It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 13

Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure what his visit to Hart House had gained him, but he was glad he’d gone—and that astonished him.

The last seven years had been about endurance, as everything he’d once counted on had been stripped away. He’d learned to cope with a lame leg, a meager income, the solitude of being a pariah. The whispered charges of patricide and thieving stung, though there was nothing he could do about them, and eventually he grew a hard shell of indifference. It was lonely, but it enabled him to survive.

But now there was Abigail. Not only was she undaunted by his attempts to warn her away, she persisted in trying to know him. She asked what his father had been like, before, rather than focusing on the scandal surrounding his disappearance. Sebastian hadn’t thought of those long-ago happy days with his brilliant, eccentric, exciting father in years. She felt the same irresistible attraction he felt. She was kind and patient enough to forgive his cruel parting the first time at the grotto. And Sebastian began to feel that he would be a very great idiot if he ignored this chance.

But he had treated her badly, and there was only so much he could do to atone. A book wasn’t enough, even though there was no one to whom he’d rather give one of his few remaining mementos of his mother, and he thought—hoped—Abigail would appreciate it. Fifty Ways to Sin had been a last-minute addition, and one he worried about, but that, too, had pleased her. Clearing the grotto had yielded greater benefits than he’d expected, thanks to the mural. She’d likened it to buried treasure, but to his mind, the real treasure had been the way she held his hand and professed her faith in him.

Abigail had split a crack right through the hard shell around his heart. Just seeing her made his heart lurch, and touching her set his blood roaring through his veins. But kissing her . . . Kissing her stripped away every notion that he should—or could—avoid her, and left him only with the insatiable desire to see her again.

And that meant he had to force himself out of his hermetical ways and call on her. London ladies expected gentlemen to call on them. Abigail had invited him herself, more than once. Calling on her would be another chance to see her—and another chance to please her. Although his first visit to Hart House hadn’t gone well, he acknowledged with some reluctance that it might have been his fault. He’d acted on instinct when Anne Huntley, a notorious gossip, arrived, but perhaps his abrupt departure had only served to make him look as reclusive and guilty as the townspeople called him.

So he went to Hart House, not entirely certain that he would be welcome. It would have been far easier to remain as he was and not risk exposing himself to further disdain. But if he wanted any chance at all of more than a few furtive kisses in the grotto, he would have to win Abigail’s father’s approval. And although the visit was cordial and pleasant, he sensed Thomas Weston would demand more of him than drinking tea and teaching a lapdog a few tricks.

Unfortunately he had no idea what he could do. Sebastian was well aware of his disadvantages. If he’d had any idea how he could repair his reputation and his fortune, he would have already done it.

And then a letter arrived, almost like a gift from God. Mrs. Jones brought it into the kitchen one morning, where Sebastian was working on the broken mechanism of the spit jack. “This just arrived by messenger,” she said.

“Oh?” Sebastian put down his tools and took it. Letters were rare, with the most frequent missives coming from his maternal grandmother. Those came only once a year, though, so this must be something else. He broke the seal and unfolded it.

“Is it bad news, sir?” Mrs. Jones asked a few minutes later, as he was still sitting in stunned silence.

“Yes,” he murmured. “No.” He looked up at her. “My uncle’s dead.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” she exclaimed. “Mr. Henry Vane?”

“Yes.” Sebastian didn’t know what to say. He’d barely known Uncle Henry, who was several years younger than his father. Henry had been ambitious and freethinking, determined to seek his fortune and see the world; no estate in England would hold him, he’d declared more than once, and he proved it, joining the navy and sailing as a ship’s purser. Every other year or so he would come to Montrose Hill to regale them with his tales from the seas, and then his plans for making his fortune in trade in the East Indies. Sebastian remembered watching his uncle ride away at the end of his last visit, some ten years ago, feeling a bit envious. Part of his desire to join the army had sprung from that envy; he would have joined the navy but for his father pleading with him to remain on dry ground.

After the war, Sebastian had tried to contact his uncle, desperate for any guidance on how to address his father’s deepening madness. Henry’s reply had been kind but distant, saying that his affairs in India had taken a turn for the worse and he was unable to offer any help. The last Sebastian had heard from his uncle had been a brief letter of condolence in response to word of Michael Vane’s disappearance and presumed death.

But now his uncle was dead, too, and Sebastian could hardly comprehend what the letter conveyed. Due to the great distance involved, it had taken some time for word of Henry’s death to reach his solicitor in England. And when the solicitor executed Uncle Henry’s will . . .

“I am writing to inform you that under the terms of your uncle’s will, the entirety of his estate has descended to you, as his closest living relative,” wrote Mr. Black, the Bristol solicitor. “If you will reply by post at your convenience, we may arrange a transfer of the funds and some few items of property, primarily family mementos, which Mr. Vane left in my care.”

He didn’t list the amount, but he didn’t need to. Anything would be a godsend at this point. Sebastian’s mind whirled. He doubted it was a great fortune, but it might be enough to ease his debts. It probably wouldn’t allow him to repurchase any of his lost lands, but if he were no longer scraping for every farthing . . .

He wouldn’t be a penniless suitor.

“I have to go to Bristol,” he said abruptly, climbing to his feet.

Mrs. Jones’s eyebrows went up, and then comprehension dawned in her face. “Oh, indeed? Is there some good news as well?”

“Yes.” He smiled morosely. “Even the good news comes on the heels of sad tidings.”

“Well, if anyone’s been due a little good news, it’s you, sir,” she replied loyally. “No matter what heels it comes on. I’ll have Mr. Jones fetch a valise and see to hiring a chaise.”

Sebastian went up the stairs toward his bedchamber to pack, then paused in the corridor. He had moved into the room closest to the top of the stairs after the war, when his injured leg ached so badly, every step saved was priceless. He had stayed there after his leg healed because it let him keep closer track of his father, who once tried to sneak out of the house after midnight with some gunpowder and a hammer, rambling about a brilliant plan to create lightning in the stable.

But now he looked down the corridor, toward the large master chamber and the adjoining bedroom that had been his mother’s so long ago. It was dim down that way; all the doors had been closed for years, and the windows were no doubt coated in dust.


Slowly he walked down the corridor, his cane seeming to echo more loudly than usual. At his father’s door he paused again, then gently opened it.

The finer furnishings had been sold, and what remained had been stripped of any fabrics. The rug was gone, taken out so no rodents would ruin it. The bare windows were hazy with dirt but allowed the blaze of the afternoon sun into the room through the bars that still covered them. Sebastian took a deep breath, catching the faintest whiff of camphor. His father had suffered from an inflammation of the lungs before he disappeared, and Mrs. Jones had used the camphor liberally to ease Michael Vane’s breathing. For a moment he felt again the grief of watching his father waste away, the alarm of having to restrain him, and the shame of thinking, in weaker moments, that it would be a mercy when his father died.

He walked through the room and opened the door into the adjoining bedroom, where his mother had slept. She’d died when he was only a child, and his father had used her room as his private study after that. Eleanor Vane’s room was as barren as Sebastian’s memory was of her, devoid even of furniture. Only the wall coverings offered any clue to the woman who had once lived here. Wreaths of delicately painted vines and flowers ornamented the light blue paper, and when Sebastian looked closely, he could see tiny figures on swings beneath some wreaths, whimsical little creatures forever caught in a moment of artless joy. It was a small sign that there had once been love and happiness at Montrose Hill, and somehow the fact that they had survived seemed to hint that there would be again, someday.

For the first time he thought about bringing a bride to Montrose Hill.

Abigail looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching, and smiled in surprise. “Boris!” She put aside her book and scratched the dog’s ears, glancing hopefully down the path behind him. “You’re not out by yourself, are you, boy?”

“No.” Sebastian came around the bend in the path. “Although if he were, I’d look for him right here.”

“Here?” She grinned, reaching into her basket for a treat for the dog, who instantly sat and regarded her expectantly. “Have I discovered his favorite spot in the woods?”

“His favorite spot is at your feet,” said Sebastian dryly. “He is your devoted servant.”

“I’m always ready with a bribe.” She fed Boris a piece of cheese. “I wonder how you’d like a bit of sausage.”

“Don’t,” said his master at once. He came to a stop in front of her and looked down at his dog, who completely ignored him. Boris’s eyes were trained on Abigail as he licked his chops for every last trace of cheese. “He’d never go home with me again if you fed him sausage.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be allowed inside Hart House, where Milo rules over all. You wouldn’t like that at all,” she told Boris. “He’s a terrible pest, that Milo.”

Sebastian just grinned, and Abigail’s heart skipped a beat. “You seem happy today,” she said on impulse. “It suits you.”

He tilted his head and looked at her without any of the reserve that usually filled his face. That reserve had fascinated her and intrigued her, but Abigail realized she liked this side of him even better. “I might be,” he said.

“Oh?” She arched one brow. “I hope you decide you are.”

“I’ve had some news.”

“Good news, I hope,” she prompted when he said no more.

“I’m not sure, but it requires me to go away for a few days.”

“I see,” she murmured. “I hope it turns out well . . .”

He lifted one shoulder. “It involves someone I hardly knew. But I wanted to see you before I left, and lo, Boris did, too.” He nudged the dog with one boot, but the animal stayed put, lying at Abigail’s feet.

“Is he going with you?”

“No. I’ll tell Mrs. Jones to let him out. Perhaps he’ll find you in the woods.”

“Will you be back in time to attend my mother’s barge excursion?” Abigail knew from the look on his face what the answer would be. She tried not to feel disappointed; a man couldn’t help it when something required him to go away.

“Unfortunately not. I shall send her a note with my regrets.” He sat on the log beside her, just far enough away to keep from touching her.

“I’m sure she’ll be very sorry to hear it.” Abigail broke off another bite of cheese for Boris, who nipped it delicately from her fingers and rested his big head on her knee, gazing up at her in soulful adoration. “Is it a long journey?”

“To Bristol.”

Abigail nodded. At least two days’ journey. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. It’s been a while since I traveled.” He stretched out his left leg and frowned at it. “Not since I came back from the war in a miller’s cart, now that I think about it.”

Abigail gasped, thinking of being jolted about like a sack of flour, let alone with a severely injured leg. “A miller’s cart!”

He shrugged. “The army’s got little use for a man with a shattered leg. And the longer one remains under an army doctor’s eye, the more likely they are to want to cut off a bad limb. I scraped together some funds and took myself off as soon as I reached English soil.” He paused. “I’d just learned of my father’s condition as well, and needed to go home. A miller’s cart served my purpose.”

She bit her lip. “I hope you’re able to make a more comfortable journey this time.”

He grimaced. “I expect so! At least there’s a happier prospect at the end of this one.”

“Oh?” She glanced at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. He was being very coy about it, but there was a subtle hum of excitement about him that she wasn’t used to seeing. What news was taking him away? Had he found some way to reclaim his property? Had he inherited a fortune? She was dying to know but held her tongue.

He grinned, sending her heart soaring. It must be good news—even if he wouldn’t tell her, she felt a happy thrill that something had pleased him so much. “You must forgive me for being vague,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts. “I don’t entirely know what it betides for me, but I have hopes it might be happy.”

“I hope so, too!” She beamed at him.

His own smile lingered as his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I have very high hopes,” he murmured, shifting his weight toward her. “Will you kiss me for luck?”

“Of course,” she whispered as he tipped up her chin and brushed his mouth over hers. “I wish you more good luck than that . . .”

“You should.” He cupped her jaw in his hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I could use some luck.” He kissed her again, this time the lingering, deep kiss that made her burn. She inched closer, remembering how it had felt to be in his arms when he kissed her, and in a sudden movement he twisted off the log, falling to his knees in front of her and gathering her close. Oh yes—that was it. Abigail slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. She shivered as his fingers drew down her cheek, along her throat, toward her bosom. She pressed her toes into the ground and arched her back, whimpering in pleasure as his hand curved around her breast and his fingers circled her nipple. Even through the cloth of her dress she felt his touch like a shock of electricity. He groaned deep in his throat, and tore his mouth away from hers.


“I want to kiss you everywhere,” he breathed, pressing a hot kiss to the skin below her ear. His fingers still played over her nipple, teasing the sensitive nub into erect attention.

Abigail’s heart thundered. Her skin felt taut, eager to be touched. She clutched his shoulders and tried to pull him back to her in mute acquiescence.

He resisted. He held her at arm’s length as his gaze slid over her, every bit as arousing as a touch could be. “If I wasn’t mad before, I am now.” His eyes seemed to darken as he unbuttoned her spencer. Abigail shivered as he eased it off her shoulders, but she was the one who pulled it completely off.

Sebastian’s face grew still and yet somehow fierce; he lowered his head and brushed a reverent kiss at the base of her throat. Abigail dug her fingers into the rough bark of the log. She closed her eyes as his hands moved lightly over her shoulders, brushing the sides of her breasts before sliding behind her and working at the lacing of her dress.

His kisses drifted along her collarbone as her bodice came loose. He darted a wary, yearning glance at her. Abigail could only nod and whisper, “Yes.” A shadow of a smile touched his lips before he tugged at her sleeves, pulling the bodice down to expose her shift and stays.

Her bosom felt shockingly bare and exposed, even before he untied the ribbon of her chemise. Her heart seemed to be beating a thousand times a minute as she waited, eager, anxious, desperate, for him to do . . . something. Another hard shudder racked her when the cool air hit her bared breasts; her nipples, already tight, seemed to draw up so hard they ached.

“Abigail,” Sebastian breathed. “My darling.” And then his mouth was on her skin, on the swell of her bosom. He kissed her, soft little kisses as though he was murmuring against her skin. She strained toward him, and his arm went around her waist, anchoring her to him. Abigail flung her head back, reveling in the sensuous caress. This only exposed her further, and she shamelessly thrust her chest forward, begging for more. Lower, lower his mouth moved until finally he kissed her where he had originally said.

She shuddered as his lips moved over her nipple, teasing and tormenting as his fingers had done. He flicked his tongue and she jerked. He darted a single gleaming glance at her before he parted her knees and moved between her legs, pressing forward until his hips met hers. For a moment he held her tight against him, his eyes closed, and Abigail realized with a shock that she could feel him, hard and erect.

She could hardly breathe.

He groaned and closed his lips around her aching flesh.

Her face burned. Her heart hammered. Sebastian Vane was on his knees before her, making love to her. She felt wild and wanton with her dress falling down and his mouth on her breast, her blood racing and coursing so hotly through her veins, she felt the reckless desire to tear off her clothes to cool her skin. It was shocking and scandalous, but when he lifted his mouth from her breast, giving one last teasing swirl of his tongue, she only turned so he could do the same to the other side. And all the while she was exquisitely conscious that he was aroused, too.

Abigail said a silent word of apology to Lady Constance. She’d suspected that 50 Ways to Sin was unrealistic and exaggerated. She’d had no idea at all.

And then—then— She almost choked on her own breath. He was drawing up the hem of her skirt. His palm was smoothing up the side of her calf—now over her knee—now higher— “Sebastian,” she whispered uncertainly, still clinging to him.

“I know,” he murmured, his lips on her breast. “Trust me . . .” And then he parted the gap in her pantalets and touched her.

Abigail started so violently she almost fell over backward. Sebastian’s grip around her waist tightened as he stroked her again.

“Trust me,” he repeated in a ragged whisper. “I won’t make love to you, but let me give you this . . .”

He had touched her before, in the grotto. Abigail remembered it well. But this . . . This was more vivid, more intense, more personal. She could feel the warmth of his hand cupping her bare flesh, the shock of his fingers parting her, and then—she gasped so hard her head swam—the intrusion of his finger sliding inside her.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, as if he couldn’t let his breath out at once. “I want you.” His voice was a thread of sound. “So desperately . . .” His finger withdrew, only to return, this time with a soft touch on that knot of exquisite sensation. Abigail clutched at him, stripped of speech. His gentle but inexorable touch continued; he had angled himself so now his erection was against her inner thigh, and as she moved, her body reacting on instinct to his caresses, he rocked his hips.

Now she understood why Lady Constance called lovemaking an intimate dance. Their bodies moved together in concert, she straining and writhing against him, he holding her tight and driving her ever wilder. When the storm building inside her finally crested and broke, Abigail almost wept on his shoulder as it shuddered through her. Sebastian’s arm felt like iron around her, although his hand was still deft and gentle between her legs. When his fingers finally slipped out of her, Abigail quivered, feeling drained and bereft.

She held tight to his neck when he made a slight motion to withdraw. She thought she’d fall on the ground if he let go of her now. She didn’t want him to leave, not today, not ever; he’d woken some deep, restless urge inside her that wanted more. It was a little terrifying how eager she was to test the rest of Lady Constance’s descriptions. Just the hard, heavy shape of Sebastian’s erection, surging against her hip, made her want to see it and touch him and know what other mysterious pleasures he could show her. She hadn’t really thought she was that wanton, and it alarmed her that she’d almost forgotten why.

“Well,” she whispered, “I hope that brings you luck.”

His shoulders tensed, then eased as he gave a short laugh. “It most decidedly has. I feel quite the luckiest bloke alive right now.”

Abigail smiled, unconsciously arching her back. He pressed another kiss against her bosom. “I’m feeling quite lucky myself. I’ll miss you,” she added on impulse.

He tipped up his face to look at her, his expression open and almost vulnerable. “And I you.” He tugged her skirt back down and then took her hands in his. “You are . . .” He hesitated. “Very dear to me, Abigail.”

She blinked. It was a fine sentiment, but not quite as passionate as she had hoped for.

“I . . .” He seemed to be struggling for words. “I wish . . . You—you will still be at Hart House when I return, won’t you? Your family has no plans to return to London?”

“None I am aware of,” she said slowly. “How long will you be gone?”

“A fortnight.” His gaze dropped to her breasts, still bared. “Perhaps a little less.”

She wet her lips, beginning to feel awkward. “My mother has planned a musical evening in eight days’ time, so I expect we’ll be here.” She waited, but he didn’t say why he wanted to know so urgently. She pulled loose from his restraining hand and tugged her chemise back into place. “Would—would you—?” Blushing, she turned her back, trying not to flinch at the feel of his fingers smoothing her bodice back into place and drawing the lacing tight. It seemed a very mundane ending to such an encounter, and she didn’t face him as she got to her feet.


“Abigail.” He caught her hand as she reached for her basket. She looked up, uncertain. He brought her hand to his lips, then pressed it against his heart. “If I were to call on your father . . . would you be pleased?”

Her heart gave a leap, and a cautiously hopeful smile broke out on her face. “I suppose that would depend on what you said to him.”

“I hope to ask him a question of the utmost importance.”

Something fluttered in her stomach. “I’m sure he will give you a thoughtful and honest answer.”

Slowly he nodded, looking at her with . . . with . . . Abigail blushed at the word that was filling her mind. She thought it was love. She almost held her breath, waiting.

“And if I were to ask you a very important question, would you also answer me honestly and thoughtfully?”

Tense with anticipation, she managed to nod.

He pressed her hand. “That is all I can ask.” He cupped her cheek and kissed her. “Good-bye for now,” he murmured.

She made herself smile. “Good luck.”

“I will see you in a few days, my darling,” he promised, just a glimmer of a smile lighting his eyes. “Boris! Let’s go, boy.” And without another word, he turned and walked away, the black dog loping after him.

Abigail watched him go, reluctant to lose sight of him. When he had vanished down the path she exhaled, wilting a little. She’d been sure he was about to propose marriage, or tell her he loved her. But surely he wouldn’t have asked about Papa if he didn’t intend to do it when he returned. After all . . . he wanted her—probably as much as she wanted him. She laid one hand on her bosom, and her skin seemed to hum with the memory of his fingers and mouth doing such wicked, wonderful things to her. It might be possible to feel something similar with any attractive man, but Abigail was sure that what she felt for Sebastian wasn’t ordinary. What had happened between them just now had definitely been extraordinary.

She wondered what news was taking him away. It must be something good, it must be. She had never seen him so lighthearted and pleased. Her heart gave a great bound at the thought that he had learned something, received something, gained something that altered his feelings about marriage.

In a much brighter mood, she collected her book, which had fallen on the ground, and her basket, which Boris had stealthily emptied of both cheese and sausage while his master made love to her. As she was brushing the dirt off the cover of her book, she noticed Sebastian’s cane. It was still leaning against the tree trunk, right where he had left it when he sat down next to her . . . and asked her to kiss him for luck . . . and ended up lavishing kisses all over her. Where he had implied that he loved her and would propose when he returned. Abigail knew she ought to leave it, in case he returned for it, but then on impulse she snatched it up as she left. With an irrepressible grin stuck on her face, she headed for home.

Sebastian was halfway home before he realized he’d left his cane behind. Somehow kissing Abigail Weston had driven his hurt knee right out of his mind, and the taste of her skin had dulled any pain from walking without the cane. He thought about going back to get it, then shrugged and continued on the path to Montrose Hill. He had another cane at home, and now he was more impatient than ever to go to Bristol.

He prayed to God there were some funds in his uncle’s estate. Ten thousand pounds would make him a gentleman of means again; not a wealthy man, but independent and secure. Eight thousand pounds would clear him of debt and restore him to financial security. Four or five thousand would enable him to support a wife, especially if that wife had money of her own. Even two thousand pounds would be enormously helpful, paying some of his debts and freeing him from the heaviest interest payments.

Of course, simply marrying Abigail would restore him to financial comfort. Rumor in town was that each Weston daughter had a dowry of forty thousand pounds or more. She was right: it was pride that held him back. He was not a fortune hunter and he refused to give people the opening to call him one. If only he could clear his debts. That would be enough to allow him to stand before Mr. Weston with a clear conscience and an untroubled spirit. He couldn’t change his crippled leg, and even with forty thousand pounds he could probably never regain his full estate, but he wouldn’t be a parasite.

With just a bit of good fortune, he could bring everything around. He never wanted her to look at him and wonder if her money had influenced him. He had lost every other bit of dignity. It was one thing if other people whispered that he’d married her because of her money—given the disparity in their fortunes, it was probably inevitable—but he couldn’t bear it if Abigail thought that. She, at least, should know without a doubt that he married her because he loved her.

For a moment his steps slowed. He could have told her that today. The news about his uncle could have waited until he returned from Bristol, when he would know exactly what the news was and what it meant for him. He’d almost said it, when she gazed at him with those starry eyes and waited. And yet somehow . . . he hadn’t said it.

He shook himself and quickened his pace again. It would be better to tell her he loved her when he could follow it up with a proper marriage proposal. There would be time for all that when he returned, with—God willing—his respectability and pride restored. And then he would have all the time in the world to make love to her.