Wickeds Scandal (The Wickeds) (10 page)

Sutton
snorted.  Nick, Viscount Lindley, could care less about Lady Caroline
Fellowes.  Nick thought Caro a witless, vapid creature with only a nice
pair of tits to recommend her.  Caro’s machinations did not impress
Sutton’s best friend.  Nor did they impress Sutton.  His patience
with Caro and her maneuvering in and out of his bed were over.

“You ignored
me at the opera, Cam. I’ll admit when Viscount Lindley asked to me to take the
air with him, I thought to make you jealous.  I had no idea,” she paused
dramatically, “that he would try to take liberties.”  Caro slid across the
couch, perching herself on the edge in a display of half-naked flesh.

Sutton swirled
the brandy in his mouth.  Caro had flounced over to Nick begging him to
take her out for a breath of fresh air, least she faint. 

“You know I’m
not interested in Viscount Lindley.  His eyes….” Caro shuddered
delicately, “well they terrify me. Besides, it’s you I adore.  I love
everything about you.  There is no other man for me.” She declared,
allowing her breasts to spill out of the chemise.

Sutton
pretended to mull over her declaration.  “Hmmm.  What is my younger
sister’s name?”

Caro froze,
looking like a startled deer. She bit her lip, at a loss.

“Well, I’m
not sure you ever mentioned her to me.”

“Her? I have
two sisters.  I’m positive I’ve mentioned both.  You’ve met Miranda
several times, I believe.  Elizabeth, she is the younger, is away at boarding
school in Scotland.  I’m quite sure you know my grandmother, don’t you?”

Caro
frowned, offended.  Everyone in London knew the powerful Dowager
Marchioness.

He wagged a
finger at her, enjoying her discomfort.  “Here’s an easy one then. 
How many estates do I have?”

She smiled
brilliantly, sure of herself.  “Five.  Cambourne House, this townhome
where you currently live.”  She waived her arms about the room.  “A
bachelor’s house with ill-mannered servants, which we will sell, once we’re
married.  I can’t imagine why you prefer this place to Cambourne House.”

Sutton
raised a brow, but didn’t stop her.  Apparently Caro didn’t care for
McMannish.

She held up
a hand, counting off the Cambourne assets.  “Blackburn Heath, the family’s
seat, Gray Covington and Baylor Manor in Scotland.”

“Well at
least you know I have a home in Scotland.” Sutton clapped his hands at her
recital.  Greedy, greedy, Caro.  She made the Prussian mercenaries
look like schoolchildren. “I’m sure you know my income from each as well, do you
not?”

She smiled
and proceeded to tell him.  She stood and strode over to him, her hips
swaying and a lascivious look in her eye.  The chemise floated about her
hips.  Her nipples, small and dusky, pointed through the thin silk. 
Smooth, white arms, wrapped around Sutton’s neck as she kissed him on the
cheek.  “See!  I do know everything about you.” She shook her head as
if he were a naughty child.

Sutton mused
that Caro was no better or no worse than any other woman of her station. 
Groomed from childhood to be the ornamental wife of a wealthy, titled man, Caro
simply did as she was trained to do.  When Sutton was no more than a
child, Jeanette, his stepmother, reminded him on a daily basis that Sutton’s
only value in this world, his only meaning to others, was as heir to
Cambourne.  Oh, he was beautiful, Jeanette would admit, women would adore
him, want him and he would have no lack of lovers.  No Marquess had a lack
of lovers. Cambourne was everything, and without the estate and title, Sutton was
nothing
.  Jeanette would remind him that Cambourne didn’t actually
belong to Sutton.  Not really.  She knew the truth.  As soon as
she produced a son, well Sutton would be sent off to the army in India or some
other place.  Robert would want his real heir, an heir Jeanette would
produce, to inherit Cambourne. Robert, his father, regarded Sutton as a duty,
an obligation and would expect Sutton to do the right thing.

Sutton took
another long, draught of the brandy, praying for the dark liquid to do its work
and numb him to the past. Jeanette was a greedy, ambitious, depraved bitch. 
He witnessed the depth of her depravity with his own eyes.  She begged
Sutton, her ice blue eyes spilling with tears, to not tell Robert.  She
carried a son, Robert’s heir, she was sure of it.  Jeanette pleaded with
Sutton to spare the unborn child the censure it would endure if Sutton told
Robert.  What about Miranda, Sutton’s adored younger sister?  She
would be spat upon.  Shunned. Jeanette was the only mother Sutton had ever
known and if he had an ounce of love for her, he would leave England never
confessing Jeanette’s accidental step to Robert. Sutton loved her then. 
He did as she asked and left for Macao. What a fool he had been.  He
deserted Miranda and left his new born sister, Elizabeth all because of that
harpy.

Sutton
gently set the brandy glass down on the table.  The brandy failed to warm
the chill in his heart.

Caro waited,
her face turned up to his, waiting for his declaration of…love? Caro reminded
him so much of Jeanette at that moment he found it difficult to look at her.

He pulled
Caro’s arms from around his neck, pushed her body away from him. “You need to
leave, Caro.  Do you require assistance?”  He pointed to her gown,
crumpled and lying on the floor.  “Or can you manage? I can call one of
the maids if you wish.”  Jeanette’s wounds on his soul reopened, freshly
bleeding.  Bitterness and resentment soured the taste of brandy on his
tongue.

Caro’s mouth
gaped open, fishlike, then closed abruptly.  She trembled, but her eyes
remained hard on him.

Sutton knew
Caro told nearly everyone in the
ton
that he was about to offer for
her.  She took out credit, telling merchants all over London she would be
the future Marchioness of Cambourne. She had done it all with poor Lord Danvers
on her arm.  Sutton felt no pity for her.

Caro’s perfect
porcelain complexion flushed until it turned mottled and red.  She stood
tall.  Staring down her patrician nose she gave him a haughty look, and
lifted her chin. 

“Are you
casting me off?  Dismissing me?”  Her voice remained cool.  “Don’t
be a fool.  Danvers will offer for me in an instant.  He wants me
terribly.  Do you want him to have this?” She pulled down the chemise,
baring her large breasts, the nipples erect. “We have an understanding, Sutton. 
Everyone knows that.” Her blue eyes watered in the most fetching manner.

“Do we?” 
He looked her straight in the eye, trying desperately to keep the disgust he
felt for her out of his words.  “I believe you are mistaken, or
misunderstood.”  He picked up the brandy glass intending to refill
it.  “Good day, Lady Fellowes.”

Caro reeled
back against the couch as if he slapped her.  “Oh come now, Cam,” she
cajoled, “surely, you can overlook a minor transgression with Viscount
Lindley.  It was a kiss.  He took advantage.”

“This has
nothing to do with Viscount Lindley.  Although I do admire you for
attempting to become a duchess as well as a marchioness.” 

Caro’s face
contorted into a mask of ugliness.  Her lip curled into a sneer. “
Bastard
.” 
She said the word slowly, emphasizing the syllables.

Sutton
halted, the glass held mid-air. Brandy sloshed out. He could feel the heat rise
in his cheeks.  He nearly killed a man recently for inferring the same
thing about his parentage. How dare she? 

Caro gave a short
nasty bark. “Oh yes, all the
ton
knows.  Did daddy really marry
your lowly born mother before you were born or after?  What side of the
blanket did Sutton come into the world on?”    Caro’s voice was
brittle.  “A
vicar’s
daughter, a nobody.  Some tart who was
your father’s mistress!  Little better than a whore. Who marries their
mistress?”

A horrible
rage built inside Sutton at Caro’s words.   He knew about the scandal
that surrounded his birth, mostly he ignored it, and sometimes he made an
example of the person stupid enough to challenge him with it. There was no
proof of his birth prior to his parents marrying.  None.   He
was the Marquess of Cambourne.  He doubted anyone alive knew the real
truth except the Dowager.  The gossip would have died but for
Jeanette.  She planted the seeds of the rumor when Sutton was a
child.  Nourished the scandal when she carried his sisters, hoping she
would give birth to a son and Sutton would be pushed aside. He should have sent
his stepmother to exile the moment he returned to England.  But he
hadn’t.  Instead he tolerated the whispers, tolerated his nickname. But he
would
not
hear a word against his mother.  Not Madeline. 
Robert Reynolds grieved Madeline’s loss every day of his
life.    His father kept a miniature of Madeline in his pocket
with him always.  His father’s last breath on this earth had been
her
name.  Madeline may have only been a vicar’s daughter, not wealthy, or
titled, but she had been deeply loved.  Something the pampered, spoiled
bitched in front of him would never understand.  Madeline deserved
respect.  The woman who stood smugly before him wasn’t good enough to
speak
his mother’s name.  Whatever brief affection or kindness he felt for
Caro died.

“Tread
carefully, Caro.” 

Caro backed
away from the threat in Sutton’s voice.

“Oh my God.
I.  You.  I was just angry.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean.”

“Yes you
did.  I’ll be sure and remember you to my grandmother.” Sutton knew that
was petty of him, to threaten her social standing.  His grandmother could
ruin Caro with a flick of her cane.

Caro
paled. 

 “McMannish
will escort you out.”  Sutton pulled the bell cord and the butler
immediately opened the door.  The damned Scot was probably listening at
the door.

 “Sir?” 
McMannish kept his eyes focused on Sutton’s face, choosing to ignore the
scantily clad, red-faced Caro. 

“Please have
Lady Fellowes’ carriage brought around.   She is leaving. 
Immediately.” 

McMannish raised
a bushy brow at the evident disrespect in Sutton’s tone, but merely nodded and
left the room.

Caro jerked
her gown over her head.  He’d long suspected Caro would be a complete
bitch if thwarted, but never did he think her stupid enough to disparage
Madeline Reynolds to his face.

McMannish
stepped back into the study.

“Um. 
My lady.  Your cloak.” He held it out to her, careful to keep his eyes
averted from her state of undress.

Caro ripped
the cloak from the butler’s hands, wrapping the wool around her half-dressed
form.

“You will
regret this, Cam.  I am not some common whore.”

“No, you are
not,” he scoffed, “a common whore has better manners.”  Sutton filled the
brandy glass from the sideboard and walked from the room just as Caro began to
scream.

“
My dear, Miss Dunforth, how absolutely charming you look
this evening.”  Mr. Runyon greeted Alexandra, bending over to brush a kiss
upon her knuckles. 

Alexandra smiled back.  “The peonies
you sent yesterday were lovely and so thoughtful.”

“Did you enjoy the book on Roman
history?” 

Alexandra nodded with enthusiasm. “Of
course.” She enjoyed everything Mr. Runyon chose for her.  Over the last
two weeks, some small token from Mr. Runyon arrived at her uncle’s nearly every
day.  Flowers, books, even a charming print of an etching of the
Parthenon, found their way into her hands.  Mr. Runyon appeared just as
often, coming for tea and once, escorting her to a play at the Royal
Theater.  While she did not desire marriage to him, her false courtship by
Mr. Runyon certainly bore benefits. Helmsby Abbey was safe, at least
temporarily, and her uncle brought her no other suitors. “The book was
fascinating.  I fear I read it in one evening!”

 “Your mind is as inquisitive as my
own.  Perhaps we are destined to be together.”  His hand cupped her
elbow as he guided her down the hall.

Alexandra ignored the sudden stab of
guilt.

“How kind of you to invite my uncle and
me for dinner.”  Alexandra quickly changed the subject. She used this
gentle, intelligent man for her own ends and it did not sit well with
her.  Alexandra focused her attention on the beautifully decorated
entryway.

Art niches were set in the walls at
various intervals and each seemed to contain a tiny statue or urn of some
sort.  A vase of white roses, extremely rare this time of year, sat on an
expensive looking table to her right. 

Alexandra turned her head and a curl
spilled free.  Her coiffure needed attention before they dined or it would
likely fall down during the soup course. 

“Mr. Runyon?  Is there an area where
I can see to my hair?”  Her hand ran up to a group of curls threatening to
break free of the carefully placed pins.

His gaze flickered over her hair in
appreciation.  “I would adore your hair down, Miss Dunforth.  But I
suppose you must repair it.”  He said the last regretfully and squeezed
her elbow.  “Down the hall is a small sitting room, possessed of a large
mirror with which you can make your adjustments.  A ewer and wash basin
are also on hand, should you need them.”