It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 11

Two days later the rain blew away, leaving the day fresh and bright. At breakfast, Mama declared that she simply had to get out of the house, and meant to go to London to visit her favorite shops. Penelope perked up at that news, but Abigail shook her head at her mother’s inquiring glance.


“I’d rather stay home. It’s too nice to spend the day in the carriage driving to town and back.”

Her mother’s sharp gaze lingered on her a moment, but she only nodded. Penelope, however, gave her a wicked smirk. Abigail ignored it and buttered another piece of toast. Her sister could think what she liked. Frankly, she still considered Penelope to be in her debt, after sharing the unexpected delivery the other day.

When her mother and sister had gone, she collected her things and set out for the grotto. It was much easier this time, with the house essentially empty. Milo yipped and circled her feet hopefully when she reached the door, but she patted his head and told the footman to keep him inside. The last thing she needed to do was lose her mother’s puppy in the woods.

At the end of the Fragrant Walk, she hesitated. She thought she remembered the way to the grotto, but wasn’t entirely confident. Still, she’d found her way home without trouble, and it hadn’t been very far at all. At one time the path must have led right to it. Holding her skirts out of the mud, she set off through the trees.

It was surprisingly simple to find. She’d remembered a large boulder as a landmark, and when she went around it, she saw the clearing. Now it really was a clearing, with much of the brush stripped away. To her surprise, there was a rustic stone wall at the grotto’s entrance; it had been completely obscured by plants before. Most of the stone had crumbled away, but without the concealing growth, she could make out the arched shape of it. The stone steps were visible as well, slicing down into the earth and disappearing beneath the stone wall.

She approached the stone steps, searching for Sebastian. He had definitely been here, and done a great deal of work exposing the grotto. She remembered how he’d had to hack away at the vines and plants and even drag a fallen tree out of the way before. Today there was no evidence of any of that. Of course, there was also no evidence of his presence at the moment. Perhaps he’d only wanted her to see it, and that had been behind his comment in the letter. She felt a little deflated at that possibility. She wanted to see the grotto again, but that wasn’t why she was here today.

On that thought, the man she’d actually wanted to see stepped out of the trees on the opposite side of the clearing, a large bundle in one arm and a lantern in his other hand. For a moment they stared at each other.

“I didn’t know if you would come,” he said at last.

She nibbled her lower lip. “Didn’t you want me to?”

“Very much,” he said with a searing look. “But after the way we parted . . .” He shrugged. “It seemed long odds you would.”

Abigail walked toward the grotto. “You cleared the steps. No one could miss it now.”

He limped forward. “You were right. It shouldn’t remain lost.”

She looked around the clearing again; it was much more than a morning’s work, she realized. It must have taken a full day or more, and given the weather lately . . . “You came out in the rain to expose it.”

He didn’t deny it. “I needed something to occupy my mind.”

She hesitated. “Thank you for the book.”

“Thank you for accepting it.”

That made Abigail laugh a little. “I could hardly give it back!”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “If you had truly wanted to, you would have found a way.”

Her own lips twitched with a smile. “Perhaps I brought it with me today to do that.”

She’d meant to tease him, to make him laugh and ask in pretend alarm if she had in fact come only to return his gift. But instead he took it as an invitation to examine her from head to toe, with such bold, unabashed interest, it left her flushed and breathless.

“I don’t think so,” he said in a low voice, looking her in the face again.

Flustered, she blurted out the first thing to cross her mind. “Perhaps I brought the other gift.”

This time he did smile, a slow, dangerous look that made her knees weaken. “Now why would you do that?” He moved a step closer and leaned down until she thought he meant to kiss her on the cheek. “Unless you meant to read it to me?” he whispered in her ear.

She forgot to breathe. “No . . .”

He lifted his head and gave her another simmering look. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind.” He shifted his burden and held out the lantern. “I did bring a light this time.”

Abigail stared at it blankly. The thought of reading that story to him—! It was shocking and alarming and she was horrified to realize she wanted to try it. She imagined how he would watch her as she read Constance’s most recent adventure, in the shadowy quiet confines of the grotto. She imagined what he would do, when he saw how arousing she found it . . .

She gave herself a shake to banish that wicked image. “How sensible to bring a lantern! Now we’ll be able to find our way out.”

“Yes,” he said, “if that’s what you desire.” He gestured to the steps. “Will you light the way?”

Last time, she hadn’t planned to go into the grotto. She could pretend that everything between them had been unexpected and spontaneous. This time, if she went with him, she couldn’t pretend innocence. This time, if she went, it would mean she was willing to take what he offered, whatever that was.

Although . . .

He had once said they would never be amiable. He had once agreed that he must avoid walking in the woods if he didn’t want to meet her. He had once refused to show her where the grotto was . . . and yet here they were today. If he could change his mind about all that, perhaps he could change his mind about more. He’d said he was no noble hero, but he was still a gentleman, one who claimed he was trying to be honorable toward her.

Besides, she wanted to see the grotto with more light than a candle.

She took the lantern and led the way down the narrow stone steps. As before, the cold air wrapped around her, but she barely felt it this time. With the extra light, he didn’t follow as closely behind her, but she still heard every rustle of his coat, every scrape of his boot as he limped along, much more noticeably than ever.

“Have you left your cane behind?” she asked, finally realizing he didn’t have it.

“Yes. It’s a nuisance when I have to carry something.”

“Shall I fetch it?” she offered.

“By all means. I left it in the glass chamber.”

A shiver rushed over her skin. She told herself it was because of the cold, and not because of what had happened between them in the glass chamber, but the cold didn’t explain the way her heart skipped a beat and the way her lungs seemed too tight to take a full breath. “So you’ve already been there.”

“Can’t you tell?” he asked.

She frowned, and opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but instead she gasped. There was light ahead. She held her lantern a little higher, peering around the gently turning corridor, and then stopped in the doorway of the glass chamber, struck dumb.

Four other lanterns sat around the chamber, shutters wide open. Their light filled the chamber with a bright glow that made the glass on the walls and ceiling sparkle like jewels. “It’s amazing,” she whispered.

He took the lantern from her, reaching up to hang it on a rusty iron hook that protruded from the ceiling above her head. “You didn’t get a chance to see it properly the last time.” He lowered his arm slowly, tugging loose the ribbon on her bonnet as he did so. His raised hand caught the crown of her bonnet and lifted it away. “That is why you came, isn’t it?” He dropped the bonnet behind him.


“Well—partly.” She didn’t know what to say. His eyes were burning dark, almost scorching her skin. It flustered her and entranced her and made her vividly remember what had happened the last time they were here.

“Only partly?” He tucked a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. “Why else?”

“To thank you for the book,” she whispered.

He gave her his dark, faint smile again. “You already said that. Come.” His fingers trailed down her arm to clasp her hand. “It’s even more spectacular from the center of the room.” He led her to the center of the chamber, where Abigail was finally able to wrench her eyes away from him and take in the view.

The domed ceiling wasn’t high—she thought Sebastian would be able to touch it if he raised his arm—but somehow the room felt spacious. This time she could see more than a small patch of wall at once, and as she slowly turned on the spot, she noticed something.

“There’s a pattern,” she whispered. Somehow, hushed voices seemed appropriate in such a setting.

“More than just a pattern.” Sebastian tossed down his bundle, which turned out to be two large cushions, onto a rug that had been spread on the floor. He held out a hand to her. “Lie down.” She gaped at him. He wiggled his fingers. “Trust me. This is the best way to see it.”

She gave him her hand, and let him lead her to one of the cushions. He helped her sit and then lowered himself onto the other cushion with only a slight grimace. “Lie back, and look up,” he told her.

Abigail’s mouth fell open again in wonder as she obeyed, tucking her skirts around her feet. He was right—it wasn’t a pattern. It was a portrait, a swirling glass mosaic of sea creatures, swimming and leaping and writhing around the walls. The little mirrored bits of glass she had noticed on her first visit were the eyes of fish, octopods, whales, and sea monsters. “There’s a mermaid!” She pointed in excitement at one side of the ceiling. A blue-skinned maiden with a long green tail and yellow hair had one arm extended as if in entreaty.

“And her beloved,” said Sebastian. “Look . . .” Abigail followed his finger across the dark ceiling to another long-tailed creature, his hand reaching toward the mermaid’s. More little flecks of silvered glass winked like stars between them.

“Amazing,” she breathed again. For several minutes she just gazed upward, trying to take in every detail. The expressionless figures were rather crude in depiction, for all that their creation must have taken hours and hours of painstaking work, but something about their posture struck Abigail as sad. “I wonder why they’re so far apart,” she murmured. “It seems they should be together.”

“Mythological creatures rarely found happy endings.”

“In stories where a man fell in love with a goddess,” she agreed, “or a god with a human girl. But these are two of a kind. Why couldn’t they be together?”

“Sometimes it’s not as simple as that.”

“No?” She turned her head to look at him. He was lying on his back, but with his head on the side to face her. “What do you think it means?”

He raised his eyes to the merman again, above her. “This house and grotto were built for a king’s mistress. I suppose it was a nod to the fact that she couldn’t merely swim around to his part of the ocean. Too much divided them for their union   to be anything other than fleeting.”

Abigail looked at the merman, too. Somehow his face seemed blank and expressionless, as if he knew they would never meet. He was reaching toward her, true, but his hand was flat, and could have been in demand for fealty more than in affection. But the mermaid . . . Her figure had an element of yearning. It was a silly thing to think about a creature who was made only of cut glass. But the hand that wasn’t reaching for the merman was clutched to her heart, and her extended hand was palm up, beseeching.

“Do you think the King saw this?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“But what do you think?” she persisted. “Can you picture a King of England, lying where we are now?”

He was quiet for a moment. “If he loved her, I expect he did. But I daresay love was uncommon between kings and their mistresses.”

“I think she really loved him,” said Abigail softly. “Why else would she have had this built?”

“From what I understand, mistresses aren’t always the most practical creatures,” he said wryly. “It may have amused her, nothing more.”

“No!” she protested. “Surely not!”

“It’s far enough from Hart House, who’s to say she ever saw it herself?”

“She must have seen it—how could anyone know this was here and not come to see it?”

He gave a quiet chuckle. “Not everyone is like you, my dear.”

She closed her eyes and smiled. “Silly and romantic? You have found me out.”

“Not silly,” he said, still sounding amused. “Romantic, I already knew.”

She laughed, and for a moment they were both quiet. “Did you know it was this beautiful when you hinted I should come back?”

“Before yesterday, I hadn’t been here since you marched away from me the first time.” He hesitated. “I deserved that.”

She happened to agree, so said nothing.

“It has been a very long time since a lady looked at me with anything less than disdain or fear,” he went on in the same low voice. “Even though I knew you were different, I was still certain you would learn the same distaste for my company. In truth, you would be wise to do so.”

“Now why—?” she began indignantly, but he held up one hand. He had turned his face back to the ceiling, and she could only see his profile.

“You admit you’ve heard the rumors about me in town. While Boris is nothing but an ordinary boar hound, the rest isn’t as fanciful. My father did run mad, and everyone expects me to go mad as well.”

“But you’re not!” she interrupted.

His jaw tightened. “If you’d come to Richmond seven years ago, you might well have thought differently. When I returned from the army, I discovered my father had sold nearly all our land, for hardly anything at all. A few shillings an acre, and one of the largest estates in London was nearly gone. I . . . did not take it well.” A black and bitter smile twisted his mouth. “I raged a good bit, to tell the truth. I called on the men who’d bought the land—my land—and demanded they reverse the sales. Some of them laughed at me, some of them took offense. More than one visit degenerated into both parties hurling curses at each other, and ended with me slamming the door behind me. Word spread that I was just as mad as my father, and dangerous to boot. Within a few weeks everyone regarded me with the same alarm as my father.”

“But surely your anger was understandable.”

“I thought so,” he said in a flat tone. “Others . . . did not. I threatened some of them.”

That also seemed understandable to her, but it would only have fueled suspicions about him. Abigail tried to imagine her own father losing his grip on reason, frittering away his fortune. Her brother would put a quick stop to it, one way or another, she thought—but of course Sebastian hadn’t been there to stop his father. The trouble had happened while he was away. And from the grim set of his face, he didn’t like talking about it.


“What was he like?” she asked instead. “Before.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Before?” He thought a moment, then a faint smile curved his mouth. “Very clever. Whenever there was a problem, he would set about righting it, often in the most ingenious manner. He was a scholarly man. He would visit Mrs. Driscoll’s bookshop every week with an order for a new scientific tome or pamphlet. She admired him. When I was a boy, there were always experiments going on around the house. He made his own candles, in search of ones that burned longer and brighter. He was fascinated by fire and light, and once constructed a series of glass tubes which he intended to use to heat the drawing room more evenly, so one wouldn’t have to sit in front of the fire to be warm.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” he said, his smile growing. “The tubes shattered. He had connected them to a large kettle of water over the fire, to fill the tubes with steam. His plan was for the steam to circulate through the tubes and bring heat to every corner of the room, but instead they exploded, one after the other. I’ll never forget the astonished expression on his face . . .” The smile faded. “Later, when he lost his mind, he almost burned the house down, trying something similar.”

Without thinking she groped for his hand. He started, but then his fingers closed gently around hers.

“What happened to him?” she finally asked. She knew what gossip said: that Mr. Vane would fly into violent rages and attack people as if he meant to kill them, and had to be restrained. And that finally Sebastian had taken him into the woods and killed him, burying him in some secluded spot no one had located. Or perhaps drowned him in the river. Or even perhaps taken him to London and committed him to an asylum, where he might still linger for all anyone knew.

None of that made sense to Abigail, though. If he’d committed his father to an asylum, it would be easy to prove the man wasn’t dead. And she just didn’t believe he was a killer.

“There’s no way to know. I’ve always wondered if he concocted something that poisoned him unintentionally, or if he suffered some injury he never bothered telling anyone about that damaged his brain. He was always a bit eccentric. When he went mad, it happened rather subtly. He could seem quite lucid, from what I hear, only to erupt in a fit of delusion and fury that alarmed and shocked everyone around him. The lucidity fooled everyone for a while. His attorney swore he seemed in full possession of his wits even as he was selling off his land for pennies an acre.” He rolled his head to look at her. “Or do you mean that night?”

“Never mind,” she said hastily, but he squeezed her hand.

“No, I’ll tell you. It won’t change anything. My father was confined to his room—for his own safety. I woke after midnight to find his door unlocked and him escaped. I searched the woods, we dragged the pond, and Mr. Jones combed the meadow, but no trace of him was ever found.”

“None? How is that possible?”

Slowly he shook his head. “These woods are thick, and they go on for miles. I daresay the grotto isn’t the only place one could fall into a hole in the ground and disappear forever. And then there’s the river, which could sweep a man miles away in an hour’s time.”

Abigail frowned. “Why do people say you killed him, then?”

“Because there’s no proof I didn’t. Because it’s what they would have done, perhaps. But most likely . . . because it’s my fault he got loose.”

Her eyes grew wide and she forgot to breathe. His dark gaze held hers as he went on. “I was the one who locked his door every night, but that night it was unlocked. I forgot to do it. I . . . I still needed laudanum to sleep then, from time to time, and because of it I didn’t hear him slip out. And it cost him his life.”

“That is not the same as killing someone,” she said in a very low voice.

His mouth quirked bitterly again. “But the result is the same, isn’t it? The madman vanished. No one needed to live in fear anymore.” He shrugged. “I only hope his end came without much suffering.”

She was too stunned to move, but her horror must have shown on her face. “Is that terribly callous and cold to admit?” He rolled onto his side, facing her, and propped one hand under his head. “Have I ruined your good opinion of me yet? Because you might as well know: I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

“Are you certain he’s dead?” she asked falteringly.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “His mind was so far gone by then, he couldn’t have survived long. For a few days I thought he might wander home, but of course he didn’t. No, I’m absolutely certain he’s dead.” He paused, watching her closely. “And even more . . . I’m glad.”

Abigail was too shocked to speak.

“He begged me to kill him,” he said, his voice grown so quiet she barely breathed in order to hear him. “He knew he was losing his wits; he fought against it but the madness would swallow him whole for days at a time. One night he turned to me, tears running down his face, and begged me to put an end to it. “You’ve got a sword,” he cried. “Put it through me.” There was a long pause as he clenched his jaw and stared into the shadows beyond the lanterns, and Abigail bit her lip until it almost bled, imagining the anguish that request must have caused. “I couldn’t do it. There was nothing anyone could do to save him, he wanted to die, and shamefully, secretly, I knew it was the only way out of his hell. But I couldn’t do it.”

“Of course not,” she cried softly.

Sebastian shook his head. “Sometimes I think I should have. Sometimes I think I failed him as a son, for not doing what he asked. Instead I hid every sharp instrument in the house and set myself to watching him day and night. Not that it made any difference. Everyone who knew how deranged he had become only heard that he disappeared one night, and decided I must have put an end to him.” Again that bitter smile. “It fit with the mad, enraged image they had of me, I suppose.”

“They’re wrong,” she said in a low, passionate voice. “Wrong, both now and then.”

His fingers tightened around hers. He tipped his head to face her. “You’re a rare woman, Abigail Weston. You deserve so much better than a wreck of a man.”

“You’re not a wreck.”

“I don’t feel like one when I’m with you.” He leaned closer, looming over her.

Abigail could see the mermaid over his shoulder, reaching for her love and doomed never to have him. For decades—centuries—she’d been alone in the dark, unseen and unrequited, helpless to change her fate. Poor mermaid. “I already told you, you don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

His mouth curved. “I remember.” His lips brushed against hers before he lifted his head again. For a moment he studied her, his hair hanging loose and casting his face in dark shadow. Abigail waited, breathless and yearning but unsure of what to do. She’d made a mistake last time, too curious to know the truth of Lady Constance’s stories. This time she tried to shut the notorious stories out of her mind; they were fiction, bits of fancy. Sebastian was real and alive and she wanted him to be her true experience of love and passion.

And then he kissed her, in truth this time. His mouth settled over hers, hot and wicked. His hand cupped her nape, raising her neck to a subtle arch. His thumb stroked her cheek before tugging at the corner of her lips. Nervously she obeyed, softening her lips under his until his tongue parted them. She shivered as he tasted her mouth, then tentatively she slid her tongue along his.


His breath hitched, and he moved, lowering himself more on top of her. One arm slipped beneath her, his fingers splayed over the back of her head. With his other hand he lifted her free arm and laid it gently on the cushion, curving gracefully around her head. His fingers swirled over the pulse in her wrist, then drifted down the underside of her forearm.

She was gripping his coat, her hand trapped between them. His kiss went on and on, now light and tantalizing, now plunging deep in blatant possession. His fingers played up and down her raised arm until she quivered from the maddeningly light touch.

“Is this why you came today?” he breathed, barely raising his lips from hers.

She blushed so hard, he could surely see it even in the dim light. “Not specifically . . .”

“Shall I stop, then?” His fingers brushed the delicate skin under her collarbone, and Abigail trembled, unable to do more than make a small negative motion with her head. His voice grew even softer. “Did you think of me when you read the story I sent you?”

A riot of images streamed across her mind’s eye. Lady Constance had taken a musical man to her bed, where he played her body like his instrument, wringing a symphony of sighs from the wicked woman.

There was no point trying to deny she had thought of Sebastian, just as it was foolish to deny that she’d come today hoping he might kiss her again. Abigail felt restless and alive, her skin craving his touch. She had felt this pull toward him from the beginning, and 50 Ways to Sin only made it worse, giving her imagination fuel—wicked, delicious ideas that inspired both amazement and desperate longing. Especially the last two issues.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She felt the fine shudder that ran through his frame. “I have no blindfold,” he murmured, “nor oil of roses.” His head dipped, and his lips brushed against the hammering pulse at the base of her throat. “But like Constance, you have only to say the word ‘stop’ . . .”

“What should I do?” Her heart was pounding so hard, she could hardly hear her own voice.

“Raise your arms above your head,” he whispered. She closed her eyes as she obeyed. “It would be beyond my endurance to watch you pleasure yourself,” he went on. “I pictured it, though. Just the thought of touching you nearly drove me to distraction. You’re a temptress, Abigail. So ethereally beautiful, I’m stricken dumb in your presence. Abigail with the starry eyes that stole a piece of my soul the first time you looked at me. Abigail with the bright smile and the kind heart and the curious nature. Abigail who haunts my dreams . . .”

She gasped at the feathery light touch on her throat. “Abigail who makes me burn,” he murmured. His hair brushed her bosom as he kissed lower, his lips as soft as velvet against her skin.

“Every night I imagine what I would do, if I had you in my bed.” She made an inarticulate noise as he stroked the sensitive underside of her arm, his fingers drifting all the way down her ribs to tease her waist. “Every night I dream of bringing you to the point of ecstasy.” His fingers swirled over her belly, from hipbone to hipbone. “I imagine how soft and pale your skin must be, here . . .” He traced swooping circles over her hips. “And how exquisite you would taste.”

“You—you would put your mouth there?” she managed to choke out. Even through layers of dress, petticoats, and pantalets, she could feel every touch of his hand.

“Everywhere,” he confirmed. “When a man is patient and attentive, he can bring a woman great pleasure with his mouth. Like so . . .”

She started as he pressed a kiss to her navel. Something inside her clenched as he repeated the kiss, over and over across her belly, up her ribs. He wasn’t touching her skin at all, but she could almost believe he was.

“Constance’s lovers have one thing right,” he said, against the bottom of her breast. “A woman’s passion is paramount; her pleasure is their pleasure.” He cupped her other breast in his hand, his long fingers first gentle, then firm. “Bringing her to climax is his soul’s only purpose, in the act of love.”

Abigail was shaking. His thumb teased her nipple until it grew rigid and sensitive, straining toward his touch. She ached for him to caress her other breast, rather than just nuzzling it, but as if he knew, he moved his mouth to that other nipple and closed his lips around it.

She arched. She twisted. She gasped and blushed as he suckled her through the cloth. She squeezed her eyes closed until tears leaked from her lids. Oh God . . .

He shifted again, and laid one hand on her knees, which she had drawn up in her writhing. He slid his hand down the inside of her thigh. Abigail let her knees fall apart; her clothing was a barrier between them that was both frustrating and comforting. She felt the same riot of feeling Lady Constance had described, but without the licentiousness. They were both still fully clothed, after all. More than one of Constance’s lovers had brought her to climax without removing a stitch of clothing. Sebastian seemed to know she wasn’t quite as daring as Constance and he made no effort to seduce her into deeper wickedness. It affirmed her trust in him, and also allowed her to let him settle his hand between her thighs, resting on the throbbing spot hidden there.

“You slay me,” he said, his breathing fast and ragged. Slowly his fingers stroked her through her skirt. “How your face reflects your passion . . .” He pressed another kiss on her bosom, on her bare flesh this time above the neckline of her dress. Abigail threw one arm around his neck to keep him there; she tilted her hips, straining toward his touch. His lips on her skin seemed to double the fire burning inside her. It spread through her limbs, fevered her brain, and yet burned hottest where his hand pressed toward her most female place.

Sebastian almost lost his grip on his control when she twined herself around him. God almighty, her skin tasted sweeter than he’d dreamed. The little moans of pleasure and encouragement she made were like kindling on the blazing desire inside him. He’d very carefully not disarranged an inch of her clothing—even a single step down that path could prove too dangerous—but her response, fully clothed, only made him wild to know what it would be like if his hands touched her bare skin, if she writhed beneath him completely willing and eager for him.

And now she was clinging to him, straining toward him. He could barely breathe as he continued the soft, slow stroke. He could barely think beyond the sound of her wanton gasps and the ever-more-strident demands of his own body, hard and erect and ready to burst. He was desperate to move and yet as rigid as stone, not trusting himself. He could do this—only this—he could bring her to completion, he could hold himself back . . .

She arched her neck, her fingers digging into his neck. She sucked in a short breath, then another. Her legs jerked. He pressed a little harder, circling tightly over the spot that made her jump, and she gave a startled cry that turned into a long gasping sigh of release.

His heart hammered in his ears. He left his hand cupped over her mound, fighting off the urge to throw up her skirts and feel how wet she must be, how soft and ready she would be, how tight and hot and . . . virginal she was.

Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut. He was half sprawled on top of her, her arm still around his neck, her legs tangled with his and trapping his hand between her thighs. He could swear he still felt her climax pulsing beneath his fingertips. If he turned his head even an inch to the side, his lips would be on her breast. Just the rise and fall of her chest was dangerous to his wavering sense of honor. With a great deal of regret, he gingerly eased away from her.


“What made you change your mind?” she whispered, her voice low and husky. “About me?”

He gritted his teeth as he sat up. He was still so hard for her, it hurt to move. “I have never changed my mind about you.”

“About seeing me,” she amended. “You swore you would avoid the woods to avoid me. You wished me luck finding the grotto on my own. You refused to call on me because we hadn’t a thing to talk about. But you sent me a book and met me here today.”

He studied her, feeling an unexpected lurch in his chest. She lay in sensual abandon on the threadbare rug and cushions he’d dragged down from Montrose Hill. “I wanted to know if my peace offering had been acceptable.”

A shadow fell over her face. “Oh.”

He repented the evasive answer. He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “I wanted to see you again, even though I don’t deserve it. You should have refused to see me after I spoke so crudely, but here you are. I meant what I said: you are a rare woman, and I cannot stay away from you.”

She smiled, and the room seemed to glow brighter. “I knew you didn’t mean it.”

His lips quirked. He had meant it. He’d been alone so long, avoided and reviled for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to have a friend. But Abigail, he was realizing, was just that: a friend. Someone he could be at ease with. Someone who cared about his feelings and thoughts. Someone who leapt to his defense instead of shrinking from his presence.

Of course, she was also far more. The pulsing desire to make love to her was only held at bay, unabated in the slightest. He turned her hand over, stroking his thumb over her palm. “No one else in Richmond would have forgiven my abominable behavior.”

“Do you ever wish to change people’s minds?”

He turned toward her, bracing his arm behind him. “No. People who believe I killed my father . . . I don’t give a bloody damn what they think.” He circled one finger around her hand, hooking it under her wrist and raising it to press a kiss to her palm. “I care what you think.”

She raised her eyes again. “I think this grotto is the most delightful place in Richmond.”

He smiled. Anyplace where she was would be every bit as delightful as this cave, in his opinion. “I quite agree.”