Scandalous Brides: In Scandal in Venice\The Spanish Bride (36 page)

She saw Elizabeth’s face, grinning in delight, in the instant before they shut the door and left.

Soon after Carmen’s ignominious departure from Clifton House, with her bodice buttoned crookedly and her cheeks stained with tears, Peter himself left the house. He meant to pay a very important call indeed.

On Robert Means.

When Robert opened the door to his lodgings, Peter wasted no time on preliminaries. He grabbed Robert by his shirtfront and shoved him back against the wall. Robert’s booted feet dangled from the floor, and he flailed helplessly against Peter’s iron grasp.

Robert was a strong man, from all the riding and walking he did in the country. But Peter had always been stronger, and now he had the fire of his fury behind him. He did not even notice the effort it took to keep Robert pinned against the wall.

“Wh-what is this, Clifton?” Robert gasped. His voice was rather faint, due to the fact that his shirtfront was pressed to his larynx.

“I have come to defend a lady’s honor,” Peter replied calmly. “Surely you have been expecting this.”

“What lady?”

“Why, how many ladies have you so defamed? How many ladies have you spread vile falsehoods about?” Peter pressed harder, until Robert’s face went quite purple. “Or have you lost count?”

“No, Clifton! I ...”

“I refer, of course, to only one lady. My wife.”

“Your
wife?
Carmen?”

“Just so.” Peter released Robert, and watched as he fell into a heap on the floor, gasping. “I demand satisfaction.”

Robert stared up at him. He struggled to his feet, but was careful to stay a goodly distance from Peter.

“You are challenging me to a duel?”

“Did you, or did you not, tell me the lie that Carmen was Chauvin’s lover and a French spy?”

Robert turned away. “I—I suppose I did. But I did not know it was a lie!”

“Then, I have no choice. Name your seconds.”

Robert slid back down the wall to a seated position, his face hidden in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Peter suspected he was crying. Or shamming it.

That was a bit discomposing. What was a gentleman supposed to do when the man he had just challenged to a duel burst into tears? Peter was not at all certain, having never fought a duel before.

He reached for a straight-backed chair, swung it about, and straddled it, crossing his arms across the top. “Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t cry, Robert.” He tossed him a handkerchief.

Robert wiped at his face and looked up, still not meeting Peter’s gaze. “I never meant for it to be like this. I thought her dead.”

“Oh, so it is quite all right to sully a
dead
woman’s reputation?”

“No! It—I don’t know what came over me that night.”

“Do you not?”

“I—perhaps I do. I hated you for having her love. I wanted to hurt you.”

Peter shook his head sadly. “And so you did. You ruined my life for six long years. Hers, as well.”

“I never meant to hurt Carmen! I loved her. I thought she was dead—beyond pain.”

“Well, now you know differently.”

Robert began to cry again, sniffling into the handkerchief. “Are you going to shoot me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes, please.”

Despite all his pain and anger, Peter could not help but be a bit sorry for such a pitiful, jealousy-consumed creature. “I have a more effective solution.”

Robert looked up damply. “What?”

“You will write a letter of apology to Carmen. Then you will leave London, and you will never speak to or of Carmen again. You will never come near any of my family. Do you agree? Or shall I shoot you?”

Robert looked back down again. “I agree. I will leave London, and go back to Cornwall.”

“Very well, then. Write that letter, and I shall have it delivered at once. And—have a pleasant journey to Cornwall.”

Chapter Eleven

C
armen stood in the doorway of Elizabeth’s drawing room at Evanstone Park, and surveyed the crowd assembled there, taking tea, chatting, milling about.

Elizabeth and Nicholas had a very wide acquaintance, and it appeared that they were all gathered for the house party. Attending were Lord and Lady Rivers, an elderly couple who were well-known patrons of the arts. There was a Mrs. King, a very wealthy if somewhat silly widow, who was holding her yapping poodle tightly on her lap, no doubt to prevent it breaking free and biting every ankle in the room.

Elizabeth also included Lord Huntington, a young, handsome viscount, no doubt intended for Carmen. There was a Miss Mary Dixon, an excellent pianist and rather promising artist (Elizabeth was always on the watch for someone to be a mentor to). Miss Dixon was lecturing Lord Crane, a fashionable London beau, on some artistic point, splashing droplets of tea onto his fine green coat with every emphasis.

A vibrant redhead in a bright green silk tea gown held court in one corner, surrounded by laughing gentlemen. No doubt that was Elizabeth’s good friend, Mrs. Georgina Beaumont, the famous artist.

And there was Lady Deidra Clearbridge and her mother. They sat somewhat apart from the noisy fray, their lips slightly pursed.

Only Robert Means was nowhere to be seen. So he had kept the promises in his tearstained letter.

Carmen nodded politely at the Clearbridge ladies as she handed her muff and gloves to the butler. Then her smile widened as she saw Elizabeth hurrying toward her, tugging the redheaded woman along with her.

“My dear Carmen!” Elizabeth cried, kissing her on both cheeks. “You are here at last! You are quite the last to arrive, aside from my naughty brother.”

“I do apologize, Lizzie. I had a very late start from Town.”

“Well, you are here now, and that is all that matters. Now, you must meet my bosom bow, Mrs. Georgina Beaumont. I lived at her house in Italy before Nicholas and I were married.”

“Of course! I have heard so much of the famous Mrs. Beaumont.” Carmen turned her smile to the redhead.

Georgina laughed merrily. “Every bit of it true, I assure you!”

Elizabeth grinned. “Georgie quite prides herself on causing a stir everywhere she goes.”

“Then, I can see why you are such good friends,” Carmen said. “You have such a lot in common.”

“Touché!
But then, we are three of a kind, are we not? You yourself are always the center of attention.”

Carmen laughed. “Perhaps you are right, Lizzie.”

“I
am
right! What a dash the three of us will cut, now we are all together.. But now you must come and have some tea.” Elizabeth tucked one of her arms through Carmen’s and one through Georgina’s, and led them into the drawing room. “You must be parched after your journey. And then you must meet the Richardsons. Such charming people, so fond of art...”

Carmen, meant to be choosing a gown for supper, had instead been standing in front of her wardrobe for a full twenty minutes, dressed only in her chemise. She did not see any of the glittering array of garments hanging before her. She ran her hand absently over the skirt of a blue velvet gown, and thought how very much it looked like the blue of Peter’s eyes.

She wondered if he would sit next to her at supper ...

She snatched her hand back from the velvet as if burned. These were the very sort of soppy thoughts she had been trying
not
to have for days now.

The rogue had not called on her after their scene in his library. He had not even sent a note.

Had he forgotten about her the moment she fled his house in embarrassment?
She
had thought of nothing but him ever since that day. Her Ice Earl, her dashing English major. The man who had, once upon a time, held her, loved her, given her a daughter ...

Isabella!

Carmen slammed the door of the wardrobe, and leaned her forehead against it. In all the tumult of the last few emotional days, she had forgotten the most perplexing problem of all. That Peter had a child he knew nothing about.

She had seen how very angry Peter could be when he felt he had been deceived.

“What to do, what to do?” she muttered, sinking down onto the bed.

“Carmen? Are you in there?” Elizabeth swept into the room without bothering to knock. She was already dressed for the evening, and was pulling on her silk gloves. “We must hurry, or we shall be quite late, and I faithfully promised Nicholas I would not leave him alone with the Riverses. Such bores, the pair of them, but such great ones for commissioning portraits of themselves. I did say that ...” Then she looked up. “Why, Carmen! You are not even dressed. Where is the maid I sent up to you?”

“I sent her away,” Carmen answered quietly.

“Was she unsatisfactory?”

“Not at all. I simply don’t think I shall go down tonight, if you will forgive me. I am very tired after the journey.”

Elizabeth sat down beside her, with a sigh. “It is my great lout of a brother, is it not? Did he not call after that little—tableau in the library?”

“That was not as it appeared!”

“Um-hm. I’m sure. Well, after you, er, left, he went straight out, and we never saw him again before we left for the country.”

“Then, he is not here?” Carmen asked hopefully.

“Oh, he is here. He appeared only an hour ago, with not a word of apology for his lateness.”

“Oh.”

Elizabeth seized Carmen’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “And you must come to dinner! Everyone knows I have the famous condesa here, and they will be quite put out if they do not catch a glimpse of you. My party shall be ruined.”

Carmen smiled at that blatant piece of exaggeration. “Well, never have it be said I ruined a party.”

“Excellent! And do not worry—I have seated you far from Peter, next to that very nice Viscount Huntington. So Peter can stew in his own envy. Now, what shall you wear?” Elizabeth opened up the wardrobe and began sorting through the gowns.

“I had thought the blue velvet.”

“It is pretty, but if Peter is to stew, you need something more—dashing.” Elizabeth pulled out a pale gold satin. Carmen had never worn it; it had been purchased for a masked ball in Paris, but she had not been brave enough to wear it when it came to the day. It was cut high at the collarbone, but fluidly followed the lines of the figure.

“This one,” said Elizabeth. “Most assuredly.”

“Lizzie!” Carmen protested with a laugh. “If I wear that tonight, I will catch my death of cold.”

“Not at all! I have plenty of fires lit. And it will make Peter very sorry he did not call.”

Carmen giggled.

Peter stood beside the fireplace, and surveyed the crowd gathered in his sister’s drawing room before supper.

He might as well have stayed in Town for all the difference it made. Here were so many of the same people he saw there, clustered in the same cliques, repeating the same gossip. Nicholas and a group of gentlemen were having a discussion about some horses that were up for sale in the neighborhood, which would usually have interested Peter at least moderately. But he had wandered away from them after five minutes.

Elizabeth’s friend, the famous and dashing artist Mrs. Georgina Beaumont, was at the center of a more daring group, which was talking and laughing loudly, having already dipped into the port and brandy usually saved for after supper. Peter would have liked to join them, if only for the brandy, but they would hardly have welcomed him.

Lady Deidra was seated prettily upon a brocade settee with her mother, her pale pink skirts spread about her like rose petals. She had sent him several glances, but he had no desire to converse with her, either.

All he wanted was to see Carmen.

Then his sister the hostess at last entered her own party. He couldn’t help but laugh at how she augmented her meager height with a new headdress of tall crimson plumes that accented her red and gold gown.

Then behind her appeared the very woman he had been longing to see.

She was, as always, in the first stare of fashion, her old trousers and men’s shirts obviously left far behind her. Her golden gown modestly covered her collarbone and upper arms, but the fabric was as flowing and shimmering as liquid gold leaf, and followed the lines of her figure and her long legs.

Those long legs that had once wrapped about his own so perfectly ...

He cursed softly and wished he had some of that brandy.

Then he cursed again, as Carmen turned, and it seemed that Peter—and the entire room—was gazing at her backside in the closely flowing gold satin.

He had such an urge to throw his own coat over her.

He moved behind her so quietly that she did not notice him, and he leaned forward to murmur in her ear.

“Good evening, Condesa,” he murmured. His breath lightly stirred the curls at the nape of her neck.

The gold threads of the satin shimmered as she trembled.

But when she turned to face him, her features were perfectly composed, her faintly mocking smile in place. “Good evening, Lord Clifton. I do hope Elizabeth and I have not kept everyone waiting for their supper too long.”

“My sister always keeps us waiting. It is her artist’s prerogative.” He smiled at her, and hoped it looked less like a lupine stretching of lips over teeth than it felt. He longed to be alone with her so very much that it was becoming difficult to display social politeness. “May I escort you in to supper?’

Elizabeth put her hand on her brother’s arm. “Now, Peter, you know that is not the way! I have Carmen seated next to that handsome Viscount Huntington, and here he is now to escort her. Would you offer Lady Deidra your arm?” She went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “I did invite her just for you, you know.”

All Peter could do was watch helplessly as Carmen moved away from him on Huntington’s arm, her soft laughter floating back to him, as if in some enticing dream.

Supper was interminable.

Carmen toyed with her roast duckling, nibbled at the apple compote, and drank more wine than was perhaps strictly prudent. She smiled and chatted with Viscount Huntington, who was most attentive and rather attractive, interested in her travels and her plans for the Season. She may even have flirted with him just the tiniest bit.