Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  “Well . . .” The faint echo of an alarm sounded in Gemma’s head. Something about the tension in Fanny’s slender frame sent a warning. “If your mama approves of you breaking the engagement and you have written to Lord Romney, I do not quite see why you need my support.”

  Fanny’s eyes blazed, grew almost wild. She pressed Gemma’s hands between her palms. “Do not fail me! I cannot tell you all, but you must help me.”

  Gemma blinked. “Oh, well then. Ahem. Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

  “THE wedding is off?” Sebastian thrust away his list of eligible bachelors and rounded the big oak desk. “Gemma, did you have something to do with this?”

  Her mouth fell slightly ajar. “Of course not. How could I? I’ve only just arrived.”

  Recognising the illogic of his accusation, he raked a hand through his hair. This was all he needed on top of his mother’s problems, to have his sister embroiled in a scandal. Then he paused. Perhaps the prospective groom had something to answer for.

  He sighed. “What has Romney done this time? Please tell me I don’t need to call him out.”

  She folded her arms. “Fanny has disliked the match from the start. I would have thought her reasons for breaking the engagement obvious. Even I have heard of Lord Romney’s reputation. Opera dancers and such.”

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes. She stood there with her straight little nose in the air, the prim expression of moral outrage sitting oddly with all that lush, ripe beauty. His temper commenced a slow burn. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Romney is a capital fellow, well suited to my sister.”

  “Your sister does not wish to be tied to a rake.”

  He remained impassive, though for some reason her words stabbed his chest. Silkily, he replied, “Is that so? In my experience, it’s the rakes women find attractive.”

  She sucked a breath between her teeth, but then her mouth twitched into a smile, as though she were faintly amused. She shrugged. “Rakes are well enough for dalliance, I daresay. Not as a life sentence.”

  Fury ripped through him, an emotion that had little to do with his sister’s predicament and everything to do with Gemma’s implied dismissal of the whole race of rakes, more specifically of him, Sebastian Laidley, society’s rake extraordinaire. Was that how she viewed their moonlit kiss? Mere dalliance? A pleasant way to pass an evening?

  He did not understand her.

  He had grown up with certain assumptions about what ladies did and didn’t do, and how they were to be treated. If one toyed with a virtuous female of one’s own class, one paid the penalty by marrying her. Ladies did not give their kisses lightly and gentlemen did not take them without serious intent.

  But Gemma represented a strange force of nature that confused his gentlemanly instincts and blurred the line between untouchable lady and available woman. Though a lady by birth and upbringing, she possessed a vital, fresh sensuality that was all the more alluring for being unconscious. And her easy attitude to kisses did not tally with what he knew of ladies.

  For the first time, Sebastian faced facts. Had Gemma attached any significance to their encounter on the terrace at Ware, they would be betrothed now. In all honour, he should have asked her to marry him that night. When he hadn’t, she should have demanded his ring on her finger. So why hadn’t she?

  He gripped her wrist, feeling nineteen again, hurt, angry, ready to lash out. “And you are quite the expert on dalliance, aren’t you, Miss Maitland?” He stared at her mouth, at that plump lower lip with its tiny, ridged crescent of a scar, and wished she were any woman but a gently bred lady, a guest in his house.

  Any woman but Gemma.

  Her breath came fast, a little harder. “Let go of me. I am not one of your opera dancers.”

  He dropped her wrist. “I thought we were talking about Romney.”

  If only she were some nameless fille de joie, he could work off this ridiculous obsession. He could take her right now on the desk and . . .

  His voice rasped. “I think you should go now.”

  She frowned. “But what about Fanny?”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, fighting for control. “That is hardly your concern.”

  Chagrin, disappointment, and something else he could not identify clouded her face for an instant, then disappeared.

  Slowly, she nodded. “No, I suppose it isn’t. In fact, none of it is my concern. This house, your mama, your sister . . . You, Scovy, are not my concern.”

  She spun on her heel and stalked towards the door.

  “And where do you think you’re going?”

  She turned back. “My coachman is staying overnight before he leaves for Ware tomorrow. I must tell him he will have two passengers for the return. After all,” she said, staring him straight between the eyes, “according to Fanny, there will be no wedding. My services are not needed here.”

  Gemma saw Sebastian pale and tried to ignore the twinge of conscience that whispered he needed her, even if he didn’t know it. Even if he insulted her, he needed her to stay.

  She wanted to help Fanny, too, but she could not do it if she made good her threat and left. Loath to back down, she waited.

  “On the contrary,” drawled Sebastian. She’d no idea he could sound so arrogant. “The wedding will proceed as planned. I wish you to undertake the more onerous duties of hostess, as you promised.” He arched his brows in high-bred insolence. “I trust you are not about to renege on our agreement.”

  His voice was light and calm but she read strain in the clench of his fist, in the tense set of his shoulders. One hand dived into his coat pocket and unearthed his snuffbox.

  In that instant, Gemma decided to stay. But she did not intend to make her capitulation explicit.

  “Do you ever take that?” She moved to peer at the contents of the box.

  “Snuff?” Sebastian’s eyes searched her face, then his features eased. “Very seldom.” He held it out to her. “Care to try some?”

  “Ugh! No, thank you.”

  He watched her for a moment. Then a slow smile spread. “Chicken.”

  Gemma grimaced. She was not about to fall for that old chestnut. Reluctant, but willing to play along for the sake of peace between them, she plunged finger and thumb into the powder.

  “No, stop!” Laughing, Sebastian dealt her knuckles a light slap so she released the powder back into the box. “Inhale that much and you will sneeze from here to Scotland. The merest fraction will do. Look.” He laid the snuffbox on the desk. Taking a tiny pinch, he deposited it on the inside of his wrist below his shirt cuff. “Try that.”

  Suspicious of his dancing dark eyes, Gemma regarded him for a moment, then lowered her gaze to his upturned hand. Why had she never noticed how strong and fine his hands were? Suddenly, inhaling those few tiny grains from his wrist seemed unbearably intimate and daring.

  Before her bravado ran out, she gripped his hand, dipped her head, and sniffed. She heard his breathing hitch. Quickly, she straightened and wrinkled her tingling nose.

  “How do you like it?” Sebastian watched her intently.

  “Not much.” She fought a sneeze and her eyes watered with the effort. “But thank you for the experiment.”

  Sebastian’s dark gaze held hers as he took another pinch from the snuffbox. “May I?” Swiftly, he caught her hand, dropped the snuff on her wrist, bent, and sniffed.

  The faint rush of air sent whispers of sensation up her arm. His lips brushed the delicate inside of her wrist, and the blood sparkled and fizzed like champagne beneath her skin. She gasped and closed her eyes, scarcely able to believe the effect of this simple touch.

  Lord, she was weak! Completely at his mercy, any time he chose to exert this strange power he held over her. If she did not stop this, soon she would not know herself, or have any will left to resist.

  She curled her fingers around his jaw, and felt the beginnings of stubble rasp against her fingertips as she raised his face to her level. His eyelids drifted shut a
nd he angled his head slightly, as if to accept a kiss, black lashes lying short and thick against the hard plane of his cheek. The masculine scent of leather and sandalwood surrounded her as his mouth drifted towards hers.

  “Sebastian?” Gemma murmured, trying not to inhale him.

  “Mm?” His brow creased slightly when she continued to hold him off with the gentle press of her fingers. Slowly, his eyes opened, their dilated pupils shrinking in the light.

  “Scovy, if I am to stay here, I shall want carte blanche.”

  He jerked back. “What?”

  Heat swarmed to her cheeks when she recognised the double entendre. “No, not that kind of carte blanche, you stupid man! I mean I want free rein with the household. You must allow me to make whatever changes I see fit to prepare for the house party. I suppose that will proceed, at least.”

  He stared at her a moment, then sighed and turned away to gather papers from his desk. “Whatever you wish, my dear. Just rack everything up to me.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. You may be sure I shall not outrun the carpenter, but there is much that needs doing. Have you decided on the guest list? Do you wish me to send invitations?”

  Sebastian leafed through his papers. He drew out one sheet and frowned over it. “No, I have not yet decided. I will give you the list tomorrow morning.”

  He looked up. “Would you be so good as to tell Fanny I wish to speak with her?”

  Gemma stood her ground. “And the wedding?”

  He waved the paper impatiently. “You don’t understand how it is with my sister and Romney. They have these ridiculous spats at least once a month. It never comes to anything.”

  “Once a—” Gemma gasped. “But Fanny has written to terminate the engagement. She told me your mama lends her full support. I don’t believe any lady would do such a thing lightly. You must be mistaken.”

  His mouth twisted at her confusion. She was innocent in so many ways. “You don’t know much about passion, do you, Gemma? People affected by powerful emotion don’t always behave rationally, you know.”

  Just look at me, he thought. I should avoid you like some virulent, deadly disease, yet I can’t keep my hands off you for five minutes. “I don’t care what Fanny told you. That pair will marry in the village church in two months’ time with all the pomp and ceremony we can muster.”

  He smiled. “Unless they kill each other first.”

  THE next morning, Gemma started awake, felt hands squeeze her shoulder and shake it. She sat up, peering through sleep and surrounding gloom at Fanny’s face.

  “Gemma, please get up! Quickly, you must dress.”

  “Wha—?” Brushing her hair away from her face, Gemma rubbed her eye with one knuckle and tried to haul her dream-fogged mind into the present. “Whatever is the matter, Fanny? Are you ill?”

  Fanny waved a hand impatiently, sending lavender wafting through the air. “Get dressed,” she hissed. “Please, you must help me. He is here.”

  “Who? Romney?”

  Fanny nodded. She left the bed and flung open the curtains. A wad of fabric came away in her hand.

  She stared at it, then tossed it on the dresser and began rummaging through drawers to find Gemma’s undergarments.

  “Now just a minute!” Gemma scrambled out of bed and plucked her shift and stockings from Fanny’s fingers. “You must calm down, Fanny. Have someone send my maid to me and I’ll—”

  Shaking her head, Fanny said, “No, there’s not time! He is here, I tell you. He is here!”

  “Well he’ll just have to kick his heels and wait until we are ready to receive him, won’t he?” Exasperated, Gemma folded her arms and glanced at the mantel clock. “It is seven o’clock. What sort of time is this to pay a call, anyway? I cannot believe the fuss you are making over it.”

  Fanny threw open the clothes press, dragged out a sprigged muslin gown, and tossed it at her. “Quick, there’s no time. Oh, do hurry along, or Lord knows what might happen.”

  Suddenly, Gemma saw that Fanny’s gown was fastened all wrong, she wasn’t wearing a corset and her lustrous dark hair was piled on her head in strange loops and falling down around her ears. She wore slippers but no stockings.

  “Fanny?” A deep voice rolled down the corridor towards them. A door creaked open, slammed. Then another, and another.

  Gemma’s horrified gaze met Fanny’s. “When you said he was here, I thought you meant—”

  “Fa-anny!”

  Gemma dived for the silk wrapper that hung over a chair, dragged it on and fumbled at the tie. “Is he mad? How did he get past the servants?”

  Fanny listened at the door and whispered, “I don’t know. I think he knocked at least one of them down. He came to my bedchamber, but there is a secret way, a servants’ corridor. I escaped, so now he is ransacking the house to find me.” She eased the key around until the lock clicked, drew it out, and set her eye to the keyhole.

  Gemma snatched up a fire iron from the hearth, ready to do battle. “What will he do when he finds you? Is he violent?” How could Sebastian force Fanny to marry this brute? She would have a few choice words to say to him if she made it out of there alive.

  Still crouching at the door, Fanny sent her an impatient glance. “Don’t be ridiculous! Romney would never offer physical violence to a female.” As the heavy footsteps drew nearer, she stood and backed away.

  The footsteps stopped. The doorknob turned. The door did not open. Muttered curses ripened the air outside. “Fanny, I have ridden a long way. Open. The door.”

  Fanny shot Gemma a glance and put her finger to her lips.

  “My lady,” said a soft, dangerous voice. “If you do not open this door, I shall kick it down. So you might wish to stand clear.”

  “Now that is the outside of enough.” Gemma shoved the fire iron back in its stand. She wrested the key from Fanny, unlocked the door, and flung it open. Six foot two of tawny-haired, fuming male stood before her. She fumed right back at him.

  “You, sir!” She poked his hard chest with her finger. “What do you mean by coming here, pounding on my door—and at this hour? Shame on you, rousing respectable people from their beds!”

  Romney blinked. The high colour drained from his face. Gemma almost laughed at the ludicrous transformation from leonine ferocity to sheepishness.

  She bit her lip, but kept her voice stern. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”

  “Yes, I should like to know the answer to that question.” Sebastian’s voice sounded behind Romney, cold steel in his tone.

  Romney raised his gaze to the ceiling, closed his eyes, and breathed hard through his nose. He did not turn around. “Fanny. I thought she was here.”

  Sebastian spoke close to his friend’s ear. “I don’t care if you thought the Queen of Sheba was in that room. You do not come into my house, terrorise my servants—whose wits are addled at the best of times—and tear the place apart looking for my sister. Do I make myself clear?”

  He glanced at Gemma, and his mouth tightened. “Go and cover yourself, Gemma, for the Lord’s sake. You—” he collared Romney and propelled him down the corridor. “—Go down to the breakfast room and wait for me. By the time I join you, I might have reconsidered the urge to beat you to a pulp.”

  Romney shrugged from his hold, sent him a glare over his shoulder, and stormed off.

  Sebastian turned back to Gemma, who seemed in danger of succumbing to a fit of giggles. Relieved, he reached out and flicked her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  She grinned. “Oh, perfectly, thank you. I was sending him to the right-about when you arrived. What a—what an impetuous man your friend is.”

  “Yes, that’s one word for it.” He looked past her, expecting to see Fanny, but the room was empty. “You should not have opened your door to him. An incident like this could destroy your reputation if anyone heard of it.”

  “Well, I did not have much choice, since he threatened to break it down if I did not. But pray do not make it a
matter for fisticuffs, Scovy. I am persuaded he has learned his lesson.” Her eyes twinkled. “If only you had seen his face when I opened the door!”

  Sebastian managed a strained smile. Only a shock such as Romney had suffered could make a red-blooded man think of anything but bundling all that rumpled femininity straight back to her bed and making love to her for the rest of the day.

  Her glorious golden hair curled and waved around her face, tumbling down to caress her breasts. Without the constraint of a corset, those breasts seemed even fuller than he’d imagined. The peach silk wrapper was a frivolous contrast to the plain, sober garments she usually wore. She looked rosy-cheeked and soft-lipped and utterly delicious.

  He cleared his throat and shifted his stance. “If you’re quite sure—”

  “Oh, yes.” She waved a hand, making parts of her move in the most distracting way. “Do go down and see if you cannot drum reason into the poor man. Is he a little touched in the upper works, do you think? Perhaps he suffers from some affliction of the nerves?”

  No, just thwarted desire, thought Sebastian. And I know exactly how the poor sod feels. He sighed. “I’ll do what I can. But don’t you go working Fanny up any more than she is already. She’s playing with fire as it is.”

  “Fanny wasn’t the one creating a ruckus up and down your corridors, if you recall,” retorted Gemma. “I suggest you tell your fiery friend to go and throw a bucket of water over his head before someone else does it for him.”

  She pulled her wrapper tighter around her and shut the door in his face.

  “WOMEN!” uttered Romney in a voice of loathing as he loaded eggs onto his toast. “No, scratch that, make that ladies. Women, I understand. Love women. Ladies, on the other hand, are a plague and a pestilence, a cruel joke on mankind.”

  Sebastian was inclined to agree, but he clapped his friend on the shoulder as he crossed to the sideboard. “Well, stop dancing to Fanny’s tune. You know she only sent you that note to bring you running. And here you are, roaring around my house like a lion with a prickle in its foot. Get a hold of yourself, man.”