Scandalous Love (24 page)

Nicole's hopes plunged
downward. "You are angry at me."

His face tightened.
"There is no point in anger. You are not to blame. I am to blame. My
actions speak for themselves."

"I do not blame
you," she whispered, wanting to cry. He regretted what had happened, he
regretted what they had done—what they had shared.

"Whether you blame
me or not is irrelevant. The consequence of your visit is what is important,
nothing else."

Nicole wet her lips.
"The consequence?"

"You are no longer
a virgin, and you could be with my child."

"I don't care about
the first, and as for the second ..." She trailed off. Nicole hadn't
thought of that, purposefully.

"Only you would
respond like that." He seemed grimmer. "I have come to make certain
you understand that I would not leave things between us as they are. That would
be even more intolerable than my behavior yesterday. We shall be wed."

Her mouth dropped open.

"Normally we would
wait one year," he said, his gaze piercing, his tone commanding. "But
being as there could be a child, we shall be wed immediately. I will speak with
your father when he returns this afternoon."

Nicole was stunned. For
a moment her head was spinning and she could not sort out her thoughts. Yet
even though she could not, there was no jubilation, just the dawning of
darkness, of despair. "You don't wish to wed me."

He paused. "What I
wish is irrelevant. My actions yesterday have decided your fate—and mine."

"I see."

"You look
distraught," he remarked, striding across the room and pouring her a
sherry. "I did not mean to be so blunt."

"You could not have
been more blunt," she said. Nicole felt tears brimming and furiously
batted them away with her lashes. "You have made it clear that you seek to
wed me out of duty and honor."

He handed her a
sherry—she refused it. "You speak as if my intentions are those of swine.
It is my duty to marry you."

"Just as it was
your duty to wed Elizabeth," Nicole said. "Yet her you loved."

He did not respond.

"You do not really
want to wed me, do you, Hadrian? If you had a choice—"

She saw his anger for
the first time. "There is no choice! What I want is inconsequential!"

"Not to me."

Silence fell.

"What does that
mean?" he demanded.

Nicole was about to
confess all, but she stopped. He had come here to do his duty, "to rectify
matters", as if she were some business affair that needed adjusting. How
noble he was. How very noble—when yesterday he had been as near tears as a man
of his caliber could be—over another woman. He loved another woman. The one
thing Nicole had left was her pride. "If you do not know, then I shall not
tell you."

He turned and stared at
her.

Proudly, mouth pursed
hard, she lifted her head. "I cannot wed you, Your Grace."

He was shocked.

Finally she could read
his expression, and it almost made her change her mind. He looked as if she had
struck him a painful and unexpected blow across the face. Nicole looked away,
at her hands trembling in her lap. She wanted to marry Hadrian and be his wife
more than almost anything—but the one thing she wanted even more was his love.
She did not have it. He loved and grieved for a dead woman. He did not want to
marry her at all, he would do so only because he had taken her virginity. How
could she accept his offer on these terms? How could she give him her
heart—while all he gave her was a cold gold ring?

He had already broken
her heart too many times to count, and being an unloved wife would be worst of
all.

"Did I hear you
correctly?"

"I will not marry
you," she said, more firmly. "Elizabeth is not even cold in her grave
and—"

"As I said,"
he ground out, "we will be married immediately. I have already had my
solicitors begin drawing up the documents and they are procuring a special
license."

Nicole was on her feet,
furious with his presumptive actions. Anger was a refuge she welcomed. "My
mind is made up. I think you should leave—now."

He did not move.
"You are the rashest woman I know. I suggest you think this through very
clearly."

"There is nothing
to think about. And if you do not go, then I am afraid I shall have to be the
one to leave."

A long moment stretched
between them while he stared at her and she looked anywhere but at him. Finally
he said, "I do not believe this. I do not believe you. There is not a
single woman in Great Britain who would refuse me."

She looked at him sadly.
"There is one."

"You will not have
to leave," he said, striding across the room. He flung open the door and
was through it before she could blink. "Good day, Lady Shelton. Forgive me
my audacity."

Her anger died
instantly. She opened her mouth to call him back—and shut it abruptly. Nicole
watched him with anguish. She watched him until she could see him no more, and
listened until his footsteps had faded away. "Good bye, Hadrian," she
choked.

Hadrian returned
directly to No. 1 Cavendish Square. Shaken. Angry. Yet there was so much more
behind the anger, so much more.

She had refused him.

He could barely believe
it. Yet he recognized a will of steel when he saw it, and Nicole had not been
coy. As resolved as he had been to marry her and rectify the situation, she was
equally determined not to marry him.

He locked himself in his
library. The Borzoi was sleeping there under his desk, and upon seeing the
Duke, he rose eagerly to greet him. The Duke was so preoccupied that he did not
even notice. The question echoed, screaming inside his skull.
Why did she
not want him?

Was it possible, after
all the passion they had shared, that she truly did not want him? Hadn't she
wanted to marry him the moment they had first met? What could have happened to
change her mind? Something had happened, that was very clear. For why else
would she reject him, the Duke of Clayborough? Hadrian was not vain, not at
all, but he was astute enough to know that with Elizabeth's death he was now
the preeminent catch in the land. So why now this rejection?

This rejection which was
searing.

The Duke was no fool. He
was well aware that he was catered to because of his position, wealth and
power. He was well aware that he could—and did—do as he pleased solely because
he was the Duke of Clayborough. It had nothing to do with his being Hadrian
Braxton-Lowell. He
was
eagerly sought after by his peers only because he was the Duke of
Clayborough—and if he were not, he would not be popular at all. In fact, his
reclusive nature and his penchant for business would be loudly frowned upon— he
would most likely be considered somewhat odd.

But Hadrian did not
care. He had never cared about what others thought about him. He had stopped
caring about what others thought about him long ago.

With women it was no
different. Many women had fallen in love with him. Women competed fiercely with
one another for his attention. They competed fiercely for the honor of jumping
into his bed. Many had hoped to win him away from Elizabeth. Many had wanted to
marry him. But it was not because he was handsome, virile, smart or honorable
that they wanted him. It was not he himself that they wanted, it was the Duke
of Clayborough.

Women even competed to
become his mistress, although such efforts had no bearing at all upon whom he
chose. And it was not because of his prowess in bed, or how excessively he
inundated them with the fripperies they desired, or how lavishly he kept them.
His current mistress was the stunning Holland Dubois. She gained a definite
stature from being the Duke of Clayborough's mistress. When she went out to the
theatre, restaurants or the fashion houses, wherever she went publicly, she was
catered to, her every whim instantly met. She gained vast power from her
liaison with him, more power than she could gain from any man other than
royalty. She had a degree of power that could only be surpassed by his wife,
should he one day take one.

He had proposed to
Nicole Shelton. He had intended to marry her, to make her his wife, to make her
the Duchess of Clayborough. Never again would society dare to criticize her.
She would, finally, irrevocably, be accepted. For the power and position and
wealth that were his would become hers.

Yet she had turned him
down.

And she had meant it.
She did not want the trappings of his position which he offered—and she did not
want him. Something had happened to make her dead set against him. It was
obvious what that was. His own behavior. His behavior yesterday, in the
library, his behavior every time their paths had crossed.

He was no different from
Francis, and she recognized this.

Hadrian gasped, turning
to stare at his face in the mirror over the mantel. Did she know of his father,
of the dissipated, perverted creature he had been? Had she learned of his
antecedents? Had she glimpsed these same traits in him?

"I am not like
Francis," he said harshly. "I have spent my whole damned life living
honorably—I am not like him!"

He saw the pain in his
own eyes. He saw the doubt. For a moment he was stunned by himself. And then
the expression he had cultivated so carefully, for so long, was in its place,
one perfectly bland and perfectly impassive.

But the truth mocked
him. The truth hurt. She had rejected him. It hurt the way he had hurt before—a
hurt he had thought was long since dead.

A hurt he was determined
to bury now.

The truth was history, a
history he had chosen to carefully forget, and indeed, he had been successful
in the endeavor. Until now. Until her. Now the truth was in the present, as
vivid as if it were today, not years of yesterdays ago. The truth was a very small
boy, crying and frightened, alone in his bed, alone in his room, at
Clayborough, in the darkness of an endless night.

He thought it was his
earliest memory. He thought he was no more than four years old. He was going to
be the next duke, so he was supposed to be a man, but he was not a man. He was
afraid. He tried to stop the tears, but his sobs woke his parents up.
"Darling what is it?" Isabel murmured, quickly entering his room and
embracing him.

Trying not to cry,
trying not to be afraid, he told her about the monster that had been chasing
him in the darkness. She soothed him and he felt better, until he heard his
father's voice in the doorway. Even before he understood the words, he tensed.
"You spoil him. Leave him be. What a coward he is!" Francis laughed.
He understood and was stricken with pain at the cruel statement. Was he,
really, a coward? His father was staring at him, smiling in a nasty way.
"Sissy boy," he jeered. "Afraid of the dark! Dukes are never
afraid of the dark, but then, you will never be a real duke, will you? You will
never be a real duke!" Isobel was on her feet, in a rage. He huddled into
himself, already knowing what was to come, already afraid. He knew it was his
fault, what was happening. "Stop!" she shouted, flying at Francis.
"How dare you! How dare you
..." "
I
dare what I will,"
Francis snarled. He caught her and jerked her violently into the hall.
"Leave the sissy alone! Do you hear me? Leave your sissy boy alone!"
They fought. He watched them fight, knowing his mother was being hurt because
she wanted to protect him
—
a sissy boy. He cried. He could not help it.
He did not know how long he watched before, despite his fear, he got up and
tried to help his mother. But he was small and not very strong, and his two
little fists only enraged Francis and made him turn his slaps to him. His
mother was dragged from the room. His father ordered that he be left in
darkness, and his door was locked from the outside. He crawled into the bed,
hurting, miserable, still afraid. It wasn't his first realization that his
father
—
that tall, blond, handsome god-like man, the Duke
—
did not
like him. Did not love him. He could not remember how long he had been aware of
that. Forever, maybe. He curled up under the covers.

The truth. Hadrian
stared at himself in the mirror and regained control of himself. God, that had
been so long ago, and he had thought that particular memory dead. He had
thought the pain dead. The pain of his father's rejection had somehow become
tangled up with the pain of Nicole's rejection.

He told himself that he
was being a fool. But it was too late, he had already faced raw, naked emotions
and taken one step off the precipice. Yet there was still time to step back.

He could dwell on the
hatred which had never died. The hatred he felt for Francis still gave him
strength. And power. Francis had given him his strength, even though he had
meant to make him into a weakling. Francis had been the sissy after all, and
because he was a weakling he had victimized those who were weaker than himself,
especially his wife and son. It was so easy to understand now—it had been
impossible to understand then.

He would not brood about
Francis—and he would not dwell upon Nicole's refusal of his suit. Francis was
dead, the past was dead. He was proud of who he was. If she thought he was like
his father, then she was wrong—and he would prove it to her. He would reach
deep inside himself for even more strength. And the beast which had been
revealed would never surface again.

Calmer, he could now
consider Nicole without emotion. It did not matter what she thought about him,
or what she thought she wanted. She was rash, reckless, unconventional, and in
this case, foolish. He knew better. She did not want to marry him but it would
not stop him from doing what he knew was right.

And that meant making
her his wife.

Not even an hour later,
the Duke returned to Shelton's home on Tavistock Square. He was ushered inside
by the butler, to whom he gave his draped coat and gloves. An inquiry assured
him that the Earl was in residence and Hadrian was shown to the Earl's study.

He was, of course,
circumventing etiquette. Especially in an instance like this, he should have
sent a formal note requesting an interview at the soonest time convenient to
Shelton. But Hadrian felt he must settle this matter as soon as possible.

Nicholas Bragg Shelton
greeted him informally, and Hadrian knew that he had forgiven him whatever
trespasses he suspected he had taken with his daughter during the hunt. The man
was about to be shocked. There was no avoiding it. Hadrian hoped his honorable
intentions would diffuse what could be a terribly unpleasant situation.

"Hello, Hadrian.
What brings you calling like this?"

"Nicholas."
The two men shook hands. "I must apologize for calling without notice,"
he began, but Shelton cut him off.

"You should know me
better than that. I don't give a damn about propriety and I never have. Shall I
send for that damned tea you prefer?"

Hadrian shook his head,
wondering if Shelton's attitude explained Nicole's defiance of convention. He
sank into a lush emerald-green wing chair opposite the Earl. "I'll get
right to the point, Nicholas. I want to wed your daughter."

Shelton sputtered,
recovered, and stared. "Nicole?"

"Yes."

"I am afraid that
you have taken me completely by surprise."

"Somehow I had
thought I would," Hadrian murmured.

Shelton leaned forward,
his regard piercing. "Elizabeth is barely cold in her grave."

"Unfortunately that
is true."

Shelton's gaze had
hardened. "Why are you coming to me now? As you damn well know, Nicole is
not deluged with marriage proposals. There would be little to fear if you had
waited another six months before asking me for her hand."

Hadrian grimaced. There
was a possibility that waiting six months could be disastrous, but he did not
wish to point that out, not yet.

Shelton stood abruptly.
"Is there a reason for haste?"

Hadrian also rose to his
feet. "Unfortunately, there is."

Shelton was motionless.

"My behavior has
been indiscreet.

For an instant there was
another silence. "How indiscreet?"

"There could be a
child."

Shelton drew in his
breath.

Hadrian said nothing,
giving the man a moment to absorb this information.

Shelton kicked back his
chair and paced to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the mansion's
spectacular gardens.

"I see," he
finally said, the words clipped. "Now I understand your offer." He
turned to stare at Hadrian, his gray gaze as sharp as steel, glittering. It was
a look that would make a lesser man cower. "I would very much like to take
my fist to your face, Hadrian."

The Duke said nothing.

"But I am not a
fool, even if my daughter has allowed herself to be used as one. Despite that
unhappy fact, both you and I know that this is the best thing that could ever
happen to her."

Hadrian nodded, relieved
that the worst had passed. "I will send my lawyers over first thing
tomorrow morning, if it is convenient, to draw up the marriage contracts."