A Little More Scandal

by Carrie Lofty

  She had known the speculation to be rampant, but the nightmarish fantasy Lady Evelyn had crafted was simply . . . beyond. Was any woman capable of using such a tragedy to wipe clean a shameful slate? And then to accept every invitation to every ball, smiling as Catrin loved to smile and dancing as she loved to dance? Anyone who chose to believe that of her would believe her an exceedingly cold creature.

  “I must talk to you, Miss Jones.”

  Her heart stopped. Jumped. Thudded. Raced at a terribly unhealthy speed. She would’ve been alarmed for a patient with her vital signs.

  William Christie leaned against one of the massive pillars that stretched two stories tall, to where ornate frescoes decorated the domed ceiling. His ankles were crossed. He held a tumbler of liquor, but otherwise his posture seemed tense. It was the line of his wide chest—so constricted as to be nearly hunched. Even as Catrin noticed that sign of fatigue, he straightened to his wholly intimidating height. She inhaled sharply.

  He wore a simple charcoal suit that had been perfectly tailored. No more ill-fitting garments. This one permitted his shoulders the room to be broad and impressive and his legs the chance to show off their tight, strong bulk. His body had flexed atop hers. This suit did remarkable justice to his raw strength and long limbs. A plain, black satin half-mask covered most of his face, including his busted nose. The effect was breathtaking. He had transformed into the handsomest man Catrin had ever beheld.

  Again she thought of a wolf among sheep, only he was a strapping thief among preening aristocrats. She wanted to climb him, kiss him, strip that fine suit off his glorious body.

  But from somewhere in the depths of her character, where she had apparently learned to accept a great deal of insult without showing it, she found her voice. “And if I believe we no longer have anything to discuss?”

  She believed no such thing, of course. Her pride had taken quite a beating. She wanted to huddle behind her defenses for just another moment.

  He stalked away from the column, downing the last of his drink with a single flick of his wrist. The glass disappeared on the tray of a passing server. William stood over her, a primitive god fallen to earth. He glanced his knuckles against her cheek, then passed his thumb over her lower lip.

  “Oh, but we do,” he said. Amid the dancers, the music, and the ceaseless conversations, his rumbling rasp was difficult to hear. She felt that delicious vibration just beneath her breastbone. “Miss Jones, I would like to reopen our negotiations.”

  Ten

  William did not wait for her answer. He had too much ground to cover.

  Taking Catrin’s hand, he pulled her toward the ballroom. Only under such circumstances could they stand close, talking, even touching, while people feigned knowledge of their identities. The liberties taken at the annual masquerade would burst the boundaries of propriety at any other event. Here, at least, a modicum of deniability kept the worst gossip at bay.

  The ceiling, decorated with twelve constellations and their mythological complements, was so high as to create a mass of echoing voices. Music from a small orchestra added to the din. Strategically placed candelabras permitted plenty of light for the dancers, but in turn created spaces between columns that were made private by shadow. The entire gala was designed to foster a sense of public discretion. Likely Lady Evelyn and her cohorts had developed just the right environment to both spawn and conceal scandal.

  Far be it for him to go against the grain. If his discussion with Catrin went well, William hoped to make the most of such a darkened alcove.

  She finally resisted his hold. Her wrist bones felt so fragile when wrapped in his big hand. He looked back to see her scowling, practically digging her heels into the sleek marble floor. Her forest green mask of shiny satin was rather ordinary except for the black lace edging. But there was no disguising the sharp censure in her shimmering honey eyes, nor the embittered frown that warped her lovely mouth.

  “Pick a place and speak your mind,” she said tartly. “I won’t be dragged about like a hunter’s fresh kill.”

  William let her struggle for a moment, if only to admire the determined tilt of her chin. Then he caught her other wrist and pulled her flush against his chest. She smelled of that same aroused sweetness. Without thought, he licked his lips in anticipation of tasting her again.

  To rely on a clever, sound partner in his life was more of a temptation than he ever imagined. He was not used to decisions based on emotion. Not at all. Pushing her onto his desk had been the most decadent choice of his entire year. He had resisted the notion that a few chance meetings and a rush of sexual combustion could dictate his future as surely as his strategies. Yet as subsequent nights had crept by, he found no relief from the image of a new future.

  He would marry Catrin.

  She had been right. They were compatible. The decision was not his most analytically sound, but neither would it set fire to his ambitions. He could have both. But only if this unpredictable creature was as sure of her own mind. William had no such faith.

  “Why me, Catrin?”

  She stilled. Her wide, pale eyes darted between his mask, his mouth, and the bulk of the ballroom. Hundreds of people. Something had her rattled. He had yet to witness her so agitated.

  He chanced the opportunity to touch her chin, to make her see him. “If you seek a husband . . . why me?”

  “Because you seem kind enough, if a little gruff. You’re strong and wealthy. You kiss marvelously well—among other things.” A becoming blush colored the bridge of her nose. “I could be safe with you.”

  He found himself smiling at her rather economical assessment of his attributes. “Could be?”

  A little shrug lifted shoulders swathed in ivory lace. William caressed the petal-soft skin of her throat. No gloves for him tonight. He had left them aside by apparent accident, but with the very calculated intention of touching her.

  “I hardly know you,” she said softly. “Yet I’ve never met a man whose attributes measure up to yours. But I’ll be honest. My time among these people is dwindling. I may have no more than tonight, and I approach every invitation with a ticking clock in my head. That terminus has not permitted the luxury of complete certainty.”

  “Were you certain in my office?”

  “No. I was carried away, as you likely were.” She inhaled, then let the breath rush free. “That makes what happened no less special to me.”

  The skin he stroked harbored a buzzing tension. She was a woman made of a bee’s sting and a hiss. A similar anxiety had hummed through him across the past two weeks. He realized by slow degrees that he had made a mistake in letting her leave his home.

  “Surely, you must see,” she continued, her voice accelerating and strengthening. “I cannot afford to be romantic, no matter my own wishes. As soon as they tire of guessing my particulars, I will no longer be their entertainment. They will take greater pains to ensure someone is on hand to sing or play the pianoforte, or they will find another penniless woman of respectable breeding to tempt with the pleasures of a higher sort of life. Right now they have no such need for diversions. ‘Invite Catrin Jones,’ they must laugh to one another. That will not last forever, especially as soon as . . .”

  Her voice cracked. She looked toward the floor.

  “As soon as what?”

  “I refused to tell Lady Evelyn what I endured, just as I refuse everyone. She retaliated by relating new gossip, although I suspect she invented it to punish me.”

  William listened in a red-hazed horror as she related Lady Evelyn’s claims. “That heinous bitch,” he rasped.

  Catrin’s neck snapped back. Her lips parted on a gasp that sounded unbearably sexual. Her moment of anger dissolved into a stifled laugh. “You cannot say that about a member of the aristocracy. It’s simply not done.”

  “I’m wearing a mask,” he said, smiling briefly. “They’ll never know it’s me.”

  “But you’re unmistakable.”

  The sound of wonder in he
r lilting voice warmed a chilled, walled-off place deep inside him. “How so?”

  “Tall. Rough. Vigorous in a way these other men cannot claim, no matter how many sporting trips they may have made to the Lake District.”

  “I own a fair piece of the Lake District.”

  Those beautiful apricot lips turned up at the corners. “See? You could keep me safe.”

  Forget the masquerade. He wanted more privacy, and he wanted to see her face. Those shadowed alcoves beckoned. With a gentle tug, one that said she was within her rights to resist, he urged her into the darkness.

  “And that’s very important to you, isn’t it, Catrin? Being safe?”

  A shaft of light spread along her neck, so perfectly that he could see her swallow. “Can you blame me?”

  “I don’t know. Because I don’t know what you’ve endured.”

  “Oh, and you expect me to open up now, Mr. Christie?”

  “Yes.”

  William reached behind her head and unfastened the lace ties holding her mask in place. Her cheeks and forehead were warm to the touch as he slid his fingertips from her crown, to the tip of her nose, to the full, perfectly plump lips he had been unable to forget. She opened her mouth and slowly, so very slowly, took his thumb inside. She sucked deeply, her gaze never wavering from his. Then, the slightest test of teeth. Only when he closed his eyes on a long, low hiss did she release him.

  She smiled gently. “And why would I tell you anything without guarantees? I’m not a fool.”

  “But you were drowning, weren’t you?” William was too caught up in her warmth, her delicate strength, to relish her flinch. “And I don’t just mean in the water as the Honoria sank. You’ve been drowning ever since returning to solid land. How can you not with so many curious people believing you a freak of nature? An angel. A heroine. An undeserving girl from the country.”

  Although he believed Lady Evelyn’s comments were fabricated—to serve as punishment, as Catrin suggested—he had been privy to the lion’s share of rumors surrounding the HMS Honoria’s only survivor. To say it had become his obsession would be an understatement. But he hardly enjoyed seeing their effect, firsthand, on the woman who bore such hurt in her iridescent eyes.

  “Don’t you think I know how that feels?” All he could do was whisper as he shoved his pride aside. “Don’t you believe I’ve heard the mockery and the speculation? I’ve been fighting to get here since I was old enough to throw a punch. A boy from the Glasgow slums. What were the chances? But I will never be admired the way these people are. Even my wife offered me no respite.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “No. But I respected her. I cannot say she returned the sentiment.” He shivered as Catrin slipped inside his coat and tucked her hands up the back hem of his shirt. Just a little touch to keep them both from flying apart. “She wanted to change me, make me into a more perfect gentleman, but I hadn’t the time. I was too busy keeping her family from falling into arrears. Yet she remained afraid of me, Catrin, poisoned by her parents’ warnings and her friends’ constant chatter. You’ve never . . .”

  “Been afraid of you? No.” She hugged close, her cheek pressed against his shirtfront. “Afraid of my own impulses, yes. But I have little else to call my own.”

  He stripped off his mask and leaned closer. Although he harbored no vanity about his appearance, he knew the aftermath of numerous fights affected many. “Look at me.”

  Catrin smiled and cupped both hands against his cheeks. “I am looking.”

  He could only frown in confusion.

  “I must admit, you looked very handsome in the mask. Rather sinister and far too perfect.” She used his shoulders as support when she stretched up and kissed the tip of his nose. “I’m much more fond of you.”

  Just as he had after reaching his climax, William tucked his face flush against the side of her neck. He nuzzled her hair, kissed just below her earlobe. “Would you like to risk a real scandal?”

  “How so?”

  He felt her tension beneath his lips, where it pulsed along her neck. After straightening, he traced the lace of her high collar. He tried to hide a quirking smile and failed. “Miss Jones, are you covering something?”

  “I am,” she said with the faintest tease. “You can see it again if you like.”

  His body stiffened. How easy would it be to take this woman, right here? They could be quiet, at least initially. She was certainly not one for silence. Yet the idea of claiming her in such a public place thrilled him with a dark, primal urge. He would be inside her all that much sooner—sinking into her hot depths once again, slaking the need that had grown by exponential leaps since their first kiss.

  They would be forced to marry. No more second-guessing. No well-considered plans.

  Instead he settled for a glimpse of the forbidden. He touched the line of lace that hugged just beneath her jaw, then rolled it slowly down. Two buttons parted. Finally, a little pull. He revealed a faint mark in the shape of his teeth. The bruise was almost gone. Chancing the urge to repeat his fierce claim, he leaned down and kissed that precious skin. Just once. A field of goose bumps blossomed beneath his lips.

  He could risk no more. He replaced his mask, then hers.

  “Now, to our scandal.”

  Catrin’s smile was pure wickedness. “I should think it as simple as continuing that kiss.”

  “Yes, but not so rewarding as what I have in mind. You will walk with me through the ballroom, arm in arm. Then you will join me in my carriage. If we’re recognized, so be it. If not, we’ve lost nothing at all.”

  “And where would you take me, Mr. Christie?”

  “To my home, Miss Jones.” He leaned nearer and kissed the top of her head. With more confidence than he felt—disconcerting for a man who was used to fat stores of confidence—he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Where you will tell me exactly what happened aboard the Honoria.”

  “I will not!”

  “You will. Because you must understand, Catrin,” he said, his words low and deliberate. “I know I am a rich man. But never again will I marry a woman who desires my fortune but cannot stand the man who bears it. Our discussions began with a very poor first attempt. No honesty. Certainly no trust.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So you will give me your secret, and I will give you mine.”

  Her slanted brows lifted. “You have such a secret?”

  “How I spent last year’s Season. In Paris.”

  “Oh.” She inhaled through her nose. “Yes. That has been quite the mystery.”

  “Our secrets laid bare, Catrin. We both deserve as much before I propose to you.”

  Eleven

  Catrin had never been more aware of whispers and stares as she crossed the ballroom. She was none so naïve as to believe the slight disguise of her mask would protect her. The twirling colors and twinkling jewels, the boisterous chatter and laughter—it blended into an aura that choked all her air.

  Suddenly she was back in the water. Her fingers were chilled to the point of frostbite as she clung to a jagged piece of driftwood. The ache in her chest was grief, fatigue, and the cloudy, awful pain of drowning. Breathing . . . She could not. Water was in her mouth, all salt and putrid death.

  “Catrin,” came a voice from very far away.

  A comforting blackness shaded her eyes. Nothing more to see. No more pain. Floating in a way that was at once terrifying and comforting. How could that be?

  “Catrin, look at me.”

  That voice. She had come to relish its slurred brogue. Fighting past the foggy daze, she welcomed her sense of touch. William. His fingers on her face, gently stroking her cheeks. Then smell. She took her first deep breath, so welcome after the moment when her lungs had turned inside out. His scent was a sharp blend of shaving soap and his distinct masculine spice. She wanted to lick and keep licking.

  “Come back, my darling. Look at me.”

  And finally, sight. She blinked, blinke
d again, and found William’s bright hazel eyes. His sunny brown brows were furrowed, and that beautiful, sensual mouth was twisted around a grimace. He had appeared equally intense when readying to kiss her, but with none of the deathly serious concern.

  “You’re so handsome,” she murmured.

  “Oh, bloody hell, Catrin.”

  Only then did she realize they were not alone. Dear Lord, far from it. William knelt on the ballroom floor. His arms cradled behind her back. Her mask was gone. She lay against his body, with her legs splayed gracelessly along the gleaming white marble. Futilely, she tried to tuck her skirts around her ankles, draw up her knees, hide. Around them gawked a circle of grotesquely blank expressions—dozens of masked faces with mouths active around hissed whispers.

  Everyone looking at her.

  She had never felt such overwhelming embarrassment. Sheer, painful, hot mortification swept up from her stomach and clustered below her voice box. She gulped, trying to swallow, and barely kept from being sick all over the Duchess’s polished floor. Or her own dress. Or William’s lovely new charcoal suit.

  Again, his hands caressed her face. “Where are you?” he asked, the question rife with strain. “Can you answer that?”

  “I need to leave.”

  The words came out as a gasp. Another attack awaited her. She was losing her senses again, her sight dimming, her ears clouding with cottony distance. Only her hands seemed to work. When William lifted her straight off the floor, she clung to him as she had once clung to driftwood. He was her lifeboat now—her only hope of escaping that huge ballroom with some semblance of a future.

  The crowd parted, but Catrin ducked away from those eerily still faces. Ghouls from a nightmare. She huddled against William’s chest, with her fingers laced behind his neck. At least she could still feel: her cheek rubbing his starched shirtfront, her forehead brushing his silk cravat, and her body being borne by his strong, impossibly strong arms, as if she weighed no more than a kitten. He breathed evenly as he walked her into the night.