Lady Priscilla's Shameful Secret Read online

  Robert grinned into the fire and poked the last of the paper to ashes. She was not ready to say that she loved him. But when she did, it would be the truth. And having heard her version of the elopement, he would waste no more thought on anonymous gossip. But one thing was certain: if he caught Monsieur G. in London and lost his temper, the ton would see how fast Gervaise could dance on two broken legs.

  * * *

  ‘There is a package for you with the post,’ said her father, dropping a brown-paper bundle beside Priss’s breakfast plate on the way to his own chair.

  She carefully slid the packet over the corner of exposed newspaper peeking from beneath her napkin. Ronnie had waved the paper in front of her with an angry rattle of pages, then ripped out the offending page and passed it to her, before her father might see it.

  Monsieur G. As if he was entitled to such a continental title. When they had been alone together, he had lost all trace of a French accent. But that had been but one small point amongst many greater disillusionments and hardly worth mentioning. Whatever his nationality, why was he back in London? And why had anyone noticed the fact?

  Most importantly, what did it mean to her? She had no desire to see him again. But the knowledge that Reighland might notice the comment and connect it to her was suddenly too much to be borne. She had warned him that she was not an acceptable choice. But now that she was beginning to suspect that, just perhaps, she might have been wrong, Gervaise was back and the old scandal would be raised again.

  She quietly slipped the paper off the table, into her lap and under her napkin, rolling it into a ball and tucking it into the pocket of her gown.

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  ‘Nothing, Papa,’ she said hurriedly.

  ‘How can you be sure until you have opened it?’

  The package. She had been so distracted that she’d already forgotten it. Whatever it was, the contents were a surprise for she had expected no deliveries. It was not her birthday, nor any other holiday or anniversary that she could think of that might explain a gift. But considering the shock she’d already received, she could imagine several other horrible possibilities. Had she offered Gervaise a token of some kind? And would he be foolish enough to taunt her with it now?

  She tore cautiously at the corner of the paper, trying to pretend that she was not as worried as she felt to be presented with both a shock and a mystery, first thing in the morning.

  Then she had a brief glimpse of the items contained within before dropping her napkin over it and slamming her hand over the top in her haste to obscure the view.

  Her father and stepmother looked up from their food, surprised. ‘Do you mean to explain yourself?’ her father said gruffly.

  ‘It is from Reighland,’ Priss said, swallowing to ease the sudden dryness in her throat. She had been lucky to make it home on the previous day without inciting comment about what had occurred while she was with the duke. Though in the evening, her maid had noticed the suspicious absence in her wardrobe and made no mention other than a sly smile.

  ‘What did he send you, then?’ her father said, without looking up. ‘Not much of a romantic if he ships a necklace to you in the morning post. But then I do not expect much of the man.’

  Her stepmother was watching her closely, with the avaricious glare of a magpie.

  ‘It is personal,’ Priss managed, her hand frozen on the top of the package as though she could squash it into invisibility.

  Veronica managed to look both disappointed and curious. ‘It is rather large to be a billet-doux.’

  Priss seized on the idea and ran with it. ‘I believe it is a book of poetry. Possibly of his own making. I will read some to you, if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Veronica laughed. ‘I expect it is quite awful. What talent could a horse trader possibly have in such things?’

  Even if her story had been true, she felt a stab of sympathy for the eagerness with which the others at the table were willing to hold the Duke of Reighland up for sport. She drew herself up to what little height she had and in her most haughty voice announced, ‘It would be embarrassing for both him and myself to display such an intimate gift for the amusement of others. In fact, I suspect he thought that I would be alone when I opened this particular package. If you will excuse me, I will take it up to my room.’ She stood without removing the napkin, scooped both it and the package up, and clutched them firmly to her bosom, before rising and hurrying from the room.

  What had possessed Reighland to do something as foolish as this? Had he not suspected the position he might leave her in, or had he not bothered to think at all? Or had the idea of discovery not bothered him? Suppose someone had seen and enquired?

  Life here was miserable enough without bringing down the further scrutiny of her father or his meddling wife. Ronnie would have found a way to turn the whole thing into some sort of inappropriate comment while complimenting her on her ingenuity. And her father would demand an immediate marriage between them.

  For the thousandth time she missed her sister. Silly would have disapproved, of course, but she’d have stopped the problem before it started. Had she not, she would have been there to shield her little sister, rather than making her the butt of some cruel joke. She would have sorted out what was to be done about the item in the newspaper. Then, perhaps, she could have helped to explain the mixed feelings in her heart, whenever she thought of the duke.

  Yesterday’s visit had confused her. When she’d arrived at his house, she’d been frightened and wishing she could forget the invitation he had given. The night before, he had purposely suggested the visit in the presence of Veronica, knowing that the woman would not allow her to refuse. But by the end of it, Priss would have been quite content to remain longer. For ever, perhaps. It had been a struggle to get herself back through her own front door. And it’d had nothing to do with the need to walk slowly so that her bare ankles were not seen.

  Now, when she was sure the door to her room was definitely closed and not even her maid was within sight, she ripped the rest of the paper from the package and dropped the wrappings into the grate. The contents had almost slithered from their bindings, draping elegantly over her hand.

  Silk stockings. She’d worn them often enough, when dressing for a ball. But nothing as fine as these. These might as well have been knitted by spiders, they were so sheer and soft. They were clocked at the ankle with a delicate trail of hearts and flowers, and tied up with a blue silk ribbon was a note: To replace that which you lost. Wear them and think of me.

  Of all the audacity. She had a good mind to go to him immediately to explain that it would be improper to think of him in any such way. And even more improper for him to suggest that she do it. But lord knew what might happen if she saw him now.

  Yesterday, she had meant to keep him at arm’s length, to take a single cup with him and be gone again. And in less than an hour she had been writhing in ecstasy as he nibbled her toes.

  It made no sense. Other than that it must indicate a flaw in her character, of course. She was fairly sure that she would do something far worse if he were to come upon her while she was handling the scraps of silk he had just given her.

  Think of him, indeed. As though she had been able to think of anything else, for all the time they had been apart. Even now she was imagining him taking hold of her bare leg and talking some nonsense about horses while he pulled the hose up her legs, fingers lingering over the tying of garters as she moaned and climaxed. She had never in her life given herself over so completely into the hands of another, nor been so rewarded for her trust. With a few touches, he had reduced her to putty and watched dispassionately as she’d cried out, shuddered and collapsed. And then, just as he had promised, it had been over. She’d lost nothing more than her stockings and her self-control.

  Considerin
g the extent of the pleasure, it had been a small price to pay. She allowed herself one wicked and self-indulgent smile before turning her attention to the gift in her hand. Even holding the things in her hand made her legs tingle as though she were wearing them. And the way he had held her ankles and tugged at the stockings, making them shift on her leg and stroke every inch?

  She shivered and then smiled again. For all his rough talk and awkwardness, he was as subtle as a serpent. Did he use such misdirection to get his way in the House of Lords? Or did he save it for getting around the ladies?

  That idea bothered her, just a little. While she should probably disapprove of what he was doing with her, she did not want to think that he bought stockings and gloves by the hundredweight to seduce any girl he fancied. She hoped that he meant something special by it.

  Which meant that it was impossible to deny how much his good opinion had come to matter. The thought of marrying him still terrified her. But he had revealed his own fears as well. He worried that he might hurt others through carelessness, even as he cared little about their good opinions.

  That made it all the more horrifying to think that he might have read the few lines in the paper and thought less of her because of it. Perhaps even now he was coming to understand that the taint of her scandal would be transferred to whichever man married her.

  She had grown to like the attention he was giving her and would be sad to lose it. Perhaps it was just that she was the favourite of a duke. Any girl would be pleased to have such a feather in her cap.

  But how many had found themselves flushed and trembling on a sofa in broad daylight, as said member of the peerage offered assurance that he sought nothing more than her trust? She remembered the soft kiss on the verandah, the reassuring hand on her elbow and the sharp taste of brandy in her lemonade, the heated kisses he had given her in a darkened room and the speed with which he had retreated when he’d realised she was not ready for them. He had done everything he could to prove that while his words might be blunt, his feelings towards her were tender.

  If his object had been casual seduction, he’d have lost interest on the first night or taken what he wanted despite her resistance. But if it was the challenge that drew him, he need not be so plain to all who would listen of his intention to marry her.

  She poked at the brown-paper wrapping in the fire and added the scrap of paper in her pocket, watching that burn as well. She would think no more of Gervaise. If she did not seek out the dancing master, than he could do her no further harm.

  She had told Reighland everything he needed to know on the subject and he had already forgiven her. The stockings in her hand were proof enough of that. Yesterday, he had been quite open about the bedroom waiting for her in his home. She had nothing to fear.

  She placed them in a drawer with the rest of her undergarments. But she held the note in her hand for a moment. It seemed wrong to throw it away. She fingered the paper, scanning the room for a safe place to keep it. Then she went to the jewel box on her dressing table that held a neat pile of letters, tied in a hair ribbon. They were gifts from last Season’s suitors and really nothing more than foolishness. To see them now embarrassed her, both for the excessive things the men had said and for her own extreme reaction to them. She had wasted many an afternoon reading them over and over.

  Since returning from Scotland, they felt as distant as if they had been written to another person. With no more thought, she scooped them up and tossed them on the fire to burn beside the wrappings. Then she placed the single line that Reighland had penned in place of honour, alone in the satin-lined case, and closed the lid.

  Chapter Eleven

  When next she saw Reighland, on the other side of the Tremaine ballroom, it was just as she’d feared it would be. Her heart beat faster, her cheeks flushed and it was all she could do to keep from running to his side. There was no point in pretending otherwise. Something had changed within her. Tonight, given the chance, she would make a cake of herself over the duke, acting just as silly as every other girl in London.

  She had caught herself preparing for this evening with extra care, choosing a gown of blue muslin trimmed with silver that matched sweetly with her colouring, while sporting a neckline that was near to indecent. With it, she wore the gloves and the stockings. And all the while she dressed, she could think of nothing but Reighland’s reaction when he saw her. She had actually caught herself turning in the mirror and practising the cautious display of ankle that might best show the stocking.

  Now she was standing at her father’s side, barely listening to the greetings of the host and hostess, while scanning the crowd for the only guest that mattered to her. She turned, trying to pretend that she was not looking for him, and glanced in his direction.

  He looked back at her and smiled. There was the briefest flick of his eyes towards her ankles, but he made no further effort to look. It was as though he’d ascertained all he needed from the look in her eyes.

  Apparently he was not as preoccupied by the silk on her legs as she was. She felt the way her thighs slipped against each other, as her little group worked its way through the crowd. Her limbs felt smooth and wonderful. It was a pity that skirts went all the way to the floor. These stockings were made to be admired.

  She glanced across the room at Reighland again and felt heat rising, on her face, in her breasts and lower, between her silk-clad legs. He would want to look at them, if she allowed it. She imagined raising her petticoats for him as far as her knees, perhaps just enough to reveal the hem of her chemise.

  She could imagine the feel of his hand on her calf, the other on the heel of her slipper, pulling it free…

  ‘Priscilla!’

  ‘I beg your pardon…’ She had bumped into Ronnie, who had stopped suddenly in front of her.

  ‘If you are not careful, you are going to spill your wine. The glass is tipping. And do stop ogling Reighland. If the match is not fully formed, you are hardly entitled to stare at him in public.’

  ‘Yes, Veronica.’

  Across the room, Reighland was chuckling as though he had just heard the most diverting story, even though he had been standing alone.

  In response, she touched her skirt and gave it a twitch.

  His eyes drooped immediately to the hemline, trying to spy her ankle, and then back to her face. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye and he raised his glass ever so slightly as though offering a toast in her direction.

  For a moment, she felt quite like her old self. Last Season sometimes felt like a hundred years ago. She had flirted and been flirted with, and had a throng of suitors vying for her attention. Tonight the magic had returned. She had captivated a man. And as it should have been, it was the most eligible man in the room.

  But, more unusual, he had captivated her. Though she still wished it could have been any other man than the one her father had chosen for her, it did not matter quite so much, as long as it was Reighland. She was not accustomed to feeling any answering tug when making a conquest. His note had suggested she think of him. She was happy to comply.

  She turned hurriedly away from him, remembering what Veronica had said. He would think she was agreeing to his offer, if she preened at him in public. And she was not sure she was ready for that.

  Would it really be so bad to marry him? It would get her out of her father’s house and away from Ronnie’s continual meddling. He would make her a duchess. She would have access to all the wealth, power, jewels and houses that she could hope for. If they did not suit, then there would be much space in which to withdraw from each other. Even in isolation, she would live in comfort for the rest of her life.

  But she did not want a husband to withdraw from. She wanted a soulmate. And after Gervaise, she doubted that was even possible. The pain had not been the worst of it. It had been the loss of control that h
ad frightened her. The feeling of smothering. The demands upon her body that, once she was married, she would have no right to refuse.

  She felt the dizzying panic rising again and looked back over her shoulder in his direction. Even if she wished to, how could she bring herself to submit to him? And then she remembered how easy it had been, when they had been alone together.

  He was watching with what appeared to be innocent curiosity until she remembered that he had worn a similar expression on their last meeting. Then she had lost her precious control; it had been so wonderful that she would happily do it again for him, if he wished.

  She covered her own face with her fan, fluttering it hurriedly. Last Season, she’d have flashed him some secret message with it, demonstrating her interest and agreeing to a meeting on a balcony, or in some quiet corner of the room. Tonight, her fingers felt numb against the ivory. She had never cared if her signalling to some man or other had been met with a discreet shake of the head. But if Reighland resisted, she did not know what she would do.

  It probably did not matter, for it seemed he could not read it in any case. He looked at her and not the fluttering silk, walking across the room slowly until he stood at her side. ‘A lovely evening, is it not?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked down at the floor.

  ‘And all the lovelier, now that you are here.’

  ‘Do you seek to flatter me now?’

  ‘As always, I speak the truth. But it seems even that does not please you. You are frowning. Is it that I am calling attention to how desirable you are? Or is it that the comment comes from my lips and not another’s?’

  ‘How many times must I tell you, there is no other?’ she said, a little too sharply.

  ‘That is not what the paper says.’

  He had read it. She saw the darkness in his eyes, just behind the smile, and moved to stand just in front of him, close enough so that her answer could not be overheard. ‘So you have seen it, then.’ Then she pretended to admire the dancing, as though they were speaking of nothing important.