Chapter Nine
Judah wondered how his brother would feel if Gawain, his wife’s twin, asked for their sister’s hand. Gawain was rich, true, but Beth had an acceptable dowry for her station. There could be no doubt that she’d be marrying beneath her if she accepted him. Gawain, the son of a manufacturer, made no pretense of being a gentleman.
Hatbrook’s forehead creased, his gaze moving from Gawain to Beth to him. Judah had his answer. Hatbrook would not be pleased at the match. Gawain, insensible to the marquess’s irritation, enticed Beth to share her favorite piano pieces.
“I am sorry I cannot play you anything,” she said. “Judah’s instrument is in no condition for that. But you have heard me play before, I think.”
“No, I have not had that pleasure,” he said, leaning forward.
Hatbrook cleared his throat. “Alys is learning to play,” he announced.
“Speaking of my sister,” Gawain said, turning to Judah, “I wonder if I might trouble you and your brother for a private word?”
Beth pouted prettily, but before she could speak Gawain bowed his head in her direction. “I would not abandon such a charming lady, but the matter is a delicate one that requires speed.”
“I understand, of course,” she said.
Judah stood. “We shall leave you to the tea and go into the study for a moment.”
Hatbrook rose and the two men followed Judah up the creaking stairs to a spare room he had designated as his study.
“This is a cozy nook,” Hatbrook said, glancing around. “It must be a wonder to engage in creature comforts after so many years in India.”
Someone who had never been to India could not imagine the place properly. His brother’s guilt that he had been so far away from home was evident in letters he’d sent over the years. He had always wished Judah could have had a private income and a place in Society, seeming to forget Judah had entered the army long before Hatbrook’s father died. What else could he have done with no money and no education?
Judah invited them to sit and took his favorite tattered armchair. “A drink?” he offered, pointing to the decanter next to his chair. Upon both men refusing, he said, “This is the room I would refurbish first. As you can see, I simply appropriated bits of furniture from other rooms.”
Gawain sat on a faded red fainting couch and Hatbrook took a straight-backed chair.
“Now, what is this about?” Hatbrook asked, still a little cold.
“Theodore Bliven,” Gawain replied. “The seducer himself.”
Hatbrook rubbed at his temples as if the name brought on an instant headache.
“Have you located him?” Judah asked.
“Is he wed to that woman he claimed to be engaged to?” Hatbrook asked at the same time.
“Unwed and yes, he’s in Madras.”
“Should I go after him?” Gawain leaned forward, almost as if he wanted to perform a service for Hatbrook.
“For what purpose? To drag him back to marry Matilda?” Hatbrook said.
“If he isn’t married, why not?”
“I cannot imagine it would be a successful marriage. He’d probably live off her funds.”
“You cannot see the average marriage through the lens of your own happy union,” Gawain said. “Would not any husband for my sister be better than none?”
“You cannot go to India and be back before the child is born,” Hatbrook said. “You cannot even reach India in time.”
Gawain leaned back on the couch and used his arms to lift his bad leg onto it. “You are right, of course. I just wish I could do something. If he’d just gone to Scotland or somewhere like that, you’d have wanted me to go after him.”
“If he was in Scotland, he would know what has transpired by now,” Hatbrook told him. “As he insisted he was seduced, he may continue to feel an ungentlemanly lack of interest in the outcome.”
“You speak of my sister, my lord,” Gawain said.
“She is also my wife’s sister,” Hatbrook returned. “And a resident in my home. I cannot see any reason to pursue this subject further this evening. Beth is downstairs with no one to entertain her.” He stood.
Judah followed suit, with the sure knowledge that Gawain was deeply hurt by Hatbrook’s dismissal. Different classes had different expectations about behavior. Such misunderstandings were the outcome of unequal families coming together.
Judah stared across Earl Gerrick’s table very late Monday evening, wishing he had declined the invitation. The ton’s hours were the opposite of a working man’s. Miss Cross, seated next to him, still appeared quite fresh, though rather pale in her mourning gown, but she had not returned to work. One more week until they resumed their morning walks.
She caught his eye and he smiled at her. Her chin ducked down, as if for a moment she hadn’t recognized him, just seen him as some gentleman, but then she smiled back. He wondered what the countess had meant by seating them next to each other. Were they aware of the professional relationship? Or did they suspect him of some other interest in a hot-blooded Cross?
Society understood you did not have to marry a Scandalous Cross. You might, of course, but that ran you the risk of being cuckolded. Across the table, for instance, was the case in point—Lady Amelia March, the earl’s sister, who had been the Prince of Wales’s mistress at one time. He had learned that from the Cross brothers.
He regarded the lady, still rather slim and pretty though she must be nearly his mother’s age. Lady March, who had married a baronet after her affair had come to a close, turned from her dinner partner on the right to the man at her left, her gaze raking Judah’s as she did so.
He inclined his head, hoping to somehow convey the message that he’d like a word with her. Her slight smile indicated she understood him, though they were strangers.
An hour later, they were enjoying an intermission between an indifferent singer and an underfed poet, the evening’s entertainment, when Lady March came up to Miss Cross, who was at Judah’s side.
Her bustle twitched as she settled herself in front of her niece. “You must introduce me to this handsome young man, though of course I knew his mother well.”
“Please, Aunt, may I present Captain Shield,” Miss Cross said, then completed the formalities.
“I understand you have been speaking to your mother’s old friends,” Lady March said. “I believe I can count myself among them.”
“Then I am doubly happy to make your acquaintance, Lady March,” he said, bowing slightly.
“I also have been led to understand you all but recoil when called ‘Lord Judah’ these days,” she said, her shrewd gaze considering him.
“I am proud of my military title,” he said.
“Oh, I do not think that is the reason.” Her lips tilted upward in a private kind of smile. “I am guessing you have learned something about your mother.”
Miss Cross frowned and glanced at him. Judah felt torn, desperate to learn what the lady knew, but not sure he wanted Miss Cross mixed up in his business. Still, given that her family were notorious gossips, she would find out eventually.
“I understand you were a close friend of the Prince of Wales,” he said baldly.
Lady March nodded.
“My mother? Was she also a close friend of His Royal Highness?”
Her eyebrows rose and she smiled openly this time, delightedly. “My dear boy! Is that what is troubling you? Why dear Bertie didn’t even have close friends, as you say, until after you were born. No, I’m quite sure of that.”
Judah’s next breath stuck in his chest. He held himself rigid. “You don’t say.”
“Oh, I do. His mother did her best to marry him off right after Irish Nellie got her claws into him. I ought to know as I was next.” She tittered. “How very indiscreet I’m being, but you know it was a very long time ago.”
“The wine was a bit strong,” Miss Cross murmured, taking her aunt’s arm. “Why don’t we sit in the anteroom? I’m sure it is much cooler there.�
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Judah was left to stare at their backs as the two women walked away. He could not help but note that Miss Cross had her aunt’s charming walk. What about Miss Cross? Was she as pure as she seemed?
She might have thought they had too much wine at dinner but he rather felt he’d had not nearly enough.
Magdalene helped her aunt sit down and found her a glass of lemonade. “What was that about?” she asked.
“I believe Captain Shield has discovered he was not the late marquess’s blood son,” Aunt Amelia said.
“Oh. How dreadful.” She seated herself next to her aunt on the settee. “Do you really think so?”
“I am very sure of it. What young man, when faced with the truth about his parent, would not at least hope he was the son of a member of the royal family? But no, I am sure that is not the case.”
She couldn’t help asking, “Then who do you think was his father?”
The older lady shrugged, a movement as graceful as any dancer’s. “I have no idea who he was, just who he was not. The prince held nothing from me when he was mine. We were terribly young then.”
“Did he love you?”
“I’m sure he did in his way. He was a bit backward and naive. All long ago.”
“And best forgotten?”
“Not at all. My memories are precious to me, and I harmed no one. I never had children who might be embarrassed.”
“Unlike Lady Hatbrook.”
“Quite. This is unfortunate. I hope his brother is standing by him.”
“As much as the captain allows.” Magdalene found she was gripping her skirts. “He is my friend, a very good friend to me, and to George. If you don’t mind I’d like to go to him.”
Aunt Amelia nodded graciously and Magdalene took her leave, swiftly walking back into the music room, but she could not find the captain. Had he left the party? She went into the corridor, opening doors because she was certain he would not have gone into the cold night, but didn’t spot him until she had reached the front hall.
He was speaking to a footman and she suspected he was asking that his coat and hat be fetched. She increased her speed and was breathless by the time she reached him.
She put her hand on his arm and drew him into an alcove. “Surely you cannot be leaving.”
His face was very stern. “I must be at Redcake’s early.”
“You only go there so early because of me,” she said. “I know you used to leave later until you were concerned for my safety.”
He said nothing, only put his hand over hers where it rested on his opposite arm. “Miss Cross.”
“Yes?” Without thinking, she went on her tiptoes, the better to see his face in the dim light. He was so very tall.
He bent his head to hers. “Now you know the truth about me, that I am a bastard, and yet you still come for me,” he murmured.
Before she could respond, his mouth found hers, hot and demanding. His body remained still, an inch from hers except where their hands met, but his lips, how they plundered, stealing her senses as thoroughly as they stole her breath.
The blood rushed from her brain, leaving her with nothing but a craving for the taste of him, the pressure of his mouth, the faint taste of wine on his tongue as it dipped into hers. Her free hand tangled itself in his lapels, slipped lower than it should until her fingers danced along his low-cut waistcoat. She felt the hard ridges of muscle under his shirt and her mouth opened further in a hot rush of pleasure at his strength.
His tongue took full possession, tangling with hers. She felt his hand in her hair, heard the small clatter of pins hitting the floor. Her breasts tingled where they made contact with his chest, her nipples tightening into hard peaks desperate for further sensation.
Giving in to the moment, she arched her neck. More pins fell and she felt a lock of her thick hair brush her cheek. The sensation shocked her into sense.
Her hand moved back up his chest and she pushed at him, stepping away. “Captain! We cannot keep doing this if I am going to be employed by you!”
“No?”
She could see his breathing was ragged, forced herself to keep her gaze on his face, not drift lower down and see if he was hot and bothered, like she was, below his waistcoat. “I cannot possibly work for a man who kisses me.”
“I am not your direct supervisor, nor indeed the owner of the establishment,” he countered.
“You are still in authority over me.” She pushed at her hair, knowing there would be no hiding what she’d been up to if anyone saw her.
“I am not demanding you kiss me as a part of your position.” He knelt before her.
“Captain Shield!” What was he going to do? Propose? Her heart skipped a beat and she took a deep, involuntary breath as black spots danced before her eyes.
He grinned then, the expression so alluring that she felt moisture dampen her thighs. Heavens, but he was a rake. And she, a Scandalous Cross who could fall so easily.
Her spine straightened and her nose lifted, even as her knees quavered and her female parts hummed with expectation. She clasped her hands in front of her breasts.
He picked up the pins that lay on the floor and handed them to her. “I will see you at Nelson’s Column next Monday, Miss Cross,” he said.
Footsteps sounded on the marble floor behind them and a footman called for the captain.
“I am off to bed,” the captain said. Then after a pause, he continued, “Alone, unfortunately.”
With that, he turned away, striding confidently like the military man he was, but with just a hint of boyish swagger that she, disgustedly, recognized from her brother, Manfred, when he was pleased with one of his conquests.
She was no conquest to be swaggered about, and tomorrow, she resolved, no matter how impertinent, she would tell him so. How could he leave her so wanting . . . so . . . disappointed and empty? Continuing on like this would be unbearable.
Magdalene persuaded George the boys would be better behaved if they had some of Redcake’s petits fours, and that they weren’t too dear since she received a discount now. Early the next afternoon she had dodged omnibuses, carriages, and carts in the rain to go there. When she went up the steps to the offices in her wet, dragging mourning skirts, she felt like an interloper, an outsider, and hated the feeling. She wanted to be back here, not sitting at home staring at the walls. Nancy’s things had all been sorted, given to servants or friends, or removed to the rag basket when necessary. The children would be home tomorrow.
Ewan Hales wiped his hand down his pomaded hair when she entered, then stood. “I am sorry for your loss, Miss Cross.”
“I—I didn’t know you knew who I was,” she stammered, somehow thinking she’d have only seen Captain Shield in here.
“I know all the employees,” he said with a proprietary air.
“That’s very, er, thorough of you.” After a pause, she asked, “Is the captain in?”
His gaze took in her dripping skirts. She checked to make sure the dye wasn’t coming off and staining the floor. It wasn’t.
“I will see,” he said, bustling off importantly in trousers that were just a bit too tight.
He had nice legs, she decided, but the obsequiousness was a bit much.
Mr. Hales appeared at the captain’s door and held it open for her. “He is in.”
She nodded her thanks as she ventured into the inner sanctum.
“You can close the door, Hales,” the captain said, standing up from his desk.
She saw a sheath of papers, a faded rose ribbon discarded to one side, on his desk. It looked like correspondence, not Redcake’s business.
“Rose was your mother’s signature color, was it not?” she asked.
“Indeed.” He came forward. “Hales should have taken your cloak and hat.”
“Oh.” She fumbled with the ribbon of her hat and undid the clasp of her cloak.
His fingers brushed her shoulders as he helped her remove the threadbare wool. Her shoulders tingled, or
perhaps she was merely shivering from the damp.
“This little stove is very warming,” he said, inviting her to a corner of the room behind the desk. He put his hands forward, demonstrating. “Though I like the fireplace too.”
“So this is what makes it so cozy up here,” she said, coming to stand next to him.
“That and the kitchens, I expect. How could any part of a bakery really be cold, unless it’s specifically an ice room?”
“Yes, I expect the oven in the Fancy keeps it toasty in there, but that might not be the best thing for delicate frosting work.”
“Alys told me that, as in all things, there must be a happy medium in the temperature.”
“Of course. Did Mr. Lewis Noble design this stove? It seems so clean.”
The captain nodded. “I think he made some slight alterations. One finds he used Redcake’s as something of an inventor’s playground.”
“It’s very nice. I wish I had one for my bedchamber at home.” She blushed, realizing what she had said. Maybe her attraction for him was in their way, not his attraction to her.
“If you can, change your sleeping arrangements to a room over the kitchen. I find that is the best approach.”
She touched her hair, found the back of her neck damp from ringlets that had caught the fog if not the rain. “Captain, you shouldn’t speak to me of sleeping arrangements.”
“You mentioned your bed first.”
She felt herself pulled into that tiger gaze of his, until it seemed there was nothing in the room but him. They must have both lifted their hands at the same time for, when she looked down, she realized they were touching.
She jerked back, wild for something else to discuss, something that would allow her to ignore the trembles in her knees and the dampness that had traitorously seeped between her legs yet again.
“That is your mother’s signature, is it not?” she asked, peering at the letters on the desk.
“I suppose, now that you know my shameful secret, you might as well see what I am doing,” he muttered.
One Taste of Scandal Page 13