Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  In a toneless voice, Thomasin said, “Henry the Seventh.”

  Madeline was unconvinced. The Lake District was—had been—a wild place of mountains and rivers, and the families who lived there had been set apart by the natural barriers that made it difficult for them to travel. It would be easy for a man to claim a family background he didn’t possess, and if he had wealth, or the appearance of wealth, no one would ever check.

  Lady Tabard continued, “Unfortunately, the family fortunes took a downturn, and it was up to Mr. Rumbelow to rescue them. He has done an incomparable job.”

  As they rounded a bend, Madeline caught a glimpse of the large manor. “So it would appear.”

  Both Madeline and Thomasin craned their necks to see—and both of them sat back at once.

  Chalice Hall looked as if the architect had been intoxicated during the planning, then in a subsequent fit of sobriety tried frantically to fix his mistakes. The three-story house of pale pink stone glowed in the sunlight like a dog’s tongue, with a rounded tower on each corner and the occasional random balcony to offset any hint of refinement. A staggering combination of minarets and cupolas capped the edifice. For some reason—pretension, perhaps—gargoyles sneered from every corner and crevice.

  Madeline laughed out loud at the absurdity, earning her a sharp glance from Lady Tabard. “It’s so ludicrous,” Madeline tried to explain. “A monument to bad taste.”

  Lady Tabard drew herself up. “I hardly think you’re in the position to judge your betters.”

  “Mother, she did just return from four years on the Continent,” Thomasin dared to say. “And she’s a de Lacy.”

  So Thomasin did speak without being prodded. And to defend Madeline, too. How lovely. Madeline smiled at her again.

  Again Thomasin turned her face to look outside.

  “Obviously Her Grace benefited from the experience. She has that air of regality that assures one of her superior taste.” Lady Tabard bent a frown on Madeline. “But I doubt if the lesser members of the de Lacy family are blessed with her capacity for culture.”

  “Her Grace is excessively cultured,” Madeline agreed pleasantly and with a fair amount of irony.

  “Are you saying I’m not?” Lady Tabard drew herself up.

  Madeline blinked at the unexpected attack. “It hadn’t occurred to me to say such a thing.”

  Lady Tabard charged on. “Because I’ve long been of the opinion that culture in a woman is unseemly. Before you know it, a woman begins to read, to reason, to imagine herself the equal of a man, and there is nothing more unattractive than a female with pretensions toward intelligence.”

  Madeline stared, trying desperately to gather her composure. At last she managed, “I think you may feel safe in that matter, my lady.”

  “I would hope so!” Lady Tabard turned at Thomasin’s sudden fit of snorting and coughing. “Do not get ill, my dear, for you have a party to attend.”

  Thomasin, her mouth covered by her gloved hand, nodded vigorously, and for the first time met Madeline’s eyes with her own brimful of amusement.

  So. Thomasin was quick-witted, at least as long as the wit was turned against her stepmother.

  When the coughing had subsided, Lady Tabard turned Thomasin’s face toward her own and, while Thomasin sat docilely, pinched the girl’s cheeks until they glowed. “It looks as if we’re the first ones here, Thomasin, so cast off that eternal melancholy and capture Mr. Rumbelow’s attention at once!”

  As they stepped out of the coach, the rough men from the inn were very much in evidence, holding the horses’ heads, removing the luggage from the back, and looking rather more threatening than most servants Madeline had ever seen. She stared at the man who directed the operations, memorizing his features. Dark, greasy hair hung lankly about his narrow face, his nose was blunt and red, as if he’d run into too many walls and smashed the end. He stared back at her, examining her with a freedom that bordered on insolence. But then—he thought her a servant.

  As she watched, he spit a long stream of brown tobacco at the ground, splattering two of the other men. Both of the ill-featured fellows cursed, and one raised a threatening fist.

  The leader looked at him. Just looked at him.

  The fist dropped, and the fellow returned to his duties.

  With a harrumph, Lady Tabard said, “I shall speak to Mr. Rumbelow about his hostlers. Such language is unfit for a lady’s ears!”

  As the baggage coach containing Lady Tabard’s lady’s maid rumbled up, the wide, heavy red-painted door was flung open, and a well-built gentleman of an unusually handsome, open countenance stepped out. “Lady Tabard! I’m so pleased that you’ve come.”

  His blond hair glowed in the sunlight, giving him a golden halo. Dark lashes surrounded his blue eyes, setting off the color like sapphires on black velvet. His teeth were white, and a well-trimmed blond mustache decorated his upper lip.

  Taking Lady Tabard’s gloved hand in his, he bowed and kissed her knuckles, watching her with all of his attention. Only when she had blushed did he release her and turn to Thomasin. “Dear Lady Thomasin, I had hoped you would be here early. I depend on your graciousness to make the other girls feel at ease.”

  Thomasin blushed, too, and smiled back. “Of course, I’d be happy to help in any way,” she mumbled. As soon as he turned toward Madeline, Thomasin’s color faded and she watched him with what Madeline thought was resentment, or perhaps disdain.

  But she had no time to ponder Thomasin’s reaction, for Mr. Rumbelow took her hand. He wasn’t as tall as she had first thought. No taller than she was, really, but stockily built with broad shoulders and beefy arms.

  “Please, Lady Tabard, introduce me so that I may greet my unexpected guest.” He smiled down at Madeline with such charm, an unanticipated thrill ran up her spine.

  “That young lady is Madeline de Lacy of the Suffolk de Lacys. She is Thomasin’s companion and lady’s maid.” Lady Tabard flicked Madeline a glance designed to depress any pretensions she might have.

  But Madeline couldn’t spare Lady Tabard notice. She was too caught up in the unwavering fascination of Mr. Rumbelow’s smile.

  “Welcome, Miss de Lacy, I’m sure your presence will greatly add to Lady Thomasin’s enjoyment of our little gathering.”

  He didn’t kiss her hand, but he didn’t have to. She reveled in his interest, fixed on her as firmly as it had been on Lady Tabard and on Thomasin. A seductive thing, a man’s attention. Most women never received more than a fraction of it, yet Mr. Rumbelow lavished attention like an Italian gigolo.

  His eyes widened as if he’d seen something in her face that surprised him, and he smiled like a man amused by developments.

  She didn’t care to amuse him, for what could he have to be amused about?

  Returning to Lady Tabard, he offered his arm. “Come into my temporary abode. It is not so fine as you’re used to.”

  Madeline cast a glance up at the hideous dwelling. Not what she was used to, anyway. The house did not improve on closer inspection.

  “But I trust you’ll enjoy your stay here.” Mr. Rumbelow led Lady Tabard toward the house. “Is your husband close behind you?”

  Thomasin fell in behind Lady Tabard. Madeline fell in behind her, and she watched Mr. Rumbelow with a keen eye.

  Under the force of his allure, she had to struggle to remember that a man who was clean and handsome was not necessarily good.

  Not that, four years ago, she’d been fooled by such a gentlemanly facade. No, she had been fooled by something much more primal.

  Gabriel had been neither handsome nor charming, but rather a dark, scruffy man-beast who cared nothing for appearance and little for courtesy.

  Yet he had captured her interest from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. La! He had captured every woman’s interest. He had an air about him that claimed a woman’s attention, a scent that made her move closer, changeable green eyes that seized a woman’s gaze and held it until he chose to release
it. When he walked . . . oh, my. He strolled, hips swaying in a way both sleek and predatory. His hands: broad-palmed, with long, dexterous fingers that bespoke a skill in cards, in fighting . . . in loving. His shoulders, wide and providing the illusion of shelter.

  No, he hadn’t had to bother with charm. He had only to tilt his chin toward her, and she had followed him like a lapdog.

  How the memory of that humiliated her.

  She had dreamed about him again last night. In her dream, she hadn’t remembered humiliation. In her dream, she had recognized him and her body had grown soft and damp with longing. In her dream, he had done all those things to her he had once done, teasing her, taking her almost to the edge . . . then beyond. She woke only when her body spasmed in orgasm.

  Bitterly, she had stared into the dark and wondered if she would ever truly get over him. Since her return to England, his spirit hovered close, waiting to pounce on her, to carry her away to that place of quiet whispers and rich passion.

  But not love. He had never loved her, or he wouldn’t have betrayed her so decisively.

  “Miss de Lacy, you will listen!”

  Lady Tabard’s shrill voice brought Madeline back to the present. “My lady?”

  “Accompany our luggage upstairs and see to it that our things are properly dealt with.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Madeline remembered to curtsy, wondering why couldn’t Lady Tabard’s maid carry out all necessary functions.

  Mr. Rumbelow interfered. “Please! Lady Tabard! My men will safely convey your luggage to your chambers. Miss de Lacy should be allowed refreshment after her arduous journey.”

  Lady Tabard didn’t like that at all, but Thomasin took Madeline’s arm in the first gesture of friendship she had offered, although Madeline felt sure it wasn’t so much friendship as defiance of Lady Tabard. “That would be lovely, Mr. Rumbelow,” Thomasin said, “and it’s so kind of you to think of my companion’s well-being.”

  “Very lovely.” Lady Tabard was not pleased at being contradicted. “Of course you may stay, Miss de Lacy.”

  As they strolled through the great foyer with its suits of armor and its wall-mounted weapons, Lady Tabard said, “I assume we are the first to arrive?”

  “No.” Mr. Rumbelow looked mildly surprised. “No, actually, there are three parties already here. Lord and Lady Achard and their two lovely daughters arrived at ten this morning.”

  “Really? So early?” Lady Tabard made her displeasure clear.

  With a small smile, Thomasin looked down at her feet.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Greene arrived in time for lunch with three of their lovely daughters.”

  “Gracious! I would have never thought!” Lady Tabard exclaimed. “So many young ladies!”

  “Yes, I am the luckiest of gentlemen, for Monsieur and Madame Vavasseur and their four daughters preceded you by half an hour.”

  The last name captured Madeline’s attention. She had met the former French ambassador in Vienna two years ago. He was a small, mustachioed, elegant man with the sharp eyes and impeccable memory of a seasoned diplomat; she would have to avoid him. “Will they be taking refreshments with us?”

  Lady Tabard whipped her head around and glared at her.

  Mr. Rumbelow answered smoothly, “They’re upstairs resting from their extensive journey. They arrived only after much difficulty with Napoleon’s army.”

  “I can imagine.” Madeline wondered at the depths of Monsieur Vavasseur’s compulsion to game, for he was Napoleon’s man and if the government discovered he was on English soil, he and his family would be detained.

  Mr. Rumbelow spoke over his shoulder, seemingly to her. “To my own delight and pleasure, my invitation for a friendly game of cards brought in a guest I scarcely dared to hope for.”

  The duke of Magnus? Was Mr. Rumbelow going to brag about securing her father at the game, when her father had never in his life tried to resist temptation?

  Mr. Rumbelow continued, “Although he’s been rather reclusive of late, I’m sure you know of him; he is famous in gambling circles as the most cool-headed man ever to win a fortune.”

  Madeline caught her breath. Not her father, then. Another gambler, one renowned for his luck. Surely Mr. Rumbelow didn’t mean . . . no. No, fate couldn’t be so cruel.

  As they walked into the drawing room, a tall, saturnine gentleman put down a cup and saucer and rose from an easy chair.

  With a triumphant flourish, Mr. Rumbelow announced, “May I present Gabriel Ansell, the earl of Campion?”

  Chapter Five

  Gabriel’s gaze skidded over Lady Tabard, over Thomasin, over Madeline . . .

  Breathless and horrified, she waited for him to call her by name. The explanations would be impossible, and all the while Gabriel would watch and smile, and wait for his chance to pounce again.

  Instead, he looked back to Mr. Rumbelow without a hint of expression. He bowed abruptly, gracelessly. “Rumbelow, introduce me.”

  He hadn’t recognized her. He hadn’t recognized her. This man who had haunted her dreams, who had driven her from England, who had taken her pride and her virginity . . . didn’t remember her.

  Madeline tried to decide if she was insulted or relieved.

  “Delighted,” Rumbelow said. “Campion, this is Lady Tabard, her daughter Thomasin . . . and her companion, Miss de Lacy.”

  That got Gabriel’s attention. Striding up to Madeline, he stared down at her. “Miss de Lacy, I believe I was betrothed to your cousin once.”

  Lady Tabard gasped.

  “I believe you were,” Madeline answered, and she was proud of her insouciance.

  “Is she still cowering on the continent to avoid a confrontation with me?”

  “She was never cowering. She was traveling.” Madeline smiled without humor. “And she has returned.”

  Without a hint of curiosity, he said again, “Cowering like a child. If you see her, tell her she need not fear. I have no interest in her any longer.”

  Madeline’s temper, usually even, rose to meet the insult. “She never cared, but especially not now, as she is betrothed.”

  “I heard.” His gaze locked with hers. “Her father lost her in a wager.”

  At that moment, Madeline realized that he knew. He did recognize her, and he insulted her to her face, secure in the knowledge she would not—could not—respond.

  Gabriel had changed. Before he was smooth, suave, a devil who laughed and teased and made her happy. Now he was rude beyond belief, angry and domineering—and overwhelming in his masculinity. He wore dark brown tweed and white linen, proper, conservative dress for a country party. Standing so close to him, she could smell his unique scent: wind and rain and uninhibited wildness. He had the height Mr. Rumbelow could not boast, towering over a woman in a way that could make her feel protected, or threatened, depending on his mood. He tied his straight brown hair at the base of his neck in a brown ribbon. With his swarthy skin, he was a very brown man. Except for his eyes . . . they were green, they were gray, they changed with his mood and his garb and the light. Right now they were almost black with scorn, and the lips she had so loved to kiss were pressed into a tight line.

  To think she had ever imagined she could call this man to heel. If ever she had needed confirmation that she had been a fool, she had it now.

  “Someone always has to win a wager,” she answered softly. “Mr. Knight is reputed to be both handsome and rich, so it would appear the duchess has won this wager.”

  Gabriel smiled, a genuine smile, and at such a break in his unrelieved hostility, she caught her breath. “Then I wish her good fortune,” he said.

  The smile changed . . . or perhaps she now read it correctly, for it seemed more teeth than geniality.

  Lady Tabard must have decided the companion had been the center of attention for long enough, for she asked archly, “What about you, Lord Campion? Are you still on the marriage mart?”

  Gabriel turned, a slow pivot like a fencer’s move, and faced Lady
Tabard. “I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Really? You’ve invited so many eligible men, Mr. Rumbelow, I vow Thomasin is all atwitter.” Lady Tabard batted her eyes. “Any man who wants my daughter will have to put in his claim early!”

  Thomasin cringed at Lady Tabard’s heavy-handed matchmaking.

  “Married!” Madeline snorted softly. “Married.”

  She didn’t think Gabriel heard her, but he answered softly, “There are men who wish to be married, Miss de Lacy. Then there are men who count themselves lucky to have escaped the trap with only a few teeth marks.”

  “You being among the latter, I suppose,” Madeline said just as softly.

  “I would show you my scars, but they cannot be viewed in public.” He smiled that savage grin again.

  And Madeline remembered how she’d bitten him on his bare, broad shoulder during her ecstasy. Her face flooded with color, and she thought—she wasn’t sure, but she thought—Mr. Rumbelow scrutinized the byplay with the attention of a swooping hawk. Blast Gabriel. How dare he taunt her here, in front of everyone?

  Once more Lady Tabard demanded Gabriel’s attention. “Lord Campion, my husband will be thrilled that you’re here.”

  “Will he indeed?” Gabriel asked.

  “He watched you win your fortune, and he speaks of your exploit with awe.” Lady Tabard clasped her hands as if about to swoon. “How you bet everything on the turn of a card. How Lord Jourdain was sweating and you were cool. When the hands were laid down, you nodded as if you never harbored a doubt, told Lord Jourdain you would wait on him in the morning for his accounts, and vanished into the night.”

  Gabriel listened to the recounting as if he had had no stake in it.

  Although she didn’t want to, Madeline paid close attention. She had never heard the details; she had only screamed with rage and hurt and charged in a fury to Almack’s. There she had ended her betrothal in a scene so scandalous she had humiliated Gabriel—and afterward suffered the full weight of his passion and his fury. Although suffered was the wrong word. He had shown her, in infinite detail, just how much her body needed him.