It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  Abby hid her face against Axel’s throat, emotion shuddering through her. Anger, relief, or some combination too rare to name?

  “Maybe the colonel could not consummate the vows, Abigail. Either he did not desire women, or he had no functioning in any regard. Illness can do that, injury, certain medicinal substances if used excessively are said to obliterate desire. Age certainly takes a toll.”

  The tension in her relaxed. “It’s not an answer we’ll find. You were my first, Axel Belmont, if you need to hear the words. You were my first, and I consider that an excellent step in the direction of revenge against many bad memories. This chair is digging into my back.”

  You were my first.

  How was he supposed to let her go after such a confession? Axel stood and deposited Abby on her feet. While they remained in a loose embrace, he mentally tried to assemble a little speech about gratitude, and obligations—hers to him, and his to her—about children, and a place of respect in the local community. A mention of, oh, maybe years of shared pleasure might be a nice addition—

  She patted his bum, and all topics and subheadings flew from his grasp.

  “I came out here to tell you something,” she said. “I nearly forgot, so overwhelming is the passion you visit upon me. Do you know how much that pleases me?”

  “Only nearly forgot, Abigail? You damn with faint praise.”

  Another soft pat. At that moment, as far as Axel was concerned, Oxford University could remove itself to the western reaches of Persia, as long as Abigail kept stroking his fundament.

  “Ambers has penned his resignation,” Abby said, yawning. “The stable is being reduced with each sale of a hunter, and he intends to look for work at a larger establishment after the hunt season ends next month. With many thanks for all the years of employment, he must regretfully notify me of his intent to seek another post come April. He went prosing on at some length—the man has beautiful penmanship—but I won’t be sorry to see him go.”

  The words she quoted were prosaic, nearly a formula of polite leave taking, but Axel could feel a shift in her, and not merely because they’d copulated like two people trying to put the passion of an all-night orgy into twenty minutes of lovemaking.

  “You think our last suspect has decided to leave the scene, and thus you’ll be safe at Stoneleigh Manor.”

  In Axel’s mind, in his bones, in his heart, he wanted to bellow at her that she was wrong. That Ambers wasn’t the killer, that all the arguments that excused Shreve from guilt also excused Ambers, and that Ambers’s reasoning made sense—the Stoneleigh stables no longer belonged to a huntsman.

  “He hasn’t left yet,” Axel said, tucking a lock of dark hair behind Abby’s ear. “Give me some time to talk to the man, look for the second safe, and otherwise attempt to finish my investigation. I cannot abide the notion you aren’t entirely secure in your own home.”

  Abby slid from his embrace. “Sir Dewey was very polite, but he hinted that if I’m not free to return to Stoneleigh Manor, I have only to apply to him, and he’ll force the matter. I gather there’s talk at the Weasel, and probably in the churchyard.”

  Kicking was too good for the gallant Sir Dewey.

  “People will always talk, and if they talk long enough, and I listen well enough, that talk might result in a murder solved. Give me a little more time, Abigail.”

  She plucked a yellow leaf from the peach tree and tossed it into the dirt around the roots.

  “You won’t give this up.”

  For her sake, no, he would not, but neither would he badger her. “I will ask you to think the situation over. You needn’t decide anything at the moment. Join me at the worktable, and I’ll show you how to make a good, strong graft, and maybe even how to create a new breed of rose.”

  She peered at him, as if waiting for him to say something more, but exhortations about killers and gossip and conception occurring in a glass house would not aide Axel’s cause when he wasn’t entirely sure what his cause was.

  “You want more time,” she said, brushing his hair back from his brow. “I can give you more time, Axel, but not forever. Stoneleigh Manor is what I have to show for years of hard, lonely work, and I won’t let anybody or anything take that from me—that too. I’m not a coward.”

  “Most assuredly not.”

  He took her hand and launched into one of his oldest and best-rehearsed lectures, about how to make a successful graft of two different species, a process which required patience, calm, and the ability to apply a razor to two innocent roses.

  “During the entirety of Caroline Belmont’s marriage to my brother,” Matthew Belmont said, “she might have spent as much time in a glass house with Axel as you have on this one afternoon.”

  Abby found Mr. Matthew Belmont an exceedingly pleasant man—irritatingly pleasant, in fact.

  She’d come to the library to work at her embroidery near the rose she thought of as hers, the little white blossom with the powerful fragrance. For a parlor rose, the species had stamina in a vase, and the scent…

  She wanted a perfume of that fragrance, to remind her of how Axel Belmont’s care had brought her back to life.

  “The late Mrs. Belmont had a household to run, and small children to raise,” Abby said, knotting off her thread. Her eyes ached, her head hurt, and her neck pained her. By contrast, the sensations lingering between her legs were the stuff of rare, rapturous books.

  “Caroline called the roses his mistresses,” Matthew replied, selecting from among the pieces on the piano’s music rack. “Will you play with me, Mrs. Stoneleigh? We have another half hour before we go in to dinner.”

  Axel had come in from his glass house five minutes earlier. He’d stuck his head in the library door and told them not to wait supper on him.

  “My musical skills are rusty, Mr. Belmont.” Abby had practiced some since she’d joined the household at Candlewick, but the journey back to proficiency would be long and full of wrong notes. The library’s Broadwood was lovely, while the piano at Stoneleigh Manor hadn’t been tuned for several years.

  “My skills are rusty on a good day.” Matthew lifted the cover from the keys. “Unlike Axel’s. Oblige me nonetheless. I want to impress my wife with these duets when I return to Sussex—my wife and our children.”

  Abby did not trust Matthew Belmont. He was good at solving crimes, she’d caught him studying her far too closely on more than one occasion, and he loved Axel without limit.

  He was preparing to meddle, in other words.

  Abby set aside her embroidery and joined Matthew at the piano. He was big, solid, warm, charming… and not Axel.

  “Mozart?” she asked, squinting at the music.

  He moved a branch of candles closer, so the music was easier to read. “Your orders, Mrs. Stoneleigh, are to soldier on, regardless of stumbling among the bass or tenor infantry. If we adopt a plodding tempo, I might survive the first movement. Shall we?”

  He was competent, but even Abby’s rusty skills exceeded his efforts, and thus she kept pace easily. His hands bumped hers, he hit some awful wrong notes, and long before the movement was over, Abby had been reduced to laughter.

  Exactly as the wretch had intended, doubtless.

  “You are talented,” he said, as they came to the final cadence. “You will be an able accompanist should my brother deign to get out his violin.”

  Let the meddling begin. “Speaking metaphorically?”

  “I hope I am.”

  “I love books, Mr. Belmont, and because books were largely denied me during my marriage, I’ve examined this library the way a starving child studies a thriving bakery on a bitter day. I also grew up more or less in a bookshop, and have some idea what the classic tomes are in each subject area. Axel Belmont owns one of the most complete and extensive private botanical libraries in the realm, if not in the world. My guess is, he’s read every page of every pamphlet and book, committed much of it to memory, and could teach all of it if given the opportunity.”
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  “Your guess would be correct. When other little boys were playing at knights of the round table, Axel was collecting plants in the home wood.”

  “Botany is his passion, and nobody should take that away from him.” Not now, not when he was close to the recognition he deserved for all his years of work.

  “I love my sons,” Mr. Belmont said, folding up the Mozart and returning it to the stack. “Does that mean I cannot also love the daughter my wife brought to me by marriage? For I do. I already do, and did from the day I met the girl. I love our unborn child, without even having given that child a name.”

  Logical meddling had to be the worst variety. Abby rose from the piano bench and pretended to study the titles behind the enormous desk. One shelf above her were volumes no decent woman read in company, but before her eyes were herbals.

  Medicinal Uses of Common Garden Spices by Axel Belmont.

  Exotic Medicinals for the English Garden by Axel Belmont.

  Intoxicant and Poison Plants Common to England and Their Antidotes by Axel Belmont.

  Axel Belmont was an intoxicant.

  “Because I enjoy this library,” Abby said, “I see the volume of correspondence that comes in here. The professor communicates with learned minds all over the world, in several languages. He could manage Kew if he were so inclined, but I doubt he’ll move that far from his own acres.”

  Abby hadn’t been snooping, she’d simply observed what was in plain sight.

  “Axel thinks academic life will make him happy,” Mr. Belmont said, abandoning the piano bench.

  “Academic life will make him feel useful,” Abby said. “Studies such as the ones he’s completed will save lives, and he’s working on a woman’s herbal now. That matters, Mr. Belmont. The medical men can’t be bothered with such a topic, and the medical women, such as anybody still acknowledges that term, couldn’t get widely published.”

  Mr. Belmont had come closer, so he and Abby were nearly nose to nose.

  “Caroline never once defended Axel’s work,” Mr. Belmont said. “She was jealous of the glass houses and referred to them as his little hobby. She could not grasp the importance of being able to tell a poison dose from a medicinal one. She knew only that her husband grew distracted at company meals, because somebody made a casual observation about never being troubled by mosquitoes when weeding their lemon verbena.”

  Mr. Belmont’s eyes were a lighter blue than Axel’s, his voice was more cultured, and for that reason, when he turned up fierce, the effect was more surprising.

  “I am only recently widowed, sir. I have grieving to do, a hunting lodge to make into a home, an estate to manage. I haven’t seen London since my father took me more than ten years ago. I haven’t even been to the sea coast, when every self-respecting widow is allowed a few weeks of staring pensively at the roiling surf. While the professor’s botany is of great significance, I barely have the energy for my own concerns, and I am in no condition to—”

  From the corner of her eye, Abby detected movement.

  Axel, looking resplendent in country gentleman’s attire, stood just inside the library door. His smile was slight, and dear.

  “Apparently, your energy is sufficient unto the challenge of putting a presuming brother in his place. Don’t let me stop you. That was a fine lecture in the making. Has anybody offered you a drink, Abigail, or is my brother too busy demonstrating a lack of manners?”

  Axel prowled over to the sideboard, and Abby did not allow her gaze to linger on how lovingly his doeskin breeches clung to his… anatomy.

  “I’ll have a brandy if you’re pouring,” Matthew said. “Can we inspire you to get out your violin after dinner? I suspect Mrs. Stoneleigh would be a fine accompanist.”

  Mr. Belmont knew when to stop meddling—or pretend to stop.

  Axel poured a half inch of spirits and passed Abby the glass. Her digestion was improving, but she wasn’t in the mood for spirits. The brush of Axel’s fingers, however, settled her nerves nicely.

  Though how much of her tirade had he heard, and in what light had he taken it?

  Axel served his brother a larger portion, then took his own drink to the desk and began flipping through the fresh stack of mail on the blotter.

  Abby resumed her place at the end of the sofa and picked up her embroidery, while Matthew Belmont returned to the keyboard and began a soft, lilting melody at variance with his earlier pounding and stumbling.

  “Will Nicholas join us for dinner?” he asked.

  “Nicholas rarely misses meals,” Axel said, separating the mail into two piles. “Abigail, some of these letters have been sent over from Stoneleigh Manor. Condolences, I suppose, and this one is from the Earl of Westhaven.”

  Abigail knew no earls, though Gregory’s military connections had been voluminous. She rose to retrieve her portion of the mail, but remained by the sofa rather than cross the library.

  Axel was regarding a piece of correspondence, and what a handsome picture he made. He’d probably written most of his learned treatises at that desk, with his publications marching along their shelves behind him, his rebellious crystal at his elbow, his erotica benevolently hiding two shelves up. He’d look much the same as he aged, though his eyebrows might grow more fierce.

  “Oxford has a fellowship for me,” he said, staring at a creased sheet of vellum. “I may have my choice of two, assuming I can make my bow before a handy bishop, and recall enough Scripture to appease academic protocol. My duties would begin in the autumn, if that will allow sufficient time for me to conclude my present projects, please advise, et cetera.”

  The moment took on a painful significance. This was the day Abby’s dreams had been born, and the day they’d died. The luscious, ripe, longed-for fruit of academic legitimacy hung mere months away from Axel’s grasp, after years of striving and patience. His thornless rose was about to bloom.

  While the true nature of widowhood loomed clearly at last: all the freedom in the world, freedom to be lonely, irrelevant, forgotten, and eccentric.

  “I’m happy for you,” Abby said, saluting with her drink. “The position has been well earned, and they will be lucky to have you. You’ll make botanical scholarship a jewel in Oxford’s crown, and students from all over the world will study with you.”

  He stared at the letter, while his brother brought the little song to a close.

  “Sometimes,” Matthew said, gesturing with his drink as Abby had, “we get the recognition we deserve. I’m proud of you.”

  Matthew Belmont’s pride was also obviously sincere. The look he shot Abby was harder to read.

  Axel set the letter in the middle of the desk, his gaze going to the white rose. “That blossom has held up well, but I detect a bit of a droop about the outer petals.” He left the desk—and the letter that assured his future—and lifted the vase from the end table, bringing the blossom to his nose. “The scent’s fading, and nothing smells sadder than a blown rose. By tomorrow, this specimen will have wilted past recognition.”

  “Fortunately, you have others,” Matthew said, peering at the letter on the desk. “Many others.”

  “Few like that,” Axel said. “Its blossoms are rare and precious this time of year, at least on the stock I’ve cultivated thus far.” He passed Abby the rose, water dripping from its stem onto the carpet. “Perhaps you’d like to press this one, Abigail. Most blossoms are best preserved before they begin to fade.”

  Abby hadn’t yet decided if that last pronouncement was a lover’s farewell, when Nicholas joined them, his demeanor fatigued rather than flirtatious for once.

  “We’re celebrating,” Matthew said. “The fellowship Axel has sought for years has been offered to him. He’s to choose between two different positions, and study his Scripture in anticipation of the requisite clerical folderol.”

  “Speaking of protocol, everybody has a drink but for my dear little self. I will rectify this oversight, and toast the professor’s success.”

  Axel remained
before Abby, holding the rose out to her while Nick busied himself at the sideboard.

  “It won’t last another day?” Abby asked, accepting the rose.

  “By morning, the fragrance will be gone, the petals falling. Best to take it now and press it between the leaves of a stout book.”

  Abby inhaled the fragrance, and detected a faint, stagnant odor beneath the beautiful scent.

  “Mr. Darcy remains above stairs,” she said. “I’ll put him to use and be down in time for dinner.”

  All three gentlemen bowed her on her way, and she curtseyed in return, the rose clutched in her hand. The first tear fell before she’d reached her bedroom door, though by then, she was also clutching her rose so tightly, she’d drawn a drop of blood from her palm too.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Everything in Axel wanted to chase after the woman who’d left her embroidery discarded on his sofa, though a man who thrived on solitude had to accept that a woman could occasionally want privacy herself.

  “I’ll be removing to London in the morning,” Nick said, gaze on the closed library door. “If you’re about to break the heart of a lovely woman, merely for the privilege of playing nanny to a lot of university boys, I don’t want to be around to see it.”

  “The weather might prevent your departure, Nicholas,” Matthew said from the piano bench. He had the knack of looking musically talented, of applying his fingers to the keyboard with great authority, and breezing past the wrong notes as if they were all in dashing good fun.

  “Hang the weather,” Nick muttered, downing his drink at once. “Axel, you cannot become an Oxford monk.”

  “Scholar, please,” Matthew corrected, in the merry key of F major. “My brother is a world-renowned botanical scholar and an expert on the propagation of roses.”

  This was not teasing, but rather, the fraternal version of a smack to the back of the head. Part affection, part challenge, part gratuitous violence, because between loving brothers, gratuitous violence was a form of endearment.