Scandal's Child

by Sherrill Bodine

  “Saville, we have yet to finish.”

  “You go ahead without me,” Jules encouraged. “I will take my leave of you tomorrow.”

  With a small salute and another dimpled smile, Lord Thistlewait turned to stagger back into the tap room.

  Taking a deep breath and finding that it did not clear his rather befuddled mind, Jules looked to the third door. Yes, he most definitely needed a good night’s sleep before continuing his journey to the coast. He was past the age of drinking contests with the young bucks downstairs.

  The low-ceilinged room was in darkness except for a small yellow light from the dying embers of the fireplace. Where were the damn candles? The innkeeper should have provided more light than this. Too tired to fuss, Jules felt for the side of the bed and sat gingerly. Not being at his absolute best, and not having the benefit of a valet, he struggled with his Hessians, swearing softly in French.

  Pushing himself to his bare feet he tore off his shirt, tossing it to the floor. He fumbled with several of his trouser buttons, but was only half-finished when he gave up in disgust. Lying back on a pillow he slowly shut his eye. He hadn’t been this far gone since Oxford.

  Which was why, at first, he thought perhaps he was hallucinating when his chamber door burst open and the room suddenly filled with lights and a veritable crowd of shouting people.

  Gwynneth Tutwilliger had never fainted in her life, at least not without careful planning, but at this precise moment she came very close to succumbing to the vapors.

  “Kathryn!”

  “Saville!” Jacko’s roar echoed an instant later.

  Both parties sat up on the bed: Kathryn, looking as if her lashes were weighing too heavily upon her lids, her hair tumbling loose from the ribbon that had held it up under her hat, the lawn shirt she wore half-unbuttoned, as were the breeches that molded her curvy thighs. Saville, his straight black hair falling over the patch covering his left eye, his broad shoulders and muscled chest tawny gold in the firelight, his breeches unbuttoned to barely conceal his manhood.

  “Saville, what is the meaning of this?” Jacko roared, taking a step forward.

  Saville! Lady Tutwilliger’s frantic mind latched on to that name. There could only be one Saville who wore a black riband and possessed a scarred cheek: Jules Devereaux, Comte de Saville, the step-grandson of her old friend, Sybilla, Duchess of Culter.

  All was not lost!

  Lady Tutwilliger flung out her arms, stopping Jacko’s charge toward the bed.

  “Saville, we are so delighted you were here to assist Lady Kathryn when she fell ill!” Lady Tutwilliger praised, and then twirled to the sea of faces staring at her.

  Mariah and Hannah wore the same stricken expression; Jacko’s mouth fell open, as did Gladstone Pennington’s. She seared Sir Percy’s enthralled face with her most penetrating gaze, the one that had shriveled stronger men than this sad rattle. There was no doubt in her mind if she did not act quickly this would be the on-dit of the ton upon Percy’s return to London.

  Marshaling her forces, Gwynneth Tutwilliger pushed fate’s disaster into an acceptable story that could stand circulation.

  “Sir Percy, please ask the innkeeper to send up some strengthening broth for Lady Kathryn. If only one of our horses hadn’t thrown a shoe. We would have arrived with Lady Kathryn and dear Jules would not have had to play nursemaid. But you know how impetuous betrothed couples can be.”

  Sir Percy lifted his brows. “Lady Kathryn and Saville are betrothed?” He had the effrontery to quirk his lip at her.

  “But of course!” Lady Tutwilliger narrowed her eyes. “It is of long, albeit, secret, standing.”

  Under her prolonged gaze he flushed and stepped back. “Of course, my lady. I will order the broth at once.”

  “Go with you, old boy,” Gladstone Pennington sputtered, nearly pushing his friend out the door.

  At their exit, Mariah could no longer contain herself. She rushed, tears streaming down her pinkened cheeks, to her sister’s side and threw a protective arm about her shoulders. Hannah took advantage of the moment and tottered to a small chair in front of the fireplace where she promptly closed her eyes. Jacko impatiently pushed past his godmother to confront the Comte de Saville, who had taken these few moments to redon his lawn shirt, thereby concealing one of the most attractive chests Lady Tutwilliger had ever had the good fortune to glimpse.

  “Sorry for it, Saville. Liked you, but it must be pistols at dawn,” Jacko stated grimly.

  The chorus of feminine shrieks effectively cleared the paralyzing shock that had descended upon Jules since all bedlam had broken loose in his bedchamber.

  “Wretched boy, you can’t duel with your sister’s intended!” shrieked the harridan in the lilac turban.

  The mousy woman in the chair opened her eyes only long enough to breathe, “But, Jacko, you are such a bad shot,” before closing them again.

  The little beauty with the dark curls stamped her foot. “Jacko, you can’t hit the broad side of the barn! I won’t let you do it!”

  “Of course he’s not going to duel!” declared Lady Kathryn, scrambling to her knees to cast them all a pleading look. “There has been a terrible mistake!”

  For the first time Jules took a good look at the reason for all of this lunacy. She was the spitting image of Lord John Thistlewait, except upon more careful examination Jules saw there was a softness about her skin and features that clearly proclaimed her a female. He could see she could easily pass for her brother if she covered the swelling breasts clearly discernible through the fine lawn shirt and concealed the way the breeches curved over her hips and thighs. More often than not, people saw what they expected to see. Obviously she had passed for Lord Thistlewait tonight and somehow had gotten into the wrong room.

  “Your sister is correct, Thistlewait. Obviously she is in the wrong room.”

  “This is the right room! You are in the wrong room at the wrong time!” declared the dark-haired beauty whose flashing aquamarine eyes branded her another Thistlewait. “Now that sad rattle Sir Percy will spread this tale, and my dear Kat will be ruined, all because of you!”

  “Now, Mariah, calm yourself,” the purple turban soothed. She looked squarely at Jules. “Saville, I am Lady Tutwilliger, godmother and only guardian to the Thistlewait children. I’m sure we can effectively squelch any nasty rumors by announcing your engagement to Kathryn in the Gazette.”

  He sent her his most quelling stare. “This is eighteen nineteen, not the dark ages, ma’am. No one can force anyone to marry.” Transferring his gaze to Lord John Thistlewait, he stared into the young, flushed face. “I barely left you more than a quarter of an hour ago. Hardly time to dishonor your sister.”

  Jacko in turn looked at his sister whose pleading face was his undoing. He shook his head, shrugging. “What’s to do, Saville? Damn coil if you ask me.”

  “I know what must be done,” Lady Tutwilliger insisted, thrusting up her bosom that tested her lilac satin gown to its limits. “And I am sure my old friend, Sybilla, Duchess of Culter, will share my feelings.”

  A chill settled over Jules, effectively banishing the last lingering effects of the alcohol he’d consumed. “You know my step-grandmother?”

  “Know her! We have been friends since our come-out together forty years ago. She has written me most glowingly of your half brother, the Marquis of Aubrey, and the new baby. Giles! Yes, that is your nephew’s name, is it not?”

  Jules threw up his head arrogantly and returned Lady Tutwilliger’s stare. “Yes, that is my nephew’s name. You know my family well.”

  “But of course,” Lady Tutwilliger graced him with a wide smile. “So well that I feel sure Sybilla will be delighted that you will be following your brother into the blissful state of matrimony. Such a much more pleasant expectation than the whispers of scandal.”


  Jules feared nothing and no one, for he had faced his darkest hour and survived. He did not fear scandal for himself, but he would do nothing to mar Dominic’s happiness, nor cause pain to the duke and duchess. They had stood by him through much and were his only family.

  “Willy, what are you about?” Lady Kathryn gasped, nearly falling off the bed in her eagerness to rush to her godmother’s side. “Stop this at once!” She cast pleading looks at her siblings, but Jacko glanced away sheepishly, probably glad to be spared an otherwise inescapable duel, and Mariah bowed her head, although Jules could see how she shook with sobs. Finally the lady turned to him. “My lord, please make them all understand!”

  Jules met Lady Kathryn’s impassioned stare with an appraising one of his own.

  She was tall for a woman and possessed a willowy figure that promised riper curves to come. Her golden hair curled in wild exuberance about her beautiful face, and her heavily lashed aquamarine eyes were wide. In their depths he saw fear. This child was as ingenuous as she appeared.

  Jules gave her a brief, reassuring smile. “Lady Tutwilliger, I wish a few moments alone with Lady Kathryn.”

  Kathryn looked stunned at the audacity of the request, but her godmother nodded readily. “I, of course, cannot allow you to be alone in this bedchamber. Hannah shall chaperon. Come along, Mariah. Jacko.”

  Like a mother hen she guided her charges toward the door. Mariah appeared ready to disobey, then gave her sister a long hug before rushing from the room.

  “You have five minutes,” Lady Tutwilliger declared before, head erect, turban plume waving, she swept out the door.

  Jules glanced warily toward Hannah sitting so quietly before the fire.

  “You may speak freely. She is asleep,” Kathryn stated dully.

  And indeed a soft, tentative snore issued forth from that corner.

  Jules could not help smiling. What a hornet’s nest he had tumbled into. He was a man who had seen and done much worse. On the journey here he had mused that his future lay before him. Apparently he had opened the wrong door and found it.

  He stopped in stunned surprise, remembering Mrs. Forbes’s prophesy … The wrong door shall be the right one for you. Right or wrong the die was cast.

  Taking two steps forward he stared straight into Kathryn Thistlewait’s pale, frightened face.

  “My dear Lady Kathryn, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  Chapter 3

  Kat was numb with horror, had been since her entire family burst through the door, and she had discovered herself in bed with a stranger. But his calm acceptance of Lady Tutwilliger’s outrageous suggestion restored her natural spirit.

  “My lord, that’s a terrible idea! We are total strangers!” she argued.

  “Lady Kathryn, in the ton, more often than not, strangers readily become betrothed,” he answered quietly.

  Somehow she must make him see reason! She stared at him. His body was fluid and long. Even though she was not short, his height made him seem to tower above her, and she had to lean back to meet his gaze. The soft firelight revealed raven black hair falling straight across his brow, brushing the top of the patch covering his left eye. Beneath it a faint, white scar swept his high cheekbone to disappear at his temple. His nose was straight, as was his mouth, straight and firm with some strong emotion.

  She set her face in equally firm lines and folded her arms across her breasts. “This entire incident is totally, utterly ridiculous! You and I know nothing untoward happened between us. We must simply make the rest of them all see reason.”

  “Your godmother is suggesting the only course she can see that Society will accept. Even so there will be talk. She knows you must have an impeccable reputation to make any marriage, much less an advantageous one.” His mouth curved into a flicker of a rueful smile, and his gaze was so intensely brown as to appear black. “The ton is a censorious world.”

  Kat knew that, had always known it. Growing up a Thistlewait—the child of the lord who had jilted a duke’s daughter to run off with his gamekeeper’s daughter—insured her early realization of what rumor could do to a life. She was a child of scandal, and only Lady Tutwilliger’s power in the ton, plus the fact that the Thistlewaits were connected to half the upper one hundred, made them acceptable. Kat wasn’t afraid of censure or scandal; she had already survived it.

  Thrusting up her chin, she said as much to the Comte de Saville. “I am not afraid of gossip. I have faced it before.”

  “Your courage does you credit, ma petite. Have you also faced your brother defending your honor?” His voice was tight with frustration. “He will have to call out his friend Allendale to stop the spread of this tale. If he survives that encounter there will be others who will insult you. Your brother will feel honor bound to defend you in the only means possible.”

  She stepped back, clasping her hand to her suddenly hot throat that had swelled with tears. “Jacko can’t duel! He’d be killed,” she whispered, realizing just how serious her predicament was. How could her plan to keep Jacko from running off to the continent have ended so disastrously? Instinct demanded she turn and run from this stranger who seemed as determined as Willy upon this absurd course. She whirled about in frustration and pressed her closed fists into her cheeks, seeking desperate inspiration.

  “We must not put Jacko in the position of defending you.” He continued calmly and, for the first time, a softness sweetened his face. “Lady Kathryn, you do not want this any more than I, but we must agree to avoid an ugly scandal. I realize I am not much of a prize.” So saying he flicked one long thin finger over his cheek. “But I am reasonably fixed and an honorable man. I will make you an unexceptional husband.”

  Kat experienced a jolt of surprise that he should deride himself. She did not think his face unattractive—mysterious, perhaps. Or utterly detached, as if he could pull totally within himself and let nothing or no one reach him. That was not the husband for her. Kat wanted love and laughter, those vague reminiscences of her youth.

  “I’m afraid I have no estate in England, but I do have relatives who will always welcome us.” He shrugged. “Château Saville is rumored to have been beautiful once. I am on my way to France now to oversee its renovation. Perhaps—”

  “But that is of all things wonderful!” Kat interrupted, her mind leaping ahead to the possibilities. “That is the answer to all our problems.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady. What is the answer?” he returned quietly, although his right brow was raised in rather a haughty fashion.

  “Going to France! Yes, it is perfect!” Kat declared, pacing back and forth in her excitement. “We shall let Willy and the ton think we are engaged. You and I, with Jacko and Hannah, of course, will travel to your château. We will stay a fortnight or so. Then we will find that we do not suit. I shall cry off. Jacko, Hannah, and I shall leave, traveling slowly through the continent, thereby satisfying Jacko’s wanderlust. By then Mariah should be happily settled. For you know,” she continued confidingly, “this should be her fourth Season. Papa was so ill the year of her come-out she refused to go. Then he died and we were in mourning so we missed a year. Last Season we were presented together, but she refused the duke, so this year she really must…”

  Kat stopped for breath and looked up to discover the comte’s dazed countenance. “I am sorry. You must think me the veriest peagoose. But, truly, I believe this plan might serve both our needs.”

  He shook his head and moved one step closer. He gave her a real smile, one that turned his mysterious, detached features into something else indeed! He suddenly reminded Kat of every dashing hero in the novels she and Mariah routinely checked out of Hookum’s Lending Library.

  He took her hand, raised it slowly to his lips, and at his touch breathless excitement fluttered in strange parts of Kat’s anatomy.

  “Lady K
athryn, I do not think you a peagoose. And I am perfectly willing to hear what your godmother makes of this plan.”

  “Plan! What plan?” Lady Tutwilliger asked from the doorway. She sailed into the room, Jacko and Mariah following in her wake. Even Hannah opened her eyes and sat up, glancing around in renewed attention.

  “Willy, I have come up with the perfect solution!” Kathryn exclaimed.

  Jules retired to the fireplace to lean one shoulder against the mantel and observe the Thistlewaits in action.

  His betrothed, amazingly he already thought of her in that context, outlined her plan of accompanying him to France. But she did fail to mention her intention to cry off. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow her to do that, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her just now, immediately after her masterful stratagem. In the end, somehow, he would make her understand this marriage would suit them both. He wasn’t quite sure why he had agreed—to keep the scandalmongers from Dominic and his family, who had suffered enough. Yes, he recognized that reason. But there was something more. Jules had truly loved very few people in his life. And certainly after his accident there had been little room in his thoughts for such a soft emotion. But these last months at Culter Towers with his only “family” had exposed yearnings he didn’t think he’d possessed.

  In his world there were very few love matches like Dominic and Juliana. He couldn’t hope for one, so this arrangement with Kathryn Thistlewait would suit was well as any. He could, after all, have a semblance of happiness and family for himself. Besides, he admitted, he was rather fascinated by this unusual young woman with the undeniable streak of daring.

  To Jules’s surprise, Lady Tutwilliger didn’t immediately begin a tirade at the idea of their journey to France. Instead she eyed her charge sternly. “It might well be just the thing. A family wedding at the Saville ancestral estate, only recently restored to its owner.” She considered briefly, her lilac plume nodding in rhythm with one tapping finger. “Charming.”