Scandalous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  His favorite wolfhound, the Borzoi, regarded him hopefully. Standing in front of a full-length mirror beside a red lacquer Chinese dresser, the Duke adjusted his silk tie, regarding himself expressionlessly. When he turned and was handed his black evening coat by his valet, Reynard, the Borzoi thumped his tail enthusiastically.

  The Duke murmured, “I am going to supper, Lad, I’m sorry to say.”

  The Borzoi sighed and laid its head on its massive paws, resigned to an evening in front of the hearth.

  “You do look fine, Your Grace, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Reynard said with admiration.

  The Duke nodded his thanks curtly. “You may go, Reynard, I will be down in a moment.”

  He turned away from his reflection and paced to the butler’s table, where he poured himself a cup of tea, blended especially for him. Grimly he stared at the contents of the delicate porcelain cup, which was dwarfed in his hand.

  He should have refused Shelton’s invitation. He had not even considered doing so.

  A week had gone by since Nicole Shelton had galloped so recklessly into his courtyard and then galloped away—after their prolonged and heated encounter. Unfortunately, the mere memory stirred his loins painfully, and he knew damn well why he was going to Dragmore tonight.

  What was happening to him? Was this the way of unrequited lust? He had never had a woman on his mind before. As callous as it sounded, all of his liaisons had been merely sexual, and as soon as the act was completed, his attention had turned to more significant matters. He did not want to have this particular woman on his mind now. Angry, he took a sip of the exotically fragrant tea, then threw the rest, cup, saucer and all, into the blazing fire. The porcelain popped and shattered loudly, making Lad regard him curiously.

  He had released tension, but he had not erased Nicole Shelton from his thoughts. He was still somewhat shocked whenever his errant mind envisioned her as he had last seen her, astride a ton of spirited horseflesh, in men’s breeches. And she had hit him with her crop. It was still unbelievable—it was still impossibly arousing.

  The Duke paced. There was no way he could refuse Shelton’s invitation now. But in truth, he did not even want to. He ran a hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair. He was playing with fire; he sensed it, he knew it—and she was the fire.

  This last week he had thrown himself into the restoration of Chapman Hall with ruthless determination. He had risen earlier than usual and gone to bed later, not allowing himself a moment to rest or to think. Yet no matter how occupied he kept himself, she always lurked at the fuzzy edges of his consciousness, haunting him. Why was he so fascinated with her? Or was it obsessed?

  Her striking looks were enough to drive any man insane, he decided, but it was her manner, her boldness, her savagery that was intoxicating. Most women—most ladies—were terribly boring. With the exception of his mother, whose intelligence and unconventional interest in business affairs set her apart from other females, he could not think of a single lady who was worth his time and attention. (Elizabeth was a different matter entirely, being his fiancée.) No woman he knew attended fêtes unchaperoned, unless they were over thirty, no woman rode about in breeches, no woman spoke as she did, no woman ever showed such a temper, not even his last mistress, who had been French and quick to anger. And no woman, no woman, chased a man down and struck him with her crop.

  She was everything the women of his acquaintance were not, and it was for that reason, he decided, that he was so damn enthralled.

  The problem was, he no longer trusted himself. He had behaved abominably toward her last week, even if sorely provoked. There was no excuse for forcing himself on her, for using his strength to assert his power over her, for kissing her, touching her. No excuse. Yet nothing could have stopped him then, and he was afraid that the next time nothing would stop him.

  Next time?

  He must make sure there was no next time. He could not live with himself if he ruined her, no matter that her reputation was already in shreds. No matter how she provoked him. Their last encounter had been a barbaric seduction. There would be no next time, he vowed.

  He had lived his entire life honorably. Always, deep in the back of his mind was the knowledge of how dishonorable his father had been. His father, had he preferred women, would have taken Nicole that first day, in the grass by the brook. He was not his father. He had never been his father. He had never ruined any woman; the women he took to bed were already of highly questionable morals. Perhaps he had spent his whole life atoning for his father’s sins, but it had been a life he could be proud of until now. Now he was in jeopardy, and it frightened him.

  He was late. Unless he sent excuses, it was time to go. The Duke went.

  Nicole lounged in bed, reading an essay by Amanda Willison, an American, on the need for the reform of education and dress for girls. How right this woman was, Nicole thought. There was a rap on her door, and Nicole set her book aside as her mother entered.

  The Countess had returned home yesterday. It was no surprise to Nicole, for Jane never stayed away from her husband for very long, and Nicole knew that if Regina were not of age and imminently marriageable, Jane would not have adjourned to London at all. Regina had stayed at their townhouse on Tavistock Square, chaperoned by the widowed Lady Beth Henderson. Jane was intending to return to London the next day, and the earl planned to join her a few days later.

  “You’re not dressed,” Jane said in surprise as she saw that Nicole was still clad only in a dressing gown, her hair damp from her bath.

  “I’m sorry, I got so caught up in reading that the time escaped me. Is our guest here?”

  “No, he is late. Let me call Annie, Nicole, to help you.”

  Nicole slid from the bed as her mother called for the maid, and pulled a gown at random from the armoire. Jane returned. She was small, slender and platinum blonde, strikingly beautiful at forty-one, and innately elegant. She frowned as she saw the pale blue gown Nicole had taken from its hanger. “That doesn’t do you justice, darling.”

  Nicole shrugged. “Who is coming to dinner anyway, Mother, and why all the fuss? Cook was absolutely going mad this afternoon in the kitchens—the place looked as if we were to feast royalty.”

  “The Duke of Clayborough,” Jane responded. “Why not wear your yellow gown? Or the green?”

  Nicole froze. For one moment, she was certain she had misheard. “The Duke of Clayborough?”

  “Yes. So will you wear the yellow? I had better go downstairs. He should be here at any moment.”

  Nicole nodded, not hearing a word. She stared at the door after it closed. Then she made a fierce, frustrated cry.

  He would dare to come here? Here? It was too much, she could not stand it! She would not!

  Nicole paced in a frenzy. How could she face him, after their last encounter? She did not regret what she had done, exactly, but she had shown him that she was everything the gossips claimed she was; in short, she had shown him that she was no proper, ladylike miss. Hot color rose on her cheeks. She had struck him once, he had kissed her in return. And the things he had said….

  She had never hated a man more, but she had never dreamed of anyone’s kisses before, either, they way she dreamed of his.

  It was disgraceful. It was shameful. She could not sleep at night, tormented by his striking golden image and the remembrance of the feel of his hot mouth, his seductive hands and his hard, powerful body. He was not only driving her insane, he was ruining her life.

  She was frightened by her attraction to a man she despised, or a man she should despise. She remembered a conversation with her cousin, Lucy Bragg, from two summers ago. Far from soothing her, the memory touched off a sense of panic.

  That summer, in 1897, Nicole and her family had gone to Paradise, Texas for the eightieth birthday celebration of her grandfather, Derek Bragg, a man who had been born in the mountains of Texas and had tamed the frontier, carving out an empire for himself and his family in the process. Nicole
and Lucy had always been the best of friends, even though they only saw each other on alternate summers, when Nicole, as a child and adolescent, joined her American relatives for a month or two. Not only were Nicole and Lucy best friends, but they had shared more misdeeds than any two girls in the entire state, or maybe even in the entire United States of America. That summer, Lucy had made a shocking confession to Nicole.

  The night of the birthday party, Derek’s prized stud had been stolen, and a man had been murdered. One of the new hands on the ranch had been shot in the back, and it had soon turned out that he had been an escaped felon from New York. When Lucy had poured out her heart to Nicole, that man, Shoz Cooper, had been in the local jail, recovering from his injury. Lucy had told Nicole that he had kissed her, more than once, and that she had liked it. Yet she had also told Nicole that she despised him.

  At the time Nicole had been surprised, having never been kissed and in no way understanding how someone could like a man’s lovemaking while disliking him. Yet remembering Lucy’s confession did not alleviate her own fears now. For Shoz Cooper had not only turned out to be innocent, he and Lucy were now engaged and would be wed the following June. So Lucy had only thought she despised him—in truth she had loved him.

  Nicole was not only afraid of how she yearned for the Duke’s kisses, she was afraid that, like Lucy, her feelings went deeper, much deeper—and she refused even to consider how much deeper her feelings might be.

  She could refuse to go downstairs, but that was the coward’s way out. She had never been a coward, not even during the scandal, and she would not begin now. She would die before losing courage in front of the damn Duke of Clayborough.

  Annie knocked just as Nicole decided that she would not only join their illustrious guest for dinner, she would dress for the occasion. “Annie, which is my most becoming, most daring gown?”

  Annie gaped at her. “I don’t know, mum, I’d have to look through yer things.”

  “Then let’s look,” Nicole said grimly, an idea forming.

  The Duke was aware, from the moment he stepped into the foyer and handed his cloak to the butler, of every nerve in his body tautening with anticipation. He greeted his host and hostess and Chad, but was disappointed that Nicole was not present. He knew then that she would not join them for dinner. He should have been relieved, but he wasn’t.

  Shelton poured himself and Chad brandies, his wife a sherry, and had tea ready for the Duke. It was no secret that the Duke of Clayborough never imbibed alcohol. The Duke made himself comfortable in a large wing chair. Shelton took the one opposite. “So how is your work going at Chapman Hall?” he asked.

  “I am almost through. I will be returning to London in a few days.”

  “You have restored her quickly. I recall the Hall being in a sorry state, indeed.”

  “Yes, it was.” The two men began discussing some of the repairs the Duke had made at the Hall. A few minutes later, the door opened and Nicole walked in.

  Shelton stopped what he was saying in mid-sentence, his eyes widening. Chad nearly choked on the sip of brandy he had taken. The Countess stared, barely refraining from parting her lips in a huge O. But the Duke did not see their surprise and amazement, for he was caught in the mad chaos of his competing senses.

  Nicole smiled at her mother. “I am sorry I am late, Mother.”

  Quickly Jane stood, hurrying toward her. “That’s quite all right. Please, come meet our guest.”

  The Duke rose to his feet. All of his good intentions fled, immediately forgotten. She wore a vibrant coral-colored gown, off the shoulder and daringly low-cut. It was more suitable for a ball than a meal at home, and it brought out the peach hue of her cheeks and the tawny rose of her lips. Her hair was swept up in the current fashion, and she wore pearls at her throat and in her ears. When she curtsied, he feared for one heartstopping moment that she was about to display all of her magnificent breasts.

  Nicole straightened gracefully. “But we have met, Mother,” she said, her eyes holding his. Her expression was bland, yet there was no way he could miss the sugary sarcasm in her tone. And there was nothing polite in her eyes, for they glittered with anger. “Have we not, Your Grace? Could you not even say that we are old friends—er—acquaintances?”

  His jaw clenched, and every intimate moment they had shared flashed through his mind. “I do believe I have had the honor of an introduction,” he murmured politely. His gaze was dark, dangerous, warning her to cease. For the battle lines had been clearly drawn, the gauntlet thrown—by her—and he did not trust her in the least.

  “Where have you two met?” the Earl asked.

  Nicole smiled, too wisely. “Perhaps His Grace should answer that.”

  Anger flashed in the Duke’s eyes, for he was certain that she intended to do some damage to him—in whatever way she could—this night. He turned to his host. “At the Adderlys’ masque, I believe.”

  “Oh, yes, I had heard that they threw you a party,” Jane said, with a quick smile and an uncertain glance that traveled with lightning speed from the Duke to her daughter. Nicole still wore that strange, mocking half-smile.

  “And of course,” she said silkily, “we furthered our acquaintance at Chapman Hall, did we not?” She turned to him inquiringly.

  Anger blazed in his eyes again at her daring, while he had no choice but to recall just how they had furthered their acquaintance—with him tossing her on her back in the grass. Silence filled the room. “It was very kind of you, and so neighborly,” the Duke finally said, when he could find his tongue, “to call on me and welcome me to the country.”

  Nicole laughed, the sound rich and husky. “It was so kind of me.” Her glance was pointed; they both knew damn well that it was Hadrian who had invited her to Chapman Hall for a seduction.

  But Nicole wasn’t through. “And it was so kind of His Grace to invite me to go riding with him.” She smiled too sweetly. “He showed me the grounds. Fancy that,” she told her parents and Chad. She looked expectantly at the Duke.

  The Duke nearly choked. “One good turn deserves another,” he said stiffly, thinking of how he would love to turn her over his knee and paddle her bottom, regardless that she was a full grown woman.

  Nicole gave him a look that said she wasn’t sorry and that she had no intention of ceasing her taunts. “We wound up by that sweet little brook, you know, the one that crosses onto our property. Not that we cared where we were, for what are boundaries between new neighbors?” She gave him another look, this one long and intimate, the look a woman who has been with a man gives him when she is interested in repeating the rendezvous. His gaze widened fractionally before he resumed his inscrutable expression.

  But he was furious with her, and cursing her under his breath, knowing she would toy with him until she grew bored with the endeavor, knowing that this dangerous game of hers was some kind of misbegotten revenge for his callous mistake in thinking her married and attempting to initiate an affair with her. Tension crackled in the air, and he knew her family was growing perturbed as they sought to understand the barely hidden meanings behind her words.

  It was time to play her game by her rules and teach her a lesson she had written. He turned a small, biting smile upon her. “You almost suffered great damage to your person, if I recall,” he said smoothly.

  A quick flush rose on Nicole’s cheeks, her small, triumphant smile disappearing. She stared at him, eyes wide, dismayed.

  “When your horse ran away with you,” he added.

  Her relief was transparent. “How I owe you,” she managed.

  “For saving you?” he asked silkily, thinking of how her virginity had just barely escaped him. “An honorable man could not have done otherwise than to extend himself in order to alleviate a lady’s…er…distress.” He recalled too clearly her physical distress when she had been in his arms and beneath his hot, aroused body. How he would have loved to relieve her agony!

  “I cannot thank you enough.” She barely got the
words out.

  “But you already have,” he said. “For wasn’t that the reason for your second visit?”

  Her jaw tightened. “Of course.”

  He touched the side of his cheek where she had slashed him with her crop. Only the faintest pink scar was visible if one bothered to look closely enough. “You were very lucky,” he said, remembering how her savagery had again incited his lust.

  “So lucky,” Nicole glared.

  Chad broke the silence that followed their exchange, a silence where they stared at each other, eyes blazing. “Nicole is a very good rider. I cannot imagine her horse running away with her.”

  “Well, you see,” the Duke said, unsmiling, recalling her soft body under his, “my mount was quite unschooled, with a mind and inclination of its own. It was my fault. Out of control, I rode right over her. I could not stop until the last moment, preoccupied as I was.”

  Nicole made a choked sound. He was terribly aware of her, standing by his side, a few inches between them, in her brilliant orange ballgown. Her breasts were heaving now, heaving with her fury. He wondered if she could control her savage nature, or if the volcano of her temper was about to erupt.

  But she spoke sweetly, too sweetly. “I am so lucky I had the good fortune to be ridden over by the Duke, I mean, by the Duke’s mount, am I not? It is not every day that one is so graced.”

  “You mean,” the Duke gritted, “had I not ridden over you, your mare would not have shied—at the last moment, might I add?—and I would not have had the distinct honor of saving you.” He found it hard to control his temper and his tone.

  Nicole sputtered wordlessly.

  The Duke smiled savagely.

  The Countess exchanged a worried look with her husband. Quickly, before they could engage in any further verbal dueling, she said, “Why don’t we go in and sit to supper?” Jane smiled too brightly. She glided forward and offered her arm to the Duke, but she looked at Nicole. “You never told me that you had met, darling.”

  “It never came up,” Nicole said, and then her next words dared to mock him again. “The way some things always do.”