Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  Try though she did, she had never forgotten.

  “It was a long time ago,” Gabriel said to Lady Tabard.

  “Didn’t Lord Jourdain try to escape to the continent without paying?” Thomasin asked.

  “If I remember correctly.” Gabriel seated himself and adjusted the crease of his trousers.

  “You know he did,” Mr. Rumbelow said. “You stopped him yourself on the docks, relieved him of all his possessions, and sent him on his way.”

  “To a life of debt and unhappiness,” Madeline said.

  Eyes glinting, Gabriel inclined his head.

  “Miss de Lacy, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lady Tabard’s penetrating voice grew sharp. “The gentleman deserved no better. I know for a fact he was a wicked man, a man who would commit murder if it suited him.”

  At her stepmother’s tone, at her words, Thomasin stared.

  Madeline didn’t know why Lady Tabard was so sure of Jourdain’s iniquity, but Madeline did know better than to argue. With an assumption of meekness, she looked down at her intertwined fingers. “Yes, my lady.” At that time, four years ago, Gabriel had tried to tell her he’d picked his target well, that Lord Jourdain was a brutal blackguard. She hadn’t cared; she’d seen only Gabriel’s callous betrayal, the proof he was a gambler like her father, and she did not now wish to think any differently. She didn’t dare think she’d made a mistake.

  Taking a long breath that brought her bosom to quivering prominence, Lady Tabard brought the conversation back to frivolity. “But it’s the tale of Lord Campion’s win that is renowned in the annals of gambling history.”

  “I won all,” Gabriel admitted, “but I lost my bride. She jilted me, and before I could retrieve her, she left England.”

  “Of course I heard of that, but my husband, the earl, found only the gaming interesting.” Lady Tabard leaned forward, the gleam of curiosity in her eyes. “Why did she jilt you?”

  “She didn’t approve of gambling, and took it as a personal affront that I dared to win a fortune without her approval.”

  “Silly girl. Did she think to control you?”

  “Oddly enough, she could. Just as I controlled her. It was an engagement of strong wills, battling it out. Probably it’s good that we ended the betrothal before we broke each other.”

  Madeline stared at the floor. She’d thought that, too, in the rare moments when she’d thought of him and sanity prevailed. But beneath the wisdom was an aching awareness that never would she find another man who could see beneath the sensibility to her passion, and feed it . . . and sate it.

  “Yet I think Miss de Lacy bears the reputation of resembling her cousin,” Mr. Rumbelow said.

  Gabriel sat forward in his chair and, starting at her toes, began a long, slow perusal that brought furious color to Madeline’s cheeks. By the time his gaze met hers, he had examined the shape of her legs through the thin material of her skirt, the depths of her bosom, the texture of her skin and the details of her countenance.

  And Madeline’s body came to attention. Heat rushed to her skin . . . everywhere. Deep in her belly an ache formed, grew, spread. His gaze worked on her, reminding her. . . .

  “No one else has what we have, Madeline.” He held her shoulders, stared into her eyes, while slowly he thrust into her.

  The pain made her twist, trying to get away, but he dominated her in a way she hadn’t imagined . . . hadn’t known was possible.

  In a low, savage tone, he said, “This kind of passion happens once in a hundred years, and you want to toss it away.” She tried again to escape, but he shook her. “Look at me. Look at me!”

  His eyes were stormy gray with fury or . . . or some great, driving passion. She wanted this to stop. The pain, now fading; the pleasure, spiraling to greater heights with each movement. If it didn’t stop, if he didn’t stop, she’d lose control . . . again. In a temper, she’d betrayed herself once today. This wasn’t temper, this was . . . she didn’t know what it was, but he owned it, he directed it, and he was relentless.

  “The lady who has gone to marry Mr. Knight is much more beautiful than this young woman.” He relaxed, smiled at Madeline’s chagrin—and allowed his gaze to again slide down to her bosom.

  For during his examination, her nipples beaded against the material of her bodice, and she pressed her thighs together to contain the inner melting of her body.

  And he leaned back in his chair as if well satisfied with the results of his obnoxious assessment.

  “That is exactly what I thought.” Lady Tabard nodded. “It’s clear by their looks which is the more noble of the two girls. Miss de Lacy has a boldness about her manner and a coarseness about her countenance which bespeaks a lesser nobility.”

  Madeline thought idly of smacking her with her fist—after first smacking Gabriel, of course.

  “I think she is charming.” Mr. Rumbelow bowed to Madeline with a smile that could have won her heart, if he were not a gambler and she were not, in truth, the duchess.

  “I thank you,” she said with an edge of crispness in her voice.

  Thomasin stood. “I wish to go to my chamber now. Miss de Lacy, please accompany me.”

  Gabriel and Mr. Rumbelow stood, and Mr. Rumbelow rang the bell by his hand. “The housekeeper will show you to your room.”

  Thomasin swept from the drawing room without looking back.

  Hurriedly, Madeline put aside her teacup, curtsied toward Mr. Rumbelow and followed.

  Thomasin stood stock-still in the middle of her bedchamber, her arms stiff at her sides, her fists clenched. “I hate that man.”

  So do I. But Madeline knew they weren’t speaking of the same fellow. “Mr. Rumbelow?”

  “That Woman and Father want me to wed him, and I won’t. I won’t. I’m going to marry Jeffy, and they can’t stop me.”

  Jeffy? Madeline jerked her attention away from her dismayed contemplation of Thomasin’s gowns, laid out on the bed and creased by the packing, and back to Thomasin. “Who’s Jeffy?”

  Thomasin sighed with queenlike tragedy. “Jeffy is my true love.”

  Madeline had more to do than she’d realized. She had to iron clothing, and she had to iron out the difficulties of Thomasin’s life. And when her father got here, she would have to cope with him. “Tell me all about it.”

  “I knew I could talk to you.” Thomasin’s big eyes fastened on Madeline. “As soon as I saw the way you handled That Woman, I knew you were a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Indeed I am.” A force to be reckoned with, and a woman who had never in her life had to iron a garment. She didn’t suppose Thomasin could offer any help, but that snoot of a lady’s maid had left the ironing board stretched between two tables, and two irons sat flat on the coal heater. How hard could ironing be?

  “Jeffy is the only man I could ever love.” Thomasin gazed off into some sweet memory. “He’s tall and he’s so handsome! He’s the most popular gentleman in the county, and he has cast his gaze on me.”

  “Hm. Is he pleasant? Honest? Kind?”

  “Better. He’s dashing!”

  “Does he like to talk to you?” Madeline draped one of Thomasin’s gowns over the board.

  “He likes to dance with me.”

  Madeline had heard nothing of substance about Jeffy, and the adoration that lit Thomasin’s face could only be described as infatuation. This did not bode well for her romance. Madeline’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the two black irons. She needed a mitt to hold over the cast-iron handles . . . there. She picked up the padded cloth with the scorch marks. “What are his connections?”

  Thomasin’s glowing face fell. “Well . . .” She picked at imaginary lint on her skirt.

  “Not the best, I assume.” But if Jeffy were a good man, what difference would that make? Gabriel was the earl of Campion, of a family even older than hers, and he had been a fortune hunter when he met her. She hadn’t minded; after all, few men had a greater fortune than hers. Then he’d become a
gambler and a cad, and here he was, plaguing her life once more.

  “He’s not poor!” Thomasin assured her. “His father is a squire and his mother is the daughter of a baron.”

  Vaguely, Madeline remembered seeing her own maid test the iron. Licking her finger, she touched the surface. “Merde!”

  “Those are respectable connections!” Thomasin protested.

  “Pardon me. Don’t repeat that.” For Madeline could tell Thomasin didn’t recognize the curse, which Madeline had learned from a French soldier. A curse Eleanor informed her she was never to use.

  Putting the iron down, Madeline held her finger over the washbowl and poured water out of the pitcher over the blister forming under the skin. “I wasn’t speaking to you, dear. The iron. It’s too hot.” Too hot to be putting her finger on it, anyway.

  Too hot to iron the gown? Madeline didn’t know.

  With a great deal more caution, she returned to her duties. Carrying the iron to the board, she pressed it to the fine cotton and lifted it up. It looked all right, a little flatter, perhaps, and that was the plan. “Tell me about his circumstances,” Madeline invited, and ironed a crease out of the skirt.

  Say, this wasn’t so difficult!

  “He’s their only son.” Thomasin hugged herself, a dreamy smile on her lips. “They have a lovely estate beside ours, and quite a respectable fortune.”

  “How old is your Jeffy?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Too young.

  “He’s good with horses. He helps his father raise them, and looks so handsome in his shirtsleeves as he rides those beautiful, noble beasts.” Avoiding the stack of gowns, Thomasin flung herself backward on the bed and stared up at the canopy. “They’re famous breeders.”

  “Really? Would I know them?”

  “The Radleys.”

  “Yes, I do know of them! Eleanor says they’re some of the best breeders in the country.” Eleanor would know, for she was a horsewoman par excellence.

  “The duchess says so!” Sitting up, Thomasin struck her fist into her palm. “So I shall tell Father. Until he married That Woman, he liked Jeffy. But That Woman has aspirations.”

  “You make them sound like a disease.” Madeline ironed with increasing confidence. The creases were smoothing out. Like everything, ironing yielded to a little good sense.

  “So they are. Because of her, Jeffy and I have been torn apart and I’ve been forced to endure a Season.”

  Thomasin’s tone of high tragedy exasperated Madeline. Thomasin demonstrated a lack of good sense. The good sense for which Madeline was justly famous. Or had been, until that awful scene at Almack’s.

  Oh, why was she thinking of that?

  She knew why. Because she’d seen Gabriel, and all the old memories were sabotaging her composure. Taking a deep breath, she resolved to handle this situation with maturity and grace. After all, she had known she would see Gabriel sooner or later. The meeting had just occurred . . . sooner. In a brisk tone, she said, “A Season is not so awful a thing.”

  “It is when I’m being pushed toward someone as loathsome as Mr. Rumbelow.”

  “Yes, that connection won’t do. I assume the attraction is his grand fortune?”

  “Yes, dear Mama has an eye for filthy lucre.” Thomasin lounged on the pillows. “But the ton very much likes the romantic tale of his background, too. I think someone should look into it, but no one listens to me.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Thomasin sat up straight. “You do?”

  Caution caused Madeline to add, “Although I’d appreciate it if you’d guard that sentiment.” She put the first iron back on the stove, and with great pride hung up her first ironed garment. “Not so difficult, indeed,” she murmured. She chose another gown off the bed, a silk in spring green. “What does your father say about the match with Jeffy?”

  “Father doesn’t care.”

  Madeline lifted an interrogating brow.

  “Oh, all right!” Thomasin flung herself backward in an excess of unhappiness. “He says I can wed Jeffy after my Season if I still want to and he still wants to, but I fear Father will knuckle under to That Woman in the end.”

  Carefully, Madeline arranged the gown on the board, picked up the other iron, waved it around to cool it slightly, then, with a little more caution, dampened her finger and tested it. This time she pulled back in time to avoid a burn, and grinned in triumph. “So all you have to do is prove that you have experienced all the pleasures of the Season, and then you may have your Jeffy. Very sensible.”

  “I thought you would understand!”

  “I do. Your father thinks that if you truly love Jeffy, your love will survive. So . . . what you have to do is be the hit of the Season, dance and smile and flirt, and at the end, tell your father you love Jeffy and wish to wed him.” Enthusiastically, Madeline pressed the iron to the silk.

  This time, the iron didn’t glide as easily, and when Madeline lifted the iron, the silk looked funny. Rather puckered and a little crisp.

  As Madeline frowned at the silk, Thomasin said, “But I don’t want to be a belle.”

  “Of course not,” Madeline said absently. “To be always admired and courted must be difficult, but to prove to your father you gave this Season a fair chance, I’m afraid you’re going to have to put forth the effort.” She tried to iron again, and this time the silk turned slightly brown. “It’s a sacrifice for your Jeffy.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose. But I’ve already got a reputation for being . . .”

  “Difficult? Don’t worry, dear.” Madeline nodded reassuringly. “I have a reputation for arranging everything to perfection. You do as I tell you and in no time you’ll be the hit of the Season.”

  “Really?” Thomasin eyed her doubtfully. “How?”

  “Nothing to it. You will have to flirt with Mr. Rumbelow, but you’ll be flirting with all of the gentlemen, so it won’t matter.” Still Madeline frowned at the silk and ventured an inquiry. “Do you know anything about ironing?”

  “What’s wrong?” Thomasin hopped off the bed. “Why are you—” Catching a glimpse of the silk, she gasped and sprang back. “My new gown. You’ve ruined it!”

  Thomasin was overreacting. “Just this piece of it.”

  “It’s part of the skirt. It’s in the front! What difference does it make if it’s only a piece of it?” Thomasin clutched her throat. “That Woman wants me to wear this tonight.”

  Madeline looked her in the eyes. “If you know how to iron the rest of the gown without ruining it, I know how to save the costume and make you a fashion leader all at the same time.”

  Thomasin stared, mouth slightly open, eyes disbelieving.

  “Do you have ribbon?” Madeline could duplicate Eleanor’s ingenuity from a similar emergency in the past, “A great length of it?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I do.”

  “Give it to me. Don’t worry, dear. By tonight, I will have given you your first lesson about turning lemons into lemonade.”

  Chapter Six

  Madeline strode down the empty corridor in search of something to place in the middle of the rose ribbon she had created for Thomasin’s ruined gown. A real flower, or . . . she wondered if one of the footmen would sacrifice a gold button off of his livery. Repairs had taken the entire afternoon, and she wasn’t as good with this thing as Eleanor, but she thought she’d done a marvelous job of saving the gown—and convincing Thomasin to take her proper place in society. Not that she expected Lady Tabard to realize it and thank her, but—

  A hand shot out of one of the open doors, grasped Madeline by the arm and pulled her into the room.

  She allowed it only because she knew it was him. Knew by his touch. Knew by his boldness. “Gabriel.” She gave him a cool smile. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

  “For us both.” With the slightest of slams, he shut the door, closing them into—she glanced around at the male accoutrements—what was undoubtedly his bedchamber. The room contai
ned a tall dresser, a vanity, a cheval mirror. The bed was large, wide enough to fit two people should he decide to acquire a mistress. . . . She looked away at once. A door opened onto one of the balconies, and another door into a dressing room. By the size of the room and the amenities, she knew him to be an honored guest.

  He shook her slightly. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  She looked at his hand on her arm, and when he didn’t remove it, she picked it up and dropped it as if it were a particularly unpleasant insect. “You dragged me in.”

  He must have been changing for dinner, for he now wore black breeches and stockings, yet his shirt was open at the throat, and his crumpled cravat hung loose around his neck. He stood over her like Dickie Driscoll at his most admonitory. “Don’t play games with me, Madeline. Why are you at Chalice Hall?”

  “One might ask you the same thing. After all, you’ve already ruined one man’s life by taking his fortune.” Although after Lady Tabard’s unexpected and spirited defense this morning, Madeline didn’t care to pursue that line of reasoning, and she hurried to counterattack. “Have you already spent it all?”

  He scrutinized her as he had in the drawing room, but this time the attention he had lavished on her figure he now focused on her face. “You haven’t answered my question, so I’ll ask another. Why are you posing as that silly twit’s companion?”

  She looked into his eyes, with difficulty. He’d always had such clarity of vision, but before that clarity had been tempered with affection. Now, stripped of warmth, his gaze saw too much, right down to the wretched uncertainty that so seldom touched her . . . and that plagued her now. Restlessly she moved away from him. “I didn’t answer you because I don’t have to answer to you.”

  “So you’re bound on some mischief.” He observed, eyes narrowed, as she paced toward the balcony and looked out onto the drive where a few last carriages pulled up. “I had hoped your time away would bring you maturity, but I see that’s wasted optimism.”

  His accusation left her almost speechless. “I am very mature. I was born mature.”