Regency Scandal: Some Like It Wicked / Some Like to Shock

As promised, Rupert’s ducal carriage had duly arrived at her home at seven-thirty that evening, that gentleman looking suitably and—Pandora admitted inwardly—breathtakingly handsome in his black evening clothes and white linen, a cloak draped about those broad and muscled shoulders, his rich gold curls revealed as being fashionably dishevelled once he had removed his tall black hat.

Pandora had coolly accepted his polite compliments on her own appearance: a deep-blue and feathered confection adorned her own fair curls, her silk gown of matching blue, its short-sleeved style leaving her shoulders bare, the high waist emphasising the full swell of her breasts, with pale-blue lace gloves covering her hands and arms to just above her elbows.

She had maintained that cool detachment as the two of them travelled to the opera, only thawing slightly under the Countess of Heyborough’s genuinely warm greeting and her husband’s twinkling blue eyes as he bent solicitously over her gloved fingers. A melting that had faded the moment Rupert took a proprietary hold of Pandora’s elbow in order to escort her into the theatre. He had nodded and bowed imperiously in acknowledgement of the greetings he had received—several of them markedly startled once they realised the identity of the woman at the Duke’s side. But, as he had promised, not a single one of those ladies or gentlemen had dared to offer her the cut direct in his presence.

Even so, Pandora’s legs had been trembling so much by the time they reached the Heyboroughs’ private box that she had been relieved to sink down on to the seat Rupert pulled out for her, before stepping back to fold his own lean length on to the seat directly behind her. A proximity he had just taken advantage of, the warm brush of his breath having felt almost like a caress against the bareness of Pandora’s skin as he spoke so closely to her ear.

‘Unless it has escaped your notice, your Grace, the heroine has just died and her lover is heartbroken,’ she whispered discreetly, aware as she was that there had been much gossiping behind fans and sidelong glances made in their direction during the course of the evening, as many people watched the two of them rather than the performance taking place upon the stage.

‘Then more fool him,’ Rupert drawled uninterestedly. ‘Personally I would consider myself well rid of such a weak and mewling creature! Why is it that you never wear jewellery, Pandora?’

Those smooth and bare shoulders appeared to stiffen momentarily at this sudden change of subject before she brought her reaction under control and answered Rupert with that same infuriating coolness with which she had been treating him all evening. ‘I have, on occasion, been known to wear my mother’s pearls.’

‘But not yesterday evening or tonight?’

Her mouth firmed. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Could this conversation not wait until the opera has come to an end, your Grace?’ She shot a meaningful glance in the direction of his aunt and uncle sitting in the box with them, the Earl and Countess giving every appearance of listening intently to the caterwauling rising up from the stage below.

Rupert affected a yawn. ‘I might have expired from boredom before that happens.’

Pandora bit her top lip in order to hold back the chuckle she almost gave in response to his irreverent comment. In truth, this truly was one of the most depressingly morbid operas she had ever attended—and she had attended many of them during the years of her marriage to Barnaby. ‘I believe your suffering is almost at an end,’ she assured him.

‘Thank God for that,’ he muttered with obvious relief. ‘I cannot believe that people actually attend such things with any idea of actually being entertained.’

‘Perhaps their idea of entertainment is not as exacting as your own?’

‘I believe I might find more to entertain me at a wake!’

This time Pandora could not hold back her smile of amusement. ‘Then it is to be hoped you do not attend many of them.’

‘More than I have the opera, thank God!’

Pandora frowned slightly. ‘Why did you bother coming here at all this evening if you hate the opera so?’

There was silence behind her for several long seconds before Rupert answered quietly, ‘Perhaps to see and be seen?’

She stiffened. ‘Might one ask whom you wished to see, and be seen by, your Grace?’

‘One might ask it, yes,’ he said blandly.

Pandora allowed her gaze to drift away from the stage, where it was to be hoped the hero was in the latter stages of his lament, in order to surreptitiously observe the other members of the ton who had attended the opera, believing—no, expecting—that she would espy the Dowager Duchess of Stratton amongst their number.

Pandora was not a particular friend of Patricia Stirling’s, the other woman being several years older and her friends much racier than any of Pandora’s acquaintances, but she had met the other woman on several occasions in the past, and so knew her appearance to be exactly as Dante Carfax had yesterday evening described Rupert’s preferred taste in women: tall and statuesque, with dark hair, eyes of pale blue and set in a classically beautiful face.

But despite a thorough, albeit discreet, search, Pandora failed to see her amongst the other theatregoers …

‘Did you find what—or should I say, whom—you were looking for earlier?’ Rupert raised mocking brows as he personally attended to Pandora’s entrance into his carriage outside the theatre a short time later. His aunt and uncle had already departed, the Countess anxious to return home to check on the welfare of the youngest of her four children, who had been running a temperature earlier in the day; he made a mental note to send his little cousin Althea some tempting bonbons in the morning.

Pandora’s gaze remained cool as Rupert removed his hat before entering the coach and making himself comfortable on the seat opposite. ‘I wasn’t aware I was looking for anyone in particular, your Grace.’

His mouth thinned at her continued formality even though there was no one else present to witness it. ‘No?’

‘No, your Grace—’

‘I believe I have several times expressed my displeasure about being addressed in that priggish manner by you!’ An evening of attending the opera, even in the company of a woman as beautiful as Pandora Maybury and his favourite aunt and uncle, had done nothing to soothe the inner feelings of oppressive disquiet he had suffered since the events of yesterday evening.

If anything, he now felt even more restless …

Restless?

Or aroused …?

There was no denying the arousal he had experienced earlier this evening, when he had called to collect Pandora and looked upon her eyes of velvety-drowning violet in the pale beauty of her face, the deep blue of her gown lending a pearly luminescence to the bareness of her shoulders and the full swell of her breasts visible above its low neckline. The interminable hours of sitting immediately behind her in the theatre box, allowing him to admire those pearly shoulders and the vulnerability of her slender, unadorned neck, as well as having his senses invaded by the lightness of her perfume, had only increased that physical awareness.

A physical awareness which now caused Rupert to shift slightly upon his upholstered seat, in the hopes of relieving some of the discomfort he was experiencing from the full and firm swell of his arousal.

Pandora seemed completely unaware of Rupert’s physical discomfort as she continued to speak levelly. ‘And is the voicing of your so-called displeasure usually reason enough for others to cease doing whatever it is they are doing to annoy you?’

‘Invariably,’ he clipped with satisfaction.

She raised haughty brows. ‘Despite all appearances to the contrary, we have never so much as been formally introduced, your Grace.’

‘Rupert Algernon Beaumont Stirling, the Duke of Stratton, Marquis of Devlin, Earl of Charwood, etc., etc.,’ he drawled with all formality. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’

‘I very much doubt that.’

He raised his brows at her obvious scorn. ‘I am sure I could produce several ladies who might vouch for my having … served them very well, in the past.’

‘Besides which,’ there was a warm blush in Pandora’s cheeks as she continued firmly, ‘I don’t appreciate being used as a—a means of muddying the waters in regard to another … even less socially acceptable friendship in your life!’ The fullness of her top lip curled upwards in her displeasure.

So the little cat had claws, Rupert noted appreciatively as he looked across at her, his eyes gleaming silver slits under his lids. Claws, which he could all too easily envisage scratching at and digging into his muscled back as he pounded himself remorselessly into—

What the devil!

His interest in Pandora was as a means to an end—Patricia Stirling’s end, he hoped—and nothing to do with how much Rupert would or would not enjoy making love to her. Admittedly it would be an added bonus to his plans if, as Dante had advised, he could entice the beautiful Pandora into his bed, but it was not, by any means, a necessity.

‘You made a similar remark to me this morning.’ He eyed her with amusement. ‘If you are referring to my father’s widow, then I wish you would do so directly and cease these less-than-subtle hints.’

Those violet-coloured eyes glared her irritation. ‘Why should I bother to explain myself when you so obviously know precisely to whom I am referring?’

How could Rupert not know, when all of London seemed to be aware that he and his stepmother had been sharing the same residence since the death of his father nine months ago! If not the reason for it …

Only Rupert’s lawyer, Patricia Stirling herself, and Rupert’s two closest friends, Dante and Benedict, knew the reason for his having to suffer the Dowager Duchess’s continued presence in the ducal homes.

And his deceased father, of course, the besotted Charles Stirling, the seventh Duke of Stratton, and the gentleman wholly responsible for Rupert’s present dilemma.