A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal Page 11

  “Nobody ever said I was.” How peculiar that he’d even think it. It stung her foolish vanity. “Perhaps you’re misled by the fact that I’m still sitting here,” she said. “No doubt a smart woman would leave. By your own confession, you’re bad company.”

  “Ah. No,” he said, his dimple flashing again. “You misunderstood me, Nell. I’m the best of company: I can promise that you’ll never be bored.”

  She snorted. “It’s not boredom I’m worried about.”

  “Then you’re a very lucky woman.”

  What claptrap. He spoke like a child. “You’re the lucky one. Otherwise you’d know there’s a pleasure to be had from boredom. The best kind of pleasure: it means you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  He leaned forward so abruptly she didn’t have time to draw back. His fingers skated across her bruised cheek; his thumb settled at the corner of her mouth. “You needn’t worry about me,” he murmured. “I’ve never hurt a woman in my life.”

  A tremor ran through her at the feel of his thumb so close to her lips. It felt like the first shudder of a too-tight lid as it finally began to loosen.

  Her body liked his. It happened sometimes. Didn’t mean she needed to pay attention to it.

  She cleared her throat. “You don’t need to be touching me to make your point.”

  “But I like touching you.” He studied her a moment. “Can’t you tell?”

  She saw his intention to kiss her. His grip wasn’t firm. She could have pulled away. But sometimes when you pulled away they thought it meant you were afraid of them. And once they thought so, they did all sorts of things to see if it was true.

  Slowly he lowered his head. His lips brushed over hers once, twice, so lightly that she barely felt the contact. Maybe she’d misread him, after all. These kisses didn’t seem like lust so much as a token to solemnize his promise.

  He drew back a little. His face not two inches from hers, he looked into her eyes. “Will you participate?”

  It was a queer question, the more alarming because it showed insight. He’d seen her decision to steel herself. She didn’t like how sharply he saw her. She pitched her voice low and hard. “I didn’t come into this house to whore for you.”

  “No,” he agreed. “We’ll save that for the marriage bed. But in the meantime: a kiss.”

  “Which I just gave you last night,” she said. “One’s enough.”

  His mouth lifted at one corner, a wicked little smile. “If that’s your opinion, then it was a very bad kiss, and I must be allowed the opportunity to atone for it.”

  “No.” She knew where this road ran. She’d seen a dozen girls ruined by lads with a gift for sweet talk. “I won’t be bearing your bastard, St. Maur.”

  He eyed her. “We’ll need to have a talk,” he said, “if you imagine that kissing leads to children.”

  “I know exactly what leads to children, and I’m not doing it.”

  “Then a simple kiss should be all right with you, sterile as it is.”

  She opened her mouth and found herself speechless. “You’ve a twisty way with words,” she said at last.

  He grinned. “I think I’ll insist,” he said, and came toward her again, only this time he slid off his chair onto his knees in front of her, and his hand pushed into her hair as he brought his lips back to hers.

  Ah, he felt good. Hot and strong. His tongue traced the shape of her lower lip and her thoughts tangled. He followed her gasp into her mouth as his grip tightened in her hair. Heat kindled in her, loosening her stomach, warming the backs of her knees.

  No. She struggled to keep track of her wits. Stupid, stupid. A man intent on his own pleasures was mindless, helpless, and an easy mark. But once the woman started wanting it herself, what power did she have?

  But St. Maur was an expert, all right. He kissed her like the kiss was all there was, sufficient to itself, no rush or hurry or greater goal to it. His mouth moved deliberately, leisurely. He made a low noise as though he tasted something delicious; then she felt his thumb beneath her mouth, stroking a languorous line across her skin, as though to underscore what he was doing to her.

  Doing to her. He shouldn’t be doing anything.

  As she stiffened, he murmured a protest. Such a small noise, so peculiar from a man: vulnerable, somehow. His grip gentled: she could pull away if she liked. But his knuckles brushed down her cheek, reluctant to leave her; then farther down yet, a quick skim of warmth along her throat, a lazy pressure along her collarbone. Not pushing, not grabbing. Only coaxing. Asking.

  Her body lit up. The tips of her breasts, between her legs. Revelation unrolled through her, melting, then contracting: these places that men liked to involve also had their own role in it. When he asked, her body answered.

  Her palm found his upper arm. It felt solid and hot beneath the thin lawn of his shirt, dense and thick, powerful. His hard abdomen pressed into her knees. He was coming closer to her, leaning over her; his height was in his long legs, so he was tall even when kneeling. Her free hand found his hair. It was softer and thicker than any hair she’d ever touched. A rich man’s hair, born of a lifetime of feasting.

  The thought snapped his spell. She pushed him hard. He withdrew immediately, rolling his weight onto his heels in a fluid move, making no move to come after her. He simply crouched there, breathing hard. His hair was disheveled, his necktie coming loose. Had she done that?

  He exhaled, pushing a hand through that mess of black, glossy hair. He was as beautiful as a summer night and twice as expensive as the moon; as she met his witchy hazel eyes, he licked his lips—tasting her, she realized.

  She went hotter, a blush so fierce that her face probably caught fire.

  His smile was lazy. “I am glad you decided to stay,” he said.

  She shot to her feet, ignoring how her knees still trembled. “If you want to stay glad,” she said unsteadily, “then you’ll get out right now. Otherwise—”

  But he was already rising. With an easy, amenable bow, he turned for the door.

  As she watched it close behind him, a shiver ran through her—the sort that announced a near escape. But not from him, she thought.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, horrified by the notion that in his arms, her greatest threat might come from herself.

  This is a case in which simple greed will have spared us a good deal of trouble.” Daughtry spoke dryly, his eyes on his breakfast plate. He was a spare, silver-haired man whose sharply arched brows and dark, heavy-lidded eyes lent him a questioning and skeptical look no matter the object of his contemplation: as, for instance, the rasher he now forked up.

  Simon often wondered if Daughtry’s face was not the key to his success. Surely there was nothing so comforting in a lawyer as pessimism. “You mean,” he said, picking up his coffee, “that Grimston and his charge did not have Cornelia presumed dead.”

  “Indeed.” Daughtry paused to chew, then to dab his serviette at his lips, precisely covering the wrinkled expanse. He even ate his breakfast like a solicitor, slowly and methodically.

  “It made sense, of course,” Daughtry continued. He retrieved his fork, aiming it precisely at the quivering eye of his half-cooked egg, appearing to consider the best angle of attack on the yolk; and then, to Simon’s mild disappointment, abdicated the decision by returning the fork to his plate. “By the terms of the trust, Katherine and Cornelia will not have full access to their wealth until they marry or attain the age of twenty-five. In the interim, Sir Grimston receives an annual sum allotted for their maintenance and education. Had we succeeded in our motion for a presumption of death, this sum would have been halved—leaving Grimston, and by extension, Lady Katherine, substantially poorer.”

  Simon nodded. “But Cornelia’s reappearance would do the same.”

  “Yes.”

  “So we should be prepared for a fight.”

  Daughtry cleared his throat. “For caution’s sake, let us assume so.”

  “I’ll enjoy seeing how
they deny it. She’s Kitty’s spitting image.” Simon hesitated. The remark left a bad taste in his mouth. It recast in comical colors the long hour he had lain awake last night. While he was glad to entertain himself with plans to strip and seduce Nell, he felt quite differently about Kitty. “They’re twins,” he added. “Obviously they look alike. I don’t mean to say the resemblance goes any deeper than the skin.”

  Daughtry mistook his meaning. “Yes, I suppose that’s the difficulty. Even if her resemblance to Lady Katherine is so extraordinary as you say, it will fall on us to prove that she is the Lady Cornelia, and not some natural child of his lordship. The childhood nurse can be interviewed as to the question of birthmarks and the whatnot. Determining the identity of the woman who raised Lady Cornelia will also be of import. If I may, I would recommend the firm of Shepherd and Sons for that purpose.” He turned to bend an instructional look on the bespectacled secretary seated near the sideboard. This undersized minion nodded and made a note. “A very discreet trio,” Daughtry continued. “And they know their way about the rougher areas. I’ve been very pleased with their investigative services.”

  “Excellent.” Simon didn’t care who did it, as long as it got done. “What else?”

  “Ah … yes.” Daughtry cleared his throat and set a finger to his lips—some sort of sign, it seemed, for the secretary popped off his seat and bowed low, begging to be excused.

  “Marvelous,” Simon said when the door shut behind the lad. “Have them trained to hand signals, do you?”

  Daughtry’s lips sketched the barest and most fleeting intimation of a curve. “Discretion is my watchword, particularly in matters of …” One steel gray brow lifted. “Love?”

  Simon laughed. “My God, Daughtry. Have you been hiding a sense of humor all these years?”

  “Never,” Daughtry said. “However, assuming you intend to shelter the lady …”

  “I do.” He wouldn’t risk losing track of her in some rat warren in the slums. “What of it?”

  “You must realize that her miraculous recovery will become a matter of public interest. If Lady Katherine and Sir Grimston prove obstinate, it may require an examination at the Law Institution.”

  “I’d expected as much.” Her disappearance had filled the newspapers sixteen years ago. Her reappearance would prove no less notorious.

  “There will be a great deal of speculation about her whereabouts prior to her reappearance. If you could find a less remarkable place to lodge her … perhaps with Lady St. Maur …?”

  Simon loosed a snort. “My mother?” She would want to dip Nell in lye and then boil her for good measure. Of all people, she’d be the last to believe that Cornelia might turn up in the guise of a waif from the slums. She’d always had great difficulty with the idea that the truth might be a separate quantity from the appearance. “Absolutely not. Besides, she’s in Nice until the end of the summer.”

  “I see. But if her ladyship is to be lodged in your custody …” Daughtry paused. “Forgive me, but you must understand how it will appear to others.”

  “Quite scandalous, no doubt. What matter? No need for her to go courting. I’ll make a satisfactory husband, I believe.”

  “You intend to marry her at once, then?”

  “Once it seems clear that the inheritance will be hers, yes. Without delay.”

  Lips pursing, Daughtry nodded, then turned his attention to smoothing the edge of his cuff.

  From a man usually no less rigid than a five-day corpse, this distracted gesture presented an extraordinarily loud statement of doubt. “Speak your mind,” Simon said.

  “As your legal advisor, I must contemplate all possible outcomes.” Daughtry shrugged. “Once she’s acknowledged as Lady Cornelia, her care will fall to Sir Grimston, and he will no doubt prove eager to … discharge his duties, as it were.”

  To profit from her, more precisely. She was only twenty-two; Grimston would enjoy three years of controlling her not-inconsiderable allowance, provided she remained unwed. “He’ll do his best to remove her,” Simon said.

  A dark vision arose before him: having invested a good deal of money in facilitating Lady Cornelia’s resurrection, he might succeed only to watch Nell be swept from his grasp. Grimston would want to postpone her marriage as long as possible. Encourage her to debut, perhaps.

  “And if I marry her at once?” he asked. “Before, say, she is introduced to society?”

  “That would aid our case,” Daughtry said immediately. “Should it come down to the courts, you can imagine that a judge would find it easier to acknowledge the noble birth of a countess than a woman of uncertain repute, found to be living in questionable circumstances with … a gentleman.”

  With a man of your reputation, he did not say, but Simon heard him clearly all the same.

  “And yet if something were to go awry,” Simon replied, “I would find myself a bankrupt lord saddled with a penniless guttersnipe for a wife. Hardly ideal, is it?”

  “Oh, no.” Daughtry looked surprised. “Indeed you would not. Should she be found to be other than Lady Cornelia, you would have no choice, I think, but to petition for an annulment.”

  Caught reaching for his coffee, Simon froze. “Would it be granted?”

  “If her fraudulent self-representation was deliberate, it would vitiate your consent to the marriage. This is one of the most dependable grounds for annulment. I can’t think but you would find the court in full sympathy with your plight.”

  Simon laughed under his breath. “But that’s … thoroughly wicked of you, Daughtry.”

  The solicitor offered up a sly smile. A man didn’t need a sense of humor to be a smug, gloating bastard. “It would be unfortunate,” he allowed. “Nevertheless, it would be entirely within the law.”

  “The law is an ass,” Simon murmured. Who’d written that? Shakespeare. He took a long drink. More accurate to say that the law was an upper-class ass. Who else had any hope of using it to his advantage? “She’ll never have a chance.”

  Daughtry smiled again. “No, she won’t.”

  Simon looked away toward the window. Pretty day, the early sun shining cheerfully through the glossy leaves.

  Toying with the rag-and-tatters set wasn’t his usual style. One didn’t play with those who didn’t know the rules or weren’t equipped to abide by them.

  But the prospect rarely carried such a dazzling reward—and not simply for him. Nell would profit, too. In most views, she stood to profit far more than he did. The money would allow him to maintain his accustomed life, but it would give her the chance to create a far, far better one. She would be able to live as she pleased: Simon had no intention of demanding anything from her but a share of the inheritance.

  And if this bid failed? A few months spent living here wouldn’t harm her. She’d leave his house well fed and well clothed. A happy holiday from hard labor, he thought. If she liked, she could take a few more pieces of silverware upon her departure.

  “Put the investigators to work at once,” he said. “I expect the key will lie in proving that the woman who raised her was Jane Lovell. Lady Cornelia called herself Nell Whitby, but she admitted that she took the surname from a stepfather. If Jane’s marriage was legitimate, the parish registers would be the place to start.”

  “Very good. And shall I arrange a visit to Faculty Hall?”

  For a special license, Daughtry meant.

  “Go ahead,” Simon said. “Nothing to lose, apparently.” And everything to gain.

  The door opened. His future wife entered the room—dressed, he saw in astonishment, in something very near to rags.

  “Good heavens,” he heard Daughtry mutter.

  Long-ingrained manners overcame his amazement. He rose, as did Daughtry.

  “Morning,” she said brightly, dividing a chipper smile between them.

  “Good morning to you,” he replied. The sight of her put a rude period to the heady enthusiasm raised by plotting strategy. He’d forgotten how very much she did no
t look like a missing heiress. There was the issue of her boniness. And then, mysteriously, the trappings she’d somehow located: a drab, dark skirt, uneven at the hem; a long black jacket whose sleeves ended above her knobby wrists; a bowler hat. For God’s sake, where had she gotten a bowler hat?

  Amid the quiet luxury of his drawing room, she looked like the point to a joke. Or, better yet, an exclamation point: her eyes had found the breakfast dishes on the sideboard, and every line of her body strained toward it.

  He took a breath and got hold of his anger. “Help yourself,” he said.

  She nodded and strode forward.

  He sat slowly into his seat. Across the table, Daughtry managed an impassive look that should have won him an award. Silverware clattered against china; a tuneless hum reached his ears. In very high spirits, Nell was shoveling food onto her plate.

  Silence held until she sat down at the table.

  “Where did you get those clothes?” he asked.

  She lifted her brows. “One of your sukeys brought them. Thanks much.”

  He bit his tongue. Apparently she was blithely unaware that she’d just become the butt of a cruel joke.

  Daughtry sent him an unreadable look. He felt his anger sharpen, lent a new edge by embarrassment. Someone was going to be sacked before the morning was out. He had no tolerance for petty rebellions in his servants, much less their ridiculous little snobberies.

  With an effort, he retrieved his fork and set to his sausage.

  A wet splat drew his attention upward. A quarter of an egg now lay by Nell’s place.

  Her table manners would need … improvement.

  She certainly did not lack for appetite, though.

  Daughtry laid down his fork and commenced a close study of the tablecloth. Simon didn’t blame him. It felt almost obscene to witness Nell eating. She hunched over her plate as though to guard it while she forked up the contents in a rapid, continuous motion. As she chewed, she flicked narrow looks toward the both of them—monitoring their intake, he realized with shock: adjudging if they would require more food from the sideboard, or, more precisely, how much food would be left for her once her own plate was emptied.