Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  John Talbot thanked her, but paid her little heed. He was single-minded and competitive, and suffered the severe handicap of partnering Matilda, who dithered over her discards and maintained an inane running commentary on the play. Talbot snapped his cards down when she said something particularly foolish, and hissed reproofs at her when she heedlessly threw away trumps or failed to take a trick she should have won. Gemma stole several glances at Sebastian, but his attention was focused on the play.

  If only this night would end! As she bent over her grandfather, Gemma glanced up at Sebastian to see if he shared her boredom. Absently, he held his cards splayed half-open, pressed to his lips. You may kiss me.

  The breath caught in her throat. Heat raced through her body. She straightened, but she could not drag her gaze from his mouth, could not stop herself imagining . . .

  Sebastian leaned forward to trump Talbot’s ace and swept the trick towards him, wholly absorbed in the game.

  Gemma shook herself. He had meant nothing by it, of course.

  The performers reached the end of the recital and their audience broke into applause. Bellamy clasped Sybil’s hand and raised her to make her curtsey, kissing her fingers and then her cheek. Sybil turned to cup his jaw in her palm, holding it as though it were fashioned of something smooth and rare and precious.

  Sickened and wretched, Gemma moved to the window and fought envious tears. She rested her brow against the pane and wished she could turn the clock back to a time when she did not doubt who she was and where her place should be.

  A moment later, a voice spoke behind her. “You look heated, my little fire-eater. Care for a stroll on the terrace?”

  His breath stirred the curls at her nape, sending an anticipatory shiver down her spine. Gemma turned and glanced past Sebastian’s shoulder at her aunt, but Matilda was too focused on the hand being dealt her to notice. Bellamy had taken Sebastian’s place at the card table with Sybil stationed beside him, a neat reversal of their positions at the pianoforte.

  “Yes, please.” Gemma took his arm.

  As they moved towards the French doors that opened onto the terrace, Gemma caught her mother’s sober regard. Gracious! Did Sybil actually disapprove of her going apart with Sebastian? Sybil Maitland preaching propriety. Wonders would never cease.

  Gemma lifted her chin and marched out on Sebastian’s arm into the moonlit night.

  “You are very severe,” he said.

  She released him, folded her arms and quickened her pace, heading towards the stone steps that led to the gardens. She wanted to run.

  “I have reason to be severe!” she said over her shoulder, as he lengthened his stride to keep up. “They all behave as though it were an everyday occurrence for my mother to bring her . . . her cicisbeo to Ware. What is the matter with them? Even my aunt remains in the same room with him, playing whist, of all things! Why on earth . . .” Gemma gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. She halted and faced Sebastian. “Oh, no.”

  He bent to look level into her eyes. “What?”

  “Scovy, she is going to marry him. Charles Bellamy is going to be my father!”

  Sebastian straightened, a smile playing about his lips. “Lord, won’t that set the cat among the pigeons?”

  “Oh, do be serious! He cannot possibly want to tie himself to a woman so many years his senior.” She curled her hand into a fist and struck her palm. “He must be after her money.”

  Sebastian leaned against the balustrade and considered her. “I doubt it. Your mother is a desirable woman and will continue to be one at any age, I suspect.”

  Gemma fell silent and stared out at the glimmering lake. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, she is very beautiful.”

  He pushed away from the balustrade and moved towards her. “Well, there is beauty, and then there is that indefinable something about a woman that will make her desirable regardless of how regular her features are. True, your mother is very lovely, but even when the angles of her face blur and the colour of her hair fades, there will always be something about her that entices men to . . . make fools of themselves over her.”

  He stood very close. There was a shaft of moonlight between them but nothing more and suddenly, she had the oddest feeling he was not really talking about her mother.

  Sebastian’s gaze traced her face, her throat, flickered to her breasts, then returned to fix on her mouth. She rather thought she should feel embarrassed or ashamed, but instead she felt drawn. In the back of her mind, she wondered whether women would still make fools of themselves over Sebastian twenty years from now.

  Probably.

  He bent towards her. She couldn’t breathe. “Don’t you wonder what it would be like?” he whispered, so softly, in her ear.

  “It?” She hardly dared imagine what he might mean.

  He drew back and smiled, that old, sweet smile. “If I kissed you, would you punch me on the nose?”

  “Gracious,” she breathed, alarmed, elated, mildly triumphant. Her nerves jangled and clamoured, threatening to jump out of her skin. “No. No, I don’t think I would.”

  “Well, then.”

  His bent head blocked the moon, then his mouth drifted over hers, gossamer-light. Gently, he tugged her bottom lip, and she exhaled a shivery breath. She hesitated, unsure of what to do, her pleasure in his touch tempered by anxiety. Then his lips settled to a tantalising rhythm, and apprehension drowned in a flood of pure delight. She kissed him back, and he angled his mouth over hers, not touching her at all except with those warm, skillful lips.

  Her hands lifted of their own accord, but when he still made no move to put his arms around her, she let them fall by her side, anxious to follow his lead, desperate not to give herself away.

  Her body ached to sway to his, her fingers trembled with the effort of keeping from his thick, wavy hair; from trailing over his shoulders; from cupping the back of his head; pressing his mouth harder against hers.

  All of these things she concealed from him, while she melted and thrilled and quivered inside. Just from a kiss.

  Vaguely, she recalled she had told Sebastian she was accustomed to kisses. Was this why he had been so bold? Or had he perceived that tonight she needed this, even if she had barely known it herself?

  It hardly mattered. Perhaps when he stopped, it would, but at the moment, it didn’t, and she was glad.

  His hands touched her then, bracketed her face, threaded fingers lightly through her hair. Her entire body shuddered at that simple caress. The urge to abandon herself to him was so strong, it frightened her.

  She placed her palm against his chest, uncertain whether she meant to push him away or feel the hammer of his heart. On a groan, Sebastian deepened the kiss and the sudden hardening of the mouth devouring hers made the ground swing beneath her feet. She swayed and his strong arms closed around her. She opened her mouth to him and his tongue swept past her lips to touch hers.

  She gasped and jerked back at the flagrant intimacy. He raised his head and released her, his breathing fast, a little harsh. “Come to Laidley with me.”

  She blinked, trying to clear the fog.

  “Why?” A disingenuous question, she supposed, but she wanted to know if this time, the invitation was connected to this kiss in his mind as it was in hers. And whether there would be more where that one came from.

  He reached out and grazed the line of her jaw with his knuckles. She shivered, though the night was warm. He did not answer her, and in the half-darkness she could not make out the subtleties of his expression, but the gentle sweep of his fingers told her what she needed to know.

  He wanted her. How and why he wanted her, she knew not. But it was so very long since she had felt wanted.

  Everything had changed at Ware. Hugo loved her in his own way, but he believed he did not need her to run the estate. He was wrong, of course, she knew that. But the way he had publicly demonstrated his views by employing an agent to take over her duties had hurt her heart and her pride, as well.


  Add to that her mother’s obvious devotion to Bellamy, a devotion Gemma had craved from Sybil all her life, and suddenly, her existence at Ware had become almost too painful to bear. If she stayed, she would be obliged to bear it, goodness knew for how long. Perhaps until the next London Season drew Sybil back to town.

  Yet, here was Sebastian, making her feel desirable, necessary, alive as she had never felt before. Tantalising her with kisses. Asking her to come away, to leave the pain of Ware behind.

  She stared up at him, so tall and darkly handsome in the moonlight, and an unfamiliar yearning tinged with excitement rose within her. She wanted to go with him, she realised. Just for a handful of short weeks to prolong this wonderful feeling. Was that so wrong of her?

  As she stood there, wavering, Sebastian dropped his hand to the small of her back and pulled her closer. The warmth of his breath fluttered over her cheek.

  “Say yes.” He turned his head and swiftly recaptured her mouth.

  The kiss ended almost as soon as it began. But in that brief contact, his lips scalded hers, and the heat swelled and crashed through her body, firing her yearning to a desperate need, incinerating her doubts.

  Before she could change her mind, she answered.

  “Yes.”

  Gemma sensed, rather than saw his satisfaction. It was a fleeting impression, but it bothered her. She jerked her head away and stepped back.

  Fighting to regain her balance, she cleared her throat. “Well, now that’s settled, shall we go back inside? There is much I must attend to before I leave. Shall we say, the day after tomorrow?”

  She was breathy and babbling like some silly innocent. Sebastian’s teeth gleamed in a smug smile that made her want to hit him.

  “But of course.” He bowed and followed her close until they slipped back inside.

  Sybil gave them a sharp glance when they returned. Gemma could barely meet her mother’s eye. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment and that made her scowl. Why should she hang her head at her mother’s disapproval? Sybil had done far worse, and at a younger age.

  Gemma glanced around to see whether anyone else had noted their absence, but the turn of the cards held the others in thrall, just as Sebastian had held her on the terrace, in the moonlight.

  She sighed. True romance had not come her way very often. She had not attended public assemblies since her teens, and the great houses neighbouring Ware proliferated with married men and spotty youths down from Eton or Harrow. Some of the latter had been disposed to admire her, but it was calf-love, and Gemma knew how to turn that potentially dangerous emotion into friendship. She liked men, and if their wives did not guard them so jealously she might have enjoyed more of their company.

  She had not understood why the local matrons were so vigilant against her, until she received a grossly improper offer from one woman’s husband. Though the shock of it had left her sick and mortified, she had handled the situation as best she could. But she learned a valuable lesson. The men in the district considered Sybil Maitland’s daughter fair game.

  And that was why it seemed like the outside of enough for Sybil to preach propriety to her now. She had no precise knowledge of her mother’s misdemeanours, but she had suffered for them all her adult life. More, perhaps, than Sybil herself, and certainly with less justification. Now, Sybil stood at Bellamy’s side watching the cards, one delicate hand resting on his shoulder. She appeared serene and happy, without a care in the world.

  As the evening progressed, and Sybil’s affection for Bellamy grew ever more marked, Gemma thanked the stars she had agreed to go to Laidley. Though Sybil had spoken of taking up residence in Kensington, the house would not be habitable for another month or two. The interior was at present receiving a complete refurbishment. Sybil would not set foot inside until all was finished, the smell of new paint gone, and a full staff complete with majordomo and French cook installed awaiting her pleasure.

  “I have quite a menagerie, too,” she added with a bland smile. “The Duchess of York sent me a pair of sloths to breed from, only fancy! What I shall do with a litter of the creatures, I have no idea. They just seem to hang about doing nothing all day. Not the sort of life I should choose. . . .” A fluttering hand alighted on Gemma’s knee. “But you must come and visit me when you are in town, my dear. I should like it above all things!”

  Not if he is going to be there. “I should be charmed, Mama, but I do not expect to visit London in the near future.”

  Sybil glanced at Sebastian. “Oh? Well, one never knows what the future may bring.”

  Gemma shook her head. “My future is here.”

  “SO now you may tell me what you are up to, if you please.” Sybil’s polished fingernails drummed the balustrade. She did not glance at him as she spoke.

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. Once Talbot had left and everyone else retired to bed, he had drifted out to the terrace. He told himself it was to think, but really it had been to relive that amazing kiss.

  “Up to?”

  She turned and looked him in the eye. “What do you want with my daughter?”

  Here was plain speaking. Well, two could play that game. Sebastian shrugged. “What do you want with yon sprig Bellamy?”

  She laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. “You have no business asking me that. I am Gemma’s mother. I have a right to know what you mean by her.”

  He regarded her for a moment. “But I am her friend, ma’am,” he said softly. “And it seems to me you forfeited that right many years ago. Furthermore, I would not see her hurt, nor drawn into the company you keep. You should not have brought Bellamy here.”

  Sybil’s eyes darted fire.

  Strangely, this woman was magnificent, patently beddable. But she did not come close to touching his emotions. Not like her daughter did.

  Sybil’s eyes narrowed to slits and her lips thinned. Her teeth flashed in the dark. “You know nothing, nothing of me!”

  Her voice was a low whisper, but the vehemence in her tone intrigued him. He would never have guessed such strength lay beneath that fragile shell of femininity.

  “I may not always have been here, but I know my daughter, my lord.” She pointed a slender finger in his face. “And if you hurt her, Sebastian Laidley, so help me I will kill you.”

  Seven

  GEMMA spent the day before they left Ware preparing for her absence. She banished all thought of Sebastian’s kiss.

  But the memory returned from exile at the most inconvenient moments—while discussing a new roof for the piggery at the home farm or approving an order of coal for the coming winter. Even the difficult question of evicting a drunken lout of a tenant whose rent was shamefully in arrears could not entirely absorb her. Her grandfather’s agent must have coughed himself hoarse, he cleared his throat so often to recapture her wandering attention.

  Despite her fractured concentration, when Mr. Porter left her, Gemma felt as confident as she could that all was in hand. The harvest was well under way and the men knew what followed better than she did. She chewed her lip and stared out the window at the fields. This would be the first harvest feast she had missed since she was thirteen.

  After anxious consideration, she decided to entrust the household accounts to Mrs. Jenkins. The housekeeper surprised her by saying Reeves had taught her how to figure, and together they would muddle along somehow in the months their mistress was away.

  All at once, Gemma felt superfluous, but the afternoon brought with it a number of difficulties and disputes to resolve in the village and that made her worried about the effects of her absence all over again. She spent the remaining hours torn between the fear they would never cope without her and the greater fear that they would.

  With these matters arranged to the best of her ability, Gemma paid her final call on the Lanes. Satisfied that old Mrs. Lane seemed improved, though still pitiably weak, she accepted the Lanes’ good wishes for a safe journey and left the cottage.

  As she closed the gate
behind her and set off for Mainwaring Hall, Gemma saw John Talbot standing by an elegant phaeton a little farther up the road. She did not need to see their faces to realise the occupants of the phaeton were Sarah Briggs and Jenny Whitton. They had turned their backs on her so many times before.

  When she reached the group, she greeted the three of them with a determined, friendly smile. “I was just saying my last farewells. I leave for Lord Carleton’s estate in the morning, you know.”

  The two ladies raised their brows and exchanged knowing glances, but made no comment.

  Talbot cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I did know.” His gaze darted away from her as he spoke and his shoulders tensed. He looked poised for escape.

  She tilted her head to study him, trying to discover the source of his discomfiture. “Is everything all right, John? Are you well?”

  Pink flooded his face, making his shifting eyes seem a brighter blue. Fidgeting with his watch chain, he stared at a point behind her left ear, as if she did not exist. “Perfectly, thank you. Good day to you, Miss Maitland. Ladies.” He tipped his hat, spun on his heel, and strode away.

  Gemma stared after him, at a loss. Had she offended him? He had seemed his usual self the previous evening. Now, he did not seem to want to acknowledge her acquaintance. What had happened in the meantime?

  “Your aunt is before you with the news, Miss Maitland,” cooed a voice from above her. Gemma looked up, to see a smirk on Jenny Whitton’s china-doll face.

  “So your infamous mama has arrived at Ware to stay.” Jenny slid a sly, sideways glance at her friend. “And brought a handsome young . . . ah . . . friend with her, too.”

  Sarah Briggs inclined her head, her thin lips quivering. “How fortunate you are in your connections, Miss Maitland. So colourful.” The two ladies tittered as they drove away, allowing Gemma no opportunity to answer. Which was probably fortunate, because the many retorts that sprang to mind were grossly impolite.

  With a last, murderous look after the retreating phaeton, Gemma turned and walked briskly in the other direction. She should have guessed how it would be. Having panted after her like an eager puppy for months, John had all but cut her acquaintance. One whiff of her mother’s past, thoughtfully embellished by the bonneted dragons, and the coward took to his heels.