Duke of Scandal (9 page)

“Edmund lied,” he cut in through a snort.

She blinked. “Lied…Of course.”

He regretted his utterance almost at once as he watched her falter, her body shudder as if trying to repudiate such a thought. Then she clasped her upper arms with her palms and hugged herself, lowering her gaze to the tabletop.

He cleared his throat, feeling rather subdued by her despondency over another confirmation regarding his deceitful, cheating, brother. “You have to understand that Edmund and I certainly have different perceptions of our childhoods.”

She offered him a tentative smile again, looking back into his eyes. “I've no doubt. Siblings always seem to.”

“True,” he continued. “However, we were raised exactly the same way, with the same disciplines that provided us with nearly identical opportunities. The only
difference in our upbringing is that, in the end, more was expected of me.”

“Because of your birth order,” she interjected.

He nodded and lifted one of the bright red apples out of the bowl in the center of the table, studying it without thought as he twirled it around slowly in his hands. “Even today Edmund has freedoms I never had and never will, including the luxury to do as he pleases. But my brother resented the fact that because I was born three minutes before him, by a stroke of luck, whether ill or good, I will always receive opportunities and fortune he could never have. This is one of the key reasons he left a decade ago.”

“And yet he managed to marry first,” she remarked after a long pause of consideration.

His brows drew together. “Yes.” He wasn't sure if he dare add that Edmund had no obligation to marry and had never wanted to, at least not when he'd last seen his brother.

“Why aren't you married, Sam? That would, naturally, be your greatest duty to fulfill.”

Such a personal question took him by surprise. It was the first time she seemed more curious about him and his life and motives than she did Edmund's, which, frankly, both bothered and pleased him.

“Unlike my brother,” he started, replacing the apple with great care in its rightful place in the fruit bowl, “I've not yet met a lovely heiress to fulfill my marital…expectations.”

For a split second he thought she might actually laugh. She blinked and rubbed her lips together, then sat forward and placed her arms on the table, palms
down, her mug just beneath her chin.

“For a man bound to his duty, your grace, I'm amazed that you can afford to be so picky when a bride had to have been chosen for you years ago. Are you telling me there are no eligible ladies of gentle breeding who are willing to succumb to your good charms?”

He didn't know whether to snap back in irritation or chuckle from her ingenuity. But he felt certain that Olivia Shea was purposely teasing him, the first step in a more relaxed stand between them.

“A bride was chosen for me, the very lovely Lady Rowena Downsbury, daughter of the Earl of Layton. But alas, in the end she did the unthinkable and eloped with an American sea captain, sailing to the United States five weeks before our wedding.”

“How positively scandalous,” she murmured, her wide eyes sparkling from a combination of lamplight and awe.

He grinned dryly, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop to reply, “You've absolutely no idea.”

She said nothing for another minute, absorbing the details, it seemed. Then her smile faded a little. “I suppose that must have hurt you. Emotionally, I mean.”

He frowned fractionally and tilted his head to the side. “Hurt me? No. I only wish she'd left sooner, saving me the money I'd spent on wedding and honeymoon arrangements. Of course in the end her father lost the most and remained the angriest.”

“Naturally.”

Sam straightened when her sarcasm hit home, though he had to wonder if she took aim at him or her father.

“I was not in love with Rowena,” he explained, then wished at once he could take that ridiculous statement back.

She smiled fractionally. “I wouldn't have thought that you were. Marriage isn't about love, especially in our class.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I've learned my lesson well, your grace. Never trust a man who says he is in love with you.”

Such an announcement irked him irrationally—and indescribably. “I suppose Edmund told you he was.”

“In love with me?”

“Did he?”

She eyed him directly, lashes narrowed as if she studied him to evaluate his trust. Or deception.

“I have been wooed by many men, your grace,” she replied evenly, returning to a bit of formality between them. “Most of them desired either my…innocence, or my inheritance, for nefarious purposes. Fortunately, until I met Edmund, I was blessed with a keen mind where men are concerned and was quite able to resist them.”

“But not Edmund.”

She thought about that for a second or two. “Edmund was different.”

“You mean he behaved differently?” he prodded with growing interest.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.” She frowned. “He didn't…he didn't react to my appearance like other gentlemen, which, I admit, had me a little perplexed in the beginning. I suppose it appealed to my vanity to make him notice me.”

That truly shocked him. “You're telling me, madam, that he didn't take notice of your unusual beauty?”

His frankness made her blush. He could see the pinkness fill her cheeks even in lamplight, and the look was striking, affecting him again at a base level, which he tried hard to ignore.

After rubbing her nose with the back of her hand and brushing her palms across her lap, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Not exactly.” She hesitated, then continued. “Edmund told me he thought I looked lovely on many occasions, but it's more complex than that. He took a rather…peculiar interest in me. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy my company, and liked to be seen with me socially. But he—” She shrugged and shook her head. “It's very hard to explain.”

He nodded, then urged, “And yet I really need to know.”

She wasn't sure if she believed him. He could sense it, see it in her wavering gaze. But his persuading seemed to work.

“He took little interest in my family, my past, but he cared immensely about my abilities as a business-woman and my work at Nivan,” she carried on slowly, voice lowered. “He seemed very proud of me, my appearance, my accomplishments. But he…he didn't think of me…”

She paused once more, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

Sam waited, finding her embarrassment altogether charming and enjoying the moment far more than he
knew he should. And he was, quite frankly, fascinated by this revelation.

Her lashes fluttered downward; she couldn't look at him.

“Although Edmund
said
he loved me, and that he married me for love, he never seemed to discover…passion with me. There was nothing remotely passionate about our relationship. I admit that after a while that bothered me.”

For the first time in years Sam sat motionless, stumped beyond words. “I see,” was the only response he could think of.

After another slight hesitation, she looked up again, directly at him, breathing deeply for confidence. “You have to understand, sir, that when I met your brother, and he reacted as a gentleman should in all ways, I found it refreshing. I was…drawn to him because he seemed to genuinely…
like
me. There was something different, something…friendly about the marriage that appealed to me.”

Now he understood. Sort of. “It sounds very much like a marriage of convenience.”

“With all things considered, sir, marriage to your brother wasn't—and hasn't been—all that convenient.”

That quick comeback amused him. “No, I suppose not.”

After a moment of silence her brows drew together in reflection. “Edmund said he loved me, and I believed him. But since he's left I've come to realize that it's more accurate to say he liked me, but he loved only what he loved
about
me. Does that make sense?”

Only to a woman.
“Not exactly,” he replied.

She expelled an irritated sigh and rubbed her forehead at her temples with both hands. “What I mean is, Edmund loved—wanted—what he loved about me—my wealth, my appearance, my intelligence, my social standing, my contacts in the community. Maybe even the power of Nivan as a business patronized by the empress. But in the end, even though Edmund found me enjoyable to be with, he never loved what I truly am. He never loved
me.
I only wish I had realized that before I spoke my vows.”

His chair creaked under him as Sam sat forward, elbows on knees, and clasped his hands together in front of him. “He used you, Olivia.”

She sat straighter in her seat, eyeing him defiantly. “That's putting it rather simplistically.”

He shrugged. “And yet, in a word, that's exactly what he did. Married you for everything but you.”

For the first time since he'd met her, she seemed on the verge of tears, blinking excessively and gazing at the ceiling for a few long seconds. Frankly, he loathed it when a woman cried, and yet this time it almost seemed appropriate. It was a defining moment, because in that instant he decided he felt something for her beyond the extremes of irritation and lust. She had roused a compassion in him that he didn't think he'd experienced for a woman before, although rationally he admitted to himself that such a feeling came from the fact that she was now his responsibility. At least he hoped that's where it came from. Then again, she could be playing him for a fool; most women tried to. Being compassionate certainly didn't mean letting his guard down where she was concerned.

She cleared her throat and shook her hair back again. “Most people of our class marry for those reasons, your grace. This is nothing new. I was, and am, prepared to experience a solid marriage without romantic notions or love. I don't need that to be satisfied.”

“Yes, but most ladies who marry for convenience, or arrangement, get something in return for the lack of romantic interest from their husbands. Whether there is love or not, they gain satisfaction from the stability of the union, from their children, family, social causes related to the marriage. My brother apparently left you with nothing, and that not only seems unfair, it's deceitful.”

Instead of breaking down, as he expected any other lady might have, she tipped her head to the side a fraction and gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment or two, eyes narrowed and just a trace of a smile appearing on her lips.

“Apparently?” she repeated very softly.

“Yes,” he murmured.

He hadn't wanted her to catch that inference. But at this point he couldn't lie about the skepticism that remained regarding her disclosures about his brother. Whether
he
liked her or not, he wasn't about to completely believe her without proof. For all he knew, she and Edmund were in this together as co-conspirators, though the more acquainted he and Olivia became, the less he thought it likely. Still, he wasn't about to let her know that yet.

She continued to eye him expectantly for a few seconds longer, seemingly waiting for him to explain. When at last she must have realized that he had no in
tention of doing so, she offered him a knowing nod or two and wearily stood. They'd reached an impasse.

“I have brandy, if you'd prefer that,” she offered softly.

He slowly pushed his fingers through his hair. “Prefer that?”

“To the warm milk.” She swallowed. “To help you sleep.”

Awkward silence reigned, though Sam could hardly say the room, or the apartment, was quiet, given the variances of city noise—laughter, drunken singing, and the like—drifting in from the street below. Yet that hardly mattered when not only her scrutiny but her sweetness captured him suddenly, drawing him in, enveloping him in an unanticipated, static charge of total awareness.

Her eyes widened and she gripped her empty mug between her palms.

She feels it too…

“No thank you,” he whispered, slowly raising himself and moving forward a step to stand in front of her. “I'm sure I'll doze off eventually.”

He gazed down to her face, noting the smoothness of her complexion, the hesitancy in her eyes, her pulse beating rapidly in her temple.

Edmund might lose.

It was a stunning, explosive idea, and the satisfaction he felt at that moment, coupled with a myriad of confusing possibilities, overwhelmed him.

Edmund had taken Claudette. And here his brother's wife stood before him, sweet and innocent and uncommonly beautiful, fighting the urge to be seduced.
But would such a game work if Edmund didn't want her?

“Are you off to bed, then?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts with a delicate crease in her forehead.

He shook himself back to the moment. “I am, Lady Olivia,” he replied with a slight, formal nod.

Her lips pulled back into a gentle smile. “Livi.”

She had mesmerizing lips. “Pardon?”

“Those who know me best call me Livi,” she said softly.

They simply looked at each other for a few seconds more, then she withdrew first by leaning over to extinguish the lamp, offering him a fast but captivating view of the movement of bare breasts beneath her cotton nightgown.

God, how could Edmund not want her?

“Good night, Livi.”

In total darkness she replied in whisper, “Sleep well, Sam.”

He turned away from her and left the kitchen, walking silently back to the guest room by pale moonlight through shuttered windows, aroused and uncomfortable, his mind on only one thing:

Edmund has already lost.

I
t was a lovely day for a tour, at least seasonally speaking. The predawn showers had given way to brilliant sunshine and dewy fresh air, promising a day of warmth to bathe the bustling city. Of course, she had slept fitfully after their rather friendly discussion of the night before, tossing and turning between the sheets, her mind racing, filled with the continuous, confusing, and positively…indecent thoughts of him. So much for enjoying springtime. And the warm milk obviously hadn't worked.

Her personal maid, Marie-Nicole, Normand's youngest daughter at fifteen, had arrived at precisely seven o'clock, as she did every morning, to help her with her toilette and the donning of her dress, today's choice being a modest yellow chiffon day gown with a raised, square neckline of white lace and puffed half sleeves.
After braiding her hair into two loops and lifting them to fasten daintily on top of her head with mother-of-pearl combs, Marie-Nicole departed, leaving her alone to face the Duke of Durham.

He walked beside her now as they left her apartments for the boutique where she would be giving him a basic understanding of the history and necessity of perfume and its industry. Theirs had been a rather fast breakfast, more silence than awkwardness between them, both taking coffee, fruit, and cheese but keeping conversation to a minimum. Olivia supposed they were both a bit uncomfortable after the shared verbal intimacy of the night before, though perhaps it was more accurate to describe him as distracted.

In truth, she had enjoyed their time together last evening. He hadn't seemed to notice her bedtime wear, which, under the circumstance, wasn't exactly indecent since her nightgown covered her from chin to toe. He, on the other hand, held her captivated by his casual attire and somewhat more open demeanor. She had never been in the presence of a man half dressed before, even her husband. Then again, her brother-in-law hadn't been exactly exposed, either. He'd worn trousers and a shirt, but his feet were bare, and she could scarcely avoid staring at his magnificent chest, where a trace of dark hair had escaped the low vee at his neck. She only hoped he hadn't noticed her preoccupation with his person. He hadn't seemed to, anyway, at least not until the very end of the conversation when that shiver of…
something
passed between them.

She'd never experienced such an odd feeling with any other man before last night, and that's what troubled her
the most, she supposed. It had been truly distinctive, unique even, and the funniest thing to her was the fact that nothing had actually
happened.

He stood slightly behind her now as they descended the steps into the salon, her awareness of him just as keen as it had ever been, making her wish she'd brought her fan. If nothing else, it would have given her something to do with her hands.

The plan, as they'd discussed over breakfast, would be to take some time this morning to acquaint him with the various aspects of Nivan, and the perfume industry in general, much of which Edmund already knew. Later they would sit over tea and discuss the next course of action.

Olivia fairly breezed into the storefront from the salon, inhaling the marvelous fragrances of the day, recognizing the Oriental subgroups immediately as the scents of the season. This was the work she adored, and she'd been gone from her passion too long.

Normand seemed busy assisting two elegant ladies near the front display table, giving her ample time to begin the tutoring before he interrupted them.

“Do you recognize the scent in the air?” she asked to start the discussion, controlling her nerves by forcing a pleasant smile upon her mouth as she gazed up to him.

“I remember the spice,” he replied rather blandly. “You wore it.”

That quick answer took her aback. Not only because it came so fast, but more so because he recalled a vague scent she'd only worn in his presence once.

Without pause in her stride, she confirmed, “Correct. It's the scent of the spring.”

“The scent of the spring?”

“Yes. Every year new scents are developed here in France, and in Italy and the Asian world, which we import. They're different combinations, really, of the classics, although some can be entirely original. Some ladies, and even gentlemen, choose a new scent each year, some even each season.”

He said nothing to that as she walked to the center of the boutique to stand next to a round, glass case filled with perfume jars, or
flacons,
pomanders, potpourri bowls, and sachets. Placing her palms on top, her back to Normand and the ladies to keep them from discerning any part of their conversation, she eyed him directly across the case.

“Perfume, and its industry, are as old as the ancient world. I won't bore you with details on the distillation process; however, you should know basics because Edmund does.”

He folded his arms across his chest, circling the glass case to move closer. That flustered her, imposed on her thoughts, and she made a turn to move. He quickly reached out and placed his open hand gently over her knuckles.

“Don't,” he murmured. “They're watching, and we are married, after all.”

“Of course,” she replied, though the warmth of his palm on her bare skin made her markedly hot of a sudden.

She drew a full breath to continue, deciding to just get to the point. “There are six essential fragrances of time, your grace—”

“Sam,” he whispered.

He truly possessed a knack for distracting her, though she wasn't exactly sure why. Lifting her lips in a half smile, she returned, “Edmund.”

“They can't hear us, Olivia.”

She shot a brief glance over her shoulder, finding Normand and the ladies engaged in rapt conversation. Of course he was right. “That's irrelevant.”

His brows rose and he nodded once. “If it makes you more comfortable.”

More comfortable? She couldn't be less comfortable at the moment. Instead of admittance, however, she brushed over that concern and returned to her original dialogue.

“As I said, there are six basic fragrances that have been used over time. What I'd like to do is explain them to you in a little detail, giving you a chance to sample each one.”

“I don't think I need to sample them,” he remarked.

She noted the trace of exasperation in his voice but chose to ignore it. “You'll need to choose a fragrance.”

He exhaled a fast breath, finally drawing his hand away. “Why?”

She frowned, momentarily disconcerted. “So you'll smell like Edmund.”

He practically gaped at her, and she could feel the heat suffuse her cheeks as she realized what she'd said and that he was on the verge of breaking out into laughter.

“And, um, what if I'd rather not
smell
like my brother?” he asked, a trace of annoyed amusement coloring his tone.

Olivia momentarily closed her eyes and wiped a
palm across her brow. “This isn't an option, sir, you'll need a scent. Edmund always wore fragrance, and someone would notice if you didn't.”

He glanced around the boutique as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his day jacket. “Then choose something original. Something you'd like
me
to wear, Olivia.”

His voice had lowered to a rough murmur, especially when he said her name, and she felt her insides melt in the most peculiar manner. “But you—”

“Am my own man,” he articulated in deep whisper.

She blinked quickly, her lips parting in a rebuttal that never came. He kept his eyes locked with hers, clearly waiting for her to acknowledge his statement of fact, which of course was already obvious to her. Or submit to him in some feminine fashion. And yet the only thing she could think of at that moment was that he had the most amazing eyes—dark as chocolate, surrounded by thick black lashes. Odd that she couldn't recall if Edmund's eyes were the same shade, or how they appeared when he looked at her; Edmund always seemed to be smiling. But this man's eyes penetrated hers as if he were trying to read her mind, or force her into submission. She felt as confused suddenly as she had when he'd first kissed her back in London.

He waited, without any notice of her discomfort, and after a second or two Olivia shook herself from such reckless thoughts and drew a deep breath for confidence.

“I think,” she said after clearing her throat, “what we'll do to reach an agreement is create something unique, for you, for the season.”

His brows rose again, his mouth tipped up in a trace of amusement. She ignored the fact that he'd more or less suggested the same thing.

She began running the pads of her fingers along the top of the glass case. “I realize you don't like to wear cologne—”

“I never wear cologne,” he corrected, watching her.

She ignored his interruption with a half smile. “And so I think I'll choose a newer scent for you, create one of my own, and that way nobody will know when you're posing as Edmund. He chooses new scents frequently.”

He snorted, and almost—almost—rolled his eyes. She didn't know whether to chuckle or scold him.

“I'll do this for you,
Sam,
so that you don't have to
smell
like him.”

He smiled wryly. “I'll just smell like—”

“Yourself.”

“In a perfume factory.”

It was Olivia's turn to roll her eyes. “Give me some credit. I do know what I'm doing.”

“I've no doubt,” he drawled.

“May I continue?”

“Please,” he returned a bit too sarcastically.

She nodded to him once. “As I was saying, there are six basic fragrance types that have been used over time. First we have frankincense, a warm, balsamic scent from Arabia, originally used as incense and enjoyed very much in the ancient world by many of the Caesars, Alexander the Great, even Queen Hatshepsut. Eventually it became a favorite perfume in China, and later in Renaissance Italy.

“Next is rose, the most widely used and enjoyed scent from around the world, from ancient Greeks, Romans, and later Parisians. It's particularly enjoyed by English ladies, and was one of Queen Elizabeth's favorites.

“Third is sandalwood-jasmine, a marvelous botanical array imported originally from India and Kashmir. Sandalwood exudes a very warm, sensual odor, and jasmine an abundant floral appeal that's been much attributed to the growth of perfumery during the Renaissance.

“Fourth, we have orange blossom, a very delicious, sweet scent from East Asia, a floral aroma that we use as the primary ingredient in eau de cologne, which I'll get to in a moment.”

He let out a long exhale, as a sign of impatience, she was certain. She ignored it.

“Next is spice, the main ingredient of the fragrance you smell drifting through Nivan at this time.” She broke her instruction for a moment, leaning over the glass top to whisper, “We always fill sachets with the scent of the season and place them everywhere in the store—under pillows and cushions in the salon, behind counters, sofas, under the desks and in the drawers, and even in waste bins. It works beautifully by challenging the customer to ask about it. Then we can introduce it as something new and exciting that all of Paris is talking about and that each lady positively
needs
in her fragrance collection. It makes very good business sense.”

Her brother-in-law hadn't commented at all since she began her essence introduction, though he did cross
his arms over his chest with that, continuing to gaze at her, his expression bland but his eyes seemingly enraptured by her oration. She didn't know if that was good or bad. But she wanted to get this done. Normand would interrupt them shortly; she could count on it.

She patted the back of her hair into place, just for something to do, she supposed, and finished quickly.

“Well, in any case, spice comes primarily from both the Near and Far East, and tends to be a mixture of ginger, cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon, in various combinations, and sometimes mixed with other scents.”

“It's the scent of the season,” he drawled, leaning his hip on the edge of the glass.

Olivia started, quite surprised that he'd offered something to the conversation. “Yes, exactly.” She wished she could decipher his manner, read his thoughts from his rather staid expression. Certainly he had to find this at least
remotely
interesting. Edmund did. Then again, he wasn't Edmund, and every minute in his presence, she grew more keenly aware of that fact.

“There is only one more, your grace,” she said matter-of-factly, then felt a bit subdued when he didn't correct her for using his more formal designation.

She straightened, and continued. “Finally there is eau de cologne, a French favorite originating from the Farina family in 1709, and which, I might add, adorned the wrists and filled the sachets of Madame du Barry.” She shrugged. “And of course it's well known that Napoleon preferred it.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

She hesitated, uncertain if he mocked her, though in
the end deciding it hardly mattered. The point was that he needed to know the basics.

“Now,” she carried on, tipping her head to the side and eyeing him thoughtfully, “Edmund tended to prefer eau de cologne, or a mixture of orange blossom and sandalwood with a trace of spice. For you, however, I think—”

“I refuse to smell like a flower,” he said.

Did he think she knew nothing? She grinned. “No roses for you, then?”

He didn't smile in return. “No.”

She sighed at his emphatic stance. “Well, I think I can do something with a mix of frankincense and spice, perhaps adding a touch of musk, but be aware,
darling,
you are going to have to wear it.”

His eyelids narrowed a fraction, whether in annoyance or daring, she couldn't be sure, and she had to wonder if it was because she'd ordered him, or the fact that she called him by an endearment. Maybe he just didn't like having no choice in the matter. If nothing else, Samson Carlisle, Duke of Durham, remained a man in charge. She knew that instinctively. And it was going to be a long day.