Simply Scandalous

by Tamara Lejeune

  Then he rested, his body heaving as he tried to draw breath. After a moment, he came to his senses and raised himself on his elbows so that her body, which was drenched in his sweat, was not crushed under him.

  "I know I should regret this, but I don't," he said, smiling at her.

  "No, indeed," she murmured, feeling shy now, acutely aware that he was still inside her.

  "Oh?" he chuckled, bending his head to tease her nipple. "Then milady is pleased with her victory? My honor is in shambles. My conscience in shreds. But I am dead to shame. I don't care, if it gives you even a little pleasure."

  "Considerably more than that, my lord," she admitted, her face hot.

  "Will we go again?" he asked seriously.

  She felt him inside her, nudging, lengthening, and despite a great deal of soreness between her legs, the thrill was undeniable. "Yes, please," she moaned, but she could not help wincing as he thrust into her again.

  "Oh, it's too much for you," he murmured, rolling away from her.

  "No," she protested, clinging to him.

  "My dear girl," he said firmly. "You've had quite enough. Don't stick your chin out at me you oughtn't to have had any. I've indulged you too much as it is. You do realize, don't you, that Pickering walked in on us just now?"

  Juliet sighed. "I thought I felt a draft. How awkward for him, poor man! But I do think we were past the most embarrassing part, don't you?" -- - -- -- -- -- - -- - -

  He shrugged into his shirt, pulled up his breecheshe still had not removed his boots!-and picked her shades of blue dress up off the floor. Reluctantly, she pulled it over her head, and he did his best to tie the laces at the back. "I'm not usually this clumsy," he apologized.

  "I know it," she answered, laughing. "My piano will never let me touch it again, now that it has been played by the master." She became serious. "Will you play the Moonlight Sonata after dinner just for me?"

  "Of course," he promised, desperately trying to smooth her tangled hair. "Off you go, Mademoiselle Ombre," he said, giving her rump a playful swat. "Try not to look so bloody gorgeous at dinnerI might just leap across the table and ravish you on the spot."

  She found the little blue beaded slipper that had rolled under the bed and sat down on the bed to slip it onto her foot.

  `Julie."

  She looked up at him, startled by his serious tone.

  "I wish-" he broke off, unable to find the words. She guessed that he was thinking of Serena, and a stab of guilt pierced her happiness. Not for Serena's sake, but because she had made him do such a dishonorable thing as making love to one woman when he was promised to another. But it could not be helped. She loved him; Serena didn't. Where was the honor in letting him marry a woman who didn't love him?

  But Swale was thinking no such thing. "I was your first," he said, falling on his knees before her and seizing her hands. "I wish to God you had been mine!"

  Juliet listened in astonishment.

  "I have never been with a woman who wasn't paid for her services. I'm sorry to pain you, Julie, but I couldn't go on without telling you the shameful truth about me. You had every right to expect me to be as chaste as you are, but I can't deceive you."

  "I was not deceived," she assured him gently. "Young men are expected to have ... experiences. It is the way of the world. And perhaps, it was your experience that made it so ... so pleasant for me." Silently, she cursed the inadequacy of the word. Pleasant! Rather, she had been shaken to her very soul.

  "Don't ever think that," he said with shocking bitterness. "The only pleasure they ever felt was when they counted my money. Believe me, there's no comparison between what we have and that ... that cold commerce."

  She kissed him very gently on the lips. "Well, of course there's no comparison, Ginger, you priceless ass," she said softly. "I love you."

  "What are we going to do, Julie?" he whispered. "Sir Benedict has already told me he'll never consent to our marriage while you're still a minor. He isn't likely to change his mind. I thought I could do the time standing on my head, but you ... this ... Dammit, I want you again right now."

  "Leave all that to me," she said, suppressing the unladylike desire to whoop with joy. Her gamble had paid off. To hell with honor, she thought recklessly. "One thing at a time, my darling. First, let the announcement appear in the papers. That will do much of the work for us. Did you really hire men with sandwich boards?"

  "I did exactly what you said, Julie," he said earnestly.

  "Good," she assured him, stroking his face. "Good, my darling. These things have a way of working themselves out. You'll see."

  "I should speak to Sir Benedict, all the same. I should like to speak to him. I should like to convince him I shall be a worthy husband for his sister."

  "And you will," she said quickly. "You will. But not just yet. I'll tell you when the time is right to speak to Sir Benedict. I know my brother. I know best how to handle him."

  "I feel like that Macbeth chap plotting to murder his king," Swale complained. "Wheels within wheels. Secrets and lies. I want everything out in the open, Julie. Well, perhaps not everything," he amended hastily. "You know what I mean. I want to deal frankly and plainly with Sir Benedict."

  "I know, my darling," she answered, biting her lip. "I know any form of subterfuge and deceit is abhorrent to you. It is abhorrent to me! But it's the only way we can be happy. You could not marry anyone but me, and I can't wait two years to be your wife."

  "Marry anyone but you, Julie?" he cried passionately. "No, indeed. I'm ashamed that I ever thought of marrying the Calverstock ... or poor little Coralie Price, for that matter. The soul recoils in horror. But this, Julie ... skulking around like a pair of thieves ... I think it would be better if I spoke to Sir Benedict now, before the notice appears in the London papers. How am I ever to face him after that? He will think me the most dishonorable wretch that ever drew breath, if he doesn't already."

  "No!" she cried in panic. She could just imagine Benedict's reaction if Swale spoke to him tonight about marrying Miss Wayborn, just a few hours before the notice of his engagement to Serena was printed in the papers. "Ginger, you must not speak to Benedict before that happens! That would be a catastrophe. Not only would he refuse to give his consent, but he would also never speak to me again." She leaned down to kiss him, her voice growing soft and, she hoped, seductive. "I understand how you feel about skulking, but it's not all unpleasant, is it? It has a few consolations, does it not?"

  "As a temptress, you are nothing short of diabolical," he moaned. "No! No more kissing," he protested weakly as she pressed her lips against his. "If you go down to dinner with swollen lips, your brothers will put their heads together and then their arms together, and before you know it, Uncle George's rapier will be snicking off my head."

  "As though I should ever let anyone snick your head off," she crooned soothingly. "Will you trust me to know what I'm doing? I have a plan."

  "You're worse than Lady Macbeth, you know that?"

  Juliet laughed. "Nonsense. If I had been Macbeth's lady, he would have gotten away with it."

  "I don't know," he muttered. It seems wrong somehow. Devious."

  "`Art thou afeard to be the same in thine own act and valor as thou art in desire?"' she countered. "`Wouldst thou have that which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, and live a coward in thine own esteem'-"

  "Oh, shut up," he interrupted crossly. "I can see it now. Amateur theatricals at Auckland Palace. Stupid, burbling actors soliloquizing on my blessed lawn. I daresay you'll want a bloody outdoor amphitheater too? God help us."

  She observed him rather frostily. "Did you just tell me to shut up?"

  "Less persiflage rather," he amended hastily.

  "We're not married yet, Ginger," she informed him from the doorway. "I can still change my mind. If I were you, I'd keep the rudeness to an absolute minimum. Points off for rudeness, in fact. Macbeth never told his lady to shut up, did he, Pickering?"

  "No, Miss Julie," repl

ied the servant who was waiting politely in the hall.

  Swale admitted the valet into the room.

  "I have taken the liberty of preparing a poultice for your lordship's eye," said Pickering. "It is composed chiefly of chamomile and witch hazel. I have used it in the past to reduce the appearance of swellings and bruises, particularly in the eye region, with some noticeable success. If my lord would sit down ... ?"

  Swale submitted to the poulticing. Appearing at dinner with a shiner would scarcely endear him to Sir Benedict. And since that gentleman was Juliet's legal guardian and he was more than capable of withholding his consent for his sister's marriage until Juliet reached the ripe old age of twenty-one, it was best not to antagonize him. Juliet was definitely worth a poulticing. Definitely worth a black eye, if it came to that. Which it had, of course.

  "What did he say, Pickering?" he asked, resting comfortably in the chair with something wet and sticky plastered to his eye.

  Pickering looked at him in some surprise. "Who, my lord?"

  "That Macbeth chap. He must have said something to that scaly wife of his. Holdeth thy tongueth, 0 lady?"

  Pickering thought a moment. "`Prithee peace,' my lord. Act One, Scene Seven."

  "Prithee peace ... meaning, of course, shut up?"

  "Indeed, my lord."

  "Or, if one prefers the Latin, Quieta non movere."

  "Indeed, my lord."

  "Prithee peace. Pretty well for a Scotsman," he observed.

  "Indeed, my lord," said Pickering.

  'A man can safely say `Prithee peace' to his lady love without suffering the slings and arrows, I trust?"

  "Indeed, my lord."

  "Good man, Macbeth. Excellent fellow. Whatever happened to him?"

  Swale was sixteen minutes late for dinner, but the swelling in his left eye was barely noticeable, and his shirt and waistcoat were snowy white. He took his place across from Cary, making his apologies to Juliet, who was seated at the foot of the table in her aunt's customary place. Juliet accepted his excuses very demurely and explained that her aunt had grown overtired during the picnic and was taking supper in her room.

  "We thought you'd gone, Swale," Cary said rudely. "We were looking forward to a quiet evening. I have lost my appetite." Angrily, he slung down his napkin and left the table, despite Benedict's order for him to remain where he was and not be a fool.

  "I seem to be decimating your household, Sir Benedict," Swale said ruefully. "First, Lady Elkins, then your brother. Take care. Miss Wayborn may be next."

  "I apologize for my brother, sir," Benedict said coldly, his embarrassment magnified by having to apologize to a man he disliked. The report that Cary had given him before dinner of Swale's actually being engaged to Juliet, he had already dismissed. He could not conceive of any lady regarding Swale with anything but revulsion, and Juliet was not likely to be seduced by the promise of riches and a title.

  The cold soup was taken away, and the main course was brought in.

  "Do you know," Swale said suddenly, "what happened to Macbeth? The fellow in the play, I mean. His head was cut off and put on a pole underwrit with the words, `Here may you see the tyrant."'

  Benedict stared at him in appalled fascination. "You have just discovered this, my lord?"

  `Just now," Swale confirmed. "Pickering told me. Guess my shock! Things were going so well. And his poor wife, Chuck."

  Benedict could not contain himself. "Chuck?"

  "Yes, her Christian name was Chuck."

  "Was it?"

  "Of course," Swale said irritably. "Act Three, Scene Two, if you don't believe me. `Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck, till thou applaud the deed.' One of your less popular Scotch names. Understandably so."

  With the greatest effort, Benedict kept his countenance, but Juliet could not.

  Swale gave her a hard look as she collapsed into giggles. "Do you know what happened to Chuck, Miss Wayborn? It is popularly believed that Chuck-Queen Chuck she would have been-threw herself from the battlements, which I gather are pretty high things to be throwing oneself from! That is what comes of plotting and scheming, Miss Wayborn. I think Shakespeare is trying to tell us something, huh? We could learn much from the lessons we draw from the fate of Chuck and her Macbeth."

  "The tragedy of Macbeth surely is more complicated than a mere morality play," said Benedict. "In his grasping ambition to enlarge himself in the temporal world, Macbeth throws away his immortal soul, the only thing that truly makes man greater than the sum of his parts."

  "Very well put, Benedict,"Juliet congratulated him.

  "And poor Chuck, after all her scheming, is driven to suicide by her guilt," said Swale.

  Juliet looked at him sharply. "That never rang true to me, my lord. Mrs. Siddons was very moving in the sleepwalking scene, of course, but I never thought Lady Macbeth had a conscience. Macbeth had a con science, but he suppressed it like she told him to." She leaned forward and spoke deliberately. "`Screw your courage to the sticking place, and we'll not fail."'

  "Easy for you to say," Swale grumbled, tucking into his boeuf en croute.

  "Actually," said Benedict, "I think-"

  "They're calling this dish Beef Wellington now," Juliet brightly informed them.

  `What's next?" Swale asked resentfully. "The Wellington hybrid tea rose? Wellington suspender buttons? Wellington toothpick holders?"

  Juliet frowned. "His Grace is so modest he has insisted the new bridge be called Waterloo Bridge and not Wellington Bridge, as originally proposed. It's not his fault everyone wishes to honor him. He has saved all Europe from the Bonapartists. What have you done?" She looked down the table at her brother. "Benedict, I think we should call our little cheeses after the Duke of Wellington, don't you?"

  Benedict shuddered. "That could scarcely be considered a compliment to the man," he said repressively. To his dismay, his sister and Lord Swale spent the rest of dinner suggesting various names for the Home Farm cheese, none of which could be considered for a moment. A more inane conversation he could not have imagined, but the young people pursued it vigorously, the lady suggesting absurd French phrases, the gentleman responding in Latin. Resolutely, Sir Benedict looked up at the ceiling and concentrated on chewing his food thirty times per bite.

  He actually started in surprise when Juliet rose from the table.

  "Don't forget-you promised me the Moonlight Sonata," she was saying to Lord Swale. Her eyes were sparkling, and her color was high. She also seemed rather grotesquely overdressed for a quiet meal at home in the country. The shimmering blue dress was daringly low cut, showing a high rounded bosom; white shoulders; and a long, slender neck. Not at all the sort of dress an elder brother wishes to see his sister wearing. Dresses like that, in fact, were one of the many reasons he avoided London altogether.

  Without actually touching Juliet, Swale was glued to her side. He reminded Benedict, odiously, of a fawning puppy. Was Cary right? He suddenly wondered. Was Juliet engaged to the odious Swale?

  She had not been tempted to have him in Hertfordshire, but, he reflected, life had become very trying for his sister since the arrival of Lady Maria Fitzwilliam in Surrey. Miss Wayborn had gone from being of first importance in the neighborhood to anathema, and she might be tempted to accept the first offer of marriage that came her way. After the scandalous race to Southend, she could not expect to receive many. And becoming Marchioness of Swale offered the unique opportunity of being revenged upon Lady Maria, her chief tormentor.

  It broke his heart to think of his sister marrying for such unworthy reasons.

  "My lord," he said sharply before the other man was out the door. "May I offer you some port?"

  "Yes, do," said Juliet quickly. "I must go up to my aunt in case she may need anything."

  She pulled the doors closed behind her, and though Benedict observed her very closely, he could detect no special regard in the last glance she gave Swale. His lordship, however, was horribly transparent. The uncivilized brute actually had designs on Juliet!

  Albert brought out the port, but Benedict made no move to pour. Instead, he fixed a flaying eye on Swale and said, "Farmer Quince tells me you have taken a fancy to our cheese, my lord."

  Swale first appeared confused, then relieved. Clearly, he had been expecting quite a different question. "Oh yes, Sir Benedict. The cheese."

  "You have asked him to sell you two hundred cheeses, I believe? Two hundred, is that the correct figure?"

  "I think so."

  "You think so?"

  "Yes. Yes, two hundred is the exact number."

  "At forty pence a cheese?"

  "Oh, round figures, if you please," said Swale easily. "A guinea a cheese."

  "Naturally, we will draw up a contract," said Benedict. "In that way, both parties are protected."

  "Farmer Quince requires no protection from me."

  Benedict smiled coldly. "A contract makes explicit the obligations of both parties."

  "For heaven's sake," Swale said impatiently, "I give him two hundred guineas, and he gives me two hundred cheeses."

  "It does seem simple," Benedict agreed. "But what size cheese? And when are they to be delivered? If they cannot be delivered by such and such a date, is the contract void? If, for example, Mr. Quince is unable to provide more than, say, one hundred and seventeen cheeses by the date specific, is the contract void, or should your lordship be obligated to purchase the one hundred and seventeen cheeses? If so, should the price of one guinea per cheese be reduced to, say, one pound?"

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