Courting Scandal

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Ah, and have you already escorted a lady out there, sir?” She arched her eyebrows and looked him over haughtily.

  “I have,” he said, laughing. “Miss Lydia Chancery was horrified, and yet, if I am not mistaken, just a little thrilled to find herself out on the terrace being spoken to quite improperly by the ‘Wolf of London,’ as I have heard myself referred to.”

  Arabella gasped. “Marcus, you didn’t! You didn’t tempt that poor girl to misbehavior, did you? It could ruin her engagement, you know, if she was caught doing anything improper.”

  It was Marcus’s turn to look shocked. “Do you really think I would harm that poor little dab-chick? No, I just whispered in her ear—nonsense, you know—and stole a kiss on her downy cheek.”

  “I don’t believe you! If Daniel saw that it would be enough for him to call off the engagement and call you out!”

  “As if he could do me any damage!” The scorn in Marcus’s voice was evident.

  How little he knew, Arabella thought. Not every London book could be judged by its elegant cover. “Do not underestimate him, Marcus. He is certainly not as powerful as you physically, but like all gentlemen, he has spent much time learning to shoot and fence. He is accounted a fair marksman and an even better swordsman. And anyway . . . how could you do it?”

  “Kiss her?”

  He gazed down at her, his dark eyes holding an intense look, and she felt a shiver race through her. Really, how could gray eyes look so warm? “Yes, how could you kiss her?”

  “I pretended she was you,” he said, his tone silky, caressing.

  She stared into his eyes, speechless. What could she say to that?

  They drifted outside. The night air was warm, the breeze like a caress on bare skin. The terrace was, of course, not like that of a country home, but was large by London standards and lit by the moon, hanging like a guinea in the sky, golden and lovely. Arabella thought about his words; they were a sweet balm to her soul. Pretended Miss Chancery was her? Empty flattery, likely, and it just proved how good he was at Spanish coin.

  Or was it just flattery? He had long showed a preference for her company; Eveleen seemed to think he loved her. But then she thought that Arabella loved him, and that was not so. They were just two people attracted to each other, but with no future. He would go back to his colonies with his couple of hundred pounds clutched in his purse, and she . . . she would marry Pelimore and bear him an heir. Soon, if she was lucky, so she could get on with the business of her life.

  She leaned her bare arms on the wrought iron railing and stared out at the small walled garden, some variety of early night-blooming white flowers gleaming among the dark green of the foliage, touched by moonlight. For the first time she realized that his “heir” would be her baby, her son! A child of her own. Would she love it . . . him? And what if she had a girl? Would she then be expected to keep bearing children until a boy was born?

  She shuddered. Women died in childbirth much too frequently. Granted, wealth bought you better care and a better diet; the death rate for wealthy women was not so high as for the poor, but still. And children! She still could not get over that they would be the children of her own body, not just separate little entities that she could bear and then forget. Could she?

  Mothers did all the time; look at her own upbringing. She had been a disappointment to her father because she was not the male heir he needed to carry on the title. Perhaps that explained his attitude toward her, one of bemused tolerance. But shouldn’t her mother have cared more?

  Marcus put his arm around her shoulders, and she started and gazed up at him. “I am afraid to ask for your thoughts right now, my little shrew. I never know what you are thinking. I used to, when I was very young, believe that women had simple minds, that all they thought about was clothing and such fripperies. Moira taught me the error of my thinking, but it left me with a void.” He chuckled, raised his eyebrows and continued. “I shall be brave after all. What were you thinking?”

  “Of children,” she blurted out.

  “Any particular children?”

  “Mine. My . . . my future children when I marry.”

  He removed his arm from around her shoulders. “Ah, yes, the heir and spare you will provide . . . who? That old fraud Pelimore? What a waste of your beauty.” His tone was cold and ironic.

  “Is that all you can say?” she cried, disappointed. “Is that all it is wasting?” She was piqued that all he thought about was her looks, just like any man.

  “No, that is not all.” He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her to face him, pressing her back against the railing. He glared down at her and across his face flitted a succession of emotions. Finally he said, “It is a waste of your life, your vivacity, the warmth you so desperately try to subdue so you can appear as chilly and frivolous as everyone else here in London.”

  He enclosed her in his arms and sought her mouth. She felt it moving over hers and she was stunned by the ferocity of his embrace. What had she done—what had she said?

  For one brief moment he released her mouth. She gasped and tried to pull away as he said, “Why do you try so hard to hide who you really are, Bella, why?” Then he claimed her mouth again and savaged it, drawing on her lips and parting them with his probing tongue.

  She pushed him away and wiped her mouth with a shaking hand, furious and confused and trembling. “Don’t ever do that again. I don’t like it! It is disgusting—you are disgusting! You have no right—” She was shaking and could not continue.

  “No, I have no right, but soon a man will. Pelimore. How will you feel when he does that, and then when he pulls at your clothes and climbs on top of you and pierces you with his own body; will you like it then, my little honeypot?” His voice was savage in its intensity, throbbing with feeling.

  She slapped him hard, as hard as she could. He was insufferable and he deserved to be run through for saying such a crude and horrible thing. “Now you have insulted me past all endurance,” she said, her voice low and filled with loathing. “Leave me. Now.”

  His eyes hooded but still blazing with dark passion, he seemed to swallow back some of the emotion that governed his actions, and said, his voice choked, “I apologize. What I said was absolutely unforgivable, but Arabella, listen to me—”

  Furious and shaking, Arabella hugged herself. “No, I will not listen to you. What I do with my life is none of your business. I will marry whom I please, and what I do with my husband is m-my business, too. I am sure Pelimore will treat me as the lady I am, unlike you.”

  Westhaven snorted and drew himself up to his full, towering height. He gazed down at her steadily and said, “Then you do not know men, my dear, for all I described is merely fact.” He stabbed the air for emphasis on each telling point, his finger jabbing at her. “I have known men like Pelimore, and he will use you as his broodmare and find his pleasure with someone else. And so he will not think one moment about your pleasure or needs.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hateful beastly man! Arabella pounded her pillow and flopped onto her side. She had stormed away from Marcus after slapping him again, even harder, and had not seen him for the rest of the evening. What more was there to say, after telling him she found him disgusting? She hoped his face was bruised! How dare he say such ugly, despicable, filthy . . . truthful things.

  Truthful? Reluctantly she faced her worst fears and admitted them. Every instinct told her that she could not expect tender wooing, nor elegant lovemaking, from Lord Pelimore after they were wed. Had she not been thinking that she hoped he kept his mistress? It would be embarrassing if the man professed tenderness toward her. This was a marriage of convenience, after all, that she was pursuing. She needed security and Pelimore needed an heir.

  But Marcus made it sound so ugly, so brutal, so animalistic. Was that the way it was between men and women? Surely some men—but then, even his kisses had been hard and savage. Not all of them. Last night’s had, but there had been that other time�
�� She thought back to their first kiss. That time on the terrace, when he came upon her crying, his caresses had been full of sweet compassion and care then, his kiss gentle and healing, proving he was capable of tenderness. But this time he had claimed her mouth with a savagery that astonished her.

  He was a puzzle, that was certainly true. She would say or do something innocuous, and he would look like a thundercloud! And he plagued her constantly about her need to marry a wealthy man. Did he not understand the most commonplace facts of life?

  The plain truth was, a woman could not marry without security. No amount of romance in the world made up for that one tedious fact of life. Arabella pulled the covers up under her chin, wishing they had enough coal to heat her room before bed. The spring air was still chilly at night, and her room felt like a tomb. When she was rich she would never be cold again, nor would she ever worry about the butcher and the chandler’s bills, or about how to keep up appearances with no money.

  Money. Gold, filthy lucre, blunt, brass, sovereigns, guineas. The ugly truth was that without it one could starve, or end up in the poorhouse, or just go on in tedious poverty forever, never knowing a moment’s respite, never having the peace that came with sufficiency. She had known a girl who had married a poor man because she “loved” him. That love had not survived a year of having to live in a hovel in an unspeakable part of town. Her husband was a solicitor’s assistant, and had wooed her, Arabella was sure, because she was from a moderately wealthy family. He had not counted on the family’s quite proper refusal to see their daughter after the marriage, nor to help them in any way financially. They had cast her aside—she had openly defied them, after all—and would not see her even when she was with child.

  Arabella had gone to visit her once, but it was too painful and she was not tempted to repeat the visit. Poor Lizzie tried to put on a good front, but it was clear that she did not even have the wherewithal to keep a maid of all work. She was forced to make the tea herself, and then Arabella feared it was tea that she could ill spare. Arabella was tempted to try to help her—was even on the point of offering money—but could see that her friend’s pride would not allow her to accept help, for that would mean admitting that she was in desperate need. There was a look in her eye that plainly said any offer of money would have been an insult. Being poor was a failure, after all, especially for someone born into wealth who had tossed it aside.

  Once the baby was born, Arabella heard that Lizzie could not stand it anymore and went home, disavowing her husband and living in retirement with their child, dependent on the charity of her family, their purse open once she left her husband, as they wanted. She would never be able to divorce, and so would be tied to her solicitor husband forever. Not a pretty ending to a “romantic” story of love eternal and wedded bliss.

  Arabella shivered under the covers. Little had she known then that she would soon be poor, too. It was all very well to sneer at a calculated effort to marry a wealthy man, but Marcus Westhaven had no idea what he was talking about. His Moira was likely moving up the social ladder by marrying him, and she was used to hard work. But she, the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley, could never marry someone like Marcus, without a groat to his name—

  What was she saying? Arabella pounded her pillow again and turned over. First, he had never asked her to marry him, nor had he ever implied any feeling for her other than . . . well, other than the sort that makes a man kiss a girl. And second, she could not believe she was even thinking of what marriage to him would be like! It had been a kind of madness for a few moments in the ballroom at the Vaile house, when she had contemplated social ruin and running away to Canada. It sounded very romantic, but it would be nothing but misery, she was sure. Nothing but unadulterated, horrid, miserable work and labor, and for what? Just for the way his lips felt on hers? Just for the feelings that trembled through her body when he held her close?

  For even when she was pushing him away and telling him that he was horrid and that she did not like his kisses, it had been lies. When he claimed her lips and kissed her she had experienced a thrill that began in her toes and worked through her body until she felt like she was aflame. Arabella stared into the dark. Is that what had made Lizzie run away with her solicitor’s assistant? That physical hunger? And all-consuming desire?

  She shivered. Marcus would likely never bother her again, and she should—she must be grateful. How long would she be proof against that kind of persuasion? Not that he had asked her to be his, but Eveleen’s insidious words had worked into her brain like a worm. She would give her innocence to an old man who only wanted her for her childbearing capabilities, and it seemed such a dreadful waste when now she had a faint suspicion of the kind of sweetness that lay beyond reckless abandonment with a man like Marcus Westhaven.

  Yes, it was a very good thing that she had slapped him and sent him away from her. She turned over and tried to sleep. But there was one last thing she had to do. She slipped from the bed, took the little bark basket that Marcus had given her from her bedside table and shoved it in a drawer. She did not want to see it when she awoke. Or ever again.

  She nipped back under the covers, only to dream endlessly of the wilderness, a pine forest, the whistling wind and a snug cabin by a silvery, rushing river, with Marcus Westhaven holding her close all through the long cold nights. She clutched her pillow to her and slumbered, a smile finally curving her bow lips as she drifted into the deepest of repose.

  • • •

  A sleepless night was mild punishment for his crime, Marcus thought, as he strolled the streets of London. It was early yet, and all he saw were servants sweeping front steps and bustling about their other chores. Whatever had possessed him the evening before? He had been unspeakably rude to Arabella, vicious even, and she had done nothing to deserve it. He didn’t understand himself lately. It seemed like he was always tottering on the edge of rage, jealous of every man Arabella looked at and furious with her for her cold-blooded acceptance that she would wed a man like Pelimore. He was even jealous of this so-called nabob who was Oakmont’s heir! Now if that was not the height of absurdity, he did not know what was.

  He wanted her for himself. He could no longer ignore the feelings that stormed through his bloodstream, and yet he could not imagine how he had come to such a pass. He supposed he had loved Moira, but he would never have asked her to marry him if she had not been carrying his child. He was young then, and only thought of making his fortune. Moira had caused him to change his plans, but only because he cared enough for her that he would not see her bear their child without the protection of his name.

  But after she died, making his fortune had not seemed as important as just living for the moment. He had drifted for many years—apart from his work during the war, that is—until he got the letter from England, the letter that had sought him out in the wilds of Upper Canada, up near Hudson’s Bay. He considered ignoring it and going on with his life, but there must have been a part of him that was ready to go home, curious, perhaps about what a decade or more had done to England.

  Marcus looked up and realized that he was in front of the Mayfair townhome that was Arabella’s abode this Season. Maddening minx! Did he just imagine that there was some fine core to her, some fiery, beautiful inner light that was tamped down by convention? He frowned and tapped his foot on the flagstone paving.

  It was a little early for morning calls, but he hoped to find her alone. Needed to find her alone. He had that to say which could not be said with other visitors. His apology must be detailed and complete, or he could not rest. He was admitted and waited in a morning parlor, a sunny room on the south side overlooking a fenced garden across the street, dimly seen through lacy curtains. He stood staring with his hat in hand; he did not think he would be there long enough to give it up. She might even refuse to see him, or she might have him thrown from the premises. He wouldn’t have blamed her if that was the case.

  He heard a rustle of skirts and turned. She stood framed by
the door, her lovely blonde hair down and back in a bun. Gowned in a simple muslin morning dress of a moss green color, she wore no adornments: no jewels, no lace, no ribbon. She was the prettiest he had ever seen her and that was saying a lot, for she was a beautiful woman. There was an expression of uncertainty on her pale face and she did not advance into the room. She looked like a fawn about to flee if he became intemperate.

  “Please, Arabella, come and sit.” He waved his hat at a brocaded fainting couch that lined a wall.

  She entered and sat primly, eyes down on her folded hands. Needing to see her eyes, Marcus knelt at her side and she looked up, startled, her green eyes glowing in the sunny room.

  “I came to apologize,” he said, hoping he sounded as humble as he felt. He did not have much experience with apologizing, though he was getting into the habit with this young woman.

  “That was not necessary, sir. I believe you apologized last night.” Her voice was brittle but politely toned.

  “Not properly. Not for everything.” Damn, she was staring down at her hands again, twining her slender fingers around each other. For a moment he was caught by those hands, and how different they were from Moira’s. His fiancée’s had been work-roughened and brown. These delicate hands could no more milk a cow, haul water, plant vegetables and saddle a horse than he could net a purse.

  She looked up, a question in her eyes, and he was in that single moment sure of one thing. This longing was not just an indiscriminate desire for womanly flesh. It was Arabella. He wanted her in ways he had wanted no other woman; he wanted to claim her as his own and give himself to her in return. There was something about her, some indefinable sweetness, unbearably endearing, and yet fiercely denied by herself. It was that that he loved as much as anything. He knew how vulnerable she was, and how much she hated that yielding, tender part of her, perhaps to the point of disavowal.

  Keeping his voice gentle, he said, “I must apologize again, Arabella, for the awful things I said last night. I had no right to treat you that way, nor to use you so roughly. I am so very sorry, both for what I said and the uncivil manner in which I handled you. Forgive me.”