Scandal's Promise

by Gibson, Pamela

  Eton, a place of suffering for many young men, had been a haven for Andrew because nothing was as confining as living under his father’s watchful eye. When he enrolled in Cambridge, he’d finally been free, engaging in wild pursuits—all considered vices by his father—drinking, gaming, racing, and wenching. Emily had told herself these rebellious activities had ended once they were betrothed.

  She’d wiped away her last tear when Alice came in with a cup of hot tea, setting it on a small table near her chair. “There you are, milady. Cook added a fresh jam tart in case you were peckish.”

  She forced her lips into a smile. “Thank you. I believe I am.”

  “Your aunt has returned. She’s going to lie down for a bit.”

  “Do you know if she found the drapery material she was looking for?”

  “I don’t know what all she purchased, but the number of parcels she came home with required two footmen to bring them all in.”

  Aunt Lily loved to shop, and she could well afford it. Her late husband—a successful merchant—had made lucrative investments and left her with a comfortable income. But they’d leased their home, and when he died, she decided to come back to the Grange where she’d grown up.

  “A rest sounds like a good idea, although it seems wasteful on a bright day in November. I believe I’ll go down to the sewing room and finish the bonnet I’m making for Cecily Montague. I’m very nearly done, and I need to send it off.”

  The maid left the room, and Emily picked up her cup, smelling the fragrant tea laced with lemon and honey cook had prepared for her. It warmed her as she sipped, now able to breathe and swallow freely. She must talk to Aunt Lily about Andrew’s revelations. Had Aunt Lily heard talk about Caroline being enceinte at the time of her marriage? If so, she hadn’t mentioned it.

  So many secrets.

  Did Emily even know the man anymore?

  She nibbled the tart, finished her tea, and set aside the cup. Feeling more energized now, she wandered down the staircase to the sewing room. Finding her embroidery basket, she settled close to a window where brighter light made her task easier.

  Inside, her body quivered with the disclosures imparted to her today. The hasty marriage made sense now. The late Lord Cardmore would have demanded it, given the sinful act his son had committed.

  “It wasn’t mine.”

  She blanked her mind and concentrated on the final stitches she must make in the small hat. The bluebells adorning the brim were an intricate design. They would occupy her mind until dinner when she could finally confront her aunt.

  The needle with its bright-blue thread mesmerized her as she stitched, settling her emotions until they were firmly under control. Breathing a sigh of relief, she knotted the last stitch and held up the little headpiece. She could visualize Cecily’s tiny face peering up at her. Such a sweet babe. Gwen was lucky.

  Emily took a deep breath and set aside the garment to be packed and shipped to Woodhaven Abbey. Her next project would be too challenging, given the mood she was in. Velvet had to be cut carefully, but the gown would be quite festive if she finished it before Christmas.

  Had her life become so pathetic then? No husband, no children, no gaiety—just project after project to keep her busy? Perhaps Mama was right, and she should hie off to London and try to catch the eye of a widower looking for someone to care for a motherless brood. She would at least have companionship in her old age.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You gave up that worthless emotion years ago.

  She rose and made her way to the music room. If her fingers cooperated, she’d forego afternoon tea with Aunt Lily and play the pianoforte until dinnertime. Music cheered her, especially when playing lively country tunes reminding her of rooms full of elegant gentlemen and bejeweled matrons hopping around like rabbits.

  She smiled then, knowing her good humor would return.

  As her bad moods never lasted, she would then reflect on what she’d learned. If others had known about Caroline’s condition, it was no wonder she’d heard titters whenever she’d entered a room. But she didn’t think it had been common knowledge. The fact Emily had been thrown over in such a cruel way was quite enough for gossips.

  In their eagerness to protect her, Mama had never mentioned anything more than a shameful seduction, and Emily had assumed Andrew’s wife conceived after they were wed.

  All that is in the past. I am older and wiser now and should put it out of my mind.

  Maybe she should forgive Andrew and move on. They could never go back to anything more than friendship, but at least she’d have another person to talk to besides Aunt Lily.

  Seven years had passed. Each day the pain and humiliation had grown duller until nothing was left but emptiness. Or so she’d thought.

  Today when Andrew had looked into her eyes as he prepared to accede to her wishes to leave, a tiny spark had jolted her cold heart back to life.

  I am such a fool.

  She could never let Andrew Quigley, or any man, break her heart again.

  Chapter 8

  After Emily ran off, Andrew sat back down on the rock and stared at the water sparkling in the sun. Each glint was like a shard of glass in his heart. He’d meant to set things right with her, wanting at the very least to regain the friendship they’d once had. Instead he’d made the situation worse.

  She doesn’t believe me.

  Why should she? Over the years he’d taken advantage of their friendship, sharing more than a gentleman should with a lady. As a lad breaking free of his father’s hold, he’d bragged about his wilder escapades and wanted Emily to know he could defeat the tyrant, even if some of his stories made her blush and put her hands over her ears when his narrative veered too close to outright impropriety. He’d been young and full of bravado, testing his independence, pushing boundaries even when he knew better.

  She’d been his best friend, the one who forgave him when he occasionally lashed out. She’d stood behind this very rock and rubbed his aching shoulders when he’d been hunched over for hours in the chapel while his father admonished him to pray for his sins, and she’d calmed him when he swore he’d kill the bastard after a whipping. She was the only person who had witnessed his tears.

  She‘d even cavorted with him in this very pond, clad only in her shift, the wet fabric clinging to her breasts and hips, while they’d laughed and splashed each other and sometimes swam. On occasion, he’d had to turn away to hide the evidence of his youthful lust.

  God, he’d loved her—still did. But there would be no way to get her back now that she thought him guilty of the worst possible transgression. Yes, he’d boasted of his early conquests. But the day he’d told her he would propose marriage when her first season ended, he knew there would never be another woman for him. When she’d rejected the offers she’d had and accepted his betrothal ring, he knew the world was finally coming right.

  And then everything changed.

  He stood and brushed off his breeches, the ache in his shoulder making every movement painful. He needed to get back and decide what to do with Caroline’s son. Perhaps he’d call on Woodley and find out why he decided to send the child away. Maybe they could work out an arrangement. A financial one might appease the man. When Ralston returned, they could go together.

  Or you could keep him here.

  He thrust the thought away. He would make a terrible father. Look how he’d mucked up his own life. He could not be trusted with someone else’s.

  Setting out on the path leading back through the woods to his own property, he slowed his stride, not wanting to face what awaited him. What in blazes would he do with the boy while he was here? He knew nothing of children—their wants or needs—hell, he didn’t even know George’s full name.

  He’s your heir, even if he doesn’t share your blood. The law is quite cl
ear.

  Was he old enough to send away to school? Had he received any instruction?

  If he couldn’t convince Woodley to take him back, he’d need someone to look after him. The housemaid had her own duties. Damn, he could use a woman’s advice. If only he hadn’t botched his apology to Emily. She’d know what to do.

  He rounded a corner, and the house came into view. Cardmore Hall had immense proportions, many outbuildings, and farms. What had his man of business been thinking when he’d closed the house and let the staff go? Why had he not been consulted?

  The arrogant nip cheese said he’d sent a letter and it must have gone astray. A likely story.

  Drake would have answers. Andrew had been in too much pain when he’d first arrived to sit down with the steward to go over the accounts and needs of the estate in detail. Ralston had reminded him he’d put off his responsibilities too long, and seeing Emily today reinforced the claim.

  A large dose of laudanum would help him think. A short nap might also ease him.

  He entered the house from the rear, surprising the kitchen staff. The cook’s bare arms were covered in flour as she kneaded what looked like dough. The child sat on the floor in the corner, petting the cat.

  “My lord. You startled me.” Cook stopped and bobbed a curtsy.

  “Carry on.” He shot a glance at the corner. “Why is the boy in here?”

  “Hawkins and Matilda are cleaning the nursery. The lad is no trouble. The cat has taken to him.”

  George hugged the cat closer and stared up at him with frightened eyes. He studied the boy’s features, seeing Caroline but no one else of his acquaintance.

  “Do you like Juniper, George?”

  “Yes, sir.” He let go of the puss, but she circled then settled back in the boy’s lap.

  He needed to be kinder to the lad. None of this was the boy’s fault. Somehow he must find a way to let go of this stifling anger while he figured out how to proceed.

  Damn you, Woodley.

  Andrew sighed and strode from the kitchen, fury tightening his chest.

  He bellowed for Lester as he climbed the stairs. The pain now radiated down his arm and through the rest of his body. His valet met him at the top of the stairs, the medicine bottle handy. Andrew grabbed it, put it to his lips, and took a deep swallow. Handing it back, he trudged to his sitting room and slumped into the nearest chair.

  “The fire feels good. As soon as the medicine takes effect, I’ll want to change.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Andrew reached up and loosened his cravat, thinking it would help him breathe. What in bloody hell was he to do with the boy? Every time he thought of Woodley he flew into a rage. Why couldn’t the man have kept the child? At least he was his own blood.

  Blood or not, he’s yours. Get used to the idea.

  A faint heat replaced the pain in his body. He relaxed into the chair and closed his eyes. When the discomfort eased, he could think more clearly—make a few decisions. Yes. He’d do that. His eyes drooped, and he let his thoughts stray back to the afternoon’s encounter with Emily.

  She’d always been a beauty, although growing up she’d been awkward and coltish—her arms and legs not always doing what she expected when running or climbing a tree. Skinned knees and elbows seemed a constant, although she’d hidden them well under long skirts and wrist-length sleeves so her governess would not notice.

  With his sisters so much older, she’d been his childhood companion. Two years separated them in age, but she’d always seemed older and wiser than her years. Emily had been bookish—once telling him she wanted to write novels. He’d scoffed until she took a crumpled paper out of her pocket containing a poem she’d written. About him.

  Andy the dandy.

  The memory made him smile, even now. She’d written it when he was about seventeen and was bedecking himself in the latest fashionable attire, his cravats so intricately tied they took his valet an hour to get them right. His coats were blue or bottle green, his waistcoats yellow, and his pantaloons so tight he could barely peel them off at night. Shirt points reached his ears. Dandy was an apt description, even though he’d laughed at her at the time.

  She’d called him a peacock, trying to impress young ladies with his colorful plumes. Then she’d reminded him that as far back as the age of twelve he had promised to marry her. Had he forgotten? He’d insulted her then, telling her he’d changed his mind, the promise being one he’d made during his “knight” phase, when young men vowed to protect their ladies.

  She’d doubled over with laughter, and then she’d forgiven him, as if the conversation never occurred. They were best friends again, sharing confidences, giving advice, and meeting at the lake whenever she could escape her elderly governess who frequently dozed off.

  A sharp knock on his door startled him.

  Lester strode into the dressing room, returning with two new bottles of tonic, which he set on the dresser. “Do you require my services, sir? I have an errand to run in the village.”

  “I’m good. Be off with you.”

  After a brief rest, Andrew wandered up to the third floor. He hadn’t been to the nursery since he vacated it as a child. As the youngest of the siblings, he’d had it all to himself most of his childhood.

  The housemaid and the new footman stood in front of a long shelf where broken toy soldiers were scattered between two stacks of dusty books. An abacus, a toy sword, and a rag doll occupied a lower shelf along with a marionette with twisted strings.

  Matilda turned and curtsied with a feather duster in her hand. “My lord, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Please continue with your duties. I thought I’d reacquaint myself with this part of the house, seeing as how it will soon be occupied by my . . . heir.”

  Sarcasm laced his words. He’d always been taught not to show emotion in front of servants, but misery had a way of altering one’s most ingrained lessons. Misery plus self-loathing, the kind that comes with knowing when you’ve completely destroyed your chance at happiness, and a reminder now cowered in the kitchen.

  Matilda turned away, pretending she hadn’t heard his tone. The footman leaned down to pick up a basket with moth-eaten bed hangings and yellowed linens. Another container held rusted candleholders and odd bits of books looking like something had gnawed them. A piece of an old boot poked out of the pile.

  Glancing away, Andrew shuddered, remembering how many times he’d been thrashed in this room when he’d failed to please his father in some way. A passage not memorized, or a prayer forgotten before a meal. Or being caught with a bottle of brandy in his cupboard.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, I’ll be taking these downstairs now.”

  Andrew nodded to the footman and moved away from the door, angling toward the window. The light in the room was good. The draperies, now dust free, seemed adequate, and a table and chairs gleamed and smelled of lemon wax. He peeked in the bedchamber, noting the linens were fresh. The second room, the one to be assigned to a nursemaid, contained a chair and a small chest. Two other small rooms, that had been used by his sisters, remained vacant.

  “You’ve done well, Matilda.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’ve been working in here all day. I found the furniture I needed in the attic. The young master will be able to sleep here tonight.”

  “Will you stay with him while he’s here?”

  She tilted her head as if she was surprised by his words. Remembering her place, she looked down and nodded. “Yes, my lord. My aunt believes him to be too young to be left alone in such a grand house, even though I have no training as a nursemaid.”

  “Except you have a younger brother and a sister.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “I’ll let you get on with your work then.” He left the room wi
th its bad memories. Perhaps if he’d had a sibling closer to his age, he would have different feelings about the place. George could reside here temporarily. He still might find a better place for him. Maybe Bronwyn, his middle sister, would take the child.

  It was unlikely. Her children were old enough for boarding schools, and she would remind him the boy was his son and heir. If he didn’t feel up to being a parent, then marry again.

  He desperately needed Emily’s advice. Did he dare approach her after their conversation this past afternoon?

  Feeling much better now after his dose of laudanum, he strode from the house and out to the stables. After ordering his horse saddled, he mounted and headed down the lane toward the road to town. Emily’s family home was close by, and it was almost teatime. He’d make a formal call on her aunt. Emily would be there. Maybe he could apologize again and tell her he wished to be friends, but would not bother her further if she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Her rock was hers. He’d find his own on the other side of the lake, on his own property.

  Mrs. Whittington was a bit unconventional, but she’d known him all his life. He might be able to convince her to allow him to speak to Emily alone. A stroll through their garden would do. If not, he’d brazen it out in front of her.

  Smiling, he put his horse to a canter. The afternoon was still fine. If Emily declined or didn’t appear, then he’d ask her aunt for guidance. Mrs. Whittington was a lady who had an opinion on every subject, he recalled.