It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  She shifted the package in her arm uncomfortably, as if it was too heavy. “We met him only recently. He was in town, seeking a gift for his sister, and asked me—­and Penelope,” she hastily added, “to advise him.”

  That was no reply at all to his remark that Benedict was taken with her. It had been as clear as day to Sebastian, but if she didn’t even pretend not to have noticed . . . He told himself he couldn’t blame her, but at the same time he could already feel the armor re-­forming around his heart. He tilted his head in the direction her siblings had gone. “I don’t want to keep you. Shall we?”

  Abigail nodded, too disconcerted to say anything. This was not the reunion she had imagined. He didn’t seem at all pleased to see her, with not one word of delight at running into them. Sebastian fell in step beside her, without offering his arm. Now the weight of Ivanhoe felt like a small boulder in her arm. Even if he had no idea what it was, she did—­but from the hard set of his shoulders and his remote expression, she imagined he suspected.

  “I’m glad your trip was a success,” she said to break the oppressive silence. Penelope seemed to be inciting James to a race, for they had already made much quicker progress.

  Sebastian glanced fleetingly at her. “I suppose.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  His mouth was a firm line and his eyes were fixed straight ahead. “I’m not certain.”

  She began to be annoyed. He was acting as if she had offended him when all she had done was be cordial to a neighbor. She hiked Ivanhoe a little higher into the crook of her elbow. If Sebastian Vane felt such an interest in her actions, he could have done something about it—­as Lord Atherton had done. He could have declared himself that day he kissed her so scandalously. He could have written to her while he was away. He could have asked her if she had formed an attachment to Lord Atherton instead of being tight-­lipped and taciturn. “Lord Atherton has been very kind,” she said to provoke him.

  “And attentive, I see.”

  Again she felt the weight of Ivanhoe, but she merely smiled. “Yes, indeed! It would have been very quiet around Hart House otherwise.”

  This time his glance lingered. “He’s been to call often, then.”

  She flipped one hand. “Often? A few times.”

  “And you walked through the woods with him.”

  “Once,” she agreed.

  “And met him in town today.”

  “By chance,” she said in the same light, pleasant tone, to contrast with his flat one. “Just as we met you.” She waited a few more steps before adding, “What is Bristol like? I’ve never seen a port city.”

  “Crowded,” he said. “Dirty.”

  She nodded. “It sounds very different than Richmond. My brother went to Portsmouth once, and wrote the most amusing descriptions of the ­people there.”

  Her companion said nothing for a long moment. They had almost reached the carriage, where Penelope and James were already seated. The groom stood at the step waiting to help her in. “There was nothing of interest in Bristol to write about.”

  “Perhaps not, but a letter would have showed you thought of me.” She raised her brows. “But perhaps you didn’t. I shouldn’t presume.”

  He caught her hand and pulled, yanking her around to face him when she would have turned toward the carriage. “I thought of you,” he said in a low, taut voice. “Every day.”

  “And I thought of you,” she replied quietly. “The only trouble was, I didn’t know what to think.”

  His grip tightened around her wrist. “After the way we parted—­”

  “What?” she pressed when he stopped. “Nothing was promised between us.”

  “No,” he said grimly. “Clearly not.”

  Abigail flushed painfully red. He had undone her dress and kissed her all over, making love to her skin with his mouth. He had put his hands beneath her skirt and made her feel like the wickedest, most wanton woman alive. And not only had she let him, she’d reveled in it. She had wanted more.

  But now all her hopes of what might happen on his return seemed foolish and naïve. He appeared to have no memory of any desire to speak to her father now; today he looked cold and withdrawn again. “Well,” she said before she could stop herself, “perhaps that’s my fault. You asked a great deal, and I gave it without exacting any promise.”

  He released her hand as if it scalded him.

  “But before you charge me with—­with anything,” she went on in a growing fury, “ask what right you had to expect devotion. You know what I want, sir; I have never been coy about it. And if you cannot or will not give it, why shouldn’t I look elsewhere? You told me to do so!”

  “Abigail,” he said softly.

  She slashed one hand through the air. “I’m tired of being deemed a heartless flirt. I am willing to follow my heart, yes, but not to certain disappointment. If that’s all you have to offer, then perhaps I should encourage another gentleman to pay attention to me.” She raised her chin. “If you’ve decided you feel differently, you know where to call on me.” And she turned her back on him and marched to the carriage, flinging herself up the step without help from the groom and into the seat next to her sister. “I’m ready to go home,” she announced.

  James’s eyebrows shot up, but he signaled the driver.

  Penelope leaned in close. “Abby, did you just have an argument with Mr. Vane?” she whispered incredulously. “In the middle of Richmond?”

  “I did not.” She kept her gaze fixed ahead and refused to look at Sebastian as the carriage started forward.

  Penelope craned her neck. “He looks thunderstruck! What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing I didn’t fully believe.” She glared at her brother, who promptly turned to gaze in apparent fascination at the passing scenery.

  Penelope finally settled back in her seat, eyes wide with approval. “Then I’m sure he needed to hear it.”

  Abigail said nothing. Her heart beat so hard, her hands still trembled as she clutched the gift from Lord Atherton. Sebastian Vane did need to hear it, just as much as she needed to say it. If he wanted her, it was time for him to prove it.

  Chapter 18

  Sebastian walked home in a very dark mood.

  Everything Abigail said was correct. He had promised her nothing. He had told her to run away from him. He had also taken advantage of her sensual curiosity and trusting nature to satisfy his own craving for her. He did know what she wanted: not just passion, but love and marriage. The irony that he had been on the brink of offering both didn’t escape him, but of course Abigail didn’t know that—­because he had let his visceral reaction to Benedict Lennox override his every thought and intention.

  Goddamn it. Benedict Lennox, of all ­people. There was a twisted sort of humor in it, he supposed; once Ben had envied him everything. Sebastian had been taller and stronger, more adept on a horse, and a far better shot. His father’s lack of title had meant Sebastian was permitted to do things like join the army, while Benedict, the heir to the Earl of Stratford, was flatly refused any chance at military glory.

  The memory of their rash youthful views of the army brought a bitter smile to his face. Military glory had faded quickly into a lifetime of disability for him, while Benedict, confined safely if unhappily at home, was still whole and healthy.

  Even worse, of course, was that Sebastian’s estate had been even more crippled, with the primary beneficiary being—­indirectly—­Benedict. Sebastian didn’t think it would make him feel better if his father had sold the land to someone other than Lord Stratford, but the fact that Benedict would inherit what should have been his . . . He had to breathe deeply to keep from cursing again over that quirk of fate.

  So Benedict was able-­bodied and had a larger inheritance. None of that was in Sebastian’s control. It wasn’t as if Benedict had shot his knee, or even snatched up his propert
y for a pittance. Fate was often unkind.

  But Abigail . . . He didn’t know if he could take losing Abigail as philosophically. Not that he had ever truly had her to begin with. No promises.

  The box with the cameo struck his thigh with every step, like a constant little prod to his temper. What did he want? He had promised her nothing, but only, he’d told himself, because he had nothing to promise her. His damned pride had kept him from telling her he was falling in love with her, and now she had decided to look elsewhere. Who could blame her?

  He veered off the road into the woods, feeling like he could beat something. He thrashed a fern from his way with his cane. He ground his heel into the dirt as if to punish his knee for being weak and painful. It cost him his footing; when he lurched to adjust, his right foot landed on what looked like dry earth, but what was in reality a thick mat of leaves, dried on top but wet beneath. In the blink of an eye he had skidded down the gentle slope of the trail to land on his arse in the exposed muck of the forest floor.

  For a moment he just sat, heart thudding. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d fallen, but it was the first in a while. Normally he paid more attention to where he stepped. If he hadn’t let emotion blot out his usual caution . . .

  His usual caution had warned him to stay away from Abigail. He’d managed to ignore it somewhat, for the chance to kiss her. But he’d held back from declaring himself in any way before he left. If only he’d ignored that little voice a bit more, he might not be here. He could be walking arm-­in-­arm with her, telling her about Bristol and his uncle, perhaps even making his proposal.

  Gently he tested his knee. It felt sound. With a grunt, he pushed himself off the ground, groping for his cane before resting any weight on his left leg. A few wary steps, and he decided the knee wasn’t much worse than before. Aside from a wet backside, he was unscathed.

  A sudden thought made him reach for the pocket in his coattail. The box was dented on one side, but when he pulled off the ribbon and opened it, the cameo inside was just as before: a delicate profile of a lovely lady, carved from ivory and set on a light blue background. He ran one fingertip over the golden frame.

  No, it wasn’t his usual caution that had kept him from Abigail. It was fear. He hadn’t called on her when invited because he was afraid she would find him lacking. He hadn’t told her about his trip to Bristol before he left because he feared the news wouldn’t be as good as he hoped. He hadn’t told her he loved her because he didn’t want to expose his heart in a way he hadn’t done in years—­even though she was the least likely person in the world to throw it back in his face. Everything he had done, and not done, had been because of fear.

  Sebastian knew about fear. He remembered lying in a makeshift army surgery, afraid to fall asleep in case he never woke up. He remembered forcing his father into his room at night, cringing at each raspy raving his father uttered, afraid that he would die, afraid that he would recover. He remembered wondering how on earth he would pay his bills and mortgages, driven by fear he would lose everything. All those fears he had survived and overcome.

  A lesser inheritance wouldn’t have rendered him less eligible in her eyes; any bettering of his situation could only help. She already knew about his crippled knee. She already knew him. And somehow, she’d accepted him.

  His mouth firmed and he closed his hand around the cameo. He was an idiot. If he wanted the girl, he would have to win her. Every lady deserved to be courted, pursued, made to feel wanted. Through his own stubbornness and pride, he had made his task harder, but that didn’t change the one settled fact in his mind and heart: he wanted her. He needed her. He loved her.

  And if he had to fight to win her, he would fight to his last breath.

  Abigail had decided two things by the next morning. If Lord Atherton called, she would refuse to receive him and plead that she had a headache. That was a little bit true, as she still hadn’t sorted out what to do about his attentions. Her parents were so pleased, and he was so charming; if she’d only met him, and never Sebastian, who could say what might have happened?

  But she had met Sebastian, and she even thought she’d fallen in love with him. That was her second decision. If he called, she would see him, although with the excuse of a headache ready to use at a moment’s notice. If he came to explain why he’d been so grim, she wanted to hear it. Since he’d shown a marked aversion to calling on her, though, she thought she would have some time to ponder this.

  She put Ivanhoe on the shelf beside her bed, next to The Children of the Abbey. For a long time she contemplated the pair of them. Ivanhoe was a favorite of hers, a rich, breathtaking tale of love and gallantry, and this was a very handsome new edition, leather bound with gilt titles. The Children of the Abbey was an old book, smelling of dust, and the story itself was more than a little silly.

  But the difference . . . She traced one finger down the spine of the older book. Ivanhoe had been a moment’s lark to Lord Atherton. He heard her say she liked it, so he bought it for her. It had no meaning to him except as a way to impress her and please her. The Children of the Abbey, though, had belonged to Sebastian’s mother. Even if—­as she suspected—­he gave it to her in part because he couldn’t afford any other book, let alone one like Ivanhoe, it had some meaning to him. Surely he wouldn’t have kept it pristine all these years for no reason. It was a Minerva Press novel, cheaply bound and no great triumph of prose or sentiment. Surely that betokened some depth of feeling, the way his care for the glass chamber in the grotto had. She refused to believe he had cleared all the brush from the entrance, swept the passage, and carried a rug, cushions, and lanterns all the way into the forest for any other reason—­all without even knowing if she would meet him there.

  She hadn’t been to the grotto since that day, when she’d lain on the rug with Sebastian to see the mermaid. She rolled over onto her back and stared up at her plain plaster ceiling. Her parents would probably be very startled if she asked permission to create a mosaic on it . . .

  A tap at the door sounded. “You’ve a caller,” said Thomson when she opened it. “Mr. Vane.”

  Well. That was a surprise. “Show him to the drawing room,” she said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  She took a minute to compose her thoughts and went downstairs. Sebastian stood by the window, looking out, his back to her. Something about his posture struck her as chastened. “Mr. Vane.” She curtsied in the doorway.

  He spun around. For a moment his expression was surprised, unguarded. For a moment he looked at her with a world of wonder and yearning in his eyes, and Abigail’s heart gave an unsteady thump.

  He bowed, and when he rose his face was once more composed and inscrutable. “Miss Weston.”

  “Won’t you sit down?” She waved one hand at the sofa.

  He hesitated. “Could we perhaps stroll in the garden? As pleasant as it would be to converse with your mother and sister, what I have to say today is for your ears only.”

  Abigail did a quick calculation. If Mama knew he was here—­and she was willing to bet Thomson was telling her right now—­she would come join them. But the garden was entirely visible from the house. If they walked on the paths nearest the terrace, there was a good chance Mama would only keep an eye on her from inside. “Very well. Let me fetch my shawl.”

  She led the way outside, wondering what he had to tell her. They crossed the terrace and descended to the gravel path through the neat knot garden.

  “Once again I must apologize,” Sebastian said in a subdued tone. “I didn’t behave well yesterday.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  He seemed to be struggling to decide what to say. “Perhaps I should begin with some old history. You must have noticed that Lord Atherton and I were somewhat acquainted.”

  She heard the slight hesitation before the last word. “I knew that. Lady Samantha told us you and he were once frien
ds, and he himself told me the two of you explored the woods as brothers together in search of the grotto.”

  The look he shot her was quick and sharp. “We did.” He seemed to be limping more than usual today. “We were the best of friends at one time. His father was strict and demanding, mine was distracted and often swept up in his latest scientific scheme. We both escaped into the woods. Searching for the long-­lost grotto was only one of our missions. In the hours we spent exploring, we were ideal companions. No adventure was too daring for us; we were equals in every way, in those woods.

  “But of course our stations were very different. He was the heir to an earl, while my father was a mere gentleman. When we finished university, the war was raging and we were both keen to join the fight. I dreamed of adventure and he dreamed of glory; I suppose he’d always wanted to be a soldier, even when we were lads. My father agreed, however reluctantly, but Lord Stratford absolutely forbade Ben—­Lord Atherton, that is—­to do the same. I bought a commission and we had a bitter row.”

  “He was envious,” she murmured.

  “He was,” Sebastian agreed. “When my head had cooled, I realized that he must have been desperate to go, not just for adventure and glory, but to escape his father. Stratford was . . . not a kind or loving father, as mine was. I know he beat Ben, sometimes harshly, and he was never satisfied, let alone pleased, by anything Benedict did. But I was headstrong and young, bent on doing what I wanted and less considerate of his feelings than I ought to have been. I went off to war and he had no choice but to stay home.”

  Abigail thought of Lord Atherton’s crisp uniform the day he had first visited. The King’s Guard, an elite but essentially ornamental brigade. An earl’s heir wouldn’t be permitted to go to war, but he had found a way into the army.