A Perfect Scandal (7 page)

Two unpleasant visits in one day could turn a focused stockbroker into a bitter businessman. Only this time, as Marcus lifted the brass knocker to bang on the door, a smiling housekeeper greeted him and immediately ushered him inside.

Simone Winston glided down the staircase to greet him. “Marcus, darling. What a wonderful surprise.”

A wealthy widow in her early forties, Simone was twelve years older than Marcus. With a crown of auburn hair, a porcelain complexion, and a voluptuous figure, Simone was sought after as a lover by many males of the
beau monde
. That she had been having an affair with the dark and dangerous Marcus Hawksley added an air of mystery to her widowed status.

How irrational and ironic was society, Marcus thought, for if a widow entered into a salacious relationship with him, it would enhance her reputation, but if an innocent such as Isabel Cameron was even suspected of being alone in a room with him, it would destroy hers beyond repair.

Dressed in a green silk concoction that set her hair aflame, Simone wrapped slender arms around Marcus’s neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Her familiar expensive perfume enveloped him.

“I’m so glad you came to see me, Marcus. I felt horrible after our argument last week, and I’ve missed you terribly.”

She pressed her full breasts against his chest, but this time, he was slow to respond to her feminine allure.

He pulled back. “It’s good to see you, too, Simone, but there’s something I must tell you.”

“There’s no need to apologize, darling. I understand you have been under pressure at the Stock Exchange, and that you truly did not mean what you had said last week about us never marrying.”

His mouth set in annoyance. “May we talk elsewhere, Simone, other than in the front hall?”

She licked a full bottom lip. “Of course, darling. Let’s go upstairs.” She took his hand and turned.

Marcus didn’t budge. “Your bedroom is not what I had in mind. Perhaps one of the sitting rooms.”

She froze. She appeared stunned that any man would turn down her bedroom. “The sitting room?” Her gaze slid downward, noting his tailored suit. “You’re coming from the Exchange. I don’t understand your obsession with working really. You don’t need to—”

“Not now, Simone.” His tone was impatient and finally gained her full attention.

“How impolite of me. You must need refreshment.” She led him to the first room on the right, a lavishly decorated sitting room for receiving formal guests. She went to a sideboard and made to pour him a drink.

“That’s not necessary. I don’t want a drink. I want to talk.”

She turned, arching a well-plucked eyebrow.

Unsure how to break the news to her, he chose a straightforward approach. “I’m afraid we can no longer see each other. I’m to be married.”

All animation left her face. “Married! To whom?”

“Lady Isabel Cameron.”

“How could you? Not less than one week ago, you stood before me and said you would not marry—me or
anyone
. We had a terrible fight over it. And now you are telling me you want to end our affair because you are to marry?”

“I’m sorry for misleading you.”

Cold eyes sniped at him. “You’re sorry! What changed your mind?”

“The gossip has been all over London. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard.”

“I’ve been out of town visiting my sister and returned just this morning. What on earth have I missed?”

For the second time that day, Marcus had to explain himself, a task that he did not relish and that he had sworn never to do again since Bridget’s suicide.

At Simone’s thunderous expression, Marcus took a deep breath. In as few words as possible, he explained what had occurred at the Westley auction. He was careful to leave out the bargain he had struck with Isabel to remain married for only six months’ time. No one need know until the art thief was found and Isabel was in Paris with her unconventional Auntie Lil.

At first he had initially contemplated continuing his liaison with Simone while he was married to Isabel, but the idea quickly vanished as it held little appeal. Simone Winston never could keep her mouth shut, and she would talk about her continued relationship with Marcus Hawksley to anyone with an open ear.

An unnerving thought floated into his mind and took root, that after meeting Isabel, Simone’s feminine wiles seemed overtly contrived and jaded.

He mentally shook himself. No, he would not put his marriage to Isabel—sham or not—at risk.

At his staunch silence, Simone’s expression softened from fury to disappointment with the calculated efficiency of a chameleon.

“So you are marrying this girl simply because her testimony makes you feel compelled to do the right thing?” Her full lips formed a pout, and she reached out to stroke his chest, her long fingers playing with the buttons of his waistcoat. “You don’t have to do this, Marcus. Marry me instead.”

“And what of Isabel Cameron?”

“The girl chose her own fate. Your defense is solid now. Let her suffer for her rash behavior.”

Even knowing Simone’s selfish nature, he was struck by her coldness. “No, Simone. I gave my word.”

He turned, but her hand shot out to clutch his arm.

“Then nothing has to change between us. We can continue to be lovers. A man like you needs a real woman beneath him, an experienced lover who knows how to pleasure you. A blue-blooded virgin will never be anything but frigid in your bed.”

An unbidden image of Isabel Cameron surrounded by erotic art flashed through Marcus’s mind. He had held Isabel in his arms, had kissed her, and knew firsthand she was anything but frigid.

His gaze returned to Simone’s upturned face. Marcus knew that where Simone was as well practiced as any courtesan, Isabel would be innocent, yes, but as recklessly impulsive in bed as she was out of it.

But you will never know Isabel Cameron intimately
, Marcus thought.
You made a bargain not to touch her, no matter how much you desire her.

Marcus shook his head. “Nevertheless, Simone, I’ve come today to tell you of my decision to end our relationship.”

Simone’s face twisted into a cruel mask. “You’ll be back,” she spat, “and you’ll beg me for scraps of affection.”

“No. I won’t, Simone.”

“Get out!”

He was more than happy to oblige her, relieved really. He had never liked female entanglements and was well aware that Simone had wanted to marry. The problem was Marcus had never intended to marry after Bridget.

Life had taught him a cruel, but valuable lesson: People could not be trusted; lovers and family were no exception.

But Marcus did pay his debts. And he owed Isabel Cameron…

If six months together would salvage her family from disgrace and give Isabel the freedom she so desired, then he would do it.

He turned and walked to the door. Unladylike curses spewed from Simone behind him. He glanced back just in time to see Simone pick up an expensive crystal vase and dump the flowers and water onto the thick Aubusson carpet.

Anticipating her intent, he deftly dodged the vase, and it shattered against the wall on his way out.

“I’m not certain about this,” Marcus said as he sat opposite Blake and Victoria Mallorey, the Earl and Countess of Ravenspear, in their crested carriage. They were stuck in a row of carriages that lined the drive to the Bennings’ mansion in Grosvenor Square, and Marcus’s dread increased with each passing moment.

“The Bennings are to officially announce your engagement at their ball tonight. You must attend,” Blake said.

“You’re enjoying my discomfort, aren’t you?” Marcus asked.

Blake grinned. “Shouldn’t I? As a well-sought-after broker, you are seen everywhere at the Stock Exchange, the coffeehouses, and the clubs, but as for the social events of the season, you are a hermit. This is good for you.”

Marcus glared at Blake. He had known Blake Mallorey for years and quite simply owed the earl his life. After Bridget’s death, Marcus had wandered about, bingeing on alcohol and reckless behavior as a form of self-punishment. One afternoon, he had sauntered into Gentleman Jackson’s and had arrogantly challenged the famous boxing Champion, Tom Cribb—known as “Killer Cribb”—to a match. Thankfully, Blake had been present in the ring and saw through Marcus’s cocky bravado. Blake, who had been good friends with Cribb, had intervened, soothing the boxer’s pride and calming his temper.

Blake had befriended Marcus that day. As an avid investor, Blake had introduced Marcus to the London Stock Exchange and later hired him as his own stockbroker. Without a doubt, Blake Mallorey had saved him, and in return, Marcus had made the already-rich earl one of the wealthiest men in England.

Blake had always understood Marcus better than anyone, and was never intimidated by the foul gossip that surrounded him. Of course, it helped that Blake had himself been an outcast, a menace intent on revenge upon his return to England almost three years ago.

But that was before Victoria. His wife and savior.

“Never mind my husband’s rude manners,” Victoria said, touching Blake’s hand. “We are excited for you. I can think of no other that deserves to be happy. That’s why when I had first learned the good news a week ago, I insisted you travel with us tonight.”

Marcus smiled at Victoria. She was a beautiful woman with dark hair and emerald eyes that shone with intelligence and wit. Like Blake and Marcus, she had past secrets as well.

Marcus had been stunned to discover Victoria was an anonymous investor in the male-dominated London Stock Exchange.

Almost three years had passed since she had “tamed” Blake and they had married. Now she was in the later stages of pregnancy. She had delayed her confinement for the sole purpose of attending the ball tonight to celebrate Marcus’s engagement.

Their vehicle lurched forward as the crush of carriages made their way up the long drive. Marcus frowned; a rush of restlessness arose within him as the well-lit mansion came into view.

He detested social events, was never comfortable attending them. In his experience, the women would smile politely, then whisper behind their fans as soon as he turned his back. No doubt, the Earl of Ardmore’s estranged younger son was excellent fodder for gossip. The ridiculousness of overprotective mamas ushering their virginal daughters away from him had always irked him. Then there were the men who dared not ignore him for fear of his power at the Stock Exchange. Some were his clients, others clamored to be, and all were aware of his ruthless success in the market. And at every social event there was always one overly judgmental matron who considered trade well beneath her station, who would give him “the cut direct” by looking him straight in the eye only to turn away without acknowledging him.

The stuffy matron, whoever it might be, would reaffirm his philosophy on life:
Art and money don’t betray you, only people do
.

The Ravenspear carriage reached the front steps of the mansion. The doors were opened by a liveried footman and they descended. Blake carefully held Victoria’s hand as though she were a fragile porcelain doll.

They joined the crowd of well-dressed people on the front steps. Muted strains of the orchestra drifted from the house. It was a warm May evening, and the ladies vigorously fanned themselves while the men perspired in full evening attire. Marcus’s silk cravat felt like a wool scarf.

As they neared the ballroom, their attention was captured by two gargantuan statues of Chinese emperors on both sides of the doorway. Fifteen feet high, and what appeared to be half as wide, the statues stood guard at the entrance of the ballroom. Dressed in traditional
shenyis
, full-length robes that wrapped around their robust bodies, they had slanted eyes and long, jet hair. The stony-faced pair looked down upon the guests with haughty rebuke. Granite signs at their sandaled feet identified them as “Ming” and “Chang.”

Blake grimaced in distaste. “Good Lord! Who would want those two monstrosities in their home?”

“
Chinoiserie
décor is highly desirable, darling,” Victoria said. “The Regent himself has hired decorators to copy the Chinese style.”

Marcus laughed. “With the Port of Canton closed to foreigners and traders, I wonder how authentic the decorators’ designs truly are.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Victoria said. “It’s all the rage and makes a hostess look sophisticated.”

Marcus glanced inside the ballroom, where the scene was no better. The wallpaper was covered with a bamboo pattern. Exotic birds and panda bears, with their distinctive black and white markings, wove their way around the walls. Smaller statues of Chinese women draped in gold robes were positioned in the four corners of the room.

The décor must have cost a small fortune, but it was garish and gaudy. Everything was ostentatious, designed to openly display the wealth of the owners, but only succeeded in showing their lack of culture and taste.

As they waited their turn to enter the ballroom, a servant with a red vest, embroidered with what Marcus assumed were Chinese symbols, formally announced them.

“The Earl and Countess of Ravenspear and Mr. Marcus Hawksley,” the servant boomed out.

All eyes turned to them. Marcus stood straight and proud. After a few tense moments in which he knew he was being critically observed, the feeling passed. No doubt accompanying Blake and Victoria aided his cause.

Their hostess approached them at the bottom of the stairs. Leticia Benning had a heavily painted face, and wore a gown of blinding-gold tissue with a plunging bodice. Her enormous breasts were stuffed inside the low-cut gown like mounds of soft dough. Piles of blond curls, reaching a foot high, topped her head in what could only have been false hair.

She smiled as she touched Marcus’s sleeve, her kohl-lined eyes devouring him.

“I’m glad you could join us, Mr. Hawksley,” she drawled. “My daughter, Charlotte, and Isabel are inseparable friends, and it is a pleasure to officially announce your engagement tonight.”

Marcus bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Benning. I understand your events are the talk of the town.”

“What a charmer you are, Mr. Hawksley.” Leticia giggled, and tips of rosy nipples peeped from her bodice.

Just then a man came up beside Leticia. Marcus’s first instinct was shock, and he couldn’t stop staring.

Leticia smiled up at the man. “May I present my husband, Mr. Harold Benning.”

Christ!
Marcus thought.
He’s more effeminate than his wife
.

Harold Benning wore a purple velvet suit with a snowy cravat so intricately folded that Marcus would not have been surprised if it took his manservant an hour to tie. His violet shoes had a heel which angled his portly body forward, accentuating his large paunch. A quizzing glass hung from his waistcoat with a matching purple ribbon. His face was powdered; his watery blue eyes glazed over as if he had made one too many trips to the punch bowl.

“Good evening, Mr. Hawksley. It’s not every day a gentleman sweeps our dear Isabel off her feet. Love is so romantic, is it not, my dear,” Benning said, glancing at his wife.

It didn’t take Marcus long to size up the Bennings. Flamboyant attention seekers, they had the money to carry out their every whim, no matter how ridiculous. Yet they were as transparent in their insincerity as polished glass. No wonder the ton adored them. Marcus wondered what their daughter, Charlotte Benning, was like.

If she was as disingenuous as her parents, how could Isabel befriend her?

After the proper pleasantries were exchanged, Marcus and Blake strolled away, leaving the ladies and Harold Benning to socialize.

“Harold Benning is more of a dandy than Beau Brummel,” Blake murmured.

Marcus laughed as he reached for two glasses of champagne from a passing servant’s tray and handed one to Blake.

Marcus’s gaze roamed the rest of the room, and stopped short when he spotted Isabel Cameron. Escorted by her father, she stood at the top of the stairs leading to the ballroom.

His reaction was swift. The thudding of his heart drowned out the roar of conversation in the crowded room. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.

She was stunning in a blue silk gown, which enhanced the vivid blue of her eyes. A lace-trimmed train flowed at her feet. The gown’s neckline was fashionably low, and a pearl clasp between her breasts drew the eye to the creamy skin rounded enticingly above her bodice. Matching pearl combs held her sable hair up and away from the sides of her face, and loose curls fell down her back.

“Easy, Marcus,” Blake said. “You look like a starving wolf spotting its prey. You don’t want to scare the girl.”

Isabel met his gaze across the room and smiled.

Marcus’s heart hammered, and his gut tightened like a fist.

For the first time, Marcus noticed two youths, a male and a female, standing beside Isabel, and he surmised they must be her twin siblings, Amber and Anthony.

They were attractive adolescents, and he guessed their ages to be close to thirteen years. They were both blond and their blue eyes were wide as disks as they surveyed the Bennings’ ballroom. This was most likely their first ball, and without the younger sister’s coming out in society, they were permitted to attend tonight in honor of their elder sister’s engagement.

The Cameron family wove their way through the crowd and came up to them.

“Good evening,” Edward said, addressing Marcus and Blake.

Marcus had to force his eyes from Isabel to her father. “Lord Malvern.”

“All should go as planned. Charlotte Benning is Isabel’s close friend, and as I’m certain you have surmised, Harold Benning loves attention,” Edward said, a note of mockery in his voice.

The earl’s tone spoke volumes about his feelings toward Benning.

He doesn’t like the dandy
, Marcus mused.

Isabel introduced Amber and Anthony, and the twins politely greeted him. Amber bit her lip as she looked around; Anthony’s spine was stiff as he stood to his full height of five and a half feet. The pair appeared as uncomfortable and anxious as goldfish dumped out of their bowls onto a Persian carpet.

Marcus could commiserate.

Leaning down, Marcus met the twins’ wide-eyed gazes. “Did you know that there is a Chinese-style pagoda outside in the gardens? I’ve heard it’s four stories tall and replicated to look quite authentic. The Chinese use their pagodas as temples or memorials.”

Anthony’s eyes lit up. “Can we go outside and see it, Izzy?”

Amber chimed in. “Yes, please, Izzy.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Isabel said. “Go ahead and explore.”

The twins smiled at Marcus for the first time, their relief almost palpable. They bounded off to the nearest French doors that led outside to the gardens.

“You’ve won them over quite easily, Mr. Hawksley,” Isabel said.

“That’s because I understand their need for fresh air.”

She smiled. “How odd. Does that need strike you often?”

“I love nothing more than a hard ride in the park or the country.”

She cocked her head to the side, accentuating the long line of her slender throat. “Yes, I can picture you riding fast.”

He swallowed at her words, certain she had no idea the erotic picture they evoked in his mind. “Would you like a glass of champagne?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, Mr. Hawksley.” She turned away with him, leaving her father and Blake conversing behind.

“It’s Marcus, remember?”

“Not here. We don’t want to be overheard,” she whispered.

“For a woman who desperately sought to ruin her reputation, I find it surprising that you care if others overhear our familiarity.”

She lowered thick black lashes. “Things have changed. We must act the part of a proper couple.”

Ah,
he thought. He didn’t miss her words “act the part.” He kept having to remind himself she wanted nothing to do with him as a flesh-and-blood man, just as a facade to dupe society.

The refreshment table was at the far end of the ballroom. As they walked past, couples watched them, some whispering behind their fans. No doubt, gossip about what had occurred at the Westley mansion was the topic as well as word of their impending engagement. Marcus ignored them, his gaze staying on Isabel’s delicate profile. She had a natural grace about her, but he sensed that beneath the surface simmered her true volatile nature.

They reached the table, and Marcus tore his eyes from her face. He looked up and froze.

Splotches of brilliant color, lines, and forms covered the walls. Row after row of awe-inspiring paintings hung in splendid display. He spotted works by British portrait painters Sir Joshua Reynolds and John Hoppner. There were paintings by sporting artists James Ward and George Stubbs. Even Dutch and Flemish masterpieces were in the collection as well as quality watercolors of famous landscapes. When he had first entered the ballroom, he had not been able to see the far wall, and thus had missed the most impressive part of the room.

Good Lord, the artwork did not fit the distasteful Chinese décor, and Marcus guessed that was why Leticia and Harold Benning had hung them in the far end of the ballroom. Still, the works were stunning, and Marcus’s mind reeled at the sight.