Scandal of the Year (9 page)

What had happened next? He stared at her across the theater, striving to remember. Had he taken her right there, standing up, her legs wrapped around his hips? Or had he carried her upstairs to her room first? What had happened next?
Damn it
, he thought, his gaze riveted on her,
what was next?

On the stage below, the Valkyrie soprano hit the high-C. Julia opened her eyes and straightened in her seat as if to resume watching the performance, but then she paused, turning her head to look straight at him. Caught, he jerked the glasses down and leaned back, awash in arousal and frustration.

He didn’t remember anything more, but what did it matter? His honor had already been proved a sham by that point, and envisioning the various ways in which the actual coupling had taken place would only inflame the passion he was trying to extinguish.

His mind went further back, to their very first meeting and her bare legs dangling over the side of a bridge with her pretty toes skimming the water. Did it all come down to that? Surely he hadn’t thrown caution to the wind, compromised his reputation, and made himself a cad just to fulfill a silly adolescent fantasy.

He refused to believe it was that simple, or that he was that facile, yet she was the only woman who had ever tempted him beyond reason and beyond honor.

Why her?
he wondered, thoroughly exasperated with himself. Perhaps she’d been right to say he harbored a secret longing for what he could not have, but there were many women among his acquaintance who could be considered the “forbidden fruit,” as she’d put it, and yet he was not like his father—he didn’t lust after every woman he met. So what was it about this particular woman that made her so hard to resist?

Aidan glanced at the bewitching woman across the way, and decided it was damned well time he found out.

Julia was restless. She paced about the crimson and gold interior of one of the Savoy’s elegant sitting rooms as Marlowe’s other guests milled about in a much more leisurely fashion, engaging in small talk as they waited for supper to be served in the private dining room beyond. Only one guest had not yet arrived, and though Marlowe had confirmed Aidan would be coming, Julia kept glancing at the door, a bit aggravated. Aidan was never unpunctual. What was taking him so long?

She wanted to talk with him about the idea she’d had earlier, and this supper party seemed a perfect opportunity, but she knew he had very little reason to talk with her, and the more time that passed without his arrival, the more nervous she became. She wandered about, unable to sit down for more than two minutes at a time, she tapped her fingers against her champagne glass and her foot against the floor, and though René tried several times to engage her in conversation, she was too distracted to respond with anything more than a few murmured monosyllables.

With only ten minutes remaining until supper would be served, he finally arrived, but Julia wanted to speak to him out of earshot of anyone else, and she was forced to wait a little longer while he greeted his hosts and was introduced to René.

When he moved to the refreshment table across the room, she saw her chance at last, but as she came up beside him, he gave her nothing more than an indifferent glance, and her nervousness grew. She strove to keep it hidden, taking refuge in teasing him as she watched him pour himself a glass of port.

“Port, Aidan?” she said, giving him an impudent look. “Is that wise?”

“In your company, probably not,” he answered dryly. “But I do sometimes drink, as you are well aware. I simply make it a rule to limit myself to one glass. In that sense, port serves me well since I dislike it. And,” he added, grimacing as he took a sip, “after the events of earlier this evening, God knows I need a drink.”

She laughed, but before she could reply, he held up his free hand, palm toward her in a gesture of surrender. “You were right about Felicia Vale. Absolutely right. That is why you made a beeline for me just now, isn’t it? So you could gloat?”

“Well, no, actually, but now that you mention it . . .” She paused, grinning. “Told you so.”

A hint of wry amusement curved the corners of his mouth. “No doubt you have a very strong pair of opera glasses, and saw the entire episode?”

She didn’t even try to deny it. “Every delicious moment.”

“That poor girl. I shall dance a waltz with her to compensate for your heartless way of entertaining yourself at her expense.”

“No you won’t. Even your sense of chivalry doesn’t extend that far.”

Unexpectedly, he chuckled. “I daresay you’re right.”

“But I didn’t make a beeline for you, as you put it, so that I could tease you about Felicia. I want to talk with you about something else. That is, I want to ask you something.” She paused and glanced around. “But I don’t want anyone else to overhear.”

“I don’t know if that’s wise,” he murmured. “The private conversations I have with you never seem to turn out well.”

She had rather the opposite point of view, for one of their private conversations had turned out to be her salvation, but it would not be wise to say so, not when she was about to surpass all her previous gall and ask him for help. “I understand your reluctance, and you have every right, but this is important, Aidan,” she said quietly. “Could you give me a moment?”

Her suddenly serious tone surprised him, she could tell, but he nodded. “Of course.”

At that moment, Sir George and Lady Debenham approached the refreshment table, and Aidan moved with her to an unoccupied part of the room, but when he gestured to a pair of facing chairs near the fireplace with a questioning glance at her, she shook her head. She was nervous enough already, and if she were sitting down, she’d probably start wriggling in her chair. “I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly.” He paused for a sip of port. “What did you wish to discuss?”

She took a deep breath and plunged in. “I am in need of an occupation, and I thought you might be able to help me.”

“An occupation?” he echoed, a puzzled frown knitting his brows. “What do you mean?”

“I . . . umm . . . I need money, you see.”

His frown deepened. “But surely Paul—”

“Paul can’t help me, and I wouldn’t ask him to. He’s giving me a very generous allowance in pin money, but that’s not much good because . . .” She paused, for this was much harder than she’d thought it would be. She hated talking of unpleasant subjects, and she really hated putting herself in a bad light to someone whose opinion she respected, but there was nothing for it. Aidan, at least, already thought the worst of her, so what she was about to say wouldn’t surprise him. “I’m in debt. Quite heavily in debt.”

“I see.”

Just that, two murmured words, and she felt defensive all of a sudden. “It’s not gambling, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or clothes, although I do spend a lot on clothes, I know. Some of it is the Mercedes, too. It was an expensive trinket, I daresay, but I had reasons for purchasing it, reasons which—”

“Julia,” he interrupted, “I didn’t ask you for an explanation of how you spend your money. I’m just trying to clarify what it is you want of me. Are you asking me for employment?”

She looked into those steady hazel eyes, but she could read nothing in their murky depths. Nor could she detect from his polite impassivity what he might be thinking. “Well . . . yes. I mean, possibly. I mean—” She paused again, cursing herself for stammering like a schoolgirl all of a sudden. It took gall for her to ask him for help after what she’d done, and if their positions were reversed, she’d probably tell him to go to hell. Though she knew Aidan wouldn’t say such a thing to any woman, that knowledge didn’t soothe her jangled nerves.

She took a deep breath, reminded herself of how limited her options were, and tried again. “You are a man of considerable business acumen, and you have many investment holdings. I was thinking . . . hoping you might have some post available that I could . . . umm . . . do, or at least a suggestion of how I might earn the money to pay my debts. That is,” she added with a forced laugh, “if you can think of anything I’m remotely qualified to do.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, his gaze skimmed over her in a slow, assessing perusal that seemed to miss nothing and perhaps remember a great deal. Under this scrutiny, Julia suddenly felt warm and flushed, and she had an inexplicable desire to bolt for the door. By the time his eyes once again met hers, she felt as if a dozen butterflies were fluttering around inside her. In his eyes, there was no spark of desire that she could discern; his gaze was cool, objective, almost disinterested. Strangely, that made her feel more vulnerable than any hot look of desire would have done, more naked than she’d been that afternoon in Cornwall. Suddenly, she was the one in desperate need of a drink.

“If this were a melodrama,” he said as she lifted her glass of champagne to her lips, “I would make you my mistress.”

Julia froze, the glass poised just below her parted lips, and her heart slammed against her ribs. Desperate, she grasped for her most effective weapon, the witty remark, and pasted on a careless smile. “What’s it pay?” she quipped, and took a swallow of champagne.

As expected, he laughed, but that didn’t diffuse her increasing tension. There was something new in the air, a change in the way he was looking at her, in the way he was speaking to her. It seemed more impersonal and distant than what she was accustomed to with him, and she didn’t like it. It made her feel even more off-balance.

She forced herself back to the matter at hand. “In all seriousness, I do need employment of some sort. Honorable employment. I want . . .” She paused, trying to find a way to explain without being asked any probing, inconvenient questions. “I want to do something useful with my life.”

He raised one eyebrow, looking so skeptical of her sudden earnestness, she couldn’t help laughing a little. “I know, I know, I’ve been such a lily of the field most of my life, but I want to change that. I was hoping you could suggest how I might do so.”

He was silent for a moment, and she knew he was considering any possible ulterior motives she might have. “I might have some ideas for you,” he said at last. “Come see me tomorrow. Nine o’clock,” he added. “Be punctual.”

She suppressed her sigh of relief. “Nine? Heavens, Aidan, the birds aren’t even awake at nine. Oh, all right,” she added as he gave her a look that dared her to keep objecting. “Nine o’clock tomorrow. But,” she added, feeling the need to make things absolutely clear, “if that bit about being your mistress wasn’t a joke, let me set you straight and say no in advance.”

“No need to refuse me, Baroness, for I would never consider making you my mistress, and I wouldn’t dream of proposing such an arrangement.”

Such an unequivocal reply surprised her a little, she had to admit. Not that she was unduly conceited, but Aidan had always been rather susceptible to her charms—she’d known that from the first time they’d ever met, so it wasn’t unreasonable of her to be a bit taken aback by his statement. And though he had ample reason to avoid becoming entangled with her again, it stung a little that he was so uninterested in the prospect. “Why not?” she couldn’t resist asking. “Because you’re too much of a gentleman to take a mistress?”

“No,” he answered and started to move past her. “Because I already have one. Now, if you will excuse me?”

He bowed to her and walked away without waiting for an answer, which was a good thing, since she could not, for the life of her, think of a witty comeback to that.

Chapter Eight

J
ulia was not a punctual person, and not always a reliable one. Part of this was due to years of ducking and dodging and running away from Yardley, which had necessitated a lack of reliability in her social commitments and a believable set of excuses to go with it. And part was due, she would have been the first to admit, to her innate procrastination, her love of late night parties, and her hatred for early rising, all of which she had been able to indulge freely during the past six months without fear or worry.

Her family, who loved her and understood all this, were quite accustomed to her lack of punctuality; her friends found her amusing enough to overlook that particular flaw. Aidan, however, was an entirely different kettle of fish, and so, upon arriving home after supper at the Savoy, she instructed Giselle to awaken her at half past six.

Despite such firm resolve, when the maid arrived in obedience to the emphatic instructions issued three hours earlier, Julia groaned, rolled over, and went back to sleep. When Giselle reentered her room thirty minutes later with morning tea and a compelling reminder that she had a very important meeting in the City two hours hence, Julia made the hazy rationale that she could always charm away any irritation that ensued from her lateness on any occasion, and drifted back into the very pleasant dream she’d been having about an absurd little Vivienne hat.

Another half hour passed, and her maid returned. Noting that her mistress was still asleep, Giselle, who knew Julia’s foibles quite well, took the course of action most likely to yield the necessary result. She leaned down to murmur in her mistress’s ear, and when Julia heard the words
Duke of Trathen
, her eyes opened as if she’d just been plunked down in an ice bath. Any dreams of absurd little hats and charming excuses went right out of her head.

“Heavens!” she cried, flinging back the sheets and sitting up, wide awake. “Giselle, what time is it?”

“Half past seven, madame.” The maid, who was holding open a violet silk peignoir for her to slip into, added, “You have no time to bathe, but I have hot water waiting on the washstand.”

“Such a good thing I did not smoke cigarettes last night,” Julia murmured, waving aside the robe as she ran to the washstand. “Aidan hates the smell of smoke, and I’ve no time to wash my hair.”

The mere mention of cigarettes made her crave one, but the image of Aidan’s disapproving face as she’d pulled her case out the night before in his study was enough to banish her craving, at least for now.

Giselle vanished into the dressing room, and Julia slipped off her nightgown. She shoved the braid of her hair over her shoulder, poured steaming water into the washbasin, grabbed the square of French-milled lilac soap that sat in a little dish on the marble-topped washstand, and began a quick but serviceable bath, beginning with her face and working her way down.

“How long shall it take to arrive in the City, Giselle, do you think?” she called, soaping beneath her arms.

The maid emerged from the dressing room, carrying a tailor-made coat and skirt of pale gray, one of Julia’s less lavish white shirtwaists, and a pile of snowy white undergarments. “One hour.”

“An hour? Traffic in London is that awful nowadays? Oh, dear, I’m sunk like a ship.”

“Perhaps less than an hour,” the maid conceded grudgingly, setting the clothes on the bed, before coming to help her rinse away the soap and dry off. “But it does not do to be always late, madame.”

“I know, I know, I’m terrible. Come, Giselle, help me dress. I’ll do my hair while you go down and find me a taxi.”

She and the maid worked frantically to dress her in the many layers of garments required of a lady, then Giselle departed. Julia unraveled her braid, then twisted her black curls at the back of her head, making use of many hairpins and a few impatient oaths. She donned an enormous hat of gray felt with a wide brim and heaps of ribbons and feathers that would conceal her rather crooked efforts with her hair, then she thrust her feet into black kid walking shoes, caught up a pair of white gloves, and raced for the stairs, hoping Giselle had succeeded in her task, for acquiring a taxi always seemed an impossible task when one was in a hurry.

The bells of St. Dunstan’s in the West were just chiming the hour of nine o’clock when Julia stepped down from the cab in front of Aidan’s offices in the City. She tossed a full shilling to the driver, not wanting to bother counting out the proper amount of change, and raced into the four-story stone and granite building on the corner of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane.

She halted in the impressive Italianate foyer to get her bearings and spied a clerk seated behind a lavishly carved rosewood secretaire. As she approached him, the tap of her heels echoed off the Siena marble floor and the impressive high ceilings.

Aidan had obviously left instructions that she was to be expected, for upon giving her name to the clerk, she was led to an electric lift and handed over to the liveried young man operating it, who took her to the top floor.

“To your left, ma’am,” the boy told her as he opened the wrought-iron gate so that she could her exit the elevator. “Shall I escort you?”

Julia glanced toward a set of tall baize doors and back at him with a smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Tipping his cap, the boy slid the gate closed between them, then pressed the electric button and sank out of sight.

Julia went through the doors and found herself in another office suite, this one far more masculine and far more English in its decor than the lavish foyer downstairs. In fact, she reflected as she glanced around, it suited Aidan so perfectly, he might have decorated it himself.

Everywhere was solid practicality combined with comfort, everything understated, nothing too lavish. There was oak paneling, hunter-green wallpaper, a thick, muted Persian carpet, and sporting prints and English landscapes on the walls. Everything was tasteful but subdued, the lighting was electric, the pictures hung perfectly straight on the walls, and there was no sign of frivolity or absurdity in sight.

Before her reposed a massive desk of dark cherrywood, and behind it, a sandy-haired young man with pince-nez rose from his chair.

“Lady Yardley?” At her nod, he bowed. “I am Mr. Lambert, His Grace’s secretary. The duke is expecting you, if you will come this way.”

She followed him to the door, pausing as he opened it and announced her. Aidan rose from the chair behind his desk as she entered, and once she had passed into his office, his secretary started to depart. Aidan’s voice, however, made him pause.

“Mr. Lambert, close the door behind you, if you please.”

Both Julia and the secretary looked at him in surprise. Mr. Lambert didn’t question him, but Julia did so the moment the door clicked shut.

“The two of us alone behind closed doors, Aidan?” she teased as she approached his desk.

“You came to discuss a topic that last night seemed private to you, expressing the desire that no one overhear. I assumed you would feel the same today. Am I wrong?”

“No, but it’s not really proper, is it?”

“With you, Julia, propriety always seems to go out the window anyway. I’ve rather given up on it.”

She chuckled. “I always knew there was hope for you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He gestured to a chair opposite his desk. “Shall we sit down?”

He waited until she had taken the offered chair, then he resumed his own seat and came straight to the point. “You said last night you need employment because you are in debt?”

“Yes. I want to clear those obligations and start my life fresh. The most logical course seems to be a profession.”

“Unfortunately, there is really only one well-paying profession open to women.” He paused, looking at her. “As we discussed last night.”

His reminder of what he’d said the night before about having a mistress brought all her nervousness rushing back, along with a new, different sort of agitation, and Julia realized to her horror that she was actually blushing. Heavens, she thought, feeling the heat flood her face, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t blushed since she was a girl of sixteen.

She appreciated that something was different, but she couldn’t pinpoint just what it was or the reason for it. Acutely aware of the heat in her cheeks, she forced herself to say something. “But you already have a mistress,” she reminded, taking refuge in flirtation. “Such a shame, too,” she added, slanting him a naughty look. “We could have had so much fun.”

“Yes.” His expression didn’t change. His gaze flicked down, then back up. “I agree.”

Her blush deepened. Heavens, what was wrong with her? Never before had she felt this way with Aidan—so off-balance and unsure. She didn’t like the feeling, and she strove to regain her usual careless assurance. “It would have been amusing for both of us, I daresay, but c’est la vie.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You want to get married, and I want to rebuild my reputation, for my family’s sake.”

“Not for your own?”

She shrugged. “I was prepared for losing my reputation when I—”

Seduced you.

The words hung in the air for a split second before she went on, “When Yardley divorced me.”

“I see.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know how much you owe, of course, but it seems to me there is a very simple and honorable way to resolve your difficulties, at least in part. Why do you not sell your jewels?”

“Jewels? I don’t have . . .” She paused, realizing which jewels he was talking about, remembering the glittering three-strand necklace and drop earrings she’d taken to wearing for formal engagements. “Ah, you mean the diamonds I wore last night. I can’t sell those.”

“Why not? Selling them would surely bring enough to pay at least some of your debt.”

She stirred uneasily, not wanting to explain. “Heavens, Aidan,” she drawled instead, laughing. “Women never sell their jewels! That’s almost sacrilegious.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t even change expression. But when he spoke, there was a hint of reproof in his voice. “Don’t do that, Julia.”

She looked at him, wide-eyed. “Do what?”

“Joke and deflect and make light of something because you don’t want to discuss it. If you can manage to be straightforward with me, I might have some helpful suggestions to offer. Is it sentiment that stops you from selling your jewelry? Jewels are often passed down in a family, but—”

“It’s not sentiment. It’s—” She stopped, biting her lip, cursing silently. Why was being straightforward so damned difficult? Perhaps because what he wanted to know involved talking about her life when it had been so awful, when she had lived with things that were sordid and a marriage that was a nightmare, and now that the nightmare was over, she didn’t want to relive it. Or perhaps it was telling the truth itself that was hard; she’d been lying for so many years to so many people that it had become second nature to her. Lying to Yardley, lying to the family, lying to friends—out of fear or shame or her damnable pride. God knew, lying was all she had ever seemed to do with Aidan. But right now, when he was looking at her with those steady, searching eyes of his, she wondered if maybe it was time to try simple honesty. After all, wasn’t that part of the fresh start she wanted?

Julia lifted her chin. “I tried to sell my jewels seven years ago, after Yardley cut off my income. He’d already been reducing my allowance every year until by that point it was almost nothing. He knew I was already in debt, and he was trying to bring me to heel, you see, force me home to Yardley Grange.”

Aidan frowned, uncomprehending. “Why didn’t you go? If you had, he probably would have reinstated your income.”

“No.”

“But surely it wasn’t unreasonable of him to expect you to live part of your year at home. You were his wife.”

She shook her head, struggling not to let an easy lie come tripping off her tongue. “You don’t understand.”

“You were unhappy. You must have been, I know, but—”

“No, you don’t know!” she said fiercely, and slammed down the lid on the topic. “I don’t want to talk about Yardley. Please don’t ask me to do so.”

“All right.”

The reply was mild, agreeable, but she still felt prickly as a chestnut, and she had to take a few deep breaths before going on.

“When Yardley cut me off completely, creditors began coming to him for payment of my bills,” she resumed, “and when he realized his refusal to pay my quarterly allowance wouldn’t be enough to force me to come home, he announced in the newspapers that he would not honor any of my debts, past, present, or future. I knew my only choice was to sell my jewels. My husband had already taken back the pieces that belonged to his family, but I did have jewels of my own. When I removed them from the bank and took them to a pawnbroker, that’s when I found out.”

“Found out what?”

“They’re paste. All of them. Yardley had removed them from the bank at some point, and replaced the jewels with paste replicas. He had the right. Under the terms of the marriage settlement, all my jewels came into his family. They were . . .” She paused, choking up a little from anger and a hint of pain. “I was too young and naive to realize it, but that was what Yardley wanted—to make sure I didn’t have money of my own. It was a way to control me. Yardley likes control. I wasn’t—” She stopped. Her hands curled into fists. “I wasn’t very cooperative in that regard, I’m afraid.”