Sweet Scandal

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Eddy requires some convincing, I’m afraid, gentlemen,” Levi said easily. “I see the potential for your secondary generator with some adaptation on our part.”

  Mr. Stillwell removed his spectacles and blinked. “Convincing is not quite apt. I’m not sure I can be convinced.”

  “Surely you can see the benefit?” Mr. Young asked. “The greatest hindrance to electricity is the question of transmission to a great distance. With this issue effectively minimalized, electricity will flourish so that one day, every dwelling in England and indeed all the world will be electrified.”

  Electrified. Helen liked that word. It was the way Levi made her feel. Then and now.

  “What say you, Mrs. Storm?” Levi asked, startling her out of her reverie.

  She stared at her husband, not sure what he was asking her, if his question was as simple as it pretended to be or if a deeper meaning dwelled within it. She thought carefully for a moment. “I’ve always believed that potential is a worthy investment, Mr. Storm. I don’t pretend to know all there is to know about electricity. Indeed, I daresay I find electricity a rather baffling conundrum. However, it seems to me that if this secondary generator does what Mr. Gebhart and Mr. Young propose it does, it would indeed create the opportunity for exponential growth, not only for you and your business, but for the entire world.”

  He smiled, his gaze even warmer than before. It did things to her, that gaze. He did things to her. Wilted her resistance. But she must not allow him to do that.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he turned his attention to Gebhart and Young. “It seems my wife is a believer, and I trust her judgment above all else. Do you know there isn’t currently an alternating current machine being built in America at all?”

  “None?” Mr. Gebhart seemed baffled by this revelation.

  “Not one,” Levi answered, sounding rather pleased. “We will be the first to revolutionize the field there. I’ve been reading a great deal about the alternating current machines designed and tested both here and abroad, and I’m convinced this is the future of our industry. Eddy, what do you say?”

  Mr. Stillwell made a great show of extracting a handkerchief from his waistcoat and polishing his spectacles before answering. “I remain unconvinced.”

  “Unconvinced? Sir, there can be no question of the validity of our secondary generator. Direct current will find its replacement in alternating current, given time.” Mr. Young was passionate in his belief, his entire being radiating as he spoke, with vehement sentiment. Rather like a leaf in a violent spring wind.

  “Eddy is my chief engineer,” Levi told Young and Gebhart in a conciliatory fashion. “A genius among men. We will win him over, gentlemen. Thank you for this presentation today. Please, think about what you’d be willing to accept for American patent rights and have your attorney convey the offer to mine.”

  Eddy smiled thinly. “I trust your price will be commensurate with the amount of work that will need to go into this on our part. As constructed, this secondary generator cannot be mass produced. It will require a great deal of modifications and experimentation on the part of North Atlantic Electric.”

  Helen wondered for a moment if Eddy was intentionally acting as a counterbalance to Levi so that together they could manage a fair price for the American patent rights. This was the first time she had ever witnessed Levi truly in his element. Even at the Beacon offices, he had not been so thoroughly in command, so incorruptibly powerful. Witnessing him in action, she couldn’t help but to be impressed. He was not only incredibly intelligent but he was also persuasive. He had something…not the polished wax of charm but an undeniable pull that was as indefinable as it was infectious. He came to life. And she could well understand how he had been so successful, how he had amassed so much at such a relatively young age.

  It occurred to her then that she didn’t even know how old he was. Five-and-thirty? Six-and-thirty? He was the father of her child. Her husband. And how little, still, she knew of him. She yearned to know more.

  “We will confer and have our lawyer contact yours,” Mr. Gebhart said.

  “Thank you,” Young added, looking a bit awestruck as he shook Levi’s hand. “It’s an honor, sir, for you to consider our work. I’ve long been a student of your innovations, and I’m a humble admirer.”

  Levi gave the younger man a half smile. “Thank you, Mr. Young. I trust I will hear from you soon?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Mr. Young nodded. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Storm.”

  elen fiddled with the soup course, doing her best to look anywhere but upon her husband. They were seated uncomfortably near to each other, the only two at the dining table and indeed, in the very room, now that he had just dismissed the attending servants.

  “You don’t care for the soup, Mrs. Storm?” he asked idly, his deep voice cutting through the heavy silence that reigned following the departing servants.

  She dragged her gaze to meet his with reluctance. Looking at him was dangerous. Looking at him tested her resolve. He was dressed as impeccably as ever. He had treated her as politely as ever on their way down to dinner. And he radiated the same magnetism as ever. One could not look upon him in his black evening clothes, his hair a bit too long for fashion, his whiskers darkening his strong jaw, those molded lips that called for sin—Helen could not look upon him, drat it—without wanting him and wishing that their marriage could be different.

  “I can call for the next course,” he added. His gaze warm and unsettling, burning into her. “I stole Chef Dubois from the Duke of Something, reckoning that he ought to have the best. But perhaps not?”

  Helen almost smiled at his revelation. “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the Duke of Something, so I cannot speak for the quality of his retainers.”

  Levi gave her one of his rare grins that put his dimples on full display, and a familiar feeling of longing unfurled in her stomach. His charm was downright diabolical when he chose to apply it. “Forgive me. As an untutored American, I find your English ways perplexing at times. But it stands to reason that a duke ought to have the best chef money can afford, does it not?”

  Her lips twitched and she forced herself to look back at her soup. “I suppose it depends upon the duke in question. I daresay the Duke of Something might not necessarily have the finest meals awaiting him at table.”

  “I’ll consult my Debrett’s at the next opportunity.” His tone was wry. “To hell with The Electrical World and Engineering.”

  A chuckle escaped her. She pressed her fingers to her lips, silencing any further mirth. She didn’t want to laugh with him. She didn’t want to allow him to stalk through her defenses like some omnipotent, invading marauder. Most importantly, she didn’t want to remember how much she had enjoyed his company, how much she had reveled in dueling wits with him. He had a sharp mind that she very much admired. But he had also hurt her, and she must not forget that. He’d been very good at making her forget these last few days, and she knew she needed to put an end to the thawing of their mutual ice. For her own sake.

  “Perhaps it would do you good to expand your reading,” she said lightly, plunking her spoon back into her soup with an appalling lack of grace. He was distracting her, making her clumsy. Rattling her.

  “Undoubtedly.” His tone remained warm, agreeable and intimate all at once. Dangerous. “Helen?”

  She stilled, looking at her hand’s tense clench upon her soup spoon. “Yes?”

  “Will you not look at me?” Soft, this question, more dangerous than ever.

  Helen bit her lip. “Shall I look at you whilst I eat my soup, Mr. Storm? Would you have me dribble it all over my bodice?”

  “You aren’t eating the damn soup, and don’t think I haven’t noticed. Besides, if you dribbled soup on your bodice, it would likely be looked upon as an improvement. An adornment, as it were, to that drab confection you’ve chosen to wear.”

  His criticism of her dress had her pinning him with a challenging stare. “There is nothing wrong with m
y dress. Ruby worked quite hard on it, I’ll have you know.”

  “There is nothing wrong with that dress if a washerwoman were to wear it. But a gown that ugly on a woman as undeniably beautiful as you is a crime, particularly when you have a wardrobe overflowing with some of the finest gowns a man can readily acquire with little notice and vague measurements.” His gaze slipped briefly to her mouth. “Do you not wear the dresses I bought you to spite me? Is it a show of pride, or is your disgust for me that great?”

  Ha! If only she harbored disgust for him. But even her anger and disillusionment were beginning to fade. Even her hurt. Her traitorous heart had not stopped loving him, this ingenious man who had made millions from nothing, who reinvented the world around him, who took apart everything in an effort to make it better than it once had been. Who was so handsome, who kissed so wickedly, who had brought her body to life in ways she’d never dreamt possible. This man who had taught her that she was worthy, that she was strong, and that she deserved more from him than he’d once been willing to give.

  He had given her something. She was his wife, and he treated her as an equal partner. But was it too late? Was a license and a ring enough to heal all that had happened between them? The woman she’d become in his absence couldn’t be sure. And so she clung to this new identity she’d crafted for herself, the woman who didn’t need silk Worth gowns or ballrooms or a title and servants. The woman who didn’t need her husband to try to earn back her respect with his unimaginable wealth and charisma.

  “I’ve told you already that I won’t be bought,” she told him curtly. “Dresses are not reparations.”

  His closed fist hit the table, rattling the silverware and the glasses. “What would be reparations, Helen? Tell me, damn it, and I’ll do it. Whatever you need, whatever you want.”

  “I need and want nothing. The time has passed for what I needed and wanted.” Bitterness laced her voice. “You cannot undo what has already been done.”

  “I’m not a god, Helen.” He rubbed his jaw, gorgeous even in his anger. “I’m a man. I was wrong. Hang it, if I could travel back in time and heal these wounds between us, I damn well would.”

  “But you cannot, and so here we are, two strangers trapped in a room and a marriage both.”

  “You have that wrong, my dear.” The charm had quite fled his features and now he looked hard, impassive as granite. “We aren’t strangers, nor are we trapped. Maybe you’ve forgotten just how well I know you. I can remind you, if you’d like.”

  His suggestion shouldn’t have sent a frisson of desire through her, but it did. She shook the feeling away. “I’m different now. I’m not the woman you knew before.” Indeed, for all that the last year had been hard on her, she had also become a more potent version of herself. Perhaps she’d needed to do so, all along.

  “I’m not the man you knew before either.” His eyes were cutting in their brilliance. “You aren’t the only one capable of change, of seeing wrong and attempting to make it right. Or are you so determined to cast me as the villain of this piece that you can’t even for a moment see that I’m doing my best to atone for my sins?”

  That was not fair. How did he think he could so easily erase the damage he’d done? “By buying me fripperies and demonstrating how to use a talking machine?”

  “A phonograph.” He stood so abruptly that his chair flew back. “No, Mrs. Storm.” He stalked to her, catching her elbows and hauling her from her seat in one fluid motion until she was pressed against his chest. Their noses nearly brushed. The scent of him, soap and musk and so very masculine, teased her. His sensual mouth tightened in a grim line, his jaw rigid. His eyes snapped fire. “I bought you the dresses because you’re wearing rags. I showed you how to use the phonograph because I thought you’d enjoy the novelty. And I’m exercising restraint right now because you required a chaste marriage. I could have denied your wishes, demanded my marital rights. What would you have done, Helen? Refused my hand and continued to live the life of penitential pauper?”

  She cursed the heat that skipped through her at his touch and his proximity, at the sight of that tempting mouth so close to hers. “I was living the life you left me to live,” she shot back at him.

  “The life you chose,” he countered, his hands traveling to her waist. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have a hand in any of this. You, my dear, are not a saint though it certainly pleases you to play one.”

  No, she was not a saint. He was right about that. Because a saint would not be so tempted. A saint would never have allowed him to kiss her the first time. A saint would never have welcomed him into her bed. Would not want him there even now. She was all too human.

  “I never claimed to be a saint,” she said coolly, maintaining her poise by sheer will as he trailed his fingers over her cheekbone then, the touch so light she wanted to lean into it, rub against him like a cat seeking to be pet.

  Good God, she truly was pathetic.

  “Not tonight.” His voice was low, seducing as his touch. His hand stopped above her madly beating heart, a scant few layers of cotton keeping her bare skin from him. “Tonight, you are a witch rather than a saint.”

  He had touched her thus before, what seemed like forever ago now. That night, he had brought her body to life beneath his wicked mouth and knowing fingers. He had been tender and gentle, had shown her pleasure, had broken her free of the dark fears of her past.

  It required a formidable amount of willpower not to arch her back and force her breast into his waiting palm. She would not bend, would not melt for him. Her heart remained too bruised and sore to trust him again. “What do you want, then, Levi? Will you atone for your sins by forcing me to give you your marital rights?”

  He stiffened. “I would never force you.”

  She met his gaze, unflinching. “Then what is it you’re seeking to do? You agreed to my terms.”

  Levi lowered his head, bringing them together so that his breath drew across her lips like a brand. Desire was a slow and steady wave, drowning her from the inside. He was going to take the kiss she’d denied him at their wedding. She longed to wind her arms around his neck, bring their mouths together, taste him on her tongue.

  “We both know it wouldn’t be force, Helen.” He rubbed his thumb over her lower lip once, twice. “I could take you right now, here on this table, if I wanted.” Three times. “And you’d beg me for it.”

  He was right, damn him. She wanted to hold on to her anger. She was clawing at it with desperation inside, a mantle that could protect her from further heartache at his skillful hands. But it was slipping away, sliding like a scrap of silk ribbon to the floor, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. Her lips parted. His hand cupped her jaw as though she were a delicate bloom, something to savor. His thumb traced her lip a fourth time, teasing, taunting. His other hand tightened on her waist, a possessive grip she liked far too much.

  She gave in to her weakness and nipped at his thumb with her teeth before sucking the pad to quell the sting. He inhaled, his eyes darkening. He was not any more in control in this game they played than she. “I wouldn’t have to beg,” she whispered.

  “No.” His smile was forbidding, intense. “You wouldn’t have to beg, sweetheart. But I would take great pleasure in making you.”

  His wicked words sent a thrill straight to her core. “You couldn’t make me,” she lied. Of course he could. One touch of his mouth to any part of her body, and she’d likely be hitching up her skirts. She had no control when it came to him, no hope to resist him. She never had.

  “Shall we test that? Right here, Helen. Right now.” His fingers sank into her hair then, sending pins raining to the floor. Curls slipped from the intricate coils her lady’s maid had used to tame the unruly skeins. He tipped her head back. “Dare me.”

  Everything within her, all the pent-up desire, the love, the frustration, every stinging bit of it clamored for her to do as he challenged. To dare him, give in to the mad passion that threatened to consume her. But pri
de was an unrelenting beast, and so too was a wounded heart.

  “I told you that I’ll not share your bed, and I meant those words.” She forced herself to say it, to remind them both. The old hurts ran too deep.

  He released her, the motion jerky, abrupt. “Let down your goddamn walls, Helen. Or are you too afraid of what might happen if you do?”

  Of course she was afraid. She was terrified of the way he made her feel, of how close he could bring her to unraveling. They stared at each other for a moment of charged silence. “You built these walls, not me,” she said at last.

  “Then I will dismantle them. One by one. However I must.” He tipped up her chin, seeing far too much, it seemed, with that piercing gaze of his. “I’ll do it, wife. Don’t think I won’t.”

  Levi sank his tired body into the deep, porcelain imperial bath he’d shipped from New York City for just this purpose. He had one identical to it in his Fifth Avenue home, in a bathroom that was easily three times the size of this one. He’d had the best company in the city design and plan his bathrooms, perfecting the layout, making the best use of the space. His Fifth Avenue home held a separate bath for his suites and another for his wife’s suites, prepared at the time for Miss VanHorn’s comfort. In Belgravia, he had made do with one bathroom shared between the master and mistress’s suites, supposing that Miss VanHorn would never accompany him on London business trips.

  But life had changed considerably since those plans, and now it wasn’t Miss VanHorn he shared a bathroom with in Belgravia but Helen. His Helen, a woman who was equal parts angel and spitfire. The woman whose trust he’d spent the last fortnight attempting to regain.

  He sighed and rested his head on the rim of the tub, closing his eyes. He had begun a slow and steady assault on her defenses. He’d been attentive and courteous. He joined her for every dinner. He stopped commenting upon her refusal to wear the gowns he’d given her. He sent a small army of staff to assist her at her House of Rest. He’d even decided to stay in England for a spell, to allow her to acclimate to the change ahead of her.