Slightly Scandalous

by Mary Balogh

  “Neither could I, if it is any comfort,” he said. “The sea is there to remind us all how little and how powerless we really are. That is not necessarily a bad thing. We do dreadful things with the power we do have. But you sounded when you first spoke as if perhaps you have forgiven the sea.”

  “It is exalting too,” she said. “All that freedom and energy. I feel as if I am gazing into eternity. The beach below is private, is it not? It belongs to Penhallow.”

  “It does,” he said. “I'll take you there one day. It is wide and golden when the tide is out and nonexistent when the tide is in. It can be dangerous. The tide comes in fast at the end and one can be cut off from the valley if one is not careful to be back there in time.”

  “And if one is not?” she asked. “One drowns?”

  “Or one climbs the cliff,” he said. “I used to do it sometimes just for the thrill of it, even when the tide was out. It looks sheer, but of course there are numerous foot- and handholds. It's dangerous, though. One slip and I would have been dashed to pieces on my way down and you would never have met me.”

  “I would have climbed too if I had lived here with you,” she said, her teeth bared, the reckless light of a challenge in her eyes. “And I would have raced you to the top.”

  He chuckled. “We will never know, will we?” he said.

  She pointed ahead, out into the sea. “What is that island?” she asked him. “Is it inhabited?”

  “It was a smuggling haunt a long time ago,” he said. “But no longer, as far as I know. It is wild and deserted.”

  “Have you ever been there?” she asked.

  “I used to row over there once in a while,” he told her. “Sometimes with friends, more often alone. I liked the solitude, the chance to think and dream without interruption.”

  “It must be difficult to get to,” she said. “The water looks choppy about it, and there are steep cliffs rising straight from the sea.”

  “There are a few harbors,” he said. “Are you afraid of the sea?”

  “I am not afraid of anything,” she said, lifting her chin into the air in that characteristically arrogant gesture of hers.

  “Liar,” he said. “You are afraid.”

  “Nonsense!” she said while he kept a wary eye on her hands. But she kept them propped behind her. “Take me there. One day—tomorrow. Just you and me. Just the two of us.”

  He had not been on water in any small craft since that night. He had not even realized until this moment that he was reluctant to go back out. He gazed down at the sea where he and Albert had sat and argued until Albert had dived overboard and then refused to get back in. He turned his head and gazed at the point beyond the river where Albert had been standing chest-deep in water when he, Joshua, had deemed him safe and gone off around the next headland to clear his head and decide what his next move must be.

  He closed his eyes, wishing that the memories would go away. All of them.

  “I believe,” Freyja said, “that you are the one who is afraid, Josh.”

  He turned his head to grin at her.

  “Tomorrow?” he said. “Just the two of us? Are you willing to face such danger? And I am not referring to the boat ride.”

  She turned and looked at him, her eyebrows arched. She stared at him for long moments before answering, and he felt a distinct tightening in his groin.

  “I am willing,” she said at last. “But I do wish, Josh, that I could still see you now as I saw you when we were in Bath—as just a charming, shallow rake.”

  He grinned at her.

  “But I am exactly those things, sweetheart,” he said. “I just happen to have had an interesting childhood and to have got myself hopelessly entangled in a pile of nonsense before I left here. It has caught up to me now, it seems, and must be dealt with once and for all. But this is a minor hiccup in my frivolous life.”

  “I wish I could believe you,” she said, sitting up and hugging her knees.

  And he wished Prue had not suggested to him that Freyja was lonely. He wanted to think of her as strong and independent and contemptuous of all lesser mortals. Yet she had lost the man she had grown up to marry, and she had lost the man she had loved passionately. No, he had not really wanted to get to know Freyja Bedwyn any more than she had wanted to know him.

  Their light flirtation in Bath had been so very enjoyable.

  He grinned at her, and she continued to look haughtily back at him. But the usual light, flirtatious antagonism was no longer there between them. Something subtle had changed. He thought desperately of a way to lighten the atmosphere. But she foiled him by lifting one hand and setting her fingertips feather-light against his cheek. For a moment he had the absurd feeling that there was not enough air in the hollow to be drawn into his lungs. He lifted his hand to take hers, and turned his head to kiss her palm.

  “Are you sure you do not want me to invite anyone else to join us on this island excursion?” he asked her.

  “I am sure,” she said. “No one else.”

  Lord! He was fit to explode. Much more of this and he would dive off the cliff to cool himself in the sea—except that the tide was out.

  The devil of it was, Joshua thought as she leaned forward and set her lips against his, that he could no longer remember why their betrothal was fake, why they were going to have to end it sooner or later. There was a reason, was there not? Something about his not being ready to settle down? Something about her loving someone else?

  But his thought processes were made sluggish by the fact that they were embracing. Somehow he was lying on his back and she was half lying on top of him. They were kissing each other, not with wild passion, or even with lusty hunger, but with soft, almost lazy kisses that seemed far more dangerous to Joshua. He was holding her face cupped in both hands. Her hands were in his hair, her fingertips lightly stroking his head. Both of them had their eyes open.

  Lord!

  A passionate Freyja was a keg of powder exploding. A tender Freyja was far more deadly.

  “Mmm,” he said against her lips. “My memories of this hollow will forever be changed.”

  How long they would have continued to exchange soft kisses he did not know. Someone was clearing his throat above them.

  “Lovely view, Morg, would you not agree?” Alleyne asked. “Though I would advise you to look outward rather than downward. You may get vertigo.”

  “I would advise you to find another lookout point,” Joshua said as Freyja sat up and Morgan laughed. “This one is taken.”

  “Tut, tut,” Alleyne said. “Such a gracious host. We are not wanted, Morg. But Davy has caught a sheep, I see, and is attempting to ride it. I had better go to the rescue.”

  “Of Davy or the sheep?” Morgan asked.

  They disappeared.

  “That excursion is going to be very dangerous, you know,” Joshua said, lacing his fingers behind his head while Freyja pushed her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ears before clasping her knees again.

  “I know,” she said.

  “But you are not afraid?”

  “No,” she said. “Are you?”

  “Mortally.” He chuckled, though he was deadly serious. “I may not be able to keep my hands off you, sweetheart.”

  The sun came out behind her head as she turned it to look down at him, and converted the untamed waves of her hair to a golden halo all about her face. She looked strangely and suddenly beautiful to him.

  “Perhaps I will not be able to keep mine off you,” she said, looking steadily down at him.

  The hollow felt airless again.

  “It should be an interesting day,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  God help them, he thought, now what were they getting themselves into? Deep waters, no doubt, in more ways than one.

  There had to be a reason why they were not going to marry. They had both been so adamant about it.

  What the devil was the reason? He might be able to save himself if he could remem
ber it.

  “When I say my prayers tonight,” he said, “I will offer one up for no rain.”

  He grinned at her.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Freyja prayed for rain or—better yet—snow. Then she caught herself playing coward and petitioned the divine weather-maker for cloudless sunshine and midsummer temperatures instead.

  Some time very early—it was not even light—she tossed back the bedcovers, crossed her room to the window, and looked out. There was not a cloud in the sky—which did not mean, of course, that it was going to be a lovely day. Often a bright start gave way to clouds and rain later. And a sunny day at this time of year often came with arctic temperatures. But the window was open, she realized, and she was not even shivering.

  Whatever had possessed her? She was afraid of the sea. She was mortally afraid of being cast adrift on its surface in a small fishing boat. But she had demanded to be taken across to that alarmingly distant island. It was not that prospect that had disturbed her sleep, though. After all, she was Freyja Bedwyn, and it was in her nature to confront her fears head-on whenever a challenge presented itself.

  Take me there. One day—tomorrow. Just you and me. Just the two of us.

  Where had the words come from? Why not an excursion for all of them? It would surely be possible to hire more than one boat. There was safety in numbers.

  Just you and me. Just the two of us.

  She was in far deeper with Josh than she cared to admit. She had realized that during the night when she had caught herself during one wakeful spell trying to convince herself that she was not over Kit. But she was. She was beginning to use her old passion for him as a shield behind which to hide. Kit was happy with Lauren and she with him, and there was no longer any pang of grief or anger in the realization. That part of her life was over and done with.

  But if she was over Kit, what was there to stop her from loving Josh?

  She dared not love him. Even though he was not nearly as shallow a person as she had taken him for when they were in Bath, he nevertheless was not a man it would be wise to fall in love with. He did not intend making his home at Penhallow or anywhere else. He was eager to get back to his life of shiftless wandering. His frivolous life, as he had described it yesterday.

  And yet yesterday she had not been sure she believed him. . . .

  Tomorrow—today—she was going to go over to the island with him. Just the two of them. And there could be no pretense of innocence.

  Are you willing to face such danger? And I am not referring to the boat ride.

  I am willing.

  I may not be able to keep my hands off you, sweetheart.

  Perhaps I will not be able to keep mine off you.

  Freyja shivered after all in the predawn air and went back to bed, but she did little more than doze and wake until she could decently get up and venture from her room.

  Early as she was, Joshua had already gone out to the home farm with his steward. Aidan and Alleyne had gone with him. Freyja remembered then that she had promised to spend the morning writing invitations to the ball with Morgan, Constance, and Chastity.

  The guest list was a long one, she discovered, when she joined the others in the morning room after breakfast. She wondered if anyone within a five-mile radius of Penhallow had been omitted and realized how typical it was of Joshua to be so egalitarian despite his elevated rank. She tried to imagine Wulfric hosting such a ball and found herself smiling at the absurdity of the thought.

  “Can you imagine Wulf with such a guest list, Morgan?” she asked as the four of them settled to their task.

  “Or us attending such a ball?” Morgan said. “Wulfric is our brother the duke,” she explained to the other two ladies. “He is extremely high in the instep.”

  “Joshua does not see this ball as an elegant social event for those of elevated rank,” Constance said. “He sees it as a neighborhood celebration of his return home and his betrothal. And all these people were his friends—servants, laborers, villagers. He wishes to share his happiness and his good fortune with them. Will such a ball offend you?”

  “I do believe,” Morgan said, leaning forward across the table, “I am going to enjoy it immensely.”

  “If it will make Josh happy,” Freyja said, “then it will make me happy too.”

  Gracious heavens, she sounded like a woman meekly in love.

  Was she?

  Constance looked up from the blank card she had drawn in front of her, her quill pen poised above the ink bottle. “I really believed when we were in Bath, you know, Freyja,” she said, “and you helped Joshua foil Mama's plan to talk him into marrying me, that you would soon find some discreet way to put an end to your betrothal. I did not understand that it was real, even if the actual announcement was rushed forward. I am so glad it is. You are perfect for Joshua. You are bold and bright enough to challenge him. You will tame him without crushing his spirit, yet you will not allow him to subdue you—he would despise you or soon grow bored with you if you did.”

  Freyja was startled but had no chance to respond.

  “Freyja!” Morgan exclaimed. “Was there more to your sudden betrothal in Bath than you told us? How provoking of you to keep it a secret from me. I thought we had no secrets. I shall have it all out of you later—be warned. But I do agree with Constance that Joshua is really quite perfect for you. I hope I will find someone as perfect for myself, though I am sure that will not happen in the foolish atmosphere of a London Season.”

  “But how wonderful it would be to experience one,” Chastity said wistfully. “All those balls and routs and concerts. And people. I do envy you, Morgan.”

  They settled to writing for a while, having divided the list into four equal parts. It was altogether probable, Freyja thought, that many of the recipients of these invitations would not even be able to read them. Doubtless word would spread fast enough, though, and everyone would understand the meaning of the cards even without being able to decipher the writing on them.

  She found that she really was looking forward to the ball. It was going to be amusing if nothing else. Life really was amusing with Joshua. Certainly it was never predictable.

  She broke the silence after fifteen minutes or so, during which there had been nothing to hear but the scratching of four pens.

  “Constance,” she asked, “do you remember anything about the night your brother died?”

  It was strangely easy to forget the reason why they had all come to Penhallow. Only when she saw the marchioness, silent and pale and pathetic—and darting venomous glances at Freyja when no one else was looking—did she remember that they were all waiting for the next development in a bizarre, possibly dangerous game.

  “Nothing,” Constance said. “It was stormy and got worse as the night went on. I did not even know Albert had not come home until the next morning.”

  “But you did know he had gone out?” Freyja asked.

  “He went to Lydmere,” Constance said. “He said he was going to talk to Joshua.”

  “About what?” Freyja asked.

  “I-I do not know,” Constance said, dipping her pen into the ink bottle again but not proceeding to write with it. “About Miss Jewell, I believe. She was Chastity's governess and had been turned off because . . . Well, it does not matter. Joshua had found a cottage in the village for her and Mama was upset about it. Albert agreed to go and talk to him.”

  “The governess was with child?” Morgan asked, wide-eyed. “And your mama and your brother thought Joshua was responsible? I cannot believe it of him.”

  “Joshua was not the father,” Chastity said fiercely. “No one knows who the father was. Miss Jewell would never say.”

  In the rather tense silence that followed, Constance bent to her task again, and after a moment Morgan followed suit. Chastity was unable to write, Freyja noticed with narrowed gaze. Her hand was shaking. Perhaps she was fearing that her two guests were drawing the conclusion that if the father was not Josh, it must be her br
other.

  “Do you remember anything of that night?” Freyja asked.

  Chastity shook her head. “Nothing,” she said firmly. “But you must not think ill of Joshua, Freyja. I know he did nothing improper with Miss Jewell—he came to the house each week to visit Prue, not her. I know—I was always either with Miss Jewell myself whenever he was here or else with him and Prue. And I know he did not kill Albert or do anything to cause his death. It was an accident, that is all.”

  Freyja continued to watch her for a while before resuming her own task—she had four more invitations to write—and giving the girl a chance to recover enough to pick up her own pen.

  She wondered if either sister had loved the brother. Certainly neither of them was prepared to suspect foul play in his death, though both had known that he went to the village that night to confront Joshua over the nasty situation concerning the governess. Chastity at least realized that it was her brother who had fathered the child.

  Miss Anne Jewell was a sad figure, Freyja thought—somewhat accepted in the village now, though not really one of the villagers. A woman with an illegitimate child, with only a very little of the work with which she had once hoped to make a living, forced to accept at least partial support from a man who was in no way responsible for her. What the woman needed was independence and occupation and a restoration of all her pride. What she needed . . .

  Miss Anne Jewell was none of her concern, she told herself firmly.

  The task was finally completed and Constance gathered the folded invitations into a neat pile and took them away to be delivered. Chastity excused herself to go up to the nursery to see Prue.

  “Freyja,” Morgan said when they were alone together, “there is much here that is still unspoken and unresolved, is there not? As well as a murder charge still looming over Joshua's head. How very challenging and exciting it all is.”

  A typical Bedwyn reaction, Freyja thought.

  “I almost envy you,” Morgan said.