Love and Other Scandals (25 page)

“I want,” she gasped. “I want—I need—” Something was building inside her, something frightening and vital and so, so close . . .

“God!” He closed his mouth around her nipple and suckled hard. His hips surged against her relentlessly, driving his hardness deeper, retreating, then filling her again. His fingers encircled that aching kernel of sensation and pinched it so firmly she thought she would go blind from it, and then something inside her broke, finally releasing the tension in a crescendo of waves that seemed to pull every muscle in her body tight. And as the taut urgency drained away, Tristan let his weight fall forward, gripping her to him with a harsh groan as he bore down on her and she felt him swell even larger inside her.

“That—that was a climax, wasn’t it?” she whispered a moment later, her arms locked around him.

He gave a huff. “Not just any climax. God in heaven, I thought I would fall unconscious.”

She stretched in instinctive female satisfaction, liking the way he caught his breath and pressed his hips against hers, as if he was as reluctant to part from her as she was from him. “So it’s not always that way when you make love to a woman?”

“It has never, in all my life, nor even in my imagination, been like that before.” He kissed her, long and slow, as if they had all the time in the world. “And it was only your first time.”

She blushed. “Will we do that again, then?”

“Repeatedly. Until I learn every last thing that makes you wild.” He grinned, the lazy, relaxed grin that burrowed straight into her heart. “But not tonight.”

“Oh. Oh!” Her mouth dropped open in alarm as she abruptly recalled where they were. “We could be discovered at any moment!”

He shrugged. “Unlikely. But we should return before anyone misses you.” With one last kiss he pushed himself away and got to his feet. Joan sighed as their bodies separated, but then giggled at the sight of Tristan with his trousers around his knees and his shirt hanging loose.

“Idle wench,” he said in amusement. “Here.” He pulled up his trousers and buttoned them, then pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and gently pressed it between her legs. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head. His face eased, and he ran his palm once, just lightly, over her woman’s place—what
50 Ways to Sin
called her quim—before he helped her up.

“It’s much more enjoyable to unfasten your dress,” he murmured as he redid her buttons after she tugged her corset and shift back into place.

“I suppose that must be one’s penance for being wicked during a ball.” She smoothed her skirts, hoping they weren’t horribly wrinkled in back. He laughed quietly, adjusting his own clothing, and she turned to the mirror over the fireplace to repair her hair. Thank goodness Polly had put it in a simple knot tonight; she would have been betrayed at once if she’d had to contend with braids and ringlets.

“Were we wicked?” He put his arms around her as she fixed the last pin. “Are you racked with guilt?”

Joan blushed. “No. At least—well, probably not as much as I should be.”

He regarded her seriously in the mirror. “How much would that be?”

The blush crept down her throat. “I suppose that depends on what comes next.”

This was the moment. He had remained by her side for all to see, all evening long. He had declared himself mad for her. He had called her gorgeous and bewitching and darling. He had made love to her and said it had been incomparable. Now was his opportunity to fall on his knees and swear his heart was hers, to beg for her hand in marriage, to begin a life of devoted happiness and contentment.

“Joan! Joan!” Evangeline’s frantic voice broke the pregnant pause. Before she or Tristan could speak, there was a furious rattling of the knob, and a moment later the door flew open and her aunt almost fell into the room, with Sir Richard close on her heels.

“Oh my,” cried Evangeline, clutching one hand to her heart as she spied them, still in each other’s arms. “Oh my God—Richard—!”

“What the devil are you doing?” that gentleman asked Tristan in an ominous tone.

Tristan looked down at her. Joan looked up at him. “What does it look like?” he asked.

He didn’t say anything else, though the whole room seemed to be waiting for something. Joan began to feel a prickle of unease. Had she misinterpreted . . . ? Or misheard . . . ? Surely if he loved her, he could still confess it . . .

“Joan—Joan, come with me right now.” Evangeline sounded on the brink of tears. “We have to go.”

Tristan released her at once. “Good night, darling.” He caught up her hand and brushed a lingering kiss on her knuckles. “I will see you later,” he added softly.

“Good night,” she replied with a tremulous smile. She wasn’t wrong about him. She didn’t—couldn’t—believe that. It would come out right. She was sure of it.

It had to. Didn’t it?

Evangeline seized her wrist and towed her down the hall, swiping at her eyes once or twice. Joan glanced behind her, but didn’t see either Sir Richard or Tristan following. In the hall her aunt sent a footman off to fetch the carriage, snapping at him to hurry. Another servant rushed to bring their cloaks, and Evangeline almost shoved Joan out the door.

“I hope,” she said when they were alone in the carriage, “that my fears are unfounded. I hope my trust has not been abused. I hope—” Her voice broke. “I hope I shall have nothing dreadful to confess to your parents.”

Joan was grateful for the darkness that hid her face. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“When I suggested you let him kiss you, I never meant you should walk away from a ball, where dozens of people might notice your absence and his! I never meant you should be indiscreet—a kiss could be given in a moment of privacy, behind a garden hedge or around a corner. You should not have stolen away to the loneliest part of the house where everyone will draw the worst conclusions!” This time there was a definite sob in her aunt’s anguished cry.

She began to feel very guilty. As much as she longed to, there was no real defense available to her. She couldn’t protest that nothing had happened, because it most certainly had. She couldn’t wave aside the notice of gossips and busybodies, because she knew quite well it was almost guaranteed. Not only were she and Tristan both taller than average, her gown had drawn attention. She knew people had been remarking his presence at her side, although she’d never really regretted that fact the way she did right now. It was inevitable that someone would whisper about it, and then it would be all over London. The notorious Lord Burke seduced the daughter of the very proper Lady Bennet! The first frisson of panic went up her spine as the realization crashed over her that her mother would hear of this.

“I’m very, very sorry,” she told her aunt. “I didn’t think . . . well, not clearly enough. He didn’t really tell me we were sneaking off, he just took my hand, and then . . .” She blinked, her own eyes growing wet. “But I wanted to go with him. He—he did kiss me, Evangeline—”

Her aunt made a sound like a strangled sob.

“And it was lovely,” Joan added longingly. “I love him. And I think he loves me.”

“Did he say so?” Evangeline leaned forward anxiously. “If he declared himself, my dear, this will all end well. Your father will allow it, if your heart is engaged. Your mother will see the wisdom of the match; it’s a very good one for both parties. Tell me he proposed marriage, or made any promise at all, and I shall stop haranguing you at once.”

“Not—not precisely marriage, no,” she said in a small voice.

Evangeline sat back and put her hands over her face. “Then I needn’t waste time worrying over whether Richard will shoot him. If Richard doesn’t, I most assuredly will.”

“Oh, no!” she gasped. “Why would you?”

“Joan.” Her aunt’s voice sharpened. “You are not that naive.”

“But I want to marry him,” she protested.

“I should bloody well hope so! You may have no other choice.”

“I could say I felt unwell and went to the retiring room alone . . .” Joan offered, more for her aunt’s sake than her own.

“I looked for you there,” snapped her aunt. “Another young lady stepped on her flounce and tore it off; there were several people helping calm her and mend it. They will know you weren’t there.”

“Perhaps I found a quiet room to sit and recover from a headache . . .”

“More than one person remarked Lord Burke’s absence. How will you explain that coincidence, after the attention he paid you? It looked to everyone as though he was declaring his intentions, and then both of you disappeared. And you, sly minx! Encouraging me to dance with Sir Richard so I would be distracted!”

“No!” Joan protested at once. “That is not why. I’d no idea Tristan and I would . . . I only wanted you to dance and enjoy yourself.”

Evangeline sighed. “In the end, that matters naught. My dear, you are caught. Take it from one who has made the same mistake and searched in vain for a way out.”

Joan bit her lip as the carriage turned into South Audley Street. “What will you tell my parents?”

Her aunt said nothing. She had the front facing seat, and her gaze was fixed out the window. In the lamplight her face was pale, but she seemed suddenly turned to stone.

“Evangeline?” Joan leaned forward and touched her aunt’s arm. “Are you ill?”

“Not yet,” said the other woman in a strained voice. “Your parents are home.”

Chapter 24

T
he frisson of panic bloomed into full-scale alarm. It was one thing to contemplate her mother hearing about tonight, and a very different thing to be faced with the consequences right this minute. “Now?”

“It looks as though they’ve just arrived.” Evangeline’s face and voice had settled into a chill calm.

The carriage stopped. Joan scrambled to look out the window. A large travel coach stood in the street, with servants handing down trunks and boxes. Her home was ablaze with light, and the front door was wide open to admit the servants with those trunks and boxes. “Oh, help,” she whispered.

Evangeline seized her wrist in an iron grip. “Say nothing,” she commanded. “I will speak to them.” She didn’t let go until Joan gave a nod. Then she took a deep breath and gathered her skirt as the footman swung open the door. “My goodness,” she cried in apparent delight as she stepped out of the carriage. “Have Sir George and Lady Bennet returned, Smythe?”

The butler bowed to her from his place near the door. “Indeed, my lady.”

“How timely!” A wide smile fixed on her face, Evangeline turned to look at Joan as she, too, stepped down. “Joan dear, your parents have returned!” she called. “Your mother must be restored to health. I must say, it doesn’t seem at all a pity now that I felt tired and made you leave the ball early, does it?”

Joan shook her head, too tense to speak. Evangeline was trying to save her, but she knew all too well it would only be a matter of time before her mother heard about tonight. Trying to mimic her aunt’s pleased demeanor, she followed Evangeline into the house.

Papa appeared as the servants were carrying away their cloaks. Evangeline saw him first. “George, you should have sent word that you were returning tonight!” She rushed toward him to clasp his hands. “I’m so sorry we were away; if I’d known, we would have stayed home to welcome you.”

Papa kissed her cheek, but his gaze never wavered from Joan. “We came in a hurry, Evangeline; forgive me.”

“Welcome home, Papa.” Joan hurried forward to embrace him. “Is everything all right? Why were you in a hurry?”

He peered closely at her, a thin line creasing his forehead. “Are you well, poppet?”

She wet her lips and tried to smile. “Perfectly. Why?”

“Is there anything you would like to tell me?” he pressed, in a low, meaningful tone that made her heart almost stop. He knew. How could he know? It happened only an hour ago! Papa hadn’t even been at the ball! How on earth could he know?

“Not really, no,” she squeaked. “Why do you ask?”

His shoulders seemed to fall. His jaw set. “Are you certain, Joan?”

Somehow he knew, and no plausible lie was ready on her tongue. She just stared at her father, wide-eyed.

“Joan.” Everyone turned. Mother stood in the dining room doorway. She looked thinner, with a thick shawl around her shoulders, and she leaned on a cane, but otherwise she looked the same. “What have you been up to?”

Panic rendered her mute. She looked to her aunt in desperation, but Evangeline was already sweeping across the hall. “Marion! How well you look. Come, let us go into the drawing room. Standing so near the open door cannot be good for any of us.”

“Yes, my dear, let us retire to the drawing room.” Papa went and offered Mother his arm. Mother’s gaze didn’t waver from Joan, but she didn’t say another word until they reached the drawing room and Papa closed the doors.

“How was your journey back to London?” Evangeline kept up her determined cheer, pretending not to notice the tension among the rest of them.

“Whatever has been going on here?” Mother asked Joan, ignoring Evangeline’s question.

She swallowed. She’d had a moment to calm herself and think rationally. There was no possible way Papa could have heard about this evening. Whatever had brought them back to London in a hurry had happened days ago. It was possible someone had heard about the ballooning trip, but Joan thought it far more likely that Tristan’s presence in South Audley Street was sufficient. Someone would have noticed his visits and written to her mother. “We were at the Brentwood ball this evening. Evangeline felt a trifle unwell, so we returned home early—happily, as it turns out. I’d no idea you were coming back to town so soon, Mother.”

“We decided rather quickly.” Her mother’s eyes grew wide as she looked down. “Good heavens, what are you wearing?”

She spread her palms against the cool silk of her skirt. “A new gown. Do you like it?”

“I took her to my dressmaker,” said Evangeline quickly, shooting Joan an encouraging glance. “It’s not the most conventional gown, but I think it looks beautiful on her.”

“Can we discuss the gown later?” asked Papa.

“George, she went out in society like this!” Mother sounded aghast. “In conjunction with the other news—” She broke off. “What was wrong with your other gowns?”

“I wanted to try something new. And . . . I didn’t think the other gowns were as flattering.”

Dismay flashed across her mother’s face. “They were perfectly fashionable!”

“Again, I must take the blame,” Evangeline tried again. “I noticed a—a certain similarity between Joan’s figure and mine, and since I look absolutely wretched in the current fashions, I thought she might like to try something else as well. I encouraged her—in fact, it was my gift to her, so you aren’t out of pocket for it, George.”

“Hang the bill,” said Papa testily.

“But it’s so plain!” said Mother at the same time, still staring at the gown in shock. “My daughter—out in that chemise!”

“I think it’s lovely,” murmured Joan.

“Now, Marion, ten years ago she would have worn sheer white muslin over a single petticoat. In our youth, she would have worn painted silk with all manner of birds on it. And in our mother’s day, it would have been heavy brocade.” Evangeline’s voice was growing strained. “This is a lovely silk, and—”

Mother looked up. “Evangeline, she’s an unmarried young lady. She ought not to dress like this.”

“But a simple design suits her. She hasn’t got your figure, Marion—she’s got mine! Ladies like us can’t wear the ruffles and trimmings you can,” Evangeline went on, almost pleadingly. “I only wanted her to wear something becoming.”

Mother’s lips parted in affront. “And the fashions I helped her select weren’t becoming—is that what you’re saying? At least I have the sense not to dress her in something that a loose woman might wear.”

The silence was painful. Joan wanted to sink through the floor, her fingers clenched on the folds of her glorious gold dress, the new dress that suited her and made her feel pretty—even beautiful, if Tristan could be believed. It made her ill to hear her mother’s words, though; not because she thought she looked like a loose woman, but because she knew she was one. She had been wanton and loose and she had loved every minute of it.

“Joan does not look like a loose woman,” said her father firmly, breaking the overpowering tension in the room. “She looks lovely, although far more sophisticated than I’m accustomed to seeing.” He gave her a nod. “That color suits you.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you, Papa.”

“And I did not race back to London to argue over fashion.” He directed a stern look on his sister and his wife before turning back to Joan. “Do you know why we’ve come home so suddenly?”

She had been throttling her brain in pursuit of that very answer. “I suppose someone wrote to you,” she began, “saying I’d been misbehaving.” This seemed the best plan. It involved some pain, but her chances were better with Papa in the room than they were with Mother alone.

“Go on,” said her father, confirming her suspicion.

She drew a long, shaky breath and turned to her mother. “I owe you an apology. I broke my promise to you. I—I did dance with Lord Burke again.”

“Oh, Joan,” exclaimed Mother in disappointed tones. “You gave me your word—”

“Marion,” said her husband. “Let her speak.”

“I danced with him because he asked me when no one else did, and I—I wanted to dance, Mother,” she confessed—honestly, as it turned out. “And he asked me, at first, because Douglas bade him do it; he told me that himself, and I trust Douglas will admit to it. Douglas thought he was doing a kind thing by asking Lord Burke to call on me and dance with me,” she went on, her voice growing stronger. She had done wrong, of course, but her brother had played a part in instigating the trouble—as usual—and she wasn’t about to shoulder the entire blame herself. “Since both he and Papa would be away from town, he didn’t want me to go into a decline worrying about Mother. I gather Lord Burke is the most respectable of his friends, so he asked it as a favor.”

“And was that the extent of Lord Burke’s attentions?”

“No,” she said, hoping her face wasn’t growing pinker with each word. “He came to tea and took me driving once, and he showed me and Evangeline his house.”

Her father’s gaze moved to her mother. But now her mother was staring in shock at Evangeline—Evangeline, who had been both very good and very bad for Joan these last few weeks. It made her stomach knot even though she didn’t know what to say. Defend her aunt and lie? Admit all that Evangeline had allowed her to do and suffer severe consequences? She couldn’t repay her aunt by turning her mother’s anger on her. After all, Evangeline might be at fault for not keeping closer watch on her, but any sins were solely Joan’s own. She couldn’t even blame Tristan for seducing her. If she had behaved as her mother’s daughter ought, none of this would have happened.

“Did Joan not tell you we disapproved of the gentleman?” Mother sounded as though she was choosing every word with care.

Evangeline was pale but composed. “I saw no harm in it. He’s a very eligible match—”

“He is wild,” Mother cut in. “He’s a notorious rake. His gambling habits are infamous. He’s not on speaking terms with his own family, and when he does appear in society, he usually leaves a scandal in his wake. There is more to eligibility than a charming smile.”

“He’s also titled, wealthy, and young enough to grow into a good husband, with the right encouragement,” argued Evangeline. “He’s not irretrievably wicked.”

“Well,” said Mother quietly, “you’ve been wrong about that before.”

The remaining color drained from Evangeline’s face. She didn’t say a word.

“I wanted to dance with him, Mother.” Joan quaked at the look her mother gave her, but she forged on. “I’ve come to admire Lord Burke a great deal. I danced again with him tonight.”

Mother closed her eyes. “Oh, my dear. Tell me it was only because you wanted to dance. Tell me you only admire his dancing. Tell me—” She seemed to waver, as if she would fall, and Papa was at her side in a moment.

“Dearest, you must go upstairs and let Janet tend you. I will talk to Joan.”

“George, please,” she whispered, trying to shake off his arm.

“I will carry you up the stairs if I must,” he told her. “Joan, ring for Janet.”

Joan did as she was told, and when her mother’s maid came to the door, Lady Bennet went. Her eyes filled with worry as she looked at Joan, but she left without a word.

“George, I’m entirely to blame,” said Evangeline as soon as the door closed. “Whatever happened that displeased Marion, it was my fault—”

Papa held up one hand. “I’m not looking to cast blame. Don’t berate yourself. May I speak with Joan alone now?”

Evangeline bowed her head. Silently she went out the door, closing it behind her.

Papa turned to Joan and leveled a weary gaze on her. “This is a fine mess, poppet.”

“I didn’t mean to do it.”

“I know. Come sit with me.” He led the way to the sofa and sat down. Joan perched on the other end of the sofa, feeling much less brave now that she would have to explain things to her father. “Why did you dance with the one man your mother told you to avoid?”

She clasped her hands on her lap and studied them. Evangeline had said Papa would give his blessing if he knew Joan really loved Tristan. This might be her best chance to set her father straight, since it was clear Mother’s disapproval was as strong as ever. “Because I wanted to dance with him, and go driving with him, and go ballooning.”

Her father frowned. “Ballooning?”

She nodded even as her cheeks grew warm. So they hadn’t heard about that. At least it wouldn’t be hanging over her head now. “It was thrilling, Papa. I’ve rarely enjoyed myself so much. He can be very charming and engaging when he wishes to be. And—and he’s very handsome, too.”

“Hmph.” His brow was still lowered. “And he took you to see his house?”

“Yes, and Evangeline, too,” Joan replied. “Lord Burke is rebuilding the house, since the roof gave way and several rooms were flooded, and he’s incorporated a number of wonderful inventions. He’s got a whole room just for bathing, Papa, with a water collection system and a special stove to heat the bathwater. I’ve never seen anything so perfectly designed for one’s comfort in a London house! He’s put pipes inside the walls and floor to heat the house even when the fires are out. And there’s a dumbwaiter for coal, so the servants can’t drop it on the stairs. Isn’t that the cleverest thing you’ve ever heard of?”

“Indeed. How very modern.” Papa was still watching her closely, but there was a more contemplative look in his eyes. “And this is why he’s staying in your brother’s house?”