Scandalous Love (28 page)

He would make sure of
it.

Isobel arrived at
Clayborough House that evening dressed for supper in a magnificent crimson
gown, the skirt beaded elaborately along the hem. Although Isobel's figure was
still shapely enough that she could get away with the most daring of current
fashions, she was realistic enough to know that at fifty-plus one she did not
have the skin of a twenty-year-old and her gowns were more modest than
revealing. To match her gown she carried a dark red reticule beaded in jet, and
she also flashed rubies on her ears, at her throat and on her wrists.

By now she had heard the
gossip. She did not doubt it. Not after the tension she had witnessed between
them. She intended to ask her son directly if he was marrying Nicole Shelton in
less than two weeks time.

Woodward greeted her
with a smile that was reserved exclusively for her. Isobel suspected that he
had fallen in love with her when she first married Francis, but wisely, she had
always pretended ignorance of his emotions. "Hello, Woodward. How are you
this evening?" She had always been familiar with the staff—even when
Francis mocked her for it.

"Fine, thank you,
Your Grace. His Grace is in the red salon awaiting you."

Isobel smiled, handed
him her mink wrap, and allowed him to escort her to her son and announce her
formally.

Hadrian greeted her
warmly, although he seemed disturbed. When they were alone and seated with
drinks, tea for him and white wine for her, Isobel looked at him directly.
"I have heard gossip, Hadrian."

He grimaced. "Which
gossip?"

"All of it, I
suspect. Are you marrying Nicole Shelton?"

"Yes, I am. I am
sorry you had to find out this way, before I could tell you."

"Is the rest of the
gossip true, too?"

He stood restlessly.
"If you mean am I madly in love with her, no."

Isobel eyed him.

"I intend to
circumvent any unsavory rumours by appearing absolutely lovestruck," he
stated.

"I see." She
had to smile. "I cannot imagine you acting besotted."

"All the more
reason my behavior will be credible."

"Hadrian, do you
mind me asking? Why are you marrying Nicole Shelton so soon after Elizabeth's
death?"

He flushed.
"Because she could be with my child."

"I see. So there is
truth to the rest of the gossip, as well."

His face darkened.
"So that is the talk, is it? I shall nip it in the bud quickly enough! I
shall find out the perpetrators of this gossip and make my displeasure
unequivocally known."

"I'm sure you will
stop the rumours in no time," Isobel said softly. She, too, stood, and
placed her hand on her son's arm. "How are you feeling?"

He tensed and moved
away. "I will always miss Elizabeth, but she is dead." He paced to
the tall picture window and stared out of it.

"I mean about your
marriage. About your bride."

He turned, his smile
polite. "I am taking full responsibility for my behavior, Mother. What
more would you have me say? That I really am in love with Lady Shelton? I
assure you, I am not."

Isobel smiled. "I
see."

"May I have your
approval?" he asked. "I know she will not make the best duchess, but
I imagine with time she will manage well enough."

"To the
contrary," Isobel said, still smiling. "I think she will make a fine
duchess and a wonderful wife."

Hadrian stared. He grew
somewhat red and coughed, loosening his necktie. "I am glad you think
so."

"She is a fine
woman. I like her. I admire her resilience and her independent thinking."

Hadrian sighed.
"You would. Mother, she is dead set against this marriage. Her
'independent thinking' is already causing me grief."

Isobel laughed. "I
imagine it is. Hadrian, you are too straight-laced by half. A little
impropriety in your life will do you good."

"A little
impropriety in my life will do me good?" he echoed. "You make no
sense, Mother. Obviously I am nowhere near straight-laced enough."

Isobel sobered.
"Darling, we all make mistakes. You are not the only conscientious man to
succumb to his passion for a woman. Believe me when I tell you that a good dose
or two of Nicole Shelton's independent thinking is just what you need."

"One dose of Nicole
Shelton is the equivalent of a hundred doses of any other woman! Nicole does
nothing by halves, Mother. When she is daring, it is in full form. Are you
accusing me of being too proper?"

"Am I?"

"Would you rather I
be like dear Francis?"

Isobel was instantly
somber. "Of course not. You are
nothing
like him, Hadrian,
nothing!"

"Really?" He
was cool, pacing to the butler's table and pouring himself another cup of tea.
"Perhaps Lady Shelton thinks differently."

Isobel started.
"What does that mean?!"

"I fear she finds
my behavior somewhat reprehensible. In truth, it has been reprehensible. There
is more of Francis in me than I ever suspected."

Isobel was white with
anger. "That's not true!"

He lifted his gaze to
her. His expression was mocking. "We all have a dark side, Mother. For
some, it is just darker than others."

Isobel was speechless.

"I did not mean to
upset you," the Duke said quickly. "This topic is too morbid. Shall
we discuss the wedding plans? I decided that all of London should attend, to
see that we have nothing to hide."

"Hadrian."
Isobel came to him and touched his arm. "You are not like Francis. It
upsets me when you speak like that. You are not at all like him!" Guilt
was lodged in her chest for denying her son the truth.

"I should have never
brought it up." His face was closed, and she knew he would not discuss
such a distasteful—and intimate—subject with her again.

Isobel turned away. Her
heart was pounding and her palms were clammy. Francis had been dead and buried
for two years now. She had thought him out of their lives. But another quick
look at Hadrian's brooding face told her that he still haunted not just her,
but her son. Oh God! She must tell him the truth!

She resolved that she
would. She had not realized that Francis still affected Hadrian, even dead and
buried as he was, that her son was accusing himself of being a monster like
Francis, and that he thought Nicole found him just as dishonorable. Hadrian was
the most honorable man she knew—and as such, he had every right to know the
truth.

Isobel trembled. The
time had never been more right. After all, he was about to marry, soon he would
have his own son. She would tell him everything. She must.

"Mother, are you
all right?"

"Just a bit
faint," Isobel managed.

"Let's go in to
eat," Hadrian said, quickly coming to her and taking her arm. His
sherry-colored gaze took in her features with vast concern.

Isobel wanted to cry.
For the same dilemma that had confronted her for years still loomed before her.
What if, by telling him everything, she sacrificed his love and his trust?
Hadrian was the most important thing in her life and she could not bear it if
he turned away from her, she could not. Somehow she had to reach deep within
herself to find the strength and the courage she needed to reveal what she must
to her son.

Isobel was born in the
spring of 1844. She was the Earl of Northumberland's first child. Her mother,
Lady Beatrice, died giving birth to her. It was fifteen years before Roger de
Warenne remarried. In the ensuing time, there were just the two of them—father
and daughter.

From the very start she
was a blonde, blue-eyed beauty. Her father adored her and doted upon her, as
did the entire household and all of her aunts and uncles as well. In
consequence she could not but be somewhat spoiled, but by nature Isobel was not
manipulative, and her precocious ways were endearing. The Earl proudly noted
that she was by far too clever for a lady, even a young one.

The Earl was determined
to arrange the best marriage possible for his daughter. The de Warennes were
one of the premier families in the realm. They claimed as fact their belief
that Rolfe de Warenne, who had come to England with William the Conqueror, was
one of his greatest generals and closest advisors. He had become the first Earl
of Northumberland in 1085, and every earl since had been a power behind the
throne. It was a family tradition of sorts. Roger was no exception; he was a
confidante of the Prime Minister's and he exercised great behind-the-scenes
power in the affairs of the country.

He was also close
friends with the seventh Duke of Clayborough, Jonathan Braxton-Lowell, another
extremely influential man, although in those days he was with the opposition.
Politics aside, both men were not only well-acquainted, but they genuinely
liked, admired
and
respected one another. It was one fateful night at their exclusive James Street
club that they decided to wed their children to each other.

Of course, for two such
men there was much more than friendship involved in forming such an alliance.
Roger de Warenne did not know the details, but he guessed the facts from the
marriage contract that the two men agreed upon. Isobel was one of the greatest
heiresses in the land, but Jonathan insisted she bring a great deal of sterling
into the Clayborough dukedom as well as two very productive estates. Roger
could only surmise that Clayborough was cash-poor. That did not disturb him,
not in the least, for Northumberland was very very rich.

Francis was one of the
most sought-after bachelors in Britain, so it was not surprising that Roger
chose him for his daughter. One day he hoped to have a legitimate son to
inherit his title, his wealth and his power, but Isobel was his first child and
he loved her dearly. She had wealth already by being a great heiress. As his
daughter she held the complimentary title of "Lady." She could have
any man she wanted, but it was not up to her to choose. Roger wanted more for
her, much more than what was obviously attainable. By marrying her to the
future Duke of Clayborough he achieved much more, for one day she would be a
duchess, her rank surpassing even his. One day her son would be the ninth Duke
of Clayborough. Roger exercised great power, but his grandson would
have—unbelievably—even more.

Roger was too shrewd to
take any chances on his vision of the future. Because Jonathan was so desperate
for the sterling, he succeeded in maneuvering him into a corner. Should Francis
die before Isobel, with no issue from their union, Isobel would inherit
Clayborough. De Warennes lived long lives, so Roger had not a doubt that Isobel
would outlive Francis, and should they be unlucky enough not to have a child,
Clayborough would revert to the de Warennes. And should they have a child, his
surname would be de Warenne Braxton-Lowell. Either way, Roger had won for his
family what he wanted.

The contract was signed,
sealed and delivered. But the friendship between Roger and Jonathan was never
the same. The Duke of Clayborough could not forgive the Earl of Northumberland
for what he had demanded.

Isobel was sixteen, and
for the first time in her life she was unhappy. The year before her father had
married a woman not much older than she was and their relationship had changed
terribly. His new wife, Claire, was a widow in her early twenties, a stunning,
dark beauty whom her father could not seem to be apart from. Suddenly Isobel
was no longer the focus of his universe. Suddenly he was barely aware that
Isobel existed.

Isobel was thrilled when
the Earl announced her betrothal. She was eager to escape her home—and her
father. She was so eager that she demanded her wedding be moved to an earlier
date instead of waiting until after her first season, and her father agreed.

Without even having met
Francis, she was already in love with him. She knew all about Francis
Braxton-Lowell. He was twelve years her senior and considered
the
catch
in all of Britain. He was blond and dashing and had every female who met him
swooning. When Isobel met him she was not disappointed. He was beautiful, and
his cool disdainful arrogance only made him more attractive.

In May of 1861, on
Isobel's seventeenth birthday, they were wed.

And her illusions were
promptly shattered.

Prior to their wedding
night, Francis had always been the perfect gentleman. In fact, he had never
even kissed her, never even offered her any of the flowery flattery Isobel was
so used to hearing. Not that she cared. He was the prince of her dreams and he
could do no wrong. It was his sophistication, she assured herself, which made
him aloof—and exciting.

She vaguely knew what to
expect on her wedding night. Her grandmother had explained to her in some
detail what her husband would do. Isobel had been shocked—yet titillated. She
could not imagine a man having an appendage that grew big and hard which he
would put inside her. Thinking about the kisses which her grandmother assured
her would proceed the momentous event excited her even further. How she had
been yearning for Francis' kisses!

Francis came to her with
a cold glint in his eyes, unsmiling, offering no comfort, no tenderness, and no
words of love, "Are you ready for me?" he asked, his tone mocking.
His gaze swept her as he leaned against the closed door of her bedroom.

Isobel felt a moment of
panic. She was clad in a sheer, beautiful nightgown, her hair down and flowing
to her waist. Yet he seemed unimpressed, even indifferent. "Yes," she
managed to keep her voice firm, she managed to smile.

"Such a brave
lass," he mocked again, approaching her. "Will you still be brave in
another moment?"

Her eyes widened, she
could not respond. She had the distinct impression that not only didn't he love
her—he didn't even like her! But she had to be wrong.

He tossed aside his
dressing gown and Isobel was treated to her first sight of a naked man's body.
Francis was slender, but all lean muscle, yet she could not focus on that. What
did draw her attention was the appendage her grandmother had referred to, and
it seemed huge to her innocent eyes and suddenly she was very afraid.

He laughed, coming down
on top of her. "Not so brave now, are we?"

"Francis,
wait," she cried, panic engulfing her.

He ignored her and
kissed her.

Isobel instantly gagged.
His breath reeked of cigarettes and whiskey. His kiss was wet and slippery—she
did not like it at all.

"Frigid little
bitch, aren't you?" he murmured. "Spread your legs."

Isobel froze at his
words. Before she could react he was opening her thighs for her—and then he was
ripping her apart. Had she known the pain would be so great she would have been
prepared and she would not have screamed. But she did not know, she wasn't
prepared, and she did scream. Fortunately, Francis spent himself quickly, and
just as quickly he left her.

But not before a cruel
parting word. "I do hope your attitude improves."

After that, Isobel hated
him. She had never been abused before, not physically and not verbally. And she
was not a woman who could hide her feelings. Francis was amused. She quickly
realized that he was glad she hated him and he liked hurting her in bed.

Fortunately he did not
come to her bed very often.

Although Isobel despised
her husband, she had been born to nobility and she took to being a future
duchess with ease and aplomb. They entertained at least once a week, and she
was an outstanding hostess, soon considered one of the premier hostesses in the
realm. She received more invitations than she could accept, and she was out
every night of the week, without Francis, who went his own way with his own
friends.

Isobel also got on
famously with the Duke and Duchess, whom she grew extremely fond of. The
Duchess was a stern, aloof woman, but when she gave praise she meant it, and
she approved of Isobel. The Duke was warm, hearty and kind, and he doted on
her. Isobel could not understand how two such people could have had a cruel son
like Francis.

She soon heard the
rumours. It became apparent to her that Francis spent all his time with a wild
crowd of young men, most of whom were bachelors. They devoted themselves to
gambling, racing, drinking and the hunt. Isobel also learned from one of the
women in her social circle that Francis kept a beautiful dancer as his
mistress.

She was furious. She
knew men had mistresses, but it had never occurred to her that
her husband
would
be like other men. Indeed, she had never dreamed a marriage such as hers could
even exist! It was the greatest insult to her pride that Francis spent most of
his nights with another woman—even though she did not want him at home with
her. And the worst part of it was that the whole world knew of his infidelity.

"Someone told me
that you keep a mistress, Francis," she said furiously. "And
apparently it's common knowledge. Is it true?"

There was no hesitation.
The blow came before she could even see it coming. He struck her across the
face so hard that she fell to the floor and saw stars. When she began to focus
dizzily, her face throbbing in pain, Francis was bending over her. "Don't
you
ever
speak to me in such a manner again, Isobel. What I do is
none
of your affair. You have one purpose in my life—do you understand? And that
is to give me my heir."

Wisely, Isobel did not
answer and she did not move. He strode away from her, leaving her on the floor.
Then she sat up. Despite the pain, which brought forth hot tears, her eyes
blazed.

There were no more
illusions to shatter, no more innocence to lose. She was not yet eighteen.

Isobel could not
conceive a son. Francis came to her bed less and less frequently, which did not
help matters. Yet the more time that went by without her becoming pregnant, the
more he accused her of being barren and worthless and the quicker he was to
find an excuse to strike her.

Four years after they
were wed, the Duke of Clayborough died. Isobel was deeply saddened by the loss
of the man who had become such a friend to her, almost replacing her father,
and she wept at his funeral. Francis showed no remorse. If anything, he took up
the title of Duke eagerly enough. He remained isolated in mourning for less
than an entire week.

Isobel was furious with
him. She was careful to ignore him and say nothing, however. She had learned to
not only avoid her husband, but to refrain from criticizing him. Besides,
everyone knew that Francis was an alcohol-addicted wastrel, she knew that now.

It was during this time
that her father came to see her without Lady Claire. He came to comfort her,
yet Isobel was cool. These past few years he had begun a new family; Claire had
given him two sons. Isobel had rarely seen him, and that he no longer seemed to
love her as he had hurt her more than anything.

"I know how fond
you were of Jonathan," he said heavily, suffering his own grief over the
loss of his friend. "I, too, shall miss him."

He had always seemed
immortal to Isobel, yet suddenly she saw him as a man of his age. Suddenly she
realized that he was not much younger than the Duke of Clayborough had been—and
the Duke was dead of natural causes. Fear swept her. No matter what had
happened since he had married that woman, he was her father—and she loved him.
"Father, we must spend more time with one another," she said firmly.

He looked surprised, and
pleased. "I am always willing to make time for you, darling," he
said. "But you are always too busy."