Running from Scandal

by Amanda McCabe

  No one could see her ridiculously flushed cheeks there.

  Emma drifted to the far end of the garden, where a large, ancient tree offered shade to strollers by day and shelter to shy wallflowers at night. And Emma needed a place to shelter at the moment.

  When she first came back to Barton, she’d expected many challenges. But she certainly hadn’t expected David Marton to be one of the greatest. When he was near, she couldn’t concentrate on anything else. She wanted him to notice her—but then she was scared of what he thought when he did. And he had looked so right dancing with Miss Harding...

  Emma leaned back against the rough trunk of the tree, letting its strength hold her up as she examined the darkened windows of the bookshop across the lane. That was what she needed to think about. What she needed to do next. Not things she couldn’t have.

  As she studied the quiet street, she heard the assembly-room door open. There was a blast of music and laughter, quickly cut off, and the soft rustle of footsteps on the pathway.

  Emma quickly straightened and pasted a bright smile on her face before she turned to face the newcomer. But her smile faltered when she saw it was David who stood there.

  She was now alone with David in the moonlight.

  He gave her a small, quick flash of a smile and laid his palm against the tree. ‘Diagnosing the diseases using Mr Lee’s treatise, Mrs Carrington?’

  Emma gave a choked laugh. ‘Since this is an oak, Sir David, I am sure it can have nothing to do with your orchard. I just needed a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘Perfectly understandable. I find it hard to breathe at such things myself.’

  ‘But you seemed to be enjoying the dance,’ Emma said. She thought of how he smiled down at Miss Harding as she turned prettily under his arm. Emma shivered, wondering why the night felt so cold.

  ‘Are you chilled, Mrs Carrington?’ he said. To her surprise, he quickly shrugged out of his coat and gently draped it over her shoulders.

  She was suddenly wrapped in the warmth, the clean scent of him. And yet it made her shiver all the more.

  He drew the edges of his coat closer around her, yet he didn’t move away. Emma stared at the white glow of his cravat in the darkness and felt him watching her closely. She slowly reached out and rested her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘I do like to dance sometimes, Mrs Carrington,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘But I like it best with the right partner.’

  It had been so long since she was close to a man like this, and even back when she thought herself so in love with Henry it hadn’t felt like she did now. So giddy and dizzy, like a glass of sparkling champagne! So warm and safe, like a summer’s day. All of her senses whirled and all she could think about was David so close to her. The way his strong shoulders felt under her hands, so hard and warm and alive.

  ‘We—we shouldn’t be here like this...’ she managed to whisper.

  ‘Definitely not,’ he said hoarsely. Yet his head bent toward hers and she instinctively went up on tiptoe to meet the kiss she so longed for.

  The touch of David’s lips was soft at first: warm, gentle. When Emma whimpered and wrapped her arms around his neck to hold him with her, he deepened the kiss. Their lips parted, tasted, and with that taste they slid down into urgent heat.

  Something deep inside Emma, something reckless and passionate she had tried so hard to banish, surged back to life at the taste of that need. Passionate need—from David Marton! And, oh, but he was such a good kisser, his lips moving over hers so skilfully, his tongue sliding over hers to draw her into him. Who could have ever guessed? He knew just how to touch her to make her want to touch him back. Need to touch him.

  Something in her heart called out to him, a rough, wild excitement that burst inside of her until she knew she would explode from it. She moaned and pressed her body even closer to his as his arms held her tight. She forgot everything: who she was, who he was, the crowd in the building just behind them. Scandal mattered nothing to how he made her feel in that one perfect, frozen moment.

  A moment too quickly shattered by a laugh from behind the tree that hid them from view. Emma’s sensuous dream shattered like a fragile glass bubble and dropped her back down to the heavy earth. She tore her mouth from David’s and drew in a deep breath of air. It felt like surfacing too fast after diving into a warm pool.

  It was too dark for her to see his face, but she feared she wouldn’t like what was written there if she could.

  He stepped back from her, his shoulders heaving with the force of his breath. ‘Oh, blast it all,’ he said roughly, and she could swear she heard nothing but horror in his hoarse voice. ‘Emma. Emma, I am so...’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. She pressed her fingertips to her tender lips and willed herself not to cry. She hadn’t cried in so very long; tears never solved anything. But she wanted to cry now, from some strange, ineffable, hollow sense of loss.

  Was she sad because he had kissed her so unexpectedly, awakening needs she had thought she had banished? Or because he had stopped?

  ‘Don’t say you’re sorry, I beg you,’ she said.

  ‘But I am sorry. I don’t know what insanity came over me. Forgive me, Mrs Carrington.’

  Insanity. Of course. That was surely what he thought it had to be if he desired her. Emma shook her head, beyond words. She spun around and dashed out of the garden, careful to keep to the shadows where no one could see her. His coat tumbled from her shoulders. Somehow she found her way to the blessedly empty ladies’ withdrawing room.

  She barely recognised the sight that greeted her in the mirror. Her cheeks were very red, her hair dishevelled. She had lost the silk forget-me-nots at her waist and her sash was half-untied. She quickly set about tidying herself.

  She had just smoothed her hair and tugged her gloves into place when the door opened to let in another blast of music and laughter from the party outside. Emma tensed, but then saw it was only Lady Wheelington.

  ‘There you are, Mrs Carrington!’ she cried, joining Emma at the mirror to adjust her turban. ‘I wondered where you disappeared to.’

  ‘I found myself a bit overwhelmed,’ Emma confessed. ‘I needed a breath of air.’

  Lady Wheelington nodded sagely. ‘I completely understand, my dear. All of us feel that way sometimes when faced with Mrs Smythe. She is quite the chatterer, I fear.’

  ‘I often got the feeling when I lived here before that she did not like me very much,’ Emma admitted.

  ‘Of course not. You are much too smart for her.’ Lady Wheelington turned sideways to study the fall of her dress in the glass. ‘Their parents, rest their souls, were kind people and very dutiful, but it’s always been quite clear their son inherited whatever brains were in the family tree. Sir David is a treasure to our community indeed. I hope he shan’t make the mistake of taking his sister’s marital advice again. What a mistake that would be.’

  Against her will, Emma felt her curiosity piqued. Hadn’t she just vowed to stay away from Sir David? Vowed never to let her emotions rule her again, as they had with Henry and Mr Milne? That David was bad for her peace of mind, for the future she wanted for herself. Yet here she was, eager to hear any gossip about him.

  ‘Was it a mistake the first time?’ she asked, hoping she sounded only light and neutral. She looked down to fuss with the button on her glove. ‘I left Barton before Sir David’s wedding to Miss Cole, but I remember what a handsome couple they were.’

  Lady Wheelington gave a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort. ‘Handsome in appearance, mayhap. And certainly Miss Beatrice Marton is the prettiest of children. We must hope she inherits her father’s steadiness and not her mother’s sad flightiness. What a scandal it was!’

  ‘A scandal attached to Sir David’s name?’ Emma said, startled. ‘I can hardly warrant it.’

  Lady Wheel
ington’s eyes widened in the glass. ‘My dear, never say you don’t know?’

  Confusion swept over Emma, a feeling she was becoming all too familiar with. ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I forgot you have been gone for a long while, and your dear sister is probably not the sort to share local gossip in her letters. Well, Mrs Carrington, what do you know?’

  ‘Only that Sir David and Lady Marton lived mostly in London while they were married and that Lady Marton died there.’

  Lady Wheelington pursed her lips. ‘Yes, but I fear that is not all of it. Lady Marton died in a carriage accident near the Scottish border—where she had eloped with her lover, a cavalry officer. A handsome young rake, so I’ve heard. We all wondered why she insisted on living in town, when Sir David has always been so devoted to Rose Hill. When she died, it all became clear. She wanted to be close to her lover.’

  Emma had never been so deeply shocked in her life. Sir David’s wife had run away from him with a lover? Eloped and left her husband with a little daughter and a terrible scandal hanging over their heads? How awful it must have been for such a proud, reserved man to face down such a thing. And poor little Beatrice...

  Then Emma sighed as another terrible thought struck her. Lady Marton was a romantic eloper, just as Emma herself was. No wonder David looked at her with such distance sometimes. No wonder she could never quite read his thoughts. Surely he looked at her and saw the shadow of his late wife.

  But why, then, would he kiss her, so wonderfully and thoroughly?

  Her head was spinning with it all.

  ‘...but Mrs Smythe was delighted when he married Miss Cole, though the rest of us had our reservations that they suited as a couple,’ Lady Wheelington was saying. ‘I hope he won’t listen to his sister’s advice now about Miss Harding. She may be a perfectly lovely girl, of course, but who around here knows her?’

  Emma shook her head, trying to bring herself back to the present moment and out of her own shock and confusion. ‘Isn’t Miss Harding an admiral’s niece? That sounds most respectable.’

  ‘Yes, but who are her other people? Why was she sent to stay with her uncle so suddenly? Sir David should be doubly cautious now. After Miss Cole, and little bits of gossip we heard about him in his youth...’

  Cautious about associating with questionable ladies. Emma understood that very well. And she was sure any ‘bits of gossip’ about David himself had been only that. Gossip. ‘So should we all, I think,’ she murmured.

  Lady Wheelington gave her a kind smile. ‘Oh, my dear, you needn’t worry about such things now. You are home again. You must come to tea soon and tell me how you are settling in.’

  Emma started to reply, when the door opened and Mrs Smythe and Miss Harding appeared, arm in arm, heads bent together as they giggled over some joke.

  ‘Oh, Lady Wheelington! And Mrs Carrington,’ Mrs Smythe cried. ‘How lovely it is to see you out and about.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Smythe,’ Emma said politely, even though Mrs Smythe already told her that once.

  ‘You must meet my new friend Miss Harding, who has quite brightened our little corner of the world since she arrived,’ Mrs Smythe said. ‘Miss Harding, you know Lady Wheelington of course, but this is Mrs Carrington, who is sister to Lady Ramsay at Barton Park. She has been gone for quite some time.’

  Emma and Miss Harding made their polite curtsies and greetings, and Emma studied the other lady as Mrs Smythe went on chattering. Miss Harding’s smile quirked, as if she had got the measure of Emma and found her no threat. And Emma was sure she could not be a threat where Sir David was concerned, not after all that had happened in her life.

  But then, it was not her business who Sir David Marton married, she reminded herself. She had caused scandal just like his wife had and therefore wouldn’t be suitable in his eyes or the eyes of their friends. And he did not even know everything she had seen in her life with Henry. No, Miss Harding was obviously a pretty and suitable young lady. And Emma shouldn’t even be thinking about David, or anything else but repairing her life.

  Why, then, did she just want to hide in a quiet corner somewhere and cry?

  * * *

  David scooped up his coat from the ground and paced to the end of the garden and back to the tree, a terrible restlessness seizing him. He had guarded against such passions all his life, fearing a hidden temper like his father’s lurked inside of him. But with Emma he couldn’t guard against anything at all.

  When he looked into her wide green eyes, so full of life, he could see nothing else.

  He had to be rid of these feelings. They could do nothing good, for either him or her. The more he saw her, the more he wanted to see her. The more he admired her boundless spirit.

  But it was the kind of spirit that led only to ruin in the end.

  David shook his head, trying to rid himself from memories of that kiss. Of the way Emma tasted, the warm, soft sweetness of her body against his.

  A ray of moonlight caught on something at his feet and he bent to study it. It was the branch of silk forget-me-nots fallen from Emma’s sash. He slowly picked it up and turned it between his fingers. They smelled faintly of Emma’s perfume as he inhaled deeply.

  And something drove him to slip the flowers into his coat and carry them with him back to the assembly rooms. He would have to return them to her later...

  * * *

  From the diary of Arabella Bancroft

  My first kiss! I feel foolish indeed admitting to such a thing after my time here in such sophisticated company, but there it is. I have just had my first kiss tonight, in the garden with Sir William.

  And it was all I could have dreamed of. He told me I was beautiful, that he could see my true heart as it is like his. I know better than to believe such poetry, but those words were sweet to my ears.

  For a moment I was sure I found a place where I truly belonged.

  Chapter Eight

  Melanie Harding struggled to climb up the slope of the hill, holding on to her bonnet as the wind tried to snatch it away. Nature really was terribly horrid. But going for a walk seemed like the only way she could escape her uncle’s snoring for a while.

  She reached the top of the hill and turned to study the village laid out before her as she tried to catch her breath. She could see all the little streets laid out in their short, straight lines, the old church, the people moving in and out of the shops like lines of ants.

  Once she had thought Bath a poky little place, boring and narrow. Now she saw what ‘narrow’ really meant. She longed to escape, to run away, yet she knew there was no place to go. This terrible little village was where she was trapped.

  She had to find an escape within her purgatory, clearly. And Melanie had learned to be resourceful if nothing else. Captain Whitney had abandoned her. Even her own mother had sent her here to rot. She could only depend on herself now.

  And on the few friends she had been able to make. Melanie studied the stolid stone building where the assembly was held. Assembly—it was hardly worthy of the name, nothing like the assembly rooms in Bath where at least there was real music and a choice of dance partners. But at least she was able to wear her pink muslin again instead of letting it moulder in her trunk.

  And she had also met Mrs Smythe’s brother there.

  Melanie made another impatient grab at her flying hat. Mrs Smythe was indeed a good friend, the only person of any interest she’d met since she arrived at her uncle’s house. Mrs Smythe knew about London fashions and on dit, and was always ready for a laugh. Everyone else here seemed too serious to laugh, too preoccupied with nonsense like crops and fences and tenants. Mrs Smythe cared for none of that and she seemed glad to have Melanie’s company, too.

  Mrs Smythe also had a very handsome brother. A handsome brother with a nice estate and a good income.
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  Melanie turned her back on the horrid little village to look towards where she knew Rose Hill lay. She’d walked by it on one of her escaping rambles before, peeking over walls and past gates for a glimpse of the house. It was quite fine and modern. It could use some extension and renovation, of course, but that was what the mistress of a house was for.

  Yes, Rose Hill definitely had potential. And gossip said the estate was prosperous enough to fund a London house as well. That was most important. It wasn’t as if he was an earl or marquess, but at that point she would happily settle for being Lady Marton of Rose Hill.

  The fact that Sir David was good looking and smelled nice, and was not an old, bald man with gout like her uncle’s cronies, made it even better. He wasn’t much fun, of course, not like Captain Whitney...

  Captain Whitney. Melanie sighed as she remembered him and his flirtatious laughter. Being with him had been like being swept away on a tidal wave, giddy and fast and wonderful, but so quickly gone. How she missed him! Sir David was nothing like that. She had a feeling that days—and nights—with him would be something of a trial, no matter how handsome he was.

  But maybe, with the security of money and a proper name behind her, there could be men like Captain Whitney again. With no harm done this time. If she was clever and careful, as she knew she could be. She had learned her lesson.

  Yes, she was lucky in Mrs Smythe’s friendship, as Mrs Smythe’s brother was her best chance in a long time. She wasn’t about to let it go.

  Suddenly fed up with the wind catching at her skirts and the annoying birds wheeling overhead, Melanie strode back down the hill towards the road. She turned back towards the village, thinking maybe she could take tea at Mrs Smythe’s before she had to go back to her uncle and his silent, stuffy house. She trudged slowly beside the hedgerow, caught up in thoughts of Rose Hill and being a wealthy married lady at last.

  For several long moments all she could hear was the whine of the wind, which carried the stench of damp grass and woolly sheep to her nose. Yet another horrid country thing.