Lady Scandal (22 page)

An hour later, he came back with coins in
his pocket, more of Alexandria's jewels gone into a pawn shop, and
what remained of the gems now promised to a fisherman who claimed
to own the fastest boat in Dieppe.
The fellow had a smug smile, but
he also seemed to have a closed mouth—he had asked no question as
to his passengers or their destination.
He had also had, Paxten had
noted, crates on board his ship, and a glimpse into one had shown
champagne bottles packed with straw.

He had grinned at that.
Since the man had
goods already bound for the English coast, that 'fisherman' would
not mind making an even more profitable trip.

As Paxten rejoined Alexandria and her niece
in the dark, back parlor of the inn, he took her hand.
"I'm sorry,
Alexandria."

Her fingers seemed cold and he wondered if
that was due to the lack of a fire in the grate or nervousness.
Still, she said, her tone teasing, "I should think so.
To leave us
waiting for so long."

"That could not be helped—but I am sorry
your jewels are gone.
Or will be when we sail with the tide at the
dawn."

"They do not matter.
But do you—oh, bother,
do you have enough that we might buy clean clothes and a bath, and
a hot meal and beds?
Those do matter, I find."

He grinned at her impatient tone.
And he
calculated the odds.
Would they do better to retired back to the
cliffs for the night?
That would be safer, but it would leave them
too far from the quay and their pre-dawn rendezvous.
The fat
fisherman had made it clear he would not wait long for them.
Which
meant they'd do best to present themselves now as respectable
travelers, and be ready to leave before first light.

With that in mind, he took Alexandria and
Diana with him.

He bought them all used clothes in a back
alley from a woman who promised the gowns had once belonged to a
countess who had fled the Revolution.
The gowns looked old
fashioned enough to date from a decade ago, but the gray satin
matched Alexandria's eyes, and the fine lace at the cuffs and neck
was a miracle from a nun's devote hands.

Paxten bargained for the gowns, but
Alexandria would not allow him to spend too little.
The garments
had once cost a fortune, and the old woman who now sold them ought
to make some profit, she insisted.
He did not argue with her.

He did, however, persuade the old woman into
provided a room in which they could change.
Straw bonnets and
embroidered, woolen shawls completed the ladies' outfits.
Paxten
bought himself breeches, a clean white shirt, a decent—if somewhat
large—coat, a waistcoat and a blue kerchief to wear about his neck.
And, at the last minute, something else.
He then bought a small
portmanteau to carry their peasant clothes.

"Nothing so respectable as luggage," he
whispered to Alexandria as they left.

At the inn nearest the harbor quay, he found
them rooms, requesting baths for the ladies, and a private parlor
for dinner.

"Are you certain we dare?" Alexandria asked
him.
"It seems so extravagant."

He lifted one shoulder, and said, "We should
be a good deal more obvious lurking about all day and most of the
night.
So we hide in plain sight now.
And hope our luck lasts."

At that, Alexandria's smiled faltered.
Good
luck would have gotten them to the coast days ago, comfortably in
her brother's coach.

A half-hour later, however, as she sank into
the hipbath, bending her knees to immerse herself to her neck, she
decided this had to be worth any risk.
Hot water had never felt so
good.
She began to scrub at what seemed days of dirt.
When it came
Diana turn to bathe, Alexandria scrubbed even harder, using
lavender scented soap, but the stain on the girl's skin barely
faded.

"I do hope this is not permanent," she
muttered.

Diana insisted it would fade, and managed to
at least wash a little of the black from her hair.

After dressing again in her gray satin—in a
room she had quite to herself—Alexandria came downstairs.

She found a gentleman in brown velvet
waiting for her at the base of the stairs.

Pausing, one hand on the worn banister, she
smiled and asked, "What have you done with the disreputable looking
Monsieur Marsett?”

Paxten smiled at her, the
corner of his mouth barely lifting.
"Ah,
Madame Chantel
, I thought we agreed
that was not a name to recognize just now."

She came down the stairs in
a mood to flirt, and the warmth in his eyes made her feel far
lovelier than had the glance in the faded mirror upstairs.
"Well
then,
Monsieur Chantel
, allow me to say I ought to have thought of your dressing so
fine sooner.
If you had traveled as the Duke of Lavel, it would
have been so much more comfortable."

"But difficult considering the duke is twice
my age, a military man, and would have needed a coach with a crest
and a full escort."

She started to answer him.
Before she could,
Diana came down the stairs.
She had put up her hair, and the cherry
stripe in her gown suited her, but Alexandria still could not
accustom herself to the inky blackness of her niece's curls.
What
would Frederick say when next he saw his daughter?
And with that
dusky skin?

Paxten, however, offered a compliment and
ushered them into a small, private parlor with whitewashed walls
and a snug fire in the grate.
A small, round oak table had been set
for their dinner, the china plain and the flatware serviceable.
After days traveling with so little, what indulgence it all
seemed.

A question hovered on Alexandria's tongue if
they could afford it, and she almost laughed at herself.
She had
once taken such things for granted.

The food could have been anything and she
thought she would have eaten it, but the inn served up delicate
stuffed capons, sole poached in butter, and a variety of spring
vegetables, including new potatoes, and tender white asparagus with
a mustard sauce.
She ate as if she had been starved for days.

Diana ate even more.

"You'll soon fit that dress
of yours,
ma fille
, if you keep on like that," Paxten said, teasing the girl.
The stripped dress did sag around the girl's waist and hips,
Alexandria noted.
But they had not had time for
alterations.

Ignoring Paxten's remark, Diana leaned back
in her chair.
"The very first thing I shall do when I get home is
to put on a dress that fits me—perfectly.
And shoes.
How does
anyone bear wearing shoes that are not made to fit?
What about you,
Aunt?
What shall you do?"

Alexandria stared at her niece for a moment.
Blinking, she asked, "Should we not call for desert perhaps?"

They did.
And for cards to amuse
themselves after.
Diana beat Paxten shamelessly at
vingt-et-un
, turning up
twenty-one so many times in a row that Paxten swore she had stolen
everyone's luck.

No one again raised the topic of England,
but it haunted Alexandria.

What would she do?
Would Paxten be with her?
And would Diana ever go to bed and leave her alone with him?

With the candles burning low and the fire
reduced to glowing embers, Alexandria decided that if she wished
her questions answered tonight she had best do something.
She rose
and took Diana's arm.
"It is past time for bed for you."

"Oh, very well, I suppose
we do have an early morning.
Good night, Mr.
Mar—
Monsieur Chantel
."

Alexandria placed a candleholder and lit
candle into Diana's hand.
At that, the girl's eyebrows rose.
"You
are not coming with me?
However shall I manage—we've no maid."

Taking Diana's shoulders, Alexandria led her
into the hall.
"That has not trouble you any night before this.
So
I wish you pleasant dreams, dear."

Frowning, Diana glanced back into the parlor
at Paxten.
Leaning close, she whispered, "Really, Aunt, I am not
certain I should leave you alone with him.
The man simply does not
know how to hold himself within any bounds."

"No, he never has.
And, quite frankly, I am
tired of holding myself within them."

Diana stared at her.

Alexandria smiled and patted the girl's
hand.
"Now, I have shocked you.
Go to bed, dear.
When you are
nearly forty yourself, it will not seem so shocking.
Besides, I
only mean to talk to the man."

Reaching out, Diana grasped Alexandria's
hand.
"It is what he means that worries me.
And I—oh, now I am
going to start lecturing like Mother.
Well, I will not do that."
She gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek.
"I shall trust that you know
what you are about, for you always seem to.
Good night."

Diana turned away, and Alexandria watched
her for a moment, just to make certain her niece reached her room.
Pulling in a breath, she smoothed a hand down her stomach and
turned back to Paxten.

Did she know what she was about?

He stood by the fire, a glass of red wine in
his fingers, one foot braced on the copper fender around the
hearth.
In his old-fashioned velvet coat and evening breeches, she
could almost imagine that ten years had not passed.
The white of
his cravat, shirt, and stockings gleamed.
He had such lovely,
muscular calves.

He looked up as she shut the door behind her
and leaned against it, and he asked, his mouth lifting, "Is your
duenna put to bed?"

"She is—well, I think she believes you have
dishonorable intentions towards me."

He put his glass on the table—which had been
cleared earlier of everything but fruit, cheese and wine.
He strode
across the room, stopping close before her.
"And what do you
think?"

The glitter in his eyes left her breathless,
but she answered, her tone almost even, "I think she is probably
right.
However, I assured her that I only wish to speak with
you."

He shook his head and asked, his words light
but with bitterness underneath, "Talk?
When we could do so much
more?
Where is your sense of adventure, Andria—or is it that you
never had any?"

Her chin lifted.
"Actually, I killed it when
I had to let you go."

He stared at her and she pressed her lips
tight.
Heat scalded her face.
Where had those words come from?
She
had not meant to say any such thing.
Nor had she wanted to sound
even more caustic than he—but she had.

And she realized the truth.

She had answered so because his words had
wounded her.
It did not matter if he had meant only a jest about
her prosaic nature.
He had touched the raw spot of her guilt for
not having followed him.
And she had lashed back.

She turned away.
She had been stupid to
think that they would ever be able to bridge the past.
She had dug
too great a ditch between them by how she had dealt with him, so
why did it still surprise her when he sought retribution in small
ways?
Because she wanted to believe otherwise?
Or because she
wanted to think that what they had once felt for each other was
stronger than this petty nipping at each other.

"Andria...?"

She would not turn back to him, but his
hands closed on her shoulders, turning her anyway.
His tone
softened, became teasing again.
"I had forgotten what a delight you
take in causing me pain."

This time she tried to take it as a joke as
well.
Swallowing the dryness in her throat, she looked up at
him—the pretense fell apart around her.
"I don't delight in it—but
you never leave me any other choice, do you?"

His smile twisted.
"No—I don't.
Do you leave
me many choices?"

Still aching inside, she smiled.
"No.
I do
not suppose that I do.
Is that how we are well matched these days?
In our ability to scratch at each other?"

His fingers stroked down her bare arms.
Neither of them had thought to buy gloves today.

She glanced at his hands—the strong backs of
them and the narrowing wrists.
She looked back up at his face.
His
dark eyes no longer glittered, but she thought she saw regret
mirrored there.
And something else stirring.

"What will you do after we reach England?"
she asked.

Letting go of her, he gave a careless shrug.
"Who knows.
There is Ireland to see.
Or the Americas—there's a
rumor that France sold its territories there.
Or perhaps I'll go
east—I've not yet been so far as India."

She swallowed.
"But not England.
You will
not stay?"

Paxten watched her, doing his best not to
show his interest in her reactions.
He had blundered tonight.
He
had meant it all to be smooth seduction, charm and sweetness.
Instead, he had blurted out hard truths.
Somehow he kept forgetting
that he had plans for her.
He kept tripping over his own pride, and
his own tangled feelings.

Taking her hand again he lifted one finger,
and the next, and the next, playing with them.
Her hand lay passive
within his.
Such slender fingers.
So delicate.
He did not look into
those clear, gray eyes.

"I was angry with you once for not coming
with me, but that was so long ago.
As to the future—well, shall we
let it take care of itself tonight?"

Glancing at her, he watched the golden
firelight warm her skin and draw soft shadows at the base of her
throat and between her small, high breasts.

Eyes wide, she nodded.

He leaned closer, close enough to see the
flecks of green in her gray eyes, to see the edge of black around
the rim, to see the faintest of freckles that had sprung up across
her nose.
Close enough to smell the tang of wine on her breath, and
to breathe in the scent of lavender that clung to her now.
Close
enough to feel the heat stirring in her.

Reaching up, he tangled his hand into her
hair, letting the strands wrap around his fingers.
He pulled her
head back as he stepped even closer, pressing himself against her
and pressing her against the door.
She did nothing but give to him,
soft and pliant, her head angling back to expose her slender, white
throat.

You fool, she could love you again.

But had she ever cared deeply?
Certainly not
enough to take the risk of leaving with him.
Only enough to give
him empty promises.

The bitterness rose in him
like a poison.
He ached to trust her.
And still the voice whispered
to him.
She made her choice—you know what
she values, and it's not you.

He searched her eyes for answers.

But he could not see what would be different
in London now.
His relatives would want him gone.
Hers would look
on him with scorn.
And she would make a choice for
respectability—she still had a son, after all, to consider.
And she
would not want a lover who would make her truly into Lady Scandal.
He could see that in her.

His heart tightened, and so did his hand on
her hair.
The words barely more than a harsh, raspy whisper, he
muttered, "Why did you not come with me?"

Before she could answer, before she
could tell him any more truths, he kissed her.
A touch of his lips
to hers, as sweet as their love once had been—bittersweet now with
memories of parting, of the empty ache for her, of what they had
lost.

Letting go of her hair, he put his
arms around her.
Her hands crept up to touch his face, to stroke
his cheek.
She tilted her head and parted her lips.

Ah, he had what he wanted—her in his arms.
His Lady Scandal.

Leaning away from her, he stared at her
eyes.
Liquid and dark now.
He searched her face for some hint that
she would deny him tonight, that she would pull away.

But she only smiled.