Scandal's Mistress

by Bronwyn Stuart

  “Can you really do that?”

  “I can do anything I want. It is expected of me.”

  Carmalina looked up to see if his motive was scandal or for the desire to be buried within her again. His unrepentant grin gave her the answer she needed. She stood, righted her gown, helped Justin fix his rumpled cravat and then waited while he plucked some grass from her hair.

  “Are you ready, love?” he asked, arms out, ready to catch her.

  Carmalina smiled and then with an overly dramatic hand to her head, she swooned into her lover’s arms, happy to close her eyes and be taken wherever he chose to carry her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the next evening, the ton was animated with the news that Billington’s boy was at it again. He’d moved his mistress in and by all accounts had chased her shrieking around his garden. After some time of absence, said son carried said paramour right through the assembled guests and neither were seen again for the rest of the dinner party.

  Justin grinned. The article in the gazette couldn’t have been written better than if he’d actually drafted it himself. Esmeralda was instrumental in the spreading of the pertinent points from the evening and Penhurst and Dipson had gone straight on to White’s to start bets as to how long it would be before Justin Trentham was a man thrown out of his family.

  He rather liked the odds and instructed a footman to place a bet in his favor.

  His last act of defiance would come from the night’s entertainment. There was to be a masque at Vauxhall. They would assemble in an area entered only by the aristocracy but Carmalina would not be questioned. He would dance with her, make sure she was party to the small talk and then when midnight came and it was time to reveal one’s true face, the ton would be shocked to the core to see her stand amongst them.

  The only problem was how he felt about it. He should have been elated that the end was so close he could taste it, but he hadn’t yet discussed it with Carmalina. If she had any objections, he would not go through with the scheme. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t spring it on her. He still had to somehow make her his bride and not for the scandal.

  Their relationship no longer had anything to do with his feud with his family. He was a man and she was a woman, and as a man she completed him the way no other could. Carmalina would make an excellent wife for him.

  The thought made him tingle inside. Never had he seriously considered marriage. He didn’t have to. He didn’t need an heir and he’d never met a woman he would have considered procreating with. Until now. They would have adorable babies together.

  But first, the evening had to go according to plan, or not at all. When she’d accused him of wanting revenge, she was right. He just hadn’t realized it himself. In the act of torturing his father, he always felt better, less hollow somehow. But the time had come to move on. He would make Carmalina his wife and then sell Lucifer’s and escape London and all her wretchedness. If that’s what his new bride wanted. They could go to Italy. They could go anywhere.

  From the end of his bed where he stood, cuffs finally fastened, he dismissed Higgins with a distracted wave. He entered Carmalina’s room without knocking, hoping she would be finding it difficult to dress herself.

  “I really do need a maid if you keep insisting I wear these complex gowns.” She huffed and tried to turn her body this way and that to lace her corset. After the few days they had spent in each other’s arms, her inhibitions were dust in the wind. The pretty blush he’d come to adore no longer tinged her cheeks with embarrassment. The redness there now was irritation. He was afraid he was about to make it worse.

  “Let me.”

  She turned her back and swept the mass of jet-black hair out of the way. How his fingers itched to curl the strands around his hand, feel the silken weight across his body.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he said.

  She tensed beneath his hands, waited for him to continue.

  There was no delicate way to put it. “I need you to be with me tonight.”

  “I will be with you,” she replied, relaxing only a fraction.

  Justin finished tying the laces and turned her to face him. The apprehensive look in her big brown eyes told him he’d worried her; her forehead was creased into a wary frown. And for good reason.

  “You don’t understand. I would like to do something tonight that will see my plotting and scheming at an end, but it will be…” How could he tell her she would be cut, probably yelled at, or worse.

  “You may as well tell me,” she sighed, resignation in her voice.

  “I want to take you to a masque ball.”

  “That sounds…like fun.”

  “It won’t be.”

  “It won’t? Why not?”

  “Because it is a ton event and when the clock strikes midnight and the disguises are removed…” He was a coward. How could he possibly go through with it when he couldn’t even articulate the words? He was disgraceful.

  “I don’t understand. Isn’t that the point to a masque?”

  “Yes, but they will not expect me to bring my infamous mistress along.”

  “I see.”

  It was pure torture watching her cross to the bed, to the gown laid out there. He had to wait and watch, silent while she fingered the delicate purple silk with its fine embroidery and lace. He’d wanted her to feel like a princess when he’d ordered this particular dress. He hadn’t wanted her to be made a laughingstock or more of an outcast.

  “Do you?” Justin finally asked when the response he waited for never came.

  “You want everyone to wonder who I am. No one will cut me immediately for fear they will upset the wrong person but then when the clock strikes, you want them to see they have conversed with a common harlot all evening. I understand perfectly.”

  “Obviously not. You are not a harlot and there is absolutely nothing common about you.”

  “I’m not saying I won’t do it.” When she faced him, it wasn’t revulsion that lit her face. Her expression was that of pure mischief. “You think I don’t want the opportunity to show them all that their narrow-minded ways should be outlawed? That just because I have to earn my living doesn’t mean I should be labeled less than a person?”

  “You are going to have fun with this, aren’t you?”

  “Only on one condition.”

  He was sick of conditions. Once they were married, he would never let her put conditions on anything. “Name it,” he replied, thinking he dreamed but at the same time wondered why she hadn’t slapped him and refused to leave the house.

  “That the scandals will be over and done with.”

  “I can’t promise I won’t be involved in another scandal. We have a long time together still. The scandal will go on as long as we do.”

  “But I want your word you will not plan or plot or scheme anymore. If there is to be outrage or gossip, let it happen and run a natural course without invention or intervention.”

  He could vow to that. He had already decided to marry her, so he no longer had to plot in that direction. He would, however, still need to get her agreement.

  “You have my word as a gentleman.”

  Carmalina snorted. “I would have your word as Justin Trentham. As a man.”

  For the first time in his life, someone wanted something from him? She wanted him to use his name to swear an oath that had nothing to do with anyone else, not his family, not society, not the ton. Him.

  He dropped to his knees in front of her. “I, Justin Trentham, swear not to plot, plan or scheme any more scandals. I will let nature take its course and wait to see where the pieces fall.”

  She looked down on him for a moment and then with a smile and nod beckoned him to stand back up. “I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I will take it. Now help me dress so we can go. I find myself eager for disgrace this evening.”

  * * *

  Autumn had well and truly set in and was ne
arly ready to give way to Father Winter. The trees overhead were bare, the scent of blossoming flowers strangely absent and the chill in the air had most at Vauxhall gathering cloaks and dominoes tighter against the cold.

  Carmalina barely felt it at all. Her body tingled with energy, not just from what was to come but also by the way Justin had helped her to relax on the carriage ride to the park. Her cheeks warmed beneath her black-and-purple mask. The things he did with his tongue whilst she was still fully clothed were debauched. She’d enjoyed every minute of it. By the time the carriage pulled to a halt, she worried more about her ability to stand.

  An hour had passed since they’d entered the roped-off areas of Vauxhall set aside for the highest of London society. Only that thin line of scarlet fabric separated those who were born to privilege and those who looked on with envy, their feet and hands sore from the day’s work.

  Carmalina should have stood on the other side. With her fellow workingmen and women. There was no shame in making a living and as she looked around, at the abundance of glittering jewels, fancy dresses and mountainous coiffures, hats and masks, Carmalina had to wonder why shopkeepers were not ostracized the way servants and tradesmen were. A dressmaker could command respect from her patrons and a saddler was worshipped for the fine leather draped over their mounts every day, yet for the most part they were still unwelcome among the aristocracy. The lower orders were banned entirely.

  Patronage was one thing, but friendship with the men and women who provided the beautiful things lords and ladies took for granted would be absolutely unheard of.

  A shame really.

  So much could the English learn if only they reduced the height of their platforms to rub shoulders with artisans and cobblers.

  Carmalina decided in that moment she would never live in London again. She no longer wished for a cottage in the quiet serenity of the countryside. She would never be welcome. Her neighbors wouldn’t call greetings over low fences nor would she be invited to country dances or fetes. She would take Justin’s money and she would get as far away as she could. America or the Continent. Somewhere it wasn’t shameful to use a voice such as she’d had. Somewhere people could work hard for what they wanted and not be detested for the fact. Not even Italy could offer her total anonymity and a completely fresh start.

  “You are looking very serious tonight, my dear.”

  “Oliver. Is that you?” Carmalina had only met Justin’s uncle a couple of times and beneath a luminous red velvet cape and mask to match, she couldn’t be sure.

  Oliver flourished a bow before her and Carmalina couldn’t restrain a giggle. She’d never been bowed to before. All eyes in the vicinity were firmly fixed on them and she knew if she could read minds, they would be agog with curiosity.

  The gown that draped Carmalina’s body was of the palest purple and was designed to be worn without the normally required layered petticoats, the material clinging to her legs. Her domino wasn’t the usual black affair. Hers was a darker purple silk with white fur around the throat. It kept her warm and hid more of her face and neck to keep her from being recognized. Carmalina knew the cape alone was worth a fortune and she felt like a princess.

  The stunning ensemble was completed with an amethyst necklace interspersed with diamonds. A matching bracelet ringed her wrist and amethyst hairpins winked from her dark curls like exotic stars in the night. This was how it felt to dress like royalty and enjoy oneself. And she was having a great time. She had already conversed with three separate groups of ladies intent on discovering her identity. Everywhere she turned, someone stared, questions obvious in their eyes through the slits and holes in their masks.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  “Absulomon.”

  No sooner had she uttered the word, Oliver swept her up and waltzed her through the crowd. Some gasped in outrage while others applauded Oliver’s boldness. Carmalina laughed out loud. No music reached her ears at that moment yet they fell into the dance as though they graced the loftiest of ballrooms.

  After several scandalous minutes of cutting a path through the crowd like two drunkards, trying to apologize for stepping on many toes through the laughter, and laughing all the harder for it, Oliver finally stopped.

  “That was…refreshing,” he said, slightly breathless.

  “And here I thought Justin the only mischief maker in the family.”

  “We have more in common than you’d think.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t doubt that, signore.”

  “May I have this dance?”

  Carmalina turned at the sound of one of the deepest voices she’d ever heard. She inclined her head to a man who may have had an alluring voice but he was at least as round as he was tall. She lost count of how many times the fat man stepped on her toes or on the hem of her gown. Any minute she expected her skirts to be ripped from her bodice by the clumsy oaf.

  After that, she danced with a dozen more gentlemen—fortunately none were clumsier than the first—until she found herself back in Oliver’s arms.

  “Do you know my nephew watches you like a vicar guarding his sixteen-year-old daughter?”

  Carmalina hadn’t seen him looking, but she knew he did. It was that lion stalking a lamb tingle she got whenever she felt Justin’s gaze from afar. “He wants this night to be perfect.”

  She regretted the words when a look of worry crossed Oliver’s handsome features.

  “I might have known there was a reason. He doesn’t usually come to these things unless he is about to cause some sort of trouble.”

  “Do you disapprove?” Carmalina asked. Oliver was about the only person in England she could ask frank questions and expect an honest answer.

  “He has his reasons.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Do you know, he is like a son to me? I believe he has slept more nights beneath my roof than my brother’s, yet I’m not the man he calls father. If I was, he wouldn’t do the things he feels compelled to do.”

  “Have you ever told him that?”

  “What could I say? Let me love you? I would never hurt you the way my mean-hearted brother has? No. I couldn’t. I have to settle for being there when the hurt shatters his heart. I was the one who picked up the pieces time and again.”

  “You say that like you can’t or won’t do it anymore.”

  “He has you now.”

  “Only for another eleven months,” Carmalina replied. The words were like an arrow to her heart. They were only words and incapable of giving a direct hit but the aim was indeed true.

  “He is going to marry you.”

  “I won’t marry him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t love me.”

  Oliver stopped dancing and held Carmalina’s hands in his own. “He told me what happened.”

  She searched his honest and open gaze. Snatching her hands from his, she covered her now burning cheeks. She knew exactly what he referred to. “I won’t marry again. No one.” She turned to flee but Oliver reached for her again.

  “You must.”

  “Society’s rules aren’t mine.”

  “No, but they are his as much as he denies them.”

  “And the scandal?” Carmalina wouldn’t be his bride to further his irrational cause.

  “Justin is already inside your head, isn’t he?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Now he has you thinking of disgrace as much as he.”

  “I am already disgraced.”

  “Only in your own eyes.”

  “But the women here—” Carmalina threw her arms out wide, uncaring that she made a scene, “—will never accept me. Even if I was to marry the prince himself, I would still be the opera singer. The woman who performed on the stage. The whore from the theatre.”

  “Has anyone ever treated you like that?” Oliver asked.

  “Yes.”

  “For being an opera singer? Or for being my nephew’s mistress?”
>
  Carmalina opened her mouth to answer but then snapped it shut again. Open. Shut. Floundering like a fish out of water, she couldn’t think of a way to dispute the truth of what he’d said.

  Before becoming Justin’s mistress, she’d never been cut by a woman of her own class. Never been openly snubbed on the street. Never been told to go and never come near a child again. Not until she accepted her current position.

  Oliver’s voice came to her through a fog of confusing emotions running riot through her mind. “I didn’t think so.”

  “But…” What could she say? She now understood that she had put herself there, with the choices she’d made believing no other way existed. They were her own. She wasn’t snubbed for making a living. She was snubbed for playing the role of Justin’s whore.

  About to make her excuses and flee into the night, truly fallen in every way, the voices of those around her came first.

  “Ten.”

  “I am suddenly not feeling very well. If you’ll excuse me.” Oliver gave her a curt nod and then abruptly disappeared into the milling throng.

  “Nine.”

  “There you are.”

  “Eight.”

  She turned to see Justin stand at her side.

  “Seven.”

  “I can’t do this,” she said, afraid her words would be unheard over the roar of the crowd.

  “Six.”

  “Of course you can, love.”

  “Five.”

  “No. This is all wrong.”

  “Four.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Three.”

  Carmalina’s heart jumped, banging painfully against her ribs. She shook her head, picked up a handful of domino and skirt and turned in what she hoped was the direction of the carriageway.

  “Two.”

  “Carmalina?” Justin’s voice was in her ear, his hand on her elbow. The sense of doom closed in around her until she felt she truly would faint.

  “One.”

  * * *

  The applause and laughter, the cries of surprise as strangers were revealed as friends, family and acquaintances rang hollow in Carmalina’s ears as she stared into Justin’s worried gaze beneath his mask. All around them, lords and ladies threw off capes and dominoes, unmasked to reveal their identities but there they stood. Just her and him.