by Brenda Joyce
Brenda Joyce
Scandalous Love
Dedication
This one’s for Adam Matan Senior, born at 2:30 A.M. on September 14, 1991.
Welcome to the world, darling!
And always, it goes without saying, for my best friend,
my greatest love, my husband—Elie
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
The Hall was filled with guests. Animated voices, happy laughter”
1
“You have callers, my Lady.”
2
The Duke of Clayborough returned to Chapman Hall close to…
3
Nicole tried to look again over her shoulder, as the…
4
Nicole used the excuse of her headache to remain closeted…
5
His favorite wolfhound, the Borzoi, regarded him hopefully. Standing in…
6
Jane emerged from her own bedroom, which adjoined the Earl’s,…
7
The Duke arrived in London that afternoon and went directly…
8
The grand salon at the Willoughbys’ was already full when…
9
Unable to fight her despondency, Nicole gripped the windowsill and…
10
Nicole was shocked the very next day when she received…
11
Elizabeth broke the astounded silence surrounding them. “Hadrian,” she cried,…
12
Martha followed Nicole upstairs and into her bedroom. She had…
13
It wasn’t until the Monday afternoon following the charity picnic…
14
The hunt was scheduled for nine that morning. Prior to…
15
Nicole sat up. She was shaken to the core of…
16
It was not until late that evening that Isobel was…
17
It was Regina who was the bearer of bad tidings.
18
Three long days had passed since the funeral. Nicole had…
19
Hadrian awoke in darkness. For a moment he was completely…
20
Hadrian returned directly to No. 1 Cavendish Square. Shaken. Angry.
21
Nicole was in a panic. Her father and the Duke…
22
Nicole left Lindley’s immediately, begging a ride with the Serles,…
23
Isobel was born in the spring of 1844. She was…
24
The Sea Dragon was sleek and white-masted, one of the…
25
Hadrian called upon his fiancée the following day. Although he…
26
The Duke of Clayborough was nervous.
27
The Duke of Clayborough was furious but it did not…
28
Nicole stood absolutely motionless. Her heart was beating in a…
29
They rapidly settled into a routine.
30
Isobel’s stomach churned.
31
It was a long time before Nicole managed to stop…
32
Hadrian shifted forward in his seat. He peered out of…
33
He reread the letter. Not for the second time or…
34
It was late that evening when the Duke and Duchess…
35
Isobel wondered what could be so urgent. It had been…
36
It took Nicole only a moment to realize where she…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Brenda Joyce
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Clayborough, 1874
The Hall was filled with guests. Animated voices, happy laughter and the jubilant strains of a string quartet rang through its corridors. The small boy lay in his oversized bed two floors above the ballroom, listening to the sounds echoing through his home. His small fists were clenched in his bedcovers as he stared sleeplessly into the darkness.
He did not like the darkness, but he was six years old, no longer a baby; he would not turn on the light by his bed. Instead, he stared at the shadows on his wall, shadows made by the old-fashioned sconce lights in the hallway that shone through his door, left carefully ajar by his nanny.
He imagined the flickering shadows were people, not monsters; women in glittering jewels and men in midnight black tailcoats. He imagined that he was one of them, and not a boy, but a man, a real man, as strong and powerful as any of the lords below. As strong and powerful as the Duke, his father. No—stronger. More powerful.
The fantasy made him smile. For an instant, he felt adult. And then he heard them, and his smile vanished and he sat bolt upright, trembling.
They were outside his door, in the corridor. He strained to hear them—when he did not want to hear them. His mother, her voice soft, almost a whisper. “I didn’t expect you back. Here, let me help you.”
And his father. “So eager to rush me to bed?” There was nothing soft about the Duke of Clayborough’s voice.
The small boy gripped the quilt more tightly. The shadows no longer frightened him. For the monster was now outside his door, in the hall.
“What’s the matter, Isobel?” Francis Braxton-Lowell demanded. “Have I distressed you? It’s obvious you’re not pleased that I’m here. Afraid I might attend to the guests in my own home?”
“Of course not,” his mother replied calmly.
The boy did not want to get out of bed but he slipped to his feet, crept to the open door and peeped around it.
The Duke was tall, blond and handsome, his mother was blonder, stunningly beautiful and elegant. His fine evening clothes were rumpled and he was unshaven, she was the picture of perfection in her ice blue sateen gown and glittering diamonds. Distaste etched itself clearly onto the Duke’s face and he turned abruptly, stumbled, and lurched up the corridor. His mother’s facade dropped. Anxiously she followed him.
He peered after them.
The Duke paused outside of the door to his suite. “I don’t need your help.”
“Are you going to come downstairs?”
“Afraid I’ll disgrace you?”
“Of course not.”
“You lie so well. Why don’t you invite me downstairs, Isobel?”
His mother’s back was to him so he could not see her expression, and her voice was not quite so calm. “If you wish to join us, why don’t you change your clothes first?”
“Perhaps I will!” he snarled. His gaze suddenly settled on the strand of diamonds at her throat. “I’ve never seen that patch of paste before.”
“I had it made recently.”
“Damn me—that doesn’t look like glass and paste at all!”
Isobel did not reply.
Silence fell heavily between them. The small boy had crept forward and he crouched behind a lacquer prayer table. Dread filled him. The Duke’s eyes were widening, and suddenly, violently, he ripped the jewels from his mother’s throat. Isobel choked off a scream. The boy leapt forward.
“This is the real thing!” the Duke shouted. “By God, these are real diamonds! You traitorous bitch! You’ve been hiding money from me, haven’t you?”
The Duchess stood frozen.
The boy froze too, panting, just behind her.
“Haven’t you?” Francis shouted. “Where did you get the money for this? Where? Damn you!”
“From royalties,” Isobel said, the slightest quaver in her tone. “We have received our first royalties from the Dupres Mining Compan
y.”
“First you rent my land without my permission,” Francis yelled furiously. “Now you hide my money from me? You never stop, do you?”
“How else am I to save your patrimony?”
Francis moved with surprising speed for one so drunk and he struck his wife hard across the face. She cried out and reeled back against the wall.
“You’ve always been a fraud, Isobel, from the day I met you. A fraud and a liar!” He lurched toward her again, arm raised.
“Stop!” the boy shouted, tackling his father around the knees. “Don’t hurt her! Don’t hurt her!”
“Damn you and damn him,” Francis shouted, hitting his wife again.
The blow took her across one cheek and this time knocked her to the floor. The boy reacted. He pummeled his father’s thighs viciously, as hard as he could, filled with a blinding rage. He hated his father so much it hurt.
As if his son were no more than a stray kitten, Francis plucked him up by the scruff of his neck and tossed him aside. He landed on his back, his head hit the floor, and for one moment he saw stars.
“You puny brat! You think you’re a man, do you? Well tomorrow you’ll get a man’s punishment for interfering where you shouldn’t!” His father towered over him. “A puny brat and a fraud—just like your mother!”
The boy blinked to clear his vision. His father was gone. But not the words, not the cruel, hateful words, for they lingered in his mind. For a moment he lay trembling in pain. It felt like a fist in his chest, in his heart. It hurt terribly. But it hadn’t been caused by his father’s physical blow. He closed his eyes, and sweat staining his brow, he fought himself until everything subsided, the pain, the need for tears, the hatred, everything. Until there was nothing left at all.
And when he opened his eyes he saw his mother, still prone. He scrambled toward her just as she sat up, tears falling down her cheeks. “Mother? Are you all right?” He did not sound like a child; he sounded like an adult.
“Oh, darling!” Isobel cried, wrapping her son in her arms. “Your father did not mean it, he did not!”
Patiently, the boy let her hug him then he moved away. He nodded expressionlessly, although he knew it was not true, while his mother sobbed silently. He knew that his father had meant every word, every action. Just as he knew that his father hated them—hated him. But it did not matter.
Not anymore. For one good thing had come of this night. Finally, the pain was gone. He had learned how to control it, how to chase it into the night. He had learned how to embrace emptiness. And it was vast.
Dragmore, 1898
“You have callers, my Lady.”
“But I never have callers,” Nicole protested.
Aldric looked at her, his lined face unfathomable, although his brown eyes were twinkling. “The ladies Margaret Adderly and Stacy Worthington, my Lady.”
Nicole was surprised. Of course, it was an exaggeration to say that she never had callers, for her best friend, the Viscountess Serle, as well as the local gentry and her family, did come calling rather frequently. But they didn’t really count. What counted was the fact that she herself did not have the usual bevy of callers like other young ladies of her class. Not in the past several years. Not since the scandal. What could these ladies, whom she had never met, possibly want?
“Tell them I’ll be right down. Have refreshments served, Aldric,” she told the butler. A bubble of excitement rose up in her.
Aldric nodded, but before leaving he raised one bushy white eyebrow. “Perhaps I should mention that you will be a few minutes, my Lady?”
She understood and chuckled, looking down ruefully at her men’s breeches and muddy riding boots. Although it was almost the dawning of a new era—the twentieth century—women did not wear men’s clothing even when they had just cause. Some things never changed. “Good of you to remind me, Aldric. I shouldn’t chase away my illustrious visitors before I even find out why they’ve come.”
Still chuckling, she waited for Aldric to leave, imagining the shock the two proper ladies downstairs would receive if they saw her attired like a man. It just wasn’t done.
Nicole sighed, honest enough with herself to know that her carefree attitude and rather improper sense of humour did not help her situation—not that she was really in a situation, she reminded herself. After all, she chose to remain in the country. As she riffled carelessly through her armoire for the appropriate undergarments, she admitted to herself that it was nice to have young women come calling. It had been a long time. Not that she wasn’t happy at Dragmore, for she was. Her life was Dragmore, horses and books. It was just that, well, it had been a long time.
Nicole donned a combination, stockings and a petticoat, as quickly as she could. She hated corsets and refused to wear them, even though she was twenty-three and five feet ten inches in her bare feet. She was bigger than most women and then there was her age. She refused unequivocally to try and cinch in her waistline as if she were five feet tall, eighteen years old and a scant hundred pounds. If people knew, they would talk. People loved to talk, Nicole had found out firsthand. But in this instance, no one could possibly know, and even if they did, Nicole was adamant.
It wasn’t just a matter of comfort. Nicole was a voracious reader. She agreed with some of her favorite women authors who favored knickers and bloomers instead of the current fashions, which were, they held, unhealthily constrictive. Like corsets. Just as modern society had invented rules of decorum expressly to keep women in their place, so too it had invented fashions for the exact same purpose.
After all, a corseted, fainting woman could not be expected to do more than smile and breathe. A fainting woman could not run, ride, shoot or think. A fainting woman was demure.
Nicole was wise enough to know that she should keep her wisdom to herself.
When she had finished dressing she paused one instant to look nervously in the mirror, aware of the tightening knot of anticipation in her belly. She scowled at herself. It wasn’t that she disliked her quiet navy blue jacket and skirt, for she couldn’t have cared less about clothes as long as she was not constricted by them. It was other aspects of her appearance which displeased her.
She sighed. “Well, what did you expect?” she asked her reflection seriously. “To be shorter? To be blonde? What are you, a nitwit? If people judge you by how you look, why, they’re not worth one pence!”
Her door opened. “Are you calling me, mum?”
Nicole blushed. If the servants ever caught her talking to herself she’d never live it down! “Uh, yes, Annie, would you take my breeches to Sue Anne? The left knee needs patching.” She smiled brightly, waiting until Annie had taken up the pants and left. Then she looked at herself with a frown. She was still ridiculously tall and much too dark. She had inherited all of her father’s swarthy looks, and nothing from her petite, blonde mother. She wasn’t morose by nature, but couldn’t her hair have been brown instead of jet black?
She should have asked Annie to help her with her hair instead of making up a story about her britches, she thought, trying to run a comb through it, because the thick, wavy black mass fell to her waist and was untamable without a second pair of hands. It was too late for that now, and Nicole tied it back quickly with a ribbon. The ladies Adderly and Worthington were waiting. Her belly clenched again. If she delayed another minute it would be downright rude. Abruptly Nicole left her room and flew down the stairs, forgetting she was in skirts until she tripped and was forced into a more sedate, ladylike pace.
In the hall below she paused to catch her breath and calm her quivering nerves. She told herself that she was being silly—she was only receiving callers, something other young ladies did every day of their lives. Hurrying down a long, marble-floored corridor, she wished that her mother, the Countess of Dragmore, was home to give her a dose of good advice. But Jane was in London with Nicole’s younger sister, Regina, who refused to remain in the secluded countryside when the season was in full swing. Nicole wished her paren
ts would let Regina get married and forget about the fact that she, the elder sister, was unwed and likely to stay that way forever.
She paused in the doorway of the large, bright yellow salon. Instantly, the two young ladies on the chintz sofa froze, their conversation ceased. One was blonde and perfect, the other a stunning brunette. Both young ladies stared at Nicole out of wide blue eyes. For a silly instant, Nicole felt like an exotic something under a magnifying glass, and then the feeling passed.
Smiling, she entered. “Hello. How kind of you to come.”
Both girls stood, their gazes openly curious as they drifted over Nicole’s tall body while they exchanged introductions. Nicole felt massive standing next to them, for she towered over their diminutive five foot frames. “Lady Shelton,” said the blonde, “I am Lady Margaret Adderly, and this is my friend, Lady Stacy Worthington.”
The formalities dispensed with, Nicole urged them to sit, seeing that they had been served tea and cakes. She sat facing them in a brocade wing chair. Stacy Worthington regarded her too intently.
“You do know about the Duke?” Margaret asked excitedly.
She could only be referring to one man. “The Duke of Clayborough?” Nicole said, wondering what he could possibly have to do with anything, much less these two young ladies.
“Yes!” Margaret beamed. “He has come into possession of Chapman Hall. You do realize that he is your neighbor!”
“Of course,” Nicole said, somewhat perplexed. She knew nothing about the Duke except that he had indeed just arrived at Chapman Hall, a mere mile from Dragmore’s front gates. She had never heard of him before that week.