It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 8

On the next fine day, Abigail went to the kitchen and asked for a luncheon packed in a basket. She wore her favorite walking dress, the one that made her eyes look a little blue, and a plain straw bonnet. She carried the book she’d bought the other day in town. When her mother stopped her on the terrace and asked where she was going, Abigail replied, innocently, “I’m going for a walk, and if I find a convenient spot to read, I have a new novel.”

Her mother wasn’t suspicious. “Very well. Don’t go too far, dear, and be back in time for supper.”

“Yes, Mama.” Abigail smiled and headed for the woods.

Unfortunately, she didn’t make it far. “Where are you going?” Penelope asked, passing her in the garden.

“For a walk.”

“Oh, I fancy a walk,” said her sister.

“It’s going to be long and quiet.”

“There’s nothing else to do,” replied Penelope. “Let me get my pelisse.”

“I plan to walk until I find a cozy spot to read.” Abigail pulled the book out of the basket and held it up. “You’ll be bored.”

Penelope flipped one hand. “I’m already bored. You can read anytime. Don’t be so dull, Abby! I’ll just be a moment.” She hurried into the house.

Abigail huffed. She glanced around. All was quiet and peaceful at Hart House, with a gentle breeze from the river and a sunny sky overhead. Penelope was probably bored out of her mind, but her company was the last thing Abigail wanted right now. She intended to walk through the woods in search of the grotto, and if she happened across Mr. Vane’s path, she wouldn’t be disappointed. She was wildly curious to know if he truly meant to avoid her, or if he felt the same inexplicable pull she did. Even though she told herself there was only a slim chance he would happen to be walking in the woods at the same time she was, on the same paths—especially after saying he would avoid the woods—there was no denying the anticipation that quickened her step.

Or rather, had quickened her step until her sister interrupted. Really, why should she suffer because her sister couldn’t find someone else to torment? If Penelope would adopt an interest in something like needlework or practicing the pianoforte, she wouldn’t be bored at all. It would also restore her to their mother’s good graces, something Penelope ought to consider more important. Abigail pursed her lips, and started walking again—not quickly, but not slowly, either.

“You didn’t wait for me,” complained her sister breathlessly when she caught up several minutes later.

“You took too long.”

Penelope snorted. “You’re walking out to look for him, aren’t you? I cannot believe you would scheme to slip off and meet a mysterious and possibly dangerous gentleman without me.”

“I have no expectation of meeting anyone,” said Abigail, keeping her eyes on the path ahead of her. “I told you I intend to read.”

“And you just happened to be wearing a bonnet that flatters your face and your favorite dress.” Penelope smirked.

“Yes, I plead guilty to wearing my favorite dress,” said Abigail dryly. “That must be a sign of ill intent!”

“I don’t blame you,” her sister remarked. “I’d like to meet the smoldering Mr. Vane as well.”

Abigail just sighed and shook her head. There was no deterring her sister sometimes.

“You’re not worried he might kill you in the woods?”

“No!”

Penelope laughed. “Or steal from you?”

“He’d only get a book and a basket of food.” She glanced at her sister. “You don’t believe those rumors?”

Penelope snorted. “If you’d walked to the Fragrant Walk with Lucy Walgrave, you’d doubt every word that came from her lips, too. I like a good gossip myself, but only if it seems plausible.”

Abigail grinned. “I suppose some of it was plausible . . .”

“Do you think he really is dying of love for Lady Samantha?”

Her grin disappeared. “Seven years seems a long time to pine for someone.”


“True,” conceded Penelope. “Any lover worth his salt would have kidnapped her to Gretna Green by now.”

“Or perhaps Miss Walgrave’s report is outlandish in every respect,” Abigail retorted. “Lady Samantha seems old enough to have done something by now if she loved him and knew he loved her. I certainly would have, at any rate.”

“Really,” murmured her sister with a speculative glance. “Is that why we’re walking about the woods?”

“No.” Abigail kicked a loose stone from the path. “I am walking in the woods because I like them; they are cool and quiet and free of chattering busybodies—usually. You are walking in the woods because you are a pest.”

Penelope was immune to such criticism. “There are much better places to read on the lawn or the terrace, and you know it. If you’re not walking out in hopes of meeting Mr. Vane, there must be something else you want to see.” She narrowed her eyes and studied Abigail closely for a few minutes. “The grotto,” she said at last.

“I’m surprised it took you that long to guess. But Pen”—she stopped and turned to her sister in all seriousness—“don’t tell Mama. She wouldn’t think it ladylike to go in search of a cave.”

“A grotto is no ordinary cave.” Penelope grinned. “I can’t believe you didn’t invite me.”

Abigail sighed. Penelope would want to search as if they needed to find the grotto to save their family from ruination. Abigail preferred to wander, keeping her eyes open for a grotto, of course, but not supremely focused on the search. She did want to read her book, and if Mr. Vane happened to cross her path . . . “It might not even exist. Lady Turley said it had been filled in.”

“Then why are you searching for it?”

She didn’t look at her sister as she replied, “Mr. Vane said he found it once, so I thought I’d have a look.”

For a few minutes Penelope didn’t say anything, which was unusual. “You know, Abby,” she began at last, “I don’t think badly of you for being intrigued by him.”

“Yes, I know; dark and reclusive and mysterious, how alluring!” She made a face.

“Well, yes,” conceded her sister. “But we’ve gossiped about enough gentlemen that I can see this one is different for you.”

Abigail swatted a trailing vine out of her way as she framed her reply. Too little admission would only prompt her sister to pester her more; too much admission . . . would be even worse. “It’s one thing to presume about a gentleman we’ve never met, based on reports in the gossip rags. Mr. Vane is our neighbor, and he was kind to me. I think it’s unfair of people to shun him because of his father’s illness and call him a murderer and a thief without proof, just as I think it’s unfair for some people to believe you and I are ambitious schemers bent on buying titled husbands. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, that’s all—and so far he’s done nothing to warrant being avoided.”

“That’s all true, but I think there’s even more to it.” Penelope cursed as a bramble bush caught on her skirt. “Am I wrong?”

Abigail hesitated. “Perhaps. Perhaps not, but . . . I would like to find out.”

For once her sister said nothing. She gave Abigail a long, searching look, and finally nodded.

They walked in silence for a little while. Abigail tried to keep a mental map of their location to avoid getting lost, but gave it up after a while. Hart House was behind them, to the east. Montrose Hill, on the other hand, would be ahead and to the right, up the slope of the hill she could feel rising beneath her feet. She had no idea where the grotto might be, but if Mr. Vane had discovered it, it only stood to reason that it might be near his home. She tried to subtly steer them up the hill, and for once her sister didn’t complain about the climb.

“You know, Lucy Walgrave is a chatterbox of the worst kind,” said Penelope all of a sudden. “I don’t think even she believes half of what she says. I certainly don’t.”

Abigail grinned at her sister gratefully. “Nor I.”

“That’s why I set her on Jamie.”

“You didn’t!” Penelope just smiled her evil little smile at Abigail’s horrified, amused exclamation. “What did you do?”

“I might have mentioned that he’s ready to settle down. I might have told her he likes the pianoforte, and poetry, and ladies who paint.”

Abigail choked on a laugh as her sister named everything that would send their brother running. “What did Jamie do to you?”

Penelope gave a gusty sigh. “Nothing. Nothing! Not a bloody thing. He let Papa buy this house and drag us out to a summer of exile, and then he fled the premises. Have you seen him once except at dinner? He avoided the ball, he never pays calls with us, he won’t even take a boat out on the river with me. He deserves to be pursued by a chatterbox and made to suffer for his unpardonable dullness.”

“When has Jamie ever paid calls?” Abigail pointed out. “He attends balls in London only when Mama insists. And having ladies like Miss Walgrave pursue him isn’t likely to make him change his behavior, if that was your intent.”

“He still deserves it, for being so maddeningly absent most of the time,” growled Penelope. “I swear he’s sneaking back to London, and if he can do so, why can’t I?”

“He’s not. He just finds ways to amuse himself without forcing his company on other people.”

Penelope stuck out her tongue. “Admit it, Abby. You’d be as bored as I am if not for the mysterious Mr. Vane.”

“Hardly mysterious,” said a familiar voice.

Penelope shrieked, seizing Abigail’s arm so hard they both almost fell to the ground. “Good Lord, did you want to frighten us to death?” she demanded, whirling around. “Where are you, sir?”

He stepped from behind a wild flowering shrub. “On my own property.”

Penelope folded her arms and looked him up and down. So did Abigail, although—she hoped—without her sister’s brazen staring. He was just as she remembered, tall and handsome and somber. His long brown coat hid the cane, but now she could see by his posture how he leaned on it, his left shoulder a little higher than the right.

“Are you?” said Penelope tartly. “I don’t see a fence.”

“But I’ve lived here all my life and know where my land ends and your father’s begins,” he replied. “I daresay after you’ve lived here thirty years or more, you’ll be able to locate the boundary as plainly as any fence.”

“Do not, under any circumstances, suggest I will live here for thirty more years,” said Penelope under her breath. “Do you plan to shoot us as trespassers?”

“Penelope,” said Abigail sternly, wishing she could shake her sister. “This is our neighbor, Mr. Sebastian Vane. Mr. Vane, may I present my rude and impertinent sister, Miss Penelope Weston?”

“I thought as much.” Penelope grinned, her smile returning as bright and good-natured as ever. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vane.”

“And you, Miss Penelope.” His gaze moved to Abigail at last, and something seemed to light up inside her. “How do you do, Miss Weston?”

“Very well, sir.” She tried to keep the smile off her face. So he hadn’t been able to avoid the woods at all times, as he’d threatened. “What a surprise to encounter you here.”


He acknowledged the hit with a slight tightening of his lips. “Boris went out, and hasn’t come back. He is why I’m in the woods at the moment. My housekeeper coddles Boris like a child, and she grew worried when he didn’t come back for his midday meal.”

“Who is Boris?” Penelope wanted to know.

“My dog.” He hesitated, then touched the brim of his hat. “I apologize for interrupting your walk. Good day, Miss Weston. Miss Penelope.”

“Wait!” Abigail called as he turned away. “We’ll help you look,” she blurted out. “Since you were so kind to help me rescue Milo. We owe it to you.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, watching her with those dark, somber eyes. “But thank you very kindly for the offer.”

“What if he’s fallen into the grotto? Or become trapped under a bramble bush? He might be hurt.” Abigail forged through the tangle of vines and bracken toward him. “Now I shall be worried about him, too.”

Mr. Vane hesitated. His gaze darted toward Penelope, and Abigail turned a fearsome glare upon her sister, who owed her a tremendous favor.

Penelope blinked, then burst out, “Oh yes! We’ll help look for him. Is he small and adorable like Milo?”

“He’s a large boar hound, so high,” said Mr. Vane evenly. He held his hand at the level of his waist. “Black. Drools a good bit.”

Penelope blinked again. “That big, is he?”

“When he barks, it tends to frighten ladies half to death,” Mr. Vane went on. “It’s a very deep, fierce bark.”

“And yet he’s well trained and won’t hurt anyone.” Abigail gave him a reproving look. “Isn’t he?”

He sighed as he gazed down at her. As usual, his expression was neutral, but now that she stood at his side, Abigail thought she could see something like amused frustration in his eyes. “Yes, Miss Weston,” he said, almost reluctantly.

“Have you any idea where he’s likely to be?” She shaded her eyes as she put her head back to see him better.

“No.” He didn’t seem very concerned about it, either, his gaze still fixed on her as if in unwilling fascination.

Abigail smiled. “Then we’ll just walk through the woods until we find him.”

“Yes,” said Penelope with notably less enthusiasm.

Abigail turned back to Mr. Vane. “If he’s hungry, isn’t he likely to be nearer home?” She started in the direction of Montrose Hill. “Perhaps he’s already started back.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Mr. Vane as she walked away from him, “but the house is that way.” He pointed to her left.

Without a word she switched directions. “Does he like bread or cheese? I have some in my basket, along with an apple.”

For a moment he said nothing. Abigail kept walking, listening hard, until she heard a muffled curse and the quick sound of his steps as he hurried after her. Penelope, she assumed, was somewhere behind him. “He likes cheese.”

“Excellent! We’ll tempt him out of hiding with some.” She raised her voice. “Boris! Come, Boris! I have cheese!”

He glanced at her. “He’ll want to follow you home if you feed him cheese.”

Abigail laughed. “Ridiculous! He’d run right back to you once Milo begins yipping at him for hours and hours every day.”

He gave a quiet snort of disbelief. “Hours and hours?”

“Sometimes without end. You can see I’ve fled the house entirely to escape it.”

“That’s what sent you into the woods,” he murmured. “I see.”

“Milo?” Penelope had caught up again, by ducking under a low tree branch and skirting a large puddle. “Milo is the sweetest little creature in the world. He does not bark all day.” She darted a sly glance at Mr. Vane. “My sister is determined to discover the lost grotto in these woods.”

His gaze lingered on Abigail. “Indeed. I doubt it’s in any condition to be explored by ladies.”

“So you’ve seen it?” asked Penelope brightly, as if Abigail hadn’t told her he had. “What’s it like?”

“Dark,” he said. “Cold. It’s a cave.”

“It’s a grotto,” Abigail corrected him. “Not a natural cave but one deliberately cut. Often they have lovely touches or some clever use. I read about one in Italy that served as a bathing chamber.”

“It sounds scandalous,” said Penelope with relish.

“It isn’t.” Mr. Vane’s voice was tight.

“Then we could make it so. It can be our refuge from Mama. I’ll smuggle down a bottle of sherry.”

“First we need to find Boris,” Abigail reminded her. She could just imagine what else her sister would smuggle to the grotto, if they ever found it.

Penelope met her eyes for a moment, then grinned. “Right. Boris,” she called in the high, singsong voice she used with Milo. “Where are you, Boris?”

Mr. Vane made a sound like a strangled laugh.

“Boris!” Penelope wandered a little farther away. “Where are you, big, naughty, drooling dog? Abby has some cheese for you!” She kept calling and walking, keeping her back directly to them. Abigail said a silent thanks to her sister, even though Penelope sounded sillier and sillier, adding all manner of ridiculous endearments to her calls.

“Would Boris come if he heard her?” she asked.

Mr. Vane was watching Penelope disappear into the trees. “I have no idea.”

“How do you summon him?”

“With a whistle.” He pushed up a low-hanging branch so she could walk beneath it. “He’ll come home eventually.”

“You must be worried, or you wouldn’t have come to look for him.” She tilted her head to steal a glance at his face. “I’m surprised to meet you today. You did vow to avoid the woods at all times.”

His mouth quirked. “Did I? I don’t recall that. Part of it lies on my property, you know.”

A faint frown touched her brow as she tried to remember his exact words. Perhaps he hadn’t actually said he would avoid the woods, but he had certainly implied it. The frown lifted. She had warned him to avoid the woods if he didn’t want to see her. If he hadn’t done that, he didn’t really want to avoid her.

“Do you share your sister’s nefarious plans for the grotto, if you should find it?” he asked.

Abigail laughed. “I don’t think she’s truly interested in the grotto. Penelope is bored in Richmond. Her plans for diversion grow more shocking and more fantastical with each day she doesn’t have a more intriguing scandal to discuss.”

She could feel his measuring gaze on her for a long minute. “I’m sure she’ll find some scandal in Richmond if she listens hard enough.”

“Oh! She’s already heard one about you,” said Abigail airily.

“No doubt,” he muttered grimly. “There are plenty to choose from.”

“Indeed.”

“Now you see why I warned you.”

She stopped and waited until he also stopped walking and faced her. “I prefer to form my own opinion of a man’s character, thank you, not swallow others’ ridiculous notions whole. As does my sister, and the rest of my family,” she added as he looked unimpressed. “You’re not the only one people talk about, you know. If one believes the scandalmongers in London, my father is a jumped-up parvenu who made his fortune through illicit business dealings. My sister and I are nouveau riche heiresses out for the blood—and marriage proposals—of highborn gentlemen, through any means necessary.” She raised her brows at his expression. “I will understand if you want to disavow our acquaintance.”


Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his mouth softened. The cool distance in his gaze faded, and he regarded her with grudging amusement. “You’re a difficult woman to dissuade, Miss Weston.”

“On the contrary,” she protested. “I’m entirely susceptible to reason and logic. I have a great weakness for appeals to justice and fairness, and I daresay I could pardon almost any act committed by a parent in defense of his child. It’s merely wild rumor and gossip that I treat with suspicion.”

He stared at her with narrowed eyes. Abigail’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. In the distance, she could still hear Penelope calling for Boris, but otherwise it was just the two of them, she and Mr. Vane, alone in the woods. “I’ve never met your like, Miss Weston.”

“I hope that doesn’t make you want to flee in terror.” She put her head to one side with a little smile.

His gaze drifted downward, slowly, tracing every inch of her figure until Abigail blushed. “No.”

“Oh. Well . . . good,” she said, having trouble remembering exactly what she’d said.

His eyes seemed to grow darker. “You might not say that if you knew what it does make me want.”

This time her breath did stop in her chest, even as her heart seemed to have been jolted to thump at twice its normal pace. “Why? What do you want?”

His mouth curved. Not in a sweet, lighthearted way, but in a way that could only be called seductive. His eyes had grown as dark as a moonless midnight sky, and even though he hadn’t moved an inch, Abigail could swear he was somehow much closer to her. “Many things I cannot have.”

“Don’t we all!” She managed a shaky laugh. “I wish my hair was blond, like my sister’s. I wish my eyes were any color at all—green, blue, brown, even black.”

“You’re wrong to wish for those things. Never wish your hair was blond; such a pale insipid shade would never do you justice. You glow with passion and joy, as rich and warm as your hair.” He reached out, and with one sharp tug, loosened her bonnet ribbons and pushed the hat to hang down her back so he could touch her hair. “Never wish your eyes were blue or brown.” His thumb brushed over her cheekbone as he studied her face. “They are as fresh and clear as a new dawn, filled with promise and hope. You’re perfect as you are.” Abigail tilted forward, expecting a kiss—yearning for a kiss—but he stepped backward instead, giving her an almost physical start. She had been so focused on him, held so immobile by his burning gaze, she felt unsteady and disoriented without it. “We’re not making very good progress looking for Boris.”

“You said you weren’t worried about him!” She scrambled to catch up as he strode onward without another glance at her.

“I’m not, but you were.”

“Oh—well—I don’t want him to be lost or hurt . . .”

“Boris is more than capable of finding his way home,” he said. “He knows these woods as well as any creature who dwells in them.”

“If you’re not worried at all, then why were you in the woods looking for him?” She could barely keep up, he was moving so briskly. Did he regret what he’d said? If he didn’t, how he could practically sprint away from her?

“You make an excellent point, Miss Weston. I should return home at once and leave you and your sister to an uninterrupted stroll. Forgive me.” His eyes flashed her way as he touched the brim of his hat.

“Well, that’s a fine thanks, after we both offered to help find your dog.” She stopped, clutching one hand to her side as her lungs heaved. “Good day, Mr. Vane.”

He continued a few more steps before he, too, stopped. For a moment he stood motionless, then he turned and walked back toward her, not quickly as before, but a deliberate prowl. Abigail held her ground and waited, keeping her chin up. She didn’t shy away from his gaze, even though he looked almost angry.

“You ask what I want,” he said, his voice low and even. “Very well. I want to walk normally again. I’d give anything for two good legs.” He shifted his weight to prop the heel of his left boot on a nearby stump. “Instead I’ve got a shattered knee that aches in every heavy rain and betrays me at odd moments, sending me to the ground like a true cripple. I will never be able to walk without a cane again, nor dance with a woman, nor climb a tree, nor ride a horse comfortably.”

She stared at his wounded knee, her lips parted in dismay. “Oh . . .”

He put one finger on her lips. “I also want my land back. My father sold it for a pittance and everyone agrees the sale was legal, even though he was mad as a hatter at the time. I want my mother’s grave to be on my property.”

Abigail gasped. “You cannot repurchase even that part?”

His smile was bitter. “Even if the buyer would sell it back to me, I haven’t got the funds.”

She bit her lip. That was terrible. What comfort could one offer in the face of that?

He put his foot back on the ground and took a step toward her. Abigail had to tip back her head to meet his eyes. “And the last thing I want is something I can never have.”

She wet her lips nervously. His eyes tracked the motion. “What is that?”

He just smiled that twisted smile again. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted my lot. You should believe some of what they say about me in town; I’m no noble hero.”

“Really?” She arched one brow. “Your father went mad and ran naked through the streets of Richmond? You killed your father? Your dog is a witch’s familiar?”

“A witch’s—?” He broke off and shook his head. “I hadn’t heard that one. Boris is an ordinary dog.”

“Of course he is! Rumor is so ridiculous. I never believe half of what I hear.” She hurried after him as he started walking again, but at a normal speed this time.

“You should believe more. My father really did run mad,” he told her. “He regularly ran through these woods, and even into town, wearing only his nightshirt—if he wore anything at all. He refused to bathe or eat for weeks at a time, he refused to have his hair or nails cut, he looked like a wild beast. I didn’t kill him, even though he begged me to.” He slanted a challenging glance at her. “I’m sure they also told you I’m going as mad as he was. You can add my good name to the list of my hopeless desires.”

“You’re not mad at all.” She rolled her eyes. “Aggravating, perhaps.”

“Then why are you still speaking to me?”

Abigail bit back the tart reply that leapt to her lips. He was trying to chase her away, but the way he’d looked at her a few minutes ago, when she asked what he wanted, tormented her. The way he’d touched her face resonated deep inside her. “Because I like you,” she said softly. “I like talking to you, even when you’re telling me to run away from you. You look at me as if—”

This time he stopped so suddenly, she ran into him. Instinctively she clutched at his shoulder, and his arm went around her waist to catch her. Abigail’s eyes grew wide as she stared up at him. His eyes were no longer hard and angry, but dark with raw longing. “As if I want you?” he asked, not making any effort to release her. “I do. I came into the woods today because I wanted to see you, even though I said I wouldn’t—even though I know I shouldn’t. I want you in every wicked way a man can want a woman. And if I had you, I could show you many, many more than fifty ways to sin.”


Her eyes had grown wide at his first words, but she froze in shock at the last bit. “What?” she squeaked.

“You know what I mean,” he murmured. His hand moved up her back, his fingers spread wide to hold her to him. “The pamphlet you bought in Mrs. Driscoll’s shop.”

“You read it?”

He nodded.

Abigail made a silent vow to murder her sister for this. She’d known it would land her in trouble somehow. “But—but—why did you buy it?” She really wished she could look away, but her wits—and her will—seemed to have gone missing.

“Because you bewitched me, and I wanted to know you, even if just what you read.” He wound a stray wisp of hair around his finger before smoothing it back from her temple. “Why did you buy it?”

Abigail’s heart was beating a tocsin against her breastbone. It was tempting to blame it on her sister, but she’d found that issue so arousing . . . “Curiosity,” she finally whispered.

Something flared in his eyes. “Indeed. You torment me, Miss Weston. Was your curiosity . . . sated?”

A tide of heat rolled through her, igniting her skin from her toes to the top of her head. Abigail swayed, lowering her eyes to hide her thoughts as much as to avoid his searing gaze. “It—it was illuminating,” she stammered. “Educational.”

“Sufficient to quench your hunger . . . for knowledge?”

He knew. She could hear the thread of amusement in his tone. He knew she’d read it and reread it for the sheer wickedness it portrayed. Lady Constance’s lover had come to her in the darkness, blindfolded her, and instructed her how to touch her own body for her pleasure while he watched. Abigail was sure her thoughts were written on her face as she recalled every sinful way Constance had caressed herself—and how she had done the same, in the privacy of her bed. She prayed he never knew that she had thought of him while she did it. “Partly,” she whispered.

He only held her tighter. “Read it again,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. “Tonight in your bed. Put your hands on yourself and see if Lady Constance had the right of it.”

A screech echoed through the woods.

“Penelope!” she gasped as Mr. Vane bolted past her. She took off running after him, grabbing up her skirts in one hand as her basket swung wildly on her other arm and her bonnet bounced on her back. For a moment real panic seized her; she’d completely forgotten about her sister, who was far more at home in a modern city than in the woods. Penelope could be injured or trapped. But as she crashed through the bracken toward the sounds of her sister’s voice, she realized it was cursing and not real cries for help. She slowed her pace a little as Mr. Vane tore on ahead. For a man who called himself a cripple, he could move astonishingly fast. He vaulted over a dead tree and disappeared around a thicket, running with only a slight limp. By the time Abigail caught up to him, nearly down a slope thick with dead leaves, she was just in time to see him help Penelope out of a thick swamp of mud. From the looks of her skirts, Penelope had fallen on her knees in it, and she gave Abigail a scalding look as she staggered up the hillock that must have tripped her.

“The dog is probably better able to survive in the woods than I am,” she said through her teeth.

Relieved that her sister wasn’t trapped or injured, Abigail nodded.

Mr. Vane tramped up the slope, his boots covered in mud to the ankle. “Are you hurt, Miss Penelope?”

Penelope grimly surveyed her skirt. “Yes, I believe I am. Grievously. Abby will have to bring me tea and cake for several days while I recover. And something to read, as I may be confined to my bed.”

“Of course,” Abigail murmured, knowing what her sister meant.

Penelope glanced between them. “I’m going home now.” Without waiting for a reply from either, she started off, holding her muddy skirts wide. Her slippers squished with every step.

Abigail hesitated. She wished Penelope hadn’t screamed when she had, before he could have said just what he did want, but now the moment had passed. Perhaps he would have said that he didn’t really want her, that he was in love with Lady Samantha. Perhaps he wanted her, but only the way Lady Constance’s lovers did: wanton and willing but only for one night. Surely if he felt anything else, he would say so—and he hadn’t. Perhaps she was just a fool. “Thank you for helping my sister, Mr. Vane. I’m sorry we interrupted your search for Boris. I hope you find him soon.” She ducked her head and started to go.

“Miss Weston.” His voice was low, but she stopped at once. “Forgive me.” Cautiously Abigail turned around. His expression was still unreadable, but the heat was gone from his voice. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

She blushed. “Oh. I-I’ve been impertinent to you, too.”

One corner of his mouth crooked. “Why do you think I like you?” She blinked in hopeful confusion. He hesitated, his gaze dark and probing. “Do you truly want to see the old grotto?”

She nodded.

This time it was a real, though slight, smile that curved his mouth, the same expression that had so entranced her in the bookshop. “Meet me at the end of the Fragrant Walk tomorrow at two o’clock.”

Abigail gasped. “You’ll show me?”

“You shouldn’t endanger the rest of your family hunting for it.”

She was startled into a laugh, and his reluctant smile grew a little bit. Oh, he was definitely handsome when he smiled. “Until tomorrow, Miss Weston.” He touched the brim of his hat, and was still smiling when she finally tore her eyes away and hurried after her sister.

Sebastian watched until she vanished into the trees and he could no longer hear her footsteps. God above. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been offered a new chance at happiness, or an insidious opportunity to ruin himself for good.

Either way, he was going to see Abigail Weston again tomorrow, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

He limped back through the woods to where he’d dropped his cane. He stooped to pick it up and could swear her perfume still lingered in the air. He set the cane against his injured leg and headed for home, hardly aware of the ache in his knee after the mad dash into the mud. It had felt good to drop the cane and just run, not tensing with each step in anticipation of pain. He’d pay for it later, but for now he felt almost like his old self, able to help a woman in distress the way a gentleman should.

And it had made Abigail look at him with gratitude and respect, which was almost as appealing as when she stared up at him with that arousing combination of desire and embarrassment. He wondered if she would do as he dared her to do, and reread 50 Ways to Sin. He wondered who she would imagine watching her as she pleasured herself . . .

He took an uneven breath. God damn him for a fool. As if he didn’t have enough torment already.

He headed toward home. At the edge of the trees, just before he emerged onto the grassy slope leading up to Montrose Hill, he put his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Boris had been a convenient excuse; the moment Mrs. Jones remarked that the dog was still out, Sebastian had put on his hat and headed for the woods. Avoiding Abigail Weston hadn’t put an end to his fascination—no, it had made it stronger. In the few days since he’d seen her last, he’d been driven half mad by wondering about her. If her interest would fade when she heard confirmation of the rumors about him. If her professed desire to find the grotto was just a taunt. If he could possibly keep himself away from her for long.


The answer to all those questions was obviously no.

A few minutes later Boris trotted up to meet him. Sebastian gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears. Boris was wet and covered in mud, and Mrs. Jones would lock him in the stables until he dried, but for now his long tongue flopped happily out of his mouth. He must have had a grand time, and best of all, he hadn’t shown himself too soon and interrupted anything.

“Good boy,” Sebastian told the dog. “Well done.”