Once Upon a Scandal (17 page)

He glanced up at the unexpected words and shifted toward her, searching her pale face. “Victoria. Know that I understand much more than you realize. You are adjusting to a lot. Your father’s illness, his impending death, me, our marriage, what is expected of you. I have been adjusting to a lot myself and confess it has been overwhelming and challenging trying to balance having you and my freedom delivered to me all at once.”

Her hand continued to skim across the surface of the coverlet. “How did you survive being in that man’s service all these years? Didn’t you ever think to…escape? Did you not try?”

He flung all the flowers from his hand onto the floor, distancing himself from his own emotions. “I was dealing with an animal, not a man. There were so many stories surrounding him, he became more of a myth than flesh. Prior to my arrival, there had been a pretty, young servant who disappeared. Most likely because she had refused to share his bed. No one ever knew what happened to her and whatever inquiries her family had made were silenced. There were other stories that included a newborn babe floating in the laguna that many claimed belonged to one of his many lovers. Though whispers cannot usually be trusted, I had no doubt that most, if not all, of the rumors were true. A few months into my contract, Cornelia had married and was with child, which further complicated my situation and bound me into service. I had more to think about than just her. She had a family.”

“Did you ever tell Cornelia? About what happened to you?”

“No. No one but you and Grayson know of it, and I am asking you to keep it that way. I do not ever want Cornelia to know. She would only end up blaming herself for it. The Casacalendas and I parted amicably after my service. I would not even be here if it were not for the marchesa, who sought to right what had been done. She contacted your father and convinced him to reconsider giving me an opportunity to vie for you, hailing my success in Venetian society. She knew how much you meant to me and for that, I will forever be grateful to her.”

Her hand stilled as she observed him. “Were you ever mistreated? Aside from being forced to…” She left the unsaid hanging between them.

He swallowed, realizing there was so much he had not yet told her. But he had every intention of proving to himself and to Victoria that his soul was greater than the humiliation his pride had endured. “Not in the way you think. Though I avoided the marchese, for he was an eerie soul that unsettled me to the core, the marchesa herself was very kind and attentive. She fancied herself in love with me, though I could never define the way she treated me as love. I was more of a trinket she paraded in society.”

“Did you know her prior to going into service?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. She, uh…she was a close acquaintance of the family Cornelia was originally supposed to marry into. The marchesa and my stepmother became good friends. Very good friends, in fact. She was much older than I, and according to whispers was a sad soul who lost every child she ever carried. So when she offered me the position as a means of settling my debts, I assumed she was extending kindness and a form of compassion toward a family she was never able to have. I discovered soon enough that it was nothing more than lust. Nonetheless, she was intelligent, extremely popular and hailed by Venetian society for her contributions to the arts.”

“Was she pretty?”

Jonathan’s brows went up, noting Victoria’s pale features were flushed. Was she actually jealous? “I had no attachment to her, even after I became her lover. It was like any other task I was set to perform.”

She averted her gaze. “So she was pretty.”

He shrugged. “Yes.”

Victoria raised herself onto her elbow and stared at him, her blond chignon shifting to one side. “I don’t understand how Venetian society would have permitted her to not only have a lover but to flaunt him. London would have torched their house, dragged her husband into the street and taken a brick to his head and then hers.”

He laughed and leaned toward her. “Do not over-excite yourself. You need rest.” Touching her soft face with one hand and her shoulder with his other, he gently guided her back down onto the pillow.

He sat back, distancing himself, lest he become too distracted with the idea of touching her again. “Venice is not London, as you will find. No one is addicted to censuring their neighbors. And though having a cicisbeo is no longer widely practiced, there was a time when every respectable married woman in Venice had one and would have never dared to step outside her home without him. She paraded him everywhere. Even Mass.”

“Mass?” She snorted against the pillow. “You lie.”

“I do not.”

“You mean to say married women in Venice retained lovers and flaunted them in church? Before the eyes of God? I refuse to believe it.”

“London’s definition of a cicisbeo is much different from what it is in practice. A true cicisbeo is not meant to be a lover at all. Which is why I entered into the agreement in the first place. ’Tis a respectable position entailing an honorable man serving a married woman, defending her honor in public whenever her husband is not available to do so. I was designated to be her chaperone in society and a servant in her home, tending to duties similar to that of a footman and a lady’s maid.”

“A lady’s maid?” she echoed, her eyes widening. “You were a lady’s maid?”

He cleared his throat and shifted against the mattress. “I prefer you not call it that, as I am no maid. But, yes, some of my duties were similar to those of one.”

“So you dressed and undressed her?”

“Yes.”

“Daily?”

“Daily. But that was menial compared to all of my other duties. I ensured her servants carried out their tasks, assisted her with anything and everything she needed and accompanied her everywhere. I was both servant and chaperone.”

“Heavens above, you were more a husband to this woman than her own husband was.”

He shrugged. “That is how she and I eventually became friends. I came to realize she wasn’t as heartless as her husband was.”

“How could her husband have even tolerated such a thing? Was he not at all jealous of his own wife?”

“I am certain he was jealous at times, but he had his own array of coquettes to occupy him. His way of thinking was neither rational or traditional. The Casacalenda marriage in and of itself was a mutual alliance of power. Nothing more. The marchese led his life the way he pleased and the marchesa led hers the way she pleased. They were associates, of sorts.”

“Associates,” she muttered. “More like rapists.”

He sighed. “Enough.” He poked her arm. “I cannot wait to show you Venice. You and I will ride gondolas all day and feast on mussels and cod until our sides burst. Cornelia will be beside herself when she discovers we are married. I have not sent word as I intend to surprise her upon our arrival. She always believed we would be together. And right she was.”

Victoria smoothed the coverlet again, watching her hand. “Whatever does or does not happen, Remington, my life will always be here with my father. I hope you understand that.”

His stomach dropped but he shoved his disappointment aside. “You need the company of more than a dying man. What do you intend to do with your life once your father passes? Have you given thought to that? You need me. You need me to take care of you and I intend to. But it will be in Venice. Not here.”

She glared up at him. “Do not assume because you are now my husband you will dictate my life. Cease pretending I have already offered my heart. I have not.”

He looked away, her words biting into him. He supposed this was just the beginning of what he could expect. “Forgive me for ever wanting your heart.”

He rose, dug into his pocket and retrieved the wedding gift, which he had wrapped in a lace cloth. He set it on the edge of the bed. “This is my wedding gift to you. I apologize for not having it bound. There was no time for the shop to do it.” He rounded the bed and strode toward the door, yanking it open.

“Remington,” she called out, pushing herself up. Flint sat up along with her, eyeing him.

Jonathan paused and fully turned toward her. “What?”

“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I did not intend to be so cruel. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I am not angry. I am disillusioned. You are far more than this shell of a woman you have reduced yourself to. If I were meeting you now for the very first time, I don’t think I would have even bothered. Now…rest. I will return when it is time for us to leave.” He stepped out, shut the door behind him and blew out a heavy breath, eyeing the closed door. Why did he have this horrid inkling that a month was all he was ever going to have with her?

Under the circumstances, they really needed to reacquaint each other by starting all over again and rebuilding not only Victoria but also himself. They needed to be friends first. Lovers last. Or their relationship would never survive. Not with all the doubts and pride eating Victoria alive. Until she agreed to be his, all his, he refused to have her submit to anything. Not a touch and most certainly not a kiss.

FLINT ROUNDED Victoria and settled himself against her legs, closing his eyes. Oh, to be a dog. Life would only gloriously consist of food, sleep and occasional trysts with no attachments.

Victoria shifted toward the rectangular object Remington had left on the bed, reached out and dragged it over toward where she lay. She carefully unfolded the lace cloth and blinked down at an unbound copy of a book. And not just any book, but The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe.

Tears stung her eyes.

It was the only book by Defoe she’d never read. Even after all these years. She had once pestered Grayson for a whole eight weeks, desperately trying to acquire it, only to be denied due to its scandalous content. And yet…Remington had somehow remembered that. He had remembered who she had once been, while she herself had completely forgotten. How was that possible?

A tear trickled down her cheek. She swiped it away with the shaky tips of her fingers. When she was seventeen, she had wanted to travel the world and see all of the cities she had read about in the books Mrs. Lambert always piled before her. Cities like Madrid, Warsaw, Saint Petersburg, Cape Town, Paris, New York and…Venice. Venice above all others, for she had wanted to visit the plain and see all the trees Remington had carved with her name, and wanted to ride in a gondola all day watching the entire city float by.

When she was seventeen, she wanted to be eighteen, so she could be Remington’s wife and a mother to his children who would all have eyes as blue as his. More than anything she had wanted to surround herself with the joys of having a family again. Her own family. The sort of family that she had once had before tragedy after tragedy had taken it away.

Victoria gathered the unbound book Remington had given her, hugging it lovingly to her chest, and lowered herself back onto the pillow. Her life was slowly edging away from youth, and what had she done with it thus far?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was the first time in her life she was disappointed with herself as a human being. If she continued down this path of pushing everyone away, including Remington, she knew she would be destroying the last of who she really was.

Some women are content to leave their characters un formed. Sadly, those are the same women who eventually suffer from the shattering of fortitude. As a result, these women are unable to function in the manner society expects them to. Which is why a lady should never leave herself unformed.
—
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

Eighteen days later, evening
On a private chartered steamship en route to
Venice

SHE HAD TO make this trip twice? Oh, dearest God, no. She’d rather stay in Venice for the rest of her life.

Victoria staggered alongside Remington, allowing him to guide her toward the bolted bed in the cabin. The glass lanterns swayed and creaked in slow, steady motions, shifting golden light across the wooden boards beneath her traveling boots. Falling away from Remington’s hands, she flopped onto the unevenly stuffed mattress, her cobalt gown spreading around her. She swallowed the remaining spicy, fibrous bits of ginger in her mouth, waiting for it to fade her nausea. Though she now lay still, the world continued to sway back and forth, back and forth.

Vomiting every hour throughout their voyage at sea had not been the grand adventure she had envisioned. But at least Remington wasn’t taking advantage of her delirium. For some reason, the man hadn’t even bothered with a single advance, aside from friendly pats and hand-holding.

She actually preferred their association to remain civil and simple. It allowed her to focus on getting to know him again, instead of focusing on what he did or did not expect of her as a woman. Though he was notably more serious than the Remington she’d once known, there was an alluring maturity and purpose in everything he said that was rather inspiring.

The boat lurched and nausea rolled through her gut and chest again. She squeezed her eyes shut and fisted the coverlet on the bed, fighting it. “I would have made quite the sailor,” she grumbled. “They would have tied me to the side of the railing just to keep the ship clean.”

Remington sat beside her, his trouser-clad thigh resting against her back. He rubbed her shoulder affectionately. “The first journey is always the worst. Do you require more ginger before I go on deck for air?”

“Land. I require land.”

He chuckled. “We arrive in Venice tomorrow morning.”

“I believe I will kiss every single stone I see out of pure joy.” She opened her eyes and rolled back toward him. She paused, searching his shadowed face, which observed her in the swaying, dim light of the lanterns.

The dark circles beneath those handsome blue eyes were hauntingly more noticeable than they had been in recent days. They etched into his cheekbones and the tone of his olive skin. And though his voice and mannerisms throughout their voyage never once eluded to it, his features looked increasingly frayed. As if there was something physically wrong with him.

She swallowed at the thought. “Are you…unwell?”

“Aside from constantly worrying about you, I am very well. Thank you. Why?”

She drew her brows together. “The darkness circling your eyes makes you appear quite ill.”

He snorted. “I am not ill, I assure you.”

“Is it…exhaustion, then?” She blinked, trying to remember when she’d last seen him sleep. She blinked again. Why was it she couldn’t remember him ever sleeping beside her? “I am always asleep long before you ever come into bed, and yet you are always up long before I wake. When do you sleep?”

He shrugged. “I lie beside you every night.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

He shrugged again. “Here and there. I sleep.”

“It mustn’t be very long. I know I have yet to see you dress or undress, and our cabin is anything but large.”

He lifted a dark brow, his hand sliding up the corseted waist of her traveling gown. “I didn’t realize you had an interest in watching me dress and undress. Do you?”

She groaned and swatted at him. “You exaggerate my point. I am merely expressing my concern. You look a bit ragged. Exhausted. Are you not sleeping?”

He pointed to himself. “You are expressing concern? For me?” He lowered his chin. “Shall I fall upon my knees and thank the Lord for finally gifting you with an ounce of compassion for Captain Blue Eyes?”

He was making a theatrical out of this. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”

“Every morning while I shave.”

“And you are not concerned with what you see?”

He smiled, that adorable dimple appearing on his shaven cheek. “You love me. Admit it. You have never stopped loving me.”

She glared at him. “You are avoiding my question. Are you sleeping or not?”

His smiled faded. He shifted against the bed. “I admit to being restless. I am still adjusting to a life outside of the one I had led in service. I had endless amount of duties that rarely allowed much sleep.”

“So you aren’t sleeping?”

“I am. But only two to three hours at a time.”

How on earth could she not have noticed he was sleeping so little? A more self-absorbed witch she’d never known. In an effort to distance herself from him, she had also overstepped her bounds as a human being. Dear God. This could not go on.

“Come.” She gently patted the space beside her. “I will ensure you sleep. Lie beside me.”

He shook his head. “A dose of sea air is all I require.”

“You require sleep. Now lie down.”

“Sleep does not come to me that way. I require air first.”

She sighed. “Then take in your air and return to me at once. I will not have you evading the rest you require.”

“You worry needlessly.”

“Someone has to worry.” She jabbed him. “Fifteen minutes on deck. No more. Or I will find you and drench you in vomit. Which you know I am more than good for.”

He rumbled out a laugh. “Yes, bella. Are you certain you don’t want anything before I leave?”

Even though she was feeling much better, thanks to the ginger, she became an actress and rolled away onto her side, groaning. “Land. Sweet land.”

“And you will get it. Tomorrow morning. I vow.” He was quiet for a moment. “Your concern is endearing.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, his lips surprisingly cool. He lingered, the scent of wine and fresh sea air drifting from his skin. He kissed her cheek again. Only this time, his hand skimmed the length of her skirts, from knee to waist and waist to knee and back again.

Victoria drew in a shaky breath, the frantic pounding of her heart making it almost impossible to endure. His touch and his lips upon her cheek made her drift back to a time she never could seem to escape. Even after all these years, she could still remember the way his hot, wet tongue had ardently touched and circled hers in the quiet darkness while she stood at the foot of the stairwell in her home at Bath. Here she was, two and twenty, and it was still the only kiss she had ever known.

Would it be the same?

Could it be the same?

She didn’t know if it was the sea air or the swaying of the ship or her weak constitution, but she desperately wanted his lips on more than her cheek. She wanted them on her own lips.

Victoria shifted back toward him, causing him to lift his dark head from her cheek.

He smiled and patted her hip. “I should go.”

“No,” she murmured, reaching out for his arm and dragging him closer. “Stay.”

“I will only be gone for a short while.”

“Kiss me. On the lips. Like we did that night. Will you?”

His shaven jaw tightened, shifting the muscles visibly. He searched her face. “No.”

She stared up at him in disbelief. “No? I… Is there a stench I am emitting? Or is it the fact that I am more beige than attractive?”

He leaned toward her and cupped the side of her face with a large, warm hand. “There is no stench. And though you are indeed beige, that is not why I am denying you.”

She focused on him, his hand and his words. “Then what is it? Am I not treating you well enough? I…I have been trying to be kinder to you. Believe me, I have.”

He slid his thumb across her lips. His eyes trailed the movement. “You are treating me exceptionally well compared to when we were back in London, and for that I thank you. But that is not enough for me. As you know, I am foolishly sentimental and will admit that the last time these lips had ever touched another’s, I was nineteen. It is the only kiss I ever wish to know.”

Her breath hitched. “You mean…you never kissed anyone after you kissed me that night? Not even your marchesa?”

He tilted his head to better observe her, causing strands of dark hair to slip across his forehead. “Not her. Not anyone. Though I became her lover, I bound her to one simple rule she willingly granted. That my mouth never touch hers. It made our physical interactions…interesting, but it was the only way I could honor myself, knowing what I was submitting to. I wanted you to be the only one to have that part of me.”

Victoria swallowed, the erratic beat of her heart fluttering to her throat. He had wanted to save himself for her? It was… “Oh, Remington,” she breathed out. “Am I allowed to say that is the most romantic thing I have ever heard of?”

He slid his hand away and sat back. “You are allowed to say it if you mean it. But I will admit there was nothing romantic about bedding one woman whilst always wanting and thinking and yearning for another.” He sighed. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must take in my air.”

“No. No, you can’t.” She struggled to sit up, but the room swayed again, reminding her that she was not in control of her body. She sank down against the mattress again and caught his arm. “Remington.”

“Jonathan,” he corrected.

“Jonathan,” she offered.

“Yes? What is it?”

She shifted her hand toward the lapel of his traveling coat and yanked him down toward her, willing him to stay. “You cannot tell me such things and then leave me to my own thoughts in this creaky cabin.”

He gently pried her fingers from his coat and laid her hand back to her side. “I fear the sea is overtaking the last of your senses.”

Perhaps it was. She couldn’t explain it, but it was as if his words had revived a small part of herself that had been buried all these years. “I want you to kiss me. Please.”

He stared at her. “You want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He grinned, clearly reveling in his newfound glory as a man. “Whilst I am endlessly flattered, it is with much regret that I must still deny you.”

“You still intend to deny me?” she echoed.

“Yes.”

“Of a kiss?”

“Yes.”

“I do believe I must have heaved out my brain over the side of this ship and misunderstood. Are you not the same man who made us pleasure ourselves in a carriage whilst rolling through London? What is this? Do you wish to punish me for the way I have been treating you?”

“A real man does not punish the woman he loves. Not under any circumstance.” He leaned over her and placed both hands against the headboard above her, his wide chest blocking her view of the cabin.

She sucked in a breath and gawked up at him, eyeing his mouth. “By denying me, I assure you, you are, in fact, punishing me.”

“No. By denying you, I am ensuring neither of us gets hurt.” He drew in a ragged breath and stared down at her, his blue eyes observing her. “I will not permit you to taint the memory of our kiss and then walk away. When you kiss me, Victoria, it will only be because you have decided to spend the rest of your life with me. I will not settle for less. Not when it comes to us. I can assure you, not touching you has been… beyond torturous. All I have been wanting to do ever since we’ve been wed is—”

He shifted, throwing a muscled, trouser-clad leg over her, and slid his lower half down her lower half, rubbing his erection and hard body against her. “This.” He lowered both his gaze and his hands to her breasts, skimming his fingers along the edges of her neckline and the curves of her breasts hidden beneath. “And this.”

She gasped and slid her hands down his solid chest toward his waist hidden beneath his coat. She yanked his shirt from his trousers and slid her hands against his warm, smooth skin, savoring the feel of him.

He sucked in a breath and repositioned himself above her again, setting both of his hands above her shoulders, and stared her down, as if trying to penetrate her soul. “No,” he rasped.

Her heart pounded. “No?”

His chest rose and fell in heavy takes. “I will not kiss you or bed you until you are mine. When you are mine—the way you used to be—I will kiss you and you will kiss me.”

He pushed himself away and slowly stood. Shoving his shirt back into his trousers, he cleared his throat and adjusted his waistcoat. “I will return in fifteen minutes.” Striding toward the cabin door, he opened it, stepped out and shut it behind him.

Victoria lifted a heavy, wobbly hand straight into the air above her and then let it drop onto the mattress beside her where Remington—or rather Jonathan—should have been. He wasn’t even going to let them kiss. Not until she announced she was his.

The man truly was not of this earth.

Though it shouldn’t have surprised her. Such an ultimatum was exactly the sort of thing a man who once believed in magic rings would issue. Damn him and damn herself. Was it possible she was wrong in denying him an opportunity to heal whatever remained of her soul? Was it possible she had been wrong all along about her understanding of him, of love, of life?

Yes. Yes, it was very possible. And Remington, her dear Remington, was beginning to illuminate those dark corners of her life yet again. Just as he had once upon a time when she was seventeen.