It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 22

Abigail knew she was being wicked, and she didn’t care.

She firmly blocked all thought of her parents or Lord Atherton from her mind. Her initial urge to run had indeed come out of her desire to avoid facing them, but as soon as the quiet of the trees enveloped her, she knew where she was going. Or rather, she knew where she wanted to go—getting there proved a challenge. She’d almost gasped in relief when Boris came bounding through the bracken toward her, his tail wagging in greeting. As if he’d been looking for her, he began nudging her up the hill, and before she knew it the pink brick of Montrose House appeared through the trees.

Now she was here, where she longed to be—where she belonged. Sebastian only let go of her hand when he had to kneel down and stir up the fire. His bedchamber was plain and bare. A worn leather armchair, a table, a chest of drawers, a blanket near the hearth that was clearly Boris’s. And a bed.

The sight of the last gave her a moment of pause. She wasn’t nervous, precisely, but suddenly she wished she knew better what to expect. Devoted readings of 50 Ways to Sin had given her some ideas, but they felt wildly insufficient now. She wasn’t really like Lady Constance. What if Sebastian thought she was actually that uninhibited and wild?

She closed her eyes and told herself not to be silly. Sebastian was far better than Constance’s lovers; he was alive and real and he was in love with her, ready to make love to her. In the grotto and in the woods, he’d known just the right touch, just how far to take her down the road to ruin. He knew she hadn’t much experience, and it hadn’t stopped him from showing her a world of pleasure she’d never dreamt of before, and he’d made her feel adored while he did it. Her heart skipped a beat at the memory, and she opened her eyes, her moment of shyness evaporating.

Sebastian was watching her. “Uncertain?” he asked. “I won’t do a thing you don’t want me to do.”

Abigail smiled. “I know. I trust you.” She caught sight of something then, and blushed. “You kept it!”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “Of course I did. It made me think of you.”

Her blush deepened. She picked up the item in question, the issue of 50 Ways to Sin where Constance pleasured herself, wearing a blindfold, while her mysterious lover watched. “You mentioned it in the grotto.”

One corner of his mouth crooked. “I had trouble thinking of anything else in the grotto. When the candle went out, I thought God had sent yet another plague to torture me.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“Constance called her blindness very freeing.” He started toward her. “I have to say, I believed her. I never would have kissed you that first time if not for the darkness.”

“Never?” She arched one brow.

“Well.” He gave her his sinful half smile. “Not that day.”

“Sometimes I feel I owe a debt to Lady Constance.” She picked up the wicked pamphlet and opened it, choosing a passage at random. “ ‘In my admittedly debauched adventures, I had never felt such longing. The absence of sight only made my skin more sensitive to his touch; my ears more attuned to his breathing,’ ” she read aloud. “Perhaps we should put out the lamp . . .”

Sebastian crossed the room and took the pamphlet from her hands. “Enough. I don’t need a story to give me ideas.” He turned and tossed the pamphlet onto the fire. “I could write my own series, and not mention half of the thoughts and desires you’ve inspired.”

“Really?” Abigail tore her eyes off the burning pamphlet. “You would write one?”

He grinned. “Only for you, my love.” He touched her wrist. “Dearest Abigail,” he began. His fingers trailed up her arm. “There is much I have longed to tell you since we met. I daresay you would blush to hear most of it”—she smothered a laugh, and he grinned—“but someday I hope to show you.”

“I like this story.” She started to turn as he moved behind her, but Sebastian stayed her with one hand on her hip.

“You should,” he whispered, brushing her damp hair gently over one shoulder. “It is an ode to your beauty, your charm, your compassion. Where was I? Ah.” He pressed a lingering kiss on her nape. “You have haunted my dreams since the night we met. You burst into my life like a comet, dazzling my eyes and heart. Still, not even I was mad enough to think you would ever turn to me . . .”

“You were never mad.” Abigail shivered. He was unlacing her dress, slowly and deliberately. She could feel every tug on the lace, every fractional loosening of the bodice. Her hands were in fists at her sides as he prolonged the torment.

“Not in the way everyone thought,” he muttered before resuming his tale. “If being near you drove me mad, it was a madness I would happily embrace. Not being near you was a torment I could not long endure.” He eased the bodice forward and Abigail let it slip down her arms.

He inhaled a ragged breath. “God in heaven.” He smoothed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, pushing the dress off. Abigail let her head fall back as his lips skimmed over her neck. His fingers plucked at the ribbon of her chemise, tied in a bow between her breasts. “So lovely,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “So perfect.”

“And impatient!” She tugged her arms free of her sleeves and put her hands over his to yank at the ribbon. She wanted the shift off, so she could feel his skin against hers.

This time Sebastian didn’t protest. He shoved down the loosened shift and cupped his hands over her breasts, first lightly, then firmly, drawing her solidly against him. A shudder ran through him. “Abigail,” he whispered, his voice raw with longing.

She twisted in his arms. “I love you,” she breathed, stretching up to kiss him.

He returned the kiss with fervor. With one arm, he held her tightly to him. With the other hand, he made short work of her stays’ lacing. Barely taking his mouth from hers, he divested her of one piece of clothing after another.

Her heart raced. With each layer of fabric that came off, her flesh seemed to grow more tender, more sensitive. By the time she was left in just her shift and stockings, she felt feverish, burning on the inside while shivers rippled over her skin as if a chill wind blew on her. She reached for him instinctively.

“Cold?” He folded her into his arms even as he continued nuzzling her ear.

“Not really.” She slid her hands up his chest, feeling the hard thump of his heart, and toyed with the end of his cravat. “I’ve never seen a man’s bare chest before . . .”


He paused. “Would you like to?”

Her face warmed, but Abigail nodded. Without a word Sebastian shrugged out of his coat and yanked loose the knot of his cravat. Feeling very brazen and bold, Abigail began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, and within minutes it was on the floor, along with the long crumpled cravat. Taking one more long look at her, he undid the button at his throat and pulled the shirt over his head.

“Oh my,” whispered Abigail, transfixed. His chest was a shade paler than his face, with a light sprinkling of dark hair. He was lean, but sculpted with muscles like she’d seen on statues. Her gaze caught on his arm as he tossed the shirt aside. Goodness, he looked so strong without the shirt, and her fingers itched to touch him. “You’re beautiful,” she said helplessly. “Not a wreck of a man at all . . .”

“You haven’t seen my knee yet. But I truly was wrecked.” He took her hand and laid it on his breastbone, right over his heart. “Until you salvaged me up and brought me back to life.”

“I did no such thing,” she said in a low voice. “You had locked yourself away, and you were the one who decided to cast off your solitude.”

“But only because of you, darling,” he replied. “Only you could have lured me. I don’t mean you gave me life; you made me want to live. I cannot tell you what vibrancy and happiness you breathed into me, whereas I have nothing to offer you—”

“Stop.” She laid her palms on his chest, marveling at how warm he was. “You understand me. We’re alike, you and I—if I were in your place, I would have reacted much the same way you did, to all the injustices you endured. We are both inclined to be solitary creatures, and yet we both want someone at our side. Someone who will appreciate a long-lost grotto, or a treasured book.” She darted a glance up at him through her eyelashes. “Someone who understands our improper curiosities and desires . . .”

The muscles under her hands tensed. His eyes reflected the fire. “Indeed.” He wound one finger in the trailing ribbon from her shift. “My only desire is to show you every wicked sort of pleasure you crave.” The shift slipped off her shoulders at his gentle but relentless pull.

“How do you know I crave wicked pleasures?” She backed up, stepping out of the fallen shift. He raised one brow, and she blushed. “I’m not Lady Constance, you know.”

“I know.” He caught her in his arms. “You want love, as well as wicked pleasures.” He kissed her, and Abigail thought she would melt from the heady combination of love and passion in that kiss. His tongue played over hers, teasing, demanding, seducing. She barely noticed when he lifted her off the floor and carried her to the bed.

A riot of images and words passed through her brain as he laid her on the mattress and stripped off his trousers and boots. Then she looked at him, as bare as she was now, and everything vanished from her head. He was beautiful—his chest and arms taut with muscle, his legs lean and strong. A white bandage circled his left knee, but he diverted her attention from it by leaning over her for another kiss. This time his tongue thrust into her mouth, and Abigail moaned, realizing it was an imitation of things to come.

He moved onto the bed, lowering himself above her. One hand tangled in her hair as he kissed her, harder and more demanding. She moved beneath him, writhing restlessly as he cupped her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple to aching readiness. There seemed no good place to put her hands, so she simply wound her arms around his neck and held on, reveling in the drowning delight of his kiss. When he turned his head away, she protested.

“I’ve only begun,” he rasped, sliding his weight down her. “Let me kiss you everywhere . . .”

She could only make an incoherent sound of assent as he applied his lips to her sensitized nipples. His fingers wandered all over her skin, from the notch at the base of her throat down her ribs and across her hip. As he had done in the woods, Sebastian held her as he wanted her; when she made to clasp his head to her bosom, he spread her arms wide and ravished her breasts until she was whimpering for release. She didn’t even notice that he’d eased her legs apart until he slid farther down, nestling his chest between her knees. Ignoring her gasp of shock, he boldly ran his fingers down her cleft, opening her to his gaze.

Abigail raised her head, blushing with discomfort even as her body seemed to swell and ignite with heat. The taut hunger in Sebastian’s eyes quelled her urge to speak, though, and she only watched him in rapt silence as he dipped his head and pressed a lingering kiss there.

“So soft,” he whispered, stroking her lightly. “So lovely.” He circled and caressed, just as he’d done in the woods, and Abigail’s hips moved on their own. A dark smile of satisfaction touched his lips. “So passionate.” He pushed one finger inside her, and her belly contracted. Abigail gulped for breath, dazed and mesmerized. He glanced up and met her gaze, then slowly he pushed another finger inside her.

She fell back on the pillows, her spine flexing of its own accord. Leisurely he slid his fingers in and out, teasing that spot of intense feeling without pause. She gripped the bedclothes; her wits scattered. A storm was gathering inside her, a feverish anxiety for release. Her legs twitched and trembled, and when Sebastian lowered his mouth again, licking and swirling his tongue where his fingers had wrought such frenzy, she almost screamed.

“God, Abigail . . .” He rose up on his knees and settled her legs around his waist. “I don’t want to hurt you . . .”

She thrashed her head from side to side. “Don’t stop!”

He shuddered and shifted, and then she felt him press against her. He stroked her again, and she jerked in response, forcing him deeper. Abigail’s imagination ran wild, picturing his flesh parting hers, their bodies melding into each other, the twain becoming one. Sebastian sucked in his breath and pushed again. She barely felt the sting as he thrust home.

“I know,” he said in a strangled voice. “Just . . . Let me . . .” He grasped her hips as he began rocking back and forth, tiny, sharp motions than made her moan. “Like that . . .” He sounded as breathless and tense as she felt. His fingers settled on that spot again, and stroked in time with his thrusts.

The end came abruptly, a sudden rush of heat through her veins. It wasn’t her first climax—he had brought her to one that day in the woods—but Abigail had never felt anything like this one. The blood roared in her ears; the fullness of him lodged inside her seemed to amplify the waves of release pounding through her veins. She came with a cry, clutching for him, wanting him to feel the same unbearable pleasure.

“Yes,” he panted, holding her hips against him. “Abby . . . darling . . .” He toppled forward, falling to his elbows. This time when he thrust, her eyes flew open. His head was thrown back, his teeth gritted. Slowly he pulled his hips back, then drove forward, the very picture of a man caught in ecstasy. Abigail managed to get her arm around his waist before he moved again, and again, before he rested his forehead against hers and gasped and shuddered. Dimly she felt him pulse inside her—although her entire body seemed to be pulsing at the moment—and then finally go still.

“That’s . . . That’s the way I want passion,” she managed to say. Her muscles still quivered.


Sebastian’s fierce expression melted away, and a lazy smile curved his mouth. “You shall have it that way as often as you desire.”

She giggled and hugged him close. He kissed her, then turned onto his side, taking her with him. With his head on her shoulder and his arms around her, Abigail had never in her life felt so contented. “I love you,” she whispered, brimming with happiness.

His lips touched her brow. “I adore you.”

“I think Constance wants both, too,” she whispered, idly running her fingers through his hair.

He didn’t stir. “Hmm?”

“Love and passion,” she clarified. “She’s always in search of something—adventure, variety, excitement—but she’d never truly satisfied with what she finds, even when she declares it surpassed all her hopes. Her lovers please her, but none of them touch her heart.”

“She seems more in pursuit of passion than love.” He shifted, settling himself more comfortably around her. Abigail nestled into his embrace.

“Perhaps.” She stared up at the shadows of flames flickering on the ceiling. “I suppose it’s easier to find.”

Sebastian was quiet for a moment, then he raised himself up on one elbow. “It is, but passion alone is rarely enough. Perhaps Lady Constance is too quick to accept the momentary passions offered to her—although I expect that’s what makes her stories so alluring to young ladies.” She gasped in mock affront. He grinned, the gleam of his teeth barely visible. “Isn’t that why you read them?”

“Well—somewhat,” she allowed. He nodded and made a self-satisfied sound in his throat, and she swatted his shoulder. “It’s impossible for a man to understand. Young ladies aren’t supposed to know anything about passion, or pleasure. It’s wicked for a girl to wish a man would kiss her, but the man is expected to have a vast experience of passion so he can teach his wife. But . . . it doesn’t always happen that way, does it? There are a great many unhappy marriages in London. Young ladies aren’t the only ones who read Constance’s stories.”

“I don’t intend to miss one from now on.”

She laughed. “Because you’re also in search of passion?”

“No.” He eased back down beside her, laying his head on her shoulder. “I’ve found both love and passion. I intend to purchase a subscription because the stories delight and arouse the wanton woman I plan to marry, and her pleasure is my pleasure.”

Abigail blushed but didn’t deny it. “That’s why I think Constance wants love. Passion alone is arousing, but without love, it’s only fleeting.”

“I hope she finds it,” mumbled Sebastian. “It’s the bloody best feeling in the world.” His arms tightened around her for a moment before she felt him relax into sleep.

“I hope so, too,” she whispered, feeling unspeakably benevolent toward all of humanity. She brushed her lips against Sebastian’s forehead once more, then slept.