Once Upon a Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

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      “I am not moving,” he gruffly announced.

      “Step aside.”

      “No.”

      “Step. Aside.”

      “No. You are not going back out into that rain.”

      She shoved at his body again, trying to get him to move away from the knobs, but her feet kept sliding against the smooth marble. Annoyed to no end, she gritted her teeth, fisted her hand and punched his shoulder.

      He seized her upper arms, his hard grip pinching her skin beneath the sleeves of her nightdress, and fiercely spun her around, yanking her back against himself so she couldn’t hit him again. He leaned over her, his broad chest and arms locking her against his chest. Icy water cascaded down onto her neck and arms from his drenched clothing. She stiffened, her eyes widening, realizing she was officially at his command.

      He leaned farther down, bending her far forward and in turn, keeping her in place with his weight. “Cease being an impertinent child,” he demanded, his warm breath heating the side of her chilled cheek. “He’ll be fine. You, on the hand, won’t be if you get any more drenched.”

      She trembled within his arms, the cold seeping deeper into her skin. “He is all I have left of Victor. And if that makes me a child, so be it. Now let me go. Let me go!”

      Remington released her, allowing them both to straighten. Turning her toward him, he grasped her shoulders, pulling her close. The few waning candles in the sconces of the entrance hall dimly illuminated his rain-moistened face. He rubbed her shoulders. “Forgive me. Grayson has often told me how close you and your brother were.”

      She looked away, refusing to give in to emotions that were pointless to feel. It wouldn’t change the fact that her brother was gone, having succumbed to smallpox after a servant had exposed him to it. Sometimes she wondered why it hadn’t been her.

      Remington’s fingers pressed into her shoulder blades, silently assuring her that she was not alone. Not wanting or needing his pity, she pushed away his heavy arms and swiped away droplets of water running down the sides of her face and chin.

      “Victoria.”

      She glanced toward him. “What is it now?”

      “I … leave for Venice tomorrow.”

      She sighed, unable to hide her own disappointment knowing she wouldn’t see him until her coming out. “Yes. I know.”

      “I may not return in time for your debut. Which is why I was hoping you could …” He winced.

      She stared up at him, dreading whatever he had in mind. “You were hoping I could what?”

      He shrugged and glanced away. “I … wanted to give you something, is all. Something that would—”

      “You had better not be asking me for a kiss, Remington. Because you won’t get it.”

      He cleared his throat and shook his head before setting his broad shoulders. “No. I … in truth, I wanted to give you something that will help bring Flint back.”

      She sighed. “A whistle won’t be of any use. That dog hates whistles.”

      “It’s not a whistle.” He drew closer, his wet hair glistening as black as night, and dug into his soaked trouser pocket. He held up a dainty, gold-and-ruby ring by the tips of his fingers. “Here. Take this.”

      Sometimes, men were utterly useless, weren’t they? “I do believe my intelligence is being insulted. How is a ring supposed to bring my dog back?”

      He let out a gruff laugh and grabbed up her chilled hand, forcing it open. Holding the ring up between them, he set it against her palm and pressed her hand tightly closed. Water from the sleeve of his shirt dribbled onto her hand, raising more gooseflesh on her already cold skin.

      He lowered his voice. “My mother gave this to me shortly before she passed eight years ago. She and I were very close. From what I am told, a Gypsy gifted it to her. All you need know is that the worth of this ring will prove itself to you in time. Believe in its magic, and I assure you, all will come to pass. I am giving it to you so you can wish for anything you might ever want or need whilst I am away.”

      Victoria opened her hand and blinked down at the ring. She glanced up at him. “Surely, you jest.”

      “I do not.”

      “You are a man of nineteen. You don’t actually believe in real magic, do you?”

      “Age should never exempt one from hope. Which is what defines true magic.” He tapped at her hand, still holding her gaze. “Place the ring on your finger, whisper to the stone whatever it is you most desire and it will come to pass. I promise.”

      She snorted. “Are you trying to melt butter in a wig? There are no magic rings in this world.”

      He lowered his chin and drew closer. His hand reached out and brushed her cheek, his warmth making her cool skin tingle. “How do you know there aren’t?” he murmured, staring at her lips. “Have you whispered your most intimate desires to every single ring that exists in this world?”

      “Well, no, I …” She froze, fully aware that he was inching in closer. His dark head lowered as he tilted his face toward her own.

      She gasped, scrambling out of his reach, and stumbled, her bare feet sliding across the cold marble floor. She didn’t want or need her father to catch her being irresponsible. Not when her coming out was only seven months away.

      She bustled toward the dim, sweeping stairwell, and chanted to herself that she needed to leave. Her hand, which still held his ring, trembled, though not from the cold.

      “Victoria. Please. Don’t leave. Not yet. I need this moment between us to last. It may be as many as ten months before I see you again.” There was a tender huskiness in his voice that made her melt with yearning. It was a yearning she didn’t think she’d ever feel for anyone. Or want to feel for anyone. Not after the losses she’d endured.

      Though she did pause, her pride insisted she not turn, lest she give in to the pathetic yearning she felt by flinging herself at him like a squirrel into a pile of nuts.

      He cleared his throat. “I don’t go about seducing women, if that is what you think I am doing. Ask Grayson. My father was a true gentleman to his very last breath, and since his passing, I have honored his legacy. So much so, in fact, that I haven’t even allowed myself to kiss anyone.”

      She spun back toward him and met his gaze across the short distance between them. “You’ve never kissed a woman? At your age?”

      “Don’t tell me you’ve already kissed some lucky bastard, or I will hang myself for admitting what I just did.”

      She bit back a laugh, realizing how serious he was. She shook her head, her wet braid clinging to her shoulder. “Of course I haven’t kissed anyone.”

      “Good. Because I am not one to share with others.”

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