Scandalous Love (23 page)

"Hadrian?"

His answer was to turn
away from her, to lean on the mantle and stare at the flames in the hearth. No
matter how hard he tried, he could no longer see Elizabeth's face clearly in
his mind.

Woodward knocked and
entered with the tea. He listened as the butler set the tray down and asked
Nicole if she wanted anything else, but he did not turn around. He was afraid
to move, afraid of himself and what he might do.

The door closed. Silence
fell across the library. It was broken only by the ticking of the tall
grandfather clock on one wall, and the snapping and popping of the flames. He
heard Nicole get up and walk over to him. He tensed.

She stood behind him so
closely he felt her warmth. "Hadrian? Don't you want to come sit
down?"

"No."

"Would you like to
go upstairs to bed? It frightens me to see you like this."

It frightened him to be
like this. He didn't move, clutching the stone mantle. It was his intention to
tell her again to leave—to order her to leave. Instead, he said, "I cannot
sleep, Nicole. If I could, believe me, I would not be here like this."

She made a small sound
of distress. Hadrian almost jumped when he felt her gently touch his back. He
closed his eyes, barely hearing what she was saying, desperately wishing she
would put her arms around him and hold him as if he were a child. But she did
not.

He could not fight
anymore.

"Hadrian, maybe if
you try now, you will be able to sleep. I can see how exhausted you are. Let me
call Woodward."

Her palm trembled on his
back. He let out a long breath. Unthinking now, except for the one word
screaming at him inwardly.
Danger!
"Don't call Woodward," he
said harshly.

Nicole bit her lip, then
with both hands began to knead his neck. Hadrian went very still, becoming even
more tense. As her hands dug into his muscles, he felt himself beginning to
shake. He couldn't stand it.
He had lost.

"Nicole," he
cried, turning abruptly and enveloping her in his arms.

She froze, but she did
not attempt to push him away. Her eyes were wide but not frightened. He hugged
her to him and felt an answering quiver in her body. He buried his face in her
neck. The vibrant colors swirled over him,

fast and hard, too many
to identify.

"It's all
right," she quavered. She stroked his hair, his back. "It's all
right."

He was aware that he was
crushing her, perhaps hurting her. But as if he were in a trance, he could not
ease his hold. He held her for a long time. The waves of color kept crashing
over him. Joy, despair. Grief and pain, so much pain, and a strange exultation.
The panic had gone. Instead, there was pulsing desire.

And in his arms, Nicole
was warm and wonderfully alive. He could feel the beat of life in her, pulsing
through her, its heat, her heat. She was strength, she was sorrow and
compassion, joy and triumph. He rocked her. She clung to him.

Tears stung his closed
eyes. He was shocked at how he needed her. If the need weren't so strong he
would confuse it with physical desire. But it was that strong, and the feelings
intensified each other.

Her hands came up to
hold his face. "Always," she whispered, pulling back so she could
look into his eyes. He saw tears in hers, as well. "I will always be here
for you." Slowly, almost chastely, she covered his mouth with hers.

It was too much. Hadrian
exploded. His hand anchored itself in her nape, abruptly loosening her unswept
hair so that it spilled down her back. He tilted her face up for his kiss. For
one scant instant their gazes met, hers wide with both surprise and
anticipation, his blazing. Then his mouth covered hers.

Hard and hot. Wet. Their
tongues entwined recklessly. Mated with abandon. Mewling noises escaped from
Nicole's throat. Hadrian sank down to his knees, taking her with him. When she
was on her back, he rained desperate, hungry kisses all over her face—on her
eyelids, her forehead, her cheeks and temple, on her jaw, mouth and neck.
Nicole sobbed.

"Nicole,"
Hadrian whispered, his thick, hard body coming down on hers. There were words
which wanted to gush forth, but he was so overwhelmed, he could not find them,
did not dare express them.

Nicole clutched him
fiercely, kissing him back wildly. Hadrian pulled her skirts up, found the slit
in her drawers, and grabbing the fabric with both hands, he ripped it apart.

Seconds later he had
freed his massively engorged phallus and was thrusting ruthlessly into her. She
stiffened at his onslaught, but it was too late, he had forgotten she was a
virgin, he had forgotten everything. He tried to slow his rampaging thrusts,
tried to stop the madness that possessed him, and failed.

A moment later it was
over. He collapsed, shuddering, on top of her. She held him, caressing him. His
pulses subsided and eventually his mind began to function.

The colors were still
there. Bright and strong, vivid.
His expression uncharacteristically soft, relaxed,
Hadrian smiled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be
sorry," Nicole said vehemently, stroking his damp hair. "Don't ever
be sorry, not with me."

He was groggy now with a
fatigue induced not just by physical release, but by the whiskey he was
unaccustomed to and the days he had not slept. Nicole's soothing caresses were
impossible to fight. He felt the heavy cloak of sleep descending and could not
resist. He tightened his hold on the woman in his arms. His last waking thought
was that he no longer wanted to resist, not her, and not himself, and he
dreamed of brilliantly hued rainbows.

Hadrian awoke in
darkness. For a moment he was completely disoriented. He turned his head,
wincing at the stab of pain behind his temples, and saw the dying coals of the
hearth. The burgundy drapes on the tall windows on that wall were open,
revealing a heavy darkness outside. It was very late in the night. Total recall
hit him. He was on the library floor, where he had fallen asleep. After making
love to Nicole Shelton.

Another fierce stabbing
lanced through his skull at the thought.

It all came back to him
as he slowly, tentatively, rose to a sitting position, pushing the blanket to
his hips. She had come there with sympathy in her eyes and on her lips, and he
had been overpowered by a need he had never before felt for any human being.

For an instant, he was
frightened by the memory. Just as quickly, he regained control and the unruly
feeling vanished.

He remembered her warmth
as he embraced her, just holding her; then he remembered how furiously and
crudely he had driven her to the floor and penetrated her. He could feel a
dull, hot blush of shame covering his cheeks, shame that competed fiercely with
his anger. He had not only been as callow as a vigin schoolboy, he had been as
precipitous.

How could it have
happened?

Very grim and very
shaken, Hadrian got to his feet, adjusting his clothes. He had long ago added
electric
lighting to
his homes, and finding a switch, he flooded the library with light. He moved
behind his desk and sat down hard.

What the hell had he
done?

Head in his hands, he
was swept up with sensations as if he were experiencing them anew. Too many
sensations, too many feelings. He shook them off with a tremendous effort. It
was easier—safer—to concentrate on the facts.

No matter that she had
come here, and she shouldn't have, he should have refused to see her. Instead,
he had lost a battle he had been waging since he had first laid eyes on Nicole
Shelton, one against himself and his own desires. He had lost, it was done. A
fait accompli. There was no point in dwelling upon what could not be changed.
And now, of course, there was only one course of action open to him. He would
marry her.

With Elizabeth barely
cold in her grave. At this rude thought, he moaned, his head throbbing steadily
now. Yet the festering guilt was gone. He did not know why, and did not bother
to speculate upon the answer. It was enough that that particular source of
torment had dissipated.

His gaze lifted and he
became aware of the two pillows on the floor with the blanket. Had he woken up,
he would not have continued to sleep on the floor, much less fetch those items
for himself. Woodward would never dare. It had to have been Nicole. He tensed
as he imagined her covering him with the throw and placing pillows beneath his
head. Damn it! He did not want to feel tenderly toward her!

Yet she was going to be
his wife. There was no reason to avoid her any longer, no reason to be so
angry, except perhaps with himself. He could not help but be aware that he was
not really displeased with the notion of Nicole becoming his bride. In fact,
his mouth had softened into a bare smile.

Quickly Hadrian lunged
to his feet, pacing. He was not choosing her for a wife, he told himself
harshly. This was not a matter of choice. Had it been a matter of choice, he
certainly would not choose Nicole. He could not imagine her being a proper
wife, much less a Duchess. No, she would most definitely not be his choice.

This was a coil of his
own making and he would do his duty. That was all, there was nothing more to
it. He needed a wife anyway, sooner or later, and due to the circumstances, it
would just be a little sooner than he had anticipated. Tomorrow he would speak
with her and settle the matter definitively.

And should there be a
life after death, he hoped fervently that Elizabeth would understand.

Nicole had spent half
the night awake, unable to think about anything other than Hadrian and what had
just happened—and what might happen now.

At first she had been in
a state of ecstasy, daydreaming about him as the clock struck midnight. The
intimacy they had shared thrilled her and she did not regret it for a moment.
Nothing could be more wonderful than having Hadrian in her arms with no anger
and no defenses, baring his soul to her. Of course, she hated seeing him so
anguished, but he had turned to her for comfort, comfort she would readily give
him again and again.

But as the night
deepened, some of Nicole's elation lessened. She wondered what Hadrian would
think about what had happened, she wondered what he would think about her. She
knew better than to be too hopeful. He certainly would not be lying in his bed
with a smile on his face, dreaming about her. She knew him well enough to think
that he would not take it in stride. In all probability, he would be angry. And
most likely he would be angry with her.

Nicole was no longer
smiling dreamily.

And what about
Elizabeth? Nicole sobered completely. As far as the dead girl went, she was
ashamed. She hoped, fervently, that Elizabeth was already in heaven and had not
seen what they had done. But.... Nicole had a feeling that even if she had, she
would understand. Elizabeth had never harbored a grudge against anybody in her
short life, and she had always sought to see the best in people. Surely she
would understand how Hadrian's grief had led him astray, and how Nicole
genuinely loved him and just could not fight her love for him any longer.

Thoughts of Elizabeth
were more than sobering, they shattered the last of her pleasure abruptly.
Hadrian was grieving. How could she forget? He was grieving for the woman he
loved. And it was terribly obvious, after seeing him yesterday, how much he had
loved his fiancee. She should not be dismayed, for Nicole already knew of his
feelings, but she was. How could there be so much sorrow where just moments ago
there had been so much joy?

It was too late for
regrets, but Nicole wished that at least a few weeks could have gone by before
she had gone to console him. Or a few months. She recalled now how Martha had
said that Hadrian needed time. Of course he did. Eventually he would live fully
in the present again. And she would be there, waiting. Hoping that he would be
able to love her, just a little, once he was over Elizabeth.

Nicole hugged a pillow
to her bosom. How could she have forgotten, even for a few minutes, that she
was only an object of his passion, not of his affections? But didn't she have
enough love for the two of them? Could that not change? Could he not, one day,
come to care for her?

Yet how could she
compete with a dead woman, a paragon of the female sex?

Nicole did not know how
she would survive the days until she saw Hadrian again to judge his mood and
his feelings toward her. She was certain that she should not be the one to
visit him, that she should wait for him to come to her. But she was terribly
afraid that he would not call upon her. Elizabeth suddenly loomed between them
with more force than she had when she was alive.

Late that afternoon,
when she was changing out of her riding habit into a simple dress for supper,
Regina flew into her room without knocking. Nicole paused, regarding her
curiously, while Annie buttoned up the back of her silk dress with dexterous
fingers. Regina's eyes were nearly popping from her head.

"What is it?"
Nicole asked.

"You have a caller!
You won't believe who it is."

"I am in no mood
for guessing games," Nicole said. All day long her humor had been foul—she
felt as if she wanted to tear her hair out or jump right out of her own skin.
She could not stand the unknown, the waiting.

"It is the Duke of
Clayborough!"

Nicole's mouth dropped.
"Hadrian? I mean, the Duke? But—what does he want?"

"I don't know! It's
astounding—what with Elizabeth just buried and all! Mother is with him, for
Father is not back from his meetings yet. What could he want?"

Nicole began to tremble.
That exact question was echoing in her mind. It made absolutely no sense that
he would come here after what had occurred yesterday, unless he was so angry
that he had come to rage at her. Only raw fury would bring him here in complete
disregard of convention and propriety. If only a little more time had elapsed
so that he could calm down!

Nicole fidgeted while
Annie and Regina pinned up her hair, then thanked them breathlessly and hurried
down the stairs. She skidded to a halt before she came to the door of the tea
room, caught her breath, and gracefully stepped in.

The Duke sat beside her
mother on a sofa with a cup of tea in his hand and scones on his plate. His
head turned at her entry and his gaze fixed upon her. Nicole expected to see
blazing wrath, but she saw nothing in his expression at all. He rose to his
feet.

Nicole flushed,
remembering everything, curtsying unsteadily. "Good day, Your Grace."

He returned her greeting
perfunctorily. Jane poured her a cup of tea and Nicole sat opposite them on a
small, straight-backed chair. Her hands were too unsteady to hold the cup and
saucer without rattling them, so she set them down. "This is very
unexpected," she said.

His expression was
enigmatic. He did not look as well as usual, but he did not look as he had
yesterday. The circles were gone from beneath his eyes, although they were
still bloodshot. His face was grim, the lines around his mouth strained, yet he
was cleanshaven and impeccably dressed in a tan sack jacket, a darker necktie
and brown trousers. "Is it?"

Nicole's flush deepened.
She knew exactly what he was referring to, and she very nearly wanted to die.
An awkward silence fell when he did not continue. Jane, looking from one to the
other, attempted to ease it. "Now that you have come out, will you be
attending the Fairfax ball this weekend?"

"I do not
anticipate doing so," Hadrian said, turning his attention to the Countess.
"I am not exactly in the mood for dancing, eating and making merry."

"Of course
not," Jane replied. "I cannot help but be surprised, also, Your
Grace, that you would come here."

"Perhaps if you
give me a few moments alone with your daughter, all matters will soon make
sense," he returned, unsmiling.

Jane nodded, giving
Nicole a speculative glance before rising to her feet. "I do have some
letters I must answer," she said. "It should take about fifteen
minutes." She left, leaving the door open behind her.

Bless her mother, Nicole
thought, for she could not imagine any other lady leaving her daughter
unchaperoned with a gentleman caller, even with the Duke of Clayborough. Nicole
shifted as he continued to stare at her. He was making her exceedingly
uncomfortable.

She clutched her hands,
waiting for him to speak. He seemed content to just sit there and stare. Today
he was a different man from the one he had been yesterday— it was as if he were
another person entirely.
Or had yesterday been some wild figment of her
imagination?

It was not just that he
was sober. There was no grief for the public to see, no desolation, no despair.
His face was a mask. But she knew he must still be feeling all of those things—she
could not have imagined the depth of his grief. "Are you all right?"
she whispered unsteadily, wanting to reach across the small table and touch his
hand. She knew instinctively that he would reject such a gesture on her part
immediately.

"That is a question
I should be asking you."

She blushed. "I am
fine."

Now he seemed
uncomfortable. "Is my visit really such a surprise?"

"Yes."

"Did you think that
after yesterday I would not come?"

She blinked, sitting up
very straight and very still. Did he mean what she thought he meant? That he
had come because he wanted to see her? She gave him an uncertain smile.

"I have come to
rectify matters, Nicole."

"To—to rectify
matters?"

"I would like a
word with you in private," the Duke said abruptly, rising to his feet. He
crossed the room with hard strides and shut the door soundly. He turned back to
her, arms crossed. "The one thing I am is honorable. I live by my honor,
or I try to. Yesterday I failed dismally."