Scandal's Daughters

by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson

  “Most of the guests are riding out now,” she reported. “Lord Whitley, of course, is not among them.” Neither, she was disappointed to note, was Lady Blackwell.

  Ah well. She must hope she didn’t cross paths with the woman on her way out to the gazebo. The assigned meeting spot was a graceful white structure at the edge of the gardens, next to the pond studded with water lilies. It was the perfect place for a proposal.

  “Then we’d best be going.” Aunt Eugenie rose. “Don’t forget your hat.”

  “I’ll fetch it and meet you outside by the hedge,” Sara said.

  “Very well, but make haste.”

  Sara nodded and slipped out. Her room was a few doors down from Aunt Eugenie’s, but there was no one about to observe her.

  There was a bit of a delay as she searched for her hat. It was not sitting on the bed where she’d left it in preparation for her clandestine outing. At last she discovered it tucked back into the wardrobe, where likely her maid had tidied it away.

  When she reached the yew hedge, there was no sign of Aunt Eugenie. No doubt she’d tired of waiting and had gone ahead to lurk among the lilies.

  Retying her hat ribbons at a better angle, Sara went into the garden. Bees hummed lazily among the bright flowers, and the distant splash of a fountain drifted through the air. Overhead, swallows darted and dipped, stitching paths across the creamy blue sky.

  She paused and drew in a contented breath.

  Whitley Manor was a lovely estate, and she thought she’d enjoy the running of it. In her mind’s eye, she could see children playing on the lawn. It was a fine place to raise a family.

  Her family.

  With that invigorating thought, she turned her steps toward the lily beds, and the white gazebo rising beyond.

  “Aunt?” she called in a low voice when she reached the fragrant path bordering the lilies. “Are you here?”

  There was no response. Drat it. Something had detained Aunt Eugenie, though punctuality was one of her hallmarks.

  Sara turned to go back to the hedge, but Lord Whitley called out to her from the gazebo.

  “Lady Sara, there you are! I’d almost given up hope.”

  Her heart leaped guiltily, and she pivoted to face him. He stood framed in the opening, and though he was not tall and dark with tousled hair, he was a presentable enough gentleman.

  “My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  She really ought to go back and find Aunt Eugenie—but then her chance would slip away, and who knew if it would come again?

  “Well, come in.” He gestured to her, then stood aside as she mounted the steps.

  Soft light filtered through the trellis-enclosed walls, and dappled reflections spangled the ceiling. One side of the gazebo was taken up with a low couch piled with cushions. A rug patterned in rich oranges and blues covered the floor, and the near corner held a small marble replica of the Venus de Milo. The lush scent of lilies filled the air.

  “How pleasant,” she said, turning in a circle. “Your own secret hideaway.”

  “It is, indeed.” He stepped in front of her and untied the bow of her hat. “You won’t need this.”

  “I suppose not.” She laughed to cover her nerves, then removed her hat and set it gently on the cushions.

  “Would you like some wine?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I indulged more than enough at lunch.”

  “A woman who’s not afraid to dispense with the preliminaries. I like that.” He took her by the shoulders. “Shall we begin with a kiss?”

  “I… suppose.”

  It wasn’t proper, but then again, she and Tarek had shared a kiss and he hadn’t even been on the verge of proposing. Surely it would do no harm to allow Lord Whitley this small leeway.

  He pulled her against him and pressed his mouth to hers. Sara waited for the rush of light to sweep through her, but nothing happened, beyond a sense of discomfort. Belatedly, she raised her hands and placed them on his shoulders. Perhaps she just needed a little time to become accustomed to Lord Whitley.

  But instead of being filled with yearning, a vague disquiet swept over her. She pulled back, breaking the kiss.

  “Delicious,” Lord Whitley said. “But perhaps you’d be more comfortable on the couch.”

  “I suppose so.” It was unusual for a gentleman to propose while standing, at least from what she understood of the matter.

  Carefully, she sat. Lord Whitley immediately settled beside her, so close his thigh pressed against hers.

  “Oh, before I forget, I brought along a little something for you,” he said, patting at his pockets.

  The ring. She leaned forward. What kind of precious stones would it feature? She was partial to emeralds, though diamonds and amethysts were equally agreeable.

  “Here we are.” He pulled out a thin packet and laid it upon the cushions.

  Sara eyed it dubiously. It did not seem to contain a ring.

  “French letters,” the viscount said. “Always best to be prepared.”

  “I… don’t know what those are,” she said, uncertainty beginning to swirl through her.

  Rigidly, she tamped it down. Everything was going according to plan. And if it didn’t match her idea of a proper proposal, well, she’d never been betrothed before. Surely Lord Whitley knew what he was about.

  “What a sheltered young lady.” He peered at her. “Are you certain you want to go on with this?”

  “Of course I am.” He couldn’t back out now! She clutched at his hand. “I just… thought that perhaps you’d brought a ring.”

  His eyebrows rose and he let out a chuckle. “Truly? Perhaps not as sheltered as I’d thought, then. We can procure one for next time, if you wish.”

  Sara didn’t quite follow him, but nodded. Lord Whitley had an odd way of going about things, but eventually she was sure they’d come to understand one another without confusion. Every couple had a settling in period, after all.

  “Now, let us try that kiss again,” he said.

  Before she could protest, he grabbed her shoulders and pressed her down upon the couch, covering her mouth with his. It was worse than before, and her heart fluttered with incipient panic. She tried to push him off, but he was too heavy.

  She could not speak, could scarcely breathe, but somehow she must stop him. She felt as though she were being smothered by an excruciatingly warm, fleshy blanket.

  Then his hand rose to cover one of her breasts, and she let out a squeak of shock. This was completely unacceptable. She could not push him away, but she had to do something.

  The statue, in the corner. Could she reach it?

  She wriggled along the couch, which Lord Whitley seemed to take as further encouragement, as he redoubled the motion of his lips against hers.

  Sara stretched out her arm, and her fingers met the cool, smooth torso of the replica Venus de Milo. It took another suffocating moment before she could wrap her hand about it, but as soon as she did, she brought it across Lord Whitley’s temple with a thunk.

  Lord Whitley groaned and toppled off her, to lie motionless on the carpet.

  “Oh no!” she cried.

  Gasping for breath, she set the statue down and went to her knees beside him. Had she killed him?

  “Sara!” someone called, and then a man leaped into the gazebo.

  Not just any man, however, but Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac.

  Her heart stuttered, then burst into flame.

  Chapter 10

  Tarek raced into the gazebo, his pulse thundering. From the path, he’d caught a glimpse of the viscount lying atop Sara, and red rage had engulfed him. Before he could reach her, however, she’d bashed Lord Whitley over the head.

  He admired her greatly for that quick-witted use of a statue. It had the added benefit of keeping him from murdering the man outright.

  Now she knelt before the downed viscount, her face pale. As Tarek burst in, she glanced up at him, her eyes wide. Then,
between one heartbeat and the next, she rose and was somehow in his arms.

  “Tarek.” Her voice was muffled by his coat. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.” He held her close and breathed in the sweet smell of her hair as his fury subsided. “I should never have let you go.”

  At least not without telling her how he felt. The past four days had been excruciating, as he’d come to realize the depth of his emotions. Despite everything, he had found the woman he wanted to share his life with.

  Only to lie awake in the dark of night, fearing he’d lost her to that lout, Lord Whitley. He was very glad the man in question now lay prone on the carpet at their feet.

  “I’ve killed Lord Whitley.” Her voice trembled. “Whatever am I going to do?”

  Tarek glanced down. “He’s still breathing.” Unfortunately. “I expect at any moment he’ll come to.”

  She sagged against him in relief, and Tarek tightened his embrace, glad beyond words to shelter her in his arms. But was she there only because she was afraid she’d killed the viscount? Would any acquaintance have done, for a bit of comfort?

  He did not know, and his pulse beat faster with apprehension. He’d come to find her, ready to bare his heart and pray she would not trample it into the mud.

  But he must take that risk.

  Lord Whitley groaned, and Sara pulled out of Tarek’s embrace. With effort, he kept himself from snatching her back and whisking her away—beyond the gazebo, beyond London, beyond even the inflexible and clammy shores of England.

  That was not his choice to make, however. It was hers.

  “Are you all right, Lord Whitley?” she asked, kneeling on the carpet again and giving the viscount a concerned look.

  Tarek hoped he’d remain unconscious for a long while. When Whitley finished waking up, he’d only want to flatten the man again.

  Regrettably, the viscount opened his eyes. “What the devil? Lady Sara, did you knock me over?”

  A blush turned her cheeks a dusky rose. “I’m afraid I did.”

  He levered himself to sitting and felt gingerly at his head. “If you didn’t like my attentions, you could’ve said something! Good gad, woman—I even asked you if you wanted to continue.”

  Tarek’s temper flared. “Why would Lady Sara Ashton, a paragon of propriety, want to dally with you?”

  The viscount blinked at him. “It did seem a bit unlikely at first, but she kept telling me she was interested, and that a fellow like myself was in need of companionship. What was I to think? I’m not the type to turn a willing and pretty woman away.”

  Tarek made a fist and was already drawing back his arm, when Sara rose and caught it.

  “I believe Lord Whitley has been pummeled enough,” she said to him in a low voice.

  “I disagree.” Still, he let her hold him back.

  “Well, Lady Sara.” The viscount rose unsteadily to his feet. “Have you any explanation for this disaster of an afternoon?”

  “I thought…” She glanced out the door and took a steadying breath. “That is, I believed you were going to propose to me.”

  “Propose?” Lord Whitley let out a short laugh, then winced. “Whatever gave you that notion? I’ve no intention of marrying anyone. At least, not for a good long while.”

  “Here they are!” Sara’s aunt called from the path.

  “I see now that I was dreadfully mistaken,” Sara said. Her fingers tightened on Tarek’s arm.

  “Oh, my.” Mrs. Ashford drew up short at the doorway of the gazebo.

  Another woman—very pretty, with blonde hair—came up behind Sara’s aunt and peered over her shoulder.

  “I see Lord du Lac arrived in time,” the blonde said. “Lady Sara, are you unharmed?”

  “Yes.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “But what are you doing here, Lady Blackwell?”

  “It’s a complicated tale. The short version is that I was beginning to fear for your virtue.”

  Tarek growled, then subsided when Sara shot him a look.

  “I never—” Lord Whitley sputtered. “Had I known they were unwanted, I wouldn’t have pressed my attentions. I’m not that sort of fellow.”

  “I know that,” Lady Blackwell said. “But when I saw Mrs. Ashford attempting to sneak out to the gardens this afternoon, I stopped her, and learned that you and Lady Sara were meeting for two entirely different reasons. And we both know you tend to get carried away in the heat of passion, my dear.”

  Sara’s aunt coughed. “We were just coming to fetch you, when the comte suddenly arrived. As soon as he heard what was going on, he dashed off to your rescue. It seems he succeeded.”

  “In truth, I was the one—” Sara began, but the viscount overrode her.

  “Yes, Lord du Lac delivers quite a punch,” Lord Whitley said, in an obvious effort to save face.

  “Almost as effective as Lady Sara’s,” Tarek said. The ladies could make of that what they may.

  Lady Blackwell went to lend Lord Whitley her arm. As she stepped over the marble statue lying on the carpet, a speculative gleam filled her eyes, and she nodded at Sara.

  “I must say, we won’t be a burden upon your hospitality any further, Lord Whitley,” Mrs. Ashford said. “Lady Sara and I shall depart as soon as possible.”

  “It’s rather late to be setting out for London.” Lady Blackwell glanced out at the afternoon sky. “Once your luggage is ready and the coach packed up, it will be nearly dark.”

  “As to that,” Tarek said, “the Marchioness of Fulton and I are staying a short distance away, at the Neatherlins’ estate. I’m certain Lady Sara and her aunt would be more than welcome there.”

  “So that is whom she went to visit,” Sara’s aunt said under her breath. “I should have guessed.”

  “How fortuitous that you are nearby.” Lady Blackwell sent him a sweet smile.

  Fortune had nothing to do with it, of course. Lady Fulton had scolded him for moping about for three days and then hauled him off to visit her friends—who just so happened to own the estate next to Lord Whitley’s. When he’d questioned her about that convenient coincidence, she’d only arched a brow and told him he ought to take charge of his future and go speak with Sara at his soonest possible convenience. In other words, immediately.

  He was only sorry he hadn’t run after her coach as it left London—but it had taken him those few days to realize how very important she was to him.

  He’d arrived at the viscount’s estate that afternoon just in time to catch sight of Sara’s aunt in the garden. Though it was a breach of protocol, he’d detoured from the front of the house in order to say hello—and to inquire after Sara. The moment he’d learned she was meeting with Lord Whitley in the gazebo, he’d dashed to her rescue.

  “If you must be off,” the viscount said, his tone making it clear their departure was the most preferable outcome, “then I wish you all safe travels.”

  “Goodbye, Lord Whitley,” Sara said. “I’m truly sorry for all that transpired between us.”

  “As am I.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Please accept my apologies for the misunderstanding.”

  Misunderstanding? He’d almost ruined Sara. Tarek narrowed his eyes, and noticed that Sara’s aunt was giving Lord Whitley an equally vicious look.

  “I trust that there will be no gossip on this score,” Mrs. Ashford said. “It would be unfortunate if Lord Whitley were named as a rakehell.”

  “And equally unfortunate if your niece’s reputation were sullied,” Lady Blackwell said. “I think we all understand that silence is the best course in this matter.”

  She gave the viscount a discreet jab to the ribs, and he cleared his throat. “Indeed. Not a word. I believe I must have tripped on the gazebo stairs.”

  “We’d best get you back to the house,” Lady Blackwell said. “There’s a lump forming on your forehead that should be seen to. Good day, everyone.”

  Lord Whitley nodded his farewell, then, leaning heavily on
her arm, let Lady Blackwell lead him away.

  Mrs. Ashford sniffed. “That was a dreadful scene. I only pray we can, indeed, contain the gossip, and that this does not prove to be an irrevocable blow to Lady Sara’s reputation.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Tarek said.

  “Of course it does!” Sara’s aunt fixed him with a scornful look. “I thought we’d given you a better sense of the proprieties than that, Lord du Lac.”

  “You did.” He turned to Sara, searching her eyes, hoping to see an answering echo of the flame burning inside him. “Lady Sara Ashford, although the viscount did not propose to you after all, there is someone else who wishes to.”

  Her eyes widened and she simply gazed up at him, speechless.

  Mrs. Ashton drew in a sharp breath. “This is most irregular. I hardly think this is the time or the place—”

  “It is precisely the time and the place.” Tarek took Sara’s hand. “Sara, I refuse to let you walk out of this gazebo before I speak my mind. I lost my chance with you once. I won’t do so again.”

  “Oh.” Something stirred in her leaf-green eyes. “Very well. Though I make you no promises.”

  “Fair enough.” He kept his voice steady, though his heart pounded furiously.

  “Aunt Eugenie.” Sara glanced at her chaperone. “Would you do me the very great favor of stepping outside?”

  “What? I shall do no such thing. After what has already transpired here, I hardly think—”

  “Just for a moment, that’s all I ask. You don’t even need to lurk among the lilies.”

  Tarek glanced at the Venus de Milo tipped over on the carpet. “If anything I say is displeasing to Lady Sara, she has a weapon at hand.”

  “It’s not a joking matter,” Sara said, an edge to her voice.

  “No,” he agreed. “And I’m immeasurably glad you were able to defend yourself. From now on, however, I don’t intend to leave you without a champion.”

  The light in her eyes deepened, and she looked at her aunt once more. “Aunt, please.”

  With a hmph, Mrs. Ashford stepped to the doorway.

  “Only for a moment,” she said. “I’ll be just outside.”

  Then Tarek was alone with Sara, and all the words he’d meant to say fell right out of his head. He found himself staring at her somewhat desperately—this woman who had, all unexpectedly, captured his heart.