Duke of Scandal (17 page)

Samson was here. Sam had come to France, secretly, at
Olivia's
bidding, or maybe even with her. She had gone in search of her wayward husband, not in Grasse as assumed, but in England, alone, and had come home with Sam instead.

Samson and Olivia.

Holy Mother of God.

Her gaze slowly drifted up to Normand, who stood exactly as he had before, bopping up and down on his toes, a smug little grin on his despicable mouth.

“You knew,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “I guessed.”

Never had she felt such a mixture of base emotions pass through her in a moment's time—confusion, frustration, fear, and pure rage. Mostly rage, directed at herself for being so completely dense to the facts staring her straight in the face for the last several days.

She should have guessed the ruse as Normand had, and faster. She should have
known.
All the telltale
signs were there—Sam's excellent dancing, his shorter hair, when Edmund was so vain about keeping it a certain length, his aloofness toward her even as she flirted, then her witnessing the shared intimate moment between him and her niece on the balcony. God, and she'd invited him to her room! No wonder he fled. She no doubt looked a fool to everybody, and Samson had certainly enjoyed her idiocy most of all.

“When?” she managed to croak out. “How did you know?”

“Monsieur? Le parfum, s'il vous plaît?”

Normand whirled around at the interruption, as startled by the two ladies behind him as she was.

An irrational fury seized her. “He's engaged,” she articulated, her deep, anger-filled voice penetrating the walls.

Both women gawked at her. Then Normand stepped in to resurrect the encounter. “Give me just a moment, ladies, please? Choose any scent or item you like and for your patience I will honor you both by subtracting half of the sale price.”

They didn't exactly thank him for his generosity, but they didn't flee, either. Claudette ignored them as they hesitated for a few seconds, then turned and walked back toward the display cases, whispering between them.

Normand looked down at her again, his expression flat with annoyance, eyes narrowed.

She ignored that, too. “How did you guess?” she asked again, her sensibilities starting to return.

He sighed. “First, because he called her Livi—”

“Edmund despises names of endearment,” she cut in, clutching her rumpled skirt with both hands.

“Yes. I
know,
” Normand maintained, his tone cool. “That drew my suspicions immediately. But there was also something a bit more…subtle between them.”

“What?” she pressed, brows furrowed.

He grinned slyly, enjoying the moment for all it was worth. “There was the way he stared at her.”

“
Stared
at her?”

Gleefully, he leaned toward her and divulged, “I'd say he's enthralled by her. As Olivia is by him.”

She felt heat suffuse her face, sweat bead on her upper lip, her heart begin to race.

This cannot be happening.

For the first time in her life Claudette thought she might actually faint. The red salon seemed to whirl around her in a crimson eddy, nauseating her, making her feel dizzy in the stuffy heat, in her suddenly squeezing stays and heavy, drooping gown.

She closed her eyes, inhaling as deeply as she could, then again, attempting to focus, to gain control of her senses and thoughts, to come to terms with everything this unexpected revelation could mean for her, and even for Edmund. For both of them as a couple. Everything had changed, and she needed to concentrate, to make some wise decisions now that Sam was involved and Olivia no doubt knew much of their scheme, if not all of it. Everything had changed, and she couldn't possibly consider her options here, with the little ant leering at her.

With great aplomb she raised her lashes to gaze at Normand once more. He still watched her, though more with careful curiosity than with his former impertinence. She smiled at him wryly, her confidence
returning. Then she slowly stood to meet the level of his bold gaze with her own, smoothing her skirts, and then her hair off her forehead, still beaded with perspiration.

“Well,” she said blandly, “I suppose I'll need to prepare for a trip to Grasse.”

He smirked, bouncing up again on his toes. “I'm sure Monsieur Carlisle will be pleased to see you.”

She raised a brow. “I'm sure that he will.”

“And I have patrons who need my attention,” he carried on. “Then I'll see someone about selling the diamonds.”

He'd said that out of pure spite, reminding her again what it cost her to be given details putting her one step ahead of them all. Frankly, it was a small price to pay for the edge—Samson and dear, sweet, little Olivia weren't aware of what she knew.

Claudette reached behind her and grabbed her parasol. Then in two steps she was upon him. “Enjoy the money you make from my bracelet, Normand. I'm sure you'll spend it wisely.”

He nodded once. “I'm sure that I will, Madame Comtesse. I wish you a safe and fruitful journey.”

With great joy, she rammed her parasol onto the top of his shoe, pressing down hard on his toes. “You're a bastard, Normand.”

And then she moved past him, ignoring his sharp intake of breath and reddening face as she strode with head held high through Nivan and out the front door.

T
he last thing Sam wanted to do was travel to Grasse. Jesus, the Mediterranean coast in June? It was hot enough already, and the sweltering heat of southern France would likely kill him. But that's where his brother had taken up residence, and he wasn't about to allow Olivia to travel there by herself, which, by default, made his feelings in the matter moot.

He had been waiting for Olivia, listening for her that early morning following their night of unexpected passion, knowing she might attempt to leave without him and head for Grasse alone. And when she tried to do exactly that, he was ready, following her out the door of Nivan and grasping her arm before she reached her waiting carriage.

Naturally, she'd been furious with him for discovering her intent to leave Paris in pursuit of Edmund her
self, but he also realized the fault that made her want to run out on him lay entirely at his feet. He shouldn't have kissed her, coaxed her to climax without her intention, without any consideration of the consequences, especially her feelings. And to take her against her kitchen
wall,
no less. God, what was he thinking? She'd bewitched him, enveloped him in some mysterious…power. A power she alone possessed, for in all of his good-for-nothing life of past relationships, he didn't think any woman had made him feel the conflicting and unconventional things he felt for Olivia—the untempered lust, the aggravation, the need to tame and seduce and protect. Not even Claudette.

He simply couldn't get her out of his mind, hadn't been able to do so for even a minute since the night of their first meeting in England, a moment that now seemed a lifetime ago. But in every way he could imagine, she entranced and surprised him—her intelligence and unusually keen sense for business; her sweet, engaging laugh; her single-minded determination; and yes, even her innocence. And to make matters between them even more difficult, she truly had to be the most physically goddamned beautiful woman he'd ever seen or personally known. More than anything, though, she confused him to the point of irrationality, and not only was irrationality under any circumstance unlike him, his irrational actions concerning Olivia bothered him more than all the other factors combined.

He'd wanted her so badly the night of the ball, and in response to his urgent and inexplicable need to touch her, she had become desperate for him, even though she denied it. He knew the fairer sex and their re
sponses too well, and he didn't think he'd been with a woman before who had been so ready and wet, had come so fast from his simple stroking. She'd nearly driven him over the edge, and certainly she could feel his response to her climax afterward, when he moved up against her so she could know what she did to him physically.

But was she a virgin? He still had to wonder. She'd reacted to his touch, but that didn't necessarily mean she possessed any real experience. Yet just because she hadn't lain with Edmund didn't mean she hadn't been bedded before, either. She was French, after all, nearly twenty-five years old, and every Frenchwoman he'd ever known had been rather promiscuous. But then maybe he was jaded by his past, which sometimes came back to overwhelm him, and haunt him, as it did by bringing Claudette into his life again after all these years.

Now at last they were nearly to Grasse, the final leg of their journey through Provence to the town of their destination, alone in their hired coach, for which he'd had to pay a pretty penny to ensure a private ride. Their trip thus far had been slow going, as it had rained lightly but steadily since they'd left the city and entered the countryside, only to return to full sunshine yesterday when they traveled through the Gorges Du Loup and passed through field after field of aroma-rich lavender.

He sensed they'd both begun to feel a building anxiousness this morning after a breakfast of tea and brioche, realizing they were almost there. That wasn't to say Olivia was speaking to him, for in fact she refused to utter a word unless she found it positively necessary
to do so. He'd allowed her separate quarters when they stopped for the evening, but only after threatening to hunt her down if she left without his knowledge in the middle of the night. He'd been fairly confident in her compliance, as they were traveling to the same place for a singular purpose, and in many respects she needed him, which probably made her all the angrier.

He watched her now as she sat across from him on the padded coach seat, her ivory fan clutched in her hands as they rested on her lap, her eyes closed from the bouncing and steady movement of the ride. Today she'd coiled her plaited hair on top of her head and donned a typical day gown in bright aqua silk, her first opportunity to wear something other than the dark blue traveling gown that she'd insisted was quite comfortable even when buttoned to the neck. Not that it hadn't flattered her figure even then, as Sam decided he could appreciate every one of her attributes no matter what she wore. But of course today was different since they would very soon be confronting the man who had ruined her financially, the man who looked just like him but differed in every other way, and she evidently wanted to look her best and most confident. Her aqua gown, cut squarely and low across her bosom, enhanced her figure, her flushed cheeks and vivid blue eyes, and had to keep her cooler now that the summer heat had returned on the final day of their trip.

She hadn't said much at all to him today, and altogether refused to address their intimate encounter of the other night. There wasn't much to discuss on that end, he supposed, though he hoped she thought about it as often as he did. But now that they neared Grasse,
they needed to communicate, needed to exchange ideas and organize their plans. They needed to agree and get along. With that in mind, Sam decided it was time to break the ice and get down to business.

“What are you going to say to my brother when you see him?”

Her eyelashes fluttered open. “I don't know,” she replied with only the slightest hesitation. “I'm not sure how to confront him yet.”

Considering her determination and general assertiveness, that surprised him. “Would you like me to confront him first?”

“No,” she answered curtly.

He leaned his head back against the cushion, holding her gaze. “You can't stay angry with me forever, Olivia.”

That certainly got her attention. Her cheeks pinkened as her jaw tightened. “I'm not angry, I'm tired.”

“I see.” He interlocked his fingers in front of him. “Well, since you're not angry with me, would you like to discuss what happened between us the other night?”

For a moment or two she said nothing. Then she closed her eyes again. “I've already forgotten the incident.”

The incident?
Sam had to press his lips together to keep from chuckling. “You know,
I
haven't forgotten it, Olivia,” he drawled. “I keep reliving it every second of every day.” He knew he was baiting her, but for some odd reason he wanted her to know exactly how she affected him in a purely sexual way.

Her nostrils flared in indignation, and then she raised her lashes once more and glared at him. “If I
were to relive it, as you say you do,” she revealed huskily, “I would be betraying my husband. And even as much as I despise what he's done to me, I took vows that I intend to honor. It seems the only thing I have left is my word.”

That response surprised him. He wasn't used to faithfulness in marriage, or any relationship, and so it hadn't occurred to him that she could be so upset over some perceived weakness of the flesh. Now he understood how deeply his lovemaking had bothered her, and in a way, he admired her for her devotion—as much as it perturbed him that she could so quickly dismiss what they'd shared.

They stared at each other for several long seconds, indecision weighing on every breath he took. And then he decided to hell with the doubts, he wanted her to know the truth, and she needed to be told, before they faced his brother.

“Olivia,” he started, sitting up a little as he ran his fingers through his hair, “I have something to tell you that you're not going to like.”

She fairly snorted. “I don't know if I can stand any more surprises from you, your grace.”

“Stop calling me that,” he charged, his own irritation seeping into his tone. “I think we've gone far beyond formalities, don't you?”

She glanced out the window to the lavender-coated hillside, then back again, her features resolute. “I really don't want to play games anymore, Sam.”

“I don't either,” he returned softly, stretching his legs out in the coach so his feet pushed under the hem of her gown. “No more games. And no more lies.”

She tapped her fan on her lap, eyelids narrowed in wariness. “Are you telling me you've lied to me?”

Sam detected the slightest trace of hurt wrapped around her question, and it warmed him within. He smiled vaguely. “No, I've never lied to you, Livi, but I have withheld information.”

Her brows gently furrowed and she looked him up and down cautiously. “What information?”

He sighed, then said, “Important, even key information. And it's going to upset you.”

She swallowed hard, but otherwise remained rigid in her bearing, no doubt bracing herself for more turmoil. He wished there were a good, easy way to explain everything he knew about her marriage, but he couldn't think of one. Drawing a long, deep breath, he decided to just aim for sincerity.

“I'm going to tell you something, Olivia, and no matter how it makes you feel, I want you to know that it's the truth as I know it.”

He waited for her to say something, but she just looked at him.

He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together in front of him. “Remember Colin Ramsey, the man you met at the ball in London?”

She tipped her head to the side a fraction. “Yes, of course I do. He's quite difficult to forget.”

Sam didn't know if that was good or bad, though the stab of jealousy piercing his chest annoyed him. Colin, the ladies' man—gregarious, charming, flirtatious. Everything he wasn't.

“You liked him, did you?” he asked, regretting the stupid and irrelevant question the moment the words
left his mouth.

She smiled wryly. “He's very handsome.”

Handsome? That's it?
What he'd wanted to hear was that she would never be interested in a man like him, but there was no way on earth he'd ask her to expound on her description of his friend.

He nodded, deciding it best to just move on. “What I'm about to tell you stays between us, do you understand?”

After a long pause, she maintained, “You're going to tell me he's involved in something illicit?”

Without hesitation he murmured, “Yes.”

She frowned as she opened her fan, swishing it very slowly in front of her face. “I can't imagine what your friend's…activities have to do with me, sir.”

Her continued formality was starting to irritate him. “Livi, love, so help me God, if you call me ‘sir' or ‘your grace' again when we are alone like this, in private, I'm going to grab you and kiss the living breath out of you.”

Her fan stopped moving in midair as her mouth dropped open a little. Then she gritted her teeth and inhaled sharply. “Do not call me ‘love,'” she articulated, fanning herself again. “I am not your love, and such informality between us is improper.”

Again she'd said something he hadn't anticipated, and her instant and bold denouncement stung him far more than he would have expected. Very softly he replied, “You're certainly not Edmund's love, Olivia, and that's what I want to discuss.”

She blinked, unsure, then once more turned her attention to the view outside. “You're talking in circles,
Sam.”

“So I am, I suppose,” he acknowledged through a sigh. He watched her, noting her rigid posture, the tension emanating from her stoic expression. This was going to hurt her deeply, but he could see no other way to get around the revelation than to just reveal the facts as he knew them. “Let me get to the point.”

“Please,” she said curtly.

He tapped his fingers together in front of him. “Colin Ramsey is a British agent.”

It took seconds for that bit of news to sink in. Then slowly she pulled her gaze from the window, her brows tightly furrowed, gaping at him as if he were completely insane. He continued before she could mention her disbelief.

Gravely, he said, “He specializes in forgery, in forged documents, that he both creates and deciphers for the government. He's very, very good at what he does, is very experienced, and for his unique services they pay him well. He's never been known to fail in detecting a fraudulent work.” He paused, watching her closely, then asked, “Do you understand?”

She remained silent for a moment, studying him intently, though she no longer looked annoyed, she looked edgy, twisting her fan in her hands.

Finally, she murmured, “What does he have to do with me?”

Sam had no idea how to put it delicately, so he simply revealed, “I had him review and analyze the marriage license you gave me.”

She shook her head a little, uncertain of his words and the meaning behind them. “But I gave you the original,”
she returned, her tone low and controlled. “Not the copy. If he thought it was a forgery, then he's mistaken.”

“He's not mistaken,” he said gently. “The marriage document you and Edmund signed, the
original
document, isn't legal.”

She stilled, her eyes opening wide with incredulity. “That's not possible.” She drew a shaky breath. “I spoke vows; I was married by a priest—”

“Olivia,” he cut in, his voice deeply solemn, “I suspect you spoke those vows in front of a hired actor.”

He couldn't take his eyes off her. She blinked quickly, her features expressing shock coupled with confusion, suspicion coupled with anguish. He'd expected the heartache, and so felt the uncanny need to experience it with her. Edmund had hurt her profoundly, and that in itself made him despise his brother anew.