Scandalous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  “I’m not very hungry today.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you did not go out with your father and Chad today.”

  “I—I was tired from last night.”

  Jane nodded and buttered a warm muffin, handing half to her daughter. “Did you enjoy your ride this morning?”

  Nicole flushed. “Sort of.”

  Jane set the muffin down, not having taken a bite. “Nicole, where did you go?”

  Nicole could not hold her mother’s direct gaze. Color flooded her cheeks. “Just around.”

  “To Chapman Hall?”

  Nicole gasped. “What—what makes you think that?!”

  “We had better talk,” Jane said gently.

  “There is nothing to talk about,” Nicole cried, panicked.

  “It is obvious that there is something between you and the Duke of Clayborough.”

  “Mother—you are wrong!” Nicole started to rise, but Jane restrained her.

  “Then I am glad, for he is engaged, and soon he will wed his betrothed. He will never break it off, Nicole,” Jane said gently.

  Nicole knew that, yet hearing the words somehow hurt. “There is nothing between us,” Nicole said stiffly. “I find him despicable, if you must know the truth. He is an arrogant and pompous ass.”

  Jane was visibly shocked.

  Suddenly Nicole stared at her mother. “Mother, are you going back to London today?”

  “Yes, this afternoon. I do not feel right leaving Regina there, even with Lady Henderson. After all, I should be sharing her season with her.”

  Nicole wet her lips. “I am going to go with you. I will pack now!”

  Jane blinked. “But you never go to town. You hate London.”

  “I have changed,” Nicole announced, standing. “I am bored with life here, I need to get out, meet people. Don’t you agree?”

  “It’s been my and your father’s deepest wish,” Jane declared, surprised. “It isn’t healthy to stay secluded in the country to the extent that you do.”

  “I’ll be ready in no time,” Nicole declared, flashing a smile and running from the room.

  Jane watched her go, smiling as well. This was what her daughter needed, to get out again among the set, where she could still meet an eligible man, where she could still find love. And the fact that the Duke of Clayborough was here at Chapman Hall made it all the better that Nicole should join her and Regina in London. Still smiling, Jane reached for her muffin, her appetite restored.

  The Duke arrived in London that afternoon and went directly to his residence at No. 1 Cavendish Square. Clayborough House was an imposing sight, taking up the entire block on the north side of the green. It had been built in the early eighteenth century for the first duke of Clayborough, and had since suffered a few additions. Six stories high, the entire front facade facing the street contained a hundred windows and three towers. The roof made the structure appear even larger, because of the three giant gables that soared by several additional stories into the sky. Each boasted the Clayborough coat of arms, awesomely oversized. The mansion was cordoned off from the street by an imposing and intricately designed stone balustrade, except for where the stone staircase, which was wide enough to accommodate a dozen guests should they choose to enter all at once, swept down to the street.

  The Duke had sent a few of his staff on to London the night before after dining at Dragmore, and now Woodward greeted him at the door. The Duke motioned for him to follow, and they paced down a black and white marble-floored hallway and turned into a library that could accommodate half of Chapman Hall. He went to his desk, pulling one of his cards out of his pocket, and quickly penned a personal note upon it. He handed it to the butler. “Send this to Lady Elizabeth now.”

  “Will there be anything else? A bit of tea with your bath, Your Grace?”

  The Duke nodded carelessly and hurried up the stairs.

  His own suite also had marble floors, these gold and white. Once the room had been appointed as if to house royalty. Upon his father’s demise, he had immediately removed all the furnishings except for a few and redecorated as he chose. Francis’ tastes had been much too decorative and whimsical to suit his own, but more to the point, the Duke did not want any reminders of his father present, having enough memories to haunt him for a lifetime.

  Now, dozens of Persian rugs covered the floors, providing warmth at night when the Duke enjoyed going barefoot. An old chaise and ottoman, reupholstered in a rich wine leather, faced the hearth, with a sixteenth century Chinese footstool nearby for the Duke to lay his papers and books on. Ever fond of Oriental antiques, Hadrian had selected for one wall a massive black lacquer Chinese screen inlaid with mother-of-pearl, designed with a floral motif on top and courting horses below. The rest of the furnishings were a somewhat eclectic collection of pieces which Hadrian had chosen strictly for comfort and utilitarian value. The only family heirloom that remained in the room was an eighteenth century mahogany secretary which he would not remove, knowing that his grandfather, the seventh duke of Clayborough, who had died several years before he had been born, had been terribly fond of it.

  The room was rather different from the rest of the house, but it was his personal sanctum, and everything within it pleased him. He was sure Elizabeth would hate it the moment she saw it, just as Isobel had hated it, telling him bluntly that it was “awfully done,” but he did not care. He knew Elizabeth well, and she would not defy him once he told her that not one inch of his suite was subject to change. In fact, she would certainly never broach the topic again.

  His valet had already drawn his bath in the bathroom, which was also floored in marble, and as large as most country bedrooms. Accepting his tea, the Duke stripped and sank down into the sumptuous, sunken tub.

  Presently he intended to visit Elizabeth, apologize to her for his neglect, and determine the state of her health. Yet his intention had not been to return to London today, or even tomorrow. Not until last night, that is.

  His conduct had been scandalous. Her conduct had been equally scandalous, but that was no excuse. Obviously it was Nicole Shelton’s character to defy convention. After witnessing her highly unusual and rather shocking behavior several times now, he could no longer be surprised that she had suffered a scandal of her own making some years past. A small smile suddenly tugged at his mouth. No one would ever accuse her of being boring. Conventionality was boring—it was why he so disliked the routine of parties, at-homes and social gallivanting that the rest of his class was so fond of. It suddenly occurred to him that in a way, he and Nicole were not so very different.

  His smile abruptly disappeared.

  He chased such a ludicrous thought right out of his head.

  He was considered rather reclusive, his disdain for the social whirl was well known, but never had he triggered a scandal, and his behavior most certainly did not cause tongues to wag. With the exception of his extreme interest in business affairs, which was not considered appropriate for a nobleman of any rank, it was most certainly not his penchant to defy convention.

  The Duke realized that far from relaxing in the hot tub, he was disturbed, and very nearly angry now. Recalling their verbal battle the night before, and their physical one—for how could he possibly forget it?—he was unsure if he was mad at Nicole, or at himself. Only one thing appeared to be clear. His iron control, his will and his self-discipline, were not what he had thought them to be, not as far as Nicole Shelton was concerned.

  He grew more perturbed, and he lunged from the tub, water cascading down his naked, powerful body.

  He decided that time would end his attraction to her. She was now at Dragmore, and he did not intend to return to Chapman Hall until his interest in her had subsided. Clearly he, who had never been untrustworthy in any aspect before, was untrustworthy where she was concerned. Was there actually something of Francis’ despicable character in him?
/>   He had been rubbing a thick towel slowly over his body, now he froze. The thought was chilling.

  The Duke wasn’t sure when he had first started hating his father, for he did not have a single memory of ever not hating him. It was as a very young child that he had first become aware of the distress his father caused his mother, and he had earned his first slap when he was four for trying to protect Isobel from him. The blow had hurt him but that had been nothing compared to the terrible fear that had followed. Not just fear for himself, but fear for his mother.

  For upon seeing her child hurt, Isobel had flown into a rage, flying at Francis with the intention of sinking her nails deep into his face. Still stunned from being hit, Hadrian had watched his father easily prevent Isobel from mauling him, then he had seen him strike her and knock her down. Francis had left the room after laughing and calling her a whore. Hadrian had crawled to his mother, crying, but to his relief, she had sat up and hugged him, crooning to him that everything was all right. Once he saw that his mother was fine, Hadrian was filled with a burning hatred for his father that still endured to this day. He barely heard his mother telling him that he must never interfere again between his parents. He was too busy wishing his father would die, a wish that had not been fulfilled for another twenty-two years.

  But he was not abusive like Francis, Hadrian thought, for never in his life had he hurt a child or a woman. He did not drink and he did not gamble. And he certainly had no inclination for boys.

  When he was young, however, Francis had apparently enjoyed women, for it was not until he was older and jaded that he had turned to those of his own sex. A gentleman would have never accosted Nicole as he had done last night, but undoubtedly it was something his father would have done with no qualms whatsoever.

  The Duke recalled their physical altercation outside of Chapman Hall, and how he had slammed her against the side of the barn after she had struck him with her crop. He had not meant to subdue her so roughly, yet he had.

  He was afraid of the side of himself that he had unearthed, a dark side, that, until now, he had not known existed. No other woman had ever brought this side to light, and it was all the more reason for him to stay away from her.

  He was engaged to Elizabeth, who was not only his cousin but a kind and sweet young lady, and he had known her nearly all of his life. He would never hurt her. He would never renege on his duty and violate his honor or hers. So why had he tempted fate last night at Dragmore? Had he and Nicole been found together he would have been forced to marry her and break off his engagement to Elizabeth. He had been, Hadrian decided grimly, temporarily mad.

  An image of Nicole as his wife assailed him. She would make the worst wife, insolent, disobedient, forever provoking his temper. Unlike Elizabeth, who would devote her life to pleasing him. Why was he comparing the two, when there was nothing to compare?

  Yet Nicole had wanted to marry him. Just as she now seemed intent on infuriating him—a misguided and very reckless form of payback. Suddenly he became very still.

  Had she been setting a trap for him?

  She was not the first woman to want to marry him, far from it. The Duke was well aware that every season many hopeful debutantes were determined to catch his eye and have him jilt Elizabeth. Of course, he ignored them.

  But he could no longer ignore what had happened with Nicole. She had thought him to be courting her, while he had intended only a brief affair. Guilt claimed him. He had hurt her. For the first time since they had both learned the truth about each other, he dared to face this fact squarely. He clearly remembered her shock when he had apologized to her for mistakenly assuming she was a married woman. And now that he dared to recall this encounter, he could too easily remember the hurt and anguish in her eyes. Then, he had tried to avoid knowledge of what he had done, but now, he could not. He felt like a heel.

  But she had recovered, swiftly enough, from any anguish he had unintentionally caused her. And last night she had been no hurt, brooding miss. Last night she had been a seductress, flaunting her beauty and daring him to meet her in a clash of verbal swords. Last night she had been fascinating. Last night, instead of retiring to the safety of her bedroom, she had lain upon the sofa in the library in a timelessly provocative pose. And when he had risen to the bait, stalked her, taken her in his arms, she had barely resisted him. Within moments, she had been moaning in abandon.

  Had it been a trap?

  He flung his towel onto the floor and stalked naked into his dressing room. Barely aware of what he was doing, he slipped on a dressing gown. Anger poured through him. She would not be the first who tried to seduce him away from his betrothal with her beauty, but she was the first he had succumbed to. He was certain now that she had sought to seduce him, to see herself compromised, to have them caught by her family. Why else would she have waited for him in the library? Why the hell else?

  It was coincidence, but Elizabeth was seated with Isobel, the two of them enjoying tea and scones, when the message from the Duke arrived. Elizabeth accepted the card the butler handed to her, instantly recognizing the ducal crest. “It’s from Hadrian,” she breathed, a smile lighting up her small face and making her almost beautiful.

  Isobel smiled too, thinking that Elizabeth was still so young and so transparent. “And?”

  Elizabeth turned shining blue eyes upon the Dowager Duchess. “He has returned!” she cried joyfully. “He has returned and he is coming tonight!”

  “It’s about time,” Isobel said. “Don’t get too excited, dear, you know you were not feeling well today.”

  A rosy flush covered Elizabeth’s cheeks. “How can I not be excited? It has been more than a month since I have seen him, and Isobel,” the two were on intimate terms, “do not speak unkindly of Hadrian. It would be different if he were absent because of wastrel pursuits, but we both know how hard he works, and how seriously he takes his duties. If I do not chastise him, neither should you.” The words were said gently and kindly, for Elizabeth was not capable of raising her voice at anyone.

  “A mother is entitled to berate her son,” Isobel said patting Elizabeth’s small, pale hand. “But I am glad to see the color back in your cheeks. And I think it is time for me to leave.”

  Although Elizabeth was eager to run upstairs and fix her toilette, she protested sincerely. “You have just arrived! You can not go so soon, and really, I have time enough before he comes.”

  Isobel smiled and kissed her cheek. “I am leaving, dear, so run to your rooms and change your gown, as I know you wish to do.”

  Elizabeth smiled. Her own gentle mother had died when she was a young girl, and she loved the Dowager Duchess dearly. “I am so glad, at long last, that you are really to become a mother to me.”

  “And you have always been the daughter I have never had,” Isobel said softly, hugging her once. And it was true, for Isobel had always been especially fond of Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth beamed, hugging the card to her small breasts. She was a petite, slender girl, with an ivory complexion and fine, blonde hair. People said she was pretty, but Elizabeth knew that in truth she was rather plain, being much too pale and too thin, her hair too fine. She also had a sprinkling of freckles on her nose, which she covered with a fine dusting of white powder. Yet Elizabeth could not know that to many she was beautiful, and it had nothing to do with her actual physical appearance, but it had everything to do with her warmth.

  So excited that she was short of breath, Elizabeth hurried up to her suite, calling for her maid. An hour later she had changed into a pastel green gown, her hair newly coiffed and coiled atop her head. Around her neck she wore a triple strand of exquisite pearls with a diamond clasp, a gift from Hadrian when she had turned eighteen two months ago. She had just finished dressing when the butler informed her that the Duke of Clayborough had arrived and was downstairs. Breathless, Elizabeth flew from the room.

  The Duke rose the instant she entered the salon, smiling at her smile, taking her hand and kissing it.
She had known him ever since she could remember. He had bounced her on his knee until she had gotten too big for him to do so, and then she had tested his endurance all through her childhood, tagging along behind him from the time she could toddle when he was a strapping and handsome, god-like twelve year old, until she suddenly became aware of her femininity when puberty pushed her into adolesence. He had even saved her life when she had slipped and fallen into a pond at the age of eight. He had been fishing there with his golden retriever, and, as usual, Elizabeth had been following him. She had not been afraid when the icy water claimed her, for he was her hero—she knew he would save her. Elizabeth could not recall a time when she had not loved him.

  “I am so glad you are back,” she said simply, after they had exchanged greetings.

  Sitting beside her on the sofa, he apologized. “I am sorry I have been away so long.”

  “Do not apologize! I understand, I really do.”

  The Duke studied her. She seemed out of breath, but she did not look ill, for her eyes were sparkling with happiness and her cheeks were flushed. Yet she was thinner; it was all too noticeable now that his mother had mentioned it. “Mother says you have not been well.”

  Elizabeth’s smile faded. “I am fine, really. It is true I have been tired, but Hadrian, I go to party after party and sometimes I do not get home until dawn. You know how the season is! Is it any wonder I am tired?”

  She was right, and his mother was being foolish, although if there was one thing Isobel was not, it was foolish. “Then you must come home earlier if you tire so easily.”

  “I promise,” she said, and he knew she meant it, just as he knew she would do anything he asked of her.

  Nicole and Jane did not arrive in London until well after midnight, for they had not left Dragmore until that afternoon. Regina was still out with Lady Henderson. According to the housekeeper, one long-faced Mrs. Doyle, she had gone to the Barrington’s ball. Both Nicole and Jane retired for the evening.