An Invitation to Scandal (12 page)

He should not be surprised by her request now, but he could not help it. In the passion that had escalated between them, he had completely forgotten why they were here. Now he wished she had. For how did he plan to extricate himself from this one?

“What are your intentions with Lord Roxton?”

She smiled. “Are you jealous?”

He did not return her teasing tone. “I have no claim on you.” A truth which cut to his core. For he wanted a claim on her. He wanted that and so much more, even now, two years later when their brief courtship should have been water under the bridge. But he had made such a mess of the time since then that the only water he could find had turned choppy and dangerous.

“Then you will point him out to me?”

“If I see him.” An event easily avoided by a hasty exit.

Miss Laytham nodded. “Very well then.”

She walked to the French doors and opened one, hesitating. A sliver of moonlight illuminated her figure making the muslin almost transparent.

Look back
, his thoughts begged.
Just this once, do not forsake me.

But she didn’t. Instead, her narrow shoulders squared as she slipped through the door without so much as a glance in his direction.

Nicholas slumped back against the wall, her scent still imprinted on his clothing, her taste still on his tongue, and the heat in his groin still not abated.

There would be a price for what he had done this night, of that he was certain.

* * *

“Where have you been? I have been looking for you everywhere.”

“Forgive me Mama, I lost track of time.”

Abigail took a deep breath. She had taken several since walking from the music room, turning her back on the unbridled passion that had erupted there. It had taken every ounce of her strength not to turn back and beg him to change his mind, to stay in London, to throw caution to the wind and claim her for his own.

But such foolishness was not to be borne. Besides, in all likelihood, when she removed her mask and revealed her true identity, he would run away in horror, leaving not just London, but England itself to avoid an association with her.

Perhaps that was a gross exaggeration, but regardless, she could not deny suitors had beaten a hasty path away from her door since the scandal. And not one had asked to fill her dance card at any of the few events she had attended since. No doubt, her mystery man would be no different. It was all well and good to lose yourself in the moment and pretend otherwise, but reality tended to intrude with its heavy feet and trample such imaginings before they had a chance to grow.

Abigail snapped her fan open to cool the flush of her skin, hoping her mother didn’t notice.

“Have you seen all the costumes, Mama?” she asked, to prevent further questioning on her whereabouts. “There is no telling who is who.”

Her mother scanned the room. “Don’t be silly. Of course you can. Why look, that’s Lord Slottingly next to the potted plant. You can tell by his portly belly busting out of his overly ornate waist jacket. And over there, that is Miss Chaucer holding court with all the young bucks. It is said she has turned down several proposals already this season. Lady Blackbourne and Lady Rebecca are speaking with Miss Caldwell. You can tell her by her stiff upright posture. And I believe standing with them is—” Her mother squinted behind her mask. “—ah, yes, Lord Huntsleigh, if I’m not mistaken.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “L-Lord Huntsleigh?”

“Yes,” her mother nodded with a smile. “You can practically feel his charm from here. He’s quite the devil, that one. Gives his grandfather no end of grief, according to Lady Blackbourne. He has been a particular friend of Lord Roxton’s since childhood.”

Abigail stared at the man standing next to Lady Rebecca. The same man who’d approached her on the balcony calling her Lady X and claiming to be her mystery man—before the Duke of Franklyn chased him into the gardens. As he looked unaffected by the event; she could only assume he’d survived the encounter unscathed.

“And you’re certain it is him?”

“Of course. Look at how he stands. Brash and confident. His laugh is unmistakable. He throws his head back with abandon, as if he had not a single care in the world.” Her mother turned to her. “It really isn’t difficult to tell who is who, dear, if you look close enough. Most people just don’t. It’s more fun to turn a blind eye and get lost in the mystery and the masks. In truth, one cannot truly disguise who they are by simply covering a portion of their face. It doesn’t cover their eyes, or their mouths, the sound of their voice, their mannerisms. There are so many more things that make up a person.”

“Indeed,” Abigail said, the word coming weakly as an uncomfortable knowledge roiled in her belly. She thought of her mystery man’s eyes. Silver beneath his black silk mask. And his hair, the color of midnight. She swallowed. No, she imagined things.

But her conscience would not be silenced.

He had sent his man to tell her Lord Roxton was not attending this evening. That man being Lord Huntsleigh. Lord Huntsleigh who was a particular friend of…

Abigail shook her head. No.
No
. She jumped to foolish conclusions, surely. She would know if—

A man approached Miss Caldwell and executed a brief bow. Her man. Reality clenched her heart.

The flitting of her fan increased despite the chill that swept through her body. This was not happening. It was not. How could she have been so foolish? So duped by her own blind stupidity? How could he—how could he so boldly lie to her about his identity and then kiss her and…and…

“Abigail, are you all right? You look rather pale.” Her mother laid a hand on her arm but Abigail could barely feel it. Her body had gone numb. Her mind raced and darted in an effort to avoid making the final connection.

Her mystery man and Lord Roxton were one in the same.

“I—I’m feeling slightly ill, Mama. I think I need some air.”

But there was not enough air in the atmosphere to help her now. She did not need air. She needed to turn back time, to change the truth now falling about her in bits and chunks, chipping away at the romantic fantasy she had concocted in her mind like an infatuated school girl. The one where she waited for her mystery man to return to London, knowing he could not stay away from her. He would be wealthy and titled and he would save her from marriage to Lord Tarrington, rescue her family’s name, and help her bring Lord Roxton down.

Nowhere in her silly fantasy had her mystery man
been
Lord Roxton. For how could he? She loathed him. His very existence set her teeth on edge. He embodied every bad thing that had happened to her family in the past year. And she had let him…he had…oh dear heaven, she really was going to be sick.

“Perhaps we should leave.” Her mother pulled on Abigail’s arm.

Before she could be led away, Lord Roxton turned and his gaze met hers.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak, or breathe. She could only stand and stare, watching her reaction as it became his.

In that moment she knew.

Even more, she knew that he knew she knew.

A group of guests passed through the space between them, briefly blocking her view, breaking the hold he had on her. She allowed her mother to lead her away, her legs like heavy wooden objects jutting out from her hips.

She glanced back only once, but Lord Roxton had vanished.

Much like her hopes.

Chapter Eight

“You have not seemed yourself since the masquerade.” Caelie lowered the book she had been reading and stared across the small rounded table in the breakfast room. Abigail’s mother was still abed. Benedict hid away in his study, likely going over ledgers in the vain hope the numbers would change in their favor, and Aunt Edythe remained in her rooms, as she was want to do these days. She and Caelie had the room to themselves.

It was Abigail’s favorite room of the house. Morning light poured in through the windows and gave the pale yellow walls a warm glow. But today, her usual joy had abandoned her. Today she wished she could emulate her Aunt—hide away in the darkness and wish it all away.

Caelie closed her book, a clear signal she did not intend to leave the subject alone. “Did something happen at the masquerade?”

Did something happen? How did she answer? Yes, something happened. Something so devastating she did know where to begin. The pain was too raw, the humiliation too deep. Still, she couldn’t keep it bottled up inside. She’d die if she did.

“Have you ever done something so blindly foolish it was as if, for a brief moment, you were someone else entirely? And then afterwards, when you looked back at what you had done, you wondered who that person was?”

Something changed in Caelie’s sea green eyes, darkening their hue. A muscle twitched near the corner of her mouth. “I suspect there are few among us who have not found themselves in such a predicament. We are all fallible, Abby. What did you do?”

Abigail glanced down at her hands folded in her lap. She could not utter the words. To admit to Caelie she had allowed her archenemy to…to…oh! She couldn’t even think it without shame racing through her like wildfire. She had allowed his kiss. His touch. His mouth on her most private parts while she behaved like a wanton, practically begging for more!

Her skin burned with the memory.

How effective a ruse Lord Roxton had pulled off, for she could never face him now. Never demand he make amends to her family. Suddenly, London felt too small for the both of them. Had they not let out their country seat to help with expenses, she would join her aunt in insisting the family retire there for the rest of the season. Maybe even the next.

“Abby?”

The sharp click of heels on the polished wood floors cut off any answer Abigail may have formed. She recognized the bitter, angry stride before Aunt Edythe reached the doorway of the room, filling it with her severe presence.

Caelie slid the book behind her and fell silent. Aunt Edythe did not approve of what her cousin read. Then again, her aunt approved of very little regardless, especially where Caelie was concerned.

“Good morning, Mother.” Abigail noted the forced smile on Caelie’s face. She did not bother an attempt. She didn’t have it in her this morning to tip toe around her aunt’s dour mood.

Aunt Edythe glanced at Caelie, looking down her long, straight nose at her daughter before turning toward the table at the back and walking stiffly across the room. Caelie and Abigail shared a look, both wishing for escape but knowing it was impossible. Aunt Edythe would expect them to stay. They would not be excused until she had completed her meal. A meal she would eat slowly, each bite chewed with meticulous intent.

Abigail poked at her coddled egg with a fork, pushing it around on her plate.

“Do not play with your food, Abigail. You are not a child.” Aunt Edythe’s strident tones raked across her nerves. Her aunt rarely spoke, but when she did nothing positive or light ever passed her lips. Only censure and condemnation resided inside of her. It had grown worse since Uncle Henry’s death, and she had lost her standing as mistress of the household. That honor had passed to Abigail’s mother until her brother married.

“I understand you and your mother attended my cousins’ masked ball.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was a lovely affair,” Abigail tried not to choke on her words.

“I am certain it was anything but. Why my cousin insists on throwing such a fete every year is beyond me. It is nothing more than an opportunity for debauchery. Your mother should be ashamed for exposing you to such a thing. But what can one expect.” She left off saying ‘from a poor vicar’s daughter’, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Aunt Edythe’s opinions of her mother’s origins had never been a secret. She had resented their presence in this house since the first day Uncle Henry opened his doors to them.

Abigail pushed back a harsh retort. What was the point? Aunt Edythe held to her opinion as if it was the word of God and no one would sway her from it regardless of how sound their reasoning. And Abigail didn’t have the strength this morning to try.

Aunt Edythe took a small bite of toast and slowly chewed, waiting until she had fully swallowed before fixing her hard brown eyes on Abigail once again. “I understand you had another letter from my cousin, Lord Tarrington?”

Abigail’s stomach twisted further. She did not need the reminder of him this morning. “Indeed I did. He believes his roses will be quite the thing this year.” At least she thought that’s what he’d written. She’d only skimmed the pages briefly.

“I have invited him to visit. We must push this alliance post haste. Your brother is doing a dismal job at managing the finances. It is only a matter of time before he runs us into the ground without the assistance of my cousin to stop him.”

“Mother, Benedict is doing a fine job. It is not his fault Papa—”

“Did I direct my comment to you, daughter?”

Caelie visibly winced at her mother’s strident tone. So sharp and caustic it surprised Abigail that her words didn’t peel the paper off the walls. “No, Mother.”

“Then I suggest you hold your tongue until you are addressed.” Caelie shot Abigail an apologetic glance. Abigail shook her head. She had tried. A valiant effort given Aunt Edythe reserved her most hateful treatment for her only child. Penance for Caelie not being born a son. Had she been, Aunt Edythe claimed she would have been spared the horror of poor relations taking possession of her home.

Abigail often wondered if Aunt Edythe hadn’t been such a cold woman, perhaps Uncle Henry would not have looked elsewhere for affection, becoming so desperate for it he would do almost anything, even pay the ultimate price when faced with losing it.

“When is Lord Tarrington expected to arrive?” Abigail asked, pulling Aunt Edythe’s attention away from Caelie. She would try to make herself as absent as possible. If she had to marry the man to save her family from financial ruin so be it, but until such a day arrived, she preferred to avoid his company. Lord Tarrington was about as entertaining as a pound of dirt.