Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  Such a stupid reaction when she had known him all her life, but there it was.

  And then that kiss! She clasped her fingers together to stop them stealing to her lips.

  Her first real kiss.

  Declining the stable hand’s offer to take the mare, Sebastian led Tealeaf into her stall. Gemma followed, and watched him remove the saddle and rub the mare’s dappled flank with a handful of straw.

  She leaned back against the partition, admiring the hard set of his shoulders and the strong grace of his movements as he performed a task most men of his station would leave to a groom.

  Gemma’s lips twisted in a wry smile. She had not been perfectly honest about her experience of kisses. True, she’d suffered several furtive maulings and a number of blatant attempts at seduction over the years. As the daughter of the notorious Sybil Maitland, she’d grown accustomed to such assaults.

  But none of those encounters had stirred her like that light, warm brush of Sebastian’s mouth on hers. She was not certain she relished the sensation, and that’s why she’d dealt him a setdown. A true lady, of course, would never have mentioned past experience, nor made that teasing comparison. A true lady would not have any experience to compare.

  Recalling Sebastian’s stunned expression, Gemma chuckled. She was glad she had done it. Now she had placed them on a more even footing, she could relax.

  At the sound of her laughter, Sebastian looked up and flashed her a grin—a lightning-quick smile that struck her heart and fizzed right down to her toes.

  Gemma swallowed. Oh, Lord.

  “Why do you look at me like that?” He threw down his handful of straw and picked up a currycomb.

  She started. “What? Like what? How do I look?”

  “I’m not sure.” He cocked his head. “Wary, I think. You needn’t worry.” He ran the comb through Tealeaf’s mane. “I’m not going to kiss you again.”

  “Oh? Oh! I am not at all concerned on that score.” She tried to make her voice sound indifferent, but she had a dreadful suspicion it squeaked. “You only did it to provoke John. I know that.”

  He stared at her, eyes bright. “Do you?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Lifting his gaze to the rough-beamed ceiling, he said, “Yes, I suppose I must have.”

  This was all terribly confusing. Gemma took a deep breath. “What did you wish to speak to me about?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” Finished with the comb, he patted the mare’s flank and relinquished her to the stable hand’s care. “Come. I’ll tell you on the way back to the house.”

  LYING to Gemma proved more difficult than Sebastian had anticipated. He could not fathom why. He lied to women all the time. This lie was for Gemma’s ultimate benefit, yet when she smiled at him with such affectionate delight, the words lodged in his throat and refused to be spoken.

  They strolled a meandering route back to the house while Gemma chattered about improvements she’d made and plans for the future. At first, he listened with more attentiveness than he showed the steward of his own estate, but her enchanting face distracted him so much, he frequently lost the thread of the conversation. Gemma’s body, the way she moved, spoke of such innate, unconscious sensuality, he soon gave up all pretence of paying attention and drank his fill of her instead.

  She broke off, seeming to sense his preoccupation. As they climbed the steps to the terrace, she said, “But tell me about yourself. You live mainly in town now, don’t you?”

  He sighed. “Yes, but you cannot be interested in my frippery existence.”

  “Of course I am. I often wonder how fashionable gentlemen manage to fill their days.”

  The slightest quirk of her lips told him she was teasing, up to her old tricks. He gave her a glinting smile. “Our nights are more interesting, I assure you.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I collect you mean your ladies.”

  His better self told him to stop right there, but the devil in him wanted to find out how far he could push her till she blushed. “Well, I wouldn’t call them ladies.”

  She made a face. “Opera dancers, then.”

  He spread his hands. “They’re so . . . supple, you see.”

  She stopped and regarded him with her candid blue eyes. “If you are trying to shock me, it won’t work. Remember, I’ve grown up in Hugo’s house.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I doubt I’d find those tales very entertaining.”

  “Oh, you might be surprised.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “What about you, Gemma? Have you never fallen in love?”

  “No, never. And I fail to see what love has to do with opera dancers.” She turned with a swish of skirts and stalked up the last flight of steps.

  He grinned and called after her. “All right, lust, then. Have you never—”

  “Now this is a glorious prospect!” Her voice was slightly breathless, though that might have been from exertion. She reached the terrace first. Placing her hands on the balustrade, she stared out over the lake.

  He chuckled as he caught up with her, but let the subject drop and followed her gaze. She was right. The man-made lake, landscaped by Capability Brown, harmonised perfectly with its surroundings. Even the island with its small Grecian temple seemed to belong in this idyllic slice of Sussex.

  But the truly glorious sight was a less cultivated piece of nature. She stood next to him, wearing an expression of mingled joy and pride. Her radiance made him lean closer and voice a spontaneous thought. “It is warm enough to swim in that lake. I might challenge you to a race.”

  Her face clouded. She stepped away from him. “How long do you stay with us? I trust Mrs. Jenkins has seen to your comfort.”

  Sebastian wrenched his mind from the sudden vision of Gemma clad in a clinging, wet shift, just as he had seen her years ago when they cavorted innocently together in that lake. With one significant difference, of course. She was a woman now, and if he wasn’t mistaken, under that shabby old habit her body was large-breasted, long-legged, and slender—the stuff of men’s dreams. Certainly, the stuff of his. And any cavorting they did this time would not be the innocent kind, not if he had anything to say about it.

  Reluctantly, he accepted her tacit refusal and made himself focus on the business at hand. “Well, the length of my stay depends on you. I’ve come to beg a favour.”

  If she wondered at his gall in approaching her after such a prolonged absence, she gave no indication of it. She tilted her head. “Of course. Anything in my power. You know that, Scovy.”

  Sebastian grimaced. Didn’t that just make it a thousand times harder? He almost told her the truth, and to hell with his bargain with Hugo. But he’d given his word, and besides, he rather thought Hugo was right. Gemma should marry, not waste all that warmth and beauty playing care-taker to an estate that would never be hers. Hugo had always been adamant about leaving Ware to a male relative.

  He cleared his throat. “My sister, Fanny, is to wed in three months.”

  “How lovely!” She smiled and continued to look inquiring.

  “I wanted to ask you . . . My mother is not well, but she insists on undertaking all the wedding preparations herself. There will be a house party and a ball to announce the engagement, and then there is the wedding and more relatives to accommodate than I care to think about.” He frowned. “Fanny is . . . a trifle difficult, and not the assistance she ought to be.” He rubbed his chin. “More of a hindrance, really. And the house needs . . .” Razing to the ground. “. . . improvement.”

  He glanced at Gemma and wondered if he’d convinced her. He was certainly doing a good job of convincing himself.He could almost be grateful to his godfather. He would never have thought of such a perfect solution to his problems without the promise he’d made to Hugo.

  “Gemma, would you be willing to leave Ware for a couple of months, come with me to Laidley to help my mother with the preparations?”

  She flinched as if he’d slapped her, and gave a quick, firm shake of her head. “No, I could not l
eave Ware for that long. I am sorry, Scovy, it is out of the question.”

  It was the answer he’d expected, but her unhesitating refusal disappointed him. “May I ask why?”

  “I am needed here.”

  A remoteness had settled on her face that gave him no clue to her thoughts. Impatiently, he said, “Gemma, even peers of the realm leave their estates while they sit in parliament, or go into the shires to hunt, or do the Season. Hugo has employed an agent. Why can’t he look after things when you’re away?”

  “Ha!” The heel of her hand smacked the balustrade.

  Sebastian raised his brows. “You do not think him capable of running the estate in your absence? You mistrust Hugo’s judgment, then?”

  Her luscious mouth set in a determined line. She braced her hands shoulders’-width apart on the balustrade, scanning the terrain beyond like a general surveying a battlefield. “Hugo is remarkably one-eyed about this subject. I told him we did not need an agent, but he refused to listen.” She waved a hand. “Oh, I am sure Mr. Porter has many excellent qualities, but he was not bred at Ware. If I were not here to supervise him, there’s no telling what havoc he might wreak.”

  Sebastian frowned. “Can’t Hugo supervise this Porter fellow? I would have thought the old gentleman perfectly sound in that respect.”

  “Yes, but he cannot be there to see for himself. He cannot ride out to the fields or pay calls in the village, inspect the cottages to make sure they are well maintained, listen to tenants’ concerns. I . . .” She swallowed. “Scovy, I love Ware so much, it pains me that after all I have done, Grandpapa hired Mr. Porter behind my back.”

  Ah, now we are getting somewhere, thought Sebastian. “Do you know, I think you are right.”

  She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, spearing him with her gaze. “Of course I am right.”

  He leaned against the balustrade and inspected his fingernails. “In your shoes, what I would do is leave. Only for a bit. Long enough to show Hugo how the estate will flounder without you. Why don’t you do that?”

  He slid her a glance. There was an arrested expression in her eye, but she shook her head. “I would never allow our people to suffer for the sake of petty revenge.”

  “No, no, not revenge, more like a wake-up, that’s all. Just to make Hugo appreciate all you have done, all you continue to do.” He took her hand and drew her around to face him. “Think what will happen if you don’t make Hugo see your point of view. Think of the future.”

  He saw by her stormy eyes that she was thinking of it. The future looked bleak indeed for Gemma. He did not need to spell that out for her. She knew. The determination that drove most females of her class to the Marriage Mart each Season was the same determination that fired her need to control the estate. She was a woman who wished to take charge of her destiny.

  Well, a stint at Laidley could not hurt her chances of inheriting Ware. And if a host of eligible gentlemen happened to pay court to her while she was there, she might well exchange her passion for the land for passion of a different nature. Women found it so easy to fall in love.

  Looking at her, he wondered why marriage had not entered the equation before. “Tell me, Gemma. Are all the men hereabouts blind?”

  She jerked out of her reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Or slow-tops like that Turbot fellow, perhaps? Why are you two-and-twenty and still unwed?”

  She flushed and stared at her boots. “That is not a very gentlemanly question.”

  He ducked his head, trying to catch her eye. “This is me, remember? Old Scovy. I was never a gentleman to you.”

  But she did not answer. She turned and gazed out again, and as the breeze snapped her habit around her legs and the sun teased fiery highlights from her gold hair, those dusk-blue eyes contemplated her domain. Once again, he had lost her to Ware’s thrall, and it galled him that she could be oblivious to him when he was so vividly aware of her. He wanted to yank her into his arms and make her forget everything about the damned place, if only for the space of a kiss.

  “Will you let me think about it?” She did not look at him as she spoke. “I ought to say no, but I am quite desperate, you see. And I would like to help you if I could.”

  Sebastian bit back a protest. It was less than he’d hoped for, but undoubtedly more than he deserved. “Of course. I shall stay a few more days and await your answer.” On impulse, he took her hand and brushed his lips across her gloved knuckles.

  She did not blush or flirt with her eyes as other young ladies would have done. He was not even sure she noticed the small intimacy. Her mind was not on him.

  Absently, she withdrew her hand. Then she took one last, long look at that golden panorama, turned her back on it, and led him into the house.

  PINK rose petals drifted in the washbasin, colliding and whirling as Gemma trailed her fingertips through the cool, scented water. She leaned forward to splash her face, and could have sworn the water sizzled on her skin.

  She must stop thinking about him.

  But his kiss wrapped around her mind, smothering all other thoughts. The light sweep of his lips on her hand before they left the terrace had burned straight through her glove, though she’d tried her best not to react.

  What did Sebastian want from her? Or was his purpose what it had always been—mischief, pure and simple?

  The man who had kissed her with outrageous assurance that afternoon seemed very different from the youth who spent those carefree summers with her at Ware. Of course he’d changed physically; the gangly limbs had gained strength and power, bringing him admirably into proportion. While he had always carried himself well, despite his angular shape, now his grace appeared natural, less self-conscious.

  But the most significant alteration lay in his manner. Once, Sebastian’s enthusiasm for life shone from his eyes, from every impetuous movement. Now he seemed . . . contained. Disengaged. Cynical, even. As if life were one big game and he had no wager on the outcome.

  Gemma chewed her lip. She would be lying if she did not admit this made him dangerously attractive. For a wild, uncertain moment, she’d ached to respond to his kiss, wanted it to go on and on. Her face flamed. She closed her eyes. Even now, she craved more.

  Subduing the mad impulse to tip the basin over her head, she filled her cupped hands with water and held the small pool against her fevered face.

  “So he’s condescended to visit, has he?” The muffled comment came from the depths of the clothes press.

  Gemma gasped, choked, and came up spluttering. She groped for a linen towel to wipe the water from her eyes and answered her maid in what she hoped was a level tone. “Lord Carleton has invited me to Laidley to oversee the arrangements for his sister’s wedding.”

  Dorry drew out Gemma’s favourite sapphire-colored silk evening gown and laid it on the bed. “He’s got a mama, hasn’t he? Why would she hand over the reins to a chit she’s never even met?”

  Gemma paused in the act of picking rose petals out of her hair. It had seemed reasonable when Sebastian explained it to her. “Lady Carleton insists on making the preparations herself, but her health is not equal to the task. Sebastian thinks if the scheme is presented as a fait accompli , she might be persuaded to accept my help.” She hesitated. “It will be difficult to refuse.”

  Dorry shooed Gemma to sit at her dressing table and set to brushing her long, curly tresses. “The master sent for him, did you know that?”

  Gemma’s head whipped around, jerking taut the coil of hair Dorry held. “Ouch!” She rubbed her scalp. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Hold still, Miss Gemma.” The maid clicked her tongue and resumed her brushing. “All I know is, he was sent for, he came, and now you’re to go back to Laidley with him. Doesn’t take much to put two and two together.”

  Gemma raised her brows. “And make thirteen? What on earth can you be thinking of, Dorry?”

  Someone scratched at the door. Gemma pressed a finger to her lips, her gaze
fixing Dorry’s in the looking glass.

  “May I come in?” A long, pinched face with sharp cheekbones and skin like bleached linen peered into the room.

  “Of course, Aunt,” called Gemma. “Have you heard the news? Sebastian is here.”

  “Yes, I have seen him just now.” Matilda hurried forward to plant a tiny kiss on Gemma’s cheek. “Such a fine figure of a man. How he is changed! How truly the gentleman despite all the dreadful things one hears about him.”

  The sapphire silk laid ready on the counterpane distracted her aunt from gossip. “Oh, my dear. Is that what you are wearing?”

  Gemma blinked. “Why, yes. Is something the matter with it?”

  “No, not at all. It is merely . . .”

  Avoiding Dorry’s eye, Gemma prompted, “Yes?”

  “You should wear something more demure for this occasion, Gemma, don’t you think? It never does to give the wrong impression, you know, dearest, and after your wretched mama . . .” Matilda drifted to the clothes press. “Well, let us just say you must be particularly careful. What about this one?” She took out a gown and held it against herself.

  The style was four years out of date, a long-sleeved white muslin gown, made up high at the throat, decorated with knots of ribbon, delicate ruffles at the wrist, and half a dozen frilly flounces. Fresh and virginal as a debutante, the dress looked almost macabre against Matilda’s gaunt, withered body.

  Gemma supposed it would scarcely appear less ghastly on her. Did Matilda really think a few ells of white muslin could conceal Gemma’s background, convince people that her morals were not the same as her mother’s? Years of modest, chaste primness, of never giving any man the slightest encouragement to glance in her direction had not achieved that. She could no more rid herself of the taint of her mother’s past than she could expel Sybil’s blood from her veins.

  Suddenly, Gemma realised how tired she was of trying.