Scandal of the Season
Page 29
His desire.
The shiver became a lightning blaze as the realization hit her that love wasn’t all that motivated him to want to marry her. He desires me! Enough that he’d set aside all self-discipline and behaved as no true gentleman would. And she’d liked it. She’d liked it a lot. So much, in fact, that she wanted him to do it again at the earliest opportunity.
After we are married, of course, she corrected herself. …Or at least not until after our engagement has been properly announced.
“You were delirious,” he explained, clearly mistaking her silence for umbrage. “While I was trying to keep you from falling over in the carriage, you kissed me. Quite ardently.” His flush deepened. “I’m ashamed to say that I took advantage of your impassioned state. I thought I might never have another chance, you see,” he rushed on. “Had you recalled the incident the following day, I would have asked for your hand at once, but you seemed to have lost all memory of it—and all desire for me. I thought the drug responsible for your actions, and I did not wish to impose on you, if I was not truly wanted.”
Oh, she’d wanted him. And in her compromised condition, she’d had no qualms about letting him know it. And he wants me! The wicked part of her rejoiced. Stretching up, Eleanor put her lips close by his ear. “My dear Lord Wincanton, when we are married you may impose upon me as often as you please, and I can promise you will suffer no complaint from me.”
The bold words set her cheeks aflame all over again, and for a moment she worried that she might have stepped beyond the bounds of propriety—even for a fiancée who’d already been compromised by her intended.
Saint Jane would certainly never have acted so brazenly…but then I doubt he ever behaved with her the way he did with me. Her concerns vanished an instant later as her husband-to-be leaned down and took her mouth in a sweet, molten kiss that sent rivers of heat snaking down into her belly.
No, she wasn’t Jane. She wasn’t meek or mild, and patience wasn’t her strongest suit. She often spoke her mind, and while she’d learned modesty and propriety, there were times when they could and ought to be set aside. Now was just such a time.
Reveling in the solidity of Sorin’s impassioned embrace, Eleanor leaned into him and allowed herself to be swept away.
Propriety be damned!
Epilogue
Eleanor beamed down at young Edward Tristan Latham, the future Earl of Wincanton, as he rolled about on the blanket beside her and played with his chubby, adorable feet. Looking up, she saw her husband watching her with a tender look in his eyes and the same lopsided smile as his son. Two years ago on this very day they’d spoken their vows. It seemed like only yesterday.
“He is growing so quickly,” she murmured. “Too quickly, I fear. We’ll see him in shorts all too soon.”
“He’ll be in good company,” said Sorin, nodding toward the wood.
Turning around to peer over her shoulder, she saw a group of familiar people approaching. Caroline, Lord Marston, and their son were coming up the well-worn path that led from Holly Hall to Holbrook, where they’d gone this morning to pay a visit to Charles and Rowena. Marston hung behind, shepherding little Winston along. The boy was almost two now and a very independent lad who insisted on walking everywhere by himself.
“Come join us!” Eleanor called out, waving as Sorin levered himself up.
Caroline smiled brightly and took a spot on the blanket beside little Edward. She tickled his feet, eliciting a squeal of delight. “I have news,” she announced with a gleam in her eye. “Lady Yarborough has married again.”
“Married?” Eleanor could hardly contain her astonishment. After her son had been convicted for his crimes and sent off to Sydney, Lady Yarborough had gone into mourning as though he’d died. The woman had disavowed all knowledge of his illegal activities, of course. According to Lord Marston, she’d displayed such anguish during his sentencing that the magistrate had shown her pity, allowing her to retain the family house in Wincanton as well as the jointure provided by her late husband. Naturally, she’d chosen to continue leasing the house out while she remained in London as the permanent guest of a friend. She’d been living off the income provided by the rent. Since then, she’d all but disappeared from Society. “I cannot believe it. To whom?”
“An American by the name of John Copperfield,” replied Caroline. “He was a friend of the Fenbridges—the people she was staying with. He came to London to visit them and not a month later asked her to marry him. It was very nearly a scandal. They were wed three days ago, according to Lady Rothchild who was one of only a few people in attendance. They set sail for America next week.” Picking a grape from the picnic basket, she popped it into her mouth.
“She’s abandoning London?” Eleanor whispered, still stunned.
Caroline nodded. “Lady Rothchild said she’d never seen her so happy. I don’t wonder that she’d want to leave. Apparently, disowning her son did nothing to redeem her in the eyes of most of her so-called friends. Losing their association greatly diminished her pleasure in Town.”
“I suppose you’ll have new neighbors soon,” Sorin told Marston, who had at last arrived with his son. “The heir will no doubt come to claim what remains of his estate.”
Marston’s eyes were full of laughter. “He already has. Sir Reginald Farnes, a distant Scottish cousin to the Yarboroughs, has already moved in. The fortunate man had never even met his English relations before coming to finalize the matter of his inheritance.”
“A very nice gentleman he is, too,” added Caroline, selecting another grape. “We are quite pleased with him. Now that he has inherited, he need only find a suitable wife.”
Eleanor looked at her with open suspicion. “Don’t tell me you’ve already got matchmaking designs on the poor man?”
“Me?” said her friend, her bright blue eyes widening. “I would never—even if there is a perfectly suitable young lady available.”
“Who?” Eleanor demanded. “Every female of age in the vicinity is already married, and the next ‘batch’ of debutantes won’t be coming out for at least another year.”
“Which leaves Miss Anne Wheaton in the perfect position to snap him up,” replied Caroline.
Knowing she’d been beaten, Eleanor bit. “And who, exactly, is Miss Anne Wheaton?”
“A recent addition from Devonshire,” answered Caroline, her tone matter-of-fact. “She and her widowed mother have taken up residence at Woodbury Cottage. Miss Anne is both pretty and modest, a delightful young lady of the highest quality. Sir Farnes is sure to notice her without any help at all.”
Eleanor wasn’t fooled by her prim manner for a second. “But were we to take her on, it would no doubt ensure her success,” she said drily, earning a hopeful smile. “Very well. We shall see what can be done.”
Beside her, Sorin chuckled. “You intend to see every soul in the county married, don’t you?” he said for her ears alone.
“Nonsense,” she replied sotto voce, occupying herself with adjusting little Edward’s position on the blanket. He’d wriggled almost to the edge. “But what would it hurt to try?” She looked into his smiling hazel eyes. “Is it so awful to want everyone to be as happy as I am?”
His warm hand covered hers, stilling it. “Not at all, my darling. If your happiness is such that you wish to share it with others, then I’ve done my duty well and shall be glad of it.” Breaking all the rules of propriety, he dropped a quick kiss on her lips.
Eleanor blushed as their audience smiled and pointedly looked elsewhere. “There was a time when you would have frowned upon such bold conduct,” she quietly teased. “I remember a certain lecture pertaining to inappropriate displays of—”
Another kiss silenced her.
“What a monumental fool I must have been,” murmured her husband with a shameless grin. “You must remind me frequently of the many reasons why I should never again be so absurd.”
“You may rest assured that I shall,” she replied, her smile promi
sing him just such a “reminder” later.
Acknowledgments
My family, for encouraging my obsession with words and supporting me through long hours spent stringing them together and moving them around. (And for tolerating lots of sandwiches for dinner.)
Barbara Rosenberg of The Rosenberg Group, not just for sealing the deal, but also for her sharp eyes and priceless feedback.
Erin Molta, Senior Editor at Entangled Publishing, and Stacy Abrams, Executive Editorial Director at Entangled Publishing, for helping me bring Sorin and Eleanor to life.
My ARWA sisters and brothers, for their unfailing support and encouragement. I wouldn’t be here without you.
Romance Writers of America’s online Chapter, The Beau Monde, for helping me understand and navigate the many rules of the Regency era.
About the Author
Liana LeFey delights in crafting incendiary tales that capture the heart and the imagination, taking the reader out of the now and into another world. Liana lives in Central Texas with her dashing husband/hero, their beautiful daughter, and one spoiled-rotten feline overlord. She’s been devouring romances since she was fourteen and is the author of To Love a Libertine from Entangled Select Historical.
lianalefey.com
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