One Night of Scandal Page 8

  She nodded in response, and they started across the room. Another gentleman stopped Mr. Barrett and began speaking with him. Viola didn’t particularly want to meet someone else, especially since the man seemed rather intent on Mr. Barrett and only Mr. Barrett. Pivoting, she made to continue toward Pennington and nearly ran into someone else.

  “I beg your pardon.” The Earl of Ledbury—Edmund—looked down at her, his once-familiar dark gaze tinged with apology. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, I’m afraid.”

  He studied her, and her pulse raced to a frenetic pace. Was he going to recognize her? She was confident the whiskers sufficiently disguised her femininity. Although, Mr. Barrett hadn’t been fooled. She reasoned she was safe so long as she didn’t present her backside.

  “It’s quite all right,” she said, lowering her voice even more than usual in her apprehension.

  “Have we met before?” Edmund continued to peruse her, his eyes taking on a hint of confusion.

  “Not sure we have. I’m Tavistock.”

  “Ledbury,” he said. “You seem familiar, so I’m certain we must have met. I’m just trying to think of where…”

  Viola’s insides were screaming with alarm. She had to get away from him!

  “Good evening, Ledbury.” The smooth, sanguine tone of Mr. Barrett’s voice calmed her—at least partially. “I see you’ve met Tavistock.”

  “Yes, though I’m sure we’ve met before this.” Edmund shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Pleased to meet you, Tavistock.”

  Viola inclined her head.

  “Brandy, then?” Mr. Barrett asked her.

  “Definitely.”

  They excused themselves from Ledbury and continued on their way. Partway to Pennington, Mr. Barrett slowed. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

  “You didn’t. I walked off.” She shook her head in self-admonition. “I won’t be doing that again while we’re here.”

  “He seemed to think he knew you. Have you ever met him as Tavistock?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t come to the Wicked Duke, of course. Since Val owns it. That would be awkward.”

  “Do you think he recognized you?”

  “No, but I admit I was alarmed for a moment there. All this time, I thought my disguise was so thorough. But you saw through it.” Heat rushed over her, and she feared her cheeks were scarlet. “Shall we go see Pennington?” Her voice had risen slightly out of her Tavistock range. She mentally chided herself for such foolishness.

  “Yes, let’s see Pennington.”

  They arrived at Pennington’s table without further incident. He sat with two other gentlemen.

  “Tavistock, Barrett!” Pennington greeted them with a grin. “Sit with us. You must know Naylor and Yates.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Barrett said, taking a seat.

  For a moment, Viola waited for him to hold her chair before realizing she was supposed to be a bloody man. She sat down with alacrity and hoped there would be brandy forthwith. She needed just a sip or two to calm her nerves. Because of Ledbury.

  Yes, of course because of Ledbury.

  Or the fact that you’re dressed as a man at Brooks’s.

  Nothing to do with Jack Barrett. Nothing at all.

  The brandy did indeed arrive shortly, and Viola took two small sips. Then she did her best to join in the conversation about horseflesh. After a while, Naylor and Yates took their leave. Viola exchanged a look with Mr. Barrett, who gave her a very slight nod. That meant she should do what they’d discussed.

  “Pennington,” she started, “I visited with Hodges the other day at the coffeehouse. He told me all about that…incident.” She arched her brows before picking up her glass and pretending to take another drink. Acting as though she were drinking as much as her companions was an important part of her masquerade.

  Pennington stuck his lips out and narrowed his eyes before realization struck. “Oh! The incident. He told you all about it?”

  She nodded. “He did. So fascinating.”

  “Did he tell you as well?” Pennington asked Mr. Barrett.

  “No, but Tavistock shared the details. It’s bloody shocking to think that happened.”

  The color in Pennington’s face lightened. He shifted in his chair. “I hope you aren’t sharing this with anyone else. I shouldn’t have said anything to you at the Wicked Duke. I hope you haven’t told anyone that I did.”

  The man sounded…afraid. Viola exchanged another glance with Mr. Barrett, who seemed to share her concern.

  “No, we haven’t told anyone,” Viola said evenly. “However, you know I’m a reporter.”

  Pennington flinched. “Yes. Well, whatever you write, I do hope you’ll keep my name out of it.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Barrett said. “This is a…sensitive issue. Your identity isn’t important, just that of the MP.”

  “Do you know who he is?” Pennington looked between them, his gaze a mixture of curiosity and dread.

  “Don’t you?” Mr. Barrett countered before Viola could form a response.

  Pennington shook his head. “Thankfully, no. I think it’s only a matter of time before he’s arrested.”

  Mr. Barrett leaned forward. “Why do you think that?”

  Draining his brandy glass, Pennington set it back on the table and abruptly stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve somewhere I need to be.”

  And then he was gone, stalking away as if the club was on fire.

  “What do you suppose has him so frightened?” she whispered, turning toward Mr. Barrett.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s concerning to say the least. I wish he’d answered that last question. Does he know something that leads him to believe this MP will be arrested? Or was he simply prognosticating?” Mr. Barrett tapped his finger on the table. “Given his reaction, I’m not sure I want to continue this tack tonight. I think we should go.”

  Disappointment curled through Viola, and yet she didn’t disagree. The encounter with Edmund had put her on edge, and Pennington’s odd behavior had only intensified her feeling of unease.

  They stood and left the subscription room quickly, not stopping to chat with anyone. Outside, Mr. Barrett hailed a hack and gave the driver the direction of her mews.

  “I’ll drop you at home before I continue on to the Wicked Duke,” Mr. Barrett said, sitting beside her since this vehicle had only the one seat.

  “Do you ever go home?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is that?”

  “King Street, on the edge of St. James’s Square.”

  Outside Mayfair. Still a fashionable location, but she was suddenly aware of the divide between them—her a duke’s sister and him a barrister and MP. “Did you like being a barrister, or do you prefer being an MP?” she asked.

  He seemed startled by her question, and she supposed it had seemed to come out of nowhere. “I was just thinking how different we are,” she said. “And yet not,” she added softly.

  He turned toward her on the seat. “I prefer being an MP. I like making a difference for people. My grandfather and my father were both MPs before me. I’m honored to continue their legacy.”

  She could see that. He was a man of dignity and pride, but not arrogantly so. At least not excessively arrogant. A dash of arrogance was rather attractive, she decided. Or maybe it was just that Jack Barrett was attractive.

  Lines around his mouth creased. “We should probably stop doing this. That business with Ledbury was damn close. It’s only a matter of time before someone discovers you’re a woman.”

  “You mean someone besides you.”

  His eyes were darker than the night around them, but full of intense energy. “Yes. And then you’ll be in real trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” The question tumbled from her, sounding breathless and expectant.

  “Scandal. Ruination. Desire.”

  Her heart picked up speed. “Desire?”

  “You are a very attractive woman, eve
n with that bloody disguise. If anyone paid close attention to you, they’d find themselves beguiled.”

  “Are you?” she asked softly.

  He leaned close, his face so near that she could see the faint stubble of his beard beginning to shadow his jaw. “Irrevocably.”

  His head dipped down, and she quickly reached up with both hands and pulled the sideburns from her face. She winced slightly at the brief sting—she normally didn’t tear them off like that—as she stuffed the disguise in her coat pocket.

  His brow arched. “Better.” Then his hands came up and cupped her face, his thumbs tracing along her sensitive skin where the whiskers had been.

  Frowning, he withdrew his hands, and she feared he’d changed his mind. Disappointment curdled in her belly, pushing away the desire. Then she realized he was removing his gloves. His hands returned, bare this time, and the touch of his thumb against her cheeks and jaw brought the desire rushing back.

  “Better,” she murmured, echoing him, allowing her eyelids to droop as his mouth pressed against hers.

  She’d kissed Edmund, of course, quite passionately, or so she’d thought. It had been rather pleasant, but this was not how she’d describe the feel of Mr. Barrett’s—Jack’s, because how could she think of Edmund as Edmund and not Jack as Jack?—lips on hers.

  He kissed her softly, his mouth lingering with a gentle caress. Then he angled his head the other way and kissed her again. Still, he repositioned himself and teased her once more, a featherlight kiss that did everything to stoke her desire and nothing to satisfy it.

  She clasped the back of his neck and held him still as she kissed him more firmly than he’d dared. Sealing her mouth against his, she parted her lips. His tongue swept inside, and it was as if an invisible barrier fell away.

  He cupped the back of her head, knocking her hat off with one hand. Rising over her, he forced her back gently as he drove into her mouth. His other hand drifted down her neck and over her chest, then found its way inside her coat, where it flattened against her waistcoat. Yes, this was what she’d wanted, what she’d missed. No, she hadn’t missed it because she’d never had it. She simply couldn’t compare him to Edmund. She was drawn to this man in this coach as she’d been to no other.

  The kiss ended only to begin again with even greater fervor. She curled her hands into the hair at his nape and dislodged his hat. She’d no notion where it went, only that his head was bare and she could rake her fingers through his thick hair.

  His hand pushed up against her breast, which was bound beneath a length of muslin. She’d never regretted her costuming choices in the past, but tonight, she was desperate to be a woman.

  Eager for more of his touch, she strained against him, bringing one hand down to his shoulder and gripping him tightly. He lifted his mouth from hers and nipped her lip. She gasped, the sound ragged in the confines of the small space.

  He guided her head back as his lips and tongue trailed along her jaw and down her neck. “Bloody cravat,” he murmured.

  Oh, how she wished she was wearing a gown!

  But then it didn’t matter what she was wearing at all because the hack drew to a startling and bitterly disappointing stop.

  Jack eased back, his breaths filling the coach and indicating the pace of his heart matched her own. “I beg your forgiveness.”

  She felt the delicious heat in her core and looked him in the eye. “Absolutely not. I refuse to grant it.”

  He seemed to be at a loss for words, but quickly recovered. “Keep your head down when you get out. Should I come with you?”

  Yes, come with me. Stay with me.

  “No. I’ll see you—” She picked up her hat from the floor. “When will I see you?”

  “Soon.”

  “We should visit Hodges.”

  “Yes.” Maybe he really wasn’t able to speak at the moment.

  “Tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “Wednesday. No, Thursday. Two o’clock.”

  “Will you be on time?”

  The driver knocked on the roof.

  Jack opened the door, smiling. “Saucy wench.”

  She kissed him once more, fast and hard, her teeth drawing on his lower lip as she backed away. “Good night.”

  The smile on her face didn’t fade as she made her way home, nor did it disappear when she fell asleep. In fact, it was still there when she awoke the next morning.

  Chapter 9

  The last two days had been the longest Viola could remember. Apparently, she missed seeing Jack Barrett.

  And it hadn’t even really been two days. Yet. But it would be longer than two days when she finally saw him tomorrow.

  Oh, this simply wouldn’t do. Neither would tossing restlessly at night as she relived his mouth on hers, his hands on her body… Even now as she sat in the library with Grandmama, peering at a map as she liked to do, she began to feel overheated.

  Blenheim came into the library. “His Grace, the Duke of Eastleigh.”

  Val strode inside, a lock of blond hair grazing his forehead as it was often wont to do when he raked his hand through his hair. Or perhaps it had come dislodged from the style when he’d removed his hat. Whatever the reason, it never failed to give him a boyish charm that reminded Viola of their youth. Though they were five years apart, they had always been quite close, save the years he’d abandoned her to go to Oxford. Then, when he’d returned, she and Grandmama had moved to this house in Berkeley Square.

  “How lovely to see you,” Grandmama said, peering at him over the top of the glasses she wore to read. “I’d begun to think you forgot we existed.”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Val said with a smile. “But I am newly married, and I have been doting upon my wife. Since this is a state you heartily desired, I would expect your understanding, if not wholehearted support.”

  Grandmama chuckled, displaying a rare flash of humor. “You are a devil. Just like your father. And your grandfather.”

  “Given the esteem you hold them both in, I shall take that as a very high compliment indeed.” Val walked toward Viola where she sat at a table with her new map spread out in front of her. “What far-off places are you perusing today?”

  “South America. I only purchased it yesterday. I’m fascinated by the Andes Mountains. Wouldn’t you love to encounter mountains so tall you can’t even see the tops some days because of the clouds?”

  “She would much rather spend her time engrossed in such nonsense than do something productive,” Grandmama said, immediately putting Viola on the defensive. The dowager was still annoyed with Viola for dancing with only one gentleman at the Goodrick ball last Saturday. Was it her fault only one gentleman had asked?

  Two, really, but she didn’t count Barrett because she hadn’t danced with him. She’d actually wanted to, however not as much as she’d wanted to talk to him.

  “Grandmama, when—and if—Viola decides to wed, it will be magnificent and for all the right and wonderful reasons,” Val said cheerily. Spoken like a man who’d avoided the parson’s trap until the perfect woman, the woman he adored, had come along.

  Viola did not expect such fortune to strike her, not when it had smiled upon her brother. The odds were surely against her. Furthermore, she doubted such a man even existed. Her expectations were far too unreasonable for any man to consider.

  Despite that very rational thought process, Jack Barrett rose in her mind. Pooh.

  “It is precisely because of your happiness that Viola should open her mind to marriage.” Grandmama sent her a disgruntled glower.

  “Give her time,” Val said softly.

  “I’ve given her five long years,” Grandmama said. “Are you prepared to care for your sister when I am gone?”

  “Of course. I would never abandon Viola.” Val gave her a smile of encouragement. “I shall provide whatever support she requires.”

  “Yes, but at what cost to your own family?” Grandmama scoffed and set her book down on the table to he
r right. She removed her glasses and deposited them atop the tome. “Help me up.”

  Val rushed to her aid, offering his hand and then clasping her elbow until she was steady on her feet.

  Grandmama frowned up at him. “I’m not infirm.” Then she strode from the library, her head high, her back as straight and stiff as a pole flying the Union Jack.

  Viola groaned softly and laid her forehead against the map for a brief moment.

  “Don’t let her bother you,” Val said, and given the sound of his voice, he’d come closer.

  She lifted her head and saw that he stood next to the table. “I try not to, but it’s becoming more difficult. Scarcely a day passes when she doesn’t broach the subject.”

  “You know, it’s not a terrible thing—”

  “Et tu, Brute?”

  “Love is wonderful. You should give it a chance.”

  She hadn’t ever experienced it—not romantically, anyway. “I am still a pariah. It’s difficult to dance or converse with gentlemen when they don’t approach you.”

  “Some do,” he argued. “Didn’t I see you with Jack Barrett at the Goodrick ball?”

  Grandmama had seen her too and had, of course, commented on the fact that Viola had promenaded with him twice in one day. It was nearly a scandal! Or so Grandmama had said.

  “We share common views on politics. Please don’t suggest I shouldn’t speak with him.”

  “I presume Grandmama has done that.”

  Viola adopted the dowager’s imperious tone. “He’s not the sort of gentleman I should wed.”

  Val grinned. “Did you tell her not to worry about it since he has no desire to marry? Jack is perhaps even more of a committed bachelor than I was. At least for now. He doesn’t even take time for a mistress.” He shot her a look of apology. “Forget I said that.”

  “I’m not a nun,” Viola said, ignoring the spark of pleasure her brother’s comment had provoked. No, she wasn’t a nun, as evidenced by her kissing Jack the other night. And the fact that she was quite eager to do it again. Being attracted to him, however, was not love, and marriage to him—or anyone else—was out of the question.