Page 61 of Scandalous: Family Ties and Spies

Lady Patience’s and Jamie’s words about Amalie’s sensitivity to noise and crowds had convinced him the hustle and bustle of their wedding day would be exhausting for his bride. All he’d meant to do this evening was make his wife feel comfortable in her new home. The plan had been to spend a relaxing evening over a meal of her favorite foods. After which, he had planned to gently kiss her good night and leave her to rest.

Valeran had thoroughly enjoyed hearing her surprise and delight when she recognized the dishes he’d had Cook prepare. It had given him a sense of pleased satisfaction. His pleasure had only grown in strength when Amalie had thanked him for his efforts to ensure her favorite dishes were served. The happiness he’d heard in that lyrical voice of hers was a sound he wanted to hear on a regular basis.

But something had gone wrong during the meal, and he didn’t understand what. Matters had only gone downhill when he’d failed to notice how much wine she was drinking. If what she’d eaten at supper was any indication of what she’d eaten all day, it was no wonder the wine had affected her so quickly.

When she’d sprang up from her chair and swayed unsteadily on her feet, he’d suddenly realized she was on the verge of complete inebriation. When she’d called herself a fucking bampot, then used the choice words, bugger it, he’d nearly choke on his own tongue not to laugh out loud.

It wasn’t until she ordered him to claim her because she was hammered that he’d decided the sooner she was in bed, the less tempted he’d be to obey her demands. That plan had gone awry so fast, it had made his head spin. The minute she’d gleefully admitted to deliberately having fifty-five pearl buttons added to her gown, he hadn’t known whether to laugh out loud at her ingenuity or strangle her for not believing him when he’d given his word not to seduce her.

Opting for the third option had landed him in a quagmire he wasn’t sure how to escape. Pushing himself away from her moments ago had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. But failing to do so would have made things between them much worse in the morning. She would have hated herself for not resisting him, but she would have hated him more because he’d promised not to betray her trust.

The words she’d flung at him on his way out of her room had been as painful as a cat-o'-nine-tails being flailed across his back. That was a topic he wasn’t about to examine more closely. As for Amalie, what in God’s name made her think he was toying with her like a cat? Valeran frowned with puzzlement. What was it she’d said only moments ago?

“If ye intend tae claim your plump little country mouse…”

Plump country mouse? Like those fifty-five buttons, her words had been too concise. They meant something. It was like trying to complete a puzzle with several pieces missing. Valeran rubbed his hand over the nape of his neck as he thought back to the morning he’d offered his hand to her.

She’d been in a state of panic until the moment he’d teased her about hiding her fiery nature beneath the façade of a country mouse. In a split-second, she’d taken offense at his teasing with the fury of a volcano erupting. But why?

Valeran rubbed his hand over his face, and the scent of his wife filled his nostrils. It was an intoxicating, unforgettable fragrance that was as tempting and distinctive as Amalie. It was her scent, and of the two she used, this was his favorite.

The perfume she’d been wearing that day on the cnoc beag had been enticing and seductive. It had invoked images of a sultry breeze wrapped in the heat of the desert, with its exotic blend of jasmine and frankincense. But the perfume lingering on his hands now was as fresh and sweet as his wife.

It reminded him of a gentle summer rain with the faintest hint of lemon floating through the air. Not only was it an unusual fragrance, it was as unique as the new Countess of Sommerville. Amalie had worn it the night he’d compromised her and when they’d attended the Turnbridge affair. It had been indelibly imprinted on his senses from the moment he’d kissed her. Another memory welled up from the recesses of his brain, and Valeran grew rigid with shock.

“No. Christ almighty, no,” he groaned, leaning forward in his chair as his stomach twisted violently with horrified self-loathing. “You’re a fucking idiot, Sommerville.”

Forearms resting on his thighs, Valeran’s hands clutched at the back of his head. Intangible steel bands slowly tightened around his chest until it was difficult to breathe. Ever so slowly, shock gave way to disbelief, shame, and self-disgust.

Amalie was the woman who’d sat on the other side of the barrier the day he and Miriam had been in Rules. It had been his wife’s soft cry of pain he’d heard as she’d fled the restaurant. The perfume he’d breathed in that afternoon had been Amalie’s.

Sick to his stomach, Valeran wanted to bash his head against the wall for not putting the puzzle pieces together the night of their first engagement party. He’d actually recognized Amalie’s perfume, but had failed to make the connection.

“You even saw her standing in the doorway of the goddamn restaurant, Sommerville. You saw every sweet curve of her, and it still took you this long to figure out Amalie was the woman who’d been in that fucking booth.”

Every poisonous word crossing Miriam’s cruel lips had drifted over the wall separating the tables. Amalie had heard every toxic word. Worse, he’d done next to nothing to stop the woman from denigrating his wife. He’d even agreed with Miriam, albeit with self-deprecation, that Amalie was most likely infatuated with him.

But it was his words that were the most damning. God help him. Bile clogged his throat a second later as he remembered telling Miriam that he was inclined to take up her challenge to prove he could actually seduce Amalie.

Was it any wonder his wife couldn’t stand the sight of him? Amalie was right. He was every bit the sorry bastard she believed him to be. It didn’t matter that he’d not known Amalie was in Rules that day. He’d allowed his wife to be humiliated without any strenuous objection. Hell, she still was humiliated.

Valeran leaned back in his chair as he recalled Miriam’s sneering observation that Amalie was plump and dowdy. Tonight, Amalie had been delighted that he’d arranged for all her favorite dishes to be served at dinner. Despite her obvious pleasure, she’d eaten very little, and she’d refused to take seconds. Valeran had attributed her refusal to nerves. As if someone had landed a hard blow to his mid-section, a sickening grunt blew past Valeran’s lips as the truth

It hadn’t been nerves on Amalie’s part, he was certain of it. The memory of her reaction to her father’s teasing, the night of the Turnbridge party, filled his head. Crianlarich’s teasing hadn’t just been humiliating for her, the emotion masked the pain her father’s words had brought her.

“Fuck,” he snarled softly.

Furious with himself, he sprang to his feet to pace the floor. He was a complete and utter ass. He had a lot to atone for, and after tonight’s fiasco, Valeran knew he was in for one hell of a fight where Amalie was concerned. In fact, he was no longer certain he’d be able to change her opinion of him. There was no incentive for her to like him and every reason to loath him. What the hell was he going to do to make her forgive him?

Valeran stopped prowling the carpet and slammed a tight fist into the back of his chair. He needed air. Dressing quickly, he left home for the safe house in Farringdon.

§ § §

The stench of something dead assaulted Valeran’s nose as he stood quietly in a dark doorway several doors down from the Princess of Prussia. Almost three hours ago, Valeran had left the safe house. When he’d first started working for the Secret Intelligence Service, he’d converted three townhouses side by side and created what appeared to be a private men’s club. In reality, it was a place Valeran and other operatives in the foreign section used to hide their activities.

Whenever he entered the East End, he always went in the front as one person and out the back in whatever disguise he put on inside. When he’d left the Farringdon and entered the East End, he’d headed straight for The Black Horse Inn. He’d sat at the bar waiting to see if Ellerbie would show. The bar keep had been in a talkative mood, and he had spent the majority of his time listening to the man.

Actually, that wasn’t the correct. No matter how hard he’d tried to focus on what the man behind the bar was saying, all he could think about was Amalie. The entire time the Black Horse’s bar keep had rambled on, Valeran had conceived, evaluated, and discarded one plan after another to tell his wife the truth and earn her forgiveness. He’d been complicit in her humiliation, and he wasn’t sure Amalie would ever forgive him.