Once Upon a Scandal (28 page)

Apparently so, because he promptly pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat and burst into tears. Long, gasping sobs, nearly theatrical, his lower lip quivering. She looked about in a panic, unsure of what to do or say. He had a reputation for tears and an excess of emotion, but this was startling.

“You are a vision from the murky depths,
madame
,” he replied, once he’d regained some semblance of control. “Had we not ourselves seen poor Miss Fitzsimmons lost to the Thames, we would vow she’d been returned to us, in the form of her lovely cousin.”

“I understand the resemblance is considerable. I am so aggrieved it has caused you pain.” If she gave herself away, she’d be shackled in leg irons and sent off to the Old Bailey. Or worse.

“No, it is a blessing. You serve as a reminder of her beauty and nobility. Even though you are French by birth, we claim you for Britain. We say you are English in your heart.”

She bowed her head. “I believe you must be right.”

• • •

As the orchestra sounded the first strains of the opening quadrille, the prince himself led her out onto the floor, a distinct honor, even if the steps of the dance quickly proved too taxing for his sizable frame. After a few minutes, he decided they were both in need of a restorative, demanding champagne, not just for the two of them, but for all.

Luckily, Sophia’s staff had prepared for such a possibility, because flutes were soon being passed throughout the crowd as the prince’s own servants poured bottles brought from Carlton House, his London residence. “French champagne, of course,” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “We can’t abide anything else.”

“A toast,” he declared to the assembled guests, standing at rapt attention. “May we always honor Miss Fitzsimmons and cherish Madame Fauchon.”

To emulate the prince, even the most staid matrons downed their glasses in a gulp as giddy laughter swept through the crowd, the atmosphere suddenly festive. “Another, our dear
madame
?”

“How can I say no to such a generous offer, Your Majesty?”

Very soon, he was ordering her a third, threatening her with public intoxication, which would never do. How to deny a prince seemingly bent on her inebriation? How to gracefully decline? As a fourth glass was poured, Benjamin suddenly appeared at her side. It didn’t matter that they were only friends and nothing more. How dashing he looked in his severe evening attire, bowing first to the prince and then to her. And how delicious he smelled. Bergamot oil and lemon and something else she couldn’t quite define. Something mouthwatering.

“Your Majesty,” he said, his voice soft as swan’s down on her skin. “May I compliment you on the excellent vintage?”

“Ah, Marworth. How thankful we are for your connections on the coast.” The prince swayed towards her, smiling broadly. “Were he not already ennobled, we should knight Lord Marworth for his contributions to our gustatory delight.”

“I would knight him for the scent of his cologne.” Dear Lord. The prince’s booming laughter meant she’d voiced the thought aloud.

“You are a flirt, Madame Fauchon! And the reason, we suspect, for Marworth’s approach. Are you angling for a dance then?”

“I’ll admit nothing would bring me more pleasure. May I ask for the company of your lovely companion?”

“It’s a request best made to
madame
,
n’est cue pas
?” the prince asked, chortling again at the eagerness with which she agreed, his booming voice following them through the crowd. “A warning to the eligible men assembled here. Lord Marworth has just deflated your ambitions.”

Even in her befuddled state, she was tempted to tell the prince that the only thing deflating was her own heart. But she’d never let Benjamin know it.

• • •

When Benjamin saw her with the prince, it had been all he could do not to race to her side. The so-called first gentleman of England had a notorious appetite, and he’d been eyeing Jane like a multi-coursed meal, her dress alone a feast.

Diaphanous crimson gauze had been fitted over pearlescent taffeta, giving the illusion of dewy pink skin wrapped up in transparent tissue, with soft petals of fabric framing her shoulders and dancing with the slightest movement. The gauze then tucked beneath those incredible breasts, outlining their shape. A diamantine brooch, glittering in the candlelight, was nestled between them, seemingly the only thing securing the gauze to her dress, as a wash of crimson color flared over her hips, exposing the creamy underskirt.

“Such a lovely treat, champagne,” she said, diverting his thoughts with a wide grin, her feet a touch unsteady. “It makes an occasion so cheerful, do you not think so,
monsieur
?”

“It’s your presence that cheers me, Madame Fauchon.” It felt unnatural, pretending to this distance between them. Already, his lips were twitching as they took their places on the floor. A Scottish reel had been scheduled, but when a waltz began instead—ordered no doubt by the prince—excited whispers rippled through the crowd, and several couples stepped forward to join in the dance, still considered too fast in certain circles.

He grasped her right hand with his left, placing the other hand at the small of her back, careful to keep their bodies from touching too closely. But he could still feel the warmth of her, the smooth movement of her lithe frame as they twirled about the floor, hips and legs swaying towards each other. So he concentrated on the enemy who might be in their midst and looked over her shoulder, rather than into those shining eyes.

“I might surprise you with the things I know about champagne.”

“Might you now?” he asked, unable to resist the challenge.

“I wonder if you can tell me who authored this quote,” she said. “‘In victory, you deserve champagne. In defeat, you need it.’”

“A man with unrestricted access to generous reserves.”

“Excellent guess. I have it on good authority champagne is Napoleon’s favorite beverage. Now another. ‘Champagne is the only wine that leaves a woman beautiful after drinking it.’”

“Now on that point, I disagree.” A woman tipsy on cognac sprang to mind. She was beautiful to him in any guise, in any state, awake or asleep. Especially now, so close in his arms. But he could not focus on such things.

“Sadly, you can no longer take la Marquise de Pompadour to task. She has taken her strong opinions to the grave. She was a dear friend to
ma grand-mere
.”

“Your grandmother kept fascinating company.”

“Oh, she did,” Jane said, nodding emphatically. “Do you know she claimed the coupe goblet for champagne was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s décolletage?”

He stumbled, earning several surprised glances. He was not given to social missteps of any kind. Then again, he’d not spent much time in Society in the company of Jane Fitzsimmons, or Madame Fauchon, or whomever she might choose to be. But God, he wanted to. There was no joy in the realization he was completely besotted.

No sooner had the waltz ended than Jane was besieged. He was glad to see her refuse another glass of champagne from one eager swain but hated that Winchester led her in the next dance. At least the steps of the cotillion would keep them more often apart than together. By all appearances, Winchester wanted Jane for himself. And wouldn’t that be a hideous thing to stand by and see? Winchester as prime minister, Jane as Lillianne by his side, forced to live a lie for the rest of her life.

The thought of it struck uncomfortably close. Benjamin had not assumed an identity, of course, but he’d taken on a persona that no longer fit. One motivated by equal parts revenge and remorse, but as much a trap as the one into which Jane had fallen.

How could he have done it? Those long weeks ago—an eternity now—when he’d so easily convinced himself that manipulations served a better purpose. That escaping untenable circumstances was ample justification. That compensation would soothe any regrets. Because little in life was fair.

Torrington’s words still echoed ...

“Why would she be willing to sacrifice so much, when this will likely end with her father being exposed as a traitor?”

How had Benjamin so twisted a vow to honor his brother and avenge his untimely death into a perversion of everything Aiden would have stood for? He’d pulled Jane into his own world, one that suffocated, when she deserved every happiness and the love of a worthy man.

Somehow, she’d become the only thing in his life with any true resonance. And he was very afraid the feeling he’d mistaken for a temporary obsession would be far more lasting.

He now knew the true nature of his penance. The treasure she was had not been earned. He was not worthy of her. He had been guided by the selfish need for her company, for her attention, when what she’d deserved all along was his honesty. It had been given too little and too late.

“You’re looking so serious, Benjamin.” Lady Caroline Melbourne, her voice thin and treacle sweet. Evidently, Sophia’s ball had tempted her out of hiding after all, despite her recent disgrace. “Why don’t we slip out onto the patio? I can think of a number of ways to cheer you up, all of them mutually pleasurable.”

He stifled a sigh, because he was in no mood for her antics. Still, her husband was a suspect, no matter how unlikely, and he was here with a job to do. He gave her a heavy-lidded smile, the one women always mistook for sincere interest. “You were made for pleasure, Caroline, but a trip outside would hardly serve your interests.”

She cocked her head, her eyes narrowed. “And why is that?” She did not suffer disappointment well.

“Because Byron can’t see you out there, my dear. And we both know you’ve come to me in order to antagonize him. Shall we dance and put on an appropriately engaging show?”

“I’m the one accused of outrageous behavior,” she replied, trailing a finger down his lapel. “And yet you’re the one who plays on people’s passions. Lead away, then. Let’s give the gossips something to talk about.”

As he led her out onto the dance floor, he could already hear the whispers starting.

But tell me, my lovely friends, when the heart overflows with gaiety, is there not a danger of it bursting the proper bounds?—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

The champagne’s heady glow had long since faded. Her feet were sore in shoes just the slightest bit too tight, and the boisterous enthusiasm of her last dance partner had been fatiguing. Usually, she loved to dance, but tonight she’d not sat out for a single set. And when breaks had been called, she’d been swarmed by the crowd, feted and fawned over by everyone who’d ostracized her after Father’s disgrace.

None of those things, however, could account for the loneliness she felt. A strange sensation, when one was surrounded by so many people. But Benjamin, after their dance, had kept his distance, when he was the only person she wanted to be with. And he was currently waltzing with the awful Caroline Melbourne. Their eyes were fixed on each other, as if no one else was in the room, and his hand had drifted scandalously close to her derriere. Lady Melbourne wouldn’t hesitate to take up where Claudette had left off.

“Don’t you agree, Madame Fauchon?”

Oh dear. She was still engaged in a conversation with Lord Brougham. “
Mais, oui,
” she said, hoping to disguise her inattention by agreeing to whatever he’d been saying.

“If Wellington can continue his recent string of victories and make incursions into France itself—begging your pardon, but it must be done—the war will be concluded, and we can get on to the important business of reforming our legal system.” As Brougham continued speaking, at length and with great passion, she knew at least one certainty. He’d nothing to do with the dossiers.

“It’s good to know you will lead the fight,
monsieur
, to make things more just.” With a flutter of her fan, because the room suddenly felt too close, she took a step back. “I must beg your pardon. I’ve just noticed Lady Marchmain motioning for me.”

Lady Marchmain was nowhere in sight. But if she heard Lady Melbourne’s shrill laughter one more time, she might scream.

“Of course. I will look forward to continuing our discussion later.”

Bobbing a quick curtsey, she turned and sped towards the relative quiet of the patio, desperate for a moment’s peace as she swept through the doors opening onto it and into the cooler night air.

“How eager you are to join me, Madame Fauchon.”

What was Sir Aldus doing on the patio, not a dozen feet away, when it was the last place she wanted him to be?

“
Pardonnez moi
. I did not know you were here.” She looked about quickly, her heart sinking as two couples close by rushed into the ballroom for the next dance, leaving them alone.

“Don’t be coy,” he said, starting towards her. “You saw me come out here. I’d hoped you would follow.”

“I did not.”

“You are so beautiful tonight, Lillianne.”

She stiffened. “You are too familiar,
monsieur
.” And coming too close. She backed into an alcove, only to realize she could no longer be seen from the doors.

“There is such a powerful attraction between us.” His eyes were dark, his smile unnerving. “And you are so like her.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Her back was flat against the wall of the house, her breath speeding. “And I want you to stay where you are.”

To her surprise, he did stop, but only to get a better view of her breasts in the moonlight. He was ogling them, his mouth gone slack. “You have her fire, too, don’t you? My lovely Jeannette, who clawed and railed against me. She didn’t understand we were meant to be together.”

Jeannette. God above. Her mother.

How can you be so cruel? To not even acknowledge me when you know how I feel?

Sir Aldus had been the one. And he’d taken what he wanted by force.

“I knew I must come here tonight, no matter the censure.” He was just a few feet away now. “They blame me for something l didn’t do, but none of it matters now. You have everything I need.”

Fear bubbled up as he reached for her bodice. But so did the darkest fury she’d ever known. The thought of what her mother must have endured at his hands. The thought of her friend, Annabelle, who had nearly fallen victim to a beast much like Sir Aldus. The look in Oakley’s eyes when she’d admitted the devastating abuse that had led to Arthur’s birth. The scar Banning wore, evidence far too many men thought they could force the weaker sex into submission.