It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “I inherited the funds,” he repeated. “I have letters from my uncle’s solicitor.”

  “But letters can be forged, can’t they?” Weston held up one hand. “I make no accusation, and I don’t believe every rumor I hear—­most of them are nonsense—­but one story did catch my ear. Your father sold off a great deal of property while you were with Wellington’s army, and it left you in a very bad way when your father disappeared. Without a body, the estate couldn’t go to probate, which left everything tied up, didn’t it?”

  Sebastian closed his eyes.

  “That’s why I doubt you killed him,” Weston added, a touch kindlier. “At least not deliberately. No real benefit to a missing man, is there? But not long afterward, a good sum of money disappeared from Stratford Court.”

  Stratford. Sebastian wished the earl had simply broken his knee last night. “I did not steal that money,” he said, softly but clearly.

  “Four thousand guineas,” said Weston as if he hadn’t heard. “Curiously close to the sum you . . . inherited, just at the moment you might have felt the desire to improve your respectability. Understand, I make no accusations. But I dislike such dangerous coincidences. My daughter has a very handsome dowry. Paying out four thousand on old debts would be a very worthy investment for a man on the brink of gaining ten times that amount.”

  Slowly, stiffly, he forced himself up from the chair. His hands were numb, and his heart felt dead. “I appreciate your candor.” Each word was ice cold on his lips. “I am not a thief. Whatever happened to Lord Stratford’s money, I had nothing to do with it. And I would count myself the most fortunate man in the world to marry your daughter without a farthing in dowry.”

  “I’m sorry, Vane,” said Weston once more, driving the final stake through his hopes.

  He gave a jerky nod and turned toward the door. He took a step and almost fell before realizing he’d forgotten to retrieve his cane. He fumbled for it, then bowed and left, barely able to see in front of him.

  No. Weston’s reply echoed through his mind like the slamming of a door. No. Forbidden even to ask Abigail to marry him. No. Distrusted as a thief because he’d tried to use his inheritance—­his divine stroke of bloody good fortune—­to make himself more acceptable as a husband. No. He was damned sure that Stratford would have had him arrested years ago if there’d been a hint of proof he’d stolen that money. Instead the earl had done something far worse: cost him the only girl he had ever loved . . .

  He staggered into the wall as he reached the hall. With curiously steady hands he pulled at his cravat, short of breath. Would he be allowed to see Abigail again? Wildly he thought of the grotto—­they could meet there, whether her parents approved or not . . . But that would be fleeting. He would know it was doomed. Hadn’t he told himself that the first time he saw her?

  “Mr. Vane!” He started. Penelope Weston beckoned him across the hall. Slowly he obeyed her summons, crossing the room to the small antechamber she ducked into. “Are you here to see Abigail?”

  “I would like to.” He had no idea what he would say to her.

  She beamed. “Brilliant! Your timing is exquisite. Lord Atherton just left.” She was brimming with glee. “In quite a different mood than when he arrived, I must say. He was all smiles and flattery before, but after a private talk with Abby, he strode out of here as if the place were on fire. That augurs well, don’t you think?”

  Part of him leapt in jubilation that she’d disappointed Benedict. At least he wouldn’t have to suffer that misery. “Where is she?”

  “In the garden still, I expect. Lord Atherton walked off with her but came back alone, and then he hurried his sister into the carriage and left.” She led the way to the garden, and pointed off to the north. “Lord Atherton came from that way, near the Fragrant Walk.”

  “I know where it is.” On impulse he caught her hand and pressed it. “I’m in your debt, Miss Weston.”

  “Make my sister deliriously happy, and all debts are paid.” She waved him off.

  He limped around the formal garden, along the kitchen wall where he’d kissed her just a few days ago, and toward the Fragrant Walk. There was no sign of Abigail. He peered into the woods, but saw nothing. A fat raindrop hit his face; for the first time he realized how dark the sky had become. A storm was rolling up the Thames. He hesitated. Abigail had probably gone into the house, and he should go home before the downpour.

  Cursing himself, he went back to Hart House. To his relief, Penelope was still at hand. “Has she come back inside?” he asked. “I didn’t see her.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said in surprise. “Let me check.”

  He waited at the back of the hall, by the garden door. When Penelope returned several minutes later, she was frowning. “She’s not in her room, and her maid hasn’t seen her. Neither has Thomson. She’s not with our mother, either.”

  “Is there anywhere else she might go?” Thunder growled in the distance. “It’s threatening to storm.”

  Penelope hesitated. “She’s very fond of walking in the woods.”

  He strode through the door back onto the terrace and glanced at the sky again. “In the rain?”

  “It’s not raining . . . yet . . .”

  “Surely she wouldn’t,” he murmured, letting his eyes roam up Montrose Hill. He’d never realized how visible his home was from Hart House.

  “You don’t know my sister if you think she wouldn’t,” said Penelope, breaking into his thoughts. “She seems so proper and responsible, but Abigail usually manages to get what she wants.”

  A slow smile curved his mouth. If she wanted him, he meant to see that she got him. He couldn’t change Mr. Weston’s mind, but perhaps . . . perhaps Abigail could. “Thank you, Miss Penelope.” He started toward the wood.

  “Pen,” she called after him. He glanced back and she shrugged. “I hope we’ll be on family terms soon.” She grinned and raised one hand. “Good luck, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian strode back through the gardens and down the Fragrant Walk, breathing deeply of the fragrance that would always remind him of her. He cut into the woods, forgetting everything he knew about how dangerous they could be in the dark. Ben had left, looking grim, without taking leave of his host. Abigail had remained outside, alone, and not been seen since. Sebastian had no grounds for his suspicion that she had gone looking for him, but he walked as quickly as his leg would allow.

  By the time he reached his house, he was beginning to worry. The sky was deep purple now, growing darker by the moment as thunder cracked and streaks of lightning lit the roiling clouds. She could be lost in the woods. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to come see him; perhaps she’d only meant to clear her thoughts in the quiet of the trees. His blood ran cold. Perhaps she’d gone to the grotto, which would be damned near impossible to find in the rain, even with a lantern. He’d just been so set on the thought—­the hope—­that she might have come to him, he hadn’t taken the time to rule out those other possibilities.

  What an idiot. Cursing himself, he limped across the ragged grass. He needed a lantern and his greatcoat, for she’d probably be chilled to the bone. First the grotto, then the usual paths where he had met her. If she wasn’t there, he would return to Hart House and get Weston’s servants to come out with him. He’d search the whole wood until she was found, storm be damned.

  Something caught his eye as he neared the house. There was a movement in the woods, and then, to his intense relief, Abigail emerged from the trees, a look of deep uncertainty on her face. She raised one hand, and he saw Boris’s big black head butting her arm. She stopped and turned to the dog, bending down to him and patting his ears. Sebastian had no trouble recognizing his dog’s expression, even in the fading light: bliss.

  “Good dog,” he muttered. “Damned good dog.” Then he raised his voice. “Abigail!”

  She turned toward him, and the hesitat
ion on her face vanished. In the blink of an eye, Sebastian’s heart went from pounding with apprehension to throbbing with hope. He took a step in her direction, and she ran at him, holding up her green skirt. He dropped his cane and caught her in both arms, inhaling a harsh breath of elation at the feel of her against him again.

  “Oh, Sebastian,” she gasped against his chest. “I worried so when you disappeared last night, and Penelope said you were avoiding me—­”

  “Even when I wanted to avoid you, I couldn’t.” He tipped up her chin until she met his eyes. “I was just at Hart House, hoping it wasn’t too late.”

  Her bosom heaved with every breath she took. “Too late for what?”

  He gazed into her eyes, those starry eyes that had bewitched him from the start. “To tell you I adore you. I tried to deny it, and then I tried to ignore it, and now it seems like the only truth I know. I love you, Abigail Weston.”

  Her smile was glorious. “Lord Atherton proposed to me today.”

  “What did you tell him?” he asked in a low voice, tensing in spite of himself. Penelope could have been completely wrong, after all . . .

  “No,” she exclaimed with a little burst of disbelieving laughter. “I told him no! And he—­and he—­” She stopped, staring pleadingly at him.

  “What did he do?” Sebastian felt the sudden urge to go pound Ben into the dirt.

  “He asked . . . if I was rejecting him for you,” she whispered. “I told him of course not, because you hadn’t asked me anything, and yet . . . I think I rejected him because I was hoping so desperately you would ask me . . . because I am in love with you, and I could never marry him when I would always want you instead.”

  His heart soared. “And you came here to tell me that?”

  She nodded.

  All the glory of heaven seemed to shine on him. Sebastian thought he heard angels singing. A smile curved his mouth. “I wasn’t going to Hart House merely to tell you I love you. I want you to choose me over Ben, whether I deserve it or not.”

  “I already did,” she said softly. “Weeks ago.”

  His fingers tightened on her arms as the joyful glow receded. “But I spoke to your father today. I asked his permission to marry you—­”

  “Yes,” she cried, straining toward him.

  He held her at bay. “He refused, darling.”

  “Bother him!” Her smile was blinding with happiness. “He’ll change his mind after I talk to him.”

  Sebastian knew he should doubt. Thomas Weston had been firm in his denial. But her reply was everything he’d hoped to hear; her confidence swept aside his worry, and recklessly he believed. He kissed her hungrily. “Marry me, Abigail,” he breathed against her lips.

  “Yes,” she whispered, winding her arms around his neck. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  They might have stood there kissing for an hour, but the storm chose that moment to break. Icy drops of rain pelted down, swelling to a downpour in a matter of seconds. Abigail shrieked with laughter, Sebastian cursed, and they ran for the house, hand in hand. By the time he managed to get the door open and let them in, her hair hung in dripping locks and his neck was soaked where the water had run down his coat collar. Boris trotted past them and gave a great shake, sending water everywhere.

  “Boris!” He wiped his face as Abigail laughed again. “I’m sorry, I’m not prepared for visitors,” he said, belatedly realizing how rough his home was. The fire was laid in the grate, but not lit until absolutely necessary. The furniture was old and threadbare, the floors scuffed. He could make her a cup of tea, but there was no milk, no cake, no biscuits.

  “I didn’t come for tea.” Her eyes shone. “I consider myself at home.”

  He grinned. “You are.”

  She pulled a few pins from her hair and shook her head, sending wet curls tumbling down her back. “Perhaps you could read to me?”

  Sebastian went very still. “What would you like to hear?”

  Beautiful color bloomed in her cheeks. “I think you know . . .”

  Rain lashed the windows. It might last an hour or all night. A man of honor would resist. A man of conscience would remember her father’s very definite refusal. But Sebastian was done with all that. He wanted Abigail; he wanted to marry her. Making love to her would satisfy the first driving desire, and almost surely lead to the latter. For once in his cursed life, he was going to get what he wanted, scruples be damned.

  “I do,” he murmured, and led her up the stairs.

  Chapter 22

  Abigail knew she was being wicked, and she didn’t care.

  She firmly blocked all thought of her parents or Lord Atherton from her mind. Her initial urge to run had indeed come out of her desire to avoid facing them, but as soon as the quiet of the trees enveloped her, she knew where she was going. Or rather, she knew where she wanted to go—­getting there proved a challenge. She’d almost gasped in relief when Boris came bounding through the bracken toward her, his tail wagging in greeting. As if he’d been looking for her, he began nudging her up the hill, and before she knew it the pink brick of Montrose House appeared through the trees.

  Now she was here, where she longed to be—­where she belonged. Sebastian only let go of her hand when he had to kneel down and stir up the fire. His bedchamber was plain and bare. A worn leather armchair, a table, a chest of drawers, a blanket near the hearth that was clearly Boris’s. And a bed.

  The sight of the last gave her a moment of pause. She wasn’t nervous, precisely, but suddenly she wished she knew better what to expect. Devoted readings of 50 Ways to Sin had given her some ideas, but they felt wildly insufficient now. She wasn’t really like Lady Constance. What if Sebastian thought she was actually that uninhibited and wild?

  She closed her eyes and told herself not to be silly. Sebastian was far better than Constance’s lovers; he was alive and real and he was in love with her, ready to make love to her. In the grotto and in the woods, he’d known just the right touch, just how far to take her down the road to ruin. He knew she hadn’t much experience, and it hadn’t stopped him from showing her a world of pleasure she’d never dreamt of before, and he’d made her feel adored while he did it. Her heart skipped a beat at the memory, and she opened her eyes, her moment of shyness evaporating.

  Sebastian was watching her. “Uncertain?” he asked. “I won’t do a thing you don’t want me to do.”

  Abigail smiled. “I know. I trust you.” She caught sight of something then, and blushed. “You kept it!”

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “Of course I did. It made me think of you.”

  Her blush deepened. She picked up the item in question, the issue of 50 Ways to Sin where Constance pleasured herself, wearing a blindfold, while her mysterious lover watched. “You mentioned it in the grotto.”

  One corner of his mouth crooked. “I had trouble thinking of anything else in the grotto. When the candle went out, I thought God had sent yet another plague to torture me.”

  “What do you mean?” she whispered.

  “Constance called her blindness very freeing.” He started toward her. “I have to say, I believed her. I never would have kissed you that first time if not for the darkness.”

  “Never?” She arched one brow.

  “Well.” He gave her his sinful half smile. “Not that day.”

  “Sometimes I feel I owe a debt to Lady Constance.” She picked up the wicked pamphlet and opened it, choosing a passage at random. “ ‘In my admittedly debauched adventures, I had never felt such longing. The absence of sight only made my skin more sensitive to his touch; my ears more attuned to his breathing,’ ” she read aloud. “Perhaps we should put out the lamp . . .”

  Sebastian crossed the room and took the pamphlet from her hands. “Enough. I don’t need a story to give me ideas.” He turned and tossed the pamphlet onto the fire. “I could write my own
series, and not mention half of the thoughts and desires you’ve inspired.”

  “Really?” Abigail tore her eyes off the burning pamphlet. “You would write one?”

  He grinned. “Only for you, my love.” He touched her wrist. “Dearest Abigail,” he began. His fingers trailed up her arm. “There is much I have longed to tell you since we met. I daresay you would blush to hear most of it”—­she smothered a laugh, and he grinned—­“but someday I hope to show you.”

  “I like this story.” She started to turn as he moved behind her, but Sebastian stayed her with one hand on her hip.

  “You should,” he whispered, brushing her damp hair gently over one shoulder. “It is an ode to your beauty, your charm, your compassion. Where was I? Ah.” He pressed a lingering kiss on her nape. “You have haunted my dreams since the night we met. You burst into my life like a comet, dazzling my eyes and heart. Still, not even I was mad enough to think you would ever turn to me . . .”

  “You were never mad.” Abigail shivered. He was unlacing her dress, slowly and deliberately. She could feel every tug on the lace, every fractional loosening of the bodice. Her hands were in fists at her sides as he prolonged the torment.

  “Not in the way everyone thought,” he muttered before resuming his tale. “If being near you drove me mad, it was a madness I would happily embrace. Not being near you was a torment I could not long endure.” He eased the bodice forward and Abigail let it slip down her arms.

  He inhaled a ragged breath. “God in heaven.” He smoothed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, pushing the dress off. Abigail let her head fall back as his lips skimmed over her neck. His fingers plucked at the ribbon of her chemise, tied in a bow between her breasts. “So lovely,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “So perfect.”

  “And impatient!” She tugged her arms free of her sleeves and put her hands over his to yank at the ribbon. She wanted the shift off, so she could feel his skin against hers.