Scandal's Mistress Read online

  “I beg your pardon, madam. Had I known you were not decent, I would have…” He trailed off, his cerulean gaze returning to her chest as though he could see her skin through the fabric.

  “You would have…?” She tapped her toe, awaited his response, tried to ignore the nervous flutter of her stomach. She should have pushed him out the door and called for Hugo.

  “Forgive me. I lost my line of thought.” He shook his head and switched his penetrating gaze back to her face. “I have something for you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Be careful with this trespasser.

  At Covent Garden Carmalina received gifts from her admirers every night, but rarely did the flowers and trinkets reach her dressing room, and were never delivered in person. “Who are you?”

  “Forgive me,” he said again before bending into a deep bow, “I have been rude.”

  Carmalina held back a snort as he continued. Rude was an understatement.

  “Justin Trentham, at your service.”

  “Ah, Mr. Trentham.” She knew who he was. What he was. “We do not allow patrons of the theatre to the back of the stage after a performance. How did you get past Hugo?”

  “I showed him the gift I have for a beautiful woman who seduced me with her song. He took pity on a poor man.”

  Carmalina’s cheeks warmed. Luckily her wit was impervious to flattery, more so than her guard was to shiny things. “Then you’d better stop wasting time with me, sir, or you might miss her.”

  “This beauty could never be missed.” He stepped forward. She stepped back.

  “This is entirely inappropriate.” The seriousness of the statement was lost when her voice chose that moment to falter and become husky.

  “Do you always behave appropriately, bella?” His voice, as hoarse as hers had been, sent an unexpected shiver through her.

  “Always.” With a nod, she turned from his bewitching gaze. She needed to distance herself from the handsome Mr. Trentham, who assumed one Italian endearment would sway her. Could sway her.

  “Please, will you not accept my gift?” he pleaded.

  Carmalina faced him again. It was a mistake. He was so close his cologne tickled her nose and the flecks of gold in his bright blue eyes seemed to twinkle. Her gaze dropped to the small box he held.

  “Please?” Another step forward. This time she did not retreat.

  With fingers that trembled, she took the box. Her hand inadvertently brushed his. The brief contact sent fire shooting along her nerves; butterflies took flight in her stomach and her breath hitched. She lifted the lid, blinded by the dazzling beauty of teardrop-shaped rubies surrounded by diamonds, resting against black silk. The stones were worth a king’s ransom.

  After several moments imagining what it must be like to have so much money one could buy jewels so brilliant for a stranger, she closed the lid with a snap and thrust it back into his hands as though he’d gifted her with the plague. “I cannot accept such an extravagant gift, my lord.”

  “Will you call me Justin?”

  “I will not.”

  “Trentham?”

  “This is not appropriate. My lord, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I am no lord. If you have to call me something, the correct salutation is sir or mister.”

  The bitter way he proclaimed his lack of title or station said so much but she didn’t care what he wanted to be called. English titles confused her until every man in a tailored suit became a lord to her.

  But lord, sir or mister, it didn’t matter. His proximity and the jewels in his hand proclaimed he wasn’t there to simply pass the time of day. “You need to leave now. I cannot accept your gift.”

  “Nonsense, I want you to have them. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Then you had better stop your ears. My answer is no.”

  “Why not?” The two words held no anger; she could tell in the set of his shoulders, the way he appeared as though he still tried not to laugh. Was his smile always so boyish and full of mischief?

  “What would you want in return for this gift?” If one could call a bribe a gift.

  “Does there need to be an ulterior motive?”

  “Always.” Nothing came free. The price she’d paid to reach this stage in her life, the payment God had taken in return for her happiness, had shown her beyond a doubt that nothing came without a price.

  “Why are you so cynical?”

  “Look around you, my lord. We are not at a soiree. We are at my place of business. The establishment in which I work. You are here because you want something, not because you wish to make my acquaintance.”

  “Would you accept my gift if I did want something in return?”

  Shock held Carmalina immobile. Justin Trentham was a rake of the first order. To be seen on his arm would be the end of her plans. If she wanted a respectable roof over her head and food in her mouth, she would do well to deter him at all costs.

  Most of her energy to date had been spent trying to stay clear of the degradations the gutter had to offer. She doubted Justin Trentham’s presence would be any more void of them than the squalid streets of London.

  “I am not one of your doxies to be propositioned or bought.”

  Trentham had the good grace to appear guilty before he spoke his next words. “I apologize if I have offended you. I merely sought to understand why my being here is so repulsive to your sensibilities.”

  Now he tried to transfer his guilt? She narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “It has been many a year since a charming smile and smooth words could lead me astray. Will you not state your business so I can take my leave?”

  “I want you to have dinner with me, perhaps give a private performance?”

  “My lord, you don’t want to have dinner with me.” Carmalina shook her head, turned away and gathered her belongings into a small bag. If he wouldn’t leave, she would. There were other places she could change her clothes. Other places she could contemplate the ridiculousness her life had become, where her blind naivety had landed her.

  “Believe me when I say there is nothing I would like more.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Do you have a husband waiting for you, bella?”

  Carmalina shook her head. “I am widowed.” She should have lied.

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “I have a contract with the theatre. No private performances.”

  “Dinner then? You do eat, do you not?”

  What harm would dinner do? They could dine in private; no one else need know. The rubies he held in his hand would purchase her passage back to Italy. Away from men like Trentham, away from London and away from uncertainty. Could she sell herself for an evening of good food and conversation with the son of an earl? It would be like selling her soul to the devil for a mere trinket. But had she not already done that when she was promised fame and fortune? A theatre to command and an audience to love and worship her?

  “The problem, sir, is that I believe you have more than dinner on your mind.” She spoke with her back to him so he wouldn’t know how close she was to giving in to his presence.

  “Would that be so bad?” He swiveled her around so they stood chest to chest, thigh to thigh, almost touching but not quite.

  His messy brown hair ruffled over his brow to fall against his lapels, blue eyes wide with what Carmalina could only assume was feigned innocence. His presumptuous hands burned where they rested on her shoulders until her half-formed protests fell away. How long had it been since another living, breathing person with desire in his eyes had touched her? How long since she had let anyone?

  What was wrong with her? His conjecture should have warranted outrage and anger, not compliance and breathlessness. She behaved like a miss fresh out of the schoolroom while he, presumably, acted as he always did. Carmalina travelled nowhere near the same social circles as Trentham but she’d heard of his exploits in his pursuit to be free of an overbearing sire and uncaring family. She’d assumed t
he stories were just that.

  Obviously he was as notorious as rumored but that didn’t change the fact he offered her some of the financial security she craved. Yet at what cost? And what if he lied? Either way, she would be no closer to a quiet existence.

  With the offers she’d received to date, she could have lived in a nice little house in a nice neighborhood wanting for nothing. It wasn’t the offers, though, that made her reject one man after another. It was the men themselves who turned her stomach. Most were married, betrothed or old enough to be her father. Just because Trentham appeared more honorable, more handsome, more sincere than the others did not mean she would fall for his pretense. He wanted what the others had wanted and she would be a fool to believe any differently.

  “I believe you draw the wrong conclusions about my character, sir.” Carmalina wrenched herself free of his grasp, picked up her bag and edged along the wall toward the exit in much the same way prey would to escape the notice of a predator.

  “Madam, I draw no conclusions about anything or anyone. Anticipation of a surprise entices me to harbor no expectations.”

  Carmalina didn’t miss the fact that he’d stepped in front of the door while he spoke his flowery words.

  “I can’t!” She may as well have talked to the wall at her back for all he listened.

  “Please? Just dinner. I promise.” Another step toward her, then another.

  She had to stop him before he got close enough to touch her again. The idea of his hands on her body, firing her senses, left her reeling. Where had this wanton woman come from? She should have slapped his face and screamed the moment Justin Trentham opened his charmer’s mouth.

  But then she nodded, unsure what words would emerge if she spoke. She wanted to shake her head until it hurt but then her traitorous neck moved in the wrong direction. Proof her mind and body weren’t at all synchronized under his sensual spell.

  “I’ll wait for you tomorrow night, after the show.” He stepped forward and claimed her hand, bowed low and kissed her knuckle. He pressed the little black box into fingers that shook, then whirled and walked out of her dressing room.

  Carmalina sagged against the wall as though he’d kissed her mouth and not her hand, with only one thought in her mind that wasn’t wicked.

  What have I done?

  Chapter Two

  The night was bleak, black and silent and so was Justin as he stalked back to the window for the twentieth time to look out upon an empty, pitch-black night. The noise as he ground his teeth added to the ominous tension building in his study.

  He’d sent his carriage to collect Mrs. Belluccini after her performance hours ago. Even if he factored in time to dress and the inevitable self-examination of her actions, she should have been there. So where the hell was she? He paced away from the window, slumped in the leather chair behind his desk and slammed his fist down on the table with a loud thump. A hint of welcomed pain compounded his irrational fury.

  It was well after eleven, and as his stomach growled loudly, he realized maybe he’d been too quick to leave her dressing room last night. He should have stayed and made sure she was properly convinced. For the first time in a long time, he hadn’t acted the brash, reckless fool most had come to believe he was. For her, he had to be different. She had to see something in him she didn’t in other men; otherwise he was doomed to failure before he’d even begun.

  Damn the vixen. Justin started to think he’d been deliberately forgotten. There he awaited her like an overeager youth and she probably lay in her bed, already fast asleep. He imagined her night-black hair spread over an embroidered silk pillow, delicate hands clasped beneath one flawless cheek, legs pulled up to her chest, a small smile playing on her lips knowing she’d pulled the wool over the eyes of Justin Trentham.

  He wouldn’t have it!

  No woman would make a mockery of him. He had enough people in his life who imagined he wasn’t worth another thought. He wouldn’t add another name to that already long list.

  The earl did a fine job to make sure he would never amount to anything. Each time he’d tried to leave his father’s house, he’d been brought back kicking and sometimes screaming. Justin remembered the time he’d wanted to join the army. Without the funds to purchase a commission and without his father’s permission, he’d run off, swapped his clothes with a man on the street and tried to enlist as regular infantry. The officer had taken one look at him and shook his head. His father had circulated his description and healthy bribes—more than his commission would have cost ten times over—and killed any last hope he’d had to make the old man proud. He’d also killed Justin’s last hope that his father would ever change his opinion of his youngest son. The ton might see him as a brat, and frankly he didn’t care what they thought. As long as it reflected badly on his father.

  It was in one of these reflective moods when Justin’s emotions had been in turmoil that he’d come up with his latest scheme. An actress wasn’t enough. Carmalina Belluccini, however, with her heritage and her look of innocence would. He was sure of it. With her at his side, his father would finally be furious enough to cut him off and he would be free to live beyond the stifling constraints of society.

  He knew he could simply fade into obscurity. It would be the easiest way. But despite the population of London, he would still—always—be known as he was now.

  Billington’s boy.

  He wanted to live his own life and so long as he wore his familial shackles, it would never happen.

  If the ton knew what he’d endured as a child. The hateful stares, the disapproval no matter how hard he tried to please, the never-ending criticism designed not only to hurt but to scar. And all at the hands of his so-called family.

  Many years ago Justin had grasped that, being neither the heir nor the spare, he was about as useful as horse shit, only treated worse. At least manure had its uses. According to his family, Justin did not. So he was going to start his life over, be his own man. He needed a scandal that all of London would talk about for years to come.

  He needed Carmalina Belluccini.

  The way her brown eyes had flashed furious fire told him she had spirit and backbone. Two things he would most certainly need in an accomplice.

  Strangely, Carmalina’s failure to show for supper didn’t deter him from wanting to see her again. She didn’t yet know it, but she’d thrown down a gauntlet and challenged him to pick it up and chase her with it. She may have escaped his company for one evening but it wouldn’t happen again.

  Next time he would not let her get away so easily.

  * * *

  The ballad was an old one, the first Carmalina had learned. She sang it in Italian and it never failed to bring tears to the eyes of those who heard it.

  But not tonight.

  Already she’d missed two of the higher notes and made a complete mess of the lowest. It would be easy to laugh it off and tell the theatre manager she’d had a bad night, if it had been the first time in the opening act for it to happen.

  The rate at which her voice worsened scared her more than what would happen when she lost her position. If she didn’t rest her throat, she may even lose the ability to speak without sounding like a chimney sweep. Prioritizing was all the harder because she needed the income from her appearances each night. She didn’t even have enough money saved to take a short sojourn.

  Carmalina lifted her arms, lifted her voice, poured her very soul into the final lyrics to finish the song on a perfectly even arpeggio. The applause that followed told her either the audience had missed her shocking mistakes or they’d chosen to ignore them. She didn’t care. She just wanted to get back to her dressing room and her warm honeyed tea, and then go home and sleep for two days. Maybe if she didn’t talk to anyone at all she may chance to last another week. Who would have thought London’s dreary weather and constant cold would affect her voice in such a way? Oh how she longed for the warmer climes of Italy.

  Finally the curtains dropped into
place with a swish, barely audible over the deafening thunder of applause. Soon the torture would end and she could make her escape.

  Since when is singing torture?

  Why was it that when her operatic voice sounded rough and broken, her inner voice was as clear and as sweetly annoying as ever?

  Carmalina pushed the nagging question aside and concentrated on making it back to her dressing room, negotiating the chaos with an easy smile, one step at a time. She accepted congratulations but did not pause. Pacing what she referred to as her cage as she collected her belongings, she silently fumed. If she gave vent to the screams that built inside her, her ailing voice would surely give out forever. If she’d stayed in Italy, in the warmer climes with the humid air, she wouldn’t be in this situation.

  Alone, virtually penniless and singing for her supper.

  Her voice needed to be rested, to be cared for, to be worshipped. Instead she shivered in her basement room—her very last piece of independence—with her threadbare blankets, sometimes sleeping in three dresses to try to warm herself. She breathed in dank, cold air filled with soot and the scent and taste of coal and filth.

  Turning a circle in the small box someone had incorrectly named a dressing room, Carmalina wished the Royal London Opera to the deepest pits of hell for their lies, for dazzling her into believing they actually sang for London’s royalty.

  The travelling troupe had endlessly promised fame, fortune and respect. All she had received so far was notoriety, a few measly coins barely enough to survive on and disdain. The last was the part that hurt the most. She was beautiful, talented, independent. Therefore she was a whore, a doxy, and finally, a fallen woman.

  Of course there were other alternatives to singing but not many were even worth the second it took to consider and then discard the notions. What she needed was enough money to see her either settled in the country, somewhere where no one had ever heard her name, somewhere she could lie about her former occupation. Or passage on a ship away from London and her antiquated rules for society that viewed women as no more than pleasure devices or heir-carrying vessels.