Once Upon a Scandal (9 page)

Jonathan’s jaw tightened as those achingly familiar dreamy green eyes met his. Thick, curling, long blond hair softly framed Victoria’s beautiful oval face. Her full pink lips were set into a playful yet demure smile. One he remembered all too well.

The playful innocence that still lingered in those eyes and that face silently called out to him. God, how he wished he could go back to that night. That night when she had kissed him and held him and made him believe that his mother’s ring actually bore real magic.

Jonathan reached out and gently slipped the miniature from Grayson’s fingers, compelled to hold it. He grazed his forefinger across her womanly face, the rough paint shattering the illusion of soft skin.

Grayson tapped the outer frame. “She needs you, Remington. And with her father’s death imminent, more so than ever. She will have no one but the husband she takes. Do you really want to lose the best thing you ever had because of your stupid pride and fear of getting rejected?”

Jonathan swallowed at the thought. Although he had been unable to let Victoria go, he knew he had destroyed the man she once knew and loved. Hell, he didn’t even know who he was anymore. His tastes, his needs, his wants had all been erased and replaced with the tastes, needs and wants of Bernadetta di Sangro, Marchesa Casacalenda and her savage of a husband. Such was the life of a Cavalier Servente. And though his contract had reached an end, his resentment toward the life he’d been forced into had not. Jonathan fingered the portrait. He had lost five years of his life. Five years that should have all been spent with Victoria.

Grayson nudged his arm. “Keep it.”

“Thank you. I will.” Jonathan tucked the miniature into the inner pocket of his own coat. “Allow me to see her before the others do. I need time to reconnect with her.”

Grayson leaned back. “Oh, no, no. I am afraid I cannot play favorites. Not in this. There are legalities as to how things are to be conducted, or everything, including the inheritance, will be void. Do you really want to play games with that large a fortune? Do you?”

“No, of course not. I simply…” He sighed.

Grayson leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Though I am not permitted to disclose what is planned, if you need me to disclose the details as a means of providing you a measure of assurance, I can do that. But that is about all I am able to offer in this. The rest will be up to you.”

Jonathan shifted his jaw and nodded. “I appreciate your assistance in this.”

“And?”

“I wish to take it.”

“Good. This remains between you, me and the walls. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Grayson angled toward him. “Here it is. All three suitors will remain nameless to each other and to Victoria until the night of introductions. It allows everyone a fair chance to compete. Over the course of one evening, each man will be escorted into a private room with Victoria and expected to answer a designated set of questions. After all questions have been answered, Victoria must decide between you and the others. That is all.”

Jonathan stepped back and raked his hands through his hair before dropping them to his sides. “What sort of questions will I be asked?”

“Hell if I know. But it doesn’t matter. All you have to do is enter the room and the competition is over.”

Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. “You have far too much faith in me.”

“And that is what makes me a good friend.” Grayson drew his brows together and glanced about. “You are not staying in this heathenish abode. You are coming home with me. Tonight. I also intend to drag you over to my tailor. I cannot stand looking at you. You look like Casanova in the flesh. And that is no compliment, I assure you.”

Jonathan gestured grandly toward the length of his dove-gray attire, the embroidered celadon waistcoat and his green lace cravat. “I happened to pay a sizable amount to look this damn good.”

Grayson snorted. “I don’t care what you paid. It’s hideous. If I were you, I would get your money back.”

Jonathan snickered. “I am not buying new clothes merely because you cannot appreciate Venetian fashion.”

“Forget I even care. Now, are you doing this or not? I’m exhausted and need some goddamn brandy. I’ve been doing this all week. You aren’t the only man on the list.”

Though doubts still plagued him, he simply had to hope to whatever God there was that enough remained between him and Victoria to ignite what had once been. “I will vie.”

Grayson smacked his hands together and grinned. “Splendid. I will inform Mr. Parker of it at once.” He gestured toward the side of Jonathan’s waist. “Now hand over that blade.”

“Whatever for?”

“Have faith. I don’t plan on gutting you. I will leave that for Victoria.” Grayson wagged his upturned fingers, waiting.

Faith. Now there was a word he’d long since lost sight of. Jonathan reached back and yanked it loose from its scabbard. He presented the small blade.

Grayson grasped the handle, playing with its weight. He paced away, turning on his booted heel and then whipped the blade hard across the room.

A loud thud echoed within the room as Jonathan jerked toward its direction. Jonathan gestured in complete exasperation toward the handle now sticking out the wall. “Are you on opium?”

Swiveling back toward him, Grayson pointed at him. “It stays in the wall. I cannot have you wearing blades like some tribesman. People are more civilized here and are likely to get nervous. If you feel the need to tote a weapon in public, I’ll buy you a cane. Now gather up whatever you came with and meet me outside.”

Grayson paused. “Oh.” His brows came together as he patted his outside pockets. “I almost forgot.” He yanked out a small red-leather-bound book with edges that had been frayed white, approached Jonathan and smacked the book against his chest.

Jonathan scrambled for it with his hands, catching it before it slipped and fell to the floor.

“My uncle wanted you to have it. There is an inscription inside. Read it, count your blessings and meet me out in the coach.” Grayson patted him on the back, swept past and disappeared out into the corridor. The entrance door creaked open and slammed shut.

Jonathan turned the worn book right side up and blinked down at the fading gold-lettered words: How To Avoid a Scandal. His brows rose in astonishment. Victoria had once mentioned this book—it was the book she’d been reading during their correspondence.

He smoothed its front with a hand, then opened it, revealing an overly slanted inscription within, written across the full length of the very front page in black ink.

Lord Remington, I am pleased to hear about your unprecedented success in Venetian society. Your determination to make a better life for yourself will suit what I believe my daughter needs. What you hold was once Victoria’s mandated reading. Though she tried to toss it, I pilfered it and discovered your name scribed throughout its pages. It astonished me. My own dear wife, Josephine, used to scribe my name in a similar manner on the pages of her books, claiming great books deserved to bear the name of a great man within their pages. I never realized that before my wife’s death, she had shared this unusual tradition with Victoria. Since my wife’s passing, I have not been the sort of father I should have been, and I now firmly believe my Josephine has spoken to me from beyond and is insisting I ensure our daughter’s happiness before I pass from this world myself. In honor of what this book represents, I hope you will treat my daughter with the dignity and worth of a debutante embarking upon her first Season. May God bless you both. It is my hope she will choose you out of the three. Linford Jonathan swallowed, eerily reminded of his own father, who despite carrying a stern male façade, always knew when to yield. He’d always held a respect for the earl. After all, the man had only ever wanted what was best for his daughter. But was he, Jonathan Pierce Thatcher, Viscount Remington, truly what was best anymore? He had to believe he was. If only for Victoria’s sake. For although he had sold every part of his soul over the years, the dream of what he and Victoria had once shared remained the same. Sweet and pure.

Jonathan slowly paged through the entire book. He bit back a smile as his name appeared throughout, sometimes on the side, sometimes at the top, sometimes at the bottom. It reminded him of the way he’d carved an entire row of mulberry trees on the outskirts of Venice with Victoria’s name. He paused on one of the pages with his name and read:

Husbands are like flowers. Tedious though it may be, they must be tended to daily. If there is not enough sunlight beaming within your smile or you forget to water his soul with the right words, patience and attention, his stem will wilt and his head will sag. Unlike a real flower, however, your husband cannot be ripped from the ground, tossed and replaced by another. Which is why you must tend to the garden that is yours. His very existence relies upon you. Jonathan slapped the book shut. He most certainly had not expected to find his name next to that.

Many women dress preposterously in the name of being fashionable and unique. I dare say, God did not intend for us to wear clothes, and so one can easily forgive eccentricity from time to time. But there is an enormous difference between wanting to look one’s best and failing and dressing for the sake of being vulgar and creating an unnecessary scandal.
—
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

April 16, 6:53 p.m.
The night of introductions

GRAYSON’S TIGHT features rhythmically appeared and disappeared into the shadows as light from passing gas lampposts filtered in through the carriage windows. “That gown is revealing far more cleavage than I, as your cousin, ever want to see. Cover yourself up with that shawl, will you?”

Victoria rolled her eyes. The décolletage on her verdant lace and silk gown wasn’t that low. “Lest you forget, Grayson, I am no longer a debutante and therefore I can wear whatever I like.” She shifted toward him. “Will I be able to visit with my father after introductions?”

“No. Not tonight. I need you to stay focused. You can visit with him tomorrow for however long you like.”

She sighed. “How is he whenever I am not about?”

“In good spirits. We always ensure someone is with him when we are not at his side.” He grabbed his silver-headed walking stick from the seat beside him, and rolled it back and forth in his gloved hands.

Victoria eyed him. Grayson only ever fidgeted when something bothered him. “What is it?”

His hands stilled, his gaze lifting to hers. “Hmm?”

She gestured toward him. “You appear anxious. Are you?”

Grayson stared at her before glancing away and shrugged. “I keep thinking about the evening ahead and only hope all goes well for you, is all.”

She sighed, already exhausted at the prospect. “Who are these men anyway? And why do you refuse to tell me anything about them? I would think—”

“We’ve already discussed this, Victoria. I am not allowed to answer questions pertaining to this night or these men. That is for your father’s solicitor to do. Not I.”

One would think she was about to be introduced to the king himself.

The horses whinnied and the carriage rolled to a stop. The small glass window at her elbow revealed the looming, three-story home of her uncle, its glass windows brightly lit from inside.

Her stomach squeezed as she realized that all of her dreams of what matrimony should have been and could have been had dwindled down to this. Some man she would never love would be touching her and kissing her and bedding her. For the rest of her life.

The carriage door swung open, revealing a dimly lit pavement. The footman unfolded the steps.

Grayson lowered his head to keep his top hat from hitting the door of the carriage, and jumped down onto the pathway beneath the portico without using the steps. He turned back, extending his gloved hand.

Victoria stood and took Grayson’s hand and swept down onto the pavement.

Grayson offered her his arm and together, they entered through the open doors of her uncle’s home. She drew in a steady breath, ready for whatever her father had planned. Slowly, she walked across the black-and-white marble tile of the large foyer, already feeling as if she were a pawn being played on a huge chess board.

The lanky butler stoically closed the entrance door.

Grayson gestured toward his left. “This is Mr. Parker, the solicitor to your father’s estate. He will be ensuring everything is conducted accordingly.”

Victoria’s eyes darted over to the bald man bearing three sealed parchments in his gloved hand. He was dressed in a formal, brass-buttoned evening coat, an overly starched and knotted cravat that indicated his valet was of no use at all and a pair of well-pressed trousers.

Mr. Parker smiled assuredly.

She smiled in turn and swept toward him. “Good evening, Mr. Parker. I was informed by my cousin that you will be answering my questions. So my first question is this: Why are you, a solicitor to my father’s estate, involved in the introduction of my suitors? I think it very odd.”

“I will answer your questions in due time,” the man awkwardly provided.

Well, that was informative.

Grayson removed his top hat, smoothing the sides of his blond hair, and approached. “Forgive my inability to provide a proper introduction.” Grayson swept a gloved hand back toward her. “Lady Emerson, this is Mr. Parker. Mr. Parker, this is Lady Emerson.”

Mr. Parker bowed, lowering his bulbous chin against his knotted cravat. He straightened and cleared his throat. “Shall we commence, Mr. Thorbert?”

“Yes. In a moment.” Grayson stripped his cloak and turned to the butler, holding it out along with his top hat. The lanky butler gathered everything with quiet civility.

Grayson turned back toward them and sighed. “There we have it. I am ready.”

Mr. Parker gestured past the foyer to the corridor beyond. “If you please. Everyone is already gathered upstairs.”

Her throat tightened. The idea of meeting suitors in the presence of a man representing her father’s estate was unnerving. She dared not fathom what it meant. Did her father think she was going to deny her duty or his choice in men?

Lifting the hem of her gowns lightly above her slippered ankle, she quietly followed Mr. Parker and Grayson past elegant round alcoves displaying a series of bronze and marble busts of dignified men propped on Roman columns. It had been months since she’d last visited her uncle’s home. Of course, nothing had changed since she’d last seen it; it was still very pristine and very boring. Her eyes followed the wood railing toward an oversize landing that led to various doors and the receiving room upstairs.

Grayson gestured for her to mount the stairs after Mr. Parker. She quickly followed the solicitor as Grayson trailed behind. Once she alighted on the landing, both Grayson and Mr. Parker hurried down one of the corridors. Two male servants in dark livery made their way toward them with silver platters, settled themselves against the walls and stoically remained there until she, Mr. Parker and Grayson had passed.

Low male voices drifted toward her.

Victoria followed Grayson through a large, rounded entryway. The dignified drawing room looked the same, its arched ceilings still bearing elegant ribbon plasterwork, the long row of windows on the other end of the room draped with heavy, brocaded curtains.

Although the large room wasn’t brightly lit, there was a coziness reflected not only in the burning hearth, but also in the soft glow of candles in sconces set outside of gilded mirrors gracing the powder-blue walls. Four men of varying sizes and coloring were seated on the far side of the room in wingback chairs, quietly conversing. The oldest of the four, with thick, graying brown hair and a curling mustache, was not a suitor—thank goodness—but her uncle, Sir Thorbert.

She paused and eyed the rest of the men who had yet to note her arrival.

Grayson leaned toward her and whispered, “Settle yourself in. I will return in a moment.”

She spun toward him, her eyes widening. “You don’t intend to leave me unchaperoned, do you?” she whispered back. “I don’t know any of these men.”

He patted her cheek. “My father is here to serve as chaperone. And rest assured, you know two of the three. I’ll be right back.” He winked, turned and disappeared.

Two of the three? She didn’t even know that many men. She spun back toward the room. Dread drummed through her as moisture pricked the back of her neck beneath her gathered and pinned curls.

Mr. Parker sighed, reminding her of his presence, and strode past, heading to the other side of the vast room.

She awkwardly edged forward, scanning the faces of the seated men. One of them was none other than the ever serious Lord Moreland, the son of her father’s deceased childhood friend. Heaven help her. Who else had her father wrangled into vying for her? It was a pity fest.

Victoria bit her lip, her gaze falling on the dark-haired gentleman who was angled almost completely away. The one closest to the window. She lowered her chin, eyeing his waistcoat and high collar, which were shockingly snowy-white against not only his sun-bronzed skin but also the ruby-red cravat knotted around his neck. He was the only one wearing any color.

He sat with the others in a studded leather chair, his gloved fingers rubbing his shaven chin as he intently listened to whatever her uncle was saying. He shifted, lowering his hand down toward his muscled thigh, which was accentuated by well-fitted trousers.

She knew a lady wasn’t supposed to gawk at a man’s hands, thighs or anything else, and yet…Victoria edged closer, as if being pulled in by some invisible rigging held between herself and this man.

Mr. Parker paused before the group and said something in a muted voice that faded across the expanse of the cavernous room. Drawing steadily closer, Victoria continued to eye the dark-haired gentleman. She knew him. Didn’t she?

His shaven jaw tightened as he leaned far forward to listen to Mr. Parker’s muted words. He glanced toward her, then paused. He shifted his entire body in her direction.

Victoria’s heart skittered as vibrant blue eyes met hers. No. No, it couldn’t be. It…couldn’t.

His dark brows rose, as if genuinely surprised by what he saw, too. His eyes swept the length of her gown as he stood, smoothly unfolding his well-muscled limbs to an impressive height that had to be well over the six feet she remembered him to be.

Dearest God.

It was Remington.

It was none other than the man she’d once loved and whose ring she still wore. The man who had never answered a single one of her letters for reasons she had always feared to even question.

Lord Moreland and the others beside him leaned forward in their chairs, glancing past Mr. Parker. All of them stood to acknowledge her presence.

Panic cut off her breath as she took step after step back, her eyes never once leaving Remington’s. Though she was by no means a coward, the last thing she wanted to do was say things no one needed to hear.

Remington strode toward her, heatedly holding her gaze the entire time, his chin lowering slightly as she, in turn, stumbled farther and farther back. That rugged face was as handsome as ever, bronzed from years under the Venetian sun, while his broad frame had alluringly filled itself out, giving him the well-muscled appearance of a grown man.

Anguish seized her as he headed straight for her. Spinning on her slippered heel, she gathered her skirts and whisked out of the room and into the corridor. She drew in several steadying breaths, feeling as though her chest was about to collapse.

Her vision momentarily faded at the edges. Her gloved hand shot out and she balanced herself against the nearest wall. As she held herself in place she felt as if she was going to heave up everything she’d eaten. Ever so slowly, she leaned in and set the side of her cheek against the cool, hard surface of the silk lampas wall, the blaze of her face unbearable.

Remington. Remington was among the three. Her father had somehow unearthed the man she’d thought was dead.

Her uncle’s stout frame appeared in the doorway. His booted steps echoed into the corridor as he quickly approached.

He darted toward her. “Victoria?” Rounding her, he leaned toward her, touching her sleeved arm. Her uncle’s full face, along with his curling, graying mustache, appeared in her view. “Victoria, look at me.”

She lifted her cheek from against the wall and turned toward her uncle, leaning her entire back against the wall in an effort to keep steady.

His brown eyes searched her face. “Do you require anything? Salts? Wine?”

Victoria fought the heat in her cheeks and shook her head, unable to say or do much more. She drew in softer, calmer breaths, but her body still felt… numb.

Hurried steps echoed out into the corridor toward them and eventually paused. She froze as a tall, muscled figure filled her sight, now lingering close beside her. The crisp scent of mint surrounded her.

It was Remington.

Her eyes swept toward him and crept past the brass buttons of an ivory-and-silver-threaded waistcoat, which emphasized his solid, broad chest. She forced her gaze to creep farther up, past that ruby silk cravat, up to his full lips.

The moment she met those striking blue eyes, which still held so much wrenching unspoken romance, all of the blood drained from her head as if an invisible cork had been pulled. It was indeed Remington. Only older. And like a fine wine, he had improved with age.

He searched her face in equal disbelief and leaned closer, tilting his head toward her. “Victoria. I… Are you unwell?” His deep voice was low and lush with concern. And though his diction was still quite British, there was a soft hint of something more exotic and romantic. It was as if Venice had not only deepened the color of his skin but had also painted his tongue.

All of these years she’d endlessly plotted what she would say and do if she ever had the opportunity to see him again. She had counted out the many ways she would smack him, punch him, yell at him and, yes, even curse at him for making her suffer and worry day after day after day. Yet for some reason…all she could do was gape like a fish that had been pulled out of the depths of murky waters.

His black brows came together as he glanced at her uncle, who still lingered beside them. “Sir Thorbert. Must everything be conducted tonight? Clearly, she is unwell.”