A Common Scandal Read online

  Placing her hands on Sturridge’s arms, she gave him a hard shove. “My eyes are up here, Lord Sturridge.”

  He looked up at her—finally at her face—and blinked in confusion. “Pardon me?”

  She let out a disgusted sigh. “I need to use the necessary.”

  There, she’d mentioned a bodily function in polite company. That should put him off well and good. Sturridge looked appropriately horrified at her pronouncement.

  “Erm, well...”

  “Have a pleasant evening,” she said, gracing him with a wide, false smile. Turning on her heel, suppressing the strong urge to plant it in his instep, she strode away at a most unladylike pace across the ballroom.

  A few catty whispers followed in her wake, making it clear Kitty Ponsoy had wasted no time spreading tales of her to any who’d listen. Except they weren’t tales, were they? She had threatened to deck Kitty. That had been badly done, even though Kitty had all of it coming and worse. But she did wish she wasn’t so quick to fly off the handle. As much as all these silly rules of conduct chafed, she only made things harder for herself when she behaved like an East End street brawler. When Victoria and Grace were around, they talked her down before her temper got the better of her, but she was on her own this Season, and she clearly didn’t have a single friend among this crowd.

  The last time she’d seen her father, he’d been by the fireplace, to her left. She went right, toward the terrace. He was going to be terribly unhappy when he heard how she’d behaved tonight. A large, potted palm stood between her and the glass doors leading to the terrace. The terrace seemed as good a place to hide as any. Shoving aside a frond, she found herself slamming right into a broad chest in a crisply starched shirtfront.

  With a muttered oath, she made to step back, but it seemed this was her night for endless mortification. She’d just run straight into a proper gentleman and now she was hopelessly stuck to him.

  * * *

  For the greater part of Nathaniel Smythe’s life, the very idea of spending an evening in a tail suit, prowling about a London ballroom, would have sounded as impossible as spending the night sleeping at the bottom of the sea.

  At this point, it was possible, if still somewhat unbelievable. The fortune he’d amassed had allowed him a tentative entry into these hallowed halls, and the manners he’d learned had greased his way. Society in many European port cities had quite enthusiastically embraced him. Only London remained to be conquered, and now here he was.

  It was the last way he’d want to spend an evening, if he’d had his choice. First, even with his money, the nobility looked down its collective nose at any man who’d dared actually earn his fortune as he had. Second, these things were invariably, insufferably dull.

  Then again, perhaps he’d found these evenings boring because a luscious young lady had never slammed into his chest before. He’d just finished bribing a footman to point out the person he’d come to the ball to meet, and had set out to engineer an introduction, when it happened. There was a collision, a perfect, petite body careening into his, his arms suddenly filled with fragrant skin and satin-covered curves, his ears filled with her startled, breathy gasp.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered.

  Her unexpected curse forced a laugh from him, which seemed to remind her that another person had heard her. She let out a gusty sigh.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not usually this ghastly. No, I take that back. I’m often this ghastly. Blast! Why won’t this come free?”

  With her head lowered, he couldn’t see much more than glossy black curls and a great deal of pale skin. She gave a growl he’d never heard in a ballroom and began to wrestle with her gown. Her struggles drew his gaze down to the edge of her bodice, where her well-endowed bosom swelled in the most alluring manner. For a moment, all he could do was stare. And imagine. Only the sound of ripping lace shook him out of the stupor.

  “I seem to be stuck,” she murmured frantically, tugging on her bodice. She still hadn’t looked up, as her attention was focused on freeing herself. All she had succeeded in doing was tangling herself further. She tugged again and a bit more lace gave way.

  He reached for her shoulders to stop her struggling. “Be still. You’ll tear your dress. Allow me.”

  In moments, he’d located the pin holding her nosegay in place and disconnected her chest from his. He was a bit disappointed when she took a step back from him.

  “For you.” With a flourish, he presented her flowers to her, only a little bruised.

  She reached for them, then looked up into his face.

  Amelia.

  He could live to be one hundred and never forget those eyes, so dark brown they looked black, shining like polished jet. Even the tiny dark freckle under the corner of her left eye, on the arc of her cheekbone, was seared on his memory. Her face was thinner, having lost its girlish fullness, and her lips, which had once just been pouty, were now almost obscene in their lush, pink beauty. When he’d last seen her, she’d been a skinny little thing, barely reaching his shoulder. Now she was...not skinny. She had filled out, as little girls did when they became women, but she had done so in a way that scrambled his wits. She was stunning. And she was scowling at him.

  “I’m sorry, have we—”

  “Amelia Wheeler,” he said, when he found his voice again. “I should have known.”

  She gasped and her large eyes grew even wider. “Natty!”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “No one’s called me that in ten years.”

  Amelia’s shock wore off and her expression turned to delight. “Oh, Natty!”

  Just as he was marveling at the wonderful twist of fate that had brought them together after so many years, suddenly his arms were full of her again as she wrapped him in a fierce hug. He’d grown at least a foot since he’d last seen her, but she seemed scarcely taller than she’d been at ten. Instead she’d grown everywhere else. Ample breasts pressed to his chest as his hands found her curvy little waist. Amelia was magnificent. Amelia was also shamelessly embracing him in the middle of a crowded ballroom. He remembered himself at precisely the same moment Amelia’s father thought to seek her out.

  Nate could hardly forget Josiah Wheeler. When Nate had been a scrawny fifteen-year-old, Wheeler embodied everything he hoped to achieve one day. He’d come from humble origins, too, but through a combination of hard work, ingenuity and luck, he’d made a fortune for himself. Although ten years had passed, it still shocked Nate to find himself taller than the man who’d loomed so large in his childhood. He was probably now richer than him, too. Old habits died hard, though. He found himself removing his hands from Amelia and straightening up, as if awaiting inspection.

  And Josiah Wheeler inspected him thoroughly, in a lightning appraisal, full of silent judgment and without a flicker of recognition. Amelia broke the silence.

  “Papa, look! It’s Natty!” She reached out to grasp her father’s arm while she kept her other hand on Nate’s shoulder.

  “Amelia, unhand the gentleman.” Wheeler hissed through clenched teeth, “And explain yourself at once, young lady.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes, and in an instant, the beautiful debutante disappeared and Nate saw again the incorrigible tomboy she’d been as a child. “Natty Smythe, from Portsmouth. Don’t you remember? We grew up together!”

  Wheeler looked him up and down, squinting. “Smythe. The sailor’s son, right?”

  Nate gave a nod of his head, suppressing a wince. It had been years since he’d been judged by his father’s failings. It still smarted. “Indeed, my father sailed.”

  Wheeler took in his expensive evening suit, every bit as fine as his own. “What brings you to London, Smythe?”

  “Business.” He wasn’t going to honor Nate with a “Mr.” Not yet.

  “Not a sailor like your father?” Wheeler asked
. Nate could sense the subtle judgment in the question. He was clearly surprised Nate had clawed his way out of that seaside hovel in Portsmouth at all, never mind shown up dressed in the first fashion in an exclusive London ballroom.

  “I did sail for a bit, but I’m in the management side of things now.”

  “Management?”

  “Ownership. Smythe Shipping.”

  Wheeler’s eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Indeed? Done quite well for yourself, have you?”

  “Not bad. Perhaps not as well as yourself, sir.” Not true, but there was no harm in flattering Wheeler a little.

  Wheeler was a self-made man, too. He’d been far more prosperous than Nate’s struggling family in Portsmouth, but he’d been essentially a merchant, running a little foundry and armament, until his chemist had stumbled upon a more efficient formulation for gunpowder and Wheeler had the good sense to patent it. He’d grown his modest bit of wealth into a handsome fortune with his innate talent for investing. In a mere five years, they’d moved from a small house in Portsmouth to a luxurious town house in London.

  And that was the last Nate had heard of them.

  Amelia had been his constant companion for most of his childhood, there at his side for every scrape and adventure. Then he’d spent all those months at sea, bouncing from port to port, fighting to survive. When he’d finally set foot in Portsmouth again, Amelia was long gone. So was the rest of his childhood.

  Amelia had been too wealthy for the likes of him, and he’d known it, known he’d lose her one day. But now he’d raised himself to the same social stratum by hard work and sheer willpower. They stood on level ground at last. She’d blossomed into a gorgeous creature, although clearly as wild as ever. With her father’s fortune behind her, she was quite a catch.

  It was too bad that now, when they finally met as equals, he couldn’t have anything more to do with her.

  “Papa,” Amelia interjected. “Who cares about business? Isn’t it remarkable I’ve found Natty after all this time? We have such a lot to talk about!”

  “I think you’ve done more than enough talking this evening,” Wheeler growled, reaching for Amelia’s arm and yanking her to his side. “First I hear whispers you’ve threatened violence against Katherine Ponsoy and now I’ve found you flinging yourself against a strange man.”

  Ah, despite the demure appearance, Amelia was the same wild child underneath it all. Nate was perversely glad to hear it. The world had enough proper misses. There weren’t nearly enough fireballs like Amelia.

  “He’s not a strange man, Papa. He’s Natty.”

  “You are not a child anymore, Amelia, and neither is Mr. Smythe.”

  Amelia turned back to him with an eager expression, and it killed him to do what needed to be done. Because her father was right. They could not greet each other the way they had as children. He wanted to hide away in some corner and talk to her all night, to hear what her past ten years had been like and to tell her of his own. But it wasn’t possible in this world, not without encouraging speculation. There was a woman in Nate’s future, but it was not—and could not be—Amelia Wheeler. Once again, he had to leave her behind.

  She was still looking at him hopefully, openly, every emotion she had written in her eyes. In return, he smiled politely and sketched a shallow bow.

  “It’s been lovely to see you again after so much time, Miss Wheeler, and looking very well. But there’s someone here I must speak with and I’m sure I’ve been unfairly monopolizing your time. Many gentlemen are no doubt wishing me gone, so I’ll take my leave of you.”

  The sting showed in her eyes. It was ridiculous to feel bad about it, to ache over the slight he’d inflicted.

  “Of course,” she said frostily. “Please don’t let me keep you from your evening.”

  That hurt, no doubt as she’d intended, but they weren’t children anymore and in this new adult world, their paths couldn’t cross. He wished he was free to wink at her and reach out to tug the curl brushing her neck. Instead, he kept his face impassive as he nodded at Mr. Wheeler, then turned away.

  Guilt and regret clawed at his chest as he walked away from her. But he hadn’t come to this bloody ball to revisit his childhood. He’d come with a mission that remained unaccomplished, and he hadn’t gotten where he was today without accomplishing everything he set out to do.

  For all he looked like one of these people, he knew as well as they did that a gulf as wide as the Atlantic separated him from the men around him. Born to powerful families and holding ancient titles, these men had access to a certain kind of power he’d never be able to buy, not with all the money in the world. It was the power of family connections, of years spent together at Oxford and Cambridge. They were tied together in a hundred ways, through a network of connections vast and complex. And those connections meant they looked out for their own. Nate was not, and never would be, one of their own.

  There was only one way someone of his low birth could ever gain access to this tightly closed circle. He was going to wed one of their daughters, specifically Lady Julia Harrow. He hadn’t met her yet, but no matter. It was her father, the Earl of Hyde, and Hyde’s company, Royal Eastern Enterprises, he was truly after. Nate’s fleet of smaller vessels had done remarkably well. Only one shipping company commanded more of the market—Royal Eastern. If they entered into a partnership, they’d be unassailable.

  A nobleman as proud as Hyde was rumored to be would never sully his hands with work or a partnership with a commoner. Nate had done his research and knew Hyde had inherited the company from a distant cousin, but it was still a bit of a puzzle how the company had flourished under his ownership. It hinted at a savvy business mind—likely a talented manager—running things. And if Nate could succeed in marrying the daughter, that manager could be him.

  Well-bred Society misses weren’t to his taste. The women in his past were as interesting and varied as the countries he’d visited. Looking around the ballroom, he was having a hard time telling all these English girls apart. They differed only slightly in regards to hair color, eye color and the shades of their dresses, and even those were no more than an array of white and pastel innocence. They had been carefully groomed to speak in the same gentle, modulated speech, to use the same graceful gestures, to discuss the same bland, safe topics. He wasn’t even slightly stirred by a single one of them.

  Well, that wasn’t true. He’d been stirred up like a typhoon on the open ocean moments ago, but Amelia was decidedly off-limits to him, no matter how alluring. She might be the only girl in the room who lit so much as a flicker of desire in him, but he’d have to forget it. What he wanted didn’t matter here. There was only what he needed, and what he needed was Julia Harrow.

  Chapter Two

  Sleep eluded Amelia all night. Long after she’d arrived home, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, but only seeing Natty, those long-lost sea green eyes, the chilly, distant expression on his handsome face. The encounter had started so joyous, and ended so bitterly, she was still reeling from it, still smarting from his careless dismissal of her and all they’d shared.

  When morning finally came, she lingered in bed, ignoring her lady’s maid coming in and puttering about, ripping open the drapes and rattling the jars on her dressing table. Fantine was from France and considered herself too sophisticated to wait on a mere daughter of an arms manufacturer, no matter the fat salary her father had used to bribe her. She and Amelia nursed a deep mutual dislike. Eventually Fantine gave up trying to raise her and stomped from the room, muttering obscenities in French. She had long ago assumed Amelia was too uncouth to speak French and Amelia had chosen not to disabuse her of that notion.

  She pulled back the bed drapes and stared sullenly at the room, awash with late morning sun. The day stretched out before her as one tedious task after another, no different than any of the days that h
ad come before or any that would come after. Nothing but boring visits and calling cards and cups of tea and a thousand conversations about the weather and the opera and the current shapes of sleeves. It was enough to drive her mad.

  Sliding out of bed, she crossed the room to her dressing table. In the corner, looking out of place surrounded by silk ribbons and glass bottles, dwarfed by her large, lovely rosewood jewelry box, was a little metal box, dented and tarnished. It was the last artifact of her childhood in Portsmouth. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. Inside, she found the very last remnant—Natty’s green sea glass, its surface worn smooth and satiny, first from his fingers, then from hers.

  He’d promised to come back, and he hadn’t. A month had stretched into two as she’d walked the length of the docks every day, peering into every sailor’s face as they disembarked, that wretched piece of glass clutched in her fingers.

  She hadn’t kept her promise to look after his family, either, because in the third month of his absence, she’d come home to find the servants in a flurry, filling wooden crates with their belongings. All her protests, all her tears, had been in vain. They were leaving Portsmouth forever. Tearfully, she’d said goodbye to his mother and siblings and left her address in London. Surely he’d come to visit once he returned. He never came.

  Seeing him last night, it was no wonder. When he’d sailed away, he’d sailed into his future and left his past completely behind, including her. He’d promised to come home her equal, and he had, but he’d also come home a stranger. It was silly, really, to mourn the loss. They’d just been children, and as he’d told her once, long ago, everyone grew up.

  And oh, how Natty had grown up. How could a face be at once so familiar to her and still so astonishingly new? The boy she knew was there, but transformed into a man. A man who had the power to make her heart race and her body come alive. Lord, what a reaction she’d had to him, when they’d stood close together, her nosegay still tangled in his waistcoat button. His tall, solid body had made her fingers clumsy. And his face...