A Most Scandalous Engagement

by Gayle Callen

  “We missed her this week, Lady Elizabeth. Her knowledge of painting has helped so many students.”

  “She is away from London temporarily,” Elizabeth admitted.

  Peter wondered if Leo was having any luck chasing Susanna back to town. He imagined they were close to killing each other by now.

  “And how is your son?” Elizabeth asked.

  “The little baron is the joy of our lives,” Lady Thurlow said, glancing up into the soft eyes of her husband.

  He cleared his throat. “That is her pet name for him. I firmly believe using his honorary title like this will only give him airs.”

  “Nonsense,” said Lady Thurlow. “He understands subtleties.”

  “At one year old,” Lord Thurlow said dryly.

  “He is very intelligent,” Lady Thurlow confided to a smiling Elizabeth.

  As the ladies continued to talk, and several other women joined them, Peter found himself standing beside Lord Thurlow.

  “I hear Lady Elizabeth was a last minute addition to the party,” Thurlow commented, eyeing him. “You’ve been engaged for several days, yet you didn’t intend to bring her tonight?”

  Peter sighed. “I am not certain how her family will take my involvement in Southern Railway.”

  “She doesn’t know the details?”

  Peter shook his head. “Up until now, people assume I’m simply investing capital, and I haven’t needed to explain.” He eyed the viscount. “You don’t feel the need to hide your directorship?”

  Thurlow smiled. “Once, I did, but I have gotten over caring how Society views me. You will, too.”

  “But you will be an earl, and I will never be other than a gentleman.”

  “But your brother-in-law will be a duke,” Thurlow said dryly. “And you know him very well. Surely that connection matters.”

  “But marrying his sister—then embarrassing the family—could easily make me his enemy.”

  “I don’t think Madingley embarrasses easily. Tell your lady what you’re doing. If she’s involved with you, she’ll be proud.”

  Peter nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.

  Not long after, as the crowd shifted again, Elizabeth found herself alone with Peter, watching the railway directors and their wives mingle. She felt a bit more at ease after Mrs. Bannaster’s enthusiastic welcome, but to her bemusement, she was almost underdressed, as the ladies’ gowns were quite stylish. She hadn’t wanted to make a haughty impression for Peter’s business associates.

  For a moment she wondered what they would think of her when she ended her engagement to Peter. But she didn’t let herself think of the future often. It was difficult enough to manage the present.

  “Everyone is very generous with their welcome,” she said to Peter. “I like them.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  He chuckled. “You can’t believe that. You like everyone, and everyone likes you.”

  “Except—”

  “Except my sister, but she’ll come around.”

  Her gaze roamed the guests, all of an older generation except the Staplehills and the Thurlows. “So these men are railway directors?”

  He nodded without elaborating. She could see she was going to have to pry more details out of him, glad she had something to occupy her mind so she wouldn’t have to think about what he had planned for the carriage ride home.

  “Do they regularly invite investors to dinner parties?” she asked, gesturing toward Lord Thurlow.

  “Thurlow is not just an investor. He owns the majority shares, and is a director on the board.”

  Surprised, Elizabeth glanced up at Peter. “He’s in trade? I had no idea.”

  “It isn’t a secret. And it’s not quite the same thing as being in trade. He is an industrialist. Being heir to an earldom helps a man overcome Society’s disapproval. Julian is a director as well.”

  “Julian?” she asked in surprise. “Lord Parkhurst, who’s even now chasing my cousin Rebecca?”

  He grinned. “The very one.”

  “So if all of these men are directors . . .” She let her words trail off, not breaking her gaze with Peter.

  “So am I.”

  He wasn’t smiling, and she knew he awaited her opinion. She almost spoke flippantly, reminding him that it wouldn’t affect her because she wasn’t really engaged to him.

  But . . . it was obvious he had withheld the depth of his involvement because he cared about her opinion. It saddened her to think he couldn’t confide in her.

  But of course she wasn’t confiding in him either. The ache inside her rose up again, but she battled it down.

  “Congratulations, Peter,” she said softly. “You’ve taken the little money you had and accomplished so much.”

  He smiled. “Thank you. The rewards for me have been about more than money.”

  “I can see that. I know it was difficult being a younger son, thinking you’d never have much. Instead, like these people, who also didn’t inherit their wealth, you’ve worked hard to reinvent yourself. And now you’re a railway director.”

  “You don’t have to say that loudly at ton events,” he said. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “You could never do that, Peter.”

  “I admit, I’ve been swept up in this new industry.”

  His voice took on a depth of enthusiasm and excitement she’d never seen in him before. And she liked it.

  “Every industry will soon be controlled by those of us moving the goods and services. It’s a future we never imagined. Our railway corridors are lined with the wires of the new electric telegraph—instant communication across the country.”

  She laughed. “I can see why you’re so excited.”

  “It’s more than that. You’ve ridden on the railways, haven’t you?”

  She nodded. “It’s thrilling to move so fast, to see the scenery fly by. But perhaps you can do something about the cold drafts that lift my skirts.”

  Grinning, he said, “In good time. The way to accomplish a broad change is to consolidate the railways. In the last few years we’ve acquired several other railroads, standardizing the tracks, so every train runs on every rail. It’s ridiculous that when you reach the end of one railway, owned by one company, you sometimes have to drive across town to reach the beginning of the next. We’ve even begun to build new lines into Cornwall, once so remote—” He broke off. “I’m boring you.”

  Elizabeth put her hand on his arm and squeezed. “Never think that. I am fascinated by your interest and your passion.”

  They looked at each other.

  “For railways,” she quickly said.

  His smile faded into quiet intimacy and his gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth.

  “Keep telling me about Cornwall!” she said brightly.

  “Perhaps I now want to tell you about my more personal plans.”

  And then the butler announced that dinner was served, and Elizabeth felt she’d escaped just in time. But she wouldn’t be able to put off Peter for long.

  Elizabeth lingered in the drawing room after dinner until they were almost the last couple to leave the party.

  Mrs. Bannaster said, “Ye’ve enlivened this dull old gatherin’, Lady Elizabeth. We’ll certainly talk again about the Society for the Rescue of Young Women and Children.”

  “We are always in need of help, Mrs. Bannaster. Thank you for your interest.”

  “And thank you for attendin’ tonight. I would have thought ladies like you were very . . . different.”

  Mr. Bannaster rolled his eyes and winced.

  Elizabeth laughed. “I hope you see we’re not very different after all.” Then Peter took her arm, and tension crept up her back.

  “It’s time for me to return my lady to her home,” he said.

  She couldn’t resist, she couldn’t retreat, so she merely followed him down to the entrance hall and waited for her wrap and the summoning of the carriage. Peter and Mr.
Bannaster discussed an imminent contract, but she could not concentrate on their discussion.

  Why was she so nervous? All she had to do was say no to whatever he had planned for their carriage ride, and Peter would abide by her wishes.

  But . . . could she say no? She’d tossed and turned all the previous night reliving the steamy darkness of the grotto and Peter’s hands and mouth upon her. It had been exciting and terrifying all at the same time. To think her body had been capable of flowering like a new blossom, unfurling, reaching—

  Reaching for what? Certainly there must be more, besides the actual act of procreation. But she was afraid to find out.

  And desperate to find out at the same time.

  It wasn’t Peter she didn’t trust—it was herself. These sensations were new and overpowering—and forbidden for a reason. She didn’t want to feel like this, yet was lured to it as if pulled by an invisible rope. Her old longings to explore what she didn’t understand rose unbidden.

  The night was dark and warm, gaslights gleaming in the distance. Lamps hung from the front and rear of the carriage, and the coachman gave her a smile, as if reassuring her. Oh, that was her imagination.

  But then she realized that the coachman was nodding to Peter. A signal of some kind?

  The interior of the carriage was lit by another small lamp hung in the corner. She sat down, spreading her skirts wide, and Peter must have taken the hint, for he sat across from her.

  The door closed, and she coolly met his stare, lifting her chin. She shouldn’t antagonize him, but she couldn’t help it. This morning’s race had proven just how competitive she could be. Let him try—

  He lowered the blinds on both windows as the carriage jerked into motion.

  “I like to look outside,” she said defiantly.

  “I don’t want anyone looking inside. The coachman has instructions not to return to Madingley House until I give the signal.”

  His voice was low and seemed to etch its way through her, as if she were raw with expectancy.

  She gaped at him. “But—”

  “You wanted lessons. Where else but in a carriage will we find enough privacy to explore everything you need to know?”

  Shakily, she said, “There cannot be that much to tell me.”

  “Tell? Telling is for mothers as they inform brides about the wedding night. Have you already had that speech?”

  She gulped, but nodded, thinking of her mother telling her the truth so she wouldn’t be afraid. Elizabeth had eagerly listened to the unveiling of the mystery. At her mother’s explanation of a man putting part of himself inside her, she’d tried to think of William’s face looking into hers, but damn him, it was Peter’s knowing gaze, his haunting smile, his body on top of hers. She squeezed her eyes shut. And there had been something about caresses and preparation, but it had already fled her mind.

  “Peter . . . have you . . .” Oh, how could she even ask it? “Do you have . . . a mistress?”

  “Not now.” His eyes were hooded, serious. “I’m too busy with you.”

  She couldn’t look away from him, didn’t want to. Was she really going to let him show her more?

  “Last night I gave you a glimpse of a woman’s pleasure,” he continued softly. “But you need to know how to seduce a man—”

  “I’m not seducing—him.” Heavens, she’d almost said William’s name!

  Peter’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t press her. She was frankly surprised he hadn’t interrogated her more, but always thought he was respecting her privacy about such a sensitive issue. But perhaps he didn’t want to know William’s name. The realization was surprising, intriguing. Could Peter be . . . jealous?

  “Seduction is about making a man want you,” he said softly. “This man has to be blind not to be attracted to you, but since you insist on moving forward, you need to know how to persuade a man.”

  “Are you attracted to me, Peter?” Then she covered her mouth—where had that come from?

  He gave her a wry half smile. “Again, a man would have to be blind not to be attracted to you. You’re a beautiful woman, Elizabeth, with a lively intelligence and a good heart.”

  She felt a pang that her “good heart” was keeping secrets, but it was for Peter’s protection, too.

  “So, what lesson did you learn in the grotto last night?” he asked.

  She blinked at him, her skin too hot, her nerves flickering wildly. “Lesson?” she croaked. “We’re going to . . . discuss it?”

  A faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he said nothing more.

  “A lesson learned,” she muttered, trying to force her brain to work. “Touch . . . is very important.”

  “So if you like to be touched, what is the conclusion?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “That a man likes to be touched,” she whispered.

  His grin was slow and steamy, half in shadow, half in flickering lamplight. He spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself.

  She looked at his broad chest and swallowed. “Can’t you just . . . tell me what to do?”

  He tsked, shaking his head. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth, what would you learn from that? I think you need to experiment and see what I like. Trust me; men are the same about this. Come here—or should I come to you?”

  Biting her lip, she let her shawl drop. It was a warm night, too warm inside the carriage. She already felt overheated, overdressed—and he’d threatened to take care of that problem. But he couldn’t if she was in charge.

  As she studied him, she thought of his own whispered words of passion last night. He’d been just as affected as she was, and he’d been doing all the touching. But she’d kissed him back, too, and now she knew some of what he liked.

  As the carriage rocked rhythmically, she half stood, then slid onto the bench next to him, pushing down her skirts as best she could. His arms now rested wide against the back of the seat, as if to give her access to more of him. He looked down on her, his blue eyes gleaming, that infuriating smile on his mouth, but he seemed suddenly too watchful.

  His coat was unbuttoned, and she remembered being held against the solid wall of his chest. She’d seen nude statues in the Madingley gallery, of course, but hadn’t imagined that Peter might look like that beneath his proper garments. She reached forward and slid her hand beneath his coat, across his chest. He inhaled and didn’t let his breath out, but when she looked quickly up into his face, he was still smiling. She wanted to wipe the superiority right off his face. Staring into his eyes, she moved her hand across his chest, feeling the hills and valleys of muscle. And then she began to unbutton his waistcoat.

  Still, he had no other reaction. Once the garment was loose, her hand drifted across the fine linen of his shirt, molding him, feeling his chest. To her surprise, she felt the pucker of his nipple, and he gave a jerk. She looked back up into his face. At least that smile was gone. Remembering what he’d done to her, she let her thumb brush over and over the tight point.

  His hand suddenly cupped the back of her head, and he drew her mouth toward his.

  “No!” She resisted, and at his baffled look, she said, “I’m touching you, remember. I’ll do what I want.”

  And then he shuddered, but he did release her. This feeling of power actually felt good. She could affect him.

  And then her skirts escaped from beneath her elbow and pushed up between them.

  “Take off your petticoats,” he ordered. “You’re surely wearing dozens of them.”

  True, they were in her way, and she positively wasn’t removing anything else. Sliding to the edge of the bench, she pulled up the back of her skirt, where Peter couldn’t see, and fumbled for the laces on the first petticoat. She felt ridiculous lifting her hips up two separate times, especially for the inner petticoat, which was made of stiffened horsehair to hold the shape of her skirt. She tugged and tugged, but Peter never laughed at her.

  At last she tossed both petticoats on the opposite bench. She was able to turn toward
him much easier now, even though her knees bumped his thigh.

  “Straddle me. You’ll be able to reach anything you want.”

  “And so will you!”

  “You’re seducing me, remember?”

  “I’m learning from you.” She knew very well it was indecent. She knew where . . . that part of a man’s anatomy was supposed to go.

  But she had gone along with him, and there was an imp inside her that urged her to try, to see what would happen, what she could learn. He had all his clothes on, the imp whispered in her ear.

  So before she could second-guess herself, she got up on one knee and slid the other over his thighs, folding her skirt down between them even as she settled near his knees. He still kept his arms wide on the bench, not threatening her, and she was even with his face now.

  They looked at each other, both of them breathing more rapidly than normal. Feeling his hard thighs along the inside of hers made her feel vulnerable, too open to him. But she couldn’t stop thinking of those statues, so she spread his waistcoat and coat wide on his chest. “Take these off,” he said.

  He leaned forward, his head bent near her face—with a view down her cleavage, she was sure—and she pushed his coat off his shoulders. There was almost as much tugging as she’d done with her petticoats, but at least the sleeveless waistcoat was easier.

  And then she started to explore, putting both hands on his chest, feeling his nipples in her palms, his muscles flexing and tensing beneath her hands. He dropped his head back on the bench and closed his eyes as she slipped her hands up his shoulders and down his arms. It was amazing how different an arm could be on a man, no softness, nothing but long lengths of hard muscle. She remembered watching him fence once, and knew he still exercised that way.

  She tugged at his cravat, ruining the starch as she pulled it from around his neck. There were three little buttons below, and she undid them one by one to see the hollow of his throat—and a few curls of light brown hair.

  “You have hair on your chest?” she asked in surprise.

  His voice sounded tight. “I imagine there are a few other differences between us.”

  So she tugged the shirt out of his waistband and let her hands slide up underneath. She was rewarded with another shudder. She felt the ridges of muscle, then the tickle of hair along her fingers.