It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  She stared at his wounded knee, her lips parted in dismay. “Oh . . .”

  He put one finger on her lips. “I also want my land back. My father sold it for a pittance and everyone agrees the sale was legal, even though he was mad as a hatter at the time. I want my mother’s grave to be on my property.”

  Abigail gasped. “You cannot repurchase even that part?”

  His smile was bitter. “Even if the buyer would sell it back to me, I haven’t got the funds.”

  She bit her lip. That was terrible. What comfort could one offer in the face of that?

  He put his foot back on the ground and took a step toward her. Abigail had to tip back her head to meet his eyes. “And the last thing I want is something I can never have.”

  She wet her lips nervously. His eyes tracked the motion. “What is that?”

  He just smiled that twisted smile again. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted my lot. You should believe some of what they say about me in town; I’m no noble hero.”

  “Really?” She arched one brow. “Your father went mad and ran naked through the streets of Richmond? You killed your father? Your dog is a witch’s familiar?”

  “A witch’s—­?” He broke off and shook his head. “I hadn’t heard that one. Boris is an ordinary dog.”

  “Of course he is! Rumor is so ridiculous. I never believe half of what I hear.” She hurried after him as he started walking again, but at a normal speed this time.

  “You should believe more. My father really did run mad,” he told her. “He regularly ran through these woods, and even into town, wearing only his nightshirt—­if he wore anything at all. He refused to bathe or eat for weeks at a time, he refused to have his hair or nails cut, he looked like a wild beast. I didn’t kill him, even though he begged me to.” He slanted a challenging glance at her. “I’m sure they also told you I’m going as mad as he was. You can add my good name to the list of my hopeless desires.”

  “You’re not mad at all.” She rolled her eyes. “Aggravating, perhaps.”

  “Then why are you still speaking to me?”

  Abigail bit back the tart reply that leapt to her lips. He was trying to chase her away, but the way he’d looked at her a few minutes ago, when she asked what he wanted, tormented her. The way he’d touched her face resonated deep inside her. “Because I like you,” she said softly. “I like talking to you, even when you’re telling me to run away from you. You look at me as if—­”

  This time he stopped so suddenly, she ran into him. Instinctively she clutched at his shoulder, and his arm went around her waist to catch her. Abigail’s eyes grew wide as she stared up at him. His eyes were no longer hard and angry, but dark with raw longing. “As if I want you?” he asked, not making any effort to release her. “I do. I came into the woods today because I wanted to see you, even though I said I wouldn’t—­even though I know I shouldn’t. I want you in every wicked way a man can want a woman. And if I had you, I could show you many, many more than fifty ways to sin.”

  Her eyes had grown wide at his first words, but she froze in shock at the last bit. “What?” she squeaked.

  “You know what I mean,” he murmured. His hand moved up her back, his fingers spread wide to hold her to him. “The pamphlet you bought in Mrs. Driscoll’s shop.”

  “You read it?”

  He nodded.

  Abigail made a silent vow to murder her sister for this. She’d known it would land her in trouble somehow. “But—­but—­why did you buy it?” She really wished she could look away, but her wits—­and her will—­seemed to have gone missing.

  “Because you bewitched me, and I wanted to know you, even if just what you read.” He wound a stray wisp of hair around his finger before smoothing it back from her temple. “Why did you buy it?”

  Abigail’s heart was beating a tocsin against her breastbone. It was tempting to blame it on her sister, but she’d found that issue so arousing . . . “Curiosity,” she finally whispered.

  Something flared in his eyes. “Indeed. You torment me, Miss Weston. Was your curiosity . . . sated?”

  A tide of heat rolled through her, igniting her skin from her toes to the top of her head. Abigail swayed, lowering her eyes to hide her thoughts as much as to avoid his searing gaze. “It—­it was illuminating,” she stammered. “Educational.”

  “Sufficient to quench your hunger . . . for knowledge?”

  He knew. She could hear the thread of amusement in his tone. He knew she’d read it and reread it for the sheer wickedness it portrayed. Lady Constance’s lover had come to her in the darkness, blindfolded her, and instructed her how to touch her own body for her pleasure while he watched. Abigail was sure her thoughts were written on her face as she recalled every sinful way Constance had caressed herself—­and how she had done the same, in the privacy of her bed. She prayed he never knew that she had thought of him while she did it. “Partly,” she whispered.

  He only held her tighter. “Read it again,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. “Tonight in your bed. Put your hands on yourself and see if Lady Constance had the right of it.”

  A screech echoed through the woods.

  “Penelope!” she gasped as Mr. Vane bolted past her. She took off running after him, grabbing up her skirts in one hand as her basket swung wildly on her other arm and her bonnet bounced on her back. For a moment real panic seized her; she’d completely forgotten about her sister, who was far more at home in a modern city than in the woods. Penelope could be injured or trapped. But as she crashed through the bracken toward the sounds of her sister’s voice, she realized it was cursing and not real cries for help. She slowed her pace a little as Mr. Vane tore on ahead. For a man who called himself a cripple, he could move astonishingly fast. He vaulted over a dead tree and disappeared around a thicket, running with only a slight limp. By the time Abigail caught up to him, nearly down a slope thick with dead leaves, she was just in time to see him help Penelope out of a thick swamp of mud. From the looks of her skirts, Penelope had fallen on her knees in it, and she gave Abigail a scalding look as she staggered up the hillock that must have tripped her.

  “The dog is probably better able to survive in the woods than I am,” she said through her teeth.

  Relieved that her sister wasn’t trapped or injured, Abigail nodded.

  Mr. Vane tramped up the slope, his boots covered in mud to the ankle. “Are you hurt, Miss Penelope?”

  Penelope grimly surveyed her skirt. “Yes, I believe I am. Grievously. Abby will have to bring me tea and cake for several days while I recover. And something to read, as I may be confined to my bed.”

  “Of course,” Abigail murmured, knowing what her sister meant.

  Penelope glanced between them. “I’m going home now.” Without waiting for a reply from either, she started off, holding her muddy skirts wide. Her slippers squished with every step.

  Abigail hesitated. She wished Penelope hadn’t screamed when she had, before he could have said just what he did want, but now the moment had passed. Perhaps he would have said that he didn’t really want her, that he was in love with Lady Samantha. Perhaps he wanted her, but only the way Lady Constance’s lovers did: wanton and willing but only for one night. Surely if he felt anything else, he would say so—­and he hadn’t. Perhaps she was just a fool. “Thank you for helping my sister, Mr. Vane. I’m sorry we interrupted your search for Boris. I hope you find him soon.” She ducked her head and started to go.

  “Miss Weston.” His voice was low, but she stopped at once. “Forgive me.” Cautiously Abigail turned around. His expression was still unreadable, but the heat was gone from his voice. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

  She blushed. “Oh. I-­I’ve been impertinent to you, too.”

  One corner of his mouth crooked. “Why do you think I like you?” She blinked in hopeful confusion. He hesitated, hi
s gaze dark and probing. “Do you truly want to see the old grotto?”

  She nodded.

  This time it was a real, though slight, smile that curved his mouth, the same expression that had so entranced her in the bookshop. “Meet me at the end of the Fragrant Walk tomorrow at two o’clock.”

  Abigail gasped. “You’ll show me?”

  “You shouldn’t endanger the rest of your family hunting for it.”

  She was startled into a laugh, and his reluctant smile grew a little bit. Oh, he was definitely handsome when he smiled. “Until tomorrow, Miss Weston.” He touched the brim of his hat, and was still smiling when she finally tore her eyes away and hurried after her sister.

  Sebastian watched until she vanished into the trees and he could no longer hear her footsteps. God above. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been offered a new chance at happiness, or an insidious opportunity to ruin himself for good.

  Either way, he was going to see Abigail Weston again tomorrow, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

  He limped back through the woods to where he’d dropped his cane. He stooped to pick it up and could swear her perfume still lingered in the air. He set the cane against his injured leg and headed for home, hardly aware of the ache in his knee after the mad dash into the mud. It had felt good to drop the cane and just run, not tensing with each step in anticipation of pain. He’d pay for it later, but for now he felt almost like his old self, able to help a woman in distress the way a gentleman should.

  And it had made Abigail look at him with gratitude and respect, which was almost as appealing as when she stared up at him with that arousing combination of desire and embarrassment. He wondered if she would do as he dared her to do, and reread 50 Ways to Sin. He wondered who she would imagine watching her as she pleasured herself . . .

  He took an uneven breath. God damn him for a fool. As if he didn’t have enough torment already.

  He headed toward home. At the edge of the trees, just before he emerged onto the grassy slope leading up to Montrose Hill, he put his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Boris had been a convenient excuse; the moment Mrs. Jones remarked that the dog was still out, Sebastian had put on his hat and headed for the woods. Avoiding Abigail Weston hadn’t put an end to his fascination—­no, it had made it stronger. In the few days since he’d seen her last, he’d been driven half mad by wondering about her. If her interest would fade when she heard confirmation of the rumors about him. If her professed desire to find the grotto was just a taunt. If he could possibly keep himself away from her for long.

  The answer to all those questions was obviously no.

  A few minutes later Boris trotted up to meet him. Sebastian gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears. Boris was wet and covered in mud, and Mrs. Jones would lock him in the stables until he dried, but for now his long tongue flopped happily out of his mouth. He must have had a grand time, and best of all, he hadn’t shown himself too soon and interrupted anything.

  “Good boy,” Sebastian told the dog. “Well done.”

  Chapter 9

  Penelope insisted on hearing details on the walk home. Abigail put her off—­how much could have happened in the few minutes they walked alone?—­but she was forced into admitting that Mr. Vane had offered to show her the grotto.

  “Good,” declared her sister. “I didn’t want to go out there again.”

  “And you won’t tell anyone,” ordered Abigail.

  Penelope scoffed. “As if I would ruin your amour! One of us should have something exciting happen. I’m rather disappointed it isn’t to be me, but I shall endure . . . somehow . . .”

  Abigail made a face and swatted her sister’s arm. “Try to suffer in silence, please.”

  “Heartless creature,” Penelope returned. “I sacrificed my dress to give you a moment alone with him! Look at this—­it’s ruined!”

  “And now you will tell Mama you need another dress, so I shan’t waste any tears over it.”

  Penelope huffed and grumbled all the way home, which gave Abigail time to think. And by the time they reached home, she had decided on a course of action.

  She liked Sebastian Vane. Nothing about him made her think he was dangerous or unhinged, rude or nefarious. The gossip about him was bad, it was true; but the very depths of depravity described made her doubt. If ­people would repeat that nonsense about a dog being a figment of witchcraft, they would repeat anything. There had to be more to the story about old Mr. Vane’s disappearance, and thieves were everywhere. So far she knew with certainty only that Sebastian Vane was the son of a man who went mad, which seemed beyond his control and hardly something he would have chosen. He was wounded, but not crippled, in honorable military ser­vice. As for his financial state, he still owned a very lovely property in Richmond, which counted for something.

  And he wanted her. Just remembering the scorching look in his eyes made her feel hot and restless. She wasn’t ready to be as debauched as Lady Constance, but she was more than eager for Mr. Vane to show her some things. He could start with kissing, for one.

  The next day Abigail took care not to meet anyone on her way out of the house. She was safe from Penelope—­her sister was still pretending to favor her ankle—­but she wasn’t taking any chances. And meeting Papa or James would be even worse, so she watched and waited and chose her moment to escape, leaving only a vague word with her maid that she was going for a stroll and would be back by dinner.

  She reached the Fragrant Walk but saw no sign of Mr. Vane. Her steps sped up as she went, expecting to see his tall, rangy figure around every bit of shrubbery. By the time she got to the end of the gravel, where the path diverged into a walk that led back toward the lawn and a narrower track that disappeared into the woods, her heart was pounding.

  He wasn’t there.

  Perhaps she was early. Perhaps he was late. Perhaps he had changed his mind. She hitched her shawl more securely over her shoulders and headed down the path that wound through the trees, although a little more cautiously.

  The woods grew thick very soon after leaving the well-­raked walk. After ten yards she could barely see the sunlit lawn behind her. After twenty she bit her lip; she would feel like a great fool if she got lost in the woods. He had specifically said to meet him on the Fragrant Walk. If he arrived there ten minutes from now and she was nowhere to be seen, he might think she hadn’t come. And if he didn’t intend to arrive there at all today, well, wandering through the trees wouldn’t make her feel any better.

  She was about to turn around when a familiar dog came trotting easily through the thicket. It was Mr. Vane’s dog, looking even larger and more fearsome than he had the other night. She stopped in her tracks as he came right up to her and sniffed the hem of her skirt. For all that she’d defended him yesterday, seeing the animal himself today was somewhat intimidating. He seemed calm and unthreatening, though, so she gingerly held out one hand.

  “Have you brought cheese again?” Mr. Vane stepped out of the trees behind his beast. Abigail snatched back her hand. “I told you, Boris adores cheese.”

  “Does he?” She looked doubtfully at the big dog, who looked as though he could eat a whole leg of ham in one meal. Boris instantly sat, his tail thumping the ground, and gazed at her with attentive black eyes.

  “Cheese is his favorite thing in the world. He’ll be your willing slave for a morsel of it.”

  “He’s a very fierce animal to be controlled by cheese.”

  Mr. Vane shrugged. “Every male has his weakness, I suppose.”

  “I hope so,” she murmured, thinking more of the man than the dog. She extended her hand to Boris once more. With surprisingly gentleness, he sniffed her fingers and butted his head into her palm. Abigail patted him, and the dog panted and closed his eyes a little.

  “You have made a friend,” said Mr. Vane dryly.

  She smiled, now
scratching Boris’s ears. He gave a whimper like a puppy and scooted closer to her, stretching his neck. His head came up almost to her bosom, and she scratched his ears a little nervously. His tongue flopped out of his mouth until it looked like he was grinning at her. “You’re not as fierce as you look,” she told him, relaxing a little.

  “Certainly not when he senses the chance of getting some cheese.”

  “Well.” She slanted a look at the dog’s master. “I have got some in my pocket.” She’d brought it on a whim.

  He raised a brow. “Do you normally bring food when setting off to explore a grotto?”

  She flipped one hand. “I’ve never seen one before, but it seemed best to be prepared. And, as you see, it’s already paid off.” Boris was now nearly lying across her feet, openly begging for more affection.

  “Boris,” said Mr. Vane, and in the blink of an eye the big dog scrambled to his feet and trotted back to his master. “Let’s go,” he said, sounding grim.

  Abigail raised her chin. “Not if you don’t want to show me. I’ve no interest in being a thorn in your side.”

  He gave her a searing glance, so intense the air seemed to shimmer for a moment between them. “A thorn you are not.” He hesitated, his expression softening. “Forgive my lack of manners. I’ve not been much in company lately, and have quite forgotten how to speak to a lady.” He put out one hand. “Will you still come?”

  Her heart leapt. Holding up her skirt, she put her hand in his, and stepped off the dirt path into the bracken with him.

  “Have you always known about the grotto?” she asked as they walked.

  He brushed a thick fern out of the way with his cane. “Since I was a boy. Hart House was built for a royal mistress—­one of Charles II’s, I think—­and as such was filled with all manner of follies and whimsies. The grotto was only one of them, but one of the few to survive the intervening decades.”