An Invitation to Scandal (15 page)

“I’m afraid roses are not my forte, Tarrington.”

“No,” the older gentleman said, a condescending smile quirking one corner of his mouth until it reminded him of his father. “And what is your forte?”

Putting my mouth on your intended and making her cry out with pleasure, Nicholas wanted to say, but refrained. That was something the old Nicholas would have said with careless disregard for the consequences. The new Nicholas, however, had learned some consequences came with a hefty price, and that decorum and restraint were not always the enemy.

“I am a man of simple pleasures, Tarrington. I do not ascribe to any particular talent.” At least none he could speak of in polite company.

“Is that so?” Much to his surprise, Abigail had found her tongue. “I’ve heard you have a particular talent for acting.”

“Acting?” Miss Caldwell echoed the word with such derision Abigail might have said he liked to run down Bond Street wearing nothing but boots and a top hat.

“Yes,” Abigail responded, before he had a chance to counter her claim. She turned her direct gaze upon him, then, her light blue eyes drilling into him all the pain and humiliation she had experienced upon discovering his true identity. The emotion left him humbled. And wary. “I’ve heard Lord Roxton is quite adept at making others believe he is one thing, when in fact he is something else altogether. Is that not so, Lord Roxton? Is that not a talent you ascribe to?”

Nicholas’s mind worked furiously to find an appropriate answer given their mixed company, but he came up empty. He had not expected this full frontal assault. Any lady who had experienced what she had, suffered the humiliation she must have felt, would be more likely to hide away and lick her wounds. He knew of very few, perhaps even less than that, who would practically call him out in front of others, twisting her words in such a way he could do little to combat them.

Not that he had a retaliatory leg to stand on.

“Is that a talent, Miss Laytham, or a fault?” He asked.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose it all depends on how one uses it. How would you use this skill, Lord Roxton—for good or evil?”

He wished he could look away; he could not hold a solid thought while her gaze held him captive. No answer he gave her could make up for what he had done. Honesty remained his only option. “I think it is a talent best left forgotten, as I have no intentions of using it in the future.”

“Time will tell, Lord Roxton. But if you’ll forgive me, I, for one, will not hold my breath waiting for such an unlikely event.”

“Lord Roxton, I see my mother standing over by Lady Colbert,” Miss Caldwell cut in. Her tight expression indicated she wished to extricate herself from the escalating tension. “Would you be so kind as to escort me to them?”

Miss Caldwell had once told him she did not like conflict of any kind. She found it gauche. It was one of the few opinions she had expressed. Nicholas had tried to argue a certain amount of tension should be expected in life and could indeed lead to some of the most stimulating debates, but Miss Caldwell did not engage him further on the topic. She had stated her opinion and, in her mind, the matter was closed.

Nicholas saw long nights spent at his club in the company of Spence and Bowen if he wanted to have any type of lively conversation in his future.

Provided Spence did not make sail for some uncharted territory to avoid the marriage noose, a threat he made more regularly with each passing day. Nicholas was beginning to see the merits in such an idea.

“Indeed, Miss Caldwell, it would be my pleasure.”

He inclined his head at Lord Tarrington and Abigail. “Perhaps I will see you again soon.”

“I would not hold out much hope on that account,” Abigail said, her gaze turning flinty. “We don’t go out in society much these days, as I am sure you are aware.”

The barb hit its mark with searing accuracy and embedded itself deep into his conscience where his guilt lay unabated. He had no words to offer to refute her claim or make what he had done better.

He bowed once and turned to leave, her remarks festering deep within him.

“Really, the nerve of that man to address me after what he has done to my family.” Abigail’s grip tightened on Lord Tarrington’s arm as Lord Roxton led Miss Caldwell across the lawn to her mother.

“Hm,” Lord Tarrington grunted. “One cannot necessarily blame him for the downfall of your uncle.”

Lord Tarrington’s quick dismissal of her feelings stoked Abigail’s ire. How dare he take Lord Roxton’s side on this matter.

“Lord Tarrington, you cannot possibly absolve Lord Roxton for his part in my uncle’s death.”

“My dear,” Lord Tarrington placed a hand over her arm and led her away from the rose arbor toward the path that followed the length of the garden. “Your uncle chose his own end. Roxton had no hand in that.”

Abigail tried to pull her arm away from Lord Tarrington but he held it firmly in place and continued to walk them away from the crowd.

“That is madness! He played a very important part. He knew how my uncle felt about Madame St. Augustine and yet he goaded and thwarted him at every turn.”

“Your uncle should not have made such a public display of his affections, nor should any lady of good reputation utter that woman’s name.” He shot her a look of censure. “Glenmor allowed his emotions to get the better of him. Any gentleman knows he should never allow his mistress to rule his emotions. Your uncle disregarded this rule and—”

“Rule?” Abigail let go of Lord Tarrington’s arm. “My uncle was a sick man. His mind unbalanced. He should be pitied, not disparaged. Lord Roxton should not have antagonized the situation.”

“Lord Roxton did nothing more than any young buck in his position would have done. If society had expected anything more from him he would have suffered the same irreparable ruin as your family has.”

Lord Tarrington stopped and stared out over a bed of tulips that carpeted the landscape in a blanket of brilliant red and Abigail fisted her hands at her sides in frustration.

“He was the author of my family’s downfall!”

Lord Tarrington held his arm out again for her to take. “Your uncle managed that one all on his own, I’m afraid, and in the process made you privy to topics no proper lady should know about. If we are to be married, I will expect you to carry yourself with more decorum befitting a lady of your station. You would do well to look to Miss Caldwell as an example. I will be sure to speak to my cousin in this regard.”

Abigail ignored his proffered arm. She could not believe what she heard. How dare he absolve Lord Roxton and admonish her behavior for knowing of men’s follies!

Yes, of course she understood her uncle’s obsession with his mistress did not rest at Lord Roxton’s door, but the viscount’s actions had only exacerbated the situation. If he’d had any compassion at all, or even an ounce of common decency, he would have let the woman go, and left her to Uncle Henry. Instead, he seemed to go out of his way to bate and antagonize her uncle.

Abigail did not condone her uncle keeping a mistress, but marriage to Aunt Edythe must have been an unpleasant affair. Uncle Henry had obviously craved a woman’s attention and affection. Madame St. Augustine must have sensed this and used her powers of seduction to pull him into her clutches. Once there, he had changed. He became more secretive and closed off, his manner more erratic. His spending habits had spiraled out of control and strained their already thin coffers. Abigail shook her head. His mistress had lived better than the man’s own family.

When he began to lose her to the younger, more affluent Lord Roxton, Uncle Henry grew despondent, desperate to hang on to a woman who sold her affections to the highest bidder. Unfortunately for her uncle, Lord Roxton had the bigger purse.

Abigail despised the woman, but understood to some degree her lot in life. Women without protection and family had little recourse in the world. While she didn’t condone the woman’s behavior, she understood the instinct for survival. And her uncle, his mind fevered with lust and desperation, wanted only love and affection.

Lord Roxton, on the other hand, was the one person within that sullied triangle who could have changed the course of events. He could have stepped aside; he could have been a gentleman and realized his actions were not worth the pain and suffering they would cause. But compassion, unlike acting, was not a talent he possessed. He cared little of what happened to others, behaving with impunity, and cold disregard for the lives he ruined in the process.

And for what?

Some fancy whore.

The whole thing disgusted Abigail, but Lord Roxton’s part in it disgusted her most of all. If he had stopped for one moment and looked at the bigger picture, he could have prevented what happened. It had been in his hands, and he’d crushed it in his fist, destroying everything. It turned out the man she thought him to be, kind and amusing, warm and engaging—had all been a ruse. He was a far better actor than she gave him credit for. He had deceived her not once, but twice now, making her two times a fool.

That she had a hand in her own downfall only made the pain greater.

“If you don’t mind, Lord Tarrington, I am feeling rather unwell.” Abigail lifted a hand and touched her temple. “Would you be so kind as to take me home now?”

Facing down Lord Roxton had required more energy than she possessed, given the sleepless nights she had suffered since the masquerade. The way her body had responded as he’d approached disconcerted her most of all, though she chose not to explore those feelings in any great depth.

The closer he’d come, the deeper the ache inside of her went, until she wanted to press a hand against it to ease the sensation. Worse still, she wanted his hand pressed against it. Or rather, the hand of the man she’d thought him to be before she’d discovered his true nature.

Her body flushed. Dear heavens, what had the man done to her? Was she bewitched? Or, like Uncle Henry, did lust drive her to madness?

Regardless, unlike Uncle Henry, she refused to give in to such folly. Lord Roxton may be a sinfully handsome man with the ability to bring a woman’s body to the heights of ecstasy, but he was also a man adept at deceit. She would not be so foolish a third time.

* * *

“Lord Tarrington has no inkling of what Lord Roxton did. He actually absolves him of all responsibility as if his behavior was perfectly normal!”

Abigail paced Benedict’s study, her arms flailing in anger. She still could not believe what that decrepit old man had said, or how she had stood there mutely listening to it while he simultaneously suggested she be more like Miss Caldwell. And what did she do to counter his ridiculous claims? She insisted he bring her home. Her anger had made her mute, a status not often achieved.

At least she’d had her say with Lord Roxton. She’d left no doubt about how she felt with respect to his behavior the night of the masquerade. Though his response had put her out of sorts. Perhaps if he had not appeared so chagrined it would have left her more satisfied. Instead, he had apologized. Apologized! Granted he had veiled his words so the others did not take his meaning, but she had understood him all too well.

Did the man think a mere apology would suffice? Or that she would believe it to be sincere? And why did his being sorry over what had transpired leave her empty inside?

“The man is insufferable!”

Benedict glanced up from his ledger. “Lord Tarrington?”

“No, Lord Roxton.”

“Lord Roxton? Did you speak to him directly?”

Abigail waved a hand as if it were inconsequential. “Briefly.”

Now she had her brother’s full attention. He closed the ledger and leaned back in his chair. “And what did you say?”

“Nothing really.”

Benedict raised an eyebrow.

Abigail huffed out a short breath. Her brother knew her too well. “Fine. I may have made reference to his past behavior.”

“What did he do?”

Abigail scowled, picking at a loose thread on the embroidered throw that lay atop one of the wingback chairs next to the fireplace. She could not count how many evenings she had spent curled up there, daydreaming of her future, a future that would now never come.

“He appeared to agree with me.”

“Ah,” Benedict returned to his accounts. “I am not surprised. He seems much changed since Uncle’s death. I imagine the way in which it took place would have an effect on any man.”

Abigail whirled around. “As it should! But it does not absolve him of what he did to precipitate it.”

“Abby…” Benedict sighed and hung his head for a moment before pushing out of his chair and coming around his desk to stand in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders and waited until she looked at him. Abigail hated what she saw. Strain and worry etched deeply where laughter and light used to be. He’d had a bright future once. They all had.

“Don’t say it—”

“Lord Roxton is not to blame for what happened to Uncle Henry.”

Why did everyone keep saying that? Could they not see? Were they all so blind to what he had done? “Yes, he—”

Benedict shook his head, cutting her off. “No. It was not. Opal St. Augustine is a mercenary woman who is always on the lookout for someone to give her protection. She had to have known Uncle’s funds were running low, making him of no more use to her. That is the way of her sort.”

“But Lord Roxton—”

“If it hadn’t been Lord Roxton, it would have been some other gentleman. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and paid the price.”

“Uncle paid the price,” Abigail said. Her brother’s words cut deep. She pulled away from him to avoid the blade.

“Uncle chose the method of payment. Lord Roxton did not do that for him. Nor did his mistress. You know that. You are simply too hurt and angry to admit it.”

Abigail turned and walked to the window. She stared out onto the quiet street. If she turned her head slightly to the right, she would have a clear view of Lord Roxton’s home, a home he had purchased shortly after dropping his suit. It had been like rubbing salt into an open wound. She turned her head to the left instead.