Scandal of the Year (30 page)

The duke walked into the drawing room. He leaned on a cane today, which meant his gout must be bothering him. Nevertheless, he made a stately figure with his neatly combed dark hair with hints of gray, tailored maroon coat, and perfectly tied white cravat beneath his haughty chin.

Like a marionette controlled by strings, Blythe found herself rising to her feet and then curtsying to him alongside her mother. He and Mrs. Crompton exchanged a few pleasantries. Then Mama said, “I’ve a matter I must check on with the housekeeper, Your Grace, if you’ll excuse me.”

Mrs. Crompton aimed a secretive smile of encouragement at Blythe before hurrying out of the drawing room. How silly to keep up such a pretense, Blythe thought. They all knew why Savoy had come here. Why not just say so and be done with it?

The duke waved his ringed hand at a chaise. “Will you sit with me, Miss Crompton? There is a matter of importance we must discuss.”

The urge to dash out of the room made her sway. She wanted to run as far and as fast as possible. But in the end, there was nothing for her to do but comply.

She lowered herself to the cushions and laced her fingers in her lap. As the duke took his seat beside her, he seemed an utter stranger, a middle-aged lord who thought too highly of himself. She could scarcely bring herself to meet his eyes. There was nothing whatsoever about him that interested her anymore.

A gambler! How little she had known of him.

Savoy afforded her the benign smile one would give a child. “I have just spoken to your father,” he said, his fingers curled around the knob of his cane. “If you will forgive me for speaking plainly, he has given his consent for me to pay my addresses to you.”

Of course Papa had done so, Blythe thought in despair. She had told him weeks ago that the duke was her ideal husband. Then last night in the coach, when her father had informed them of the duke’s scheduled visit, she had been too shocked to voice any objection.

But now, she could not keep silent. All her frustration and despair demanded to be released. “I will speak plainly, too, Your Grace. It would seem you are in dire need of my dowry.”

His pale blue eyes blinked in surprise. “The state of my finances is neither here nor there. It can be of no concern to a young lady such as yourself.”

“It
is
of concern to me. My father works hard to earn his wealth. Now it will be squandered to pay your gambling debts.”

Savoy’s lips tightened. “By Jove! You’re a cheeky girl. I would remind you of how greatly you and your family will benefit from an alliance with me.”

He was right, Blythe knew. Her spark of anger died, leaving the ashes of bitter desolation. Mama and Papa would be elevated in the eyes of society. And she herself would wear the tiara of a duchess. That was what she had wanted. But now, such a life seemed so cold and empty.

“As you are aware of my purpose,” he continued, “I see no reason to belabor the moment.” He reached for her hand and clutched it limply. “Miss Crompton, will you agree to become my wife?”

The proud tilt to his chin conveyed his unshakeable belief that she would accept. This was merely a formality to him.

Savoy cared nothing for her wishes, nor would he ever care. By marrying him, she would be forever bound to a man who believed himself superior to her, a man who lacked the ability to love her as she yearned to be loved.

But James had that ability. James had displayed his warmth and affection for her many times, most notably during the night when they had engaged in such tender lovemaking. Oh, she
knew
she could win his heart. With James, the future held radiant possibilities.

The truth of that washed through her like a balm to her battered emotions. She couldn’t wed the duke, not even for the sake of her parents.

“Your Grace, I…”

A movement drew her attention to the arched doorway. A tall man strode into the drawing room as if he owned the world.

Prince Nicolai.

Blythe’s heart did a wild leap. Without conscious thought, she stood up and pressed her hand to her mouth. James!

Dear God, what was he
doing
here? She wanted to laugh and weep all at once. She hadn’t ordered him to don the costume. They had agreed it was no longer necessary.

Yet he was here.

Prince Nicolai walked straight toward them. He wore his full regalia, the crimson sash with the glittering medals, the sword at his side. His black hair glistened from the rain, and his handsome face bore a look of gallant resolve.

And with him, he brought all of the light and color that had leached from the room. Everything turned bright again—most notably, her spirits.

The duke levered himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. By the rigid set of his face, he appeared none too pleased at the interruption.

He bowed to James. “Your Highness.”

“Savoy. I see you have managed to corner the most lovely lady in all of England.” Prince Nicolai reached for her hand. While he raised it to his mouth and kissed the back, his dark eyes held a devilish gleam. “Have I interrupted something important?”

“No,” Blythe said.

“We were engaged in a private discussion,” Savoy corrected with a hint of irritation. “Perhaps you will be the first to congratulate me. Miss Crompton was about to accept my offer of marriage.”

“About to? Then there is still time for her to reconsider.” James dropped to one knee before her. Lacing his warm fingers through hers, he looked up at her with grave earnestness. “Miss Crompton, we have known each other for only a short time. Yet I must confess that I fell madly in love with you at first sight.”

Her heart squeezed taut. His stirring declaration fulfilled all of her romantic dreams. She searched his dark eyes for the truth. Why was James saying this right now? Why had he not done so last night?

Unless he was merely playacting now. Because he believed Blythe needed rescuing from a life of unhappiness with the duke.

“See here!” Savoy objected. “I must ask you not to speak to my betrothed in so familiar a fashion. I’ve obtained her father’s consent. We have worked out a dowry agreement.”

James ignored him. He was staring up at Blythe, and she could not tear her gaze from his. “I hope you can forgive my boldness,” he said in that stirring foreign accent. “I’ve been called back to my homeland and there is no time for delay. I would very much like for you to go with me. My dearest Blythe, will you marry me?”

She desperately wanted to say yes. But she didn’t want to accept the prince; she wanted to wed James the footman.

If
he truly loved her.

“That is quite enough,” Savoy said. “Release her hand at once. Your Highness, you cannot waltz in here and steal my bride.”

“It is up to Miss Crompton to decide whose bride she will be.”

Blythe looked from one man to the other. The duke, who needed her money to pay his gaming debts. And James, who was far too adept at playing Prince Nicolai when what she really wanted was … open and honest love.

She pulled her hand free. “I refuse
both
of you.”

Turning, she ran out of the drawing room.

Chapter 27

“There be such a quarrel above stairs,” said a wiry maid named Sally whose mobcap drooped low on her brow. “Shoutin’ an’ doors slammin’ an’ such! I was polishin’ the woodwork an’ ’eard it all.”

A cluster of servants had gathered in the kitchen, where a scullery maid stood peeling carrots at the long wooden table. Listening intently, James busied himself by mixing the contents of a jar of silver polish at the dry sink. He had just returned to Crompton House after changing back into his footman’s livery. He burned to know what had happened after Blythe had fled from the drawing room.

God! She had rebuffed him again. The memory lodged like a stone in his gut. At least he could take solace in the fact that she’d also turned down Savoy and his blasted title.

“The missus locked Miss Blythe in ’er chamber,” Meg told the others. “Told ’er t’ stay put till she comes to ’er senses.”

Sally gave a vigorous nod. “She refused to wed a duke and a prince, all in one breath.”

“Cor!” said the scullery girl in awe. “Fancy that! Two at once!”

The women murmured in envy and disbelief.

Godwin appeared in the doorway and clapped his hands. “Enough gossiping about your betters,” he snapped. “Go on, get your work done.”

The maids scattered.

The head footman marched toward James. “You! Where have you been? You disappeared for an hour.”

“Miss Crompton asked me to walk her dog,” James said coolly. He nodded at Minx, who lay by the hearth, gnawing on a beef bone.

Disapproval showed on Godwin’s thin, foxy face. “Next time, you will inform me before you leave the house. Or you will have no position here upon your return.”

James was tempted to turn in his notice right then and there. But not yet. Not when he had made such a mangle of things.

Assuming the guise of Prince Nicolai had seemed the perfect solution, for Blythe had always found him charming. But even that ploy had failed miserably. What the devil was his next move to be when she clearly wanted nothing to do with him?

One fact was certain. He had to see her again. He was desperate to make amends somehow.

But how?

The jar of polishing mix in hand, James stalked to the tiny, dank workroom where another endless pile of silverware awaited him. Minx trotted along with him, the bone clamped in her teeth. She settled down in a corner to continue her happy chewing.

Would that he could be so easily contented.

The approach of dusk muted the already dim light from the single high window. In the semi-darkness, he ferociously attacked one spoon after another. All the while, his thoughts dwelt on Blythe. The silken feel of her skin. The taste of her breasts. The look of wonder on her face when he’d entered her.

Then the hurt in her eyes when he had failed to return her words of love.

What a damn fool he was! After she had sent him away, he’d plunged into the depths of misery. He had been wretched at the thought of losing Blythe. It was a feeling unlike anything he’d ever known. His turmoil could not be attributed merely to the failure of his scheme to entrap her.

There was only one explanation. He really
had
fallen in love with Blythe. Hopelessly, stupidly, in love.

Yet when he’d told her so as Prince Nicolai, when he had sunk to his knees and bared his heart, she had scorned him.

How could he blame her? Blythe was right to mistrust him. She sensed he had a secret purpose—she likely thought him a fortune hunter. She couldn’t know that his true motive was far, far worse.

He intended to use Blythe in order to expose her parents as imposters. Those two must be tried in a court of law and punished for their crime. But first, Edith had to come face to face with Mrs. Bleasdale, the elderly woman James believed to be her mother. Edith must be lured to Lancashire.

James burned to know what had happened to his cousin and his wife. His love for Blythe must not stand in the way of justice. But with every passing moment, he felt his chances with her slipping away.

Abandoning the silver, he stalked to the kitchen, Minx at his heels. The assistant cook stood at the stove, stirring a large pot.

“Miss Crompton has requested a tea tray,” James told her.

The stout woman stared at him in befuddlement. “Meg took one not ’alf an ’our ago.”

“A fresh pot of tea,” James amended. “The first one was cold.”

Grumbling, the woman shuffled to the hearth to pour the hot water and add the leaves. He took the dainty porcelain pot from her, set it on a silver tray, and headed toward the servants’ staircase.

Minx trotted after him. “Stay,” he told her.

The mutt plopped down on the bottom step, head cocked mournfully and tail barely wagging.

James trudged up the narrow stairs. What could he possibly say to Blythe? How the devil was he to convince her to abandon her family and friends, to give up London society in exchange for an uncertain life as the wife of a common servant?

Of course, he couldn’t reveal that he was really a gentleman. Nor could he say that by marrying him, she would be securing her future.

Everything her father owned rightfully belonged to James. As his wife, Blythe could continue to live in the lavish manner to which she was accustomed. It would be difficult for her to endure the scandal of her parents’ crimes, but at least she would have the protection of James’s name. The gossip would die down in time. With the aid of her sisters, she might even be accepted in society again.

But would she ever forgive him? That was a question for which James had no answer.

As he walked down the opulent upstairs corridor, his steps faltered. A footman stood on duty outside Blythe’s bedchamber door.

Anger stabbed into James. Blast Edith! The dragon had actually imprisoned Blythe as punishment for refusing the two offers of marriage.

The tray balanced on his palm, he strode forward and greeted the freckled young man. “Laycock,” he said with a nod. “I’ve been sent to relieve you. You’re to finish polishing the silver.”

Laycock looked perplexed. “But Godwin said—”

“He’ll be angry if you don’t finish the task before dinner. Now, I presume the bedchamber is locked, so give me the key. I’ll need to deliver this teapot to Miss Crompton.”

Laycock fished the key from his pocket, handed it to James, and took off down the passageway.

James turned the skeleton key in the lock, then rapped lightly. A moment later, the door opened a crack and Blythe peered out.

Her face looked wan, her hair charmingly mussed, her eyes a little red as if she’d been weeping. There were wrinkles in the skirt of her lemon-yellow gown. She had never looked more beautiful.

Or further out of his reach.

“May I come in?” he asked gently.

James didn’t know what he’d do if she refused him. Push his way inside? Force her to listen to him? Fall to his knees and beg?

But she stepped aside to give him space to enter. Twilight had cast shadows throughout the room. A single candle burned on the bedside table. The large four-poster was rumpled, the coverlet and pillows in disarray. He ached to coax her there right now. To kiss her until they both forgot all their troubles in pleasure …