An Invitation to Scandal (6 page)

“What if someone recognizes you, Abby?”

“They won’t,” Abigail said, waving off Caelie’s concern. “I have taken great pains to disguise myself. Have I not succeeded?”

Caelie sighed. “Yes, I suppose you have.”

Abigail pulled the hood of her cape over her head, careful not to crush the feathers. “Everything will be fine, Caelie. Do not fret. The next time you see me, Lord Roxton will have agreed to make amends and our family will be well on its way to regaining our good name.”

“Or you will be steeped in regret,” her cousin warned. “Believe me when I tell you that is not something so easily washed away.”

“Caelie, please. I must do this. Wish me luck?”

Caelie stood and grasped both of Abigail’s hands tightly in her own, giving her a meaningful look. “I will wish you safe return.”

* * *

Nicholas had no intention of going to Opal’s party. That part of his life had ended and he was content to let it go. Content to give up passion for propriety. Desire for duty.

He needed none of that.

It did not matter if his body cried out in denial and his needs went unfulfilled, keeping him up at all hours of the night, leaving him no other alternative but to satisfy himself which proved no satisfaction at all.

He craved the warmth of another body. A body ripe with lush curves, scented with roses or jasmine or lavender. Skin so soft it was like silk against his touch. Ripe lips that would take him in—

He groaned and rested his head against the window pane. It did little to cool the heat pooling in his groin. Damn Opal for putting even the merest hint of an idea in his head. For reminding him of the way his life used to be, where his every sexual whim was catered to.

He did not want her. Of that he had no doubts. But he could not deny he longed for the fulfillment he found in the arms of a woman. At least physically. There had been no fulfillment beyond that. Nor had he looked for any. He’d had that once. Or thought he had. But Lord Glenmor had taken it away, refusing a match between his niece and a man of his questionable parentage and rakish reputation.

Granted, he had not always behaved the proper gentleman. He had sown his wild oats and had a good time doing so, especially when his behavior sent Lord Blackbourne into fits. But he suspected it was not his rakish behavior the late earl had taken true exception to, but rather the whispers that his claim to the Blackbourne title came to him only by default. When it came down to it, Glenmor did not want his beloved niece affianced to a man who was, in effect, a bastard.

The rejection had cut deep. The succor he found in Opal’s bed had been part sexual release and part retaliation. Lord Glenmor had taken something from him—no, someone—he had truly wanted. And in turn, Nicholas thought it only fair to repay him in kind, and steal his mistress. He had enjoyed the game in the beginning; it diverted his thoughts from the loss of Abigail’s company.

Though near the end…

Nicholas shook his head and pulled it away from where it rested on the window, looking through the paned glass. Near the end winning Opal became a hollow victory, leaving him…empty.

But instead of walking away, he spiraled downward. Bitterness twisted around his heart and any goodness Miss Laytham had once coaxed out of him became lost in the darkness of his soul.

A flash of movement caught his attention further down the street. Nicholas trained his eyes near the corner of the street. He could see the Laythams’ house clearly, a beacon in the night mocking him, reminding him of everything he’d lost and all he’d destroyed. He could not escape it, nor did he try.

It was his penance to bear.

And because of that, he stood at his window tonight, waiting.

The movement came again. Nicholas squinted and leaned forward until his forehead touched the glass. A hansom cab waited near the corner.

There!

His heart shuddered to a stop. He had hoped it had been nothing more than a ploy to lure him back, but—

No. He glanced back at the Laythams’ house, then to the pathway where the movement occurred.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. Don’t do it.”

The lithe figure climbed into the hansom cab and a moment later the carriage pulled away. One of the ladies in the Laytham household had accepted the invitation. And Nicholas had no doubt as to which one it was. Lady Caelie barely showed her face in public any longer, a mere shadow of her former vibrancy. No, it was Miss Laytham. It had to be. Only she would be so bold as to take such a risk. But why? What was she about, going where no lady of quality should be seen? And whether or not she would return a lady, was a different question entirely.

“Dammit!”

He strode to the bell pull and rang for his valet. It appeared as though he would be going out this evening after all.

Chapter Four

Entry into the party proved a simple affair. One merely inserted the key into the front door and entered a small vestibule. There, a large, towering man with ebony skin greeted Abigail. He took the key from her and, with a sweeping gesture, silently ushered her into the inner sanctum.

The hum of conversation greeted her arrival, punctuated with raucous laughter and the clinking of glasses. Somewhere in the background a quartet of strings played a bawdy tune she doubted would ever be heard at Almack’s.

She stepped a little further into the main room, skirting the crowd. The room was extravagantly appointed, if rather gauchely decorated. Hints of shabbiness, however, were evident. Little telltale signs betrayed the truth, that the owner was not quite as flush as she may appear on the surface, such as the ill-fitted livery worn by the servants that was obviously handed down and not custom cut.

The rooms were all connected and Abigail, making a cursory check for Lord Roxton in one and not finding him, simply moved from one on to the next.

Her nerves balanced on a jagged edge, waiting for someone to find her out, to realize she did not belong here. But so far she’d been left alone, though the looks she received from some of the men present as she walked about let her know she was not invisible.

She tugged self-consciously at the bodice of her dress, wishing she had not allowed Muri to lower it to such a degree, or cinch her stays so tightly her normally small chest practically popped up to twice its normal dimensions. Despite her disguise, she felt hideously exposed. Did no one worry their secret would be revealed? Then again, perhaps it served in everyone’s best interest to turn a blind eye. After all, the success of these parties depended upon their secrecy and discretion. Anyone could expose anyone else at any time, and vice versa. Perhaps the threat of retaliation kept everyone from wagging their tongues. In order to acknowledge you knew of someone else’s attendance, you would have to reveal your own.

Still, knowing this did little to ease Abigail’s misgivings. Most men had dressed as either a pirate or a highwayman, just as Muri predicted. Some wore basic black silk masks over their nose and eyes; others wore extravagant headpieces that made Abigail’s feathery confection look positively dull in comparison.

How in the world was she to pick out Lord Roxton? She had been certain she would simply
know
, but now she wasn’t so sure. Oh, some men were easy to rule out as candidates. Several were overly rotund, their need for indulgence obviously extending beyond their amorous appetites. Others were simply too short, or too thin, or too tall. In fact, there were very few present that possessed the combined assets of broad shoulders, trim hips and long, muscular legs of Lord Roxton.

But some did, and many had disguised themselves so well, she couldn’t see beyond their masks and head coverings to determine if their hair held the inky blackness of Lord Roxton’s. Or the small dimple in his left cheek.

What if…

She shook her head, unable to finish the thought. For if Lord Roxton had in fact chosen not to attend, then she…well she was the biggest fool of all, wasn’t she? Risking her reputation and that of her family’s for nothing.

A wrinkle of disquiet rippled across her conviction. Why hadn’t she listened to Caelie’s counsel? And why wasn’t Lord Roxton here? She had been so certain his recent behavior had all been for show. Leopards did not change their spots…did they?

Abigail grabbed a glass of champagne as a tray passed by her line of vision. The bubbly liquid made her want to sneeze as she downed it quickly with several large gulps. Her mother would be horrified. Then again, if her mother knew where she was, gulping champagne would be the least of her worries.

The thought of facing her mother if she was discovered made her reach for yet another glass. This one went down much smoother than the last. A strange giddiness crept over her, bringing with it the boldness she had lacked since handing her key to the large footman and stepping into this den of inequity.

She could do this. She straightened her backbone, a movement that caused her chest to jut out at a precarious angle. Lord Roxton had to be here. She couldn’t be wrong. Too much rode on her success. She would simply have to take another turn through the rooms and—

“Oh!”

A firm hand on her elbow interrupted her newly formed bravado and propelled her from the room.

“Come with me,” a dark voice growled near her ear.

Abigail glanced up, trying to identify her assailant, but he hurried her along a dimly lit hallway and she had to keep her eyes forward to prevent herself from stumbling over the hem of her dress.

But that didn’t mean her vocal chords could not be put to good use. “What do you think—”

“Hush,” the voice commanded, direct and forceful. He manipulated her up a narrow staircase to the second floor.

“Take your hands off me. You have no right to—”

The hand in question spun her around to face him, but the sparse candlelight from the wall sconces wavered, casting strange shadows over the dark figure looming above her. Like the others, he wore a mask, black silk that left only his mouth exposed. A matching black scarf covered most of his hair, which in the poor lighting could have been anywhere from brown to black to dark blonde. Unrelenting black made up the rest of his outfit, right down to his cravat and shirt collar.

He reminded her of a well-dressed pirate.

“Is this not what you came for?” He leaned in closer and pressed her back into the wall.

“To be manhandled? Certainly not!” She struggled against him, but she might as well have pushed against a brick wall.

“No?” His low voice slithered over her as his arm came around her. She froze. Was that footsteps she heard in the stairwell? She wasn’t sure what frightened her more. The man who held her, or the threat of being found in such a compromising position. Should she call out for help?

Something clicked behind her and the wall fell away. She stumbled backward and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her in his arms and pulled her against him.

The door shut and locked with an unmistakable click.

Abigail’s heart accelerated and all the warnings Caelie had given her raged in her ears. No light penetrated the room. Only a small fire burned in the hearth as if someone had been expecting them. Its meager glow did not reach far enough to give her any hint to her captor’s identity.

“No. I—I—” Her brain sputtered. What could she tell this man without giving herself away?

“Why did you come here then? Did you think to sneak in and see what all the fuss was about?”

“I was invited.”

“Were you now?”

A shiver coursed through her. Something about his voice…a strange accent she couldn’t place. It mesmerized her. She suddenly wished she had not imbibed the second glass of champagne. It made her head fuzzy and her thinking muddled.

He took a step closer. His broad shoulders blocked the door.

“I—I am looking for someone.”

He stopped. “Indeed? And who is it you’re looking for? Or will anyone do?”

“Anyone—? No! You misunderstand. I am not here for
that
.” She could not even say the word, and though she knew he could not tell through the darkness and the coverage of her mask, her face flamed. No doubt if she were to look in a mirror she would find her skin matched the color of her gown. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She needed to keep her wits about her. “I am looking for Lord Roxton. That is what I’m doing here.”

The man stopped mid-stride and his boot hit the floor with a thud.

“I beg your pardon?”

Abigail swallowed. Her answer had stolen the wind from the pirate’s sails. “Lord Roxton. I am here to speak to Lord Roxton.”

Outside, clouds shifted and moonlight filtered through the cracks in the heavy drapes, cutting a shard of light across the man’s chest.

“Is he a particular friend of yours?”

Abigail choked back a cutting response. It would be in her best interests if he thought she was a particular friend of Lord Roxton’s. It wasn’t a complete lie. For a brief moment in time, they had been particular friends. Perhaps even a bit more.

“Yes, he is. I am to meet him here.”

“Are you now?” The door knob rattled. “Ssh,” he commanded but Abigail had already clamped a hand over her mouth.

It rattled again, then fell silent. She had no idea how long she stood frozen in the spot until her captor let out a long breath and spoke again. “If you are here to meet with Lord Roxton, then you are to be disappointed. Roxton declined the invitation.”

Abigail shook her head, and then remembered the man could not see her clearly in the dark. “That’s impossible.” Well, perhaps not impossible, but highly improbable. It was Lord Roxton, after all. Consummate debaucher. Rakehell of the first order. Man with no conscience. “It is not. Lord Roxton has turned his back on such things. He is determined to become a respectable gentleman.”

She answered with an inelegant snort of disbelief. “Oh, please!”

The sliver of moonlight showed the shrug of the man’s shoulders. “It is true.”

“I do not believe you. Now, if you will kindly escort me back to the main rooms, I will continue my search.”