Once Upon a Scandal (21 page)
He tipped up her chin. “Dreamed of what?”
His gaze was steady, relentless, daring her onward. “I’ve dreamed of you … in my bed … making love to me. Will you?”
The tic of a muscle in his jaw was his only sign of emotion. “Only if you grant me your full surrender.”
“I will.”
“I intend to consummate our marriage, Emma. Fully and completely. Make no mistake about that.”
“Yes.”
His eyes held hers. She had the heady sense that this was the true moment of her yielding—here in the sunlit meadow with the cool breeze tugging at her bonnet and the heath grasses whispering in the wind. The enormity of her consent shot a quiver through her that was part excitement, part apprehension. She held her head high, determined to look forward, not back into the past.
His lashes lowered slightly into an expression of sinful promise. The pad of his thumb brushed lightly over her lips. “Tonight, then.”
“Tonight,” Emma echoed, wondering how she could wait so many hours and at the same time wishing the day could last forever.
“Papa, Mama, help!”
They sprang apart. Lucas surged to his feet, Emma at his side. She couldn’t see Jenny or the kite. A variety of horrid and bloody possibilities raced through her mind. “Where is she?”
He shaded his eyes with his hand and peered across the meadow. “Ah,” he said. “The little scamp has gotten her string tangled in a tree.”
He loped off toward a distant clump of oaks, where Emma
spied a splotch of red kite against the golden autumn leaves. She headed after him, proceeding more slowly, for the brambles threatened to snag her silk skirt. “If only women could wear Hessians,” she grumbled to herself.
spied a splotch of red kite against the golden autumn leaves. She headed after him, proceeding more slowly, for the brambles threatened to snag her silk skirt. “If only women could wear Hessians,” she grumbled to herself.
By the time she reached the small party, Lucas was high in the tree, unraveling the last of the string while Jenny stood below, watching in awe. She clapped her hands when he shinnied down like a conquering hero, holding the kite.
She seemed to regard Lucas as her own brave cavalier. And Emma found out why when, over a luncheon of cold chicken and cheese, Lucas teased Jenny about the gap in her smile from the tooth he’d drawn. They engaged in a lively debate over which tooth would fall out next. Afterward, they shared a pink-frosted plum cake in honor of Jenny’s half-birthday.
Replete with food and laughter, they wandered down to the stream so Jenny could try her hand at fishing. Emma thought wistfully of giving her daughter a carefree childhood in the country. She wondered when Lucas intended to visit his estate in the wild fells of Northumbria. Would he take her and Jenny with him? Emma fervently hoped so. For a little while at least, they could be a family.
Until she bore him a son.
She wouldn’t let herself think about that now. She wanted to savor the joy of the moment, the golden hours of the afternoon.
The sun rode low in the western sky as they drove back into the city. Jenny lolled sleepily in Emma’s lap, her grimy hands clutching the red kite. Emma relaxed against Lucas in contentment. Every now and then he glanced down at her, and his lazy half-smile stirred a tingling heat inside her. She knew what he was thinking—the same thoughts that hovered at the edge of her consciousness.
Tonight he would come to her. Tonight she would cleave to her husband in the manner sanctified by their marriage vows. Tonight she would become his true wife. The prospect made her tremble inwardly, as if she were about to step off
a precipice without knowing if she would plunge into the darkness or soar to the heavens.
a precipice without knowing if she would plunge into the darkness or soar to the heavens.
Yet she wanted to take that daring step. She was ready for it. She could face the pain for his sake … and her own.
Dusk had fallen by the time they arrived home. The cheery yellow glow in the windows of Wortham House welcomed them. Lucas handed a yawning Jenny down to her waiting nursemaid, an apple-cheeked older woman who clucked over her charge and hastened her off to bed. Lucas jumped down from the phaeton and then turned to help Emma, clasping his hands around her waist—and luckily so, for her legs felt as weak as water. Clinging to his arm, she walked up the steps and into the house.
Stafford, the footman, hastened across the foyer. “M’lady,” he said, his lip curled in distaste, “there’s a man asking to see you. I bade him wait in the kitchen—”
“Aye, and I’ve been coolin’ me ’eels fer ‘alf the day. As if I h’ain’t nothin’ better to do.” The speaker marched into the foyer.
Emma’s heart jolted. An arctic blast of alarm blew away the warmth in her as the sallow-faced man with the drooping eyelid stalked toward her.
It was Clive Youngblood.
L
ucas could have cheerfully strangled Youngblood.
ucas could have cheerfully strangled Youngblood.
He glanced down at Emma. The brim of her bonnet framed a face of breathtaking beauty. But the glow had gone out of her cheeks, and her lips had lost their joyous luster. He could feel the tension in her fingers as she gripped his arm. No longer was she the warm, laughing wife who had cheered her daughter’s kite-flying and shared a picnic luncheon with her husband—as if they were a real family.
God knew,
that
had been an illusion. A dream that had died an instant ago.
that
had been an illusion. A dream that had died an instant ago.
The Runner from the Bow Street Station had the audacity to sweep off his battered top hat and bow, revealing a bald spot in the middle of his dark, greasy hair. “If I could beg a few minutes of yer time, m‘lord and m’lady.”
Lucas placed his hand over Emma’s. The fragility of her fingers enhanced his need to protect her. “Go upstairs,” he murmured. “I’ll handle this matter.”
“Wid all due respect, m‘lord, allow me to finish. ’Twere after midnight last night when a Miss Pomfret of Portland Place was woken up by the Burglar.” Youngblood shook his fist. “He clutched her emerald necklace in his thievin’ ’and.”
“Miss Pomfret?” Emma said, staring at him. “Miss Minnie Pomfret?”
“Ah-hah,” he said, pointing a finger at Emma, “so you’re friendly wid ’er, too. You and yer grandsire, both.”
“We’re acquainted, but hardly friends.” With a show of polite disdain, Emma removed her bonnet and settled herself on a chair by the fire. The golden light from a nearby candelabra gilded her hair. She gave a ladylike shudder. “I must say, though, I’m appalled to hear of her misfortune. How frightened she must have been.”
Emma knew something, Lucas could tell by her too-innocent expression. Suspicion slithered into his mind. He’d foiled her attempt to steal from Lord Gerald Mannering. And last night she had been alone. All alone during the dark hours until dawn.
He turned his attention to Youngblood. “Get to the point.”
“Aye, m’lord. You’re the only one ’oo’s caught the Burglar. If you and Miss Pomfret was to compare hobservations—”
“Tell me what she saw.”
The Runner noisily cleared his throat. “She says the robber were a small bloke, maybe a few inches shorter than ‘er. ’E wore a ‘alf-mask and black clothes. When she attacked ’im wid her pillow and knocked ‘is cap askew, she saw a glimpse of pale ’air.”
Moonbeam hair.
“The man I apprehended had dark hair,” Lucas lied. “So that settles it. Miss Pomfret surprised a common robber.”
“The man I apprehended had dark hair,” Lucas lied. “So that settles it. Miss Pomfret surprised a common robber.”
“But he nicked only one necklace and left a pile of other jewels. That’s the way of the Burglar.” Youngblood rocked back and forth on his heels. “Odd thing is, Miss Pomfret says the necklace is worth five ‘undred pounds. H’ain’t that ‘ow much your grandsire owes, m’lady?”
For once, Emma offered no tart answer. She sat in somber dignity, her gaze fixed on the Runner. Her knuckles shone pale as pearls against the moss-green of her gown. Lucas remembered how she had looked riding beside him in the . phaeton—her eyes alight with enjoyment, her soft mouth curved into a laugh. All day he had ached to kiss her.
Now he itched to blister her hide … and then kiss her.
Lucas glowered at Youngblood. “I’ve heard quite enough of your insinuations. Get out.”
“But m’lord, I h’ain’t done—”
“Now. Before I throw you out.”
“Wait.” Emma jumped to her feet, her hands extended to stop the Runner from backing out of the library. “I must know. Did you arrest the Burglar?”
“Nay, m’lady. But I will soon. What I were tryin’ to tell m’lord is that the Burglar dropped this.” Digging in the voluminous pocket of his coat, Youngblood pulled forth a black glove and gloatingly displayed it.
Emma’s gaze focused on the glove. If anything, she grew paler, a goddess turned to stone.
Lucas strode to Youngblood and snatched up the evidence. It was a man’s glove made of thin, expensive kid leather. And small enough to fit Emma’s dainty hand. “This glove has no distinguishing marks,” he said flatly. “I fail to see how it will help you catch your thief.”
“’Twas made fer a gent of the Quality,” Youngblood said, retrieving the glove. “I’ll be showin’ it around to the fancy glovers ‘ereabouts. Some shopkeeper might remember who bought such a pair.” With a sly smile, he added, “You look awfully interested, m’lady. Care to try it on?”
“Me?” Her voice rose in breathy surprise. “What exactly are you implying?”
A bolt of fury struck Lucas. He controlled himself with effort. “We’ve no time for your games,” he said coldly. “Now, go on with you.”
Beneath his glare, Youngblood wilted like a weed nipped by a frost. He inched toward the door. “Y-yes, m’lord, if you’ll forgive me one last question. Just where was Lady Wortham last night?”
“With me, you dolt. She was with me.”
Striding forward, Lucas grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck. He marched Youngblood out of the library, down the corridor, and into the entryway, where a goggle-eyed Stafford whisked open the front door.
Lucas dumped the Runner in a heap on the porch. The
dented top hat went rolling down the marble steps, and Youngblood scrambled to catch it. Only strict discipline kept Lucas from using his fists on the wretch. Nothing short of murder would be adequate penalty for badgering Emma. Nothing short of drawing and quartering for laying ruin to their plans for the evening.
dented top hat went rolling down the marble steps, and Youngblood scrambled to catch it. Only strict discipline kept Lucas from using his fists on the wretch. Nothing short of murder would be adequate penalty for badgering Emma. Nothing short of drawing and quartering for laying ruin to their plans for the evening.
By the iron gate, Youngblood jammed the hat onto his head and turned to flash a dark look at Lucas. Then he went scuttling off like a rat into the night.
Lucas stalked back into the house to find his wife standing with one hand on the newel post. Her pensive gaze was focused on the high ceiling of the foyer. She might have been an angel looking wistfully toward heaven. A fallen angel.
I’ve dreamed of you … in my bed … making love to me.
Like a spinning prayer wheel, her confession played through his mind. But there was nothing holy about the effect it had on him. He burned with fury and frustration. Even now, lust knotted his loins. The swanlike curve of her throat begged to be kissed—yet he couldn’t banish the image of a rope circling her neck, bruising that smooth, white skin.
His bootheels rang out on the marble tiles. She blinked at him, and he had the impression her thoughts roamed miles away. Likely she was debating where to fence Miss Pomfret’s emerald necklace.
He marched Emma into the drawing room and closed the doors. Seizing her by the shoulders, he snarled, “Don’t you
ever
do that again.”
ever
do that again.”
“Do what? Speak my mind?” she said, wrinkling her nose in a frown. “I had a right to face Mr. Youngblood, too.”
“Spare me the naïveté. I’m no longer the fool you married.” His mouth felt dry with horror. He gave her a hard shake. “If you’re caught in a criminal act, Emma, being the wife of a peer won’t save you. People will be out for your blood, blue or not. You’ll end up with a rope around your neck. And I won’t … won’t be able to do a damned thing to … to stop it.” Breathing harshly, he fought off a wave of helplessness. He would not shame himself by lapsing into incoherent stuttering.
“Dear God,” Emma said in a faint voice. “You think
I
robbed Miss Pomfret.”
I
robbed Miss Pomfret.”
“I don’t think, I
know
. The facts prove your guilt.”
know
. The facts prove your guilt.”
“Yet you told Mr. Youngblood we were together last night. You lied to protect me.”
Amazingly, a smile flitted across her face. Its softness hit him harder than a fist. “Of course I lied,” he retorted bitterly. “Our sleeping arrangements are none of his bloody business.” His fingers flexed around her delicate shoulders. “Hear me now, Emma. I shall not allow you to dishonor me, ever again.”
Scowling, she lowered her face for a moment. When she looked at him again, her expression was sober. She lifted her hand to his cheek. “Lucas, I never left my room last night. I swear it to you.”
The caress of her fingertips drained him of breath. Her eyes were so big and blue he wanted to drown in them. Though he fought against it, a treacherous doubt crept into his mind. “Then explain how Miss Pomfret came to be robbed by a dainty thief clad in black clothing.” None too gently, he threaded his fingers into her silken curls. “A thief with hair as pale as yours.”
She grasped his wrists and stayed his hands. “Pale can mean anything from golden to gray. Youngblood was making wild accusations because he hasn’t a scrap of proof beyond a glove that could have been purchased by anyone.”
“I see,” he said, imbuing his voice with sarcasm. “Someone was impersonating the Bond Street Burglar.”
“Precisely.”
Her small white teeth worried her lower lip. Lips that might have been moving over his naked flesh right now if not for Emma’s penchant for trouble. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to salvage the night. They were alone, behind closed doors. And she had promised him the privileges of a husband.
I’ve dreamed of you … in my bed … making love to me.
Hot blood pumped through his veins. To hell with quarreling.
He had only to settle her against him, lean down, and take what he wanted.
He had only to settle her against him, lean down, and take what he wanted.
He did just that. He trapped Emma’s slim body in the circle of his arms and tilted her chin up. Her moist lips parted. Her eyes widened. His warm breath mingled with hers—
“Stop.” Emma pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him back. She looked annoyed, not enamored. “This is important. Aren’t you listening to me?”
“This is important, too.” He placed his hands on her soft, round bottom and rubbed his hips against hers. The keen pleasure of it throbbed through him. “And his, at least, is the truth—this passion we both feel.”
She caught her breath and closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, then squirmed free. “Lucas, please. Someone is playing the Burglar. And I know who.”
An hour later, the Wortham coach rolled to a halt in a dilapidated neighborhood near Cheapside. Stepping down to the broken pavement, Emma waited for Lucas to emerge. In the more affluent areas of town, gas lamps shone like hazy beacons, but not here. Here, the night was dark and deep. Fog had crept in on ghostly feet, and the air had a cold, clammy quality that made her shiver despite the warmth of her cloak.
Then Lucas stood beside her, a tall and domineering presence. Still smarting from his lack of faith in her, she reluctantly took the arm he offered. She told herself not to be so irritated that he had leapt to a conclusion. After all, she had lied to him often enough.
Yet it hurt to remember the carefree day they’d spent together, and her hope that he was softening toward her and Jenny. Lucas could never love her. He had defended her only to stop another scandal. He wanted a son from her, that was all.
Straining to see into the gloom, she turned her attention to the house where she and Jenny had lived only a fortnight ago. Odd, she didn’t consider it home anymore. The entryway
was dark, the outside lamps unlit. Emma wondered uneasily if her grandfather was even here. He might be gambling again—or worse, endangering his life.
was dark, the outside lamps unlit. Emma wondered uneasily if her grandfather was even here. He might be gambling again—or worse, endangering his life.
In response to Lucas’s knock, the door opened a crack and a woman held up a candle that illuminated her carrot-red hair. Her freckled face brightened with a smile, and she flung the door wide.
“M’leddy! You’ve come home!”
Emma caught the small, spry servant into a tight embrace. The familiar scents of coarse soap and lemon wax wafted over her. “Oh, Maggie, how wonderful to see you again. How is Grandpapa?”
Maggie motioned them inside and closed the door. “Shh. He’s in the morning room. That scoundrel Runner was here this morning, plaguing the poor man—until I ran him off with my broom. His lordship hasn’t come out since.”
Lucas handed her his cape. “Then you can’t be certain he’s still in there.”
“You dursn’t call me a fool, m’lord,” the servant retorted. “I took him in his supper but fifteen minutes ago.”
“We aren’t here to question you, Maggie,” Emma said hastily.
“On the contrary,” Lucas stated, “I should like to know if Briggs went out last evening. Around midnight.”
Maggie’s defiant look dwindled as she lowered her jutting chin. She glanced at Emma.
“It’s all right,” Emma assured her. “You can tell Lord Wortham.”
“Humph. ‘Bout ten o’clock last night, George drove your grandpa to a party, then waited down the street with the other coachmen. Didn’t see hide nor hair of his lordship again till the clock struck two.” Maggie’s work-worn fingers clutched at Emma’s. “I’m sorry, m’leddy, truly I am. George and me, we tried to keep your grandpa out of trouble. I swear it on me own dear mother’s grave.”
Emma squeezed the maid’s hands. “I know. It isn’t your fault.”
It’s my fault
.
.
With a heavy heart, she walked over the bare wood floor and knocked on the door of the morning room. A muffled curse emanated from inside. Lucas’s hand settled on her shoulder in a brief, reassuring grip. Then she opened the door.
Other books
Controlled Explosions by Claire McGowan
From the Embers (The Born in Flames Trilogy) by Knoebel, Candace
Stake That by Mari Mancusi
Where the Dead Men Go by Liam McIlvanney
Judgment by Tom Reinhart
Blue Autumn Cruise by Lisa Williams Kline
La buena fama by Juan Valera
The Man Game by Lee W. Henderson