Scandalous Love (43 page)

"You are still
beautiful, Isobel," he said carefully.

"I am old."

"You don't look
old."

"Don't do
this."

He approached her.
"Don't do what?"

"Don't do
this!" She tried to dodge his hands but they closed quickly on her arms
and she was pulled up against him.

He shuddered violently
at the contact. Every bit of her was slender and soft, feminine and familiar.
She stared up at him, pinned in his embrace, her eyes as vivid and lovely as he
remembered.

"Don't do
this," she said again.

"Why not? This
hasn't changed, has it? We still want each other. I want you."

Tears filled her eyes.
"But I love you," she whispered.

He froze. Then he
stopped thinking. His embrace tightened, his mouth came down on hers. Suddenly
all the years that had passed vanished; yesterday and today became one. He was
no longer sixty, but thirty, and the woman he held in his arms was a girl. They
might have been embracing on the deck of his clipper ship, the Sea Dragon, or
on the shores of Virginia. Time had ceased to exist. All that existed, for him,
was Isobel, and the enormity of his love for her, which had never died.

His hands slid over her,
remembering. His mouth moved slowly on hers. He stopped when he realized that
he was tasting her salty tears. "Don't cry," he murmured, holding her
tightly. "Don't cry, Isobel."

She wept harder. "I
love you, Hadrian. I can't do this. Not with you hating me." But she clung
so hard to the lapels of his fine suit jacket that the threads ripped.

"I don't hate
you," he cried. "How could I ever hate you? I have spent my entire
life loving you." And remembering his son's words, he said, "Even an
American can be loyal."

She laughed, crying.
"You mean it? You do not hate me? You can forgive me?"

"Isn't there a
saying," he asked softly, holding her splendid face in his large hands,
"that love heals all wounds?"

Now she really laughed,
clasping his hands with hers as he held her face. "That is 'time heals all
wounds,' I think."

"Then for us it is
love," he said simply. His grip tightened as a new and frightening thought
occurred to him—what if the past could repeat itself? What if she still felt
some miserable sense of loyalty to Clayborough or the dead duke? "You are
going to marry me this time, Isobel."

"Yes," she
cried wildly. "Yes, yes, yes!" "It wasn't a question," he
said, sudden tears blinding him. "I know!" And she flung her arms
around him.

It took Nicole only a
moment to realize where she was. She blinked, raising herself up on one arm and
staring at the fat poster of the heavily draped, canopied bed. Remembrance
rushed in upon her. Abruptly she fell back on the pillows.

Yesterday Hadrian had
dragged her forcefully from Cobley House. Yesterday they had made love in his
coach, with no inclination on her part to resist. Yesterday her anger had fled
in the wake of her love, which just wouldn't die. And yesterday she had broken
down in his arms, finally giving vent to her heartbreak.

Cautiously, Nicole sat
up. She was naked, but she did not recall undressing or climbing into bed.
Indeed, the last thing she remembered was sobbing wildly in Hadrian's arms in
the Clayborough coach. His embrace had been so tender.

Her heart quickened.

She seemed to remember
telling him that she loved him, too. She fervently hoped she had not, that it
had only been a dream.

Dear Lord, what was she
going to do now?

An image of the gorgeous
Holland Dubois rose up in her mind.

Nicole rose from the bed
and slipped on a robe. She washed her face and brushed her teeth, trying to
concentrate on the task at hand. She could not. The memories continued to
beckon her, larger than life. Nicole stood very still in the bathroom, gripping
the marble-topped
vanity.
She was fully awake now, and it was impossible not be aware of what she had
been avoiding all that past week. During her stay at Cobley House she had been
like a zombie, unthinking and unfeeling. Now she could think and she could
feel. She was afraid to analyze her emotions too closely. Yet they were there,
unavoidable, a bit tender and a bit raw. It still hurt to think of Hadrian and
Holland. Yet she did not seem to feel too bad. Her heart was miraculously
intact.

What was she going to do
about Holland? What could she do? Had Hadrian really been so kind and caring
yesterday? Or had that, too, been a dream?

Nicole's grip on the
vanity tightened. She wanted to see her husband. She felt compelled to see him.
She must find out if she had imagined all that softness and compassion and
caring she had seen in his eyes. Suddenly that was what was important, and she
didn't give a fig about anything else.

She willed that it had
not been a dream. She willed it so hard that it had to be the truth.

Nicole moved swiftly
across the bedroom. She knew she should not go out of her suite in her current
state of deshabille, but now she was propelled forward by a force she could not
identify. She entered the sitting room. She was about to move into the hallway
when she saw the gift-wrapped box.

She stopped. It was a
large rectangular parcel, leaning up against the wall. It looked as if it had
been carelessly placed there and forgotten. Nicole knew it was for her. Just as
she knew it was from Hadrian. As if drawn to a magnet, she approached the
package. And then once it was in her hands she tore it open like a demon
possessed.

The first thing she saw
beneath the green tissue paper was doeskin. She blinked, pulling out a pair of
riding breeches. She pulled out another pair, and another. There were half a
dozen in all, each a different color—cream and tan, gray and brown, and hunter
green. She held the last pair up, the garment jet black. She did not have to
try on a single pair to know that the breeches would fit her perfectly.

Nicole was moved to
tears. She clutched the ebony pants to her face. What did this mean? Oh, what
did this mean?

Abruptly she tossed the
breeches aside, frantically rifling through the garments and tissue for a card.
She found one. It only said: "To my dear wife." Hadrian had scrawled
his name illegibly below.

She hugged the tiny card
to her breast.
To my dear wife.
He had written "to my
dear
wife."
He had not been merely polite, she was certain. Just as she was certain she had
seen caring and compassion in his gaze yesterday.

He cared.

Nicole leapt to her
feet. Nothing was going to stop her from finding him now.

She ran down the
corridor, ignoring the busy maids she passed, who paused in their chores to
blink at her attire before offering her their chipper good mornings. Nicole
fled down the stairs, rapidly becoming out of breath. Her heart was thundering.
Anticipation filled her. She must find Hadrian immediately!

One the ground floor she
ignored the doormen, whom she really did not even see, and hurried towards his
study. Voices coming from the music room drew her attention. Happy voices, a
man and a woman's. Nicole skidded to a stop. The tone they shared was
conspiratorial, intimate. The man's voice almost sounded like Hadrian's, and
for a second, Nicole thought the worst even as she knew her suspicion could not
be correct. She flung open the door.

For an instant she
stared at the Dowager Duchess being intimately embraced by a man. Isobel and
her lover both turned to look at her. Hot color flooded Nicole's face.
"Excuse me!" she cried, backing away. "I am so sorry!"

She slammed the door
shut and stood outside of it, panting. Whatever was going on? Did it matter?
She must find her husband, she must!

He was not in his study.
Now running, Nicole turned around and raced back up the stairs.

When Hadrian closed the
music room doors on his parents, he was feeling more than a little bit guilty
and very anxious. He was no longer sure that he had done the right thing. It
was clear to him that they both still loved each other, but he was not a
romantic, he knew better than that, yet he had been acting like one in trying
to bring them together. In reality, so much water had passed under the bridge,
it was doubtful that they would be able to recover what they had once had.

As he strode up the
hall, he glanced at his pocket watch, not for the first time. It would soon be
ten. His heart tightened. Nicole had been sleeping for almost twenty-four hours
and he was growing very alarmed. Last night he had checked on her three times,
each time becoming more anxious. She slept like one dead. That morning at six
she had still, been coma-like. At eight she had been stirring. Yet she was
still not up.

Taking the back stairs
because it was quicker, he decided to wake her up. And as he approached her
suite, he began to tremble. He felt as if their next encounter would determine
the course of their entire marriage, he felt it in every marrow of his being.
He knew such a feeling was ridiculous. But he could not shake his certainty.

What if she really loved
him? By now, he was wondering if his eager imagination had been playing tricks
on him, if he had heard a declaration only because he wanted to.

Her rooms were empty.
Vast disappointment claimed him. And then he heard a movement in the doorway
behind him, and he turned to find her standing there.

"Hadrian," she
whispered breathlessly.

His glance slid over her
while the way she said his name, and the way her eyes brightened at the sight
of him, made his heart yearn dangerously. He struggled for composure when he
wanted to demand forthright if he had indeed heard what he thought he had heard
yesterday in the coach. "Good morning, Madam. I was beginning to grow
alarmed; you have slept an entire day away."

"I have?" she
asked, still breathless. "And you were worried?"

"Yes."

Suddenly she smiled and
held out her fist. He saw that she clutched a scrap of paper. Then she opened
her hand and he saw that it was not a scrap of balled-up paper she held, but a
small card—the card he had inserted in the gift he had intended to give her a
week ago.

They stared at each
other.

"Hadrian," she
cried, "what does it mean? What does your present mean?"

He hesitated. "It
means I behaved like a jackass and I am sorry."

Hope flared. Joy welled.
"You are sorry about Holland?" she whispered.

He blinked.
"Holland?" It just did not occur to him that she would know the name
of his ex-mistress. "Holland who?"

Nicole stiffened. The
joy started to dissipate. "Holland Dubois."

An inkling flooded him.
He took her hand. "Nicole, what does Holland have to do with this? And how
in God's name did you even learn of her?"

Nicole made no move to
pull free. "I thought you were sorry you had gone to her. But I can see I
was wrong. Wrong again, and foolish again."

"Wait!" He did
not release her. "What in hell are you babbling about?"

"I cannot share
you, Hadrian," she said simply. "I will not." Suddenly she
straightened as a fierce determination filled her. "Oh, how stupid I have
been! Why did I not think to fight for what is mine before?"

Hadrian could only stare
at her. Then a smile tugged at his mouth as the beginnings of comprehension
came to him. "And just what is it you are going to fight for? And whom are
you going to do battle with now?"

"I am going to
fight for you," she stated, her eyes blazing. "And I am going to
fight Holland. And it is too late for you to change your mind, for I have made
up mine. I no longer want a divorce."

"I see," he
said, wondering if he looked as absurdly pleased as he felt. "And what
about what I want?"

She eyed him. "I
shall fling your own words back at you. What you want is no concern of
mine."

"Indeed?" He
laughed. "Why do I think you are lying?"

She blinked at him.
"I do not understand your attitude, Hadrian, but perhaps I should make
myself clear."

"Please do,"
he said, immensely happy. He had never been happier.

"I do not want a
divorce. But I will not share you. I know I cannot physically restrain you from
visiting that woman, but I can prevent
her
from entertaining
you."

He chuckled. "Dear,
you most certainly can restrain me physically, and you already have, but pray
tell, what do you have in mind for poor Holland?"

"Forget any
feelings you may have for her, Hadrian," Nicole said, scowling. "She
will no longer see you, not once I call on her again."

He groaned. "Now 1
begin to understand! Let me guess! You saw her while I was in London!"

"I was not the only
one," Nicole said sharply.

"You are jealous!
Admit it!"

"Did you know that
I have a drop of American Indian blood running in my veins?"

The Duke smiled and
pulled her into his arms. "I cannot say I am very surprised."

"What are you
doing?" Nicole cried as he caressed her back.

"I am holding my
wife. My very dear wife."

That threw her. She froze,
trembling. "Did you mean it? What you wrote on the card?"

"Yes, I did.
Nicole, please do not take your crop to poor Holland's face as you did to mine.
I hate to tell you this, dear, but you have been sadly misled."

She clutched his
shirtfront. "I have?"

"You have. Holland
Dubois is not my mistress."

"She isn't?"

"Not anymore. Our
relationship was terminated when I was last in London."

"It was?"

"It was."

Nicole was flooded with
relief, dazed with joy. She clung to her husband. "You mean, you did not
even have a er—sweet parting?"

"I have all the
sweetness I need here, dear."

She felt faint, but he
held her up firmly. "Oh dear," she whispered. "And to think I
was going to carve up her beautiful face with a kitchen knife."

Hadrian groaned.

"Oh, how could I
have acted so precipitously and run away?!" Nicole moaned.

"I have no
idea," the Duke said, cradling her face in his hands. "But something
tells me it won't be the last precipitous thing you do." He silenced
Nicole's protest with a long, lingering, intimate kiss. "But I shall be
here to rescue you, darling, have no fear."

"Darling?" she
whispered, dazed. "Why do you keep calling me dear? Why do you now call me
darling?"