That Scandalous Evening

by Christina Dodd

  The girl held the string of a kite, and she watched it and laughed as she ran. The breeze molded her gown to her, and even Blackburn, unimpressed as he was, had to admit she was the image of the youthful Aphrodite. “It’s been difficult for you.”

  “She’s too sweet to be difficult, but ever since—” Jane glanced at him briefly, as if she just remembered to whom she spoke.

  “Since?” He strove to look interested, and it wasn’t hard. That sentence dangled before him, waiting to impart information about Jane’s lost years.

  “You are too easy to talk to, my lord.”

  Most people did not find him so, but he didn’t doubt Jane. Of all the women in the world, she held him in the least respect. Probably because with her, he had behaved like a spoiled child. “I am remarkably discreet,” he assured her.

  “I’m sure you are.” Folding her hands in her lap, she stared at the toes of her shoes. “At fourteen, she looked much as she does now, and a young gentleman in our neighborhood took a fancy to her.” She thought, then corrected herself. “Actually, he fell violently in love with her. Mr. Livermere was the son of a Methodist, of all things, sober and hardworking, and I never suspected he would kidnap her.”

  Intent, he scooted closer. “Kidnap her?”

  “She and her maid were running an errand for me, and the maid came home, fearful and excited, saying the youth had forced Adorna into a cab and declared they would go to Gretna Green and there wed. I was frantic for hours, when she appeared at home no worse for the experience.” She peeked at him. “She convinced her gentleman she could not in all conscience leave me alone with Eleazer, and they came back for me.”

  “Good God.” Blackburn looked at Adorna with new eyes.

  “Yes. His father took the young man in hand, and he is now studying in Rome—although he still writes Adorna every week.”

  “Good God,” Blackburn repeated. Lifting his quizzing glass, he squinted toward Adorna, and found her talking to a tall, gangly man. She gazed at him as if he fascinated her, and spoke seemingly on his command. “Who’s that?”

  Jane sighed. “Oh, dear, it is her French tutor. Poor Adorna.”

  “She doesn’t like him? But she appears fascinated.”

  “She looks at every man that way. I’m sure it’s the reason Monsieur Chasseur has so faithfully clung to the hope he can teach her.” Humor warmed Jane’s voice. “She believes the way a woman looks at a man takes him from one fascinated by her to one who worships at her shrine.”

  “How shallow,” he murmured. And how true. Jane had gazed at him that way once, and because he had been a vain youth who valued only beauty and the social graces, he had disdained her regard. Now he thought it would be rather pleasant. Instead, she seemed more captivated by the river, her niece, and even her own toes. “What will you do when she marries? Will you live with her?”

  “Perhaps.” In her lap, Jane’s fists clenched briefly. “Perhaps I shall just do as I’ve longed to do since my early years—go out into the world and seek my fortune.”

  “Doing what?” He knew he sounded sharp, but he couldn’t help himself.

  She glanced down at the portfolio in her hand. “Teaching young ladies their art.”

  She didn’t appear to be teasing, and a picture formed in his mind of a procession of young women, all working in clay and creating nude statues of the men they admired. “How appalling.”

  She glared. “I would be good at it.” The faintly salty breeze caught her wide-faced bonnet and tugged it back, and she caught it with one hand on her head, revealing her body’s profile to Blackburn’s greedy gaze.

  Her gown covered her bosom; not a bit of flesh could be seen. But seeing her breasts clothed made him remember how she had responded when he touched them. She’d been a virgin then, surprised by passion yet glorying in it.

  She was a virgin still, if his sister was to be believed, but he knew well Jane would no longer glory in the passion. Young Jane’s every emotion had shown on her face. Today’s Jane lived in her mind, shut off from the spontaneity that had caused her pain. His fault; he’d killed that which he did not admire.

  The thought caught him by surprise, and it surprised him to realize he wanted that spontaneity resurrected. The young Blackburn, he grudgingly admitted, had not known everything there was to know.

  “Miss Morant, when she weds, will welcome you, I am sure.”

  “I’m sure she would.” She spoke coldly, with patent insincerity.

  Or you could spy for the enemy. The thought sprang forth from the place where it lurked in his mind, waiting to sabotage any trust he might have in her. Jane had no future, no reason to love English society, and a regrettable tendency to hobnob with a known spy.

  The evidence was inconclusive, but if Jane was part of the network the French had concocted from immigrants and rogues, he could trap and threaten her. He could learn who instructed her, whom she passed information to. Between him and Wiggens, Miss Jane Higgenbothem would be routed. And perhaps a little punishment would be in order…

  Impatient to end this charade, he said, “De Sainte-Amand is an irresistible fellow, is he not?”

  She had been looking at him steadily, the green of her eyes accentuated by her sage gown. How was it Wiggens had described them? Eyes as green as the color of moss in the gutters.

  Now she dropped her gaze to her hands. A blush stained the skin over her cheekbones. “I hadn’t really noticed.”

  Ashamed. Goose bumps prickled along his skin as he stared at her and wished he could wring her neck. She twisted uncomfortably under his stare, and glanced at him repeatedly from under lowered lashes. She wasn’t an actress at all, only a remorseful woman driven by circumstances to spy for the enemy. That would be better than knowing she did it to spite the country that had so rejected her.

  And what was he doing, looking for excuses for a damned traitor? “Then you’re alone in that.” He sounded quite normal, he thought, with only a hint of frost. “Most of the ladies who meet de Sainte-Amand think him quite charming.”

  “I’m sure he is.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth, creating color with each sting of her white teeth. “He seemed very pleasant the night he rescued Adorna. And look, he’s speaking to her now.”

  He was. De Sainte-Amand had caught Adorna as she hurried back to her group of young admirers, and she now gazed at him, and recited, with the same attention she had shown her French tutor.

  “And you were speaking to him earlier.”

  She wiped her palm across her thigh. “Yes, he admired my sketch.” The other hand kept tight grip on the incriminating papers. “The one that’s not of you.”

  What is it of?

  Her color deepened beneath the shadow cast by her bonnet, and she stared at him guiltily.

  It was time to end the game. It was time to prove to himself she was no traitor, or to her he was no fool.

  With awesome deliberation, he reached and grasped the edge of the portfolio. Her fingers tightened for a moment, then loosened, and she let him take it.

  “It’s nothing, really,” she said. “Anyone could do as well.”

  Still watching her, he opened the pad and glanced down. His gut clenched, and his fingers tightened. Without volition, he crumpled the edge of the paper. “What is this?” he demanded. As if he couldn’t tell.

  “The ships.” She sounded improbably earnest. “I tried to create a feeling of the day, and they seemed symbolic…The other ladies probably have drawn something similar.”

  “And this?” He held out the clear, detailed drawing of the Virginia Belle.

  “Another ship. De Sainte-Amand suggested—”

  His ire burned deep and cold. “You can’t even take the blame yourself.” Standing, he grasped her elbow and jerked her to her feet. Her gloves fluttered to the ground. She stepped on her skirt and stumbled. He didn’t care. With the sketch pad held tight in one hand and Jane held tight in the other, he wheeled and marched her toward the manor.


  “Where are we going?” She tried to twist her arm free.

  “To teach you a lesson.”

  “You’re going to teach me about art?”

  “No.” He didn’t look at her. He didn’t dare. “About life.”

  Chapter 17

  “I don’t know what you’re so angry about.” Attached to an incensed Lord Blackburn by his grip on her wrist, Jane stumbled over hummocks of grass. “It’s only a sketch, no different from a hundred others I’ve done.”

  “A hundred? So you freely admit it, eh, Jane?”

  She didn’t care for his emphasis on her name. She didn’t like his sneer, nor his attitude. “It’s better than the others. Is that a crime?”

  He whipped her around and stopped. Shaking the portfolio, he said, “I don’t know. Is it?”

  Blackburn, cold and enigmatic to most, now blazed with demonic fury. The westering sun slipped between jagged clouds to illuminate half his countenance, caressing the full lips, the indent formed above them by a simple press of God’s thumb into the wet clay of His creation. Light caught this day’s growth of beard which sprinkled his chin with brushed gold. His nose jutted out as proudly as Dover’s cliffs. His brow was broad and noble as Apollo’s, and the wind feathered a radiant lock of hair from his forehead.

  Shadow captured the other half of his face and held it prisoner, darkening the blue of his eye to black, revealing diabolical determination.

  On one side, the beauty, the light. On the other, the fury, the anguish, the dark side of his soul. Jane beheld it, and the picture she would create.

  “No!” His hand slashed through the air, a blade of denial. “Get that look off your face. You will not paint me.”

  Stunned, she tried to step back from his unwanted insight, but he wouldn’t let her go. Instead he shook her arm, and said, “What conceit made you think you were the only one to see?”

  “Because I’m the only one who ever looks,” she flashed.

  “Not anymore, dear.” His mouth tightened in a ruthless smile. “Not anymore. I swear I will teach you, Jane, not to assume I am a fool, and I’ll give you one reason, at least, to love what you have in England.”

  Turning, he tugged her along as she fought him, but for all her height and strength, he was stronger yet. This wasn’t just about the sketch now; something deeper worked in him, and in her.

  He had looked at her, and seen enough to know what she thought, and for her that was an intolerable invasion of privacy.

  She twisted toward the beach, anticipating rescue from that direction, but all she saw was a swarm of faces, watching her and Blackburn and buzzing with delight and amazement. Desperate, she waved at Adorna. Adorna enthusiastically waved back, jumping up and down as if her aunt were off on a long-awaited voyage.

  As wild grass changed to domesticated lawn, the distance between the beach, the company, and Jane widened, and she set her heels. One last clump of sedge tangled her leather boots, and only Blackburn’s hand under her armpit saved her from a nasty sprawl.

  Halting, he watched her steadily. “Scream, if you’re going to.”

  She filled her lungs. She opened her mouth. And found that too many years of restraint and dignity had taken their toll. Slowly she released the air, and said, “I don’t scream.”

  “I saw that in you, too,” he said with unpretentious triumph.

  Scooping her into the curve of his elbow, holding tight to the portfolio with the other, he marched them toward the nearest garden path. Held close against his side, she could feel the tendons of his arm straining to hold her, the muscles of his thigh cording as he hurried them along. The scent of his lemon soap mixed with the ocean’s breeze. The first of the wind-sculpted trees surrounded them, plunging them into the shade. She experienced the sensation of being swallowed up, defeated, and rushed along toward some fate she could not deny.

  The grass gave way to gravel. On either side of them, tall, trimmed bushes burgeoned with blossoms. A branch caught the wide brim of Jane’s bonnet and twisted it half off.

  “Wait!” She tried to stop, to rescue the headgear Violet had lent her.

  But Blackburn snapped, “You and your hats are a menace!” With one hand, he untied the ribbons and knocked the bonnet to the ground.

  “You can’t do that!” Jane said.

  He ignored her with the disdain of a man who already had. Dragging her back into his grasp, he propelled her forward once more.

  The trees still shaded them and the hedges grew thick. One path wandered off toward a gazebo. Another led straight toward the open lawn and to the manor’s wide steps.

  He whisked her toward some destination only he knew. Jane had learned her way around Montague House, the national repository of art, without a qualm. But now she found her head spinning as she tried to distinguish one planting from another. They had wandered into a maze of tall, well-clipped hedges, she realized. If by chance Jane eluded Blackburn, she would roam in circles for hours under a sky increasingly obscured by clouds.

  Glancing at the inflexible set of his jaw and the glitter of cold light in his eyes, she determined to take her chances with the garden.

  Yet she had no chance. The path twisted and turned, leading them deeper and deeper toward some madness she didn’t understand. She gasped for breath, wearying of the rapid pace, the ever-changing direction, but Lord Blackburn seemed indifferent. He had a goal in sight, and however long it might take them—and she thought they’d been walking forever—he would pursue it.

  As they rounded the corner, one that looked like all the rest, he gave an exclamation of satisfaction. They had reached the sweet, warm heart of the maze. Here perfectly groomed grass lay over curvaceous mounds of earth. A small, decorative tree clung to one edge. A lattice zigzagged from edge to edge, and roses climbed it in luscious profusion, blushing with pink, pure with white, and sun-kissed with yellow. The encircling hedges rebuffed all but the faintest breeze, and the rich scent of flowers was seduction itself. In the center, a fountain gurgled with softly flowing water, and bluebirds twittered as they bathed and preened.

  This place was a sensual feast for the lucky lovers who could find it—and Lord Blackburn had walked to it without hesitation.

  No doubt he had brought a woman here before.

  Striking without notice, Jane jabbed his ribs with her elbow. As he doubled up he dropped the portfolio. She spun away from him, and caught one glance of red-eyed fury before he charged her. He reached for her; she grabbed his hand and pulled him along, allowing his own momentum to propel him. Then she let him go and listened to the slam of his body into the thorny tangle of stems and blossoms.

  Birds squawked and took wing, and without even looking to see the damage, she lifted her skirts and ran. She rounded the hedge before his howl of pain stopped her.

  “My eyes!”

  His eyes. His beautiful, midnight blue eyes. Plucked by the thorns?

  She took two more steps. Not really. Not possible. He was bluffing. He was trying to trick her.

  But although Blackburn said nothing else, she could hear him blundering, pulling down rose branches, and uttering moans, all the more piteous for being muffled.

  She straightened her skirt and walked briskly away. Blackburn was a god. Nothing could hurt him.

  She slowed. But he was a man. Already war had scarred him. And on the eye—had the brambles reopened his wound?

  Cursing herself for a fool, she sneaked back and peeked around the corner of the hedge.

  He stood with his back to her. With one hand he fought the clinging thorns. The other he held to his face. She trod toward him, avoiding the graveled path, keeping to the grass to deaden each footstep, trying to position herself to view him from the side and knowing all along she was moving farther from safety, closer to the fountain and to him.

  Then he took his hand away from his face, and she saw the smear of rusty red on his cheek, and a bright trickle of crimson dripping from his brow. “Lord Blackburn! Let me help you.” She hurri
ed toward him.

  She got no closer than three feet when his arm snapped out. His fingers closed on her wrist, still sore from his previous imprisonment. His face unmarked, he looked at her. “No rose is well won without fighting the thorns.”

  Yanking her hand free, she unwittingly lashed it into the lattice. Thorns pierced her palm. She cried out. He caught her again, restrained her when she would have torn the flesh more with her futile struggles to free herself.

  “Hold still,” he said. One by one he loosened the clawing brambles. Tears sprang to her eyes at the pain—or was it the humiliation of being trapped so easily?

  Yet blood did slither off his chin from a long scratch across his jaw, staining his starched collar. His forehead had been punctured, and brambles had torn his flesh through his clothing until ruby dotted his white shirt.

  What a pair they were, bloodstained and bruised from fighting the roses, one another, and the world. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she hastily pushed it off with her free hand.

  He asked, “What are you crying for?”

  “It hurts.”

  “I’ll make it better.” Lifting her hand, he brought the palm to his mouth and sucked on it, an act of cleansing so intimate she closed her eyes to hide from the sight of that distinguished head bent in service to her.

  That didn’t help. He sucked harder, she thought, trying to draw out her wit and good sense. His tongue and his lips pressed against the muscles and the tendons, then his teeth bit into her hard. She squealed and wriggled, but he wouldn’t let her go. Lifting his head, he spat out the thorn he’d drawn forth, then held her hand down where she could see.

  A trickle of blood slid along the lines. He placed his slashed hand beside hers. With the precision of a master, he fit their palms together. His chest rose and fell as he took massive breaths, and she found her own breath matching his. His heart beat so heavily, she could almost hear it, and her heart slipped into his rhythm. He watched her from beneath lids weighted with significance, and his deep voice rumbled. “When our blood mixes, we’re joined.”