Scandalous Scoundrels

by Aileen Fish

  “About what?” she asked in confusion.

  “Do no play games with me, Emily,” he ground out.

  And then she understood. She jumped to her feet, her heart beating hard in her breast. “I have not changed my mind and you better not either!”

  “Me?” he asked incredulously.

  “It’s too late to change your mind, Nicholas Avery,” she told him, her mind whirling.

  “Ah, Em,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It was too late the moment you started singing to Danny Boy.”

  “Way back then, huh?” she asked in relief.

  “Even before that,” he assured her as he stalked toward her, a wicked grin on his face. “When I found you counting whiffles on your fingers and toes.”

  “Whiffles? On whose fingers and toes?”

  “At the theater.” He sat on the bench and pulled her down onto his lap. “I thought your name was Evette.”

  “Really?”

  “Or maybe Elspeth.”

  Emily wrinkled her nose at the name.

  “What are whiffles?” he asked as he bent her back over his arm.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.” She ran her hand up the column of his neck, across his smooth cheek.

  “Apparently you have seventeen of them,” he replied against her lips and Emily could feel his smile.

  A wisp of memory shivered through her. “Seventeen willfuls”

  He leaned back, staring down at her.

  “I was counting the number of times my father called me ‘willful’,” she explained.

  “Only seventeen?” he asked doubtfully. “In your entire life?”

  “Since the day Mrs. Gimble paid him a call to tattle on me.”

  “Ah, the busybody whose loose tongue started you on the path that led you to London. Remind me to thank her when I meet her.”

  “I doubt very much you shall ever meet Mrs. Gimble, as she is unlikely to travel to London,” Emily said with a laugh, trying to imagine the silly woman amongst the ladies of the ton.

  “Surely I’ll meet her while we are at Emerald Isle,” he replied and Emily’s heart stopped.

  “When will we be at Emerald Isle?” she asked, not daring to hope.

  “In the spring, of course.”

  Emily closed her eyes and sagged against Nicholas, her heart feeling as it was about to leap from her chest.

  “We are sailing with your father in the spring, aren’t we?” he asked slowly. “I thought you would want to spend some time with your siblings after we are married. Was I wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Em, open your eyes.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid if I open my eyes it will all have been a dream.”

  Nicholas pressed soft kisses to her closed eyelids.

  “What had you upset earlier?” he asked as he settled back against the wall of the gazebo, pulling her tightly against his broad chest. Emily wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled against his warmth.

  “I stumbled upon a terrible row between Bernice and Lord Jamison.”

  “They were arguing?”

  “Bernice was screaming at him and he was just standing there silent, as usual.”

  “How odd.”

  “It was awful. She was so furious she slapped him.”

  “She slapped Jamison? Why?”

  Emily relayed the entire sad tale, leaving nothing out, not Bernice’s rage or her confusion.

  “She’s truly given up on him, then?” Nicholas asked and Emily’s eyes popped open when she heard the regret in his voice.

  “It seems to me she should have given up on him years ago,” she replied indignantly. “The man cares nothing for her. He stood there looking at her, listening to her wretched words, and said nothing.”

  “Jamison loves her,” he said, and there was no doubt in his voice.

  “He doesn’t,” she argued. “He couldn’t.”

  “He doesn’t believe he deserves her.”

  “He’s right.”

  “Things are not always as they seem.”

  “If he loves her why has he allowed her to pine for him all these years?” she demanded. “Why has he allowed her to tarnish her name chasing after him? They call her The Untouchable, for goodness sake.”

  “I don’t know,” Nicholas admitted quietly. “I only know that he adores her, every irreverent inch of her. Jesus, it must have near killed him when she raised her hand to him.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice soft and plaintive.

  “Some people have scars, Em,” he replied, his eyes looking deeply into hers. “Scars no one else can see, scars on their heart. And as hard as they try, they just cannot place their battered hearts into another’s hands, cannot take that leap of faith.”

  Emily swallowed, wishing she could unburden herself to him, knowing he was asking her to do just that.

  “Someday,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  “Good enough.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Emily and Nick returned to the house, they learned that Lord Jamison had vacated the premises, taking the Parker brothers with him.

  “Damn,” Nick muttered, watching Emily wander away in search of Bernice.

  “Good afternoon, Nicholas.” Veronica Ogilvie glided across the parlor to stop before him, blocking his path toward Oliver and his father who sat at the card table. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  Nick couldn’t help but laugh at her transparent antics. Mr. Kildare had ceased paying attention to her, preferring the company of his sister and Miss Endicott, who for some unknown reason seemed glued to Lady Katherine’s side. Carmichael was perhaps days away from offering for Adelaide Sanderson. Mr. Endicott was paying marked attention to Lucinda Davis. And now Parker One had flown the coop. That only left him or Mr. Boone.

  “I’ve been paying court to Miss Calvert,” he answered.

  “Good Lord,” she exclaimed. “Are you still barking up that tree?”

  “I’m gaining ground, actually,” he told her as he sidled around her and headed to the empty chair at the card table.

  “There he is,” his father greeted in a near roar as he plopped into the vacant seat.

  “Father, how are you?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Just dandy, son, and you?”

  “Even better,” he answered, nodding across the table at Ollie. “How’s Joan today?”

  “She’s well. She’s out in the garden with Margaret and Mrs. Sanderson, discussing a design for a folly.” Oliver gifted Nicholas with the carefree smile he’d worn since learning of his wife’s condition.

  “Better than dandy?” his father asked slyly as he dealt them each a hand of cards. “Making headway, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nick fanned his cards out, kept his face blank as he took in the pair of aces and three fives.

  “Should we expect an announcement soon?” his father persisted.

  “What announcement?” Ollie asked.

  “Since it will be you and Mr. Calvert making any such announcement, I’ll be sure to let you know when the time comes,” Nick assured his father.

  “Ah, that announcement.” Ollie smiled at his brother. “Well done.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sensing a presence behind him, Nicholas looked over his shoulder to find Veronica peering at the cards in his hand.

  “Well done, indeed.” She trailed her hand along his jaw, her fingertips as cold as ice. There was an odd quality to her voice, a slight tremble beneath the husky purr. “Until later, Nicholas.”

  As she turned and walked away, Nick saw Emily standing in the doorway watching Veronica sashay across the room. For one heart-stopping moment he feared she had misread the situation as Veronica had intended. Until she smiled ruefully and mouthed, “Nasty Baggage.”

  Nick chuckled under his breath and returned his attention to the game.

  Emily had seen Veronica’s little performance
, seen right through it. Poor pathetic girl. She’d met others just like her, women who invariably wanted what, or who, belonged to someone else. And Nicholas Avery belonged to Emily and there wasn’t a blessed thing the little she-wolf could do about it.

  With a shake of her head at Veronica’s tenacity, Emily resumed her search for Bernice. She’d already looked in her bed chamber and the orangery and library.

  She finally found Bernice in a little-used parlor at the back of the house. She was curled into a big chair beside the cold hearth.

  “Good grief,” Emily exclaimed as she entered the room. “It’s colder than brass balls in this room.”

  “What exactly are brass balls?” Bernice asked, peering at Emily through puffy red-rimmed eyes.

  “I’ve no idea,” Emily admitted. “I’ve always assumed they were some reference to a man’s anatomy as every time my father says it he looks a bit sheepish afterward.”

  She knelt before the stacked wood in the grate, found a flint beside the poker and struck it on the stone, holding it to the kindling that had been laid. Within minutes she had a roaring fire going.

  “Your father’s a treasure,” Bernice said.

  “I’m happy you like him, as he seems smitten with your mother.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “Do you mind?” Emily pulled a low stool close to Bernice’s chair.

  “Not at all. My mother deserves some happiness after enduring twenty years with my father.”

  “Theirs was not a happy marriage?”

  “It was frightful. He seduced the parlor maids and gambled away his allowance. Thank God my grandfather lived until a year before my father died or we would have been bankrupted.”

  “Your poor mother,” Emily murmured. “My father was unfaithful but at least he didn’t gamble away Mama’s money.”

  “Does he chase the parlor maids?”

  “No, thank goodness, or I’d likely have more half-brothers and sisters. Pretty little caramel-skinned ones.”

  “Like Tilly?” Bernice asked.

  “Yes,” Emily admitted. “Tilly’s grandmother, Dora, was my grandfather’s concubine. Tilly’s mother was born of their union.”

  “Is Tilly’s mother a servant?”

  “Pearl has been our housekeeper since before I was born. She cared for Mama through all the endless years of her doomed pregnancies.”

  Bernice looked up and over Emily’s head and she turned to find Nicholas hesitating in the doorway.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said, a curious spark in his eyes.

  “You’re not intruding,” Emily replied. “Please join us.”

  He tossed a pillow to the floor near Emily, removed his coat, loosened his cravat and stretched out on the floor, his golden curls brushing her skirts.

  “Em was just explaining her relationship to Tilly,” Bernice said with a fond smile. “They’re cousins.”

  “You and your maid?” Nicholas asked in surprise. “How’s that?”

  Emily laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but, yes, we are cousins. Tilly’s mother, our housekeeper Pearl, and my mother were half-sisters. My grandfather fathered them both.”

  If Nicholas was shocked by her revelation, he didn’t show it. He clasped his hands over his stomach and looked up at her, waiting for her to go on.

  “Your grandfather took a servant to his bed, fathered a child on her and raised that child in his house?” Bernice asked.

  “Actually Dora was a slave,” Emily corrected her. “It wasn’t until Mama passed away that Da freed all the slaves on Emerald Isle. Tilly was the first baby born free.”

  “Still, your grandfather kept the children from his… What did you call her?”

  “His concubine. Pearl wasn’t the only child he fathered on a slave. And he kept them because they belonged to him. They had value. They worked in the house and stables, but never in the fields.”

  “His own children slaves,” Bernice murmured. “I guess my father wasn’t so bad after all.”

  “Da’s mother was a servant,” Emily went on. “She was lady’s maid to Aunt Margaret’s mother. Captain Mick fathered them both while home from sea one winter and they were born days apart. Margaret’s mother kept her maid and her husband’s illegitimate son in her house.”

  “Emily, you come from a long line of philanderers!” Bernice cried, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Emily insisted. “It’s quite true. A number of my ancestors, going back generations, were born on the wrong side of the blanket. My great-grandfather was the illegitimate son of an English nobleman, one of the lords who held the charter to the Maryland Colony. My grandmother, who married that illegitimate son’s son, was the illegitimate daughter of one of the gentlemen who signed our Declaration of Independence.”

  “Goodness,” Bernice murmured in awe.

  “It’s the same here,” Nicholas said.

  “Surely not,” Bernice protested.

  “I went to school with a number of bastard sons whose fathers sat in the Lords,” he replied. “There’s been one among us at this very gathering.”

  “Lord Kildare, you mean?” Bernice asked.

  “Oh, right, I forgot about him.”

  “There’s another?” Bernice asked, her eyes round.

  “And a daughter,” he added.

  “Good gracious, is it me?” she asked.

  Nicholas and Emily laughed at the unmistakable hope in her voice.

  “I’m afraid not,” he told her.

  “Damn, I would so love to think my mother had taken a lover, found some pleasure for herself.”

  “Perhaps she did,” Emily suggested.

  “No, she wouldn’t. She believed in the promises she made to her husband, even when he flaunted his mistresses and affairs in her face.”

  “My mother, too,” Emily replied. “She adored my father, only really came alive when he was home. She tried so hard to give him more children, instead he had two with his mistress, Martha.”

  “I’m sure if my father could have gotten Lady Margaret with child he would have been thrilled,” Nicholas said, his eyes upon Emily.

  “Maggie would have loved to have your father’s child,” Emily replied softly. “What a terrible mess. It seems all our fathers were incapable of remaining faithful to their wives.”

  “None of them married for love,” Nicholas pointed out.

  “I believe my father was faithful to Martha,” Emily said.

  “Mine has certainly been faithful to Margaret.”

  “I doubt my father was ever faithful to anyone,” Bernice said.

  “We’ll break the cycle,” Nicholas said.

  “Yes,” Emily replied and Nicholas wrapped one strong hand around her ankle and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  “Are you getting married?” Bernice asked in wonder. “You’ve finally come to your senses, Emily?”

  “Yes,” she admitted as her friend leaned forward to embrace her.

  “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you,” Emily whispered.

  “It’s not common knowledge yet,” Nick cautioned.

  “I won’t say a word,” Bernice assured him. “But when will you announce it? Surely before Lady Margaret’s party ends.”

  “If we don’t I’m afraid she’ll hold us hostage here,” Emily replied.

  “She’ll invite every unwed heiress she can find to join us for another week,” Nick added as he rose to his feet.

  Bernice rose with him and wrapped her arms around his waist, giving him a big hug. “You’d best break the cycle or I swear I will hunt you down.”

  “Please do not threaten my bollocks,” he pleaded.

  “Your bollocks?” Bernice asked with a laugh. “Is that what brass balls are?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  That night, when Nicholas came to Emily’s room, he found her sitting cross-legged atop a lush blue velvet blanket on the floor before the fire running a
brush through her long wet hair. She’d obviously just come from her bath and was still wrapped in a fluffy linen sheet, her shoulders bare and gleaming in the flickering firelight.

  She smiled up at him as he crossed the room to join her. He knelt behind her, his knees close beside her hips, and took the brush from her hands. With long, slow strokes he drew the brush from the crown of her head to the curling ends below her waist. Her tresses felt like silk, slippery and cool.

  “Mmm,” she hummed. “That’s so nice. Much better than when Tilly does it.”

  “Have you and Tilly talked of your shared blood?” He hoped he’d been successful in hiding his shock when she’d shared her family history with him and Bernice. He was grateful he’d followed his instincts and trailed after her into the little parlor. He thought he’d finally unlocked some of the secrets in her heart.

  “No. To be honest, I didn’t think of us as cousins,” she replied, her voice low and smooth. “I guess I was too caught up in the shame of it to see the beauty.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m not certain Tilly knows we share a grandfather. Perhaps when we return to Emerald Isle I’ll ask Pearl about it.”

  “When did you learn of your family history?”

  “I’ve always known,” she replied, surprising him. He’d thought for certain she had only learned of it recently, perhaps on the crossing or after arriving in London. “It’s no secret, not even much of a scandal. The Bay is peppered with families just like mine. Why, our neighbors, the Johnstons, are a hodge-podge of white, black and mulatto siblings, parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents.”

  “I’d heard that masters often took their female slaves to their beds,” he admitted. “I just didn’t realize how prevalent it is.”

  “Oh, it’s not just their slaves planter gentlemen take to their beds,” she replied, an edge to her words. “It’s all women. I don’t think I know one planter on the Bay who hasn’t bedded some woman not his wife.”

  “Really?” he asked in alarm.

  “Well, maybe one,” she amended quietly.

  “Who?”

  “Peter Marshall.”

  “The man who broke your betrothal?”

  “Of course, he wasn’t married, so who knows what would have happened. Perhaps he would have found his pleasures outside the marriage.”