Scandalous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  “Let me replenish this,” he said. He did not have to move, for a servant materialized from behind him with a tray of bubbling flutes. The Duke took one for himself and handed her another. “Why are you angry?”

  Nicole quickly tried to recover her wits. “I am not exactly angry,” she said carefully. Up close, he was even more stunning than from afar, and his impact was even more unnerving. She found herself staring at his mouth and wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. When she realized the train of her thoughts she was horrified.

  “You are certainly not angry now,” he said, his gaze moving slowly over her.

  There was something in his tone that wrung an instant response from her, something intimate that Nicole was too inexperienced to define. Nicole felt her breasts tighten as if he had actually touched her. “I am not angry now,” she breathed.

  His voice was husky, a low caress. “Good. I would not like you angry with me. Not now—when we have just met.”

  There were meanings there, vast meanings in his words, and Nicole was afraid to even guess what they could be. She wished his expression was less impassive, less controlled. His countenance was stern, inscrutable, and she had not a clue as to what he was thinking or why he had sought her out. But when his eyes held hers, her heart did somersaults. “I could never be angry with you,” she heard herself say. Then she flushed, for she sounded like some coy, simpering miss, and it was exactly that type she could not tolerate.

  “Ah, but there is the other side to consider, for I imagine your anger is like the rest of you, as novel and as stimulating.”

  She stared, speechless, for there was no possible reply she could make to this, just as she could not quite fathom what he was driving at.

  “Is it?”

  “I—I don’t know.” She was thoroughly undone.

  “I have no doubts,” he said, and his voice dropped very low, “just as I have no doubts that your originality extends far beyond the public domain.”

  She thought of how she rode about Dragmore, dressed as a man. Here, at least, was safe ground. Her look was direct, and she breathed easier. “Yes, it does.”

  He drew in his breath sharply, his eyes suddenly blazing. Nicole had the distinct impression that he had not understood her and had, in fact, applied a meaning to her words which she had not intended. Unnerved by his searing regard, Nicole sought absolutely safe territory upon which to converse. “We are now neighbors,” she said politely. “Chapman Hall is not far from Dragmore, not at all.”

  “How convenient,” he replied dryly. “Then it would only be neighborly of me to invite you to my home, would it not?”

  She was held captive by his golden eyes. She could not believe her ears. She smiled, and did not understand why he again drew in his breath. “I ride past Chapman Hall frequently,” she said eagerly.

  “I am sure you do. Then, the next time you are passing by, you must make sure to make a small detour and say hello.” His words carried all the weight of a ducal command.

  “I shall,” Nicole cried passionately. “I shall!”

  The Duke of Clayborough returned to Chapman Hall close to midnight, his mood more than irritated. He hated being fêted, having absolutely no delusions about why people catered to him. He was reclusive by nature, and his popularity was based only upon his title, wealth and power. He had little respect for the likes of the Adderlys, who fawned over him and made, in his opinion, complete fools of themselves by doing so.

  He had never liked the endless balls and soirees which many of his peers seemed to revel in. He found them a waste of his time. His interests had always lain elsewhere. He had spent the past twelve years, since he was a youth of eighteen, running the vast Clayborough estates while his father, Francis, the eighth Duke, amassed a debt that finally reached the staggering sum of a million pounds. While Francis was indulging all his vices, his son was struggling to run the estates in an economic depression. The Clayborough estates ranged over nearly two hundred thousand acres and contained almost a hundred farms, the properties scattered about in Sussex, Kent, Derbyshire and even Durham. Like most of the peerage, the Duke had a wealth and livelihood based upon agriculture. Yet the British had been suffering severely in the past decades, unable to compete with the machine-reaped products America was exporting. Agriculture had been the crux of the Clayborough family fortune for hundreds of years, and it took more than discipline and hard work to fight the tide that had turned against it. It took bold, innovative new strategies. While Francis spent his days in gaming halls and his nights God knew where, the shrewd young heir was investing in trade, London real estate and finance. But Francis’ debts continued to increase and remained a terrible drain upon the estates.

  Those days were now over. The Duke felt not one bit of sorrow that his wastrel father had died two years ago—in bed with someone other than his wife, and foxed to boot. The most sordid detail—that Francis’ paramour had been a young man—had been effectively hushed up by his son before any more damage could be done. Not that his father’s ways were a secret. The Duke had no delusions on that score, either. He was certain all of society knew exactly the kind of man the eighth Duke had been, just as they knew he was the exact opposite.

  His father had relished all the weekend parties and hunts, the balls and routs, never retiring until after dawn and never rising before noon. The Duke was up at dawn, and usually retired before midnight. His business affairs demanded his constant attention, and he was known to work well into the night. It was not entirely discipline; part of it was a burning ambition that he was certain came from his mother’s side of the family. The de Warennes were known for their shrewd business sense, which even the Dowager Duchess of Clayborough possessed in abundance. When the Duke had first become immersed in Clayborough’s affairs, he had worked side by side with his mother, amazed at how she had been running the estates for the past two decades with no help at all from her husband.

  He was irritated this evening because it was late and he had a full agenda for the morrow. He would rise as usual, with the sun. He was not inhuman, although many seemed to think he was, and if he didn’t sleep soon, tomorrow he would be tired. And tonight had been nothing but a waste of his time and energy.

  He entered Chapman Hall. His butler, Woodward, and his valet, Reynard, were awaiting him, and the head footman, Jakes, accompanied him. Woodward took his black, crimson-lined cloak without the Duke even noticing. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”

  “Go to bed, Woodward,” he waved at him dismissively. Tonight had not exactly been a complete waste of time, he thought, his pulse quickening. Her gypsy image loomed vividly in his mind. “Nor do I need you, Reynard. Thank you, Jakes. Good night.”

  Reynard and Jakes disappeared, but Woodward coughed and the Duke paused before bounding up the stairs. He lifted a brow.

  “The Dowager Duchess arrived this evening, Your Grace. It was unexpected, but we made do and put her in the blue room in the west wing. It seemed to be in the best condition, Your Grace.”

  “Well done,” he said. As he strode up the stairs, his brow furrowed. What was his mother doing here, for God’s sake? He knew it was not a dire emergency, for if it had been, the Dowager Duchess would be up and waiting for him, pacing restlessly, no matter how late the hour. Still, the dowager estates were in Derbyshire, which was no easy drive to make, and if she had come from her home in London, it would have meant almost a half day’s journey. She had not come merely to chat—something important was on her mind.

  But it would have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow. His body tensed. Would the utterly seductive Lady Shelton “pass by?” A smile curved his lips, his first real smile of the evening, revealed only in the privacy of the master bedroom and shared only with the Borzoi thumping his tail enthusiastically in greeting to his master.

  Clayborough stripped. He was still shocked at her admission that she was as original in private as in public, and again, for the umpteenth time, he imagined her naked in his bed,
astride him, devouring him with her wild gypsy passion. In his imagination he was somewhat passive, as he had never been in his entire life. The fantasy aroused him unbearably, and he was not a man who succumbed to daydreams.

  She was more than original; she was daring, and he guessed she was reckless as well. Of course, he knew she was somehow related to the Earl of Dragmore, whom he knew, admired, and respected. Nicholas Shelton was very much like himself: a hard, disciplined worker and a clever businessman. Was she his daughter-in-law? Some cousin, perhaps?

  Obviously she was married, for she was no spring miss and her bold manners, especially coming unescorted in such a costume, confirmed this. The Duke was used to married women throwing themselves at his feet and doing everything they possibly could to get into his bed. Although he did not indulge himself in gambling, alcohol, or other wastrel pursuits, he had never been able to refuse a beautiful woman, although he rarely bothered to be the pursuer. He always kept a mistress as well, of course, but he tired quickly in these relationships and was continually changing liaisons. He was well aware that he had a reputation for being a ruthless womanizer, but it did not bother him—at least he was no sodomite like his late father.

  It occurred to him that Lady Shelton would make a fine mistress. He did not know her well, but he sensed it. Unfortunately, as she was married, taking her as his mistress was out of the question and he would have to settle for an affair. Usually his interludes with married women were even shorter than his relationships with his mistresses. He rarely had time for the clandestine meetings a married woman required; usually a tumble or two sufficed. Lady Shelton interested him more than a bit—he did not think a couple of nights would do either of them justice.

  He sighed, annoyed at the inconvenience it would cause him.

  The Dowager Duchess was also an unfashionably early riser. Isobel de Warenne Braxton-Lowell had gotten into the plebeian habit in the early years of her marriage, when Francis had first come into his patrimony after the seventh Duke’s death. It hadn’t taken her very long to see that Francis had no intention of changing his rakehell ways. When the bills began to pile up, she had finally hired a chancellor to attend to them. It had been a rude shock to learn that funds were desperately scarce and the estates were withering, but nothing like the rude shock her marriage had been. And that had only been the beginning. Someone had to run the huge dukedom. Isobel had become that someone, and the more adept at it she became, the more angry with her Francis grew.

  It was just past six in the morning and Woodward poured her tea from a silver-plated urn, which pointed up the plight of the previous owners of Chapman Hall as eloquently as the run-down grounds and worn oak floors did. No one of the Dowager Duchess’ acquaintances used silver plate, especially not tarnished and dented silver plate.

  Despite the hour, Isobel was dressed in an elegant blue day ensemble, the dress high-necked with wide leg-o-mutton sleeves, the waist exceedingly narrow, the skirt bell-shaped and pleated in the back. Isobel was fifty-four, but her figure was that of a woman in her twenties, and she watched it fastidiously. Likewise, except for the wrinkles at the corners of her vivid blue eyes and the character lines around her mouth, her skin was ivory smooth and, with the help of special creams, luminescent. Her face was a perfect oval, high cheekboned and partrician, the kind that wears well. She was still handsome and attractive. As a young woman she had been a great beauty.

  Now, to match the costly blue silk of her dress, she wore sapphire ear bobs and one wide, stunning diamond bracelet interspersed with more sapphires. A large sapphire winged with two small rubies blinked from her right hand. She did not wear her wedding rings. In fact, she had been relieved to finally lay them to rest along with her departed husband.

  “I thought I would find you up,” the Duke remarked, striding into the room in tight-fitting breeches, boots and a loose white shirt. “Good morning, Mother.” He went directly to her and kissed her cheek.

  “Good morning.” Isobel studied him as he sat down beside her at the head of the scarred mahogany table. No small amount of pride swept her as she watched him. He was her only child, and she had conceived him relatively late in her marriage, seven years after she had been wed, at the age of twenty-four. It wasn’t just his striking looks that thrilled her, or his manly demeanor, but everything about him. For he was an honorable man, a son any woman would be proud of; as strong, solid and responsible as Francis had been weak, dishonest and irresponsible. Of course, knowing what she did, knowing the whole truth, she was saddened too, for even in the powerful grown man, she still glimpsed the grim little boy who never had the childhood he should have had.

  “I am afraid to ask,” the Duke said as Woodward poured him rich, black coffee. “But what brings you here?”

  Instead of answering, Isobel said, “How was the affair last night?” Another servant brought them plates of eggs, bacon and kippers.

  The Duke smiled slightly. “A damned nuisance, of course.”

  She regarded him, wondering what his small, satisfied smile meant, then thanked Woodward politely as he left the room. They were alone. “I am worried about Elizabeth, Hadrian.”

  At the mention of his fiancée, the Duke paused, fork lifted. “What is wrong?”

  “Perhaps if you spent more time with her, you would not have to ask,” Isobel said gently.

  The Duke laid his silver down on his plate. “Clayborough cannot run itself, Mother, as you, of all people, should know.”

  “I do know. But your paths cross less and less, and I know it is bothering her. Even hurting her.”

  The Duke stared grimly. “Then I am remiss,” he finally said. “For I would not hurt her, not purposefully. She is so busy in London with the social whirl, I thought it made her happy. It did not occur to me that she might—er—miss me.”

  “Of course she is happy in London, but you are her betrothed. In a few months you will be wed. People are beginning to talk.”

  “Is this what you have come to tell me?”

  “No. I saw her the day before yesterday, Hadrian, and while she tries to pretend all is as it should be, it is clear that she is not well.”

  “She is ill?”

  “I am afraid so. She is very pale, and she has lost weight. I finally asked her directly, and it took some prodding—for you know how Elizabeth is, never wanting to burden anybody, God forbid! But she finally confessed to being fatigued all the time, and although she is not eating any less, she has lost enough weight that all her gowns have had to be altered. I encouraged her to see a physician, but she laughed at me and said it is only fatigue and it will pass.”

  “Well, it does not sound as if she is in dire circumstances, Mother, or she would go to a doctor. I will be in London in a week or two, as soon as I have finished here. I will investigate, and if she is in need of medical treatment, you can be sure she will receive it.”

  Isobel knew he meant every word, for he never failed to carry out his intentions. Although he kept a mistress, as most men did, she knew he would be a good husband. When he was with Elizabeth he was always courteous, kind and respectful, and it was no game—it was his nature. He never denied her anything, not even a request to attend some function, although he dearly hated them and he was a busy man. He was not abusive in any way, and he kept his affairs most discreet.

  Isobel knew he was fond of Elizabeth, for they were cousins. In fact, Hadrian had been twelve, Elizabeth two, when they were betrothed. Isobel knew that Hadrian felt no burning love for Elizabeth, caring for her as one might care for a sister, just as she was certain that Elizabeth did love him, and not as one would love a brother. That, of course, was not her business. The most important thing was that Hadrian and Elizabeth were friends, and that Hadrian would always honor and respect her. Isobel had seen enough of the world to know that friendship was not a bad basis for a marriage, for only a very few were ever lucky enough to experience love at all, much less to love their spouse. She was carried back to another time, to other shores,
and she was sad. But the moment passed.

  The Duke ate quickly, considering what his mother had told him. He was not alarmed, although Isobel must be or she would not have come all the way to Chapman Hall. His first order of business when he got back to London would be to discuss Elizabeth’s health with her, and he would not be fooled if she were indeed ailing. Also he would go out of his way to accompany her to the theatre and other such nonsense. Once again, the Dowager Duchess was right, and he felt guilty. He had become too immersed in the affairs of his estates, and he had been neglecting his fiancée. It was unlike him, for if he had calculated correctly, he had not seen her in over a month. There was no excuse. Once they were married he resolved not to let such a pattern develop again.

  The Duke excused himself to attend to the repair of Chapman Hall, which was in a sadly neglected condition. As he left the table, his thoughts once again turned to the brazen gypsy-like Lady Shelton. He had flirted with her last night like some shallow fop, and he was not a flirt, not ever. He had actually pursued her. He had invited her here, to Chapman Hall, and now he was sorry he had done so. Although Isobel would probably leave tomorrow, he absolutely could not allow her to meet Lady Shelton, a future lover; it would be the height of impropriety and disrespect. He hadn’t been thinking very clearly last night, if he had been thinking at all. The realization unsettled him.

  The Duke spent the morning finishing his review of the small estate, which covered a mere twenty acres, for it had been nothing more than a country home for its previous owners. He returned to the Hall in time for a dinner of minted lamb, which he took with his mother. Isobel had been out riding—she was an avid horsewoman—and she told him she would leave the next morning to return to London.

  He shared some of his plans for Chapman Hall with Isobel, who, as always, was keenly interested in anything that had to do with the ducal empire. They were just finishing their meal when Woodward appeared, announcing a caller.