Scandalous Love

Praise
for
BRENDA JOYCE

"A
hot contender
for the historical romance crown."

Toronto
Star

"Joyce
delivers a powerful story, rife with compelling characters

and
steamy sensuality."

Los
Angeles Daily News

"She
keeps the reader on an emotional seesaw ...Her characters are fresh and
wickedly sympathetic."

Publishers
Weekly

and
SCANDALOUS
LOVE

"A
page-turner . . . Bewitching and poignant,
Scandalous Love
is the
essence of romance."

Affaire de Coeur

"Brenda
Joyce brings a woman's romantic fantasies to life.

Emotional,
poignant, and highly sensual,
Scandalous Love
is potent passion at its
ultimate … [It] will certainly make a romance reader's heart sing with
happiness."

Romantic
Times

Avon
Books by
Brenda Joyce

Violet Fire

Captive Beyond Scandal

The Game

After Innocence

Promise of the Rose

Secrets

Scandalous Love The Fires of Paradise

Firestorm Innocent Fire

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Brenda

JOYCE

Scandalous
Love

AVON
BOOKS

An Imprint
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This is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as
real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AVON
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Copyright
© 1992 by Brenda Joyce Senior ISBN-13: 978-0-06-123525-2 ISBN-10: 0-06-123525-3
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First
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If you
purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment
for this "stripped book."

This
one's for Adam Matan Senior, born at 2:30
a.m.
on September 14, 1991.

Welcome
to the world, darling!

And
always, it goes without saying, for my best friend, my greatest love, my
husband— Elie

Prologue

Clayborough, 1874

The Hall was filled with
guests. Animated voices, happy laughter and the jubilant strains of a string
quartet rang through its corridors. The small boy lay in his oversized bed two
floors above the ballroom, listening to the sounds echoing through his home.
His small fists were clenched in his bedcovers as he stared sleeplessly into
the darkness.

He did not like the
darkness, but he was six years old, no longer a baby; he would not turn on the
light by his bed. Instead, he stared at the shadows on his wall, shadows made
by the old-fashioned sconce lights in the hallway that shone through his door,
left carefully ajar by his nanny.

He imagined the
flickering shadows were people, not monsters; women in glittering jewels and
men in midnight black tailcoats. He imagined that he was one of them, and not a
boy, but a man, a real man, as strong and powerful as any of the lords below.
As strong and powerful as the Duke, his father.
No
…
stronger. More powerful.

The fantasy made him
smile. For an instant, he felt adult. And then he heard them, and his smile
vanished and he sat bolt upright, trembling.

They were outside his
door, in the corridor. He strained to hear them—when he did not want to hear
them. His mother, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "I didn't expect you
back. Here, let me help you."

And his father. "So
eager to rush me to bed?" There was nothing soft about the Duke of
Clayborough's voice.

The small boy gripped
the quilt more tightly. The shadows no longer frightened him. For the monster
was now outside his door, in the hall.

"What's the matter,
Isobel?" Francis Braxton-Lowell demanded. "Have I distressed you?
It's obvious you're not pleased that I'm here. Afraid I might attend to the
guests in my own home?"

"Of course
not," his mother replied calmly.

The boy did not want to
get out of bed but he slipped to his feet, crept to the open door and peeped
around it.

The Duke was tall, blond
and handsome, his mother was blonder, stunningly beautiful and elegant. His
fine evening clothes were rumpled and he was unshaven, she was the picture of
perfection in her ice blue sateen gown and glittering diamonds. Distaste etched
itself clearly onto the Duke's face and he turned abruptly, stumbled, and lurched
up the corridor. His mother's facade dropped. Anxiously she followed him.

He peered after them.

The Duke paused outside
of the door to his suite. "I don't need your help."

"Are you going to
come downstairs?"

"Afraid I'll
disgrace you?"

"Of course
not."

"You lie so well.
Why don't you invite me downstairs, Isobel?"

His mother's back was to
him so he could not see her expression, and her voice was not quite so calm.
"If you wish to join us, why don't you change your clothes first?"

"Perhaps I
will!" he snarled. His gaze suddenly settled on the strand of diamonds at
her throat. "I've never seen that patch of paste before."

"I had it made
recently."

"Damn me—that
doesn't look like glass and paste at all!"

Isobel did not reply.

Silence fell heavily
between them. The small boy had crept forward and he crouched behind a lacquer
prayer table. Dread filled him. The Duke's eyes were widening, and suddenly,
violently, he ripped the jewels from his mother's throat. Isobel choked off a
scream. The boy leapt forward.

"This is the real
thing!" the Duke shouted. "By God, these are real diamonds! You
traitorous bitch! You've been hiding money from me, haven't you?"

The Duchess stood
frozen.

The boy froze too,
panting, just behind her.

"Haven't you?"
Francis shouted. "Where did you get the money for this? Where? Damn
you!"

"From
royalties," Isobel said, the slightest quaver in her tone. "We have
received our first royalties from the Dupres Mining Company."

"First you rent my
land without my permission," Francis yelled furiously. "Now you hide
my money from me? You never stop, do you?"

"How else am I to
save your patrimony?"

Francis moved with
surprising speed for one so drunk and he struck his wife hard across the face.
She cried out and reeled back against the wall.

"You've always been
a fraud, Isobel, from the day I met you. A fraud and a liar!" He lurched
toward her again, arm raised.

"Stop!" the
boy shouted, tackling his father around the knees. "Don't hurt her! Don't
hurt her!"

"Damn you and damn
him," Francis shouted, hitting his wife again.

The blow took her across
one cheek and this time knocked her to the floor. The boy reacted. He pummeled
his father's thighs viciously, as hard as he could, filled with a blinding
rage. He hated his father so much it hurt.

As if his son were no
more than a stray kitten, Francis plucked him up by the scruff of his neck and
tossed him aside. He landed on his back, his head hit the floor, and for one
moment he saw stars.

"You puny brat! You
think you're a man, do you? Well tomorrow you'll get a man's punishment for
interfering where you shouldn't!" His father towered over him. "A
puny brat and a fraud—just like your mother!"

The boy blinked to clear
his vision. His father was gone. But not the words, not the cruel, hateful
words, for they lingered in his mind. For a moment he lay trembling in pain. It
felt like a fist in his chest, in his heart. It hurt terribly. But it hadn't
been caused by his father's physical blow. He closed his eyes, and sweat
staining his brow, he fought himself until everything subsided, the pain, the
need for tears, the hatred, everything. Until there was nothing left at all.

And when he opened his
eyes he saw his mother, still prone. He scrambled toward her just as she sat
up, tears falling down her cheeks. "Mother? Are you all right?" He
did not sound like a child; he sounded like an adult.

"Oh, darling!"
Isobel cried, wrapping her son in her arms. "Your father did not mean it,
he did not!"

Patiently, the boy let
her hug him then he moved away. He nodded expressionlessly, although he knew it
was not true, while his mother sobbed silently. He knew that his father had
meant every word, every action. Just as he knew that his father hated
them—hated him. But it did not matter.

Not anymore. For one
good thing had come of this night. Finally, the pain was gone. He had learned
how to control it, how to chase it into the night. He had learned how to
embrace emptiness. And it was vast.

Dragmore, 1898

"You have callers,
my Lady."

"But I never have
callers," Nicole protested.

Aldric looked at her,
his lined face unfathomable, although his brown eyes were twinkling. "The
ladies Margaret Adderly and Stacy Worthington, my Lady."

Nicole was surprised. Of
course, it was an exaggeration to say that she never had callers, for her best
friend, the Viscountess Serle, as well as the local gentry and her family, did
come calling rather frequently. But they didn't really count. What counted was
the fact that she herself did not have the usual bevy of callers like other
young ladies of her class. Not in the past several years. Not since the
scandal. What could these ladies, whom she had never met, possibly want?

"Tell them I'll be
right down. Have refreshments served, Aldric," she told the butler. A
bubble of excitement rose up in her.

Aldric nodded, but
before leaving he raised one bushy white eyebrow. "Perhaps I should
mention that you will be a few minutes, my Lady?"

She understood and
chuckled, looking down ruefully at her men's breeches and muddy riding boots.
Although it was almost the dawning of a new era—the twentieth century—women did
not wear men's clothing even when they had just cause. Some things never
changed. "Good of you to remind me, Aldric. I shouldn't chase away my
illustrious visitors before I even find out why they've come."

Still chuckling, she
waited for Aldric to leave, imagining the shock the two proper ladies
downstairs would receive if they saw her attired like a man. It just wasn't
done.

Nicole sighed, honest
enough with herself to know that her carefree attitude and rather improper
sense of humour did not help her situation—not that she was really in a
situation, she reminded herself. After all, she chose to remain in the country.
As she riffled carelessly through her armoire for the appropriate
undergarments, she admitted to herself that it was nice to have young women
come calling. It had been a long time. Not that she wasn't happy at Dragmore,
for she was. Her life was Dragmore, horses and books. It was just that, well,
it
had
been a long time.

Nicole donned a combination,
stockings and a petticoat, as quickly as she could. She hated corsets and
refused to wear them, even though she was twenty-three and five feet ten inches
in her bare feet. She was bigger than most women and then there was her age.
She refused unequivocally to try and cinch in her waistline as if she were five
feet tall, eighteen years old and a scant hundred pounds. If people knew, they
would talk. People loved to talk, Nicole had found out firsthand. But in this
instance, no one could possibly know, and even if they did, Nicole was adamant.

It wasn't just a matter
of comfort. Nicole was a voracious reader. She agreed with some of her favorite
women authors who favored knickers and bloomers instead of the current
fashions, which were, they held, unhealthily constrictive.
Like corsets.
Just
as modem society had invented rules of decorum expressly to keep women in their
place, so too it had invented fashions for the exact same purpose.

After all, a corseted,
fainting woman could not be expected to do more than smile and breathe. A
fainting woman could not ran, ride, shoot or think. A fainting woman was
demure.

Nicole was wise enough
to know that she should keep her wisdom to herself.

When she had finished
dressing she paused one instant to look nervously in the mirror, aware of the
tightening knot of anticipation in her belly. She scowled at herself. It wasn't
that she disliked her quiet navy blue jacket and skirt, for she couldn't have
cared less about clothes as long as she was not constricted by them. It was
other aspects of her appearance which displeased her.

She sighed. "Well,
what did you expect?" she asked her reflection seriously. "To be
shorter? To be blonde? What are you, a nitwit? If people judge you by how you
look, why, they're not worth one pence!"

Her door opened.
"Are you calling me, mum?"

Nicole blushed. If the
servants ever caught her talking to herself she'd never live it down! "Uh,
yes, Annie, would you take my breeches to Sue Anne? The left knee needs
patching." She smiled brightly, waiting until Annie had taken up the pants
and left. Then she looked at herself with a frown. She was still ridiculously
tall and much too dark. She had inherited all of her father's swarthy looks,
and nothing from her petite, blonde mother. She wasn't morose by nature, but
couldn't her hair have been brown instead of jet black?

She should have asked
Annie to help her with her hair instead of making up a story about her
britches, she thought, trying to ran a comb through it, because the thick, wavy
black mass fell to her waist and was untamable without a second pair of hands.
It was too late for that now, and Nicole tied it back quickly with a ribbon.
The ladies Adderly and Worthington were waiting. Her belly clenched again. If
she delayed another minute it would be downright rude. Abruptly Nicole left her
room and flew down the stairs, forgetting she was in skirts until she tripped
and was forced into a more sedate, ladylike pace.

In the hall below she
paused to catch her breath and calm her quivering nerves. She told herself that
she was being silly—she was only receiving callers, something other young
ladies did every day of their lives. Hurrying down a long, marble-floored
corridor, she wished that her mother, the Countess of Dragmore, was home to
give her a dose of good advice. But Jane was in London with Nicole's younger
sister, Regina, who refused to remain in the secluded countryside when the
season was in full swing. Nicole wished her parents would let Regina get
married and forget about the fact that she, the elder sister, was unwed and
likely to stay that way forever.

She paused in the
doorway of the large, bright yellow salon. Instantly, the two young ladies on
the chintz sofa froze, their conversation ceased. One was blonde and perfect,
the other a stunning brunette. Both young ladies stared at Nicole out of wide
blue eyes. For a silly instant, Nicole felt like an exotic
something
under
a magnifying glass, and then the feeling passed.

Smiling, she entered.
"Hello. How kind of you to come."

Both girls stood, their
gazes openly curious as they drifted over Nicole's tall body while they
exchanged introductions. Nicole felt massive standing next to them, for she
towered over their diminutive five foot frames. "Lady Shelton," said
the blonde, "I am Lady Margaret Adderly, and this is my friend, Lady Stacy
Worthington."

The formalities
dispensed with, Nicole urged them to sit, seeing that they had been served tea
and cakes. She sat facing them in a brocade wing chair. Stacy Worthington
regarded her too intently.

"You do know about
the Duke?" Margaret asked excitedly.

She could only be
referring to one man. "The Duke of Clayborough?" Nicole said,
wondering what he could possibly have to do with anything, much less these two
young ladies.

"Yes!"
Margaret beamed. "He has come into possession of Chapman Hall. You do
realize that he is your neighbor!"

"Of course,"
Nicole said, somewhat perplexed. She knew nothing about the Duke except that he
had indeed just arrived at Chapman Hall, a mere mile from Dragmore's front gates.
She had never heard of him before that week.

"He is my
cousin," Stacy Worthington announced. She smiled smugly, as if being the
cousin of a duke was a matter of great importance.

"How fortunate you
are," Nicole managed.

Stacy did not catch
Nicole's implied sarcasm. "We have known each other since childhood,"
she said grandly.

Nicole smiled.

"He is in
residence," Margaret said, "and this Friday we are holding a masque
in his honor at Tarent Hall. After all, he must be welcomed properly to the
country."

"Yes, I suppose
so."

"I am sure that if
the Earl and Countess were in residence, they would have the honor of hosting
the event, but as they are not, my mother has decided to do so."

Nicole nodded.

Stacy smiled. "We
knew that you were here,
not in London,
and of course it would be most
improper if we did not invite you. So, here we are."

Nicole blinked,
stiffening. She was astonished at what Stacy had said and the way she had said
it. She had just been given the rudest invitation, the implication clear that
she had to be invited whether she was wanted or not. At the same time, the
young woman had referred to Nicole's not being in London with her parents and
sister and all the other unwed young ladies of means and position who were
husband-hunting. The further implication was worse—that she was not welcome in
London. And that was not true.

Not exactly.

"Oh," was all
Nicole could think of to say. She felt put on the spot. She rarely went out
into society—in fact, she hadn't in years. Did this woman know that? Of course
she did. Everyone knew it.

"Of course you'll
come," Stacy smiled. "Won't you?"

Nicole could not smile.
She was being challenged. It was not her imagination. And her stomach was in
knots. It had been so long. Certainly by now people would have forgotten.

"Well?" Stacy
asked. She was still smiling.

Nicole disliked her. The
other woman expected her to decline the invitation. Everyone knew she rarely
went out. And they had not come calling in friendship, but only out of duty. It
would be so terribly improper if they did not invite the Earl of Dragmore's
daughter to such an important event. "Of course I'll come," Nicole
said proudly, unsmiling.

Stacy looked shocked.
But that was nothing compared to the expression on Margaret's face. "You
will?" the blonde squeaked.

Anger filled Nicole. She
still did not understand Stacy's motivation, but that did not matter. What
mattered was the challenge. "Until Friday," Nicole said, standing.

When the two women had
left, Nicole regretted letting them back her into a corner. But how could she
refuse the challenge Stacy Worthington had thrown at her? And by now people had
forgotten, hadn't they?

After the scandal,
Nicole had been the object of much ugly gossip and speculation, and it had
hurt. Her parents had been very angry with her, and even if she had wanted to
hide at their London home, they would not have allowed it. But she was not a
coward, and she had continued the season as if nothing had happened, holding
her head high and ignoring all the gawking and gossip.

When the scandal began
to die, Nicole bowed out. From the time of her debut, Nicole had not been
impressed with the balls and routs, the soirees and supper parties, which she
found endless, repetitive and quite boring. She enjoyed rising with the sun and
spending her day on horseback, tending to Dragmore with her father and
brothers. And to her, a good book was much more entertaining than most of these
affairs.

The past four years had
not been unhappy ones. Nicole loved her family, she loved Dragmore and she was
content with the life she led. In fact, it was because she hadn't wanted to
change her life that she had caused the scandal in the first place.

But... sometimes,
usually when her younger sister Regina was in London with her mother, attending
one party after another, dressed in fabulous silks and courted by handsome
bachelors, Nicole missed her and felt alone, and she would suddenly wish that
she were there, too. Regina was always the belle of the ball, the way Nicole
had never been, and Nicole knew she wished for what she could not have. It was
a small wish, a fleeting wish. Nicole reminded herself of the few times she had
gone out with her family since the scandal, times that had not been fun, times
where people looked at her and remembered, and sometimes whispered behind her
back as well. She had only to remember those times and the wistful feeling
would pass and be forgotten for weeks on end.

And now she was not only
going out again, but she was going alone. Not only were her parents and Regina
in London, her brother Ed was at Cambridge and her brother Chad was in France
on business. She didn't have an escort. Ladies did not attend parties
unescorted unless they were over thirty, which she was not.