Running from Scandal

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘You don’t think that’s terribly shocking—for a female to run a shop?’

  David sat down next to her on the wall and was silent for a moment. She had the sense he was weighing his thoughts. He always seemed to do that. She wished she could learn how.

  He braced his palms on the wall and said, ‘It is not the usual thing, of course. But it’s not as if you were proposing to take over the butcher shop. Many young widows find projects to fill their days. Charity, embroidery—why not books?’

  Emma was startled. She would never have thought David Marton would espouse such an open-minded attitude. Maybe his years of marriage had changed him. Or maybe the years had changed her. Hadn’t she just decided she should not judge people hastily? They were too ever surprising. ‘Or an orchard?’

  He looked down at her, his brow arched. ‘An orchard?’

  ‘Young widowers surely need to distract themselves as well,’ she said. ‘You are said to be the hardest-working landowner in the area.’

  ‘I take my responsibilities at Rose Hill seriously,’ he answered slowly.

  ‘My sister says you lived much in London when Lady Marton was alive. You must be going through many—adjustments now.’

  ‘As you are, Mrs Carrington?’

  ‘Yes. As I am.’ Emma had always felt as if she and David Marton were such different personalities they could scarcely talk together, no matter how much she enjoyed looking at his handsome face. But perhaps now they had become more alike, both suddenly adrift in a new, uncharted sea.

  His compass, though, seemed more reliable than hers. He had his purpose at Rose Hill, his secure place in the life of this village. She was still floundering.

  ‘My wife preferred town life,’ he said. ‘Luckily London is within easy enough distance that I could take care of Rose Hill from there and still see to my family. But when she died I wanted Bea to know her home.’

  ‘Miss Marton is very pretty,’ Emma said. ‘And she seems quite clever, if the books she chose are anything to go by.’

  David smiled, and just as he had when he first jumped out of the tree he looked suddenly younger. Lighter. His grey eyes seemed to glow as he thought about his daughter. ‘Bea is too clever by half. And, yes, she is very pretty, though I do say so myself as her papa. I fear it may get her into trouble one day.’

  ‘Not with such a fond papa watching over her,’ Emma said. Surely any man who cared about his child so had to be good inside? She thought of her own father, so distracted by his own projects, but so much fun when he was with her.

  ‘She has had a difficult time since she lost her mother. I was hoping that coming back to Rose Hill would help her, yet she still seems rather lonely. There are few children here her own age for her to befriend and my sister’s sons—well, Bea has little in common with them.’

  Emma thought of Mrs Smythe’s boys, romping through the streets of the village. ‘I would imagine not.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder if a school might not be good for her.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Emma cried, unable to stop herself. ‘Not a school, Sir David, I beg you.’

  David’s brow arched again. ‘You don’t think a school would be a good idea?’

  ‘I—I don’t mean to interfere in your own family business, of course. But I went to school for a time after my sister married, and it was not where I wanted to be. Girls who love books and dreaming, as it seems Miss Marton does...’

  ‘Could easily get lost there,’ David murmured. ‘Thank you, Mrs Carrington. You have confirmed that I should indeed be selfish and keep her with me. It is hard at times for a father to know what best to do for his daughter when she has no mother. My own parents died too young and I had to look after my sister. I fear it has all made me too protective.’

  Emma nodded. He did seem to understand, in a way few men would. It certainly surprised her. ‘Miss Marton can always come visit me at the bookshop and read all she likes, since you say my shopkeeping has not shocked you too much,’ she said, trying to tease him, to make him laugh. To put herself on more familiar ground with him, when she was shaken by the sudden surge of tender feelings.

  He didn’t say anything. Before he looked away, Emma saw a shadow flicker through his eyes. Even though he was obviously too correct, too reserved, to say anything, Emma felt the familiar cold touch of faint disapproval. Of course a man like him would not want his young, impressionable daughter spending much time with a woman like her. Her past mistakes were still there with her.

  Emma jumped up from the wall, unable to sit so close to him any longer. She felt like a fool, wanting him to like her, wanting to know him better, but knowing he would not. The old wildness that had always plagued her, always lurked inside of her, swept over. She clambered atop the low wall and danced over it, balancing on her toes, letting the wind brush over her and tug at her hair again.

  ‘Mrs Carrington, be careful,’ Sir David called. He jumped up from the wall and held up his hand as if he would catch her.

  Somehow the gesture only made her feel sadder. She twirled away and called, ‘It’s a beautiful day, Sir David! You should dance here with me.’

  ‘This wall is a bit rougher than a dance floor, I fear,’ he said, his hand still held out to her.

  ‘All the better, then, because there is no one to see us.’ Emma held out her arms and ran lightly over the uneven stones. He stayed close beside her, and when she spun around again she heard him make a choked sound, half between a laugh and a disapproving growl.

  She glanced down at him, at his eyes shielded behind his spectacles and his windblown hair, and she wanted to touch him. To feel those locks against her fingers, the warmth of his skin on hers. She turned sharply away. ‘Don’t worry, Sir David. I can take care of myself—I’ve been doing so for a long time.’

  ‘Sometimes in life we have to let other people take care of us, Mrs Carrington.’

  Surprised by his solemn words, Emma stumbled to a halt and looked down at him again. She thought of what Jane had said, of how he took care of Rose Hill and all its tenants and servants, took care of his giggly sister and his daughter and his wife. ‘Oh, Sir David. I’m not sure you are quite the right person to teach that lesson.’

  He stared up at her and his handsome face hardened. It seemed like a veil dropped before his eyes and he was even more hidden from her than ever. ‘Please get down from there now, Mrs Carrington.’

  Feeling chastened, Emma finally reached out for his offered hand. But the toe of her half-boot caught on a crevice of the stone and she stumbled and started to fall towards the ground.

  But his arms closed around her waist and swept her up again, saving her from disaster. Disaster of her own making.

  Emma held on to him and closed her eyes tightly as she tried to breathe. ‘Th-thank you. Again.’

  ‘So you can always take care of yourself?’ he asked, a hint of lurking amusement in his voice.

  Emma’s eyes flew open and she looked up into his face. That handsome face that always dazzled her and that hid so much of his true self behind it. ‘Perhaps—not always. Not by choice, anyway. But sometimes we have no choice.’

  ‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘Sometimes we don’t have a choice.’

  ‘If you ever need someone to catch you...’

  Sir David laughed and suddenly spun around with her in his arms. Emma squealed and held on to his shoulders as the world turned blurry and giddy around her.

  ‘Would you stand below m
y ladder and my wall, waiting for me to tumble down?’ he shouted over the wind. ‘I fear you would send us both crashing down!’

  ‘I’m stronger than I look,’ Emma cried, laughing.

  ‘Now that I do believe.’ David came to a sudden halt, but Emma was still dizzy. As she struggled to catch her breath, to stop laughing, he went very still.

  She looked up at him and was caught, mesmerised by what she saw there. He stared down at her, his grey eyes glowing, unwavering, and she knew she couldn’t have turned away from him if the world was crumbling around them. He was all she could see, all she knew. He leaned towards her; his lips parted, and she knew, knew with the most certain certainty of all her life, that he would kiss her. And that she wanted him so desperately. His mouth barely brushed hers...

  ‘Papa!’ At the sudden cry, David pulled back abruptly. A look of raw horror crossed his handsome face before it went all mask-like again and he carefully lowered her to her feet.

  Emma spun away from him to press her hands to her warm cheeks. She was so bewildered, so excited and sad and confused all at the same time that she didn’t know what to do. What to feel. She only knew she had to compose herself before David’s daughter saw her. Before she faced him again after what they had almost done, what she had wanted so desperately for him to do.

  ‘What are you doing today, Bea, my dearest?’ she heard David say. His tone was light, affectionate, betraying none of her turmoil.

  ‘I’m out for my walk, of course,’ Bea answered. Emma heard the sound of footsteps rustling over grass, the whisper of muslin and silk stirred by the wind. ‘Is that Mrs Carrington?’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ David said. ‘I met her on her own walk.’

  Emma pasted a bright smile on her face. At least she had learned that in her life with Henry, how to put on a social face to hide her true feelings. She turned to see Miss Beatrice beside the wall, a stout older lady in a starched grey nanny’s uniform hovering nearby. Watching everything, as if she planned to talk about this encounter in the servants’ hall later.

  Beatrice was beautifully dressed again, in a pink pelisse and ribbon-trimmed bonnet, her small hands encased in pink kid and a book tucked under her arm. But today she actually had a shy smile on her pretty, pale little face.

  ‘How do you do, Miss Marton?’ Emma said. ‘I’m very glad to see you again so soon after the bookshop. Have you been enjoying your new volumes?’

  ‘Oh, very much indeed,’ Beatrice answered enthusiastically. ‘I should like to tell you all about what I read about India, it’s ever so interesting. Have you ever seen an elephant, Mrs Carrington?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ Emma said. ‘In a menagerie in Austria. Though I fear he was quite an elderly fellow and not decked in grand jewels as I’m sure they are with the maharajahs.’

  Beatrice’s eyes widened. ‘Really? Oh, Mrs Carrington, you must tell me if—’

  ‘Bea, dearest, I’m afraid Mrs Carrington was on her way home now,’ David said, much more abrupt than his usual carefully polite style. ‘We must not detain her.’

  Beatrice bit her lip. ‘No. Of course not, Mrs Carrington.’

  ‘I am sure we will meet again very soon, Miss Marton, at least I hope we will,’ Emma said quickly. She meant every word. Her heart was touched by this quiet little girl, who seemed so alone despite the love of her father. Beatrice Marton reminded her too much of her childhood self. ‘I can tell you all about the elephants then, as well as the parrots and monkeys I saw.’

  ‘I would like that,’ Beatrice said quietly. ‘Good day, Mrs Carrington.’

  ‘Good day, Miss Marton—until next time.’ Emma watched as Beatrice’s nanny bustled forwards to take her hand and lead her away. Beatrice glanced back once and gave a little wave, which Emma returned with a smile.

  David bowed politely. ‘I’m glad I happened to be here to catch you, Mrs Carrington,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Again, you mean?’ Emma smiled and curtsied. As she straightened to her feet, the letter from Mr Sansom fell from her shawl.

  She bent to pick it up just as David reached for it. He glanced down at it as he held it out to her.

  His brow arched in that way she was coming to hate. It always seemed to mean something disapproving. It made her feel so cold, so—in the wrong. ‘You are writing to my uncle?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Lorne was kind enough to send me Mr Sansom’s direction,’ she said. ‘I wanted to know more about his library. He says he knew my father.’

  Sir David’s jaw tightened. ‘My uncle is an elderly man who just wants to be left alone with his books. He already told Mr Lorne he doesn’t want to sell.’

  Emma was confused. ‘Yes, but I—’

  ‘You what, Mrs Carrington?’ he said, his tone too polite, too quiet.

  She tucked the letter away. ‘You’ve made it clear that you don’t entirely approve of how I live my life, Sir David, but I assure you I mean no harm to your uncle. I merely wished to enquire about his library. Thank you for rescuing me—again. Good day.’

  She spun around and hurried away before she could become careless yet again and say things she would regret. She had determined to make a new chapter in her life, a more respectable one, and she had to do that.

  No matter how angry or unsure Sir David Marton made her feel. Or how very much she longed for him to kiss her.

  * * *

  By Jove. Had he actually almost kissed Emma Bancroft?

  David, after an hour of trying to go over the Rose Hill accounts, finally gave up and tossed down his pen. Images of Emma’s eyes, greener than a summer meadow, brighter than his mother’s old emerald ring, kept getting in the way of black-and-white numbers. Usually nothing could have distracted him from his work, but Emma did it now.

  You’ve made it clear that you don’t entirely approve of how I live my life, she had said, those eyes flashing.

  And he didn’t. He couldn’t, not after Maude. He had too much to protect, and he had never known a freedom quite like the kind that shone all around Emma. After his father’s hidden flashes of raw anger when he was a child, David had vowed to always keep tight control over himself.

  For a time in his youth he had let himself loose, let himself run wild, and it hadn’t ended well. Emma just brought out those old feelings.

  And yet—yet he also couldn’t help but grudgingly admire Emma as well. She had come back here, to a small place she hadn’t seen in a long time, and was trying to rebuild something. To make herself useful. That could not be an easy task.

  But that didn’t mean he would let her bother his elderly uncle, who needed rest and quiet. Nor could he let her beautiful eyes disrupt his life. He would never make such a mistake again. When he remarried, it would be for practical, sensible purposes.

  Two things Emma Bancroft could never be.

  A knock sounded at the library door and he welcomed the distraction. ‘Come in,’ he said, carefully closing the ledger.

  It was Bea’s nanny who stepped into the room and made a wobbly curtsy. She was a good woman who in her younger days had been a junior nursemaid to Louisa and David, and later took care of Louisa’s brood before coming to look after Bea following Maude’s death. But David had begun to notice she was getting older, less sturdy, and even a quiet child like his daughter could get away from her at times.

  One more thing he would have to take responsibility for very soon.

  ‘Yes, Nanny, what is it?’ he said. ‘Is Miss Beatrice
unwell?’

  ‘Not at all, Sir David,’ she answered. ‘But she has been pestering me today for more books. I can’t do anything beyond lessons on some Bible verses and such, and I fear she will become bored and troublesome. Perhaps more education is needed soon? More advanced books to keep her occupied?’

  David laughed ruefully. More educated—more books. It sounded very much like the lady he had just been trying so hard not to think about.

  But it seemed she wouldn’t let herself be forgotten, even here in his own house.

  Chapter Six

  ‘I say, Phil, but you are racing off too early tonight. It’s hours ’til dawn. Plenty of trouble to get into before then.’

  Philip Carrington laughed as he tied the elaborate loops of his cravat. He studied Betsy’s reflection in the mirror as she lolled around on the rumpled bed behind him. Her long, bright-blonde curls were tangled up with the sheets and she pouted at him.

  ‘I never want to leave you, Betsy my beauty,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Then why go? You were gone abroad for ever so long, I just got you back.’

  ‘I’m afraid I left some business undone on the Continent,’ he muttered, reaching for his brocade waistcoat. ‘So tomorrow I have to go to the countryside and finish it.’

  ‘The country! I wouldn’t think you’d like it there,’ Betsy said. She sat up against the haphazard piles of pillows and wrapped the blue-satin blankets around her luscious nakedness.

  ‘No, I certainly will not. But it must be done.’

  His troublesome cousin Henry, rot his soul, had died owing him and Philip was not a man to forget debts owed. If Henry weren’t here to do it, then Henry’s widow would have to.

  At the thought of Emma, Philip’s fingers tightened on the carved buttons of his waistcoat. Emma—so beautiful, so sweet. Henry never knew what he had in her, always running off and leaving her alone and vulnerable.

  It should have made his task easier. Seduce that idiot Henry’s grateful, lovely bride and find what he needed. What Henry stole from Philip’s father. But Emma had proved more loyal than Henry deserved and only professed gratitude for Philip’s ‘friendship’. And then she had left before Henry even knew she was gone.