It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “How do you do, sir?” Abigail curtsied, and then nudged her sister into doing the same.

  “Very well, now that I’ve met you.” He set his hat back on his head. “May I walk with you?”

  “Oh dear. We were just about to turn for home,” said Penelope. “Perhaps another day!”

  He glanced at her. “That is a terrible shame. I was hoping to ask a favor of you.”

  “We were in no hurry to go home.” Abigail wanted to smack the simpering expression off Penelope’s face. It wasn’t like her to show such dislike of anyone, let alone a handsome man. “If there’s any way we could help, we would be delighted to do so.”

  Lord Atherton grinned again. “Thank you, Miss Weston, I knew I could count on you.” Penelope gave a quiet snort. Abigail could tell he heard it by the twitch in his jaw. “I’m in need of advice regarding my sister Samantha. It’s her birthday soon, and I’ve been away so long I haven’t the slightest idea what to give her.”

  “We can try,” said Abigail with a laugh. “But I would hate to be responsible for leading you astray. Perhaps we could ask some delicate questions the next time we see her—­”

  “No, I wouldn’t want to put you to such trouble,” he said with a charmingly abashed air. “As a brother, I shan’t be held to the highest standard. I merely need some inkling of the right sort of gift.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if you’re in much need of help, then,” pointed out Penelope. “If our brother were even to remember the date of our birthdays, it would be such a shock we would fall senseless to the floor.”

  “Hush, Pen,” Abigail scolded her. “James isn’t that bad.”

  “He is,” she retorted. “He wished me a happy birthday just three months ago. On your birthday.”

  “I think he was teasing you.”

  Penelope scoffed. “That’s what he would like us to believe.”

  “Well, I’m quite sure it’s Samantha’s birthday and not Elizabeth’s,” said Lord Atherton. “Heaven save me if ever I confused them! Will you help me, Miss Weston? I assure you, I’m utterly desperate and promise not to hold any suggestion against you. Anything you say will surely be far better than my own inadequate ideas—­particularly since I have absolutely none.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Brilliant. I shall be forever grateful.” He offered his arm, still regarding her warmly. “Where can we begin our search?”

  Abigail hesitated a moment before taking his arm. There was a gleam in Penelope’s eye that made her wary. For some reason, her sister seemed to have taken a militant dislike to Lord Atherton. “I don’t suppose she’s expressed a desire for anything?”

  “A new hunter.” He made a face. “I don’t love my sister that much.”

  “Desperation has its limits, I see,” said Penelope sotto voce.

  Lord Atherton’s arm flexed, but his charming smile didn’t waver. “What would you buy your sister for a gift?”

  “How about a book?” suggested Penelope, belying her innocent tone with a sly glance at Abigail. “Every girl likes to have something good to read. Abigail certainly does.”

  Lord Atherton gave Penelope a measured look for a moment before turning back to her. “Is that true, Miss Weston? Do you appreciate having a good book to read?”

  “Yes,” she replied, glaring at Penelope. “I do. As does my sister.”

  “I do indeed,” exclaimed Penelope fervently. “I pine away without a steady supply of new stories to occupy my mind.”

  Abigail shot her sister a deadly look. “I, however, would buy Penelope a scarf.” To tie over her mouth, before she mentioned precisely what sort of “new stories” she meant. “A thick, woolen scarf.”

  Penelope widened her eyes. “I’d much rather have a book, Abby. What was that fascinating book you were reading the other day? The one you simply couldn’t put down?”

  She blushed. Penelope meant Eleanor Vane’s book, which she had begun reading while Sebastian was away. “Do you want to purchase a book for your sister, Lord Atherton? The bookshop is right across the street.”

  “Let’s have a look,” he said at once, steering her that way. Penelope skipped along beside her, ignoring all Abigail’s attempts to catch her eye and issue a warning. If Penelope said one word about 50 Ways to Sin, she would regret it to her dying day. “Are you a great reader, Miss Weston?”

  “I love a good book,” she replied. If she turned her head toward him, her bonnet brim blocked the sight of her sister, so she did so. “Does Lady Samantha as well?”

  “Er.” He had a very endearing look of penitent humor. “I don’t really know. But if you choose one you would like, I would be very pleased to give it to her and hope for the best.”

  Penelope laughed brightly. “Oh, you might want to reconsider, my lord! Abigail won’t choose a proper, noble work like Fordyce’s Sermons. She has more adventurous taste.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” he said, reaching for the door of Mrs. Driscoll’s shop. “Samantha would fling a book of sermons straight at my head. After she recovered from the shock of receiving such from me, of course.”

  “What sort of books do you prefer?” Penelope batted her eyelashes.

  “Why don’t you go look for a book of your own, Penelope, while Lord Atherton and I try to find one that might suit Lady Samantha?” Abigail suggested pointedly. “Since your mind requires so much occupation.”

  Penelope looked from her to Lord Atherton. “Very well.” She walked away and took a book from the shelf.

  Abigail breathed a sigh of relief. Her sister was in a very odd mood today. “I’m sorry if she seems impertinent,” she whispered as Lord Atherton led her to a bookshelf far from Penelope. “Sisters do tease each other something fierce at times . . .”

  “Was she teasing you?” He propped one shoulder against the bookcase and crossed his arms. “Or me?”

  Abigail raised her brows. “Why on earth would she want to tease you, sir?”

  He grinned. “Miss Weston. It cannot have escaped your notice that your sister questions my intelligence every chance she gets.”

  “And you are the very noblest of gentlemen for not holding it against me,” she assured him, making him laugh.

  “Indeed not.” His voice softened as he studied her face. “I rather delight in hearing you defend me.”

  She made a face and shook her head. “You don’t look in much need of a defender. You’re taller than Penelope, and could beat her handily at cards or foot racing.”

  “It is so rare a gentleman has an opportunity to challenge a young lady to cards or foot racing, though,” he said in mock regret.

  “Penelope wouldn’t hesitate to challenge anyone, if she thought she could win,” muttered Abigail.

  He laughed quietly. “I, too, enjoy winning—­some things more than others.” His smile faded a little, but his deep blue gaze remained fixed on her. “Your good opinion would be a priceless prize to me.”

  She blushed. “You already have that, my lord!”

  “Do I?” He shifted, leaning a little closer. “Then I shall strive to win your very good opinion.”

  Abigail’s lips parted in amazement. He was flirting with her—­out in public. It was hard not to be a little flattered, even if she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. She wet her lips, trying to think how to respond, when Mrs. Driscoll saved her.

  “May I help you find something, my lord?” The shopkeeper curtsied, her pleased smile encompassing both of them. “Or you, Miss Weston?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Driscoll,” he said with a bow. “I’ve already begged Miss Weston’s aid, but then I distracted her. Have we found anything?” he asked Abigail.

  “No,” she said, hoping her face wasn’t bright pink. “I was looking for a copy of Ivanhoe. I don’t know if Lady Samantha will enjoy it, but it’s one of my favorites.”<
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  “Ah, yes!” Mrs. Driscoll all but clapped her hands together. “A very popular book, that one. All the Waverley novels are. I’m sure we have a copy. No, my dear Miss Weston”—­she put out a hand as Abigail turned toward the shelf again—­“let me check in the back. These books might be a bit dusty, and I keep the finer editions on my own shelves.”

  “That sounds ideal,” said Lord Atherton in delight. “Mrs. Driscoll, you’re a treasure.”

  “I do my best, my lord,” she said modestly, but her smile was proud. “I’ll be back in a trice.”

  Abigail watched her bustle off. “I hope she has it. It was very popular when it was published; I had to borrow it from the lending library because all the booksellers were sold out. Perhaps we should hunt for another book in case she hasn’t got it . . .”

  “If you wish.” He turned to survey the shelves with her, although only a few moments went by before the shopkeeper was back, a handsome edition with dark green leather spines in her hand.

  “Here it is, in three volumes,” she said, presenting it to Lord Atherton.

  He slipped one volume out of the case and examined it before handing it to her. “Would you be pleased to receive such a gift, Miss Weston?”

  “Oh—­yes,” Abigail managed to stammer, holding it gently before laying open the cover to admire the type, clear and crisp. It was a beautiful edition, with the title stamped in gilt on the spine. “Very much so.”

  “Excellent.” He handed the case with the remaining two volumes to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it, Mrs. Driscoll.”

  “Is it a gift for this young lady?” Mrs. Driscoll had dimples, Abigail noticed. And her eyes could twinkle. It was such a surprise, she didn’t quite take in the woman’s words for a moment.

  Lord Atherton tilted his head and looked at her. A faint, mischievous smile curled his lips. “Perhaps it should be. After all, she chose it . . .”

  “What?” She flushed, coming back to herself with a start. “Oh no, it’s a gift for Lady Samantha!”

  “I doubt she would gaze at it with the reverence you just showed.” He cast a meaningful glance at her hands, still unconsciously smoothing the cover. “I would like you to have it, as thanks for helping me.”

  “Oh—­oh no, sir.” She held out the volume with an apologetic laugh. “If you buy the book for me, I haven’t helped you at all! You asked for help finding a gift for your sister, not for me.”

  “You have.” He resisted her efforts to return the book, but cupped her hand in his and guided it toward Mrs. Driscoll, who took the book and added it to the case. “Have you any other books similar to this one to recommend, madam?”

  “Indeed, sir, I do!” With another twinkle of her eye, Mrs. Driscoll hurried off.

  Abigail bit her lip. That edition of Ivanhoe would cost a pretty penny. And while it was just a book, it was a deeply emotional and stirring book. “It’s too kind of you.”

  He was still holding her hand, his fingers tracing hers. She could feel every bit of it through her gloves. “On the contrary,” he said in a low voice. “It is not nearly how kind I wish to be to you.”

  “Have you found something?” Penelope’s voice made her start.

  “No,” she said, flustered and grateful for her sister’s interruption.

  “Yes,” countered Lord Atherton, his voice once more light and teasing. “Just not for Samantha.”

  Penelope’s sharp gaze narrowed. “For whom, then?”

  “For your sister.” He squeezed her hand lightly. Belatedly realizing he still held it, Abigail pulled free, blushing fiercely.

  “Really!” Penelope looked at her in surprise. “How perceptive, my lord. A new book is the way to my sister’s heart.”

  “And she said it was one of her favorites,” added Lord Atherton. “Ivanhoe.”

  “My mother won’t allow me to accept it,” she protested. “It’s much too generous.”

  He only grinned. “Not by half, Miss Weston. Pardon me; I must go fetch my purchases from Mrs. Driscoll.” He tipped his head and walked away.

  Penelope stepped up beside her. “It’s more serious than I thought, Abby,” she murmured, watching him move through the shop, drawing the eye and attention of everyone. “He’s buying you books now.”

  “Hush!”

  “You’re fooling yourself if you think Mama won’t allow you to accept it,” went on her sister. “Mama will be over the moon, although not as much as Papa will be. Your wedding will be planned by the end of the day.”

  “It’s only a book,” she whispered repressively.

  “He meant to buy a gift for his sister, and now he’s buying one for you.” Penelope craned her neck to watch him banter with Mrs. Driscoll, making the older woman smile and laugh as she wrapped up his selections. “Although maybe one for her as well. I wonder if it’s another novel, or a handbook on pig breeding. He certainly didn’t spend much time choosing it . . .”

  Abigail averted her gaze. Lord Atherton was just as handsome from the rear as he was from the front, not that she should be noticing. “What is your point, Penelope?”

  Her sister looked her in the eye. “What about Mr. Vane?”

  She tensed. “What about him?”

  Penelope gave her such a disbelieving look, she flushed. Darting a wary glance at Lord Atherton, still busy with Mrs. Driscoll, she took her sister’s arm and towed her out of sight behind another bookcase. “I don’t know, Pen. He left and I’ve not heard a word from him. And he made me no promises before he left, either. Am I supposed to close myself in my room and refuse all callers until he returns?”

  “No, but you’re enjoying Lord Atherton’s company!” charged Penelope in a furious whisper.

  Abigail closed her eyes for a moment. “As would you, if you ever stopped baiting him. And if you say my manner is too friendly toward him, you should know it’s partly to make up for your snide treatment,” she added as her sister opened her mouth. “Why don’t you like him?”

  Penelope scowled. “He’s too eager for our approval.”

  Abigail snorted. “Heaven preserve us from a gentleman who isn’t looking down his nose at us as ‘those Weston upstarts.’ You’re impossible to please; you know that, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps you’re too easy to please!”

  “Penelope, I’m sorry he’s not a rude, brooding scoundrel with a giant scar covering half his face. Should I snub him because he’s handsome? Should I give him the cut because he’s amusing and considerate?” She paused. Her sister glowered at the books in front of her. “I never noticed you being so particular in London. If a handsome, charming viscount asked you to dance there—­”

  “But he didn’t!” Her sister whirled on her. “And I just wonder which man you’re leading on, Abby.”

  “Which—­?” She caught herself and lowered her voice before giving full vent to her shock and indignation. “You’re being a widgeon. And I’m not talking to you about it anymore.”

  A throat clearing behind her made her jump. Lord Atherton stood there, packages in hand. “Am I intruding?”

  “No more than usual,” said Penelope under her breath.

  “Not at all!” Abigail pushed past her sister and pinned a bright smile on her face. “Did you find a gift for Lady Samantha?”

  “I did indeed.” He looked away from Penelope’s grim expression to her, and his face eased into a smile. “An older novel called Sense and Sensibility. Mrs. Driscoll said it was a favorite with ladies. Have you read it?”

  “I have,” exclaimed Abigail in delight. “A wonderful book.” She darted a fleeting glance at Penelope. “It’s about two sisters of very different temperaments.”

  His mouth curved. “Perhaps it will prove enlightening, then.” He held out one package, tied up with brown string. “This is for you, with my deepest gratitude.”

  “Thank you
, sir.” She accepted it with a gracious smile. She had protested enough already; it was only a book; and Penelope was still glaring at him as if he’d burned her entire cache of 50 Ways to Sin.

  “Since you were on your way home when I waylaid you”—­he winked at her—­“may I walk you to your door?”

  “You’re very kind to offer, but our brother is in Richmond as well,” demurred Abigail. She wasn’t leading anyone on; she would say the same thing to anyone.

  “He’s probably very annoyed at us for not meeting him already,” added Penelope. That was a lie—­James had probably forgotten all about them by now—­but Abigail didn’t protest. The weight of the novel in her arm felt like a weight on her conscience. Was it misleading to accept Lord Atherton’s gift? She was uncomfortably aware that her sister was right: her parents would be very pleased when they heard of it, and would think it meant far more than it really did—­or at least more than it meant to her.

  For a moment she hovered on the brink of returning it. As much as she hated her sister for suggesting that Lord Atherton was courting her and that she was leading him on, even more she hated to think that Lord Atherton might feel the same way. Because, of course, when Sebastian returned . . .

  She paused on that thought. What would happen when Sebastian returned? She had no idea. He might begin courting her in earnest, as he’d hinted, but he might not. She still felt a helpless attraction and fascination for him, buried inside her like an ember waiting to ignite at the first touch of his mouth on hers, but he might not feel the same—­or rather, he might not feel anything more. She wasn’t reckless enough to throw herself into an affair like Lady Constance; Abigail wanted more. She wanted him to want her in every way. She wanted him to go out of his way to meet her, to call on her—­perhaps with flowers in hand—­and to look at her as if he couldn’t tear himself away. Just as Lord Atherton was doing.

  She sighed quietly. She had no idea what she’d do when Sebastian returned. If he slipped back into his cool, aloof personality and rebuffed her, she might be glad to have the company of someone who could distract her. Surely it would be easy to fall in love with the attentive Lord Atherton, if she knew Sebastian would never love her. If only Sebastian would return; the longer he stayed away without sending her any word, the more she began to doubt everything that had happened between them.