There was that spark that seemed to leap between them. It seemed to have caught something long-forgotten inside him and set it smoldering, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to put it out again.
He shifted in his seat with a sigh, causing Boris to raise his head from the floor and thump his tail hopefully. Boris wasn’t put off by the rain. Boris would love a good run through the trees, and if by some chance he met Miss Weston, he’d greet her like his long-lost love and be petted and scratched until he fell on the ground in an exaltation of puppy love. Sebastian’s mouth thinned. His dog knew how to treat a lady and win her favor better than he did. “We’re not going out today,” he said sternly. Boris scrambled to his feet and gave a low woof, butting his head against Sebastian’s hand. He trotted to the door and back, then again when Sebastian didn’t get up, making the low whine that was apparently a dog’s way of pleading. Boris was restless and unhappy inside.
Just the way his master felt.
“Fine.” He lurched out of his chair and limped through the house, throwing the door open. Boris bounded out eagerly, then turned to wait for him. “Go on,” he told the dog with a wave of his hand. “She won’t be there.”
The dog’s tail drooped, but he turned and headed across the lawn, heedless of the rain.
For a moment he hovered on the brink of following. Abigail wouldn’t be in the woods, of course, but he could walk off some of the simmering discontent that had plagued him all day. He knew he’d been harsh to her, no matter that he told himself it had been for a good reason. If only the damned candle hadn’t gone out . . .
He shut the door and went up the stairs to his bedchamber. Tucked between the pages of The Nautical Almanac was the troublesome pamphlet. Fifty Ways to Sin, it promised; a quick look at the front indicated this was issue number twenty-five. What else had Lady Constance of the exceedingly loose morals got up to? Were her other adventures as risqué as this one? Whatever they were, Abigail found them enthralling—and that, unfortunately, made him enthralled as well.
The wisest course would be to burn the pamphlet at once, but after a moment he slowly flipped the front page open. This time one sentence leapt out at him—not a sentence describing the lascivious acts her mystery lover urged upon her, but one that simply illuminated her feelings: “I had overlooked one source of variety, and that was surprise,” she wrote. “It would be impossible to convey the depths of my fascination . . .”
He stared at the window. Hart House was hidden by the trees, down the hill to the east. Abigail had asked him to call on her. If he wanted to see her again, that was the easiest way to do it. But after the way he had behaved yesterday, he couldn’t just present himself on the doorstep. He had to make it up to her . . . somehow.
“I vow it rains more in Richmond than it does in London.”
Normally Abigail would have laughed at her sister’s grumbling. Today she found herself annoyed. “It does not.”
“How many days since we came here has it rained?” Penelope flung herself onto the chaise and sulked.
“Two or three.” Abigail trailed the newest toy for Milo, a ball of rags tied to a string, which was in turn tied to a stick, around the settee. The puppy lowered his chin, wiggled his tail, and pounced on the clump of rags. Abigail let him tear at it with his teeth for a minute before twitching it away. Milo jumped to his feet and watched it roll away before pouncing again. He showed no signs of growing tired of the game, and as there was nothing else to do, Abigail kept flicking the toy around.
Even so, she didn’t resent the rain. If it hadn’t rained, she would have been forced to decide if she wanted to walk to the grotto again. When she had returned home after the infuriating parting from Sebastian—Mr. Vane—she’d been all but resolved to make daily visits to the grotto, equipped with lanterns and blankets and picnic lunches. She would invite her sister. She would clear a path to its entrance. She would tell people she had found it herself, and conduct tours of the glass chamber for everyone in Richmond until her memory of what happened there had been completely obliterated.
Fortunately the rain gave her temper time to cool. It didn’t enlighten her about the motives or desires of their neighbor, but it allowed her to decide against revealing the grotto. Even if she never laid eyes on Sebastian—Mr. Vane, she reminded herself in aggravation—ever again, she could still keep the grotto as her own secret refuge. One never knew when a secret might be useful, and it was doubtful he would go near it again, if he could be believed. And this time she wanted to believe him; if he could still refuse to call on her after what had happened yesterday, he wasn’t the sort of man she wanted. If he could kiss her—her stomach tightened—as passionately as that, but not exert any effort to court her or even to see her again, he was a rake and a devil and she wanted no part of him.
Even if it made her want to cry.
Milo, who had been stalking the ball of rags from beneath the furniture, gave a sharp bark and pounced. This time Abigail let him drag the toy under the sofa, where he began ripping at the cloth with little growls of delight.
She walked to the tall French windows and gazed out at the lawn. The rain wasn’t torrential, but it had been coming down since before dawn, and the garden was thoroughly drenched. No one would be out walking today.
Unwillingly her eyes strayed toward the wood. He admitted he wanted to see her. She wondered if he would regret his harsh words, and then she wondered why she was making herself sad and angry over a man. Abigail thought of herself as a very sensible girl. Unlike Penelope, who loved drama and passion of all kinds, Abigail had secretly prided herself on being more sane than her sister. She would never pine for a man who didn’t treat her properly, she’d told herself—and now she was doing just that.
“Idiot,” she whispered, closing her eyes tightly to keep any trace of moisture from leaking out. She must feel this way because Sebastian—Mr. Vane, curse him—had given her her first real kiss, the first kiss that made her burn and ache for more. No doubt she would have been more shocked than aroused by that kiss if she hadn’t spent so much time reading those wicked, fanciful stories by Lady Constance, who was surely the greatest liar in the world. They had weakened her mind until his mysterious manner and history couldn’t fail to provoke her curiosity. Being unbearably attractive also helped him, she granted, and the fact that she had first met him when he saved her from being torn to shreds by the bramble bushes must have influenced her perception of him. Really, it was all just a lot of coincidence and happenstance that made her think she was attracted to him. She simply needed to meet more gentlemen, and she would forget about the lonely, wounded man who had shown her the grotto and held her when the candle went out. Oh yes—the candle was also to blame, because none of this would have happened if it had just stayed lit.
That final thought brought a reluctant smile to her lips. She truly was an idiot, blaming everything in sight for her dark mood. So she’d let herself become infatuated with the wrong man; it had happened to other young ladies, and Abigail was sure they had all survived it. So would she, and in a few days or weeks, this would all seem like the height of self-indulgence.
She turned away from the window. “It will make the day pleasanter if we do something.”
Penelope glared at her. “What is there to do? I can’t even walk around the house.” Penelope had made the mistake of saying her ankle hurt after her tumble into the mud the other day. Her intention had probably been to make Abigail feel profusely sorry for her, but Mama had overheard and made her wrap it up, and promise not to walk on it for a few days.
“I could read to you,” Abigail offered. She had barely read a page of her new novel, thanks to the disturbing influence of a certain neighbor.
Penelope rolled her eyes. “How sad that neither of us can think of anything more interesting to do than read—without having anything delicious to read.”
Abig
ail lifted one shoulder. “I like to read, and not just naughty stories. I shall take myself away to do it without disturbing you.”
“Wait,” growled her sister. “Very well, you may read to me.” She leaned back on the sofa with a martyred expression, propping her wrapped foot on a cushion.
Milo scrambled from beneath the sofa and stood at attention in the middle of the room. His head cocked to one side as he listened. Then he gave a sharp yip and ran to the door, tail wagging. Abigail expected someone to come in, but the door remained closed, and Milo continued barking, dancing expectantly in circles.
“Milo, be quiet, silly dog!” Penelope leaned over and fished his toy out from under the sofa. She swished the stick from side to side, making the bundle of rags leap about. “Come chase it, puppy.”
He ignored her, continuing his anxious prancing before the door. Abigail went to let the dog out. He’d left a wet spot on the dining room carpet the other day, and now everyone was under strict orders to let him outside the moment he gave any sign of distress. From the way Papa glared at Milo, Abigail thought he might be regretting his gift. The little dog was adorable and very sweet, but far more work than anyone had expected.
Before she got to the door, though, it opened to reveal the butler. Milo bolted between his feet toward the hall, yipping shrilly. Thomson merely watched him go, then turned to Abigail. “This was just delivered for you, Miss Weston.”
Surprised, she took the small package he held out. It was wrapped in paper and tied with a string, but bore no clue to the sender or the contents, only her name written on the front. “Thank you, Thomson. Would you make certain Milo doesn’t escape into the rain? I don’t think anyone wants to chase after him today.”
“Indeed not, ma’am,” he said with a commiserating glance. He closed the door, and Abigail heard him calling to a footman to catch the dog, whose barks echoed through the hall.
“What is it?” Penelope asked.
“I’ve no idea.” She picked at the string until it came loose, and unwrapped the paper. The outer layer came off, revealing a note atop yet another paper-wrapped item. From the weight and feel of it, Abigail guessed it was a book. Mystified, she unfolded the note.
“Well?” demanded her sister. “Tell me, or I shall rip it from your hands and read it myself!”
“It’s from Mr. Vane,” she said softly, reading the note aloud. “ ‘My dear Miss Weston, Allow me to express my deepest apologies for what transpired in the woods the other day. I have worried for your sister’s health ever since her fall, and I hope she suffered no lasting harm.’ ”
“Well, that’s very kind of him,” exclaimed Penelope, gratified that someone appreciated her suffering. “What a gentleman!”
“ ‘In the event that she may be confined to bed, as she feared, I hope you will accept the enclosed as a way to pass the time until she is well again,’ ” she read on. “ ‘And I hope the additional enclosure may offer—’ ” She stopped abruptly at the next words.
“What?” Penelope vaulted off the sofa and stumped over to her side.
“The rest is just for me,” she mumbled, shoving the note into her pocket. Her heart slammed into her ribs as she tore off the last layer of paper. It was a book, an old but well-kept one. The Children of the Abbey was printed on the front in old-fashioned lettering.
“He knows you well,” said Penelope, distinctly unimpressed. “A book.”
Abigail ignored her. After a swift glance at the door to make certain it was securely closed, she let the book fall open to the spot where something had been hidden between the pages. Penelope sucked in her breath, and for a moment they just stared.
“It’s a new one,” whispered Penelope in hushed excitement. “Look: issue twenty-six.”
Abigail snapped the book closed and clutched it to her chest. “No one must know. Promise me, Pen!”
“What sort of idiot do you take me for?” Penelope demanded. “Why did he send it to you?”
Her face felt hot. “To us. Because he saw me buy it in town, most likely. He might not even know what it is . . .”
Penelope gave her such an incredulous look, Abigail had to turn away for fear her guilt would be obvious. But all Penelope said was, “If it’s to us, I should get to read it, too.”
“Of course.” Abigail was so distracted she pulled out the pamphlet and handed it over. “You must give it back later,” she added.
“Naturally!” In a flash, Penelope hid it under her shawl. “I’ll go hide it right now.” She opened the door and peered out, then slipped into the corridor.
Abigail pushed the door shut and retreated to the window. Her hands trembled as she took out the crumpled note and smoothed it, angling her back to the door for additional privacy.
“I hope the additional enclosure may offer some pleasure to you as well, more so than you found in the grotto,” Sebastian wrote. “Your parting words were bitter to me, all the more so for being true. You were right to disdain me, and I hope this may supply some small atonement.
“I cannot pretend to be the gentleman you think I am, nor can I regret what occurred in the glass chamber. However, I have ever since regretted everything I said to provoke your anger, along with my command that you avoid the grotto. I had no right to do that, and hope you will find it more to your liking the next time you visit. Your servant, S. Vane.”
Her heart was pounding by the time she reached the ending. He was sorry! Well, not entirely—not for kissing her—but for what he’d said at the end. And he invited her to visit the grotto again, although with no mention of whether he would meet her there.
She considered it a moment. He admitted he wanted to see her. He made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t going to call on her. Therefore, logically, he would meet her at the grotto. Of course, he hadn’t said when . . .
She traced one finger over his swooping signature, then opened the book. Why had he sent her this? It was old, at least thirty years, with a faint scent of dust about it, but the pages were still smooth and whole. It was a Gothic romance from Minerva Press, rife with sighs and swoons and lamentations of all the ills endured by the characters. Abigail’s lips curved softly as she read snippets from a few pages. It was the perfect sort of book for a day like this, neither serious nor deep.
She started to close the book, and noticed something written on the flyleaf. The ink was faded, but by raising the book to her face she was able to make it out: Eleanor Vane, it read in a light, delicate handwriting.
For a moment she didn’t move. It must have been his mother’s book. She had heard a dozen rumors about his father, but not one word of a mother. And yet here was her book, obviously well-preserved and saved for many years . . . until he gave it to her.
Something else occurred to her then. She hid the note inside the book and rushed into the hall. A footman was just coming back into the house, grim-faced and holding a dripping Milo under one arm. Apparently their attempts to catch him before he got out had been unsuccessful. The butler was waiting with a lead in hand, eyeing the dog with resignation even as the puppy wriggled to get down.
“Thomson,” Abigail asked, “who delivered the package you just brought in?”
“Mr. Vane did, Miss Weston.”
“Himself?” she exclaimed. “You should have bade him come in and get dry!”
“I did, ma’am, but he refused. Merely tipped his hat and walked away.”
She flew to the window and peered down the lane that led toward Montrose Hill. It was deserted, the tree branches bowed low, their leaves sodden clumps. She pressed the book to her chest. To get 50 Ways to Sin, he must have gone into town. Then he had walked two miles to Hart House, in the rain, to bring it to her, with a note apologizing for what he’d said.
She smiled at the rain, and went upstairs to read. Not just The Children of the Abbey—although she intended to read that, t
oo—but everything else he had sent her.
Chapter 11
Two days later the rain blew away, leaving the day fresh and bright. At breakfast, Mama declared that she simply had to get out of the house, and meant to go to London to visit her favorite shops. Penelope perked up at that news, but Abigail shook her head at her mother’s inquiring glance.
“I’d rather stay home. It’s too nice to spend the day in the carriage driving to town and back.”
Her mother’s sharp gaze lingered on her a moment, but she only nodded. Penelope, however, gave her a wicked smirk. Abigail ignored it and buttered another piece of toast. Her sister could think what she liked. Frankly, she still considered Penelope to be in her debt, after sharing the unexpected delivery the other day.
When her mother and sister had gone, she collected her things and set out for the grotto. It was much easier this time, with the house essentially empty. Milo yipped and circled her feet hopefully when she reached the door, but she patted his head and told the footman to keep him inside. The last thing she needed to do was lose her mother’s puppy in the woods.
At the end of the Fragrant Walk, she hesitated. She thought she remembered the way to the grotto, but wasn’t entirely confident. Still, she’d found her way home without trouble, and it hadn’t been very far at all. At one time the path must have led right to it. Holding her skirts out of the mud, she set off through the trees.
It was surprisingly simple to find. She’d remembered a large boulder as a landmark, and when she went around it, she saw the clearing. Now it really was a clearing, with much of the brush stripped away. To her surprise, there was a rustic stone wall at the grotto’s entrance; it had been completely obscured by plants before. Most of the stone had crumbled away, but without the concealing growth, she could make out the arched shape of it. The stone steps were visible as well, slicing down into the earth and disappearing beneath the stone wall.
It Takes a Scandal Page 13
