Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  “I believe I did.”

  Hugo nodded. “And before the old earl could get wind of the whole sorry business, fly into one of his rages and cut you off without a penny, I bought the little harpy off.” He frowned, picking up his glass. “What was her name again?”

  “Caroline.” After all these years, the name still tasted bitter on his tongue. “As to that, sir, I am in your debt—”

  “Then you can repay me by doing as I ask!” roared Hugo, erupting into fits of painful coughing.

  Burgundy slopped and splashed over his trembling white hand and dripped to the Turkey carpet. Sebastian leaned forward to remove the wineglass, poured a tumbler of water, and guided it to the old gentleman’s lips. Hugo gulped and spluttered and turned purple.

  He did not look well. Sebastian sent the bell pealing for a servant, called for Hugo’s valet to be fetched at once, and did his best to make the old gentleman comfortable in the meantime.

  While Hugo clenched his jaw and suffered his valet’s attentions, Sebastian stood by the window and stared out at the undulating country of the Downs.

  If what Hugo said was true, Gemma would be quite alone in the world when the old gentleman went to his dubious reward. Of course, there was the girl’s mother, but one could not set any store by that woman. Gemma would have to marry someone, and soon.

  But that someone would not be him.

  The devil of it was, he recognised the justice of Hugo’s claim on him only too well. From the time he was six until Andy’s needless travesty of a death made him heir to their father’s title and estate, Sebastian had not been invited home more than seven times, often not even for Christmas. He’d spent most of his school holidays at Ware, and Hugo and Gemma had been the closest thing to real family he’d ever known.

  But marriage? He’d be damned before he’d bow to his father’s wishes. The old earl had made plans for him to step into his brother’s shoes before poor Andy was even cold in his grave. Chief among those plans was Sebastian’s immediate marriage, closely followed by the begetting of an heir to ensure the title never deviated from the old earl’s line.

  The revulsion and hatred Sebastian had felt then for his father, for such ruthless, cold ambition, returned now in a sickening wave. A thick band of desperation tightened around his chest. His mind raced, trying to think of some way out.

  Suddenly, an idea struck him; a form of compromise that, in effect, would leave him free.

  He waited until Hugo’s temper had been stretched to snapping point by the little valet’s fussing. Quietly he intervened to dismiss the man.

  As soon as the door closed behind the valet, Hugo ground out an oath and fell back in his chair, gasping.

  Sebastian gave him a few moments to recover. He watched his godfather fight for breath, driving to its outer limits a constitution ravaged by fast-and-furious living, and thought, One of these days, that could be me.

  A log in the fireplace cracked and fell, showering sparks over the hearth rug. He moved to the hearth and rolled the firewood back into place with the toe of his boot. Finally, he sat opposite Hugo in a wingback chair and flicked open the lid of his snuffbox.

  “If I agree to this scheme of yours—” Sebastian took a delicate pinch, ignoring the old gentleman’s sudden alertness “—there must be conditions attached.”

  He paused, wondering how best to phrase them.

  “Well, go on. I’m listening.”

  Sebastian tapped the snuffbox shut with his thumbnail. “First, you must let me take Gemma to my mother to do the Season. Second, I will offer for her only if she is not betrothed to some other gentleman before the Season’s close. And third, this arrangement is between you and me. Gemma does not hear of it.”

  “Season’s months away. I can’t wait that long, I tell you! I must see her settled before I go.”

  Sebastian sucked a breath through his teeth with a hiss. Did Hugo mistrust his word? Were it any other man, he would call him to account for that. He was tempted to reject the whole business, but the pain and fatigue that shadowed the old man’s face made him pause, and the weight of Hugo’s past kindnesses and present frailty pressed upon him. He must find a solution to his godfather’s dilemma. He owed him that much.

  He fingered his lip and stared into the flames. Perhaps there was another way. His mother would scarcely thank him for it, but . . .

  “My sister, Fanny, is to be married in a month or two. I might contrive a series of festivities leading to the event. If I can persuade Gemma to stay at Laidley for the duration, I have no doubt she will attach some poor—ahem—I mean, some fortunate fellow before long. If she is not betrothed by the end of, let us say, three months, then I will pay my addresses.”

  Satisfaction gleamed in Hugo’s black eyes, even as he winced at some inner pain. “Done!”

  A papery-skinned hand mottled with liver spots sought Sebastian’s. He returned its weak clasp, his smile affectionate and a touch rueful. “I’d make the devil of a husband, sir. I wish I knew what game you think you are playing.”

  This surprised a snort out of the old gentleman, but he did not answer. Hugo gazed at some fixed point before him, the muscles of his jaw twitching, the hands that had once punished a younger Sebastian in the boxing ring now skeletal and curled rigid, like the talons of a hawk.

  Abruptly, he said, “I’ll thank you not to say a word to Gemma about the state of my health. She thinks it’s the gout, no worse than usual, and I’ll have no one tell her different. She’d not consent to leave me if she knew I was about to fall off the twig.”

  Hugo sank back into his chair, as if striking this bargain had taxed his strength. Closing his eyes, he murmured, “You’d best go and find the chit and tell her she’s for Laidley. I’ll wager she’ll be glad to hear it.”

  Sebastian gave a crack of laughter. “She’ll be in transports, no doubt.”

  AT the top of a rise, Gemma Maitland reined in and gazed down on Mainwaring Hall. She breathed in the sweet scent of hay and harvest and felt the familiar, fierce surge of love and pride rush through her veins.

  Nestled in a shallow hollow like a nugget of gold in a cupped hand, it was a noble house for a country squire, built of honey-coloured Ham Hill stone. Gemma shaded her eyes against the lowering sun that gilded the landscape, glanced off mullioned windows, and shimmered on the lake with fire.

  The fire entered her blood, tempering her resolve to fight, to regain control over this land that was like her own flesh and bone. Ware did not need a land agent with fancy, modern ideas who knew nothing of the estate’s heart or its people. No one could care for Ware as she did. She would show her grandfather that truth, or kill herself trying.

  “Gemma? Did you hear what I said?”

  She glanced over and saw her companion’s mouth turned down at the corners. Though strapping and solid astride his chestnut gelding, John Talbot reminded her of a sulky child denied a parent’s attention.

  She bit back a smile. “Oh, John, I do beg your pardon, I was daydreaming. Whenever I come up here, I cannot help feeling very grand and lord-of-the-manor-ish. Ridiculous, is it not? How frightfully rude of me. What were you saying?”

  John squared his big shoulders and settled his fidgeting horse. “I wondered whether you might journey to London when the harvest is over. I must visit town on some business and had thought to look in at a few entertainments there.”

  Gemma shook her head, urging Tealeaf to a brisk trot. “No, I never go to London. There is too much to do here.”

  That was perfectly true, but it was not the real reason she had never made her come-out. The real reason, however, was none of John Talbot’s affair.

  John glanced at her. “Cannot Mr. Porter attend to estate matters while you are away? That is why your grandfather employed him, isn’t it?”

  They approached a steep descent, and Gemma used the excuse of negotiating the difficult terrain to avoid answering him. She slowed Tealeaf to a walk, and preceded John’s gelding down the narrow pat
h.

  But when the track flattened and widened again, allowing them to ride abreast, he persisted. “I thought it was every young girl’s dream to attend town balls and parties.”

  “Yes, I believe it is, but I am two-and-twenty, almost at my last prayers, you know. I can scarcely be termed a young girl any longer.” She threw him a sidelong grin. “And besides, I look a positive fright in white.”

  John protested at tedious length. Gemma tilted her head to study this prime specimen of ardent male with a kind of detached interest. John excelled at flattery, making up in eloquence what he lacked in originality. But the point was moot. She would not enter Society for all the tea in China.

  Gemma waited until he had exhausted his current store of compliments, and smiled. “It grows late. Shall we go?”

  With a look of chagrin, he agreed. They wheeled their mounts and set off in silence.

  Gemma seldom dwelled upon how different her life might have been had she made her début at seventeen, rather than assuming responsibility for Ware. Burying herself in the country, her mother had scoffed, and in a manner of speaking, she was right. Just like Mama to be so perceptive, while remaining supremely oblivious to the fact that her own scandalous conduct had forced her daughter into rural seclusion in the first place.

  Now, Gemma relished her isolation. Far better to be the honorary Squire of Ware than a bored Society matron, or confined to wifely duties at some country estate, the lot of most young ladies of her station.

  Of course, most young ladies of her station were not obliged to live with the stigma of being Sybil Maitland’s daughter. She wondered where her mother was now. Drawing kohl around her eyes and living with Bedouins like Lady Hester Stanhope, no doubt.

  Suddenly, a smudge in the distance resolved into a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with dark, windswept curls and an air of graceful boredom. She squinted at the figure as it sauntered towards them, then her breath caught.

  “Scovy?” She spurred Tealeaf to a canter. Soon, they were flying down the hill.

  Pulling up short with a spray of turf, Gemma slipped from the saddle and dropped the mare’s reins. She strode towards Sebastian, who continued down the south lawn to meet her.

  “Scovy!” She held out her hands. “To what do we owe this pleasure? No, do not tell me. You have dropped ten thousand at Hazard and the bailiffs are hot on your trail.”

  Sebastian’s teeth gleamed as he took her hands in his. “Minx! But I am wounded you do not notice my new consequence. I have come up in the world since I saw you last.”

  She inspected his expensive dark elegance and chuckled. “Yes, you are fine as fivepence. Indeed, Scovy, I wonder now that I recognized you at all.”

  There’s that damned nickname again, thought Sebastian. How he had hated it when she first bestowed it upon him, her eyes alight with unholy glee. But he did not immediately reply to her teasing, struck by the changes time had wrought in his old playmate.

  Gemma wore a drab, ill-fitting, outmoded riding habit and a god-awful nest of braids bunched under her battered hat, an ensemble that would see her maid hung, drawn and quartered, in fashionable circles. But no amount of torture with a hairbrush could dim the darts of flame that sparked in those golden tresses. Swathes of charcoal broadcloth might blur her feminine curves, but they failed to dull the subtle fire in her dusk-blue eyes. Even her creamy skin seemed to bloom and glow with delight. As he looked down at Gemma’s upturned face, beaming with pleasure at his arrival, desire stabbed his belly like a thief in the night, stole his breath away.

  Take a damper, old boy, he thought, alarmed and a trifle disgusted with himself. There had never been anything like that between them. Clearly, that was how she regarded their friendship, too, or she would not have been so unguarded in her welcome.

  The thought gave him pause. He was not certain he liked the notion that the frisson of attraction he had felt for Gemma was one-sided. He was used to making easy conquests of women. He certainly did not wish to add Gemma to the list, but still . . .

  Someone cleared his throat and Sebastian realized he had been staring down at Gemma in silence. His gaze flicked past her, and he saw that her companion had dismounted and caught the reins of her mare. The man fairly bristled with pompous indignation. What the devil was wrong with the fellow?

  Then Sebastian realised he still held Gemma’s hands. This bag-pudding must think he had designs on her.

  The devil of mischief roused within.

  As Sebastian returned his gaze to Gemma’s trusting face, the devil took hold. Before she could guess what he was about, he tightened his grip on her hands and ducked his head to kiss her softly on the lips.

  He did not receive the slap he half expected.

  Gemma remained very still in the instant his lips clung to hers, and as he lifted his head, he detected a shadow of doubt in her eyes.

  Good.

  Looking past her shoulder, he saw her companion open-mouthed with outrage.

  Ah. Even better.

  Recovering with a tiny shake of the head, she tugged her hands from his grasp and said lightly, “Sebastian, I do not believe you know John Talbot. Mr. Talbot bought the property that borders our land to the southeast, and has been kind enough to accompany me on my afternoon rides. John, may I present the Earl of Carleton, an old friend of mine. We used to catch tadpoles together.”

  Sebastian understood at once. After that kiss, Gemma attempted to colour their connection with the innocence of childhood.

  Which was an accurate portrait, but for some reason, he did not wish this Talbot fellow to place any faith in it. Throwing Gemma a quizzical glance, Sebastian moved forward to shake hands.

  Talbot’s grip was firm. His form was solid, above average height. His build indicated he would strip to advantage in the boxing ring, and Sebastian wondered idly if it were worth goading the man further. He had not indulged in a decent sparring match for weeks.

  Before Sebastian finished his survey, Talbot took the initiative. “I am surprised to hear Lord Carleton is a particular friend of yours, Gemma. I have not heard you speak of him before now.”

  “Is that so?” returned Sebastian, amused. “Well, perhaps Miss Maitland—” he placed a faint, deliberate emphasis on her name “—wished me to remain her guilty secret.”

  Ignoring Gemma’s indignant little choke, he flashed a smile at Talbot and nodded towards the horses, whose reins the gentleman still held. “Take them round to the stables, will you, Turbot? There’s a good fellow. Miss Maitland is wanted in the house.”

  Talbot’s pink-and-white complexion did nothing to conceal his emotions. At the calculated snub, his neck and face flushed crimson and he spluttered a wordless protest.

  Sebastian raised his brows.

  “Nonsense!” Gemma smiled at Talbot with particular radiance. “We shall all go to the stables and then up to the house to dine. You will come, won’t you, John?”

  Unconsciously, she placed her hand on Sebastian’s proffered arm as she spoke. He pressed home his advantage, closing his hand over hers in a clear act of possession.

  Which, of course, made Talbot bridle like a matron refused vouchers for Almack’s. “No, really, Miss Mait—I mean, really, Gemma, I must take my leave.”

  “Very well,” she answered cheerfully, grasping her mare’s bridle. “I shall see you tomorrow, sir.”

  As soon as Talbot rode out of earshot, Gemma rounded on Sebastian. “And you need not look so pleased with yourself! I never heard such insolence.”

  “Well, I had to get rid of him, because I need to talk to you.” He reached for the mare’s bridle. “Here. Give me that.”

  She surrendered the bridle without comment. They walked on, and after a few moments’ silence, Sebastian said, “Rather familiar with you after such a short acquaintance, isn’t he? Could it be that I hear wedding bells?”

  He watched her closely. It would be the answer to his prayers, yet the idea did not sit well with him at all.

  “Goo
d God, no!” said Gemma. He grinned at her vehemence, and she primmed her pretty lips. “That is to say, Mr. Talbot is a very amiable man, but we should not suit.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Where did you learn to spout that fustian? Not from Hugo, I’ll wager.” Horror dawned. “Don’t say you have Old Mouldy living with you now.”

  “If you refer to Great-aunt Matilda, Scovy, then—”

  “You know very well whom I mean. In fact, Miss Prunes and Prisms, you gave her that nickname, as I recall.”

  The corners of Gemma’s mouth quivered, but she did not rise to the bait. “Aunt Matilda has made her home with us these four years past.”

  “Really? As bad as that? No wonder I haven’t been near this place for at least that long. I have something of a sixth sense that preserves me from females of her ilk.”

  “Well, your sixth sense won’t do you any good this evening,” said Gemma with relish. “You will be obliged to take her in to dinner, you know. No doubt she will read you a lecture on your wicked ways.”

  “Hmm, you terrify me.” He slid Gemma a glance, wondering if she knew how wicked his ways really were.

  “She would certainly fall into strong hysterics if she knew you had kissed me like that,” she added. “Right in front of John, too! I should think a man of your experience would know better.”

  Startled, Sebastian halted in his tracks. “Am I to infer you are accustomed to being kissed, Miss Maitland?”

  Gemma stopped and stroked the nose of her mare. “I would not say accustomed, precisely, but it has been known to happen. Some of them have been . . .”

  She trailed off dreamily, then smiled and patted Sebastian on the cheek. “But yours was very nice as well.”

  Two

  AS they reached the stable yard, boots and hooves clicking over the cobbles, Gemma bit her lip to repress a smile.

  Oh, she felt so much better now! Even before that warm, light touch of Sebastian’s lips to hers, she’d been struggling to regain her footing. When she first saw him— all broad shoulders and masculine energy and vivid dark features—the air around her thinned, leaving her breathless, and something danced a wild beat low in her stomach.