The housekeeper shooed away the footman and collected Graciela’s cloak and gloves and bonnet herself. “You must be chilled to the bones. It’s a dreadful cold day to be outdoors, Your Grace.”
“Indeed. It was a dreadful day altogether,” she said, moving toward the stairs, eager to be rid of her gown and relax within the comfort of her chamber.
Evangeline was gone and in the ground. The realization left her as cold as the winter outside.
Last night Graciela had felt warm and alive. When Colin hauled her onto his lap, she’d felt an undeniable sizzle of excitement. As though she might burst out of her skin. Somehow she would get that feeling back. Only not with Colin. She would find someone else. Someone more suitable.
“His Grace is in the library. He arrived over an hour ago.”
“Marcus?” She froze, one hand on the balustrade, her heart starting a fierce rhythm. Could he be here for any particular reason or was this simply a social call?
For a moment, she feared that Lord Strickland had told Marcus everything, but then she knew that he wouldn’t do that. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to get her out of that club without her stepson learning her identity. He wouldn’t have surrendered the truth after all that effort.
“Yes.” Mrs. Wakefield nodded. “Are you up to seeing him or would you like to retire?”
There was a lengthy pause before she replied, “I’ll see him, of course.” Lifting her skirts, she made her way to the library, feeling like a black crow sweeping along the corridor in her swishing ebony skirts.
The library had always been Marcus’s favorite room in the house. Even though he kept a house across town, new books appeared every season, ordered at his specification. It was an impressive collection.
The door was cracked. She entered, spotting her stepson reclining on the sofa before the fireplace, jacket removed and cravat loose—the height of casual comfort.
“Hello, Marcus. This is a pleasant . . .” Her voice faded as she stepped through the door and saw that he wasn’t alone.
Colin sat in an armchair, his legs stretched out before him, fingers loosely holding a glass of whiskey. Unlike her stepson’s, his glass appeared hardly depleted.
Both men stood at her arrival.
It shouldn’t have surprised her that he was here, too.
Colin could often be found in Marcus’s company. Years ago when they still attended Eton, Colin tagged along when Marcus came home on holidays. Her heart had always ached for him, orphaned at an early age with only an uninterested grandmother who spent all of her time in Bath with all the other grand dames of the ton rather than attending to her grandson.
“Lord Strickland, how good to see you.” Her voice emerged small and tinny.
“Your Grace.” He inclined his head very properly. She quickly looked away lest she stare too long and with too much yearning at that mouth of his that she now knew intimately.
Marcus stepped forward to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’re looking well, Ela. I was sorry to hear about your friend.”
She dipped her gaze to study her hands as though they were of vast interest. “Yes. It’s a terrible tragedy.”
Marcus motioned for her to join him on the sofa. She claimed a seat for herself, arranging her skirts carefully and pasting a smile on her face. She felt Colin’s stare but didn’t glance his way again. She nodded with seeming interest, attempting to carry on a conversation with her stepson. She must have conversed passably. Marcus didn’t remark to the contrary. Not that she did a very good job focusing on his words.
He caught her attention only when he addressed Colin. “Lud, I can’t believe you’re really about this, Strickland.” Marcus’s expression was disgusted.
She glanced between the two men, her gaze resting on Colin a fraction too long. He must have felt the weight of it. He turned to stare back at her, his face unreadable.
“You’re much too young to get leg-shackled,” Marcus added.
“I seem to recall you were considering leg-shackling yourself to Poppy Fairchurch not too long ago,” Colin responded evenly, his gaze still fixed on her as he spoke.
Leg-shackled? Her mind raced. Colin was getting married? To whom? When?
It shouldn’t have mattered, but she couldn’t deny the swift stab of discomfort in the center of her chest. He’d kissed her only last night and offered to scratch the itch between her legs. Her face burned at the memory.
And he was on the verge of marriage?
She knew that fidelity wasn’t a high priority among noblemen, but somehow she’d thought Colin was better. At least before last night. Now she knew he was as lust driven as the rest of them.
“A mistake. A remnant of my coma.” Marcus fluttered his fingers in the air. “Side effect, no doubt, of trauma to the head.”
Graciela stifled a snort. It was her assumption that her stepson had proposed marriage to Poppy Fairchurch to thwart his bastard half brother. At least in part. Poppy Fairchurch was sweet and appealing and she didn’t doubt that had some influence over him as he pursued her. But she was penniless and titleless and without connections. These things mattered to a duke like her stepson. She should have known something else was afoot when he proposed. Something like stealing the girl away from the half brother he loathed.
Fortunately, Poppy loved Struan Mackenzie every bit as much as he loved her and they were happily married now.
Marcus noticed her again and asked suddenly, “Would you like me to ring for your favorite Madeira, Ela?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” she said, deciding she couldn’t feel comfortable in Colin’s company. Perhaps never again, sadly. It wasn’t to be borne . . . feeling the heat of his stare, knowing he was thinking about last night.
She rose to her feet in a swish of skirts. The men stood, as well. She motioned for them to resume sitting. “Please. Stay as long as you wish. It’s been a long day.”
“Of course.” Marcus gave her a quick embrace. “You must be very heart heavy for your friend. Take some time for yourself and have a long nap.”
She winced. It was the manner of advice one would give to an elderly parent. Next he would be offering to mash up her food for her.
It stung a little that Colin bore witness to such treatment. He was probably kicking himself for his fleeting lapse with her and thanking the heavens that she had refused him.
“Yes.” She nodded in agreement. “A nap sounds like a fine idea.” Let them think her old and infirm.
She left the room, still not sparing a glance for Colin, no matter how much the urge beckoned. She had to be strong and put things back in their proper perspective. She would pretend last night never happened. After all, Graciela knew how to play the game of pretend. She was well versed in it. She had pretended for years to be happily married, and even now when her husband had passed away, she still pretended he was the good man he wasn’t—all for the sake of Clara and her stepchildren.
She was almost to the door of her bedchamber when she heard steps behind her. A glance over her shoulder revealed Colin following on her heels.
She stopped and whirled around, her heart immediately jumping to her throat. “Colin . . . what are you doing?” Mistrust laced her voice, which was absurd. She had nothing to fear from him. She knew that. It was more an issue of her not trusting herself . . . and reverting to that lonely, needy creature from the night before that melted the moment his lips touched hers.
“I just wanted to make certain you’re well.”
“I’m well,” she quickly assured him, hoping he would turn and leave her.
“You don’t look well.” He stopped in front of her, thankfully a respectable space between them.
She forced a light laugh. “That’s a fine thing to say.”
His gaze narrowed and flicked over her features. “You know what I mean.” His tone was no-nonsense. Clearly her attempt at levity had not fooled him.
She hadn’t been well since she learned of her friend’s demise . . . and
she hadn’t been fine since stepping into Sodom. Since coming face-to-face with Colin. Since that kiss and those blunt words exchanged outside the club.
“Today was a trying day.” Blast if her voice didn’t give a telltale shake.
He nodded. “Of course. That’s understandable. But I was referring to last night.”
No. Please. She didn’t want to relive that with him. “What about last night?” she asked quickly. Too quickly.
He cocked his head. “Have you forgotten so soon?”
Forgotten? As if that were possible.
She glanced past him, fearful Marcus would come up behind him in that moment and catch on to their discussion.
“No, my lord. I haven’t forgotten but I will set it aside from my mind. Just as you should.” She took a step closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial pitch. “What happened between us . . . you have to forget all about it.” She made a swiping motion with her hand.
“Do you think it that simple?” His gaze moved over her face, as though he were seeing her features for the first time. Or at least seeing her in a new light. She was certain that much was true. She was definitely seeing him in a new way. “As eventful as the night was?”
She shook her head. Eventful? She could think of a dozen more-apt words.
His gaze grew more intense on her face, his brows drawing closer. “I doubt I shall ever be able to put it from my mind.”
“My good sense has returned in full. I’ve learned my lesson.” The lesson that she would look somewhere other than Sodom for a lover—and she would obliterate the memory of his kiss by replacing it with another’s. Posthaste.
“No more jaunts to places like Sodom, then?”
Heat fired in her cheeks. “Rest assured, no.” She would simply be smarter as she went about the acquisition of a lover.
He continued to stare at her in that oddly intent way, almost as though he could read her thoughts. His pale blue eyes gleamed like silver in the shadows of the corridor. Exactly as she remembered from last night. She resisted squirming beneath his regard. How could things have ever been easy and natural between them? The air between them was spiked and charged. Not easy. Not natural.
Time, she told herself. In time, things would go back to the way they were before. Last night was an anomaly and would simply become a dim memory. Besides, if he was to marry soon, he wouldn’t be hanging around her so much. He’d have a wife to fill his time with . . . and soon they would have children.
This thought didn’t supply nearly as much comfort as it should have.
She moistened her lips. “Did I hear Marcus correctly? You’re to be married?”
The silence crackled before he replied. “I’m not engaged. Not yet. My grandmother has merely brought it to my attention that it is time to start filling the family nursery.”
“How splendid for you. And your family.” The words felt like rocks spitting out from her mouth.
“Yes. The next in line after me, according to my grandmother, is a wastrel second cousin in America. She would like at least two great-grandchildren, in fast succession.”
“An heir and a spare,” she remarked a touch bitterly, well familiar with the English adage. “You best accommodate. This season boasts a lovely crop of debutantes.”
He sighed, not appearing thrilled at the idea but dutiful. Always dutiful. “I do have a few prospects in mind, supplied to me by my ever-helpful grandmother, of course.”
She nodded. “Of course. I’m certain your grandmama is full of recommendations, but I’d be happy to steer you, as well. I know of several accomplished ladies that would be proud to call you husband.”
Did she just offer to help him pick out a bride? She needed a gag to stuff in her mouth at once.
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Are you offering me your assistance in selecting a bride?” The mocking tone of his voice brought the heat creeping back into her face. Considering their activities the night before, it was a ludicrous suggestion.
She stammered, “I-If you should require my opinion, it is yours. Friends help one another and we are that, are we not, my lord?” What rot was she spewing now?
“Yes,” he said slowly, his voice solemn. “Always that, Your Grace.”
They held each other’s gazes for an interminable moment.
She felt as though she were facing a stranger, contrary to the nonsense she was spouting. A man who was stripping her of her clothes with his eyes to see all that lay beneath.
Chapter 7
“I’m not sure about this, Mary Rebecca,” Graciela whispered, careful that no one overheard her. Two of Mary Rebecca’s daughters sat on the seat across from them, identical smiles of excitement etched onto their glowing faces.
Graciela was most definitely the only one in the carriage not looking forward to the evening ahead. And yet somehow she was here, coaxed into attending Lord Needling’s musicale by her friend.
“Ela, please,” Mary Rebecca whispered back, tugging and plucking at the neckline of her gown with a militant eye, making sure the satin rosebuds edging the brocade had the proper fluff and framed her cleavage to maximum effect. “Lord Needling has long been an admirer of yours. And considering he has never been interested in me, despite all my most ardent efforts”—she arched a reproachful eyebrow at Graciela—“you should have him.”
“Thank you?” she murmured as their carriage rolled to a stop before the viscount’s town house, a questioning lilt to her voice. She didn’t bother pointing out that Lord Needling was a grown man and not an item to be given.
“Ah! We’re here. Come.” Mary Rebecca shooed her girls toward the door.
“He did not invite me directly, Mary Rebecca,” she muttered as they lifted their skirts and followed young Marianne and Aurora down from the carriage.
Mary Rebecca landed on her feet with a huff. She whirled on Graciela and seized her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. “You know he was hoping I would bring you. He is always asking about you. Truly. If you weren’t my friend, I would hate you.” Her gaze flitted over Graciela’s shoulder. “Marianne! Don’t run. Have some decorum, please.”
Mary Rebecca hurried after her daughters up the steps toward the front doors of Lord Needling’s Mayfair home.
Graciela slowly fell in behind them, moving at a more sedate pace, doubts plaguing her. Coming here tonight, uninvited, was waving a flag of surrender in Needling’s direction. She chewed her bottom lip in agitation. It was one thing to decide to take a suitable lover and another thing to go about the motions of making that happen. She wasn’t certain she was ready for this.
You were ready a couple days ago when you straddled Colin’s lap and rubbed yourself all over him like a cat in heat.
She shushed her inner voice, just as she had done countless times since that night. That episode had been an anomaly brought about by the suggestive atmosphere of Sodom. It wasn’t real. It was as artificial as something dreamed up . . . at least this was what she had convinced herself.
She had not been blind to Lord Needling’s interested gaze over the years. As much as he had made his admiration for her known, he had only ever been gentlemanly toward her. An ideal choice for dalliance. He was a widower purported to have loved his late wife—that alone esteemed him in Graciela’s eyes.
He would be discreet. He was handsome. He was of appropriate age, perhaps five or six years older than herself. He was everything she should want in a paramour. She wrapped herself in these emboldening words and stepped inside the house.
They were escorted to the drawing room, where chairs had been arranged for Lord Needling’s musicale. A father of three daughters, all of marriageable age, he often hosted such events to showcase their talents. His middle daughter was quite good friends with Marianne. Mary Rebecca’s daughters almost immediately abandoned them to join Dorothea, who was tuning her violin at the front of the room.
“Ladies, welcome, welcome.” Lord Needling greeted them warmly, his gaze resting on her overly
long. “Your loveliness brings light to the room.” The viscount bowed over their hands. Mary Rebecca cut Graciela a smug look over his bowed head.
“Thank you for allowing me to invade your evening’s musicale, my lord,” she murmured, still feeling a bit of an interloper.
“Nonsense!” His soft brown eyes twinkled merrily. Not a tall man, he was trim and self-possessed with a full head of black hair streaked with gray. “If I had realized you were in Town, I would have happily extended an invitation.”
She was not so certain of that. She had long ago dismissed the invitation in his eyes, and he had respectfully kept his distance.
But that would change now. He would soon realize that she was receptive to him. That was the point of her attendance this evening, after all. Before the night’s end, he would grasp that she had changed her mind and his pursuit would be welcome. A wave of nausea overcame her and her gaze darted about the room, assessing for where she might be sick in the event of an emergency.
Mary Rebecca conveniently drifted away to speak with Mrs. Pottingham, Lord Needling’s sister, leaving her alone with the viscount.
Graciela did not miss, however, the condemning stare of Mrs. Pottingham. The lady’s hawk-like gaze traveled over Graciela as she examined her from head to toe with slightly flaring nostrils . . . as though she caught the scent of something sour.
Graciela’s hand drifted to her bodice. Her neckline was modest, but she still felt vulnerable, her golden skin laid bare before one of the ton dames who found her so clearly defective. It was not the first time she was treated to such a stare. She knew what it meant . . . knew that her presence, her appearance, her very voice heavy with accent, was offensive to many.
She cleared her throat and removed her gaze from Mrs. Pottingham. If she allowed Society’s opinion of her to dictate her actions, then she would never step foot in public. Graciela had always endured it. Now was no different. Fortunately, Clara, as the late duke’s daughter, was more accepted.
The Scandal of It All Page 6