Duke of Scandal (Moonlight Square, Book 1) (18 page)

H
ow could I be so weak? Why did I give in to her? I can’t believe I let this happen!

Jason fled out the back door of her house, shaken to the core.
I’m playing games?
Why, the little lunatic. She did
not
behave like any other female
he
had ever dealt with—neither lady nor whore.

Get out of my house if you don’t want to be here?
he marveled, confounded.
I don’t really care if you love me back?

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He did not understand what she was after, and with his mind a scarlet vortex of sexual frustration, there was obviously no hope of puzzling it out until he got to come. He resolved to go at once to his favorite brothel, and paused outside the back door of Felicity’s house.

There, with hands still shaking, he put his clothes back into some rough semblance of order before striding over to his carriage.

As he untied his horses and then jumped up into the curricle, he could not believe she had blackmailed him into pleasuring her with the threat of telling her brother. Wicked little vixen.

She was shameless.

And he utterly adored it.

Just when he thought Felicity Carvel could not get any more fascinating, any more alluring, she turned his world upside down.

If you are wise,
his survival instincts warned,
you will never go near her again.

Well, of course he would stay away from her. He had staked his pride on doing so, making his big, manly pronouncement that he wouldn’t be back.

The thought of it already made him sick to his stomach. Indeed, a weak, sniveling, craven part of him wanted to go racing right back to her and throw himself at her feet, tell her he hadn’t meant it and beg her to forget he had ever said it. That what she had “made him” do to her was exactly what he had longed to do. God, what was wrong with him?

Thank God for harlots,
he thought as he drove hell-for-leather to the Satin Slipper. You paid them and then they went away. Nice and easy. No mess. Unless, of course, you got one of them pregnant…

With a growl under his breath, his blood still hot with fever, Jason did not want to think about that. He opened the small hidden compartment in his carriage where he locked up his personal effects and reached for the condom, slipping it discreetly into his pocket.

He did not have a civilized word for the proprietress as he stepped inside the infamous, expensive bordello. Well known there, he showed himself to the drawing room and looked around at the selection of bored girls waiting for the evening crowd.

He snapped his fingers at a blonde about Felicity’s size and felt somewhat gratified by the way she jumped to her feet at his demand.

Some
women at least knew how to obey.

The girl beckoned him toward the hallway with the rooms.

But it soon became apparent that it wasn’t going to happen.

Jason shut the door behind him, clasped the woman, and dove his face into her bosom, pulling down her dress without so much as a greeting. He wasn’t paying her to talk. She was obliging enough to whatever he attempted as he grasped her hips through her gaudy skirts and moved her around the room. She fondled him against the wall, by the bedpost, and then tried to pleasure him sitting on the chair, to no avail. His body refused to cooperate.

Shocked, the great cocksman told himself that clearly he was just too damned distracted. For some bizarre reason, he kept picturing his little son sitting cross-legged on the nearby chest of drawers, watching him intently.
What are you doing to that lady, Papa?

Oh, for God’s sake.
He blocked out the irksome apparition as best he could, but by then, it was too late. Because the thought of his own child had him wondering if the harlot doing her heroic best to satisfy him had any children of her own. Bastards sired by thoughtless rakehells who did as they pleased without a care for the consequences to anybody else.

And, suddenly, the guilt was enough to make his member go well and truly soft.

Thus the party ended before it had even begun. Jason looked at the ceiling, mortified. Never mind the fact that he knew full well he shouldn’t even be there.

“Well, then. Thanks, anyway,” he said tautly. “It would seem my mind is elsewhere.”

“No matter, Your Grace.” She pulled up the strap of her chemise and politely looked away while he continued mentally cursing himself and righted his clothes for the second time within the hour.

Bloody
hell!

“What’s her name, love?” the harlot asked softly, leaning against the bedpost as she studied him, trying not to smile.

Jason snorted but supposed he owed her that much. “I personally like to call her Lady Catastrophe.”

The woman’s eyes danced. “Aw, she can’t be that bad if she can win the likes o’ you.”

“Trust me, she’s worse. She could wreck my life. Even get me killed. But you know the most pathetic part of all?” He paused. “She’d be worth it.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

He sighed.
Running away.

“What, she’s married?”

He shook his head.

“Family won’t allow it? She’s not of your station?”

“No, it’s not that. She’s perfectly suitable.”

“And you love her.”

“No! Not like that. She’s…like a sister to me.”

The blonde arched a brow. “Lord Byron’s kind of sister?”

Everyone had heard those rumors.

Jason shrugged. She smiled at his look of abject misery, then reached for his hand. “You want to try again?”

“No, I think I’ll just go shoot myself,” he muttered dryly.

Better he do it than leave the job for Pete.

“Thanks, anyway. You were sweet,” he whispered, and gave the girl a large amount of money, mostly as a bribe to keep her quiet about his failed performance, then he left.

Outside, the sunlight helped to clear his head. He looked up and down the street, wondering what next.

Right. It’s over, then.

Felicity Carvel had grown up into a lovely young woman. A passionate temptress of a woman, and a medicine to his soul. But it did not signify.

One little secret dalliance between them was not the end of the world, he assured himself. No one would find out. He liked her, she liked him, and that was all it was, all it had ever been. A flirtatious little friendship, which he had just wound down, for prudence’s sake.

Marriage was out of the question, no matter what she said. He was a bad man, a terrible father, and would likely be a sorry excuse for a husband, too. All he’d ever do was hurt her in the end. He knew that. And then he’d lose his best friend and his self-respect.

So, no. Felicity deserved someone who knew how to love. And she would eventually find that man.

For him, it was time to move on and forget her, just as he had done so many times before.

Unsuccessfully,
his heart pointed out, to his annoyance. He scowled at the reminder.

Yes, of course, his feelings for her always seemed to come back like a fungus or a mold growing in the cellar. Dirty and black. So wrong. But no matter. He’d simply wash them out with bleach to kill them off again and find another outlet for his lust.

Because, frankly, what that beautiful innocent offered—that bright star in his dark sky—terrified him beyond measure.

# # #

Alas, avoiding Felicity proved easier said than done, because from that day on, for the next week and a half or so, the chit was everywhere he went.

It was possibly the most miserable ten days of his life. Every time he had nearly scoured her from his brain, there she was. Smiling. Laughing. Knocking him back to the starting post in his quest to forget her, while she went on living her life with or without him, just as she had said she would.

She didn’t even have the decency to hate him, which would’ve made life so much easier.

She was everywhere, looking as beautiful as ever, even in the ugly colors of half-mourning—black and lavender, black and brown, black and white.

At the horse races, she picked the winner, while he lost twenty quid.

At the garden party, she played croquet with a pair of fops whose necks Jason wanted to break, and ate ice cream, while he watched from a distance, longing to be licked.

He even went to church on Sunday morning and panicked the fiends of hell that they had lost one of their best recruits, but they needn’t have worried. It was not the sermon that interested him. He was only there so he could catch a furtive glimpse of that damned woman from several rows back.

When he saw her singing a hymn in a beam of morning sunlight, he wished Caradonna could’ve captured her just like that, looking like a golden-haired angel.

To his chagrin, she caught sight of him in the church and audibly stifled a laugh to find him there, of all places. As if she grasped at once the real reason he was there.

He scowled at her from his pew, but didn’t wait to talk to her afterward. He stomped off, wondering if he should go touring on the Continent to escape her.

Trouble was, the only thing worse than seeing Miss Carvel everywhere was not seeing her at all.

That night, he decided this had gone far enough. He got very drunk at home alone and then sent for the two courtesans who had been with him the morning she had invaded his house.

Unfortunately, when the obligatory Ginger and Velvet arrived, he took one look at them and feared there’d be a repeat of his humiliation at the brothel. Word might start going round that he had lost his manhood, and it would all be Felicity’s fault.

Dreading such rumors starting—and the vengeful laughter especially from the female populace of London—he told his doxies in slurred tones that His Grace wished to play cards with them tonight. That was all.

Cards, for God’s sake! What was happening to him?

At least it was naked cards.

For every hand he won, the girls had to take off one article of clothing. Those were the rules.

But even when he had trounced them and they both sat there shivering in nothing but their stockings, he still couldn’t work up the proper interest for their usual sport, so he told them to get dressed and sent them home, baffled.

And then, on day eleven, as he sat at his desk in a state of black despair, staring into space, his butler knocked.

“Enter.” Jason could barely find the strength to lift his gaze in question as Woodcombe walked in, bringing a note on a silver tray.

“This just arrived for you, sir.”

He grunted his disinterest.

“Ahem, it is from Miss Carvel, if you please.”

“What?” He nearly fell off the chair in his scramble to grab it off the tray, then dropped the letter and bumped heads with the butler as they both stooped to reach for it. “Ow.”

“Terribly sorry, sir!”

“Not your fault, Woodcombe. Are you all right?”

“Oh—yes, sir. Thank you. And you?”

He did not attempt to answer that complicated question. “Leave me. And shut the door.”

Woodcombe obeyed.

Jason braced himself as he went and sat in the window nook to read Felicity’s letter, his heart pounding as he slowly unfolded it. Everything in him needed to know the information it contained. And everything in him dreaded it.

Had she written to tell him exactly what a devil he was? Or worse, what if she had given up on him?

As well she might, “monster” that he was.

He had the most awful feeling she was writing to tell him she had accepted some idiot’s proposal. He had seen how the young bucks all over London had worked themselves into a frenzy over her. Taking a deep breath, Jason forced himself to face it.

Dear You,

Don’t forget the ball at the Grand Albion tomorrow night. You said you’d go, remember? I’ll finally be out of mourning. You
must
see my new gown. It is magnificent, as promised.

Love anyway,

Me

He stared at the paper. Furrowed his brow. He turned it over to see if the expected rant was on the back, but it was blank. He turned it over and skimmed it again, confused.

That’s it?
he wondered, his heart pounding at the reprieve. No calamity yet? No knife in the heart? No “happy” news?

There was, however, a postscript.

Postscript: Have you spoken to Sanfratello yet about the sculpture we discussed for my parlor alcove? I have some ideas about what I might like. Unless you are reneging like a bounder.

What the devil?
Jason was astounded as it finally sank in that she really, truly forgave him, and was opting to pretend as though everything was normal and nothing untoward had happened between them.

Neither her near-ravishment nor their falling out.

You bullheaded girl…why won’t you let me go?

But still more waited from the confounding creature:

Post-Postscript: Speaking of bounders, I have been matchmaking between Mrs. Brown and Cousin Gerald. I’ll tell you all about it when you dance with me at the ball. You see? Perhaps there really is someone for everyone. Present company excepted.

Ha-ha,
Jason thought as a wary half-smile crept across his face, but she wasn’t done teasing him in her letter, and the last part was the most pointed comment of all:

Post-Post-Postscript:
Miss me yet?

A rueful smile spread across his face. He shook his head.
Cheeky
. Almost as if she knew somehow that he’d thought of little else for the past week and a half.

Relieved as he was not to have to wish her congratulations on her engagement, he knew he could not afford to waver. He had done the right and proper thing by pushing her away. Time to break the bond fully now.