Scandal's Mistress

by Bronwyn Stuart

  But for tonight, more pressing than ships and cottages and noble babies, she needed to leave before Richard came to find her. The audience may not have noticed her mistakes, but the theatre manager certainly would have.

  When the door opened behind her and slammed into the wall with a bang, she froze, her hands only half done with the catch on her bag.

  “Are you going to tell me what the devil is going on?”

  Carmalina exhaled long and slow before she turned to stare down the man who currently paid the bills. “I don’t know what you mean, Richard.”

  “I’m going to ask you what is wrong with your voice and you’re going to tell me it’s cold, or your throat simply dried out, or you didn’t drink enough before the show.”

  “I arrived late tonight. I didn’t take the requisite time to warm my voice.” The room seemed to shrink as Richard took an unsteady step to lean on the edge of her one chair. With a table, a wardrobe, the chair and a mirror in the tiny area, it should have been impossible for the space to feel any more stifling but Richard, at five feet ten inches and as round as a rum barrel, took up nearly the entire doorway.

  Her heart sank as he shook his head, his lips compressed into a thin line. He didn’t appear angry, merely saddened and perhaps a little drunk with bloodshot eyes and bulbous red nose. “You know what this means, Carmalina. I already have a talented girl who is more than ready to take your place. Granted she doesn’t have your maturity, but she is a sight to behold.”

  “I need this job more than you know.” Carmalina shamed herself by begging a man she detested, but it was the only way. She needed more time. At the miserly rates Richard paid, she could barely afford the door handle to the cottage she so coveted.

  “I can give you a position in the chorus so you can still sing, be balanced by the other girls.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You can’t do that!” She sputtered a little but no further argument followed.

  “I’m afraid I have to. You just aren’t up to it anymore. If you can get your vocals back to nearly perfect, I may reconsider but as things stand, you are now in the chorus.”

  “But… But I can’t, you can’t.”

  But he already had.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, her shoulders slumped, her chin fell against her chest and she had to bite her fist to stop the hot tears pricking her eyes from falling. When had it all become so hard? She should have enjoyed the peak of her career, of her life, but instead she spent precious energy fearing what was still to come. Was happiness an unattainable dream poor, unfortunate folk clung to in order to take their next breath? She began to think it was.

  Yet even in the deepest despair, logic took form. First things first, she would have to find shared board. Her private room was a luxury she could no longer afford. It would take her four times longer to save for the most basic passage across the channel, six if she wasted her money on useless fripperies. She may be down but she had not been defeated. Not yet.

  A knock at the door startled her. Carmalina took a second to compose her mask, to banish her wayward, depressing thoughts and then bade the person enter. She expected Richard had something else to add, or another singer come to invite her out for supper.

  She didn’t expect Justin Trentham.

  Carmalina had all but forgotten she’d agreed to meet him for dinner. She had thought perhaps he’d been challenged to seek her out and would soon forget he’d ever made his offer. By the time she woke in the light of a cold, dreary London morning, she’d made up her mind he must have been foxed and wouldn’t remember a thing.

  “Mr. Trentham.” She inclined her head in his direction, a desperate hope lodging in her chest that he would laugh off the whole affair. “What can I do for you this evening?”

  “Well, Mrs. Belluccini, I believe we were to have dinner but you failed to show your pretty face. Perhaps you felt poorly and simply forgot to show the good manners to let me know you had been detained?” The shining intent in his blue gaze unnerved her to the point where her defenses rose like an impenetrable barricade. No such luck that he wasn’t intent on pursuing her.

  “I don’t remember agreeing to dinner, sir.”

  “As I recall, you nodded your agreement.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember it like that,” she lied. It was childish but he’d caught her off guard and off-kilter. Besides, she had never actually said the words. Not out loud.

  “No matter. You can make it up to me now.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “As you should. Are you ready to go?”

  Carmalina was confused. Her grasp of the English language was exceptional but she knew she’d missed something. Had he mistaken confusion for an apology?

  “I will not go anywhere with you,” she said, digging her heels in.

  “You did promise me dinner. Please don’t insult my intelligence with lies.”

  “I’m afraid I have another engagement tonight.” He would survive a few small untruths. She owed him nothing. Last evening she’d suffered a brief lapse in common sense, but now with the light of a new day and with her current predicament, it would be a fatal mistake to let him lure her in his direction.

  “With whom?”

  “That is none of your concern.” She latched her bag and slung it over her shoulder with the feeling they’d been in this exact same stance before.

  “I am making it my concern. Perhaps I can offer you a ride to your other engagement?” The offer was sincere but his impudent grin said he saw right through her tales. He knew she couldn’t accept his offer of an escort. Trentham knew as well as Carmalina that she shouldn’t accept anything from him.

  “Thank you, but I shall walk.” Why didn’t he leave? She’d made it painfully clear she didn’t wish for his company, yet he still waged the silent war with her will.

  “Then I’ll walk with you. It’s not safe for a beautiful woman to walk the streets alone.”

  “I have been fine on my own so far. Why would tonight be any different?” Carmalina picked up her worn woolen cloak, wrapped it tight around her shoulders, lifted the hood to conceal her face and brushed past his amused smirk. It may not be safe for her to walk out on her own but to walk with him may prove more dangerous than the worst kind of street thug.

  “Please don’t do this,” he called as she proceeded down the corridor and farther away from temptation.

  The resonance of his voice made her pause. Gone was the humor. In its place was a pleading tone that called to her guilt. She had agreed to have dinner with him but she hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time. As soon as her thoughts had unclouded, she’d seen the stupidity and peril in the situation. But those earrings he would ask to have back would more than cover the expense of a ship cabin.

  If she had dinner with him.

  “This is dangerous,” Carmalina murmured, more to herself than him.

  “It’s only dinner. Afterwards, if it’s what you want, I will send you home in my carriage, well fed and untouched. If that is your wish.”

  Her cheeks flamed and her body burned as his intimation sank into the deepest recesses of her mind. When her voice finally failed and she was no closer to having the coin to go home or move on, would his offer seem more tempting? As if it could get any more tempting than in that moment when her stomach grumbled and her mouth dried. Would her virtue and dignity be as priceless to her then?

  “Why me?”

  “Mostly because I am hungry, more so I can dine with a beautiful woman, talk, laugh, eat. That is all.” The sincerity in his eyes, the promise that he would not throw her down on the floor of his carriage and have his way with her, shone from the depths of his gaze. Her heart raced; her body wanted to trust but sharply honed feminine instinct screamed it was a bad idea. She would be ruined.

  She was about to be ruined anyway.

  “Please?” Once again he showed he wasn’t ashamed to beg and, once again her will scattered like ash to the wind. She nodded.


  “Excellent.” He took her hand and placed it on his arm, intending to lead her to the public entrance of the theatre.

  “No, we can’t go that way.” Carmalina pulled, forcing him to slow down. How she formed protest, she had no idea. The warmth of his arm beneath her hand, his leg as it brushed her skirts, his nearness; all were intoxicating. Her thought process was seriously compromised but she did retain some control.

  “Of course not,” he agreed with a tilt of his elegant head, although his face betrayed the failed scheme.

  “We will have to go by the back door.” Carmalina was determined that he not have his way in this, so she guided him through the maze of passages and rooms that led to a small doorway opening to the alley behind the building. All the while she was alarmingly aware of what she did, the game she played, the possible outcomes.

  “Are you so afraid to be seen with me?” He was all boyish innocence, reading into her mind a fraction.

  “Definitely,” she replied with a wry glance in his direction.

  He chuckled, tightened his grip on her hand and led her to where his carriage stood some distance down the street.

  She knew in that instant he would have promenaded her in front of the patrons who’d come to see her sing. She would have been forced to endure the walk with a smile on her face, forced to ignore the whispers that would have inevitably followed.

  “You, sir, are indeed cunning,” she whispered, pulling her hood farther down over her face, thankful the road was not crowded at such a late hour.

  “Thank you.”

  A shiver ran down her spine as he purred the words. She supposed she should decide how she felt about London’s most notorious rake asking her to supper now that the situation had become real. From where he sat, staring at her from across the rocking carriage, he could have ridden with his sister or mother. He showed no intent or desire. In fact, he showed no emotion at all, yet the energy that rolled from him was palpable, unnerving, terrifying.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “That I am not as smart as I once thought.”

  “Do you always speak so openly?” Finally some genuine emotion flashed across his handsome features. He was curious.

  “I do,” she admitted with a nod.

  “I like that about you,” he said with an answering smile.

  “You do not know me.”

  “No, but I would like to.”

  “I know what you’re doing, sir.”

  “Will you call me Justin?”

  “I will not.” Propriety had to have its place, otherwise the mental and physical gap normally set between two strangers would be confused and she needed that distance to retain her wits. She tried hard not to think that being there with him, alone, would have said propriety fleeing the country. To call him Justin would imply a certain level of intimacy. One they would never reach. They were to share a meal. Nothing more.

  “Trentham, then? I do not wish to be sirred and mistered all the time.”

  “You are changing the subject.” Carmalina laughed. He was indeed cunning.

  “What is it you think I’m trying to do?”

  “There isn’t a woman in London who doesn’t know of your exploits.”

  “All preposterous lies.”

  “I think not.”

  “Then why did you agree to have dinner with me?”

  “I’m not really sure. I do know I’m going to regret it tomorrow.”

  “Then you haven’t heard all the gossip about me.” He grinned wolfishly; twin rows of white teeth reflected the lantern light. “It isn’t regret you’ll feel come morning.”

  * * *

  Justin knew better than to bait her. He didn’t want to scare her off but their banter was so refreshing. Her frankness appealed to him in a way that was different and alluring. It wasn’t often he did the chasing in his affairs and the ground felt foreign, in more ways than one.

  Justin jumped lightly to the ground, fog swirling around his Hessians like some tragic gothic omen and he took her hand, smiling again as she tensed.

  Carmalina drew her hood back and gave him a glacial glare to rival the air temperature. She completely ignored his attempt at gallantry, snatching her fingers from his grasp. “Where are we?”

  She really should have asked that question before she’d entered his carriage, Justin thought. “It’s a little house I keep for such occasions,” he said, baiting her again.

  Her skin flushed in the moonlight and his blood stirred. He waited for her to protest, to demand to be taken back to her lodgings. When no such sound escaped her, he proceeded down the path to the door already open, awaiting their arrival. He’d been given the house by his uncle when his own father had ordered him to leave the family town house. His actions were apparently abhorrent to his sire and Justin was only too happy to be away from the censure always present when he was with his family.

  The sweeping entry led to a wide staircase. As with most residences in that part of London, all receiving rooms were on the lower floor, including his study. The bedrooms were on the second floor and the servants’ quarters on the third.

  Never before had he dined with a woman in this house. Well, never with one he wanted so desperately. As Justin watched her eyes dart nervously from one corner of the entryway to the other, he wondered again why he felt so drawn to Carmalina. Why her pull was so much stronger than that of any other female he’d met. Other than her angel’s voice, her curly black hair and coffee-brown eyes, her curvaceous body and hesitant smile, there was nothing so different about her. Damn! He had to sit down and drink something before he got all weak at the knees over the vixen.

  He’d never offered a carte blanche to an actress before. The widows he normally favored came with homes and money of their own and a certain level of independence, insuring distance was always maintained. He investigated their affairs, their previous protectors, their tendency for dramatics. Then he made a decision based on scandal or desire. Discretion was a word he fought to banish from his life but sometimes a little was required for the sake of a truly special woman.

  Carmalina Belluccini was one of those special women and a complete enigma. He rather thought it added to her allure. The biggest part of the attraction, though, was the scandal he would create by having her in his home. If he could charm her into his bed, he would put off the desperate matchmakers for good. If he could attain the level of scandal he sought, his father would surely cut him off and he’d be free.

  He’d tried everything he could, short of murder, and still his family stoically endured his disgrace. He was out of ideas and out of time. Not for one more day could he stand their condescension, their grim frowns or his mother’s overly dramatic tears each time news of his latest exploits reached her delicate ears.

  As he stepped into the main dining room, Justin forgot his mother’s cold blue eyes, impressed with the setting his staff had laid out. He welcomed the distraction as he surveyed the room, making sure all was perfect.

  Hundreds of strategically placed candles reflected off utensils that sparkled and gleamed. Justin moved farther into the room and pulled a chair out for Carmalina. She hadn’t said a word since they’d alighted from the carriage and he desperately wanted to know her thoughts.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he whispered, his hands lingering close to her shoulders, her midnight hair a silky whisper beneath the pad of his thumb.

  Seated to her right, at the head of the cedar-and-oak table, Justin thought his songbird looked like she had been ensnared in a net and was trying to calculate a way of escape. In the soft light, her expressive dark eyes and olive skin made her look so exotic, so unattainable it almost hurt.

  Justin nodded to his butler, Newberry, and in filed the maids and footmen with covered plates. Once the dishes had been set down, their glasses filled and Newberry had ushered the staff from the room, closing the door with barely a sound, Justin finally spoke. “What shall we drink to?”

  The silence was thicker
than the bisque in his bowl. Why didn’t she ramble on or giggle about something? Why did she just sit there, so quiet, unmoving but for each breath in and out of her slightly parted lips? Even her brown eyes remained still, fixed on her plate.

  “Carmalina?”

  Those brown eyes now locked on his, one fine brow arched in question. “It’s your dinner. What would you like to drink to?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “We should drink to our future.”

  “Our future?” She lifted the other brow as her gaze snapped with unconcealed disapproval.

  “All right then, the future.” He watched over the rim of raised crystal. She took a tentative sip of the wine and placed the glass back on the table. Justin took a long draw on the bitter, fruity brew and drank down half the liquid in one swallow.

  Leaning over her soup bowl, the silver spoon raised to her mouth, her generous breasts straining at the front of the nondescript dress she wore—all innocent enough actions, but temptations all the same.

  “Hmm, this is delicious,” she commented, then licked her plump lips.

  “I have one of the best cooks in town chained up in my kitchen.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She finally met his amused gaze directly.

  He wasn’t sure what she meant but he was certain she’d insulted him somehow.

  Conversation on neutral ground was probably the best place to start getting to know her. “How long have you been a singer?”

  “Since I was a child,” she replied, another spoonful of soup disappearing into her mouth.

  Oh God, he wished he were the spoon. The way she wrapped her tongue around it, licked every last drop from the smooth surface, he was enthralled and nearly lost his train of thought.

  “What made you come to England?”

  “What is this?” She placed her spoon down with a clatter next to her now-empty bowl.

  “What is what?” Justin asked, confused. He merely made polite conversation.

  “You brought me here to share a meal. Is it also your intention to learn my life’s story?”