Once Upon a Scandal

by Barbara Dawson Smith

“Emma.”

  Chapter 5

  His stone-cold expression froze Emma. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak. She could only stare up at her husband as the moment of recognition stretched into an eternity.

  Lucas exuded a raw animal power that terrified her. He smelled of brandy and male anger. As he straddled her on the floor, she could feel every muscle in his brawny body. Struggling was useless against his superior strength. With her hands secured behind her back, she was caught as neatly as a rabbit in a trap.

  No longer the amenable boy, Lucas had become a stranger, a savage man with impenetrable dark eyes. She was defenseless to stop him from punishing her. As defenseless as she had been against another man, another time … .

  Panic rushed through her like a great wind, snatching away her breath, plunging her into mindless terror. She couldn’t bear the suffocating weight of his body. Not for another instant.

  She thrashed beneath him, kicking, bucking. “Let me up. Let me up!”

  “For Christ’s sake, you’ll awaken the house again.”

  He clapped his hand over her mouth and lifted himself from her. Yanking Emma to her feet, he marched her down the shadowy passageway. She was forced to half run to keep pace with his long strides. The pressure of his palm muffled her cries of protest.

  At the end of the corridor, he opened a door and shoved her inside. She lurched forward, gulping in air, and found herself in a large, dim-lit bedroom. A banked fire glowed on the marble hearth, and a four-poster bed with bronze velvet hangings dominated the room.

  This must be her husband’s bedchamber.

  Spurred by terror, she whirled to face him. She swallowed convulsively before she could speak. “Just what do you intend to do to me?”

  Lucas closed the door with an ominous click. He sent her a black look, barely visible in the shadows. “Exactly what you deserve.”

  Striding across the room, he crouched down to light a candle at the hearth.

  Emma slowly backed up against a tall desk, moving as far from the bed as possible. She glanced frantically at the sterling letter opener, the sharp pens. With her hands bound, she had only her wits to use as a weapon.

  “Where is your valet?” she asked.

  Lucas walked toward her, and the flickering flame of the candle cast harsh shadows over his face. “Gone for the evening. We’re quite alone.”

  “I—I feel rather faint. If you would be so kind as to ring for a maid—”

  “No. But I’ll be so kind as to offer you a seat.” He hauled out the desk chair and shoved it against her calves. She plopped down, her bottom smacking the leather cushion with stinging abruptness.

  He set the candlestick on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. His mouth pressed into a grim line, he towered over her like Lucifer come to fetch her to Hell. “Explain yourself.”

  She moistened her dry lips. A simple request. An impossible dilemma. How could she reveal that her grandfather had stolen the mask? That she was merely returning it? Lucas would laugh in her face.

  And if, on the off chance he did believe her, Clive Youngblood would arrest Lord Briggs as the Bond Street Burglar.

  Feeling cornered, Emma assumed the pose of a helpless female. Men always fell for damsels in distress. Tilting her head back, she worked her expression into one of pleading repentance. “I’ll be happy to tell you everything, Lucas. But won’t you please untie my hands first?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Are you afraid of me?”

  He arched a contemptuous eyebrow. “You break into my house in the middle of the night, attempt to steal my valuables, and then you expect mercy. Try again, darling wife.”

  No compassion softened his stern features. From his obsidian eyes down to his polished black boots, he was all cruel, unforgiving male. It took little effort to make her lower lip tremble. “I know how displeased you must be—”

  “Displeased is not the word.”

  “Angry, then. Furious.” She let her lashes flutter downward. “But I can assure you, my being here isn’t so terrible as it would seem. You must understand, I am desperately in need of money—”

  “Are you this Bond Street Burglar?” he cut in.

  Her gaze flew to his. “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  A sinking dread weighed on her confidence. “You cannot be serious,” she said, feigning an airy laugh. “A lady making a habit of clambering on rooftops and picking locks? Why, it’s beyond belief.”

  “On the contrary. You’ll do anything to get what you want.”

  “I—” The denial stuck in her throat. She fancied his sharp eyes piercing her defenses, reading her darkest secrets, seeing the scar left by her brush with death.

  He took a menacing step closer. She found herself recoiling, her spine bumping the back of the chair.

  “The truth, Emma,” he said. “If you know the meaning of the word.”

  His low opinion hurt more than she cared to admit, and she lashed back at him. “All right, then. Perhaps I am the Burglar.”

  His eyebrows rose a fraction. For a moment, there was only the muffled sound of a clock somewhere, ticking away the minutes of her doom. She had not meant to give him another weapon to use against her, yet he drove her to indiscretion.

  Coming up behind her, Lucas lifted the unbound hair from her shoulder and let the silky blond strands sift through his fingers. “First a whore and now a thief. How do you manage to appear so angelic, Lady Wortham?”

  Emma flinched. The brush of his warm hand against her neck jolted her as much as his condemnation. She struggled to keep from showing her fear. “I am not the villainess you think I am.”

  “No doubt you’re worse.” He braced his hands on the back of the chair and put his face close to hers. “Tell me, what other crimes have you committed? Forgery? Swindling? Murder, perhaps?”

  “Confound you, I’m innocent.”

  Releasing a brusque laugh, he walked in front of her, his fists clenched at his sides. “Innocent? A strange description for you, dear wife.”

  Emma opened her mouth, then closed it. She must guard her temper. She would not gain her release by antagonizing him.

  Swallowing the bitterness of pride, she dipped her chin in a pose of contrition. “I had no choice but to resort to stealing. Without an allowance from you, I was forced into thievery in order to feed my family.”

  “And what of Lord Briggs? Is the old goat still alive? Surely he can provide for you.”

  “Grandpapa is deeply in debt. I will not sit by and watch my daughter starve.”

  At the mention of Jenny, Lucas’s countenance darkened. His hand slashed downward, causing Emma to jump. “Spare me your pretty tale of woe. I’ve heard enough of your excuses to last a lifetime.”

  “I’m not making excuses.” She lowered her voice to a sultry murmur. “Please let me go. You have the mask back. There’s no harm done.”

  “No harm. I suppose you’d have me believe you crept into my house in the middle of the night merely to admire the tiger mask.”

  Frustrated by her inability to soften him, she threw back her head and glowered at him. “Have it your way, then. I wanted more jewels, more riches to satisfy my greed. So I decided to take what I’m entitled to.”

  “Then perhaps I should take what I’m entitled to, as well.”

  He loomed over her. His hand stroked downward over her black shirt and cupped her breast. The heat of him invaded her, crawling like spiders across her skin, descending deep inside her belly. The alien sensation made her flushed and dizzy. She was conscious of the shadow of whiskers on the lean line of his jaw, the blatant hostility on his face. He was her husband. He claimed the right to touch her. In the eyes of the law, he owned her.

  Teetering on the verge of panic, she kicked him hard in the shins and stubbed her toes in the process. “Beast! You’ll take nothing from me.”

  “Only because I want nothing.” He stepped back, and his abrasive gaze scoured her mannish attire. “I ca
n find a more honorable woman on any street corner in Whitechapel.”

  His fingers closed on her arm again, biting like a manacle as he jerked her off the chair. He pushed her ahead of him and thrust her into the shadows of the dressing room. Emma stumbled forward, bumping the hard edge of a clothes press. With her hands tied, she was unable to catch herself, and she fell to her knees.

  The hulking black form of her husband filled the doorway. “I’ll be back,” he said. “With the authorities.”

  The door slammed shut and the key grated in the lock. The heavy tread of his footsteps faded away.

  Emma crouched in the gloom, her head and shoulders bowed as the coldness of reality set in. An uncontrollable shuddering seized her. Dear God. She would be clapped in irons and thrown into a dank cell, there to molder until she was hauled before a judge. Based on her husband’s testimony, she would be convicted and transported. Or worse, she might swing from the gibbet at Tyburn.

  Lucas despised her that much.

  I can find a more honorable woman on any street corner in Whitechapel.

  She should be thankful he did not want her, that he had not forced himself on her. The wildness in him frightened her. He was too big, too powerful, too overwhelmingly male. Even now, the scent of him pervaded the dressing room: musky, faintly feral. She could feel a searing sensation where he had touched her breast. As if he had put his brand on her, the mark of the damned.

  In defiance of logic, a lump of regret settled in her stomach. She had wrought the change in Lucas. She had turned him from a sensitive youth who’d adored her into a callous, uncaring brute who saw the worst in her. He believed her to be a wicked, amoral creature, beneath his contempt.

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps, deep down, she was no seeker of justice. She was a petty thief who made excuses for her reprehensible behavior.

  Emma did not know how many hours she slumped there, riddled by self-doubt and robbed of strength. Although her eyes felt hot, she could not weep. She never wept. Maturity had made her realize the uselessness of tears. Rather than waste her energy, she always strove to make the best of circumstances.

  Now was no different.

  By degrees, Emma straightened her spine. All was not lost. If she escaped, she and Jenny could flee the country. She would find a post as a seamstress or a maid. She would do any honest labor if it enabled her and her daughter to stay together.

  But first, she must get her hands untied. And quickly. She had squandered enough time already.

  Struggling to her feet, Emma made her way through the darkened dressing room. She nearly tripped over a stool. Her legs prickled from kneeling so long, and her arms felt numb. Finally she found what she sought—a washstand in the shadowy corner. On a silver tray lay her husband’s shaving implements—soap, brush, cup. And a long razor that glowed in the soft gray light from a small, high window.

  It must be near dawn, she realized on a surge of alarm.

  Turning around, she managed to pick up the blade in her fingertips. The task was difficult with her hands tied behind her back. The metal felt cold and slick to her clammy skin. Kneeling again, she gingerly maneuvered the razor until she could wedge it between her heels. Then she murmured a prayer and worked her wrists downward onto the sharp edge, sawing carefully through the silk cord.

  The binding broke abruptly. Too abruptly. Before she could pull back, the razor sliced into the heel of her left hand.

  Warm blood dripped down her wrist. The pain intensified as feeling returned to her deadened arms. She groped inside the washstand, found a white linen towel, and wrapped the wound, using her teeth to pull one end of the knot. Despite the throbbing discomfort, she was free. Free!

  Almost.

  Hugging her injured hand to her breast, she rummaged around in a drawer and came up with a gold stickpin. Emma smiled, her dismal mood lifting. As the rosy light of dawn tinted the room, she crouched by the door and went to work on the lock.

  Lucas awakened to a throbbing in his temples. Stiff and cold, he lifted his head from the desk and found himself sitting in the library at Wortham House. The pearly light of early morning shone through the tall leaded windows, and the air reeked of brandy. An overturned glass had puddled its contents over the polished mahogany surface.

  For a moment he could not remember why he had fallen asleep at his desk or, for that matter, why he was back in England. His thoughts flowed as thick as treacle. He’d been dreaming about a frenzied chase through a crowded bazaar. He could still feel his frustration at being mired in a mob of people, his fury at seeing the tiger leap to freedom over the colorful awnings.

  The tiger mask.

  The burglar.

  Emma.

  Stabbed by memory, Lucas sat up straight in his chair. Christ. Last night, he had surprised his wife in the act of thievery. He had left her tied up in his dressing room while he’d come down here to secure the mask in a safe place. Then, instead of sending a footman to fetch the magistrate, he had proceeded to get stone drunk.

  Plunging his fingers into his hair, Lucas groaned. He’d spent the dark, predawn hours brooding about Emma. He still wrestled with disbelief that his wife was a robber, that she would break into his house and help herself to his priceless treasures. Yet why should he be surprised? She had already demonstrated her utter lack of principles.

  Against his will, he recalled the soft feminine curves of her body lying beneath his. The memory alone was enough to ignite the fuse of his lust. Last night, he’d been sorely tempted to toss his wife onto the bed and claim the debt she owed to him. It had taken every scrap of his willpower to keep himself from ravishing the bitch.

  Now, he came to a galling realization. Deep down, he had hoped the past seven years had changed Emma for the better. He’d wanted her to atone for the terrible wrong she’d done to him. He’d wanted her to ache with regret, to agonize over losing him, to burn with need for her husband.

  Instead, she’d recoiled from him in disgust.

  The damnable irony was, he had not conquered his youthful infatuation, after all. He would never find peace until he possessed her.

  The cold light of morning had not cooled the blaze of his fury. To hell with the law. He would lock his wife in a prison of his own making. He would exact the perfect revenge.

  The dark fire of anticipation scorched him. He couldn’t wait to see the outrage on her lovely face when she learned of his plan.

  The chair legs scraped the floor as Lucas shot to his feet. Ignoring the pounding in his temples, he strode out of the library and down the corridor to the entrance hall. His boot heels clicked on the marble floor, attracting the attention of a maidservant who polished the brass fittings of the balustrade and the footman who stood guard by the front door.

  Affording them a nod, Lucas mounted the grand staircase. He needed to settle the matter before his family awakened and plagued him with questions about the Bond Street Burglar.

  A ruthless rush of heat invigorated him as he reached the door to his bedchamber. Emma should be in a more agreeable mood after spending several hours tied up in his dressing room. If she had the sense to obey him, in a matter of moments, he would have her lying naked in his bed, her slim legs locked around his waist …

  As he thrust open the door and stalked into his bedroom, he nearly stumbled over his manservant, Hajib.

  Clad in a gray robe and white cap, Hajib squatted in front of the entryway with a bowl of pinkish liquid beside him. Upon seeing Lucas, he waved a wet rag at several dark spots on the carpet. “Master, you must let Hajib shave you, always. I am your slave. I am here to serve you—”

  “Later.” Distractedly, Lucas stepped past the servant and stopped short. The fervor inside him chilled to ice.

  The dressing room door stood open.

  He wheeled around. “Where is she?”

  “She? You bring Shalimar here, then?” Hajib’s swarthy brow was smooth, inscrutable. “Or have you found an English rose to replace the lovely Lotus of Kashmir?” />
  Ignoring him, Lucas dashed into the dim-lit dressing room. It was deserted. In the middle of the floor lay the shreds of gold cord that had bound Emma’s wrists. Bending, he picked up the long razor.

  Damn her.

  And damn himself for underestimating her.

  Hajib padded barefoot into the dressing room and sank down with his water bowl to scrub at a cluster of dirty spots on the carpet. “Where have you cut yourself, master?” he asked querulously. “Beneath your neckcloth?”

  Preoccupied, Lucas touched the crumpled linen at his throat. “Cut—?”

  Then the servant’s meaning clicked into place. Lucas stood very still, his fury fading as he stared down at the dark trail spattered across the carpet. It was blood.

  Emma’s blood.

  “Where is that blasted George?” Clad in his crumpled nightshirt, Lord Briggs appeared in the doorway of Emma’s bedroom. His nightcap sat askew, revealing wild wisps of white hair.

  Emma stood by her bed, cramming a spare gown into her valise. “Grandpapa!” she gasped. “You’re supposed to be dressed by now. George should be back with the hackney at any moment.”

  “So that’s where the laggard’s gone. Off running his own errands instead of fetching my shaving water.”

  Emma’s heart sank as she recognized the confused look in his blue eyes. Of all times for him to suffer one of his infrequent spells of forgetfulness. Crossing the room, she took gentle hold of his arm. “Never mind shaving today. You must dress in your warmest clothes and hurry. We’re very late.”

  “Late? Your grandmama didn’t tell me we were going anywhere.”

  “Grandmama isn’t here anymore, remember?” She tugged him down the passageway and into his own spartan chamber, where she snatched breeches, coat, and shirt from the clothes press. “We’re going on a long trip, you and I and Jenny. We must make haste to reach Dover.”

  His expression cleared. He looked sadly sheepish a moment; then he shook his fist. “It’s all the fault of that rascal husband of yours. Calling down the law on his own wife! He deserves to be jailed for neglecting you.”