“No.” He looked away. “You’ll sort out why soon enough.”
“That’s very mysterious,” she muttered.
“My apologies. It wasn’t meant to be.” They had finally come in sight of the house. “Run in and fetch a maid.”
She frowned at being so carelessly ordered about. “Please come in, sir. My mother will wish to thank you for saving her darling.”
He sighed. “Your thanks are enough.” He stopped and shifted Milo, who had begun wriggling as they drew close to home. “Shh,” he said again to the puppy, who quieted a little. “He’ll run off if I let him go.”
“Give him to me, then.” Again she put out her arms for the dog.
This time there was nothing glancing about his gaze. It ranged over her hair, pinned up with sprigs of jasmine, over her face, then slowly down her figure right to the tips of her green satin slippers. Abigail was immobilized by the intensity of it, even though he did nothing but look.
“He’ll ruin your gown,” he said. “I didn’t carry him all the way here only to dirty you up at the end. You look too lovely to spoil.”
She was saved from a reply by the appearance of her brother, striding around the house. At the sight of them he paused for half a step, then came to join them. “Abigail! There you are. Mother was growing worried.”
“Milo ran into the woods and this gentleman was kind enough to fetch him for me.” She turned a challenging look on the stranger. Surely he would have to introduce himself now.
“Very kind of you, sir.” James bowed. “James Weston, at your service.”
The stranger’s eyes slid toward her again before he returned James’s bow. “Sebastian Vane of Montrose Hill.”
“Thank you for bringing my sister home.” James gave the puppy a black look. “I wish I could say the same for the rat.”
“He’s not a rat,” protested Abigail, even though she’d had several unkind thoughts about Milo herself. “Mama loves him, as you know well.”
“That has nothing to do with it. He’s a rat catcher, and if he weren’t a ‘darling ball of fluff,’ he’d be in the stables doing just that,” James retorted, mimicking Penelope’s description of the dog.
“He would probably prefer that as well.” Mr. Vane held out the squirming puppy and let James take him. “Good evening, sir.”
“Won’t you come in? My mother will want to express her thanks.” James reluctantly took Milo, holding the muddy pup away from his coat. Milo wagged his tail, his little pink tongue hanging happily out of his mouth.
“Your sister has already extended a kind invitation to do so, but I must decline.” He tipped his broad-brimmed hat. “Good evening, Miss Weston. Mr. Weston.” This time he barely looked at her as he turned on his heel and limped away, the big black dog still silently trotting in his wake.
“Well,” said James as he disappeared back down the path. “A conquest already.”
Abigail scowled at him. “You mean of Milo’s? I assure you, the man could hardly stand to look at me. He wouldn’t even tell me his name.”
Her brother grinned. “I’m only teasing, Abby. Sebastian Vane! I gather he’s a recluse. Mother was surprised when he declined the invitation to the ball, but Father assured her Vane never goes out.”
“Why not?” Abigail turned to look after him. She could believe he was a recluse; he seemed unaccustomed to talking at all. But there had been something in his eyes, that last time he looked at her, something almost like longing. As if he’d wanted to accept her invitation, but couldn’t. And he’d called her lovely.
James shrugged. “I think he’s fallen on hard times. The limp probably doesn’t help. If a man can’t dance and can’t afford to make a good appearance . . .”
“Oh.” Abigail continued to stare toward the woods, even though Mr. Vane had long since vanished. “That needn’t make one a recluse.”
“Men have pride, Abby,” he said. “And I know Mother will think it very bad of you to linger out here while she’s greeting everyone in Richmond. Chop, chop, dear sister.”
“For that, you can take care of Milo.” She smiled sweetly at his expression. “Do scrub all that mud out of his ears, would you?”
She left him frowning at the little dog and went into the house, where she whisked up the back stairs to her room. A quick glance in the mirror showed she had leaves in her hair and some loose pins, but only a few streaks of dirt on her hem. A quick brushing removed most of it, and she sat down at her dressing table to fix her hair.
A recluse. Why? He might have fallen on hard times, but his house was gracious and beautiful, a handsome brick mansion. One could easily see it, for it sat on the ridge of the hill that rose beyond Hart House. And he was handsome enough—even without counting his reserve—that most girls would overlook a limp, if they noticed it at all. When he used the cane it was almost imperceptible. Even more, Abigail didn’t sense he wanted to be a recluse. He could have held back when she was chasing Milo and avoided her entirely; she hadn’t noticed him at all until he spoke to her. He hadn’t needed to walk her back to the house. He hadn’t needed to give her that long, appraising look at the end, as though he was drinking in every facet of her appearance . . .
Well. If balls were good for anything, they were good for gossip. Surely a man as mysterious as Sebastian Vane would have inspired some whispers. She pinned one last sprig of loose jasmine into her hair and went down the stairs, determined to find out.
Chapter 3
Sebastian knew he was in trouble the minute the girl came crashing through the trees.
It wasn’t just that she interrupted his solitary walk, where he tried yet again to force his injured leg to bear more of his weight. The doctors had told him it would always be weaker than the other, but he refused to accept that, even after seven years. Every evening he took a long walk over his property, gritting his teeth against the pain as he forced himself to walk evenly, if slowly, trying to will away the damage caused by French bullets.
It also wasn’t because he’d recognized at once that he would have to help her. She was dressed for a ballroom, not a thicket choked with bracken and thorn bushes. Her pale green dress shimmered in the fading sunlight, and the ribbons at her neckline fluttered as she hurried around trees and stumbled over rocks. She was as lovely and bright as a fairy, flitting through the shady forest, and for a moment he’d been mesmerized.
But he truly knew he was doomed when she looked up at him and he saw her face. Her skin was as fine and lustrous as a pearl against the auburn curls clustered atop her head. Her pink lips had parted in surprise when she saw him, but it was her eyes that slew him: fine gray eyes, thickly lashed and wide with amazement and curiosity and no trace of alarm or censure. Sebastian had said a quiet curse then. Those eyes could enslave a man. His father had told him as much once, but then he’d gone mad, so Sebastian had suspected it was only the lunacy speaking.
Now he knew it wasn’t.
He’d tried to avoid saying much of anything as he pulled her dog from the mud beneath a thorn bush, where the puppy’s long fur had got snagged. It had been difficult not to look at her as they walked back to Hart House, and she tried to entice him into conversation. Sebastian had learned that conversations usually led to more gossip about him, always unflattering, and he had no idea if Miss Weston would be able to hold her tongue.
But he realized at the end that she really had no idea who he was, or what his terrible history was, and for a brief, burning moment he’d been tempted . . . before, fortunately, her brother arrived and saved him from making a fool of himself.
Still, he couldn’t think of anything but her on the long, dark walk home. Usually he liked the woods. They were quiet and wild, a neglected gully of land straddling his remaining property and the grounds of Hart House. The last owner of Hart House had been an older widowed lady who rarely left the manicured lawns overlooking the
river. Lady Burton had implicitly ceded these woods to him; on the rare occasions they met, she gave him a regal nod, acknowledging him without inviting any closer acquaintance. He would have to remember that Hart House belonged to someone else now, and he must keep away. Most likely Miss Weston’s foray into the woods had been a chance thing, inspired only by the runaway terrier, but he couldn’t risk meeting her again.
Boris snuffled at his heels, prodding him out of his thoughts. The boar hound nudged his good knee, as if to propel him forward.
“I know,” he told the dog, lifting the cane off the ground. He carried it in case he needed it, if his shattered knee should ever give way. A dull ache began to burn in his leg as he walked on without leaning on the cane, but he let his mind drift back to the wry way Miss Weston pursed her lips, and the pain seemed a little less present.
When he reached the top of the hill, he turned back. From here he could see part of Hart House, ablaze with lights. It seemed he had been one of the few to send his regrets in response to the invitation. What was she doing now, he wondered; dancing with all the eligible young bucks in the neighborhood? Flirting with the few noblemen who might have come? There were sure to be some. And it was hard to imagine they wouldn’t all be enchanted by an auburn-haired fairy with a luminous smile.
Sebastian heard the gossip, even if he didn’t like to be the gossip. Hart House had been bought by a nouveau riche man named Weston. There was some uncertainty about how he’d made his fortune—speculation, the Exchange, or perhaps one enormous wager with the Earl of Hastings—but there was no doubt that it was a large one. He had two daughters and a son, all of whom had very comfortable expectations. This was enough to have his daughters deemed beauties, sight unseen. Although, at least in one case, the gossips had been absolutely right. Miss Abigail Weston was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen.
She was also young, innocent, and wealthy. Beauty and innocence had no place in his life, and while the wealth would be a welcome change, he knew that was as likely as the King coming to call on him. He would just have to avert his eyes when she passed and remind himself of the myriad reasons why she wasn’t for him.
He let himself into the house, feeling around for the flint and candle on the shelf behind the door. When he’d struck a light, he went through the dark corridor into the drawing room. He shed his coat and hat before finally sinking into the old leather chair with a barely restrained groan of relief. The walk home from Hart House had been longer than his usual ramble, and his leg throbbed.
“There you are!” Mrs. Jones, his housekeeper, swept into the room. “I was beginning to worry about you, young man!”
He grinned without opening his eyes. “No, you weren’t. Boris would have dragged me home.”
“As if that’s supposed to be some comfort. Take those boots off, and let me bring your supper.” She snapped her fingers at Boris, who was sitting alertly near the door. “Food in the kitchen for you, Boris.” At the word “food” the big dog leapt up as nimbly as a puppy and galloped from the room, his paws echoing on the wooden floors.
“I expect you’ll need a dose of laudanum tonight,” Mrs. Jones said to him in reproof.
Sebastian pictured Abigail Weston again, holding her skirts close around her hips and baring her slender legs from the knee down. “Not really, no.”
“There’s no need to endure a night of agony,” she told him as she collected his hat and coat. “Don’t be a fool. I’ll have Mr. Jones draw you a nice hot bath, and bring your dinner upstairs.” She went into the hall, calling to her husband.
It was his usual routine. He would walk until he exhausted himself, and Mrs. Jones would fuss over him like a mother over a toddler. Sometimes he merely endured it; sometimes he was glad of it. Every now and then he just wanted everyone to go away and leave him in peace. Every now and then he wanted to live someone else’s life and see if there really was happiness to be found in the world. If he were a different man, he could be at Hart House right now. He could see her smile, see the candlelight shine on her hair, even touch her hand and hold her in his arms for a dance. For a moment his thoughts drifted . . .
But then he gave himself a shake. He was going as mad as his father, imagining that. He was who he was, Mad Michael Vane’s son, the one with the ruined leg and the bankrupt estate. The one who had nothing to offer any woman, as he’d learned only too well. The one who couldn’t dance if he wanted to. He didn’t even own decent evening clothes anymore. Miss Weston would be glad of her escape once she heard a bit of the gossip in town.
He pushed himself out of the chair with a grimace. He hobbled up the stairs toward his room, where Mrs. Jones was dragging the old bathing tub toward the fire while her husband heated water in the kitchen below. If he didn’t have a soak in the hot bath, he’d be all but crippled on the morrow. In an hour she’d bring up some supper, cold chicken and boiled potatoes with a mug of ale. There was no money for wine anymore. He would soak in the hot water and eat his supper, alone save for Boris snoring on the hearth, and then he’d eventually go to bed.
Alone, as always. And as he most likely always would be.
“Where were you?” demanded Penelope as soon as Abigail reached the drawing room.
“Chasing after Milo. That dog should be kept in a cage.”
“Oh no! Not sweet Milo!” her sister protested. “He’s so adorably furry.”
“That fur is what got him caught in a bramble bush.” Abigail wound her way through to the dining room. All the doors had been thrown open to create one giant circuit of the floor. She scanned the room for her mother, intending to reassure her Milo was safely home, being scrubbed clean in the stables by James. Mr. Vane might have refused their invitation, but not many others had; the rooms were filled with guests.
“How did you get him out of the bramble bush?” Penelope refused to go away.
Abigail wondered if she’d seen something from the window. “Our neighbor was walking in the woods, and he kindly fetched Milo out of the brambles for me. We gave the naughty dog to James to clean up, for he was covered in mud.”
“Which neighbor?”
Abigail narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Vane, of Montrose Hill.”
Her sister gasped in delight. “Mr. Vane! The most deliciously elusive of neighbors. What is he like?”
Of course Penelope would know about him when Abigail hadn’t even been able to remember his name. “Reserved. He refused to come in and accept Mama’s thanks for saving Milo.”
Penelope snorted. “That shows good sense, if you ask me. I would certainly avoid Mama if I could . . . But what is Mr. Vane really like? Why won’t he come to the ball? Is he as black as a devil? Is he deformed? Is he frightening and dangerous?”
“Oh really, Penelope.” She sighed. “He was very kind to forge into the woods and pull that silly dog out of the brambles. It would have ruined my gown, but he not only fetched Milo, he insisted on walking me home so I wouldn’t have to carry the muddy little beast.”
“So he’s actually kind and amiable?” Penelope frowned. “Being moody and dangerous is so much more interesting . . .”
“What else did you hear about him?” There was no reason to hide her curiosity. Penelope would be glad to tell all she knew, and Abigail couldn’t deny that she was interested.
“Not much. He’s one of those reclusive sorts who rarely goes out. I can’t remember more, we must ask Lady Samantha.” She slipped her arm through Abigail’s and began tugging her toward the front of the room. “You’ll adore her. Papa was beside himself when she and her sister arrived; daughters of the Earl of Stratford, you know.”
“But I wanted to tell Mama that Milo is safely home,” she objected as her sister towed her along.
“I’m sure she already presumes as much,” muttered Penelope. “You went after him, after all, and you’re the good daughter who always makes her parents proud.”
“I think you’re taking this too much to heart.”
“As would you, if you’d been locked away from everything interesting in life.” Penelope plastered on a wide smile as they approached a pair of very elegant ladies, one about Abigail’s own age and the other some years older. “Lady Turley, Lady Samantha, may I present to you my sister, Miss Abigail Weston? Abigail, here are Viscountess Turley and Lady Samantha Lennox. Their father is the Earl of Stratford, who owns the magnificent house across the river.”
“How lovely to make your acquaintance.” Abigail curtsied, as did the other ladies.
“Welcome to Richmond.” Lady Turley smiled. Tall and slender, she looked every bit as aristocratic as one might expect a viscountess to be. “Our parents send their regrets, and hope to make your parents’ acquaintance before long.”
This was a warmer reception than Abigail had expected; in her London experience, earls and other noblemen weren’t entirely eager to meet them. But it was very welcome all the same, so she smiled. “That’s very kind of you. We’re delighted you were able to attend.”
Lady Samantha laughed lightly. She was a lovely young woman, with dark blond hair and soft green eyes. “Oh no, we must thank you! Richmond is a quiet little town. New society is always welcome.”
Abigail ignored her sister’s dark look at the mention of how quiet Richmond was. “I’ve always liked a little quiet. London is so hot and dirty in the summer. We’re very pleased with Hart House, aren’t we, Penelope?”
Penelope gave a brittle smile. “Of course! But I do hope you can indulge my shameful curiosity. One of our neighbors sent his regrets, and I confess, I’m desperate to know why. Mr. Vane of Montrose Hill. Are you acquainted with him?”
Lady Turley hesitated, giving her sister an odd glance before replying. “Not really. I’m sure you’ll encounter him eventually, Miss Weston.”
“Yes, this property borders his, doesn’t it?” Penelope went on, digging without a flicker of remorse. If Abigail hadn’t been burning with curiosity, she would have changed the subject, but as it was, she only tried to look polite. “I think they even share a patch of the woods. In fact, my sister met him out walking this evening.”
It Takes a Scandal Page 4
