Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  Fanny came in and stopped short on the threshold. “Ravishing! Did I not tell you?” She eyed Gemma speculatively. “I wonder why you decided to wear that gown tonight?”

  Gemma frowned at her and pointedly thanked Charters for her services.

  Fanny, who treated servants like furniture, glanced around. “Yes, Charters, you may go.” She dismissed her maid with a flutter of her hand and turned back to Gemma, her expression eager. “Now, tell me. Whom do you have in your sights tonight?”

  Gemma surrendered to the inevitable. “Sebastian. Who else?” She traced the low neckline of her gown with her fingertip and smiled.

  Fanny clapped her hands. “Aha! I guessed as much, but I did not think you would tell me. Well, Gemma, only smile like that and you will have all the gentlemen at the ball at your feet.”

  A knock sounded on the door and Gemma bade the visitor enter. Sybil stood on the threshold, projecting restrained beauty in emerald satin. Behind her hovered Aunt Matilda.

  Sybil caught Gemma’s eye and shrugged. “She would come with me, my dear. Ah! And you must be Fanny.” She moved to embrace the girl. “So like your mama at that age,” she murmured.

  Fanny gazed, wide-eyed, from Sybil to Gemma.

  Gemma grinned. “Lady Fanny, my mother, Mrs. Maitland.”

  “Oh, call me Sybil, everyone does.”

  “Gemma!” While these civilities were exchanged, Matilda had been standing, frozen, at the bedchamber door. Now, she marched forward and twitched the skirts of Gemma’s gown. “Gemma! What on earth are you wearing?”

  “Doesn’t she look delicious? Quite simply edible.” Sybil smiled beatifically. “Never say Dorry is responsible for that creation, darling. Who dressed your hair?”

  “Fanny lent me her maid,” said Gemma. She straightened and held herself proudly under Matilda’s horrified gaze.

  Matilda’s mouth worked into a prune of silent outrage. Then, she erupted into speech. “You cannot wear that abomination! People will say you are no better than—”

  “Oh, do but look at the time!” interrupted Fanny, no doubt sensing imminent danger. “I, er, I must go and see if anything needs to be done downstairs. Pray, excuse me.” Fanny scurried from the room.

  Sybil’s eyes sparked, but Gemma stepped between the two women. This time, she would fight her own battle.

  She tried to steady her voice. “Aunt Matilda, for more years than I care to remember you have slandered my mother and warned me against becoming like her. Well, I made a discovery today, though I have known it in my heart all along. My mother is a loyal and loving creature. I should be honoured to be likened to her.”

  Matilda and Sybil gasped as one, but Gemma was in the grip of something hot and consuming, something very much like rage. It came to her in a flash, as if her burning anger had seared away blinkers she had worn for too long—the reason no one at Laidley had treated her like a pariah, though Matilda had assured her she would be an outcast; the source and fuel of rumours about her and her mother at Ware. What had Jenny Whitton said that day in the village? That her aunt had been before her with the news of Sybil and Bellamy’s arrival. It all made horrible, sickening sense.

  She advanced on her aunt. “It’s been you all along, hasn’t it? Your gossiping, meddlesome tongue! You have been responsible for keeping an old scandal alive in the minds of our neighbours. You have caused them to shun me, not Mama.”

  Matilda opened her mouth to speak, but Gemma silenced her with a glare. “I think you know what I am talking about. Your predilection for scandal-broth is renowned, but not much of note happens in our little corner of the world, does it? You have used my mother and me to provide cheap entertainment for our neighbours for years. Lord, what a fool I have been! It’s taken me this long to discover what was behind it all.”

  Matilda began to gasp for air. Uttering a wordless cry, she stumbled backwards and clutched her chest.

  “And don’t try any of your hysterical fits on me, ma’am,” said Gemma. “Recollect, if you succumb now, you will miss the greatest opportunity for scandal-mongering that has come your way. You will miss the Laidley ball.”

  Suddenly, she felt deflated, as if that speech had taken all her energy. She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, a warm, strengthening touch.

  “Bravo, my dear,” murmured Sybil. To Matilda, she said, “I think I may safely speak for Hugo in this. You will not return to Ware. Ever. You will leave here tomorrow in Hugo’s carriage and you will go to Aunt Gertrude in Bath. No doubt Hugo will be generous enough to make you a comfortable allowance, but after this night, Matilda, all correspondence between you and my family will cease. And if you do not want me to hunt you down and make you sorry, you will keep your busy mouth shut about me, and most especially about Gemma. Do I make myself clear?”

  White-lipped and stiff with outrage, Matilda stared at them, open-mouthed. She made a furious, strangled sound and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Triumph and pride surged through Gemma, and a huge lump formed in her throat. That her mother would come to her defence so swiftly, so decisively, was more than she could have wished for. She had been prepared to fight this battle alone, as she had fought so many others. But her mother had been there, standing by her when she needed her the most.

  Sybil gazed after Matilda and shook her head. “What a foolish, destructive woman.” She turned to Gemma. “Darling, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “I can scarcely believe it myself. But it all fits.” Gemma paced the room, her hands twisting. “It’s the hypocrisy of it that makes me so furious. She was forever warning and lecturing and condemning my free manners. And all the while, she secretly fuelled the whispers behind my back.”

  Gemma wrapped her arms around herself against a sudden chill. “I did so want tonight to be special, Mama. I am afraid she will spoil it, the same way she has spoiled everything else.”

  Sybil was silent for a moment. “I suppose I can guess what you are about. I understand Sebastian bought gowns for you in London. That was not well done of him.” She hesitated. “Are you certain you know what you are doing, darling? I don’t want to pry, and God forbid I should preach, but is this what you really want?”

  Gemma took a deep breath. “I don’t know what I want to come out of all this, but I do know that I have to do it. I have hidden away for so long, Mama, and it was all for nothing. Don’t you see? I just want to be free.”

  Sybil searched her face, then nodded slowly, as if she understood. She rose and moved to the door. “In that case, I have something for you. Wait here while I get it.”

  Staring after Sybil’s retreating form, Gemma wondered what her mother might have to give her. Some new piece of jewellery perhaps? Or a silk shawl to complement her gown?

  But when Sybil returned and shut the door behind her, she held a small, misshapen parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  Perplexed, Gemma received the parcel and turned it over to slide off the string.

  Sybil reached out and put her hand over Gemma’s. “You need not open it now, but I want you to promise me you will use this if the occasion arises. There is a pamphlet inside to show you how.” She paused. “It is to prevent pregnancy.”

  Gemma flushed with embarrassment more acute than any she had known. “Mama, I really don’t think—”

  With a light touch of her forefinger to Gemma’s lips, her mother silenced her. “Whether or not it comes to that will be your decision, darling. But it is always wise to be prepared.”

  Staggered that her mother could place such confidence in her judgment, Gemma stammered, “But . . . then you approve?”

  Sybil snorted. “Are you mad? You are my daughter. I love you. Of course I don’t approve. I would have you wait for your marriage bed, as any mother would.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  Sybil regarded her with an expression both shrewd and kind in her remarkable eyes. “Do you want me to forbid you, Gemma? Someone told me
I had forfeited that right long ago.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps he was right. In any case, you will go your own way, my dear, but I don’t want you to tread blindly. There is far too much at stake.”

  Suddenly, Gemma realised another truth, something she had doubted until this moment: Her mother loved her. Perhaps Sybil had not been there to share everyday trials and mundane joys, but she cared deeply for her daughter in her own, unique fashion. Gemma looked down at the package in her hand, not knowing what to say.

  She raised her eyes to Sybil’s. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Smiling, Sybil traced Gemma’s cheek with her fingertips. “The best way to attract a man, the right man, is always to be yourself, Gemma. Listen to your body. Listen to your heart, and you will know what to do.”

  SEBASTIAN lurked in the great hall, unsure what he was waiting for. He should be in the drawing room greeting his guests, yet the need to see Gemma first kept him loitering there, hoping to catch her before the crowd swallowed her.

  He had taken out his quizzing glass to inspect the maker’s mark on the base of a small, Chinese vase, when he heard a step above him. He looked up, to see a vision that stole his breath.

  The quizzing glass dropped from his hand. After a moment, he realised his mouth hung open and he shut it. Gemma stood there like some goddess—Venus, perhaps— or a water sprite, her figure tantalisingly revealed by the fine, clinging fabric of her sea-green gown.

  One of the gowns he had bought.

  Too stunned to contemplate the implications of her choice, he drank his fill of the creamy expanse of her bosom, two delicious mounds framed by frothing green, like a pristine beach caressed by waves. His mouth was so dry, he could not speak. He simply stared.

  With a slow, feline smile that shot the blood to his loins, she descended the stairs. Her cheeks flushed pink, but that was the only sign that she might not be entirely comfortable in this new guise.

  Before she even reached the foot of the stairs, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Gemma, you look . . .” He couldn’t find an adequate word to describe the mixture of knock-out beauty and sensual appeal. He settled for, “. . . breathtaking.”

  “Thank you.” Her gaze travelled over him, and her eyes sparkled with approval. She put her hand on his arm. “Shall we?”

  For an instant, Sebastian considered sweeping her back upstairs to his bedchamber and forgetting the ball entirely, but of course he couldn’t do it. He all but groaned as he led her towards the state apartments.

  Why had she dressed this way, tonight of all nights, when he had resolved to woo her gently, as Brooke had reminded him a lady of quality ought to be wooed? He did not know how he would restrain himself over dinner, let alone all night.

  As they moved, he caught her scent. Something floral, but elusive, heady, intoxicating. He breathed her in, and wished with all his soul they did not have company tonight.

  When they reached the drawing room, Sebastian was surprised to see his mother there, in close conversation with Sybil Maitland. Another surprise. He did not recall seeing Gemma’s mama on the list of guests for this ball.

  Shrugging, he greeted Sybil and resigned himself to impatience until he could see Gemma alone.

  BY a pure stroke of genius, Romney had decided to rearrange the place cards so that he sat next to Fanny at the vast dining table.

  If anyone noticed they had not been seated strictly in order of precedence, they gave no sign. Conversation buzzed. The guests seemed delighted at the chance to enter Carleton’s illustrious abode. It had been many years since they had attended a ball at Laidley.

  Romney slid a glance at Fanny, who chattered to her neighbour with the appearance of enjoyment. A pretence he knew was false, because he had taken care to put that prosy bore, Gervase Stone, on her other side.

  When Stone turned in response to a remark from the lady on his left, Romney moved in.

  “Fanny, why, exactly, is this ball going ahead? We are not betrothed anymore.”

  Fanny did not look at him, but she jerked a thin shoulder in a shrug. “How should I know? Ask Sebastian. He seems to have a most touching faith in the match.” She stabbed a piece of chicken fricassee with her fork. “Does not Gemma look well tonight?”

  “Hmm?” Romney cast a cursory glance in Gemma’s direction. “Oh, yes.”

  “You are not bowled over by her beauty, then?”

  “I prefer brunettes.” He leaned to whisper in her ear. “One brunette in particular.”

  And at the gleam in her eyes, the happy blush that rose to her cheeks, he knew then what he should have known all along.

  Surreptitiously, he slid his hand beneath the damask tablecloth and rested it lightly on her knee. She gasped and choked on a morsel of chicken. He smiled, raising his wine glass to his lips.

  “My lord!”

  “My lady?”

  “Please remove your hand.”

  “I can’t. Regrettably, it is attached to my body.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I mean remove your hand from my knee.”

  “Right you are.” He grinned and slid it higher.

  Fanny jumped and her face flushed darker. She threw him a venomous glance tinged with something hotter and turned away to pursue a laborious discussion with Stone.

  Romney continued to sip his wine, and traced a winding pattern with his fingertips on his lady’s thigh.

  Sixteen

  FOR the first time in her life, Gemma revelled in the knowledge that the man of her choice desired her. Sebastian partnered all of the highest-ranking ladies in quadrilles and cotillions and reels, fulfilling his obligation as host. He did not approach Gemma, but she felt the hunger in the heated, dark gaze that rested on her as she moved around the room. She smiled to herself. She would bide her time.

  She danced with many gentlemen and conversed with them easily, but she did not flirt. Except for a newfound confidence in her body, she behaved with her usual, cheerful friendliness to everyone. She did nothing that might set malicious tongues wagging, though if those sharp-eyed matrons knew the wickedness of her thoughts, they would banish her from good society forever.

  She let the magic of music and champagne seep through her. For once, she allowed herself to enjoy masculine attention. Now that her aunt’s grim warnings had proved to be nothing but air, the gentlemen’s admiration neither threatened nor discomfited her. A strong, purely feminine power coursed through her, hers to wield as she pleased.

  Her blood hummed with anticipation, but she did not seek Sebastian out or even attempt to plan their next encounter. The sense of expectation was heady and delicious, a savoured treat, almost an end in itself.

  Would Sebastian make the next move? A thrill shivered through her at the thought.

  “I say, are you cold, Miss Maitland?” Lord Granton hovered over her. “Allow me to fetch you a shawl.”

  “I shall fetch it,” said Mr. Tilney, flushing to the roots of his flame-coloured hair. “Miss Maitland has promised me the next dance, so I should be the one to fetch her shawl.”

  Mr. Brandon smiled lazily from his superior height. “I have a notion. Why don’t you both fetch the shawl and leave the lady to me?”

  Tilney and Granton exchanged chagrined looks.

  Gemma laughed. “No, no, I am perfectly comfortable, thank you, gentlemen. I’ve no need for a shawl.”

  “Amen to that,” murmured Brandon, his gaze lingering at her décolletage.

  Granton raised his quizzing glass. “I say, who is that old trout over there regarding us so balefully? Do you know her, Miss Maitland? Looks like she don’t approve of the company you keep.”

  Turning her head, Gemma saw her great-aunt watching her. Matilda’s stare glinted with resentment. Gemma instantly regretted confronting Matilda with the knowledge of her malicious gossiping. By the look in her eye, Matilda intended to make a vast deal of trouble for Gemma before she was exiled to Bath.

  Surely, she would not be so vindictive. Surely, she would r
ealise that besmirching Gemma’s reputation would also reflect badly on her. But that had not stopped her before.

  The throng shifted and Gemma lost sight of Matilda, but she could not shrug off a sickening sense of unease. The ballroom grew stuffy and hot. Gemma danced and drank more champagne, trying to recapture her previous mood, but the sour taste of Matilda’s malevolence lingered.

  When she saw her aunt deep in conversation with a group of matrons at the side of the room, her stomach clenched.

  Several curious glances shot her way. She began to wish she had worn something a little less striking, that she had not drunk so much champagne. She held her head high, but as Matilda flitted from one group of matrons to the next— like a bee taking pollen from bloom to bloom—Gemma’s ears filled with a strange buzz. The jabbering crowd in the ballroom seemed to press in, threatening to suffocate her. She imagined them all turning to point accusing fingers, condemning her with shocked, self-righteous faces. In the middle of a conversation with Romney and Fanny, she excused herself abruptly and pushed her way towards the door.

  “Gemma.” Lady Russell seemed to rise out of the polished floorboards, blocking her path. “You look divine this evening.”

  Even through the sick giddiness that threatened to engulf her, Gemma saw a dangerous light in Lady Russell’s eyes, a tautness about her rosebud lips. All she could manage in reply was, “Thank you.”

  Lady Russell gave one of her irritating closed-mouth laughs and indicated her own ensemble, a lyric in oyster satin and silver lace. “De Cacharelle is a genius, is she not?”

  If she did not get away, she might cast up her accounts all over that oyster satin gown. “Yes. Yes, she is.” Gemma forced the words past her lips and fought rising nausea.

  Lady Russell drew breath through her teeth with a hiss. “It’s true, then. I might have known. Carleton bought that for you, didn’t he?”