Once Upon a Scandal

Grayson snorted. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Rope up Mrs. Lambert and shove her in a cupboard while everyone watches you play Romeo?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I expect you to do. I only have two weeks to extract a promise of matrimony from her. Two weeks. I need every moment I can get.”

Grayson jabbed him beneath the cravat. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Your whole life. Why are you rushing into this, anyway? Hmm? From what I hear, Venetian women send men into spasms that last all day and night. Enjoy a bit of that first, then come back to this.”

Jonathan sighed. This wasn’t about meeting a woman and having a few nights of passion. This was about meeting the woman and having a whole lifetime of passion. “Fifteen minutes.”

Grayson shook his head from side to side. “Why must you always complicate not only your life, but mine? Why?”

“Oh, you think I complicate your life?” Jonathan lowered his voice. “I’m not the one stealing bank notes to pay for women who most likely will end up costing you vials of mercury.”

Grayson puffed up his cheeks and deflated them with a single breath. “I don’t need another father pointing out everything I do wrong.”

Jonathan refrained from smacking him upside the head. “One father would never be enough to rein you in. Hell, six fathers wouldn’t be enough. Just as you don’t approve of my life, Grayson, I don’t approve of yours. Which is why we must agree to disagree. Now, are you going to do this for me or not?”

Grayson sighed and scanned the garden around them. “I will ensure fifteen minutes if you promise not to tell my father about the bank notes.”

Jonathan grinned and elbowed his arm. “Done.”

Grayson elbowed him back. “Stay here. I’ll send Victoria over and occupy Mrs. Lambert for you.”

Jonathan pointed at him. “You are a good friend.”

“A better friend than you will ever be.” Grayson smirked, rounded him and the table, and strode across the lawn.

Jonathan adjusted the cuffs of his morning coat and stepped toward the nearest table laden with silver. Finding a tray that had been emptied of most of its biscuits, he leaned over it and used the polished reflection of the silver platter to see if his black hair was still decent. He brushed back a few unruly strands that had strayed in the wind from his forehead, straightened and stepped back, glancing toward where Grayson had gone.

Lady Somerville sauntered past with her elderly husband, heading toward the fountain beyond. Her dark eyes lifted and purposefully met Jonathan’s across the distance. She offered a refined nod in passing as a slow smile touched her painted lips, then continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye in a heated, predatory manner that caused Jonathan’s skin to crawl.

He ignored the blatant flirtation. Why was it that only married women found him attractive? Did he have the words Play with me if you are over thirty etched across his forehead? He was almost young enough to be their firstborn, for God’s sake.

Jonathan paused as a slim figure dressed in embroidered white lace and India muslin appeared on the other side of the table he lingered by. His pulse drummed as Victoria angled her parasol against the puffed sleeve on her upper shoulder and quietly perused the silver trays of food.

God love you, Grayson, he thought to himself.

Jonathan drew a reassuring breath, grabbed one of the plates stacked for service and rounded the table toward her. He paused beside her and leaned in, offering up the plate. Though he wanted to convey everything that had ever been buried within him in that one pulsing moment, all he could do was hold out the plate and wait for her gloved hand to take it.

She turned, her full skirts brushing his trouser-clad legs, and lifted her pretty green eyes to his. Jonathan’s stomach flipped as her full, soft-looking pink lips curved into a radiant smile. She edged back, setting a more respectable distance between them, but never once broke their gaze.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word.

He stupidly continued to hold out the plate, while she stood there as if he wasn’t holding anything at all. Though she offered him no conversation aside from the playful glint in her eyes, he knew she was merely embracing the well-practiced role of a lady, with the eyes and ears of society gathered all but strides away.

“The Banbury cake deserves infinite praise,” he offered conversationally, scooting the plate closer to her. “You might want to eat what little is left before I do.”

She lowered her chin, adjusting the parasol on her shoulder, and glanced toward the sliced cakes. She lifted a blond brow. “Do you really intend to be a glutton and eat all four cakes?”

Jonathan let out an awkward laugh, realizing there really were still four Banbury cakes left on the trays. He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the plate he still held. “I was trying to make conversation, is all.”

“Conversation about cake? I see.” She promenaded the length of the table, offering him a taunting smile. “Whatever you do, my lord, don’t comment on the weather next. In the past hour, six people have pointed out that there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. I have been praying for rain ever since to ensure more cultivated conversation.”

He chuckled and lowered his voice. “You needn’t worry about uncultivated conversation here. In truth, I haven’t even noticed the weather at all. Not with you dressed as you are. Might I point out how incredibly beautiful you look in that gown? An angel in her truest form. ‘Tis a pity there aren’t any clouds in that sky for you to sit on.”

She let out a laugh and shook her head. “Why is it, my lord, that you had far more intelligent things to say when I last saw you?”

I wasn’t leaving the country the last time I saw you. He pushed away the thought and focused on being subtle. Subtle, subtle, subtle. “How many more months before your coming out?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She sighed. “Seven. Mrs. Lambert won’t let me forget it. Nor will my father.”

Seven months. He’d be gone all seven of those months, maybe even eight to ten of those months, depending on how long it took him to settle his stepsister into her new way of life. And then there was his stepmother. He hoped the woman not only stayed in Venice, but died there.

Jonathan met Victoria’s gaze and knew if he waited to declare himself, he’d have to compete against a horde of richer, better titled men. He was only worth two thousand a year. And while that allowed for an excellent living most would envy, it only allowed for one estate. Unlike the five her father owned.

Victoria eyed him expectantly, silently prodding him to do more than just blatantly stare at her.

He wished to God he could just grab her and kiss her and declare himself that way. “I’m leaving for Venice,” he blurted, fingering the plate he still held.

She half nodded, causing her gathered blond curls to sway against her cheeks. “Yes, I know. After the house party. Grayson told me.” A soft sigh escaped her lips. “I wish I could travel. Sadly, Papa is set against my doing any tours.”

Was that delicious yearning in her voice meant for him? Or for the tours? “Might I write to you about my travels?”

Her green eyes brightened. “But of course. Who else will keep me from boredom but you?”

This really wasn’t going anywhere. It was the same old, same old. Everything said, yet nothing said. Subtle simply was not going to win her over, regardless of what Grayson thought. In truth, Grayson’s idea of courting a woman amounted to lifting her skirt and whistling.

Jonathan rounded the table and closed the remaining distance between them feeling as if his fifteen minutes had already dwindled to a mere one. He leaned in, offering her the plate once again, trying not to get too distracted by the alluring scent of soap and lavender drifting toward him.

“Victoria,” he whispered, searching her face, memorizing the arch of those blond brows and how soft her porcelain skin appeared in the fading afternoon light. “Take the plate if you love me.”

Her eyes widened. She edged back and glanced toward those in the distance. With the flick of her wrist, she shielded them from view with her parasol, then leaned in and tsked. “Being more amorous than usual, I see.”

“Forgive me, but there are times when a man has to be.”

“Oh? And what times are those? The end of days?”

“I want assurance of your devotion.”

She giggled. “By offering me a plate?”

By offering you my life. He gestured toward the china still in his hand. “This plate is but a metaphor representing all that I am. Polished. Clean. Able to present, hold and endure whatever you place upon it, whilst allowing you to feast for both substance and pleasure, though surprisingly, it is also incredibly fragile. If dropped, it will shatter and become nothing but a worthless mess. I would say more, but we have an audience and this is about as forward as I can get without altogether grabbing you.”

She stared up at him for an abashed moment and dropped her voice a whole octave. “So by taking the plate I would in fact be taking your heart? Is that what you are informing me of, my lord?”

He drew in a ragged breath. “Yes. Exactly.”

“Ingenious.” She smiled, leaned in and playfully tapped her gloved finger against the painted rim of the plate. “Have it polished and ready for my coming out. I’m certain I can find a place for you somewhere at the table. In the meantime, use this plate to enjoy however many Banbury cakes you can stomach. I should go, before Mrs. Lambert realizes Grayson is a decoy.” She grinned, twirled her parasol once in a form of bravado and breezed past.

Hell. That was neither a yes nor a no.