It Started with a Scandal

by Julie Anne Long

  This made him pace to the window and yank back the curtains as if they were poised to leap and attack him. He glowered accusingly out at the day.

  If there was a child, there was a man, because of course she was not, after all, the Madonna, exquisitely run household and flawless apple tarts notwithstanding.

  Then again . . . the man in question might be dead.

  He was absurdly buoyed by this hope, and suddenly the day was beautiful again and he fancied he could hear birds singing, even from this distance.

  “Pah!” he said to himself, and shrugged and pushed away from the window.

  And all of this was ridiculous: the strange pressure in his chest that felt like someone was in there trying to pry apart his rib cage, the histrionics involving the curtains, the wishing fatherlessness on that sweet child, that thirst to know, know, know.

  He was . . .

  He was jealous.

  That pedestrian word.

  Ah. So this is what the peasants feel like, he told himself dryly.

  He didn’t like it. He didn’t know what to do about it: he couldn’t muffle it with laudanum or numb it with willow bark tea. He couldn’t reason it out of existence. He couldn’t shoot it or sail away from it.

  It needled in a peculiar way.

  He’d thought he was inured to all of that.

  It seemed he’d simply been numb. But now that feelings had begun to recirculate, this was the one that decided to reassert itself? Were there no end to the torments to be rained upon the House of Lavay?

  She now knew so many things about him, yet she had never once mentioned what was clearly the most precious thing in the world to her.

  He snorted. “You’re being ridiculous, Philippe!”

  Perhaps it was just his vanity that was wounded. Perhaps he had come to think of Mrs. Fountain as something that belonged to him.

  He was probably bored. Surely in other circumstances a man of his station would not be so disrupted by his housekeeper, albeit a . . . comely one? Comely servants abounded in houses everywhere, tempting heirs and causing all manner of trouble.

  He had been too long confined and too long out of the context of his real world, where beautiful, charming women abounded, none of whom made his pulse hammer uncomfortably or tempted him to throw things in a fit of jealous pique, like a scorned mistress.

  It was time to hold that ball.

  And like a reflex or a lifeline, he rang the bell.

  “THANK YOU FOR coming,” he said inanely when she arrived in his study.

  “Yes. Of course. It’s what I typically do when you ring the bell.”

  She was jesting, or trying to. But it sounded nearly as stilted as his greeting. Suddenly they were strangers.

  He felt as gauche as a boy. He fumbled for what to say next.

  “Again, I’m so sorry you had to witness the . . . unfortunate incident with Dolly Farmer,” she ventured into the awkward silence. “I searched her valise. She stole nothing else.”

  “I’m not sorry I witnessed it. I now understand a bit more about the miracle you’ve wrought with the staff. I don’t think I fully grasped the nature of the challenge.”

  “It was noth—­”

  He gave his head a rough shake. “It was everything. You see . . . for most of my life, in every house I’ve ever lived in, I never even saw most of the servants. You noticed them only when they failed to work properly. They were like . . . oh, the circulatory system of a house. That would make you, I suppose, the heart.”

  It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and for a second the words all but throbbed like an actual heart.

  Her eyes widened in astonishment.

  “As I said earlier, I’ve sacked men before, but I’m not certain I’ve ever sacked one as big as Dolly,” he added hurriedly, very nearly flustered.

  She smiled at that, mercifully. But only briefly. She couldn’t sustain it amidst the tension of what remained unspoken. They were both still skirting the real reason he’d rung for her, and they knew it.

  He cleared his throat. “I think I understand now where you get your courage, Mrs. Fountain,” he said gently. “Mothers are fierce.”

  And there it was.

  She went still. Bracing herself, apparently.

  “Your son . . . Jack, his name is?” he said softly.

  “John. But we’ve come to like ‘Jack’ better.”

  “After the boy with the magic beans.”

  “Yes,” she said shortly. She inhaled at length, as if gathering strength, then exhaled. “Lord Lavay—­I apologize again if he troubled you. He wasn’t meant to go . . . perhaps I should have told you about . . . I never meant for him to—­”

  “Elise.”

  She fell silent.

  As surprised by the use of her name as by his tone. Intimate. Impatient. Warm.

  They let the word ring there, both of them quietly marveling at it.

  She smiled softly at him, in gratitude.

  It was easier to think about balls, and beautiful women, and Alexandra, and flirtation and debauchery, when Elise wasn’t standing in front of him. Those things seemed superfluous and not part of his real world anymore, when in truth sanity dictated that he ought to feel the other way around.

  And yet he always felt so much better when she was standing near.

  “His manners are lovely, even if he is a bit loquacious,” he teased gently. “A clever child, clearly. Takes after his mother.”

  She glowed. “Thank you. I do try. He usually spends his days at the vicarage. Reverend Sylvaine gives some time to his tutelage along with Liam Plum, a local boy, and some of the other boys of limited means. Between us, with luck, he will not grow up to be either a heathen or stupid. I hope one day he’ll find a profession he loves. His current ambition in life is to ring the church bell.”

  “He also wants a lion. And a horse.”

  “Yes, well.”

  “He’s welcome in all of the house, truly. I do like children, you know. They have that combination of honesty, innocence, savagery, and wit all tied together with unpredictability common to all my favorite ­people.”

  She laughed again, delighted.

  He could stand here all day saying things to make her laugh.

  “If the weather remains this inclement, send him in to me and I’ll use the globe”—­he gave it a spin with one finger—­“to teach him about geography, if he’d like. For I, like you, enjoy imparting information, and I’ve been to many places. Or we could . . . string up a hammock. On clearer days.”

  She smiled again. “The offer is too kind, but I know Jack would love it. Thank you.”

  He simply nodded.

  The question he wanted to ask, and the one she knew he wanted to ask, swung silently in the air, almost as tangible as a hammock.

  He didn’t want to say it aloud. It was a bit like taking a tentative first step on a sprained ankle.

  He made it sound as casual as possible, but he knew they were both waiting for it, so it gave the words the false, jaunty air of a pantomime.

  “The boy’s father . . .”

  Her face shuttered instantly.

  Something was amiss, because it was clear she was deciding how to answer. Which meant he wasn’t going to get the entire truth.

  “He’s gone,” she said shortly.

  “Gone?”

  “Yes. Six years now.”

  Gone? Was “gone” a euphemism? Had he gone to the great beyond? London? Africa? Was she a widow?

  Why was it so critical to know?

  It wasn’t. He didn’t need to know.

  And it ought not matter.

  Get a hold of yourself, Lavay, he told himself.

  “I see,” he said, though he didn’t. “Mrs. Fountain,” he continued briskly, “I rang for you b
ecause I think the time has come to hold the ball we discussed earlier. Perhaps more accurately, an assembly featuring dancing, since a ball sounds a bit ambitious for the hall of this particular house. I suppose we’ll have that insipid drink that pleases the ladies so—­ratafia. Perhaps sandwiches and the other things ­people enjoy having at balls, too. Bring in some plants for drunks to vomit in and lovers to hide behind, that sort of thing. Some flowers and perhaps bunting, if it could be had. I imagine if you could outfit the footmen in livery, you can find bunting. A fortnight hence? There isn’t a good deal to do in the country, so I imagine invitations will be welcome.”

  “A ball! Oh, that’s wonderful news!” She sounded relieved the topic had changed.

  He scowled.

  She laughed. “Surely balls are happy occasions, my lord. The dancing, the music, the beautiful gowns, the company, the drunken revelry. I’m certain your staff is equal to the task. I’ve only attended country dances.”

  “I do like them,” he admitted. “I excel at them, as a matter of fact.”

  “May I inquire as to the cause of your scowl?”

  “I am concerned about my dancing.”

  There was silence.

  “You are struggling not to laugh, Mrs. Fountain.”

  “I’m not!”

  She was.

  “I am a bit stiff, you see, and a bit out of practice, and I hesitate to bring shame upon my family by tottering about like an old man. I wondered if you would find it in your heart to assist me by practicing the waltz?”

  It was utterly impulsive, yet the notion came to him as a gift.

  His idle tone was in inverse proportion to how important her answer was to him.

  The clock swung off several more seconds as she considered this, her head tipped a little.

  “‘Find it in my heart.’ So very florid,” she murmured.

  He just waited, a peculiar pressure building in him. Probably because he was holding his breath.

  Suddenly the fate of the world hinged on what she would say next.

  “We’ve no music,” she mused softly.

  “You can make up a song about waltzing with Lord Lavay, who trod upon your feet today. Or we can count it off. We’ve certainly established that we both know how to count.”

  She laughed at that.

  She drew in a long breath and exhaled. But said nothing.

  “If you have other responsibilities to attend to now, Mrs. Fountain, of course you must excuse yourself. I simply wanted to make the best impression possible.”

  There. He’d just done what was right and fair. He’d given her an opportunity to bow out. To claim Jack, or apple tarts. And he’d delivered it with a small dose of guilt, because he knew she couldn’t resist helping him.

  She studied him a moment longer, her eyes soft and wary. Something sharp and bright flickered in there. Surrender? But it looked a bit like anger. A flare and gone.

  And then she sank into a deep, slow curtsy.

  He felt triumph surge through him, not unlike a welling of strings in a symphony overture. He’d never had a thought quite like that before in his entire life.

  He bowed with the same elegant gravity.

  He held out his hand, a brow arched, and her own hand reached out. He could have sworn time slowed painfully in order to torture him. Perhaps their hands would never meet. Perhaps she would snatch it back before he touched it.

  And at last it was in his grasp. He closed his fingers over hers, gently but emphatically.

  There was a stunned moment of stillness and silence when they finally met again, skin to skin.

  And it wasn’t until then that he was willing to admit this entire waltzing nonsense was simply an excuse to touch her again.

  He didn’t know why. It didn’t matter why. It only mattered that he held her hand, and he would have an excuse to lay his other hand on her waist, and soon she would be close enough to him to feel the heat from her body.

  He settled his hand at her slender waist. He couldn’t read the expression in her eyes, but her cheeks were already rosier.

  Her hand came up to light on his shoulder, as delicate as a songbird.

  “Shall we?”

  She simply nodded.

  And he eased them into a waltz.

  “One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one . . .”

  “Two . . .” was a murmur.

  And then he forgot to count.

  Because the silence itself sang. The soft, soft sound of their breathing, the rhythm of her breath as it lifted her rib cage beneath his hand, their feet sinking into the (freshly beaten) carpet were enough music. The flush in her cheeks. The heat in his own. She was so light that he felt as though he’d grown wings during his convalescence, rather than scars. He certainly couldn’t recall ever feeling so weightless.

  You’ve gone mad you’ve gone mad you’ve gone mad you’ve gone mad was the refrain in Elise’s head, repeated in waltz time signature.

  But she hadn’t been able to resist touching him any more than she’d been able to resist drawing her next breath, and a large part of the reason was that she knew he simply wanted to touch her, too. How could she deny him? What harm could there be in just this moment? Those were the words every addict utters when he reaches for the next hookah full of opium, she imagined. His arm beneath the snug fit of his coat was thrillingly hard, the kind of arm that could hold up worlds. She was inches from that pillow of a cravat and that jaw she could draw with her eyes closed if asked, and his eyes were hot—­too hot—­on her. And his hand was warm and so very, very male, at her waist. She’d never felt more acutely female by contrast. And if she was to choose a glorious way to die—­if her heart beat any more swiftly, there was a distinct possibility she would do just that at any minute—­this moment could not be any more perfect.

  A moment later he disappeared. Which is when she realized she’d closed her eyes. As if this had, indeed, been a dream.

  At some point shortly thereafter she distantly became aware that the waltz had slowed, slowed to a lazy rotation, and when she could smell the starch of his shirt, she knew it was because they’d somehow shrunk the distance between them and they were not so much waltzing as perilously close to what amounted to a moving embrace. This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong.

  “You appear to be waltzing successfully, Lord Lavay.” Her voice was lulled.

  Another three-­quarter-­time word occurred to her, and she really ought to remember it. Housekeeper housekeeper housekeeper.

  No, she shouldn’t flirt with him. No, she shouldn’t dance with him. No, she should not be herself. She should suffer, just like Tantalus, too.

  “But a bit stiffly, oui, like an elephant?” His voice was husky, too. And too intimate.

  How she wanted to duck her head against his chest. To feel the rumble there when he spoke. To hear his heart beating. More three-­quarter time: This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong.

  “I understand elephants are graceful.” Her voice was faint. “I once saw one in Covent Garden. He did tricks.”

  He laughed at that, soft and low, and the sound rippled through her body deliciously. The sweet tension of desire was rising in her, a pressure, like a river about to flood its banks, almost a fury. I want you I want you I want you.

  Floods left disasters in their wakes.

  No one knew that better than she did.

  Every cell in her body cried out in protest when she stopped moving abruptly.

  She forced herself to go as stiff as a starched shirt.

  He nearly stumbled.

  But he was composed quickly enough. His face was still and inscrutable.

  “I think you’ll comport yourself with dignity, Lord Lavay. Fortunate is the woman who waltzes with you at your party.”

  There was no reason t
o continue holding her hand. He relinquished it, like a pickpocket returning a purse to its rightful owner. His hand fell from her waist.

  She took a step back, as if he’d been a trap rather than everything in the world she ever wanted. Her skin felt feverish and taut with anger and thwarted desire. She wanted to throw something. A vase. Or her body, right back into his arms.

  So unfair so unfair so unfair. Her eyes burned. She was moved, her body aching and furious at the need to deprive herself of him but relieved she’d managed to do it.

  He stood watching her.

  His mouth tipped at the corner, ruefully. His eyes didn’t smile.

  “Thank you,” he said gently. “It was generous of you. I shall feel more confident now.”

  She tried to speak. She couldn’t just yet.

  She just nodded.

  And then she managed to clear her throat.

  “Will that be all, Lord Lavay?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She began to move past him.

  And Philippe watched as if in a dream as his hand reached out and closed ungently around her arm.

  It was a reflex. It just seemed critical to hold onto her, as if she would fly off, away from him, forever, like an untethered kite.

  He turned her toward him.

  She stared up at him. Astonished.

  And then he saw a ferocity of yearning there, a pain and need bordering on fury.

  It precisely mirrored his own.

  He did not let her go.

  The very silence rang.

  And then he heard the sound of their breathing. Swift, astonished, in tandem.

  “Philippe . . .”

  He didn’t know if it was a protest or a plea.

  She’d said his name. His name.

  And now he knew she thought of him that way, possibly alone in the dark, at the top of the stairs.

  He pulled her into his body. And then his hand slid down her arm and glided as naturally as a river glides right to the sea, to the small of her back, where it fit as if she’d been carved by the Creator expressly for him.

  And her face was lifting up as his came down.

  Had he ever kissed anyone before?

  He shuddered from the pleasure of it, from the glorious spike of newness that drove right down through his very being. The soft give of her mouth, tentative, at first, but not reluctant; finding the fit with his.