Love and Other Scandals (13 page)

Chapter 14

T
he whirlwind of recent events necessitated a long chat with Abigail and Penelope. Joan had dashed off a brief note about her parents’ leaving town, delaying their walk, and Abigail had replied with all due concern and felicitations for Lady Bennet’s health. But that had been days ago, and between Evangeline’s arrival, Lord Burke’s dangerous promise, and the visit to Mr. Salvatore, Joan was bursting to talk—and her friends were desperate to hear it, judging from the quickness of their reply to her request to see them. Abigail proposed a drive in the park, and Joan agreed at once after obtaining her aunt’s permission.

“At last!” was Penelope’s greeting when Joan came down to meet them. “I haven’t slept a wink since the Malcolm ball, worrying about you!”

“It’s true she hasn’t slept, but I heard far more than worry from her lips,” said Abigail. “You are about to be interrogated to the point of senselessness, Joan.”

Penelope made a face. “I daresay I won’t have to ask twice! It’s not good for a body to keep everything inside. It relieves one’s spleen to vent it.”

“I was astonished you waited so long to ask.”

“Papa has it in his head that he needs a country estate, to lend us stature.” Abigail looked amused. “He’s made us all drive out first to Chelsea, then to Greenwich and even to Richmond, to view properties. Mama told him she wouldn’t live further than a day’s drive from London, so I suspect he drew a circle on the map and has been sending out enquiries to every property in that range.”

“Bother all that,” said Penelope. “I barely saw anything at either property, I was so consumed with worry about Joan! And now you simply must tell us all or I think I shall die from the anxiety.”

“We’ve brought Olivia to chaperone, and Jamie decided to come along at the last minute, so we haven’t got complete privacy.” Always cooler-headed than her sister, Abigail looked at Joan. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s so good for Olivia to get out.”

“Of course not.” Joan much preferred Olivia Townsend to Mrs. Weston as a chaperone. She was only a few years older than Abigail, and had known the Westons for years. When she went out with them, she acted more like an older sister than the respectable widow she was. Joan suspected her circumstances were somewhat strained, for she almost never saw Mrs. Townsend out in society without the Westons.

James was Abigail’s and Penelope’s older brother. Joan wasn’t as fond of him—he was far too serious and staid—but he was always kind to her. Besides, his sisters knew how to handle him. All it took was a discussion of stockings or cosmetics to send him hurrying in the other direction. And with both Mrs. Townsend and Mr. Weston accompanying them, Mrs. Weston wouldn’t see the need to go herself or send a maid to dog their heels.

They rode in Mr. Weston’s open barouche to the park, James Weston riding his horse alongside. Conversation was light and carefree, and Mrs. Townsend only reproved Penelope once for laughing too gaily. It was a lovely day, and Joan lifted her face to the sun. Freckles be damned; it felt good to be outside, and with her dearest friends.

Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to have had the same thought. The park was crowded, and the parade of carriages moved at a crawl. After a quarter hour, Penelope was squirming in her seat.

“If you can’t sit still, you might as well get down and walk,” said Mrs. Townsend, who was sharing the seat with Penelope.

“Brilliant thought, Olivia!” Penelope beamed at her. “Jamie, we want to stroll,” she called to her brother, who nodded and urged his horse forward to speak to the driver. “Will you come with us, Olivia?”

Mrs. Townsend smiled wryly. “And spoil the confidences you’re dying to exchange with Miss Bennet? I wouldn’t dream of it. Just sitting here in the sun for a few minutes will delight me.”

It took a little while to find a spot for the carriage away from the traffic, but finally the driver stopped. Mr. Weston dismounted and helped them all down, then stayed behind to talk with Mrs. Townsend.

As soon as they were ten feet from the carriage, Penelope burst out, “Tell us everything!”

“She means to ask, how have things been since your mother fell ill?” said Abigail with a sharp look at her sister. “Are you well, Joan?”

“Oh, yes, well enough.” She paused. “I’m worried about my mother. She’s not usually ill, but this time . . . Papa nearly had to carry her into the carriage. It was alarming.”

“Have they reached Cornwall yet?”

Joan lifted one hand helplessly. “I don’t know; perhaps. Papa said they would travel slowly, to avoid tiring her. We received one brief note, saying they had reached Bath but then been compelled to stop so Mother could rest. He promised to write to me when they arrived, so I hope to hear from him soon.”

“I’m sure that’s very wise of him.”

For a moment they were all quiet. Joan bit her lip as thoughts of her mother, weak and coughing up blood, filled her mind. She was anxious to hear from her father, but she was just as concerned that he not delay their progress merely to send her a letter saying they’d reached Devonshire. Conveying Mother safely to Cornwall was the important thing, even if it left her prey to horrible fears and worries. She’d tried not to dwell on it much, and Evangeline’s presence had been a marvelous distraction, but Joan thought of her mother every night.

“Are you getting on well with your aunt?” Penelope asked hesitantly. “You never spoke of her before.”

Joan made herself smile. “I never really knew her before. My mother thought her scandalous, and she hasn’t been in London much. I hadn’t seen her in years.”

“And your father left you in her charge?” Abigail’s eyes were wide.

“Yes, although only after making me solemnly swear I would behave myself.”

“That sounds like a fool’s bet to me,” exclaimed Penelope. “Your father ought to know better than that.”

“I think he was faced with dire circumstances,” Joan replied. “He’s sent Douglas off to Ashwood to help rebuild after the flood there.”

“Douglas? Build a house?” Penelope let out a whoop.

Behind them, Mr. Weston turned their way, a slight frown on his face. Abigail waved at him with a bright smile even as she poked her sister’s arm. “Hush, Pen. Jamie’s watching you.”

“Pooh on Jamie,” said Penelope, but in a lower tone. “How diverting to think of Douglas contemplating which paper to put on the walls and what draperies to hang!”

“Quite a thought, isn’t it?” Joan grinned. “I expect he’ll be tearing out his hair to come back to London within a fortnight.”

“But your aunt.” Abigail fixed a stern gaze on Joan. “You don’t seem oppressed.”

“No, quite the opposite.” Joan looked around, but Mr. Weston had gone back to talking with Mrs. Townsend, and neither was paying them any mind. “She’s shockingly original. She drinks brandy after dinner. She greeted Smythe, our butler, like an old friend; he once helped her sneak into the house when she’d gone out to see a footrace. And she doesn’t care a fig for fashion, but her wardrobe is so striking and flattering, I can hardly breathe from envy.”

The Weston girls exchanged a glance. “I can’t wait to meet her,” said Penelope.

“Are you happy to have her, then?” Abigail looked bewildered.

Joan thought of the new day dress Mr. Salvatore was sewing for her at that very moment. As Evangeline had warned, he had apparently decided everything about it without once seeking her approval. Beyond the fact that it would be green, he hadn’t even told her what it would look like. But his words had been kind and encouraging; he declared she had it in her to be a Venus, and that he knew how to do it. With all her heart she hoped he was right and that the dress came out well, that he had somehow seen some way to flatter her tall, round figure and not make her look like a tufted umbrella. “I believe it may be a rare stroke of good fortune.” She said nothing of the dress, wanting to see their unprepared reaction when she wore it.

“I am very glad of it,” said Abigail.

“As am I. Now, what happened with Lord Burke at the Malcolm ball?” Penelope asked.

“He gave me
50 Ways to Sin
.” Joan swung her reticule. “Do you want it?” She’d rolled it into a tight cylinder and tied it with a ribbon to keep it confined. Mother’s absence, and even more important, Janet’s, had made it much easier to keep it hidden.

“You may keep it; I managed to steal Mama’s copy the other night. Is that why he waltzed you out of the room?” Penelope was undeterred, to Joan’s disappointment. Usually they discussed each issue with rabid interest, from the plausibility of the acts described to which gentleman of the town had inspired the tale.

“That was only for a moment.”

“It was several minutes, and even though he emerged—and left the ballroom!—a few minutes later, you didn’t come back for much longer, and when you did, you looked thoroughly flustered. What happened?” Abigail prodded. “I hope it was something delicious, from the way you’re blushing.”

“You’re both horrible people.” Joan glared at them. “May I not have some secrets?”

Penelope snorted. “Not about this! Or next time we shall follow you when he asks you to dance, and that will make it much more difficult for him to make love to you.”

“
Penelope
.” Her face was bright red, she could feel it.

“And she denies nothing,” observed Abigail. For once she was as avidly curious as her sister. “So, what did he do?”

Joan pursed her lips, but part of her was wildly eager to tell. She’d been kissed—properly kissed, near to ravishment—by a true rake. And there was even a chance he would do it again. She glanced around to ensure they were alone, and lowered her voice. “You must never tell anyone.”

“No, never,” her friends chorused.

“He made a very halfhearted apology for calling me an umbrella”—Penelope’s eyebrows went up—”and he gave me
50 Ways to Sin
by sliding it down the back of my gown”—Abigail gasped loudly—”and then he kissed me.” She said the last three words in a rushed whisper that was almost drowned out by Penelope’s whoop.

“Did you enjoy it?” demanded Abigail.

“Huh! Who cares?” snorted her sister. “She was kissed by the handsomest viscount in London!”

“It was very pleasant,” said Joan primly, aware that her face was scarlet. “Until he said he’d only done it to make me stop talking.”

The expression on her friends’ faces was comical: Penelope outraged, Abigail dismayed. And then they both began trying to hide their amusement.

“Oh, Joan.” Abigail sighed, her eyes brimming with laughter. “You drove a notorious rake to distraction and he
kissed
you.”

“I want to be like you someday,” gasped Penelope, her shoulders shaking.

“Yes, well, that’s not all. He called on me the other day and said Douglas made him promise to escort me about town. Like a brother, I’m sure he meant to say, but can you imagine?”

“I’m trying desperately,” murmured Penelope.

“Naturally I thought it presented a great opportunity to pay him back for his impertinence, so I didn’t tell him no. But I couldn’t help asking if he meant to kiss me again, to which he replied an emphatic no.” Joan smiled in satisfaction. “I said I hadn’t cared for it the first time—”

“Liar,” said Abigail under her breath.

“To which he replied that it sounded like a challenge,” Joan went on with a dark look at her friend. “He even said he’d wager a shilling he could kiss me again and make me like it . . .” Her voice trailed off as she belatedly realized she might have revealed too much.

Penelope gave a little shriek. “A wager? Did you accept it?”

“Of course not!”

“But you wanted to.” Abigail was watching her closely, still grinning. “You want him to kiss you again.”

Joan opened her mouth, then closed it. “I promised my father I would be on my very best behavior. I couldn’t possibly engage in such unladylike pursuits as wagering.”

“Just kissing.” Penelope laughed.

“But Joan.” Abigail sobered. “It’s very thrilling to have a gentleman steal a kiss, or even two, but what do you want to come of it? You called him Lord Boor the other night and said you punched him in the face.”

“Don’t be so grim, Abby,” scoffed Penelope. “It was just a kiss!”

“And a wager, about more kisses. I just think Joan should be wary.” Abigail lifted one shoulder. “He’s a notorious rake, known for his scandalous affairs. I doubt Joan wants to be caught up in one of those.”

“Not particularly,” she murmured, just a shade wistfully. A scandalous affair would be very bad after it ended, of course, but while it was happening . . . well, it could be very thrilling.

“Unless he falls madly in love with her and proposes marriage,” suggested Penelope. “Other scandalous affairs have ended that way. Sometimes notorious rakes do fall in love, you know.”

Abigail looked at Joan. “Is that what you hope?”

She said nothing, because she had no idea what to say. It was hard to deny that kissing Tristan Burke had been pleasant. More than pleasant. It had set her nerves on fire and made her skin yearn for him to touch her again. A wicked part of her even thrilled at the thought of more intimate touches, fed by the memory of his hand on her hip and his body pressed against hers. And if he wanted the same, she didn’t know how she would refuse him, no matter what his motivations. To feel desired, even for just a while, was a powerful temptation.