The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5)

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Are you saying I could be recalling my father?”

  “Yes.”

  The thought challenged him. He shook his head, would have pushed away, but he covered his hand with hers.

  “What if Lord Bossley isn’t telling the truth about finding you?” she asked.

  Will immediately rejected the idea. “To what gain? Who am I to him? If anything, I’ve cost him a pretty penny. He’s educated me, clothed me, fed me—”

  “I don’t know his motives,” she said. “But thinking on it, he doesn’t strike me as a charitable person.”

  “He boasts about taking me in,” Will said.

  “And people think well of him for it. But I don’t sense being kind is a part of his nature. And you may laugh at me if you like, but I put great faith in my initial impressions of people. When I met Freddie, even when he was supposedly interested in my cousin, I didn’t trust him. I was not wrong, was I?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Lord Bossley keeps you close at hand,” she observed.

  “The bishop suggested I take the living here.”

  “And you weren’t tempted to strike out just a little?”

  “I like it here,” he felt forced to admit. “Yes, I know it’s unambitious of me, but I feel a need to be here.”

  “There must be a reason for that,” she concluded. “If I continue on, you will think I’ve been touched by that full moon outside. But don’t discount these things that bother you,” she urged in a low tone. “There is a mystery here, Will, and this sounds outlandish, but I sense you may be a key. Think on it.” She rose to her feet. “I’m tired. I’m for my bed. Are you staying up?”

  That was their habit. He always waited until she was asleep and often slept in the sitting room. “A bit. Here, take the lamp.” He lit the stub of a candle off of it.

  At the door, she hesitated. “Please don’t worry about the baby. The villagers will take care of him.”

  Will nodded.

  “Good night,” she said and then she was gone.

  He listened to the sound of her bare feet climbing the stairs. She’d stunned him, and not with her beauty but her insight.

  The images that had been swirling in his mind since Broxter’s outburst seemed to slow. A face came into focus. A man’s nose, his smile—

  Will walked through the dark to the sitting room. Moonlight streamed through his front window. He found paper and pen and began sketching the face. He set it aside. His exhausted mind could take no more. He fell asleep.

  However, the next morning, he rose with the dawn and was anxious to see in the daylight whose face he’d drawn.

  He was disappointed to realize he’d drawn his own.

  Chapter Eleven

  The early-morning fog clung to the ground longer than usual.

  Looking out her window, Corinne felt restless, uncertain.

  She didn’t know if her sense of foreboding had anything to do with the death of the young mother or if she was uneasy with last night’s conversation.

  Her worries escalated when she caught a glimpse of red military coats walking down the street. Even though they couldn’t possibly have seen her, Corinne stepped away from the window. Will had warned her that men from the garrison patrolled Ferris, but she hadn’t seen any of them until now. Their presence reminded her of what was at stake if she was not careful.

  The rectory was becoming her prison. Will was gone every morning before she came down, no matter how early she rose. She had tried to catch him. Had wanted to breach the gap of distrust.

  Perhaps her instincts were wrong. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be here. That extra sense of purpose that she’d always trusted to point her in the right direction might have failed her.

  As she stood there watching the soldiers move out of her range of vision, she realized Will might not be able to give her what she wanted, what it was that she longed for. She wanted love, but not love like the poets promised. She didn’t want itchy yearning and proud neediness that could never be fulfilled.

  No, she wanted the sort of love that her aunt Catherine had for her husband. She had eloped with a banker. Granted, Banker Montross was highly respected now, but back then her ducal grandfather had been furious. He’d cut Catherine off, not that her aunt had cared. She’d always seemed content. Once Corinne had even caught her aunt and uncle stealing a kiss by the back stairs in spite of their age.

  Corinne couldn’t imagine her parents doing such a thing. Her father kept a mistress and rarely came home when they were in London. Except for the rare occasions that they traveled together, such as coming to Glenhoward, or entertained, her parents didn’t spend time in each other’s company. They were a couple for social purposes and producing an heir or two.

  But Corinne wanted more. She wanted to be her husband’s helpmate. She wanted the connection she’d felt with Will last night. Her insight, her advice had had meaning to him.

  Of course, she was completely prepared to go downstairs and find him gone . . .

  She heard a sound from downstairs. Someone was there, moving around. It was probably Mrs. Gowan come early. Still, Corinne grabbed a last look at herself in the glass over her washbasin. She’d pulled her hair back in a neat chignon at the nape of her neck and secured it with a few pins. She was wearing the green dress today.

  As she left her room, she could see through the doorway of his bedroom that his bed, once again, looked as if he hadn’t slept in it. She suspected he didn’t sleep in his room but in the chair in the sitting room. His purpose was to stay away from her, and he was the sort of man who was very good at what he set out to do. Corinne knew he was attracted to her. She couldn’t have felt this pull toward Will without his feeling something in return.

  She hurried downstairs, entered the kitchen, and came to a halt, surprised by the sight of Will pouring a mug of tea.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling at her. There was something changed about him, something she wasn’t quite able to place.

  “Good morning?” She moved into the kitchen, cautious.

  “I trust you slept well?” he said as he set the tea at her place at the table. He pulled out her chair. “For you.”

  “Me?” She sounded dumbstruck. She was.

  He smiled and she realized the difference she’d noticed was that he appeared relaxed. “Yes, you.” He turned toward the dry sink. “I’m having cider.” He carried a mug with his cider and a plate of cheese and bread over for their breakfast.

  Corinne sat in her chair, but she watched him, uncertain.

  Taking his place at the table, he took a piece of bread and cheese, smiled at her, took a bite.

  She didn’t move.

  He swallowed and said, “Your tea will grow cold.”

  “You are usually gone when I wake.” It was an accusation.

  “I was gone,” he said breezily, adding a slice of cheese on his bread. “But now I’m back.”

  “What has happened?” she demanded. “Last night you were not happy, and this morning you appear as if you haven’t a care.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “I went to see Broxter this morning.” He took a sip of his cider.

  “How is he?”

  “Not good. He loved her.”

  He loved her. Such a simple statement, yet it held a wealth of emotion.

  Will said, “I told him he must love his sons as well as he’d loved her. They are a product of that love and that baby could not have harmed his mother. I don’t know why Emily died, except that childbirth is hard for any woman. But I know she thought the baby was worth the cost of her life. If Mark tosses him aside, what does that say about his love for his wife?”

  “You told him this?” she asked, impressed.

  “Yes. I also reminded him that God doesn’t think of death the way we do. I know about how it is the beginning of eter
nal life and all of that, but what do we really know? I said to him that I couldn’t believe that something as vibrant and real as the love Emily Broxter had for him and for those children could ever die. She was a strong woman. A strong soul. She wouldn’t leave him. I truly believe she is close.”

  “And what was his answer?”

  “I didn’t wait for an answer. I left him then.”

  “You left him?” Corinne repeated in disbelief. “Did you not want to know if anything you said bore fruit and made a difference to him?”

  “It’s out of my hands,” he said, then brought his whole attention upon her.

  Corinne went still, suddenly self-conscious. He wasn’t just looking at her hair, her eyes, the surface. No, it was as if he looked into the very depths of her, and then he said, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For challenging me. For not being afraid to speak your mind.” He turned his attention to his breakfast.

  “That is the first time anyone has said that to me,” she said, still confused, and he laughed. The sound filled the kitchen and she was riveted by this new side of him, the one that wasn’t worried or angry.

  “Cory, you can’t help yourself . . .”

  Cory? He’d called her Cory. No one had ever called her such before, and she adored it.

  “. . . you are the most clear-eyed, honest person of my acquaintance,” he was saying. “Emily would not want her child to be cast aside; for the good of the child I had to speak, because I understand what could happen to him. My life would have been so different if Bossley hadn’t stepped in. I always felt guilty for it, but now—” He shook his head. “Perhaps asking Broxter to take his son to his heart is my atonement. My purpose for being here.”

  He looked to her for agreement, and Corinne felt a bit dizzy. No wonder she was falling in love with him. She couldn’t help herself.

  Will waved his hand at her, forcing her to blink. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, I am,” she replied, wondering if he realized how utterly charming he was when he was like this. He came across as stronger, more confident, more attractive, handsome, appealing . . . the list went on and on. She thought him perfect.

  “You will attend the funeral today?” he asked.

  Considering the direction of her thoughts, it took a second to make the change of subject with him. “The funeral?”

  “Yes, as my cousin, you will be expected to pay your respects.”

  “I saw soldiers today,” she answered.

  “I saw them as well,” he said. “They were passing through. They should be gone by now, but I doubt if anyone would consider looking for the Unattainable at a country funeral.”

  Corinne didn’t like his use of that detested nickname. “I’m not unattainable,” she muttered, rising from her chair and picking up her untouched tea, then setting it back down.

  “My lady . . . ?” he started, as if realizing she was upset, though he felt a bit clueless as to how he’d offended her. It was the nickname. It made Corinne even more frustrated and sad. She’d been wrong. He didn’t “see” her. He had no clue what she felt for him.

  And she wasn’t going to tell him again. She had pride.

  “What time is the funeral?” she said, cutting him off.

  “At eleven.”

  “I assume you have duties before the service?” He usually did, or at least that was his excuse.

  “I do—”

  “I shall see you at the church then,” she said and left the room before he could say anything else to upset her.

  And why was she so upset?

  She didn’t even understand herself. But as she tromped up the stairs, she knew she was angry.

  In her room, she sat on the end of the bed. Her arms crossed tightly against her chest, she suddenly knew the answer.

  He’d spoken to her as if he’d valued her opinion. He didn’t treat her the way her parents and her family did. He listened. He heard.

  But he didn’t understand.

  She admired him so much . . . . but in spite of his admiration of her, he did not return the same level of feeling. He did not love her.

  Corinne felt her heart break. It hurt, physically hurt, and she didn’t think she would recover. Never in her life had she thought that she might find the man she could love but he would not love her in return.

  Her poor heart didn’t know what to do.

  She’d taken offense. Will knew that. He went over to the door of the kitchen and leaned against it, listening to her march up the stairs.

  Cory. She was beautiful. Vibrant, warm, caring . . . and he’d hurt her because she wanted more than he could, or should, give her. For her own good, one of them had to keep his wits about him. She might survive the scandal of jilting Freddie—she was lovely enough and well connected enough to do so—but not if she ran off with Freddie’s foster brother.

  She’d given Will so much.

  In the week and a half she’d been with him, she’d graced his world with her humor, common sense, and refreshing candor. His youthful worship of her had been well placed.

  But now was the time to think of her best interests. Rusticating as the wife of a parish parson or being the widow of a highwayman was not for the likes of her. She deserved silk gowns, a fleet of servants, and so much more.

  For a moment, Will allowed himself to dream of her being his, longing with a passion that threatened to bring him to his knees. His Cory. His beautiful, beautiful Cory.

  “But it must not be,” he reminded himself. “It must not be.”

  The church was crowded by the time Corinne made her way over for the funeral. Everyone in the parish attended, all dressed in their best. The sanctuary was a sea of bonnets.

  Mrs. Gowan saw her and motioned for her to come join her family in their pew. Corinne gratefully sank down next to her, taking a moment to adjust the angle of her own bonnet.

  “You’ve changed the style again,” Mrs. Gowan said with admiration. “You have a good way with a needle.”

  “Thank you,” Corinne replied. She gave Mandy a wave of her gloved fingers before the funeral started.

  Will and the deacon walked in behind an altar boy carrying a cross.

  Corinne couldn’t look at him very long. Her disappointment still lay heavy upon her. She’d almost convinced herself it was all for the best, but she knew she could not continue this way. He was the man she wanted, the one she could never have.

  She was going to have to leave. She’d made up her mind to do so.

  The pallbearers entered carrying a closed coffin. They were followed by a barrel-chested young man with flaming red hair. His son, the lad that fetched Will yesterday, held his hand. This was the widower, and he looked, and moved, like a man destroyed.

  In his free arm, he cradled a newborn—and Corinne wanted to stand and cheer. Will had convinced him. He’d done it.

  Her battered heart filled with pride.

  And, she realized, that was love. Even in her misery, she could be happy for Will. He’d persuaded a father to claim his son. How heroic was that?

  The service was a sad affair but Corinne felt hope. She hadn’t known Emily Broxter, but she did know that every mother would want her family to stay together.

  The baby started crying during the burial. Several of the women offered hands to help, but Mr. Broxter warned them off with a shake of his head. “He’s right to mourn,” he said, his own voice laden with his pent-up tears.

  After the burial, Corinne and Will somberly walked back to the rectory. They’d gone to the wake for a minute and left at the proper time. Will broke the silence first. “He claimed his son,” he said.

  Corinne nodded. Her mind wasn’t on the deceased woman. She waited until they’d reached the house to speak. “I’m ready to leave.”

  He stopped. Sh
e took a few steps, then faced him. His moss green eyes had darkened with concern.

  Concern. She’d wanted an emotion stronger than that. She wanted something more. . . .

  “It’s time,” she said. “I’ve had a lovely sojourn in the country, but I’d best return to my life.”

  “You’d go back?”

  “Not to London. I’ve been thinking of where I could go. Making a plan, what you’d wished I’d done in the beginning.” There was bitterness in her voice. She couldn’t help herself. The disappointment of being unloved combined with pride made her curt. “I have a great-aunt in Edinburgh. She’s a very distant relation and we are strangers, but I need to hide for only a week or so more.” She found it hard to look at him. “Just out of human kindness, let alone family loyalty, she should take me in for what little time I have left to miss the wedding. You will help me make arrangements?”

  “Of course.”

  “I won’t mention your name. No one will know your involvement with my running away.” Her throat tightened. The finality of her decision hurt. She started to turn away—

  “Cory,” he said.

  Hope leapt inside her, whirled her around to him.

  “What?” she asked, hating how anxious, how eager she sounded.

  He stood a moment, his jaw uncompromising, his brows together. A shadow seemed to cross his eyes, a regret. And then he said quietly, “I’ll make the arrangements in the morning.”

  She stood, suddenly loving him so much that she couldn’t believe he didn’t love her in return. She wanted a declaration, a sign of passion, or good regard . . . a sign of anything other than this stiff civility. What she wanted to do was rail at him. To demand why he couldn’t love her. Why couldn’t he open himself to at least the possibility of returning her affections? Of caring as deeply for her as she did for him?