Once Upon a Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

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      Grayson picked up the remaining sliver of Banbury cake from his porcelain plate and shoved it into his mouth. As he heartily chewed, he shook his dark blond head, his eyes darting across the length of the garden toward Victoria. “I would never condone rushing—” he said, in between several chews “—but given your predicament, don’t wait. Based on my cousin’s dowry alone, half of Europe is already lining up at my uncle’s door.”

      Jonathan half nodded, his stomach clenching at the thought. “I only hope to God she feels the same.”

      Grayson sighed and set his empty plate on the corner of the linen-covered table beside them. “Whatever you do, Remington, don’t be a sop and tell her that you love her.”

      Jonathan angled himself and lowered his voice. “And why wouldn’t I? It happens to be what I feel.”

      “It doesn’t matter what you feel. Victoria is a Linford of the worst sort. The moment you use the word love, she will call you out for being insincere.”

      “Insincere? By telling her—”

      “Yes. By telling her. If you haven’t already noticed, she is a lot like her father. Only without all the grumbling and shouting. And can you blame her, after all that has happened in her life? Stars cannot shine when clouds blacken the sky. It has nothing to do with you personally, it is simply the way it is. Which is why I suggest you be subtle over these next two weeks. Don’t overwhelm her with your stupid goose antics or she will run. Regardless of what she does or does not feel.”

      Jonathan drew in a breath and let it out, reluctant to listen to anything but what his gut was telling him. And his gut was telling him subtle was not about to win the fair maiden. “Go distract her governess for me, will you? I need to talk to her.”

      “Now?” Grayson asked.

      “Yes. Now. Go. Do it.”

      Grayson leaned toward him and hissed, “I didn’t invite you here to watch you slit your own throat. You need to be subtle. Declaring yourself with my uncle and half of society thirty paces away is not subtle.”

      Jonathan rolled his eyes. “I don’t plan on asking for her hand here and now. All I want is a few moments alone without that damn woman at her elbow. You know what Mrs. Lambert thinks of me. I’m anything but honey on that old crone’s lips.”

      “That is because you pose a threat to the commodity she hopes to sell to a duke. And I hate to point out your sad reality, Remington, but you are not a duke. Nor are you a marquis. Or an earl. Or—”

      “Enough already.” Jonathan glared at him. “Are you going to do this for me or not?”

      “Forget it. I have already done more than enough to ensure each and every single one of your children bears my name. Boys. Girls. It doesn’t matter. They will all be known as Grayson.”

      Jonathan stepped closer to emphasize that he was a full head taller and a few inches broader than Grayson. “Considering all the times I took a fist for you, you owe me this and more.”

      Grayson snorted. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Rope up Mrs. Lambert and shove her in a cupboard while everyone watches you play Romeo?”

      “Yes. That is exactly what I expect you to do. I only have two weeks to extract a promise of matrimony from her. Two weeks. I need every moment I can get.”

      Grayson jabbed him beneath the cravat. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Your whole life. Why are you rushing into this, anyway? Hmm? From what I hear, Venetian women send men into spasms that last all day and night. Enjoy a bit of that first, then come back to this.”

      Jonathan sighed. This wasn’t about meeting a woman and having a few nights of passion. This was about meeting the woman and having a whole lifetime of passion. “Fifteen minutes.”

      Grayson shook his head from side to side. “Why must you always complicate not only your life, but mine? Why?”

      “Oh, you think I complicate your life?” Jonathan lowered his voice. “I’m not the one stealing bank notes to pay for women who most likely will end up costing you vials of mercury.”

      Grayson puffed up his cheeks and deflated them with a single breath. “I don’t need another father pointing out everything I do wrong.”

      Jonathan refrained from smacking him upside the head. “One father would never be enough to rein you in. Hell, six fathers wouldn’t be enough. Just as you don’t approve of my life, Grayson, I don’t approve of yours. Which is why we must agree to disagree. Now, are you going to do this for me or not?”

      Grayson sighed and scanned the garden around them. “I will ensure fifteen minutes if you promise not to tell my father about the bank notes.”

      Jonathan grinned and elbowed his arm. “Done.”

      Grayson elbowed him back. “Stay here. I’ll send Victoria over and occupy Mrs. Lambert for you.”

      Jonathan pointed at him. “You are a good friend.”

      “A better friend than you will ever be.” Grayson smirked, rounded him and the table, and strode across the lawn.

      Jonathan adjusted the cuffs of his morning coat and stepped toward the nearest table laden with silver. Finding a tray that had been emptied of most of its biscuits, he leaned over it and used the polished reflection of the silver platter to see if his black hair was still decent. He brushed back a few unruly strands that had strayed in the wind from his forehead, straightened and stepped back, glancing toward where Grayson had gone.

      Lady Somerville sauntered past with her elderly husband, heading toward the fountain beyond. Her dark eyes lifted and purposefully met Jonathan’s across the distance. She offered a refined nod in passing as a slow smile touched her painted lips, then continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye in a heated, predatory manner that caused Jonathan’s skin to crawl.

      He ignored the blatant flirtation. Why was it that only married women found him attractive? Did he have the words Play with me if you are over thirty etched across his forehead? He was almost young enough to be their firstborn, for God’s sake.

      Jonathan paused as a slim figure dressed in embroidered white lace and India muslin appeared on the other side of the table he lingered by. His pulse drummed as Victoria angled her parasol against the puffed sleeve on her upper shoulder and quietly perused the silver trays of food.

      God love you, Grayson, he thought to himself.

      Jonathan drew a reassuring breath, grabbed one of the plates stacked for service and rounded the table toward her. He paused beside her and leaned in, offering up the plate. Though he wanted to convey everything that had ever been buried within him in that one pulsing moment, all he could do was hold out the plate and wait for her gloved hand to take it.

      She turned, her full skirts brushing his trouser-clad legs, and lifted her pretty green eyes to his. Jonathan’s stomach flipped as her full, soft-looking pink lips curved into a radiant smile. She edged back, setting a more respectable distance between them, but never once broke their gaze.

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