Scandalous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  “Is this some kind of poor joke?” he asked. But his heart was thundering so loudly he could barely hear his own words.

  “It is not a joke. Francis,” and she swallowed nervously, “is not your father.”

  Hadrian was carved from stone. The impossible pace of his pulse increased. His mother’s words roared in his head. Francis is not your father. It was impossible, it was unbelievable; it was a dream come true for a man who never dreamed at all.

  “Are you all right?” Isobel asked anxiously. “Here, sip this.” She was hovering over him, offering him her glass of port. Her hands shook.

  Hadrian gripped her wrist with unthinking force. “He is not my father?”

  “No.”

  He was on his feet, still holding his mother’s arm. “Then who is?”

  “You’re hurting me,” Isobel gasped.

  Hadrian saw the pallor of her face and the tears in her eyes and instantly released her. “Dear God, forgive me, Mother. I did not realize what I was doing.”

  “There is nothing for me to forgive,” she said sadly.

  “Who is my father?” Hadrian demanded again. His senses were still reeling.

  “His name is Hadrian Stone. An American from Boston. A ship’s captain.”

  The Duke stared. He wheeled away and paced to the mantle, staring at the leaping flames within. Long moments passed before he could begin to assimilate this information. Francis was not his father—thank God. His father was an American named Hadrian Stone. A sea captain. It was so bizarre he wondered if he might, after all, be dreaming.

  “Are you all right?”

  He slowly turned. “I would like to hear the entire story, Mother.”

  She nodded, wringing her hands.

  Hadrian stood in front of the hearth, immobile. And finally, at long last, the truth was revealed.

  It was incredible, he thought. Although he appeared calm as Isobel finished her tale by telling him of her decision to leave Virginia and Hadrian Stone to return to Clayborough, he was far from it. “This explains everything,” he said into the heavy ensuing silence.

  Isobel’s face was still an unearthly pallor. She sat on the edge of the sofa facing her son, her hands worrying the folds of her dress in her lap. She stared at Hadrian anxiously, searchingly, but he barely saw her.

  “No wonder he hated me—and you.”

  Isobel bit her lip. “He hated me before I ever met your father. He hated me when I took over the responsibility for these estates which should have been his—and his hatred grew every time I bailed him out of debt.”

  “Yes, that I know.” He was standing, now he paced. “Jesus,” he finally said, and when he turned back to his mother, his eyes flashed with anger. “You should have told me years ago!”

  “I know,” she whispered. “You are angry.”

  “I am trying not to be. I am trying to understand how you would want to keep your affair a secret—even from me. But good God! Shouldn’t I have known before now that that bastard was not my natural father?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, Mother, I wish you had told me!” He wheeled away. Agitation appeared in his every long, restless stride. Suddenly he whirled back to face her. He was too self-absorbed to notice how close his mother was to tears. “What happened after you left Virginia? Did you ever hear from him again?”

  Isobel’s heart, already pumping madly, began an erratic, frightened beat. “What are you thinking of?”

  “I must find him, of course. If he is still alive.”

  She sat very still.

  “Well?” he demanded sharply.

  Tears finally filled her eyes. “Yes, I did hear from him—for a while. But it’s been twenty years now—with no word.”

  “Can you please explain?” He was impatient.

  “After I returned to Francis he sent me a note. A short, brief, impersonal note. It was an inquiry after my well-being. For several years he continued to do this. It was always clear from the postmark where he was at the time. His address was in Boston. When I met him that was where his home was.”

  “And then what happened?”

  Isobel’s heart lurched. The memories were too painful, as was her son’s abrupt interrogation. He hadn’t said anything, but he was angry—he was angry with her. And after the anger, then what would follow? His disdain? Very softly, she spoke, trying to keep the tremors from her voice. “I know that, in the beginning, he wanted me to know where he was. It was his way of telling me that he was still there, waiting for me, if I changed my mind. But then the letters stopped.” Her voice broke and tears spilled. “Maybe he is married. Maybe he is dead. I do not know.”

  Hadrian stared, eyes wide as comprehension struck him. “You still love him!”

  Isobel found a handkerchief and dried her eyes, quickly and desperately regaining a semblance of control. Her tears were as much for her son as for his real father—and for herself.

  Suddenly Hadrian moved to his mother’s side and laid a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. “I know this is difficult for you. But Mother—this is of the utmost importance to me. I must have that address in Boston.”

  “Of course,” she managed forlornly.

  Hadrian turned away. To the room at large he said, trying to control the rush of excitement flooding over him, “I shall write him a letter immediately. I will hire investigators. I will send one of them to Boston. If he is alive, I shall find him.”

  Isobel swallowed, preparing to deliver the coup de grace to her son. “Hadrian, he doesn’t know.”

  Hadrian whirled.

  “I never told him. He has no idea that he has a son.”

  The revelation was shocking. That night after his mother had left, Hadrian sat up alone in the library with the Borzoi, staring into the dancing flames of the fire without seeing them. He could barely assimilate what he had learned, that Francis was not his father, that his mother had had an affair with a man named Hadrian Stone and that he was his father.

  Anger swept him. He was angry with his mother—very angry—although he was trying hard not to be. He was trying to understand her motivations, although for the life of him, he could not. Not only had Isobel not told him the truth years ago when she should have, she had not even told Hadrian Stone the truth.

  When he had demanded to know how she could have kept the truth from his father, as well as him, she had been so distressed she could not answer.

  He could not stop thinking about the mysterious American who was his actual father. Hadrian Stone. Isobel had named him after her lover. What was this American like? He was a sea captain. Hadrian could not imagine his mother with a sea captain, and in his mind’s eye he could not get past an image of a stocky, stubbled, gray-haired man in a striped shirt and navy blue pants. Although he had pressed her repeatedly, Isobel had refused to answer his inquiries. Although he had known he was upsetting her by asking her about his father, he could not, would not, stop. Did he not have a right to know something—anything? She had finally said that Hadrian Stone was everything Francis was not, and with that, in tears, she had fled the room and his house. Momentarily, Hadrian had been remorseful for what he had done, but then his mind had again seized upon the fact he could not get over, the fact of his paternity.

  He laughed out loud. Now he could curse Francis to his heart’s content with no remorse, and more importantly, now he could understand why Francis had despised him. For that had been the question which had haunted him his entire life, and finally, it was laid to rest.

  Hadrian called upon his fiancée the following day. Although he was overflowing with the hope of finding his father alive and well, and he had hired runners the very evening his mother had told him the truth, one of whom was already Boston-bound with a letter, his wedding was rapidly approaching. He had not slept at all the previous evening, and by dawn’s first light he had finally been able to come to terms with the astounding fact that a man named Hadrian Stone was his father. Other than to wait for some results from the investiga
tion he had initiated, there was nothing more for him to do. But as far as his future wife was concerned, he had plenty to do. For he had a future to secure for them.

  Hadrian intended to continue with his plan to protect Nicole from the scandal that was trying to take root over their impending wedding. In order to do so, they must venture into society so he could assume his role of a madly lovestruck swain. Hadrian had not lost any of his resolve to quench the malicious gossips from spreading tales that were too damned close to the truth to be of comfort. If anything, he was now more determined than ever to protect his bride and gain for her the acceptance she deserved.

  The immense black Clayborough coach with its trio of lions emblazoned larger than life upon its doors pulled up in front of the Shelton residence on Tavistock Square. The Duke alighted. His strides were always lithe and agile, but today they were particularly effortless. In fact, when Aldric responded to the doorknocker, he could not help but gape at the Duke, who greeted him with an uncharacteristic smile. Hadrian knew that he was probably grinning like an idiot, but he could not dampen his good humor even if he wanted to.

  But as he waited for Nicole in the morning parlor his pleasure began to fade. She did not appear. Fifteen minutes became a half an hour. A half an hour became three quarters of an hour. Hadrian’s pleasure turned to annoyance, which turned to anger. How could he have forgotten for a moment, despite the incredible turn of events, that his bride was more than reluctant? The last time he had seen her was at Lindley’s, and she had been furious with him. Yesterday she had managed to avoid him. Had she not received the veiled warning he had given the Countess? Did she really think to avoid him again? Could she be so foolish?

  He left the parlor and found a clearly anxious Aldric hovering in the foyer.

  “Your Grace! May I bring you more refreshments?”

  “Where is her room?” The Duke demanded.

  Aldric froze. “Your Grace…er, Your Grace…”

  “Might I assume it is up those stairs?”

  “On the second floor,” the butler breathed, eyes wide.

  The Duke of Clayborough waited.

  “Fifth door on the left,” Aldric whispered.

  The Duke was already gone. He look the steps effortlessly and two at time. He rapped sharply on the fifth door twice, and without waiting for an invitation that he doubted would be forthcoming once his identity was known, he barged in.

  Nicole was in her underclothes. There were piles and piles of silks, chiffons, taffetas, velvets, tulle, wool, cashmeres and even furs upon her bed, while plumes, ribbons, lace, and other accessorizing items were scattered about the room. Boxes of hats, all opened, and gloves, were everywhere. The floor was barely discernible, for wrapping tissue had been strewn haphazardly about. There was a pile of reticules in all sizes, shapes and colors imaginable, on the floor by the sofa. The renowned seamstress Madame Lavie was on her knees, measuring the hem of Nicole’s bright gold silk petticoat. Two other young women were seated in the room, sewing madly. As one, everyone froze and gaped at the Duke.

  Nicole was the first to recover. She shielded her breasts, popping as they were from her lace-covered corset, with her arms. “Get out!”

  It had taken Hadrian all of a split second to realize she had had no intention of coming down to see him at all. “Everyone leave. Now.”

  In another second, the room was empty except for the Duke and his bride.

  Her arms still crossed against her chest, Nicole backed away, trodding upon the mountains of fragile tissue. “You cannot be in here. You are worsening what is already a scandalous affair!”

  “A scandalous affair?” He mocked. “They will say it is a scandalous love!”

  “Oh! How could I forget the game you are playing?”

  Hadrian smiled, not pleasantly. Although she covered her bosom from his view, he had already seen the ripe flesh straining against her corset, had already glimpsed dark red nipples poking against the fine gold lace. “How long did you intend for me to await you downstairs, Nicole?”

  “Forever!”

  He smiled again, the expression ruthless. “Not a very wise course of action.” His gaze swept her again. His body pulsed with awareness of how alone they were, and where they were—in her bedroom with her bed not a foot away from them.

  “You must leave. There will be more talk already because of your coming into my room like this.” Her voice had become breathless.

  “Good,” he said, taking a step towards her. A tight, hard step—as tight and hard as his big body. “They will say I am so mad about you that I chased you into your bedroom, losing all sense of any sort of chivalrous conduct.”

  Nicole quickly moved to the other side of the bed. “You are mad!”

  “And you, my dear, are a coward,” he said softly, stalking her.

  “I am not a coward,” she gritted, gripping one of the fat, intricately carved bedposts. Her breasts heaved in fury. “You are the coward—to steal behind my back and ask my father for my hand, after I had already refused you!”

  He froze. Then he was upon her, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her from the bedpost. She shrieked. He shook her. He watched with angry interest as her breasts burst free of her corset. “To the contrary,” he said in her ear, his tone strained, “anyone foolish enough to marry you is the bravest of men.”

  Nicole wrenched free of him, reaching wildly for one of the lavish fabrics littering her bed and clutching an opaque red chiffon across her chest. “Then feel free to cry off!” She shouted. “I won’t take offense.”

  He told himself, even as he accosted her, that he was only acting out of the need to shut her up before she ruined his intentions of protecting her and added more fuel to the gossip he sought to avoid. Even as he thought this, even as he dragged her up against his body, even as he pulled her up against the length of his straining manhood, he knew it was a half-hearted excuse. The fact was that he was sick and tired of these games, of these protests. “Then your sensibilities are stronger than mine. I am warning you, Nicole, I am quickly becoming offended.” With a hard smile that wasn’t a smile at all, he covered her lips with his.

  She struggled wildly, trying to strike him and almost succeeding; he caught her wrists and pushed her down into the heap of luxurious material covering the bed. “I can see the hurt in your eyes! Why not admit your vulnerability? Why do you push me so hard? How is it that you make me forget myself?”

  “It’s all my fault, of course!” she cried, but she was motionless, lying on her back on the bed, his heavy weight pinning her there, his legs between hers.

  He did not respond. Not verbally. Very deliberately, he yanked the red chiffon she was holding from between them. Her eyes widened and she bucked, but he did not release her wrists and kept her pinned to the bed.

  For a long moment she did not move, except for her naked breasts, which were heaving beneath his crisp shirtfront. “Can we cease with all this nonsense?” he demanded.

  Her gaze had drifted to his mouth. Quickly it flew back to his eyes. “My future is at stake. I do not think that is nonsense!”

  “Our future is at stake,” he replied. “Our future.”

  She jerked against him again. “How dare you do this to me,” she whispered.

  His gaze flickered to her naked breasts. He thought that she referred to both his manhandling of her now, and his decision to marry her despite her protests. “Give up, Nicole. You have already lost. Accept what is going to be. Accept the fact that in a few days you are going to be my wife.”

  She strained against him again. He knew he must be hurting her, for he would not lesson his grip on her wrists, and he knew she was as achingly aware of him as he was of her, his massive hardness buried as it was in her groin. “I will never accept that,” she gasped.

  He didn’t laugh. There was nothing amusing about her continuing to resist his will. Only she could ignite his temper so easily, as she had done from the moment they had met. “You never learn,” he said. Swea
t beaded his brow as he fought with himself, and lost. His body began to shake. The enormity of his need was terrifying.

  Their gazes continued to remain riveted together. Just as he knew he must surrender to the passion raging in him, he felt her resistance snap. With a small cry, Nicole closed her eyes, arching her body up against his.

  He did not need any encouragement anyway. He kneed her thighs apart and took her mouth with his. His kisses were explosive. Nicole heaved against him eagerly, seeking out his tongue with hers. Ruthlessly he pumped his loins against her.

  There was a determined knocking upon the door.

  Hadrian leapt to his feet instantly. He yanked up her corset. Nicole gazed at him out of glazed, passion-drugged eyes. “We have company,” he whispered urgently, pulling her to her feet. She was like a mannequin, a dead weight. He shook her once and was relieved to see the focus returning to her expression. Leaving her, he tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie as he went to the door. He opened it just as there was another knock.

  It was the Countess. Hadrian had not a doubt that she was not fooled by them, although her smile was pleasant. “Your Grace, hello. I thought perhaps I should bring you more refreshments while you visit with my daughter.”

  “How thoughtful,” he murmured, glancing at Nicole. She stood with her back to them, staring out of one of the tall windows, clad now in a green print dressing gown. He was relieved at the interruption although his body was not. He had not intended for things to get so out of hand.

  Jane placed a tray upon a glass table. For a few moments they exchanged pleasantries. When she departed, she left the door wide open. Hadrian turned to his bride. By now she was scowling at him; clearly the past few minutes had not improved her mood.

  “I hope you are satisfied,” she flung heedlessly.

  “I am far from satisfied.”

  She colored. Her arms were again defensively crossed in front of her chest. “Why have you come? To throw salt on my wounds?”