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Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith

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BOOK: Once Upon a Scandal
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A fresh attack of cowardice seized Emma. She wanted to slink out of the house, to handle her business by letter. But that would be unfair of her.
She owed Lucas the courtesy of making her proposal in person.
“I knew it would happen someday. Didn’t I, Toby?” Reclining on a chaise in the library, the dowager Lady Wortham addressed the old white terrier curled in her lap, then looked at Lucas. “I knew the chit would come here and demand her rights. I’m only surprised she waited so long. She must be planning to win her way back into your good graces, and you must promise not to allow it to happen.”
At one time, Lucas had resented being talked to like a child, but now he merely smiled, bending to give his mother a distracted kiss on her cheek. “Don’t fret, Mama. It isn’t good for your health.”
“Bah, those doctors are a flock of fussy geese. They would have me lying all day in bed like an invalid. I’ll have you know, my heart is as hale as a newborn babe’s.”
“You were overcome by exhaustion on the day of my return. And you will rest accordingly.”
She pursed her lips as if to protest. Then a rueful smile brought vivacity to her ghostly pale cheeks. “You’ve grown autocratic, just like your father. You speak with such confidence now. Ah, Lucas, how good it is to have you home again.”
“It’s good to
be
back.”
It was true. The library had always been his favorite room, his sanctuary, and it looked exactly the same, as if he’d never gone away. A fire crackled on the grate, and leather wing chairs flanked the hearth. Filled with nervous energy, he paced around the room. The walls held row upon row of
books collected by his father, who had devoted himself to scholarly historical research. Lucas had spent many a happy hour here, reading about the strange customs of foreign peoples.
He’d feel at peace now were it not for Emma. He sensed her presence like a pall on his good humor. Of course, she would be gone once Stafford relayed the news that her husband had no time for her today.
Was she still the blond temptress? What the devil did the bitch want from him? Money, no doubt.
Lucas forced his attention to the pile of wooden crates that littered the Turkish carpet. Picking up a crowbar, he inserted the pointed end between a crate and its lid. He did not wish to think about Emma. He did not want to know if her appearance had changed, if she still could melt a man with her baby-blue eyes.
Lucas shoved downward, applying pressure to the crowbar. The dry wood gave way with a protesting squawk, and the top of the crate came off. “I’ve brought you several gifts,” he told his mother, tipping the box toward her. “Jade from the Orient, ivory from Africa, jewels from India.”
Lady Wortham hardly glanced at the exotic offerings, though Toby watched dolefully from her lap. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Perhaps you
should
see Emma. The sooner, the better. Before she has the chance to concoct more of her mischief.”
Lucas’s fingers tightened on the box. The straw inside the crate prickled his skin and exuded a musty odor. “I’ll deal with her in my own way. And in my own time.”
As if she hadn’t heard, his mother went on. “My dear, you mustn’t blame yourself for what happened. Forgive me for speaking so frankly, but when Emma moved back to her grandfather’s house and was brought to childbed not five months after the wedding, everyone in society deduced the truth. Rest assured, your peers regard you as an honorable man.”
The warmth of love flowed between them, but Lucas also felt the sting of resentment. Damn Emma for driving him
away from his family. Over the past seven years, a lacework of lines had aged his mother’s patrician features. Noticeably thinner, she had to stop and rest whenever she walked up the stairs. His ill-advised marriage and prolonged absence had affected her deeply, he knew, coming so soon after his brother Andrew’s death in battle. Lucas would not permit anyone to upset her further.
Especially not Emma.
He met his mother’s gaze. “My only regret is the scandal I brought upon you and my sisters.”
“It brought worse upon Emma, and justly so. We became objects of sympathy.
She
became an object of scorn.” As she stroked the terrier, Lady Wortham’s hand trembled. “Emma herself confessed to her wicked behavior the next day, after you’d gone away. She stood in front of me, as bold as brass, and admitted she’d entrapped you.” His mother bent over the dog as if to take comfort from his unconditional devotion. “Isn’t that so, Toby?” The animal licked her hand.
“I shouldn’t have left you to face her on your own,” Lucas said with a shadow of guilt. “It was unforgivable of me.”
“You were too kind to recognize her true character. She acted the flirt, luring all the gentlemen to herself, even the married ones. Given her lack of morals, she might even have dallied with a servant.” Lady Wortham made a disapproving noise in her throat. “We can be thankful she did not bear a son. A footman’s get might have been your legal heir.”
That possibility had galled Lucas, and he’d wasted months agonizing over the identity of her lover. But no more. He refused to expend energy on bitterness and regrets. His memories of Emma held no more significance than an old, aching wound.
“There is no point to idle speculation.” Lucas bore down on the crowbar and another crate creaked open. “The matter is closed.”
His mother sat up straighter, and Toby snuffled a protest in her lap. “But that’s where you’re wrong,” Lady Wortham
said. “Have you considered your future? If you were to speak to the archbishop about an annulment …”
His jaw muscles clenched, but he spoke calmly. “You know as well as I that the banns were announced. I was not coerced into speaking my vows. The bishop himself presided over the ceremony. There can be no doubt that it was all quite legal and valid.”
“Then seek a divorce. There is surely enough proof of her infidelity to win your suit. And you could marry again. I know any number of lovely young ladies who would make you the perfect wife.”
Lucas only just stopped himself from snapping out an order to stop interfering. He would not quarrel with his mother. The anxious hope lighting her hazel eyes revealed her good intentions. Having been blessed with a loving marriage before his father’s death, she viewed wedlock as the cornerstone to happiness. But Lucas no longer shared her belief.
The thought of divorce had tempted him in the past. He could end Emma’s connection to him once and for all. No longer could she claim the distinction of Wortham.
Yet were he free, his mother would make it her mission to introduce him to a succession of well-bred ladies. He would be forced to tell her about Shalimar, that he had already found the only woman who mattered to him. A foreigner who, like Emma, had borne a bastard child by another man.
Christ, he despised the need for deception. He didn’t want to hide Shalimar in a discreet house in St. John’s Wood as if she were a dirty secret. Yet he could not—he would not—risk his mother’s health.
Carefully, he drew a gold jeweled mask from its nest of straw in the crate. “The future can wait for another day,” he stated firmly. “Now, I promised to show you what I brought back from my travels. This piece came from a maharajah’s palace. It’s reputed to bring great luck to its owner.”
He crouched beside the chaise and presented the tiger mask to his mother. She raised a thin eyebrow as if to argue
further, then lowered her gaze to the mask. In the shape of a tiger’s head, it was designed to cover the upper half of the wearer’s face. Rows of yellow diamonds alternated with strips of dark brown jasper to form the striped head. Slits framed in tiny emeralds comprised the eyeholes.
Lady Wortham stroked the pointed gold ears, much as she had stroked the old terrier nestled in her lap. “It looks quite valuable. Be sure to lock it up. During your absence, there have been a rash of robberies by a ruffian known as the Bond Street Burglar.”
“The mask won’t be here long. I plan to donate it—and several other pieces—to the museum at Montague House.” His voice warmed. “My hope is to organize an exhibit displaying artifacts from all over the world.”
She smiled fondly at him. “Much as I missed you, I’m glad you had the chance to travel. It’s always good for a young man to take the grand tour before he settles down.”
Her words jolted Lucas. She thought he was home to stay.
Now there was something else he couldn’t yet tell her. Eventually she would have to learn he did not intend to remain in England, that he would return abroad after he located Shalimar’s kidnapped son. London held too many unhappy memories.
A discreet knocking saved him from answering. Stafford entered the library again, his steps hesitant. “My lord, beg pardon for disturbing you again. But the marchioness”—he looked at Lady Wortham and gulped—“er, the younger marchioness, well, she refuses to leave until you promise her an audience. On Thursday afternoon.”
Lucas’s stomach clenched. Emma was still here, haranguing his servants.
He might as well find out what she wanted from him. It was childish to play waiting games. “I’ll see her in the drawing room in ten minutes.”
As the servant left, Lady Wortham swung her feet off the chaise. “I shall go with you. It will give me great pleasure to send that brazen hussy packing.”
“No. I’ll deal with her myself.” Rising, Lucas bore the
priceless mask over to the desk at the far end of the room. He moved a row of books from the shelf behind the desk, revealing a small iron door nestled in the wall. With cool efficiency, he inserted a key and opened the hidden repository, then reached for the tiger mask.
He would use the same cool efficiency with Emma. He would permit her a brief, formal interview, the shorter, the better. Now that he knew her true character, seeing her again would be no different than brushing off an annoying tradesman in the Calcutta bazaar.
Toby loosed an excited yap. Ears perked, the terrier sat up on Lady Wortham’s lap, then leaped to the floor. He raced past the heap of crates, short legs pumping, and reached the door just as it opened.
Tail wagging furiously, the dog danced a welcoming jig on its hind feet as a woman stepped into the library.
She glided like a ghost from the past. Slender as a girl, she reached down to pet the dog. “Hullo, Toby. I’m afraid I haven’t any treats today.”
Then she straightened, spied Lucas, and smiled.
The breath left him as if someone had driven a fist into his stomach. His fingers stiffened around the heavy, jeweled mask. The deep blue of her eyes drew him like magic. His tongue felt thick, and for the first time in years he feared he would stutter if he tried to speak.
Damn Emma and her treacherous beauty.
And damn his reaction to her.
The truth hit him with searing force. He’d still sell his soul to have her legs wrapped around him in bed.
T
he first thing Emma noticed was the startling difference in Lucas. It was more than his physical appearance, although he did look tanned and fit. Beneath the walnut-brown coat, his shoulders had widened, and his legs were long and muscled in buff breeches and shiny Hessians. He seemed to have grown taller, broader, more commanding. His boyishly attractive features had hardened into the arrestingly handsome face of a stranger.
Yet the most disturbing transformation of all was the cold indifference in his dark eyes. Not a flicker of attraction shone there, only a faint annoyance, as if he’d been interrupted by an irksome servant.
Emma held her smile with determined effort. Her heart was beating so fast she felt flushed from her cheeks down to her bosom. There was no reason to feel so overwrought. Now that Lucas was back in England, he surely wished to be rid of her. For good.
“Good morning, my lord. Do excuse me for disturbing you at this early hour.” Wanting to spare him a tongue-tied reply, she curtsied to him and then to her mother-in-law. Reclining on a chaise, the elder Lady Wortham looked thinner and her face was unnaturally pale. Fine lines of age framed her eyes and mouth. “Madam,” Emma said with perfect courtesy. “I trust you are well?”
“Perfectly so.” The dowager’s curt tone was just short of rude. “Toby, come here.”
With one last worshipful look at Emma, the terrier trudged across the rug. He lay down beside his mistress, his head cradled on his paws and his eyes mournful.
Did the woman begrudge her even a greeting from a dog? Emma stifled the resentful retort. She had not come here to antagonize the Coulters, but to do them a favor.
Accordingly, she flashed another brilliant smile at Lucas. “Well,” she said in her sunniest voice. “You must be busy reacquainting yourself with friends and family after your trip abroad. I beg only a few moments of your time.”
“As always, I place your needs above all others.” He enunciated each word with crisp contempt, unlike the boy who had once stammered out his proposal of marriage. He turned to the dowager. “If you would excuse us, Mother.”
Lady Wortham remained stubbornly on the chaise. “My son brought back some fascinating artifacts,” she said. “He was showing them to me.”
It was a polite way of saying Emma was intruding. Determined to stay, she stepped closer to her husband. “May I see?”
A strange breathlessness came over her. Lucas’s long fingers held the piece, and she couldn’t help noticing his skin was burnished as if he’d spent many hours in the sun. She forced her gaze to the jeweled replica of a tiger’s head. “Why, it’s a mask. What marvelous workmanship—it must be priceless. Where is it from?”
His fathomless expression hinted at secrets she could never share. “India.”
His movements brisk and self-assured, he placed the tiger mask into the shadowy interior of the safe. How strange to think Lucas had traveled halfway around the globe and seen sights she could only imagine in her dreams. With a pang, Emma remembered the wedding trip they’d planned to the Continent. He’d dreamed of taking her boating on the Seine, drinking wine in a villa near Rome, walking the ancient steps of the Acropolis. He’d set off alone instead, less than twenty-four
hours after he had bound himself to her by a vow of everlasting love.
He closed the repository door and locked it, then crossed the library to the desk and tossed the key into a drawer. The essence of him lingered in the air, a faint whiff of musk along with something spicy and exotic, mysterious and masculine.
“Don’t you think you ought to keep the key in a less obvious place?” she blurted out without thinking. “Any thief could find it in a moment.”
“Thieves are the very least of my son’s concerns,” the dowager snapped, sitting rigidly upright on the chaise. “Unless, of course,
you’ve
come to steal from him.”
Emma’s blood chilled. For the barest moment, she feared both of them knew she was the Bond Street Burglar. But that was absurd. “I wouldn’t think of it. You yourself made certain I have no say in his affairs.”
Lady Wortham pursed her patrician lips as if composing a retort.
“Mother, I believe you were about to leave,” Lucas said.
“It might be wiser if the two of you spoke at the office of our solicitor—”
“I should like to be alone with my wife. Now.”
A look passed between the two of them. Then she lowered her eyes and stood up, Toby in her arms. “As you wish.”
Emma blinked in surprise. In the past, the dowager had kept a firm rein on her son. How masterfully Lucas behaved now.
Taking his mother’s elbow, he led her to the door. “Mind, no overtaxing yourself,” he said quietly. “You’re to rest before luncheon.”
The tender regard he showed to his mother brought a lump to Emma’s throat. At one time, he had shown the same loving attention to his fiancée. He had followed her around like an adoring terrier, fetching her drinks, bringing her posies, guarding her from the unwanted attentions of other men. She wondered if a kernel of that regard still existed …
He closed the door and turned to Emma. “Tell me how much you need.”
Again, she was struck by his air of command. His hands pushed back his coat and rested at his lean waist, making her uneasily aware of his muscular build. Her palms went damp and cold. He was staring at her, waiting for an answer. And she couldn’t remember what he’d said.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“Tell me the amount you require,” he repeated in a tone of jaded politeness. “I will inform my secretary to issue a bank draft to you.”
Money. He thought she’d come here for money.
Resentment pricked her. If only he knew all the economies she had practiced, the made-over gowns, the times she’d skipped meals so Jenny could eat. But of course Lucas had every reason to think the worst of her. “I don’t want an allowance from you—I never have,” she said evenly. “There’s another matter I wish to discuss with you.”
His eyebrow cocked in skepticism. “Go on.”
Calling up the words she’d rehearsed, Emma clasped her hands tightly and dipped her chin in a girlish pose. “First, I must humbly offer my apology. I wanted you to know how very sorry I am … for deceiving you. I cannot even beg your forgiveness. Rather, I would like to make amends.” She paused, absurdly hesitant to finish the rest of her prepared statement.
His eyes were hard, brown mirrors, revealing nothing of his thoughts. Was he reliving the horrible moment when he had walked into her dressing room and had seen the proof of his bride’s betrayal?
Emma swallowed the impulse to defend herself, to blurt out that she, too, had been wronged—terribly wronged. But he must never know. She would take that secret to the grave.
“Well, speak up about these amends,” he said. “I haven’t all day.”
She lowered her gaze to her gloved fingers, forcing herself to play the shamefaced wife. “I should like to offer my cooperation to you … in procuring a divorce.”
There, it was out. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. He would say yes gladly. And then she could
give Jenny a real home and a father who loved her.
“No,” Lucas said.
“No?”
“You heard me.” Smiling coldly, he strolled to a small crate, picked up a metal bar, and used a violent gouge to pry off the lid. Wood splintered with a harshly grating noise. “I will not subject my family to another scandal. If that is all you’ve come to say, you may go.”
Her carefully constructed plans threatened to tumble around Emma. She had braced herself to offer sympathy for his pain, understanding for his anger, gentle persuasion for his reluctance. She had humbled herself, practically groveling at his feet. Never had she expected him to refuse with calm, unshakable conviction.
“You haven’t given the matter enough thought,” she said, keeping her voice sweet. “You needn’t fear I’ll ask for an annuity from you, Lucas. I only wish to give you your freedom.”
“I’ve been free enough these past seven years.”
What did he mean? That he’d had other women? She swallowed hard. “The scandal will be trifling if the divorce is obtained quietly.”
“Quietly?” He chuckled without humor. “There is the small matter of airing one’s dirty laundry in a public forum, for all the world to hear. The small matter of securing a Parliamentary bill of divorce.”
“You have influence. Use it.”
“I don’t care to bother myself.”
Frustrated by his indifference, she ventured a few steps closer and lowered her voice to a husky murmur. “Don’t you wish to marry again? All men want an heir.”
“Most men.” Lucas searched through the straw inside the crate. He drew forth the small jade figurine of a woman and examined it, turning it over and over in his big hands. “However, I’m fortunate enough to have a cousin to ensure the succession. A sober-minded gentleman with three sons of his own.”
“But what of you? Don’t you want a real wife? A companion?”
He glanced at Emma, his mouth crooked into the trace of a smile. “If you refer to the attentions of a loving woman, I have that need fulfilled to my satisfaction. By my mistress.”
A hectic heat rushed over Emma’s skin. He returned his attention to the figurine and carefully brushed off the bits of clinging straw as if caressing his lover.
Was that why he seemed so unaffected, so secretive, so
male?
Because he kept a woman to appease his physical lusts? The notion made her shudder inwardly. Who was his lover? Someone he had met on his travels? Was his mistress responsible for his transformation from stuttering boy to domineering man?
He placed the statue on a bookshelf and then stood back to survey it. There was no reason to feel betrayed, Emma told herself. She should be happy he hadn’t pined for her all these years. “Then you’ll wish to marry her. I’m offering you that chance.”
“How decent of you.” He paced slowly past the piles of packing crates and circled around behind her. “However, I am beginning to believe your interest in my welfare is not what brought you here to plead so prettily.”
His muted footfalls brought to mind a tiger stalking its prey. She imagined him reaching out to grab her, pinning her to the floor. Standing rigidly still, Emma ignored the prickling of alarm down her spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“This sudden kindness of yours has nothing whatever to do with concern for my happiness. Rather, it is
you
who wants freedom from wedlock.”
Her heartbeat quivered. She fancied he stood directly behind her, that she could feel his warm breath stirring the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. Forcing herself to keep her head bowed in the guise of a helpless female, she murmured, “Surely we share a common interest in ending the marriage.
That’s why I’m here. To spare you the trouble of broaching such a delicate topic.”
“How alluring a heroine you are, my Lady Wortham. I wonder how far you would go to convince me of your sincerity.” Then he caressed her.
His fingertips glided over her cheek, brushing against her lips. The shock of it sizzled through her. In an instant, she plunged into a dark river of memory.
She jerked around to face him, backing up against the crates. A splinter drove into her palm, but she was numb to the pain. Her throat knotted so tightly she could scarcely speak. “Don’t.
Don’t.”
The fire crackled into the silence. An unreadable emotion flickered in his gold-flecked brown eyes. “Don’t what? Don’t touch my own wife?”
Maturity had hardened his features, lent him an aura of danger. Yet she could also see traces of the boy he had been. On either side of his firm mouth lay hints of the dimples that showed when he smiled.
He was not smiling now.
She felt like a butterfly pinned to his corkboard. She could only stare mutely at him and pray he would leave her be.
“Were I the dastardly sort,” he said, “I would have demanded my rights on our wedding night.” Folding his arms in a casual stance, he looked her up and down. “Rest assured, though, I prefer a woman of honor.”
“Of course,” she whispered. “And I’m willing to set you free for her sake.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Tell me the truth, Emma. What man have you found to gull this time?”
She lowered her gaze to his neckcloth. “Man?” she said on a trill of surprise. “Why do you assume there is a man involved?”
“Because a woman like you is never without a man to maneuver.” His fingers roughly nudged her chin up. “Tell me his name. I would know who’s been cuckolding me.”
“I—”
“Tell me, for the courts will require proof of your adultery.”
His forefinger and thumb held her chin firmly in place. She fought the panic his touch inspired. There was no point to concealment, she knew with dismal certainty. In order to obtain a Parliamentary divorce, he would first need to win a civil suit against her lover. Her supposed lover. “I—I have an understanding with Sir Woodrow Hickey.”

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