Scandal of the Year (5 page)

“Go, go,” Julia said, laughing, waving a hand toward the fitting rooms in the back of the shop. “It doesn’t do to keep a princess waiting!”

“I’ll be back. In the meantime, I shall have Miss Wellesley carry on with those afternoon ensembles for you.” She glanced at the mannequin, who immediately departed. “I’ll also have some fabrics brought out for you to look at,” Vivian added over her shoulder as she started after her employee. “I’ve a lovely lilac mousseline de soie I think would be divine for you.”

Vivian departed, and to occupy herself while she waited, Julia reached for the most recent edition of
La Mode Illustrée
from the table, but she had barely opened the fashion magazine before an excited feminine voice came within earshot, a voice that squeaked happily along as its owner came closer to where Julia sat.

“Of course I couldn’t believe Papa would actually dare to invite him. He so hates to push, you know, and Trathen is a duke, after all.”

Julia lifted her head at the mention of Aidan, curious. She cocked her head, straining to hear that one voice amid the eddy of feminine conversation in the room. It wasn’t all that difficult. Lady Felicia Vale had a voice that carried.

“But Mama absolutely insisted Papa issue the invitation,” the girl went on, causing Julia to hunker down beneath her enormous hat, hoping not to be identified as the girl came closer to where she sat. “The duke, she said, had displayed great interest in making my acquaintance. Of course, I thought Mama was exaggerating, as she so often does, you know. But you could have knocked me over with a feather when the reply from the duke’s secretary came this morning!”

Julia made a sound of exasperation, then instantly bit her lip, for she didn’t want to be noticed.

“I almost fainted when Mama read his reply aloud,” Felicia went on. “I was so overcome! Even now, my heart flutters and trembles, Cora, to know that I shall meet my hero at last.”

Julia rolled her eyes. Really, the man was hopeless. She’d already warned him about Felicia. What on earth was he doing, consenting to spend time with that girl? Did he have no sense?

“You’re not teasing me?” Felicia’s companion asked, sounding understandably skeptical. “Trathen is truly sitting in your papa’s box tomorrow night?”

“Well, not precisely,” the girl was forced to concede. “He has deigned to call upon us at intermission.”

That information eased Julia’s exasperation with Aidan a little at the knowledge that he hadn’t committed to an entire evening in the girl’s company. He had that much sense, at least.

“But I,” Felicia went on, a surprisingly steely hint entering her voice, “have every intention of seeing that he remains for the remainder of the evening.”

An image of Aidan trying to escape as Felicia Vale clutched his coattails popped into her head, and Julia had to smother her shout of laughter by covering her mouth with her hand. She simply must finagle Paul’s box for the evening so she could observe the encounter through opera glasses. That, she thought, with silent laughter, would be a far more entertaining performance than anything on the Covent Garden stage.

Aidan, as everyone in society knew, was a smashing good tennis player. He’d been captain of the Oxford team, twice made the quarterfinals at Wimbledon, and had defeated the Earl of Danbury in the St. Ives Tournament. At the time, Paul had good-naturedly vowed revenge as they’d shaken hands over the net, but it was two years later, three days after issuing his latest challenge to play, that he got that revenge by defeating Aidan in straight sets.

“Yes!” Paul cried as the ball, untouched by Aidan’s lunging attempt at a volley, bounced off the grass of the court just inside the chalk line, and went out of bounds.

Aidan, carried by momentum, was unable to recover his footing. He stumbled a few steps and went down hard onto his knees, watching in chagrin as the ball bounced away along the turf of the Hyde Park Tennis Club. When it stopped, he turned and looked at his friend, who was grinning at him over the top of the net like a boy on Christmas morning.

“I warned you I’d been practicing my serve.”

Aidan knew Paul’s serve, good as it had become, wasn’t the only reason he’d just been trounced. Thoughts of Paul’s devilish cousin hadn’t helped his game.

He rubbed his wrist across his forehead to dab away the sweat, and stood up. He walked to the net, shifted his racquet to his left hand, and stuck out his right for the customary handshake. “Congratulations, my friend. Well played.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever defeated you in straight sets before,” Paul said as he accepted the handshake, but then he frowned at Aidan over the net. “I say, you’re not ill, are you?”

“Ill? Of course not. Just having trouble concentrating, that’s all.” He pulled his racquet from under his arm and gestured to the building nearby that contained baths and changing rooms. “Shall we?”

The two men walked together. “Do you have plans for the Whitsuntide holiday?” Aidan asked as they entered the changing rooms. “If not, we ought to be able to play quite a bit. With everyone in the country for the holiday, London should be empty. We wouldn’t even have to reserve a court.”

“I appreciate the invitation,” Paul replied, taking a towel from the attendant. “But I’m off home for the holiday. My mother and I are having a house party at Danbury Downs. Dozens of people have been invited—” He stopped, then cleared his throat, looking pained. “You’re welcome to come,” he added awkwardly. “I would have invited you already, but . . .” He paused again, took a deep breath, and said, “Julie’s home from Europe.”

“Yes, I know,” Aidan said, also taking a towel before turning to his locker, and felt impelled to fill in the sudden silence. “Surely you didn’t ask me to tennis just to tell me Lady Yardley was in town, did you?” he asked, working to imbue his voice with just the right amount of amused indifference.

“Not precisely. I just thought this might be a good time to try and smooth things over between our families.” He paused. “I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to go to the devil.”

That genuinely astonished him. “Why should I? None of what happened was your fault.”

“Still, you haven’t had much luck in your relations with the Danburys, and as head of the family, I can’t help feeling badly about it. I’ve been wanting to tell you that for quite some time, but it just hasn’t seemed like the right moment. I mean, first Trix, then Julie.” He paused and grimaced. “Sorry. Hell, this is awkward.”

Aidan saved him any further distress. “Paul, that business with Beatrix is all water under the bridge, and I wish her nothing but happiness. As for Lady Yardley . . .” He paused to take a deep breath. “She and I are indifferent acquaintances. Despite . . . certain events, we are nothing more than that.”

“I see.” Paul paused, then added unexpectedly, “Yardley’s a rotter. Always was.”

Aidan had already concluded that much, but he didn’t find the confirmation particularly comforting. “Enjoy your house party. Perhaps when you return to town, we can arrange a rematch? Be warned, though,” he added when Paul agreed to his suggestion with a nod, “I intend to extract revenge for today.”

“If you can.” Paul laughed. “You’ll have to regain your ability to concentrate.”

Aidan set his jaw. “From this moment on,” he vowed, more for his own benefit than Paul’s, “that shall not be a problem.”

During the remainder of the day, Aidan was forced to use all his considerable self-discipline to keep Lady Yardley in the past where she belonged.

He had a bathe at the tennis club, changed into a fresh shirt and dark blue morning suit, and went on with his day. He called at his boot maker, and then his tailor, and whenever a thought of that woman entered his head, he shoved it out again at once.

By the time he lunched at the Clarendon with Lord and Lady Malvers, Aidan felt as if he was beginning to regain his equilibrium. Thankfully, Malvers and his wife were unacquainted with Lady Yardley, and there were no associations that could connect her to them in Aidan’s mind. The consequence was a most agreeable luncheon.

Afterward, he met with Marlowe, and he found their business negotiations distracting enough to prevent any memories associated with that woman from entering his brain. The two men were able to come to an agreement favorable to both parties.

By the end of the afternoon, Aidan had managed to regain much of the equanimity he’d worked so hard to acquire during the past nine months. But the moment he entered the tearoom of the Savoy to join Lord and Lady Worthing for tea, his efforts went to the wall, for seated at one of the tables was the woman he’d been trying so hard to forget.

Aidan froze, his gaze riveted to where she sat with a group of friends having tea. She was wearing an enormous straw hat topped with masses of white ostrich feathers, but beneath its wide brim, there was no mistaking Lady Yardley’s delicate features and violet eyes.

Someone coughed behind him, and he turned to find people waiting to enter the tearoom. He moved out of the doorway, and as a waiter led him past her table to where his own party was seated, he did not look at her. He crossed the Savoy’s tearoom, greeted Lord and Lady Worthing, and sat down. He made desultory small talk, read over the menu, and ordered tea, and the entire time, he did not so much as glance in that woman’s direction, but though he didn’t look at her, one question kept running through his mind, the same question that had tormented him for months.

What on earth had possessed him to go on that picnic with her? He’d asked himself that question innumerable times, but for the first time, an answer echoed back to him.

Under that gentlemanly honor you revere so much, you long for adventure and excitement and a taste of the forbidden fruit.

It was true, he realized, and it galled him to know she could see in him things he could not see in himself. At the time, he’d told himself all the reasons calling upon her at her cottage, picnicking with her, and being alone with her were inappropriate, foolish, and just plain wrong, but those reminders hadn’t stopped him from going. When she’d offered him a second glass of champagne, he’d reminded himself of why he never had a second glass, and then he’d drunk it. And then he’d drunk another, and another, and though he didn’t remember much after they’d uncorked the second bottle, he vividly remembered the lust that had flooded through his body and burned away any sense of honor he’d ever had.

Aidan slid a glance at her, but when he did, he didn’t picture her as she was here, in a frothy tea gown of pale blue silk, sipping tea at the Savoy amid crystal chandeliers, plush carpets, and potted palms. No, he saw her in a wet dress of white muslin, walking out of the water and across the sand toward him.

She lifted her teacup, but in his mind her fingers weren’t curled around a piece of delicate china. Instead, they were gliding down the damp skin at the base of her throat.

Arousal flickered up inside him.

Aidan looked away, murmured something polite about the weather, and wondered if he’d only been deluding himself all these months. He began to fear that despite all it had cost him, the desire he’d always felt for her could once again consume him. And if he let that happen again, what price would he pay for it?

Violently, he stood up, earning himself astonished stares from his companions. “Forgive me,” he said at once, and he knew he ought to sit back down, but he just could not remain here another moment. He mumbled something about a sudden headache, excused himself from Lord and Lady Worthing, and left the Savoy.

Damn that woman, he thought, as he started down the sidewalk. Damn her for still being tempting as hell.

He was here for the season to find a suitable duchess, not lust after a notorious divorcee, but he knew as long as they both remained in town, he would feel this every time he saw her if he didn’t find a way to stop it.

He walked back along the Embankment to his offices. Lambert had already departed for the day, but, thankfully, his secretary had left a stack of contracts and bid proposals on his desk for his review.

Aidan took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and sat down at his desk. Work, he knew from past experience, was not an antidote to that woman, but it was a distraction, and for now, that would have to be enough.

It was well past dark by the time his carriage made the slow crawl from the City back to Mayfair, and when he reached his home in Grosvenor Square, all he wanted was to have a bite of supper and go to bed. As he walked up his front steps, his butler was already opening the door to him.

“Good evening, sir. We did not expect you home quite so soon.”

He found that remark rather puzzling, but he was too tired to inquire further. “Good evening, Covington,” he answered, handing over his hat and cloak. “Have Mrs. Bowles prepare a light supper for me, would you? I’ll await it in my study.”

The butler nodded, handed Aidan’s things to a footman, and bustled off to comply with his master’s instructions. Aidan crossed the foyer in the opposite direction and went down the corridor that led to his study.

Because the corridor was unlit, no light spilled into the room, making its interior pitch black, but memory guided his steps to his favorite chair. He settled into its comfortable leather confines, then reached beside him for the electrical cord of the lamp on the table. He slid his palm along the cord until he found the switch. Rolling the wheel forward with his thumb, he opened his eyes as electric light poured from beneath the amber glass lampshade to illuminate not only the burled maple table and his own leather chair, but also the matching chair across from him.