It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 18

Sebastian walked home in a very dark mood.

Everything Abigail said was correct. He had promised her nothing. He had told her to run away from him. He had also taken advantage of her sensual curiosity and trusting nature to satisfy his own craving for her. He did know what she wanted: not just passion, but love and marriage. The irony that he had been on the brink of offering both didn’t escape him, but of course Abigail didn’t know that—because he had let his visceral reaction to Benedict Lennox override his every thought and intention.

Goddamn it. Benedict Lennox, of all people. There was a twisted sort of humor in it, he supposed; once Ben had envied him everything. Sebastian had been taller and stronger, more adept on a horse, and a far better shot. His father’s lack of title had meant Sebastian was permitted to do things like join the army, while Benedict, the heir to the Earl of Stratford, was flatly refused any chance at military glory.

The memory of their rash youthful views of the army brought a bitter smile to his face. Military glory had faded quickly into a lifetime of disability for him, while Benedict, confined safely if unhappily at home, was still whole and healthy.

Even worse, of course, was that Sebastian’s estate had been even more crippled, with the primary beneficiary being—indirectly—Benedict. Sebastian didn’t think it would make him feel better if his father had sold the land to someone other than Lord Stratford, but the fact that Benedict would inherit what should have been his . . . He had to breathe deeply to keep from cursing again over that quirk of fate.

So Benedict was able-bodied and had a larger inheritance. None of that was in Sebastian’s control. It wasn’t as if Benedict had shot his knee, or even snatched up his property for a pittance. Fate was often unkind.

But Abigail . . . He didn’t know if he could take losing Abigail as philosophically. Not that he had ever truly had her to begin with. No promises.

The box with the cameo struck his thigh with every step, like a constant little prod to his temper. What did he want? He had promised her nothing, but only, he’d told himself, because he had nothing to promise her. His damned pride had kept him from telling her he was falling in love with her, and now she had decided to look elsewhere. Who could blame her?

He veered off the road into the woods, feeling like he could beat something. He thrashed a fern from his way with his cane. He ground his heel into the dirt as if to punish his knee for being weak and painful. It cost him his footing; when he lurched to adjust, his right foot landed on what looked like dry earth, but what was in reality a thick mat of leaves, dried on top but wet beneath. In the blink of an eye he had skidded down the gentle slope of the trail to land on his arse in the exposed muck of the forest floor.

For a moment he just sat, heart thudding. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d fallen, but it was the first in a while. Normally he paid more attention to where he stepped. If he hadn’t let emotion blot out his usual caution . . .

His usual caution had warned him to stay away from Abigail. He’d managed to ignore it somewhat, for the chance to kiss her. But he’d held back from declaring himself in any way before he left. If only he’d ignored that little voice a bit more, he might not be here. He could be walking arm-in-arm with her, telling her about Bristol and his uncle, perhaps even making his proposal.

Gently he tested his knee. It felt sound. With a grunt, he pushed himself off the ground, groping for his cane before resting any weight on his left leg. A few wary steps, and he decided the knee wasn’t much worse than before. Aside from a wet backside, he was unscathed.

A sudden thought made him reach for the pocket in his coattail. The box was dented on one side, but when he pulled off the ribbon and opened it, the cameo inside was just as before: a delicate profile of a lovely lady, carved from ivory and set on a light blue background. He ran one fingertip over the golden frame.

No, it wasn’t his usual caution that had kept him from Abigail. It was fear. He hadn’t called on her when invited because he was afraid she would find him lacking. He hadn’t told her about his trip to Bristol before he left because he feared the news wouldn’t be as good as he hoped. He hadn’t told her he loved her because he didn’t want to expose his heart in a way he hadn’t done in years—even though she was the least likely person in the world to throw it back in his face. Everything he had done, and not done, had been because of fear.

Sebastian knew about fear. He remembered lying in a makeshift army surgery, afraid to fall asleep in case he never woke up. He remembered forcing his father into his room at night, cringing at each raspy raving his father uttered, afraid that he would die, afraid that he would recover. He remembered wondering how on earth he would pay his bills and mortgages, driven by fear he would lose everything. All those fears he had survived and overcome.

A lesser inheritance wouldn’t have rendered him less eligible in her eyes; any bettering of his situation could only help. She already knew about his crippled knee. She already knew him. And somehow, she’d accepted him.

His mouth firmed and he closed his hand around the cameo. He was an idiot. If he wanted the girl, he would have to win her. Every lady deserved to be courted, pursued, made to feel wanted. Through his own stubbornness and pride, he had made his task harder, but that didn’t change the one settled fact in his mind and heart: he wanted her. He needed her. He loved her.

And if he had to fight to win her, he would fight to his last breath.

Abigail had decided two things by the next morning. If Lord Atherton called, she would refuse to receive him and plead that she had a headache. That was a little bit true, as she still hadn’t sorted out what to do about his attentions. Her parents were so pleased, and he was so charming; if she’d only met him, and never Sebastian, who could say what might have happened?

But she had met Sebastian, and she even thought she’d fallen in love with him. That was her second decision. If he called, she would see him, although with the excuse of a headache ready to use at a moment’s notice. If he came to explain why he’d been so grim, she wanted to hear it. Since he’d shown a marked aversion to calling on her, though, she thought she would have some time to ponder this.

She put Ivanhoe on the shelf beside her bed, next to The Children of the Abbey. For a long time she contemplated the pair of them. Ivanhoe was a favorite of hers, a rich, breathtaking tale of love and gallantry, and this was a very handsome new edition, leather bound with gilt titles. The Children of the Abbey was an old book, smelling of dust, and the story itself was more than a little silly.


But the difference . . . She traced one finger down the spine of the older book. Ivanhoe had been a moment’s lark to Lord Atherton. He heard her say she liked it, so he bought it for her. It had no meaning to him except as a way to impress her and please her. The Children of the Abbey, though, had belonged to Sebastian’s mother. Even if—as she suspected—he gave it to her in part because he couldn’t afford any other book, let alone one like Ivanhoe, it had some meaning to him. Surely he wouldn’t have kept it pristine all these years for no reason. It was a Minerva Press novel, cheaply bound and no great triumph of prose or sentiment. Surely that betokened some depth of feeling, the way his care for the glass chamber in the grotto had. She refused to believe he had cleared all the brush from the entrance, swept the passage, and carried a rug, cushions, and lanterns all the way into the forest for any other reason—all without even knowing if she would meet him there.

She hadn’t been to the grotto since that day, when she’d lain on the rug with Sebastian to see the mermaid. She rolled over onto her back and stared up at her plain plaster ceiling. Her parents would probably be very startled if she asked permission to create a mosaic on it . . .

A tap at the door sounded. “You’ve a caller,” said Thomson when she opened it. “Mr. Vane.”

Well. That was a surprise. “Show him to the drawing room,” she said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

She took a minute to compose her thoughts and went downstairs. Sebastian stood by the window, looking out, his back to her. Something about his posture struck her as chastened. “Mr. Vane.” She curtsied in the doorway.

He spun around. For a moment his expression was surprised, unguarded. For a moment he looked at her with a world of wonder and yearning in his eyes, and Abigail’s heart gave an unsteady thump.

He bowed, and when he rose his face was once more composed and inscrutable. “Miss Weston.”

“Won’t you sit down?” She waved one hand at the sofa.

He hesitated. “Could we perhaps stroll in the garden? As pleasant as it would be to converse with your mother and sister, what I have to say today is for your ears only.”

Abigail did a quick calculation. If Mama knew he was here—and she was willing to bet Thomson was telling her right now—she would come join them. But the garden was entirely visible from the house. If they walked on the paths nearest the terrace, there was a good chance Mama would only keep an eye on her from inside. “Very well. Let me fetch my shawl.”

She led the way outside, wondering what he had to tell her. They crossed the terrace and descended to the gravel path through the neat knot garden.

“Once again I must apologize,” Sebastian said in a subdued tone. “I didn’t behave well yesterday.”

“No,” she agreed.

He seemed to be struggling to decide what to say. “Perhaps I should begin with some old history. You must have noticed that Lord Atherton and I were somewhat acquainted.”

She heard the slight hesitation before the last word. “I knew that. Lady Samantha told us you and he were once friends, and he himself told me the two of you explored the woods as brothers together in search of the grotto.”

The look he shot her was quick and sharp. “We did.” He seemed to be limping more than usual today. “We were the best of friends at one time. His father was strict and demanding, mine was distracted and often swept up in his latest scientific scheme. We both escaped into the woods. Searching for the long-lost grotto was only one of our missions. In the hours we spent exploring, we were ideal companions. No adventure was too daring for us; we were equals in every way, in those woods.

“But of course our stations were very different. He was the heir to an earl, while my father was a mere gentleman. When we finished university, the war was raging and we were both keen to join the fight. I dreamed of adventure and he dreamed of glory; I suppose he’d always wanted to be a soldier, even when we were lads. My father agreed, however reluctantly, but Lord Stratford absolutely forbade Ben—Lord Atherton, that is—to do the same. I bought a commission and we had a bitter row.”

“He was envious,” she murmured.

“He was,” Sebastian agreed. “When my head had cooled, I realized that he must have been desperate to go, not just for adventure and glory, but to escape his father. Stratford was . . . not a kind or loving father, as mine was. I know he beat Ben, sometimes harshly, and he was never satisfied, let alone pleased, by anything Benedict did. But I was headstrong and young, bent on doing what I wanted and less considerate of his feelings than I ought to have been. I went off to war and he had no choice but to stay home.”

Abigail thought of Lord Atherton’s crisp uniform the day he had first visited. The King’s Guard, an elite but essentially ornamental brigade. An earl’s heir wouldn’t be permitted to go to war, but he had found a way into the army.

“Everything had changed when I came home, of course,” said Sebastian in his wry, understated way. “Including our friendship. I suppose my father’s madness had something to do with it. Everyone in Richmond knew he was growing deranged far before anyone thought to write to me about it. But even worse was that my father . . .” He made a slight stumble before catching himself with the cane. “I told you my father sold most of his land at ludicrous prices. He sold most of the choicest pieces to Lord Stratford.

“I already admitted that I went a bit mad over this. The worst confrontation was with Lord Stratford.” His mouth twisted. “It struck me as particularly cruel that my closest mate’s father would take such advantage of my father’s decline. I thought my friendship with Atherton would carry some weight with Stratford. I thought that if he would just agree to reverse that sale, I could bear the loss of the rest. The land was nothing to him; to this day, he’s hardly done a thing to it. And if I could just regain those acres near the river, including the family crypt—”

She snapped around in astonishment. “He bought your mother’s grave?”

Sebastian nodded. “For a few shillings an acre.” He blew out a breath, hinting at residual frustration. “But Stratford’s a hard man; he refused. We argued, rather heatedly. He asked if my wits had gone begging as well, and offered to sell the land back, for a mere five thousand pounds. I stormed out, slamming the door in his face. On my way out of Stratford Court, I met Lord Atherton, who took his father’s side. He pointed out that at least his father wasn’t a madman, and would take better care of the property than my father could. The sale was legal, he told me, and I should show some dignity and accept it.”

She had nothing to say. Could Lord Atherton, who was always charming and laughing, truly be so heartless?

“You might think it was callous of him to say that,” Sebastian went on. “I suspect . . . I suspect it was because of his sister. Samantha was a child when I left for the army, but it was clear she had some girlish fancies about me. Of course they were merely fancies—we would have been more star-crossed than Romeo and Juliet, given our fathers—but to her they must have seemed possible. Benedict was always very protective of her, and he would sometimes bring her on our forest explorations when we were young. Before I left for the army, she told me she loved me and would wait for me to return so we could be married.”


Abigail, who had been listening first in interest, then in growing astonishment, stopped in her tracks. “Samantha?” she exclaimed, thinking of the composed young woman doing such a bold and brazen thing. “How forward—and how unlike her!”

He grimaced. “She was only thirteen then. No one is in their right mind at that age. Certainly not I, who dreamt of nothing but making off with a bottle of my father’s brandy.”

“Someone once told me you had withdrawn from society because of Lady Samantha,” Abigail said slowly. “That you were so in love with her, you couldn’t bear to see her after her father denied you her hand.”

“If I’d asked, I would have been denied,” he agreed. “Contemptuously and swiftly. But I was never in love with her, and I never asked. She was a very sweet girl and I was fond of her. We’d known each other nearly all our lives, and perhaps if my knee hadn’t been ruined and my father hadn’t run mad . . . if I’d had a fortune and a respectable reputation . . .” He shrugged. “But I didn’t, so it hardly mattered.

“She was the reason Benedict turned on me for good, though. I told you about the night my father disappeared.” Abigail nodded once at his faintly questioning glance. “Benedict came to Montrose Hill that night. He accused me of hiding Samantha in the house, of luring her away—on a desperate elopement to repair my fortunes, I suppose. It was while he was searching the house for her that I discovered my father was missing.”

“Could she have been there?”

He gave her a weary look. “Could a sixteen-year-old girl have gone from Stratford Court across the river to Montrose Hill and back, alone at night? I never saw her. The housekeeper and her husband never saw her. Benedict had no proof she’d ever left home. She was in her bed when he returned.” His voice hardened. “That was the last time his lordship and I had spoken before yesterday. He accused me of seducing an innocent girl, a girl I had once thought of as a sister. He said nothing when rumors began swirling that I had murdered my father, even though he was there and saw the empty room. He said nothing when his father accused me of stealing from him in vengeance for the lost land. He was not as I remembered him from our boyhood, and I find it hard to think cordially of him.”

There was no doubt of that. His voice had grown fierce and harsh as he spoke, and his face showed how cruel his disillusionment had been. Abigail, who was by nature a very loyal soul, felt her own indignation gather. Even allowing that Sebastian might have been a more rakish sort as a young man, he didn’t have it in him to toy with a girl’s affections, especially a girl so young. She could make some allowance—some—for Lord Atherton wanting to protect his sister, but not to the point of standing by while the gossip hounds devoured his friend without cause. Without thinking she put her hand on Sebastian’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Her touch seemed to rouse him from his moment of anger. His face relaxed as he glanced down at her hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one apologizing. I was at fault for being unable to hide my disdain when we met yesterday.”

When she had been holding Lord Atherton’s arm, with his expensive gift in the crook of her elbow. Abigail began to feel a little sorry for upbraiding Sebastian. It must have been a bit of a shock to him, since the last time he saw her she’d let him undo the front of her gown and do wicked things to her breasts. The memory of his lips on her bare skin made her heart skip a beat. He hadn’t promised her anything directly . . . but it dawned on her that his actions had all pointed toward more attachment than he’d declared. He wanted to make love to her, but restrained himself. He said he was trying to behave honorably. He sent her his mother’s book in apology. He made the grotto presentable and made sure she saw the treasure hidden within. He came to call on her family, to widespread astonishment. He hinted that he would speak to her father, when he returned from Bristol. And he’d gone looking for her as soon as he arrived home.

“Before you left,” she said hesitantly, “you said you had a question for my father.”

His eyes were hooded, wary. “I’m no longer certain I should ask it.”

“Why not? Did something happen in Bristol to change your mind?”

“Not in Bristol, no,” he said. “My uncle died. I went to Bristol to see his solicitor because he left me his estate—some four thousand pounds.”

So it had been good news, in a way. She tamped down the spark of relief and delight. “I’m very sorry he died.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” There was a long pause. “You said yesterday that you have never hidden what you want. If your desires have changed since I left—”

“No,” she said. It was true. Now that he was standing in front of her again, tall and serious and so close she could touch him, her heart was clear.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you preferred Atherton.”

“But I don’t,” she whispered.

Something leapt in his eyes. “Is every part of this garden visible from the house?”

She gulped. Her skin tingled. “All but the section there by the wall, where the roses climb over. There is an arbor . . .”

“Will you show me?”

Without a word she turned onto the path that led to it. The wall screened the kitchen garden from the formal garden. If one followed the path around the side of the house, it led to the Fragrant Walk. She kept her steps slow and deliberate, even though she wanted to race out of sight of any prying eyes. She said a fervent prayer that Milo had caused some trouble inside to keep Mama away from the window; ten minutes was all she asked.

The instant they rounded the side of the wall, Sebastian dropped his cane. She whirled at the sound, thinking he had stumbled again, but he caught her face in his hands and kissed her. It was the kiss of a starving man, and Abigail melted under the intensity of it. She slid her hands up his chest, under his jacket, feeling the hard, quick beat of his heart. He snaked one arm around her waist and hiked her against him, almost roughly. She sighed in pleasure. Oh yes; she knew what she wanted, and it was right here in his arms.

“I missed you,” he breathed. “More than words can say.”

“And I you.” She pressed her lips to his jaw.

“Even with Lord Atherton’s attentions to divert you?”

She laughed, tugging lightly on his cravat. “What was I supposed to do, throw him out? What if Penelope wanted him?”

His lips quirked in that slow smile. “She may have him, for all I care.”

“And for all I care,” she whispered, drawing his mouth back to hers for another kiss. They only had another moment or two. Anyone walking from the woods—or the stable, for that matter—would see them clinging to each other as though it would pain them to separate. Perhaps it would; when Sebastian raised his head and rested his cheek against her temple, Abigail only tightened her grip. Another minute, another second . . . She was greedy, wanting to snatch as many seconds as she could, in case it was another fortnight before another embrace.

Reluctantly he stepped back from her. “I brought a gift for you.” He took a small box from his coat pocket.

Abigail pulled off the ribbon, opened the box, and gazed at a small Wedgwood cameo pendant on a gold chain. “It’s lovely,” she sighed. “Oh, thank you.”


He smiled—a wide, honest smile, perhaps the first one she’d ever seen on his face. “I’ve never been happier to give a gift,” he said before he kissed her again, softly and sweetly this time. This was the kiss of a man in love, she thought in dizzy joy.

“Ahem.”

Abigail started, and Sebastian turned. Mama stood on the walk behind them, Milo nestled in the crook of her arm. She wore a pleasant but stern smile, an expression Abigail had never seen any other person achieve. “How lovely to see you again, Mr. Vane,” Mama said. “I wondered if you’d got lost in the garden.”

“No, Mrs. Weston. I was admiring your roses.”

Mama glanced at the roses climbing the wall beside them. Abigail took advantage of the momentary distraction to slip the cameo in its box into her pocket. She suspected the visit was over, and was proven right when Mama stayed with them, answering all Sebastian’s polite questions about the plants and design of the garden and leaving Abigail to trail behind. This time, though, she didn’t mind. The box in her pocket was tangible proof that she was right, about Sebastian and about her heart.

And that meant everything was going to work out perfectly, she just knew it.