It Takes a Scandal (30 page)

“Could she have been there?”

He gave her a weary look. “Could a sixteen-year-old girl have gone from Stratford Court across the river to Montrose Hill and back, alone at night? I never saw her. The housekeeper and her husband never saw her. Benedict had no proof she’d ever left home. She was in her bed when he returned.” His voice hardened. “That was the last time his lordship and I had spoken before yesterday. He accused me of seducing an innocent girl, a girl I had once thought of as a sister. He said nothing when rumors began swirling that I had murdered my father, even though he was there and saw the empty room. He said nothing when his father accused me of stealing from him in vengeance for the lost land. He was not as I remembered him from our boyhood, and I find it hard to think cordially of him.”

There was no doubt of that. His voice had grown fierce and harsh as he spoke, and his face showed how cruel his disillusionment had been. Abigail, who was by nature a very loyal soul, felt her own indignation gather. Even allowing that Sebastian might have been a more rakish sort as a young man, he didn’t have it in him to toy with a girl’s affections, especially a girl so young. She could make some allowance—some—for Lord Atherton wanting to protect his sister, but not to the point of standing by while the gossip hounds devoured his friend without cause. Without thinking she put her hand on Sebastian’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Her touch seemed to rouse him from his moment of anger. His face relaxed as he glanced down at her hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one apologizing. I was at fault for being unable to hide my disdain when we met yesterday.”

When she had been holding Lord Atherton’s arm, with his expensive gift in the crook of her elbow. Abigail began to feel a little sorry for upbraiding Sebastian. It must have been a bit of a shock to him, since the last time he saw her she’d let him undo the front of her gown and do wicked things to her breasts. The memory of his lips on her bare skin made her heart skip a beat. He hadn’t promised her anything directly . . . but it dawned on her that his actions had all pointed toward more attachment than he’d declared. He wanted to make love to her, but restrained himself. He said he was trying to behave honorably. He sent her his mother’s book in apology. He made the grotto presentable and made sure she saw the treasure hidden within. He came to call on her family, to widespread astonishment. He hinted that he would speak to her father, when he returned from Bristol. And he’d gone looking for her as soon as he arrived home.

“Before you left,” she said hesitantly, “you said you had a question for my father.”

His eyes were hooded, wary. “I’m no longer certain I should ask it.”

“Why not? Did something happen in Bristol to change your mind?”

“Not in Bristol, no,” he said. “My uncle died. I went to Bristol to see his solicitor because he left me his estate—some four thousand pounds.”

So it had been good news, in a way. She tamped down the spark of relief and delight. “I’m very sorry he died.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” There was a long pause. “You said yesterday that you have never hidden what you want. If your desires have changed since I left—”

“No,” she said. It was true. Now that he was standing in front of her again, tall and serious and so close she could touch him, her heart was clear.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you preferred Atherton.”

“But I don’t,” she whispered.

Something leapt in his eyes. “Is every part of this garden visible from the house?”

She gulped. Her skin tingled. “All but the section there by the wall, where the roses climb over. There is an arbor . . .”

“Will you show me?”

Without a word she turned onto the path that led to it. The wall screened the kitchen garden from the formal garden. If one followed the path around the side of the house, it led to the Fragrant Walk. She kept her steps slow and deliberate, even though she wanted to race out of sight of any prying eyes. She said a fervent prayer that Milo had caused some trouble inside to keep Mama away from the window; ten minutes was all she asked.

The instant they rounded the side of the wall, Sebastian dropped his cane. She whirled at the sound, thinking he had stumbled again, but he caught her face in his hands and kissed her. It was the kiss of a starving man, and Abigail melted under the intensity of it. She slid her hands up his chest, under his jacket, feeling the hard, quick beat of his heart. He snaked one arm around her waist and hiked her against him, almost roughly. She sighed in pleasure. Oh yes; she knew what she wanted, and it was right here in his arms.

“I missed you,” he breathed. “More than words can say.”

“And I you.” She pressed her lips to his jaw.

“Even with Lord Atherton’s attentions to divert you?”

She laughed, tugging lightly on his cravat. “What was I supposed to do, throw him out? What if Penelope wanted him?”

His lips quirked in that slow smile. “She may have him, for all I care.”

“And for all I care,” she whispered, drawing his mouth back to hers for another kiss. They only had another moment or two. Anyone walking from the woods—or the stable, for that matter—would see them clinging to each other as though it would pain them to separate. Perhaps it would; when Sebastian raised his head and rested his cheek against her temple, Abigail only tightened her grip. Another minute, another second . . . She was greedy, wanting to snatch as many seconds as she could, in case it was another fortnight before another embrace.

Reluctantly he stepped back from her. “I brought a gift for you.” He took a small box from his coat pocket.

Abigail pulled off the ribbon, opened the box, and gazed at a small Wedgwood cameo pendant on a gold chain. “It’s lovely,” she sighed. “Oh, thank you.”

He smiled—a wide, honest smile, perhaps the first one she’d ever seen on his face. “I’ve never been happier to give a gift,” he said before he kissed her again, softly and sweetly this time. This was the kiss of a man in love, she thought in dizzy joy.

“Ahem.”

Abigail started, and Sebastian turned. Mama stood on the walk behind them, Milo nestled in the crook of her arm. She wore a pleasant but stern smile, an expression Abigail had never seen any other person achieve. “How lovely to see you again, Mr. Vane,” Mama said. “I wondered if you’d got lost in the garden.”

“No, Mrs. Weston. I was admiring your roses.”

Mama glanced at the roses climbing the wall beside them. Abigail took advantage of the momentary distraction to slip the cameo in its box into her pocket. She suspected the visit was over, and was proven right when Mama stayed with them, answering all Sebastian’s polite questions about the plants and design of the garden and leaving Abigail to trail behind. This time, though, she didn’t mind. The box in her pocket was tangible proof that she was right, about Sebastian and about her heart.

And that meant everything was going to work out perfectly, she just knew it.

Chapter 19

T
he invitation from Stratford Court caused a commotion when it arrived at Hart House. Mama was beside herself; she dashed off a note to Papa, who had gone to London on business, that he must return as speedily as possible to dine with the earl and countess. She told James he would accompany them, no matter what other plans he had made. Penelope, the sly opportunist, asked for a new gown and shoes, and was immediately granted permission to go into Richmond and order them. Abigail, too wrapped up in her own happy daydreams, barely acknowledged the invitation.

“You don’t seem surprised, Abby,” said her smiling mother.

“No, Lord Atherton mentioned it when we saw him in town the other day.”

Mama’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Nor do you seem especially pleased.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be delightful.”

Mama studied her a moment longer, then went to shut the door. She came back and sat beside Abigail on the sofa, taking the embroidery hoop from her hands. “What happened between you and Mr. Vane yesterday?”

“We strolled in the garden and talked.”

“You were in buoyant spirits when he left.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “I’m in love, Mama.”

A thin line creased her mother’s brow. “What of Lord Atherton?”

“He’s charming and very handsome,” she replied, “but he’s not the man I love.”

Her mother sighed. “Vane hasn’t spoken to your father.”

“No, but Papa said he would respect my choice.”

“He will take your desires into account,” Mama corrected her. “There are some strong arguments against Mr. Vane.”

“But there are equally strong explanations.”

Mama pressed her fingertips to her brow. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Don’t you want me to be happy?” She scooted closer to her mother. “Mama, he’s a good man. He’s a war hero! His father went mad, it’s true, but that has nothing to do with the son. And madness is what led old Mr. Vane to wander off one night.”

“But then what happened to him, dear?”

“No one knows. No one,” she repeated forcefully. “Sebastian looked for him—why wouldn’t he?” Her mother raised one brow, and Abigail slashed one hand through the air. “Does it serve him at all to be thought a murderer? To have his estate tied up because his father can’t be proven dead? It doesn’t even make sense, Mama.”

“But it is a black mark, and a very alarming one,” replied her mother. “We want you to be safe as well as happy, Abby. And unfortunately the rumors, to say nothing of his motives in pursuing a girl with a large dowry, are not to his credit.”

She set her jaw. “When you married Papa, he was just an ambitious young man, reading law in his father’s office. He had very little. What made you risk yourself on him?”

“Do not start, young lady.”

That was the warning tone. Abigail subsided; she wanted her mother’s support, not an argument. “You’ve always called me very sensible. I’ve met handsome men before, fortune hunters and rogues, and not been swayed by their flattery. Why don’t you trust me now?”

Her mother didn’t answer for a long moment. “I suppose it’s easier to trust when you refuse them. There’s much less at risk then.” She sighed. “Oh, Abby. I do want you to be happy. But Mr. Vane must prove himself worthy of you. If he cannot . . . Better a broken heart now than a lifetime of regret.” She rose. “There’s no reason to rush into anything. I must go send our acceptance to Lady Stratford.”

Abigail nodded as her mother left. That was better than an outright refusal, but less than she’d hoped for.

At least Sebastian had agreed to attend the Stratford dinner. She didn’t want to think how awkward that would be without him.

S
ebastian walked up the once-familiar drive to Stratford Court with very mixed feelings.

On one hand, he would see Abigail. Since their parting and informal betrothal, he’d been counting the hours until they would meet again. He hadn’t seen her since that glorious day in the Hart House garden, despite daily walks along her favorite paths in the woods. For that alone he could thank Benedict for this invitation.

But on the other hand, he had little doubt that Lord Stratford would be no more cordial than he’d been the last time Sebastian was here seven years ago, hobbling on crutches and seething with resentment over the riverfront acres. Just the thought of the earl’s response made his spine stiffen and his jaw clench. If Stratford provoked him . . .

If Stratford provoked him, he would do nothing. He was not that angry young man anymore. Nothing Stratford might say or do could spoil this evening. He forced his shoulders to relax as he shed his coat and handed it to the butler. He barely saw where the footman led him, straining his ears for the sound of her voice. And just as he went into the grand drawing room, he heard it. She turned at his entrance and smiled, so beautifully he thought he could face down a hundred Stratfords, just for the sight of her.

Still, it was odd meeting the family after all these years. Lady Stratford, still as slender and chilly as he remembered, treated him as a complete stranger. Lady Turley—once Lady Elizabeth Lennox—was reserved but gracious, making only a small acknowledgment that they had ever met; her husband, Viscount Turley, he didn’t know. Lady Samantha smiled at him, but with a flicker of awkwardness. Sebastian, his memories of her freshened by confiding in Abigail, spoke politely to her before moving on. Benedict was at his most charming, even condescending to shake his hand. And Lord Stratford . . .

The earl looked down his prominent, hooked nose. Sebastian bowed, ignoring the scorn in his glittering eyes, and after a moment Stratford made a motion that might be called a nod. Then he turned his back and walked away, which suited Sebastian perfectly. He joined James Weston, who was entertaining the younger ladies with a story from his recent visit to London involving an opera singer and a dog who got loose on the stage during her aria.

At dinner he was seated at the middle of the table, between Lady Turley and Mrs. Weston. Abigail was at the end, near Lady Stratford and Benedict, where he couldn’t see her around the enormous epergne in the center of the table. He refused to be ruffled by anything, and spent his time making conversation with Mrs. Weston, who told him all about Milo’s training. All in all, it was a better evening than he had expected.

It was after dinner that things began to deteriorate.

“What shall we do?” asked Benedict when they had all retired to the drawing room. To Sebastian’s immense relief, the gentlemen had not remained in the dining room over brandy for more than a quarter hour. Aside from a few subtly malicious comments from the earl, that had passed quickly enough.