Six Degrees of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  The summer Olivia turned seventeen, the hints of impending disaster grew ominous. Creditors came to Kellan Hall and demanded to see Sir Alfred, who spent more and more time in his study, the door stoutly barred. Lady Herbert stopped going into town to shop, and instead spent that time sighing over fashion periodicals. One by one servants left or were sacked, and the house grew threadbare. All Daphne’s pleas for new dresses were brusquely refused. And every day Olivia quietly slipped away to Haverstock House, where Jamie had come back from university, now tall and filled out and more handsome than before.

  However, he was no less discerning and direct. “What’s wrong at home, Livie?” he asked one day as they walked into town, where Mrs. Weston had sent her son on an errand. Abigail and Penelope had been squabbling all day and were confined to their rooms to compose essays on familial affection, so Olivia decided to walk with him. Except for brief visits home, Jamie had been gone for three years. As much as she loved Abigail and Penelope, she’d missed him a great deal. It felt right to walk with him again.

  “Why would you think something is wrong?” Olivia affected astonishment. The Westons had never asked, and she had never spoken, about the circumstances at Kellan Hall. She didn’t want anyone to know how her family was sinking. It must be clear to anyone who looked closely, but that didn’t make it less mortifying.

  “I heard things.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “How bad is it?”

  “Now where would you hear things, James Weston?” she asked in exasperation. “You’ve only been back in Sussex a fortnight!”

  He vaulted over a fence and held out his hand to help her climb the stile. “It’s no secret that Sir Alfred has abused his credit with every merchant in town. My parents are worried about you.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t heard.”

  He gave a tsk and shook his head. “You’re not a good liar.”

  “I’m not rude enough to call someone a liar to her face.”

  He didn’t laugh, as she’d expected. “I hope you won’t lie to me.”

  His tone gave her pause. The truth was, she didn’t lie to him. It was impossible anyway, for he could always tell when she tried. “I don’t,” she said softly. “I can’t. So I wish you wouldn’t ask me about home.”

  He studied her face a moment. “It’s that bad?”

  Olivia closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Well.” He seized her hand. “We ought to have some fun.”

  “But your errand!” she protested as he pulled her off the path into the woods.

  He waved it off. “This is more important.”

  Through the woods he led her, past the waterfall, along the stream to the pond in the meadow where they all used to fish and swim before he went away. But today they had no poles or bait. “What now?” she asked, shading her eyes against the glare off the water.

  He pulled off a boot. “Let’s go swimming.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?” His other boot came off and he shucked his coat. “We’ve swum here for years.”

  “That was long ago!” Olivia watched in shock as he took off his waistcoat and began untying his neck cloth. What he said was true, and yet . . . It was different when they were young. Obviously they’d all grown up—but as he stripped, she became exquisitely conscious of how much he had grown.

  “Have you forgotten how to swim?” He pulled his shirt over his head.

  Olivia took a step backward. Heaven help her, she wanted to go swimming with him, but she also felt the wickedest urge to throw her arms around him. She couldn’t tear her eyes off his bare chest, and her lungs seemed to be squeezed in a giant fist. Jamie had been a handsome lad, and was now a devilishly attractive young man. “No.”

  “Coward?”

  “I am not,” she retorted by instinct. One learned quickly that being a coward was not permissible with the Westons.

  “Then into the water with you, dressed or not!”

  She shrieked and danced away from his grasp, then took off her dress and stays. She hung them on a nearby tree for safekeeping and peeled off her stockings and shoes. Jamie had already removed his trousers and dove headlong into the pond, wearing only his drawers. Olivia waded in and soon found herself dunked, splashed, and goaded deeper into the water. They laughed and swam, until Olivia tried to put a lily pad on his head. Jamie vowed revenge and took chase, vowing to throw her into the deep end of the pond.

  He finally caught her and trapped her, her back against his chest. Olivia shrieked and flailed. He yelled as she splashed them both, and lashed his other arm around her. “I got you!” he crowed. “I win!”

  She was laughing so hard tears streamed down her face. “You cheated!” She writhed once more, knowing it was hopeless, and when he tried to grab her tighter, his hand slid over her breast.

  They both went still, panting heavily from the skirmish. Tentatively his fingers moved, swirling over her flesh. Under his thumb her nipple rose firm and eager. Olivia shivered.

  “Livie,” he whispered, his voice somehow deeper than usual, and then he kissed her nape.

  Her breath caught. Who would have guessed that a boy’s lips on the back of her neck could feel so exciting? Her back bowed and her head fell forward. She shut out the little voice in her head warning that this was unbecoming behavior for a baronet’s daughter, and gave herself over to the thrill of being worshipped.

  His lips moved over her skin. “I shouldn’t kiss you,” he whispered next to her ear. “I know it, but I don’t want to stop, Livie . . .”

  She twisted in his embrace. “Don’t stop.” She wound her arms around his neck and exulted as his mouth claimed hers almost before she finished speaking. It was everything a girl’s first kiss should be: gentle and sweet and given by the boy she loved.

  His arms shifted, lifting her higher. She giggled until he kissed her again. Buoyed by the water, her legs rose and curled around his waist. His shoulders heaved, and his hands went to her hips, pulling her tightly against him, and Olivia felt the contact with some astonishment. She broke the kiss and raised her head. Jamie met her gaze, his own eyes wide and clear. His mouth was set in a firm white line and he seemed to be having trouble controlling his breathing.

  “I’m going to walk out of the pond,” he said in that too-deep voice.

  If they got out of the water, her soaked chemise would cling transparently to her body. Already she could feel his skin through the thin linen. He was warm and solid and still held her as if he feared to let go. This was truly unbecoming—even immodest—behavior, but without a word she nodded.

  He sloshed out of the water with long, careful strides. Olivia’s heart skipped a beat as the breeze blew across her wet skin and made her shiver. Jamie noticed, but he didn’t laugh or tease her. As soon as he reached the thick tall grasses a few feet from the water, he lowered himself to his knees, still holding her wrapped around him. “Livie,” he said, his hazel eyes boring into hers, “if you want to put your dress on, you should run and fetch it.”

  “If I don’t?” she whispered.

  He swallowed. “Then I’ll kiss you again and again.”

  A smile broke across her face. “I want you to.” He blinked, and she blushed. “Please.”

  So he did. They tumbled into the sun-warmed grass and explored each other with gentle touches and caresses that grew increasingly bold. He made her giggle and she made him squirm. In the warmth of the day their undergarments dried quickly, which caused her chemise to ride up until his hand landed on her bare knee.

  “Livie.” He seemed mesmerized by the feel of her skin. He traced the shape of her knee, his fingertips swirling over it. “Livie, do you know about making love?”

  “Ah—oh,” she said awkwardly. Elizabeth Miller, who was only a year older than Olivia but already married, had regaled a number of young ladies in town about the secrets of wedded life. “A—a little. Have you . . . Have you done it?” Her face grew hot just asking the question.

  Jamie blushed, too, all the way do
wn his neck. “No.” He drew a delicate line along her thigh, nudging the chemise higher. “I think of doing it with you, though, all the time. You’ve grown up so beautiful.”

  Her heart seemed to swell with happiness. No one at her house thought she was beautiful; that was Daphne, the golden child. And this wasn’t just anyone telling her she was beautiful, it was Jamie, whom she’d loved since she was ten years old. “I love you, Jamie,” she blurted.

  He looked at her, not astonished but pleased. “And I love you. Have forever.”

  She gasped, then gave a laugh of pure delight. “You do?”

  “You didn’t know?” He sounded wounded.

  “You never said!”

  He grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling at her from underneath the wild tangle of his still-drying hair. “I just did.” The grin faded. “And I can’t stop thinking of you. All the time I was gone, Livie. I missed you.”

  “I thought making love was something only married people did,” she said nervously. Elizabeth’s stories of great pleasure and shocking delights echoed in her mind. It was tempting—so very tempting—but also daunting.

  He didn’t seem frightened in the slightest. “I always knew I’d marry you someday. You’re the best girl in England, Livie.”

  Olivia’s mouth fell open. “You—you want to marry me?”

  Jamie winked. “Of course I do!” She scowled, and he tried to subdue his cocksure grin. “I should have asked with more dash. Or with poetry. Girls like poetry, don’t they? ‘If only you will marry me, how very happy we will be.’” Olivia snorted with laughter. He gathered her closer. “‘If you decide to answer yes, I would then take off your dress.’ ” His fingers ran up her thigh again as she gasped in exaggerated indignation—and a deep and primitive pulsing excitement. “‘You have the finest bosom in Britain, and I would like to kiss your skin.’”

  “That’s horrid!” Olivia was laughing so hard she could hardly speak.

  “I hope you mean the poetry and not the sentiment.” He caught her as she tried to squirm away, holding her against him. The motion sent his hand sliding up her leg, higher and higher until Olivia abruptly froze. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. His fingers were right there, brushing a very private place, and for a moment the tantalizing touch made her breath catch.

  Jamie had also gone still. Slowly, gently, he ran his fingertips over her skin, gliding up the inside of her thigh but stopping short. Olivia’s whole body twitched as those fingers trailed back down. He started to tug her chemise hem down. “I’m sorry, Livie—” he began, his voice hoarse and strained.

  “No.” She twisted to face him. “I want to marry you, too.” She placed her hand against his bare chest. “I do, Jamie. Yes.”

  He threw back his head and gave a whoop before snatching her against him, even as she laughed. He held her close and kissed her neck and face profusely until she beat on his shoulders with her fists. “Stop,” she gasped between peals of laughter. “Stop!” He did, and she caught her breath. He was so handsome like this, tousled and bare-chested, and she’d never felt so happy. “Make love to me.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Truly?”

  She nodded, her heart bursting with love. Her father would give permission—the Weston wealth would ensure that, if nothing else—and then she would be a Weston, with Jamie to make her laugh and kiss her senseless and satisfy this new craving of her body. “I want you to make love to me.”

  “Far be it from me to refuse a lady.” He pulled the drawstring on her chemise. “The fellows at university said it takes practice to do this properly.”

  “If you don’t know how it’s done,” she began, but he cut her off, sliding over her and pressing a kiss on her mouth. The feel of his body on top of hers stopped any other protest.

  “I’m a quick study,” he promised, and then he set about proving it, learning which touches made her giggle and which ones made her twist and sigh in longing. Her chemise came off, then his drawers, and under the bright Sussex sun he made love to her. It was joyful, if a little awkward, and hurt a bit at first, but he cradled her against him and moved so tenderly she clung to him until he shouted and flung back his head in ecstasy. And when he realized she hadn’t found that same rapture, he started all over again, testing and tormenting every inch of her skin until he learned the secret and left her weak and trembling and absolutely dazed with adoration for the young man holding her.

  “Oh my,” she gasped as he collapsed on the ground beside her. “Oh my, Jamie. That was . . .”

  “Brilliant?” He opened his eyes a little and gave her a triumphant, lazy smile. “I agree. Just wait until we’ve got some practice.”

  Later he walked her home, hand in hand, and told her his plans—as usual, Jamie had a plan, and it was a grand one. He’d been learning from his father and wanted to make his own investments. Mr. Weston had promised him a generous amount of capital, and Jamie said he could provide for a wife within a year. Olivia blushingly agreed they would wait, although not perhaps without more of that wonderful lovemaking, and he left her with a scorching kiss at the lane to Kellan Hall. Olivia barely felt the overgrown lane under her feet: she was in love, engaged to be married, and everything in life was perfect.

  Her mother caught her returning to the house. “Olivia Herbert! What happened to your dress?”

  Olivia blushed—it had spent the afternoon flung over a tree branch, and looked it.

  “And your hair!” Her mother peered closer and frowned. “What were you doing at Haverstock House?”

  “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Jamie was sent into town, and I walked with him . . .”

  “And where did you walk that you come home looking as though you’ve been rolling in the grass?” exclaimed Lady Herbert. And then she stopped. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened in a silent O. Before Olivia could say a single explanatory word, her mother seized her arm and hurried her into the nearby parlor, closing the door behind them. “Did that boy take liberties with you?” her mother demanded. “Do not lie to me.”

  Happiness still sizzled in her veins. When she married Jamie, she wouldn’t have to live with her parents anymore, and hear how much her mother preferred Daphne’s looks to hers, or listen to her father complain about the cost of two daughters. She would have a home with someone who loved her—a whole family of people who loved her—and she need never return to Kellan Hall. “I’m in love,” she boldly said. “And he loves me, Mother.”

  Lady Herbert caught her arm in a fierce grip. “Did he tumble you? You have the look of it about you.”

  Olivia felt her face grow hot. She pulled loose of her mother’s hold. “He wants to marry me.”

  “Does he, now?”

  “Yes, and I know Father won’t refuse, because Mr. Weston’s promised Jamie a very handsome sum now that he’s finished his studies at university.” Lady Herbert fell back, blinking. Olivia felt invincible. “I’m engaged to him, Mother, and I begged him to make love to me. I know he’s not the viscount you used to dream I would wed, but you’ve still got Daphne. Perhaps Mr. Weston will be generous in the settlements and you’ll be able to take her to London for a Season as you always hoped.”

  Instead of shrieking or scolding, Lady Herbert clapped her hands together. “Olivia,” she choked. “Oh, my dear! You’ll be the saving of us!” And she threw her arms around her daughter.

  For the next few days she was her parents’ favorite child. Lady Herbert kept her at home, saying she must make the young man come to her. Daphne, who had already been promised a Season as a result of Olivia’s impending marriage, was loving and sweet. Even Father clasped her in his arms and called her “dear child,” promising to wait at home every day until Jamie came to ask his permission.

  The only thing that came to Kellan Hall, however, was a note. Olivia’s heart fluttered as she tore it open and saw Jamie’s familiar handwriting, sharp and sprawling from the speed with which he wrote . . . that he was leaving for a few weeks and going into Wiltshire to see a
canal where his father was considering investing. He closed the note with his usual farewell, and if he hadn’t written her name with the O looking vaguely like a heart, she would have thought it was a letter from any passing acquaintance. Still, she trusted him, so she put the letter aside, and when her parents asked why he hadn’t come yet, she told them the truth. Truth, she had been taught from birth, was virtuous, and obedient children never lied to their parents.

  But before long, Olivia realized that was precisely the worst thing she could have done.

  Chapter 3

  Her father barged into her room two days later. “Did you lie to me?” he demanded.

  “What? No!”

  He raised his hand as if he would strike her, but only curled his fingers into a trembling fist. “About the Weston boy,” he snarled. “I’ve just been to Haverstock House and Thomas Weston has no idea his son is engaged to marry you.”

  Olivia gaped, more at her father’s fury than at Jamie’s actions. Jamie had never lied to her. “But—no, Father, he did. I swear to you! Perhaps he didn’t tell his father yet, but I’m sure when he returns he’ll explain everything—”

  He slapped her. “He’s not expected back for weeks, perhaps months! When is this wedding to take place?”

  “Not for another year,” she cried, cowering away from him. “We agreed—he won’t have enough income until then—”

  “I cannot wait a year!” He grabbed her shoulders. “Did he put a babe in your belly?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed.

  Sir Alfred pushed her away, and she toppled onto the bed behind her. “If he has, this will all end well,” he muttered. “If not . . .” He shook his head and stalked from the room.