Duke of Scandal (20 page)

Gathering every bit of strength and wisdom she possessed, she placed what remained of her drink on the walnut sideboard to her right, then lifted her skirts and walked with confidence toward Edmund, who now stood in the center of the drawing room, champagne in hand.

Brigitte noticed her first, looking her up and down, her expression overflowing with assessment. Then she pulled at Edmund's sleeve until he turned away from his discussion with two older gentlemen and leaned over so she could whisper in his ear. Suddenly, his head popped up and he cast his eyes upon her for the first time.

It was, indeed, a priceless moment. Edmund's typical, calculated smile vanished, his face physically paled, as he gazed upon her striding nonchalantly in his direction. And the only thing running through her mind at the moment was that she wished—oh, how she
wished
!—Sam was here to see this.

With a smile of pure, untempered satisfaction, she walked up to them, her reticule and fan in her left hand as she held out the other for Brigitte to take.

“Dearest, Brigitte, you look positively radiant tonight,” she said brightly as she leaned in to lightly kiss her cheeks. Then she stood back and placed her attention on Edmund the Snake.

Brigitte was the first to speak. “Darling, you remember the Lady Olivia Shea, from the House of Nivan.”

Edmund blinked as if momentarily confounded, eyeing her from head to foot, clearly trying to come to terms with the fact that she actually stood in front of him, composed, polite, and inviting him to react first. She reached out with her hand, palm down, offering him her knuckles.

“Good evening, Monsieur Carlisle,” she said, greeting him amiably with an innocent smile.

At last he recovered himself, realizing, she supposed, that he'd do well to acknowledge her and that she wasn't going to immediately embarrass him or start a rant.

“Of course. Lady Olivia.” He cleared his throat as he grasped her fingers and raised her knuckles to his lips. “You look…well.”

His hand felt cold and clammy, his panic certainly making him sweat. She grinned, prizing this moment of awkwardness for him. “It's lovely to see you again, and under such…incredible circumstances.”

His smile flattened as his brows furrowed minutely. “Indeed. I had no idea that you were acquainted with the Marcottes, or the House of Govance.”

Lying snake.
“Well, how marvelous for all of us,
non
?” She opened her fan and began swishing it lightly in front of her. “Of course you know that my aunt Claudette has family in Grasse, though it's true I haven't been here personally in years. How fortunate that I'm able to attend this occasion in celebration of your upcoming marriage.”

Watching her suspiciously, a pert little smile still smugly displayed on her mouth, Brigitte asked rather boldly, “And where is
your
husband, Olivia? I thought he was going to join you tonight.”

Timed perfectly, such a shocking revelation couldn't have stunned Edmund more. His body jerked back a fraction as his face began to redden.

Without allowing him the ability to chime in, she returned without pause, “I'm afraid he's feeling a bit under the weather today, though he does send his best.”

“I'm so sorry,” Brigitte replied with only a trace of feeling, rubbing her palm up and down Edmund's sleeve.

She sighed. “Yes, well, you know, it's been so hot here.”

Brigitte shook her head. “Oh, unusually so.”

“And of course, being from England, he's not used to so much constant sunshine.”

“True,” the younger woman agreed with slightly furrowed brows. “I don't think it's rained in a week or more.”

She carried on with the pleasantries. “Not since we've been here, I'm afraid.”

Edmund's eyes had narrowed noticeably as they bored into hers. “You've married,” he stated bluntly.

He sounded positively ridiculous to her, as if he were digesting the information with infinite slowness. “Yes,” she answered simply, directing her attention to him.

“And to an Englishman, darling, just like you,” Brigitte added, gently squeezing his arm, which she had yet to release.

“Yes, come to think of it, he is rather like you, monsieur,” she thoroughly enjoyed repeating, tilting her head as she scrutinized him from head to foot. “Though I do think he's taller, if only by a quarter of an inch or so.”

“But he couldn't possibly be as handsome,” Brigitte fairly purred, gazing up to his face.

Edmund smiled down at his betrothed—a particularly false smile, in her opinion, but then he had to be fuming right now, his mind racing with comments and questions he couldn't possibly ask. Olivia didn't think she could savor the moment more.

“Oh, but of course
I
think he's just as handsome,” she countered, drawing her view back to Brigitte as she closed her fan again, holding it in front of her with both hands. “But then isn't that what all wives think of their own husbands?”

“Oh,
oui,
” Brigitte concurred.

“So I suppose you and your husband are staying at the Maison de la Fleur?” Edmund asked, his tone cool, assessing.

“Oh, naturally,” she replied with an innocent flair, deciding he'd find out if he wanted to, regardless of whether she told him. “We believe it's the nicest place in Grasse, and I didn't want to intrude on extended family when we arrived without notice.”

“Naturally,” he repeated, studying her intently. Then,
with a sly lift of his lips, he asked, “Since he's from England, perhaps I know him. What, may I ask, is his name?”

Olivia scolded herself for not previously considering that he might inquire about the man, even if it was a stupid question, considering he hadn't been to his native country in years and couldn't possibly know even a fraction of the population. But more to the point, if she mentioned Sam's name, Edmund would come to them tonight, at the hotel, and confront them there, which she absolutely did not want to happen when they weren't prepared for it. No, she wanted full revelation tomorrow night, at the ball, for all to witness.

Without a second thought she murmured, “His name is John. John Andrews. He's a banker from London.”

His brows rose minutely as he scrutinized every inch of her, searching for hidden lies. “A banker?” he replied.

She beamed, thoroughly proud of herself for her ingenuity. “Yes, actually. He's helping me sort through my finances.”

She could have sworn Edmund snorted.

Brigitte gaped at her. “Nivan is having financial difficulties?” she asked, her first question of genuine interest.

She scoffed, waving her hand in dismissal. “Oh, no, no, of course not. Our sales have been most appropriate for the year so far.” She shot a quick glance at Edmund then looked back to Brigitte. “No, really, Monsieur Andrews has just been a gem in helping me restructure my
personal
inheritance. It seems,” she added through a snicker, dropping her voice, “that by examination of
the paperwork, I've apparently…lost some of it.”

“Oh, I see,” Brigitte murmured seconds later, her voice growing distant.

Edmund, body taut, face expressionless except for his flaring nostrils, looked as if he were ready to jump out of his skin. Or lunge for her throat. His innocent bride-to-be seemed completely oblivious to his posture of fury, though she now frowned, probably realizing that by touching on the subject of inheritances, Olivia risked exposing her belief that Edmund was after the Govance fortune through marriage. Although thrilled with her performance thus far, Olivia wasn't ready for a clash of wills, or a rush of tears.

Quickly, she brushed it all aside with a shake of her head and a light shrug. “I suppose keeping track of one's fortune just shouldn't be placed in the hands of ladies. Or at least that's what my husband says.”

Edmund had no reply to that, but his face had hardened to stone; Brigitte simply nodded.

“Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep you two any longer,” she said breezily, glancing around the room. “Goodness, so many people are here to celebrate and I'm taking all of your time.” She looked back at them, smiling. “Perhaps we'll get a chance to chat later.”

Brigitte brightened with obvious relief. “Yes, I suppose we should mingle, shouldn't we, darling?”

At that perfect moment, two older ladies Olivia didn't personally know interrupted the three of them with hugs and good wishes, and she backed up a step to allow them space.

With a final, meaningful look into Edmund's cold eyes, Olivia turned her back to him and walked toward
the buffet table for another glass of champagne, this one sorely needed as she shivered within and her hands began to shake.

Her next responsibility would be to quickly take her leave, to make her excuses and head back to the safety of Sam's strong arms and the solid walls of the Maison de la Fleur. She felt exposed here, certain Edmund would keep a sharp eye on her, perhaps confront her if given opportunity, though she couldn't think of a reason he could draw upon to leave Brigitte's side for any length of time to speak to her privately.

Reaching for a flute of champagne from the buffet, her mind a whirl, nerves raw, she had no warning that he was upon her until he abruptly clutched her arm with enough strength and motion to splatter a measure of the pale liquid down the skirt of her evening gown and onto the plush floral carpeting at her feet.

Shocked, she couldn't move, and because they were in the corner of the room, they were turned away from everyone.

From behind, he leaned toward her and said in a low, rigid voice, “You will meet me tomorrow morning at ten, in the hotel's garden arbor. Be there alone. We need to talk, Olivia.”

Before she could utter a response, he backed away, moving so quickly that by the time she spun around, he'd disappeared into the crowd of jovial guests, who carried on, enjoying the party atmosphere, taking no apparent notice of her or their few seconds together.

Olivia breathed deeply, more angry than scared, though she realized she needed to leave at once. Downing one large gulp of champagne, she placed her near
empty flute on the buffet, then held her shaking hands together in front of her as she went looking for Grand-père Marcotte to bid him
au revoir
for the night.

 

Sam had been more or less pacing the floor of the hotel's foyer since the moment she left, worried more than he thought he'd be, though knowing the plan they'd devised would serve their purpose perfectly and that she would certainly be safe in the company of others. Still, he couldn't help but feel perturbed that he wasn't with her to watch her in action, to see the look on Edmund's face when he noticed her for the first time. He would simply have to wait for the details, and since it had now been more than two hours since her departure, his patience had started thinning.

He'd all but decided that since darkness had fallen he could comfortably wait inside, when he saw her coach pull up in front of the hotel and the driver alight from his perch to open her door.

Sam rushed to the coach, and the moment she caught his eye, she beamed, stopping him in his tracks.

“You're certainly anxious,” she noted, grinning with a satisfaction she couldn't hide.

He clasped his hands behind his back, watching her with interest as she sauntered up to him. “I have nothing better to do than wait on you, Lady Olivia.”

“As it should be,” she remarked slyly.

She looked beautiful, glowing with a rosy vibrance that hadn't been there when she'd left. “Well?” he asked with raised brows after a long moment of silence on her part.

Then she squealed and practically jumped into his
arms. “Oh, my God, Sam, it was magnificent! Simply
magnificent!
” she said with a burst of delight, hugging him tightly, her face tucked into his neck.

Sam was so stunned by her behavior, her act of familiarity, that he momentarily couldn't respond. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he closed his arms around her, holding her securely against him, lifting her feet off the ground as she laughed in his arms and kissed his neck with tiny pecks.

She enchanted him, smelling faintly of wine and flowers, her hair silky soft against his cheek as he took that moment in time—just one selfish moment—to savor the feel of her subtle curves, to relish the touch of her lips on his skin, to drown in the innocence of her laughter. Her happiness intoxicated him, and when at last he felt her gingerly push her palms against his shoulders in an effort to be released, it occurred to him how lonely his world would be without her.

With keen reservation, he loosened his grip and lowered her to the ground.

She backed up a pace, grinning at him, her gaze taking in all of his face. “I have to tell you everything, but let's go inside.”

“A very good idea,” he replied genially, his hands resting on her waist.

She grasped one of them, and without thought or additional word, practically pulled him along, hand in hand, all the way up to the third floor.

Their suite provided modest accommodations, consisting of two separate sleeping chambers and a center room between them, its flowered papered walls enclosing only one cherrywood, floral sofa and a matching
but simple table with two accompanying chairs. She stood near the table, on top of which rested a lamp that she'd lit upon entrance, pulling her earrings from her lobes and then tossing them, along with her fan and reticule, on the wooden surface.

She faced him, her smile never fading. “It was magnificent.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he replied, “So you said.”

“He was shocked, utterly shocked.” She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Oh, my, but it was
fun,
Sam.”

He moved to the sofa and sat heavily, extending his legs out in front of him, his arms folded across his stomach, gazing at her with amusement. “Had a good time, did you?”