Silk and Scandal (4 page)

“So certain,” he murmured.

“Quite certain. I should return to my friends.”

“As you wish.”

Nicholas bowed cordially as he left her with her group. Normally, he knew how to charm women and Eliza wasn’t unmoved by him. He’d even made her smile despite the haughty allure she wore like a mantle of steel. She trembled in his arms and every instinct he possessed told him she felt the attraction that simmered between them.

Darlington approached her soon after and Nicholas watched from afar wondering how she would receive the other man’s attention. The negating movement of her head pleased his sense of competition and when Darlington took himself off to other prey, Nicholas smiled outright. Of a certainty, he hadn’t given up, and Nicholas admitted to himself that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Certainly, he must marry and soon, but there was no reason to obliterate challenge from this courtship. Besting his old friend would be almost as invigorating as winning the hand of the lovely Lady Eliza.

Both Potter and Bentley were taking a turn round the floor and, for just a moment, Nicholas enjoyed shutting out the dull roar of the crowd and lost himself in thought.

Tonight upon his return home, he might send out his man, Rawlins, and discover the Grayson address. Perhaps, needing a bit of adventure, he might take on the task himself; spy out her friends and acquaintances, learn her interests and pursuits. Like it or not, he would call within the week in an effort to draw her out. His birthday drew close and he had no time to waste.

Deciding that further study Tonight would be futile, he turned, intending to head toward the game rooms where men were wont to gamble. A low hush halted his steps as a slow murmur rumbled through the crowd. Groups began to separate like the parting of the Red Sea and though others still danced and talked, it was as if everything tumbled into slow motion. Words, names came to him on whispers.

“Murderer.”

“Stanhope.”

“How dare he show his face!”

These whisperings alerted him to the fact the man was neither liked nor wanted in this gathering of the elite. Working his way to a better view, Nicholas watched with narrowed eyes. The man was trouble; that was a certainty.

Edward Huntley, Lord Stanhope, stumbled through the doors and onto the dance floor like a man possessed. There was no finesse in his movements and the cane he wielded caused party goers step out of his path. It was obvious the man was well in his cups and obviously enraged.

The crowd, hushed and waiting for the advent of gossip, watched, eyes gleaming with speculation as he halted mere steps from Lady Eliza Grayson. Her entourage, all young, frightened mice, backed away from their heroine.

Nicholas moved slowly forward, never taking his eyes from the enfolding tableau. Though he barely knew her, pride soared within him at the sight of her cool manner.

Her chin lifted and her eyes narrowed; her nostrils flared slightly, as if offended by an odious smell. Straight and tall, apparently unshaken by the scene, she stared down the man as he stopped before her.

“Bitch,” he screamed piteously. “Daughter of a whoreson! Dare you show your face after the slander you’ve shown me?” Spittle formed in the corners of his down-turned mouth as he railed obscenities to the shocked awe of the assemblage. “Because of your filthy mouth, I cannot show my face in polite society. You should be beaten soundly; yea, whipped within an inch of your life.”

Nicholas’s eyes burned into the man’s mottled face as he advanced. This was a ballroom. This was polite society and this was a Lady. Already he felt possessive of the woman and in his mind, Eliza was his.

The hushed crowd impeded Nicholas’s progress, but since he towered over most everyone, his view wasn’t hampered. Eliza’s lips tightened as she listened and despite his need to protect, he was impressed with her coolness.

“I did not murder your sister,” Stanhope cried. “She was a clumsy twit who couldn’t put one foot in front of the other without falling. Clumsy and stupid.”

The crowd gasped at the untoward display but Edward Huntley appeared unfazed as he leaned closer, almost nose-to-nose with Eliza. “She knew her place, though, unlike you, you twisted bitch. Spreading your lies. Telling tales. I shall see you in hell before I’ll let you ruin my good name.”

The crowd fell silent as Stanhope heaved for breath.

“Ruin your good name? How can that be?” Eliza sneered. “You had very little to begin with, sir. As for knowing my place, my place is within me and not determined by the will of others. If you have fallen on disgrace, you have only your meanness and drunken violence to blame. Poor Charlotte was worth many more of you, you spineless, sodden wreck of a man. May you rot!”

Every strong word fell on the audience. A collective gasp ensued as she dashed a glass of wine into his florid face then turned with queenly grace toward the open doors of the terrace.

“I’ll kill you,” he screamed after her. “You and your bitch sister have ruined me.” As he was carried forcibly from the crowded room, his cry echoed over the stunned crowd.

Rage poured over him as he watched the scene unfold.

The hand she settled over her chest trembled with the force of emotion and her face flushed as she turned and raced through the terrace doors into the night.

He had no choice but to follow.

Chapter Three

Struggling for breath, Eliza grasped the marble railing with both gloved hands and stared into the shadowy gardens. She didn’t want to be followed, but knew it would happen if she didn’t lose herself within the carefully sculpted garden beyond. Her evening, it seemed, was destined to be ruined by men.

Needing time alone to gather her thoughts, she caught up her skirts and glanced furtively over the twilight-shadowed lawn. Spotting an amorous couple to her right, she peered once more behind her, then dashed off in the opposite direction. Shadows edged the garden and teased her with the welcoming blackness beyond. In her new avocation, she was much accustomed to the night and thought nothing of finding the deepest recesses in which to hide.

Not hiding.

Not really.

Eliza had never hidden from anything or anyone in her life, yet composure was essential to her very being. When she returned to the ballroom, it must be with her usual aplomb. How could she gain confidences if she appeared weak and helpless?

It galled her that Edward still had the ability to shake her. And Duke Weston? No, she couldn’t let herself think about him!

Rushing on slippered feet, she ignored the slap of branches and the rustle of leaves underfoot. An oak, ancient and gnarled, presided over the back fence. Its leafy branches hung low offering a modicum of privacy so she ducked beneath the shelter and leaned gratefully against its trunk.

Since her return to society’s fold, she’d never once stopped herself from telling the truth about Edward, Lord Stanhope, and his diabolical nature. Little did she care that he was a cripple and friendless. He was alive, was he not? As far as she was concerned, he still had a price to pay.

Her former brother-in-law deserved no mercy from her. No, Edward had not yet begun to feel the pain that she could cause a man so enamored with respect, fortune, and a proper place in society.

Eliza struck a clenched fist against the trunk, barely feeling the bite of the bark as it tore at her delicate lace glove. Anger and hatred took her breath as her mind filled with thoughts of her sister—her lovely face, her kindness and compassion, and of the way Edward had slowly and cruelly stolen her spirit over the course of their marriage.

Closing her eyes, she brought a hand to her throat and bowed her head.

“Lady Eliza.”

She started and turned with a jerk at the forbidding male voice, cringing at the sight of the Duke cloaked in darkness. Her heart pounded out a quick tattoo as she instinctively pressed back against the tree, thankful for its sturdy balance.

There was definitely something sinister about a man dressed all in evening black, who wore his equally jet hair like a bloody pirate. Eliza tensed, fully prepared to flee if he stepped one bit closer. Spending even a moment alone with him could spell disaster in her current state.

“Your Grace,” she said stiltedly. “You startled me.”

“Not any easy feat, I suspect.”

He watched her with unnerving intensity. Was it a trick of light or did kindness seem to soften his fierce beauty? His lips firmed as he reached into his evening coat, withdrew a linen handkerchief, and held it out to her. “Though I would very much like to hold you now, perhaps this will do instead.”

A lump formed in her throat. The evening had been far too upsetting, and she fought the urge to fall weeping into his arms. He was far too gallant when she wanted to dislike him. Steeling herself, she stared at the cloth, then firmly took his hand and forced the white linen away. “I am not crying, sir. I never weep.”

In a most forward manner imaginable, he reached out and using the offered handkerchief blotted the tears from her cheeks before tucking the square away. “At least not in the presence of others.”

“No.” She turned away. “Please go, Your Grace.”

“Nicholas, my lady. I would have you call me by my name.”

“You are much too forward and entirely inappropriate.”

He chuckled softly. “So they say, but nevertheless, I insist. It is the least you can do for a gentleman who has come to your aid.”

Eliza spared him a glance, desperately wanting him to leave before she lost what was left of her composure. “A gentleman? I’ve not known many of those, to be quite blunt.”

“A man-hater, are you? Pity. Men can be quite useful on occasion.”

“The very rare occasion.”

“Perhaps this is one of those rare occasions, hmm? Wollstonecraft would be proud of your steadfast refusal not to lean on a man, no doubt, but I promise not to tell if you confide your troubles.”

“Go away,” she said. “I wish to regain my composure before I reenter the manse. You are not helping a whit. No, in fact, you infuriate me further with your ridiculous posturing.”

Anger chased across his features, and she immediately wished she could take back her words. He stepped closer, threatening, big and dark in the shadows. “Would you give me leave to call upon you?”

“No, I am sorry. I cannot.”

“Or will not.”

“Precisely,” she said standing toe-to-toe with a man who intimidated her in the strangest of ways. “Affairs of the heart do not interest me in the slightest. Nor does marriage.”

He leaned close, too close for comfort, his breath warm against her face. “Yet you are here at a ball, unmarried, at the height of the Season. What, pray, is a gentleman to conclude?”

Oh dear.

The man was captivating!

“That I dearly love to dance.”

The Duke stepped back and shocked her to her toes as he laughed, the sound dark and husky. Perhaps he didn’t indulge in laughter often. “Considering you dance with only old men and fellows barely out of swaddling, I wonder what you are so afraid of.”

You. Gentlemen like you

“I danced with you, Your Grace. Never forget that.”

“Believe me, I will not.” The smile slowly faded from his face. “I would so again if you’d but allow it.”

Eliza needed him gone. Not only was it unseemly to be alone and unmarried in a garden with a dashing gentleman, it was unsafe for her emotions. She wasn’t a ninny. She knew he was interested in more than simple friendship. He’d made his feelings known. For the first time in her life, she was truly tempted by a man but, considering her late-night activities and her personal mission, it was far too dangerous. She looked away. “I believe not, sir. To be blunt, I have no interest in seeing you again, either in public or private…most especially not in private. You are most likely akin to other men with only an interest in heirs and fortune. No man, aside from my father, is worth my devotion, I assure you.”

“Don’t presume to judge me until you know me better, my sweet,” he whispered. “Putting people in neat little categories is a foolish and often dangerous business.”

“You are a rogue.”

“And immune to insult. Try your best but I shall not be deterred from pressing my suit. Hate me or love me, but never presume to judge me.”

“Leave. Now.” Tense and sick to the bone at her lapse in judgment for allowing this confrontation, she scowled at him.

The dratted Duke sighed and stepped back. In no apparent hurry to obey, he leaned casually against the tree and crossed his arms over his chest. “First, tell me why Stanhope bears such animosity toward you? I know about your sister and the family’s belief that he killed her, but why would he come after you in such a public manner?”

Eliza lifted her chin and gave him a defiant stare. “I’ve made no secret about the sort of man he is. Shall we say I have been most vocal on the subject of his vile character. Society has chosen to believe my version of what happened to Lottie.”

Alarm flashed across Nicholas’s face. “You are playing a dangerous game with Stanhope, Miss. It isn’t hard to understand why you revile the man, but you seem oblivious to how dangerous your enemy might prove to be. Stanhope’s behavior Tonight smacks of desperation, and desperate men are capable of anything. If he did, in fact, murder your sister, what is to prevent him from harming you?”

Eliza spun on her heel and presented her back. “I plan to ruin his life as he has ruined mine. He is neither deserving of mercy from me, nor will he receive it. I shall do everything within my power to make him suffer for his misdeeds.”

As Nicholas spun her to face him, she gasped in shock that he’d dare put his hands on her. Anger laced his voice as he loomed over her. “Little fool,” he spat, “you will stop this vendetta. Now, Eliza. Do you hear me?”

Though taller than most females, she was no match for Nicholas Delaford’s strength. Furious with his presumptive attitude, she slapped ineffectually at his hands. “Release me, sir. I’ve had quite enough of your bullying. I am no missish woman who will faint at your heavy-handed tactics! I am not your sister or daughter and, thank the blessed Lord above... I am not your wife!”

Nicholas’s cheek quivered with an answering fury that startled her. “Not yet, sweet Lady Eliza. Not yet. But, by damn, you will be.”

With shocking abruptness, he released her and stalked away.

Weary from the evening, his thoughts in turmoil, Nicholas stepped into the foyer of his Berkeley Square mansion. The three-story, Palladian-style manse was ostentatious in its display of wealth and good taste. The cool marble floors were made of creamy ivory and featured an inlay of the onyx and gold Weston family crest. Matching columns, thick and heavily veined with gold and black, flanked the hexagonal-shaped entry like sentinels.

Molded ceilings arched upward, leading the eye to a distant grand staircase, which rose regally, veering both left and right onto the second-floor ballroom.

When his mother lived, the Duke and Duchess had hosted elegant parties there, where the setting gleamed with crystal and gold. Society’s most affluent would gather together while he, a mere lad, hid himself in corners and beneath balustrades to watch.

One day, his own children would discover those same hiding places and watch England’s most grand at their charming best. If they were cunning, as he had been, they would soon discover the polite world was not quite as polite as it might seem.

During those hours spent ogling the dance floor, he’d noted the attentions his father gave other women. It was there, too, where he first perceived his mother’s loneliness. He’d vowed early in life to be a different sort of man and, perhaps because of this, Nicholas treasured loyalty and honesty above all traits.

Musing, he idly ran his hand over a cool marble column. Perhaps his admiration of loyalty was one of the reasons his interest in Lady Eliza had turned from desire to obsession in the course of one evening. Loyalty to her dead sister shone with a zealot’s light in her eyes and she practically quivered at the injustice that allowed Stanhope to get away with murder.

“She’s taking over my every thought,” he whispered. His voice came back to him in echoes, making him feel lonely, restless. Frustrated, he glanced toward the seldom-used formal parlor at his left. With long strides, he moved farther inside, intending to douse the tiny flames in the wall sconces.

Decorated by his mother years ago, the lovely room featured vibrantly hued Aubusson carpets and Hepplewhite furnishings. Rare paintings by masters such as Vermeer and Botticelli assumed places of honor along with landscapes by several unheralded English painters whom his mother had fancied. Since her death, the room had seen little use, as the men of the family seldom entertained.

When he took a wife, perhaps the room would finally see some use. Did Eliza enjoy entertaining, he wondered as he plunged the room into darkness. Possibly not, considering her wildcat disposition. In the midst of his burgeoning obsession, a slight smile graced his lips as he recalled the nettles and burrs that seemed, thus far, to stick to her persona.

Untying the ribbon from his hair, he shook it loose, absently rubbing his fingers over his scalp. Rolling his head upon his shoulders in an effort to relax, Nicholas let his eyes make a broad sweep of his home and possessions. He envisioned Eliza as his Duchess, imagined her here. Though really too soon to visualize such things, he could almost see her moving elegantly along the grand staircase, directing staff, or lounging in dishabille in the master suite.

She belonged here in this graceful home, as she would belong in his other seven estates. They were scattered throughout England, rich in land, minerals, and tenants, bountiful legacy for any man. The legacy was worth any price... even marriage.

Rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes, he was grateful that his man, Rawlins, after bidding him a hasty good night, had left him to his musings. He wanted nothing more than a bit of peace after a night of dealing with crowds and questions.

After his hasty departure from tonight’s affair, he’d called for his carriage and retired to his club. Hoping to gain a hint of gossip about the lady, he drank enough brandy to sink a small ship and lost a bundle at cards, which was a rarity. His mind wasn’t on the game, but centered on a certain lady who wore the face of an angel and had the tongue of a viper.

Nicholas smiled. The chit was challenging, he’d give her that. Seldom had a woman given him such difficulty. Tonight, at any given time, he could’ve called to his side any number of women. Young or old. Yet the difficult Eliza seemed to thrive on aggravating him.