Once Upon a Scandal

by Delilah Marvelle

  “Scopa.” Giovanni pushed past Jonathan, bumping him hard with his shoulder, as if wanting him to know that he was not leaving willingly. He strode toward the cloaked figure in the doorway. The marchese stepped aside with a sweep of his velvet-lined cloak and bowed his masked head as Giovanni passed.

  Once Giovanni had disappeared, Jonathan shifted his jaw and pierced the marchese with a long, unwavering stare he hoped the man would remember whilst taking his last breath. “You are about to regret ever breathing. How dare you come here seeking to claim my wife?”

  Sharp, amber eyes met his from beneath the slits of the mask. The marchese slowly entered the room, his movements smooth and ghostlike. A gruff laugh escaped his exposed lips. “This is very…how do you British say? Awkward. Forgive me, Remington. I did not realize she was yours. Might I say you have very good taste. Is this the same British woman my wife assisted you in acquiring?”

  Jonathan narrowed his gaze, restraining himself from dashing at him and snapping his coarse Venetian head off his spine. Widening his stance, Jonathan methodically stripped one glove from his hand. “The code of honor demands I grant you an opportunity to redeem yourself. So redeem yourself. Get upon your right knee, serpent, and beg me for mercy. And maybe, just maybe, I will refrain from killing you.” The marchese strode farther into the parlor, his boots thudding across the marble tile. “I never beg for anything.”

  “You will after what you did to my wife.”

  “Consider my interest the greatest compliment you will ever know. I never bother with married women. You know that. I despise the complications. Husbands are so…territorial. Irrational. As you are demonstrating.”

  Trying to contain his anger, Jonathan held up the glove and shook it in warning. “The moment this glove falls—” he bit out “—you are dead tomorrow at dawn.” The marchese paused, as if genuinely surprised. That moment, however, was very short-lived. His cloaked figure stalked toward Jonathan, each heavy, booted step shaking the enameled glass chandelier above. The marchese stopped before him, his height almost reaching Jonathan’s. Almost. “I assisted you and your family when you had nothing. And this is how you repay me? With rooster pride? Ten thousand lire is not a mere spit. I also shared my pretty wife with you, did I not? Despite your initial resistance, you enjoyed her figa very much. I heard you grunting and moaning and pounding against her with incredible bravado almost every night. In truth, I often forgot she was my wife and almost thought she was yours.”

  Jonathan fought not to react as the muscles in his arm quaked from the rigid, pent-up tension he wanted to let loose, breaking straight through the mass of skin and bone standing before him. But if he struck him, if he touched him in any way, it would be proven in court that he had provoked the duel. And hang for the bastard, he most certainly would not.

  The marchese leveled his chin so that the slits on the mask were more visible. He tsked. “In the end, this is not about your wife, is it? This is about you and me and your shattered pride. I could have ripped your wife’s womb in half with my cazzo and this would still be about you and me and your shattered pride.”

  Jonathan sucked in a savage breath at the insult. He violently whipped the glove to the floor, wishing to the devil it was the marchese’s skull he was shattering against the wall and roared, “To the death! That is the only form of satisfaction I will receive out of this. To the death!”

  The marchese sighed and stripped the mask from his face, causing his auburn and gray hair to stand on end. He held up his velvet mask and with the flick of his black-gloved wrist, tossed it at Jonathan’s feet. “You clearly wish to die.”

  Jonathan snorted. “I am not the one who will die. The moment your last breath is taken on that field, I will personally deliver your corpse into the hands of those families whom you have wronged and let them decide if you are worth burying.” The marchese narrowed his gaze. “You have acquired quite the tongue since you left my service.”

  “My tongue was always there,” Jonathan growled out. “I simply had to bite it for reasons you are well aware of. But you have no further hold on me. Nor will you ever have a hold on my wife.” The marchese observed him. “To the death? Will that please you?”

  “Your death is the only thing that will please me.”

  The marchese nodded. “Very well. Pistols? Or swords?”

  “Pistols. I provide both to ensure there is no tampering. The first shot will be decided by coin. Each pistol will be loaded shortly before each fire and will be loaded by my second and my second only.”

  “Very well. When? Where?”

  “Six, tomorrow morning. The plain. By the first patch of mulberry trees off the main road.” All the trees he had marked five years earlier with Victoria’s name. When Victoria was still his without ultimatums and he was still a man with innocent pride and innocent honor.

  “Your fearlessness impresses me.”

  “Leave. Leave before I make you swallow every last drop of your own blood. Our business is done until tomorrow morning at six.”

  “If you are not there, I will assume your wife is mine. Buona serata.” The marchese offered a single nod, swiveled on his booted heel and strode out as if they had just finished the most amiable of conversations.

  Jonathan seethed out a harsh breath, his clenched throat restricting his ability to breathe. Even as the man faced death on the morrow, he didn’t seem to be in the least bit intimidated or humbled. And if death itself could not intimidate or humble a man, whatever would? Whatever would? Nothing ever would. Nothing!

  Jonathan kicked away the velvet mask from his booted foot, stalked toward the nearest side table and snatched up a large, ornate vase. Gnashing his teeth, he turned and whipped it hard. It shattered against the nearest wall with a thunderous crash, spraying shards everywhere.

  He whipped around and snatched up another vase and then another and another, shattering them all one by one by one against the floors, the walls, the doors, until all of it was nothing more than a roaring blur.

  “Remington!” Giovanni boomed from behind. “Enough! Enough!”

  Jonathan froze, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the porcelain figurine in his right hand still high above his head. Damn. He was destroying his sister’s home. And not only her home, but her life. And Giovanni’s. And Victoria’s. Hell, he had yanked Victoria away from her father’s side in some selfish, pointless need to prove his ability to claim her. Only to then expose her to harm.

  Jonathan sank to the floor with a thud and sat there in complete silence, letting the figurine fall away from his ungloved hand. If he dueled, Victoria would leave him. But if he didn’t duel, he would be walking away from himself and everything he ever believed in.

  “Jonathan?” Cornelia’s soft voice made him glance up.

  He swallowed. “Forgive me. I will pay for everything. I promise.”

  “I am not worried about objects that can be replaced. I am worried about you.” She drifted toward him with a pale pink and ivory hatbox in her hand and gently set it before him. “Read the top letter. Then decide what it is you intend to do.” With that, she turned back to Giovanni, grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the room.

  Jonathan sat there for a long moment. He then slid the hatbox over and lifted the lid, peering inside. He froze, recognizing all of Victoria’s old letters. The ones he had never been able to read.

  Setting aside the lid, he placed his hand against the folded, yellowing parchment on top, its red wax seal cracked. He drew in a breath, let it out, then plucked it up and unfolded the letter. The words had subtly faded.

  September 26, 1825

  REMINGTON,

  Grayson refuses to inform me of your whereabouts or what has become of you. He claims he has been sworn to secrecy. I worry to no end as to why and despise you and him for betraying me in so cruel a manner. With the Season over, I do nothing but stare at books whose words hold no meaning. At night I cry, feeling that I have buried yet another person I love. Why would you cond
emn me to a life without you? Why would you condemn me to never knowing what has become of you? Does pride truly mean more to you than I do? I only wish to understand you, not judge you. Within my soul, I knew this would happen. I knew from the moment I gave in to this stupid passion I felt for you that you would only disappoint me and shred what little remained of my heart. I simply thought that after having endured all the losses I have, I would have been more prepared for the pain you are forcing me to swallow. And yet I am not. This is beyond anything I ever wanted to feel again. At the very least, write and assure me you have not been harmed. I fear for you and the life you have fallen into.

  Ever faithfully and always yours,

  Victoria

  He refolded the letter and shoved it back into the box along with the rest, slapping the lid back on. Holding a rigid fist against his mouth, he squeezed his eyes shut, her words echoing in his soul. It appeared he was going to disappoint her again. But at least this time, he was being true to everything he ever believed in.

  4:26 a.m.

  VICTORIA LEANED against the closed door of the guest bedchamber. She splayed her fingers across the cool, smooth wood and swallowed against the tightness throbbing within her throat. Jonathan had not come to her room at all. Not to sleep and not even to say goodbye. In two hours, it could very well be the last time she would ever see Jonathan. Not for a single moment was she going to fool herself into thinking that he would live.

  She pushed herself away from the door. How could something so beautiful morph into something so dark? Gathering her nightdress from around her feet, she drifted over to the dresser, where a small mirror and a basin of water had been set. She glanced at her reflection and cringed at the sight of tired, red, swollen eyes and a tangle of blond curls swept every which way, falling out of its pins.

  She looked like Victor had on his death bed. Brave though he had been to the very end, he’d still cried, knowing he was dying. Her brother had cried, even though he believed in God. Fear had a horrid way of breaking even the strongest of faiths.

  Victoria frantically readjusted the ivory pins in her hair and smoothed the falling curls. She leaned over the basin and dipped shaky hands into the cool water, scrubbing her face clean of tears. Using the folded cloth set by the basin, she dried her face.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a slow breath. If he wasn’t going to say goodbye, she would go and say it for him. Victoria padded across the room, unlatched the door and pulled it open. She froze upon finding Jonathan before her, dressed in full traveling attire and boots.

  His blue eyes met hers. His face was ragged, as if he had already fought a hundred duels for her. He held out a gloved hand and unraveled it, revealing his coiled pendant. He stepped toward her and gently draped the pendant over her head. “Wear it. No matter what happens.”

  He caught her hand, lifted it toward him and kissed the top of her hand, his eyes closing, allowing his warm lips to linger. It was as if he were saying goodbye.

  Her eyed widened. “You are choosing honor over me? Over us?”

  He released her hand and stepped back. “Forgive me for always disappointing you, Victoria, but this is who I am and who I have always been. Though allowing my emotions to dictate my life has in many ways been a curse, ’tis better to die in the blaze of one’s beliefs than to live a life without believing in anything at all.” He turned and disappeared, his heavy steps echoing in the corridor until they faded.

  Victoria stood there staring at nothing in particular, too many emotions raging through her for her to feel anything but numbness. She staggered, then lowered herself onto the cool floor and sat there for a very, very long time, unable to even cry. There were no more tears left within her.

  She could live out the rest of her life drifting, emotionless, and mourning for whatever was about to pass, or she could become the sort of woman she had always wanted to be. The sort of woman who marched into battle in the name of everything she believed in. Like Remington always had and did.

  Victoria rose to her feet, her strength fully returning. She was not going to abandon her man when he needed her most. Oh, no. Because despite what he thought, this was her duel to fight. Not his.

  6:05 a.m.

  The plains

  “FIRST SHOT is awarded to the marchese,” Giovanni announced, tucking the coin back into his pocket. He turned and retrieved one of the matchlock pistols from the velvet-lined walnut box set on the matted grass. “We proceed.”

  Jonathan stepped toward the wooden stake that marked his position and solemnly watched Giovanni prime the pistol by grabbing the ramrod and loading the lead ball with it. Giovanni pointed the pistol downward and strode toward the marchese, who already stood waiting beside his own wooden stake fifteen yards away. The marchese’s second, a hefty young Italian, silently positioned himself off to the side and held up the white handkerchief.

  Jonathan blew out a calming breath and set himself sideways, turning his head toward the marchese. The less he gave the bastard to shoot, the better. The marchese took the offered pistol from Giovanni and waited for the handkerchief to fall.

  The thudding sound of pounding hooves and a tremor beneath Jonathan’s boots made him pause. He turned toward the direction of the noise as two figures riding on hellish black horses drew near.

  The horses jerked to a halt barely a few feet away. The riders dismounted with a single thud and removed a set of ropes from their saddles, which they looped onto the shoulders of their morning coats.

  Jonathan’s lips parted in astonishment as Cornelia and Victoria marched toward him in unison, both dressed in oversize male attire. Giovanni’s attire.

  What the blazes were they doing?

  Victoria slid the looped rope from her arm and tossed an end toward Cornelia. Cornelia caught it with graceful ease, and together, they snapped the rope straight and dashed straight at him. The two rounded him so fast, he didn’t even have time to think or dodge the hemp rope that caught his upper arms.

  “Jesus Christ!” He stumbled as the rope looped and tightened around his arms and waist with each sprinting round they made. He grabbed at the ropes to free himself, but it kept slipping against their swift, sparring movements, burning against the palms of his hands.

  “Victoria!” He jerked against the ropes that tightened, causing them to stumble momentarily. He whipped toward her, only to find he was already looking at Cornelia. “Enough of this. Enough!”

  But the two merely sprinted around him faster and faster, looping and yanking on the ropes tighter and tighter, causing his skin beneath his linen shirt and waistcoat to sting at every movement. Gritting his teeth, he fought against the ropes, only to find the muscles in his arms and chest tensing and burning in vain. His anger spiked. The only way out of this was to physically hurt them with the weight of his own body. And that he refused to do. Even if they deserved it.

  He jumped toward Victoria, the hemp rope digging into his sides. “Untie me. Now.”

  “No. I am finally going to live my life the way you do, Jonathan. By embracing what it is I feel instead of always running from it.” Victoria stepped farther back as Cornelia knotted the rope more firmly into place behind him. “Take him off the field,” she ordered, her green eyes staring him down with a heated intensity he’d never known.

  His eyes widened as the rope jerked him from behind with a force that made him stumble. He jerked in the opposite direction, causing Cornelia to gasp and stumble back toward him.

  “Giovanni!” Cornelia boomed.

  Giovanni dashed toward them and skid to a halt, his dark eyes darting to each of them in bewilderment.

  Jonathan staggered forward and growled out, “Giovanni. Untie me. Now.”

  “Giovanni,” Cornelia chided in an equally predatory tone, yanking on the rope and tightening her hold, “if you assist him in any way, I swear upon whatever love I have for you, I will take a lover into my bed. I will.”

  Giovanni rumbled out a laugh and held up both hands. �
�I apologize, Remington, but my wife means more to me than you do. She has never threatened to take a lover before. Which means she means it.” He rounded Jonathan and grabbed the knotted end of the rope hard. “Come. Off the field.”

  He was never going to forgive Victoria for ending this duel. Ever! Jonathan wrestled against the strong movements, leaning as far forward as he could to resist. Though he dug in his heels and threw his weight forward, he still skidded backward, being dragged farther away.

  In the distance, he could see Victoria remove her oversize coat and toss it onto the ground. She strode toward his own marked stake and positioned herself beside it, facing the marchese.

  His eyes widened in disbelief. Victoria wasn’t ending the duel. She was fighting it. Christ! He lunged forward. “What are you doing?” he shouted across the field, his throat straining. “Victoria!”

  She glanced back at him over her shoulder, her face too far away for him to make out her features. She shouted back, “This is my duel, Jonathan! Not yours! Whatever happens, know that I love you!”

  He choked. Dearest God. No. No! He lunged forward again, yanking Giovanni with him. “Victoria! No! Nooooo!”

  Giovanni grabbed hold of him and shoved him facedown onto the field in the opposite direction, so he couldn’t see anything but the long grass around him.

  “No!” Jonathan roared, violently jerking and rocking his body from side to side. “Giovanni, let me go! Giovanni!”

  “Sit on him, Giovanni,” Cornelia drawled.

  Giovanni sat on him, his hefty weight pushing out whatever air was left within Jonathan’s chest. “Mia Cornelia. Assure Jonathan that Victoria is not actually going to—”

  “Jonathan has a choice in this,” Cornelia said tersely. “He can announce the duel is over or he can watch Victoria fight the duel for him. It is as simple as that.”

  Jonathan felt everything momentarily fade. He didn’t even know if he was breathing anymore. All he knew was that if anything happened to his Victoria, he would put a bullet through his own skull. For it would be her blood on his hands. He had challenged her to live by his rules and now she was going to die because of them.