Once Upon a Scandal (16 page)

She let out an impish laugh. “Oh, I will certainly remember this. Let there be no doubt about that. And despite what I earlier agreed to, you are not getting me to do that to myself in front of you.”

Christ, she was made of ice.

Jonathan sat up, shoving his stiff cock beneath his undergarment and back into his trousers. It was obvious she needed an incentive to be willing. And he was going to generously offer it. “I will eliminate two weeks with me in Venice if you do this. That means instead of tolerating four weeks of my advances, you will only have to tolerate two weeks.” He eyed her. “You have ten seconds to decide. Ten. Before I remove the offer and we are done for the night. You decide.”

Her chest rose and fell more steadily. After an agonizing silence that was inching and inching its way toward ten seconds, she blurted, “Close your eyes and I will. But only if your eyes remain closed.”

Holy— “Done.” He closed his eyes and willed himself to keep them shut. He hadn’t thought she’d do it. He really hadn’t.

“Two weeks less in Venice, yes?” she insisted.

“Yes. Two weeks less.”

She hesitated. “Keep your eyes closed.”

“I will.”

“Until we are done.”

“Yes.”

“That is all I will agree to.”

“My eyes are closed and will remain such until we are done. I vow upon my soul.”

“Good.” The soft rustle of her skirts made him draw in a ragged breath. Every muscle in his body tightened and burned in anticipation.

“I feel like I am about to do something I oughtn’t,” she muttered.

Still keeping his eyes shut, he grinned. “There is no shame in pleasuring yourself, Victoria. None.”

“It isn’t the shame I am so worried about.”

“I promise not to open my eyes until we are done, if you promise to actually do it. Can you even do it? Or are we back to our four weeks?”

She was quiet for a long moment. “We never speak of this or do this again.”

“Never again. Unless you want us to.”

“I assure you, that will never happen. Now keep those eyes closed.”

“They are closed.”

“Keep them closed. The entire time.”

The woman was a bit too insistent for his liking. Did she think he was stupid? “Victoria?”

She was quiet for a moment. “What?”

“Don’t you dare fake this. Despite these eyes being closed, I will know. Believe me, I will. And if I conclude at any point you are lying to me, I will add an additional two weeks to the four as punishment. And if you know anything about arithmetic that amounts to six weeks in Venice. Do you understand?”

She hesitated, as if that had been her intention all along, then muttered, “Fine, fine.”

“Admit it. You were going to swindle me out of my God-given two weeks like a wayside thief. Weren’t you?”

She huffed out a breath. “Are we doing this or not?”

He smiled, still keeping his eyes closed. “I am ready whenever you are. And remember. I have ways. Inform me the moment you are ready to proceed.”

She sighed. “Now.”

He swallowed, his pulse thundering knowing she was actually submitting to him. “Touch yourself,” he commanded hoarsely. “Do whatever feels natural.” With his eyes still closed, he pulled his solid length back out and slowly rubbed his hand up and down. Though he wanted to open his eyes and indulge in seeing her, he knew he had to respect her request. She was already allowing for much more than he had ever expected and he was trying to gain her trust, not destroy the last of it.

The tip of him leaked, wetting his hand. He slowed his strokes, knowing he wasn’t going to last, and wondered if she was pleasuring herself or merely watching him. He would test her after a few more strokes.

He envisioned watching her features submit to pleasured anguish. He imagined her losing command of her body, her mind and soul for one breathing moment. Like he wanted her to. In the way she refused to.

He stilled his hands, holding himself tight, trying to listen to anything that might reveal that she was in fact touching herself.

Soon, soft, secret moans began drifting steadily toward him. “Hmm,” she gasped, her breaths coming in soft pants that were almost muted by the clattering wheels of the carriage. “Oh, God,” she softly choked out.

It was too choked and too soft and too unrehearsed to be fake. He almost spilled his seed realizing she was in fact behaving as he’d asked. Of course, he had to be sure. “Are you watching me?” he ventured hoarsely.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Damn, but he wanted to explode knowing that. “Tell me how much you are enjoying watching me and how you desperately need to watch me while you pleasure yourself.”

After a few breaths, she choked out, “I need to.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” She gasped. “I do.”

He jerked himself a few times, unable to keep his hands away. “Tell me that you wish I was between your thighs. Tell me.”

“I…” she choked out. “You. Between my thighs.”

She wouldn’t be submitting so easily to these wicked words if she wasn’t in the throes of true pleasure. Nor did she sound coherent. Of course, he wanted there to be no doubt left. “Louder. I want to feel what I cannot see.”

“Remington!” she cried, that refined tone losing the last of its control. “I feel—”

He clenched his jaw and quickly clasped himself, pushing his own body to catch up to hers. How he wanted to be between her thighs, pounding his lust and his love into her.

A long, well-pleasured moan escaped her.

He’d never experienced anything more erotic in his life. His body tightened as pleasure exploded forth. Seed spurted out with every breath, pulse and jerk.

“Victoria,” he groaned, throwing back his head. “God, how I have waited for this. For you.” He writhed, blinded by the beauty of that moment. At last, he knew true, untainted pleasure. Pleasure in the company of the woman he had always loved, wanted and needed. If only she felt the same.

He tried to make his climax last, but with a few jagged breaths, it was over. He gasped and settled back against the seat, his hand falling away from himself. He slowly opened his eyes and met Victoria’s gaze, his chest still heaving in disbelief.

They continued to stare intently at each other as the clattering of wheels against the cobblestones and the rhythmic hoofbeats of the horses echoed all around them.

She slid her hands out from beneath her lifted skirts and yanked the bundled fabric back down her shapely stockinged legs. “I cannot believe I just did that.”

Nor could he.

Jonathan sat up and shoved himself back into place, wiping his hand on his undergarment. He buttoned his trousers, surprised to find his hands shaking.

Sensing her unease, he eyed her and hoped to God he hadn’t gone too far. For as he himself knew all too well, there was a very thin veil between pleasure and degradation. “Assure me I did not shame you. For that is not why I wanted you to do it.”

She smoothed her hands awkwardly against her skirts. “No, I…was willing.” She winced. “Surprisingly.”

He pulled on his coat. “You should always be willing, no matter the challenge I set. If you ever feel uncomfortable about anything we do, inform me of it and I will stop at once. I want our time together to be erotic. Not miserable and degrading. I have lived the latter and would never wish that for you.”

She drew her brows together, observing him.

He adjusted his coat around his chest by the lapels, opened both curtains of the carriage and settled back against the seat. “Do you have a question? I sense that you do.”

“You seem…comfortable with your body. Far more comfortable than I ever imagined someone would be.”

He shrugged. “I was not always this comfortable with myself, or my body, for that matter. It is something I have learned.”

She glanced away and stared out the window toward the passing buildings. Buildings whose darkened glass windows hinted at other lives neither of them would ever be privy to. “Why do you insist on Venice? Surely it cannot harbor anything worth returning to after what you have endured. What if this marchesa wants to become a part of your life again? What then?”

“Unlikely. She and I have become friends, despite everything, and parted amicably. She even terminated me sixteen weeks before my contract was officially over so I could come to London and vie for you. I have no reason to blame an entire city for what happened to me. Venice has become my home, Victoria. And although my stepmother has since passed, I still want you to meet Cornelia, her husband and their three children. I want you to get to know me in a way you would never be able to if we remained here. I also promised to take you to Venice after we married, and though you may not remember when I made that promise, I remember it quite well.”

“’Twas the first letter you wrote.” She placed her bare hand on the glass and kept it there, her eyes fixed upon it. “You wish to woo me whilst we are in Venice and persuade me to stay. Don’t you?”

He smirked. “Wish to, bella? No. I will.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered. “I really don’t.”

“Then I ask you not hurt me. I ask you to love me. Like you once did.”

The carriage rolled to a halt, causing them to sway. Her hand fell away from the glass as the driver called out their destination.

Victoria secured her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Please, do not escort me in.”

“I will remain here in the carriage and wait until you are safely inside.”

“Thank you.”

The door opened and the footman unfolded the steps.

“Good night, Victoria,” he offered quietly. “I look forward to seeing you again. As my wife.”

She stared at him, then turned and whisked out of the carriage with the assistance of the footman.

Jonathan leaned forward and watched her pass through the iron gates and up the stairs toward the large entryway. When the door opened and she disappeared inside, he leaned back against the seat and knocked on the roof of the carriage to take him back to Grayson’s.

He only hoped to God he knew what he was doing. For he couldn’t help but feel he was playing a dangerous game that could very well destroy whatever was left of not only their hearts but their lives.

3:57 a.m.

IN THE QUIET darkness, Jonathan stared at the outline of his leather trunk from where he sat on the floor beside the four-poster. Cornelia had tucked a vial of laudanum into one of the compartments, insisting he would need it. But he was not bloody ingesting a single drop of what she or those Venetian physicians kept telling him to. Even if it meant never sleeping again. Having watched the marchesa consume it on a nightly basis during his years of service, he knew full well how addictive and destructive it was.

He would rather not sleep.

Not that he could with thoughts of Victoria assaulting him. What must she think of him after what they’d done in the carriage? That he was perverted, obsessed and touched in the head, to be sure. Which he supposed he was. He was so desperate to return to what they had once shared that he was losing all reason and all pride.

“Merda.” Jonathan pushed himself up from the floor beside the bed, the silver pendant around his neck swaying against his bare chest. Swiping a hand over his face, he grabbed his robe from the twisted bed linen and shrugged it on over his naked torso.

He tied the robe into place around his waist and seethed out an exhausted breath. Settling onto the mattress, he forced his eyes shut and lay there listening to the steady intake of his breath and the beating of his heart. Three hours. That was all he needed to survive. Three hours.

The fatigue a bride undergoes during preparations for a wedding as well as during the wedding itself will astonish even the most prepared. That fatigue, however, is but a symbolic introduction to a new life she must shoulder. But if a lady can survive the expectations of both families and the wedding itself, she can survive anything.
—
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

Six days later
Late morning
The Linford townhouse

“NO!” THE EARL kept shouting through strained sobs. “No!”

Victoria refused to look at her father, fearing the last of her strength to stand would desert her.

Her father shrieked. It was a shriek that sliced through the air with a fierceness that pierced Victoria’s heart and clutched her stomach. She glanced up toward the high ceiling above in an effort to calm herself. She was beginning to regret not agreeing to have her father sedated. She hadn’t wanted him to be part of the ceremony at all, because of this very reason, but her uncle, damn him, had insisted her father deserved to be present.

The old clergyman standing before her and Remington paused from the last of his sacrament and glanced toward her father.

Her uncle and Grayson shifted, using their weight to forcefully hold her father against a chair, their straining bodies locking the earl into place. Mr. Parker scrambled toward them from across the drawing room to assist, his forehead beading with visible moisture.

Victoria squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to look at the clergyman or Remington or anyone else.

This was not a wedding, but a funeral.

She willed herself not to cry.

“Hell awaits thee!” the earl shouted, his voice growing louder and stronger, the chair clattering. “Hell!”

Victoria slapped shaky hands against her ears, unable to listen to any more. She didn’t even know what his syphilitic mind was seeing.

Muscled arms slid around her and firmly dragged her over. She didn’t resist as Remington’s large, gloved hand pressed against her hair, setting her cheek against the warmth of his solid chest. A chest enrobed in a soft, embroidered waistcoat.

The soothing scents of mint, soap and hair tonic engulfed her. She let out a sob that had been buried deep within her, her hands dropping from her ears, and fell against him, allowing herself to lean into the comfort he offered.

She drew in several savage breaths, trying to push each breath back out evenly, and nuzzled against him, needing to wrap herself in this…warmth. She had almost forgotten how it felt to be held and comforted.

“Enough!” Remington demanded, his voice rumbling against her ear, his breaths heavy. “I will not allow her to endure any more. Either you remove him from this house at once, or announce that we are married and be done with it.”

Victoria swallowed, secretly cherishing Remington’s fiery concern. Nothing he ever did was without passion. Everything, including his wicked methods of seduction, had a scorching heat that seared everything he touched. Including her.

The clergyman paused. “You are both already bound in matrimony, my lord. May God bless you both in your union. The parish will require—”

“Josephine!” her father screeched. “Dearest God, why? Why?”

Victoria choked back another sob that clenched in her throat at hearing her own mother’s name. A name she hadn’t heard uttered from her father’s lips in years. Tears overwhelmed her and she sobbed. Why was he able to recall the dead but not the living?

She clutched the sides of Remington’s solid waist, wishing she could escape this never-ending madness of being caught between the present and the past. Neither of which she seemed able to escape.

Remington kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening as he secured her more firmly against himself.

It was too much. All of this. Nothing ever lasted. Everything always disappeared. And in time, she knew Remington would, too.

Victoria scrambled out of Remington’s embrace, pushing his arms away in an effort to distance herself from the torrent of emotions overtaking her. She staggered as the yellow drawing room whitened and her limbs felt light.

She tried to focus on Remington’s face, but he faded into a white fog as her wobbly limbs slipped from beneath her, erasing everything.

JONATHAN’S HEART bucked to his throat when his arms instinctively shot out and caught Victoria. As her soft, small frame fell heavily against him and her blond head sagged, hiding her face completely, he realized she had fainted.

“Victoria!” Jonathan scooped her up off her slippered feet, burying his hands within her abundant, champagne-colored gauze-and-silk gown, and protectively lifted her into his arms.

The earl’s shouts faded into a drone as he dipped his head toward Victoria. “Look at me. Victoria. Say something. Please say something.”

She rolled her head toward him, a daisy falling from her blond chignon and fluttering to the floor. She blinked, her pale oval face slowly filling with color again. Her green eyes lifted from his chest to his face and sharpened with a renewed strength he had not expected to see so soon.

“Set me down.” She took in a deep, shaky breath.

That intake of breath made his eyes instinctively veer toward the fullness of her breasts displayed by her gown.

He searched her face, noting she no longer appeared dazed. “When did you last eat?”

“I cannot remember. I have been so…overwhelmed by everything that I—” She shifted in his arms and pushed at his chest. Her feet kicked out, once, then twice. “Please. Set me down.”

“Shh.” He tightened his hold, squeezing her warm softness against him. He glanced toward Grayson. “She needs rest and a good meal if we are to make our journey this afternoon.”

Grayson nodded as he darted back to the earl, who staggered up to his booted feet, muttering.

Victoria stiffened and pushed against Remington again. “Let me go. You holding me will only upset him. Please—”

“I am not setting you down. We will remove ourselves.” Jonathan turned and carried her out of the drawing room. His steps echoed as he made his way down the corridor and up the stairs. He didn’t look at her for fear of bringing more intimacy to an already intimate position. “Where is your bedchamber?”

She hesitated. “The third door. On the right.”

Once on the landing, he readjusted Victoria in his arms, his fingers digging into the soft curves hidden beneath her gown, and headed toward the door she had indicated.

Her small hands smoothed his cravat. “I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t. I didn’t want to—”

“I know, bella. Believe me. I know. I didn’t want to be there, either. I am so sorry for your loss. I truly am.” He tightened his hold on the soft warmth of her body, enjoying the unexpected attention she was bestowing upon his cravat. If only she could be equally interested in him.

He paused at the third door and balanced her against the upper half of his body so that he wouldn’t have to set her down. The scent of sweet lavender and fresh daisies filled his nostrils as her curled, pinned hair lingered close. His body tightened as he fought to keep from burying his face into the scent. Instead, he grabbed hold of the knob in an effort to distract himself.

She kicked out her legs and leaned far forward, causing him to lose his grip on her entirely. She stumbled down onto her feet and caught herself against the wall of the corridor. Straightening herself, she stepped away, placing a hand on her corseted stomach, and announced, “I was overwhelmed and became lightheaded, is all. There really is no need for all of this.”

He grabbed the knob and twisted, pushing the door open. “Even so, I am asking you to rest. In an hour, we record our names with the parish, then leave for Portsmouth. You will not survive without—”

A high-pitched bark made him glance down as paws raked his leather boots in greeting. He slowly grinned at the short-legged terrier he recalled all too well.

“I remember you.” He bent and scooped a pudgier, graying Flint into his arms. He set him in the crook of his arm and rubbed the small, furry head that nuzzled against his hand. “Still as friendly as ever. Are you coming with us to Venice, old boy?”

Having received his share of affection from him, Flint twisted toward Victoria, looking for more.

Victoria dragged Flint out of his arms, cradling him in her own, and wandered into her room. She kissed his head. “I decided to leave him with Grayson.”

The earl’s shouts echoed in the distance.

Jonathan entered the room after her and slammed the oak-paneled door shut. He didn’t want her to listen to any more of it. How had she survived in his presence at all? It was as if she had learned to completely separate herself from reality. It eerily reminded him of how he himself had to survive while with the Casacalendas.

Leaning heavily against the door, he eyed her. “I feel it is best you spent some time away from him. You do not want to remember your father in this way, do you?”

“No. I don’t.” She turned away and wandered toward the four-poster bed. She set Flint onto the bed, then gathered her skirts above her ankles with both arms.

Jonathan’s breath hitched as two shapely legs encased in snowy-white stockings appeared. He pressed himself harder against the door, reminding himself that now was not the time to notice or want such things.

She climbed onto the large mattress beside Flint, who was already curling into a comfortable position. Stretching herself out, she buried her legs once again beneath her skirts, then turned on her side, giving him and Flint her back. She plucked out the daisies woven into her bundled hair and tossed them one by one onto the pillow beside her, thus ending her acquiescence to his request for her to wear flowers in her hair during the informal ceremony.

Jonathan pushed himself away from the door and set his hand hesitantly against his coat pocket, where he’d hidden her wedding gift. It was a simple gift, but one he hoped she would like.

He cleared his throat, letting his hand drop to his side, and decided to wait for a more opportune time to present it. Glancing around the sizable bedchamber, he noticed a row of trunks packed for their travels. Curiosity took him to the other side of the room, toward Victoria’s dressing table. As a cicisbeo, he had learned everything there was to know about a lady’s boudoir. He had also learned that her dressing table bespoke everything about her. How much time she spent before it, whether she was extravagant, conceited or fussy. He didn’t expect any of those things from Victoria, but he wanted to reacquaint himself with her in any way he could. Ways he knew she would fight to the end to keep him at a distance.

He paused before the white marble top of the dressing table, reflected in the gilded oval mirror attached to it, and slid his hand along its smooth edge. An open, carved wooden box filled with colorful satin and lace ribbons. Two neatly folded handkerchiefs. A silverhandled brush, set perfectly straight. Curl papers. A sachet full of dried lavender set between two slim perfume bottles. A glass bottle of strawberry water for the skin and hands.

He smiled. She appeared to be everything he already knew her to be. Neat, humble toward her own appearance and simple in her tastes. No rouge, no Spanish wool, no Chinese boxes of colors, no white paints, powders, almond paste, talc or creams. None of the senseless things he had slathered Bernadetta with on a daily basis. While such things made a woman pretty, yes, they did nothing for her soul.

He only hoped he could salvage whatever was left of Victoria’s. He hadn’t realized how horrid her situation was until today. Absolutely nothing remained of the spirited, boasting man Jonathan once knew as her father. Even worse, the man was unable to acknowledge the daughter whom Jonathan knew he loved very much.

Turning back toward the bed, Jonathan noted Victoria was quietly watching him from where she lay. Her eyes no longer appeared swollen or red from tears. She looked peaceful. Which brought him some measure of comfort.

Flint had already fallen asleep, tucked against the back of her skirts. Somewhere Jonathan himself wouldn’t mind being.

Making his way toward Victoria, he paused beside the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Better. Thank you.” Her green eyes met his. “I feel as though this time away from him will be good. That doesn’t make me a bad daughter, does it?”

“How could you think that? You have already shouldered so much on his behalf.”

The rushing of heavy footsteps and a crash resounded from somewhere within the house, sending a tremor reverberating up through the walls around him. He blew out a heavy breath, knowing he should probably help.

He leaned toward Victoria, placing both hands against the softness of the satin coverlet. “I will leave you to rest, after which you will eat. You require strength. It will take us two days just to get Portsmouth, and then another sixteen days to Venice. If the sea is favorable, that is.”

She nodded against the pillow.

He eyed the scattered daisies and raked them all toward him into a small pile. “You should have left them in your hair. They looked pretty.”

“They did?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

She lowered her eyes to the coverlet and smoothed a bare hand against it. “Remington?”

This was turning into an intimate little conversation. Something he did not expect. He scooped up the daisies and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to pretend he was more interested in the pile of delicate white petals in his hand than anything else. “What is it?”

“I am so sorry. I really am.”

He struggled to remain indifferent, even though his heart pounded uncontrollably. “For what?”

“I do not mean to treat you with disdain. I really don’t. Not when you are being so kind. I simply feel as if…with each loss I have endured, I lose a larger and larger part of myself. There are times I don’t even recognize who I am.”