A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal

by Meredith Duran

  “Is that for Lady Cornelia?” he asked.

  The maid jerked as though he’d struck her. Ah, now he’d done it: he’d accorded his guest her proper honors. By tomorrow evening or the day after, word would begin to spread through the West End. A Lady Cornelia in the Countess of Rushden’s chambers. Who was she? No chaperone? What sort of lady could she be? And Cornelia? A peculiar coincidence, no? Surely it couldn’t be … no, of course not.

  “Yes, your lordship,” answered the maid. “Mrs. Collins said—for her eye—”

  “Arnica,” he guessed. The tray bore a folded cloth and a bowl of steaming, clear liquid, fragrant and minty.

  “I—yes, your lordship.”

  He smiled. What a lovely opportunity. Without hesitation, he lifted his hand to knock on the door—just as it opened.

  Magic: Nell Aubyn stood on the threshold, her startled expression matching the small gasp from the maid. She wore a loose night rail, short sleeved, the neck cut low enough to show collarbones starkly defined.

  The sight briefly threw him off guard. Her gauntness paired with the bruise on her face made a disturbing picture.

  By all objective measures, he was doing this girl a good turn. Why, then, did he suddenly feel villainous?

  He pushed aside the notion. “Good evening,” he said, taking the tray from the limp hands of the maid before stepping inside. “That will be all,” he threw over his shoulder, and stood solidly in place, blocking entry.

  The door thumped shut, closing him in with his future bride—who took a step back, clearly unprepared for cozy intimacy. For all that she looked tired and thin, the bath had brought her innate prettiness into sharper clarity. Her mink-brown hair contained copperish streaks that the dirt had obscured. It tumbled in wet waves past her pointed elbows, the ends curling by her waist. She smelled like roses.

  The scent cleared his wits. Coming here had been a turn of good fortune for her. She would not be ill treated. “Did no one bring you a dressing robe?” he asked.

  Her jaw jutted forward in concert with her scowl. Not a pretty effect, but riveting, somehow. Everything about her seemed overstated—as if she were slightly more alive than anyone he knew.

  “It was itchy,” she said.

  “Ah. That will never do. We’ll have a modiste in tomorrow. Also, someone will go to Markham’s and bring you some ready-mades to tide you over.”

  She nodded warily, gathering up the neckline of her thin gown, hiking it up. As her fists tightened, a delicious shock ran through him. She had muscles in her arms: small, perfectly formed biceps that flexed distinctly as her knuckles turned white.

  He stared openly, very willing to let her see his interest. He’d never beheld true muscles in a woman. Smooth, pale, and rounded were the natural feminine qualities. Yielding, cushioning. The musculature of Nell’s arms seemed fundamentally obscene. Unwholesome. Fascinating. Proof of a reality to which he was not privy, a history he did not know and had no ability to imagine: this other life of hers, as a girl who worked for a living, sufficient unto herself, laboring for the coins with which she bought bread.

  He lifted his gaze and felt a momentary, ice-water shock: he looked into a face that belonged to Kitty Aubyn.

  Kitty would have shrieked to be discovered in this state of undress. Nell squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Once again he saw the unique force of her will, the vivid, vigorous animation of her. Even her soggy hair seemed to quiver with life as she glared at him.

  She was not unsettled by him in the least.

  He wanted to unsettle her.

  He wanted to take her biceps between his teeth, very gently, and lick away the roses until all that was left was the scent of her flesh.

  He smiled at her: he simply couldn’t help himself. He was so glad she’d wandered into his house to kill him.

  “I didn’t make a joke,” she said. “No call to look comical.”

  He answered with a shrug. “I’m the joke, I fear.” His attraction to her was inevitable, of course, scripted by the circumstances. Still, his basic nature played a role of its own. He wanted her not despite her muscles but because of them.

  How on earth had she formed such strength? “What sort of work did you do?” he asked, even as she opened her mouth and said in a rush:

  “I only opened the door to make sure it wasn’t locked from the outside.” She caught her breath, then blew it out. “Not to find company, not to chat with you.”

  He paused. “That door doesn’t lock from the outside.”

  “I work at a tobacco factory.”

  He laughed—not at her answer, but at this strange little conversation, dizzying in its twists. “Worked,” he said. “You work there no longer.”

  She frowned as if this news were suspect. “That’s right.”

  Oh, but she would set London on its ear. And he saw suddenly why she intrigued him: she was one of a kind. Unique. The missing heiress turned factory girl. She appealed to the patron in him, he supposed—the seeker of hidden potentials, the cultivator of odd and rare talents. That she should be here in his house had so much potential in so many regards. For his bank accounts. For his personal convenience and enjoyment. For his amusement at Kitty and Grimston’s expense. For his belated revenge on a dead man.

  He realized suddenly that she was blushing, a delicate pink stain spreading down her throat. He watched it spread, curious to know how far it would travel, struck by the idea that a woman with muscles might blush at all. “Do you blush all over?” he asked.

  She jerked her head toward the door. “Leave.”

  Now she was trying to order him about. Ill advised. This was his house now. He would do as he liked in it.

  But at the last moment, her swollen eye checked his sharp response. Somebody else had tried to put her in her place recently, and Simon suddenly felt certain that the attempt had failed. Nell Aubyn was nothing if not resilient—a quality he very much admired.

  “In fact, I’ve come on a mission,” he said. He tilted his head to indicate the tray in his hands. “Believe it or not, I rarely play the maid. But your eye wants treatment.”

  The swelling was not so bad that it prevented her from narrowing both eyes in skepticism. “It’s just a bruise,” she said.

  The remark, the idea behind it—that she might consider such injuries negligible—did not agree with him. He spoke rather more curtly than he’d intended. “You’re a valuable commodity. As I’ve explained, worth a great deal of money. You’ll have to allow me to tend to you.”

  She hesitated before giving him a single, grudging nod. It seemed that he’d struck exactly the right note: as long as she considered his ministrations part of the larger, economic transaction, she’d allow them.

  That the notion irked him struck him as absurd. His care was part of the larger, economic transaction. That he planned to enjoy putting his hands on her fresh, glowing skin was only a small bonus.

  “Shall we remain here in your sitting room?” he asked. “Or would the bedroom suit you better?”

  A small, disgusted noise came from her throat: hmmph. She turned on her heel and led him to the fireplace, where two leather wing chairs faced the low-burning flames. To the left lay a discreet door that opened into his apartments. He hoped she hadn’t figured that out yet.

  She lowered herself stiffly into one of the seats. He laid the tray atop the small table by her feet—whimsical pleasure in behaving so domestically—and took up the towel, hooking it over his fingers into neat thirds before dipping it into the bowl.

  When he knelt before her and reached for her face, she drew back, clearly startled. “I can do it myself.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You could.”

  He did not wait for argument before laying the cloth against her cheek. She needed to learn her place in this partnership. Even a purely financial alliance tended to favor one contractor’s vision. Casually, he asked, “Who did this to you?”

  “None of your business,” Nell muttered. The damp he
at felt blissful, but letting him come so close didn’t seem wise. When she closed her eyes to block out the sight of him, she grew aware of his arm pressing against hers, solid and warm. Some foolish part of her wanted to lean into it. She’d never been so spoiled in her life, and it was rotting her brain.

  “Leaving aside my business,” he murmured, “I’d still like to know. Who was it?”

  His touch was so light on her cheek. He handled her as though she were fragile, special. A lady.

  What a laugh that idea was.

  She tried to shift away from his body—not so much that he would notice, just enough to spare herself his warmth. She was the classic fool, no doubt: the fly drawn to Lord Spider. What a luxurious parlor you keep, sir. Oh yes, I’ll sleep in your web. Clever, handsome, an earl … he could grind her beneath his boot if he wished it.

  Not to say she wouldn’t make it hard for him. She was made of stronger stuff than glass.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Even his breath smelled expensive. He’d been drinking brandy by the smell of it. She fixed her attention on his hands, tanned, like those of a man who worked in the sun. Of course, the thick gold ring on his index finger dispelled such notions. No farmer had ever worn such.

  She spoke from curiosity alone. “What would you do if I told you?”

  “I’d make him regret it.”

  Her eyes flew to his. He blinked, as though he was as startled by himself as she was. Then he smiled, a whimsical little curve. “Behold: am I not husbandly already?”

  She couldn’t help a small smile in reply. “Judging by what I’ve seen, it might be equally husbandly to deliver the blow.”

  His smile faded. “That’s a sad fact, if true.”

  “And that’s a handsome offer you make,” she said. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, this one. “But it’s not necessary.”

  “It’s a basic service,” he said flatly.

  She snorted. “Then you must stay very busy, St. Maur. Today alone, I know a dozen women who’d have need of you.”

  His pinkie hooked the underside of her chin, raising her face so she looked into his. From this proximity his irises explained themselves: a narrow ring of charcoal encircled strands of green and palest gray, which faded, around his pupils, into a band of gold. Gorgeous eyes. His brows, bold slashes as black as ink, gathered in a deeper frown. “Are you regularly among that number?” he asked.

  She loosed a breath through her nose. His pity would probably work to her advantage, but she couldn’t bear it. “No,” she said. “I can look out for myself.”

  He looked at her a moment longer, but if he had doubts, he kept them to himself. Releasing her chin, he returned his attention to her cheek. As the cloth moved down toward her jaw, she stiffened. It felt too much like a caress. It reminded her of how he’d touched her this morning—and how he’d kissed her last night. More fool she not to mind it. Like a drunk at the scent of gin, she felt every particle of herself coming alive.

  Curious how bodies could want each other from the start. Unlike the mind and spirit, the flesh decided instantly—which made the mind, Nell thought, all the more important. She snatched the cloth out of his hand. “You go over there,” she said, flapping her hand at the other chair. In deliberately broad accents, she added, “I can manage me eye on me own.”

  He put two fingers to his brow in a mocking salute and did as she bade him. She took a long, steadying breath. Make Michael regret it, would he? She’d flirted with enough Irishmen down the pub to know blarney when she heard it. It must be his face, making her so stupid. His jaw was firm and square, his cheekbones sharp, that bump in his nose the only thing that saved him from pretty—and not by much. Long-legged, broad-shouldered, flat-bellied … he was too lovely to be believed.

  And so was this whole affair.

  “Something’s rotten here,” she said. “A man like you, I can’t reckon you’d have a hard time finding a bride. What’s your real reason for undertaking this stunt?”

  He leaned back in his chair, propping his heels atop a stool that sat in front of the fire screen. He had a powerful flex to his thighs. She had a brief flash of what he’d looked like in the flesh: tall and leanly muscled, like an animal built to hunt.

  “I’ve told you only the truth,” he said, his tone contemplative. “Of course, it strikes me as noteworthy that you agreed to the plan even as you doubted my intentions. Perhaps you felt you had no choice, though. Who blackened your eye?”

  A noise escaped her, pure irritation. “It’s none of your business!”

  He considered her a moment, a smile growing on his lips. “Hmm.” He removed his boots from the stool. Put them flat to the ground as he leaned toward her, bracing his elbows on his thighs. The deliberateness of his movement, the slow encroachment on her space, made her pulse stutter. “Everything about you is my business now. It became so the moment you set foot in this house. Isn’t that delightful?”

  He looked too sure of himself, as if he knew something she didn’t. She laid down the cloth, feeling the need to keep her hands free. “I never agreed to let you muck about in my life.”

  “You agreed to marry me, did you not? As my future wife, your concerns are mine. Quite straightforward, really.”

  What a load of rot. Every wife she knew kept more secrets from her husband than she shared with him. “And your concerns?” she asked, letting her skepticism sharpen her voice. “Do they become mine as well?”

  “You may ask anything you like.”

  That wasn’t quite an answer. “All right,” she said, aiming to test him. “You’re a fine-looking devil. You’ve got fancy manners and a title and a house to boot. Why couldn’t you find a rich girl to marry you?”

  “But I’ve found one,” he said lightly. “She’s sitting across from me, looking quite fetching in her night rail. God bless fabrics that itch.”

  To her disbelief, she felt a blush steal over her face. What nonsense was this? She wasn’t coy or prudish, either. “Don’t mock me.”

  “You don’t think you’re fetching?”

  His eyes were sticky. A girl could get trapped in them. “I’m not a lady.” But that didn’t sound right, did it? She frowned, troubled by the suspicion that she’d just been unfair to herself. With an awkward shrug, she added, “Not your kind, at any rate. A … proper one, I mean.”

  “Ah, that.” He sighed and glanced toward the fire. “Most proper ladies are very tiresome—full of demands I’ve no interest in meeting. Their fathers also pose a problem, tending as they do to frown upon my reputation.”

  He hadn’t mentioned the reputation. “Why? What’s the matter with it?”

  “I had a rather wild youth.”

  It had to have been pretty bloody wild if it scared people off a titled bloke. “Did you kill someone?”

  “No.”

  She’d caught his brief hesitation. “Did you, then?”

  He looked squarely back at her. “I rarely see a point in lying, Nell.”

  He was more evasive than a thief with a copper. “But sometimes you do?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “All right. Let’s have it out then. The worst rumors that you’ll hear.” He sat back, eyeing her. “I’m a drunkard. Not true: I’m fond of my drink, but rarely drunk. A rake and a voluptuary: by some measures, perhaps, but not indiscriminately. Invitation only, as they say. A gambler: yes, but I have never played beyond my means.” He paused, black humor sharpening his expression. “Though it would be quite easy to do, in my current situation. Generally, however, I gamble only for the pleasure of removing other people’s money from them. What else? Ah—wicked perversions. Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of wicked. Some people seem terribly fearful of creativity. Substances less licit than drink: yes, occasionally. But I’m devoted to none of them.” He paused. “Anarchism, worshipping of Lucifer, both false … is there anything else? Give me a moment to think on it.”

  She stared, dumbfounded. “Surely there can’t be more.”

&
nbsp; “A few small trivia, certainly.” He gave her a cheerful smile.

  The mismatch between his tone and his admissions unnerved her. He seemed utterly unruffled by his recitation. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “What?”

  “That people lie about you?”

  He tipped his head slightly. “Why should it? Apart from the inconvenience, of course, when it comes to wooing a wealthy bride.”

  “A care for the truth?” In his shoes, she’d be hard-pressed not to rake her nails across lying mouths.

  His dimple popped out. “The truth is far more tedious,” he said. “And people require entertainment. I provide that.” He paused, looking diverted by this train of thought. “I suppose that everyone at heart is a storyteller. And I tend to inspire their stories. In that regard, you may think of me as …” He laughed suddenly. “A muse to the bored upper crust.”

  “A muse.”

  “Ancient Greek spirits. Provided inspiration to—”

  “Poets and artists and whatnot,” she finished. “I thought they were women.”

  “They were.” He leaned forward, scrutinizing her. “So you do read.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe the fifth time I tell you I’m up to dictionary, you’ll believe me.”

  He made an amused noise, a breath pushed through his nose. “I didn’t think board schools provided Greek literature to their students.”

  God in heaven. “Folks who can’t afford books use lending libraries.” Most of them were terrible, but the GFS had a tremendous collection. It was the only reason she’d joined the club.

  “Of course.” He eyed her. “You must think me a terrible snob.”

  “I know you’re a snob.” All his ilk were. “Why? Do you imagine you aren’t?”

  “No. I’ll admit to it.”

  She grinned. “Seems like you’re willing to admit to a lot of things that other people might prefer to deny.”

  His smile began slowly, then widened all at once. “You’re not slow witted.”