Scandalous Scoundrels

by Aileen Fish

  “I’ll give you a hint,” Emily offered. “Her initials are V.O., and she is not sugar and spice or anything nice.”

  “Ah,” Margaret murmured. “She’s a nasty baggage. Can’t think why I invited her.”

  “She’s an heiress,” Emily answered. “Can’t have too many heiresses at a—”

  “Do not say it!” Margaret interrupted.

  “Country party,” she finished with a laugh. “Goodness, Aunt, what on earth did you think I meant to say?”

  “Cheeky girl,” her aunt said, her eyes alight with humor. “Have you noticed that my niece is a cheeky girl, Nicholas?”

  “I have, Lady Margaret,” he replied as they followed the curve in the path that led to a large gazebo where a late-morning repast had been set up for those guests who cared to brave the cool autumn air. “I’ve also noticed that she is a tad on the bossy side.”

  “I am not bossy!” Emily cried in astonishment.

  “She gets that from me,” Margaret replied.

  “You don’t say,” Nicholas responded.

  “I suppose she’s had to be bossy, raising those hooligans.”

  “Hooligans?” Nick asked.

  “She means my sister and brother, Patsy and Charles,” Emily explained.

  “And Nate and the Danson boy, what’s his name?”

  “Tate,” Emily replied. “But how do you know about Tate Danson?”

  “Your father is a faithful correspondent,” Margaret answered. “He’s written me every month without fail since he sailed for the colonies.”

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Who are Nate and Tate?” Nick asked.

  “Nate is my brother and Tate is his friend.”

  “Which is why I should have realized all was not well long before I did,” Margaret continued her earlier comment. “Charlie has filled reams of parchment with your shenanigans over the years.”

  Emily jerked her gaze to her aunt. Surely she did not intend to discuss that in front of Nicholas Avery.

  “Shenanigans?” Nick asked with a laugh.

  “Don’t listen to Aunt Margaret,” she ordered. “She thinks falling asleep at the theater is high jinks.”

  “My niece is not the proper lady she would have us believe,” Margaret said boldly.

  “Is that so?” he asked, his voice sliding over Emily’s skin like warm silk.

  “Hush, Maggie,” Emily said.

  “Don’t hush me, girlie,” Margaret replied. “She’s a hoyden.”

  Emily burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. Her aunt said the word as if it was the greatest of compliments.

  Nicholas Avery eyed her from her head to her toes and back again before demanding, “Tell me more, Lady Margaret.”

  “I will not,” Margaret replied with a saucy smile. “You’ll find out for yourself if you spend more than five minutes in her company.” And she flounced ahead to join Adelaide Sanderson and her mother who were sitting with Mr. Carmichael under the sloped roof of the gazebo.

  “It looks as if you might have competition for Miss Sanderson’s attention,” Emily said.

  “What was that about?” Nick laid his hand, his big warm hand, on her arm, halting her beside a tall hedge that ran the circumference of the clearing in which the gazebo sat. She felt the heat of his touch through the layers of her cotton dress and wool pelisse.

  “Just Aunt Margaret’s idea of humor,” she responded.

  “Was she warning me off or encouraging me on?” Nicholas was looking down at her with something intent and slightly wicked in his eyes.

  “She has no reason to do either,” Emily replied, but as she said the words she knew he was right. Aunt Margaret was meddling, and not a full day after she’d promised to cease.

  “Doesn’t she?” he asked and Emily watched in fascination as he lifted his hand and brought it up to rest on her neck, his fingers trailing into the hair at her nape.

  “Of course not,” Emily whispered, afraid he might lean down and kiss her, afraid he might not. “There is no reason for Aunt Margaret to warn you off or encourage you on.”

  “Liar,” he whispered as his head lowered.

  His warm lips barely touched her waiting mouth before she heard laughing voices coming their way. Emily pulled away, turned and hurried to join the group in the gazebo.

  A few minutes later, Nicholas escorted Veronica and Lucinda toward where she sat talking with Miss Sanderson and Mr. Carmichael, Aunt Margaret and Mrs. Sanderson having wandered off to investigate the maze.

  “Isn’t this lovely,” Lucinda said as she stepped into the structure. “It’s just like a little miniature house. Who was the queen who built a little village for entertaining her guests?”

  “One of the Medicis, no doubt,” Veronica replied. She did not enter the dwelling, preferring to stand next to Nicholas with her hand clamped around his arm. Really, she was all but pressing her breast against him.

  “Marie Antoinette,” Emily answered Lucinda. “Hameau de la Reine. She built it in the gardens of the Petit Trianon at Versailles, in 1783, I think. It was whispered that she built it as a tribute to her love for Count von Fersen or to occupy her mind while he was away with the King of Sweden.”

  When Emily stopped speaking she found five pairs of eyes staring at her.

  “Completer avec le Temple de L’amour,” she added when no one spoke.

  “Your French is perfect.” Miss Sanderson finally ended the awkward silence.

  “Thank you,” Emily replied.

  “My goodness, Miss Calvert,” Lucinda said in awe. “You certainly do know a great many interesting things.”

  “You’re a regular blue stocking,” Veronica said with a throaty laugh.

  “Did you think we were all ignorant peasants rusticating in the colonies?” Emily asked sweetly.

  “Well, after last evening’s stories of mammies and whiskey and britches and horse farms…” Veronica’s voice drifted off.

  “Lei non saprebbe intelligente se l’ha morso nel suo obiettivo magro.” Emily could have bitten her tongue when both Nicholas and Mr. Carmichael erupted into laughter. Good God, she’d just told one of her aunt’s guests that she wouldn’t know intelligent if it bit her in her skinny butt!

  Who would have thought that anyone in this group of bored Londoners would know Italian?

  “That was lovely!” Lucinda cried. “What did you say?”

  “Roughly translated—” Emily began with a wry shrug.

  “I believe Miss Calvert was complimenting Miss Ogilvie’s figure in that lovely blue dress,” Adelaide Sanderson interrupted. “You are quite right, Miss Calvert, it does make her look quite slender and perfectly proportioned.”

  Veronica eyed Adelaide with unconcealed malice before turning to glare at Emily.

  Margaret and Mrs. Sanderson arrived just then and the conversation turned to the hunt that was planned for the following day.

  “You are full of surprises, Miss Calvert,” Nicholas whispered to her an hour later as they made their way back toward the house.

  “Because I speak French and know a smattering of Italian slang?” she asked. “You are surprised quite easily.”

  “Come for a walk with me.”

  Emily laughed at his request. “Certainly not.”

  “You know you want to,” he urged, his voice low and smooth.

  And she did. She wanted to follow him into the woods or behind a tall hedge or into the stables and kiss him senseless.

  But she wanted her life back even more. She was tired of feeling out of place, out of sorts, and just plain out of her element here in England. She wanted to go home to Emerald Isle with Da in the spring. She wanted to wrap her arms around Charlie and Patsy. She wanted to wake up in her own bed and know who she was.

  Mostly she wanted to forget the lost and confused lady who’d wandered through her days and nights like a ghost. She wanted to forget the terrible night when she had nearly killed herself, the night she realized she didn’t know her
self at all, the night she admitted she was a weak woman addicted to the oblivion she had found in a pretty blue bottle.

  “You should be enticing Miss Sanderson to walk with you,” she told Nicholas.

  “I don’t want to walk with Miss Sanderson,” he replied with a mischievous smile. “I want to walk with you.”

  “You don’t only want to walk with me,” she accused.

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “I want to hold you. I want to kiss those luscious lips of yours.”

  “And more,” she said.

  The devilish smile disappeared from his face, replaced by a look of sincerity. “I won’t do anything you don’t wish.”

  “Well, fat lot of help that is,” she exclaimed in frustration.

  Nicholas laughed down at her.

  “You cannot run around kissing every lady who takes your fancy,” she instructed as she resumed walking, Nicholas falling into step beside her.

  “I don’t run around kissing ladies, whether they take my fancy or not,” he replied and Emily heard the remnants of his laughter in his husky voice. “Only the ones with fiery red hair and a store of useless information they can’t wait to toss about.”

  “I’m guessing Adelaide Sanderson has a treasure trove of useless information stored away.”

  “Her hair is brown.”

  “She’s in the market for a husband,” Emily pointed out.

  “And you aren’t?” he countered.

  “Not any longer.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since my All But Betrothed threw me over.”

  That stopped Nicholas in his tracks. Emily kept right on walking. For about five seconds. Then she turned to find him looking at her with the oddest expression on his face. She couldn’t decide if it was amusement or regret. Or some combination of the two.

  “I didn’t throw you over,” he said.

  With an exaggerated huff of annoyance Emily returned to his side, sliding her arm around his and urging him forward once more. “Of course you didn’t.”

  “You haven’t really decided not to marry, have you?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” she answered. “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. But whatever I do, you can be sure I’ll be doing it on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “So, you’ve only been toying with me?” he asked.

  “I’ve not been toying with you. You kissed me.”

  “You practically begged me to.”

  “Oh, the conceit.”

  They’d fallen so far behind that the others had already entered the house, leaving them alone on the garden path. Taking advantage, Nicholas pulled her off the path behind an old oak tree with a wide trunk. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned back against the rough surface, pulling her against his broad chest.

  “Nicholas Avery,” she warned as she pushed away from him. Her hands were on his shoulders, her eyes level with his lips as he widened his stance and leaned back, fitting her neatly between his legs. “You cannot—”

  He swooped down and captured her protest with his lips and Emily gave up and gave in. She gave in to the desire that whispered through her blood every time she looked up to find his warm gaze on her. She gave in to the need that traveled from his hot mouth to dip and swell in her breasts straining against his chest. She gave in to the hunger that roared to life as his tongue invaded her mouth, searching until she met it with her own, until she joined in the carnal rhythm he set with his lips and tongue and teeth.

  He groaned and she felt the vibration in his chest clear through her coat, dress and stays, rubbed her aching nipples against him in search of relief.

  His hands swept across her shoulders, down her back to her bottom, where they hovered before grasping her firmly and pulling her up against him. She felt him, hard and hot against her belly, thrilled to the knowledge that she was not alone in this mindless pleasure.

  He slanted his mouth over hers again and again, kissing her, nibbling her lips, suckling her tongue.

  “Nicholas,” she moaned against his ravishing lips.

  “Ah, Ellen,” he whispered.

  Emily froze, pulled her lips from his, and met his dazed eyes.

  “Not Ellen,” he murmured and leaned forward to capture her lips again. She turned her face away, evading his lips. He dragged his open mouth down her jaw to her neck where he found the pulse that beat there and lavished it with attention.

  Emily shivered at this new onslaught, might have given in to desire once more, had Nicholas not whispered against her neck, “Evelyn.”

  “You don’t know my name,” she cried as she wrenched from his arms.

  She took an unsteady step back, then another. Nicholas dropped his hands to his thighs, leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell, his panting breath sawing in and out through his open mouth.

  “You don’t know my name,” she repeated more calmly.

  Nicholas opened his eyes and looked at her the very same way her brother Charlie looked at her when he knew he’d been found out in some mischief. “You never told me.”

  “You never asked,” she countered.

  “A gentleman does not ask a lady her given name.”

  “Oh, are we pretending you are a gentleman?”

  He had the grace to look abashed, but only barely.

  “Did my aunt never tell you?”

  “Yes, I’m sure she did.”

  “You forgot? We were nearly betrothed to be married and you could not be bothered to remember my name? Why did you not ask your father or your brother? Surely they…” her words faded away when he slowly shook his head.

  “I kept thinking someone would say it eventually. Then it became something of a family joke…” It was his turn to allow his words to wither away.

  “A family joke,” she repeated.

  “No, not a joke precisely, more a humorous game,” he amended.

  “But when you followed me into the stables, surely you could have asked me then?”

  He looked away from her intent gaze. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “You didn’t recognize me?” she repeated as realization dawned. “When you kissed me, who did you think you were kissing?”

  Nicholas cringed at the question.

  “Who?” she demanded desperately.

  “The stable master’s daughter,” he admitted with a wry shrug.

  Emily opened her mouth, snapped it shut again. There were no words. No words for the ridiculousness of the situation in which she found herself.

  “What’s your name?” he finally inquired with what she supposed was meant to be a charming, self-deprecating smile.

  But Emily didn’t feel like being charmed and she wasn’t for a moment fooled by his attempt at boyish humility.

  “Good Lord, you really are a stallion in search of a mare,” she finally said, amazement lacing the words.

  “No.” He lurched away from the tree trunk, tripped over a gnarled root, righted himself. But Emily was already turning away from him, turning toward the path that would lead her back to her aunt’s house, back to face his family, who had made her into a joke.

  “Wait, Miss Calvert,” he called as he ran to catch up to her.

  He laid a hand on her arm as if to halt her. She shrugged his hand away and picked up her pace.

  “Please, just let me explain,” he said as he fell into step beside her.

  “There’s nothing to explain, I understand perfectly,” she said, proud of how calm and controlled her voice sounded. “You are in need of a broad mare and any lady will do. And while you are making up your mind, you will kiss whomever you please.”

  “Stop,” he ordered.

  Emily ignored him, her mind already on packing her bags, on what she would tell her father and her aunt.

  As they approached the door Aunt Margaret’s butler Jackson pulled it open, allowing her to march inside without delay.

  “Thank you, Jackson,” she murmured as she
passed him.

  “Miss Calvert,” Nicholas growled behind her.

  Emily made it onto the third step of the long winding staircase before curiosity got the best of her. What could the man possibly have left to say to her?

  She turned and planted both hands on her hips and glared down at him. He stumbled to a stop, obviously surprised by her sudden capitulation.

  “Yes, Mr. Avery?” she fairly barked at him.

  He hesitated, took one step toward her and halted once more.

  “You called me Mr. Avenue,” he said and there was the strangest look of defiance in his eyes.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When we met, at the theater,” he clarified. “You called me Mr. Avenue.”

  Emily had only a vague memory of that night but thought that what he said was likely true. “And your point is?”

  “You didn’t remember my name. You don’t see me in an uproar about it.”

  Emily looked away from him, looked to her right and found Veronica Ogilvie watching them curiously from the open doorway to the music room.

  “Esperanza,” she said, turning back to face him. “Mi chiamo Esperanza.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nick was still berating himself for his stupidity hours later as the party guests congregated in the parlor before dinner.

  Miss Calvert — he knew perfectly well her name was not Esperanza — had yet to appear. She’d been noticeably absent all day. She hadn’t joined the other guests for luncheon or tea. She hadn’t participated in any of the indoor amusements Lady Margaret had arranged when the skies opened up and rain poured down for hours.

  It wouldn’t surprise Nick if she didn’t appear for dinner either.

  “Was that French Miss Calvert was speaking to you earlier?” Veronica Ogilvie asked as she sidled up next to him where he stood looking out at the dark, rainy night.

  “Italian.” He thought about asking her what Miss Calvert’s given name was but quickly rejected the idea.

  “Really?” she murmured. “How odd.”

  He had no desire to engage in idle chatter with the lady but couldn’t see a way to politely walk away. “How so?”

  “It’s not a language ladies normally learn,” she all but purred as she leaned toward him, presenting him with an unobstructed view of her bosom where it nearly spilled from her gown. “I suppose it’s different in the Americas. They are a bit backward.”