Scandal

by Amanda Quick

  “Not that it matters greatly, I suppose,” Emily assured him tactfully. “About the G, I mean.”

  Simon shrugged. “I imagine it does to Byron.” They had reached the stream and were now safely out of sight of the lane. He turned automatically and began to head to the right, moving upstream.

  Emily lifted the skirts of her faded riding habit with an artless grace that somehow imbued the aging costume with more style than it actually had. She glanced around curiously at the landscape. “Excuse me, my lord, but you appear to know where you are going. Do you remember this path from when you lived in the neighborhood as a child?”

  Simon slid her a sidelong glance. Of course, she had been bound to learn that bit of information fairly quickly. “How did you know my family had a home here?”

  “Lavinia Inglebright mentioned it.”

  “It has been a long time since I lived in this neighborhood,” Simon said cautiously.

  “Still, it is the most amazing coincidence, is it not? Just imagine, my lord, you began corresponding with me initially because you discovered quite by accident that I shared your great interest in romantic literature. And then we learn that you used to live near Little Dippington as a child. And now we have met. Most incredible.”

  “Life is full of strange coincidences.”

  “I prefer to think of it as fate. Do you know, I can just see you as a small boy running down here near this stream, perhaps with a dog. Did you have a dog, sir?”

  “I believe I did.”

  Emily nodded. “I thought so. I myself come here frequently. Do you recall my poem entitled Verses on a Summer Day Beside a Pond?”

  “Quite clearly.”

  “I wrote them as I sat beside that little pond up ahead,” she told him proudly. “Perhaps you recall a line or two?”

  Simon took one look at the hopeful expression in her green eyes and found himself desperately wracking his brain to recall a few words of the sweet but otherwise forgettable poem she had carefully set down in one of her recent letters. He was vastly relieved when his excellent memory came to his aid. He made a stab at the first two lines.

  “Behold yon pond where drops of sunlight gleam and glitter.

  It holds such wondrous treasures for I

  who am content to sit and dream here.”

  “You remembered.” Emily looked as thrilled as if he had just given her a fortune in gems. Then she blushed and added in a confiding tone, “I realize I ought to rework parts of it. I do not precisely care for the way ‘dream here’ rhymes with ‘glitter.’ Twitter or flitter would be better, don’t you think?”

  “Well,” Simon began carefully, “it is hard to say.”

  “Not that it signifies at the moment,” she told him cheerfully. “I am working on a major project and it will be some time before I get back to Verses on a Summer Day Beside a Pond.”

  “A major project?” Somehow the conversation was beginning to get away from him, Simon realized.

  “Yes, I am calling it The Mysterious Lady. It is to be a long epic poem of adventure and the darker passions in the manner of Byron.” She glanced up at him shyly. “You are the only one besides the members of the literary society whom I have told about it thus far, my lord.”

  “I am honored,” Simon drawled. “Adventure and dark passions, eh?”

  “Oh, yes. It is all about a young woman with hair the color of a wild sunset who goes in search of her lover who has disappeared. They were to be married, you see. But her family disapproved of him and forbade them to see each other. He was obliged to take his leave. But before he left he gave her a ring and assured her he would be back to carry her off and marry her in spite of her family.”

  “But something went wrong with the plan?”

  “Yes. He has not returned and the heroine knows he is in trouble and needs her desperately.”

  “How does she know that?” Simon inquired.

  “She and the hero are so close, so united by their pure and noble passion for each other that they are capable of communicating on a higher plane. She just knows he is in trouble. She leaves home and hearth to search for him.”

  “A rather risky business. Perhaps he simply used her parents’ disapproval as an excuse to abandon her. Perhaps he had gotten tired of her and being kicked out by her family was a neat way to extricate himself from the embarrassment of an entanglement he did not want.” As soon as he had said the words, Simon wanted to kick himself. The appalled expression on Emily’s face was enough to touch what small bit of conscience he had left.

  “Oh, no,” Emily breathed. “It was not like that at all.”

  “Of course it wasn’t,” Simon said, forcing a grim smile. “I was merely teasing you. You must forgive me. How could I know the story behind your poem? You are the one writing it.”

  “Precisely. And I promise you it will have a happy ending. I prefer happy endings, you see.”

  “Tell me something, Miss Faringdon. If someone gave you ten thousand pounds today, what would you do with it?”

  The otherworldly excitement vanished as if by magic. Behind the lenses of her spectacles, Emily’s dreamy gaze turned abruptly shrewd at his sudden question. Razor sharp intelligence glittered like green fire in those elfin eyes. “I would buy several shares of stock in a new canal venture I have recently learned about, perhaps buy some bank stock, and then put some money into the four percents. I would be careful with the latter, however. The tiresome war against Napoléon will soon be over and the values of the funds might well drop. One must be ready to move swiftly when one is dealing with government money.”

  “Excellent,” he muttered under his breath. “I just wanted to make certain I had the right female. For a moment there I had begun to wonder.”

  Emily blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind. A private joke.” Simon smiled down at her. “Your financial advice makes very good sense, Miss Faringdon. Your strategy and mine are very much the same.”

  “Oh. Do you gamble on ’Change?”

  “Among other things. I have a wide variety of financial interests.” He brought the horses to a halt and tied the reins to two nearby trees. Then he took Emily’s arm and guided her over to a large boulder beside the pond.

  He watched her sit down and gracefully adjust the heavy skirts of her habit. For a moment he was distracted by the movement of her hands as she dealt with the thick folds. Then he brought himself up short. Time to get back to the purpose at hand, Simon thought.

  “You cannot imagine what this means to me,” he announced as he sat down beside her and studied the pond. “I have often pictured this place in my mind. And when I did, I always pictured you beside me. After I read your poem I knew you appreciated this spot as much as I do.”

  She looked around, frowning intently at the grassy banks and shallow, pebble-lined pond. “Do you think I got it right, my lord? Are you sure you recognized this exact spot from the description in my verses?”

  Simon followed her gaze, remembering all the times he had come here in his lonely youth, seeking refuge from his cold tyrant of a father and peace from the endless demands of his weak-spirited, constantly ailing mother. “Yes, Miss Faringdon. I would have known this place anywhere.”

  “It is so beautiful. I come here quite often to be alone and to think about my epic, The Mysterious Lady. Now that I know you were once accustomed to sit and meditate here, the place will have even more meaning for me.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I merely speak the truth. It is odd, is it not?” She turned to him, her brows knitting together in an earnest expression. “But I have felt very close to you from the moment I read your first letter. Do you not find it the most amazing stroke of fate that we discovered each other through the post?”

  “A most amazing stroke.” Simon thought about how many weeks he had spent researching the best approach to take with Miss Emily Faringdon. A letter written to her on the pretext of having heard mention of her interest in poetry
had finally seemed the quickest, easiest way to get a foot back in the door of St. Clair Hall.

  “I knew from your first letter that you were someone very special, my lord.”

  “It was I who was struck by the impression that I was corresponding with a very special female.” Gallantly, Simon picked up her hand and kissed it.

  She smiled mistily. “I had dreamed so long of a relationship such as ours,” she confessed.

  He slanted her an assessing glance. Easier and easier. The woman was already half in love with him. Once again Simon slammed the door on that niggling sense of guilt that played in some distant corner of his mind. “Tell me, Miss Faringdon, just how do you view our relationship?”

  She blushed, but her eyes were gleaming with enthusiasm. “A very pure sort of relationship, my lord. A relationship formed on a higher plane, if you know what I mean.”

  “A higher plane?”

  “Yes. The way I see it, ours is quite clearly an intellectual connection. It is a noble thing of the mind, a relationship that takes place in the metaphysical realm. It is a friendship based on shared sensibilities and mutual understanding. One might say we have a spiritual communion, my lord. A union untainted by baser thoughts and considerations. Our passions are of the highest order.”

  “Hell and damnation,” Simon said.

  “My lord?”

  She looked up at him with such inquiring innocence, he wanted to shake her. She could not be that naive, in spite of her poetry. She was, after all, twenty-four years old and there was that matter of the Unfortunate Incident Gillingham had mentioned.

  “I fear you have sadly overestimated my noble virtues, Miss Faringdon,” he said bluntly. “I did not come down here to Hampshire to foster a shadowy metaphysical connection with you.”

  The glow went out of her eyes in an instant. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  Simon gritted his teeth and retrieved her hand. “I came down here with a far more mundane goal, Miss Faringdon.”

  “What would that be, sir?”

  “I am here to ask your father for your hand in marriage.”

  The reaction was not at all what he had expected from a spinster with a clouded past who should have been thrilled to hear an earl was going to speak to her father on the subject of marriage.

  “Bloody hell,” Emily squeaked.

  Simon lost his patience with the strange female sitting beside him. “That tears it,” he announced. “I think what is needed here, Miss Faringdon, is a means of cutting through all that romantical claptrap about love on a higher plane that you have been feeding yourself all these months.”

  “My lord, what are you talking about?”

  “Why, the darker passions, of course, Miss Faringdon.” He reached out and jerked her into his arms. “I am suddenly consumed with curiosity to see if you really do enjoy them.”

  Emily was stunned to find herself locked in an unbreakable embrace. It had been five years since a man had held her in this intimate fashion. And that it should be Simon, of all people, who was holding her this way now was almost beyond comprehension. Simon was her companion of the metaphysical realm, her noble, high-minded, sensitive friend, her intellectual soul mate.

  Only in the darkest hours of the night and in her most secret dreams had she allowed herself to fantasize about him as a flesh and blood lover.

  “Oh, Simon,” she breathed, gazing up at him with a sense of wonder and longing that was so fierce it made her tremble in his arms.

  He did not answer. His golden eyes were glittering with an intensity that in any other man would have been alarming. There seemed to be more annoyed impatience than sweet affection in his gaze, however. But perhaps that was just her imagination.

  Without a word he removed her spectacles and bonnet and set them on the rock beside his hat. Then his mouth came slowly and deliberately down on hers and Emily forgot everything else except the hard, commanding heat of his kiss.

  It was all she had ever dreamed his kiss would be during those still, dark hours in the middle of the night when she had allowed herself to dream hopeless dreams.

  In truth, it was more than she had dreamed. She could never have fully imagined the feel of his mouth on hers because she had never experienced anything quite like it. This was nothing like those kisses she had received five years ago. The sensation of Simon’s arms around her and the overwhelming intimacy of his mouth effectively shattered the fragile romantic illusions of a lifetime and taught her the true meaning of passion in one searing moment.

  Simon’s hand, which had been curved around her waist, began to slide up along her side toward her breast. Emily sensed dimly that she should call a halt at once but it seemed beyond her power to do so. This was S. A. Traherne, the man she had put on a pedestal the man she had loved from afar with a pure and noble passion … the man of her dreams.

  Now, in a blinding moment of sensual clarity, Emily realized that Simon reciprocated her love. The wonder of it was overpowering.

  Simon’s fingers continued upward over the bodice of the riding habit until the small, soft weight of Emily’s breast was resting on the edge of his hand. Emily heard him groan as his thumb gently traced the outline of one soft curve. Her nipple was suddenly, achingly, taut under the heavy wool. Emily shivered and Simon’s palm closed possessively over her breast.

  “Come here, elf,” Simon murmured in a rough, husky voice as he eased her across his thighs. He trapped her close to his chest with one bent knee and two iron-hard arms. The strength in him should have frightened Emily, but it did not. This was her dragon and she knew he would keep her safe.

  Her fingers splayed across his chest, her nails digging urgently into the fabric of his coat. He smelled good, she thought. A combination of leather and horse and masculine heat. The scent of him was curiously intoxicating and she found herself burrowing closer into his warmth.

  “Part your lips for me,” Simon urged softly.

  Emily obeyed instinctively. Without any warning, his tongue slid boldly into her mouth. The shock of it made Emily gasp and pull back. She was suddenly aware of the heavy bulge of his manhood under her thigh. She knew she was turning a bright pink.

  “My God, Emily.”

  For a moment the world seemed to halt. She could barely breathe, let alone respond.

  “Emily, open your eyes and look at me.”

  Dreamily, Emily lifted her lashes and looked up into Simon’s harshly carved face. He was so close that she could see him without the aid of her spectacles. She was fascinated by the glittering heat that had washed away the coldness in his eyes. Fire lit the beautiful golden gaze now, a wild flame of masculine desire held under rigid control.

  “Dragon,” she whispered softly, touching his hard cheek with gentle fingers. “My very own golden-eyed dragon.”

  He narrowed his eyes as he stared down at her. “Dragons have a dangerous reputation around fair maidens.”

  She smiled softly up at him. “’Tis no use breathing fire and smoke in an attempt to frighten me, my lord. I know I am quite safe with you.”

  “What makes you so certain of that?”

  “I know you very well. I have read and reread every letter you have ever sent to me. Still, I must admit, I cannot quite believe this is happening.”

  “Nor can I.” He shifted position abruptly, sliding her off his lap. He raked a hand through his dark hair. “Good God. I must have lost my wits.”

  “I know what you mean. I feel certain this is what the poets refer to as a wild, sweet excess of emotion. It is rather exciting, is it not?” Emily straightened, feeling a little shy and shaky, but otherwise wonderful.

  “Exciting is one word for it. I can think of a few others.”

  “Such as?”

  “Stupid.”

  Emily frowned at the sardonic tone. “Is something wrong, my lord?” She groped for her spectacles because he had moved too far away to enable her to see clearly the expression in his eyes.

  “Here.” Impatiently he
thrust the spectacles into her hands and she put them on.

  Emily saw at once that Simon was scowling fiercely. “There is something wrong. What is it, my lord?”

  He gave her a derisive, sidelong glance. “You ask me that? After what almost happened a moment ago?”

  Emily tilted her head to one side, studying him. “You kissed me. It was wonderful. The most wonderful experience of my life. Why should anything be wrong?”

  “Damn it, woman, another five minutes and we would have been … Hell. Never mind.”

  “Another five minutes and we would have been cast adrift upon love’s transcendent, golden shore, perhaps?”

  “Good God. This is no time for poetic euphemisms.” Simon glared at the quiet waters of the pond. He started to say something else and then his lips twitched. An instant later a wicked grin came and went on his hard mouth. “Cast adrift upon love’s transcendent, golden shore? From whose works did you glean that line?’”

  “I invented it myself,” Emily told him, not without some pride. “’Tis a line from the epic poem I told you I am currently working on, The Mysterious Lady. I am still searching for the proper rhyme for ‘shore.’”

  “Have you tried ‘bore’?”

  She grinned. “Now you are teasing me. Tell me the truth, sir. What do you think of the line?”

  He glanced back at her over his shoulder, golden eyes gleaming with what should have been passion but which Emily was very much afraid was amusement. “It is most apt, Miss Faringdon. Come here.”

  She went willingly back into his embrace but this time he merely kissed her lightly on the forehead and then on the tip of her nose before setting her a short distance away from him again. “Now, pay attention, Miss Faringdon, for I have something extremely important to say to you.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Henceforth, whenever we are threatened with being cast adrift upon love’s transcendent, golden shore, I want you to slap my face. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him in shock. “I shall not do any such thing.”

  “Yes, you will, if you have any common sense at all.”