A Little Bit Sinful

by Adrienne Basso

  Emma’s brow arched the tiniest fraction. ‘Twas far too worldly a gesture for such an innocent young woman. “Your opinion of the gentler sex is alarmingly insulting. We are not all a bunch of ninnies.”

  “I can count on one hand the number of women who possess more brains than God gave a goose.”

  Emma shook her head. “Have you ever considered that the reason there are so many foolish, empty-headed young women littered throughout society is because they are deliberately kept ignorant by the men who seek to control them?” “Protect them,” he countered. “Rubbish.” Emma sighed loudly. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  Sebastian admired the way her chin angled up when she grew perturbed. She was a very pretty girl. A few years of maturity on her face and figure and Emma would become a truly stunning woman.

  “Though you are loath to acknowledge it, we both know there are females in society who do indeed require male protection, mostly to save them from themselves,” he said. “I daresay you’ve already met one or two of these types this Season. Trust me, there will be others.”

  “Honestly, Sebastian, you are such an old curmudgeon at times. I don’t understand how you can possibly have such a dashing reputation.”

  “I confess to working rather hard at it.” Sebastian smiled. This was just the kind of distracting conversation he needed right now. In a few minutes he would have to face his relatives and then later the reading of the will. Knowing his grandmother, there were bound to be some surprises.

  They reached the end of the short row of graves and turned to walk up the next. Sebastian glanced idly to his left, where his eyes set upon a tall, marble headstone. Evangeline Katherine Maria Dodd, fifth Countess of Benton. Mother.

  The lightness of the moment vanished. For a fraction of a second Sebastian felt a bolt of fear so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet. Coldness seeped into his chest, spreading rapidly across his skin.

  The rhythmic, creaking sound of a swaying rope echoed inside his brain and he shut his eyes tightly trying to keep at bay what was sure to follow. Yet the image materialized. Every inch as horrific as it had been on that fateful afternoon nearly eighteen years ago.

  He had been home from school on holiday, happy to once again be at Chaswick Manor. He was happiest of all, however, to be reunited with his mother. It was a secret he kept from even his closest schoolmates, knowing they would tease him mercilessly about how dearly he loved her.

  Sebastian’s father had died when he was very young, leaving no lasting memories. Though there were moments when he felt the loss of a father, they never lasted, thanks to his mother.

  The countess had been a beautiful woman. She had not remarried, but instead devoted herself to her only child, taking an active interest in everything he did. She had cried copious tears when he left for school, wrote faithfully to him every week, and made it seem like a special holiday whenever he came home.

  Yet on this particular visit there was something very different about the viscountess. She was distant and preoccupied, at times quick to anger, at others melting into puddles of tears without cause or provocation. She spared hardly a glance at her son, keeping to her rooms, taking her meals alone, never venturing far from the manor house.

  There were no special hugs, no affectionate ruffling of his hair, no twinges of pride in her voice when she spoke to him. His numerous attempts to coax a smile from her lips were unsuccessful. Worried that the reports of his less than perfect behavior and his average grades were the cause of this unwelcome change, Sebastian set out one afternoon to gather the largest bouquet of wildflowers he could find.

  It had taken him nearly an hour, but the result was spectacular. Hoping the gesture would lift her spirits and return to her face the smile he so treasured, Sebastian knocked on his mother’s bedchamber door.

  There was no answer. He knocked harder and still no response. He should have left, but no, his stubborn nature would not allow him to be so easily defeated. Pushing the door open, he entered the room and beheld a sight that made his blood run cold.

  Sebastian shuddered, unable to control his emotions, for in that instant he was once again a twelve-year-old boy, frightened and horrified at his gruesome discovery.

  The creaking of the swaying rope was a mesmerizing noise. It had held him motionless as he stared at the incomprehensible sight. A rope had been tied to the sturdy drapery rod positioned across the long bank of windows. Dangling from it was the still, limp body of a woman. His mother.

  She was dressed in a silver evening gown. One of her slippers had fallen off and the white silk of her stocking was visible from toe to heel. Her normally neat, coiffured hair was in wild disarray, her long, slender, white neck bruised and stretched where the rope was tightly pressed against it. Her lips were blue and swollen, her eyes wide open and staring sightless into the abyss.

  Sebastian had no idea how long he stood there. He might have made a sound, or perhaps he had remained silent. The next clear memory he had of himself was that of sitting with his grandmother in the drawing room, her face taut with sadness and fear as she repeated over and over that he must never speak of this to anyone. No one must ever know that the Viscountess of Benton had taken her own life.

  “Sebastian?”

  The sound of Emma’s voice pulled him from the past into the present. He lifted his lashes and met a pair of concerned blue eyes.

  “I’m fine.” He nodded, a weak attempt to convince himself of that untruth, then glanced away to regain his composure. Emma had an artist’s eye, the ability to see right down to a person’s soul. He did not want the darkness inside him to touch her, to taint her in any way.

  The silence stretched between them. Sebastian squinted toward the road. Was that the carriage? Yes, he could see it clearly. He practically pulled Emma away from the graveyard, a desperate attempt to escape from his memories.

  If only it were so easy.

  Emma raised her eyebrows but said nothing until they were alone in the coach.

  “You seem rather upset, Sebastian. Would it help to talk about it?”

  He met her concerned eyes. It was tempting, so very tempting to unburden himself. Yet he could not. In his heart he knew that Emma would listen, would sympathize, would not judge. But old habits are hard to break and he had given his word to his grandmother. No one must ever know the truth.

  For years he had suffered nightmares, desperate to know what had driven his mother to such a hideous act. Clearly her anguish had been unbearable, beyond desperation. His grandmother had refused to discuss anything pertaining to the death of her daughter-in-law, but when Sebastian reached his twenty-first birthday he confronted his grandmother, refusing to be denied.

  “It does no good to speak ill of the dead,” the countess had insisted.

  Sebastian could still feel the rage and hurt that had risen up from deep inside him. “God damn it! She was my mother. I think the very least I am owed is an explanation.”

  “Her life was an utter shambles,” the countess had finally confessed, “because of a man.”

  “A man? What man?”

  “George Collins, the Earl of Hetfield.” The sigh the countess expelled had been filled with sadness. “She met him earlier that year at a house party. He was very recently widowed and she understood that kind of loss. They grew close very quickly.”

  “How close?”

  “Close enough for her to become pregnant with his child.” The countess had blurted that out, seeming to shock herself with the admission. “Evangeline was my daughter through marriage, yet I loved her as if she were my own flesh and blood. I was grateful she came to me when she found herself in trouble and the earl refused to answer her letters, refused even to see her. But he saw me.”

  “You went to him?”

  “I did. He tried to tarnish your mother in my eyes, telling me shocking, scandalous lies, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I demanded he do the right thing and marry her. He refused. He was such an odious man,
lacking in feeling and honor. I would have pressed the matter more strongly but soon realized she was better off without him.”

  “Apparently not.”

  The countess’s eyes had welled with tears. “I had no notion of how distressed she was, how disgraced she felt. I offered alternatives, suggested we go abroad together so she could have the baby in private. I vowed to find a good home for the child with loving parents to raise it. Perhaps she could even visit them, giving her a chance to form some connection with the child. She told me she would think upon it, yet two days later …”

  “She hung herself.” Sebastian remembered how calmly he had spoken those words, saying them aloud for the first time.

  “I blame myself for not doing more to help her, to comfort her,” the countess had said, weeping softly.

  “I blame Hetfield. He murdered my mother as assuredly as if he placed the noose around her neck with his own hands. For that he must be made to pay.”

  “Sebastian, no.” The countess had risen from her chair. Her voice rasping and slow, she fought back tears. “You must put those thoughts out of your mind this instant. I beg of you, for my sake. I too clamor for revenge, but it will be a hollow victory indeed if you are injured or worse. You must promise me that you will leave it alone. Promise me.”

  “Grandmother—”

  “Promise me! Give me your word that you will stay away from the earl.”

  “I promise.”

  Even all these years later Sebastian could still recall how flat his voice was as he had made that vow, could easily remember how hollow he had felt inside. He had given his word, and though it had been difficult and painful, he had kept it these many years.

  But now his grandmother was dead and as far as he was concerned the promise she extracted from him was also gone, buried along with her in the cold, dark ground. Perhaps the only good thing to come of her passing was the freedom to pursue a course of action that would bring him peace and put to rest the event that defined his childhood, that shaped his adulthood.

  At long last, Sebastian was going to take his fitting revenge against George Collins, the Earl of Hetfield.

  Chapter 2

  “It looks as if the worst of the rain will hold off until morning,” Bianca Collins declared as she stared out the drawing room window. “Do you think Papa will arrive today, Eleanor?”

  Eleanor drew her attention away from the sewing she held in her lap, raised her head, and smiled fondly at her younger sister. At eighteen years old, Bianca had fully come into her looks. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her features delicate and refined, her skin flawless and creamy white. Her hair was long and lush, the color of burnt autumn leaves, her eyes clear and sparkling and as green as the meadow grass in summer.

  Yet Eleanor knew it was the sweetness of her personality, the goodness of her heart, and her optimistic outlook on life that gave Bianca her true beauty.

  “‘Tis impossible to predict what the earl will do,” Eleanor said as she pushed her needle through the delicate muslin fabric on the hem of the gown she was sewing. “I fear our illustrious sire is rather like the weather.”

  “I’ve been so filled with curiosity that I’ve barely slept these last few nights,” Bianca admitted. “Though I feel it deep down in my bones that Papa will have something wonderful to tell us.”

  “Hmm.” The noncommittal murmur was all Eleanor could manage. She too had been sleeping poorly, anticipating the earl’s visit. But while her tenderhearted sister had been struggling to contain her excitement, Eleanor was trying to tamp down her feelings of dread.

  The message from the earl saying that he would shortly be in residence had come over two weeks ago. The brief, terse note had not been sent to his daughters, but rather to his butler, in order to ensure that all would be made ready for him. In Eleanor’s mind that did not bode well for the visit, but she did not have the heart to point that out to her sister.

  Bianca lived for these moments, these sparse times when their father remembered their existence and made a rare appearance in their lives. Spending but a few hours with the earl was all Bianca needed to make her feel as if she mattered to him, as if she were an important part of his life.

  For Eleanor it was not as simple. She was very aware that the earl had long ago abandoned them. His various pursuits of personal pleasure, his travels abroad, and his social life in London all held far more interest for him than his two motherless children.

  Eleanor had been raised by a succession of governesses, but at least she had experienced the gift of a mother’s love for the first eight years of her life. Poor Bianca had never known their mother—she had died a few days after Bianca’s birth. Perhaps that was the reason Bianca felt such unconditional love toward the earl; he was the only parent she had ever known.

  The distracted, infrequent interest he demonstrated, the occasional affection he bestowed, seemed to be enough for Bianca. Not so for Eleanor. She wanted the impossible—she wanted her father to love her. Yet in her experience the earl had proven time and again that the only person he had ever loved was himself.

  Eleanor knew she was not the ideal daughter. She was not blindly obedient, meek, or subservient. At times she had been too outspoken with her criticism of the earl’s parental neglect. But her worst crime of all was her inability to make a good marriage.

  The earl had grudgingly given her one Season in Town and she had failed to make her mark, had failed to dazzle society, had failed to capture a husband. She had not brought wealth, property, or connections to the family and at nearly six and twenty, she was now too old. ‘Twas not surprising he had little use for her.

  “I am hoping Papa will stay at least a few days once he does arrive.” Bianca’s face brightened. “There might even be time for him to meet Mr. Smyth. He has told me on more than one occasion that he would feel privileged indeed to make Papa’s acquaintance.”

  No doubt. Mr. Smyth had recently taken up residence in their rural community. Claiming a distant relationship to Squire Williams had opened a few doors for the young man and he had taken full advantage of it, seeking to establish himself as a gentleman of means and culture. As far as Eleanor could tell, Mr. Smyth possessed neither in any significant quantities.

  “The earl never mixes with the local society unless he has no other choice,” Eleanor said.

  “I know.” Bianca sighed. “Still, I am anxious to hear his opinion of Mr. Smyth, though he is so much like Papa I am certain they will get along famously.”

  “Hmm.” In Eleanor’s opinion, being like their father was hardly an admirable qualification. Yet Bianca’s remark was telling—and truthful. Eleanor realized that was another reason she disliked Mr. Smyth. He did possess the same controlling, domineering personality as the earl, traits Eleanor feared Bianca mistook for strength of character.

  She also feared that Mr. Smyth had set his sights on Bianca not because he held her in any genuine regard, but rather because he thought the younger daughter of an earl would be a most fortuitous bride. If Eleanor believed he had true affection for Bianca she would have encouraged the budding romance, but she was highly suspicious of Mr. Smyth’s motives.

  Eleanor wanted the very best for her sister. The magic of love, the promise of happiness, the respect of a husband who truly believed Bianca was a gift to treasure.

  Of course, she had wanted that for herself too, but the opportunity had come and gone many years ago. When she was too young and too naive to understand its value. When she foolishly let it slip beyond her grasp.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. In order to achieve her heart’s desire she would have had to leave her father’s house and in doing so would have left behind a vulnerable, unprotected nine-year-old Bianca. The very idea had struck a nerve of guilt so deep and wide it still hurt to think of it.

  Falling in love with a groom was such a cliché. The nobleman’s daughter and the servant. Yet she had loved John Tanner with all of her seventeen-year-old heart, and he had returned that l
ove unconditionally.

  They knew their relationship was an impossibility. The only way they could be together was if they started fresh where no one knew of their past. It had taken months of plotting to formulate a plan of escape. They would first travel to Scotland to be married and then make their way to the coast, where John would find work.

  It was fairly easy to slip out of the manor house the night that they had planned to run away, yet telling John that she was not coming with him had been the most difficult thing Eleanor had ever done. Though she had wanted him with every fiber of her being, Eleanor knew she had to embrace the responsibility of caring for and protecting her sister or forever regret her choice.

  It was not a part of her nature to dwell on the past, to think of what might have been. Yet in the subsequent years there were moments when she wondered how her life would have been if she had been free to take a risk, to follow her heart.

  Eleanor pulled the white thread slowly through the delicate fabric, careful not to mar the lovely material of the gown she was remaking for Bianca. The dress had originally been Eleanor’s, a remnant of her disastrous debut Season. It was long out of fashion, but the quality of the material was timeless and with a bit of clever needlework it was a serviceable gown. More than serviceable, really, since anything Bianca wore looked elegant and refined.

  The earl was not overly generous when it came to his daughters’ upkeep. By necessity, Eleanor had perfected her sewing skills, remaking many older gowns for herself and her sister. These days she spent far less time on her own garments, for she was determined that Bianca always appear in fresh, fashionable clothes.

  Eleanor was debating whether to embroider a floral design at the base of the gown’s bodice when she heard the sound of heavy-booted feet stomping down the hall. Her hands stilled as she strained her ears, listening for the deep, booming voice that would certainly accompany them. It came all too soon, shouting at one of the footmen to open the drawing room door. Father.