Once Upon a Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

Victoria. I demand you step away from Lord Remington at once.”

      Victoria defied the command by tightening her grasp on Remington’s large hand. It wasn’t every day a lady was asked to become a wife. But would he return? And if he did, would he still want her once he had seen what the world had to offer? She refused to taint this wondrous moment. As her mother had once said, “One cannot embark upon an adventure without stepping onto a path. And there is no greater adventure than love.” Love. Is that what this was? The sort of love her parents had once shared?

      Leaning toward Remington on the tips of her slippered toes, she whispered quickly, “Let our letters determine what will become of us before we tell my father anything more. Agreed?”

      “Agreed.” Remington bowed his head and rested his warm forehead against hers. “My stepsister is engaged to a British nobleman in Venice, which is why I am even—”

      “Lord Remington!” Mrs. Lambert’s slippered heels click, click, clicked against the marble floor as she marched toward them, closing the vast distance between them. “I am without words. Does my presence mean nothing to either of you?”

      “Forgive me, Mrs. Lambert.” Remington lifted his forehead from Victoria’s and ever so slowly slid his fingers from hers, as though he were trying to memorize every inch of her hand against his own. He stepped back and offered Victoria a quick bow, setting his hand against the brass buttons of his waistcoat. “I reluctantly depart.”

      She smiled. “I reluctantly allow you to depart.”

      He smiled, turned and strode away, his greatcoat shifting around his muddy boots and tall frame. When he reached the end of the vast corridor, he paused. Glancing back, he gave her a huge, saucy grin bursting with pride.

      Her heart squeezed as she held up a hand in parting, wishing he didn’t have to go to Venice.

      Ever so slowly he rounded the corner, his large hand playfully dragging against the length of the wall, as if he were forcing himself to leave. Then he, and his reluctant hand, disappeared.

      Victoria let out a breathy sigh and refrained from whirling about the entire corridor like a top.

      “Lady Victoria,” Mrs. Lambert chided, coming into full view. “I do believe your current reading is coming at an opportune time. I will expect you to have the entire book read within the week. I will also expect you to memorize and recite twenty different passages. Is that understood?”

      “Yes, Mrs. Lambert.”

      “You will now follow me.”

      “Yes, Mrs. Lambert.” Not caring if the woman noticed, Victoria lifted her hand and admired the mud-streaked ruby ring on her finger as she dutifully breezed back into the library. Was there a connection between Flint’s return and the ring? Not likely. But Remington was a fantastic magician of a different sort. The sort who made a wary soul such as hers give away not only a kiss, but her heart.

       SCANDAL TWO

      A lady should never engage in secret correspondences. For who is going to supervise all the words being scribed? Rest assured, much can and will go wrong, and much to a lady’s chagrin, there will even be documented proof.

      How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

       September 15, 1824

      MY DEAR Remington,

      Grayson is completely beside himself with grief now that you are gone, and has become rather annoying as a result of it. He is forever demanding I play chess with him whenever he visits, and claims I am the only one who can play as well as you. I never realized how close you and he were. It pleases me to no end knowing how fond Grayson is of you and only confirms everything I already know. Though I constantly ask him questions about you, and Grayson pesters me to disclose what it is I feel, I haven’t confessed to anything. Not yet. I am convinced everyone will only dismiss it as calf love if we present this prior to my coming out. And while I have yet to fully understand what it is we share and what it is I am submitting to, I do know I cannot brush this or you aside. As for that adorable little fool you rescued, he is still getting into trouble. During my French lesson, Flint managed to yank down my great-grandmama’s tablecloth in the blue drawing room and shattered what used to be Mama’s favorite antique vase. Papa was livid and threatened to make sausages out of him, even though I know he never would, since Flint is all we have left of Victor. I miss my brother, and think of him often, for he was my dearest friend and the only person I was able to confide everything to. Unlike before, however, I don’t feel quite so haunted. Perhaps it is because I now have new memories to replace the old. I find myself lingering by the staircase where you and I kissed, and do it more often than I should. Even Mrs. Lambert noticed my lingering and asked why I was always loitering about the staircase. It was embarrassing. Please write and tell me everything about Venice.

      Ardently awaiting your return,

       Victoria

       16th October, 1824

      MY DARLING Victoria,

      I would like to begin my first correspondence by finally confessing how in love with you I really am. I have been in love with you for quite some time. I carry your letter with me in the inner pocket of my coat and pull it out whenever I think about you. Which is often. My stepmother insists I am daft for submitting to you so blindly. Of course, she thinks everything about me is daft. She claims I am terribly naïve when it comes to women, and at nineteen, I suppose I am. But I would rather be naïve than a superficial ingrate like the rest of the men around me. I often wonder why my father remarried at all. My stepmother is so prickly, quick to judge and prefers harsh words over any patience or kindness. Surprisingly, my stepsister, Cornelia, is nothing like her. She is very dedicated to being a good person and loved my father very much, which will forever merit my respect. Indeed, Cornelia is the only reason I continue to strive to please my stepmother at all.

      Venice is incredible. I now understand why this city is so celebrated. The air is incredibly lush, with scents constantly changing depending upon the winds, and because the city is surrounded by both sea and sky, not a single day appears to be alike. To my disappointment, Venetians do not share the same passion for hunting that we do in England, not even in the plains or the hills, which are considered country. But they do excel in the art of catching birds, which isn’t all that surprising, considering there are more birds in this city than people. In the Laguna around Venice, men crawl into submerged tubs with weapons in hand and shoot everything in sight. The shooting of birds appears to be as popular as keeping them for pets. Whilst many are confined, I visited one palazzo in which all the birds flew about quite freely. Imagine hosting a ball in London whilst birds flap, chirp and deposit droppings on the furniture and guests at every turn. The ton would have a fit. Thus far, I have ridden countless gondolas. Indeed, what a carriage is to London, a gondola is to Venice, and surprising though it may be, there are those who claim to have actually never seen a horse at all. Each day, as I glide along water pathways and watch buildings float by, I think to myself how unfair it is that I am unable to share this city with you. After we marry—and we will—I insist we come to Venice, so that we can fulfill the potential of what seems to be a very romantic city.

      At night, it is quiet, and decrepit buildings shine like new in the moonlight. The stars above shimmer, whilst the lit lanterns on the gondolas sway over rustling waters. I wish to share this and more with you. By the by, there is much more to eat here than merely citrus, soup and macaroni. There are melons, chocolate, cod, mussels, and the chefs in every noble home I have visited thus far are all, surprisingly, French. I am beginning to believe that Napoleon, damn him, invaded every country’s kitchen. Despite the food being exceptionally good, I do hope you will still send along those promised Banbury cakes. I miss them. Though not nearly as much as I miss you. I don’t wish to be forward, but every night I stare up at the ceiling of my room and think about you, and wonder what it would be like to have you in my arms and in my bed. This need to be near you is overwhelming.

      I am and will forever be yours,