Scandalous Ever After

by Theresa Romain

As though his words had unlocked a hidden part of her mind, the memory spilled forth. It had been a day of mixed rain and sun, a day of pleasures on the road and worry about the destination.

  “I remember that day,” she said. “I was so afraid of you. I knew you were a part of Con’s family, and if you did not like me, he would be sorry he had wed me.”

  Thump. Evan had leaned his head against the wall of the stairwell. “He was never sorry he had wed you.”

  “I did my best to be a good wife.” A thankless task at times, a delightful one at others. “I think I was.”

  “And a good friend?”

  “That was often easier.” She clutched at the edges of the blanket. The wool was coarse, itching at the back of her neck where it wrapped about her. “I’m glad I didn’t come between you and Con. I’d never have wanted that.”

  He was silent for several breaths before speaking. “I know you wouldn’t have. You always meant well. You still do.”

  The words were so matter-of-fact that they seemed to well from some heartfelt belief in their truth. She blinked hard, but her eyes filled against sweet pain. “Evan, damn you. Why are you always so kind?”

  “I’m not kind, really. But I mean well too, blanket queen.” He took her arm and helped her to her feet. “Are you set for the night now?”

  She gathered the spare blankets. “Yes, I’ve everything I need to make a—oh.”

  “What is it?” As they mounted the stairs, he leaned to open the narrow window and tossed the cheroot end out.

  “It’s my hair. I need someone to comb it.”

  “Can’t you do it yourself?”

  “I can, but it’s so long, and it gets tangled after a day in pins. I’ll probably shriek when I reach a tangle, and then I’ll wake Susan. She’s only just got to sleep after a day of vomiting.”

  “Ah, a day of vomiting. You make the ferry sound like a pleasure cruise. Let’s go back across the Irish Sea tomorrow.”

  “Poor Susan. She’d leave my service.”

  He opened the door at the top of the back stairs, letting her pass through before him. “All right, countess. I’ll comb out your hair. We can’t have anyone shrieking or vomiting or waking.”

  Kate gave an affronted laugh. “You make me sound like an infant.”

  He smiled, booting the door shut. “My chamber’s here. Come inside. Only as a friend, now,” he warned. “Don’t get any notion that I’m going to follow you to your bedchamber and try to seduce you before a sick maid.”

  “You’re not even going to try? You’re giving up too easily.”

  This was the wrong thing to say. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, shutting his chamber door behind them and taking up a horn-handled comb from the washstand. “I shouldn’t have said what I did either. Stand here, and keep the blanket around you.”

  The line between teasing and truth was fine, yet the gulf between what they’d been and what they’d become was wide. Was one side, one way, better than the other? She did not know. She only knew she’d rather have him around than not.

  And not because he did a damned fine job combing out her hair.

  His chamber was a twin to hers: clean and spare, with a fireplace at one side. Furnished simply with a bed, a privacy screen, a table, and a washstand. Evan had seated himself on the end of the bed, which was high enough for her to stand before him, back to him, and let him pluck the pins from her hair. It fell in a heavy spill, tugging at her scalp.

  “I’ve been told,” she said for the sake of saying something, “that my hair is like a tangle of wire.”

  “Your hair is what it is, the way it grows from your head, and that makes it perfectly fine.” He drew the comb through from the end, separating tangles into curls, before starting up higher. “As a matter of fact, I have seen tangled wire. It did not in the slightest remind me of your hair.”

  His touch was gentle and sure. For long moments he worked at her hair, using the fine teeth of the comb and sometimes his fingers when a knot proved recalcitrant.

  Never had her hair seemed so weighty. Never had a simple everyday act seemed so intimate. It was completely innocent, one friend helping another through an awkward moment. Yet her slipping bodice and stays abraded her nipples, reminding her of his touch, of how easy it would be for him to touch her again. The comb on her scalp was a wake of sensation, a spot seldom touched that would now belong in memory to him.

  By the time he finished, her lips were dry, and all she could think of was turning toward him and into his arms.

  “There. It’s done without a single shriek.” Before she could turn, he was up and off the bed. First stowing the comb within a shaving kit, then returning to her with a fistful of her discarded hairpins.

  She swallowed, striving for a normal tone. “How do you know how to comb out curly hair?”

  “I suppose…I thought about it a great deal, and did what seemed right.”

  He wasn’t looking at her, and she took the chance to trace him with eager eyes. His dark wavy hair, his expressive brows. The mouth that had kissed her, had spoken such lovely words of comfort. Had joked and laughed over the years, had sworn he forgave her for the wrongs she had done him.

  “You are a fine man,” she said.

  “Glad I’ve fooled you.” He shifted a few items on the small table. “Off with you now, before you ruin my reputation. We’ll be on the road early tomorrow. Got your pins? Here, and don’t forget your blankets.”

  For a moment, she thought of asking if she could stay in his room. Just to stay. Just for company and comfort.

  But she wanted more than that, and the realization was a precipice over which she did not dare to peer.

  She gathered the blankets. “Thank you.”

  He bade her good night and saw her into the corridor. Then he closed the door without making sure she reached her room.

  The corridor was cold, even with a blanket of thick wool about her shoulders, and she ran back to her chamber quickly, knowing she would not sleep for all the questions in her mind.

  Fourteen

  For the following days in the carriage, Kate was not sure whether, dropped onto a globe without orientation, she would know her surroundings from the land of England or Wales.

  Neither country so recently visited had felt like home. Would she know a home when she reached it? After the past few weeks in Evan’s company, she was scrambled, disoriented, tipped askew.

  Her hair, however, had been combed well, and lay in marvelous neat curls.

  When the carriage reached the heart of Ireland, the air seemed to settle about her. Gone were the bracing breeze and drumming of raindrops from the eastern coast. Here the air was milder with frost in the dawn that vanished in sunlight. Every other day or so, a scatter of rain fell, as if the sky were full of mischief that must spill out.

  By the time the travelers reached Thurles, this familiar sort of light rain was falling, tapping the carriage windows in greeting as they trundled along the main street. Thurles was a small market town east of a hunt racecourse abutting the Suir River, with all the usual shops.

  A medieval tower house, Bridge Castle, crouched on one bank of the river. No longer used to defend the waterway from foes, its crumbling top was peacefully fringed with green, and moss speckled the solid stone walls. At every season, even in drizzle and damp, anglers could be spotted at the river’s edge, though whether they’d a hope of catching trout or whether they only enjoyed the chance to jaw with friends, Kate didn’t know.

  She realized, as the carriage rolled on and the neat storefronts fell behind, that there wasn’t a single friend on whom she needed to call now that she’d returned. She’d become so wrapped up in her obligations, especially since Con died. Why, even her closest friend—she shot a glance at Evan, who was looking out the opposite window—was an inheritance from her late husban
d. Who were her people? Who would ever choose to be with her for her own sake?

  The questions shifted her into action. Almost without thinking, she knocked at the carriage roof. The driver halted, and Kate opened the door and hopped down. She tipped her face up, collecting chilly raindrops on her eyelids and cheeks, then looked around for someone to greet.

  The rain had cleared the street, but—ah! She was right by the apothecary’s shop, where the mail was delivered and posted. That was reason enough to enter.

  She passed through the door with its jingling bell overhead. The shop was small and close, with myriad shelves behind the counter and a sharp smell of liniment and wintergreen. “Mr. Petty?” she called.

  As the door jingled again, the elderly shopkeeper popped out from the back of the shop. A wizened bald man with large ears, Petty’s homely face beamed as soon as he saw Evan. “Why, Mr. Rhys! We haven’t seen you in such a time, but I would know you in an instant. And how is it you’ve been, sir?”

  Sure enough, Evan—and Susan too—had entered the shop behind Kate.

  “Quite well, Mr. Petty. And yourself?” When the apothecary made his own polite answer, Evan added, “Lady Whelan and I met by chance while traveling, and I realized it had been far too long since I visited this fair town.”

  “Lady Whelan! Sure enough, there you are. Didn’t expect we’d be seeing you until the autumn was all done.” The apothecary seemed equally delighted to see Kate, though somehow he had overlooked her presence before his counter until that moment. “It’s right good to see you, my lady. Out and about in your state.”

  “Ah—what state is that?”

  “Why, your widowhood.” He blinked saucer-round eyes. “Got some letters for you, I have, that come earlier today, if you’d like them? Or someone’ll come from the house tomorrow.”

  “I’ll take them. Thank you.”

  “If you’re sure? Don’t want to trouble you in your time of grief.”

  Kate looked at him oddly. “It’s perfectly fine. I am not in mourning anymore, Mr. Petty, and even if I were, I would be willing to accept mail.”

  Petty returned her odd gaze. “Not in mourning anymore, my lady?”

  “It’s been two years since the late earl passed.” She tried on a smile. “The time has, perhaps, passed quickly for a busy man such as yourself. And Thurles is thick with dowager countesses.” Good Old Gwyn would never let anyone forget the crushing burden of her loss; Kate wanted only to set it aside.

  When Petty relinquished the mail to Kate, Evan gave Petty a letter of his own to be posted.

  The smaller man regarded it with sharp blue eyes. “Writing to England, eh? And you just come from there?”

  Petty did not number among his faults a lack of curiosity. His question awoke Kate’s own, and she craned her neck to see the direction on the folded paper. What she saw made her head snap back with surprise. “You’re writing to my father?”

  “I should have written to him from the road,” Evan said. “Your father wants to find himself an Anne Jones, and my parents might know the right one.”

  Ah. That made sense. “I wouldn’t venture to promise that for all the tea in China or all the Anne Joneses in Wales,” she replied lightly. “But why does—”

  Her question was cut off by another jingle of the bell. “Ah, it’s a good afternoon for business despite the rain!” Petty hurried around the counter on bandy legs.

  This time it was Janet Ahearn, a middle-aged spinster of pinched features and heavy lilting accent. “Mr. Petty, the last packet of pastilles you made for me fell into powder within a day. I must have more!”

  “Of course, of course. And what size of a packet will you be needing, then?”

  “A large one, I think,” she sniffed. “Larger than the last. Say—make it six, I think. I shall distribute them to the ill as needed. And I’ll need the same in a week’s time.”

  “Week’s…time…” repeated Petty, scribbling notes on a slip of paper with a stub of pencil. “Very good, very good.”

  When he finished writing, he stuffed the paper and pencil into his waistcoat pocket. “Look who we’ve here, Miss Ahearn.”

  “Oh, heavens! Mr. Rhys.” The spinster’s sour, narrow features relaxed. “Why, isn’t that a fair sight! And how are you, sir?”

  “I might as well start opening the mail,” Kate murmured to Susan. “It’ll give me something to do while Mr. Rhys finishes making his greetings.”

  And, in fact, she did so—or at least flipped through the bundle of letters. Estate business. Estate business. Estate business. A bill. Another bill. All while Petty’s errand boy ran into the street and shouted for all and sundry to come greet Mr. Rhys.

  Honestly. It was as though they thought Evan were back from the dead.

  A prickle of guilt darted through her. Surely their delight could be understood. He was Con’s friend, and everyone had loved Con. Seeing Evan again—half of the pair of handsome rogues—was like getting Con back as well.

  Or so they must be thinking. Kate had never found the two to be much alike, and with the distance of years in which she and Evan had grown past Con, she could not equate the longtime friends. It did a service to neither to compare them, and Evan deserved every cheerful greeting on his own merits.

  Kate held up her post before her face, pretending to study the directions while she instead listened.

  “If your pastilles fall to powder again,” Evan told Miss Ahearn confidentially, “you could mix the powder with mulled wine.”

  That lady’s brows and voice lowered, interested. “Will that increase the medicinal effect?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Evan, “but then you’ll have a glass of mulled wine.”

  Sour Miss Ahearn actually chuckled at this. “Such warmth is a comfort on a rainy autumn day.”

  “Dr. Rhys’s prescription, then.” Evan laughed. When the errand boy returned, Evan gave him a few pennies to buy sweet rolls for himself and his young friends at the baker’s.

  At Ardent House, Kate had worked so hard to get Evan to laugh. Now the laughter came easily, bubbling out as though Thurles had tapped into a spring of delight.

  She had never experienced such a feeling. As Lady Whelan, she was near but not of the town, which was full of Irish. Catholics. People who had known each other for generations. People who worked for a living and played with equal fervor. They took pride in their racecourse, in the rich history of the chase. Evan shared their easeful fondness, and Con had too.

  Kate had supported her husband by caring for the children and minding the estate—but in so doing, she realized, she’d not made a place of her own in the town. Instead she perceived a tautness between herself and the people of her late husband’s estate. She might be Lady Whelan, but she was also English-born. Her name betrayed her. Her accent betrayed her. She was a foreigner in Ireland, bound here by the children she had created.

  As word circulated about the return of the travelers—no doubt sped along by the sight of an unknown carriage before Petty’s store—the small shop began to crowd. The people of Thurles greeted Kate with deference and condolence—a condolence that unsettled her with its scrupulous politeness.

  The people of Thurles were accustomed still to treating Kate as though she were glass-fragile. Their voices dropped, their eyes went somber, and their mouths solemn.

  The widowed countess. Widow widow widow.

  Once a man died, all his flaws were forgotten. Poor Lady Whelan. How could she ever recover?

  It had been two years. She was recovered, if only she could bring the town to see it. She was Kate, not merely Con’s widow.

  She made polite chat, but it was Evan whom the villagers wanted to see. Words spilled forth, as if people had been holding questions from him at the tips of their tongues. Mr. Rhys! My man found the quaintest little old statue while digging in the garden. Can you giv
e it a look?

  Mr. Rhys, are you to ride in the chase?

  Mr. Rhys, we did see a handbill for your lecture. Is it true there’s smuggling hereabouts?

  This last question drew a protest from Miss Ahearn. “This far up the river from the sea? Nonsense. Smugglers wouldn’t bother. Besides, Thurles is a proper sort of town.”

  “I’m here to find that out,” Evan replied. “Not that I doubt Thurles is proper. Or I didn’t until I returned to it.”

  Petty gave a scratchy chuckle. “Mr. Rhys, you’ve a tongue made for blarney. Sure you’re not Irish?”

  Evan laughed. “Only in my dreams. Lady Whelan! Come out from behind those letters, won’t you? Poor Lady Whelan, she has been suffering from my glib tongue since Newmarket.”

  Kate recognized this as an invitation to enter the conversation. “Only since Newmarket?” She handed off her letters to Susan, feigning surprise. “Why, I should have said since Cambridge. You’ve been entertaining me with your saucy tongue since your even saucier lecture.”

  “You heard him lecture, Lady Whelan?” This was asked by a serving girl from the Prancing Pony, a pretty village woman of no more than twenty. “What was it like?”

  “I’m right here,” Evan said, “so mind you say nice things.”

  “What other sort of thing could there be to say?” Kate waved a careless hand. “Mr. Rhys’s lecture was so fascinating that my brother vowed he would begin collecting flint.”

  “He did?” This from the wide-eyed serving girl.

  “No, he didn’t.” Evan frowned. “He said he had to see a man about a horse.”

  Kate felt like teasing him. “True, but as you know, in Newmarket cant, ‘man’ means ‘excavation site’ and ‘horse’ means ‘flint.’ Well, ‘any sort of ancient artifact,’ but Jonah meant flint in particular.”

  Evan arched a brow at her. “Did he, now?”

  “Oh, yes.” Kate tapped her temple. “We have the twin connection.”

  “You have a twin?” breathed the serving girl. Somehow every question involved her pressing against Evan, surely more than the movement of the people in the shop required.