One Night of Scandal Page 10

  This was a larger vehicle than the one they’d taken last time, and he was able to sit across from her, which was perhaps for the best. The more distance between them, the less he was drawn to her. Or so he’d tell himself.

  He scrutinized her across the interior. “Do you really have an engagement on the fourteenth?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t want to attend the meeting.”

  A smile teased her lips, and it was very hard to see Tavistock and not Viola. “I do want to attend, but I’m eager, not stupid. In all honesty, I’m not even sure I want you to go.”

  A hint of joy flitted through him. She cared about him. And he cared about her. Their association had transformed into something he’d never expected.

  “I have to go,” he said. “I must find out who is trying to make it look as if I had something to do with the attack.”

  She looked at him intently. “Who are your enemies?”

  “I wouldn’t say I had ‘enemies.’ I disagree with plenty of other MPs, but there’s a professional courtesy and trust. At least I thought there was.” He didn’t bother hiding his disgust. He couldn’t imagine who would go to such lengths. “I’m apparently a bit naïve,” he said.

  “I don’t think so. This is beyond the pale.” She didn’t bother disguising her dismay either.

  They were quiet a moment, then she said, “I’m sorry I doubted you. I understand why you didn’t tell me about meeting with the Spenceans and why you didn’t take me to meet them. I comprehended that it’s a dangerous time, but perhaps not as fully as I should have. I do now.”

  He smiled across the hack at her. “Good. It was never my intent to keep things from you.”

  The hack started to slow and pull to the side of the road. Jack looked out to see they were nearly at Charing Cross.

  “I suppose I won’t talk to you until after the fourteenth?” she asked as the hack came to a stop.

  “Probably not.” He hoped he didn’t sound as disappointed as he felt.

  “Please be careful. I would hate to see you in prison.”

  “I would hate that too.” He laughed, then climbed out of the hack.

  He stood on the curb and watched the vehicle reenter traffic while he mentally counted four, no five, days before he would see her again. It felt like an eternity.

  Hell.

  For the first time in his life, Jack was utterly captivated, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it.

  Viola hoped Grandmama appreciated that she’d danced. With a viscount.

  She held Lord Orford’s arm as they left the dance floor. “Thank you for the dance, my lord,” she said politely.

  “It was my pleasure. I am only sorry I wasn’t able to attend the Goodrick ball last week as intended. I regretted not fulfilling my promise to dance with you.” It hadn’t been a promise, but she supposed it was nice of him to remember. “Might we promenade for a few moments?”

  “Certainly.” She was eager to continue their conversation from the park and wasn’t sure they’d be able to. The quadrille they’d just danced hadn’t lent itself to much in the way of conversation and certainly nothing so weighty as the assassination attempt on the Prince Regent.

  She launched right into the topic lest she lose the opportunity. “I hope you don’t find me impertinent, but I wished to ask about our discussion last week in the park. It seems as if you perhaps knew something about that…attack.” She chose her words carefully and kept her voice low as they circuited the ballroom, passing countless people. She registered many familiar faces, but none of them belonged to Jack Barrett.

  And that was how she knew she’d been looking for him.

  “Lady Viola, it seemed as if you knew something about the…incident,” Orford said in a measured tone.

  “I do not.”

  “Alas, I do not either.” He paused and looked down at her. “This is a rather dangerous topic, and you’ve brought it up twice now, which I find a trifle peculiar.”

  Blast. Perhaps she wasn’t a very good reporter at all. “I heard a piece of gossip, ’tis all.” She spoke lightly and looked out over the ballroom.

  They continued walking. “You should know not to listen to gossip.” His tone was condescendingly parental.

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him in mock innocence. “Even you can recognize that gossip about such a thing would be intriguing. Or do you not care for the welfare of our prince?”

  He sputtered for a moment. “Of course I care. That you would insinuate otherwise is, frankly, insulting.”

  “I didn’t insinuate a thing, Lord Orford,” she said sweetly. “I asked you a question, and I’m glad to hear you admire the prince as much as I do.” Admiration was perhaps a shade excessive—the man was a hedonist and not a very good husband—but in this instance, it seemed the best thing to say.

  Lord Orford opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed again. She suspected he wanted to ask what she’d heard, but to do so would encourage gossip, which he’d just denigrated. He’d pompoused himself into a corner, and Viola had to stifle a smile.

  Thankfully, they’d arrived at her grandmother, who was seated in a chair against the wall. Her friend, the Dowager Countess of Dunwich, was no longer occupying the seat next to her.

  Grandmama looked up at Viola and Lord Orford. “You looked quite lovely dancing. I trust you enjoyed yourselves?”

  Viola withdrew her hand from his arm. “We did, thank you.”

  Lord Orford bowed to the dowager and then to Viola. “Have a good evening.”

  Perching on the empty chair beside Grandmama, Viola mentally bid the viscount good riddance.

  “He would be a good match,” Grandmama said.

  “So you’ve indicated. However, I find him arrogant.”

  “All men are arrogant.” Grandmama’s tone was dismissive. “The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can settle on someone. You said the same thing of Ledbury.”

  Perhaps Grandmama was right, though she would argue there was an arrogance scale. She’d place Ledbury somewhere below Orford, but far above her brother or Jack. The two of them were also arrogant, but not in a way that annoyed her. How did that work exactly? Their brand of arrogance was more confidence and self-awareness. Perhaps she ought to write an article about the arrogance of men…

  “Viola!”

  She snapped out of her reverie and blinked at her grandmother. “What?”

  “I said there is a man for you. You just haven’t identified him yet.”

  Viola wasn’t sure she believed that. She’d met an endless parade of men in the past seven years. What if she were doomed to be alone?

  Doomed? Since when had the notion of being alone ever bothered her?

  “What if I don’t…identify anyone?” she asked softly, not meeting Grandmama’s gaze.

  “Nonsense. Mildred is back.”

  Viola looked up to see Lady Dunwich. She stood, offering the woman, who was a few years Grandmama’s senior and walked with a cane, the chair.

  “Did you have a nice dance, dear?” Lady Dunwich asked brightly. Her friendship with Grandmama had always puzzled Viola. Where Grandmama was austere and sometimes terrifying, Lady Dunwich was warm and charming. Yet they were as close as two friends could be. “Lord Orford is so very handsome.” She gave Viola a knowing glance.

  “Yes, we had a nice dance.” Viola refused to acknowledge whether he was handsome. While he possessed an attractive form, he paled beside Jack, whose sparkling intellect and vibrant charm made him wholly alluring. Along with that arrogance or confidence or whatever it was. She caught herself scanning the ballroom for him again. Instead of finding him, she saw Isabelle and decided she’d rather talk to her than remain and discuss Lord Orford.

  “Will you excuse me? I’m going to speak with Isabelle.” She curtsied to Lady Dunwich and inclined her head toward Grandmama, then took herself off with alacrity.

  Isabelle greeted her warmly. “What a fetch
ing gown,” she said, looking down at Viola’s dark green dress embellished with gold embroidery.

  “Thank you. It’s earned me two dances tonight, which is a record since before Ledbury.”

  “That’s cause for celebration. Shall we have champagne?” Isabelle frowned. “Is it cause for celebration? You don’t seem very enthusiastic. In fact, you looked slightly panicked as you made your way over here.”

  Panicked? “Grandmama was pressing Orford as a possible match, but I find him condescending.”

  “Then scratch him off the list.”

  She gave Isabelle a sardonic look. “There is no list.”

  “Do you want there to be?”

  The word “no” burned her tongue, and yet she couldn’t force it from her mouth. The panic Isabelle had recognized seized control of her so that she was utterly frozen. Maybe she did want a list. Or at least a list of one. Because all it took was one. One man to fall in love with and to fall in love with her. But the idea that two people could find each other and that magic would happen seemed completely impossible. Except she had only to look at Isabelle—and Val—to know that wasn’t true.

  Maybe it just wasn’t true for Viola.

  Not only was she a pariah, she liked to study maps and write until her fingers turned black from the ink. She hated dancing—mostly—and she liked to discuss politics. What if no man would ever find her attractive enough, and not just physically, to want to marry her? Had she unconsciously made herself undesirable to avoid marriage? The better question was why would she want to stop avoiding marriage? What was going on?

  Feeling as though her world was tipping on its axis, she sought to escape. “Excuse me while I go to the retiring room,” she murmured.

  She turned and made her way from the ballroom in a blur. The retiring room was upstairs, she thought, but before she reached the stairs, she saw the one man she’d been searching for all evening. The one man who was, at least, attracted to her physically. Or had been once. Maybe.

  Viola rushed forward and grabbed his hand. Wordlessly, she looked around for a place to go. Past the stairs was a slender door that looked like it might lead to a closet.

  She opened the door and exhaled with relief—yes, a closet. Then she pulled him inside and closed them into darkness.

  “Viola?” Jack asked, sounding very confused.

  “Am I unlovable?” she blurted.

  “Are you—” He drew in an audible breath. “I am not the best person to ask. Because I’ve never been in love,” he added quickly.

  “Neither have I.” She still held his hand, which was how she knew where he was in orientation to her. The closet was smaller than the one they’d visited at the Wicked Duke, and it smelled of linen and soap instead of hops and barley.

  “Perhaps we’re both unlovable,” she said.

  “I don’t think—”

  She didn’t want to think either, so instead of letting him finish, she tugged on his hand. “Just be quiet and kiss me.”

  His chest crashed softly into hers as his hand snaked around her waist and held her against him. His mouth found her cheek, and she would never know if that was intentional or not—nor would she ever care. He kissed her repeatedly, traversing her flesh until he found her lips, and then heat exploded between them.

  Viola clutched at his shoulders and held on tightly as he wrapped her in his arms. Their tongues met with wild abandon, and she clasped the sides of his neck, tucking her fingers beneath his collar and cravat to feel the warmth of his skin.

  He angled his head and deepened the kiss, exploring her while she did the same. She wanted more of this, more of him. She wanted all of him.

  His hand pressed against her lower back, bringing their pelvises together. Despite the layers of her petticoat and gown, she felt the faint steel of his erection, and need bloomed between her legs.

  He pulled away with a soft groan but didn’t leave her. His lips trailed across her jaw and down her neck. “We should stop now,” he murmured against her even as his tongue traced across her collarbone.

  Yes, they should, but she couldn’t. Not yet.

  Viola moaned and clutched at his head, wishing they could tear their clothes away. Yes. She longed to strip him naked and see the hard planes of his chest and the delicious curve of his backside.

  Good Lord, she was a wanton. And she didn’t care one bit.

  He inhaled against her flesh. “You smell so good.” His mouth closed over her skin just above the top of her gown, and the moment she gasped, he tore his lips away.

  “We should stop,” he repeated before claiming her mouth once more.

  The kiss was frenzied and hot, wet tongues parrying while hands searched for new places to explore. He cupped the underside of her breast as she gripped his hip and dared to cup his backside.

  Finally, they pulled apart, panting. “We should stop.” This time, he sounded as though he meant it.

  She couldn’t disagree. It wasn’t as if she could lose her virginity in the closet of the—where were they again?—whoever’s town house. “We should.” The words did not convince her body, however. Her core pulsed with need while her breasts tingled, and her fingers itched to touch him.

  “I was on my way to the retiring room,” she offered rather lamely.

  “I’ve only just arrived. I’d hoped to see you.”

  “And so you have.” She tried to laugh, but it came out sounding fake.

  “Only for a second. I can’t actually see you at all in here, which is a crying shame since you look like Viola instead of Tavistock.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Oh.” She was momentarily at a loss for words. “You prefer me as Viola?”

  “I prefer you with breasts, which I could definitely feel.” His voice was now dark and strained. “This is not a good direction of conversation. You should go.”

  “All right. It was nice to see you. Or not see you, I mean.”

  “It was…spectacular,” he said, heating every part of her that wasn’t already on fire for him. Which wasn’t anything, she realized, so really, he’d just increased the fervor with which she wanted him.

  She wanted him?

  Oh, yes.

  “I’m going now.” Despite the unsatisfied lust coursing through her, her pulse had slowed to a degree that she felt she could step out of the closet without looking as if she’d been nearly ravished.

  With great reluctance, she found the latch and let herself out of the closet. Then she dashed up the stairs to the retiring room and prayed it was empty.

  It wasn’t, of course, but fortune was smiling upon her, for the only person present was Isabelle. Who was looking at Viola with a mix of expectation and concern. Viola realized she’d left the ballroom first to come here. Now Isabelle was here, and she’d arrived before Viola…

  “I was waylaid by a…friend,” Viola said, thinking the excuse sounded stupid. Probably because it was.

  “A dark-haired gentleman friend?” Isabelle asked softly. Then her mouth ticked up in a smile before she quickly quashed it. “I saw you go into the closet with him—I’d followed you out of the ballroom because you seemed upset. Now, however, you seem… Never mind.”

  Alarm speared through Viola. “You saw us?”

  Isabelle nodded. “I don’t think anyone else did. I checked the corridor. Still, I could have been anyone.”

  “Yes.” Viola ought to be horrified—and she was—but not enough to regret a moment.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I am not about to begrudge you…whatever it was you were doing, but please be careful.”

  Viola laughed. “Why, because of my reputation? It scarcely matters. I know Grandmama wants me to wed, but the fact remains that I am hardly marriageable as far as most men are concerned.” Which had always suited her fine. But for the first time, she wasn’t so sure.

  “Do you really believe that’s true? Lord Orford didn’t seem to think so. Why else would he dance with you?” Isabelle asked.

  “B
ecause he’s an idiot?” Viola was far more comfortable trying to find humor in the situation. If she didn’t, she’d have to think about it too closely, and she was rather afraid of what she might find.

  She feared she’d find she did care about her reputation. That she really was unlovable—not even Jack had been able to confirm she wasn’t. And worst of all, that she wanted to find a husband. That she wanted someone to love her.

  Because maybe she was falling in love with someone.

  No. She absolutely refused to consider it.

  Chapter 11

  The Bull and Fox was a small tavern tucked just outside Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was a popular meeting place for law students and young solicitors, as well as the occasional radical. There was a small meeting room upstairs where people debated the law and politics, and that was where tonight’s clandestine meeting of the Spencean Philanthropists was taking place.

  If it was taking place.

  Jack made his way up the narrow stairs and rapped softly on the door. Henry Dean opened it a bare amount and, upon seeing Jack, invited him inside.

  There were perhaps twenty men in attendance. Burly working men and artisans like Dean. Jack recognized a few, but not all. Dean introduced Jack as John Barr, which was his actual first name and half of his surname, and Jack went around shaking hands. He ended up seated beside a whitesmith named John Castle. The meeting began, and they discussed the imprisonment of their leaders, with Dean giving an update on their legal defense.

  Jack knew the barristers working on the cases and believed the men were in as good hands as they could hope. After that, they discussed the Manchester march and then lamented the departure of William Cobbett—a radical hero.

  “The Political Register lives on, thanks to Benbow,” Dean said. Cobbett’s newspaper was widely read by the working class, a fact that annoyed many of Jack’s colleagues in Parliament.

  Finally, the meeting concluded, and conversation sprang up around the room. Jack decided to start in with Castle and turned to the man beside him. “I think I might have seen you at a meeting before.”