Season for Scandal

by Theresa Romain

  In an instant, Jane was straddling Edmund on the bench, her knees to either side of his legs on the stone, her skirts rucked up.

  “Your knees will be cold,” he said. Why was he talking? Especially when her hands were doing things that a recently virgin baroness should never have imagined.

  “I don’t feel a thing,” she murmured.

  “I can change that.” His hands began to do things, too.

  First they lifted her enough to arrange the broadcloth of his coat beneath her knees. Well. She wouldn’t enjoy herself properly if her knees were cold or sore.

  But then, onward. She found the fall of his breeches and slipped the buttons free, and he returned the favor by exploring in her bodice. With a thumb, he reached beneath the edge of the fabric and scraped lightly over her skin. His other hand gripped her waist, but when she steadied herself by holding on to his shoulders, he sent that other hand exploring, too. Palming her breasts through the fabric, catching a nipple between the lengths of two fingers and tugging, lightly, until it tightened and she pressed herself into the cradle of his hand.

  “More?”

  “Yes. More.” Her eyes fell closed, and with her breasts in his hands, her naked flesh against his, she was the most erotic sight he could ever have imagined. Abandoned to pleasure, and finding it with him. Moonlight on her skin and in her hair; shadows between them to hide the depths of their desire. Surely there was nothing so sweet, so hot, so right as this woman, and he could not imagine how he could ever have thought her anything but beautiful.

  He kissed the curve of her neck, let his fingers play with her nipples until she shivered. The skin was petal-soft, yet intriguingly firm, and he learned along with her what sort of touch she liked. They drifted in a pool of pleasure, letting their bodies wake to it, letting it build.

  Jane let out a gasp; her hands cradled his face, their tongues in a tangle. She rolled her hips against his in unmistakable invitation, and he reached between their bodies to finish loosening his fall, to free himself and slide into her wet heat.

  For a long moment, they were still, letting the closeness sink through them. Poised at the brink of sharp, shared pleasure, if only they were ready to dive.

  They held each other, sinking and rising slowly at first. But soon it wasn’t slow anymore, and then there wasn’t even any thought; just heat and evergreen scent and the perfect shape of Jane. The pool of pleasure became wave-lashed and wild, its tide tugging them with greater and greater force until ecstasy washed over them like a gale, leaving them spent and gasping, shuddering in the aftermath.

  It had only taken a few minutes. It had been the best few minutes of his life.

  A wind Edmund hadn’t felt before whispered against his neck and throat, blowing at the perspiration there, pleasantly cool on his skin. Jane’s head found the hollow of his shoulder and rested there, as though he were everything solid in the world.

  His heart gave a hearty thump of approval.

  His heart. Not, for once, his ever-angry stomach. No, his roiling body had calmed in this honey-slow moment, and it was just him and Jane and the brutal joy of togetherness.

  Not pleasure in having pleased her. Not pleasure in having won her. Just pleasure in . . . her.

  The realization was a shock. The hairs on his arms stood on end under his sleeves. His very scalp tingled, as though a current passed through his body.

  His wife—his marriage—had never been intended to give him pleasure. His marriage was an atonement. And this masquerade—it was for Jane. Not for him. This garden interlude wasn’t for him.

  How had he let this happen? How had he wound up taking, greedily, when it was past time for him to do the giving?

  I must want a great deal, he had told her. He had offered all he had. Yet he’d not had to follow through; he’d given her nothing but a fleeting pleasure and a place to rest her weary head.

  How did his good intentions always crumble where she was concerned? How, when she didn’t know him, or what he’d done, or why he had married her?

  And whose fault was all of that?

  His. Always and only his.

  At last, Jane thought, they were married.

  The wedding ceremony at Xavier House had put the ring on her finger and given her the Church of England’s blessing. How many times she had given Edmund her body, she couldn’t say.

  But this was the first time she had given him her heart and he hadn’t handed it back with a polite apology. This time, it had felt . . . real. As real as the weight of his arms at the small of her back, or the hard curve of his shoulder beneath her cheek.

  She must be cautious, though. She couldn’t let him know she’d noticed anything different; not until he was ready to admit it.

  She sat up.

  “If you thank me,” she said, “I will have to murder you. Or charge you a guinea.”

  There: the smile she loved. In moonlight, it looked even brighter than during the day. “A guinea? Nonsense. I think you’re worth much more.”

  Am I worth ten thousand pounds? Are you glad you married me? But not the promise of ten thousand more would have coaxed those words from her lips right now. She’d won a smile from him, but what now? Anything she said might be wrong.

  Instead, she clambered down from the bench, from his lap. Her hips felt stiff; her knees ached. Her fingers and toes were cold.

  It was absolutely the loveliest feeling ever.

  She shook out her skirts and seated herself next to him on the bench. He made as though to button the fall of his breeches. Before she could think, she grasped his wrist and halted him. “Not yet.”

  “Oh,” he replied. Which apparently meant, Very well, do as you wish, because that was what she began to do, and he didn’t stop her. This was their wedding night, after all, and she was a bride exploring the body of the man she loved. She stood, knowing the ingrained dance of manners would bring him to his feet, too. Face-to-face, the bench their altar, the fragrant evergreens their witnesses, she vowed: with this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship. A bride didn’t say those words, only a groom. But surely no one could ever have felt them more deeply than she did.

  As though it was their first time, she grazed her hand up and down his torso, then coaxed free a waistcoat button, then another. Touched and stroked, her hand sliding under the linen of his shirt and tracing the contours of muscled abdomen. A fingertip in his navel, then up, roving around the curve of his ribs, grasping the hard lines of his back and pulling him closer, closer.

  She wanted to press him down on the bench and climb atop him again. But that was asking too much: she couldn’t expect him to overlook such eagerness, or to misinterpret such a hunger for him.

  Yet he was the one who had said he wanted everything—and that he would pay any price for it.

  Downward, she skimmed her palm over his body. A hard rib cage; a hard sheet of muscle across his belly. Aha. Yes, that was getting hard again, too.

  She had an idea. “We could do something else.” She hated that she didn’t know the right word for what she was going to suggest. “I could use my mouth on your . . .”

  Edmund sucked in a deep, sharp breath. “Oh.” His hips jerked back, away from her fingertips.

  She tugged him toward her again, until that hot length rested against her belly. “Let us try it.” Her free hand skimmed down, finding the shaft, the tightening sac, and she began to sink to her knees.

  In an instant, he had caught her hand. Tugged her to her feet. Backed away. “No, Jane.” He shuddered, evidently fighting some internal battle. “No, Jane. No. There’s no purpose to it. We married to make an heir.”

  Such a short sentence to change everything.

  Not with my body I thee worship. No: the six words he had spoken instead were as sobering as a dash of icy water.

  We married to make an heir.

  He didn’t want her mouth on him; he didn’t want to abandon himself to pleasure. He only wanted the use of her body, as they’d agreed befor
e marriage.

  As quickly as he had spoken those six words, she realized again and anew, she was his happenstance. She wanted him to trust her, but their marriage had been born in a lie: the woman she’d pretended to be at Sheringbrook’s card table, and the money she had lost. Why should he trust her with his secrets or his heart? He knew her as the sort of woman who would take rubies, who would sneak and lie, all to make the gamble greater.

  Yet she had to ask. “Wouldn’t you like it?” She knew he would.

  He knew it, too. “It doesn’t matter whether I would like it or not.”

  “Does it matter,” she said, “whether I would like it?”

  He took an eternity to slip his waistcoat buttons back through their holes. It was like putting on armor, and she knew that even if he answered her, the words would be meaningless. His wall had already gone back up, and it was too strong for Jane. He had worked on it for a long time and had built it well.

  “Come inside with me,” he finally said. “You must be cold. Put your mask back on, and let’s return to the masquerade. You enjoyed the masquerade, did you not?”

  Oh, Edmund, Edmund. There were masks aplenty on display tonight, no matter what one wore.

  Somehow, she managed to don one that smiled. A baroness in a serving wench’s costume was a far less ridiculous combination than plain, stupid Jane Tindall, hoping for her husband’s trust.

  Chapter 16

  Concerning the Baroness’s Location

  In the morning, Edmund pounded down the stairs, the sound an odd counterpoint to the lightness of his mood. He and Jane had turned a corner the night before.

  He had turned a corner.

  When she had offered to give him more, more, more, he had managed the strength to tell her no. He had refused to take something from her.

  At last, he’d done right by her. He could face her across the breakfast table this morning with head held high. Hell, he might even manage to eat beef.

  The breakfast parlor was empty, though. The salvers gleamed; the room beckoned bright. But no wife sat at the table, destroying a boiled egg or guzzling cups of chocolate.

  Edmund backed out again, wondering. Maybe she had arisen early? Breakfasted without him? The idea was a little disappointing.

  He located Pye, his butler. “Where is Lady Kirkpatrick this morning? Did she already breakfast?” A thought occurred to him. “Or has she not yet arisen?” He’d certainly done his best to wear her out the previous night. A smile played on his lips; the memory of their garden interlude fogged his brain.

  It took Edmund a few seconds to realize that Pye had not replied. That, in fact, Pye was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  The night-dark garden vanished from Edmund’s mind; the morning-cold entrance hall replaced it. Pye never looked discomfited. Pye never showed any emotion except mild disdain.

  “Is something amiss, Pye?”

  “It’s Lady Kirkpatrick.” Pye pursed his lips, and Edmund’s stomach wrenched. “She’s gone, my lord.”

  “Gone.” Edmund blinked. “As in—gone out for the day?”

  “No, my lord. She’s—”

  Fear flooded Edmund’s body. “Taken,” he whispered. God help him; no, God help Turner. If the man had snatched Jane from this very house, there would be hell to pay.

  “No, my lord. Not taken.” For some reason, Pye looked more apprehensive than ever.

  “What on earth has happened?”

  “Lady Kirkpatrick has gone, my lord. Early this morning, she departed with a trunk and her lady’s maid. I am given to understand she does not plan to return.”

  “You mean this morning?”

  The butler coughed. Shuffled his feet. These small fidgets showed that something had gone terribly wrong. “What, Pye?”

  “She said she will not come back, my lord. Not ever.” The butler’s eyes looked hollow in his thin face.

  “Is that what she thinks?” Edmund’s mouth made a grim line. “Lady Kirkpatrick is mistaken.”

  If she had taken a trunk with her, there was only one place in London she was likely to go. And as soon as he could ready himself, he’d go after her. For her own good; for her safety.

  She never wanted to let him do right by her, did she? But he was just as determined as she was.

  When her cousin, Lord Xavier, thundered down the stairs of his town house to meet her in the entry hall, Jane expected him to look suspicious. She hadn’t expected him to look worried.

  “Is there something wrong, Jane? The butler told me you said this was urgent. And this isn’t a normal hour for calling.”

  He was still straightening his cravat, still smoothing his hair. Jane felt a pang of guilt at rousting him so early and causing his day to begin with an apoplexy.

  “Why should I call at a normal hour, Xavier? I wasn’t aware you considered me normal.” When her maid tried to sidle away and become invisible behind a delicate side table, Jane caught the younger woman’s arm. Together they made a wall in front of Jane’s trunk; she wanted to calm Xavier down before he caught sight of it.

  Xavier raised an eyebrow. “If you can still manage a sharp tongue, should I presume that no great disaster has befallen? You do appear to have all your limbs—wait. A trunk. You brought a trunk with you?” He tugged at his cravat, raising his chin. “What’s going on here, Jane?”

  Damn. He was using his Earl Voice.

  She folded her arms, using her Baroness Voice. “Nothing. Well. I brought a trunk with me. One of your footmen was kind enough to drag it inside.”

  “I don’t give a damn how the trunk got here, Jane. Explain yourself. Has something happened to Kirkpatrick?”

  Earl Voice outranked Baroness Voice. Baroness Voice gave up. “No, he’s fine. I assume,” Jane muttered. “Look. Xavier. Is it—could I talk to Louisa?”

  He unbent a tiny bit. “Is this a . . . woman sort of thing?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. I need to speak with her alone.”

  Xavier nodded, and with a quiet word to his butler, asked that the countess be summoned to meet her caller in the morning room.

  Relief unpinned Jane’s knees, and she stepped back so her trunk braced her ankles and calves. “Thank you, Xavier.”

  Her older cousin looked down at her, his expression wavering between sternness and worry. “Jane. Just—look, are you all right?”

  “I am in perfect health.”

  Judging from the close way Xavier studied her, his gray eyes hadn’t overlooked the fact that she hadn’t exactly answered him.

  “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?” His light tone sounded forced. “Or—embezzled, or committed some act of—”

  “Nothing at all out of the ordinary has happened.” She held his gaze. “That’s the perfect truth.”

  He released her hand and waved her up the stairs. “Fine, then. Don’t tell me a thing.”

  Jane instructed her maid to have some refreshment in the kitchen, then began marching up the stairs. She had almost reached the landing when Xavier called her name again. Turning, she saw him looking up at her, perplexed. “Look. Whatever you say—I just want you to be all right. You are all right?”

  “I’m quite well,” she said. “And so is Kirkpatrick.”

  Xavier shook his head, but he let her go then. Up to the morning room, papered in sunny pinstripes and piled up with books. Jane settled herself in a welcoming wing chair near the fireplace and let the low flames work at her chill. Not that they could touch its deepest parts.

  Last night had proven to her that she couldn’t continue in her marriage. She couldn’t subsist on friendship; couldn’t fit neatly inside the boundaries of Edmund’s life. A wife with whom he shared no true intimacy. A baroness with no knowledge of his estate.

  He simply hadn’t made room in his life for a wife, no matter who that wife was. It certainly didn’t matter that it was Jane.

  So he wanted to be alone, to clutch his secrets close? She would give him what he wanted. Wasn’t that what a good wife woul
d do?

  From this moment forward, though, she wouldn’t worry about being a good wife anymore. She’d had no more success with this gamble than with her last attempt to write her future in Sheringbrook’s card room.

  The door opened, and quiet footsteps crossed the room. “I’ve rung for tea and biscuits,” came Louisa’s voice. The tall countess settled herself in a chair facing Jane’s, regarding her friend with some curiosity. “My sister Julia is convinced that any difficult situation is made better with biscuits.”

  “Why should you think this is a difficult situation?” Indeed it was. Difficult even to begin.

  Louisa ticked on her fingers. “The early hour, plus the fact that you brought a trunk. And Alex said your maid looked terrified.” She leaned forward, studying Jane closely. “Are you in trouble? Only say what you need, and we’ll help you.”

  “I’m not in trouble,” Jane said. “I just need a place to stay. For a while.”

  Louisa leaned back again. The countess moved with unconscious dignity; bleak envy bled through Jane. Never would she be tall and elegant in grass-green; never would she fascinate her husband as Louisa fascinated Xavier. But then, Louisa knew everything. All Jane knew was that she wanted to escape.

  “Considering the number of confidences we’ve shared,” Louisa said quietly, “I hope you feel you can tell me anything. But if you feel you can’t, I won’t press you. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to.”

  Jane started to thank her, but Louisa lifted a hand.

  “There’s just one problem, which is that Xavier and I are returning to the country for Christmas.”

  “Oh.” Jane hadn’t thought she could feel more lonely, especially with a friend facing her. A footman entered with a tea tray. Once he departed, Jane asked, “How long will you be gone?”

  “Until after Twelfth Night. Alex wants to make provision for his tenants this year. Something beyond having his steward pass out gifts.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing in itself. A gift of something one needs—like beef—is always welcome. But it doesn’t necessarily make one feel one matters. Especially if all the gifts are the same.”