Once Upon a Scandal (24 page)

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Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith

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BOOK: Once Upon a Scandal
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“Because”—he leaned closer—“at the moment”—his hot breath gusted against her ear—“you’re not thinking about money.”
Something light and damp traced the whorls of her ear. A shivery warmth waltzed downward, dancing to the drumbeat in her belly. She closed her eyes and savored the sweetness of passion. She and Lucas were perfect partners. Her body responded to his, only his. Surely it was only a matter of time before he realized that, too.
He kissed a path over her cheek and his mouth met hers, softly at first, then with deepening arousal. She opened herself to him, giving back as much as she received, letting instinct be her guide as Lucas had taught her.
She felt herself melting, melting in his arms until her back met a hard bed and she realized he had lowered her to the desk. He tugged at her skirt. “Lift up,” he said hoarsely.
“Here?”
“Now.”
“The door—”
“Is closed. The servants have strict orders not to disturb us.”
“You told them—?” The half-formed thought slipped away as he worked the skirt to her waist and then caressed her masterfully, first with his hand and then with his mouth. Emma groaned in shocked denial as his tongue sought her most sensitive secrets. Then the searing pleasure of it overcame her scruples, and she gave herself up to the alluring sensations. Within moments he lifted himself over her and made them one, taking her on a swift ascent to the sun and the radiance of release.
As the sounds of their pleasure subsided, Emma basked in
an incomparable awe. “I didn’t know it could happen so …
fast.
”
“Tallyho,” he said.
She laughed—she couldn’t help it—even though shyness swept over her. The desk pressed against her back, and sunlight spilled its golden glory onto them. Above her, Lucas braced himself on his arms, taking most of his weight and making her more aware of the one place they were joined. His eyes were a deep, dense brown, shaded by thick dark lashes. Though he wasn’t smiling, she could see the indentations in his cheeks. From the depths of her heart surged a rushing river of love, a tender tide of hope. She swallowed against the thickening in her throat. “We’d better get up,” she whispered.
“Perhaps so.” The dimples deepened with the curving of his mouth. “But I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be right now.”
Did he care for her, just a little? Or was his lovemaking only a means to an end? “I expect you say that to all your women.”
His smile waned. “I’ve had only two women in my life, Emma.”
Two women. Herself. And his foreign mistress. A strange, sharp emotion cut into Emma’s breast. Until now he had been faithful to his concubine, as faithful as a husband. How many years had they taken their pleasure together? How many times had he visited her here in London?
Strangled by resentment, she turned her head to the side. And found herself staring into the glowing, emerald-rimmed eyes of a tiger. “Oh!”
“It seems alive, doesn’t it?” Lucas murmured. “It’s reputed to have magical powers.”
An eerie energy emanated from the mask, as if it were possessed of a seductive sorcery. Resisting a shiver, Emma looked curiously at Lucas, aware of how many things she didn’t know about him, how many things she wanted to learn. “Are you superstitious, then? You’d trust an object to bring you good luck?”
“Luck? No.” He smiled wolfishly. “The tiger is a fertility god. I have it on the best authority. The mask bestows great potency on its owner.”
His cocky conceit took a moment to register. Then the source of it hit her with an unwelcome jolt.
Fertility.
Her hands thrust hard against his chest. “Get away from me. You and your plaguey mask.” Sitting up, she grabbed the heavy tiger’s head, preparing to hurl it at him.
“Have a care,” he said, taking it from her and placing it back down. “It’s a priceless objet d’art.”
“And you brought it into the library on purpose.” She stabbed her finger at him. “You
planned
this little tête-à-tête.”
He elevated an eyebrow. “I’d have to believe in magic, then.”
“Are you saying you don’t?”
“Are you saying you do?”
“No!” She didn’t quite understand why she felt so distraught. “I’m merely pointing out that you deliberately put your
fertility
charm beside us. To help you conceive a child.”
He made an exaggerated grimace. “You wound me. Surely my own virility suffices to the task.”
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She almost asked him what he
did
dream of, but caught herself in time. He regarded her with insufferable interest as she struggled to adjust the gown twisted around her waist. He produced a folded handkerchief and made a move toward her.
She snatched it from him. “I can manage.”
Presenting her back to Lucas, she tidied herself with shaking fingers, though the silk skirt was hopelessly wrinkled. The knot in her throat returned with a vengeance. She was scandalized at how easily she’d lost control. Anyone might have walked in—a servant … the dowager … Jenny.
Out of the periphery of her vision, Emma saw Lucas straighten his own clothing. How could he be so casual about
making love to her on a desk in the middle of the day? Because for him, the experience was only a pleasurable means to an end. He wanted to get his heir and then divorce her. And return to his precious mistress.
With the suddenness of a thunderclap, Emma realized she was foolish enough to hope for more. Foolish enough to dream of love. Foolish enough to want to stay with him forever.
His hand brushed over her back. “Emma. Don’t be angry.”
His voice held a trace of tenderness, and she immediately took offense. “I’ll be angry if I like,” she said, spinning around to face him. She slapped the handkerchief into the palm of his hand. “You cannot dictate my feelings.”
He stood gazing at her strangely, moodily, his earlier mirth vanished. “I fail to see what’s put you in an ill humor,” he said. “Conceiving a child is what we agreed upon.”
And then you’ll take our son away.
She hugged her arms to her aching bosom. “It’s a cold-blooded plan, that’s what. And I don’t care to have your tiger mask here to remind me of it.”
Compressing his lips, Lucas stared at her consideringly. “The truth is, I showed the mask to the director of the museum. Then I brought it here so you might catalog it in your journal. The rest … simply happened.”
It wasn’t much of an apology. Yet she was mollified to know he had been overcome by passion for her rather than merely pursuing his heartless scheme. A fierce resolve took shape in Emma. If he did not see a place for her in his future, then she would have to create one. Smiling determinedly, she moved into his arms and curled her hands around his neck. “Then I do hope
the rest
happens again soon, my lord.”
He lifted his eyebrows quizzically. “You aren’t angry anymore?”
She shook her head, arched up on tiptoe, and touched her lips to his. After a moment’s hesitation, he tightened his grip and returned the kiss, a light and playful action that held the
affection she craved. At least the wall of hatred and mistrust was gone, and that left the way open for love.
“Women,” he growled. “I’ll never understand you.”
“There’s something I don’t understand,” she said, drawing him over to the desk. “Perhaps you can answer my questions about this strange elephant creature.”
Obligingly, he took the piece in his hands. “Ah, Ganesh. He’s a lovable fellow with the face of an elephant and the spirit of a child. He’s from a district in India called Gujarat.” Lucas ran his finger down the stone trunk. “Every Gujrati home has a shrine to Ganesh. The natives burn incense to him in order to invoke his good will.”
Emma listened, fascinated by his tale as much as the tender care with which he turned the statue in his big, competent hands. The same tender care with which he had delivered her out of the darkness of fear and into the light of hope. For better or for worse, she loved Lucas Coulter, this man who had once loved her, too. She had wed him for revenge, to take his name in exchange for nurturing his brother’s seed. And now she didn’t regret any of it, not even the rape, for it had brought her Jenny … and Lucas.
Little did he know, she considered their bargain nullified. She had no intention of handing over the child they would conceive and then meekly walking away. Nor would she allow Lucas to seek out any other woman.
She meant to fight for her husband’s love.
Memoirs of a Burglar
Installment, the First
Upon a moon-dark night, along the steep rooftops of London, walks the Seeker of Justice. Fleet of foot and noble of purpose, he is garbed in black, a shadow darting from chimney to chimney, nimbly balancing on the narrowest of ledges and bravely risking the maws of Death in his quest to aid those poor souls who have suffered at the whims of Evil Gamesters.
By night he journeys along the upper stories of the city; by day he promenades with the upper reaches of Society. Be not alarmed by this stealthy visitor, ye who live a life of Goodness. Do not hide your jewels or secure your valuables—there is no need. Only those Amoral Others, those who think naught of beggaring a decent man at the toss of the dice or a turn of the cards, have reason to fear, for the Burglar walks among you.
And I am he.
Lord Anon, known as the Bond Street Burglar
A
t the breakfast table, Lucas dropped the newspaper he’d been reading aloud and looked at Emma. She sat to his right, close enough for him to smell her feminine fragrance, not
close enough to satisfy him. Her cheeks were as pale as the cream she had been pouring into her tea. Her eyes were big and pansy-blue against a face of such exquisite beauty he felt thunderstruck anew each time he gazed at her.
Lately he had spent an inordinate amount of time in a state of dazzlement. And an equal amount of time resenting Emma’s mastery over him.
She set down the cream pot with a distinct clink. “It’s Grandpapa,” she declared. “
That’s
what he was writing last week when we went to see him about stealing from Miss Pomfret. He hid a stack of papers in his desk, remember?”
Lucas did, indeed. But his mind dwelt on what had happened later that night in the privacy of his bedchamber. And every night since, not to mention the trysts during daylight hours. He couldn’t fathom his obsession with a woman who should mean less than nothing to him.
“You’re right—this is Briggs’s work.” Lucas glanced down at the newspaper. “And apparently there’s more to come. It says here that tomorrow we shall find out about Lord Anon’s first escapade as a ‘Seeker of Justice.’”
Making a small sound of distress, Emma lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “Grandpapa has gone too far this time. If the publisher of this scandal rag knows Lord Anon’s real identity, then others can find out, too.”
“I very much doubt Briggs would be so foolish as to tell anyone, let alone a stranger.”
“I pray so.” Heedless of crumb-laden dishes, she reached across the table and placed her hand in his. How soft was her skin, especially beneath her clothes, the breasts and hips, the velvety cleft between her thighs. “Oh, Lucas. If Clive Youngblood discovers the truth, he’ll drag Grandpapa off to prison. These memoirs will be like a signed confession.”
“Youngblood won’t find out. I’ll make certain of that.” Lucas pushed aside the remains of his breakfast. “And in the meantime, I believe I shall pay a visit to your grandsire.”
“Don’t be angry at him. He did this for me.” Her voice lowered to an anguished whisper. “Bless him, he wants to clear my name.”
“And pay off Mannering,” Lucas muttered, half to himself.
“But Grandpapa surely wasn’t paid five hundred pounds for
this.”
She tapped the newspaper.
Lucas shrugged noncommittally. He was sorry he’d reminded her of the gaming debt Briggs still owed. It was better that Emma didn’t guess the suspicion that nagged at him.
“Dear heaven,” she said.
Lithe and graceful, she rose to her feet and paced the dining room. Lucas was fascinated by her low-cut apricot dress, by the swish of the skirt around her legs. He knew precisely how those legs felt, slender and silken, wrapped around his waist—
“I see now,” Emma said, with a snap of her fingers. “If Lord Anon were to threaten Gerald Mannering with being made a laughingstock in a future installment, then Mannering might be induced to pay out blackmail money. Which Grandpapa would turn around and use to reimburse Mannering.”
Pushing back his chair, Lucas went to her, unable to stop himself from lightly touching her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I fear that may indeed be his plan. But you needn’t worry, I’ll take care of the matter.”
A smile blossomed on her face, and her eyes sparkled. “Worry? Why, I think it’s exceedingly clever of Grandpapa.”
Lucas dropped his hand to his side. “It’s exceedingly foolish, you mean. Not to mention illegal.”
“Oh, nonsense. It’s far safer than scrambling around on rooftops and pilfering people’s jewels.” She absently rubbed her shoulder. “A person could get shot doing that.”
“A person could also get hurt while attempting to dupe a scoundrel like Mannering.” Lucas fisted his fingers in a vain attempt to erase the feel of her. “And that settles it. I’ll pay off Mannering myself. If I hadn’t been so thick-skulled, I would have done so at the start.”
Emma stood very still. “You would discharge his gaming debt? You would do that for Grandpapa?”
“Not for him,” Lucas said roughly. “For you.”
The truth slipped out before he could stop it. Emma would be devastated if anything happened to the wily old man. And Lucas could not bear to cause her pain.
Her hands alighted on the lapels of his coat. She lifted herself on tiptoe and touched her lips to his in a butterfly kiss. “Thank you,” she murmured, and laid her cheek against his chest.
A treacherous softness unmanned him. He was conscious of her slim body, how well she fit his arms, how sweet and guileless and loving she was. His wife.
His wife.
There was nothing suggestive about her embrace, yet he craved her again, even though they had welcomed the dawn with a private celebration of pleasure.
He shouldn’t be holding her like this. There was no point to affectionate hugs. He needed a child from her, that was all. Only a fool would want more from a woman who could not be trusted.
And if she did not become pregnant? In the two years he and Shalimar had been together, his mistress had not conceived. Perhaps the fault lay in him. Perhaps he wasn’t so virile a man. Perhaps, deep down, he was still that green boy who had worshiped at the feet of a goddess … .
He subdued his doubts. So much the better if the task took months. Those were months in which he could purge himself of this white-hot passion for Emma. Even then, she might give birth to a daughter. And he would have to take Emma to his bed again … and again.
Each time he clasped her to him, it was more difficult to remember that he held an illusion. Each time, he reminded himself. She had beguiled him once into believing she loved him. She had lied to him, stolen his chance to have a family of his own. Because of her, he had spent seven years as an outcast, wandering the world, belonging nowhere.
Because she had been raped, his conscience argued. She’d been young and frightened and desperate.
She was also amoral. Prideful of the fact that she had
broken into the homes of the nobility and pilfered their jewels.
Because she’d had to pay off her grandfather’s debts. And pride also had kept her from demanding the allowance due her as the Marchioness of Wortham.
She wanted an end to their marriage. She had made that clear from the start and had accepted his terms—their son in exchange for a bill of divorce. Already she had selected her next husband, a fact which infuriated Lucas.
So why, then, this past week, had Emma acted the devoted wife? Why did she tease Lucas with the finesse of a seductress? At first he’d thought it was her brand of revenge, her way of punishing him for his abandonment, for demanding she give him a child. But now he knew. Quite simply, Emma was mad about sex.
For most of her adult life, her natural sensuality had been locked within the walls of fear. Now, with her inhibitions shattered, she was like a child let loose in a confectioner’s shop. And he was the lucky proprietor who fulfilled her every appetite.
Love had no place in their marriage. It never had. It never would.
“Mama, look!” Jenny skipped into the room, her braids flying. Against her green dress, she cuddled a squirmy ball of white fur.
Emma drew away from Lucas and knelt down to touch the ball. “Mercy! What do you have here?”
“It’s Toby’s great-granddaughter. And Grandmama says I may keep her.” Jenny giggled as a tiny pink tongue licked her cheek. Beseechingly she looked at Emma. “But only if you and Papa say so.”
“A puppy is a great obligation. You should have to feed her and care for her.”
“I will! I’ll save the very best morsels from my plate.”
“She’ll need to be walked outdoors, too.”
“Nurse promises to take us to the park every day.” Growling playfully, the puppy pounced at Jenny’s braid.
“Please, Mama,” Jenny begged. “I’ve already named her Sissy. Since I don’t have a real sister.”
Emma uttered a small sound of distressed sympathy. She glanced up at Lucas. “What do you think?”
He stared into her clear blue eyes, surprised she would consult him in a decision regarding her daughter. And confounded by how pleased he felt.
He crouched in front of Jenny. There was something inexplicably familiar about her eager blue-green eyes, something that caught at his heart. “There’s one more important duty,” he said. “You’ll have to mop up any puddles she leaves indoors.”
Jenny screwed up her nose. “I will, Papa. I promise. You won’t be sorry. I’ll be your best girl, forever and ever.”
He felt the most curious twist of pain in his chest. Jenny didn’t know she would one day leave here with her mother. She didn’t know the danger of growing attached to him.
Yet it was impossible to resist her innocence when she looked at him so anxiously, her tongue worrying the gap in her front teeth. “That’s quite a pledge,” he said. “All right, then, you may keep her.”
“Oh, thank you!” She launched herself at him, and for the second time that morning he found himself holding an armful of female—and this time a wriggling puppy as well. Over Jenny’s head, he could see Emma watching, a soft wistfulness in the downward curve of her mouth. The look swiftly vanished, and she smiled again.
“Come,” Jenny said, tugging at Emma’s hand. “Let’s go tell Grandmama.”
“All right.” Letting herself be dragged toward the door, Emma murmured to Lucas, “You’ll visit Mannering today, then?”
Lucas nodded curtly. As she blew him a kiss and left in a flash of apricot skirts, an unwelcome thought struck him. If people believed the Burglar to be Lord Anon, then Emma was cleared of suspicion and Lucas had lost his leverage with her.
She could refuse to bear his child. She could leave his bed
forever. She could move out of Wortham House immediately and return to the estimable Sir Woodrow Hickey.
He
would not demand she relinquish her own son; in fact, he had promised her a chaste marriage.
A violent resentment choked Lucas. He assured himself it was concern for her well-being. Now that Emma knew the joys of intimacy, she wouldn’t be happy with a cold fish like Hickey.
And it was up to Lucas to make her realize that.
That afternoon, in another part of the city, Clive Youngblood glowered at the master printer, a rawboned wretch without a brain inside his bald skull. The cluttered office stank of ink and cheap paper. Little sunlight penetrated the soot-grimed windows, rendering the place dim and cold. The clack of the handpress came from the other end of the long room, where a whey-faced apprentice was cranking out additional copies to meet the high demand for
Memoirs of a Burglar.
A burly laborer hefted armloads of the edition to the boys waiting outside to hawk them all over the city.
Clive rattled the news sheet at the man. “What d‘you mean, you hain’t no idea ’oo wrote it?”
The printer splayed out his skinny, ink-stained fingers. “’Tis what I said, sir. The story came by post. There wasn’t any return address.”
“You must’ve sent payment somewhere.”
“He gave it for free, I swear it. The Burglar’s like Robin Hood. He steals from the rich and gives to poor, hardworking citizens like me.” The stoop-shouldered man bowed to the Runner. “If I might beg leave, sir, I have tomorrow’s issue to set up.” He scuttled off toward the trays of lead type stacked against the back wall.
Clive seethed. He wouldn’t be outsmarted by toffs like Lady Wortham and Lord Briggs. They was no better than pickpockets from Petticoat Lane. Nobody made a fool of Mr. Clive Youngblood and got away with it.
Then a thought struck him.
Tomorrow’s issue.
The Bow Street Runner marched past the jumble of files
and papers and stopped behind the master printer. By the yellow light of an oil lamp, the man used wooden tweezers to transfer bits of type into a press tray. When he paused to squint at the manuscript beside him, Clive snatched up the top sheet.
“Lemme see this,” he said, his eyes avid on the spidery handwriting. “Ah-hah.
‘Installment, the Second. Whereby the earl of F——lures several gentlemen into a game of Speculation and leads them to Ruin—’
”

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