A Perfect Scandal

by Tina Gabrielle

Genres: Gothic; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

A Lady Seeking Scandal

Lady Isabel Cameron has little use for marriage and propriety. Her dream is to study art in Paris. But her father has engaged her to a waddling, bankrupt, domineering lord twice her age. When her childhood flame Marcus Hawksley reappears--handsome, single, and socially snubbed--Isabel devises the perfect escape. She will solicit Marcus's assistance to destroy her reputation.

A Man With Nothing To Lose

Marcus has already felt the wrath of the ton, with his business as a stockbroker deemed unacceptable. But he is no despoiler of innocent ladies--until by chance, Isabel's improper advance leaves her the only witness against a lie that could truly ruin him. Faced with her father's demands for marriage, Isabel and Marcus agree to a wedding of convenience--and six months' tenure living as supposed husband and wife. But as the heat between them grows, what seemed a pretense becomes deliciously real. . .

Praise for Lady of Scandal

"A tantalizing tale. . .with sizzle and characters that engage readers' emotions." –Romantic Times

Release date: October 1, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

London, May 1814

“I’ve heard Lord Walling has depraved appetites in the bedroom.”

Isabel Cameron’s lips twitched at the words whispered into her ear by her close friend and fellow debutante, Charlotte Benning.

Isabel scanned the glittering ballroom, noting the magnificent chandeliers, the priceless artwork, and the crush of well-dressed people all vying amongst themselves for attention.

At Isabel’s silence, Charlotte touched her arm. “What? Do not tell me that you of all people find such talk shocking?”

Isabel pushed a wayward dark curl off her shoulder and turned to Charlotte. “It’s not the information that shocks me, but the thought of where you learned such private concerns regarding Lord Walling’s bedroom antics. Have you been eavesdropping on your mother and her friends again?”

Charlotte chewed on her lower lip. “I cannot help myself. Those gossipers are an endless source of education.”

Isabel glanced at Charlotte as her friend vigorously fanned her red cheeks. Charlotte was a petite, slender girl with a wealth of frizzy blond hair and round blue eyes.

Charlotte leaned close, covered her lips with her fan, and lowered her voice. “They even said Lord Walling pays a woman in Cheapside to indulge his fancy.”

Isabel couldn’t control her burst of laugher. “I pity the woman forced to endure his attentions, paid or not.”

“Speaking of the man,” Charlotte said. “Your soon-to-be betrothed waddles toward you as we speak.”

Waddles.

Isabel’s humor vanished, and she frowned. Lord Walling was indeed waddling. A portly man with fleshy jowls and a sagging stomach, he had strands of thinning hair, which he parted on the side and combed over a growing patch of shiny scalp. At fifty-three years of age, he was thirty-three years her senior.

“Can you imagine him intimate with a woman?” Charlotte asked.

Isabel’s gut clenched tight.

Charlotte reached out and grasped her hand. “Dear Lord, what will you do if you cannot persuade your father against the match?”

Bloody hell! Isabel thought. What will I do?

“I’ve tried speaking with my father,” Isabel whispered urgently. “He’s unrelenting on the subject and insists that at my age I should be suitably settled. I’ve even attempted to dissuade Lord Walling of the notion that I would make a good wife, but to no avail. It’s clear he is keenly interested in my family’s reputation, title, and wealth. I’m afraid I have to take matters into my own hands.”

“Oh dear,” Charlotte said. “Not again, Isabel.”

Lord Walling walked forward, directly toward her, nodding when she met his stare. His beady brown eyes reminded her of a ferret she had once seen at a country fair.

Walling bowed stiffly as he stood before Isabel and Charlotte. “Good evening, ladies. I trust you are enjoying Lady Holloway’s ball.”

“The evening is most entertaining, Lord Walling,” Charlotte said.

He turned his attention to Isabel. “May I have the honor of the next dance, Lady Isabel?”

“I’m afraid I’m not feeling well tonight, Lord Walling, and would not be a suitable dance partner.”

He looked at her in utter disbelief. “Oh? Your father told me that you had attended an exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts just yesterday and that you were positively blooming.”

“I found the art inspiring and must not have felt the effects of my illness until I arrived home.”

“You shouldn’t bother yourself with such artistic nonsense. A true lady, especially one of your age, should focus on domestic matters.”

Charlotte took a quick sharp breath.

Isabel opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, stunned by his bluntness.

“My apologies, Lord Walling,” Isabel said, finding her voice. “Perhaps another partner would be more willing.”

“Should I tell your father to take you home, then?” he asked.

“No need to trouble yourself. My father is aware of my condition.”

Lord Walling’s lips thinned with irritation. “Nonsense. It is no trouble at all. I see the earl across the room, and we have much to discuss. I shall call upon you tomorrow then, Lady Isabel. I believe I have the earl’s full approval on the matter,” he said, a critical tone to his voice.

He bowed again and walked away.

“My goodness, Isabel. He’s as persistent as a bloodhound during hunting season,” Charlotte said.

“I fear he needs to marry for money. It’s public knowledge that his country estate cannot sustain his spending habits. Even knowing this, my father is insisting upon the match.”

At twenty, both Isabel and Charlotte were fourth-year debutantes on the marriage mart. One more season to go and they would be official spinsters of unmarriageable age. While Charlotte sought a love match, Isabel wanted nothing more than to escape the marital web and return to Paris to live with her eccentric aunt and study her only true love—painting watercolors.

“I must be more creative in my efforts to dissuade him.”

“As your best friend, Isabel, I implore you, please exercise more discretion than the last time,” Charlotte pled.

Isabel looked away, uncomfortable with her friend’s beseeching gaze.

It was then that she saw him. Two gentlemen had just set foot in the ballroom; both stood tall and straight and were dark-haired. Both were meticulously dressed in breeches and form-fitting double-breasted jackets. But whereas one carried himself with a commanding air of self-importance associated with the nobility, the other was shrouded in an air of isolation and aloofness.

It was the second man who captured her attention, the only one she knew—Marcus Hawksley. A childhood memory brought a wry, twisted smile to her face.

His profile was rugged, somber, and vaguely familiar. He was far from delicately handsome and effeminate as many of the dandies of the ton. His face was granitelike and striking, and his strong features held a raw sensuality, a smoldering dangerousness, which captivated her attention, and which she suspected women would secretly find deliciously appealing.

Hawksley’s face was bronzed and his eyes sinfully dark. His black curling hair was cut short and gleamed in the candlelight from the chandeliers above. He was tall and muscularly built. Even from across the room, Isabel could see the rich outline of his shoulders straining against the fabric of his jacket.

There was a restless energy about his movements as if he did not want to be in the ballroom with these people and wanted to depart as soon as his obligations of attendance were satisfied.

“Marcus Hawksley is here,” Isabel blurted out. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

Charlotte shrugged. “That’s because he hasn’t been to a public event in years. He was quite the rogue in his youth. But then came the horrific scandal when he reformed and entered trade by becoming a stockbroker in the London Stock Exchange. Mother insists that trade is considered worse than the plague amongst the upper classes. Even his father, the Earl of Ardmore, and his older brother and heir, want nothing to do with him.”

Isabel’s lips puckered with disgust. It was just like the beau monde to overlook a gentleman’s roguish behavior—his drinking, gambling, and womanizing—but consider it unforgivable when the same man reformed himself by becoming a successful businessman. Isabel had never paid much attention to the scandals, but Charlotte, whose mother was a close friend of Lady Jersey, one of the powerful patronesses of Almack’s, was obsessed with gossip.

“Who is he with?” Isabel asked.

“Lord Ravenspear, the handsome earl whose wife, Victoria, is increasing with child.”

“I wonder why Marcus is here tonight,” Isabel said.

“Lady Holloway is his godmother. I suspect he has attended out of respect for her.”

As if on cue, their hostess, Lady Holloway, approached the two gentlemen. Marcus bowed, and an easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. The smile was boyishly affectionate, softening his features, and it was clear he held Lady Holloway in high regard. He had the same look years ago when he had caught Isabel, an infatuated impetuous girl, filling his best riding boots with sand.

A sudden thought struck Isabel. “He caused a horrific scandal, you say? You are a genius, Charlotte!”

Charlotte’s brows drew together. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean to gain my freedom.”

Ignoring Charlotte’s confused look, Isabel gathered her skirts and wove her way through the crowd.

The music from the orchestra grew louder as she walked, and couples whirled by in a colorful blur on the dance floor. Several older ladies glanced at her as she hurried past with a purpose—straight for Marcus Hawksley himself.

She came up to Marcus and Lord Ravenspear as Lady Holloway walked away to greet her other guests.

“Good evening, Mr. Hawksley. It has been quite some time since we have seen each other. Do you remember me?” Isabel asked.

Two pairs of eyes snapped to her face—Ravenspear’s were deep blue; Marcus Hawksley’s were dark and unfathomable.

One corner of Marcus’s mouth twisted upward. “Lady Isabel Cameron. Of course I remember you. How many years has it been? Ten or more?”

Eight to be exact, she thought.

As an infatuated adolescent of twelve, she remembered him clearly. He had been a reckless rogue, a sworn bachelor at the age of twenty-two, and had been the object of her schoolgirl fantasies. Looking into his face now, there were no traces of the pleasure-seeking scoundrel.

Marcus Hawksley appeared severe and serious, and quite simply her savior if she played her cards right.

“It has been a while,” she said.

“May I introduce Lord Ravenspear?” Marcus turned toward the earl.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isabel,” Ravenspear said.

Isabel raised her gaze to find Ravenspear watching her. His cobalt eyes sparkled with humor. Isabel could imagine what the earl was thinking—that a debutante approaching a bachelor without a chaperone or her father in a crowded ballroom was quite forward.

Good, Isabel thought. May all of the upper crust watch, especially Lord Walling.

“If you will excuse me, I see friends I’d like to speak with,” Ravenspear said.

To Isabel’s surprise, the earl gave a sly wink before departing.

She was left alone with Marcus. “Mr. Hawksley,” she said, reaching out to touch his sleeve. “I’m afraid my request may sound forward, but I have not had a gentleman ask me to dance this evening. I cannot bear to be the talk of all the other debutantes here. Will you save me from such a fate?”

Marcus Hawksley’s expression stilled and grew hard. His mercurial black eyes sharpened and blazed down into hers.

Her hand froze on his velvet jacket, and his muscles tensed under her fingertips. Heat emanated from his body, and he appeared as tightly coiled as a spring.

Suddenly, she was unsure of herself, of her outrageous behavior.

What if she had made a grave mistake? Had underestimated his reformation from rogue to serious businessman?

She took an abrupt step back, away from his tense, hard body, and made to turn on her heel. “Forgive me. I—”

He reached out and grasped her wrist.

“For old times’ sake then,” he murmured as he led her to the dance floor, leaving her no choice but to follow.

The orchestra had begun the waltz, and he swept her into his arms. It was the perfect dance for Isabel’s intent. Known as the “forbidden” waltz because of the close contact of the dancers, she had a heightened awareness of their audience. As they started to dance, she wondered if he knew the steps since he hadn’t been to any society functions in quite some time. But she needn’t have worried for his tall frame moved with easy grace.

He looked down at her. “You realize that by dancing with me you may cause more gossip than by not dancing with any man the entire evening?”

She feigned innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. There’s a black mark on my name, Isabel.”

A shiver of excitement ran down her spine. I’m counting on it, Marcus!

She was conscious of his hand touching hers, of his powerful body moving beside her, grazing her skirts. Her skin became increasingly warm, her breath short.

As they whirled across the floor, she glanced in the direction of her father and Lord Walling.

Her father appeared confused and agitated, and wiped at his brow with a handkerchief.

Walling looked furious, his fleshy face and neck mottled red.

Encouraged, she leaned lightly into Marcus, tilting her face toward his. “A black mark does not scare me, Mr. Hawksley. I’m old enough to know that society can be harsh, can be too judgmental, and rarely is correct when it comes to a person’s true character.”

He looked at her in astonishment, and then grinned. “Not only have you grown into a beautiful woman with your raven hair and clear blue eyes, but an astute one as well. A true surprise you have become, Lady Isabel.”

She didn’t know whether it was the attractive smile that had transformed his face or his flattering words, but her pulse leapt to life, and her feet seemed to drift along on a cloud over the dance floor.

The bold passage of his jet eyes over her face and the curve of her neck heightened her senses. She found herself extremely attuned to his strength, his overwhelming masculinity. He was unlike any other male she had ever known. Here was no fop, no dandy that the young debutantes swooned over. Here was a powerful man whose dangerous nature was disguised by a thin veneer of respectability.

Reason told her to flee, to abandon her impulsiveness, but instead a thrill tingled along her nerves.

Their eyes locked, and his dark brows slanted in a slight frown.

He senses it, too! she thought.

As the dance neared its end, she realized with bewilderment that she was no longer acting the awed female entirely for the benefit of her father and Lord Walling, but that she indeed felt an undeniable attraction to Marcus Hawksley.

“I’m furious!” stated Edward Cameron. “For the third time, I’ve arranged a perfectly good match for you and how do you reward me? You turn down Lord Walling only to dance with Marcus Hawksley instead. He’s nothing more than the impoverished younger son of an earl, a mere stockbroker.”

Isabel watched her father pace back and forth on the thick Aubusson carpet in his library. Edward Cameron, the fourth Earl of Malvern, was short and stocky with round spectacles and a brow perpetually creased with worry. Tufts of sparse gray hair stood on end as he ran his fingers over his scalp in agitation. His mouth was tight and grim, his eyes flashing in a familiar display of impatience.

Isabel stiffly sat in a leather chair, her fingers curling around the nail head armrest. Her father had ushered her into the library as soon as they had returned home from Lady Holloway’s ball. She immediately knew it was going to be a lengthy night. Last time, he had taken her to the drawing room, and the lecture had been brief. He hadn’t been concerned with possible interruptions by the servants. But to demand her presence in his library—well, that meant the lecture would be severe enough to warrant complete privacy. No servant would dare interrupt the earl here.

Straightening her spine, she took a deep breath. “I apologize for having upset you by dancing with Mr. Hawksley, Father. But I’m not sorry that Lord Walling no longer wants the engagement to proceed.”

Edward stopped his pacing to stare at her. He reached up to rip his spectacles from his face, only to snag one of the wires behind his ear. It twisted and bowed as he tugged it free.

“Who said anything about Lord Walling not pursuing an engagement? It took considerable effort on my part, but I managed to assuage Walling’s doubts regarding your poor discretion.”

Isabel tossed her head. “Poor discretion! I do not wish to wed Lord Walling.”

“Why not?”

“He’s positively ancient. He has no interest in my art. And…and…he”—she struggled for the words—“he has depraved appetites in the bedroom,” she blurted out, not knowing how else to persuade her father.

“What?” Edward’s jaw dropped.

Her face grew hot. “That’s the latest gossip.”

He blew out his cheeks like a blowfish before releasing a burst of air. “Of all the nonsense, please stop listening to your friend, Charlotte Benning.”

His anger slightly abated, he took a seat in a chair next to hers and reached out to take her hand.

“My Isabel,” he said. “I will not live forever, and I need to see you well settled before I die. Your mother, bless her soul, would have wanted you respectably married.”

Isabel’s heart lurched, and a stab of guilt pierced her heart. Despite everything, she loved her father dearly. She squeezed his hand. “What would make me happy is to live with Auntie Lil in Paris. I could study my watercolors, just as she did. Ever since my visit two summers ago, she has regularly written asking for me to stay with her.”

Edward shook his head. “Your mother’s sister is an eccentric who never married. That’s what happens to women who never have a man’s guidance and who never bear children.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Either way, you are a few months shy of your twenty-first birthday. You have already destroyed two previously good matches, now must you destroy a third?”

“I didn’t destroy anything.”

“Ah, you merely told Lord Darby that you were unable to bear children, and you merely let Lord Shelton’s controlling mother believe that insanity runs in the family, by using your Auntie Lil as an example. Both men ran as fast as their legs would carry them.”

“I won’t apologize for either man. Darby only sought a brooding mare to produce heirs, and Shelton wanted the country estate in Herefordshire that you had promised him. Don’t you see, Father, I want more.”

“It’s unspeakable. Forget returning to Auntie Lil. Letting you travel to Paris was an unfortunate mistake. As for Lord Walling, I gave him permission to pay a visit tomorrow afternoon. You had best be a perfect lady. The engagement will go forward.”

Edward rose and patted her shoulder. “As the eldest child, think of the twins. You will be setting a good example for them.”

Isabel often did think of her younger twin siblings, Anthony and Amber, and believed that setting a good example meant passionately pursuing one’s dreams.

At her silence, her father smiled. “Good girl, Isabel. I know you will stop carrying on about this artistic nonsense. I’ve allowed your watercolors as a pastime fancy, but now it is time for you to put art out of your mind and secure your future as a wife.”

Head bent low, Isabel nodded in what she hoped was a demure manner. From a sideways glance, she watched him turn and leave.

As soon as the library door clicked closed, she jumped to her feet and rushed to her father’s desk. Yanking open a heavy file drawer, she began to rummage through mounds of paper.

If Walling was coming tomorrow afternoon, there was no time to waste.

 

Marcus Hawksley took the front steps to the Westley mansion two at a time in his haste. He did not like to lose, and there was a Gainsborough at stake.

The London Stock Exchange had been particularly busy this morning. When Marcus had heard about the estate sale in which the 1781 painting by Thomas Gainsborough, Seashore with Fishermen, would be auctioned off to the highest bidder, his secretary had scrambled to reschedule several important appointments.

Marcus reached the mansion’s top steps, and before he could knock, a dour-faced butler swung the door open. People were already milling about inside, attesting to his lateness.

A muscle flicked at his jaw. He refused to be outbid.

He stepped into a grand vestibule lavishly appointed with marble floors, high ceilings hung with sparkling crystal chandeliers, and quality paintings on the walls.

A tall, reed-thin man approached. He was dressed in striped trousers that made his long legs appear as if he walked on stilts. He was strikingly bald with pale blue eyes in a narrow face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawksley,” the man said. “I anticipated I would see you today.”

Marcus greeted Dante Black, the former Bonham’s auctioneer, with a curt nod. “Where is it, Dante?”

“The late Lord Westley had several intimate drawing rooms to showcase his art throughout his home. Gainsborough’s Seashore with Fishermen is located on the upper floor, at the end of the hall, past the library. There are other notable pieces exhibited there as well that may interest you. All the items are rare and exquisite.” Dante Black withdrew a gold pocket watch from his waistcoast. “Only fifteen minutes remain for prospective buyers to view the art before the auction takes place in the parlor.”

Marcus nodded. “That’s all the time I need, Dante.”

Wondering what other art the auctioneer had in mind, Marcus bounded up the staircase. He was always open to adding new quality works to his vast collection.

He nodded at passersby as he strode down the hall, recognizing other wealthy collectors, museum curators, and titled nobility with a taste for fine art. Even Lord Yarmouth, the Regent’s personal art agent, who was an influential and informed art collector in his own right, was present. His robust wife, Lady Yarmouth, was by his side. Marcus was well aware that Prinny was an avid collector of Thomas Gainsborough’s work, and he suspected Yarmouth was present to bid on the same piece.

Pulse pounding in anticipation, Marcus opened the door and rushed into the first room past the library.

His gaze swept the room’s dimly lit interior.

He stopped short, shocked.

Seconds passed, then he burst out laughing.

Row after row of erotic statues crammed the vast room. Naked nymphs with huge breasts, fierce warriors, and boys on the brink of manhood—all with enormously oversized penises—were arrayed in splendid decadence throughout the space. Couples in various sexual positions, some with amazingly flexible and contorted limbs; others in the throes of ecstasy, heads thrown back, mouths open simulating pleasure. Erotic frescoes and paintings lined the walls as well, depicting orgies in Roman togas and marble pools.

In the back of the room was an immense, round bed, big enough to hold at least four people. Red satin sheets adorned the mattress and a canopy of fine red gauze shrouded the perimeter of the bed. A fabric swing, two people wide, hung from the ceiling beside the bed. Marcus’s fertile imagination pictured lovers in the swing, swaying back and forth, culminating their passion.

Who would have thought the late Lord Westley, a respectable member of society and the House of Lords, had such wild tastes?

Marcus turned in a full circle, absorbing the erotic scene before him.

He became instantly aroused.

He was, after all, a flesh-and-blood man.

“Mr. Hawksley.”

Marcus spun around at the sound of a soft, feminine voice. He saw nothing save a gaudy statue of Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt, one hand cradling a large breast, and the other hand cupping the V between her legs.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

“It’s me, Mr. Hawksley.”

Sunlight from a small, overhead window cast a shadow on the Diana statue. A slender woman appeared from behind, her hand grazing the statue’s white hip as she glided to stand before it.

Marcus blinked, wondering if his imagination had conjured her forth. “Isabel?”

She smiled and met his gaze.

She looked ethereal, unreal in the dim light, dressed in a flowing white dress with a low embroidered bodice. The gown was an arousing concoction, modest enough not to be daring, yet sufficiently tantalizing to reveal a narrow waist, slender hips, and the curve of a full breast.

Her striking sable hair was loose, unlike at the Holloways’ ball, and hung in thick waves down her back. Her only jewelry was two mother-of-pearl combs, sweeping the hair from her face, revealing blue eyes and delicately boned features.

He had thought her a beautiful woman last night, but here…now…amongst the backdrop of eroticism, dressed as she was, she was exquisite.

Immediately, his guard came up. “What are you doing here?”

“I need you, Mr. Hawksley.”

It was the last thing he had expected to hear, and the most damaging thing she could have said to his already overstimulated senses.

“What are you talking about?” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

She stepped closer, and her perfume—a subtle scent of lilacs—wafted toward him.

“I need your help, Marcus.”

Marcus. At the sound of his Christian name on her lips, his heart pounded an erratic rythm.

He realized he was staring, gawking at her. “Help you?” he asked, coming to his senses. “Do you realize what will happen if we are found alone like this, especially here, in this room?”

He shifted to the side, looking behind her. “Where is your chaperone? Your father?”

“I’m alone, of course.”

“But why?”

She stepped even closer, her ripe body swaying like that of a skilled courtesan, yet surrounded by an aura of innocence. The contradiction was fascinating and alluring all at once. She looked, quite simply, like a sacrificial virgin in one of the frescoes on the wall.

Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “I need to have a liaison, and I want it to be with you.”

He stood absolutely still and wondered if he had heard her correctly. After a moment, realization dawned on him, and he chuckled. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Why would you think that?”

“After not seeing you for all these years, you approach me at Lady Holloway’s ball and very forwardly ask me to dance. Then the next day you show up here”—he spread his arm toward the debauchery in the room—“and ask me to become your lover. If this is not a joke, then what else can it be?”

A thoughtful smile curved her mouth. “I assure you, Marcus, this isn’t a joke.”

“However did you find me?”

“I rummaged through my father’s files to find your business address. Father is a member of the Stock Exchange, you see. When I arrived at your place of business, your secretary, James Smith, was leaving the building and told me where you had gone. So this is no joke. I’m quite serious about my offer.”

He shook his head. “I spent a summer at your father’s country mano. . .