Scandalous Love (11 page)

Nicole could not hold
her mother's direct gaze. Color flooded her cheeks. "Just around."

"To Chapman
Hall?"

Nicole gasped.
"What—what makes you think that?!"

"We had better
talk," Jane said gently.

"There is nothing
to talk about," Nicole cried, panicked.

"It is obvious that
there is something between you and the Duke of Clayborough."

"Mother—you are
wrong!" Nicole started to rise, but Jane restrained her.

"Then I am glad,
for he is engaged, and soon he will wed his betrothed. He will never break it
off, Nicole," Jane said gently.

Nicole knew that, yet
hearing the words somehow hurt. "There is nothing between us," Nicole
said stiffly. "I find him despicable, if you must know the truth. He is an
arrogant and pompous ass."

Jane was visibly
shocked.

Suddenly Nicole stared
at her mother. "Mother, are you going back to London today?"

"Yes, this
afternoon. I do not feel right leaving Regina there, even with Lady Henderson.
After all, I should be sharing her season with her."

Nicole wet her lips.
"I am going to go with you. I will pack now!"

Jane blinked. "But
you never go to town. You hate London."

"I have
changed," Nicole announced, standing. "I am bored with life here, I
need to get out, meet people. Don't you agree?"

"It's been my and
your father's deepest wish," Jane declared, surprised. "It isn't
healthy to stay secluded in the country to the extent that you do."

"I'll be ready in
no time," Nicole declared, flashing a smile and running from the room.

Jane watched her go,
smiling as well. This was what her daughter needed, to get out again among the
set, where she could still meet an eligible man, where she could still find
love. And the fact that the Duke of Clayborough was here at Chapman Hall made
it all the better that Nicole should join her and Regina in London. Still
smiling, Jane reached for her muffin, her appetite restored.

The Duke arrived in
London that afternoon and went directly to his residence at No. 1 Cavendish
Square. Clayborough House was an imposing sight, taking up the entire block on
the north side of the green. It had been built in the early eighteenth century
for the first duke of Clayborough, and had since suffered a few additions. Six
stories high, the entire front facade facing the street contained a hundred
windows and three towers. The roof made the structure appear even larger,
because of the three giant gables that soared by several additional stories
into the sky. Each boasted the Clayborough coat of arms, awesomely oversized.
The mansion was cordoned off from the street by an imposing and intricately
designed stone balustrade, except for where the stone staircase, which was wide
enough to accommodate a dozen guests should they choose to enter all at once,
swept down to the street.

The Duke had sent a few
of his staff on to London the night before after dining at Dragmore, and now
Woodward greeted him at the door. The Duke motioned for him to follow, and they
paced down a black and white marble-floored hallway and turned into a library
that could accommodate half of Chapman Hall. He went to his desk, pulling one
of his cards out of his pocket, and quickly penned a personal note upon it. He
handed it to the butler. "Send this to Lady Elizabeth now."

"Will there be
anything else? A bit of tea with your bath, Your Grace?"

The Duke nodded
carelessly and hurried up the stairs.

His own suite also had marble
floors, these gold and white. Once the room had been appointed as if to house
royalty. Upon his father's demise, he had immediately removed all the
furnishings except for a few and redecorated as he chose. Francis' tastes had
been much too decorative and whimsical to suit his own, but more to the point,
the Duke did not want any reminders of his father present, having enough
memories to haunt him for a lifetime.

Now, dozens of Persian
rugs covered the floors, providing warmth at night when the Duke enjoyed going
barefoot. An old chaise and ottoman, reupholstered in a rich wine leather,
faced the hearth, with a sixteenth century Chinese footstool nearby for the
Duke to lay his papers and books on. Ever fond of Oriental antiques, Hadrian
had selected for one wall a massive black lacquer Chinese screen inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, designed with a floral motif on top and courting horses below.
The rest of the furnishings were a somewhat eclectic collection of pieces which
Hadrian had chosen strictly for comfort and utilitarian value. The only family
heirloom that remained in the room was an eighteenth century mahogany secretary
which he would not remove, knowing that his grandfather, the seventh duke of
Clayborough, who had died several years before he had been born, had been
terribly fond of it.

The room was rather
different from the rest of the house, but it was his personal sanctum, and
everything within it pleased him. He was sure Elizabeth would hate it the
moment she saw it, just as Isobel had hated it, telling him bluntly that it was
"awfully done," but he did not care. He knew Elizabeth well, and she
would not defy him once he told her that not one inch of his suite was subject
to change. In fact, she would certainly never broach the topic again.

His valet had already
drawn his bath in the bathroom, which was also floored in marble, and as large
as most country bedrooms. Accepting his tea, the Duke stripped and sank down
into the sumptuous, sunken tub.

Presently he intended to
visit Elizabeth, apologize to her for his neglect, and determine the state of
her health. Yet his intention had
not
been to return to London today, or
even tomorrow. Not until last night, that is.

His conduct had been
scandalous. Her conduct had been equally scandalous, but that was no excuse.
Obviously it was Nicole Shelton's character to defy convention. After
witnessing her highly unusual and rather shocking behavior several times now,
he could no longer be surprised that she had suffered a scandal of her own
making some years past. A small smile suddenly tugged at his mouth. No one
would ever accuse her of being boring. Conventionality was boring—it was why he
so disliked the routine of parties, at-homes and social gallivanting that the
rest of his class was so fond of. It suddenly occurred to him that in a way, he
and Nicole were not so very different.

His smile abruptly
disappeared.

He chased such a
ludicrous thought right out of his head.

He was considered rather
reclusive, his disdain for the social whirl was well known, but never had he
triggered a scandal, and his behavior most certainly did not cause tongues to
wag. With the exception of his extreme interest in business affairs, which was
not considered appropriate for a nobleman of any rank, it was most certainly
not his penchant to defy convention.

The Duke realized that
far from relaxing in the hot tub, he was disturbed, and very nearly angry now.
Recalling their verbal battle the night before, and their physical one—for how
could he possibly forget it?—he was unsure if he was mad at Nicole, or at
himself. Only one thing appeared to be clear. His iron control, his will and
his self-discipline, were not what he had thought them to be, not as far as
Nicole Shelton was concerned.

He grew more perturbed,
and he lunged from the tub, water cascading down his naked, powerful body.

He decided that time
would end his attraction to her. She was now at Dragmore, and he did not intend
to return to Chapman Hall until his interest in her had subsided. Clearly he,
who had never been untrustworthy in any aspect before, was untrustworthy where
she was concerned. Was there actually something of Francis' despicable
character in him?

He had been rubbing a
thick towel slowly over his body, now he froze. The thought was chilling.

The Duke wasn't sure
when he had first started hating his father, for he did not have a single
memory of ever not hating him. It was as a very young child that he had first
become aware of the distress his father caused his mother, and he had earned
his first slap when he was four for trying to protect Isobel from him. The blow
had hurt him but that had been nothing compared to the terrible fear that had
followed. Not just fear for himself, but fear for his mother.

For upon seeing her
child hurt, Isobel had flown into a rage, flying at Francis with the intention
of sinking her nails deep into his face. Still stunned from being hit, Hadrian
had watched his father easily prevent Isobel from mauling him, then he had seen
him strike her and knock her down. Francis had left the room after laughing and
calling her a whore. Hadrian had crawled to his mother, crying, but to his
relief, she had sat up and hugged him, crooning to him that everything was all
right. Once he saw that his mother was fine, Hadrian was filled with a burning hatred
for his father that still endured to this day. He barely heard his mother
telling him that he must never interfere again between his parents. He was too
busy wishing his father would die, a wish that had not been fulfilled for
another twenty-two years.

But he was not abusive
like Francis, Hadrian thought, for never in his life had he hurt a child or a
woman. He did not drink and he did not gamble. And he certainly had no
inclination for boys.

When he was young,
however, Francis had apparently enjoyed women, for it was not until he was
older and jaded that he had turned to those of his own sex. A gentleman would
have never accosted Nicole as he had done last night, but undoubtedly it was
something his father would have done with no qualms whatsoever.

The Duke recalled their
physical altercation outside of Chapman Hall, and how he had slammed her
against the side of the barn after she had struck him with her crop. He had not
meant to subdue her so roughly, yet he had.

He was afraid of the
side of himself that he had unearthed, a dark side, that, until now, he had not
known existed. No other woman had ever brought this side to light, and it was
all the more reason for him to stay away from her.

He was engaged to
Elizabeth, who was not only his cousin but a kind and sweet young lady, and he
had known her nearly all of his life. He would never hurt her. He would never
renege on his duty and violate his honor or hers. So why had he tempted fate
last night at Dragmore? Had he and Nicole been found together he would have
been forced to marry her and break off his engagement to Elizabeth. He had
been, Hadrian decided grimly, temporarily mad.

An image of Nicole as
his wife assailed him. She would make the worst wife, insolent, disobedient,
forever provoking his temper. Unlike Elizabeth, who would devote her life to
pleasing him. Why was he comparing the two, when there was nothing to compare?

Yet Nicole
had
wanted
to marry him. Just as she now seemed intent on infuriating him—a misguided and
very reckless form of payback. Suddenly he became very still.

Had she been setting a
trap for him?

She was not the first
woman to want to marry him, far from it. The Duke was well aware that every
season many hopeful debutantes were determined to catch his eye and have him
jilt Elizabeth. Of course, he ignored them.

But he could no longer
ignore what had happened with Nicole.
She had thought him to be courting
her, while he had intended only a brief affair.
Guilt claimed him. He had
hurt her. For the first time since they had both learned the truth about each
other, he dared to face this fact squarely. He clearly remembered her shock
when he had apologized to her for mistakenly assuming she was a married woman.
And now that he dared to recall this encounter, he could too easily remember
the hurt and anguish in her eyes. Then, he had tried to avoid knowledge of what
he had done, but now, he could not. He felt like a heel.

But she had recovered,
swiftly enough, from any anguish he had unintentionally caused her. And last
night she had been no hurt, brooding miss. Last night she had been a
seductress, flaunting her beauty and daring him to meet her in a clash of
verbal swords. Last night she had been fascinating. Last night, instead of
retiring to the safety of her bedroom, she had lain upon the sofa in the
library in a tunelessly provocative pose. And when he had risen to the bait,
stalked her, taken her in his arms, she had barely resisted him. Within
moments, she had been moaning in abandon.

Had it been a trap?

He flung his towel onto
the floor and stalked naked into his dressing room. Barely aware of what he was
doing, he slipped on a dressing gown. Anger poured through him. She would not
be the first who tried to seduce him away from his betrothal with her beauty,
but she was the first he had succumbed to. He was certain now that she had
sought to seduce him, to see herself compromised, to have them caught by her
family. Why else would she have waited for him in the library? Why the hell
else?

It was coincidence, but
Elizabeth was seated with Isobel, the two of them enjoying tea and scones, when
the message from the Duke arrived. Elizabeth accepted the card the butler
handed to her, instantly recognizing the ducal crest. "It's from
Hadrian," she breathed, a smile lighting up her small face and making her
almost beautiful.

Isobel smiled too,
thinking that Elizabeth was still so young and so transparent. "And?"

Elizabeth turned shining
blue eyes upon the Dowager Duchess. "He has returned!" she cried
joyfully. "He has returned and he is coming tonight!"

"It's about
time," Isobel said. "Don't get too excited, dear, you know you were
not feeling well today."

A rosy flush covered
Elizabeth's cheeks. "How can I not be excited? It has been more than a
month since I have seen him, and Isobel," the two were on intimate terms,
"do not speak unkindly of Hadrian. It would be different if he were absent
because of wastrel pursuits, but we both know how hard he works, and how
seriously he takes his duties. If I do not chastise him, neither should
you." The words were said gently and kindly, for Elizabeth was not capable
of raising her voice at anyone.

"A mother is
entitled to berate her son," Isobel said patting Elizabeth's small, pale
hand. "But I am glad to see the color back in your cheeks. And I think it
is time for me to leave."