One Touch of Scandal

by Liz Carlyle

  He cut the merest hint of a glance in her direction. “I hope you find your peace someday, Grace,” he said. “But France is still politically unstable. It simply mightn’t be safe for you to leave England in the foreseeable future—nor to remain in England, come to that.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him how utterly absurd that was. But his words sounded so heartfelt, she could not even chide him for falling back on her Christian name again. Moreover, the sound of it on his lips had begun to feel disconcertingly right.

  “I have no way of seeing what lurks in those shadows approaching you, Grace,” he went on. “I can’t. I feel…blind.”

  “No one can know the future, my lord.” But even as she spoke the words, a chill ran down her spine. “And who would wish to? It would be a terrible curse, of that I am sure.”

  He set his hand to the glass, his fingers wide, as if the gesture might hold back the shadows. Not for the first time, Grace wondered if Ruthveyn knew something he was not telling her. Was his otherworldly persona something more dire? But that was utter nonsense.

  “Have you forgiven me, I wonder?” His words, almost detached, cut into her thoughts. “For what happened between us in Whitehall?”

  Grace knew at once what he meant. “For that kiss?” Somehow she forced a light tone. “Well, it was just a kiss, my lord. And as you pointed out, I have been kissed before—I daresay you have, too?”

  Something like black humor twitched at his fine, full mouth. “Once or twice, yes.”

  Grace extended her hand. “Pax, then,” she said. “It is forgotten.”

  “Pax, then,” he echoed in his warm, raspy voice.

  Then he turned and took her hand, but instead of shaking it, lifted it toward his lips. But at the last possible instant, he hesitated, his eyes locked with hers, his breath warm on her knuckles. Then something inside him seemed to give way. Ruthveyn closed his eyes, and drew her instead into his embrace. “Come here,” he whispered.

  Like a fool, Grace went willingly, yearning for the feel of his arms as they encircled her. Ruthveyn’s left hand was cold on her shoulder from the window’s glass, but his right felt broad and strong and warm as it gathered her to him, crushing her gown against the silk of his waistcoat. At once, his warmth surrounded her, carrying with it his subtle scent, already achingly familiar. It was as if his very strength began to seep into her; madness, she knew. And yet it felt inevitable, as if she, too, were caught up in his strange mood.

  “I should like to kiss you again,” he said, his eyes searching her face.

  She watched him unblinkingly. “Are you asking?”

  “Yes,” he rasped. “And you should say no.”

  She swallowed hard. “And if I do not?”

  “Then I’m going to kiss you until your toes curl,” he said, “and hope, like a bloody damned fool, that you beg me for more.”

  And oh, how she wanted him. Against all logic, and a lifetime of hard experience, Grace longed to give herself up to him. She was so weary of being alone, and lonely. Or perhaps she was just weak. Grace no longer cared. And so, with Ruthveyn’s heart thudding steadily against her right breast, she lifted her chin and let her eyes drop shut.

  His lips brushed over hers in the lightest caress; once, twice, then again, as if tempting her. She answered, slanting her head in invitation, and felt his mouth come fully over hers, warm and open.

  Something inside her came awake, thrumming with life and light at his touch. As his lips moved languidly over hers, Grace rose as if from a dream to urge herself fully against him, twining her arms round his neck.

  Ruthveyn made a sound, something between a groan and a sigh, then forced his tongue deep into her mouth to tangle sinuously with hers. The thing inside Grace drew taut as a bowstring, tugging from her heart to her belly and deeper still. Then the tautness became an ache, and as his mouth moved over hers—possessing her—Grace felt wanton and wanted and strangely free.

  In an instant, she was up against the wall, his body hard against hers, his hands roaming hungrily. One palm shaped her breast, warm against her nipple, deepening the throb inside her. His opposite hand cupped the swell of her hip, lifting her to him.

  Lightly thumbing her nipple to a taut, aching peak, Ruthveyn let his mouth slide down her throat, his tongue dipping lightly in the hollow above her collarbone, making Grace long to drag the fabric down and give him free rein. Her breath came short and sharp, and he returned his lips to hers, plunging inside. In Ruthveyn she sensed a desperation that matched her own, like a man long starved for the human touch. For love, perhaps.

  Oh, but that was a dangerous self-deception. And she was no green girl. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal throb against her belly and knew it had gone far enough. Somehow, she controlled herself, returning his kisses with equal heat, thrilling to the pleasure of it, but holding herself a fraction from that dark edge that beckoned. The edge beyond which, she sensed, she would be entirely lost to his darkness.

  Ruthveyn felt her hesitation and began to draw away; first the pressure of his thighs, then the sheltering wall of his chest, until at last only their lips remained joined. They parted with light, glancing kisses, then his mouth skimmed from hers and brushed along the turn of her jaw.

  “Grace,” he murmured, nuzzling the words behind her ear. “Ah, Grace.”

  One of his hands was set above her nape now, cradling the back of her head, and simply because she wanted to, she turned and laid one cheek to the fine wool of his frock coat.

  “This is lunacy, you know,” she murmured, her breath coming far too fast.

  “Utterly,” he agreed. “And what’s worse, you are not going to beg me for more, are you?”

  “No.” She swallowed hard. “At least—no. I am not.”

  Ruthveyn buried his face in her hair, and she realized he was trembling. “Grace,” he whispered. “You can’t let me do this again.”

  “You—?” Her head came up as she said it. “You are a man, Lord Ruthveyn. Men are free to take what is offered them. But what am I for having offered it?”

  He set her a little away from him then, and dipped his head to catch her gaze. “You are a woman, Grace, who has had her life turned cruelly upside down,” he replied. “And I am a cad, perhaps, for taking advantage of that.”

  “What utter nonsen—”

  “And in my own defense,” he interjected, setting a firm finger to her lips, “I can say only that to touch a woman like you, for me, is a thing so rare—” Here, his voice hitched. “Actually, there is no defending me.”

  Grace drew away, feeling more alone than ever. “I’ve never known anyone quite like you, Ruthveyn,” she said, wrapping her arms over her chest. “I don’t know whether I like you, or if I’m half-afraid of you. But whatever it is, we seem to be flint and tinder to one another.”

  Again, he dragged that telling hand through his hair, this time thoroughly disordering it. “Grace, I have to ask you something.”

  “By all means, ask.” Her smile twisted. “Shoot for the moon, Ruthveyn. We have every reason to think I might say yes.”

  His gaze darkened ominously at that. One hand fisted at his side. “Don’t be cruel, Grace,” he said, “especially not to yourself. I will not kiss you again. I won’t even try.”

  Grace gave a bark of laughter and let her arms fall. “Do you know, Ruthveyn, I actually believe you,” she replied. “I’m sorry. It’s just—your touch—it addles me somehow. But please, go ahead. Ask.”

  “My timing, of course, could not be worse,” he said warningly.

  “We both have a gift for that,” she agreed.

  “Perhaps.” He relaxed his hand. “In any case, I think…I think that you should come to live with me.”

  Grace set a hand to her heart. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “As a governess,” he added swiftly. “I will feel better about all this if you are beneath my roof.”

  “As a governess?” she echoed. “Ça alors! To whom?”

&n
bsp; “My sister,” he said, catching her upper arms in his hands. Then, as if burned, he dropped them and stepped back. “Not for my sister, of course, but for her children. I am entirely serious. She desperately needs a tutor of some sort. And my nephews are—well, they are a handful.”

  “Even if I were fool enough to do such a thing, no one would consider me qualified to tutor young men,” Grace explained. “They will need mathematics and sciences and—”

  “Oh, come now, Grace.” Ruthveyn arched one of his black eyebrows in that gesture of disdain she was so rapidly coming to recognize. “Surely you do not believe men the only sex capable of such things? Do you mean to suggest that you know nothing of basic arithmetic? Or geography?”

  Grace blushed. The truth was, she had always found such subjects fascinating and could no more teach tatting or drawing than fly to the moon. Military history and battlefield tactics were her best subjects, and she was quite skilled at geography, having seen rather a lot of it firsthand. Only her blue blood and flawless French had qualified her to be a governess.

  Ruthveyn sensed her curiosity. “They are neither of them above ten, by the way,” he went on, “and what little education they’ve seen was in Calcutta, and from a gentleman so old and so poor of sight he could scarce keep up with them. In short, they know almost nothing and are hellions of the worst sort. It’s an assignment that will never give you your precious peace, but will give me, at least, a little peace of mind.”

  “B-But that sounds—”

  “Selfish, yes,” he cut in. “All men are, I am told.”

  “Lord Ruthveyn,” she said tartly, “kindly stop interrupting me.”

  “There, you see?” Both brows went up this time. “You are at least willing to try to govern the intractable.”

  “Oh, I am perfectly capable of it,” she responded with asperity. “Now, you will answer my questions.”

  “Very well.” He stepped back another inch.

  “You are doing this because of Rance Welham, and for no other reason?”

  Ruthveyn hesitated a heartbeat. “For Rance, yes,” he said. “For my part, I’m rarely at home. I keep a suite of rooms in St. James’s.”

  “At the St. James Society.” Her gaze fell again to his strange, yet oddly familiar cravat pin. The symbol in the middle, she realized, was a tiny gold cross.

  “Grace, my servants and family are loyal to a fault,” he said. “You will be safe surrounded by them.”

  “I never felt I was in danger,” Grace said. “Certainly not from you—not in that way. And so far as Napier is concerned, the innocent should have nothing to fear. In that, at least, I am innocent.”

  “There is a vast chasm between should and have,” he said quietly. “Grace, do you trust me to keep you safe?”

  She considered it a moment. “I can imagine few men willing to cross you,” she said. “Yes, I trust you.”

  “Do you believe me when I say you might be in danger?” he went on. “Or at least at some risk of being made a scapegoat? Or of having your good name tarnished?”

  “I believe you when you say you that you believe those things,” she conceded.

  “And you cannot stay here,” Ruthveyn continued. “You said as much not half an hour past.”

  He was offering her a way out, Grace realized. An escape from Aunt Abigail, yes, but he was also offering the broad mantle of his protection. It horrified her to think she might need it. But Mr. Holding was dead—and someone had murdered him.

  “Perhaps not.” She breathed deep and considered it. With him, she would be safe. She was certain of it. And there would be children—children who needed her. “I must be mad, of course, but these hellions—have they names?”

  “When I left after dinner last night, it was Thor, Hammer of the North, and Erik the Bloodthirsty,” he replied, straight-faced. “My favorite billiards table had become a Viking dragon ship, and they were rowing fiercely for Lithuania with a set of brand-new, custom-made cue sticks.”

  “Excellent,” said Grace. “Then they have at least a passing acquaintance with Scandinavian history, and the geography of northern Europe—not to mention a proper appreciation of fine hardwoods. Their real names?”

  “Tom is six, and Teddy is eight,” said Ruthveyn. “They are my sister Anisha’s children. She is a widow.”

  “Anisha?” Grace interjected. “That’s unusual.”

  “Her name? Yes.” Ruthveyn hesitated a moment. “We were brought up in India. Perhaps I never said.”

  “Both of you? How interesting.”

  “Actually, we are Indian—Rajputs—on our mother’s side,” he went on. “Perhaps that is not obvious.”

  Grace let her eyes drift over him. “I never thought about it.”

  “Does it matter to you?”

  Grace blinked uncertainly. “Good Lord,” she said reflexively. “In regards to what?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted cynically. “You said your mother married down, Mademoiselle Gauthier,” he reminded her. “Most days, I think my mother did, too.”

  It took Grace a heartbeat before she burst out laughing. “I think I begin to like you better and better, Lord Ruthveyn,” she said. “Perhaps we shall deal famously together after all.”

  “Then get your things.”

  Her smile fell. “What? Now?”

  “Why not now?” he asked. “What is going to change? So far as your aunt is concerned, I have offered you a position. Leave her a note. My servants will return for your trunks tonight.”

  “Such haste seems unnecessary.”

  Again, he shrugged, then propped one shoulder against the window frame. “Are you coming, Grace,” he murmured, “or not?”

  Grace looked beyond him to see that dusk—and Ruthveyn’s shadows—were fast drawing nigh. He, too, was watching. Waiting. And soon the darkness would be upon them. But what was there, really, to fear beyond that veil?

  Only herself and her own foolishness, most likely.

  Nonetheless, she was going. She was going to live with Lord Ruthveyn. She was going to trust his promises and his strength. She only prayed she was making the right decision.

  And for the right reason.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Little Family Quarrel

  Adrian, how could you?”

  Ruthveyn knew his sister was angry when she used his Christian name.

  Lady Anisha was dressed tonight in a topaz gold dinner gown, the bodice cut straight across her slender shoulders and ruched with butter-colored satin, while the wide, bell-shaped skirt was gathered up in matching rosettes on either side. The whole of it looked remarkably flattering against her warm ivory skin—save for Anisha’s face, which had turned the color of overpoached salmon.

  “Anisha, my dear, do sit down.” Ruthveyn surveyed her from across his desk as she wore a path in his carpet. “Just tell me what you thought of her. Have you any real objection—save for my heavy-handedness?”

  His sister froze, eyes blazing. “How am I to know what my objections might be?” she retorted. “I just met the woman!”

  It was in moments like this Ruthveyn realized how very much alike they were.

  “At dinner, no less, where she was dropped in my lap with the dinner napkin like some freshly starched fait accompli!” Anisha continued. “Really, Adrian, you have put me—and your Mademoiselle Gauthier—in a most awkward position. And she knew it, too. Couldn’t you see that?”

  “Anisha, if you would—”

  “No, I won’t.” Anisha spun around and resumed her pacing. “These are my children, Adrian. They are the fruit of my womb. How could you possibly presume to know what they need? Indeed, you have not spent above an hour with either of them since we got here!”

  Ruthveyn’s temper spiked at that. “Oh, don’t hold back, Anisha! Ram that sword all the way home!” He jerked from his chair and went to his sideboard. “Do you want a brandy?” he snapped. “God knows I need one.”

  “No, I don’t want a brandy!” Anisha followed h
im across the room. “I want respect! Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me I should demand it? That I should make my own decisions?”

  Ruthveyn sighed and yanked the stopper from the decanter with a discordant scrape. At three-and-thirty, he was half a dozen years her senior, but Anisha could madden him as if they were still children. He poured the liquor, then shoved all of it away in disgust to brace his hands wide on the mahogany top. In his present mood, alcohol would be nothing but fuel tossed on an already blazing fire; an inferno born of temper, raging lust, and the sickening realization that his sister just might be right.

  Slowly he drew his breath deep into the pit of his belly, then blew it out again in one long, carefully moderated exhalation. Once. Twice. Again. Until the blood stopped pounding in his temples.

  He felt his sister hovering near his elbow.

  “Anisha, you know I care for those boys,” he finally rasped, staring out into the blackness of the rear gardens. “I would lay down my life for them. But I can’t…I just can’t play the affectionate uncle so easily. For God’s sake, I can barely look them in the eyes.”

  “You have held yourself apart from people, Adrian, for so long, you no longer know what intimacy is,” his sister whispered. “You are so afraid of what you might see that it haunts you. But they are children. They do not understand.”

  “Yes, Anisha, they are children. And for that reason, I need to see them as young, vigorous, and full of life’s every promise. Don’t you?”

  “Even if I had the true sight, I could not see my children,” she said simply. “You know that. Moreover, they are not of the Vateis, Raju, nor will they ever be Guardians. They certainly don’t have your misfortune to be both. My children were born under the wrong stars and haven’t a hint of the Gift. They are…well, like Luc, thank God.”

  “I’m not sure the latter is to be bragged about, my dear.” His voice fell to a weary, more conciliatory tone. “But you are right about the other. I should have done this thing properly. I should have asked you about hiring a governess. I just…”