Ripe for Scandal

by Isobel Carr

  “Come on, sweetheart.” Gareth held out his hand, and Beau took it, clinging to it, suddenly afraid to let go. Last night didn’t seem real, but this did. Something about leaving Monty behind brought it all into perspective and left her feeling suddenly unsure.

  Sandison squeezed her hand and tugged her along, steering her through the streets, past puddles and steaming mounds of horse droppings. “The innkeeper said there was a pawn shop just a few blocks away. We should be able to find something for you there.”

  “A pawn shop?”

  He grinned, showing a row of large, white teeth. “What do you think most maids and valets do with the cast-off clothing of their employers? They sell it. And a pawn shop will give them far more for anything that’s still serviceable than the rag-and-bone man.”

  Beau blinked and stepped over a small pile of refuse. She’d never really thought about where her clothing went when she was done with it. Some of it her maid reworked as clothing for herself, but not all of it. The idea of some stranger wearing her cast-off clothing seemed unnatural. As though she might someday meet a stranger with her own face.

  They rounded the corner onto a small green, and Sandison pointed to a shop with a window full of silver. Inside, the shop was cleaner and more orderly than it appeared from the street. The man behind the counter looked up. The light from the candles that illuminated the shop bounced off his glasses.

  “Selling or buying?”

  “Buying,” Sandison said. “My wife’s trunk was stolen off the diligence, and we’ve got a good ways still to go before we reach home. The innkeeper at The Oak and Acorn said you’d be our best hope of finding something quickly.”

  The shopkeeper nodded. “I think we have a couple of gowns that might serve, and there’s no shortage of shifts and the like.” He stepped to the door behind the counter. “Mrs. Chandler! Bring those things Mrs. Stops’s maid sold us last week. Yes, the two chintz gowns, Ma’am.” He turned to face Beau. “Would you like to make a list of what else you might require, and I’ll try to see what I can find for you while you examine the gowns?”

  “Yes, thank you very much.” Beau took the scrap of foolscap and the pencil he offered her and quickly wrote out a list of very basic items: one shift, two pairs of cotton stockings, a cap and hat, and a shawl.

  Mr. Chandler took the list and glanced over it. His wife appeared with the promised gowns flowing over her arm, and he swept past her, disappearing into the bowels of the shop.

  Mrs. Chandler looked Beau over with a careful eye. “Yes, indeed, ma’am. I think Mrs. Stops’s gowns will suit you well enough. You might have to overlap the bodices when you pin them shut, but they’ll be decent enough for all that. Do you have pins?”

  Beau shook her head. “They were in my trunk. And the jacket I’m wearing has hook and eyes.”

  Mrs. Chandler made a tisking sound and rummaged in a drawer for a moment. She slid a paper packet of dress pins across the counter. “Not a spot of rust on these, though a couple of them are slightly bent.”

  “They just have to get me home,” Beau said, warming to the tale that she and Sandison had concocted. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  The shopkeeper’s wife nodded. “Such an outrage. Stealing a lady’s baggage. I hope there was nothing valuable in it?”

  It was all Beau could do not to laugh. She was so clearly hoping there was, and that it would end up here in her shop. “No,” Beau said, shaking her head. “Just a few gowns and fripperies.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Chandler replied, clearly crestfallen. “Well then, not as terrible as it could have been.”

  “Not at all,” Beau agreed. “And if your husband can supply me with the essentials on my list, the worst of it will be the loss of my trunk itself.”

  Mrs. Chandler nodded, an avaricious gleam sparking in her eye. “So inconvenient. Shall I find you a portmanteau to see you home?”

  “Please,” Sandison interjected. He stepped forward and put his hand on the small of her back. Beau felt her skin flush, heat rising from his hand to flood her chest and face.

  The two hours she’d spent in his lap riding from the Pig and Whistle to Neville’s Cross this morning had been pure torture. She couldn’t stop thinking about what they’d done the night before… about what they hadn’t done, and how very much she’d wanted to do more.

  Wanton. There was no other word for it. Every time Sandison touched her, so much as looked at her, she could feel the desire for more welling up within her. The desire for Sandison. The fact that he had his own passions firmly under control ate at her.

  It was somehow unfair, almost humiliating. The urge to drive him to the point of no return was irresistible.

  Beau studied Sandison in the dim light of the shop. He was impossibly handsome. She’d have said beautiful except that it somehow implied a softness that Sandison utterly lacked. He was a collection of sharp angles and planes, lean in the way of a greyhound, strength and power tightly coiled over long lengths of bone.

  He smiled at her, and her stomach clenched and then turned over. If she could just hold on to him until they reached Scotland, he was hers.

  Gareth watched Beau shake one of the gowns and hold it up. The profusion of pink flowers blooming across the fabric was garish in the extreme, but it did look as though it might fit her.

  The shopkeeper’s wife folded everything carefully and stowed it inside a leather portmanteau with a shiny brass clasp. They’d had everything Beau had asked for except a hat, but they’d directed them to a milliner on the other side of the green.

  With the half-filled bag in tow, Gareth escorted Beau across the damp green and handed over an exorbitant amount of money for a simple hat of chip straw with a jaunty confection of ribbons and feathers jutting forth from it.

  His consternation at the expense melted away as she set it on her head and grinned up at him. “Come on, brat. We’ve miles to go before we sleep. And I’m sure you’ll want to change before we set off.”

  Beau nodded, setting the feathers on her new hat dancing. “I’d burn every stitch I’m wearing if I didn’t think I’d be ruing the decision long before we reached Scotland.”

  Padrig Nowlin patted his pockets as a riotous group of urchins burst past him. Then he suddenly remembered that he had nothing left for them to steal. His purse had been taken by Lady Boudicea and the highwayman. His watch, ring, and every bit of clothing that he wasn’t currently wearing had all been pawned in order to fund his frantic search for the damned runaway heiress. He had to find her. Granby would accept nothing else.

  For the thousandth time that day, Padrig found himself wishing that he could abandon the entire project and simply return to Belfast. Wishing that he’d never met Granby, never played so deeply at the man’s faro table, and that he’d stayed sober enough not to sign marker after marker, all for funds he didn’t have.

  But he had, and if he failed, Granby would call in those markers, take the house and the farm, and turn Padrig’s mother and sisters out into the street. All except Maeve, whom he’d promised to take special care of.

  Padrig swallowed his rising anger, stopping in his tracks as he spied a familiar figure across the park. Wonder of wonders. Lady Boudicea Vaughn, arm in arm with a man, laughing.

  His mouth went dry and his heart surged in a series of uneven beats. He ducked into a doorway and watched the two of them wander down the street and disappear into the busy yard of The Spoon and Lion.

  Everything was going to be all right. The luck of the Irish might not be reliable, but today it was damn timely.

  Gareth watched until Beau disappeared up the stairs, straining forward to catch a final glimpse of her ragged, muddy hem. His. Every muddy, outrageous inch of her. His, if he could just reach Scotland.

  By the time she reappeared in Mrs. Stops’s pink floral gown, the coach was hitched, the postboy was in the saddle, and Gareth was pressing a vail into the hand of the stable boy responsible for caring for Monty until he could reclaim him. Beau dro
pped her bag onto the ground beside her and shook out her skirts. They were a tad too short, and the gown was clearly a bit too large, but all in all, she looked credible enough, like a country parson’s wife, a bit down about the heels but happy with her lot.

  “Clean,” Beau said as he handed her into the coach. “Well, as clean as a basin of hot water and a change of clothing can make me.”

  Gareth tossed her bag onto the rear-facing seat and climbed in behind her, dragging the door shut as he did so. Before he’d fully settled in, the coach sprang into motion. Beau gave an exaggerated sigh and tossed her new hat across the coach. It landed on top of her bag.

  “Scotland,” she said, imbuing the word with almost mythic reverence.

  “Scotland,” Gareth echoed back.

  She curled toward him, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Her simple thanks cut into him, through him, made his heart shrivel just a little where it lurked inside his chest. He kissed the top of her head, choking back a dismissive reply. No thanks were due. Certainly not from her. He was getting everything he’d ever wanted, though the cost when all was said and done might be more than either of them had bargained for.

  Gareth wrapped an arm around her, and she mumbled sleepily, nuzzling her face against his chest like a sleepy puppy. The steady beat of the horses’ hooves changed as they left the confines of the town, and the postboy increased their speed.

  They hit a bump, and the coach bounced awkwardly, shaking Beau loose from his embrace and rousing them both from idyllic stupor. She cursed under her breath and sat up.

  “What did you say?”

  Beau batted her eyes at him. “Just cursing this sorry, rutted excuse for a road.”

  “Like a jack tar.”

  She grinned, lashes skimming her checks in what he knew to be faux modesty. “I have been trailing after my brothers and all their friends for close to twenty-two years.”

  Gareth forced himself to smile back at her. She didn’t seem to have the least understanding of what their marriage was going to mean to his friendship with her brother. Or maybe she did, and she—like him—was simply refusing to acknowledge it. The inevitable estrangement wasn’t real until they voiced it.

  Even if Leo understood that Gareth had acted in Beau’s best interests, he was unlikely to accept that there’d been no other choice. It would still feel like a betrayal.

  “No wool gathering,” Beau said, sliding about on the seat so that she was facing him. “If we must be awake, and it seems that we must, then you’d best think of some way of keeping me entertained.”

  Sandison’s jaw dropped, and he blinked at her, looking as stunned as he might have had she hit him upside the head with a bottle, just as she’d planned for Nowlin. Beau rolled her lip between her teeth and waited.

  His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared as he straightened beside her. With no warning, he yanked her into his lap, his mouth covering hers roughly, heat seeking heat, tongue enticing her to play.

  His hand covered her breast, and she arched into it. Her pulse plummeted to join the ache between her thighs, redoubled, spreading through her like a fever.

  Sandison suddenly cursed and yanked his hand away. Beau shook her head and tried to reorder her thoughts. Why stop? Why stop now?

  “Damn pins,” he muttered, sucking on his finger, and then giving his hand a shake.

  He smiled down at her, and the rush of heat flooding through her swirled almost painfully through her womb, making her thighs shake. His erection pressed into her, hard and demanding even through several layers of petticoats.

  Beau rocked in his lap, grinding against him. She tugged at his coat. Sandison frowned. His hands gripped her hard, holding her still. “You’re my playground, brat. Not the other way round. Not just yet anyway.”

  “And why is that?” Beau slid one hand down his side, fingers flittering over the button that held the fall of his breeches up. Sandison caught her wrist.

  “I thought we covered that last night.”

  Beau leaned in to bite his earlobe, just as he had hers the night before. “Not to my satisfaction.”

  Sandison gave a weak laugh and kissed her again. “It was very much to your satisfaction as I remember it.”

  “But not to yours.” Beau sat back enough to watch his reaction. His pupils widened, black pushing the blue to the edges. She couldn’t tell if he was poised for flight or attack, but the silent tension spoke volumes.

  “There’s more than one kind of satisfaction.” One of his hands began to work its way up her leg. “Bringing pleasure to your partner, giving rather than receiving, is a pleasure all its own.”

  His fingers skimmed over her thigh. Beau repressed the wanton need to let him touch her. To let him have his way. He liked to win, but so did she.

  “Show me how,” Beau said, annoyance and frustration coloring her voice more than she would like. It made her sound weak.

  “Not now, brat.”

  Beau pushed herself up, batting his hand away. “Why not? It’s not fair that you get to touch me but I’m not allowed to touch you.”

  “Fair? St. Jude protect and defend us. You’ve got no idea what you’re asking.”

  “I think I do.”

  Sandison shoved one hand through his hair, leaving his queue disordered and rumpled. His eyebrows dipped, pleading with her. Beau leaned forward to kiss one and then smoothed them both with her thumbs as she cupped his face.

  “Show me.”

  “I’m a man, Beau, not a saint.”

  “And?”

  “And? You are the most maddening woman alive. Do you know that?”

  Beau nodded, trying not to smile. She was winning. She could see his defenses crumbling before her. The bleakness had left his eyes, replaced with dawning amusement.

  “I hate to admit to being less than a gentleman, but the simple truth is that if I let you do as you’re asking, I’m not entirely sure where it will end. But the most likely scenario is with me taking your maidenhead in this blasted coach.”

  “Think of it as a challenge. Or a bet. Men love a good bet, don’t they?” The smile that she’d been fighting won out. “I bet you, Gareth Sandison, the sum of one bawbee that no matter what I do, you can resist tupping me until after we reach Scotland.”

  Sandison’s eyes widened. “Tupping? Where on earth did you learn that term?”

  “Rude prints in the window of Ackerman’s,” Beau replied with perfect truth.

  Sandison shook his head, the corners of his mouth giving way to a grin. “Did you ever stop to think I might want to lose that bet?”

  “And let me lord that coin over you for the rest of your life? And I would, you know. I think not.”

  Gareth stared at Beau, fighting off the urge to roll her under him and lose the bet that instant. “You were born with the soul of a libertine.”

  Beau’s smile turned into a full-fledged triumphant grin. Then she kissed him, lips and teeth and tongue all brought to bear, hands seemingly everywhere. She slid over until she was straddling him, and he gripped her hips and held her tight while he rocked against her.

  She broke off the kiss. “I think that counts as touching me. Put your hands on the seat.”

  Gareth pressed himself against her one last time and did as she commanded. He’s always known that she was a bit of a martinet. He’d just never known until this moment just how desirable that trait could be in a woman.

  His fingers dug into the fabric of the seat. Beau, following his lead, settled her weight on him and rocked slowly. His cock swelled and her eyes widened.

  “Well?” she said.

  Gareth groaned. She was going to kill him. “Take off your gloves.”

  Beau caught the tips of each finger between her teeth and tugged. The glove slid off, and she spat it out. She did the same with the second one. By the time it landed beside its companion on the seat, Gareth thought that he might embarrass himself by coming then and there.

  “Ge
t on the floor.”

  She looked quizzically at him, one brow raised.

  “I swear to God, Beau. If you’re still straddling me when you open my breeches, I will fuck you. So get on the floor.”

  “You’d lose the bet,” she reminded him, her tone egging him on to just that.

  “And it would be worth it,” Gareth said, letting go of the seat and shoving her off his lap. She landed in a disordered heap and glared up at him.

  “That was uncalled for, Gareth.”

  “It was entirely called for, brat.”

  Beau’s voluptuous mouth slid back into a smile, and she ran her hands up his thighs. She thumbed open the buttons that held the fall of his breeches and then loosed the waistband. A few more tugs and his shirt was pushed aside, freeing his cock.

  She caught her breath sharply, thumbs pushing into the flesh of his upper thighs, the nails distinct even through the fabric of his breeches. She leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath whisper across his engorged shaft.

  “Spit in your hand,” Gareth said. Beau looked slightly disgusted but did as he directed. “Now wrap your hand around it.”

  Her palm was firm against his flesh. Her fingers drummed lightly, hesitantly, along the rigid length. Gareth grit his teeth and clung to sanity.

  “Form a circle with your thumb and index finger. Pull up till you meet the head. Tighter.” She did exactly as he said, and Gareth nearly came up off the seat. It felt as though every drop of blood in his body had drained to his groin. “Let your grip soften. Push back down. Again.”

  Gareth gripped the seat so hard that his fingers began to cramp. Beau passed her palm over the head of his cock, swiveled her entire hand around, and pushed down. Gareth shut his eyes and tried not to think about anything that didn’t involve the immediate sensation of Beau’s hand on his flesh.

  How in the hell had she talked him into this?

  He groaned, and her grip faltered. Gareth opened his eyes, met her gaze, and held it. He covered her hand with his own and led her through the motions, fingers entangled, impossible to tell which was touching him.