Scandalous Love (16 page)

He was still watching
her, too closely, as if he could read her most private thoughts and feelings.
Nicole found herself drawn in by his power, swept away by it. Once again, she
was powerless to look away from him. She was afraid he knew her innermost
thoughts. Afraid she was revealing too much. She did not want him to know, or
even suspect, what she was afraid to acknowledge herself.

His anger had died. The
telltale flush was gone. His eyes were again the rich gold of sherry, a tiger's
eyes, dangerously mesmerizing. Nicole became still, lulled into utter
motionlessness, anticipation overwhelming her.

He suddenly lifted his
hand. There was no question that he was going to touch her. He reached for her
face. In that moment, Nicole yearned for him desperately. And just as suddenly
he dropped his hand and his gaze, reaching abruptly for her box lunch.

"Perhaps we should
eat," he said.

A vast disappointment
consumed her. She could not respond. She could only watch him open the basket
and begin to remove the items within.

It had only taken that
one instant for all of Nicole's turbulent, bruised emotions to congeal into one
fiery ball of explosive desire. Although she sat motionless, determined to hide
her response to him, she was trembling, her body tight and taut, almost
painfully so. He had been about to touch her, she was certain of it. She could
not seem to think of anything else.

His glance lifted and
they stared at each other. The glitter of his gaze was as bright as hers,
unconcealable.

Oh, dear God, Nicole
thought, as violent desire crashed over her. In that moment, she did not care
about anything or anyone other than herself and the Duke,, for every leaf
trembling above them, every sweet blade of grass around them, the festive crowd
scattered through the park, the entire world, had just faded into oblivion.
There was nothing and no one in existence other than herself and the powerful,
virile man sitting opposite her.

Only her eyes moved, her
body incapable of motion. They roamed over every exquisite feature of his face,
lingering on his sensually sculpted lips, recalling the heat and power of them,
the devouring hunger. They roved lower, over his broad shoulders and massive
chest, clad in nothing but a simple white linen shirt, the top two buttons open
and revealing just a glimpse of thick, dark chest hair. His long, powerful legs
were encased in tan breeches, his high boots black and gleaming. Startled, her
gaze flew back to his loins, where a thick rigid arousal strained the tight
fabric of his pants. For a long moment she could not take her eyes away, could
not move, could not breathe. Her body strained and quivered against the
confines of her skin. Suddenly some kind of death seemed imminent, one that
would take her straight to heaven.

He cursed. "Damn
it. This is intolerable. This cannot continue."

Nicole wet her lips,
shamelessly thinking about his kisses, about how it felt to be in his arms, and
about another act no lady would even contemplate.

"I suggest,"
he said sharply, "that you think about something—anything—else."

Her most private desires
revealed.
She lifted her gaze to his and was consumed—gladly consumed—by the heat
she found there. "I can't," she whispered.

He let out his breath
harshly. "If you do not," he said roughly, "then we have a very
long hour ahead of us."

She looked at him, his
words drawing her attention away from her indecent thoughts.

"I think an hour
will suffice, if we can endure it."

"An hour will
suffice," she said slowly. "It is appropriate for us to share a
picnic for an hour, and then, of course, you must return to Elizabeth."

"Yes."

The words were more
effective than buckets of ice water thrown over her head, and she smiled almost
sadly. How could she sit here and covet another woman's man, one who was
practically her husband? It was terribly immoral, as immoral as her scandalous
physical desire, and Nicole was ashamed. For a few brief moments, she had
forgotten all about Elizabeth, and she would have done anything to be alone
with the Duke, alone in an intimate way. But how could she have forgotten? She
must not forget! This man was taken, he did not belong to her, but to another.
She could never have him, and to sit here openly coveting him was the height of
dastardly behavior.

"Let's not
linger," she said abruptly, not daring to look him in the eyes.
"Let's just go. You can tell all your wonderful friends that I was most
charming, but I had a terrible headache. And you must thank Elizabeth, of
course, for her gracious part in this rescue."

He was silent; she felt
his stare. She refused to look at him. She felt like she was dying inside, bit
by bit, a completely different kind of death than the rapturous one she had
sensed was so near just minutes before.

"You are
right," he said hoarsely, closing the basket and standing. He held out his
hand, but Nicole knew better than to take it, afraid to touch him, although she
wanted nothing more. Careful not to meet his gaze, careful not to let their
hands brush, she handed him his jacket, waiting as he slipped it on.

Side by side, they
walked across the park toward the long line of carriages. As they passed one
picnicking group after another, the Duke nodded and said a brief hello, but
Nicole did not look at anybody, too absorbed in her own ragged feelings. The
sanctuary of the Dragmore coach could not come soon enough, yet a stubborn part
of her wished to forestall their impending separation, for this time she knew
it would be forever. On Monday she would return to Dragmore.

The coachman opened the
door to the shiny black lacquer coach. Nicole was about to step in when the
Duke grabbed her arm, restraining her. She had been careful not to look at him,
but now her gaze flew to his. As their glances locked, an unnamed emotion,
intimate and powerful, flared up between them both.

"Nicole," the
Duke said huskily, "we must talk."

"Is there really
anything to discuss?" she asked sadly
.

His jaw clenched. Many
seconds passed and he did not answer, apparently doing battle with himself.
Then his grip tightened. "We will talk. My coach has not returned. You may
give me a ride back to Clayborough."

"I will not do any
such thing!"

But the Duke had made up
his mind, and he was propelling her up the steps and into the coach. Nicole
landed ungracefully on the back leather seat. Her eyes widened as his body
appeared in the doorway. He sat down beside her, pulling the door closed behind
him.

"Clayborough,"
he told the coachman. "And then you may take Lady Shelton home."

"Yes, Your
Grace." The coachman disappeared and the carriage rolled forward.

"Why are you doing
this?" Nicole cried.

He turned to face her.
His eyes were blazing and Nicole responded immediately—her own turbulent desire
had been roiling inside her since he had first approached her with her picnic
box.

"What are you going
to do?" he asked.

Had he sensed her
intentions? Or was she so obvious— and he too astute? She managed a smile, but
it was forlorn. "I am going to leave. I am returning to Dragmore on
Monday!"

He stared at her. Nicole
could hear her own racing heartbeat. The way he was looking at her and his
proximity was making it nearly impossible to think, but she was almost hoping
that he would protest her plans. He did not.

He turned his head away
from her, revealing the hard taut line of his jaw, and he stared out of the
coach's window. Disappointment claimed Nicole. She wanted to weep, and she
wanted to lift her hand and reach out and touch the sleeve of his hacking coat
at the same time.

She did not.

He faced her again.
"Then this is goodbye," he said tightly.

"Yes."

Another pregnant moment
filled the void between them.

"Nicole..."

She waited, waited for
him to protest—or declare himself.

"You are
unique," he said. "You are not like the others."

It was the greatest
compliment he could have given her, she realized, and tears began to spill
gently down her cheeks.

"Don't cry,"
he commanded, his fingers settling on her face. "Why are you crying?"

She shook her head
wordlessly, her eyes locked with his. He leaned forward. She didn't move, even
knowing as she did what was about to come, even knowing that she should resist.
But this would be the very last kiss, and she wanted to remember it forever.

Cupping her face, he
placed his mouth over hers.

It was a tender kiss, as
if there were real affection between them. Then his hand slid down to her neck
and tightened; his mouth moved more insistently, with sudden urgency. Nicole's
tears had stopped.

She cried out in
encouragement, gripping the lapels of his coat. Without hesitation she slid
forward beneath his body; he came down on top of her. His arms were around her;
her arms were around him. Their tongues mated in a fever of need, and she felt
him settle the thick hard heat of his manhood in the cleft between her legs. He
began moving against her with growing abandon, with insistence.

She did not want it to
end like this. She did not want to let him go. She did not want to lose him to
another woman, no matter whom she might be; she wanted him to belong to her.

He surged up against her
body. Nicole clung to him, letting him do as he willed. The knot of tension
within her was growing. At any moment it would explode, eclipsing her.

He stopped moving. He
lay atop her heavily, panting. Nicole was also panting. She realized that her
legs were wrapped around his hips. She wanted to die, but not of shame. At that
moment, shame was the last thing on her mind.

"The carriage has
stopped," he finally said, his words clipped. "It stopped some time
ago."

Nicole closed her eyes.

"If I were a
scoundrel, we would finish this here and now." The Duke moved off of her.

It was a good long
moment before she could force herself to sit up. He sat rigidly beside her,
watching her. "This is not why I took a ride home with you."

"I know."

"This is not what I
intended."

"I'm not
sorry."

He stared. The urge to
succumb to the sadness came again with renewed intensity. And again she waited
for him to tell her not to leave London.

"Goodbye," the
Duke said softly. Abruptly he swung open the door and stepped out of the
carriage, away from her.

Nicole had one last look
at his face as he slammed the door shut. It was stern and impassive.
Unforgettable. He was unforgettable. She hugged herself, trying to find comfort
in the gesture, the space around her now empty and cold. Alone and cocooned by
the dim light, she felt her eyes fill with tears.

The carriage began to
move away; she thought that she could feel him watching her. And then, she thought
she heard him.

"Nicole."
Whisper-soft, urgent.

She did not dare look
out the window, she did not dare. Instead, bravely, resolutely, she wiped her
eyes and turned to face the darkness.

Martha followed Nicole
upstairs and into her bedroom. She had not been at the picnic, having had other
obligations, but of course, she had heard in precise detail what had happened.
"Are you going to tell me," she began, then stopped, staring at
Annie, the young maid, who was folding up garments from a huge pile upon
Nicole's bed and packing them into her luggage. "Where are you
going?"

Nicole told Annie that
she could finish later, if she would, and turned to her best friend.
"Where do you think? I am returning to Dragmore."

"But you can't
leave London now!"

"Why ever
not?"

"Because the Duke
has accepted you, and soon others will extend themselves to you as well. Your
life is about to turn itself around—you cannot leave!"

Nicole bit her lip,
looking away. She had to leave, she knew that. Yesterday had been goodbye. It
had been final. There was no other choice.

Yet Dragmore no longer
seemed a sanctuary. Dragmore no longer lured her as it had; suddenly her home
seemed terribly isolated. The temptation to stay was real and strong, and only
slight encouragement would be needed to change her current resolve. Yet she
must leave. They had said goodbye. To remain in London where the Duke of
Clayborough was—with his fiancee—would be nothing short of self-inflicted
abuse. "It nearly breaks my heart every time I am with him," she said
softly.

"Oh, Nicole,"
Martha murmured, gripping her hand. "If you must know, I think he is taken
with you, I do, and I am certain that is why he bought your lunch. But he is a
man of honor and he will never leave Elizabeth. Everyone knows she is struggling
with some kind of mysterious fatigue, and that she left the charity picnic
because she had overexerted herself in its preparations. He took her to the
theatre last night, although they did not stay long."

Nicole paced across the
room, her back to her friend. "I know, Martha, and that is why I cannot
stay. I must confess the truth to you, as well. I—I am afraid of what I might
feel for him. I—I covet him, improperly, when he belongs to another. It is
shameful." Nicole glanced at Martha, wondering if her friend could
possibly understand exactly what she meant.

And if Martha guessed at
the meaning behind her words, she did not let on, the subject being too
intimate even for the best of friends. "In a way you are right, you should
return to Dragmore, until you can get over him, but now the timing is ripe for
your re-entry into society, and you
will
forget him sooner or later
anyway. If you stay, you can find someone else. I am sure of it."

"I don't want
someone else."

"Why should she
find someone else?" Regina asked, standing in the doorway. "And where
is Nicole going?"

"You should
knock," Martha chastised.

Regina smiled sweetly.
"Why? Does my sister have something to hide?" She closed the door and
turned excitedly. "What happened yesterday? Nicole—you should have seen
how the Duke of Clayborough was looking at you!"

Her sister's words tore
at her, making her quiver hopefully when she knew it was hopeless. "How
was he looking at me?" She hadn't wanted to ask the question, but she
could no more hold it in than bite off her own tongue.

"As if you were the
only woman in the world."

"Please,
Regina," Nicole sat down abruptly. "You are mistaken."

Regina came to sit
beside her, pulling up an ottoman. "And you fancy him as well, I could
tell, it was so very obvious."

"It was
obvious?" Nicole cried, turning crimson, utterly aghast.

"Obvious to
me," Regina assured her. "Is it true that you took him home in your
coach?"

"Yes, it's
true." Nicole did not blush. And she remembered every single detail of
what would be their last and final encounter, and she always would.

"Elizabeth is nice
enough," Regina was saying, "but nothing compared to you. I am
praying that the Duke will throw her over for you."

"Regina!"
Martha rebuked sharply. "Do not give your sister foolish, impossible
dreams. He will do no such thing."

"You have become an
old fuddy duddy," Regina flung. "With love, anything is
possible!"

Nicole got up and left
the two girls to argue among themselves. She knew that Martha was right and
Regina was wrong, yet the romantic in her secretly wished it were not so. She
could not shake his golden image from her thoughts, nor their parting
yesterday. She was certain, now, that he had indeed called her name, and that
it had not been a figment of her imagination. Why had he called out to her? Had
he really looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world? Nicole
rubbed her throbbing temples. She must not listen to Regina who knew nothing of
men and their ways!

Martha gained her
attention. "You must not leave London, Nicole, I am begging you. The Duke
never stays in town long, and he does not venture out very often among the set.
Of course your paths will cross a few times, but no more, I am sure of it. If
you leave now, you are resigning yourself forever to a life of spinsterhood in
the country. Do not do it."

Nicole looked at Martha
steadily, thinking about how the Duke had turned her entire life upside down.
Before she had met him at the Adderlys', she had been content. There had been
no foolish, painful yearning in her heart for what she could not have. She had
loved her life just as it was.

No longer. Having met
him just once would have been enough to never forget him. But it had been more
than once and more than just an introduction. Like the sun, his aura was golden,
powerful, blazing. Like the sun, it was an inescapable life-force. He had
disturbed the pattern and harmony of her life irrevocably. For even when he was
not present, like the sun, he was still there, he would always be there.

She could not imagine
herself at Dragmore anymore, her life at the estate suddenly seemed unbearably
lonely. She had never been lonely before, not ever. But now the feeling
consumed her and she hated it.

"I don't know. I
must think."

Regina also encouraged
her to stay, but Nicole tried not to listen to her younger sister, who kept
hinting at the possibility of love blossoming between her and the Duke. How
naive and young her sister suddenly seemed, to believe in such adolescent
dreams. Besides, Nicole had to face something else, something she could no
longer deny. She could not dislike Elizabeth, no matter how hard she tried. She
did not know her well, but she did not have to. She was one of the kindest
people Nicole had ever met. Even if Regina were right, even if the Duke would leave
Elizabeth and choose her, Nicole could never live with herself for inflicting
such injury upon the other young woman. There was no possible happy outcome to
this miserable situation, except, of course, to forget the Duke of Clayborough.

As if one could escape
the sun.

The Duke entered the
foyer of his London home, his hair tousled, his face ruddy from the brisk bite
of the wind. He was returning from a long morning ride through the park and
then along the Thames. He had ridden as if pursued by demons, hard and fast and
reckless, in an attempt to escape his thoughts. He had been successful, for it
had taken all of his attention to control the mount he had chosen, a
particularly mean and dangerous brute of a stallion.

He had not eaten
breakfast and a brunch of smoked salmon and whitefish was awaiting him when he
entered the dining room. He was not surprised to see the Dowager Duchess there,
for he had seen her carriage outside. Normally his mother's presence would be
welcome, but not today, for he had not a doubt as to why she had come. His
unshakeable ill humor increased.

"Good morning,
Mother," he said, kissing her cheek and taking his seat.

Isobel returned his
greeting, pouring him tea, which he drank black. "We raised one thousand
five hundred and twenty-eight pounds yesterday," she said, her tone
conversational. But her look was not.

Hadrian leaned back in
his chair. "Does that include the five hundred pounds I contributed?"

Isobel's eyes settled
upon him sharply. "Yes, it does."

"Please, I know you
are dying to tear into me. Feel free."

"I do not know if I
wish to tear into you or not," Isobel said, staring at her only child.
"I was horrified to see her so embarrassed, and your rescue thrilled me.
On the other hand..."

He raised a brow.

"Hadrian, please tell
me there is nothing going on between the two of you!"

"Do you not
think," he said firmly, "that this topic of discussion is most
inappropriate between mother and son?"

"As your father is
dead, I have little choice."

"There is always a
choice, Mother."

"Hadrian?"

"I did seek to
protect Nicole Shelton from further abuse. Let us leave it at that."

Isobel worried her hands
in her lap. "Elizabeth loves you, Hadrian."

He winced. "And I
am fond of her. I have always been fond of her. I was at her christening. I
bounced her on my knee. As soon as she could walk she began following me
everywhere. I am not going to renege on our engagement, Mother."

Isobel knew that now she
could believe him completely, that he meant what he said. His words could not
ease her anxiety. For she knew only too well how matters of the heart tended to
take their own course, with no consideration for the consequences. And she was
so terribly afraid that she could see it happening between her son and Nicole
Shelton.

She was not one to judge,
God knew, having once succumbed to such illicit passion herself, but it had
been different with her. Francis had been a cruel, unfaithful husband.
Hadrian's words jerked her from her thoughts. "I am worried about
Elizabeth," he was saying. "I am convinced that you are right and
that she is ill. She is still losing weight, and she tires even more easily
than she did when I first arrived in London. I have summoned a physician to
attend her."

"Oh, I am
glad," Isobel said. "Does she know?"

The Duke looked at her
grimly. "Not only does she know, this time she does not protest."

Mother and son stared at
each other, absorbing the implication of this. Until this very day Elizabeth
had kept insisting that she was fine, yet now, accepting a doctor was
tantamount to admitting that something was, indeed, quite wrong.

Suddenly Isobel thought
of Nicole Shelton, as different from Elizabeth as the night was from the day.
Oh, she could understand Hadrian's attraction to her, for she was strong and
intelligent, vibrant and healthy, the kind of woman that would be a lifetime
mate for someone as powerful and dynamic as her son. If it were not for
Elizabeth, despite the scandal, she would have heartily approved of such a
match. Suddenly, she prayed that she had not made a terrible mistake, and she
regretted the invitation she had sent that morning.

The Earl and Countess of
Dragmore returned to London late the following day. Nicole had not left as yet,
torn between returning to Dragmore, which she now dreaded, and staying in London,
where she could hope for no more than a glimpse of the Duke from time to time.
After supper, Jane invited Nicole into her rooms for a chat.

Nicole frequently spent
time with her mother, but not at night, and not in her rooms. It was obvious
that there was something her mother wished to discuss with her. She seated
herself on a cherry red ottoman in front of the fire, regarding Jane
expectantly.

Jane poured them both
sherry and sat down near her on a small striped loveseat. "Darling, I've
heard that you've been packing."

Nicole accepted the
drink. "I had decided to return to Dragmore, but now I am not
certain." She lifted her gaze to her mother's, wanting to confide
everything to her but knowing she could not.

"Because of the
Duke of Clayborough?" Jane asked softly.

Nicole restrained a
gasp, her startled gaze flying to her mother's gentle expression.

"I also heard about
the charity picnic," Jane said, reaching out to squeeze her hand.