Duke of Scandal (15 page)

She couldn't control it any longer; her eyes filled with tears. “How could he betray me like that?” A bolt of sheer anger sliced through her. “You clearly know him better than I, Sam,” she charged, her gaze burning into his. “Are you suggesting he planned to marry me and steal my fortune, all with the help of my
aunt
?”

He stayed silent for a few moments, regarding her with narrowed eyes. Then he ran one palm harshly down his face. “Olivia, I think there's a lot more to this entire situation than you're aware of.”

She sneered. “That's painfully obvious. I don't even pretend to know
anything
anymore.” With that, she stood abruptly, her arms wrapped snugly around her as she began to pace the kitchen floor. She didn't look at him, though she felt his eyes on her, watching her actions, probably trying to determine what was going through her mind. At last she stopped in front of the sink, staring into the basin, seeing nothing.

“So, unlike your brother, you weren't the least bit interested in her invitation?” she asked, her voice just a shade above a whisper.

“If this is about me,” he replied slowly, “then no. I wasn't the least bit interested.”

“Why?” she breathed.

The silence in the room boomed thick and intense. Finally, he murmured, “I think you've been hurt enough, Olivia.”

It wasn't much of a response, but then what did she expect? Undying devotion? In truth, she shouldn't have asked him that.
Nothing
of this situation was about him, and who he chose to romance was entirely none of her business, even if it was a relation of hers. And yet she couldn't deny the way her spirits lifted a little from his candor, and his caring.

“Are you going to tell me what you think about your brother's whereabouts? What you think is going on?” she asked, her tone riddled with a quiet, steady anger.

She heard him inhale deeply again, and she drummed up the courage to lift her head and turn, facing him once more. The light from the lamp cast shadows on each handsome feature, reflecting in his dark eyes as they remained fixed on her, on his thick, shiny
hair that fell loosely across his brow, his hardened jaw and grimly set lips. His sheer attractiveness made her insides flutter even as she waited for him to answer the most grave of questions, her posture determined, her stare haunted, pleading for the truth.

After a long moment he said, “I will tell you what I think, if you'll be honest with me in return.”

She hadn't expected that. “Honest about what?”

He tipped his head to the side a fraction. “We'll get to that. First, what exactly is Govance?”

She frowned, shaking her head negligibly in confusion. “Where did you hear of Govance?”

“Claudette mentioned it.”

That seemed rather odd to her, as neither her aunt nor Edmund had anything to do with other houses. She leaned back against the sink edge, her arms folded in front of her. “Govance is a large and well-respected house of fragrance, though they cater to the wider industry, primarily Asian trade. They only have one small shop in Paris, but—why?”

He remained quiet for a moment or two, regarding her. Then, “Who is its heiress?”

Her mind began to race, her thoughts quickening. “The
heiress
of Govance? That's probably Brigitte Marcotte. She's the granddaughter of the owner.”

He looked down at his fingers, tapping them together in front of him. “How old is she?”

Olivia began to see where his questions were leading, only to feel a greater bewilderment coupled with fearful anticipation. “I don't know her exact age,” she said, “but she's probably nineteen or twenty by now. I haven't seen her in about five years.”

He sat up a little. “She doesn't live here?”

“No, she lives in Grasse, where the world fragrance market—” Her eyes widened; she slowly lowered her arms to her sides as the pieces began falling into place. “You think Edmund…”

“Is in Grasse, wooing the unsuspecting Brigitte of her fortune,” he finished for her. “Just as he did you.”

She tried very hard to concentrate, to digest the implication, to grasp what such an incredible assumption could mean. “But if you learned that from Claudette, then—then she knows where he is, where he's been all this time. She's part of the deception.”

“Edmund is deceitful and clever in his own right, but he couldn't possibly know interested parties in the perfume business. I think,” he admitted austerely, “that not only does your aunt intend to reap the benefits, she probably planned the whole thing, including his marriage to you.”

Olivia no longer wanted to cry, she wanted to hit something. She suddenly couldn't breathe, couldn't comprehend such utter disregard for decency, couldn't believe the people she loved, who she thought loved
her,
would betray her entire future for money. She gulped for air, spinning around to stare out the window, then turning back again, arms flailing at her sides as she began to move about the kitchen in semicircles, unseeing, feeling everything in utter shock.

He must have realized the depth of her stupefaction, for he stood at once, his chair sliding back with a loud skid across the wooden floor, and walked quickly toward her.

“Claudette—” She swallowed, then ran all ten fingers
through her hair until it pulled behind her. “Claudette introduced me to him, wanted me to marry him.
Urged
me to marry him,” she spat in a whispered jumble.

“Olivia,” Sam said soothingly, placing his palms gently on her shoulders to hold her still.

She couldn't stand the touch, needed air. Immediately, she brushed his arms aside and walked swiftly to the opposite wall, staring down to all the lovely little porcelain teapots she'd collected over the years, now sitting daintily on her pantry shelf. She fought the strong desire to smash them to little bits of shard.

It was all becoming clear—the lies, the shrewdness, the artful deceit. And the whys.

“Claudette wanted to take charge of Nivan when Jean-Francois died,” she disclosed bitterly, “because she knew my mother was inept at management and everyone else lived in Grasse. And she was right.” She shivered. “But Claudette would have surely embezzled every penny if she had control, running Nivan to insolvency, and everybody—
everybody
—knew it. That's why even her brother, Robert Nivan, denied her the opportunity, and gave the boutique to me to manage.” She tossed Sam a biting look over her shoulder. “So it appears that when she couldn't have what she wanted, she set her own niece up for ruin with the help of a charming, spectacular-looking,
cunning
man.”

“We'll get your money back,” he said tightly.

A caustic laugh bubbled up in her throat. “My money? Do you think this is all about my inheritance?” She pivoted quickly to confront him. “What about my dignity, my feelings? What about being used? Even
you
said that, Sam. He used me.
They
used me.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he simply looked at her, his body tense, his expression taut. “I know. And I'm sorry,” he admitted with quiet intensity. “But you're going to have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Standing tall, glaring at him, she asked, “Tell me, your grace, why did you kiss me tonight?”

That question clearly stunned him. His mouth dropped open minutely as he looked her up and down. Then gritting his teeth, he narrowed his eyes and began to walk slowly toward her.

“I believe we kissed each other, madam, though I can't fathom what that marvelous moment of passion has to do with this conversation.”

She shook her head defiantly, ignoring the tingle of exhilaration that surged through her from his choice of words. “It has everything to do with it,” she maintained, her voice shaky even as she attempted to stick to the point. “You kissed me, and purposely kissing a married woman like that hardly engenders trust. Do you kiss all the married ladies you know?”

“Married,” he repeated in a dark whisper.

She stood her ground, her back to the wall, her palm gripping the edge of the pantry of teapots, noting with only the slightest hesitation that his tone had grown as cold as his countenance.

“What if I said to you that I don't believe you're legally married to my brother?”

She sneered. “I'd say you've lost your mind. Or you're a magnificent liar, trying to confuse me into falling for your charms, just as Edmund did.”

His cheek twitched; he stepped closer. “Is that why you think I kissed you tonight? To make you fall for me?” He gave her a sarcastic smile. “Believe me, sweet, I don't need to present lies to a woman to attract her interest.”

She couldn't think of a response, as such a statement was very likely true. “Then why did you?”

“Tell me, darling, beautiful Lady Olivia,” he asked in deep murmur, ignoring her question, “did Edmund ever make love to you?”

She gasped, appalled into silence as he moved nearer to her—so close he now towered over her, his eyes like shiny, hard marbles, reflecting lamp light and oozing anger.

“Did he?” he whispered again. “And I don't mean make love with words of flattery, but make love as a husband makes love to a wife, physically, in the marriage bed.”

She blinked quickly, as terrified of his bearing at the moment as she was of the heat suddenly radiating between them. “The intimacy I shared with Edmund has nothing to do with this conversation,” she managed to choke out.

That didn't deter him in the least. “You opened the door with your question about our kiss,” he whispered huskily, “and your concerns about trust. Perhaps I worry about trusting you. Answer me, and answer me honestly.”

He still hadn't touched her, but he couldn't get any closer without doing so. Olivia felt her knees go weak. “I'm going to bed.”

“Answer me first.”

“No.”

His dark brows rose minutely. “No, Edmund didn't make love to you as a husband should?”

Tears filled her eyes again, though this time they emerged from pure frustration. “You're despicable.”

“I've been called worse,” he acknowledged flatly. “Did Edmund make love to you?”

Why did he keep asking her that? “He's my husband,” she seethed, clenching her hands into fists. “What do you think?”

He pulled back a little, just enough to give him room to lower his gaze and blatantly ogle her, making her feel naked and exposed for his view.

“I think that any woman who smells like you do, and looks like you do, and kisses like you do, is missing what she needs most from a husband.”

Fury inflamed her and she drew her hand up to slap him hard. But instead of making contact with his cheek, he reacted just as quickly, grabbing her wrist in midair and holding it tightly.

“Did—he—make—love to you, Livi?” he breathed, daring her to defy him.

A tear rolled down her cheek but she refused to cower, to give in to a weaker emotion. Through clenched teeth she whispered, “No.”

He seemed to stagger from that admission, as if he never expected it, sucking in a sharp, quick breath as he eased his grip on her wrist and took a half step back. She watched his expression falter in a matter of seconds, changing from stony determination to a sort of
odd disbelief. And then he exhaled a long, warm sigh that touched her skin and made her shiver from the inside out.

“He left me on my wedding night,” she continued, her voice breaking from the memory. “He kissed me as you kissed me, and then humiliated me, just as you're doing now.” With a negligible lift of her chin, she recklessly asserted, “You're just like him.”

That instantly transformed his aggravation with her to a rage of the purest kind, as she knew it would. But instead of releasing her in disgust as she expected him to do, he placed his free hand flat on her bare chest, just beneath the base of her throat, shoving her back against the wall before she could blink.

“I am
nothing
like Edmund, Olivia, and you know it,” he charged, his low timbre thick with warning. “
I
would never, and
will
never, leave you devastated and wanting for anything. I have more honor than that.”

Something inside of her melted—from the veracity laced through his words, from the depth of urgency in his eyes—and with that awareness, she started to shake, her tears flowing without regard.

Through a soft sob, barely heard, she said, “I know…”

Her gentle submission gave him a second of pause. And then the look he gave her promptly changed from absolute fury to a raw, fiery hunger. His mouth clamped down on hers, hard and fast and consuming, covering the scream that welled up inside her from a contact so unexpected—but so desperately needed.

He kissed her with a pent-up longing that went be
yond all reason, his tongue invading, searching, searing, begging for response. She whimpered, trying to draw breath as he pushed his entire body up against her, pinning her to the wall. She felt every rigid muscle of his powerful form, every ounce of his incredible strength drawing her in, enveloping her, shielding her from escape should she try.

He groaned low in his chest, and the sound of it, the sound of desire in its purest form, inflamed her in a manner she'd never felt before.

Tears stained her cheeks as she began to kiss him back, greedily, without clear thought, her body, her mind and modest intentions invaded and conquered by a yearning as great as his. She placed a palm on his shoulder, but with a savagery she didn't at all understand or expect, he grabbed both of her wrists in his large left hand and raised them above her head, securing them against the wall while he continued his delicious assault on her mouth, overwhelming her with a perfectly rapturous torment.

He lowered his free hand and she vaguely became aware of him fumbling with the tie on her robe. She squirmed a little in protest, but he ignored it, persistent in his longing to arouse the depths of her passion, his kissing relentless as he suddenly grasped her tongue and sucked it.