Scandal

by Carolyn Jewel

  Sophie leaned to the lady on her left: Imogen. “Pray tell, do you know who that young man is?” She nodded in the direction of Mr. Drake. If her earlier opinion of the man was unfair, then these two ladies would surely know enough to set her straight.

  “The handsome blond gentleman with Miss George?” her companion asked.

  “Yes.”

  Imogen looked in Drake’s direction and sniffed. “No one a’tall. His father married up, and that’s a fact.”

  “Is that a mark against him?” Sophie asked. “He cannot help his father’s marriage, after all.”

  Imogen held up her lorgnette and peered at Sophie through the lenses. “No, but he might have held on to the fortune he married.” She sniffed again. “Like father, like son. The boy’s on the hunt for an heiress.”

  “He’s at the right ball for that, my dear,” said her companion. “Heiresses hanging from the chandeliers here.”

  Imogen dropped her glasses. “Mark my words, some mother and father will soon be wishing they’d watched their young heiress a little more closely. Now you take the gentleman who’s just left Miss George.”

  “Mr. Mercer, you mean?” Sophie said.

  Before Sophie could warn them of her relation to him, the other woman sighed. “Such a handsome, accomplished gentleman, he is.”

  “He certainly is,” Sophie said, with more than a little pride.

  The lorgnette came out again. Imogen had dark brown eyes, and they were suddenly very sharp indeed. “Do you know him, ma’am?”

  She smiled. “He is my brother.”

  “Indeed?” She extended a gloved hand. “Mrs. Babington,” Imogen said. They briefly touched fingers. “And this is my sister, Miss Wright.”

  “Mrs. Babington, Miss Wright,” Sophie replied. “A pleasure to meet you both. I’m Mrs. Evans. Mr. Mercer’s sister.”

  Miss Wright gasped and clutched Imogen’s arm. “He’s here! The duke. Oh, we must find a way to introduce Lucinda. We must.”

  Sophie turned to look. The Duke of Vedaelin had indeed arrived, and the stir on his entrance was quite something to behold. Women of all ages took notice. And why not? He was a duke without a duchess. John was so tall that she’d not realized until she saw Vedaelin in this crowd that he, too, was taller than the average man.

  Imogen and Miss Wright stood up, craning for a look, whether at Vedaelin or for a glimpse of their Lucinda, she didn’t know. Poor John. Set aside at the mere glimpse of a duke.

  The set of dances ended and the orchestra stilled its instruments. Conversation rose as the young ladies and gentlemen left the floor, heading for chaperones or perhaps a slow stroll toward the punch bowl. Across the room from where she sat, the crowd by the wide double doors stopped its flow in and out of the ballroom. Sophie leaned forward on her chair, but her view was now blocked by dancers leaving the floor. All around her whispers began. Heads turned toward the door.

  “Surely,” Miss Wright said, “this commotion must mean the prince has come.”

  “I heard no announcement,” said Imogen.

  Sophie stood, too, but she was too short to see anything.

  “Perhaps you missed it,” said Miss Wright to her sister. “Did you hear anything, Mrs. Evans?”

  “Not at all.” Drat her luck in being so short. She could not see who was causing such a stir. A greater stir than Vedaelin, for heaven’s sake.

  Whoever it was, it was possible to follow his or her progress through the room from the reaction of the surrounding people. At last she saw him briefly. And really, it must have been her curiosity or the unfamiliar setting or her expectation that only the Prince of Wales would have sent the room into such a commotion that kept her from recognizing him. He’d stopped to speak to John and Vedaelin, of all people.

  The newcomer stood with his back to her with John and Vedaelin facing him attentively. The gentleman was taller than her brother and wonderfully broad shouldered. And slender. Certainly this was not the prince. The man had dark hair. A parade of women walked past him. He acknowledged a few with a bow or nod and ignored the rest. Two broke through, though: Mrs. Llewellyn and Fidelia.

  The gentleman with John and Vedaelin turned his head, giving Sophie a brief view of his profile. He was smiling, and later, when she had time to reflect on the moment, she decided his smile was why she didn’t recognize him. As a stranger for those brief moments, he took her breath. Pure and simple, he was the loveliest man she’d ever seen. No wonder all the ladies wanted to catch his eye. A god had just walked into the ballroom, and mere mortal men ceased to exist.

  His looks forbade despite his smile. She’d never but once before seen a face so dangerously handsome. The darkness in his expression drew her in. What lay behind that unknowable face? Something about that smile said, Beware, I’ll break your heart. She was dying to know the color of his eyes.

  —and then the puzzle was completed. Her world shifted under her feet; her stomach dropped a mile.

  Not a stranger at all. Banallt.

  The time in which she did not know him lasted hardly a breath, perhaps two, but so many details lived there. Claret coat, tan pantaloons, top boots, white shirt. From here, she could not see his waistcoat to judge whether he had come tonight as a dandy or a Corinthian.

  Of course it was him. How could she not have recognized him? Her knees went weak, because she had never until this very moment understood how his beauty spoke to her. She watched him scan the room. Even from the distance separating them, she saw the peculiar silver irises and the pale skin set off by his inky hair. If he turned around, he would see her standing here by herself.

  John said something to Mrs. Llewellyn, who nodded to him. Fidelia put a hand on John’s sleeve and replied. John smiled, an unguarded smile that proved once and forever to Sophie that he was in love with Miss Llewellyn. Lord Banallt turned to greet someone else, and now he was facing her direction.

  From across the ballroom, his gaze met hers, and she watched his face. Nothing in his expression changed, but they knew each other. His gaze did not move on. Not immediately, at any rate. While Sophie watched, he took his leave of John and the two women at his side. He said something to Fidelia, who gave him a smile and a nod. John caught his arm. Banallt turned back. What the two men said to each other Sophie had no idea except that neither John nor Banallt seemed pleased. Banallt addressed another gentleman. That exchange left Sophie staring at her brother and Vedaelin. Mrs. Llewellyn wrapped an arm around the duke’s.

  The orchestra struck the beginning notes of the next set. Banallt turned to Fidelia and held out his hand. The young woman put her hand in his. Sophie lost sight of them both in the crowd surging toward the ballroom floor. A short while later, whispers broke out on her side of the room. Sophie turned her head. On instinct? Happenstance? Or was her glance at the filling ballroom floor merely ill timed? Lord Banallt was among the dancers on the floor, and Fidelia was his partner. Mrs. Babington followed Sophie’s gaze. “A striking couple, don’t you agree, Mrs. Evans?”

  “Yes.” It was true. Banallt and Fidelia were lovely together. She was tall enough for him, and every bit as beautiful.

  “Do you think he’ll come up to snuff before the season’s ended?”

  Sophie looked away. “Up to snuff?”

  “The earl, Mrs. Evans. The on dit is he’ll marry the girl. The only question appears to be when.”

  “But I—”

  “Mrs. Evans.” Reginald Tallboys appeared before her. She’d been so intent on Banallt that Tallboys startled her. He extended a hand. “Will you do me the honor?”

  Miss Wright leaned over and whispered, “Go on, Mrs. Evans. He’s too handsome to decline!”

  “You can’t say no,” Tallboys said. “Not with everyone watching.”

  “Go on!” said Miss Wright.

  Tallboys gave her a serious look. “Your brother begged me to tell you that if you won’t dance, neither will he.”

  “Unfair, Mr. Tallboys.”

  He grinned at
her. “Yes, isn’t it?”

  Sophie sighed and put her hand in his. At least the country dance that was starting was one she knew she could get through without disaster. Tallboys led her to the dance floor, joining the second line of couples waiting for the music to begin: Banallt and Fidelia, John and Miss George. She and Reginald Tallboys were among the six other couples in the line. There were changes of partner as the women moved down the line of men, each woman dancing a simple pattern with each man in turn. She was, inevitably, partnered with Banallt. Her heart pounded when she placed her hand on his.

  “Tallboys?” he said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Tallboys.”

  “Agreed. I’d just thought if you danced with anyone it would be the duke.”

  She didn’t answer, because the last thing she wanted was to humiliate herself by missing a step, and she had to concentrate. He smelled good, and his cravat, so far, was perfect. At the end of their pattern, she managed a smile and thought, when she’d moved to the next, that she’d danced quite well. She was relieved to end up back with Mr. Tallboys.

  “I was wondering,” he said as the dance ended, “if you would allow me to fetch you a plate when supper is served.”

  Before she could answer him, Vedaelin intercepted them. “Mrs. Evans,” he said, bowing. “How lovely you are tonight.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Tallboys,” the duke said. Tallboys nodded at the duke as they walked. “Will you dance, ma’am?” Vedaelin asked.

  “I’d be honored,” she said. Banallt was lining up to dance again, too, with Miss George. John, at last, was with Fidelia. This dance had no change of partners, just patterns that sometimes involved a neighboring couple, and she and Vedaelin were safely far from Banallt.

  When she was back in her seat at last, Miss Wright tapped her on the shoulder. “Tallboys and the duke?” she said breathlessly. “Mrs. Evans, you are a triumph tonight.”

  “They are both friends of my brother, that’s all.”

  Miss Wright shook a hand at her. “I saw the way Mr. Tallboys looked at you. Such cow eyes! You’ll have him on his knee to you before long, ma’am.”

  “Really, that’s nonsense.” She scanned the room, hoping to see where John and Fidelia had gone. What she saw was Banallt heading toward her. All she could do was wait while her breath vanished from her lungs.

  When he reached her, he bowed. All perfectly proper. Heart-stoppingly graceful. Lethally beautiful. His gaze pinned her, and she was actually dizzy. Sophie sat paralyzed for two beats of her heart and then remembered where she was and how she ought to behave. This was not a man who was safe for her. Or for any woman, for that matter. She curtseyed, crushing her fan in one hand. One of the ribs cracked underneath her fingers. “My lord. Good evening.”

  Beside her, Imogen and Miss Wright gaped.

  He held out a gloved hand. “Come, Sophie,” he said softly. “Will you dance with me?”

  Fifteen

  Rider Hall,

  JULY 14, 1812

  BANALLT GOT DOWN FROM HIS CURRICLE AND HANDED the vehicle off to the groom who appeared from the side of the house. He headed for the door, his greatcoat flapping in the breeze. Tommy ought to be out of bed by now, for God’s sake. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, and Banallt himself had been up since ten. He did not reach the house, however, because he caught a glimpse of white and stopped to see what had distracted him.

  Ah. The delectable Mrs. Evans.

  She was sitting on a swing hung from a walnut tree. One foot trailed on the ground beneath her, slowly rocking. She had her nose buried in a book and apparently no idea of the damage she must be doing by dragging her slipper through the dirt. She swung forward, blissfully absorbed by her reading. He felt an odd pang in his chest. What was it, exactly? As if he were home after many years’ absence and she was the only reason he’d returned at all. Which was quite ridiculous. He did not care for Rider Hall as a place a gentleman might live, its chief defect being it was too bloody remote from the entertainment he enjoyed best.

  Mrs. Evans was the rare exception to that defect of country living. She might be ridiculously prim, but she was also clever. Amusing. Kindhearted. Fascinating. Enthralling. Oh, and he wanted her. More than any woman he’d known. He’d begun dreaming about her, too; the most explicitly erotic dreams imaginable. Even when he was in London he dreamed of her. In his dreams, she was in no way proper or prim.

  He walked to the swing. Lost in the world of her book, she rocked herself forward and turned a page, completely unaware of his approach. Her clothes were very much in the country style, favoring comfort over fashion, though he would allow she had put herself together well. She wore muslin with green leaves printed in two stripes down the middle of the gown. The bodice made a heart shape of her bosom with the skin above covered by white gauze. He stopped a few feet from the swing. “Ma’am?”

  “Oh!” She fumbled her book and only just saved her place.

  He bowed. “Forgive me if I startled you.”

  “Lord Banallt.” Her eyes flashed with a thousand emotions, and before he could quite put a name to any of them, the wall came down and he read nothing there at all. He’d never known a woman so frighteningly adept at hiding her thoughts from him. “What are you doing here?”

  He cocked his head. “Visiting. Perhaps you don’t recall that I came down yesterday with your husband.”

  Well. And so. She did not find him amusing. “I am aware, my lord. I mean, what are you doing here in this very spot? Outside. Are you certain your constitution can withstand the fresh air?”

  He raised his hands and drew a deep breath. “No fatal effects as of yet. Be so kind, won’t you, as to notify my cousin Harry Llewellyn if I should fall dead at your feet.”

  That got a smile from her. All sorts of fascinating things happened to her face when she smiled. “I will, my lord.” He stood there, smiling at her like a half-wit. How could a woman who wasn’t beautiful be, in fact, beautiful? “Surely you don’t mean to tell me you want to swing?”

  “Good Lord, no. I had rather not do anything so undignified for a man of my position.” He walked behind her and gripped the ropes that held the swing. She twisted to look at him with a quizzical expression. He pulled back on the ropes and then released the swing. “Good book?”

  She got her dangling foot up just in time. “Oh yes.” She tried to hold the book and the ropes of the swing at the same time and did neither well. From the back, he noted, her bottom made an interesting heart shape where the fabric tucked beneath her. Well now. Wasn’t that interesting? Stimulating, rather.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Who’s the Murderer?”

  “By ... Mrs. Sleath?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him over her shoulder, smiling. “You do know your Romance, don’t you?”

  He teased her because he wanted her to smile just to confirm the effect on her features. “Proper women don’t read such books.”

  She twisted to look at him. Light danced in her eyes, dazzling him. But then her usual gravity replaced the humor. “Considering your opinion of ladies who read and write, I should think you might hold me to a lower standard.”

  When she swung back, he put his hands beneath her shoulder blades and pushed. During her forward arc, she lifted her legs to try for greater height. The hem of her skirt flipped up enough to show him the tips of her slippers, one of them soiled, and two very slender ankles. Any more stimulation and he was going to have to watch the lay of his coat over his breeches. “I assure you, Mrs. Evans, I hold you to the very highest standard.”

  The swing arced back, and he brought it to a stop, keeping both his hands on the ropes. She bowed her head and then turned slightly so that he could see only a portion of her cheek. He released the swing and leaned against the tree trunk, arms crossed over his chest with one knee bent so the sole of his boot pressed flat against the base of the tree. “Considering the source, I’m not o
verly concerned,” she said.

  “Have you just insulted me?”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. That prim little look of hers that involved her mouth going tense and a narrowing of her eyes came back. “Do you like being a rake?”

  From his position against the tree, he looked her up and down and answered her honestly. “No,” he said. “I don’t. But I like sex, Mrs. Evans, too much to think of giving up my carnal pleasures. If that makes me a rake, so be it.” He admired the pink in her cheeks. “I am discreet when necessary.”

  “You? Discreet?”

  “I’ve had any number of affairs of which you’ve heard nothing. And never shall.”

  Her cheeks turned pinker yet. She didn’t look away. Nor did she stand up and march back to the house, mortally offended. She had her feet planted on the ground now, and she rocked the swing back and forth just to the point of her heels coming off the ground. Forward and back. He leaned closer. He could smell her hair. Orange water, he thought.

  She stood up and walked toward him, leaving her book on the swing, until she stood within a foot of his chest with her arms crossed under her bosom. “I wonder if you’re all talk, my lord.”

  Banallt thought that if only he could hold her in his arms, she’d understand how he felt about her. Jesus, her hair was lovely even if she was a brunette. A man might pine away for want of her mouth. He uncrossed his arms and, as if he hadn’t anything at all in mind, peeled off his driving gloves. She watched him warily. “Your pride will get you in trouble yet,” he said, dropping his gloves into a pocket of his greatcoat. “It is, perhaps, your one great fault. You are too proud.”

  “Proud?” She tipped her head. “How so?”

  “You know what they say, don’t you?” he said in a soft voice. She was quite close enough. He took her free hand, her right, in one of his. “Your pride, darling, is standing on the edge of a precipice.” She was really too small for him. But he was wild for her regardless. “If you aren’t more careful with me, your pride will plunge us over the edge.”