Scandal in Spades

by Wendy Lacapra

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, then she closed it again. With a feigned bravery that cleaved his chest, she wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks.

  “Allow me escort you home.” It was not a question.

  She squinted off into the distance. “I should decline…”

  “But you will not,” he finished, gentling his tone.

  Her expression shuttered, unreadable, carefully cloaked. Strange things, women. For all his bluster, he did not quite understand them. But he did not have to understand to know exactly how he needed to respond. He’d make himself worthy, shave off his edges, and polish away the splinters life had left behind. A bad man could become a good husband—whatever good husband meant—right? He desperately wished to believe.

  “Company,” she said softly, “would be welcome.”

  Company. General. Not specifically his. She placed her hand on his arm, and he pulled her fingers tight against his side. With a heart full of trepidation, he swung open the cemetery gate, already knowing what he would find. He dreaded the very scene he’d worked so hard to create.

  “Oh! Hello, Lady Katherine.” The little boy whose story he’d prepared looked up at Katherine, genuine adoration in his youthful expression.

  Bromton knew exactly how he felt.

  “Hello again, Tommy,” she said.

  “I was hoping you would be here.” His lashes swept down over his eyes, and he twisted his clasped hands. “I forgot to thank you for the primer pages.”

  “You are very welcome,” she replied, touching his face. The white kid leather made a sharp contrast to the boy’s wind-burnt cheeks. “You are clever and bright, Tommy. I was happy to copy the pages for you.”

  The boy beamed.

  On cue, the door to the church opened, and Ian Linton emerged, holding a shawl. His gaze moved back and forth among Bromton, Katherine, and the boy.

  Everything was going exactly as Bromton had planned.

  “Good day, Mr. Linton.” Katherine’s voice had grown considerably cooler.

  “Lady Katherine.” The boy bowed. “My lord.” Another bow. “I—I—” Ian glanced back toward the lane.

  “Yes, Mr. Linton?” Katherine prompted.

  “My brother and me…” Tommy halted his explanation and began again, slower. “My brother and I came back for mother’s shawl.”

  “Lady Katherine,” Ian’s gaze flicked to Bromton with an incriminating flush, “would…would you be so kind as to take an apology to his lordship?”

  “Lord Markham?” Katherine raised her brows. “Do you owe him an apology?”

  “It was,” Ian’s eyes flit back and forth between Bromton and Katherine, “ill-judged of me to speak with Lady Julia without you or his lordship present.”

  Katherine rescued her gaping jaw. “Indeed,” she said, not without kindness.

  “Please…please give Lord Markham my assurance it will not happen again.” Ian sent a speaking look in Bromton’s direction.

  An actor, the boy was not. Bromton nodded as subtly as he could.

  “Thank you, Mr. Linton.” She folded her hands. “I will deliver your message.”

  “Let’s go, Tommy.” With Tommy in reluctant tow, Ian started down the path.

  “Goodbye, Lady Katherine,” Tommy said over his shoulder.

  “Remember to practice,” Katherine called.

  She stared after them, falling silent long enough for Bromton to hope she’d missed the stage direction. As soon as the boys disappeared behind the bend, however, she looked up at him with an expression that blended astonishment and suspicion.

  “Had you and Ian been introduced, Lord Bromton?”

  “Not,” he replied slowly, “in the usual fashion.”

  She pressed her lips into a hard line and then looked away. She had a lovely profile. A fine, firm jaw, and a contrasting softness to her cheeks.

  “Ian did not come to his senses on his own, did he?”

  “No,” he conceded, “Ian did not come to his senses without assistance.”

  “You were, I gather, the inspiration for this unexpected apology?”

  Here, he was supposed to answer with a resounding yes, along with a promise to always keep her and Julia from harm. But he’d made that plan before he’d seen his hellion hunched over a tombstone with tears in her eyes.

  Now, as her response slid into place like a key to an oiled lock, he felt no satisfaction.

  Hadn’t this been the way since the night of the infernal card game? Every scheme he’d brought to fruition, every attempt he’d made to assuage his stilted honor, only deepened his sense that he was in the wrong.

  “If I was inspiration for his apology,” he answered noncommittally, “I promise I was not overly harsh.”

  She crossed her hands over her chest. “How, may I ask, did you discover an apology was required?”

  “Instinct?” he ventured.

  Her glance was sharper than a haberdasher’s shears. “Instinct assisted by a healthy dose of gossip, I wager.”

  He glanced past her shoulder to the village beyond. This was all wrong. All of it. He wished he could take it back. “I prevented, I believe, a planned assignation.”

  She inhaled. “And you chose to speak with Ian without consulting myself or Markham?”

  He looked down at his hands. “Put it that way and it sounds pompous.”

  “Presumptuous, perhaps,” her voice softened, “but not unappreciated.”

  He glanced up. Her expression would have fed the tongue-lolling puppy part of him hope, had he not designed the whole event.

  “I am,” she continued, “unaccustomed to having my concerns lifted from my shoulders.”

  Devil take it, he was an ass. An ass fascinated by the colors of twilight dusting her cheeks. An ass with a Katherine-shaped hole at the center of his heart.

  “Be careful,” she added quietly. “I could become accustomed to such care.”

  His heart hammered against his ribs—a beat that chanted bastard, bastard, bastard.

  “Do not,” he warned, “revise your opinion of me all at once.”

  She continued to hold him with a thoughtful gaze. “What other good deeds have you kept quiet?”

  “None.” His cheeks warmed with an involuntary flush. “I am every bit as heartless and imperious as you believe.”

  Her softened expression did not change. He swallowed. Had he thought Katherine a sensible woman? Run, you little fool.

  She placed her fingers against his arm. “Shall we return?”

  He nodded. Her fingers—the lightest weight—conjured spellbinding images of trust and content. The look of dawning admiration in her eyes became an ocean-tide pull.

  Dammed inconvenient it was not deserved.

  “Katherine—”

  “Wait.” She bit her lip. “Can we just enjoy companionable silence? Please?”

  She wanted him to wait? He swallowed. Hard. He’d wait the night. A year. His life.

  The rain lifted, and their footsteps made a steady, tapping rhythm against the wet earth. She walked, not in the least bit hurried, close by his side. As they followed a path that wove through the village and onto Southford grounds, he wondered why he had never experienced a sensation like this before. If he’d known quietly walking with a woman, strides equally placed, would make him feel positively royal, he’d have taken to the lanes and alleys every day.

  Then again, it wasn’t just any woman holding his arm.

  Katherine was a woman whose spirit shined and whose kindness to those deserving knew no bounds. That light within her made her touch radiate with warmth, stimulating his veins until they shimmered the way to his toes.

  She stopped underneath the shelter of some branches.

  Finally, she broke the silence. “If I asked you a question, would you answer truthfully?”

  “I will,” he replied, as if he were not a man riddled with secrets. “What would you like to know, Hellion?”

  She blinked. Eternity. She blinked aga
in. “A man of your stature has the luxury of choice.” She wet her lips. “Why choose me?”

  A boulder squatted between his lungs. I needed a proper heir. I am nothing without my name.

  But his insistent belief no longer rang quite true. He looked into her eyes and worlds of possibility unfurled like frigate sails.

  I need you.

  The first answer cost him everything he was. The second knotted his limbs in terror.

  She lifted both brows. “Am I to be a feather in your rakish cap?”

  His lips rose of their own accord. “You are many things, none of them a feather. I am many things, none of them a rake… Although, I am flattered.”

  A hazy smile graced her lips. “To call a man a rake is not a compliment.”

  He rocked back on his heels. “It does, however, imply a certain charm.”

  She half groaned, half laughed. “You know you exude a certain charm.”

  “If I do,” his gaze traveled over her face, “my charm has failed where I most wished it to succeed.”

  Her eyes dropped to his mouth in a visual caress that hooked him in his gut. “No,” she replied quietly, “it has not.”

  He lifted her hand and placed her fingers against his breastbone, just above the top button of his waistcoat. Her gaze locked on to his, and her fingers, caught firm in his grip, trembled.

  “How would you treat a wife?” Her voice quivered. “Is there any way I can know?”

  No. He tightened his hold, struggling for a better answer. “I will always treat you with the respect due a lady.”

  For a moment, she stared, and then she laughed. His little hellion laughed. He released her hand. She grabbed the edge of his lapel, freezing his turn. This touch, this voluntary touch, sent pinwheels of spinning chaos through his mind.

  “I did not mean to cause offense.” Her eyes smiled. “I only wondered if your ‘respect due a lady’ would look similar to my ‘respect due a marquess.’”

  He softened. “Would I feed you, do you mean?”

  “Yes.” She laughed again. “Not to mention, let me sleep.”

  He warmed to the inviting sound of her chuckle. “How could I begrudge such a noble cause as keeping Markham and Lady Julia from further scandal?”

  “Mmmm. Noble, indeed,” she said. “You terrified me.”

  Terrified. Past tense. “Me? I am as gentle as a lamb.”

  “You are a brute.” She grinned. “You told me so yourself.”

  He brushed her hair from her face and tipped up her chin. “Tame me, then.”

  “Tempting.” She clamped her mouth for an eternal pause. “In seriousness, I cannot imagine why you’d choose me. Not only am I the unmarriageable maiden, I have an excessively inappropriate sense of humor. And Markham tells me I can be a shrew.”

  His acquiescent expression made her snort.

  “Lord Bromton,” she continued, “I’m no stranger to scandal. But you…you are.”

  He blinked. “Are you worried about damaging my reputation?”

  “Yes,” she replied without hesitation.

  Would she ever cease to astonish? No one had ever been concerned for his well-being. The sensation was startling. Humbling. That boulder in his chest broke, leaving him unmoored.

  She lifted both brows. “How will you respond when people suggest you were taken in by Markham—led, by the nose, to his spinster sister? How will you feel when they whisper behind their fans, speculating as to whether I came to you tarnished?”

  Just the thought kindled fire in his chest. “Gossips be damned.”

  “You are a man of honor,” she said, “such shame is, by definition, beyond your power to bear.”

  Nothing was beyond his power to bear. Not for her. “By whose definition?”

  “By Society’s definition,” she replied. “Or,” she inhaled, “at least those members of Society who manufacture dueling pistols.”

  A startled chuckle escaped his throat.

  “Why?” she asked again. “Why are you willing to court me over some proper London lady? There must be a very compelling reason.”

  When he did not answer, she jerked away. The heel of her slipper snapped, and she lost her balance. He caught her in his arms as she stumbled against his chest.

  His breath quickened. His heart pounded. To the devil with bloodlines and promises and honor. She was already his—the first thing in his life he could ever truly call his own, and so precious to him he dared not encircle her with his arms.

  “Do you want to know why?” he asked against her hair. “Because no London lady has ever made me feel this.”

  …

  The fear that had starched Katherine’s resistance wilted, though she wondered, once again, if she and Bromton even spoke the same language.

  By this, she supposed he meant the rapid heartbeat that thudded in a tempo matching her own, but she could not be sure, could she? Just like she could not be sure of anything where the marquess was concerned. He’d defied every expectation, thwarted every plan, stole her certainties, and replaced them with unanswerable, perplexing questions.

  And yet, to rest against his chest was comfort, sublime.

  Her reservations dissipated when they touched, as did any noble intention she had of protecting him from scandal and shame.

  Their proximity was that of an intimate embrace, if not an actual embrace. Neither moved to deepen the connection, nor to part. They remained there, suspended between then and now, just as they were suspended between separate lives and lives that would be joined.

  Heaven help me, why doesn’t Bromton move?

  She rode his breath joining him in the subtle dance of life. His scent filled her lungs, and his waistcoat chafed her cheek. His hands spanned her back, rooting her both to him and to the ground.

  Being held by Bromton was a glorious wonder. His strength secured that which was necessary, almost as if the unwanted pieces of her past would soon break away. What lady in her right mind would step back? Despite the threat of being seen. Despite the rain. Despite the chill hovering just beyond the circle of their loose connection.

  Why should she pull away when they fit together like gored stockings fit to calves? He may be too good to be real, but he was solid. His chest was so wide, his shoulders so broad, she could almost believe he was capable of blocking out the ton’s cruelest cynic.

  Of wrestling her fate for a win.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No.” She would be, though.

  Her chance to turn away had vanished, though Bromton was too expensive to keep. His cost? Her secrets. She’d have to tell him. She’d have to say the words.

  I am not a virgin.

  Then, all his unexpressed wonder, his compacted hope, his laughter, and his warmth would dissipate, too. And, as with every past mistake, she would have only herself to blame.

  What terrible pride had kept her from running him off with the truth at the start? She hadn’t needed theatrics and mobcaps, not when her past held more than enough shame to chase him away.

  The dismal realization was too thorny to bear. She’d not told him the truth because she’d wanted him. She’d wanted this—whatever this was. She had better rein in her sense.

  “I apologize,” she said. “I—I tripped.”

  Instead of letting her go, he tightened his hold. She exhaled, her breath making a little indentation in his shirt.

  Oh, why did men go about slathered in coats and useless trimmings? If it were not for his coat and waistcoat, she would be able to press her ear against his chest—skin to skin. She would, right now, be slathered in his heat, comforted by his muscle.

  She was ravenous, she realized, and her hunger was all for him.

  One of his hands strapped her close, the other lifted her chin. She was not sure if the wetness on her face was rain or tears.

  She whimpered from the back of her throat.

  She could write poems adulating the color of his eyes, but she could not say for certain if the
rain had grown harder or had stopped.

  If a storm raged about them, Bromton did not care.

  “Bromton?” She rolled the syllables of his title over her tongue. Not because she had a question but because she wanted to say his name.

  His groan vibrated in his chest.

  “Not Bromton,” his voice cracked. “Giles.”

  He spoke his Christian name as if he brandished a sword. His expression would have brought her to her knees had she not been safely clasped. For reasons she did not understand, his true name on her lips was a gift he craved.

  She closed her eyes. “Giles.”

  He inhaled, swift and sharp. “Look at me and say my name.”

  Emotions too complex to name built up against a dam in her throat. He ran the back of his finger down her cheek—a reverent touch at odds with the ferocity in his tone.

  She was too afraid to comply.

  “Please,” he begged.

  He crammed a lifetime into the single syllable—and the resonation sounded like pain. Slowly, she lifted her lids. His gaze was scalding brimstone—tumult she instinctively wished to ease.

  “Giles,” she whispered.

  The rain began to pound. The muscles in his cheeks flattened into fierce, possessive planes, and their hearts conversed in a language she couldn’t begin to decipher.

  Her raw, unkept emotions, the dark imaginings brought to life only at the sound of a three a.m. chime, reflected in his face. But there was something else there, too. A recognition. You are me. I am you. Belonging. The word was a candle to light the way. New wetness gathered in her eyes.

  “Do not cry. I won’t—” He shut his lips. His throat moved as he swallowed. “I will try not to hurt you.”

  She made a valiant attempt to smile. Impossible with trembling lips. His gaze tumbled to her mouth.

  “Cherry ripe,” he said.

  Her mind went blank as he brushed his mouth against hers. The kiss was neither demand nor entreaty, but a solemn promise of comfort and care. This—far more heady than seduction—was devastatingly dear. He pulled back, just enough to touch her jaw.

  “Giles,” she breathed.

  “Katherine,” he said against her lips, “my hellion. To the devil with scandal.”

  Ah, but he did not know of the truth that stood in their way. “You do not know me.”