An Invitation to Scandal (7 page)

“I cannot do that.”

“You cannot—why?” Fear beat a hasty path up her spine.

The man hesitated. “I will escort you to your carriage. It is not safe for you here.”

“Not safe?” She really did need to stop repeating what the man said. She might as well be a parrot perched on his shoulder to complete his ensemble.

“You do not belong here.” His words were clipped with anger.

What did he care about where she belonged?

“Of course I do.” But the words rang false even to her. The stranger took a step closer. His commanding presence enveloped the air around her. He had the strength and size to do to her what he wished.

“Do you know the pleasures sought here? The depths of depravity some will sink to within these walls?”

Her face reached a new level of heat. “I…I…”

The man stood in front of her and his height forced her gaze upwards in an attempt to see him, though he had stepped outside the shard of moonlight and was little more than a dark shadow.

What to do? Should she try to beat a hasty retreat? Scream for help? If she did, would anyone come to her aid? Whoever had been at the door was now long gone and she somehow doubted she would find a white knight in the crowd below.

“What are you going to do to me?” She tried not to fidget or show fear, but her heart pounded in her chest. Could he hear it?

“What do you want me to do?” His voice slid over her like liquid heat.

Caelie’s warnings echoed in her head, but none of Abigail’s pithy responses applied. That had all been in theory, an intangible what if. But there was nothing theoretical about what was happening now. This went far beyond her experience. She stepped back until her bottom bumped against a hard surface. “I do not know.” And she didn’t. She had no idea.

Part of the entire situation excited her, which was utterly ridiculous. She should fear for her innocence, her very life even. She did not know this man. But while he possessed a dangerous edge, he had not hurt her. In truth, he had encouraged her to leave and even offered to see her safely home. Perhaps her current whereabouts skewed her judgment—she had, after all, thought coming here a grand idea—but she did not think the man meant to harm her.

He took a step toward her, eliminating the space between them. The virile scent of masculinity and tangible hint of the outdoors clung to his skin. It did not surprise her. This man was not built as some of the dandies who pranced about town. Strong and solid, he dominated the room. At least, what she could see of it. Which wasn’t much.

“You should not be here.”

Indignation lifted her chin. What right did he have to chastise her? He knew nothing about her. “I beg your pardon. I have a key.”

His sensuous mouth pulled into a tight line. “Indeed. And how did you come to possess this key?”

“It was sent to me. I—I was invited. Just as you were.”

“I doubt that,” he muttered.

Agitation rolled off him in waves. “If you do not want me here, then why do you have me cornered in this room?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then seemed to change his mind. “Is your innocence such an expendable commodity that you are willing to throw it away?”

“How dare you!” Such things were not discussed, especially not with strange men in dark rooms. She quickly turned a blind eye to the irony of that thought, given she shouldn’t be in a dark room with a strange man to begin with.

“How dare I? How dare you, to come in here as if this were some game. What did you hope to accomplish here tonight?”

“I told you I came to meet Lord Roxton.”

Nicholas gritted his teeth at her stubborn refusal to leave.

It took every ounce of will to control his anger. At her foolishness. At himself. She had no idea what could happen to her here. These men were not used to dealing with a virgin. They would see her reticence as some kind of coquettish game, and not one that would end well in her favor. He had barely gotten her inside the room before Opal reached the top of the stairs. He knew it was her. The scent of her perfume was unmistakable. He didn’t want to think what would have happened if she had discovered them together. Or worse, cornered Miss Laytham alone.

He glared at down at her. The moonlight over her shoulder illuminated the contours of her jaw, her generous mouth. Even dressed as she was, she stood out in this crowd of fallen women, widows and unhappy wives. Her virtue shone like a beacon through the mire of desperation where pleasure was a game and innocence held no value.

And she had come here because of him.

How to get her out without making a scene or revealing his own identity? Or worse, before Opal returned with the key to this room.

Opal blamed Abigail’s uncle for her own downfall. His death at one of her parties had sent her worth amongst the demimonde spiraling downward. She cared little for Glenmor while he lived, outside of what he could provide for her, and she had not softened in this regard after his passing. The glee she took when telling him a member of the Laytham family planned on attending her party had been obvious. As if their presence validated the late Lord Glenmor’s own debauchery and absolved her from any responsibility in his death.

“As I told you, Lord Roxton no longer attends these parties.” He struggled to keep his tone modulated, using an accent so she wouldn’t recognize his voice.

“I find that very hard to believe. Lord Roxton lacks the morals required to give up his debauchery. This newfound sense of propriety is nothing more than a sham.”

Her low opinion did not surprise him. What surprised him was how much it still stung. He had courted her, thought he had won her good favor, only to be told by her uncle any proposal he offered would not be considered. He was not a suitable candidate for Miss Laytham.

He—a future earl, a peer of the realm—was not good enough for the only daughter of a youngest son and a poor vicar’s daughter, both of whom had been disowned by their families when they’d wed.

The set down had galled him. How could he have ever known his bruised ego would lead to such tragedy? He had wanted to hurt Lord Glenmor and he had succeeded. But he had hurt Abigail in the process, as well as the rest of her family who were nothing more than innocent bystanders in the whole debacle.

Could he just stand by now and allow the Laythams to be dealt another blow?

No, not if he held the power to stop it.

“Come, I am getting you out of here.” He took her arm but she shook him off.

“No. I came here of my own free will, invited, and I will not leave until I have done what I came here to do.”

“Lord Roxton is not here. There is nothing else—”

“Then I will stay for…for…pleasure.” The word burst out of her and hurtled toward him.

“Pleasure? Are you mad?”

Could pleasure be found here? Certainly. But not the kind she sought. Her virginal mind could not even begin to comprehend what passed for pleasure here. For once one reached a certain level of pleasure, it became passé, and one had to struggle to find a new level. In the beginning it had felt like a game, a great way to bury one’s injured pride and wounded heart, but eventually…

Nicholas shook his head. He would not let her go there.

“Why not? I am to marry a man three times my age. He is old and…and old!” She shivered. “If Lord Roxton is not here, then perhaps I shall wait until he arrives, for I am certain he will, despite what you say. In the meantime, why shouldn’t I see what all the fuss is about? Wouldn’t you want to know at least a little passion before you were consigned to a life without it?”

Her words hit their mark, though she would never know. Marriage to Miss Caldwell would serve a purpose, but that purpose had nothing to do with passion. He had turned his back on that part of his life before it destroyed anyone else.

“The kind of passion you seek will not be found here.”

“How could you possibly know what I seek?”

Weariness seeped into his bones. By all rights she should have run long ago, not stood there and argued with him. But Abigail had never been faint of heart. He had admired that about her once. Now it proved a great impediment.

“You want hearts and romance and love. But such things do not exist within these four walls. The pleasure found here is desperate and depraved, doled out by men and women who have lost touch with anything of value, including themselves. Is that what you want?”

“I—” She stopped, but he could feel her wavering.

“Trust me.”

“Trust you,” she scoffed, in a tone he had become all too familiar with. “I don’t even know you. You’ve pulled me into this room, insist I leave, and why? What do you care? You do not know me. Perhaps I am one of those desperate and depraved.”

“You are—”

She cut him off. “I came here to speak to Lord Roxton and I am not leaving until I convince him—”

Nicholas growled and grabbed her around her corseted waist. He’d have better luck reasoning with a mule. Had she always been this stubborn?

“This is what is waiting for you out there.”

With one quick movement, he pulled her against him, meaning to punish, to teach. To frighten.

She let out a gasp before he captured her mouth in his. Her hands fisted into the lapels of his jacket, curling around the fine wool. Her body molded to his, fitting perfectly against his burgeoning erection, the one that had begun the moment he’d stepped close enough to revel in her sweet scent. She reminded him of a meadow imbued with the promise of spring and awaiting full bloom.

Pain fused with pleasure. He wanted her, had wanted her since the moment he saw her at her coming out four years ago. He had bided his time, then, not yet ready to give up his wild ways, but by her second season he could no longer resist her allure. The other women he knew paled in comparison. He courted her in earnest and soon discovered she had been more than worth the wait. Sweet and sharp, bold and intelligent. A woman well worth giving up all others for.

It had all been for naught. In the end, her uncle deemed him not worthy and she had not seen fit to argue the point. He had thought she would, but as the days passed and he did not hear from her, he realized he had overestimated her feelings.

He deepened the kiss, expecting her to shove him away. Slap him. Finally see reason and demand he escort her from this horrid place.

She did none of those things.

Instead, she tried to keep up with the hunger of his kiss. Something in the way she innocently bumbled her way through it touched him. Deeply. In a place he no longer thought available to him. And that was most surprising of all.

Instinctively, he gentled the kiss. The lesson he’d meant to teach her had turned on its ear, and he realized he still had much to learn. The control he’d thought he possessed over his passions dangled from a very tenuous string, and this woman—this woman that reviled him—seemed able to pluck it until it vibrated painfully, bringing all his nerves to life.

If he had any sense at all, he would let her go. End this.

But he had no sense. Not where she was concerned.

He explored the confines of her sweet mouth with his tongue. She tasted of champagne. Heat seared through him as she tentatively did the same. Soft and willing as a courtesan, what she lacked in skill, she made up for with innocent exuberance.

He had meant to frighten her. Instead, he was the one who was frightened. Frightened by his body’s response to her, by how good it felt to hold her in his arms, the intoxicating feel of her body pressed against his own.

He had once dreamed of this. Once, a long time ago.

Much had changed since then.

With great reluctance, he lifted is mouth from hers, stopping only to drop one last, quick kiss on her swollen lips.

He reached up and straightened her mask their passion had knocked askew. “Forgive me,” he breathed.

For a long moment, she said nothing. He stood silently, still holding her, feeling the vibrations of their heartbeats where their bodies met. She had been as affected as he. It gave him little solace.

“I will see you to your carriage,” he said.

Still, she did not move. The darkness did not allow him to see her face, but when she spoke; her voice came in a quiet whisper.

“Are you married, my lord?”

The question surprised him. For a brief moment, he had forgotten she did not know who he was. The fact she did not know who she had kissed saddened him. “No.”

“When you do marry, do you expect to have an affection for your wife?”

He thought of Miss Caldwell, her perfect beauty, her perfect manners, her perfect sense of propriety.

“No,” he finally answered. He did not love Eugenie Caldwell. He did not even know if he liked her. He did not know her at all. How did you get to know someone when they kept all conversations to topics so banal they lacked any interest or depth?

“No,” she echoed. “But I suppose it is different for men, isn’t it? You can marry and seek your pleasure elsewhere if you so wish.”

He shrugged. “As could you. Taking a lover is not the sole providence of men.” He thought of his mother, but quickly pushed the thought away.

“Perhaps not.” She shifted in his arms. He longed to catch a glimpse of her pale blue eyes, to know what she thought, felt. “I do not intend to do so. When I take my vows I mean to honor them. But I have not taken them as yet. I have made no promises to anyone.”

His heart thudded painfully in his chest. What was she saying?

“Do you swear to me Lord Roxton will not be attending this evening?”

“Yes,” he lied.

A small puff of air escaped her and her body sagged in his arms.

“How do you know? Who are you?”

He could not tell her. She hated him, despised his very existence. If she knew whose arms held her, whose mouth she had kissed with such passion, she would never forgive herself.

Or him.

“You know I cannot say.”

“Then tell me this and be truthful, did you feel it, when we kissed? Did it not feel…magical? Or is that always the way?”

He lifted a hand and touched her face. Such innocence. He trailed his thumb along the line of her lower lip. He could not help himself. She trembled beneath his touch. “No. It is not always like this.”