A Scandalous Passion

by Kelly Boyce

  Even Bowen looked less than impressed by this approach. “Good Lord, Spence. The woman may not want something over the top, but at least put a little effort into it. Woo her, at least.”

  “With a grand gesture,” Nick added, spreading his arms as wide as he could without hitting Bowen.

  Spence looked from one man to the other. As they stared back at him, both with their dark coloring and furrowed brows, he could not help but feel he was being taken to task by a pair of avenging angels. God help him if he made a muck of this. They would likely flay him within an inch of his life.

  “I still can’t believe it has come to this,” Nick said. “What in the hell were you thinking, seducing Caelie of all people!”

  Spence straightened. “I most certainly did not seduce her. It just…happened. One moment I was kissing her and then…” He waved a hand in the air. He did not bother to tell them she did not put up a protest when things escalated beyond a kiss. He did not want to cast her in an undesirable light. His behavior may have been suspect, but his intentions had been true. He had not seduced her. He had simply not been able to help himself.

  “And then, what? Your clothes just fell off without your noticing?”

  Spence scowled. Their clothes had remained in place, save for a few adjustments. A regret on his part. He would have loved to felt her soft skin against his own, to let the warmth of her soak into him, envelope him. If he could convince her to marry him, he planned on remedying that situation repeatedly.

  Bowen nudged Nick with his elbow. “Do not sit there like a pious old vicar, Nick. Are you going to tell us you never found yourself in such a situation where your emotions overran your good sense?”

  Nick sputtered and did his best to look indignant but everyone present knew better. “I—I married my wife!”

  “And I am trying to marry Lady Caelie. I can hardly be blamed for her inability to see that this is the best course of action for the both of us.”

  Bowen winced again as they hit another rut. “I would suggest not leading with that reasoning when you propose to Lady Caelie.”

  Spence slumped against the cushioned seats. “I have a feeling any reasoning I use will fall on deaf ears.”

  “Hence the requirement of a grand gesture,” Nick said. “Trust me on this one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Caelie pushed the blankets aside and let her legs fall over the edge of the bed. Something had awakened her, but when she stopped to listen, only silence answered back. She sat still and waited. Something felt different. Out of place.

  The sound came again. Muffled and outside. She rubbed at her eyes and stood. She crossed the cool floor to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. In the gardens below, dark figures moved between the yard and the greenhouse but clouds hindered the moonlight and prevented sufficient light to see what they were about, or who they were. There appeared to be three of them…no, wait. There was a fourth. They would travel to the greenhouse, return with their arms full, drop their bounty on the ground, then gather together and…were they arguing?

  Clouds scuttled above and the moonlight brightened enough to let Caelie see the men in question were dressed as gentlemen.

  Why were there gentlemen in the gardens in the middle of the night and why were they raiding Abigail’s greenhouse?

  Caelie crossed the room to where her robe lay draped over the chair by the vanity. She shrugged into it and grabbed her shawl to ward off the cool night air, then she slipped her feet into a pair of thin slippers. She should wake Benedict, but he’d arrived weary from his long trip and she loathed to disturb him. Perhaps a footman was still about, or Mrs. Hume, though at this late hour she doubted it.

  Her slippers tapped against the polished floors and the steps as she made her way down to the bottom floor. She turned to the right and headed toward the kitchen where a weak light still burned.

  “Mr. Garron.” Caelie breathed a sigh of relief. She really did not care to confront four strange men in the dead of night.

  Garron set down a leg of mutton on the plate in front of him and stood. “M’lady, ’tis quite late. Are you well?”

  “I am, Mr. Garron. Thank you. But there are strange men in the gardens beneath my window. Do you know anything about this?”

  “Strange men, you say?”

  “Yes. They appear to be gentlemen, but…they also appear to be stealing Abigail’s flowers. I know how diligently my cousin has catered to her gardens and I would hate to see all that hard work destroyed over some strange shenanigans. Will you come with me while I look into the matter?”

  “Are you sure you should be doin’ that, ma’am?”

  “Well, I can hardly ask Lady Blackbourne in her state and Lord Blackbourne is not expected back from London for several days yet. Lord Glenmor was so exhausted after his travels I would prefer not to disturb him. Please, Mr. Garron.”

  The burly man nodded and walked around the table and smiled. “A’right, m’lady. Let us go see what shenanigans these gentlemen are up to. Did you recognize any of ’em?”

  “No, it was much too dark with the cloud.”

  “Oh, aye. Well enough.” He did not seem the least bit perturbed by the idea of strange men on the property. In fact, he looked amused if anything. Then again, it did not appear as if much perplexed Mr. Garron.

  They slipped out the front door and around the stone walkway that led to the gardens. Caelie walked as quickly as her slippered feet would allow, worried the men would be gone by the time they reached them, but as they rounded the corner of the large estate, she could hear their muffled voices. They had stopped moving between the greenhouse and the gardens and were huddled together beneath the large oak, arguing. The closer she came to the group, the more she could make out snatches of conversation.

  “…it should be in the shape of a heart…”

  “No…does not convey the proper message…”

  “…whole idea borders on ludicrous…”

  “…not even awake to see…”

  The closer Caelie came, the slower her steps and the clearer her vision of the garden thieves became until she stopped altogether and stared at them in disbelief. At her back, Mr. Garron chuckled and the sound silenced the four men who stood amongst a bevy of cut tulips.

  They turned slowly to face her. Nicholas, Mr. Bowen, Benedict and…Spencer.

  Spencer spoke first. “Ah. Well then. I guess we have eliminated the element of surprise.”

  Caelie pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as she drank in the sight of him in the dim moonlight. He had grown more handsome during their separation, she was certain of it, and her body warmed despite the chill in the air.

  “What are you doing destroying Abigail’s gardens?”

  “Oh, that. Yes. Of course. Well…it is not so much a case of destroying exactly.”

  “Then what, pray tell, is it?”

  Mr. Bowen stepped forward. “It is a rearranging, of sorts.”

  “A rearranging?”

  “A grand gesture,” Nicholas stated with a firm nod.

  “I see. And what was this grand gesture to be?”

  Benedict stepped away from the group as if to distance himself from their tomfoolery. “It appears, Lord Huntsleigh and his…cohorts…thought to woo you into accepting Huntsleigh’s marriage proposal by decimating Abigail’s tulips and spelling out some nonsense on the ground beneath your window.”

  “We were going to make a heart,” Nicholas clarified.

  “No,” Spencer said. “I planned on spelling out my proposal.”

  “There are not enough flowers for that, clearly,” Mr. Bowen stated, waving at the pile which, in Caelie’s estimation, looked more than sufficient.

  Abigail would have a fit when she awoke.

  Benedict came closer and took her hands in his. They were warm and strong. “It appears much has been going on since my departure.” His voice lacked any judgment or censure which relieved her to end. It would grieve her to know she h
ad only added to his worries. “Perhaps we should all find our beds and we can talk about it at a more sensible hour.”

  “What of the flowers,” Nicholas asked. “We should do something with them. Abigail will take a strip off me if we cut them for nothing. And I am not about to go down alone.”

  “Why not? It seems only fair. This was your idea after all,” Mr. Bowen pointed out.

  “Traitors. Fine then,” Nicholas bent down and scooped a bunch of tulips up in his arms. “Help me get them inside and into vases. We can fill the breakfast room with them for her to see in the morning. Perhaps that will soften the blow when she realizes we have ravaged her greenhouse.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be my grand gesture, not yours?” Spencer said as Nicholas shoved an armful of flowers at him.

  “It was, but your arguing ruined that.”

  “Because I didn’t agree with your idea of a heart? What does a heart say? Nothing. This required words. Specific words to convey what I meant to say.”

  “And what did you mean to say?” Caelie asked.

  Spencer crossed the grass, stepping over a pile of crocuses to stand a few feet in front of her. “I meant to say I wish to marry you. That I think you the best choice for a wife and…I think you’re quite pretty. Beautiful, really. That, I—I like your smile and the way you laugh. You are kind, as well. Very. And that I have been a complete ass at times, but despite this, I had hoped perhaps you would change your mind and agree to marry me after all.”

  Caelie’s heart soared and plummeted, dipped and wheeled. There was so much good about what he said, but unfortunately it could not conceal the one thing he didn’t claim. The one thing she needed from him most.

  She glanced down at her feet and blinked back the tears where they pricked the corners of her eyes. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I do not believe you have enough flowers to say all of that,” she whispered.

  Spencer glanced over his shoulder at the piles accumulated. “No. I suppose you are right.”

  They stared at each other and she watched as the realization settled into the pale blue of his eyes. She knew the moment he understood what her answer would be. The light dimmed and his shoulders sagged.

  “Caelie—”

  She shook her head. “Please don’t. I cannot marry you. I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be right.” She looked at Benedict. “Would you escort me back to my room, Ben? I—I’m quite tired.”

  “Very well,” her cousin said. He took her arm and looped it through his then turned to address Spencer. “You and I shall speak further in the morning.”

  She did not hear Spencer’s answer or if he gave one at all.

  “I hate to say, I told you so, but…” Spence shrugged, the tulips he still held in his arms rubbing against his wool jacket. He wanted to make light of her latest rejection but he couldn’t quite find the energy to pretend. “She does not want me.”

  “You’re a damn fool, Spence.” The cruel words came from Bowen, surprising in itself as he usually chose his words more judiciously.

  “He’s right,” Nick added, seconding the sentiment.

  “Thank you both. Much appreciated.”

  Bowen turned and gave him a stern look. “While you rhymed off her countless virtues and physical attributes, what did you leave out?”

  Spence shook his head. He had been quite thorough. “Nothing.”

  “Then you’re not just a fool,” Nick said. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Sweet Judas! Do the two of you kick puppies in your spare time? I have been rejected for the third time by the woman I wish to marry and you have the gall to stand there and call me names? Have I not suffered enough for one night?”

  “Why do you wish to marry her?” Bowen asked. “In a word.”

  Both his friends stared at him, their arms folded over their chests and slowly, far too slowly, he understood what he had done wrong. What he had left out.

  “Oh.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Nick poked him in the chest through the tulips. “Fix this.”

  Spencer waited until Nick and Bowen had gone to their rooms before he climbed the stairs to his. Each step he took weighted with the mistakes he had made, the fears he wore like armor and the new feelings and emotions he had not the experience with or the context for.

  Fix this.

  Good advice. Unfortunately Nick did not bother instructing him on how to accomplish such a feat, and given all that had gone on, Spence didn’t think saying those three little words would change anything. Could she not tell how he felt? Were his feelings toward her not transparent enough? He had championed her when she needed it, protected her whether she wished it or not, and did not hesitate to ask for her hand when there was no other choice.

  He stopped. All of those things he did out of duty. Or so it must have appeared to her. In truth, it had begun that way. He left the ship to escort her home because honor and his friendship with Nick dictated he not leave her unprotected. But quickly—far more quickly than he could have imagined—it had turned. It had stopped being about Nick or their friendship, or the right thing to do. He had protected her because she had become dear to him, because she mattered and he would have rather cut off his own arm than see her harmed or hurt in any way.

  None of which he told her.

  He’d thought conveying this with his body; what they had physically shared, would relay his message loud and clear, but she had not seen it as such. And why would she? For all she knew he was a practiced rake who took his pleasure where he could find it and then went on about his business unaffected by any of it.

  He stopped and rubbed at his eyes. A headache had formed behind them. Bowen and Nick were both right. He was a prize idiot and a damn fool.

  He turned to the left and walked away from the direction of his room.

  He knew what he had to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Caelie hadn’t anticipated she would fall into such a deep slumber so quickly after Benedict escorted her back to her bedroom. With her mind racing, her thoughts filled with doubts and fears, she expected sleep would be hard to come by. But fatigue claimed her the moment her head hit the pillow and it wasn’t until something thumped loudly in her room that she woke once again, unsure of how much time had passed.

  She opened her eyes. Darkness cast the room in shadows. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the curtains where she had pushed them open earlier to see what was going on outside. The light spilled over the carpet at the end of her bed and illuminated the two armchairs placed in on either side of the hearth.

  In front of the chairs someone…danced. Either that or they were experiencing an apoplectic fit.

  “Son of a…get off…”

  She recognized the voice but was too stunned to say anything. She watched a moment longer while the movements continued. Caelie slipped out of bed and quietly padded across the floor.

  “Do you require assistance, my lord?”

  “Ah!” Spencer jumped back and stumbled against one of the chairs. “Sshh!”

  She shot him a censured look though doubted he could see it in the dark. “I am not the one making all the noise. What, pray tell, are you doing in my bedchamber at this hour? Or any hour, for that matter.”

  He straightened and she realized he wore only one boot and appeared to be struggling to get out of his coat.

  “I have come here to convince you to marry me.”

  “And this required you to undress?”

  “I had planned on joining you in bed—” He held up his hands. “Not like that! I just thought…I thought we could talk and I’m bone-dead tired from a full day of traveling. I just wanted to lie down. Next to you. But my boots are covered in dirt from the garden, so I thought it best to take them off.”

  The half-smile he offered melted her heart. There were times when the image of the unrepentant rake fell away and she could see the sweet and caring man who resided beneath. The
man who had stolen her heart, who had championed her and protected her. He had been the one to encourage her to come out of the safe little box she had existed in, to be her own person and to find her own voice. A voice that had been stymied and silenced for far too long.

  Did he not deserve to be heard as well?

  “Very well. Turn around.” He did as she bade and she assisted him with his coat, yanking at the sleeves as he pulled his arms out. When she finished, he bent and tugged off his remaining boot then removed his waist coat, leaving him in just his shirt and breeches.

  “Thank you,” he said, standing in front of her.

  She breathed him in. He smelled of the cool air and…tulips. She smiled. The gesture had touched her and watching the four men argue like brothers made her long for family and friendship even beyond what she had with Abigail and Benedict. To be a part of the world of these friends, a full part of it, not just standing on the periphery.

  A part of her had wanted desperately to say yes when he proposed. As he extolled her virtues she kept waiting, hoping to hear the words she needed to say yes with a clear conscience and a sense of optimism that they could be happy.

  It never came.

  Yet here he was. And here she was. And when he took her hand and pulled her to him, hope bloomed once more.

  “Do you remember when you told me you thought a foundation of friendship to be the basis of a successful marriage?”

  “I do.” Although as his hand slid down her waist to rest on the curve of her hip she found it hard to remember much of anything. Her attraction for this man went beyond anything she had ever experienced before. It made whatever feelings she’d once had for Billingsworth positively laughable.

  “And are we not friends? After everything we have been through?” His words whispered against her skin.

  “I—yes. Yes, we are.” She could not deny it. She felt a kinship with him. A comfort that only came with friendship. Yes, she was attracted to him. Without question. But she also loved to sit and talk with him. To play cards. To laugh and be silly and know she could be herself without being judged harshly or told to change. Outside of Abigail, Benedict and Aunt Lorena, she had never experienced such acceptance before.