“Not at all!”
“Brilliant.” Benedict rubbed his hands together. “Elizabeth, would you play for us?”
“Am I not invited to dance, too?” She laughed even as she laid one hand on her belly. It had come out during dinner that she was expecting her first child.
He grinned. “If you won’t play, I shall have to, and that would be a great tragedy for everyone.”
She tapped her brother on the arm. “Very well. For you—and to spare our ears.”
Benedict turned, but Sebastian had already foreseen what was coming. There were three young ladies: Abigail, Penelope, and Samantha. There were four gentlemen who might dance: Benedict, James Weston, Lord Turley, and Sebastian himself. Perhaps it hadn’t been deliberate that Benedict suggested dancing, but Sebastian didn’t think it was beneath him to name an activity that would put Sebastian at a disadvantage. And the last thing he intended to do was watch Benedict take Abigail by the hand and dance with her while he sat lamely by. If it ruined his knee for all time, he was going to dance with her tonight. He bowed to Abigail. “May I have the first set, Miss Weston?”
There was a shocked hush in the room. Sebastian ignored it, keeping his gaze fixed on Abigail. Her eyes widened, but then a bright, delighted smile split her face. “Of course, sir.” She put her hand in his, and he smiled back.
“Lady Samantha, will you do me the honor?” James Weston bowed to that lady, who looked startled. She murmured an agreement, although not without a quick glance at her mother.
Benedict recovered quickly. “Miss Penelope.” He made a flourishing bow. “Will you?”
“With great pleasure, sir.”
Sebastian thought he’d never heard Penelope speak so kindly to Benedict, but he forgot about that as he led Abigail to join the figure. Her brother and Lady Samantha lined up next to them, separating them from Benedict and Penelope—not that it mattered to Sebastian. Once upon a time, he’d been very fond of dancing, and tonight he was going to dance with Abigail. Napoleon himself could line up next to them, and Sebastian wouldn’t have cared. Barely three feet away, Abigail smiled at him, her gray eyes as bright as stars.
The first few steps were a bit uncertain; it had been a long time since he’d danced. But Abigail subtly motioned which direction, and his feet began to remember. Every time he took her hand or caught her in his arm, he remembered: this was how it felt to be normal. This was how it felt to forget about his wounded leg and give himself over to the joy of dancing with a woman.
All too soon it was over. Abigail curtsied, beautifully flushed from the dancing. He bowed, and they shared a smile. He could swear he knew what she was thinking—You dance far too well to be the cripple you name yourself—and he had to admit she was right. His left knee ached, but no more than usual after a long walk through the woods. It was nothing to the thrill of pleasing her. He even danced another set, this time with Penelope as Benedict claimed Abigail. He still got to dance with Abigail again when the partners changed, and that was all he cared about.
After the dancing, Mrs. Weston summoned her daughters for a quiet word. Sebastian took the opportunity to discreetly stretch his leg. He had learned that it stiffened up after exercise if bent, so he took a turn around the room.
Benedict intercepted him. “I’d like a word,” he said in a low voice.
“Another time, my lord.” Sebastian kept his eyes on Abigail. God above, he felt alive and vital in a way he hadn’t in years. Holding her in his arms, proving he could dance like a normal man, had sent his spirits soaring. But it was the look in her eyes that made his heart leap. He almost wanted to thank Benedict: this dinner had been a bloody brilliant idea, and the dancing an even better one.
“Miss Weston,” said Lady Stratford in her cool, clear voice. “Perhaps you would favor us with a song? Your mother tells me you’re quite accomplished on the pianoforte.”
“I’m sure no one could surpass Lady Turley’s beautiful playing,” said Abigail with a smile at the lady. “But I would be delighted to play for you.” She got up and made her way toward the instrument.
“Now, Vane,” Benedict growled.
He glanced at his one-time friend. “Can’t it wait, my lord?”
Benedict lifted his chin, his eyes blazing with challenge. “No.”
He took another glance at Abigail, seating herself at the pianoforte. Lady Samantha had gone with her, and was spreading out a selection of music. He would rather hear her play than listen to anything Benedict had to say, but he didn’t want to cause a scene. That wouldn’t achieve his other goal tonight, to set the elder Westons at ease about his fitness as a husband. “Very well.”
Benedict led the way to a small green salon, where Sebastian dimly remembered being once before. “Old Samwell scolded us here,” he said without thinking, naming the earl’s steward from nearly twenty years ago. “For stealing oranges from the orangery.” He’d endured it facing a portrait of some long-dead Stratford ancestor from the time of the Stuarts, with a long curling mustache and a faintly amused air, as if he found the steward’s tirade as annoying as Sebastian had. And once Samwell was done, Sebastian and Benedict had collapsed into a fit of snickering about it.
“What?” Benedict frowned at him before recognition flickered in his eyes. “Oh yes. A long time ago.”
Sebastian glanced around the room. The same Stuart ancestor smirked down at him from the wall. “It’s not changed a bit.” He faced Benedict, who most certainly had changed. “What did you wish to discuss, my lord?”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Benedict’s expression grew smooth and hard. “I merely wanted to let you know that I intend to marry Abigail Weston.”
He almost smiled. “Did I miss an announcement at dinner?”
“I haven’t proposed yet, but I will.”
Once he would have laughed. Now he thought about doing the same thing, although not in any spirit of goodwill. “You seem very certain she’ll accept.”
“I have reason to be.” Benedict’s smile was edged with gloating.
“Oh?” He leaned on his cane and raised his brows. “What is that?” He felt fearless tonight, brimming with confidence. Abigail wouldn’t accept Benedict; she was in love with him. And he was in love with her. Recklessly he discounted any and every obstacle, every argument he himself had once made against marriage. He knew her, in a way Benedict never would or could. He knew what made her heart beat faster and what made her laugh. He knew what moved her and what aroused her. He was an idiot to let pride cost him a chance at real, lasting happiness. He knew—he knew—that if Abigail had to choose between them, she would choose him. Part of him almost itched to propose to her tonight, just so Benedict could get his comeuppance.
Benedict scoffed. “Do you even need to ask? Don’t you think she looks very much at home here?”
“She’s not something your father can buy for you,” said Sebastian.
The other man’s face darkened. “How dare you suggest that.”
“No? You were the one who invited her here. No doubt seeing how fine a home you can offer her, at some point in the future, bears some influence.”
“Envy doesn’t become you.” Benedict heaved a sigh and looked bored.
Sebastian shrugged. “No. It’s not envy. I know I have nothing much to offer her but myself. Only she can decide if that’s enough.”
“Be damned if she will!”
He raised his eyebrows. “Someone else will decide for her?”
Benedict flushed. “I meant she won’t choose you, Bastian.”
Somehow the childhood nickname cut deeper than anything else Benedict could have said. Sebastian inhaled a long breath to keep his composure. Benedict seemed to realize a moment too late what he’d said; he turned his back and walked toward the door. Before he had gone more than a few steps, though, the door opened and the Earl of Stratford
stepped inside.
“Well, Vane, that was a pretty display.”
Sebastian didn’t know what the earl meant, so he made no reply. He couldn’t stop the instinctive tensing of his muscles, though. The Earl of Stratford had been a fearsome figure seven years ago, and his aura of menace hadn’t dissipated much since then. Even Benedict stopped and stood a little straighter.
Stratford folded his arms and cocked his head. “A cripple dancing! That might win the ladies’ pity, but not much else.”
“I’ve never wanted anyone’s pity.”
“Not even when you came to beg me to return what your father legally sold?” Stratford’s eyes gleamed in contempt.
Sebastian would regret that visit to the end of his days. He’d been distraught, barely twenty-three, with a shattered knee and a father raving about demons trying to kill him. He had begged the earl to reconsider the sale, thinking that if he could somehow restore that one part of his life, it would make the rest better, too. “He wasn’t in his right mind when he signed that document, and you knew it.”
Stratford affected a look of exaggerated surprise. “How could I have known?”
“Fifty pounds for eighty acres of good land.”
The earl had a cruel smile. “I offered him one hundred pounds. He insisted more than fifty was too generous.”
Sebastian felt as taut as a bowstring. His hand tightened on the handle of his cane. “How sporting of you to acquiesce so easily.”
Stratford shrugged. “Why let an opportunity go to waste?”
Sebastian looked from father to son. How many times had he sympathized with Ben over his father’s cold and calculating demeanor? Even now Benedict gave no sign of disagreement; he just stood listening, his mouth flat and his expression distant. “I expected nothing more of you, sir.”
“I suggest you make your final farewell of Miss Weston tonight. Benedict brought her here for approval, and I have decided to give it.” He looked at his son. “Her dowry is acceptable, and I grant you she’s pretty enough. If you want her, have her. I expect you to conclude the business within a week.”
“Father,” said Benedict in a low voice. Something about it touched distant memories: Ben, complaining that his father was impossible to please. Ben, worrying over the unavoidable punishments for falling short. Ben, bruised and quiet after it was administered. Sebastian had hated the earl all those years ago—still did—but now he looked at Benedict and wondered why he put up with this abuse still. But perhaps Benedict was more like his father than he realized. After all, when Sebastian had told him what Stratford had done, Benedict had taken his father’s side so staunchly, he hadn’t spoken to Sebastian again for seven years.
Not for the first time, it made Sebastian angry. Benedict had no choice but to submit to his father as a boy, but he was a man now. Sebastian wanted to punch Benedict’s face for speaking so callously about marrying Abigail, but the earl’s careless presumption that if his son wanted her, he would have her, enraged him. She was far more than a pretty heiress, and she wasn’t Stratford’s to award.
“Well done, Ben. Now all you have to do is get her approval.” Sebastian glanced fleetingly at the earl. “I expect it will be easier to obtain than your father’s ever was.”
“You impudent rat. Don’t you speak to my son that way.” Stratford glared at Benedict. “Are you going to take that, from a mad cripple? What sort of man are you?”
“He’s going now,” said Benedict through white lips.
Sebastian nodded. “I’ll reserve my felicitations until I see the notice in the papers.” He turned toward the door.
“Good riddance,” growled Stratford. As Sebastian made to pass him, Stratford turned and stood blocking his path. Intent on escaping the noxious presence of the earl without giving way entirely to his temper, Sebastian didn’t pay enough attention to where he was. His cane caught on the side of Stratford’s shoe just as he put his weight on his bad leg—and just as Stratford twitched his foot to the side, sending the tip of the cane sliding over the polished floor. He tried to catch his balance but it was too late; he crashed down onto his injured knee, barely throwing out his hands in time to keep from landing full flat on his face.
For a moment he thought he would pass out. Pain seared up his leg, even worse than when he’d first been shot, and his stomach heaved on instinct. He nearly bit through his tongue to keep the howl of agony at bay. It was all he could do to stay on his hands and knees, shaking as his every nerve tightened in anguish.
But then, dimly, he heard the earl speak. “Clumsy, too,” said Stratford in mild contempt. “You’re barking mad already if you thought any woman would want you over my son, Vane.” He walked away, sending the cane rattling across the floor with a flick of his toe.
Christ. He had to get out of here. It had been a mistake to come after all. Everything he’d gained by holding his own and facing his tormentor—and dancing with Abigail—was wiped away by the prospect of lying retching on the floor. Sebastian gritted his teeth and raised his head, praying he could get back on his feet unaided. If he had to crawl out of Stratford Court . . . he would, but it would be bitter. Slowly, carefully, he brought his good leg forward. Nausea roiled his stomach again as he had to rest his full weight on the hurt knee. He paused to take a deep breath, bracing himself . . .
A hand appeared in front of his face. Benedict, white-faced and grim, bent down.
“He doesn’t need your help, Benedict,” said Stratford from the other side of the room, where he was pouring himself a drink. “He doesn’t need anyone’s help. The Misanthrope of Montrose Hill!”
Sebastian looked up at Benedict. Neither said anything. Slowly Sebastian raised his hand, and took Benedict’s proffered one. With a firm pull, Benedict helped him rise, then handed him the cane. Sebastian gave him only a curt nod, setting the cane alongside his wounded leg. The knee throbbed as though a red-hot knife had been driven into it, but he refused to make a sound of discomfort. Slowly, gingerly, he turned, making sure the cane was firmly settled every second.
“You look a bit ill, Vane.” The earl sipped his drink. “Leaving early, I daresay; what a pity.”
And now he was being thrown out. There was no mistaking the meaning in Stratford’s words. For a moment he wondered if he could endure returning to the drawing room and taking his leave of Abigail, and then he decided against it, on the very real chance he would humiliate himself by blacking out.
“Thank you, Lord Stratford,” he said, still fighting waves of nausea, “for a magnificent dinner. Please convey my compliments to Lady Stratford.” Again he turned. “My Lord Atherton.” And he bowed, clenching his teeth against the renewed anguish.
Every careful step toward the door was agony, but he preferred to hobble like a cripple than go too fast and fall again. He left the green salon and felt a burst of relief, followed closely by dread at the prospect of getting home in this state. Oh God; he’d never make it. Montrose Hill might as well be on the moon. It was a long walk to the river, where he’d have to row himself across, then walk three miles or more uphill. He paused in the grand hall, trying to gather his thoughts. Was there any alternative?
“Mr. Vane?” Penelope Weston’s curious tone vanished when she saw his face. “Oh my goodness,” she gasped. “You look dreadful!”
He gritted his teeth and tried to smile. “Thank you.”
“No, I mean you look ill.” She touched his arm. “Come sit down.”
He raised one hand. “No, I—I was just going home. It’s time for me to take my leave.”
She gave him a searching look. “Let me get Abigail. You’re as white as a ghost—”
“No!” He closed his upraised hand into a fist and forced his voice back down. “Please don’t. As you said, I—I fell ill. Don’t get her.”
Penelope’s gaze dropped to his white-knuckled grip on his cane. Then
she looked up, past his shoulder, and Sebastian heard the murmur of the earl’s voice. He couldn’t resist glancing back, too—the last thing he wanted the earl to have was the satisfaction of seeing him whipped and beaten—pushing himself a little more erect as he did. Stratford’s scathing eyes raked him once more before he turned and walked away, back toward the drawing room, but Benedict still stood there watching. For a moment their eyes met. Benedict hesitated, looking torn, then followed his father.
“That low-mannered wretch,” breathed Penelope beside him. She was glaring at Benedict’s retreating back with pure venom. She glanced back at Sebastian. “You didn’t fall ill, did you, Mr. Vane. You just fell. And he—” She stopped. “Let me help you, if you won’t let me fetch Abby.”
He managed to nod. He might not make it without her help. “Just outside.”
Somehow they made it down the stairs. Penelope hurried ahead and had the footman holding the door open when he got there. He had crossed the graveled drive by the time she caught him again, this time with her father’s servant in tow. “Adam is going to help you home,” she announced. “And if you protest, I will run inside and tell my sister you are severely wounded.”
Sebastian almost refused, until he remembered again how far it was from the dock to his home. He nodded once. “Thank you, Miss Weston.”
“I don’t know why you won’t let me tell Abby anyway,” she added softly. “She’s a good nurse, very patient and sympathetic. And it’s not your fault—”
“Please don’t,” he interrupted. “Not tonight.” Not tonight, when he had danced with her like an able-bodied man. Not while she was still at Stratford Court, where the earl could blacken his name even further. He needed to gather himself and regain his composure before he saw her again. “My health isn’t really your concern.”
“No, but lying to my sister is,” she pointed out.
Adam had brought the punt up. Sebastian forced himself to move, limping down the dock and managing to lower himself into the boat without casting up his dinner over the side. Sweating and panting again, he looked up at Penelope, watching him with concern. “Good night, Miss Weston. Thank you.”
It Takes a Scandal Page 25
