Once Upon a Scandal Read online

  “Shot?” Lucas said numbly.

  “I’ll show you,” Emma said. “Maybe then you’ll believe me.”

  In one swift move, she lowered her gown over her shoulder, holding the bodice over her breasts while revealing an expanse of milky skin and the edge of the plain, bleached-linen chemise that covered her bosom. Lucas felt a lightning bolt of desire. The glimpse of Emma’s bare shoulder left him as hot and breathless as an adolescent gawking at his first naked woman.

  “See? This is where the bullet struck me.” With her bandaged hand, she pointed at the white, upraised scar just below her left shoulder.

  Shock reverberated through Lucas. The size of a farthing, the knot of healed tissue was undoubtedly caused by a bullet. Was Emma so greedy for wealth she would risk her own life? Did she, too, have gaming debts to pay off? “What happened?” he asked.

  “Last April, while I was rifling through his jewel box, I was surprised by Lord Jasper Putney. Before I could flee, he seized his pistol and fired—”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Lord Briggs interrupted. “You won’t be exposing yourself to the magistrate, so it’s your word against mine. Now cover yourself, girl. Unless you want to give your laggard of a husband ideas.”

  A pink flush tinged her cheeks, and she spun around to repair her clothing. Lucas hated himself for the lust burning in him. He could scarcely wait until they could be alone … .

  “And you,” Briggs said, advancing on Lucas, “you should be ashamed of how badly you’ve treated my granddaughter. All these years you’ve neglected her. You let her and little Jenny live in poverty without so much as a penny of support. And you call yourself a gentleman.”

  With each accusation, Briggs marched closer until Lucas found himself backed against the wall. The slur on his honor rankled. How dare this man question his character.

  He kept his fingers clenched at his sides. “Be careful, old man. Lest you find yourself choosing swords or pistols.”

  “Think you can best me on the dueling field, eh?” Briggs shook his fist at Lucas. “We’ll see about that—”

  “Enough,” Emma said, stepping between them. “There will be no fighting. Grandfather, the past’is best forgotten.”

  “The man has an obligation to you—”

  “Which he intends to fulfill. You see, my husband has promised to take care of Jenny and me from now on. Haven’t you, Lucas?”

  Slipping her arm through his, she turned those guileless blue eyes up at him. The exclamation of disbelief from Briggs was mere noise in the background as Lucas again found himself entranced by Emma. How innocent she appeared. How adept she was at twisting the truth to suit her purposes.

  But it was his turn to have the upper hand. His turn to have revenge. An undeniable surge of exultation poured through him.

  Tonight she would finally be his.

  Chapter 7

  As Emma descended the grand staircase at Wortham House, she heeded the urge to dawdle. It was strange to take her rightful place in this grand residence after seven years of ostracism. She felt like an impostor rather than the Marchioness of Wortham.

  Her husband’s ancestors glared down at her from the walls as if to accuse her of ruining his life. She glared back. Although it was true, she had wronged Lucas—wronged him most foully—she was here to make amends. And to do so, she had to sleep with him.

  The oppressive darkness of memory threatened. She pushed it away. He had given Jenny the protection of his name. In return, he deserved a child of his own, a son or a daughter or both.

  She knew that. Yet fear and loathing gnawed at her.

  A casement clock ticked in the deserted foyer, marking the minutes until bedtime. Shivering, she paused on the stairway The chill originated in a place hidden deep within herself. The sting of her bandaged wound served as a reminder that she was a prisoner, not the lady of the house.

  The last of her bravado trickled away. The hum of voices drifted from the drawing room, where the household had gathered at the sound of the dinner gong. Lucas’s two sisters were visiting from the country to celebrate the return of their prodigal brother. Emma dreaded facing his family. They thought her a harlot, a shameless hussy.

  She alone knew the truth. For an instant, fantasy tempted Emma. She could march in there and tell them. She could relish the horror on their faces as she recounted that abominable event … .

  But Jenny—sweet Jenny—might find out then. She never wanted Jenny to learn that her father was no knight in shining armor. That she had been conceived not in love but in violence.

  Emma reached the bottom of the staircase and leaned against the newel post. Misgivings battered her breast. Had she been right to bring Jenny here?

  In the nursery, Jenny had been delighted to discover she had five younger cousins to mother. Immediately she’d made funny faces to cheer up a crying girl, and then helped a little boy unbuckle his shoes. She had scarcely noticed Emma’s departure.

  But what if the family snubbed Jenny? What if, when they found out she was staying in the nursery, they forbade their children to play with her? And what of Lucas? Jenny was here against his express wishes. Emma didn’t want to believe he had become so callous he would insult her child. Yet she no longer knew him; she could no longer predict his behavior.

  She hadn’t felt so dizzy with anxiety since she’d been a bride with a dark secret. Then, as now, she’d had no choice. Against her will, Emma tumbled back into the past, reliving that fateful day … .

  Though she’d been unable to keep down any food on the morning of her wedding, far more than physical illness had plagued her. She’d felt trapped and terrified, ashamed to confide in anyone, least of all her betrothed.

  I have no choice, she’d thought as she’d stood lifeless as a French fashion doll, while her grandmama fussed over the blue bridal gown and offered advice about the physical needs of one’s husband.

  Emma had blocked her mind to the wedding night. She dared not consider that intimate act, when she must use all her wiles to charm Lucas.

  No choice. No choice. No choice. The rattle of the carriage wheels repeated the refrain as she and her grandparents traveled to St. George’s Church in Hanover Square. There, the murmuring of the guests and the swell of organ music nearly snapped the thread of her composure. The church seemed to tilt, and she clung to her grandfather’s wiry arm.

  “Chin up, girl,” Lord Briggs whispered in her ear. “Wortham’s a decent chap. Even if he can’t abide gambling.”

  His affectionate wink only made her feel worse.

  As he escorted her up the aisle, faces beamed at her in admiration. She forced a brilliant smile, letting everyone think she reveled in securing an advantageous marriage in her very first Season. She was the envy of every husband-hunting debutante, every social-climbing mama. At one time she would have savored the attention, yet on her wedding day she felt nothing inside. It was as if a glass dome insulated her from the world.

  No choice. No choice. No choice.

  At the altar, she swayed when her grandfather released his hold on her. For one horrid moment Emma feared she would collapse, and everyone would guess the scandalous truth. Then she felt the firm support of a man’s hand.

  Lucas Coulter, Lord Wortham. With adoration shining in his brown eyes and a lock of dark hair dipping onto his brow, he seemed more a bashful boy than a virile man. Though he was twenty and she but eighteen, she felt much older than he. Eons older.

  His hesitant smile was strangely comforting. Lucas would never hurt her. He provided a safe harbor from the storm of her past, from the anguish of her future. Tonight he would learn the truth. And she would convince him to take care of her. It was the perfect solution to her desperate dilemma.

  The bishop droned from his black prayerbook. Lucas spoke his vows with only a trace of his habitual stuttering. Then the clergyman turned his stern face toward her. “‘Emma Callandra, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in th
e holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, as long as ye both shall live?’”

  Her mouth went as dry as dust. Someone in the congregation coughed discreetly. She sensed everyone in the church staring at her, waiting, watching. Her heart thundered, and the air around the altar seemed to pulsate and shimmer. Madness crept from the edge of her consciousness. How could she make such a vow to any man? How could she let him do with her whatever he willed?

  No choice. No choice. No choice.

  The weight of Lucas’s fingers on her arm gave her courage. She wanted to banish the darkness, to feel clean and good again, deserving of his love. She would make it up to him. “Yes,” she whispered. “I will.”

  The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur. Then he placed the dainty gold wedding ring upon her finger and bent down to brush his warm lips over hers. A shudder started at the core of her, but Emma controlled it with frantic effort. She was the Marchioness of Wortham now. Her exalted position would save her unborn child from disgrace …

  The yapping of a dog shattered the memory. Emma returned to the present with a jolt. From across the foyer, a bundle of white fur streaked toward her, claws clicking and paws skidding on the marble floor.

  “Toby,” she said in delight. “Have you come for your treat?”

  The old terrier danced on his hind legs. Her spirits lifting, Emma fed him a bit of peppermint she had snitched from a jar in the nursery. Then she sank down and hugged his small, warm body. Wriggling with ecstasy, he licked her chin. She drew an absurd amount of comfort from the little dog.

  “Toby!” spoke a regal voice. “Come.”

  Lucas’s mother stood in the doorway to the drawing room. She looked thin and pale in a rust-colored gown with a feathered turban that hid her silver hair. No hint of welcome softened her face as she glanced at her daughter-in-law.

  The dog cast a longing look at Emma, then trudged back to the dowager, his head hung low and his tail tucked down.

  Emma hid her resentment behind a polite smile. “Madam. How good to see you.”

  The elder Lady Wortham arched an eyebrow. “Emma. I understand you’ve bedazzled my son again.”

  As much as Emma had prepared herself, she was taken aback by the dowager’s open dislike. “I should think you’d be pleased for him, that we’ve reconciled our differences. Though I wouldn’t precisely describe him as bedazzled—”

  “I would,” said Lucas.

  Darkly handsome in a steel-gray coat and charcoal breeches, her husband emerged from the drawing room. He pressed his hand to the back of Emma’s waist and smiled down at her, the dimples showing attractively in his tanned cheeks. “My wife is being modest. The truth is, she swept me off my feet. For the second time.”

  His suave tone stunned her into silence. Mockery glinted in his eyes. He stood close—too close—and she held herself rigid to keep from recoiling.

  With a careless refinement he had never displayed as a youth, he escorted her past his mother and into the drawing room. Several branches of candles spread a golden glow over the group. Emma cast a wary smile at his sisters. They didn’t smile back.

  “Congratulate us, everyone,” Lucas said, his words crisp and deliberate. “Emma and I are happy to be together again. We want all of you to share in our joy.”

  Despite a lackluster response from the family, he lifted her uninjured hand to his lips. The brush of his warm mouth against the back of her hand sent a flurry of shivers over her skin. She resisted the urge to yank her hand away. So he intended to hide his wicked plan behind a mask of civility, did he?

  Two could play at that game.

  “My dearest,” she murmured silkily, forcing herself to run her fingertips over the strong line of his jaw. “I know you’ve missed me as much as I missed you. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  “Or no woman,” he said under his breath. Then, with a firm grip on her arm, he whisked her toward his sisters, who sat conversing on a blue-striped couch.

  Olivia reclined against the cushions, her hands folded atop her gently rounded belly. A cascade of reddish curls draped the shoulder of her dark green gown. She worked her lips into a chilly smile. “Emma. I never thought to see you again.”

  “None of us did,” blurted Phoebe. A rather plump lady in a high-waisted gown of clarence-blue silk, she vigorously fanned herself despite the evening chill. “Oh, dear, this is all so sudden.”

  Leaning toward her brother, Olivia said in an undertone, “Mother is quite perturbed with you, Lucas. Considering her weak heart, you ought to have had the courtesy to give her some warning.”

  “And especially so after that horrifying event last night.” Phoebe turned to Emma. “Did Lucas tell you?”

  Paralysis gripped Emma’s throat, and every muscle in her body went stiff. She glanced at her husband to find him watching her, a smirk on his face. The devil. He was enjoying her discomfort. “He didn’t say a word. What happened?”

  “A robber broke into this house and nearly murdered us in our beds,” Olivia said with a, shiver. “Lucas brought down the knave in the passageway right outside my bedchamber.”

  “You don’t say!” Emma exclaimed, rounding her eyes first at Olivia, then at her husband. “How brave of you, Lucas, to chase after so dangerous a criminal.”

  “Indeed,” Phoebe said, leaning forward, “he might have been killed.”

  “We’ve no wish to see our brother harmed in any way,” Olivia put in primly. “Now that he’s finally come back to us.”

  The pointed stares from both women pricked Emma. She cursed the warmth that crept up her throat and into her cheeks. Resentful as she was, she understood their protectiveness. She felt the same fiery sense of guardianship toward Jenny.

  “Come now, Livvie, you’re being sensational,” Lucas drawled. “The intruder was a petty thief of no consequence.”

  Olivia swung her gaze toward him. “Ha. Mama says he was the Bond Street Burglar. And I agree.”

  “Who?” Emma asked with wide-eyed innocence.

  “Surely you’ve heard of so famous a villain,” Phoebe said.

  “The Burglar has been terrorizing London for the past few years,” Olivia explained. “Stealing from decent, law-abiding people.”

  “Oh, I remember now,” Emma said. “Like Robin Hood, he robs only the very rich. Men who have supplemented their wealth through gambling.”

  Olivia harumphed. Phoebe frowned over her fan.

  Lucas cast a withering glance at Emma. “The Burglar uses that excuse as a license to steal.”

  “Or perhaps as a means to exact justice,” she returned, batting her lashes in girlish naïveté. “The Runners must have been terribly impressed when you brought him in. Did they give you a reward?”

  A warning flashed into those tarnished-gold eyes. For a moment she feared she had pushed him too far. Then he touched her hand, lightly massaging her bandage. “Reward? Hardly. Our thief managed to escape when I left him alone for a moment. If you ladies will excuse me.” Releasing her, he walked to the sideboard and reached for a crystal decanter of brandy.

  Emma was left standing before her two sisters-in-law. Aware of their barely veiled hostility, she took her time situating herself on a gilt chair. Long ago, she had been particular friends with Olivia, who had a generous heart and a fun-loving nature.

  None of those qualities showed now. Livvie sat in frosty silence as if to punish Emma for her sins.

  Emma was done being ashamed. She would meet their sourness with sweetness. “Where are your husbands? I had so hoped to meet them.”

  “Hugh and Ralph are at their club,” Olivia said archly. “Lucas had intended to accompany them, but …” She compressed her lips.

  In the awkward silence, Phoebe fidgeted with the ivory ribs of her fan. “Well. It has been quite a long while since we’ve seen you at ton events, Emma.”

  “Sev
en years,” Olivia stated. “Surely you miss being the center of attention.”

  “On the contrary,” Emma said, “I don’t miss it a whit. I lead a much more useful life now.” She stole a sidelong glance at Lucas. He stood alone, watching her, drinking his glass of brandy. Curse him for deserting her.

  “Oh?” Olivia said, her chin held high. “And don’t you care that you no longer set the fashion?”

  Emma resisted the impulse to smooth her outdated pink gown. “We’ve all changed,” she said softly. “I understand both of you have children now. They seemed a happy crowd up in the nursery.”

  Phoebe took the bait. “I have three,” she said, clasping her folded fan to her pillowy breast. “Jane, Lydia, and baby Ralph. I must say, Longden strutted like a cock when I presented him with his heir last March.”

  “And the handsome, fair-haired boy guarding his regiment of tin soldiers, is he yours, then?” Emma asked Olivia.

  “He’s my eldest. We named him Andrew.” Olivia’s face softened ever so slightly, taking on a glow of maternal pride, before her mouth pinched tightly again. “Remember my brother Andrew? He died in the Portuguese War. We were in deep mourning for him when you lured Lucas into a hasty marriage.”

  Watching from across the room, Lucas saw Emma stiffen. She sat with elegant composure, as fragile as a porcelain doll, listening gravely as his sisters prattled on. He wondered how she managed to appear so cursed beautiful when her soul was so black. Her upswept hair glinted like gold in the candlelight. The bandage wrapped around her palm enhanced her vulnerable look. Her hands rested on the arms of her chair, and he fancied those delicate knuckles showed a hint of whiteness.

  What were his sisters saying?

  He felt an unexpected jab of pity for her. Livvie and Phoebe would be making sharp comments in the interest of defending their brother. They meant well. But he was a man now, and he did not need. mothering.

  He needed his wife. Naked in bed.

  Uptilting his glass, he let the brandy slide down his throat, sweet and searing like the lust inside him. He had never felt this darkly haunting passion for any other woman, not even Shalimar.