Scandalous Love (22 page)

Elizabeth looked serene
in death. She even looked pretty, and someone had placed a smile upon her lips—
or she had died that way. Nicole paused by the coffin, Regina at her side. She
bit her lip as the urge to cry came over her. How could someone so kind and so
young die before her life even began? Somehow, death was understandable when
the deceased was old and had lived a full life, or was not a particularly nice
person. But in this case it was shocking and sacrilegious.

"I can't look at
her," Regina whispered, her voice husky with unshed tears. "I just
can't." She hurried away.

Nicole took a deep
breath and said a small prayer, hoping Elizabeth could hear her. She thanked
her for her kindness, and wanted to apologize for having been intimate with
Hadrian. But she just could not confess the latter, she could not. Perhaps
Elizabeth would never know. She hoped not.

Dabbing at her eyes, she
moved past the coffin. Her gaze lifted and settled on the Dowager Duchess of
Clayborough.

For a moment Nicole was
startled, remembering how the woman had looked at her in the foyer at
Maddington, as if she knew that she and Hadrian had been up to no good. The
Dowager Duchess was the last person she wanted to see, other than her son. Yet
Isobel, although teary-eyed, managed a small smile.

Nicole had no choice
then; she had to greet the woman. She moved to her. "I'm so sorry."

"We all are,"
Isobel said softly, her eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you for
coming." Her voice broke.

Nicole nodded and
slipped by her. She found Regina waiting for her outside the salon where
Elizabeth lay in final repose. The two sisters exchanged looks of fatigue,
distress and sorrow. "Father and Mother are speaking with the Marquess.
They said we can leave in another half hour or so."

Nicole nodded, wanting
to depart at that very minute, but knowing to do so would be impossibly rude.
She and Regina huddled against the wall in the hallway, having no desire to
move on into the larger salon where a buffet was laid out for the guests.
Across the throng of people moving through the corridor into the salon, she
glimpsed Martha and her husband. Martha excused herself from the group she was
in and made her way over to the two women.

"This is so
terrible," Martha whispered after they had exchanged hugs. "I am in
shock, I cannot believe it." Her eyes watered.

"None of us can
believe it," Nicole answered.

"It is so unfair,"
Regina whispered. "How could God let this happen?"

The two older women
turned to look at her for daring to express a thought which they were all
having. Silence fell; Regina did not expect an answer anyway. Then Martha spoke
to Nicole. "The Duke is here."

Nicole said nothing, but
her heart tightened, with dread, with sorrow. Even though she could now
understand why he had been such a monster the other day, it did not ease the
pain he had inflicted upon her.

"Have you seen
him?"

"No."

"He looks awful. I
tried to speak to him but it was like talking to a wall. I don't think he heard
a thing I said, but that is understandable."

The urge to cry again
overcame Nicole. Hadrian must have loved her very much, more than she had
thought, for him to have been so out of sorts the other day and to be so
grief-stricken now. "He loved her very much."

Martha stared at her.
"He knew her all her life. That's a long time to know someone, and they
were cousins as well as betrothed."

"It's a long time
to love someone," Nicole whispered tremulously. It was inappropriate, but
insight hit her with the strangling strength of Jack the Ripper. He had really
loved Elizabeth; he had never loved her, Nicole. He had lusted after her, which
was something entirely different.

"He needs some
time," Martha said, touching Nicole's hand.

If there was an innuendo
there, Nicole did not want to entertain it. Fortunately, she did not glimpse
him in the next few minutes, and shortly thereafter she left with the rest of
her family. That night she cried, for Elizabeth, for Hadrian, and maybe, just a
little, for herself.

The day of the funeral
was particularly appropriate for mourning. The sky was a dark swirling gray,
threatening rain, a northerly wind gusted incessantly, and by now, most of the
huge oaks surrounding the Stafford crypt were bare, their gnarled limbs bleak
and crooked. They morbidly reminded Nicole of skeletons—of the many skeletons
which must be in this very cemetery. Nicole suspected that close to a thousand
mourners had turned out for the service at the cathedral in London, but here in
Essex, only a hundred or so had actually come to Elizabeth's graveside.

She stood between her
mother and Regina, surrounded by the rest of her family. Chad had come for the
funeral, and Edward, of course, had stayed in London so he could be present as
well. Although they did not stand in one of the front rows, Nicole was taller
than most of the mourners, and she had a clear view of the coffin being lowered
into the dark vault beneath the Stafford chapel. She also had a clear view of
Hadrian.

He stood on the far side
of the tomb from where she stood with her family, clad in a black suit,
hatless, head bowed. He had one arm around his mother, who unsuccessfully tried
not to weep. Beside her was the Marquess of Stafford, who wept as well. The
sound of a grown man losing the last of his control was terribly unnerving and
distressing.

Beside them stood the
family patriarch, the Earl of Northumberland, with his wife and immediate
family. Roger de Warenne was Stafford's brother-in-law. He was a tall, thin man
in his mid-seventies, his hair strikingly white. He was accompanied by his
second wife, who was Isobel's age, and their three sons and their wives,
including his heir, Isobel's half-brother, the Viscount of Barretwood. De
Warenne had a dozen grandchildren from these marriages and they were all
present, the youngest only five and trying to look terribly solemn. The
Northumberland family could trace its power and antecedents all the way back to
the Conquest.

Behind the de Warennes
were their relatives— the Martindales, the Hurts and the Worthingtons. Included
among this last group was Stacy Worthington, Elizabeth's cousin. She wept
ostentatiously into a handkerchief.

Nicole couldn't help
staring at Hadrian as the coffin was carried into the mausoleum. He looked
terrible, and her heart clenched painfully at the sight. He was haggard and
pale, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. It was too far for her to see his
face clearly, but she could feel, even from this distance, the grief he was
suffering. How her heart went out to him.

Standing there as
Elizabeth was finally put to rest, Nicole forgot all that had been between
them. There was no more anger, no more shame, no more hurt and no more pride.
On a day like this day truths were laid recklessly bare. She looked at Hadrian
and wept inside for the pain he was afflicted with, and there was no doubt that
she loved him completely and thoroughly. Had they been alone she would have
gone to him and taken him in her arms as one would a child, to hold him,
comfort him, heal him. But they were not alone, and she could only watch him
and commiserate with him from afar.

His heart was broken,
and in loving him, so was hers.

Three long days had
passed since the funeral. Nicole had not gone to any social gatherings for she
was in no mood to be gay. She had not known Elizabeth well or for very long,
yet the shock of her abrupt death still lingered distressingly. And then there
was Hadrian.

Her thoughts were
consumed with the Duke, and for him she grieved. At the funeral she had felt
his bereavement even though they had been physically separated by many yards,
and his anguish was hers. How she wanted to comfort him. And even while she
wanted to comfort him, to heal him, there was hurt too, of a different nature,
in the realization of how much he must have loved Elizabeth. But the hurt she
shoved aside, because his suffering was so much more important.

Nicole had to see him.
She had to help ease his sorrow and offer what support she could, to let him
know that no matter what, she was there for him. She knew it was not
appropriate, not as far as superficial appearances went, yet somehow, it was
highly appropriate, for Hadrian needed her. He had never needed her more. She
was nervous, not knowing what kind of greeting she might initially receive, but
nothing in this world could prevent her from calling upon him.

She knew from Regina and
Martha, who had been out on the town since the funeral, that the Duke had
refused all invitations and all callers. She was certain he would not refuse
her.

The butler allowed her
to enter the vast, domed foyer while taking her calling card. A heavyset,
heavily jowled
man,
he studied it, then said impassively, "His Grace is not receiving
visitors."

"So I've
heard," Nicole said, taking a deep breath. "But I am a good friend of
the Duke's—what is your name?"

"Woodward," he
said, unimpressed.

"Please, Woodward,
tell His Grace that I am here. He will not refuse to see me."

Woodward hesitated, then
nodded and moved off down the corridor. Nicole expelled her breath. She
realized that she was trembling.

The Duke of Clayborough
was drunk.

Not obviously drunk, not
stinking drunk, but drunk nonetheless. Hadrian had not imbibed spirits since he
was a rowdy adolescent of fourteen, but on this day he had done so with
determination. He had not slept in days. He needed to sleep and he would drink
until he could. He needed to sleep so he could escape the emotions threatening
to overwhelm him—the sorrow and the guilt.

The sorrow weighed down
his heart as if he carried a heavy stone within his chest. He knew now,
belatedly, that he had loved his fiancee. Not in a carnal way, never in a
carnal way, but he had loved her, and now he missed her. He missed her
sweetness and her smile. He missed her unfailing kindness, her unstinting
generosity, her compassion and her grace. Memories haunted him. Elizabeth as a
toddler, stumbling from one piece of furniture to the next, while he, at
twelve, had watched with no small amount of amusement. Elizabeth falling off
her pony at six and weeping in his arms. Elizabeth at thirteen, almost a woman,
shyly offering him cookies which she herself had baked. Elizabeth at eighteen,
dazed after he had kissed her for the first time.

It was too late now, but
he realized that Elizabeth had been his best friend. His only friend. He was a
man who kept to himself, a habit learned preciously early in his childhood. But
never with Elizabeth. Perhaps duty had dictated his behavior toward her, but it
had been so easy to be with her. And while he had taken their relationship for
granted, she had been selfless. She had been constantly supportive of him no
matter the circumstance—she had always been there for him. When he was not
quite there for her, she had a hundred excuses to make for him.

If he could relive their
relationship, he would. And everything would be different.

Hadrian was awash in
explosive emotions that he did not want to face. For he had also learned in his
childhood to carefully hide his pain, his anguish. To never reveal what he
might be thinking or feeling. Not just from the perception of others—but from
himself. And he had been successful for many years in doing so. Until recently.
And now this, Elizabeth's death, was the final spark, and a conflagration of
the heart threatened.

He did not understand
why she had died. He believed in God, although he did not attend church very
often, and her death made no sense. But then, much of life as he had witnessed
it had made no sense. His father's cruelty to his mother had made no sense. Nor
had his father's cruelty to him. Perhaps there was no God after all, or perhaps
there was just no justice or mercy.

Perhaps he could have
dealt with the sorrow if that was all there was to it. But there was more, so
much more— there was the guilt.

He tossed down another
scotch whiskey, scowling at the taste. He was in his library—he had not left it
in days. He paced to the fire and poked at it, trying not to let his thoughts
take their inevitable turn. But they always did.

Guilt festered. Nicole's
image rose, still haunting him, with Elizabeth barely cold in her grave. Damn
her, he thought, jabbing the fire viciously. Damn her!

Or should he damn
himself?

These past months, while
Elizabeth had been ill and dying, he had not spared her a thought, much less
his attention. He had been too busy lusting after Nicole Shelton. Elizabeth had
not deserved this from him; she had deserved so much more.

I am a bastard, a total
bastard, a self-serving carnal bastard
—
not so different from my father
at all.

He closed his eyes, but
the vivid image in his mind would not go away. Nicole's vibrant and exotic
face, laughing, sparkling, next to Elizabeth's pale lifeless one.

She was everything most
beautiful in life; she was fiery energy, exotic beauty, untamable pride.
Elizabeth had never been fiery, exotic or untamable, but rather the precise
opposite. The contrast was unsettling, gruesome.

He had gone this far in
a journey he was helpless to stop, despite the scotch whiskey; a journey deep
into his darkest, most private inner self. And he did not want to take another
step.

There was a wanting in
him, a secret yearning, which he could not shake, and it was focused on Nicole.

A knock on the door
snapped him from his reverie. Hadrian had told the staff he was not to be
disturbed, but he would never take out his flaring temper on any of them. His
tone civil, he said, "Yes?"

Woodward entered,
looking as apologetic as he was capable of looking, given his well-schooled
implacability. "Lady Nicole Shelton is here. She insisted I inform you,
Your Grace."

Hadrian's heart slammed.
The wanting, the yearning, choked him. "Send her away!" he snarled.

Woodward appeared
shocked, but recovered instantly. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Wait!"
Hadrian called when the butler was at the door. "I've changed my mind.
Show her in."

Woodward nodded
expressionlessly and disappeared. Hadrian paced, his blood boiling. Why had she
come? Couldn't she even wait a decent interval after the funeral? Had she no
respect for the dead? What did she want? How dare she!

He had meant what he had
said the other day, just before Elizabeth had died, that he would adjourn to
the country with his fiancee and that they would be wed immediately. Perhaps he
had known she was dying and his intentions had been a form of denial. All that
week as he attended Elizabeth on her deathbed, he had resolved to be loyal to
her, both in deed and in thought—which meant he must end his obsessing over
Nicole Shelton. Now, on the verge of a precipice which he had no intention of
falling over, Hadrian was more determined than ever to get her out of his mind
and his life.

Woodward showed Nicole
in and Hadrian waved him away. His gaze pierced her. Why had she come? Why now?

As he stared at her he
saw that she was distraught. Certainly not for Elizabeth. That would be utter
irony. Her pale gray eyes seemed to be filled with compassion and concern. He
wondered if he was drunker than he thought, for this empathy could not be for
him. Could it? This was not the savage harridan he knew so well, this was not
the woman who had practically confessed that she sought to seduce him.

"Hadrian? Are you
all right?"

He leaned back against
the fireplace, ignoring the heat of the flames behind the screen, which were
dangerously close to his body. "Oh, I am all right," he said, his
tone mocking and belying his words. "After all, one's fiancee's dying is
an everyday event."

A vast silence greeted
his words. Her expression dissolved into even greater sympathy while he was
shocked at what he had done—he had put himself forth nakedly and revealed his
grief. As if he wanted her to react— which he did not.

"I am so
sorry," she cried, but he cut her off.

"I should not be
surprised at this visit, should I? You have always defied propriety. But I
confess that I am."

She did not move,
standing behind the sofa, facing him, her gloved hands holding her reticule.
"I could not stay away," she said softly. "I had to be certain
you were all right."

"You have come here
out of concern for me?" he asked incredulously. He did not believe her. Or
did he? The soft caring look in her eyes tortured him. Tested him.

"Why else?"

"I can think of
other reasons," he said crudely, his gaze sliding over her. "I meant
what I said the other day—I did. It is over, Nicole. Whatever was between us—it
is over." Anger washed over him with frightening intensity. Anger at her,
at himself, at the world.

"I
understand."

"If you understood
you would not be here."

"It is because I
understand that I am here, Hadrian," she said softly. "You should not
be alone."

"I want to be
alone!"

"If that is true,
then why did you allow me in?"

He stared at her, unable
to deny more of the stark truth. He didn't want to be alone—he wanted to be
with her. "Get out. Now. Before it is too late."

She did not move. Her eyes
seemed softer, more caring. It could only be an illusion.

He was furious now.
"Didn't you hear me?" he roared. "I told you to get out! Out of
here, out of my life!" He hadn't been aware that he was still holding his
whiskey glass, but the next thing he knew, he had thrown it as hard as he
could, not at her, but at the door behind her. It whizzed past her head and
shattered explosively against the rich wood.

Nicole flinched
slightly.

He was panting. A cavern
had opened up inside of him. It was black, but deep in the abyss was a
kaleidoscope of swirling colors, his blood, his guts. So many feelings. At all
costs, to be avoided. He hated it, hated her. "You are a fool. I almost
hurt you."

"But you
didn't," she whispered. "And you won't."

He turned abruptly away
from her, shaking.

"I know you are
hurting," she murmured. "I know you are striking out at me because
there is no one else to strike out at. I don't mind. I, too, think it horribly
unfair. How could such a thing happen? To someone so kind, so sincere?"

"Don't." He
was facing the fireplace and its blazing heat was becoming painful on his
thighs and stomach. He closed his eyes. She was everything Elizabeth had never
been, and in being here now, so alive and vital and vibrant, it struck him painfully.
So painfully. And Elizabeth's image was receding, eaten up by the choking
yearning. In its stead was Nicole.

"I am going to ask
Woodward to bring us tea," she said finally. He listened to her leaving
and felt a moment of panic when he knew he should be relieved. He tried to
summon back Elizabeth's face, but only succeeded in gaining a hazy, indistinct
image. He took a deep breath to gain control of his emotions. He must fight
himself, he must.

Nicole entered. His
heartbeat became erratic the moment she did. "You look very tired,
Hadrian. Please, come and sit. Woodward will be here shortly with hot tea. Have
you eaten anything recently?"

He turned slowly. His
gaze met hers and held it for a long time. He hadn't been imagining it, the
expression in her eyes. It was genuine. It was for him. He was afraid to go
near her. For, in that moment, desire slammed violently over him.