustaches or dimmed in comparison to high cheekbones or a fine head of hair. Even a nice set of teeth was more noteworthy. But Mr. Christie’s mouth was . . . beautiful. A full lower lip. A perfectly symmetrical upper lip, with a sharp curve that suggested devilish possibilities. Although without any apparent intent, he pursed it in such a way as to draw her eye. A sneer, a laugh, a prelude to a kiss. All in one.

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “Please do.”

“Your mouth makes me think that it must be the only hint of softness you possess.”

And that was the truth. Such an imposing man, no less so for the blasé aloofness of his bearing. He appeared to be the sort who took nothing under the skin. All thick armor. Ready to pounce on opportunity, no matter the cost. Catrin had learned to be wary of such men. Anyone who did not acknowledge pain had difficulty understanding when they inflicted it on others.

Yet the thrill of this flirtation remained.

Mr. Christie angled his hand down her back, slinking slowly, until he claimed command of her low spine. A subtle thing, really, how he shifted the angles of their bodies. But suddenly she knew exactly how their teasing had aroused him.

“At the moment, you would be entirely correct, Miss Jones. Nothing else soft at all.”

The air in her lungs turned thick and sultry. She swallowed. The hazel of his eyes had deepened, intensifying, as if that striking color needed to be more magnetic. Although her legs still waltzed, she knew her stability came from his arms, from his languid rise and fall. The thump of her pulse blocked strains of violin and cello. No more melody. Only rhythm.

“Catrin?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

“My name is William.”

“A pleasure to meet you, William.”

Another flash of that condescending smile. “Then I suggest we find a quieter place of refuge.” His brogue was impossibly low and rough. “I intend to show you exactly what I have in mind for your mouth.”

Three

The ballroom became an unbearable crush of people as soon as the delectable Miss Jones responded. Not with words, but with her uniquely animated expression. Already childlike in their size and look of perpetual wonder, her eyes widened and her sweet apricot lips parted. Oh yes, he imagined far too much. Her slight nod, just one dip of her pale, radiant face, confirmed her assent.

William managed to continue dancing with some modicum of proficiency until the end of the waltz. He should know the composer, just as everyone else likely did, their time occupied by the trivialities of an easy life. But he could not have discerned the difference between Strauss and Beethoven had his evening with Miss Jones depended on it. Luckily, that did not seem the case.

“Follow me in a few minutes,” he whispered against her temple.

Another nod. His cock, about which he had so boldly boasted in response to her teasing, gave a hard twitch. His trousers were mere moments from becoming obscenely uncomfortable.

He and Miss Jones bowed at the conclusion of the waltz, as if their conversation had not shot past the very limits of civility. All very proper, or as well as he could manage. He felt a tremendous oaf in contrast to her dainty, contained little body, which was shown to its best advantage by nipped, neatly pressed russet pleats. Few ornaments or bits of lace detracted from the slim symmetry of bust to waist to hip. The rich satin exactly matched thick hair barely tamed by elaborate curls. Perfection.

Without further communication, he turned away from the dance floor, toward a set of double doors manned by footmen in elaborate, gold-braided livery. They appeared to be sweltering while standing at attention in their wigs. An actual bead of sweat trickled down one lad’s cheek. Although hardly the sort of hellish occupation he had endured as a child, William sympathized with anyone who worked while others reveled. The tension between his shoulder blades and in his stomach had nothing to do with labor, and everything to do with sweeping Catrin Jones off her feet.

He approached the sweating lad and dipped his words to a private volume. “Half a crown each if you direct me to the nearest private room. Then provide that information to the young woman with whom I danced.”

“Miss Jones?”

William cringed inwardly. The devil, but she was nearly too notorious to seduce. A simple miss from the deepest regions of rural Wales, and yet she was as well known as Queen Victoria, even to such a lad. “Yes, I mean Miss Jones. No disturbances, or I’ll hunt you like a mangy fox and take back my crowns. And your bollocks.”

The footman swallowed. That trickle of sweat accelerated. He flicked his gaze to his partner, who nodded. “Yes, Mr. Christie,” they said in near-unison.

The note of fear in their tight voices did unnatural things to William’s insides. Faster breathing. Heavier heartbeat. He enjoyed to excess the intimidation he could bring to bear, even more than he enjoyed knowing he, too, possessed a certain notoriety. Not like that of Lord Stalton, whose influence as an earl and a peer was presumed. No, William’s fame was that of a man who used force when necessary to ensure his personal success—and whose success could not be denied by the Upper Ten Thousand. They might very well want to burn him at the stake for his insolence, more than he would ever know from their carefully controlled words, but they were in too much need of his money.

Tonight, however, was not for violence. Fate had practically handed him the amiable Miss Jones.

“Good lads,” he said, handing the footmen their rewards.

After receiving directions to the nearest unoccupied salon, well away from the ballroom, he stripped his gloves, undid his cravat, and slipped two buttons open on his suit coat. Good God, he detested formal wear. He felt like a bear stuffed into a pair of hose. His late wife, Susannah—the other reason he was vaguely accepted among Society’s elite—had been just short of revolted by his brawn, insisting that his tailor do whatever possible to detract from William’s shoulders, thighs, and even his height. Every suit he owned was cut to her specifications, even two years on from her death. He had hardly minded, knowing he possessed the fashion sense of a warthog.

But . . . two years gone? He should do something about that.

A heaviness settled at the base of his skull. A six-month Parisian binge of wine and women—one in particular—had done little to ease the surprising burden of fatherhood as a widower. He had encountered regret and disappointed hopes where potential had once resided. His youthful plans had come to fruition by marrying the Honorable Susannah Burgess, a woman infinitely better than he could have hoped to wed. There was love and there was security, and they’d been none so blinded as to expect anything but the latter. Her death two weeks after giving birth to their only child, Alexander, had left a void. A loss of direction.

Ever since, the redoubled pursuit of his business interests was an excuse for solitude he rarely admitted, even to himself.

And then there was the matter of what to do about his son. William’s in-laws hated the rich, uncouth man who had rescued their family from impoverishment—a constant reminder of their failures and Susannah’s fate. Until recently, William had been content to let them make Alex into a better citizen than he could have managed. Industry was his life, as Susannah had been unable to keep from observing. Frequently. Never again would he be beholden to another soul when his ambitions were so clearly dedicated elsewhere.

But some days he missed his boy with a pain that stuck needles under his skin. What would it be like to see him grow into manhood? To guide him? To teach him the industry he loved?

William could be a father, when he had never known his own.

The faint clearing of a feminine throat alerted him to Miss Jones’s arrival. Forcibly, he set aside those matters he could not control. Emotions, primarily. He was much better suited to allowing the matched ambitions of success and sexual fulfillment twine together in such a slim, delightful female form. She stood framed by the doorway, her hands clasped at her waist. Although she did not appear afraid, neither did she rush to stand beside him. He found himself drawn to her deliberate nature, which was tempered by a calm he could never possess.

“Shut and lock the door, if you would,” he said.

“You assume I wish to be closed in with you.”

“I do.”

Miss Jones—no, Catrin. Such a well-suited name for a little Welsh luminary. Memorable and melodic, just like her lilting accent. She lifted her chin. Her gaze fell to his unfurled cravat and the empty buttonholes. Such quiet observations, as if she gathered in as many details about the world as did he—the necessities of preserving oneself amid volatile company.

She revealed a sweet, supple smile that barely curved her lovely mouth. Christ, he was completely in the dark. Any number of paths extended from that moment. Walk out. Laugh and tease. Lift her skirts. She could choose any one of them, or another thousand his mind hadn’t yet dared.

Instead, she did just as he suggested. Turned. Shut the door. Flipped the lock. The thrill of a silent, powerful victory streaked across his chest. The press of his engorged cock against his trouser placket would not be ignored. William knew he was being played, thoroughly and competitively, and yet his only notion was to see how far she would go.

He extended his hand.

Catrin took a single footstep toward him. Another rush. Pure power. That she kept walking nearer, each movement more assured than the last, made his blood beat with a deep, wicked pulse. She was bold. Indecently bold. Considering how much he enjoyed when people backed down from his opinions, he should have been displeased to confront a woman so determined to honor a mind of her own.

He was anything but.

Although she still kept her hands folded at her waist, as tidily as the rest of her, she never broke eye contact. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet . . . ?”

“And yet here we are.”

She took his hand. Ah, but those gloves would be the first to go. Skin to skin. Suddenly he had very little else in mind.

William turned her wrist to face the ceiling and steadily undid a long row of buttons, none bigger than a sweet pea. His movements felt cumbersome, using hands more suited to swinging a hammer or lifting bale after bale of wool. He’d done both. Yet removing a woman’s evening gloves teased at the edge of his capabilities. He kept on, motivated by the way Catrin’s breathing steadily increased with each new pale inch of skin revealed to the soft lamplight.

A lone lamp to swallow the rest of the parlor in shadows. A lone flame to keep the secrets of their tryst.

“Then explain it to me,” he said softly. “Why did you agree to join me?”

“We’re back to that dare again, aren’t we? You were impeded by the public setting.”

He tugged at each fingertip until the glove slipped clear of her hand. “Impeded? I cannot recall the last time I let such a concern keep me from my aim.”

Color hugged high along her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. Cream and pink, with an even darker rose shade for her lips. Such a glorious contrast. Her face was framed by that lush, pale brown hair and the ivory lace at her throat. “You certainly did not speak freely,” she said.

“No, because had I spoken truthfully, I fear you would not have accompanied me off the dance floor.”

A smoky luster covered her eyes. Her pupils flared to black circles that nearly obscured their soft honey color. The low light added to their mystery. “Perhaps,” was all she conceded.

“But I got what I wanted.” He started on the second glove. Leaned nearer. Inhaled the scent of her hair. Something floral and sweet, with an undercurrent of feminine musk. “You. Here. Your hands bare.”

She dipped her smile in a coy move that did not strike him as false. The woman was simply too brazen to falsify. “I walk along the precipice overlooking social ruin to have you behave as a lady’s maid?”

He chuckled. “And a clumsy one at that.”

“You managed the task, did you not?”
The second glove dropped to the ground. Her smile merely deepened.

“And few men would refuse the privilege of assisting you with such a task.” He grazed his lips along her forehead, just where light brown hair met her smooth brow. Her skin was so pale as to appear luminescent. “The gloves were just a start.”

“This could take all night.”

“Ideally, yes.”

Her eyebrows arched in that particularly expressive manner. “Does Lord Stalton know you behave this way?”

“Does he know the same about you?”

Was it her experience as a nurse that permitted her such ease in his company? That idle thought lent an unwarranted clench of disgust to his stomach. His life had been a succession of moments when he saw what he wanted, followed inevitably by moments when he claimed his prize. He had no right whatever to feel possessive toward this woman. Yet there it was, as obvious as her bare hands in his.

Skin to skin.

Hers was warm, as flushed as her rose-pink cheeks. His felt overly tight. He wanted to squeeze, making fists, feeling his knuckles bend and pull, reminding him of his limits. But her slender fingers were too delicate in his palms, like holding those of some exquisite doll. Only she was so very alive, and close enough to take the air from his lungs into her own.

“No one knows much about me,” she said evenly. “Which is the way I like it.”

“So secretive. Makes me wonder why.”

Her gentle eyes narrowed by an almost imperceptible fraction. “Why did you bring me here, Mr. Christie?”

“William,” he said without thought. He wanted this woman to use his given name, to reinforce that their connection was worth pursuing.

The question she posed, however, was a sharp reminder of his purpose. Miss Catrin Jones was not his next objective. He only wanted her story. Success with the newspaper trade and his railroad interests would follow. If he claimed a kiss—or more—in the meantime, so be it. He would play the game as she wished, or tread more softly if her reluctance stood in the way. Had she been the prim sort who wanted only to sit on a bench and watch birds before confessing her story, he would be counting pigeons as they milled around Hyde Park.

He knew better than to pursue more, knew better in ways that could not be revisited in his mind without pain and shame. To lose himself in a woman had not worked in Paris. The mistakes he had made there with a dancer named Georgette would never be duplicated. As thunderstruck as he was, holding a living doll’s hands, he needed to proceed with an economy of sentiment and an eye firmly toward profit.

He contemplated how to answer her question with enough honesty to prolong their amusement, and to banish the new suspicion lurking in her canny gaze. To prove his motives were purely sexual—that he was by no means on the hunt for her untold tale—he made the ironic decision to give voice to his body. His impulse for the petite woman coalesced into rasping words that would challenge her hold on propriety while eliminating her new doubts.

“I brought you here because of your mouth, just as I said. I’ve never seen its like. Tiny and perfect. Like ripe fruit. I want to taste the wetness between your lips, and I want that to be just the beginning.”

The heavy tightness in his chest increased in proportion to her startled expression—nearly a deer running from a hunter, but nearly waiting to be caught. She whispered his name. How little effort would it take to grind his pelvis against her hip once again? Would she let him push her back against the settee and reveal the rest of her body to the lamplight? His own body hummed and pulsed in time with that thought.

“Now let me kiss you, Catrin. Put your hands on me and let me kiss you.”