Once Upon a Scandal (19 page)

She smiled. “Are you requesting a lullaby, my lord?”

“Are you offering?”

“No.”

“Why ever not? I have yet to hear you sing.”

“If I sing, you will never sleep again.”

He chuckled. “I will heed the warning. Recite something for me, then.”

“What would you like me to recite?”

“Anything. Though nothing sad.”

“That eliminates every poem I know.”

“Oh, come. You must know one poem of good cheer.”

“No. I don’t. My father preferred poetry he could relate to. Sorrow. Death. Loss.” She paused, remembering the book Remington had been reading. A book she was quite certain wasn’t filled with poems at all. She’d recognized her etiquette book the moment she’d glimpsed it. Though she didn’t know why he would deny it or how he had even come across it. “What about that book of poems you were reading earlier? Is there anything of merit that perhaps I could read?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Victoria?”

“Yes?” she innocently prodded.

“That was not a book of poems.”

“No?”

“No. It was, indeed, your etiquette book.”

“I see. The etiquette book you denied having.”

“Yes.”

“And were you actually reading it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well… I… Not because the idea of female etiquette appeals to me, but because…it was yours. And it has my name all over it. I like looking at it and knowing that at one time you held that book with a love I now seek to reclaim.”

He would have to remind her of all the countless hours she spent thinking about him and getting ink all over her hands. “And where did you get it? I distinctly remember tossing it.”

“Your father confiscated it and gifted it to me. He even wrote an inscription within its pages pertaining to your mother. Would you like to read it?”

She swallowed and shook her head against the pillow. “No. Not now.” She didn’t want to think about death or her father or her mother in that moment. Only this. Only Remington.

Remington sighed. “How do you expect me to sleep, Victoria, when the tone of your voice makes me want to hang myself?”

“Forgive me. My mind had wandered.” She squinted for a moment, digging into her thoughts for something to recite. “I do know one ditty. If you want to hear it.”

“Out with it. I would love to hear it.”

“I should warn you, though. ’Tis a bit vulgar.”

He was quiet for a moment. “And where would you have learned something vulgar?”

She bit back a smile, noting the concern in his voice. “Grayson always sang it whenever he visited and insisted he would keep singing it until I married. Sure enough, he was true to his word. He sang it all the time and annoyed me so much, I eventually paid attention to the words and then annoyed him in turn by reciting it myself. My father really was quite livid about the whole thing. Not only with Grayson, but with me, seeing as the words were so crass.”

He adjusted the pillow beneath his head. “This I must hear. Go on. Recite it.”

She snuggled against the pillow and set her chin to the air, remembering the words. “‘I, a tender young maid, have been courted by many men as ever was any. A spruce haberdasher first spake me fair, but I would have nothing to do with small ware. My thing is my own and I’ll keep it so still, yet other young lasses may do what they will.’”

Remington rumbled out a laugh. “Grayson never shared this one with me.”

“Because he likes you more than he likes me.”

“I disagree. But do go on.”

“‘A sweet-scented courtier did give me a kiss, and he promised me mountains if I would be his. But I’ll not believe him, for it is too true, some courtiers do promise much more than they do. A fine man of law did come out of the Strand, to plead his own cause, with his fee in his hand. He made a brace motion, but that would not do, for I did dismiss him, and nonsuit him, too.’”

“Are you certain Grayson taught you this? This maiden sounds remarkably like you. Turning away suitors and all.”

Victoria smacked his forearm with the back of her hand from where she lay. “You are supposed to be sleeping. Now where was I?” She drew in a breath. “‘Next came a young fellow, a notable spark, with a green bag and inkhorn, a justice’s clerk. He pulled out his warrant to make all appear, but I sent him away with a flea in his ear. An usurer came, with abundance of cash, but I had no mind to come under his lash. He proffered me jewels and great stores of gold, but I wouldn’t mortgage my little freehold.’”

“This is profanity at its best. Enough. I have heard enough.”

“Oh, hush. You are no maid. Now allow me to finish. ‘A blunt lieutenant next surprised my placket, and fiercely began to riddle and sack it. I mustered my spirits up, and became bold, and forced my lieutenant to quit his strong hold.’”

“I intend to pummel Grayson for reciting such vile rubbish to you.”

She laughed. “You really need to stop interrupting me. ‘A fine dapper tailor, with yard in hand, did proffer his service to be at command. He talked of a slit I had above my knee, but I’ll have no tailor to stitch it for me.’”

He choked. “This is not helping me sleep. At all.”

She smirked. “You wanted to hear it.”

“And I am regretting that I did. Are you done?”

“No. Not quite. ‘Now here I could reckon a hundred or more, besides all the gamesters recited before, that made their addresses in hopes of a snap, but young as I was, I understood trap. My thing is my own, and I’ll keep it so still, until I be married, say men what they will.’” She paused, oddly realizing Remington was right. It really did sum her up.

He hesitated. “Is that it?”

“Yes. Would you like me to recite something else?”

“Uh…no.”

“Are you ready to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He drew in a breath and let it out. “Good night, Victoria.”

“Good night, Remington.”

He shifted toward her. “I was really hoping you would be calling me Jonathan by now. Remington is what everyone else calls me and you are not everyone else.”

Her heart fluttered. “Good night, Jonathan dear.”

He settled back against the pillows again and let out a breath. “I am in love with the way your voice dips whenever you say my name.”

Heavens, would her heart ever cease fluttering like a butterfly caught at sea? In that moment, she actually considered forcefully grabbing his face and kissing him. Only…she knew she’d most likely make him angry for going against his wishes. That, or she would end up riling him and neither of them would get sleep.

“Good night,” she offered.

“Good night.”

Silence lulled them. Eventually, all light left the cabin and there was nothing but the creaking of boards, the rocking of the boat and the incessant noise of water pummeling the ship outside. In the darkness, she listened to Jonathan’s breath, finding comfort in knowing he was beside her, while pleading he would find rest.

After a very long while, his intake of breaths grew steady and slow. She didn’t know how long she lay in the darkness—maybe an hour or two or three?—but eventually, she also succumbed to peace.

A lady with too much enthusiasm toward everything and everyone becomes a lady well known for being kept in the nursery for too long. There is an art when it comes to exhibiting emotion. Whilst some prefer a lady squelch all emotion, this author insists only enough be exhibited to allow others to appreciate what you think and feel, without making them assume you were bred by squirrels. Be refined in conveying your thoughts and emotions and they will become your greatest assets.
—
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

Early morning
Venice, Italy

STEP BY STEP, Victoria descended from the plank of the ship out onto the narrow stone landing before her. The cool morning wind rushed against her face, causing the silk ribbons of her pleated bonnet to flap against her chin. She tightened her hold on her beaded reticule and drew in a deep breath, savoring the moment. The air was tinged with the acrid salt of the sea mixed with pungent fish, and an unexpected sweetness that reminded her of melons.

Though the land seemed to sway beneath her after she had been confined to the ship for so long, a renewed strength overtook her. She felt as if she had awakened to find herself in a Renaissance painting filled with never-ending periwinkle skies scattered with mountainous clouds angels could doze on. And at the foot of such an illustrious sky, an endless sea shimmered green, reflecting the blinding brightness of the sun peering through the clouds.

Amidst all of this remarkable beauty, towering above and around her, left and right and as far as her eyes could see, were grand marble, stone and brick façades of age-worn palaces and buildings pressed side by side. A grand bridge of white stone, the Ponte de Rialto—which Jonathan had earlier pointed out from the deck—joined both sides of the city in a single, magnificent sweeping arch.

Flower boxes and iron balconies dotted some of the arched windows, and in the distance, two elderly Venetian ladies dressed in lavish French morning gowns of white and green casually chatted against the railing of one of the balconies, gazing out onto the Grand Canal. Their matching pale pink fans fluttered every now and then. Several gray doves floated past and veered up toward rusty, ceramic-tiled roofs before disappearing entirely from sight.

If magic were ever to exist, it would exist in a place such as this. But the most astonishing thing to behold in Venice was all the buildings that rose up out of the water like lily pads in a pond. All of them, Remington had explained, were held up precariously by endless piles driven into the clay beneath the water.

Remington paused beside her. The curved brim of his top hat shadowed his blue eyes against the brightness around them as he glanced down at her. He held out an arm, his gray morning coat shifting against his muscled arm. “Welcome to Venezia, signorina.”

Her stomach flipped. She was really here. In Venice. With Remington. She grinned and placed her gloved hand against his solid forearm, allowing him to lead her down the narrow stone pathway beside the muddy green water lapping against the edge behind them.

“First, we secure a gondola. Otherwise we will never get anywhere. I already arranged for our trunks to follow. Come.” Remington gestured ahead toward a group of narrow black boats whose ends curved dramatically upward like the shoes of a sultan. All the bows were embedded with oddly shaped iron blades and in the middle of each boat was a small, enclosed black cabin with curtained windows.

She drew her brows together as they approached. “Is that a gondola?”

“Yes.”

“It looks more like a sultan’s hearse.”

Remington chuckled and released her arm as they paused before a young, dark-haired gentleman towering above them from atop the rear of a gondola.

“Signore Remington!” the young man exclaimed, the muscled arm that wasn’t holding his long oar popping into the air, lifting his coat. “London no good, eh? Venezia better.”

Remington rumbled out a laugh and touched his hand to the rim of his hat. “Sì, Antonio. Venezia is better. But I have brought something Venezia could never boast.” Remington turned toward Victoria, swept up her gloved hand and propelled her toward the man. “Victoria, this is Antonio. One of many, many gondoliers I have gotten to know throughout the years. Though he will argue with me on this, he specializes in knowing more about languages than women. Antonio, mia moglie, Signorina Victoria.”

“Moglie?” Antonio echoed, his dark gaze sweeping Victoria’s length as if she stood before them completely naked. Antonio hopped down onto the stone stoop, causing the attached gondola he had left behind to teeter and rock against the water.
He let out a long, low whistle. “Tutti i ragazzi vogliono incontrare una ragazza come lei.”

Victoria’s brows went up. Surely, even the boldest of men would have shown a bit more restraint. And as she could only infer what the man said, by the seductive tone of his voice, she found herself wishing Mrs. Lambert had insisted on Italian all of those years ago, not French.

Victoria glanced toward Remington. “I am assuming you introduced me as your wife and he approved?”

Remington grinned and tightened his hold on her hand. “He is under the impression that every man must dream of meeting a woman like you. Something I already knew years ago.”

Heat crept into her cheeks as she turned back toward the man, who grinned at her with crooked, but very white teeth. “Grazie, signore.” That was about all the Italian she knew.

Antonio removed his cap from his head, revealing long black curls any woman would have swooned for.

He bowed sweepingly.

Remington released her hand and said something more at length to the man in Italian, his voice cheerful, warm and smooth.

Antonio rolled his eyes, shook his head and replied something in turn with a flurry of words, securing his cap back in place. He waved them toward the gondola.

Victoria dug into her reticule to retrieve money.

Remington leaned toward her, his gloved hand covering hers and stilling it against the cord of the reticule. “Antonio insists you ride free for the first few days. He hopes you will enjoy his services enough to secure him for however long you stay.”

She glanced up in surprise as Remington released her hand and stepped toward the gondola. She turned toward Antonio and shyly smiled at him.

Antonio waggled his dark brows and grinned.

Remington veered back toward Antonio and stared him down. “Try not to ring that bell of yours too much around my wife. I just might hang you up on a church spire.”

Victoria smacked Remington’s shoulder. “He is letting us ride free. Let him ring all he wants. He’s earned it.”

Remington dropped his hand to his side and eyed her. “I do not want you feeling uncomfortable. The men here are a bit more forward than what you are accustomed to.”

“So I have noticed. It has its charm.” She approached the gondola excitedly and glanced back at Remington. “Might I…?”

“Of course.” He parted the ivory curtains for her, gallantly assisting her into the covered cabin.

Victoria sank into a plush cushion. Smoothing her skirts around herself and the seat, she glanced around, feeling the buoyancy of the gondola, and yet feeling surprisingly secure and more comfortable than in any carriage.

Remington settled beside her, his large frame taking away some of her space and squeezing her against the side of the curtain he drew open and tied into place.

He removed his hat, set it at his booted feet and then to her surprise, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and yanked her closer. “We will be more comfortable this way,” he murmured against her bonnet.

She bit back a smile and nestled against his solid warmth. She couldn’t imagine riding about Hyde Park with her husband’s arm draped around her. It would be the scandal of the Season. She had to admit, she liked Venice based on this moment alone. It felt like she was finally free of all pretenses.

The gondola slid out upon the Grand Canal and the lapping water filled the air. The cool wind pushed in through the open curtains, swinging the fringed, silken cords that held them open and feathering against their faces.

She felt as if she were floating between the earth and sky as they began weaving around the other countless gondolas that cluttered the canal. She glanced up toward whitewashed, arched windows passing alongside them and then back down toward the thick, green water where the buildings were reflected in distorted ripples.

Antonio bellowed out something in Italian as they veered around the corner of a building and into a narrower area. The buildings seemed to close around them. She could now see the water lapping against the stones, the movement displaying fresh and blackened seaweed and moss. Various wood doors with stone stoops set against the water drifted by, barely an arm’s length from where she sat with Remington. To think one could step from one’s home straight into water was as odd as it was charming.

Between the beauty of the buildings, the water, the gondola and Remington’s warmth affectionately surrounding her, she felt a soft flame of happiness. A true happiness she had not felt in years. Everything seemed so…perfect.

Eventually, the gondola veered toward the stone stoop of a towering, narrow brick façade. The gondola came to a halt. She sat up, glancing toward a bright-red doorway with a large iron knocker in the shape of a lion.

Remington drew back his arm, snatched up his top hat and climbed out onto the stoop, causing the gondola to sway. His gloved hand reappeared before her. “We will see more at night. We visit Cornelia first.”

Her heart soared at the thought of finally meeting his stepsister. She grabbed hold of his hand, gathered her skirts and stumbled out of the gondola onto the stone step. She straightened and cleared her throat, slipping her hand away from Remington’s.

“Return when the moon is highest, Antonio!” Remington called out.

“Sì, signore!” Antonio called back. With a graceful swing of his oar, he and his gondola floated away down the water pathway.

Victoria glanced around. She and Remington now stood between deep, murky-green water and a building, with nowhere to go except through the closed red door before them.

She eyed him. “I hope Cornelia is at home or we may have to swim.”

Remington stepped toward the door and used the iron ring against the block located beneath the lion’s mouth. “’Tis early. As such, I know we are assured entrance.”

Victoria settled nervously beside Remington and arranged her skirts about her. “What if Cornelia doesn’t approve of me?”

“Then I will have to get myself a new wife.”

She smacked his arm as the door edged open.

A thin, gray-haired man, his face heavily aged by the sun, peered out at them. His dark eyes widened as he stepped out toward Remington. “Signore!”

“Marcello.” Remington tapped his gloved finger against his lips. “Have Cornelia and Giovanni come down at once. Tell them nothing. Only that I have arrived and that it is extremely urgent.”

The man nodded, tapping his own finger against his lips. He pulled the door open wider and waved them both inside.

Remington ushered her into a large, open marble and gold-painted hallway that opened onto two enormous side rooms with soaring ceilings.

The doors closed, darkening the foyer, leaving the scent of sea and wine noticeably hanging in the air. Several lit candles softly illuminated honey-colored silk-brocaded walls that decorated the expanse of the dim hallway.

The butler held out his hands. “Signorina?”

She turned toward the man. “Oh. Grazie.” She untied the gauze ribbons of her bonnet, removed it and handed it to him. She unclasped her velvet mantelet and removed her gloves and reticule, handing those to him, as well.

Shuffling past, he gathered Remington’s hat and gloves. Setting everything onto a side table, and patting it into place, the old man trudged up the staircase with a swagger that a butler in London would have been tossed for.

She fidgeted with her fingers and eyed the stairs. She had always wanted to meet Cornelia, though certainly not under such unannounced circumstances.

Remington stepped toward her and yanked her back firmly toward him, wrapping his arms around her. His hold tightened. “She will adore you.”

Victoria nodded awkwardly, her stomach in a knot. She felt as if he was about to put her on display.

“Jonathan!” a female voice exclaimed. “Why ever are you back so soon? I thought surely…”

Victoria’s gaze lifted toward a full-figured, curvaceous woman standing at the top of the staircase.

Long, unbound chestnut hair lay in waves, framing a very pretty, round porcelain face. Cornelia adjusted the red sash around the waist of her clinging golden silk robe. She blinked down at them with inquisitive brown eyes, her arched brows coming together.

“Say nothing,” Remington whispered into Victoria’s ear from behind, his breath heating her cheek. His arms tightened even more.

Victoria melted against his solid frame. She couldn’t help but be enamored by how excited he was to share her with Cornelia. She brought her own hands up toward his forearms and squeezed them, assuring him she would remain quiet.

Cornelia descended the staircase, her pearl-studded satin slippers peeking out from beneath her robe with each hurried step. She paused directly before them, her eyes widening. “Is this…?”