It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 9

Penelope insisted on hearing details on the walk home. Abigail put her off—how much could have happened in the few minutes they walked alone?—but she was forced into admitting that Mr. Vane had offered to show her the grotto.

“Good,” declared her sister. “I didn’t want to go out there again.”

“And you won’t tell anyone,” ordered Abigail.

Penelope scoffed. “As if I would ruin your amour! One of us should have something exciting happen. I’m rather disappointed it isn’t to be me, but I shall endure . . . somehow . . .”

Abigail made a face and swatted her sister’s arm. “Try to suffer in silence, please.”

“Heartless creature,” Penelope returned. “I sacrificed my dress to give you a moment alone with him! Look at this—it’s ruined!”

“And now you will tell Mama you need another dress, so I shan’t waste any tears over it.”

Penelope huffed and grumbled all the way home, which gave Abigail time to think. And by the time they reached home, she had decided on a course of action.

She liked Sebastian Vane. Nothing about him made her think he was dangerous or unhinged, rude or nefarious. The gossip about him was bad, it was true; but the very depths of depravity described made her doubt. If people would repeat that nonsense about a dog being a figment of witchcraft, they would repeat anything. There had to be more to the story about old Mr. Vane’s disappearance, and thieves were everywhere. So far she knew with certainty only that Sebastian Vane was the son of a man who went mad, which seemed beyond his control and hardly something he would have chosen. He was wounded, but not crippled, in honorable military service. As for his financial state, he still owned a very lovely property in Richmond, which counted for something.

And he wanted her. Just remembering the scorching look in his eyes made her feel hot and restless. She wasn’t ready to be as debauched as Lady Constance, but she was more than eager for Mr. Vane to show her some things. He could start with kissing, for one.

The next day Abigail took care not to meet anyone on her way out of the house. She was safe from Penelope—her sister was still pretending to favor her ankle—but she wasn’t taking any chances. And meeting Papa or James would be even worse, so she watched and waited and chose her moment to escape, leaving only a vague word with her maid that she was going for a stroll and would be back by dinner.

She reached the Fragrant Walk but saw no sign of Mr. Vane. Her steps sped up as she went, expecting to see his tall, rangy figure around every bit of shrubbery. By the time she got to the end of the gravel, where the path diverged into a walk that led back toward the lawn and a narrower track that disappeared into the woods, her heart was pounding.

He wasn’t there.

Perhaps she was early. Perhaps he was late. Perhaps he had changed his mind. She hitched her shawl more securely over her shoulders and headed down the path that wound through the trees, although a little more cautiously.

The woods grew thick very soon after leaving the well-raked walk. After ten yards she could barely see the sunlit lawn behind her. After twenty she bit her lip; she would feel like a great fool if she got lost in the woods. He had specifically said to meet him on the Fragrant Walk. If he arrived there ten minutes from now and she was nowhere to be seen, he might think she hadn’t come. And if he didn’t intend to arrive there at all today, well, wandering through the trees wouldn’t make her feel any better.

She was about to turn around when a familiar dog came trotting easily through the thicket. It was Mr. Vane’s dog, looking even larger and more fearsome than he had the other night. She stopped in her tracks as he came right up to her and sniffed the hem of her skirt. For all that she’d defended him yesterday, seeing the animal himself today was somewhat intimidating. He seemed calm and unthreatening, though, so she gingerly held out one hand.

“Have you brought cheese again?” Mr. Vane stepped out of the trees behind his beast. Abigail snatched back her hand. “I told you, Boris adores cheese.”

“Does he?” She looked doubtfully at the big dog, who looked as though he could eat a whole leg of ham in one meal. Boris instantly sat, his tail thumping the ground, and gazed at her with attentive black eyes.

“Cheese is his favorite thing in the world. He’ll be your willing slave for a morsel of it.”

“He’s a very fierce animal to be controlled by cheese.”

Mr. Vane shrugged. “Every male has his weakness, I suppose.”

“I hope so,” she murmured, thinking more of the man than the dog. She extended her hand to Boris once more. With surprisingly gentleness, he sniffed her fingers and butted his head into her palm. Abigail patted him, and the dog panted and closed his eyes a little.

“You have made a friend,” said Mr. Vane dryly.

She smiled, now scratching Boris’s ears. He gave a whimper like a puppy and scooted closer to her, stretching his neck. His head came up almost to her bosom, and she scratched his ears a little nervously. His tongue flopped out of his mouth until it looked like he was grinning at her. “You’re not as fierce as you look,” she told him, relaxing a little.

“Certainly not when he senses the chance of getting some cheese.”

“Well.” She slanted a look at the dog’s master. “I have got some in my pocket.” She’d brought it on a whim.

He raised a brow. “Do you normally bring food when setting off to explore a grotto?”

She flipped one hand. “I’ve never seen one before, but it seemed best to be prepared. And, as you see, it’s already paid off.” Boris was now nearly lying across her feet, openly begging for more affection.

“Boris,” said Mr. Vane, and in the blink of an eye the big dog scrambled to his feet and trotted back to his master. “Let’s go,” he said, sounding grim.

Abigail raised her chin. “Not if you don’t want to show me. I’ve no interest in being a thorn in your side.”

He gave her a searing glance, so intense the air seemed to shimmer for a moment between them. “A thorn you are not.” He hesitated, his expression softening. “Forgive my lack of manners. I’ve not been much in company lately, and have quite forgotten how to speak to a lady.” He put out one hand. “Will you still come?”

Her heart leapt. Holding up her skirt, she put her hand in his, and stepped off the dirt path into the bracken with him.

“Have you always known about the grotto?” she asked as they walked.

He brushed a thick fern out of the way with his cane. “Since I was a boy. Hart House was built for a royal mistress—one of Charles II’s, I think—and as such was filled with all manner of follies and whimsies. The grotto was only one of them, but one of the few to survive the intervening decades.”

“I understood Lady Burton had filled it in years ago.”

“The woods did it for her.” He turned his head from side to side, frowning at the trees. “Over there, I think. It’s been a while since I visited it.”


They pushed through a stand of beeches and skirted a muddy pond like the one Penelope had tumbled into. Squinting at the sky and trees from time to time, Mr. Vane led her around a patch of bramble bushes and down a gentle slope. Abigail couldn’t see anything that looked remotely like a grotto. She had imagined a clearing, with an archway or a gate and stone steps leading into a cleft in the ground, perhaps with a stream running down the middle: something dramatic and worthy of its mystical name. Instead they were in a thick spot of forest, shaded by the canopy of trees overhead and surrounded by overgrown shrubbery running rampant over a small rise. Wild harebells grew all around them. It was quiet and shady, but there was no sign of a cave when Mr. Vane finally stopped.

As if he could read her thoughts, he cocked one brow. “Disappointed?”

“Not at all!” She turned around, searching for any glimpse of the grotto. “I just—I just don’t see it yet . . .”

“And yet you’re less than ten feet from it.” She peered at the ground as if it might erupt at her feet, and he shook his head. “It took me nearly ten years to discover it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she murmured. “But why did you let it disappear into the forest again?”

His expression turned wry as he unsheathed a large knife that had been strapped against his good leg. “Once I found it, my curiosity was satisfied; its elusiveness made it fascinating, and once it was no longer elusive, I was content to leave it as it was.” He strode forward and began cutting at the vines and plants that covered a large boulder.

Abigail seated herself on a nearby fallen tree and watched as he worked. “Perhaps it will so move me, I’ll be drawn back. Perhaps I’ll restore it and care for it and come often, if it proves a refuge.”

“Oh?” He took off his hat and tossed it onto a nearby bush. “Why would you need a refuge?”

His hair was brown, falling to his collar with a gentle wave. Abigail watched the few stray beams of sunlight dapple his head and shoulders as he bent down to rip out some sprawling plant. She followed his example and shed her own bonnet, placing it on the trunk beside her. “Why wouldn’t I need a refuge?” she parried his question. “Who can say they never have need of a quiet, private place?”

“Who, indeed?” he muttered, lifting a fallen sapling and shoving it aside. “The grounds of Hart House offer no quiet place?”

“Not enough of one. No sooner do I find one than my sister is sure to invade it and pester me with some mad scheme or diversion; she’s utterly bored in Richmond.” While his back was turned, she took out the hunk of cheese, wrapped in cloth, from her pocket and broke off a small chunk for Boris, who lapped it from her fingertips gently and eagerly.

“Your sister was with you in the bookshop the other day. I presume she enjoys that better than the woods?”

Abigail pressed her lips together, remembering what Penelope had made her buy in the bookshop. “Yes.”

“Is it a refuge from her you seek?”

“Sometimes.” She felt bad impugning her sister, and fed Boris another morsel of cheese in atonement. “Not often. Penelope is the best sister in the world. But when she’s bored, she can be a trifle . . .”

“Tiresome?” he suggested when she hesitated.

“Demanding.”

He grunted, slashing a trailing vine from the path he was clearing. “So demanding she compels you to dig up a long-buried grotto?”

“I never demanded that. You offered,” Abigail pointed out.

His dark eyes turned toward her. She tensed for him to argue, but he only slid his knife back into the sheath strapped at his hip. “So I did.” He swept one arm to the side. “Your grotto, my lady.”

She jumped to her feet and scanned the ground. “Where?”

“Come.” He retrieved his cane—again she realized he’d set it aside without her noticing—and waved her to come closer. “The steps become visible only a moment before you fall headfirst down them.”

She edged closer, finally spying the rough stone stair disappearing into the earth. Vines still rambled over the opening, but he had cleared away just enough to expose the top few steps. They must have been completely covered. “How did you ever discover it?”

“By falling headfirst down it one day. The vines appear solid, but if you walk on them . . .” He grimaced.

She took a cautious step down, and then another. “It seems as though the earth will swallow us up.”

He stepped down behind her and put his hand at her back. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” Together they went down, slowly and carefully. Mr. Vane pushed back the encroaching vines just enough to allow them to squeeze under, and when they reached the bottom, there was enough space to stand comfortably upright.

It was cool and dark, but remarkably dry. As her eyes adjusted, Abigail could make out the stone walls cutting down into the earth. Dry leaves crunched underfoot as she went forward one step, then another. Ahead of her was only darkness, thick and impenetrable. “We should have brought a torch,” she said, starting as her voice echoed back at her. “We can hardly explore if we’re blind.”

“You didn’t bring a candle?”

She glanced at him, but as it often was, his expression was neutral. “I didn’t think of it,” she confessed. She didn’t add that she’d thought mostly of seeing him, and had presumed that if they found the grotto at all, it would only be after some considerable searching.

Mr. Vane gave a small shake of his head as he rummaged in his pocket. “You must think through all the consequences of your actions, Miss Weston.” He drew out a short candle and a flint. “Grottos are dark places.”

“I knew that.”

When he had lit the candle, he handed it to her. The light of a single flame didn’t illuminate very far, but against the absolute blackness of the grotto, it seemed brilliant. “Lead the way.”

“How far does it go?” She took the candle carefully, avoiding a stream of wax that ran down the side. “Will we come out by the river if we just keep going?”

“I don’t know. I never just kept going.”

“Why not? I thought it was your childhood dream to discover it. How could you not explore every inch of it, once you found it?” she asked teasingly.

He ran one hand over his head. “I only found it the night before I left to join my regiment, bound for Spain in ’11. I hadn’t time that night to explore every inch, and later . . .” He shrugged.

Abigail hastily turned away. Later he had been wounded, occupied with an infirm parent, and then dogged by rumors of madness, murder, and theft. “Then we shall explore it now together,” she said firmly, holding the light aloft and starting forward. “And if we locate any buried treasure, we will share it evenly.”

“I would be content not to locate any wild animals.”

She laughed, the sound ringing around them. “Won’t Boris defend us?”

“Boris won’t come down here. He prefers to remain above ground.” He turned and looked up. “See?”

Abigail peered past him to see Boris watching from the top of the stairs. He showed no sign of following them, but sat with his head cocked to one side as if wondering what made them do something so foolish as descend into the earth. “I hope we won’t need him.”


She fancied Mr. Vane almost smiled for a moment. “I hope not, too.”

Slowly they proceeded down the passage. After about ten feet it turned sharply to the left, and once around the turn the dim light from the opening vanished. With the light seemed to go the last trace of warmth as well, and Abigail shivered as she hiked her shawl over her shoulders.

“Are you cold?” murmured Mr. Vane, very close behind her.

“Not much. I think it was just the sunlight disappearing.”

His eyes reflected the candle’s flame. In the flickering light his face was imposing and forbidding, and Abigail’s stomach twisted in on itself. She didn’t really know him, but here she was exploring a cave with him in secret. “Don’t be nervous,” he said softly, as if he could read her thoughts. “I have a good sense of direction. I shan’t let us get lost.”

“I feel as though we should be unspooling a string behind us, to follow back.”

The corner of his mouth crooked upward. “Have you brought a string?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.” He looked at her. “Shall we go back?”

With a deep breath, she shook her head and moved forward. Slowly they followed the passage as it turned and curved deeper into the ground—or so Abigail imagined. Her fears of getting lost faded, though, as there were no other passages branching to the sides, just the one they followed. The air grew cooler, scented with moist earth and moss. Every now and then a wisp of air rushed past them, making the flame dance, and once Abigail thought she heard the distant scurrying of tiny feet, although she never saw the creature.

“Why do you think you never found it when you were a boy?” she asked. His footsteps echoed louder than hers, as his boots scuffed the stone floor and his cane gave a soft tap with every step.

“Lack of focus, most likely. It didn’t take much to distract us once we were deep in the woods.”

“Us?”

He hesitated. “I wasn’t the only boy in Richmond keen to discover the grotto. It was the object of many grandiose plans.”

“Such as?” She wondered what he’d been like as a boy, before terrible things had happened to him.

“The usual pursuits of boys,” he said vaguely. “Hiding from tutors, escaping punishment, and so on. Much like your sister mentioned yesterday, it seemed an ideal refuge, hidden in the woods and thought by most people to be long lost.”

“But ten years! It must have seemed ridiculous that you would find it by accident, after spending all those years searching for it.”

“We spent more of our time close to the river,” he said. “The trees were better for climbing there.”

“Of course.” She laughed, until the candle flickered wildly. She stopped dead in her tracks.

“What’s wrong?” He put his hand on her back and stepped in front of her, as if he could see better than she could what lay ahead.

“I thought the candle would go out,” she whispered, staring at the dancing flame and willing it to stay lit.

For a moment they both remained motionless, mesmerized by the flame. “We should turn back,” said Mr. Vane.

The flame steadied, and so did Abigail’s nerve. She looked up at him. “Not yet. See? It’s fine.” The flame burned as brightly as ever. It was reflected in his dark eyes as he looked down at her, his hand still on her back, his arm still around her.

“As you wish.” He let her go and swept out his arm, beckoning her to take the lead again. “Let us continue, then.”

It seemed they had been walking forever, although Abigail thought that if their path were laid out aboveground and well lit, it would probably fit inside the dining room at Hart House. And still the darkness stretched ahead of them without end. She would never have admitted it aloud, but the grotto was proving a little disappointing. It was just a narrow passage under ground, as dark as sin and as cold as winter. She hadn’t really expected it to hold a magnificent pool lined with mosaics and statues, as she’d seen in one illustration, but she had expected there to be something of interest. Who would simply dig a tunnel in the middle of a forest? Finally, just as she was beginning to wonder how deep it was—or if they ought to turn back—the grotto opened up. The ceiling rose above them, the walls expanded, and she realized they had come to a chamber. And there was something about the walls . . .

“Look,” she gasped. “The walls are sparkling!”

Mr. Vane put out his hand. “Cut glass, embedded in the walls.”

“Oh, if only we’d brought more candles!” Abigail held the lone light up, watching the flame dance and flicker in the thousands of shards of glass covering the walls. “What a marvel! Who would have guessed it from the surface?”

“Someone went to some trouble,” he agreed.

“Well.” She grinned. “It’s a sort of buried treasure, I suppose.”

He turned and looked at her. Again the candlelight caught his eyes. “Cut glass isn’t a treasure.”

“But the beauty it can present is.” She moved the candle in an arc, smiling at the sparks that seemed to leap from the walls. It would be magnificent in the light of a dozen candles.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“It’s quite the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen.” She roamed around the chamber, holding the candle close to the walls to see the glass. “Goodness! How much effort must have gone into creating this room!”

“I agree.” He didn’t follow her, and when she turned around she could hardly see him. Outside the limited range of her candle, he was cloaked in shadow, his neck cloth and face ghostly in the dark.

She studied the sparkling glass. Each shard seemed to be set just so into the walls, creating a mosaic of color. “It makes one wonder why the grotto was allowed to fall into such disuse. Although I suppose it isn’t very convenient to the house.”

“I’ve noticed that when people want something enough, there is no inconvenience that cannot be overcome,” he said after a moment.

She smiled. “True. I certainly shan’t be put off visiting again.” She continued walking around the room, following the wall and watching the flame’s reflection leap from shard to shard. Every now and then she noticed some bits of silvered glass, mirroring the light of her candle better than the rest.

“So you’ve seen the mysterious grotto; are you ready to go home now?” he asked after she had gone all the way around the chamber.

It was so quiet and still, she could hear her own breath. She wasn’t ready at all to leave. “So soon?”

He didn’t move. “What else is there to do?”

She wanted to sit and study the walls. She wanted to spread a blanket on the floor and spend an hour here, teasing more of those elusive smiles from him. But there was no blanket, they had only one candle, and she suddenly felt unsure of herself.

“Miss Weston,” he said when she didn’t answer his question, “we should go. Before anything regrettable happens.”

She wet her lips. “What do you plan to do that you might regret, Mr. Vane?”

The question seemed to check him. He turned away, tipping back his head to survey the ceiling, which seemed to be just as encrusted as the walls. “I never plan to do anything regarding you, and yet somehow something happens every time we meet.”

“Surely you cannot regret this.” She raised the candle high again. “Wouldn’t you have explored the grotto earlier if you had known this might be here?”


Slowly he turned to face her again. “No.”

“No?” she exclaimed in astonishment.

“It wouldn’t have been the same.”

“Yes, it would have,” she protested. “I don’t think anyone’s touched it in decades—”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” he repeated, “without you.”

Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat. She drew an unsteady breath, and the flame flickered as her fingers clenched around the candle.

“It’s not safe to explore a cave alone,” he went on, his voice still low. “Promise me you won’t come again on your own.”

“I want to see this room again, with more light . . .”

He hesitated, and seemed to retreat into reserve again. “I only asked that you promise not to come alone. Bring your sister, if you want, and a supply of lanterns.” His words echoed as he headed back the way they had come, out of the chamber.

Abigail felt another pang of disappointment, but started after him. Even with the candle, she didn’t want to be alone in the grotto. “Mr. Vane, wait,” she called, just as another stray puff of air caught the candle flame and snuffed it out before she could shelter it. She froze, paralyzed by the swift plunge into absolute darkness. “Mr. Vane?” she said, her voice rising a little.

“I’m here.” This time she heard his cane, tapping firmly on the floor. “Keep talking and don’t move.”

“I’m not very frightened of the dark, but this came on a little suddenly.” Her eyes felt like they were turning inside out, she was staring so intently into the void. “And now it does seem as though we walked a very long way to get to this chamber, and how shall we find our way out without the candle?”

“We’ll find our way out.” His voice was as steady and matter-of-fact as ever, which calmed her nerves somewhat. She could hear his steps still, but because of the echo she had no idea if he was getting closer to her or farther away. Her own feet felt glued to the floor, as if to move would be to become irretrievably lost.

“Do you still have your flint? I hope we can relight the candle. Next time I shall bring a lantern, I swear!” She gave a shaky laugh.

“I still have the flint, right in my pocket.”

“Thank goodness!” She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a gasp of terror. “I knew we ought to have brought Boris. He could have led us out . . .”

He gave a soft tsk. “Boris would be useless. He would eat your cheese and run off to follow some scent.”

“Truly?” Her skin was beginning to crawl. She imagined the ceiling of the chamber collapsing and entombing them both. Her parents would never know what had happened to her.

“Truly. He’s also a little afraid of the dark.” The soft tap of his cane sounded nearer, to Abigail’s straining ears.

“Is he?” She gulped. “I couldn’t blame him for being frightened of this darkness.”

“Everything is exactly the same as it was when you could see,” he said. “Close your eyes and you won’t know it’s dark.”

“I don’t see how I could forget.” Her voice wavered.

“Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. “Trust me.”

She closed her eyes. “Where are you?”

“Getting nearer.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can hear your breathing. Put out your hands.”

Reluctantly Abigail reached out in front of her, keeping her eyes tightly closed. She felt dizzy and off-balance, and when something hit her elbow, she would have staggered and fallen if he hadn’t seized her arm and yanked her to him. Gasping in relief, she clutched at his coat and burrowed into his side, desperately happy not to be alone, even if they were still entombed in the pitch-black grotto.

Sebastian wrapped his arms around her and tried not to think how perfectly she fit against him. She was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, and for a minute he just held her, letting his own pulse calm down. When the light had gone out, he’d cursed—and then he heard the panic in her voice, and cursed himself. What an idiot, bringing a young lady down into a cave without any forethought at all, not even a lantern that would remain lit. If he’d had an ounce of sense, they would be strolling along as before, the air between them humming with awareness but still separating them.

Now, though . . . nothing separated them. The hum had become a crackle of desire, at least in his head. He raised one hand to touch her hair and inhaled deeply of roses, the same scent of roses that drifted in his windows all summer from the overgrown flowers his mother had planted decades ago. Abigail Weston smelled dangerously of home.

Gradually her trembling lessened and then stopped. Sebastian made no effort to release her, and she didn’t move. Against his will, the images from 50 Ways to Sin drifted across his mind. Lady Constance had called the darkness very freeing, and she was right—it freed his imagination from all restraint and sense. He imagined kissing Abigail Weston until she forgot all about the darkness. He imagined letting his hands roam over every soft, silky inch of her skin until she begged for more. He imagined laying her down and making love to her, driving her wild with passion so that he wouldn’t be the only one dying of desire . . .

“Mr. Vane,” she whispered against his chest.

A tremor went through him; his whole body was taut and hard. “Sebastian,” he said before he could think better of it. “No one calls me by name,” he said in lame explanation. He couldn’t possibly say that he just wanted to hear her say it.

He felt her indrawn breath. It pressed her bosom against his ribs. “Sebastian,” she breathed, and he ground his teeth together. Not only bewitching eyes and perfect legs, but a soft, seductive voice. He wasn’t going to hell for lusting after her; he was already in hell. “What should we do now?”

Almost unconsciously, his arm tightened around her. She didn’t protest—in fact, she leaned a little more of her weight on him. He held her in his right arm, which was putting more burden on his wounded knee, but he didn’t give a damn. He turned his head so his lips brushed her temple. “What do you want to do, Abigail?”

If she said she wanted to find the way out as quickly as possible, he would do it. He would let her go and get them out of this benighted grotto, and then go home and burn that wicked pamphlet that was making him think of so many other things they could do in the dark. In fact, he hoped she would say it, and save him from the temptation before him.

“The other day,” she whispered. “In the woods. When you held me and told me to read that story again . . . I wondered . . . I thought for a moment that you might have been about to . . .”

“To kiss you?” he finished when she didn’t. He felt the slight tremor that went through her. “Were you relieved or sorry that I didn’t?”

For a long moment she was utterly still and silent. He let out his breath, slowly, telling himself he was glad she was relieved, even though his body didn’t agree.

“Sorry,” she said, the word barely audible.

That did it. He lifted her chin, brushing his thumb over her lips to assure his aim was true. “So was I,” he murmured, and kissed her.

Despite being an outcast in Richmond, he hadn’t quite been a monk, and before the war he’d been considered eligible. Still, it had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman in a meaningful way. And Abigail . . . suddenly it seemed as though he’d been waiting his entire life to kiss her.


She made a startled sound when he tipped her head, but she parted her lips and let him taste her, so sweet and hot he told himself he should stop at once. But it was as though his restraint and command of himself, once breached, began to crumble like dust. His cane clattered to the floor as he wrapped his other arm around her. She stretched up on her toes, holding tight to his coat, and slid her tongue over his. He shuddered at the invitation, innocent but bold. His hands drifted down her back, molding her to him, and instead of starting in shock, she sighed and arched her back. She was still kissing him, making the most arousing little moans a woman could make. Her fingers tugged at his hair. Rapidly losing his grip on conscious thought, Sebastian finally gave in to the screaming urges of his body. He cupped his hands around her hips and pulled her, hard, against his erection.

She gasped, clinging to his neck. His brain felt fevered; some devil was whispering in his ear of all the ways he could please both of them without actually taking her virginity. His hands burned to touch her skin. He flexed his spine, thrusting his hips against hers.

“Oh my,” she gasped, her voice raspy against his throat. “This—this is what Lady Constance wrote of, isn’t it?”

It shattered the spell. He jerked backward, keeping his hold on her elbows but now at arm’s length. Every inch of him throbbed in frustration. Sebastian closed his eyes and struggled to regain his control.

“Sebastian?”

He flinched at his name, spoken so invitingly. He was probably leaving bruises on her arm, but he could barely move. “Partly,” he said through clenched teeth.

“No,” she whispered. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Sebastian didn’t say anything. The answer seemed obvious to him.

“Is it the same?” she asked in the same hushed, hesitant voice. “In the light?”

Christ above. He imagined making love to her in full daylight, her dark auburn hair streaming over her bare breasts. He imagined kissing his way up her legs, able to admire every bit of her. He imagined her eyes dark and smoky with passion as he brought her to climax, holding himself deep inside her the way Lady Constance described her lover’s actions. How could a man blindfold her and miss that sight? “No,” he managed to reply. “It’s better when a man can see his lover, and feel her gaze upon him.” His body spasmed at the thought. “I expect it is the same for a woman.”

The silence seemed to echo more loudly than his words. “Oh,” she said at last, her voice husky with desire. “Better than that . . . ?”

One hundred times better, he silently answered her. And one thousand times worse for him, if he couldn’t rein in this craving. With one boot he felt around for his cane, stooping to collect it when it rattled on the stone floor. “Let’s find our way out,” he said, taking a firm grip on her hand and beginning a slow, steady search for the passage that would lead them out of this cursed cave.

“Are you angry?” she asked, a thread of bewilderment in her question.

“Only at myself.”

“Why?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed his hand. “I—I wanted you to kiss me,” she murmured, as if he hadn’t known that.

“That was more than a mere kiss.”

“I know.” This time he could hear the little smile, the subtle satisfaction of a woman who recognized a man’s hunger for her. Instead of dashing cold water on his desire, it only made him want her more.

“Perhaps I ought not to say that, but I’ve read Lady Constance’s stories, and I always wondered if they could possibly be true . . .” She fell silent for a moment. “Do you think I’m wicked for reading them?”

Good God in heaven, no. “Why would I think that?”

“Because . . . Well, because they’re shameless and wicked.”

“Passion? Pleasure?” He stopped and faced her, even though the darkness around them was still absolute. “I assure you, those are neither shameless nor wicked, so long as both parties are willing.”

Her breath was quick and shallow. “Even if the lovers are not married?”

He closed his eyes. Of course he couldn’t tell her marriage made no difference, that it was possible to have both passion and pleasure without ever coming in sight of a vicar. She was an heiress, destined to marry some fortunate fellow, and he hoped she was very happy in that marriage. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been married.”

“Neither have I,” she said—unnecessarily. “But perhaps the shameless, wicked aspect makes it even more pleasurable.”

He missed a step and almost fell over his own cane. “I’m sure it can be just as pleasurable in marriage.”

“How can one assure that?”

He could hardly think. They were probably walking in circles in this glass-covered chamber, trapped by his inability to stop thinking about pleasure and wickedness and the fact that she was far more willing than she ought to be. Probably not as willing as Lady Constance, who really did seem to be shameless in her amours, but too willing for his weakened restraint. He told himself that if he ever did make love to Abigail Weston, he wanted it to be in a better spot than a cold, dark cave, because he wanted to see every little flicker of ecstasy cross her face. If only he hadn’t read that damned story . . .

Of course, he would never make love to Abigail Weston.

“I take it that was but one of Lady Constance’s adventures,” he said to divert her. “Fifty Ways to Sin implies there are fifty stories.”

“Oh—I suppose. I never thought of that. It first appeared this spring. You—you won’t tell anyone I bought it, will you?”

He almost smiled. “Never.”

“I was very surprised you bought it. I didn’t think gentlemen much cared for the stories.”

“I didn’t know what it was when I bought it.”

“Right,” she said quickly, and cleared her throat. “Gentlemen in London think it’s horrible. Constance’s lovers all bear striking resemblances to men of town. Any man whose name is connected with them usually gets up in arms and issues a public denial.”

The story he’d read had been lavishly complimentary of the man’s ability and physical attributes. Sebastian thought most men would fancy being thought such masterful lovers. “What a brilliant bit of publicity that must be.”

Her laugh sounded surprised. “I suppose it must be!”

His heart leapt. He’d made her laugh, and it filled him with unexpected exuberance. He almost turned and kissed her again, not strictly from desire this time but simply to share his delight in her happiness. In the nick of time he stopped himself; the effects of the first kiss still sizzled through his veins. If he kissed her again, he couldn’t guarantee it would be brief or chaste. He tightened his grip on her hand and swept his cane in a wider arc, searching for the doorway. For both their sakes, he needed to get them out of here.

The cane caught. He prodded around, and realized they had reached the wall. Another few steps, and the wall turned a corner. He heaved a great sigh of relief. “Good news, Miss Weston: I have found the way out.” He tugged on her hand and began walking with more purpose. “Mind the doorway.”

Abigail’s smile faded. As much as she wanted to get out of the pitch-black grotto, she also felt a perverse longing to stay. Now she knew what Constance had described in her last story. There was an intimacy and freedom in the darkness that one never had in the light. She doubted Sebastian would have kissed her if the candle hadn’t gone out, and she knew she wouldn’t have been able to ask him about passion and pleasure if she’d been able to see his face, and he hers. She’d admitted to her fondness for 50 Ways to Sin, her craving for passion, her desperate curiosity about taking a lover, even outside of marriage, and he had been neither shocked nor horrified. What’s more, as long as he held her, she wasn’t afraid of the dark. Her fear had gone away almost as soon as he pulled her into his arms, comforting and protective.


And then there was the way he’d kissed her. That, Abigail sensed, was passion—not the flowery, extravagant sort that Lady Constance described, but real, raw passion.

Even though it felt they had walked an eternity to get to the glass chamber, now the passage seemed short and direct, and before long the blackness ahead of them lightened to gray. As the light grew stronger, so did Abigail’s worry about what would happen aboveground. He hadn’t said a word since telling her he’d discovered the way out of the grotto, and she didn’t know how to prolong the intimacy of the darkness in the bright light of day—although she really wanted to.

He released her hand when the steps came into sight. He didn’t look at her as he held the vines out of the way for her to climb out of the grotto. Boris raised his head as they emerged, and scrambled up from his nap to come lick Abigail’s hand. She petted the big dog and covertly watched his master scrape the moss and cobwebs from his cane.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He stabbed the cane into the dirt and reached up to retrieve his hat from the bush where he’d left it. “Don’t visit the grotto alone, Miss Weston. I hope you see it’s not entirely safe.” The softer side of him was gone, it seemed. His voice was once more flat and cool, and the hat hid his face from view.

“I think it might be safer for my peace of mind, alone,” she murmured. She picked up her bonnet and slipped Boris the last bite of cheese from her pocket. He wagged his tail and gave a playful woof before bounding away down a path. “Will you tell me the truth about something?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to leave you in peace?”

He turned, watching his dog run away. “I don’t see how you can.”

“I won’t walk in the woods anymore, if you don’t want to see me again.”

She could just see the corner of his mouth turn upward, but when he spoke, his voice was even and controlled. “That would hardly leave me any peace. You know I want to see you again.”

“Then why—” she began, but he had not finished.

“I’ve already admitted I want you. I’ve already told you I want to show you every manner of sin Lady Constance writes of, and then some.” He finally faced her, and the dark hunger in his eyes made her skin heat. “But I’m trying to exercise some honor where you are concerned. Try not to make it more difficult than it already is.”

All she could think about was his lips on hers, the way he held her, the feel of his body, thrumming with tightly-leashed strength, hard and taut against hers. She was as wicked as Constance. “Then why won’t you call on me?”

“And say what?” He arched one brow. “Shall we sit in your mother’s drawing room and discuss the latest escapades of the notorious Constance?”

She flushed. “Obviously not . . .”

“Would we pick up where we left off in the grotto?” His eyes drifted down, and Abigail felt it like a physical caress on her bosom. It made her want to fling herself at him, and it made her angry.

She shook her head, yanking on her bonnet and tying the ribbons with jerky motions. “I see. You don’t mind kissing me in the grotto, but you can’t be bothered to call on me like a gentleman. You don’t want to marry me, just to have a little fun.”

“Your father would never consent.”

“Did you ask him already?” she asked in exaggerated surprise. “He didn’t say a word to me!”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why is it ridiculous?”

For a moment she thought he would reply with just as much anger and feeling. His eyes flashed, and his fingers flexed around the head of his cane. But then, like a lamp being turned down, the heat and hunger drained from his face. “Because you’re not for me,” he said gently. “No matter how much I want you, I know I can’t have you—just like a sound knee or a restored estate. You deserve better. And so I ought not to have kissed you, or even said anything.”

“So you regret kissing me?” She could barely form the words, choking on dismay.

He hesitated. “No.”

She nodded, mortified and furious at once. Part of her wanted to beg him to kiss her again, the future be damned, but the rest of her wanted more—not just a brief, forbidden taste of passion, but love, true and lasting. “Thank you, Mr. Vane. I understand now. You wanted those other things, and tried to get them even though you knew you might fail. I suppose that tells me something.”

“It’s not the same,” he retorted.

“No, not at all.” She glared at him. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve. I would like you to show me passion—and I know you could. But I want more than that.”

She turned on her heel and stormed away, waiting—hoping—for him to call after her, to stop her, to apologize, to snatch her into his arms for another scorching kiss. And she heard . . . nothing.

When she finally whirled around, seething with frustration and ready to ring a peal over his head, he was gone.