In Need of a Knight (The Heart of a Scandal/The Heart of a Duke Book 0)

by Christi Caldwell

  She heard nothing but the loud beating of her heart. “Hear what?” Her voice emerged a threadbare whisper.

  “The music.”

  Fighting the wild fluttering roused by his touch, Aldora strained to listen for the distant sounds of the orchestra’s strings. She shook her head. As long as she could remember, her vision had been poor. She’d never before realized her hearing, too, was a problem. Or, mayhap, it was the pull this man had over her.

  “Then you aren’t listening to what is right before you,” he murmured. “Close your eyes.” How did he manage to wrap that command in such silky warmth? She hesitated for the fraction of a moment before doing as he bid. “Now listen,” he urged. She stilled as he settled his gloveless fingers on her shoulders. Biting her lower lip, she leaned into him. Michael brought his lips close to her ear. “What do you hear?”

  Her heart hammered against her ribcage. For three years, she’d been so fixed on her family’s struggles that she’d ceased paying attention to the wonders of the world around her. The chirp of crickets filled the quiet. Their soft symphony of night sounds was soothing. Her lips pulled up in a slow smile.

  “Ahh, so you hear it,” he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek. “What else do you hear?”

  She focused on the nighttime song of a lone sedge warbler. How many times had she, as a girl, sat and simply appreciated these simple joys. “A bird,” she whispered, appreciating that soft evening song.

  A breeze rustled the trees around them and the leaves fluttered noisily in the nighttime quiet.

  “And what else?” his husky baritone washed over her like warmed chocolate.

  Aldora drew in a shuddery breath and forced her eyes open. “You,” she said, holding his gaze. “I hear you, my lord.”

  Even in the dark, with her vision rotted as it had always been, she felt him work his gaze over her face. When he spoke, his voice emerged gravelly. “Michael,” he demanded.

  She hesitated. “I hear you, Michael.” If we are married, it will be. Something told her, if she managed to snare his heart and earn an offer of marriage from him, they’d never be a couple who referred to one another by their titles and surnames.

  He placed his hand at her waist and proceeded to waltz her through the garden, dancing to the night music. Their body movement was in symphonic harmony. He seemed attuned to her every step. Aldora studied the rugged planes of his cheeks.

  Here she was so very close to that which she’d schemed these many weeks over, a match with the Marquess of St. James. Yet, as they danced around the grounds, she wasn’t thinking about her father’s debt or her sisters’ security or the material possessions they’d been forced to sell.

  All she could think about was him. And how being in his arms felt like she’d, at last, discovered everything she’d never realized she needed or wanted.

  Michael should be committed to Bedlam. There was nothing else for it. But an inexplicable madness had overtaken him. Why else would he be waltzing an unwed, respectable, very marriageable lady around his hosts’ grounds?

  There was also the matter of Lady Aldora believing he was someone else—his brother, to be precise. His gut clenched as the acerbic bite of jealousy climbed his throat and threatened to choke him. Michael had never before coveted St. James’ title until two days ago when this unconventional young lady had landed at his feet in Hyde Park. Since that moment, he’d thought of nothing but her. Her smile. Her cheeky retorts. Her sharp wit.

  His gaze fell to her bow-shaped, ruby red lips. And he’d thought about those, too. It took every last shred of decency buried deep inside him to resist the lure of the lush flesh. He wanted to kiss away the lies between them. Wanted her to look at him and not only see him, but want him—Michael Knightly. Not a marquess. Not any other titled lord, but simply him, a self-made man. Michael made the mistake of glancing, once more, at her mouth and lost the silent battle warring within. With a groan, he kissed her.

  Her lithe body stiffened and then melted against his. He angled his head, exploring the feel and contour of her lips. A sigh escaped her. He slipped his tongue inside, needing to learn the taste of her. She touched the tip of her tongue to his, at first hesitant and then growing more bold.

  Lemon and honey. She tasted like utter sweetness.

  “Aldora Adamson, if you have a brain in your head, you will not be out here.” The harsh whisper cut into the magic between them.

  Michael jerked his head up.

  Aldora’s eyes widened. He knew the moment reality had intruded. Her body went whipcord straight in his arms, but she did not pull away.

  He drew in a steadying breath and leaned down to place his lips alongside her ear. “A friend of yours?”

  She gave a juddering nod. The top of her satiny soft curls brushed his chin.

  For one infinitesimal moment, he relished the prospect of being found with her in his arms. She’d have no choice but to wed him and she’d spend the rest of her life hating him for being the other brother, the one she didn’t want. As soon as the thought slid in, guilt pitted in his belly. He wanted Lady Aldora, but not at any costs that would see her trapped and tricked. What kind of life would it be for either of them if her devotion was reserved for another? Not just any other gentleman, but his brother.

  Michael set her away from him. “Go,” he mouthed, “before you are discovered.” Aldora gave another nod and then stepped out of his arms. His body went cold at the loss of her as she rushed off. All that had come between him and the ruination of Lady Aldora Adamson had been one timely—or rather untimely—interruption.

  “Where were you?” That sharp hiss from the interloper slashed into his musings.

  He strained his ears. Was this a friend? A sister? It struck him how little he actually knew about her. And how very much he wished to know about the lady.

  “I dropped my spectacles,” Aldora replied, with a defensive edge underlying those few words.

  Silence reigned and then… “Truly?” The unknown lady’s one word dripped with speculation. Lady Aldora’s response was lost to him. “Come along then. I’ve had the devil of a time trying to explain away your absence to your mother.” There was another flurry of whispering. Then a faint rustle of skirts indicated Aldora and her friend had gone.

  Michael remained at the edge of his host and hostess’ gardens long after they’d left, considering his exchanges with Lady Aldora. The moon’s beam slanted its rays upon the grass, bathing it in a soft glow. All these years he’d believed himself contented with who he was and everything he’d achieved after that fateful duel. He didn’t give a jot about the gossips and the scandal that would forever dwell in Society’s memory. Only to find he’d been wrong. For suddenly, it did matter. Michael dusted a hand over his face. What was it about Aldora that made him wish his life had turned out differently? When he was with her, Michael felt more than a mere flicker of interest in something other than the material world. Except this was no mere flicker.

  The things he’d never before considered—a wife, a family, social acceptance—filled him with a longing for something more than the empty world of ledgers and profit. His rise to financial power and greatness hadn’t erased the disappointment that his mother had taken with her to her grave. It hadn’t erased aching hurts for past mistakes made. Mistakes that could never be undone.

  Yes, as much as he longed for Aldora, she wasn’t for him and he could no longer lie to her. He was a murderer. After all, he’d willingly stepped onto that dueling field, very well knowing what the consequences could have been…what they’d ultimately become. That reckless folly had brought pain to Lord Everworth’s family, shame to Michael’s, and, in the end, Michael himself had been deservedly stripped of his honor and respectability.

  For all his failings and flaws, he was no liar. So what madness compelled him after a single meeting to throw off his previous life and begin again?

  Given the irreparable harm he’d done to so many, the last thing he was entitled to was peace and hap
piness in the arms of Lady Aldora Adamson.

  He’d allowed this charade to go on long enough. The time for games was at an end. He couldn’t let her continue to believe he was another man. It was unforgiveable and he’d been driven by purely selfish desires—a desire for the young lady herself.

  Chapter 5

  Given that Aldora had been one moment away from discovery in Michael’s arms in their host’s gardens, she should be riddled with frantic worry. Instead, she briefly touched her fingertips to her lips. Lips that still burned from the feel of his mouth on hers. The masculine scent of brandy filled her senses.

  Her friend shot her a probing side-eyed stare. Aldora instantly dropped her arm to her side. “What did you tell my mother?” Aldora blurted, belatedly. Mayhap, Emilia didn’t notice that delayed concern.

  Emilia narrowed her eyes all the more. “I told her you were in the retiring room. Did you really lose your spectacles?”

  Aldora pulled the mud-splattered eyewear from her reticule and held them up for her friend’s inspection. Relief filled her. There was no greater sense of helplessness than moving blindly through life, unable to see the world before you.

  Michael’s earlier nighttime lesson slipped in and her heartbeat quickened.

  “Hmph,” Emilia muttered, her tone indicated that she was far from convinced.

  Regardless, amidst the bustling crowd of Lord and Lady Havendale’s ballroom was hardly the place to address her friend’s very real concerns.

  Aldora fought the feeling of being a child who’d disappointed her mother. She’d make no apologies for pursuing the marquess. She was justified in ways that Emilia didn’t and couldn’t understand. But oh, how she wished for someone to share her burden. It was surely selfish and petty to resent that the fate of her family rested squarely upon her shoulders. She was sinking under the weight of it.

  Then she’d met St. James, no, Michael. And, miracle of miracles, the man she’d set her sights upon had intrigued her more than any other. Prior to having landed squarely at his feet in Hyde Park, she had prayed they would prove compatible. That same day they’d met, the marquess had not only captured her interest, he’d made her feel a maelstrom of emotions from amusement to annoyance. Since their first encounter, for the first time since she’d discovered her family’s circumstances, she’d managed to think of nothing and no one…except Michael. What it was to be held in his arms and teased by him and to simply talk without weighing her every word.

  Emilia drew to a stop beside a white Doric column and took Aldora by the arm. “Oh dear,” she whispered.

  Aldora shook her head, fighting back thoughts of him…unsuccessfully. She darted her eyes around the ballroom for sign of his towering frame. Had he returned from the gardens? She’d venture he remained outside to give a much needed distance between her and his appearance. “What is it?”

  “You are beyond smitten with the marquess.”

  She peeked around to see if anyone had overheard her friend’s outrageous, albeit true, charge. “I am not.” Except her tone hardly sounded convincing to her own ears.

  “Then you won’t care that he’s coming this way now,” her friend said with relish.

  Aldora’s pulse kicked up a staccato rhythm and she fluttered her hand to her heart.

  From across the room, he entered the main hall. His long strides stripped away the distance between them, his movements as purposeful as an avenging warrior of old storming the keep and saving the lady of the tower. Michael drew to a halt in front of her.

  Of its own volition, Aldora’s gaze climbed every inch of his lean, well-muscled form. He possessed a strength and power that was paid homage by artists and sculptors. There was nothing about him that looked marquess-like.

  He bent low at the waist. “Would you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set?”

  Her friend’s gasp blended with the strum of the orchestra at Michael’s bold request.

  Aldora didn’t need to even glance at her empty dance card to confirm this set was, in fact, free.

  Emilia placed her hand on Aldora’s arm in a protective way. The fiery glint in her eyes was better suited to an overprotective mama. “I believe, first, formal introductions are made—”

  Alas, Aldora had become rather adept at sidestepping even the most stringent of mothers. She shrugged free of Emilia’s hold. The last kind of assistance she needed was deterring the marquess. “I would be honored, my lord.” She touched her fingertips to the edge of his extended elbow and allowed him to lead her toward the dance floor.

  “But he is not—” Emilia’s sputtering protest faded in the din of the ballroom.

  The beginning strains of a waltz filled the room just as he settled his hands on her waist. Even through the fabric of her gown, his touch all but seared her skin. She looked up at him and found his overly-serious eyes upon her. A nervous thrill raced along her spine. Aldora attempted to dispel the irrational fear. So much had gone wrong for so long that she was afraid to trust this happiness she felt.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked in hushed undertones.

  “That I am happy,” she said, settling for closest to the truth of what she felt in this moment. And it was true. For the first time in so very long, she felt a lightness.

  He moved his intent stare to her lips and memories flooded in of their kiss in the moonlit gardens. Heat fanned out in her belly and spread like a wildfire through her.

  The sharp buzz of whispers filled the ballroom, like a swarm of angry bees, momentarily distracting her. Absently, Aldora glanced around the ballroom. Lords and ladies gaped and gawked, concealing their whispers behind their hands. They’re staring at us… As soon as the thought slid in, she gave her head a distracted shake. What rot. Of course they weren’t studying them. Why would they be? And yet…warmth flooded her cheeks and she lifted her gaze back to Michael’s. “Do you feel that we are being talked about, my lord?” she asked with forced lightness.

  “I do, and I’m not.” A muscle jumped at the corner of his right eye.

  So, he felt those stares, too. She peeked around the room and found her mother standing off to the side of the ballroom, fluttering a hand wildly in front of her face and glaring pointedly at her. Aldora frowned. Even if no formal introductions had been made by the countess, Mother should be elated with Aldora’s dance partner.

  “Did you hear me, Aldora? I said, I am not.”

  “You’re not what?” she asked, distracted by her mother’s disapproval. This was going to make for a deuced uncomfortable carriage ride but, surely, when she learned the Marquess of St. James was—

  “A lord.”

  Why, Mother was going to—Her gaze flew to his. “What?” she blurted, her mind struggling to keep up with what he’d spoken earlier.

  “I said I am not a lord.” The music drew to a stop. He bent low at the waist and then left her standing there staring after him.

  Not a lord? A fluttery panic built inside her until her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest. Aldora attempted to make sense of his words through the loud thrumming in her ears. He was the Marquess of St. James. Her throat tightened as she scanned the area for an escape. What game did he play?

  Then Emilia was there, blessedly rescuing her from the eyes that Society had trained on her. She guided Aldora through the crush of people and ushered her back to her mother with effortless precision that would have made an army general proud.

  “I don’t understand,” Aldora whispered.

  Emilia frowned. “I suspect there has been a case of mistaken identity. The man you were dancing with was Michael Knightly, the Marquess of St. James’ younger, scandalous brother.”

  No. It couldn’t be. Her heart screeched that Emilia was wrong even as her head logically pointed out that the man who’d held her had confessed he was no lord. It had to be! She looked around for him, but he’d taken himself off, having wisely escaped the gossips.

  All the while, she tried to sort through the jumbling co
nfusion that ripped through her. She focused her gaze on her mother who stood beside Emilia’s dashing husband-to-be and a slightly familiar-looking gentleman with thick black hair and a hard jaw. Aldora fought the panicky urge to flee. She didn’t want to deal with the necessary matchmaking this evening. No, she wanted to take herself off to some dark, hidden corner and lick away the wounds of having come so very close to happiness only to have herself thrust quite forcefully back down to earth.

  “Smile,” Emilia murmured at her ear.

  She managed to paste a smile on her face. “Better?”

  “It will have to do.” Emilia grimaced.

  Her friend’s reassuring presence provided the much needed fortitude to hold her head high and return to the place alongside her mother and the familiar stranger. Aldora expected to see unrestricted disapproval in her mother’s always expressive eyes. The unabashed joy reflected in Mother’s blue eyes gave her pause.

  “Ahh, here you are, my dear.” With the grace of Lady Jersey at Almack’s, she proceeded to make the necessary introductions. “Lord St. James, may I please present my daughter, Lady Aldora Adamson.”

  The marquess’ response was lost in the loud buzzing of her ears. She clenched the fabrics of her skirts before remembering that a sea of Society members was attuned to their meeting.

  Oh God, this was the marquess? She should be elated. For all her attempts at meeting the young bachelor and all her meticulous scheming, he was now before her. Emilia’s words came back to her on a rush. St. James preferred women who could play the pianoforte and embroider. Desperate to escape, Aldora dropped her gaze to his artfully arranged cravat. But that brought his garishly bright-gold, embroidered waistcoat into sharp focus until she thought she might go blind from staring at the fabric.

  Her mother cleared her throat. Loudly.

  Aldora looked blankly to her and blinked, trying to make sense of why her mother was glowering and why this stranger was…not… the man she wanted him to be.