Scandalous Love (8 page)

His hands found his
hips, his mouth curved mockingly. "The truth. Oh yes, Elizabeth."

"You are as good as
married, yet you chased me! I did not know, I thought you were eligible. You
thought I was a married woman of no morals! So who does that make right—and who
does that make wrong?"

Guilt pricked him, but
he was not ready to face it. And he did not like being accused of wrongful
behavior—he was not accustomed to being told that he was wrong. No one would
dare.
Yet she dared.
And he did not like his own behavior—not before,
and not now. Once again, she had incited him to anger and to an unwelcome lust.
"You thought my interest in you was that of a bachelor courting a young
lady?" His tone was mocking, hard, cruel.

She backed up,
reddening. "I did not think you merely meant me to be a paramour."

"Just as I did not
think you to be an unwed virgin."

She gasped.

He could not believe
what he had just said.

"You are
cruel!"

"You drive me to
it!" Harshly, he said, "Let me tell you again. You are not welcome
here, Lady Shelton, and you are not to come back."

She folded her arms
tightly beneath her breasts. "I will never come back here, Your Grace.
Unless, of course, it is to bring you and your bride a wedding present."

His smile was as
sardonic as her words. "So the tigress has more than claws. Let me
repeat—you are not welcome here, Nicole, and if you think to cause trouble
between me and Elizabeth, think again."

"Do not worry, I
have no intention of upsetting your precious Elizabeth!" Nicole whirled
abruptly, running to her stallion.

His favorite wolfhound,
the Borzoi, regarded him hopefully. Standing in front of a full-length mirror
beside a red lacquer Chinese dresser, the Duke adjusted his silk tie, regarding
himself expressionlessly. When he turned and was handed his black evening coat
by his valet, Reynard, the Borzoi thumped his tail enthusiastically.

The Duke murmured,
"I am going to supper, Lad, I'm sorry to say."

The Borzoi sighed and
laid its head on its massive paws, resigned to an evening in front of the
hearth.

"You do look fine,
Your Grace, if you don't mind my saying so," Reynard said with admiration.

The Duke nodded his
thanks curtly. "You may go, Reynard, I will be down in a moment."

He turned away from his
reflection and paced to the butler's table, where he poured himself a cup of
tea, blended especially for him. Grimly he stared at the contents of the
delicate porcelain cup, which was dwarfed in his hand.

He should have refused
Shelton's invitation. He had not even considered doing so.

A week had gone by since
Nicole Shelton had galloped so recklessly into his courtyard and then galloped
away— after their prolonged and heated encounter. Unfortunately, the mere
memory stirred his loins painfully, and he knew damn well why he was going to
Dragmore tonight.

What was happening to
him? Was this the way of unrequited lust? He had never had a woman on his mind
before. As callous as it
sounded, all of his liaisons had been merely sexual, and as soon as the act was
completed, his attention had turned to more significant matters. He did not
want to have this particular woman on his mind now. Angry, he took a sip of the
exotically fragrant tea, then threw the rest, cup, saucer and all, into the
blazing fire. The porcelain popped and shattered loudly, making Lad regard him
curiously.

He had released tension,
but he had not erased Nicole Shelton from his thoughts. He was still somewhat
shocked whenever his errant mind envisioned her as he had last seen her, astride
a ton of spirited horseflesh, in men's breeches. And she had hit him with her
crop. It was still unbelievable—it was still impossibly arousing.

The Duke paced. There
was no way he could refuse Shelton's invitation now. But in truth, he did not
even want to. He ran a hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair. He was
playing with fire; he sensed it, he knew it— and she was the fire.

This last week he had
thrown himself into the restoration of Chapman Hall with ruthless
determination. He had risen earlier than usual and gone to bed later, not
allowing himself a moment to rest or to think. Yet no matter how occupied he
kept himself, she always lurked at the fuzzy edges of his consciousness,
haunting him. Why was he so fascinated with her? Or was it obsessed?

Her striking looks were
enough to drive any man insane, he decided, but it was her manner, her
boldness, her savagery that was intoxicating. Most women—most
ladies
—were
terribly boring. With the exception of his mother, whose intelligence and
unconventional interest in business affairs set her apart from other females,
he could not think of a single lady who was worth his time and attention.
(Elizabeth was a different matter entirely, being his fiancee.) No woman he
knew attended fetes unchaperoned, unless they were over thirty, no woman rode
about in breeches, no woman spoke as she did, no woman ever showed such a
temper, not even his last mistress, who had been French and quick to anger. And
no woman,
no woman,
chased a man down and struck him with her crop.

She was everything the
women of his acquaintance were not, and it was for that reason, he decided,
that he was so damn enthralled.

The problem was, he no
longer trusted himself. He had behaved abominably toward her last week, even if
sorely provoked. There was no excuse for forcing himself on her, for using his
strength to assert his power over her, for kissing her, touching her. No
excuse. Yet nothing could have stopped him then, and he was afraid that the
next time nothing
would
stop him.

Next time?

He must make sure there
was no next time. He could not live with himself if he ruined her, no matter
that her reputation was already in shreds. No matter how she provoked him.
Their last encounter had been a barbaric seduction. There would be no next time,
he vowed.

He had lived his entire
life honorably. Always, deep in the back of his mind was the knowledge of how
dishonorable his father had been. His father, had he, preferred women, would
have taken Nicole that first day, in the grass by the brook. He was not his
father. He had never been his father. He had never ruined any woman; the women
he took to bed were already of highly questionable morals. Perhaps he had spent
his whole life atoning for his father's sins, but it had been a life he could
be proud of until now. Now he was in jeopardy, and it frightened him.

He was late. Unless he
sent excuses, it was time to go. The Duke went.

Nicole lounged in bed,
reading an essay by Amanda Willison, an American, on the need for the reform of
education and dress for girls. How right this woman was, Nicole thought. There
was a rap on her door, and Nicole set her book aside as her mother entered.

The Countess had
returned home yesterday. It was no surprise to Nicole, for Jane never stayed
away from her husband for very long, and Nicole knew that if Regina were not of
age and imminently marriageable, Jane would not have adjourned to London at
all. Regina had stayed at their townhouse on Tavistock Square, chaperoned by
the widowed Lady Beth Henderson. Jane was intending to return to London the
next day, and the earl planned to join her a few days later.

"You're not
dressed," Jane said in surprise as she saw that Nicole was still clad only
in a dressing gown, her hair damp from her bath.

"I'm sorry, I got
so caught up in reading that the time escaped me. Is our guest here?"

"No, he is late.
Let me call Annie, Nicole, to help you."

Nicole slid from the bed
as her mother called for the maid, and pulled a gown at random from the
armoire. Jane returned. She was small, slender and platinum blonde, strikingly
beautiful at forty-one, and innately elegant. She frowned as she saw the pale
blue gown Nicole had taken from its hanger. "That doesn't do you justice,
darling."

Nicole shrugged.
"Who is coming to dinner anyway, Mother, and why all the fuss? Cook was
absolutely going mad this afternoon in the kitchens—the place looked as if we
were to feast royalty."

"The Duke of
Clayborough," Jane responded. "Why not wear your yellow gown? Or the
green?"

Nicole froze. For one
moment, she was certain she had misheard. "The Duke of Clayborough?"

"Yes. So will you
wear the yellow? I had better go downstairs. He should be here at any
moment."

Nicole nodded, not
hearing a word. She stared at the door after it closed. Then she made a fierce,
frustrated cry.

He would dare to come
here? Here? It was too much, she could not stand it! She would not!

Nicole paced in a
frenzy. How could she face him, after their last encounter? She did not regret
what she had done, exactly, but she had shown him that she was everything the
gossips claimed she was; in short, she had shown him that she was no proper,
ladylike miss. Hot color rose on her cheeks. She had struck him once, he had
kissed her in return. And the things he had said....

She had never hated a
man more, but she had never dreamed of anyone's kisses before, either, they way
she dreamed of his.

It was disgraceful. It
was shameful. She could not sleep at night, tormented by his striking golden
image and the remembrance of the feel of his hot mouth, his seductive hands and
his hard, powerful body. He was not only driving her insane, he was ruining her
life.

She was frightened by
her attraction to a man she despised, or a man she should despise. She
remembered a conversation with her cousin, Lucy Bragg, from two summers ago.
Far from soothing her, the memory touched off a sense of panic.

That summer, in 1897,
Nicole and her family had gone to Paradise, Texas for the eightieth birthday
celebration of her grandfather, Derek Bragg, a man who had been born in the mountains
of Texas and had tamed the frontier, carving out an empire for himself and his
family in the process. Nicole and Lucy had always been the best of friends,
even though they only saw each other on alternate summers, when Nicole, as a
child and adolescent, joined her American relatives for a month or two. Not
only were Nicole and Lucy best friends, but they had shared more misdeeds than
any two girls in the entire state, or maybe even in the entire United States of
America. That summer, Lucy had made a shocking confession to Nicole.

The night of the
birthday party, Derek's prized stud had been stolen, and a man had been
murdered. One of the new hands on the ranch had been shot in the back, and it
had soon turned out that he had been an escaped felon from New York. When Lucy
had poured out her heart to Nicole, that man, Shoz Cooper, had been in the
local jail, recovering from his injury. Lucy had told Nicole that he had kissed
her, more than once, and that she had liked it. Yet she had also told Nicole that
she despised him.

At the time Nicole had
been surprised, having never been kissed and in no way understanding how
someone could like a man's lovemaking while disliking him. Yet remembering
Lucy's confession did not alleviate her own fears now. For Shoz Cooper had not
only turned out to be innocent, he and Lucy were now engaged and would be wed
the following June. So Lucy had only thought she despised him—in truth she had
loved him.

Nicole was not only
afraid of how she yearned for the Duke's kisses, she was afraid that, like
Lucy, her feelings went deeper, much deeper—and she refused even to consider
how much deeper her feelings might be.

She could refuse to go
downstairs, but that was the coward's way out. She had never been a coward, not
even during the scandal, and she would not begin now. She would die before
losing courage in front of the damn Duke of Clayborough.

Annie knocked just as
Nicole decided that she would not only join their illustrious guest for dinner,
she would dress for the occasion. "Annie, which is my most becoming, most
daring gown?"

Annie gaped at her.
"I don't know, mum, I'd have to look through yer things."

"Then let's
look," Nicole said grimly, an idea forming.

The Duke was aware, from
the moment he stepped into the foyer and handed his cloak to the butler, of
every nerve in his body tautening with anticipation. He greeted his host and
hostess and Chad, but was disappointed that Nicole was not present. He knew
then that she would not join them for dinner. He should have been relieved, but
he wasn't.

Shelton poured himself
and Chad brandies, his wife a sherry, and had tea ready for the Duke. It was no
secret that the Duke of Clayborough never imbibed alcohol. The Duke made
himself comfortable in a large wing chair. Shelton took the one opposite.
"So how is your work going at Chapman Hall?" he asked.

"I am almost
through. I will be returning to London in a few days."

"You have restored
her quickly. I recall the Hall being in a sorry state, indeed."

"Yes, it was."
The two men began discussing some of the repairs the Duke had made at the Hall.
A few minutes later, the door opened and Nicole walked in.

Shelton stopped what he
was saying in mid-sentence, his eyes widening. Chad nearly choked on the sip of
brandy he had taken. The Countess stared, barely refraining from parting her
lips in a huge O. But the Duke did not see their surprise and amazement, for he
was caught in the mad chaos of his competing senses.

Nicole smiled at her
mother. "I am sorry I am late, Mother."

Quickly Jane stood, hurrying
toward her. "That's quite all right. Please, come meet our guest."

The Duke rose to his
feet. All of his good intentions fled, immediately forgotten. She wore a
vibrant coral-colored gown, off the shoulder and daringly low-cut. It was more
suitable for a ball than a meal at home, and it brought out the peach hue of
her cheeks and the tawny rose of her lips. Her hair was swept up in the current
fashion, and she wore pearls at her throat and in her ears. When she curtsied,
he feared for one heartstopping moment that she was about to display all of her
magnificent breasts.