The Scandal Series

She paused, her eyes widening. Oh, no. Her father would have him sent to the taxidermist within the week!

Victoria sprinted to her right and down the corridor, her wool stockings sliding several times against the smooth marble beneath her feet. Skidding, she caught herself against the nearest wall, rounded the dark corner and smacked straight into a massive body.

She screeched as large, bare hands steadied her by grabbing hold of her shoulders. The earthy scent of allspice lulled her senses. She blinked and gawked straight at the expanse of a linen shirt hanging open, revealing a lean, muscled chest with curling black hairs. She scrambled out of his grasp, well aware who she’d find towering before her: Viscount Remington.

“Either I’m too tall for you, Victoria dearest, or you’re too short for me. Which do you suppose it is?” He braced an arm against the wall beside them, preventing her passage, and leaned toward her, the tips of his slightly overgrown black hair sweeping into enchanting blue eyes.

The casual repositioning of his body caused his already unfastened shirt to gape open further, revealing not only his muscled chest, but also a portion of his lean stomach.

Victoria pressed her lips together, knowing she shouldn’t judge him, considering she herself was in a state of undress, coiffed in a single braid and garbed in a ruffled nightdress without a robe. It wasn’t the least bit respectable to remain in his presence, but the sparse light from the candles shifting across those handsome features whispered for her to stay.

She had always liked Remington. More than liked him, actually. He knew how to make her feel … happy. Even when she wasn’t feeling particularly so.

He grinned, a dimple appearing on his shaven left cheek. “I must still be sleeping. I was just thinking about you. And now here you are.”

She refrained from snorting. “Considering how many female guests have been shamelessly fawning over you ever since you stepped into this house, I doubt you’ve really had time to think at all.”

He chuckled. “Jealous, I see.”

“Jealous? Oh, no. I was only jealous of the Parisian fashions they all wore.”

He feigned a wince. “You belong in a garden with the rest of the statues made of stone.”

She grinned. “Maybe I do. So. Did you enjoy your stay here with me and Papa?”

He sighed and eyed her. “No. Not really. I kept hoping for more time with you, but that annoying governess of yours was forever getting in the way. Do you know that I gave that woman a respectable missive to pass along to you this morn, and she up and ripped it in half, claiming you were already spoken for by some Lord Moreland? Grayson denies it, but I won’t know peace until I hear it from you. Who is this Moreland and how long have you known him?”

She cringed and shook her head. “Lord Moreland is a family friend. Nothing more. Mrs. Lambert was merely being protective, as always. She has very lofty expectations for me. So lofty, in fact, that she claims I have no reason to settle for anything less than a duke. Since every duke I’ve ever met is over fifty, I dare say I may never marry at all.”

Amused blue eyes searched her face. “We most certainly cannot have that. Would you be willing to settle for a mere viscount instead? I am worth two thousand a year, have an estate in West Sussex and am available for matrimony whenever you are.”

A more blatant display of flirtation she’d never endured. Whilst she secretly relished the banter they always shared, for he was dashing and divine, she knew the games men played. He wouldn’t be the first man to flatter her for the sake of progressing his own interests. Nor the last.

She gestured toward his bared chest. “I confess I could never wed a man who wanders about my home with his shirt slung open like a pirate. I beg your forgiveness, Captain Blue Eyes, but we are not at sea, and I am not your mermaid.”

He pushed away from the wall and straightened to his full height of six feet, towering impressively over her measly five. Pulling his shirt closed with one hand, he eyed her as if genuinely offended. “I happen to be the greatest gentleman you will ever have the pleasure of knowing.”

Why did all men seem to think women were witless? She rolled her eyes. “If you will excuse me, I have far more important matters to tend to.”

“Oh, is that so?” He scooted closer, the heat of his skin scandalously drifting toward her. “I hope you weren’t heading into the kitchen to swipe any of Mrs. Davidson’s Banbury cakes, because I just came from there and I’ve already finished every last crumb.” She giggled. “What is it with you and Banbury cakes?”

He shrugged. “As you know, I leave for Venice on the morrow, and from what I am told, there won’t be anything to eat but citrus, soup and macaroni. So I have been indulging more than usual.” He quirked a dark brow. “Why are you wandering about? Hmm? Should I be concerned?”

Victoria stepped back and primly set her chin, trying to demonstrate that although she was in a nightdress, she was still very respectable. “I was merely looking for my dog. Flint.”

“Ah. Your dog.” His long fingers fastened the lone ivory button below his throat. “Well, Captain Blue Eyes is more than willing to assist in any manner you see fit.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I—” Another crack of thunder made Victoria jump, causing her to scramble toward him. She inhaled a deep, steadying breath, and eyed the darkness around them. “It is unnervingly dark, my lord. And with you being the graybeard, I humbly ask you to lead the way.”

“Graybeard?” He chortled. “Since when? Now cease this my lord nonsense and call me Remington. We know each other well enough.”

Mrs. Lambert had warned her about this. How men tried to lower all the barriers of civility before physically pouncing. Victoria shoved her blond braid over her shoulder, wishing she hadn’t left her nightcap in the bedchamber. “I prefer to keep things civil and would appreciate it if you did, too.”

“Civil?” He stared at her for a long, pulsing moment. “Are you informing me, Victoria, that there is absolutely nothing more between you and I aside from superficial civility?”

She was not going to play this game at the expense of her own reputation. Despite the fact that she liked him more than she’d ever liked any man, he was going to have to wait in line like the rest of them. “Nothing can exist between us, my lord, until my coming out. Surely, you—being the greatest gentleman I will ever have the pleasure of knowing—can understand.”

He shifted his jaw, still observing her intently, and half nodded. Stepping back and away, he smoothed the front of his shirt, ensuring the open slit was not visible. “I should probably go find that dog of yours,” he muttered. “It’s not as if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.” He turned and strode down the length of the corridor toward the great stairwell leading to the ground level of the home.

Victoria blinked, then glanced down the large corridor. Lurking shadows shifted malevolently toward her, just beyond the reach of candlelight and tall, curtained windows. She swallowed, sensing something lingering, and refrained from shuddering.

She scrambled down the corridor toward the great stairwell, her breaths escaping in uneven pants. Her hand skimmed the length of the wood railing as she descended. She paused on the last stair. Upon hearing Remington’s echoing steps, she rounded a darkened corner to her left and bustled after him.

Slowing, she shuffled closely behind his large frame, following him through the library, to the dome room, to the blue drawing room and then to the tapestry room. All the while, they repeatedly whistled and clapped, calling out Flint’s name. For some reason, Flint still did not answer, which meant he couldn’t be in the house. Stupid though he was, he always answered.

What if one of the servants had let him out and forgot to bring him back in? On a night such as this, he’d either drown or get eaten by a fox. A fox who hadn’t feasted in days. Her stomach clenched. What a horrible guardian she was turning out to be. She couldn’t even keep her own brother’s dog out of harm’s way.

Seized with worry, she rushed past Remington, stumbling around furniture, and dashed toward the north entrance hall. Unbolting the oversize oak doors, she flung them open and sprinted out into the night. She darted past the glass lanterns illuminating the vined entryway and past the limestone portico.

She stumbled on the gravel path and winced as rocks bit into her stockinged feet. The weather was unseasonably cold, and a lashing gust of freezing wind and heavy rain assaulted her as she squinted to see beyond the blinding darkness before her. She wandered farther out into the vast lawn beyond the carriage pathway, the rain drenching her nightdress, face and hair within moments.

“Flint!” she shouted above the whirling wind as a torrent of rain continued to whip at her, pricking her skin like the tips of needles. “Flint! Where—”

She froze, sucking in an astonished breath as her feet sank deep into thick, icy mud, suctioning her to the ground. Her night simply couldn’t get any worse, could it?

“Victoria!” A reprimanding male voice caused her to jump. “What the devil are you doing?”

Then again, maybe it could.

Victoria jerked toward Remington, the lanterns beyond dimly outlining his tall, lean frame in the descending torrent of rain. His dark, wet hair was plastered to his forehead and neck, whilst that billowy linen shirt of his was no longer billowy. It had turned sheer and clung to his lean, muscled arms and wide chest.

Her own nightdress, which only boasted a chemise beneath, was also beginning to stick to the length of her body. Though she didn’t have the sort of sizable breasts most females her age toted, she had more than enough to make her cheeks burn.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You ought to go inside. You’re getting wet.”

“We are both getting wet.” He gestured toward the open doors beneath the portico. “Come. The blighter is probably hiding somewhere in the house.”

She squinted against the rain slathering her face. “No. He never hides and he always answers whenever I call. Which means he has to be somewhere outside.”

Remington closed the distance between them. “I doubt he will even be able to hear us over all of this wind and rain. Now come. Come inside. I was hoping you and I could talk.”

What a rum pot. Talk? At this time of night?

Victoria turned away, cupped the sides of her mouth and yelled out against the wind, “Flint! Where are you?”

“We are getting soaked to the bone.”

“You really ought to cease pointing out what is already obvious.” She paused, sucked in a large breath and then shouted as loudly as she possibly could, “Flint!” More rain and wind pummeled her as an agonizing chill overtook her limbs.

“Victoria, please. This is ridiculous. He’s a dog. He has fur to protect him against the elements. You, on the other hand—”

“Flint! Fliiiint!” Panic edged into her strained voice and her limbs began to quake. Where was he? Why wasn’t he responding? Flint never wandered far from the house. Not ever.

She spun in every direction, wondering which way she should go, but found that the night, wind and rain were blending together too much, making it impossible to see.

“Victoria.” Remington grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “I promise to assist you in finding him in the morning. Now come.”

She flung his arm away and stumbled forward, toward the direction of the open field. Her stockings were now sliding down her legs, being sucked in by the mud around her. “No. I cannot leave him out here all night. I cannot! He is anything but good at taking care of himself.”

“Much like his lady.” He stepped back toward her. “Please forgive this necessity.” Large, warm hands grabbed her firmly by the waist, then yanked her straight up into the air, pulling her feet out of the mud and out of her stockings altogether, leaving them stuck in the ground.

Victoria gasped as she was effortlessly pitched up and over his hard shoulder like a sack of barley, her bare feet dangling out before him, her arms and long braid dangling behind him with her bum in the air. His grip dug into her hips and the night bounced with each large step he took back to the portico.

“What are you doing?!” she shouted, smacking his hard backside hidden beneath his soaked shirt. She froze, realizing she shouldn’t even be touching any part of him, and certainly not his backside. She twisted against his shoulder. “My stockings! I … This isn’t respectable! I am still in my nightdress!”

“So I have noticed,” he drawled as he kept toting her back toward the house.

She collapsed against him, plotting her escape.

Stepping in through the doorway, Remington finally plopped her down onto the marble floor of the large foyer. She slipped and stumbled against the water pooling beneath her cold, bare feet.

He slammed the doors and bolted them with quick sweeps, flinging water everywhere. He turned and fell back against the doors. Blowing out a breath, he paused and glared down at her, his rugged face glistening from the water that continued to dribble down from his matted hair. “You do realize your father, not to mention your cousin, would have held me accountable for whatever happened to you out there?”

As if she cared. “I am not abandoning Flint on a night like this.” She scrambled around him, trying to get to the doors, but he set his back against both knobs.

She pushed at his massive, wet body.

“I am not moving,” he gruffly announced.

“Step aside.”

“No.”

“Step. Aside.”

“No. You are not going back out into that rain.”

She shoved at his body again, trying to get him to move away from the knobs, but her feet kept sliding against the smooth marble. Annoyed to no end, she gritted her teeth, fisted her hand and punched his shoulder.

He seized her upper arms, his hard grip pinching her skin beneath the sleeves of her nightdress, and fiercely spun her around, yanking her back against himself so she couldn’t hit him again. He leaned over her, his broad chest and arms locking her against his chest. Icy water cascaded down onto her neck and arms from his drenched clothing. She stiffened, her eyes widening, realizing she was officially at his command.

He leaned farther down, bending her far forward and in turn, keeping her in place with his weight. “Cease being an impertinent child,” he demanded, his warm breath heating the side of her chilled cheek. “He’ll be fine. You, on the hand, won’t be if you get any more drenched.”

She trembled within his arms, the cold seeping deeper into her skin. “He is all I have left of Victor. And if that makes me a child, so be it. Now let me go. Let me go!”

Remington released her, allowing them both to straighten. Turning her toward him, he grasped her shoulders, pulling her close. The few waning candles in the sconces of the entrance hall dimly illuminated his rain-moistened face. He rubbed her shoulders. “Forgive me. Grayson has often told me how close you and your brother were.”

She looked away, refusing to give in to emotions that were pointless to feel. It wouldn’t change the fact that her brother was gone, having succumbed to smallpox after a servant had exposed him to it. Sometimes she wondered why it hadn’t been her.

Remington’s fingers pressed into her shoulder blades, silently assuring her that she was not alone. Not wanting or needing his pity, she pushed away his heavy arms and swiped away droplets of water running down the sides of her face and chin.

“Victoria.”

She glanced toward him. “What is it now?”

“I … leave for Venice tomorrow.”

She sighed, unable to hide her own disappointment knowing she wouldn’t see him until her coming out. “Yes. I know.”

“I may not return in time for your debut. Which is why I was hoping you could …” He winced.

She stared up at him, dreading whatever he had in mind. “You were hoping I could what?”

He shrugged and glanced away. “I … wanted to give you something, is all. Something that would—”

“You had better not be asking me for a kiss, Remington. Because you won’t get it.”

He cleared his throat and shook his head before setting his broad shoulders. “No. I … in truth, I wanted to give you something that will help bring Flint back.”

She sighed. “A whistle won’t be of any use. That dog hates whistles.”

“It’s not a whistle.” He drew closer, his wet hair glistening as black as night, and dug into his soaked trouser pocket. He held up a dainty, gold-and-ruby ring by the tips of his fingers. “Here. Take this.”

Sometimes, men were utterly useless, weren’t they? “I do believe my intelligence is being insulted. How is a ring supposed to bring my dog back?”

He let out a gruff laugh and grabbed up her chilled hand, forcing it open. Holding the ring up between them, he set it against her palm and pressed her hand tightly closed. Water from the sleeve of his shirt dribbled onto her hand, raising more gooseflesh on her already cold skin.

He lowered his voice. “My mother gave this to me shortly before she passed eight years ago. She and I were very close. From what I am told, a Gypsy gifted it to her. All you need know is that the worth of this ring will prove itself to you in time. Believe in its magic, and I assure you, all will come to pass. I am giving it to you so you can wish for anything you might ever want or need whilst I am away.”

Victoria opened her hand and blinked down at the ring. She glanced up at him. “Surely, you jest.”

“I do not.”

“You are a man of nineteen. You don’t actually believe in real magic, do you?”

“Age should never exempt one from hope. Which is what defines true magic.” He tapped at her hand, still holding her gaze. “Place the ring on your finger, whisper to the stone whatever it is you most desire and it will come to pass. I promise.”

She snorted. “Are you trying to melt butter in a wig? There are no magic rings in this world.”

He lowered his chin and drew closer. His hand reached out and brushed her cheek, his warmth making her cool skin tingle. “How do you know there aren’t?” he murmured, staring at her lips. “Have you whispered your most intimate desires to every single ring that exists in this world?”

“Well, no, I …” She froze, fully aware that he was inching in closer. His dark head lowered as he tilted his face toward her own.

She gasped, scrambling out of his reach, and stumbled, her bare feet sliding across the cold marble floor. She didn’t want or need her father to catch her being irresponsible. Not when her coming out was only seven months away.

She bustled toward the dim, sweeping stairwell, and chanted to herself that she needed to leave. Her hand, which still held his ring, trembled, though not from the cold.

“Victoria. Please. Don’t leave. Not yet. I need this moment between us to last. It may be as many as ten months before I see you again.” There was a tender huskiness in his voice that made her melt with yearning. It was a yearning she didn’t think she’d ever feel for anyone. Or want to feel for anyone. Not after the losses she’d endured.

Though she did pause, her pride insisted she not turn, lest she give in to the pathetic yearning she felt by flinging herself at him like a squirrel into a pile of nuts.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t go about seducing women, if that is what you think I am doing. Ask Grayson. My father was a true gentleman to his very last breath, and since his passing, I have honored his legacy. So much so, in fact, that I haven’t even allowed myself to kiss anyone.”

She spun back toward him and met his gaze across the short distance between them. “You’ve never kissed a woman? At your age?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already kissed some lucky bastard, or I will hang myself for admitting what I just did.”

She bit back a laugh, realizing how serious he was. She shook her head, her wet braid clinging to her shoulder. “Of course I haven’t kissed anyone.”

“Good. Because I am not one to share with others.”

Her fingers tightened around the ring he’d given her, the sides of the stone digging into her palm. “I wouldn’t worry about others. I’m not even allowed to be alone in the presence of a man who isn’t a relative. You know that. Even this would be considered very …”

He closed the distance between them. “Very what?”

“Improper.”

His dark brows came together. “Genuine intentions could never be improper. I swear upon my honor that I have never once pursued a woman the way I am pursuing you. But this … you … us … it is meant to be. I can feel it.”

“You can feel it?” she drawled. “Oh, dear. That cannot be good. You may require leeches.”

He glared at her. “I am being quite serious.”

She giggled. “Yes. A bit too serious, I see.”

“Victoria.” He lowered his voice, leaning toward her. “I am not being insincere. I am merely conveying what I feel. What I have always felt. Destiny has been whispering your name to me ever since our eyes met. I cannot let this go. I cannot let you go. To do so would be to walk away from everything I feel.”

Victoria gawked up at him. It was as if he really did believe in all the silly things that existed in storybooks. Silly things like magic rings and destined courtly love meant to conquer all. Why, she hadn’t believed in such nonsense since she was … thirteen, when her mother died and shattered not only her father’s life, but her own. And when Victor had died … the last of whatever true happiness she’d known had died, too. Love could conquer quite a bit, that she knew, but it couldn’t conquer death. Which was why she wasn’t about to let it conquer her.

“How can destiny be whispering anything to you?” she challenged. “You don’t even know anything about me, aside from all of our superficial banter.”

“I know quite a bit about you.”

“You do not.”

“My dear, I have exhausted myself with all the inquiries I’ve made about you. I believe I know more about you than I know about myself.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“That is exactly so.”

“Then tell me. When and where was I born?”

He tilted his head and pushed away her wet braid from her shoulder. Her heart fluttered from the touch and she felt herself leaning toward him.

“I need more of a challenge than that, Victoria.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I do know.”

She jabbed his wet chest. “Then answer it.”

He caught her hand with his, keeping it from poking him. He smiled and lifted it to his mouth.

Full, warm lips brushed against her chilled skin, sending tingles of heat darting through her entire body. Wild tingles that made her breath and her pulse catch.

Meeting her gaze, he rubbed his fingers against her hand and indulgently replied, “Both you and Victor were born on the ninth of April in the year eighteen hundred and seven in the east wing of this house. You came first and your brother second. Whilst you thrived at birth, Victor was very frail. Though physicians did not expect him to live, he did, and as a result, your parents were always very protective of him. In time, however, you became far more protective and mothered Victor to annoyance.”

She blinked and yanked her hand out of his. This was far too intimate to be respectful. “Who told you that?”

“Grayson. I had him tell me everything about you. And I do mean everything.”

“Everything?” she echoed.

“Everything.”

“You can’t know everything.”

“Oh, but I can. Ask me another question.”

“I will.” She rolled his ring against the palm of her hand and eyed the end of the wood banister beside them, trying to come up with a question. “Who is my favorite author?”

“Daniel Defoe. The History and Remarkable Life of the Truly Honourable Colonel Jacque is your favorite. And though you’ve tried numerous times to get Grayson to unearth a copy of The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, Grayson knows you are far too young to be exposed to such devious content.”