Duke of Scandal (11 page)

“I'm sure there is,” she cut in, her imperious air returning at once. “But I want you to say nothing to him. For now.”

“Naturally,” he acquiesced with a smile. “I didn't even let on that I suspected anything was odd about his return, and he never gave me reason to question his intentions.”

“I'm sure he didn't. He's too smart for that,” she returned, placing her half-filled cup of cold coffee back on the silver tray again.

Normand tried not to show the intense anger that immediately suffused him from her calculated insult to his intelligence—or rather, his intuitiveness, which was working just fine, thank you very much. And someday, somehow, he would use it against her. That day couldn't come soon enough, either.

“I think you should confront them together,” he
maintained, his throat tight. “See what he says when she's by his side, and how she reacts to him. You'll learn more that way than by simply sending for him and meeting him privately.”

She drew in a breath deep enough to lift her shoulders and ample bosom, smiling at him again, her haughty composure returned as if she'd never carried a fraction of doubt.

“I've already thought of that, Normand,” she informed him, brushing her fingertips across her lap. “I shall be attending the engagement gala on Saturday night for the Comtesse Brillon. Olivia will be there, and if her
husband
is in town, he'll certainly escort her.”

Normand knew this was true. The Countess Brillon remained one of Nivan's wealthiest and devoted clients. Olivia would certainly have been invited, and as she was back in town, she would attend, no question.

“But she'll expect to see you there, and so will Edmund,” he offered cautiously.

Her smile deepened. “What can he do, or reveal, in a crowd of people?” She shrugged and waved a hand to dismiss his concern. “They cannot hide from me forever. And if they're not in attendance,
then
I will know something is amiss. I cannot draw conclusions about this new…development strictly from your word and assessment.”

She was correct, as usual, and Normand felt another slice of anger rip through him. Condescending bitch.

Abruptly, she rose, a sure sign of dismissal, and Normand had no choice but to stand as well, noting, oddly enough, how her blond hair and lime green day gown looked strangely ugly in a room filled with garish pink
and rose red. He wouldn't be able to blend a scent for her right now if he tried.

“I shall be on my way,” he said, a formal smile planted on his mouth.

“Of course, dear Normand.”

He stared down at the coffee service, rubbing his cheek with his palm, wavering for the first time that afternoon, then deciding she'd made him mad enough already. He'd just play her tit for tat.

“You know,” he said quietly, “there is always the possibility that Edmund was able to get the money already, and that he thinks the House of Govance is within reach.” He neglected to add that her dear, darling Edmund might be keeping the funds, and the benefits provided by the young heiress he attempted to swindle this time, to himself. A reasonable deduction if one were to assume the man had returned to Paris without notifying her.

But he didn't need to mention that aspect. He glanced back to her face, recognizing a returning fury in the glare she offered him—after he noticed the briefest hesitation. Again he stopped himself from basking in the triumph. She hadn't thought of that.

Her lovely blue eyes narrowed; her suspicion and irritation became a sudden, palpable force. “You've spoken quite above yourself for one day, Normand,” she warned quietly, her smile dissolved.

He acknowledged her by nodding once. “I apologize. My only intention was to inform you of my thoughts and—”

“And you've informed me. Thank you. Now I'm tired and think I shall lie down.”

Tired? Apparently she'd had an exhausting toilette.

She held out her hand for him to kiss, and he obliged her, dropping a quick peck on her knuckles before standing back, his arms to his sides. “Well, then, should I hear anything else—”

“You'll come and tell me at once, I know,” she finished for him, lifting her skirts and moving gracefully toward the parlor door. “Thank you, Normand. Rene will see you out.”

He stood where he was for a few seconds longer, listening to her departing footsteps, clutching his hands into fists without intention. But as he walked to the door, where the dutiful Rene suddenly appeared and stood without expression, holding his bowler hat for him upon his exit, Normand got the last laugh within himself. For, my goodness, if she had been a little kinder, a little more accommodating financially, he might have told her everything. As it was, he'd give a year's salary to be able to attend the Comtesse de Brillon's engagement party Saturday next, when the imperious, calculating woman who thought she remained in control came face-to-face not with her dearest Edmund, but with the brother—one Samson Carlisle, Duke of Durham. The last person on earth she would ever expect to see in France, or would ever want to see again.

Normand stepped off the garden pathway and onto the bustling street, pausing near a flower vendor's cart, where he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the fresh, sweet scent, then lifted his face to the sun.

It really was a beautiful day.

O
livia adored parties under almost any circumstance. Gala events invariably provided a prime atmosphere to meet and be seen, whereby she could easily and profitably promote Nivan and the newest scents of the season. And of course they were fun. This evening's affair, however, would undoubtedly prove to be like nothing she'd ever experienced before. Not only would she be playacting in front of acquaintances, patrons, and the elite, she'd be playacting alongside the most unnerving man she'd ever known in her life.

Their last few days together had been interesting. They'd shared several conversations, mostly of a casual nature, though she was able to clarify the one thing he'd said that truly shocked her: he had a sister. Or more accurately, he and Edmund had a sister, the existence of whom her husband had deliberately kept from
her. After days of troubled thought, she still couldn't understand why. She'd mentioned as much to Sam, and it was his interpretation that Edmund had simply not wanted to share much of his personal past. It frustrated her to no end, but she had to admit at last that the more she knew Sam, the more her husband appeared to be a lying, cheating scoundrel who wanted only her money. That she felt humiliated, duped, and yes, stupid to fall for such a schemer, was an understatement. All along, she supposed, since Edmund had left, she'd been hoping she was wrong.

Aside from revealing that his twenty-seven-year-old sister Elise had married an influential landowner, lived in the country, and cared for her four children, Sam had been mostly remote in his thoughts, not revealing much of himself nor asking anything of her while she went about her work in the boutique. But he refused to leave her side, and his constant attention had started to annoy her, not because he did or said anything particularly irritating, but because his mere presence was so distracting.

He still didn't trust her. She knew that instinctively, and by the manner in which he refused to take his eyes off of her person, as if he were waiting for her to inadvertently expose prevarications in her actions, words, and deeds. But she'd done nothing to make him suspicious of her motives, and between them these last few days, they'd been able to find some measure of companionship, she supposed. Tonight, however, would be a remarkable event. Many of those at the party would assume he was Edmund, question him, perhaps revealing important information regarding his brother that
Olivia didn't know. Their performance to discover the truth to Edmund's whereabouts was about to begin. At least that was their hope.

Sam remained close to her side now, as they descended from their hired coach and began to walk in silence toward the large front doors of the Countess Louise Brillon's fabulous estate located several miles to the west of Paris. Olivia's nervousness escalated with each step they took along the cobblestone path that wound through freshly cut grass, colorful rosebushes, and thick bougainvillea, all trimmed to perfection and emanating an enticing floral aroma. The night air tingled with anticipation and warmth, the starlit sky only barely discernible above the bright illumination of the house as laughter, music, and conversation boomed louder with every closing pace.

She'd dressed in one of her finest evening gowns, an expensive creation of elaborately embroidered scarlet and gold satin, tightly corseted, with wide hoops and a low, square neckline that amply lifted her bosom but hid most of her cleavage beneath a sheer line of golden lace. Embroidered flowers were sewn into the hem and three-quarter sleeves, matching the detail in the ivory fan she carried. To complement the look, she'd donned large ruby earrings, a coordinating pendant, and pinned her hair up loosely in curls.

Sam had stared at her intently, taking in every aspect of her appearance with a most calculated inspection when she finally presented herself to him in her apartments before they left. He approved, she knew, though he'd said nothing in particular regarding her choice of gown or overall appearance. He, however, looked
positively magnificent in formal evening attire. He'd donned an expertly fashioned suit in pitch-black, only made more striking by the white, frilled silk shirt, silk trimmed collar and revers, and double-breasted waistcoat that outlined his muscled chest and torso. In retrospect, she didn't think Edmund had ever looked so handsome. In part, Sam's hair distinguished him, as it was shorter than her husband's and combed back from his face, providing a perfect view of his chiseled features, dark brown eyes, and ever-contemplative expression. That worried her, too, because Edmund always conveyed a jovial mood, especially in public. Out of necessity, if their plan were to work, she'd have to remind Sam to do the same.

She had been to the countess's home on several occasions, most having to do with the lady's lavish taste in perfume and her desire to try the latest scents in the comfort of her newly decorated parlor. Olivia always obliged the woman, partly because she liked her, but also because she had been one of Nivan's best customers and her influence among French noblewomen roused continued interest in the boutique. The Countess Brillon rivaled the Empress Eugenie in purchases. These two women probably bought the most expensive perfumes, sachets, bath salts, soaps, and oils, and in the greatest quantities, than the rest of their clientele combined.

Tonight, Olivia noticed immediately how the countess had beautified the inside of her estate for the party, adding an embellishment of gold and teal ribbons around floral arrangements and tablecloths that matched perfectly with her Renaissance Revival–style furnishings and rich, colorful Oriental carpeting.

Guests had been arriving for some time when she and Sam finally stepped into the great ballroom. Through a haze of smoke and laughter, the smell of food and strong cologne, she spotted the countess and her betrothed, near the bottom of the staircase as they greeted the elite of Paris upon arrival.

Sam gently grasped her elbow as he guided her toward the queue in an effort to make quick introductions before melding into the crowd. She followed as directed, though it now occurred to her that this deception could be far more difficult than they'd envisioned when they went about planning it. In the last few days she had given Sam a general outline of who would be here, the usual and unusual personality quirks and appearance of those with whom they would likely need to converse. And yet the distinguished, incredibly handsome man who now stood beside her, cool and resolved, didn't behave at all like her husband. The guests here tonight would know him as Edmund, but the more she knew of him personally, the easier it was to recognize the differences between the two. They were identical in appearance, but nearly total opposites in every other respect. Sam needed to demonstrate considerable acting skills or suspicions would certainly be raised and the gossip would begin. Olivia only prayed they'd be able to simply blend in without much notice or speculation.

She learned at once that it was not to be. The moment the two of them stood at the top of the red carpeted stairs leading down to the ballroom, already alive with dance and conversation, the air seemed to still around them. Heads turned and whispers began,
heard even above the six-piece orchestra now playing a Chopin waltz in excellent form, as the atmosphere suddenly tensed with anticipation.

“They've noticed us,” she said in a whisper, clutching her closed fan at her waist.

He continued to clasp her elbow solidly as he glanced down at her face. “They've noticed
you,
and all the gaping men are envious that I have you on my arm.” Reflectively, he added, “I only wish my friends were here to witness this moment.”

“Friends?”

He fairly snorted, directing his attention back toward the crowd as they moved down the stairs. “Yes, Olivia, scandalous though my past may be, I still have friends.”

She blinked, a bit taken aback by the annoyance in his tone and the intriguing mention of a scandal he had kept from her. Then again, he could simply be referring to his brother's shameful antics. But more important, she had never intended to insult him and needed him to understand that.

“Of course you have friends,” she scoffed, lowering her voice as she leaned into him. “I met one of them, remember? Besides, I would never presume otherwise.”

“No?” he asked without looking at her.

She had the impression his mind was elsewhere as they paused and he scanned the Countess Brillon's guests from two steps above the ballroom floor. She, however, was more interested in keeping his attention on her and their conversation for the moment.

“What scandal could be so great that you would lose your friends?”

He jerked his head around to stare down at her face, his brows furrowed as he studied her.

She waited, watching him, knowing they would shortly be introduced to the countess. “What scandal?” she asked again seconds later, hoping she didn't sound too urgent.

Suddenly he dropped his gaze to her breasts, letting it linger long enough for her to feel the heat. Then he lifted it again to her eyes. “You look beautiful tonight, Livi,” he murmured, his expression softening. “The scandal is that my brother ruined a lady so magnificent in every regard. Edmund is a fool.”

Her face flushed warm as her mouth went dry. The heat she felt only moments ago now turned to fire, radiating between them, causing her heartbeat to still before suddenly racing with an odd form of excitement, even anticipation. He'd flattered her as he'd flustered her, and somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind it occurred to her that not only had he done so intentionally, he'd done so with perfect honesty. She realized at that moment that she'd never been courted by any man who'd made her feel like the Duke of Durham did with a simple look, a word or two. It took her seconds to curb her desire to lean up and kiss him, here in the ballroom, in front of everyone. A shameful thought in every respect.

His mouth curved once more into a trace of a knowing smile. “You smell good, too.” Then he turned and guided her down the final steps and toward their hostess.

Olivia shook herself internally, attempting to regain her composure quickly. “Cad,” she leaned into him to whisper.

He actually chuckled but offered nothing else. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he swept her around and presented her as his wife to the Countess Brillon with a flair and the expertise of an inspired actor. His interpretation of Edmund was more than perfect. It was positively brilliant.

“Olivia, darling!” Louise Brillon exclaimed as she reached out with gloved arms to embrace her as a guest, bestowing a breezy kiss to each cheek before pulling back to gaze at her. “I'm so pleased you've returned. And you've brought your distinguished husband with you. What a marvelous surprise.”

Sam gently grasped the lady's extended hand and bowed deeply as he lifted it to his lips. “Madame Comtesse, you are positively radiant tonight,” he said, grinning broadly. “I give you my heartfelt congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. How happy you must be.”

Olivia watched as the countess, dressed beautifully in a gown of royal blue satin and white lace flounces, fairly preened, clutching her betrothed's upper arm. “He is a gem,” she replied with heartfelt warmth. “May I introduce Monsieur Antonio Salana, my future husband.”

And so she and Sam became briefly acquainted with the wealthy Italian exporter who was to become the Countess Brillon's third husband, a man of distinguished heritage twice her age, who undoubtedly possessed the wealth she expected from a marital union.

“Please, enjoy yourselves this evening,” the man said in French before turning his attention to the next guest in the queue.

“Oh, and Olivia, darling,” the countess added as
they took a step toward the dance floor, “your aunt should be here shortly. I know she was thrilled to learn you were back in town and with your husband.” She placed her gloved palm on Olivia's shoulder. “And of course we all know she would never miss one of my parties.”

Olivia groaned within. She very much disliked her late stepfather's sister, a woman who enjoyed her drink as much as she coveted what was left of Olivia's family inheritance. But then duty required that she pretend just the opposite, and she would never mention her disdain to anyone socially.

“How wonderful,” she replied brightly. “I shall look forward to seeing her, Madame Comtesse.” She glanced up to Sam, who was looking at her with a peculiar lift of his brows. “Shall we get some champagne, darling?”

He nodded once, smiling with an abundance of charm, as Edmund would. “Of course. And then, we dance.”

Olivia placed a hand on his slightly raised arm and together they worked their way through the throngs of guests toward the far east wall where large oblong windows stood open, allowing the nighttime breeze to offer a bit of relief to the stuffy ballroom. Footmen in crimson livery stood beneath them, dishing out plates of hors d'oeuvres and pouring a never-ending supply of champagne. Sam led her toward the corner, where he reached for two freshly filled crystal flutes from a silver tray, handing one to her.

Olivia took a sip or two to calm her nerves, savoring the taste that was nothing short of delicious. He, however, just held his glass, watching her closely, acting as
if there were no one else in the ballroom.

“Who is your aunt?” he asked after a moment.

She was afraid he'd want to know. “My late stepfather's sister. A nuisance of a lady who enjoys her wine and gentlemen too much for comment.” She sighed. “You'll certainly meet her tonight, and”—she looked him up and down—“she'll very much like you.”

He raised his brows, smiling wryly. “Oh? Then I shall enjoy getting to know her.”

She almost snorted. “No you won't. On that you can trust me.”

He chuckled again, and Olivia decided she thoroughly adored it when he laughed.

Tipping his head to the side, he asked, “So why do you expect her to like me in particular?”