A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal Read online

  The direction of his own thoughts began to unnerve him.

  “It’s not at all like a palace,” he said. “I’ll have to show you Buckingham sometime.”

  Her glow dimmed. Perhaps she didn’t believe he meant the offer. “Every newly married couple must be presented to the Queen,” he said to clarify. “She’ll not hold another levee until next May, but”—he paused only the barest moment—”if you decide to stay here, we’ll attend.”

  Her mouth screwed into a little smile. She did not take his bait. “You’re daft,” she said. “You want to take me to meet the Queen?”

  The amusement in her voice caught him off guard. For a moment, and no doubt in tandem with her prudish outfit, it actually chastened him.

  Perhaps he was daft. If, come next May, they remained married—if the law had acknowledged her as Cornelia; if wedlock proved financially fruitful—then it still did not follow that they would socialize together. No matter how rich she became, she’d remain a product of the East End, a girl who’d grown up in filth while working for her living. He could not imagine her enjoying his circles.

  In fact, he could not imagine her finding anything to admire in them.

  The thought unsettled him. But why should it? What did it signify if her upbringing limited her ability to appreciate his world? His friends would see nothing to esteem in her, either. The fashionable set admired his tastes; he could persuade them to believe nearly anything about art that they did not understand. But about poverty, they believed they knew everything. They had maids and coachmen; they each had an amusing tale of encountering some aggressive street Arab. They saw dirt and filth daily, out the glass windows of their coaches. They would see no novelty in Nell, no beauty in her. They would find her terribly uncomfortable, in fact: proof that beneath the dirt lay human beings. She would be, to them, no more than a reproach in human form.

  Changing their minds would be a challenge, the greatest he’d ever undertaken.

  But he did so love to make people change their minds despite themselves.

  “Court is terribly tedious,” he said. “Hot. Dull. You’ll loathe it. But we’ll go, if you stay.”

  She eyed him. One moment he saw Kitty’s face, and wondered why he minded so much the thought of her leaving. The next he saw a woman with darker eyes, a blue so close to navy that they put him in mind of the sea five hundred miles from shore. These eyes were an invitation to drown.

  He took a sharp breath even as she spoke. “Dull to rub elbows with the Queen, is it? You’re a hard man to impress, you are.”

  And then she gave him her back as she turned to look at the paintings.

  Bewildered, he studied her slim shoulders. Once again, as in that disorienting moment in front of the staff last week, he felt himself unbalanced by her, adrift in a sea of broken expectations, with no near handhold to cling to. She had something that no amount of money could purchase: an outsized presence.

  He wasn’t sure he liked it. She needed to come off the lady, but only grand dames drew admiration for their talents at discomposing a man.

  What did she see when she looked at him? Did he even want to know?

  Well, in regard to this moment, the answer seemed clear. She thought he’d been bragging.

  Good God. Perhaps he had been.

  To his disgust and amazement, he felt himself flush.

  This business of charming her was idiotic. She needed to cooperate of her own free will. “We could skip the formality,” he said.

  She made no reply, turning a little to behold the length of the row of portraits. Her weight shifted to one leg, causing her hip to jut.

  She was ignoring him. He realized the novelty of it in the depth of his astonishment. It took effort to check a childish remark: her posture was unladylike in the extreme.

  He stepped up beside her, deliberately crowding her. On an intuitive level he understood her show of indifference. After the gauntlet he’d thrown, she salved her pride by demonstrating that it would not be regard for him that kept her here.

  But she was too intelligent to let this opportunity for betterment pass her by. Pride got you nowhere, he thought. Use your brain, Nell. This arrangement required concessions from her. She would need to be guided by him. She would need, he thought, to recognize her debts. “You like the clothing I’ve provided you,” he said. “That much is obvious.”

  She did not so much glance at him as present a three-quarters profile. Her nose, Kitty’s nose, had been fashioned to support condescension. “It’s good, strong stuff.” She sounded grudging. “I need a better-fitted corset, though. And a bit of lace wouldn’t do any harm.”

  Now he did laugh. He was a hard man to impress. But so, it seemed, was she. And he wanted to impress her. He had no bloody idea why he hadn’t managed it yet.

  God help him, he was losing his mind.

  He cleared his throat. “As I said, this wardrobe is—or would be—a temporary measure, only.”

  She nodded. “That seamstress—”

  “Modiste.”

  She slanted him an unreadable glance. “That mowdeest said it would take ten days for the first gowns to be ready.”

  He nodded. A pity that he’d missed that fitting a few days ago. He suddenly envisioned how he might have interrupted it at an opportune moment, discovering her only in her chemise, corded by measuring tape, her pretty lips rounding into an O as she trembled and blushed beneath his inspection.

  But he was an idiot. She’d not have trembled; she’d have chucked a stool at his head for spying.

  “Who are these people?” she asked.

  Right. Here was the main reason he’d brought her to the gallery. He followed her regard to the glowering old man in front of her. “These are your parents,” he said. “The late Lord Rushden, before you. And to the right, your mother.”

  Nell’s belly gave a queer little leap. She walked closer to the paintings. The last earl was posing on a horse in front of a long lawn that led up to the building she’d seen in the painting in the library. Paton Park, St. Maur had called it.

  The house was too pretty to be believed—a palace of rosy brick set amid low hills greener than St. James in the spring. This was her second view of it. The sight raised a flutter in her breast, a curious feeling that threatened to grow stronger the longer she looked.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. These queer notions were the work of her imagination, no doubt. Dazzled by the clothes and the fine surroundings, rattled by St. Maur’s ultimatum, she was inventing lies: You remember. You belong here. You deserve this.

  How easy it would be to delude herself! Mum had deluded herself over any number of things. She’d thought herself better, more saintly, too good for everything. Look what it had gotten her! The scorn of the Green, the resentment of the labor-mistress, and the worst job in the factory—a quick road to a painful death.

  But for all her foolish airs, Mum hadn’t been cruel. If Nell decided she knew this place, that would mean that some countess had been her mother, and Mum had been more than cruel—she’d done an unspeakably wicked thing.

  She swallowed down the weird urge to laugh. It wasn’t funny, not at all. Mum had loved her. She was sure of that. Mum had been touched, but she’d never been dangerous.

  “My mum wasn’t bad.” It came out choppily. She shouldn’t have to say such things.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” St. Maur put his hands into his pockets, watchful. Waiting. No judgment in his face, no concern.

  No concern: that summed him up, it did. That was the phrase she should have used to describe him to Hannah. He seemed wholly unburdened, albeit not in the way of idiots: Nell gathered that he saw the world as cynics did, not looking for false hope.

  But he didn’t let the world worry him, either. He had the air of a man who knew that when it came to a struggle, he’d always have the upper hand.

  He certainly had the upper hand on her. His offer was devilish, wasn’t it? Become somebody else. Ordinary men bargained on
ly for a woman’s body. His bid was higher, and so was his demand. He was asking her to betray the memory of someone she’d loved.

  Nell gave her lip a chew. She’d vowed never to sell herself. But nobody had ever offered her so much. And for whatever it meant … she did know that place in the painting.

  On a Bible, she would have said that she remembered it.

  She forced herself to look back to the portrait. She’d never backed away from a fear and she wouldn’t do so now. “There’s a bridge. An arched bridge over a river.” She remembered—had dreamed of—dropping pennies into it. Copper flashing in the sunlight.

  “A stream,” he said. “Behind the house. Yes.”

  His voice was neutral. Unsurprised. Temper lashed through her. She wished something would surprise him. He was the definition of high and mighty, immune to the scrapes and bumps that other people suffered as part of life’s course. He’d probably never been rattled in his life. “Would it matter to you if there wasn’t a bridge? Do you even care if I really am this Cornelia?”

  His glance dropped briefly to where she hugged herself. “No, not particularly.”

  She straightened her arms, lest he mistake her posture for a sign of fear. “How convenient for you. It’s not your mum they’ll call a lunatic. And if I did remember this place …” Then the names they would call her mum would be true.

  What sort of woman stole a child? What could drive a woman to that?

  She felt an inkling, dim but unsettling. Mum had called Rushden a lewd devil. She’d always been so convinced that she could tell wrong from right better than anyone else could.

  St. Maur took her hand. It startled her, but she didn’t pull away: his grip was firm and he was looking at her squarely, no mischief on his face. “If you remember that house,” he said, “I don’t think you harm your mum by admitting it. What’s done is done. All you do now is gain a new view on what already happened—long ago, mind you. Almost two decades.”

  Smooth logic. “And if somebody called your mother a criminal? Would it matter to you?”

  “Ha.” An exhalation of breath, distinctly amused. He let go of her hand, put his own into his pocket. “I cannot begin to imagine,” he said. “But her reaction would be spectacular. She guards her good name quite jealously.” His smile was wry. “She got on well with your father in that regard.”

  Nell looked to the father in question. He sat atop a horse, Paton Park looming in the distance. She had an idea of what a dad should look like. Her stepfather hadn’t lived long but he’d been sweet, funny, always smiling. He’d bought her fried oysters on Sundays after church and set her atop his shoulders at the penny gaffs.

  This man didn’t look like he’d ever let a little girl climb on him. Beneath his heavy, dark brows, his brown eyes glowered. Bushy muttonchops. She knew that look he was giving her. Fancy folks in their carriages who caught her eye by accident, they got just this smirk on their lips, amused, disbelieving.

  What sort of man asked to be painted in a way that ensured he’d spend eternity looking down on people?

  Still. Somebody might say that she’d gotten her cleft chin from him.

  They’d say she’d gotten her eyes and nose from his wife.

  She drew a breath and fixed her attention on the countess. Pretty lady. She sat in a light-filled drawing room, one long-fingered hand poised atop the book in her lap. Lovely white shoulders. Kind eyes.

  “Was he mean to her?” she whispered.

  A slight pause. “He was cold by nature, I think.”

  “No, but was he rough with her? Did he knock her about?” Mum hadn’t scrupled to lay on the paddle when she felt Nell’s soul was in peril, but as long as she’d had the strength, she’d never let Michael raise his hand. If Rushden had been a violent type, perhaps Mum had thought it best …

  “Not that I saw.” St. Maur paused. “Many men manage their tempers without the use of their fists, Nell.”

  She gave a dismissive shrug. That wasn’t news to her. “How did she die, then?”

  “Heartbreak, they said. Some two years after you were taken.”

  Nell twisted her mouth. “Heartbreak—now there’s a rich woman’s disease. The rest of us can’t afford but to die of a real sickness.”

  He glanced at her, the line of his mouth grave. “A clever aphorism. Do you believe it?”

  His soberness caught her off guard. He wasn’t behaving as she’d expected. He was actually talking to her, asking her questions as if her answers might be of interest.

  How queer. She’d almost prefer it if he remained a haughty, high-handed nob. “I think if a person could die of heartbreak, there’d be a lot fewer of us in the world,” she said slowly.

  “You’ve had your heart broken, then?”

  “No.”

  “You’re fortunate.”

  “Or smart.” Not some empty-headed girl like Suzie, to let a handsome face fool her into forgetting her own best interests.

  St. Maur studied her a moment longer than felt comfortable. “You’re very young, aren’t you?”

  His condescension irked her. “Why? Did somebody break yours?”

  “Oh, yes.” He said it easily, without hesitation. “One of the risks of being a wastrel, I’m afraid.”

  She stared at him. “Who?” What kind of woman had managed to get under the skin of this one?

  “Simply a woman.”

  “What sort of woman?”

  He shrugged, one-shouldered. “The wrong one, I suppose.” He turned back toward the painting. “The countess wasn’t dull-witted or weak. Too generous on occasion, certainly. Compassionate, caring—everything her husband was not.”

  She recognized how neatly he’d sidestepped the issue of this mysterious heartbreaker, but something else struck her more sharply. A warmth entered his voice when he talked of the countess. This wasn’t gossip speaking. “You knew her?”

  “Yes.”

  Of course—he’d been the old earl’s ward. This woman would have helped to raise him.

  She frowned. Something didn’t make sense here. “Your mother—you talk as though she’s still alive.”

  “Yes. She is.”

  “Why were you the earl’s ward, then?”

  An unpleasant smile edged onto his mouth. “Your father thought me inappropriately prepared for the honor to be bestowed on me.”

  She hesitated. “So your mum simply … let him take you?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. She’d hit on a nerve. Good to know he had one. “He had a talent for convincing others of his own importance. I don’t suppose it ever crossed my parents’ minds to protest.”

  How awful. “We have something in common,” she said, amazed. “If you’re right, we both got taken from our parents.”

  He met her eyes. “I suppose we do. Of course, yours wanted you back.”

  Not a trace of self-pity colored his words. But their very impassivity revealed an effort to speak without emotion.

  All at once, she felt ashamed. She’d been poking at him for her own satisfaction. Now he held her look and forced her to confront the evidence that he had feelings, after all. His parents’ betrayal had rankled.

  Something in her softened. She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, St. Maur.”

  He glanced toward the spot where she touched him. “Don’t be. As I said, what’s done is done.”

  She felt even more strongly now that he was wrong about that. “Are you close with them, then?”

  “My parents?” At her nod, he looked mildly incredulous. “Does that signify? My father is dead. As for my mother, I suppose we’re cordial. We acknowledge one another when our paths cross.”

  She didn’t see him move, but suddenly his arm was out of reach. She pushed her hand into her pocket, balling it into a fist, feeling awkward. Where she was from, a friendly touch was welcome. “I gather that’s a fancy way of saying no.”

  He gave her an unreadable look, then nodded toward the painting. “Do you see the book on her l
ap? Lovely illustrated copy of Dante’s Inferno. Your love of reading comes from her, I expect.”

  She went along with his change of subject. “Do you have it? I’d like to read it.”

  “No.” His voice turned dark. “Her books were sold.”

  “Oh.” Feeling off balance entirely now, she scouted for a topic that couldn’t rub him wrong. “I want some dresses like that one,” she said. The countess’s gown was frilled and flounced in tiers of blond lace. Must have cost a fortune. Take it apart piecemeal so the pieces could be sold one by one: it would make a nice sort of insurance for a girl.

  “Bit old-fashioned, I’m afraid. But why not? Have one, if you like.” He laughed. “Yes, create your own style. Set a new fashion.”

  He was joking, of course. “Right-o,” she said.

  His smile faded into a more thoughtful look. “But you do realize that’s what I’m offering you. Not simply money, but the power and position to use it in whichever way you please.”

  She didn’t see much difference between money and power, but she nodded politely.

  It didn’t fool him. “Oh, Nell.” He sighed. “Darling, I know you have an imagination. Is it that you simply don’t know how to use it?”

  She frowned at the endearment. She got it regularly from the Irish blokes, but it sounded different in his creamy drawl. Unsettling. Men like him, they called girls like her darling only as a joke. Darling, be a love and bring me another glass. Darling, I’m not paying you to talk. “I don’t follow you.”

  He stepped closer to her—and then closer yet. “Dear girl,” he said softly. He lifted his hand and ran his fingertip down the rim of her ear, his touch as soft and warm as a breath.

  She took a step back, her stomach knotting. Unlike her brain, her fool body had not an ounce of good sense in it. Her heart began to pound. “Not until we’re married.”

  “A touch,” he murmured. He caught her lobe, stroking it with his thumb. “Nothing like sexual congress.” His hand turned, his knuckles brushing down her throat.

  Even a touch was too much when he paired it with that smile. It made her pulse beat harder. She remembered again, with visceral warmth, how his kiss made parts of her dissolve. She couldn’t feel that way and keep her wits straight. “Hands off, I said.”