Free Scandalous Love by Brenda Joyce Page B

loudly, making Lad regard him
curiously.
    He had released tension,
but he had not erased Nicole Shelton from his thoughts. He was still somewhat
shocked whenever his errant mind envisioned her as he had last seen her, astride
a ton of spirited horseflesh, in men's breeches. And she had hit him with her
crop. It was still unbelievable—it was still impossibly arousing.
    The Duke paced. There
was no way he could refuse Shelton's invitation now. But in truth, he did not
even want to. He ran a hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair. He was
playing with fire; he sensed it, he knew it— and she was the fire.
    This last week he had
thrown himself into the restoration of Chapman Hall with ruthless
determination. He had risen earlier than usual and gone to bed later, not
allowing himself a moment to rest or to think. Yet no matter how occupied he
kept himself, she always lurked at the fuzzy edges of his consciousness,
haunting him. Why was he so fascinated with her? Or was it obsessed?
    Her striking looks were
enough to drive any man insane, he decided, but it was her manner, her
boldness, her savagery that was intoxicating. Most women—most ladies —were
terribly boring. With the exception of his mother, whose intelligence and
unconventional interest in business affairs set her apart from other females,
he could not think of a single lady who was worth his time and attention.
(Elizabeth was a different matter entirely, being his fiancee.) No woman he
knew attended fetes unchaperoned, unless they were over thirty, no woman rode
about in breeches, no woman spoke as she did, no woman ever showed such a
temper, not even his last mistress, who had been French and quick to anger. And
no woman, no woman, chased a man down and struck him with her crop.
    She was everything the
women of his acquaintance were not, and it was for that reason, he decided,
that he was so damn enthralled.
    The problem was, he no
longer trusted himself. He had behaved abominably toward her last week, even if
sorely provoked. There was no excuse for forcing himself on her, for using his
strength to assert his power over her, for kissing her, touching her. No
excuse. Yet nothing could have stopped him then, and he was afraid that the
next time nothing would stop him.
    Next time?
    He must make sure there
was no next time. He could not live with himself if he ruined her, no matter
that her reputation was already in shreds. No matter how she provoked him.
Their last encounter had been a barbaric seduction. There would be no next time,
he vowed.
    He had lived his entire
life honorably. Always, deep in the back of his mind was the knowledge of how
dishonorable his father had been. His father, had he, preferred women, would
have taken Nicole that first day, in the grass by the brook. He was not his
father. He had never been his father. He had never ruined any woman; the women
he took to bed were already of highly questionable morals. Perhaps he had spent
his whole life atoning for his father's sins, but it had been a life he could
be proud of until now. Now he was in jeopardy, and it frightened him.
    He was late. Unless he
sent excuses, it was time to go. The Duke went.
    Nicole lounged in bed,
reading an essay by Amanda Willison, an American, on the need for the reform of
education and dress for girls. How right this woman was, Nicole thought. There
was a rap on her door, and Nicole set her book aside as her mother entered.
    The Countess had
returned home yesterday. It was no surprise to Nicole, for Jane never stayed
away from her husband for very long, and Nicole knew that if Regina were not of
age and imminently marriageable, Jane would not have adjourned to London at
all. Regina had stayed at their townhouse on Tavistock Square, chaperoned by
the widowed Lady Beth Henderson. Jane was intending to return to London the
next day, and the earl planned to join her a few days later.
    "You're not
dressed," Jane said in surprise as she saw that Nicole was still clad