Once Upon a Scandal (10 page)

Victoria blinked as the crisp scent of mint drifted toward her again from Remington’s evening coat. He no longer smelled of allspice. He smelled like a…man.

She swallowed and dug the tips of her gloved fingers into the wall. At least she’d worn her finest. At least she looked like a ravishing woman he’d forever regret wounding.

Her uncle sighed and patted Remington on the back. “I appreciate your concern, but we simply cannot postpone this. The sooner we do this, the better. You know that.”

Remington nodded and shifted toward her, his large frame blocking her against the wall. Lowering his head toward hers, he peered at her face and searched her eyes. “I realize this is awkward, but have you nothing to say to me? At all? Be it good or bad, Victoria, I wish to hear it. I really do.”

She shifted away from his body. She wanted to run and escape the intensity of his gaze, but that would reveal to him—and to herself—that he mattered. And he didn’t. Not anymore.

Remington lowered his chin against his red cravat. “Is it your intention to perpetuate my suffering with this silence? Is that it?”

Her cheeks stung. Perpetuate his suffering? His suffering? It was he who had left her to suffer all these years with his silence.

She clenched her jaw and refrained from smacking him. No. She was going to save all the smacking for Grayson. Her cousin had known all along, and for it, she was going to maim him. She was going to maim him, then bury him, so he might suffocate beneath the earth, and just as he was about to take his last breath, she’d dig him back up and maim him again. And then maybe, just maybe, it would make her feel better.

Regardless…she couldn’t stay here. Not with Remington still probing her face and her body with his eyes and a blatant disregard for the fact that nothing remained between them. She pushed off the wall and edged away, trying to maintain a sense of dignity given the situation.

Remington stepped toward her and reached out a gloved hand to help her. She jumped away, not wanting to be touched, and quickly rounded his towering frame.

He dropped his hand back to his side. “Victoria.”

Though she could hear the aching hurt in that pleading tone, how else was she to treat him? With reverence? With joy? After what he had done to her?

“Victoria,” he repeated, following close behind, “at least acknowledge me. Please.”

Dear God, she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand hearing that tone and those words, which made her feel as if she were the one who had inflicted all the pain.

How dare he?

How dare he?!

Swinging back toward him, she pointed rigidly up at him. “I gave you fifty-three chances to prove yourself, Remington. Fifty-three. All of them came to you in the guise of letters, and you didn’t have the decency to respond to a single one. I will forever hate you for what you did to me. You will never be able to redeem yourself. Ever. Go back to Venice or wherever the hell you were frolicking all of these years, you—you…bastard!”

His eyes widened as he stepped back.

She swung away and bustled down the vast corridor toward…Grayson. Oooooh. Her eyes narrowed as she marched toward her cousin. Her heels clicked hard against the marble beneath her feet, and she wished it was his head she was pounding into.

Grayson hurried toward her, glancing over at Remington and her uncle and then at her. “Wait, wait. What is this? Where are you going?”

“Where do you think I am going?” she flung back, closing the remaining distance between them. “I am going home. Where I belong.”

“Oh, no, no. You have an obligation toward this family and toward your father.”

Oh, no, she didn’t. Not at this price.

Halting before Grayson, she glared at him, then lifted her hand and smacked him hard across the face, stinging her own palm through her satin glove.

Grayson’s flushed face jerked back toward her. He nodded, but refused to look at her. “Fine. Good. Yes. I suppose I deserve that.”

“I’m pleased to hear you think so.” She leaned toward him, too angry to think about what was happening. “First you tell me nothing and allow him to disappear from my life. And now you tell me nothing and allow him to reappear? Whilst you decide whatever it is you do or do not want for me, I am going home. Once I have regained a sensible amount of composure, I will return on the morrow to visit with my father and pretend none of this ever happened.” She swiveled away toward the stairwell leading to the entrance below.

Grayson grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her back.

She stumbled toward her cousin in disbelief. “Unhand me! How dare you—”

“You are not leaving,” Grayson growled, jerking her toward him until their noses were practically touching. “Smack me all you want, if it will better serve you, but your father orchestrated this all for you. You. At the very least be gracious.”

“Gracious?” she echoed into his face. “And to whom am I to be gracious? To the man I no longer know or wish to know? To the man who actually has the gall to show up after five years and think I would consider him fit to even spit upon, let alone marry?”

She feigned a laugh. “Someone keep me from castrating you and every man in this building!” She yanked her arm away from his pinching grasp. “Why didn’t you tell me what my father had planned? Why?”

Her cousin huffed out a breath and eyed her. “Because of how you are responding right now. Your father knows you and your damn pride better than you know yourself.”

“I see. And how long did you know about Remington being one of the three? Hmm? How long?”

Grayson cleared his throat and shifted from boot to boot. “About a year. Give or take a few weeks.”

Her eyes widened. “A whole year? And you said nothing?!” She sucked in a savage breath, stepped toward him and smacked his shoulder. She lifted her hand again, gritted her teeth and then smacked his shoulder again, harder, in case the first one hadn’t hurt.

Grayson shoved her hands away from himself and stepped back, glaring at her. “Are you done? There is no need to make everyone think you are irrational and daft.”

“I hope they think that and more!” she boomed, her voice echoing all around them, waving her hands about for a more lunatic effect. “How dare you do this to me? How dare my father do this to me after I have devoted every breathing moment of my life to him? I was willing to fulfill my duty as a daughter without questioning whatever worth I had left. But to bring Remington back into my life when I have buried him is the last thing I will ever submit to. Ever. My life is not a game to be played with.”

A figure loomed behind her cousin.

She stiffened.

With gloved hands locked behind his back, Remington rounded on them. He eyed her and paused directly beside them, hovering well over not only her head but also Grayson’s.

That crisp scent of mint lingered, annoyingly making her even more aware of his presence.

In a low tone, Remington finally announced, “I wish to be removed from consideration. I will not permit the loss of her inheritance due to my involvement.”

Victoria drew her brows together and snapped her gaze to her cousin. “The loss of my…inheritance?”

Grayson seethed out a breath. “As always, there you go being a bloody Jack Adams, Remington. I told you, she doesn’t know anything. It was supposed to be formally and graciously announced by Mr. Parker.”

Remington leaned toward her cousin and growled, “Yes, well, now she knows. Remove me from the goddamn list. I have my pride, too. Let her marry one of the other two and retain the estate that way.”

Her heart pounded as her brain pieced together the horrifying reality of Remington’s words. Her father was forcing her to decide between a complete stranger whose name she had yet to learn; Lord Moreland, whom she’d always considered more of a brother; and Remington, whom she had known once upon a dream.

She stared at Grayson. “Are you informing me that if I do not marry one of these three men, my father will disinherit me?”

“Yes.” Grayson’s tone was hard but patient. “I realize this is going to be very difficult for you to accept, but with your father’s mental capabilities progressively dwindling, we have decided to accelerate all plans, lest your father be unable to attend your wedding at all. Which is why you only have until midnight tonight to decide which of these three men you will marry.”

She gasped. “What?!”

“Based upon your decision—” Grayson coolly went on as if they were discussing daisies “—you will then be joined by special license within the week. If you choose not to marry, that is your right. But if your father dies, and you are unwed in the manner as was set by him when he was still of sound mind, the entire estate will pass on to a list of charities. You will have nothing. If poverty is what you desire, I will graciously extend my own home to you.”

Victoria closed her eyes and could actually feel her soul shriveling. Though money had never mattered to her, she still needed a bed, clothes and food, and had no intention of living with Grayson like some orphaned child he had to take pity upon.

She opened her eyes and asked in an overly calm tone that rang strange in her ears, “Has my father not arranged even the smallest of annuities for me?”

Grayson breathed out through his nostrils. “No. Nothing. There is no negotiating what has been set, considering his mental state. The solicitor will not allow it. Which means you receive all or nothing. You will be expected to marry one of the three or lose everything.”

She swallowed. In some way, she deserved this. She deserved this for rising against her born duty as a daughter. Her father had pleaded with her throughout the years, again and again, that she accept an offer for her hand. Any offer. She, in turn, had denied him, wishing to only stay at his side, all because she knew no one would ever measure up to Remington. So now, her father was laying out the final command with his last challenge of, “You want Remington? You can have him. Secrets, lies and all.”

It was obvious what needed to be done. She needed to rise to the challenge of her duty like the grown woman she was, and take the inheritance that was rightfully hers. But that didn’t mean marrying Remington. “Out of respect for my father and my duty, I will abide by whatever rules have been set and will choose a husband knowing I will be disinherited if I do not. Lord Remington may choose to stay or leave. It matters not to me.”

Annoyed with her evening shawl, which kept sliding from her shoulders, she removed it and whipped it toward Grayson.

Grayson fumbled to catch it. “Assure me you don’t intend on removing anything else.”

She rolled her eyes. “Once a libertine, always a libertine, I suppose. Even toward his own cousin. Let us be done with this. I am not waiting until midnight to collect what is rightfully mine.” She smoothed her hair away from her face with a gloved hand, set her chin and swept past everyone, hoping to demonstrate that despite the situation, she was still very much in control of what was and wasn’t going to happen.

Upon entering the vast adjoining room, she slowed and eyed Mr. Parker and the other two men, who stood on the far side of the room.

The more dashing of the two had kind, soulful dark eyes, chestnut hair and defined cheekbones—Lord Moreland. She had never realized he wanted to marry at all. He rarely associated with people and led a very quiet life.

The other man, whom she did not know at all, had sharp, blue eyes and blond hair that was almost shockingly white. His pale features were a bit too regal and eerily reminded her of a porcelain doll. She had never liked dolls, even as a girl. She had always stuffed them into trunks because she hated the way they looked at her. Especially at night.

Victoria knew by the tension in their stances that they were both nervous. Which she could readily understand. It was every man’s aspiration to marry into a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds. Her father, in fact, had acquired his fortune by marrying her mother.

But what was Remington’s reasoning in all this? Why would he reappear after five years of silence and openly vie for her hand? Was it money he sought? Money he still did not have? Or was it her he sought?

Whichever it was, it didn’t matter anymore. She would rather marry Lord Moreland, a longstanding, honorable family friend, than attach herself to a man she would never trust and certainly never love again.

’Tis best to avoid any man with a tainted past. For such men carry tainted hearts not meant to last.
—
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

JONATHAN’S PULSE thundered as he beheld the stunning and alluring curve of Victoria’s body as she whisked away, her verdant evening gown accentuating her poised, self-assured movements. All of those soft, blond curls that were gathered and pinned atop her head swayed, each sway exposing the erotic pale length of her neck beneath. By God, she had grown so beautifully into that body. She had also grown into full womanly pride.

“Romeo,” Grayson drawled, leaning in from behind, “Your Juliet is waiting to be serenaded.”

Still watching the sway of Victoria’s corseted hips as she moved farther into the room before him, Jonathan reached out and slid her shawl from Grayson’s shoulder, bringing the silk up to his nose and mouth. The soft scent of soap and lavender caused his grip on the silk to tighten as he momentarily pressed its softness against his lips. She still smelled the same. It was achingly bittersweet to vividly remember so much about her, and to physically want her all the more because of it.

Even the lavender scent that clung to her shawl was enough to make his body stir. Though his pride told him to walk away from this and her, considering all that she’d just said, his body, mind and heart chanted for him to fight. This was his Victoria, for God’s sake. Of course she wasn’t going to submit easily. She had never been one for submitting easily to anything. He owed it to her to fight for them. To fight for what they’d once had. Damn whatever was left of his pride.

He folded and refolded the long strip of silk and tucked it into his coat pocket to keep as a memento. He strode into the room after her, and after several long strides, settled in beside her. He slowed when they both reached Mr. Parker and the other suitors.

Victoria rounded him, setting a notable distance between them, and set her chin. Other than the rigid squaring of those slim shoulders and the setting of that stubborn chin, she didn’t even look at him, let alone acknowledge him.

Mr. Parker cleared his throat and held up a gloved hand. “On behalf of Lord Linford, I extend appreciation for your attendance, gentlemen. I ask that you all arrange yourselves side by side, so that I may commence the evening with a simple set of instructions.”

Jonathan stepped toward the other two men and settled himself between them. He paused, glancing toward each man, and realized that both were notably shorter than he was. A whole head shorter.

Mr. Parker settled before them and held up three sealed parchments in his gloved hand. He wagged them. “Each parchment bears a name and contains questions the earl felt would best represent each suitor. They are questions Lady Victoria will read aloud and questions you, as gentlemen, will individually answer during a private, one-hour session. We all recognize that these are very unusual circumstances. But we must also recognize this is a man’s last will and testament, and, as such, we are humbly appointed to abide by what was set almost a year ago.”

As Jonathan half listened to Mr. Parker’s words, he stared intently at Victoria, hoping she would look at him at least once. She didn’t. She merely lingered between Sir Thorbert and Grayson, her eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. She hated him. She really—

Her jade eyes suddenly met his, causing his stomach to flip. The last time he’d felt his stomach flip in response to a mere glance, he’d been nineteen. He never thought he’d feel that again.

He smiled.

Victoria looked away and reset her chin.

Jonathan’s smile faded as he flexed his gloved hands and continued to study her profile. Her face had thinned, but that seventeen-year-old was still there in those arched blond brows, that sharp little nose and the pale, soft skin his hand had once intimately grazed.

The visible tops of her pale breasts appeared fuller than he’d remembered, and she wore her hair in looser, larger curls, as opposed to the tighter ones that had once framed her face. It was torture to be standing only a few paces away and realize he had lost five years of his life with her.

“Allow me to present your designated set of questions.” Mr. Parker stepped toward them and handed out the parchments. “Each seal remains intact until your appointed hour with Lady Emerson.”

Jonathan slipped the parchment from Mr. Parker’s gloved hand and turned it over to reveal TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE VISCOUNT REMINGTON scribed in black ink.

Mr. Parker briefly met each of their gazes. “Lord Stanford, Lord Remington and Lord Moreland, at midnight, Lady Emerson will tell me the name of the man she intends to wed, which I will formally submit and announce. That man must then wed her by special license within the week. For those men not chosen, a thousand pounds will be gifted in appreciation of their participation. Now that you have all been informed of the earl’s intent, is everyone still willing to vie? Rest assured, your name can be removed from the list at any time.”

Jonathan fingered the parchment in his hand, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Though it appeared Victoria did not want him and would prefer to marry her own uncle over him, he’d be damned if he was going to allow misfortune to continue to rule his life. He was going to prove his worth to her. He was.

Lord Stanford stepped forward and ripped his parchment in half. He tossed it to the floor with a sigh. “Forgive me, but I am not in the least bit comfortable with these rules. As such, I prefer to leave. May God bring peace to the earl.” He offered everyone a curt nod and strode past, his heavy steps thudding out of the room and fading.

Jonathan drew in a breath and let it out, tucking the parchment into his pocket alongside Victoria’s folded shawl. This was good. This was very good. With only one man left to compete against, he actually stood half of a chance.

Although…

Jonathan eyed the regal profile of the gentleman on his left. Lord Moreland. Christ. It was the same damn Lord Moreland whom Victoria’s governess had tried to intimidate him with years ago. All of this was really too eerie, and a bit too metaphorical to swallow. It was as if his entire life was rounding backward.

Mr. Parker huffed out a ragged breath and rubbed the back of his bald head, eyeing the torn parchment left behind. Dropping his gloved hand back to his side, he continued, “Judging by your silence, gentlemen, you are agreeing to vie. I will be allotting an additional thirty minutes to each of you, seeing as Lord Stanford has renounced his involvement.

“Let us formally commence by deciding who will be first.” He drew his bushy brows together, dug into his pocket and withdrew a coin. He held it up. “Lord Remington. Which will it be? The laureate head of the sixpence? Or the shield and crown?”

Jonathan eyed the coin. He didn’t know if he could wait another hour and half to be alone with Victoria. He’d already been forced to spend well over eighty-seven thousand hours apart from her. Hours he had pathetically counted out throughout the years like a child who sought to count all the stars in the sky.

When he was younger, he’d always picked the shield of a sixpence and had always won his luck that way. So, in honor of his younger self, the man he used to be, he would pick the shield. “I request the shield and crown.”

Mr. Parker nodded. “The shield and crown it is. Lord Moreland, you have been designated the laureate. Let chance decide.” Mr. Parker hesitated, then tossed the coin up and toward them.

Jonathan watched the coin as it rolled past him, tilted and settled flat onto the floor. As small as it was, he couldn’t make it out. He stepped toward it, leaned forward and drew in a breath. It was the shield and crown.

He glanced up, his eyes darting over to Victoria. “’Tis the shield and crown.”

Victoria pinched her lips together, her gloved hand grabbing hold of her uncle’s upper arm. Sir Thorbert leaned toward her, patting her hand.

It was obvious Victoria was nervous about being alone with him. As well she should be. There wasn’t going to be a single word left unsaid.

Mr. Parker hurried over, leaned toward the coin and plucked it up, holding it for all to see. “It is indeed the shield and crown. Lady Victoria? Lord Remington? Please follow me into the Painted Room.”

Jonathan cleared his throat and followed Mr. Parker, trying to regain control over the erratic beat of his heart. Victoria dutifully trailed behind. Jonathan slowed his steps and momentarily considered turning and extending his arm to her, but squelched the thought. He doubted she’d accept it.

As he followed Mr. Parker down the corridor, his head pounded, and he felt as if his journey would never end. Every now and then, he glanced back at Victoria to ensure she was following. She was always a few steps behind, her gaze firmly fixed on his boots.

He couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. He doubted that she was admiring the shine and worth of his leather footwear.

Mr. Parker paused before an oak door at the end of the passageway. When Jonathan and Victoria both quietly settled before him, Mr. Parker spoke. “No physical contact. Is that understood?”

As if he would abide by some stupid rule that would prevent him from touching his Victoria. Only she could keep him from doing that. Fortunately, he wasn’t being forced to promise anything. He was simply being asked if he understood the request. “Yes. I completely understand.”

Mr. Parker offered a curt nod. “All questions must be answered. Whatever time remains afterwards may be used as you see fit. Lord Remington, do you have your sealed parchment?”

Jonathan patted his pocket. “I do.”

“Present it to Lady Emerson the moment the door closes.” Mr. Parker yanked the door open, drew his shaggy brows together and slid his gold chain from his pocket, withdrawing a watch. He glanced at it. “I will return at exactly fifteen minutes past the hour of nine. There is a clock on the mantel should you need to be reminded of the time.” Mr. Parker sniffed, returned his watch to his pocket and gestured toward the open door.

Jonathan eased back, sweeping a gloved hand toward the dimly lit room beyond, and eyed Victoria expectantly.

A pink flush overtook her pale cheeks. She hesitated, as if sensing that more than her virtue was at risk, but breezed into the room all the same, her full skirts rustling.

Jonathan offered a curt nod to Mr. Parker, adjusted his evening coat and strode in after Victoria, yet again admiring the sway of those corseted hips and her admirable backside.

A soft thud echoed, announcing that the door was closed.

Jonathan paused, his brows coming together, as the pungent aroma of freshly cut roses pierced his nostrils. He tensed as he skimmed past Victoria’s silhouette, standing before the burning hearth, and glanced toward his dim surroundings, half expecting the marchesa to be waiting in the shadows along with her husband.

All Jonathan could make out, however, was a small empty room, whose paneled walls had been intricately painted from floor to ceiling with tranquil scenes of grassy hills, skies and valleys. Hence the appropriate name.

A lone silver candelabrum lit the entire room with twelve candles. Jonathan eyed the unusual amount of yellow and white roses set in countless porcelain vases placed strategically on every table in the room. It reminded him of all the roses the marchesa had always had him arrange throughout her home. He had come to hate roses.

Victoria turned away from the marble hearth. She seated herself on the embroidered, pale blue sofa set directly before it and arranged her skirts.

Jonathan rounded the room and paused before her, trying not to notice the exposed curve of her beautiful neck, extending down to the tops of full, round breasts that were emphasized not only by her corset beneath, but also by the white stitched ribbon edging her décolletage. He’d never believed, not even after the earl had contacted him to announce he could vie for Victoria, that he’d actually see her again.

She continued to stare aloofly past where he stood, gazing toward the coals in the hearth, setting her small gloved hands primly onto the lap of her gown.

He knew he deserved her disdain, but he did not think he deserved to be treated as if they had never met. Jonathan stripped his evening gloves from his hands and tossed them at her feet, announcing to her that all pretenses were gone.

He lowered himself onto the cushioned sofa beside her, purposefully ensuring that the side of his hip and trouser-clad thigh grazed against her.

She stiffened and drew in a breath.

Jonathan draped his left arm around the back of the sofa and leaned toward her, his body trapping hers against the corner. His gaze drifted to the curved expanse of her pale throat. Though he wanted to submit to the yearning that burned within him by touching the curve of that throat with the tip of his bare finger, he had no intention of rushing their involvement, despite his desperate need to erase the years they had spent apart.

He dipped his head and leaned in toward her. The soft scent of soap and lavender clung to her heated skin.

He resisted fingering her blond curls, which looked so soft. “Though you may not believe me, I think about you as often as I breathe.”

She hesitated, then turned her face toward him, her full lips only a tantalizing breath away. Her green eyes solemnly searched his face. “Ever the romantic sop, aren’t you?”

His jaw tightened, along with his grip on the rounded wooden edge of the sofa behind her. “I had nothing. Your life would have been miserable.”