It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “Are you certain he’s dead?” she asked falteringly.

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “His mind was so far gone by then, he couldn’t have survived long. For a few days I thought he might wander home, but of course he didn’t. No, I’m absolutely certain he’s dead.” He paused, watching her closely. “And even more . . . I’m glad.”

  Abigail was too shocked to speak.

  “He begged me to kill him,” he said, his voice grown so quiet she barely breathed in order to hear him. “He knew he was losing his wits; he fought against it but the madness would swallow him whole for days at a time. One night he turned to me, tears running down his face, and begged me to put an end to it. “You’ve got a sword,” he cried. “Put it through me.” There was a long pause as he clenched his jaw and stared into the shadows beyond the lanterns, and Abigail bit her lip until it almost bled, imagining the anguish that request must have caused. “I couldn’t do it. There was nothing anyone could do to save him, he wanted to die, and shamefully, secretly, I knew it was the only way out of his hell. But I couldn’t do it.”

  “Of course not,” she cried softly.

  Sebastian shook his head. “Sometimes I think I should have. Sometimes I think I failed him as a son, for not doing what he asked. Instead I hid every sharp instrument in the house and set myself to watching him day and night. Not that it made any difference. Everyone who knew how deranged he had become only heard that he disappeared one night, and decided I must have put an end to him.” Again that bitter smile. “It fit with the mad, enraged image they had of me, I suppose.”

  “They’re wrong,” she said in a low, passionate voice. “Wrong, both now and then.”

  His fingers tightened around hers. He tipped his head to face her. “You’re a rare woman, Abigail Weston. You deserve so much better than a wreck of a man.”

  “You’re not a wreck.”

  “I don’t feel like one when I’m with you.” He leaned closer, looming over her.

  Abigail could see the mermaid over his shoulder, reaching for her love and doomed never to have him. For decades—­centuries—­she’d been alone in the dark, unseen and unrequited, helpless to change her fate. Poor mermaid. “I already told you, you don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

  His mouth curved. “I remember.” His lips brushed against hers before he lifted his head again. For a moment he studied her, his hair hanging loose and casting his face in dark shadow. Abigail waited, breathless and yearning but unsure of what to do. She’d made a mistake last time, too curious to know the truth of Lady Constance’s stories. This time she tried to shut the notorious stories out of her mind; they were fiction, bits of fancy. Sebastian was real and alive and she wanted him to be her true experience of love and passion.

  And then he kissed her, in truth this time. His mouth settled over hers, hot and wicked. His hand cupped her nape, raising her neck to a subtle arch. His thumb stroked her cheek before tugging at the corner of her lips. Nervously she obeyed, softening her lips under his until his tongue parted them. She shivered as he tasted her mouth, then tentatively she slid her tongue along his.

  His breath hitched, and he moved, lowering himself more on top of her. One arm slipped beneath her, his fingers splayed over the back of her head. With his other hand he lifted her free arm and laid it gently on the cushion, curving gracefully around her head. His fingers swirled over the pulse in her wrist, then drifted down the underside of her forearm.

  She was gripping his coat, her hand trapped between them. His kiss went on and on, now light and tantalizing, now plunging deep in blatant possession. His fingers played up and down her raised arm until she quivered from the maddeningly light touch.

  “Is this why you came today?” he breathed, barely raising his lips from hers.

  She blushed so hard, he could surely see it even in the dim light. “Not specifically . . .”

  “Shall I stop, then?” His fingers brushed the delicate skin under her collarbone, and Abigail trembled, unable to do more than make a small negative motion with her head. His voice grew even softer. “Did you think of me when you read the story I sent you?”

  A riot of images streamed across her mind’s eye. Lady Constance had taken a musical man to her bed, where he played her body like his instrument, wringing a symphony of sighs from the wicked woman.

  There was no point trying to deny she had thought of Sebastian, just as it was foolish to deny that she’d come today hoping he might kiss her again. Abigail felt restless and alive, her skin craving his touch. She had felt this pull toward him from the beginning, and 50 Ways to Sin only made it worse, giving her imagination fuel—­wicked, delicious ideas that inspired both amazement and desperate longing. Especially the last two issues.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  She felt the fine shudder that ran through his frame. “I have no blindfold,” he murmured, “nor oil of roses.” His head dipped, and his lips brushed against the hammering pulse at the base of her throat. “But like Constance, you have only to say the word ‘stop’ . . .”

  “What should I do?” Her heart was pounding so hard, she could hardly hear her own voice.

  “Raise your arms above your head,” he whispered. She closed her eyes as she obeyed. “It would be beyond my endurance to watch you pleasure yourself,” he went on. “I pictured it, though. Just the thought of touching you nearly drove me to distraction. You’re a temptress, Abigail. So ethereally beautiful, I’m stricken dumb in your presence. Abigail with the starry eyes that stole a piece of my soul the first time you looked at me. Abigail with the bright smile and the kind heart and the curious nature. Abigail who haunts my dreams . . .”

  She gasped at the feathery light touch on her throat. “Abigail who makes me burn,” he murmured. His hair brushed her bosom as he kissed lower, his lips as soft as velvet against her skin.

  “Every night I imagine what I would do, if I had you in my bed.” She made an inarticulate noise as he stroked the sensitive underside of her arm, his fingers drifting all the way down her ribs to tease her waist. “Every night I dream of bringing you to the point of ecstasy.” His fingers swirled over her belly, from hipbone to hipbone. “I imagine how soft and pale your skin must be, here . . .” He traced swooping circles over her hips. “And how exquisite you would taste.”

  “You—­you would put your mouth there?” she managed to choke out. Even through layers of dress, petticoats, and pantalets, she could feel every touch of his hand.

  “Everywhere,” he confirmed. “When a man is patient and attentive, he can bring a woman great pleasure with his mouth. Like so . . .”

  She started as he pressed a kiss to her navel. Something inside her clenched as he repeated the kiss, over and over across her belly, up her ribs. He wasn’t touching her skin at all, but she could almost believe he was.

  “Constance’s lovers have one thing right,” he said, against the bottom of her breast. “A woman’s passion is paramount; her pleasure is their pleasure.” He cupped her other breast in his hand, his long fingers first gentle, then firm. “Bringing her to climax is his soul’s only purpose, in the act of love.”

  Abigail was shaking. His thumb teased her nipple until it grew rigid and sensitive, straining toward his touch. She ached for him to caress her other breast, rather than just nuzzling it, but as if he knew, he moved his mouth to that other nipple and closed his lips around it.

  She arched. She twisted. She gasped and blushed as he suckled her through the cloth. She squeezed her eyes closed until tears leaked from her lids. Oh God . . .

  He shifted again, and laid one hand on her knees, which she had drawn up in her writhing. He slid his hand down the inside of her thigh. Abigail let her knees fall apart; her clothing was a barrier between them that was both frustrating and comforting. She felt the same riot of feeling Lady Constance had described, but without the licentiousness. They were both
still fully clothed, after all. More than one of Constance’s lovers had brought her to climax without removing a stitch of clothing. Sebastian seemed to know she wasn’t quite as daring as Constance and he made no effort to seduce her into deeper wickedness. It affirmed her trust in him, and also allowed her to let him settle his hand between her thighs, resting on the throbbing spot hidden there.

  “You slay me,” he said, his breathing fast and ragged. Slowly his fingers stroked her through her skirt. “How your face reflects your passion . . .” He pressed another kiss on her bosom, on her bare flesh this time above the neckline of her dress. Abigail threw one arm around his neck to keep him there; she tilted her hips, straining toward his touch. His lips on her skin seemed to double the fire burning inside her. It spread through her limbs, fevered her brain, and yet burned hottest where his hand pressed toward her most female place.

  Sebastian almost lost his grip on his control when she twined herself around him. God almighty, her skin tasted sweeter than he’d dreamed. The little moans of pleasure and encouragement she made were like kindling on the blazing desire inside him. He’d very carefully not disarranged an inch of her clothing—­even a single step down that path could prove too dangerous—­but her response, fully clothed, only made him wild to know what it would be like if his hands touched her bare skin, if she writhed beneath him completely willing and eager for him.

  And now she was clinging to him, straining toward him. He could barely breathe as he continued the soft, slow stroke. He could barely think beyond the sound of her wanton gasps and the ever-­more-­strident demands of his own body, hard and erect and ready to burst. He was desperate to move and yet as rigid as stone, not trusting himself. He could do this—­only this—­he could bring her to completion, he could hold himself back . . .

  She arched her neck, her fingers digging into his neck. She sucked in a short breath, then another. Her legs jerked. He pressed a little harder, circling tightly over the spot that made her jump, and she gave a startled cry that turned into a long gasping sigh of release.

  His heart hammered in his ears. He left his hand cupped over her mound, fighting off the urge to throw up her skirts and feel how wet she must be, how soft and ready she would be, how tight and hot and . . . virginal she was.

  Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut. He was half sprawled on top of her, her arm still around his neck, her legs tangled with his and trapping his hand between her thighs. He could swear he still felt her climax pulsing beneath his fingertips. If he turned his head even an inch to the side, his lips would be on her breast. Just the rise and fall of her chest was dangerous to his wavering sense of honor. With a great deal of regret, he gingerly eased away from her.

  “What made you change your mind?” she whispered, her voice low and husky. “About me?”

  He gritted his teeth as he sat up. He was still so hard for her, it hurt to move. “I have never changed my mind about you.”

  “About seeing me,” she amended. “You swore you would avoid the woods to avoid me. You wished me luck finding the grotto on my own. You refused to call on me because we hadn’t a thing to talk about. But you sent me a book and met me here today.”

  He studied her, feeling an unexpected lurch in his chest. She lay in sensual abandon on the threadbare rug and cushions he’d dragged down from Montrose Hill. “I wanted to know if my peace offering had been acceptable.”

  A shadow fell over her face. “Oh.”

  He repented the evasive answer. He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “I wanted to see you again, even though I don’t deserve it. You should have refused to see me after I spoke so crudely, but here you are. I meant what I said: you are a rare woman, and I cannot stay away from you.”

  She smiled, and the room seemed to glow brighter. “I knew you didn’t mean it.”

  His lips quirked. He had meant it. He’d been alone so long, avoided and reviled for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to have a friend. But Abigail, he was realizing, was just that: a friend. Someone he could be at ease with. Someone who cared about his feelings and thoughts. Someone who leapt to his defense instead of shrinking from his presence.

  Of course, she was also far more. The pulsing desire to make love to her was only held at bay, unabated in the slightest. He turned her hand over, stroking his thumb over her palm. “No one else in Richmond would have forgiven my abominable behavior.”

  “Do you ever wish to change ­people’s minds?”

  He turned toward her, bracing his arm behind him. “No. ­People who believe I killed my father . . . I don’t give a bloody damn what they think.” He circled one finger around her hand, hooking it under her wrist and raising it to press a kiss to her palm. “I care what you think.”

  She raised her eyes again. “I think this grotto is the most delightful place in Richmond.”

  He smiled. Anyplace where she was would be every bit as delightful as this cave, in his opinion. “I quite agree.”

  Chapter 12

  The afternoon in the grotto eliminated the last shred of doubt in Abigail’s mind: she was utterly fascinated with Sebastian Vane.

  All her anger over his early behavior was washed away, not only by the way he gave her his mother’s book but by the way he cleared the grotto for her, not even knowing if she would return. When he spoke of his father, going slowly mad before disappearing one night while Sebastian was unable to stop him, she’d wanted to put her fingers in her ears. How awful ­people were, to call him a murderer when he’d been a gravely wounded young man facing the loss of his father, the ruin of his expectations, and the pain of his injury. Who would not turn away from the neighbors who thought he was evil?

  But she knew differently. She refused to be cowed by other ­people’s wrong assumptions, and she was outraged enough by the extremity of them to want to prove them wrong.

  “Why haven’t we invited any neighbors to dine with us?” she asked the next day as she sat with her mother and sister.

  “What do you mean, Abby? We had a ball barely a month ago, and a picnic,” Mama replied in surprise. “Of course, it’s always lovely to have guests . . .”

  “Precisely. And we’ve barely become acquainted with one neighbor.” Abigail ignored the way her sister’s eyebrows shot up. “Shouldn’t we invite Mr. Vane? Without him, Milo might still be lost in the woods, wild and savage by now.”

  “Wild and savage!” Mama smiled. “What a way you have with words, dear. I’m sure James would have found him if Mr. Vane hadn’t been there.”

  “But Mr. Vane was there, and he did save Milo,” she argued.

  “And I thanked him, when he called,” Mama replied, gently but firmly. “I don’t think he’ll come to dinner. Your papa says he’s a very reserved fellow who prefers to be left alone.”

  “If he won’t come, there’s even less harm in issuing an invitation,” Penelope remarked. “You’ll get the credit for inviting him, without having to entertain him. Besides, he might think us rude if we don’t, as such close neighbors. Everyone in Richmond was invited to the ball, but a dinner invitation shows more solicitude.”

  “Exactly,” said Abigail immediately, feeling very grateful to her sister. “What’s the harm in issuing an invitation?”

  Mama leaned back on the sofa and fixed a sharp gaze on her, idly stroking Milo with one hand. “What’s your interest in inviting him, Abigail?”

  “Neighborly gratitude, Mama.”

  Mama said nothing, but her expression remained suspicious. Abigail fought to keep from squirming, but feared she’d failed when her mother said, “Penelope, would you please go upstairs and fetch my embroidery case?”

  “Oh, it’s right here, Mama, on the table,” said Penelope.

  “Then go upstairs and find the length of blue silk.”

  “I’ll ring for Maria to fetch it.”

  “Penelope,” said Mama, a faint ring of
steel in her voice, “go find it yourself.”

  Her sister’s face creased in frustration. She knew she was being ordered from the room, and she wasn’t happy about it. She rose, slowly, and threw down the ladies’ magazine she’d been reading. “Where is it, Mama?”

  “I don’t know, you must look for it.” This time Mama looked away from Abigail and pinned that sharp gaze on her youngest child. “Go, Penelope.”

  Dragging her feet, Penelope went.

  Mama set Milo aside and crooked her finger. “Come here, dear.”

  Abigail’s heart sank. Feeling every bit as reluctant as her sister had been, she moved to sit beside her mother on the sofa.

  “What is your interest in Mr. Vane?” her mother asked bluntly.

  She prayed she wasn’t blushing. “Neighborly, Mama.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “And perhaps a little more,” she added, knowing confession was better if made willingly and quickly.

  “How much more?”

  Now she knew she was blushing. Still, she didn’t look away, and she clenched her hands together in her lap to keep from fidgeting. “What do you mean?”

  “I know you’ve gone for several walks in the woods. I know you’re very fond of finding a peaceful spot to read, and I am not calling you deceitful,” Mama said. “But I can’t help wondering if perhaps you’ve met him on your strolls and formed an attachment.”

  Abigail cleared her throat. She hadn’t planned on making this much confession, but lying about it now would be a crucial error. “Well, yes, when Penelope and I went walking the other day, we did meet him. He was looking for his dog, who’d got lost in the woods, and since he was so kind when Milo ran off, we offered to help him look.”

  “And did you find the dog?”

  “No, Penelope fell in the mud, so we came home.”

  Mama just sat watching her, saying nothing, for a long, long moment. Abigail tried to tell herself she wasn’t really lying—­everything she’d said was true, after all—­and that there was nothing to be gained by saying more.