Scandalous Love (2 page)

Yet she would attend
this masque, even without an escort. She would do so in high style and show up
that snooty Stacy Worthington.

Draping herself in a
fine red wool cloak, Nicole set off for Tarent Hall on Friday night. She was a
jumble of nerves when she was finally on her way. Earlier that day she had given
in to a few doubts about going without an escort, but she had finally laid them
to rest by sheer willpower. She had been challenged and she was no coward—she
was going to attend the masque, come what may.

She had a terrible
feeling that she was going to regret this night. If she were sane, she thought
to herself, she would forget all about Stacy Worthington and stay at home as a
proper young lady should.

But it was too late now,
Nicole thought, fingering the brilliant orange petticoat and vividly pink skirt
beneath her cloak. She had never been proper, not really. There was a wild
streak in her, and there always had been. She got it from her father's side of
the family, or so her mother said, although the Earl insisted disregard for
convention was a Barclay trait. At the age of twenty-three she was mature and
honest enough with herself to recognize this outlandish side of her nature and
accept it. It was this wild part of her that had accepted Stacy's challenge and
that was even now propelling her forward without an escort against her better
judgment.

Nicole had always hated
the rules and conventions that bound all the women of her day. Fortunately, she
was not alone, although she was in a quite radical minority, led by
suffragettes and agitators like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and her aunt, Grace
Bragg. Women were supposed to do nothing more than bore themselves with gentle
womanly pursuits such as flower arranging and watercolors. When her tutor had
tried to teach her those arts, the eight-year-old Nicole had flown into a rage.
She would spend her days painting roses while Chad, Ed and her father rode
across Dragmore, overseeing the tenants, the farms and the livestock? Never!

Of course, she was
forced to learn such pursuits, which she did in a dismal fashion, but in her
free time she haunted the menfolk of her family and was allowed to accompany
them after her studies, a liberty unheard of for a well-bred young lady.
Through childhood and adolescence she had been endlessly sorry that she was not
a boy—another son. When she was not on horseback with her brothers and father,
she could be found reading, everything from Byron's sensual poetry to John
Stuart Mills’
The Rights of Women.
Her family never thought twice about
her boyish inclinations until she was suddenly a full-grown woman, and then
they did their best to ignore her unconventional ways.

They would drop dead if
they knew what she was doing, or, worse, if they saw her now.

She had only had three
days to find a fabulous costume, but she had solved the problem by scavenging
in the vast attic of her home. Her mother, Jane Barclay, had been a popular
stage actress, although she had given up her promising career to devote herself
to her children, her husband and Dragmore a few years after her marriage.
Acting was in her blood, for Jane had been following in the footsteps of her
mother, the famous and incomparable Sandra Barclay, and there had been trunks
of wonderful costumes in the attic.

Nicole chose a gypsy costume.
Even she had to admit that, with
her coloring, in the brilliantly colored clothes she had found, she looked like
the real thing. Of course, the costume was daring. It was not exactly proper.
The blouse fell off of her shoulders in a very suggestive way, and the skirts
were only knee-length. But gypsies—or so the thirteen-year-old Annie assured
her—went barefoot in short skirts. Nicole did not care. When Stacy Worthington
and her little friend saw her, they would be set upon their ears! Nicole was
certain that they did not really expect her to come at all.

She smiled as she sat
back on the plush leather seats in the big black Dragmore coach, which was
pulled by six greys and attended by four liveried footmen. Not only was she
attending the masque in a very authentic costume, she was actually starting to become
excited. It had been ages since she had been out among the set, and even longer
since she had been to a costume ball.

The circular driveway in
front of the Georgian brick home was already filled with coaches and carriages.
A coach twice the size of the Dragmore vehicle had turned into the drive ahead
of them. This carriage was also black, and so highly polished it gleamed in the
moonlight. The coat of arms was brilliantly vivid, the lights of the carriage
making sure that no one could possibly miss it, oversized and embossed as it
was on two of the doors of the carriage. Two lions, one red and one gold,
reared up against a black, red and gold shield, while another red lion snarled
above it. Below the shield, the two rearing lions stood on a silver ribbon,
bearing a motto that said simply, "Honor First." Such an elaborate
coat of arms could only belong to the Duke of Clayborough.

Eight magnificent blacks
pulled the coach, gold plumes waving from their bridles. Four footmen stood on
the back running board, splendid in red, black and gold uniforms. A dozen
outriders accompanied the Duke, all mounted magnificently on matching bays, all
liveried in the Duke's colors. The coach was splendid enough for royalty,
which, Nicole knew, the Duke was not.

They stopped in the
drive, her carriage behind his, with Nicole straining to glimpse the
illustrious guest of honor. She discerned only a tall, powerful figure in ebony
tails, a black cloak swirling about his shoulders, lined in crimson, as he
alighted. He had chosen not to come in costume, she noted, and there was no
Duchess in tow.

She was helped from the
carriage and hurried up the steps toward the bright lights of the mansion. The
front doors were open, and a liveried servant took her cloak, not blinking once
at her attire. She followed a footman to the entrance of the ballroom, her
heart beginning to pound. When he asked for her name, she gave it
automatically.

For just a moment, she
recalled too many soirees, and too many failures. For just a moment, the daring
side of her retreated, and she felt frightened.

She paused behind the
Duke while he was announced. He was even taller than she had guessed, nearly
half a foot taller than she, with massively broad shoulders. His hair was too
long to be fashionable, as if he were too busy to bother with a barber. It was
a dark, tawny color, and even in the interior lighting, she could see that it
was heavily sun-streaked, as if he spent most of his time out of doors.

"Hadrian
Braxton-Lowell, the ninth Duke of Clayborough," the butler intoned. A long
string of the Duke's various other titles followed.

The Duke paused, his
posture impatient and careless, but the butler had barely finished the
introduction before he was striding down the steps into the ballroom. Nicole
moved forward, watching him as a splendidly attired woman, clearly the hostess,
greeted him.

"Lady Nicole Bragg
Shelton," the butler was saying.

Nicole did not hear him.
Her heart was in her throat. She was suddenly overwhelmingly conscious of her
bare legs and bare feet. She felt as if the entire crowd was staring at her,
which they were, of course, because she had just been announced and, that,
right after the Duke. A hush fell upon the crowd, and she prayed it was because
of the Duke and not because of her appearance at this masque.

But he, too, turned and
stared at her.

Nicole held her head
high. Barefoot, as a true gypsy would be, bangles on her arms, her hair flowing
to her waist, her skirts swirling above her calves, she gracefully descended
the stairs. People started to whisper. Nicole had an awful feeling that they
were talking about her.

She had been right, she
should never have come. No one had forgotten, and her costume was too daring
even for a masque.

Unfortunately she
glimpsed Stacy Worthington standing in front of the crowd, clad in a white
Regency gown, a perfectly proper kind of costume. Stacy wasn't on her ear. She
was smirking.

Nicole forgot all about
Stacy Worthington. The Duke was staring at her. He took her breath away.
Somehow, she moved toward her hostess without falling dead away into a faint.
"Lady Adderly," she murmured, curtsying.

The Viscountess blinked
at her. Nicole felt the Duke's eyes burning on her. "Oh, yes, Lady
Shelton, how good of you to come. And what a ... charming ... costume."

Nicole could not smile,
she still could not breathe. But she was not sure whether it was because she
was still being gawked at by a hundred guests, or whether it was because he
stood so close beside her she fantasized she could feel the heat of his powerful
body. "Thank you," she murmured.

"A magnificent
costume," the Duke said, his voice carrying without any apparent effort on
his behalf.

Nicole whirled and met
his eyes. The floor seemed to drop out from under her feet.

He was handsome.
Devastatingly handsome, devastatingly male. He nearly dwarfed her. His dark
eyes seemed to command hers, and she was held enthralled in his power.
"You are unique, Lady Shelton," he said abruptly, his gaze slipping
down her body. "And I, for one, find it refreshing."

Just as abruptly, he
turned his back on her,
n
odded
to his hostess and strode off, leaving the two women standing there alone.

"Unique," Lady
Adderly said, as if she could not believe it.

Nicole's heart started
to beat again. A wild ecstasy filled her. She recognized his words as a
compliment. God—that gorgeous man had praised her!

She found herself
floating through the crowd. People still stared, but where once Nicole had
hated being gawked at, today his words rang in her ears and she was oblivous to
everyone around her. "A magnificent costume ... You are unique, Lady
Shelton...."

Nicole found herself
holding a glass of champagne. Her pulse was pounding rapidly and she felt
overly warm. She scanned the crowd. She saw him instantly. To her shock, he was
staring intently at her.

They were leagues apart.
She could not clearly see his eyes, but she felt scorched by his gaze. She
could see the intensity on his face. She could not look away from him, not
until he lifted his own champagne glass, as if toasting her—or them.

Quickly, Nicole turned
away.
The Duke of Clayborough.
How long would he be at Chapman Hall? Was
he married? And what was happening to her? She was a mass of quivering nerves,
and she could not take her eyes off of him! She found herself staring at him
again.

He was listening to
several lords and ladies, looking rather bored and as impatient as he had been
when he had first entered the room. Stacy Worthington was beside him, gazing up
at him adoringly. Nicole felt a stabbing of jealousy, deep and quick and hot.
The intensity of it surprised her. And then, as if feeling her gaze, the Duke
shifted and pierced her directly with his stare again. Nicole knew she should
drop her eyes, but she did not— she could not.

An electric look passed
between them.

"Dear Nicole, how
long it has been!"

Nicole's attention was
forced from the Duke, just as she saw his lips seeming to curve in a bare,
sardonic smile. She recognized the gray-haired woman as the Marchioness of
Hazelwood, and she tensed. This woman had been one of her biggest detractors
after the scandal.

But now the Marchioness
was smiling, as if they were old friends. "It is so nice to see you again,
Nicole. My, can you imagine? The Duke says you are quite the thing!"

Nicole did not know what
game the Marchioness was playing, but she would not be a part of it. "Yes,
it has been some time, has it not?" Her voice was cool, for she had not
forgotten how this woman had cut her four years ago. "Oh, I do believe
it's been four years— since the soiree at Castleton. You do remember that
little fete?"

The Marchioness surely
had to remember how she had drawn her verbal sword and slashed Nicole to
ribbons in front of a dozen of Castleton's guests, even going so far as to call
her an Unacceptable, knowing Nicole could hear her every word. But now she
smiled as if that night had never occurred.

"Oh, there are so
many affairs," she sighed. She held up her spectacles, studying Nicole's
costume. "Yes," she announced, nodding, "I can see how the Duke
would find your costume quite unique. Please, do call the next time you are
near Hazelwood, and give my regards to the Countess and the Earl." Patting
Nicole's hand in a friendly manner, she turned away.

Nicole was stunned—and
outraged. She was no fool. She knew that the Marchioness had invited her to
Hazelwood only because the Duke had approved of her. She fumed inwardly. If the
Duke had not been here tonight, or if he had not approved of her costume, would
she have been the least bit friendly? Nicole was certain that the answer was
no.

Nicole drank another
glass of champagne, moving about, looking for the Duke discreetly, hoping to
bump into him. To her amazement, many of the guests sought her out, extending
invitations to her. She could not be pleased. But for the first time, she
realized the extent of the power that someone like the Duke wielded. Tonight he
had not tried to be her protector. His statement had been honest yet careless.
Yet suddenly it was as if the scandal had never existed.