A Taste for Scandal

by Brenda Hiatt

  When Lady Killerby wished to retire, the two Misses Melks took turns at the pianoforte. Violet was also invited to serve that office, but as her skill on the instrument was merely passable, she demurred. After another set or two, increasingly audible rumbles of thunder induced several guests to take their leave. By midnight, only those staying at Ivy Lodge remained.

  As the inmates of the house made their way upstairs, Violet tried to catch Lord Rushford’s eye in hopes of again engaging him in conversation but he was sharing some jest with Sir Charles and did not even glance her way.

  By the next morning, the ominous thunder-rumbling of the night before had fulfilled its portent with a cold, steady rain. Gazing out of his bedchamber window at the gray sheets of water sluicing past, Rush stifled a curse.

  After some rather unsettling dreams, he’d hoped riding the Quorn would clear his mind. Unless the weather took a dramatic change for the better within the hour, though, the hunt would almost certainly be canceled. Over breakfast, the others expressed equal dismay at the weather.

  “Knew it was too good to last,” Killer said morosely. “It still seems monstrous unfair. I’ve had precious few hunts this season as it is.”

  “It’s your own fault you missed so many,” Uppingwood reminded him, his own disappointment no doubt making him more impolitic than usual. “If you hadn’t disregarded everyone’s advice about that brute of a horse—”

  Miss Turpin entered the room just then, cutting short what would almost certainly have developed into an altercation. “Do you think the weather will prevent the Quorn from running today?”

  “Looks pretty likely, at this point.” Stormy got up to assist her. “I just hope this infernal rain stops in time for the Cottesmore tomorrow.”

  “So do I, for your sake. Alas, Grant has said this will be our last day at Ivy Lodge.” With an audible sigh, she moved to the sideboard to fill a plate.

  She looked Rush’s way on returning, but he felt it wisest not to notice after conversing rather too familiarly with her the night before. When she took a seat further along the table and began to eat with a frown on her winsome face, he told himself it was for the best.

  Miss Turpin’s animation returned when Thor and his wife appeared a few moments later. “Ah, here you are at last. Do you think we might stay here an extra day if this rain causes the Quorn to be canceled? I should love to join the Cottesmore one more time.”

  “Sorry, Vi,” he replied. “After her indisposition last night, I’d like to get Dina back to Ashcombe sooner rather than later. I did hope for a last hunt today, however. Think you Assheton Smith will allow his hounds to run in this rain?” he asked the others.

  That returned the conversation to its original topic, predictions becoming increasingly gloomy as the rain continued unabated. Finally, just as the first few were leaving the table, a drenched footman arrived from Mr. Assheton Smith himself to regretfully inform them that the Quorn was indeed canceled for today.

  With that settled, the gentlemen unhappily dispersed—some to the billiard room, others to the parlor to play at cards or to their own chambers to read or nap.

  Rush decided he might as well finish the business correspondence he’d begun before last night’s ball, after which he could make a visit to the stables to see how Nimbus got on. Though his groom had made fair progress with the ill-tempered gelding since his purchase, Rush felt it was time to take a hand in the horse’s training himself.

  “Thank you, Brigid.” Violet pulled on the sturdy boots her maid had just extracted from the bottom of her trunk. “I’m sure I’ll need to change into something dry for luncheon, so please have my blue cambric laid out for my return.”

  Leaving the chamber, she tripped downstairs and out of the front door of Ivy Lodge to hurry through the still-driving rain toward the stables. As there was no hunt to finish out her time in the Shires, she might as well visit the dog kennel again. She was eager to see whether Duchess, another of her brother’s foxhounds, had whelped. On Sunday she had seemed fairly near her time.

  The warm, dry stables felt like a sanctuary from the downpour when she reached it. Removing her bonnet, she shook the water off it. Then, much as a dog might, she vigorously shook out her wet hair. At a muffled oath, she wheeled around in alarm, dripping strands trailing across her face.

  “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed at the sight of Lord Rushford. “I had no idea you were there.”

  “No, I didn’t imagine you doused me intentionally.” He brushed the droplets she’d scattered from his coat. “Though there was a moment last evening when I suspect you’d have liked to.”

  She grinned. “When you ridiculed my taste in reading while professing yourself ignorant of the genre? Yes, rather.”

  That drew a chuckle from him. “I am forced to concede that you made a fair point. I would have little patience with someone who maligned Homer, for example, without having read him.”

  “I take it you have?”

  “Of course.” He seemed surprised she would ask. “Most of the Greek classics were required reading at school.”

  Violet narrowed her eyes mischievously. “Then I see you have misled me, my lord. You insisted last night you have never read works of romance, yet Homer is quite rife with it.”

  “Do you mean to say you are familiar with his works?” He raised a skeptical brow.

  Her determination to further challenge his thinking instantly revived. “Surely you cannot imagine a scholar of my father’s caliber neglected Homer in my curriculum? Indeed, it was dear old Homer who first kindled my interest in romantic adventures. Before I discovered more contemporary novelists and poets, Homer and Catullus were my chief pleasures among my various studies. Far more enjoyable than geography and mathematics, at any rate.”

  She was gratified to see dawning respect in his eyes. “Clearly your education was more thorough than I realized, Miss Turpin. I rather assumed your knowledge of Homer was limited to Keats’ most recent sonnet.”

  “His paean to Chapman’s Homer, you mean? He did wax rather lyrical on that translation, did he not? So much so, I doubt he ever read the original.”

  “Have you?” Lord Rushford’s astonishment was obvious.

  “Certainly.”

  “In Greek?”

  She gave him a patient look. “That is the original, is it not? How else to peruse it untainted by some later translator’s liberties?”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “I owe you an apology, Miss Turpin, for I see now I’ve been guilty of making unwarranted assumptions about you. But tell me, what brings you to the stables in such inhospitable weather?”

  Deeming it best not to dwell on her triumph, Violet submitted to the change of topic.

  “I wished to see whether Duchess had whelped yet, and to visit with the other dogs, and the horses. Both hold more charm for me than billiards—not that my brother would likely allow me to play at them, anyway.”

  “I should rather hope not. Or am I to learn you are proficient in that as well?”

  “Proficient? No. I cannot claim to be more than passable, though it is safe to say I have more skill at billiards than at the pianoforte, much to my mother’s dismay.”

  He laughed. “I apprehend you have little patience for the accomplishments generally expected of young ladies?”

  “That is putting it rather mildly,” she confessed with an answering smile. “Nor were two years at Miss Gebhart’s Seminary sufficient to change my mind on that score, which I doubt not was my mother’s goal in sending me there. What the devil use is painting tables and netting purses anyway, if you will pardon my language? Perhaps if ladies were allowed to sell their creations, there would be some utility in such skills. But to spend hours upon hours creating indifferent works for visitors to insincerely admire seems a colossal waste of time that could be spent on more worthy pursuits.”

  “I…see.”

  Belatedly realizing that she had scandalized him, Violet turned away in mingled exasperation and embarrassme
nt. Had she just undone all her progress in capturing his interest? Seeking a safer topic, her gaze fell upon the horse nearest them.

  “This is Nimbus, is it not? The horse you bought from Lord Killerby?”

  He turned to regard the animal. “It is. I recommend keeping your distance, for he is still rather an ill-tempered brute.”

  “Is he?” She lifted a hand toward the enormous bay gelding but quickly withdrew it when his ears swiveled backwards. She was quite familiar enough with horses to recognize that danger signal. “Yes, you are, aren’t you? Poor thing. Who instilled such mistrust in you?”

  “According to Miss Seaton, er, Lady Anthony, he was abused by a previous owner, though her cousin’s treatment likely made him even worse. Without her intervention, I doubt he could ever have been ridden at all.”

  “But now he can be?” It was Violet’s turn to be skeptical.

  “Not by just anyone, as proven by Killer’s injury. Only Lady Anthony can ride him in perfect safety, though my groom and I have now managed it a few times. It has taken considerable time and effort to win his trust, however.”

  To demonstrate, Lord Rushford reached up to stroke Nimbus’s nose. This time the horse’s ears remained forward, though he still eyed Violet warily.

  “He is lucky to have found an owner willing to make that effort. Not many would, I fear.”

  “You are likely right, but I have always enjoyed a challenge. I believe Nimbus will eventually prove to be worth the time invested, though my fondness for horses may color my judgment somewhat.”

  Violet could hardly fault him for that. In fact, it revealed a side of him she had not expected—one that made him even more appealing. “Are you equally fond of dogs, Lord Rushford?” she could not resist asking.

  He lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps not equally. I like them quite well, but horses have been my passion since I was a lad. It’s why I went into the cavalry.”

  She was tempted to point out that he was fortunate to be a man, that such an option was open to him, but didn’t wish to spoil their current accord. Instead, she moved toward the kennels at the rear of the stable block. “Has my brother’s third bitch whelped yet, do you know?”

  “Two days since. Did you not know? I’m sure he mentioned it at dinner, though now I think on it, the ladies may have already withdrawn.”

  At this welcome news, Violet quickened her pace. “Splendid. How many—ah, five, it appears.” She peered down into the straw-lined box where the dainty brown-and-white Duchess lay nursing her brood.

  “Aye, the groom said she birthed six, but one was stillborn. The remaining pups appear healthy enough, however.”

  “They do indeed.” Violet knelt beside the box to stroke a tiny, silky back with one finger. Carefully gauging Duchess’s reaction, she gently lifted the pup to examine it more closely.

  “A dog, I perceive. Did Farrell say what sexes the others are?” She would not test Duchess’s patience by examining them all just now.

  “All dogs but one, as I recall. The stillborn pup was the only other bitch in the litter.”

  Nodding, she settled the still-blind creature back by his mother.

  “No doubt Grant was somewhat disappointed at that ratio, for I know he hopes to add more famous bloodlines to his pack, as he did by putting the Duke of Belvoir’s Rounder to Princess. He says all six pups from that mating already show great promise.”

  Lord Rushford knelt next to her as she continued to stroke the nursing pups. “You seem nearly as knowledgable about foxhounds as your brother, Miss Turpin.”

  She shrugged, disturbingly aware of his nearness. “I adore dogs and took over their care whenever my brother was from home, over my mother’s objections. I also made a point of studying their bloodlines, for I should dearly love to establish a pack of my own someday.”

  Though she knew it was craven, she kept her focus on the puppies to avoid seeing his probable reaction to such an unorthodox statement.

  “Do you know, I truly believe you could.”

  At the frank admiration in his voice, she looked up, startled. Instead of the disapproval she’d expected, he was gazing at her with a bemused, puzzled expression. Her earlier suspicion that he was attracted to her revived. Could it be that he held himself in check out of concern that Grant might not approve?

  There was but one way to find out—and she might never have a better opportunity than this. Greatly daring, she rose up on her knees, then, when he did not immediately draw back, threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

  He froze for an instant, but then his lips softened under hers. For two, possibly three ecstatic seconds, she reveled in his kiss, before he broke away with a look of horror on his face.

  “I…I beg your pardon, Miss Turpin!”

  “Violet. Please.” She smiled up at him, determined to show she had taken no offense. After all, she had been the one to—

  “Miss Turpin,” he repeated, his tone now more formal than she had yet heard it, the censure she had earlier expected now clear in his expression. “I apologize if I somehow gave you the mistaken impression that I wished to be more than your friend, for I fear that is quite impossible. I give you good day, madam.”

  With one swift motion he rose, then stalked out of the stables and into the rain without a single backward glance.

  Violet stared after him, her cheeks burning with mingled anger and embarrassment. For one lovely moment she’d been sure she was right, but apparently her mad impulse had only provoked an equally mad response, and one he instantly regretted.

  Had she completely misread his feelings, seeing only what she wished to see? It seemed so. Willfully blind to the truth, she had wantonly thrown herself at him…and he had rejected her in no uncertain terms.

  How could she ever face him again?

  To avoid doing so for as long as possible, she turned back to Duchess and the puppies, her eyes prickling with unshed tears of humiliation and disappointment.

  Chapter Five

  Heedless of the continuing downpour, Rush strode up the hill toward Ivy Lodge, determined to put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible. Halfway there, however, he paused, recalling the stricken look on Violet’s face when he pushed her away. That memory would likely torment him even more than the sweetness of her kiss. How could he have been so careless?

  Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he resumed squelching through the mud, thinking hard. What the devil was he to do now? His unthinking response to her unexpected kiss must have revealed how much he desired her. To pretend otherwise now would invite her ridicule and scorn—or, worse, wound her even more deeply than his haughty leave-taking just now had done.

  But…what choice did he have? His hasty decision last summer to offer for Miss Simpson, prudent as it had seemed at the time, now left him in a bind of his own making.

  If Violet told Thor what had happened, he would feel honor-bound to offer for her even though she had been the one to initiate that kiss. He could—should—have pulled back at once. Or, far better, he should have prevented it happening at all. That he had not made him as much to blame as she.

  Oddly, the thought of taking the unconventional Violet Turpin to wife, even at her brother’s insistence, did not bother him nearly so much as it should. This incident only proved how headstrong and impulsive she was—in other words, a most unsuitable countess.

  Unlike biddable Miss Simpson, she would never be content to live quietly at his estate in the country, raising his heirs while he pursued business and pleasure elsewhere. Surely he owed it to his family, his name and his mother’s memory to marry a woman he could train up to be a model of propriety. A woman like Miss Simpson.

  Of course, his engagement to Miss Simpson would not, strictly speaking, become official until her father either returned from India or sent a letter expressing his consent. Given that, if Thor should insist…

  Remembering Violet’s expression as he left her, however, Rush rather doubted she wo
uld mention the incident to her brother. More likely, pique or embarrassment would lead her to behave as though their kiss in the stables had never happened—in which case he would do the same.

  Why that thought produced a hollow feeling in his chest, he preferred not to examine.

  Though he had resolved to take his cue from her, Rush had no opportunity to do so. She did not return from the stables until after luncheon, then had a tray in her room rather than come down to dinner. Though she claimed to be too busy packing, Rush felt sure that her real reason was to avoid encountering him.

  To prevent his thoughts from guiltily dwelling on her absence, Rush joined the dinner conversation about the prospects for tomorrow’s hunt.

  “It has scarcely rained at all since late this afternoon,” Killer opined hopefully.

  “True,” Rush said. “It will be heavy going with the ground so wet, and the farmers won’t like it, but that hasn’t stopped Lonsdale in the past.”

  The others cheerfully agreed, everyone’s spirits noticeably brighter than they had been all day. Unfortunately, rather than serve as a distraction, the discussion reminded Rush of how well Violet had ridden in her last hunt.

  Shaking his thoughts free of her—again—he tried to focus on the conversation around him. He was moderately successful until he rose to accompany the others from the dining room after the traditional port and cigars—and Thor put a hand on his shoulder.

  “A private word?”

  Rush’s heart sank. Had Miss Turpin mentioned that encounter in the stables after all? Firming his resolve to do the right thing should it become necessary, he took a deep breath and turned to face his friend. “Of course.”