An Invitation to Scandal (8 page)

He should have lied again, but the words would not come. It had been magical. And foolish. And a million other things. In the end, it was like nothing he had ever experienced before.

“I thought not.” Then, “I quite liked it.”

He closed his eyes. He played with fire.

“Please allow me to escort you to your carriage. You must leave here. Whatever your intention in meeting with Lord Roxton, you will not meet with success. Not here. Not tonight. I know a back way out. We can leave the premises and no one will be the wiser.”

Why had she wanted to meet him? And why here of all places? But he could not ask her. Not without forcing her to reveal who she was, and he would not do that. Her name must never be spoken within these walls. There were too many ears. But if he expected her to slink away in defeat he was wrong. Her spine straightened. “I will leave on one condition.”

Relief rushed through him. He wanted her out of here, and out of his embrace. And then he wanted a very large, stiff drink to cool the heated ardor burning in his veins. Oh, how Spence would laugh to see him now, brought down by an innocent in the most debauched of places.

“What condition?”

A bead of sweat made a hasty path down his spine. Please do not let it be another kiss. Should his lips touch hers again he did not think he possessed the power to stop it there. Her effect on him proved too strong, too uncontrollable. He did not have enough goodness in him to combat it a second time, and not take everything it offered.

“Lord and Lady Doddington have their annual masquerade ball next week. Will you be attending?”

The masquerade was one of the last big fetes of the Season. He had received his invitation weeks ago. “I am not certain.” A lie. Miss Caldwell had indicated to his father she looked forward to his attendance, and that had been the end of that.

“If you promise to attend, I will leave this place now.”

“Why?”

She smiled slyly; he could hear it in her voice. “If you know Lord Roxton well enough to know he is not here tonight, despite everyone being in costume, then you should have no difficulty picking him out at the masquerade.”

“Why is it so important for you to speak with him?” He could hold the question back no longer. She had risked her reputation and her virtue to confront him here tonight. But why here, and why now? What did she hope to accomplish?

“I cannot say. It is a personal matter. Will you accept my condition?”

His mind worked furiously. It was dark; she did not know what he looked like. If she saw him at Lord and Lady Doddington’s masquerade, likely she would look right through him and not even realize he was the man who’d kissed her senseless and longed for more.

“It is dark. You will not recognize me.”

“But you will recognize me. You saw me before you pulled me into this room. I will wear the same mask as tonight.” The feathers brushed his chin as she looked down. “But not the same dress.”

He issued a silent prayer of gratitude for small favors. He’d seen enough of her as she made her way through the rooms of Opal’s home to bring his blood to a boil. It would not be wise to set her loose upon the ton where any slobbering idiot could ogle her at will. Inhibitions were notoriously lowered at such events. Masking one’s face seemed a license for risqué behavior. A fact Opal exploited to no end.

“Fine,” he agreed, hoping she could not detect the deception in his voice. “I accept your conditions.”

Chapter Five

Abigail fingered the silk ribbon spread out on the table at Madame Gaston’s. It matched the sapphire gown from two seasons ago perfectly. The dress, though beautiful, needed to be updated.

“It’s pretty,” her mother said, coming up behind her. “You should buy it.”

Abigail let out a slow breath. She had just enough pin money for a length of ribbon to use along the hem of the dress. She had stopped taking an allowance from Ben several months earlier. They had larger financial concerns than enhancing her wardrobe and she could not justify such frivolity in the face of their current situation. Better he use the money toward their debts. The amount she’d had left, she held onto religiously, determined to make it last and only use it for the most important of items.

Did this qualify?

“You will need to begin building a trousseau, Abigail,” her mother continued. “I know we don’t have much, but surely Benedict will allow you a few new items. After all, a new bride cannot go into marriage without one.”

Abigail scanned the shop. Thankfully, only a few patrons perused the fabrics, while one discussed design with the proprietor herself. Every now and again their gazes would flit toward her before racing away. “Lord Tarrington has not yet made an offer, Mother. And we cannot afford—”

“He will. And we will find a way, Abigail. It is the least we can do for you.”

A mix of guilt and responsibility weighted on her heart. Her family counted on her, and yet she knew they wished it otherwise. She could see the pain in her mother’s eyes whenever the subject of her expected engagement to Lord Tarrington came up. Abigail did her best to convince her mother she wanted it, but they both recognized the lie, though neither chose to acknowledge it as such.

It was easier that way.

“The wardrobe I have is fine.”

Her mother picked up the spool of ribbon from the table. “The wardrobe you have needs updating. I will not allow my only daughter to be shabbily dressed. You deserve more than—”

“Lorena?”

Her mother stopped mid-sentence and turned around. “Gloria…”

Abigail tried to get her mouth to work a proper greeting but her throat constricted and nothing came out. In front of her stood her arch-nemesis’s mother, the beautiful Lady Blackbourne and her darkly stunning daughter, Lady Rebecca.

“It has been so long.” Lady Blackbourne smiled, but pain glittered through her silvery eyes. Eyes identical to her son’s save for the tender emotion Abigail saw there. Any emotion Lord Roxton exhibited was nothing more than a ruse. Something to lure in unsuspecting young ladies before he broke their hearts.

“Indeed. Too long,” her mother replied, surprising Abigail with the tremor in her voice. Her mother was a pillar of strength. Always had been. From the time little Roddy and Papa had died, leaving her family without protection, to the time she had brought them to Uncle Henry to start a new life, straight through the scandal her uncle’s death had created. To see her now, on the verge of tears by a simple greeting…it only served to solidify how deep the damage Lord Roxton had wrought.

There had been a time when Lady Blackbourne and her mother had been particular friends. In fact, had it not been for Lady Blackbourne’s friendship when they had first arrived in town, many of the ton would not have paid her family much heed at all. The ton had a long and lingering memory. They had not forgotten her mother was the daughter of a poor country vicar. Or that her father, Uncle Henry’s youngest brother, had possessed the audacity to run off and marry her despite stringent family objections. But something about their story had touched Lady Blackbourne and she had reached out.

Had she not deigned to cultivate a friendship, they likely would have remained on the outskirts of acceptability. Perhaps Uncle Henry’s support and Benedict being set to inherit the earldom would have helped their cause, but who knew how long it would have taken. With Lady Blackbourne’s help, they never had to learn.

But Lord Roxton had destroyed all of that.

In the beginning, the two women had tried to maintain their friendship while Uncle Henry and Lord Roxton battled for the affections and rights to Madame St. Augustine’s bed, but eventually it became the elephant in the room. And soon, the elephant became too large to ignore. Lady Blackbourne stopped coming by. As did most everyone else.

“We haven’t been getting out much,” Abigail stated flatly, her anger loosening the constriction on her throat and letting the words pass. Regret filled her once the words were spoken. Lady Blackbourne had not been the one at fault. In truth, other than the invitation to the Doddingtons’ masquerade, their social calendar remained dismally empty.

“O-of course.” Pink stained Lady Blackbourne’s cheeks and Lady Rebecca glanced down at the floor.

“But we will be attending Lord and Lady Doddington’s masquerade,” Mother added, with a smile and a proud lift of her chin.

Lady Blackbourne’s smile, and her relief, gave her face vitality and enhanced her beauty. A beauty that still retained a strong, youthful quality. How young she must have been when she married the much older Lord Blackbourne. It made one wonder if there was truth to the rumor of her affair. Not that it mattered. Whether Lord Roxton was the true heir or not changed nothing. He would bear the title either way upon Lord Blackbourne’s death.

“Rebecca and I will be attending as well.” Lady Blackbourne smiled at her daughter.

“Perhaps we will see you there,” her mother said, hope lighting her face.

Lady Blackbourne stepped forward, breaching the chasm between them and took Abigail’s mother’s hands in her own. “I would love that. I truly would.”

As she watched Lady Blackbourne and her daughter leave the shop, a thought nudged her. If Lady Blackbourne planned to attend the masquerade, would Lord Roxton accompany them? If so, it would eliminate the need to meet up with her mystery man. Her shoulders drooped. She’d rather been looking forward to seeing him as more than a dark shadow.

Then again, Lady Blackbourne had not specifically said Lord Roxton would be there and therefore, it would be better to err on the side of caution and continue to enlist the help of said mystery man. Just in case.

She smiled to herself and lost herself in the memory of his kiss while Mother plied her with ribbons and excited chatter about renewing her friendship with an old friend.

* * *

Nicholas let his gaze roam the sitting room, while he waited for Miss Caldwell and her mother, the baroness, to arrive. His father had insisted he pay a visit, that he not neglect his duties to the young lady whose hand he planned on requesting in marriage. He was not to do anything to jeopardize his chances.

His father had far less faith in his abilities than Nicholas did. Though in truth, Miss Caldwell’s acceptance of his hand had absolutely nothing to do with his persuasive abilities and everything to do with his bank account—a bank account that had swelled considerably over the past several years. Despite his debauched lifestyle, he had paid particular interest to the markets and investments. He’d had little choice.

While he would inherit the title and the entailed property upon his father’s death, the bulk of the earl’s unentailed estate would go to Rebecca. As it should be. She carried his blood after all.

Nicholas was just an interloper. A pretender to the crown.

“Roxton, my good man! They told me you had come to pay a visit. Keeping you waiting, are they?”

Baron Caldwell entered through the open door, his short, portly stature filling the room with a jovial air.

Nicholas stood and accepted the man’s outstretched hand and friendly cuff to the shoulder. “Good afternoon, Caldwell. I thought I would drop by and pay my respects.”

“Lovely to hear. Lovely to hear. Sit,” he ushered Nicholas back into his seat and took the one across from him. He turned to their butler, Gordon. “Is someone coming with refreshments?”

“Right away, sir.” Gordon inclined his bald head and disappeared in swift silence. The man’s footfalls did not even echo on the marble floor. Nicholas had always found him rather eerie.

“The ladies are all a twitter about the masquerade,” Baron Caldwell said. “I’ve been awash in talk of ribbons and frills and such for an entire week. It is nice to have another man about to converse with.”

Nicholas didn’t know how the baron did it. With a wife and three daughters, it was a wonder he remained sane. Or solvent. Then again, the last part was only partly true. The Baron struggled. With three dowries to supply and no son, he found himself in a bit of a pickle. He had to marry his daughters off to men of means to secure their futures. Yet he had not the means to procure such men.

Unless one of those men had buggered his own reputation to such a degree most parents corralled their daughters away from him, with only the most desperate considering him marriage material.

And the baron was desperate. Despite Miss Caldwell’s much exalted reputation, she was still only the daughter of a baron. Their people had never amassed a fortune, never made a name for themselves. They had lived quietly and somewhat frugally and managed to get by.

Of course, all of the families before theirs had had sons. Baron Caldwell, an only child, had produced only daughters.

And daughters were, as any man knew, an expensive proposition.

The quiet swish of dresses and soft lilt of female voices preceded the women’s entrance, giving the baron and Nicholas time to rise to their feet to greet them.

A close copy of her husband, small and portly, the baroness possessed a sense of joviality their eldest daughter had not inherited.

Nicholas bowed slightly. “Baroness. Miss Caldwell. It is lovely to see you again. You both look particularly beautiful this afternoon.”

Indeed, Miss Caldwell did. Her appearance was a study in perfection. That she was beautiful was never in question. In truth, she was quite stunning. Her dark hair and large brown eyes complimented her ivory skin. Only her mouth, slightly wider than fashion dictated, kept her from utter flawlessness. And yet no warmth lived within those features. Nothing welcomed a man in and made him feel he had found a home. Every attempt he had made to cultivate closeness had been rebuffed. She never looked at him as if she wanted him. Or even liked him.

He could have been anyone, so long as he came with a large enough purse.

He found it difficult to believe someone so beautiful could be so mercenary. Where she derived this particular trait from, he could not fathom. Neither parent appeared to possess it.

Then again, they had allowed him to court their daughter. Perhaps they hid it better than she.