A Proper Scandal (12 page)

It was only meant to be a taste. Touch. Texture. Warmth. One kiss . . . two at most. He would not reach for her, and he balled his hands into fists.

Unhelpfully, she did not retreat. She tipped against the railing, reaching tentatively for his shoulder to steady herself.

He pulled back and stared into her sea-depth eyes, waiting for he knew not what.

The only sound was the rasp of her breath in and out, in and out.

She tipped her head, the smallest invitation, and he ducked to cover her mouth for another kiss—the last one—harder, deeper. Well, the
second
-to-last kiss.

But now the contact slowed, grew languid, one kiss melted into the next. He canted his head to deepen it. Her lips opened, ever so slightly, and she made another of the small gasps that he now viewed as an aphrodisiac and reward.

She pushed off the railing and went up on her toes, leaning against him,
falling
against him. He caught her, a reflex—a tightly wound, excruciatingly hopeful reflex for which he had been waiting for hours, for days, to perform.

He closed his arms around her, gathering her close. He'd wanted this since her aunt's balcony in the rain. She clung to him, and he felt every point of contact as surely as if she burned into him. When her tongue tentatively grazed his bottom lip, he groaned, lifting her against him. He pivoted, spinning them both, and backed her against the wall.
Leverage
. Something to push against. He raised his head to draw a ragged breath, and she reached for him, pulling him back to her mouth. He complied and pressed her back against the plaster.

The sweetness of the original kiss dissolved, replaced by something wilder. He took her face in his hands and angled her head, guiding the kiss. She gasped. He kissed her again, was rewarded again.

She was a dizzying mix of uncertainty and eagerness, her innocence as erotic as her enthusiasm. He lost count of the minutes, the kisses; he lost all conscious thought. Reality ebbed and flowed. His fingertips drifted to her hair, memorizing the texture, gently working free the wisps and curls. He left her mouth to trail kisses down her jaw to her ear and back again. She turned her head, offering herself up.

“This is madness,” she said, turning her face to find his mouth again.

He descended on her lips. “Yes,” he said between kisses, barely allowing time to breathe. “It was not my goal.”

“I don't believe you.”

He chuckled. “My fantasy, perhaps, but not my goal.” He dipped to kiss her again, his hands falling from her face to her waist, wrenching himself closer, pressing her into the wall. She did not resist. God forgive them, she
surged
, pressing back.

She pulled away long enough to ask, “Why go to the trouble of asking for a proper courtship, only to come here and . . . ?” She was breathless, the words coming out in a halting whisper.

“Because you
refused
my request to court you. This was the only way you would see me.”

“So be it,” she said, sighing.

“Oh, no.” He chuckled, dipping down to her mouth again. “We must do it properly. Follow every rule.”

“Too many rules,” she mumbled.

More kisses. Her hands roved his biceps, his shoulders, his neck. She sank her fingers into his hair. It felt as if she would climb his body. He tried to laugh, but his mouth was occupied. Sound was swallowed by the next kiss.

Drawing a shaky breath, he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. Their noses touched. When she blinked, her eyelashes batted his face.

“Lord Rainsleigh?” She tilted her head so that he was forced to pull back.

“I've asked you to call me Bryson.” He slid his hands from her body and placed them on the wall, caging her in.

“My lord?” she began again and giggled. His heart lurched at the sound.

“I must know,” she went on. “Are you truly not appalled by the nature of the work we do here?”

He narrowed his eyes.
Now
she would have him think? “I am appalled by
my
behavior here,” he said. “With you.”

“Now who changes the subject? It was only a kiss.” She peered up at him.

He pushed off the wall and stepped away. “I hold myself to a higher standard, Elisabeth. I have to, if I intend to outrun the very low standard set by my parents.”

“So very proper,” she whispered. “Too proper?”

“There are kisses, and then there are
kisses.
This—as delectable as it was—is unacceptable. We are alone. I came here on an errand to support your charity; instead, I've had my way with you up against the kitchen wall. My God, it's like a bad novel.” He tried again. “I have tried very hard to avoid reckless behavior. At the same time, I am intensely attracted to you, as you now see. That attraction is what concerns me. More than the nature of your work.”

“Still not an answer, I'm afraid.” She shoved off the wall.

He put his hands on his hips. “Does this charity give me pause? Yes. But not because of my delicate sensibilities. It is because I have spent my life endeavoring to distance myself from this particular
industry
and now, here it is, all tied up with you.”

“It needn't be about me, my lord,” she whispered.

“It is entirely about you.” He stepped back to her.

“The courtship? But I have said no.”

“And that is an answer I cannot accept.”

“I am trying to win your money.”

He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “I cannot imagine the others applicants being any more persuasive than you. You may have the money.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved his shoulder. He grabbed her hand, holding it between them. The desire to kiss her again was so great it was painful not to lean in.

She stared at her hand in his. “This is wrong.”

“Yes,” he said, “but it can be made right. Let me call on you properly, Elisabeth. Let me take you to the opera. Let us ride in the park. Let us stay away from dark, empty kitchens.” He paused, studying her. She did not deny him. “Let me consider the work you do here. Meanwhile, I'll show you that I am a gentleman. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I'm afraid we will require a chaperone. I have learned of suitable candidate who might accompany us.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned, closing her eyes. She pulled her hand free. “I am too old for this. A chaperone? The opera?”

“Come now, Elisabeth. Are you ever too old for the opera?”

B
y all accounts, Miss Jocelyn Breedlowe was a poor candidate to serve as chaperone, and she knew it. At thirty-eight, she herself had never married. She had no particular training or experience in the comportment of young women. And although she denied it, even to her most suppliant, biddable self, she found frivolous, unearned entitlement to be a bore. And fewer souls were more frivolous and entitled than rich young ladies who aspired to land equally rich husbands with little more than pedigree and Papa's purse.

Despite all this, Jocelyn had chaperoned her first charge, Miss Piety Grey, in a brilliant love match—and with an earl, no less—and she remained close to that young woman, now the Countess of Falcondale, to this day.

But Jocelyn had not thought that Piety Grey was entitled. And Piety had never challenged Jocelyn's unmarried status. Their partnership had been a rare and fortunate thing.

Knowing this, she was reluctant to risk a second go. Employment was necessary to survive, of course, but she had her work as a paid companion to Lady Frinfrock. She had managed well enough, providing elder care, before her chaperoning of Miss Grey. As occupations went, it was steady and dependable, safe and familiar. She was proficient at it—beloved, in fact, by her former charges. Even Lady Frinfrock had grown to abide her.

So why take on chaperoning again? Why unpack her favorite hat and dress her hair? Why polish her shoes the day after a mud-strewing storm? Why knock on the door of a girl about whom she knew very little and invite every manner of the unknown?

One terrifying word.

More.

Jocelyn Breedlowe dared to want
more
than steady and dependable, safe and familiar. She'd tasted more in service to Piety Grey and, try as she might, she could not wash the taste from her lips. She wanted
more
.

“Hello,” Jocelyn said, smiling pleasantly when the unmarked door in Moxon Street squeaked open just a crack. “Miss Jocelyn Breedlowe. Here to see Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes.”

The woman in the doorway studied Jocelyn and then said, “I am Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes.”

But this was the same lady she had seen in Henrietta Place the week before, arriving at the viscount's house just as Jocelyn and Lady Frinfrock were taking their leave. She had been calling on Lord Rainsleigh—a young woman, alone—and the marchioness had not been impressed.

Well, if Jocelyn could say nothing else about the potential of this job, at least there was room to impress Lady Frinfrock (if anyone cared about that).

“How do you do?” Jocelyn went on. “I've come at the request of his lordship, Viscount Rainsleigh, to serve as possible chaperone.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Oh, no,” said Lady Elisabeth. “You're joking.”

Jocelyn's smile went a little off. “
Ah
. . . forgive me, but—” She paused and tried again. “If I'm not mistaken, Lord Rainsleigh plans to call here at ten o'clock this morning. He suggested I should arrive a little early so that we might become acquainted. I'm sorry; did his lordship not discuss it?”

“Discuss it? Yes, I suppose he did,” Lady Elisabeth said with a pained look, like a doctor had just imposed bed rest. “How silly of me to misconstrue his
discussion
as the way things would ultimately be. But please”—she peered right and left out the door, scanning the street—“do come in. Of course, you could not know.”

Jocelyn smiled with a nod and slipped inside the cramped entry. There was no butler. In fact, there appeared to be no servants at all. Lady Elisabeth led the way, after giving Jocelyn a quick assessment, up and down.

Jocelyn applied the same quick once-over to the hallway, careful not to stare. The house was modest but tidy, certainly far less opulent than she expected. It was no secret that the viscount was very rich, but she knew nothing about Lady Elisabeth.

“Mabel?” Lady Elisabeth called. “A
guest
has arrived. Come. Let us practice your greetings, if you please.”

A plump adolescent girl with pretty brown eyes and a riot of curly blonde hair flounced from an adjacent room. Lady Elisabeth placed a hand on the girl's shoulder and said gently, “Mabel, this caller has just come in from the wet street. What would do we do to welcome her into the house?”

The girl nodded eagerly, swallowing hard. “
My
. . . but 'ow tall and thin you are, madam. You must be 'alf starved! Can we h'offer you refreshment?”

Jocelyn worked to keep her face neutral.

Lady Elisabeth cleared her throat. “Very generous, Mabel, but first let us offer to take her coat and umbrella, shall we?”

Mabel nodded her agreement and tried again. “Beggin' your pardon, madam. May I take your coat before we bring you something to eat?”

Jocelyn inclined her head graciously. “How kind. Thank you.” She relinquished her coat. The girl took it, petting the soft wool.

Lady Elisabeth prompted. “And then should we bid her good morning and hang the coat? That's it. You've got it. Very good, thank you. You may return to your letters. I will call if we require tea.”

“Oh, this one will surely be needin' tea, Lady E. Just look at 'er!”

“Fewer comments about the appearance of the guest, Mabel, may be in order. We would not want to say too much, would we?”

“Oh, but you could never say too much about bein' tall and thin, Lady E! Why, if I 'ad been that skinny, I could have gotten—”

“
That will be all
, Mabel,” Lady Elisabeth cut in, winking at the girl and smoothing her hair over her shoulders. “Nicely done. Lovely.”

The girl's eyes became huge and she nodded, turning to go. She'd only gone two steps before she reeled around, threw her arms around Lady Elisabeth's waist, and embraced her fiercely. Jocelyn blinked, unable to hide her surprise at the emotional display. Lady Elisabeth
oofed
at the force of the hold but seemed otherwise unalarmed. She patted the girl gently on the back and then whispered something in her ear. Jocelyn turned away to allow their exchange. Many admirable qualities presented themselves in that embrace. Lady Elisabeth was informal. She was gracious. Obviously, this young woman, whoever she was, regarded her very highly. Jocelyn stole a peek at them. As quickly as she had latched on, the girl drew away and hurried down the hall. Lady Elisabeth was a compassionate soul, then. Jocelyn had a weakness for compassion.

“This way if, if you please, Miss Breedlowe,” Lady Elisabeth said, merging into a small cozy parlor. She did not invite her to sit.

“I hope you do not mind directness,” Elisabeth began, turning to face her, “but I must lead with this: the very last thing I need is a chaperone.”

Jocelyn nodded slowly, searching her repertoire of polite responses. There was naught but the truth. “I value your candor, my lady. But what—”

“Please call me Elisabeth.”

Jocelyn laughed in spite of herself. “I beg your pardon,” she said, bringing a hand to her mouth. “You've just reminded me of my last charge, now a dear friend. She had a penchant for given names.”

“Well, titles won't be necessary, because the job is not necessary. I
am
sorry. I'm loath to put anyone out of work.”

Jocelyn nodded. “I see. But you needn't worry—you have not impoverished me so much as surprised me. I . . . I had no idea you were not of the same mind as the viscount. He suggested that you were expecting his call—and, likewise, me.”

“Oh, I know he is coming,” Elisabeth said with a sigh, “just not on a personal call. We seem to be at odds over the designation of our . . . comings and goings.”

“Quite so. I believe I saw—” She stopped, not wanting to accuse. She started again with a question. “Did I see you arrive at his house last week, as I was leaving with his neighbor, Lady Frinfrock?”

“Oh, right. That was you. But wait—” She made a horrified face. “Lady Frinfrock requires a chaperone?”

Jocelyn chuckled. “Er, no. I serve as a companion to the marchioness. I look after her health, keep her company—this sort of thing.”

“Oh, God bless you. No wonder you seek work as a chaperone.”

Jocelyn shook her head. “I don't seek employment so much as I was intrigued by the idea of change. I have only chaperoned one other young lady, and I quite enjoyed it. I have other pursuits. Please do not trouble yourself. I will not be made destitute if we don't suit. In fact, I was fully ready to decline my services, if you were too . . . too . . . ” Jocelyn blinked, surprised that she'd revealed so much. She started again, “Let us say that you are none of the things that would drive me back to caring for those who are elderly. On the contrary, you are exactly the sort of young woman I should enjoy chaperoning, but I'll not stay if I am not required.”

Elisabeth sighed. “Of course you would have to be lovely.” She cocked her head. “Please”—she gestured, dropping into a chair—“Lord Rainsleigh has already called once, and now he's due back today. The problem with these visits is not that we have no chaperone; the problem is that these aren't
social calls
. He's not here to see me. If he is, he should not be. He was touring my foundation in consideration of a donation he may make. I called at his house in Henrietta Place for the same purpose. It's all very boring and official.” She looked at Jocelyn, her expression imploring. She added, “This building is my charity foundation, a benevolence program for young women.”

“I deduced there was some service to girls.” Jocelyn settled on the near end of a couch.

“But there is
no
courtship.” Elisabeth toyed with her hair. “We are not
courting.
He's wrong in this, but he will not be dissuaded. He is stubborn. Who knew he would be so stubborn?”

“I couldn't begin to—”

“The problem,” Elisabeth continued, “is that he pretends to be in complete agreement with me—
'tis not a social call
—but then he goes and arranges for your service as chaperone. Either it is or it isn't. And it's
not
.”

“Right,” said Jocelyn cautiously. “I . . . I had no idea. I pride myself on discernment, but Lord Rainsleigh gave no clue of presumption or aggressiveness that would be, er, unwelcome. In fact, he approached me with the utmost regard for your reputation. Very adamant about it, he was. I assumed that you were the source of his concern—or your family.”

Lady Elisabeth closed her eyes and shook her head.

Well, that settles it,
Jocelyn thought. She took a deep breath and stood. “Clearly, if the viscount presumes too much, then indeed I am not required. But my lady? If I might be so bold as to suggest, it would be
your
responsibility, I'm afraid, to make this very clear to him. That is, if you do not wish to entertain him in this way—if you do not enjoy him . . . ”

Lady Elisabeth looked up, and the expression on her face—the sudden blush, the bit lip, the wide eyes—told Jocelyn everything she needed to know about whether Elisabeth
enjoyed
the viscount or not.

Jocelyn sat back down.
Perhaps it's not settled.

Elisabeth said quietly, “It doesn't matter if I enjoy him or not. He need not come here. What he needs is to
stay away
.
This
is the solution. He's come once already. He's seen the way I run the program. He's even promised the money. Why come again?”

“Oh, he's coming, I'm afraid. I heard him explain his devotion to his secretary when he took me on. If he does not have an earnest interest in your charity work, he may be using it as an excuse. He appeared very anxious to see you.”

“Oh, God.” Elisabeth stood up. “When did my charity become an excuse? Most people run from this charity, did you know?” She began to pace.

Jocelyn shook her head.

Lady Elisabeth continued. “You know who we serve? What we do here? I'm rehabilitating young women who were forced or fell into prostitution. You might as well know.”

Jocelyn said calmly, “I suspected as much.”

“Well, you're very astute.”

“I am accustomed to observation.”

“Right. Of course you are. Then, I suppose you've observed that I am thirty years old. That I run this foundation entirely on my own. That I am in the habit of near-complete independence. I live with my aunt, the Countess of Banning, and she and I are close, but she can't be bothered with playing governess to me—and thank God for that. We have our own rapport, and it suits us. My life would represent an exhausting challenge to any chaperone.”

Jocelyn chuckled. “No one could be more exhausting than my last charge.”

“Hmmm,” Elisabeth said dismissively, still pacing. “How many girls have you spirited down the aisle, Miss Breedlowe? If you don't mind my asking? You seem rather young.”

“Only one, in fact. My first charge was the neighbor of Lord Rainsleigh, Lady Falcondale—formerly Miss Piety Grey. They are abroad at the moment, away on a year-long trip, but they were friendly with the viscount before they left. Lord Rainsleigh is highly regarded by the earl, I believe. And my former charge, Lady Piety, seems to feel the same.”

She paused, watching Elisabeth pace nervously around the small room. After a moment, Jocelyn continued. “It is accurate to say that I am not a
veteran
chaperone, Lady Elisabeth. And although Piety did
marry
Lord Falcondale, I had very little, if anything, to do with the union. It was their own complicated journey. I . . . I hope I do not offend you by revealing that I am not in the business of marrying off young women.”

Lady Elisabeth made a scoffing noise. “Now you've endeared yourself to me even more.”

Jocelyn smiled. “I am available to . . . support you, if you care for support. And to keep things properly done, which seems to be a priority for the viscount.”