Beyond Scandal

  BRENDA

  JOYCE

  Beyond

  Scandal

  This book is dedicated to Roberta Stalberg and Judy O’Brien, two new and very special friends who have enriched my life immeasurably—things jus! wouldn’t be the same without you both. I treasure your friendship. Thank you.

  Also a very special thank you to my new editor, Carrie Feron, for everything.

  Beyond Scandal

  “I must have been crazy to stay away for four years,” he muttered. “What the hell was wrong with me?”

  She was frozen as Dom kneaded her arms, pulling her even closer. Her breasts brushed against his chest. “I promised myself something,” he said, his eyes glittering, “but I cannot keep it. I would be truly mad to.”

  “No.” Anne found her voice. “What are you doing?”

  “Kissing you,” he said flatly. His arms went around her. His mouth covered hers.

  Anne’s pulse rioted. Her mind went blank. It had been so long. The desire that crested in her so suddenly, so uncontrollably, became explosive. Hot, liquid, fiery. She moaned against his lips.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Avon Books by Brenda Joyce

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Essex, England—1852

  This, surely, must be the most miserable day of her life. Anne tried to shut out the sounds of her cousin’s happy chattering as Felicity dressed for her engagement party. Although her betrothal to the Viscount Lyons would only be announced that night, the whole county and half of London already knew about the news. Anne wished she didn’t know and that she were anywhere but in her cousin’s bedroom. She had asked to go to her own chamber, a small, dark room which she hated, but her aunt had refused, insisting that they needed Anne’s help to prepare Felicity for the second most important evening of her life.

  But they had not needed Anne’s help yet, because Edna’s French maid was handling everything. Anne watched as Felicity’s waist was cinched so tightly that she lost two inches. She had never been envious of Felicity before, but now she stared at her full breasts and round hips and almost hated her for being so utterly feminine and so utterly beautiful. Anne had felt small and dark and plain before, but today she felt ugly, unloved, and terribly alone.

  Anne squeezed her eyes shut. Felicity didn’t guess that her every happy word was like a blade to Anne’s heart. Anne had loved Dominick St. Georges for more years than she could count. She had never tried to hide her feelings from anyone, but her aunt, uncle, and cousins all had been tolerantly amused or openly skeptical of Anne’s certainty that one day Dom would not only notice her, but marry her as well. But she could fall off her horse at his feet, she thought in anguish, as Felicity had done, and he would not even notice her then.

  Anne’s heart felt as if it might burst. If only Felicity would stop going on and on about how handsome and rich Dom St. Georges was. “Oh, Mania,” Felicity gushed for the hundredth time, “I am so incredibly happy and so very excited!”

  “As you should be, catching such a man,” Edna Collins said bluntly. “Thank God the duke and the marquis summoned him home and ordered him to marry. To think that, had another day gone by, you might have already been plighted to Lord Harold Reed.”

  Felicity was the youngest of Edna’s five children and her only daughter. She had come out four years ago, and since then had a dozen offers of marriage. She had rejected them all. Anne had listened to numerous family debates about whom Felicity should choose and one and all had agreed that she must wed this year. Everyone had decided that she should accept Lord Reed, an older but very wealthy baron. Then Dom had come courting, and all other prospects had immediately been forgotten.

  Anne swallowed, hard. She had not come out, not because she was only seventeen, and not because her aunt and uncle would never lavish the money necessary for a come-out, but because Anne loved Dom far too much to ever seek to many anyone else.

  She would remain a spinster for the rest of her days.

  Oh, God. And would she continue to love Dom, forever, even though he was her cousin’s husband? Anne quickly wiped away seeping tears, before Edna or Felicity might see.

  The French maid gave Anne a small, sympathetic glance.

  But Edna did not notice, involved as she was now with her daughter. “You behave yourself and be a good wife to him and you won’t lack for a thing. You put up with all of his ways, be they good or bad,” she warned.

  But Felicity, blond, beautiful, and blue-eyed, laughed almost slyly. “I know all about Dom St. Georges’s reputation. Mama. I know he has the most beautiful women in the world, and that he loves his racehorses far more than them, too. Do you think me a fool? I know how to be a lady, Mama. But surely I shouldn’t be too ladylike. I won’t have Dom running off to his mistress right after our wedding night! Nor will I have him fonder of a horse than me!”

  Edna made a rough sound that might have been approval. “But if he does keep his mistress, or prefer his horses, you just ignore it.”

  “I am up to the task of taming the reclusive and coldhearted Viscount Lyons,” Felicity laughed. Then her blue eyes gleamed. “I most certainly will not lose sight of the fact that one day I will be the marchioness of Waverly, and later the duchess of Rutherford!”

  Anne could take it no more. In her mind’s eye she saw Dom, golden-haired and bronzed, smiling warmly at Felicity, his single dimple digging deep in his right cheek. She leapt to her feet, rushing across the length of soft blue Persian rug and past the frothy white bed to the oak door.

  “Anne! Just where do you think you are going?” Edna called sharply. “Come back here right now, young lady.”

  But for the first time in her life, Anne ignored her formidable aunt. She rushed from the room, holding on to her last bit of pride.

  Anne stood alone by the wall in the ballroom of Waverly Hall, the primary residence of Dom’s father, the marquis of Waverly, Philip St. Georges. She stared across the crowd to where the St. Georges family stood with her aunt and uncle and her cousins on the threshold of the ballroom. Her gaze remained helplessly riveted on Dom St. Georges.

  Clad in a black tailcoat and black trousers with a satin seam, the sapphire studs on his snowy white shirt catching the light from the five huge chandeliers overhead, he was a magnificent sight. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, his features straight and even and almost too perfect, but it was his incredible St. Georges coloring which so arrested everyone: the golden skin, the topaz eyes, the thick, gold-streaked brown hair. Anne, however, had always been overwhelmingly drawn to his eyes. Golden, mesmerizing, and hinting at secrets and, perhaps, tragedy, his eyes called to her the way a siren did to lost sailors at sea. They were the eyes of a lonely man.

  Now he stood beside Felicity, who was ravishing and voluptuous in a pale blue evening gown. She glowed, but he merely nodded or gave a polite smile to the constant stream of guests who paused to congratulate him and his bride. But then he was not a demonstrative man.

  Felicity, however, was beaming, laughing, and clinging to him. Anne had never seen her behave so shamelessly before. Dom remained attentive, yet somehow, he also seemed bored.

  Their gazes suddenly met from opposite points across the room. Dom quickly looked away, but Anne did not.

  This was not the first time that night that their glances had connected so precipitously and inexplicably. Tonight he had finally noticed her. Yet she could not think why. Her cheeks were pale, her expression lifeless, but her eyes were pink and swollen, the tip of her nose red. And she wore a plain and childish gown, one of Felicity’s hand-me-downs. It was navy blue, but that was not dark enough for Anne—she wished it were black.

  He turned his head again and looked right past the vicar and his wife, across the entire length of the parquet floored ballroom, directly at Anne.

  Anne did not look away. She lifted her chin. Dom broke eye contact and put his arm around Felicity while speaking with the vicar.

  Anne stared. It was a strange moment, but one that meant nothing. The engagement had been announced. Dom had placed a magnificent eight-carat sapphire surrounded by rows and rows of diamonds on Felicity’s finger. The crowd had applauded, and when Dom had kissed her cheek, they had cheered as well.

  Felicity was whispering in Dom’s ear. He had to bend slightly in order for her to do so. Her very bare bosom pressed against his arm. Dom made no effort to move away; his other arm was still around her waist. They were a stunning, ideal couple. Anne turned away abruptly—and crashed into a tall man.

  “Whoa,” the duke of Rutherford
said, reaching out to restrain her. The Rutherford ruby signet ring gleamed on his right hand. “Hello, Anne. Why are you not with your family and mine, receiving the guests?”

  She stared up at the duke, a man who had always intimidated her, though he had never been anything other than kind to Anne. But he was one of the wealthiest, most noble and powerful men in the kingdom. Anne swallowed dryly. “I …” she thought frantically. “I do not feel very well.”

  “I see.” His golden eyes were kind. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Anne’s gaze had drifted back to where Dom and Felicity stood, Dom silent, Felicity chatting with some of the local gentry. “No.”

  The duke followed her gaze. “They make an attractive couple. A pity that they do not suit.”

  Anne blinked. Surely she had misheard him. “You—do not approve?”

  “I am lucky my grandson is finally marrying. And, as he has pointed out, the Collinses are a fine family, their blood is actually bluer than ours, and they are not half as impoverished as the rest of our class. How can I disapprove? Dom is stubborn. He ignored me when I tried to tell him that she could not make him happy.”

  Anne looked at him closely. How astute the duke was. “But … she is so very beautiful.”

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear. Anne, you are far too pale. Perhaps you need a bit of air?” It was a mild command.

  “Yes,” Anne gasped gratefully. “That is exactly what I need! Excuse me. Your Grace.” She turned away.

  As Anne crossed the crowded ballroom, avoiding the guests, she thought she felt Dom’s eyes upon her back. She told herself she was imagining it.

  Anne had just reached the open French doors which led to the terrace and gardens when a serving maid ran up to her and pressed something into her hand. Anne faltered as the maid fled, realizing she held a folded piece of parchment.

  Curious, she moved to the threshold of the terrace and opened it. Her heart slammed to a stop.

  The note was from Dom. He wanted her to meet him in the garden.

  Anne was shocked, disbelieving. Was this a joke?

  The night was warm and sultry. Perhaps later it would rain, but in that moment the sky was bright with a thousand glittering stars and a glowing crescent moon. Anne quickly crossed the tiled terrace, passing a white marble water fountain, and left the house behind. She paused in the garden, assaulted by the heady fragrance of lilac and wisteria and surrounded by beautiful, rainbow-hued blooms. What did Dom want? He was engaged to Felicity; why did he wish to rendezvous with her?

  Anne laid her palm flat on her breast, as if she might ease the crushing pain there. But it did no good.

  She did not know how long she stood motionless beside an ancient, full-bodied oak tree, feeling a loss so acute it reminded her of the day she learned of her father’s death. The warm summer air caressed her newly dampened cheeks. Anne felt as if she were suffocating from her heartache.

  Then she became aware of the sensation of being watched.

  Slowly Anne turned around. Dom was a shadowy figure standing on the stone steps of the terrace, the house lit up brilliantly behind him. “D-Dom?”

  He stared at her, unmoving.

  Anne’s heart went wild; disbelief laced her tone. This was not a joke. “D-Dom?”

  Something dropped from his hand—a crushed white fragment, a handkerchief, perhaps—as he strode toward her.

  Anne could not move. He paused in front of her, his expression strained, intense—unsmiling. Anne’s body seemed to sway slightly toward him.

  His gaze was so penetrating that Anne thought it pierced to her very soul. “Anne.”

  He had never addressed her by her name before. Anne failed to reply. She was trembling, wondering what he wanted with her.

  “What is wrong, Anne?” he asked.

  “I … am hiding.”

  His jaw flexed. “This is a party.” His gaze remained fixed on her face. “Parties are supposed to be amusing.”

  She bit her lip. “This one isn’t.”

  His gaze was on her mouth now. “No, I guess it isn’t—not for you.”

  Anne froze. Did he know? Had he sensed her thoughts? Could he know that she loved him? That she would die loving him? Anne quickly decided that she was imagining it. “I … I wish to offer con-congratulations,” she said huskily.

  He stared into her eyes again. She could see the pulse beating in his temple. “Do you?”

  “Y-yes.”

  He suddenly jammed both of his hands into his pockets. The movement caused him to shift, and moonlight suddenly played on his sapphire studs. The row of precious gems glinted on his shirtfront. “You are too noble.”

  Anne inhaled. He did know. “No. I … am not … not at all.” She wished she could stop stuttering. But she was so nervous—and the fact that he was staring at her mouth again did not help at all.

  “How old are you, Anne?” he asked abruptly.

  She licked her lips. “Eighteen,” she croaked, lying.

  “You look younger. Far younger.” He turned his head away, so that she saw only his perfect profile in the shadows.

  Anne felt the air leave her chest in a rush. “I’m seventeen,” she confessed in a whisper.

  His head whipped around, his amber regard piercing. “You are only a child.”

  “N-no!” Anne stammered. “I am n-not! I am al-almost eighteen, truly!”

  “Tonight,” he said harshly, “you are seventeen, not eighteen—a child.” Suddenly, inexplicably, his expression softened. “This will pass, Anne. I promise you that.”

  Anne stared into his hypnotic eyes. “No. This will never pass.”

  He stiffened. His gaze slammed to her mouth, then quickly lifted. “Let me take you back inside, now. Before our disappearance together is commented upon.”

  “Do you love her?” Anne heard herself ask. And then she wanted to kick herself, hard, but she also wanted, desperately, to know.

  “No.” His hand lifted, was suspended in the air. Then ever so gently, he cupped her cheek.

  Anne froze.

  He had never touched her before. His touching her cheek was the most exquisite sensation Anne had ever felt. Her eyes drifted closed. She could not stop herself, and her face turned slightly, more fully, into the curve of his warm, callused hand.

  “No,” Dom said hoarsely, again. “I do not love her.” His hand suddenly fisted. Anne’s eyes flew open, collided with his. Her breath caught; his eyes glittered in a manner she had never seen before. His knuckles brushed over her jaw. “Love is not, has never been, the issue.”

  Then his knuckles brushed over her moist, parted lips.

  Anne whispered his name.

  “Have you ever been kissed, Anne?” he asked roughly. His fist, against her mouth, shook.

  Anne shook her head wordlessly.

  He stared, his fist pressing against the curve where her neck met her shoulder. And suddenly his hand opened, wrapping around the back of her neck. “Then I have the great honor,” he whispered, bending toward her, “of being the first.”

  Anne waited, unable to smile, quivering with expectation.

  He brushed his mouth over hers, barely touching her lips. Anne was disappointed. And then his mouth whispered over hers again, as quickly, as briefly. Anne’s hands found his shoulders. He stiffened, his cheek against hers.

  And then his mouth opened wide, took hers. Anne cried out.

  He crushed her powerfully in his arms. His mouth held hers open, pressing, pulling, sucking on her lips. Anne stopped thinking. She pressed herself into him, against him, gripping him back as tightly as she could, taking every bit of his kiss, every way he offered it. Suddenly his tongue touched hers. As suddenly, it withdrew.

  Anne gasped.

  He ripped his mouth from hers, panting. “I must take you back,” he cried harshly. He tried to push her away.

  “No!” Anne raised herself up on tiptoe and caught his mouth wildly with hers.

  He froze. But only for a second. As she kissed him, awkwardly, frantically, his arm locked around her waist in an unbreakable grip. And then his mouth was open, hot, moist, devouring hers … and they tumbled to the grass.

  A few moments later, Anne’s cries filled the night.

  Chapter 1