Only Scandal Will Do

by Jenna Jaxon

  And he planted the foil firmly in her chest. “Oh, dear,” was all she could manage, looking down at the bowed weapon pressed against her clothing. She would have a bruise there tomorrow. As Dalbury withdrew the blade, she forced herself to focus and made ready to continue.

  The match resumed, though the ending was inevitable. Dalbury outclassed her through and through, both in technique and stamina. After ten minutes, she was gasping in short, sharp breaths. Perspiration drenched her skin. She should have been practicing daily instead of attending soirees and paying calls. The result would have been much more satisfying. Dalbury, however, seemed unaffected, the wretch, though he hadn’t been practicing either. Briefly she hated him all over again, for purely sporting reasons.

  She retreated down the ballroom, but he pursued. Their blades slithered together, clattered insistently as she fought for another touch. She parried a thrust to her exposed right knee. She wanted to learn that disarm badly.

  Her strength flagged; not an ounce of energy seemed left in her body. Dalbury lunged, threatening her stomach, and his foot snagged on the freshly sanded floor. The momentary distraction allowed her to score another hit, this time to his torso. She broke into a broad smile as he stood up.

  “Touche, my lord.”

  “You state the obvious, madam.” His smile accompanied a low chuckle. They resumed their stance to begin the final attack of the match. Two seconds later, her foil went sailing and clattered to the floor some eight feet to her right. Chest heaving, she put her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. Her undefended body then suffered a light tap to her left shoulder and the match was over.

  Katarina sighed, then stepped forward, hand outstretched to congratulate him. To her amazement, Dalbury raised it to his lips. “As always, you prove a worthy opponent, Lady Dalbury.”

  She scarcely heard his words of praise. Her skin seemed aflame at his touch. The sensation commanded all her attention.

  “Perhaps our third foray will see you finally the victor,” he said. “But for now, I will be honored to claim my forfeit.” With his words, something ignited in his eyes.

  Her breath caught.

  Somehow, in the excitement of the match, she had forgotten that the forfeit she was to pay was a kiss. Her body trembled as Dalbury drew her closer to him than she had been at any time since that day in the stable.

  “Does that kiss not pay the forfeit, my lord?” she whispered, inclining her head toward the hand he had just grazed.

  His eyelids lowered to seductive slits as he shook his head, a slow smile curving his full lips. Both arms encircling her waist, he pressed her against him until she would have sworn they were molded together, as of one flesh. His heartbeat pounded, and the vibrations coursed through her, as if it were beating in her own breast. The heat from his body raced through her, suffusing her with a wicked warmth that spread deep into her core. Time seemed to stop. Breath suspended in her lungs, she tipped her head and gazed up at him.

  Below his damp and disheveled golden brown hair, his warm brown eyes were almost liquid with an unspoken plea. And those hideous scars marring the swarthy complexion of his left cheek. Her handiwork. Moved to ease the hurt she’d inflicted, she stole a hand upward to caress the thin, purple streaks.

  At her touch, he flinched violently backward, as though her hand was a red-hot ember.

  Like a knife thrust, his response cut deep into her heart. Katarina hung her head, the heat of shame pouring into her face. She vividly recalled clawing his face, the great satisfaction, elation even, at wounding him. How could she have been so heartless? He would live the rest of his life with the evidence of her vengeance imprinted on his face for everyone to see. He did not deserve that. Could she ever look him in the face again and not feel his accusation?

  Dalbury’s kindness and affection ever since their marriage were apparent. He was no longer the callous rake he had been. Perhaps he was right to recoil from her, to distrust her. Had she not proven over and over again she wanted to hurt him for his behavior? How could he trust her or forgive her malicious temper?

  She tried to step away from him, but he clutched her even tighter to his chest, cupped the back of her head and urged her to rest it against his shoulder. The other hand held her waist in a vise-like grip, fitting her body into his.

  “I am so sorry, my dear,” he whispered into her ear. “The wounds are healed, so I cannot imagine why I did that. You must know I trust you with my life, my lady, as you should trust me with yours.” He began a slow journey over her hair, smoothing it with a gentle touch.

  Overcome by the memory of her shameful actions, she could no longer bear his touch. She squirmed against his chest, suffocated both by her feelings and by his arms around her. He continued to hold her for a moment then reluctantly let her go. Tears she did not want him to see filled her eyes. She wiped them away then looked up into his face.

  What she saw there almost broke her heart.

  He gazed down at her, the plea in the deep brown eyes more obvious than ever. He’d said he wanted their marriage to be based on respect and affection and trust. But did he in fact feel respect and affection for her? Did he trust her? His body said no. Had that unguarded moment of recoil been his true feeling?

  Her despair deepened, for despite all her precautions, she now cared what his feelings were. She backed away several steps. “I fear that small kiss must suffice for your forfeit, my lord,” she said, fighting to contain the tears that threatened to spill. “I find I am suddenly unwell. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed exercise that has made me ill. I do beg your pardon.”

  He strode toward her, concern clearly on his face. “Katarina, are you sure...”

  She gasped. He had not spoken her name since their wedding night.

  Dalbury stopped dead and his face went white “I do beg your pardon, Lady Dalbury. My concern for your health made me careless in my address. Please forgive me. But you truly are not well?”

  Kat shook her head and backed away. “I will retire to my rooms and lie down, my lord. Please make my excuses to Juliet this evening. I fear I will not be at dinner.” And before he could offer another word or gesture, she fled.

  When she reached her rooms, Margery helped her out of her breeches and dressed her for bed, though the sun still shone high in the sky. Once the maid had left, Kat lay down, drew the covers over her head and gave in to the tears she had fought ever since Duncan had rebuffed her.

  “Oh, God!” she wailed miserably into her pillow, “now I’m thinking of him as Duncan.” And had done so since that encounter in the park, when she’d begun to fall in love with her husband.

  From that day, she’d desperately wanted to know his true feelings for her. Did he feel affection for her, as his actions indicated? Or had he indeed married her just to circumvent a scandal in the making and produce an heir? Was he still using his rake’s tricks to seduce her into his bed?

  She would have said the first, until he’d jerked back at her touch. That cringe spoke as no other gesture ever could. He did not trust her, believed her capable of another vicious attack.

  They’d come so far from where they’d started and now...now... Vicious sobs wracked her. She was right back where she’d been in March–not knowing who the man in the golden mask was or what he intended to do with her.

  * * * *

  Kat awoke to light in her room. It must be night, for the light came from beside her bed, not from the window across the room, as sunlight would. As she struggled to rouse herself, her leg encountered a figure seated on the side of the bed. She raised herself on one elbow, her eyes dazzled by the light.

  “Margery? I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?”

  “It has just gone midnight, my lady,” her husband replied, in deep, calm tones. She scrambled into a sitting position and pressed her back hard against the headboard.

  “Wh-what are you doing here, my lord?” She couldn’t tell if her teeth were chattering from fear or cold, though it was not a pa
rticularly cold night. Why was he here? The possible reasons for his presence filled her with both dread and longing.

  “I was concerned about you, my lady.” He was dressed for dinner in an elegant suit of russet and gold that caught the light of the single candle. “You said you were unwell and would not be down to dinner, so I sent a tray up. When it came down untouched after two hours, I sent for Margery, who said you were sleeping. I have been waiting for you to awaken ever since.”

  His face showed in stark relief, the planes of its aristocratic lines accentuated by the sharp contrast of light and dark. It was a young face, though one that had matured quickly through great sorrow, perhaps even shame, and great pain. The latter, to her disgrace, she had put there in some measure, but still he showed anxiety for her welfare. She was sure of that. Whatever else he felt for her, he did not wish her harm.

  Kat drew a careful breath. “I am sorry to have disturbed your evening. As I said earlier, I was fatigued from my unaccustomed exertions in the match. But I thank you for your kindness in sending the tray. And for looking in on me.” She managed to smile even though she wished him far away from her at this moment. Tears threatened again.

  He bent closer and took her face in his hands, catching two teardrops that finally spilled from her eyes.

  “Please, my lord,” she whispered. Captured by the great dark pools of his eyes, she could think of nothing else to say.

  As though they had done this time and time again throughout eternity, he leaned closer, angled his head at the last moment and snuggled his lips against hers. They were soft and warm and sweet from the wine he’d had at dinner. A glow built in her center, a warmth that radiated outward, reaching down her arms, down her legs, between her thighs. Up through her neck and into her head, the warmth pulsed. Just at the touch of his lips on hers.

  With the tip of his tongue, he drew the outline of her lips then, oh, so slowly traced the seam across the middle. All her bones seemed to come loose in her body. She parted her lips to protest, but Duncan accepted her invitation, sliding his tongue between them most naturally.

  Then he dallied. Dawdled. Meandered about in her mouth, touching, tasting, teasing, until finally she retaliated and stroked into him, hesitant at first, then with greater abandon.

  She only came back to herself, to sanity, when he deserted her lips and she opened her eyes. Duncan was still seated on the bed. He frowned a little and ran his finger over the curves he had possessed.

  “If that was ‘just a kiss,’ my lady, I will be happy to try again.” His dark eyes danced with merriment in the candlelight and his mouth puckered as he attempted to stifle a grin. Swiftly, he leaned over, mere inches from her face, and she gasped.

  “Because I won the forfeit, Lady Dalbury, I will be unable to teach you the disarm movement you claimed as your prize. However, there is no reason someone else cannot teach it to you.” His eyes narrowed with what looked like mischief. “I think you deserve to be taught properly. Therefore, I will employ Signore Fucile as your instructor.”

  “Signore Fucile?” Excitement shot through her at the name and she struggled to sit up. “The Italian master?” Duncan’s presence, the kiss, her shame all faded as his words crowded everything else from her mind. But… “Would he teach a woman?”

  “I will ask him, but if he says no, there are others who will teach you for the right price.”

  A frown creased her brows. “Can money truly buy anything, then?”

  Duncan shook his head and teased a stray lock of her hair. “No, my dear, it cannot. Not the most important things.” His gaze lingered on her face. “But it can buy a great deal else. You must rest, my lady. We have much to do to make ready.” He stood up to go.

  “You will send to Italy for Signore Fucile? Do you think he will journey so far, to England, just to give me lessons?” The audacity of the idea thrilled her to no end.

  “I doubt very much Signore Fucile would leave Italy, even to give lessons to the King of England himself. No, my lady.” Duncan’s face lit up in devilment. “The mountain must go to Mohammed. In ten days we sail for Italy.” And he quit the room long before she closed her mouth, speechless.

  Chapter 25

  Duncan stood relaxed on the bridge of the Constanza, gazing at the brooding purple pre-dawn horizon. He would have liked a life at sea. The thought always occurred when he traveled by ship, the only time he ever felt remotely dissatisfied with his lot. But today that sense of dissatisfaction was fleeting; only a single area of his life remained where perfect contentment still eluded him, a situation he hoped this voyage would remedy.

  He exchanged a nod with Captain Stratton as he left the bridge and strode to the bow of the ship. Leaning on the rail, he watched with fascination the rush of blue water as the prow cut through the waves. The speed of the ship was more thrilling than the fastest horse.

  Mornings aboard ship were his favorite time: the clean salt air, clear and fresh, the wind and spray in his face, the brisk wind tugging at his loose shirt. The exquisite colors of the dawn sky filled the world with unearthly beauty. He could not wait to share it all with Katarina.

  He’d half expected her to have appeared on deck already, and glanced around for her. She liked the early morning, and the excitement of their first day aboard ship should have brought her topside by now. He recalled her enthusiasm of the past weeks as they had planned for her training in Italy and smiled to himself. He had great hopes for this voyage.

  Of course, he’d also had great hopes two weeks ago. His gaze returned to the splashing waves on the horizon, and some of the joy of the morning abated. Staring at the dull grays and purples, now tinged with pink and orange as the sun raced to appear, Duncan’s thoughts turned to the kiss he’d claimed as forfeit from Katarina. That kiss had been an exquisitely sensuous experience, a breathtaking, soul-shaking eternity that had not lasted long enough. A lifetime would not have been long enough. He still did not know how he’d summoned the willpower to stop. Or how he’d left the room without ravishing her. The memory now brought a flush of warmth to his skin and a rousing of his flesh down below.

  He’d escorted her to her bedchamber the next night, held her hand and brushed a goodnight kiss across her lips, and had expected a renewal of the warmth of the previous night. She’d merely smiled and backed away, all but fled into the chamber. An attempted afternoon tete-a-tete in the library had brought pleas of a headache and the need to lie down. After several days of such blatant maneuvering, he’d stopped trying to arrange time alone with her, and begun to question his memory. Had he imagined her response to his kiss? After much contemplation on the unfathomable workings of the female mind, he’d persuaded himself he must wait for the correct moment to rekindle that passion. Surely during an entire month alone at sea with his wife, he could find that one special moment.

  He glanced up from his musings; still no Katarina. The sun broke through the thin clouds on the horizon, brilliant clear light transfixing the waves. Indeed, a magnificent display.

  Damn, but Katarina should have been here to share this with him. He’d specifically asked her to join him on deck this morning when he’d escorted her to her cabin after dinner. Come to think about it, she had not given him a direct answer, just a slight smile.

  Scowling, Duncan turned from the bow and made his way down the gangway to what had been the captain’s cabin. Now refurbished as a luxury stateroom, ostensibly for Katarina, he had hoped by the end of the voyage it would be their joint cabin. He rapped a staccato beat on the door and when it did not open immediately, impatience turned to annoyance. Katarina should at least be dressing by this time. What was the damned delay?

  An odd, muffled sound came through the door. He knocked again. “Lady Dalbury? Are you coming up on deck?” he called. “You have missed the sunrise, my lady. Will you miss breakfast as well?” A louder sound, more akin to a groan, issued from behind the stout door. He tried the latch, but it was locked. “Lady Dalbury? Margery? Is something wrong?”


  Just as his patience drained to the last drop, the cabin door slid open, revealing Margery in the doorway. Her gray traveling dress was stained down the front with God knew what and her hair trailed from her usual tidy bun in a hundred limp wisps. Her haggard face, set in harsh lines, appeared weary beyond belief.

  “Margery! What the hell is going on?” Before the maid could summon an answer, a terrible gurgling sound issued from the room behind her. At the same time, the smell hit him. “My God, what is that stench?”

  Behind Margery, his wife raised her head from a basin that had been placed on the floor beside the bunk. Her face, white as her gown, seemed even paler in contrast to her flaming hair, now plastered darkly to her head. She stared at him as she eased herself onto the pillow. A low moan became the words, “Go away.”

  Margery staggered into the gangway, drawing the door closed behind her.

  “How long has she been ill?” he demanded. Sweet Christ, why hadn’t they called him? Katarina looked near to death.

  “Since last night, my lord.” The maid’s dull tone revealed the depths of her fatigue. Margery propped herself against the door, the only thing keeping her standing. “She was fine after dinner. We talked as she undressed and got ready for bed, and there was no sign of sickness. Then all of a sudden, she come over queer-like and sat down on the bed. Her face went a funny greenish color, then gray, and she said ‘I’m sick, Margery,’ and started like you just saw, my lord. All night, it’s been.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. “Did you send for the doctor?”

  “There’s none onboard, my lord.”

  Damn the captain! He should never have left the hiring of the crew to him, no matter the protocol. What fool would neglect to secure a physician? “Lady Dalbury got no rest all night?”

  “We might have dozed a bit now and then, my lord. But no good sleep at all.” The maid yawned, punctuating her words.