Born to Scandal

by Diane Gaston

  Now that he could not sleep, he pined for her company, her mettle, her passion. He yearned to talk to her, confide in her, rouse her from her bed—

  He stopped himself. Thinking of Miss Hill in bed was not a good idea.

  He’d be better off fetching another bottle of brandy. He picked up a candle to light his way and walked out of the bedchamber to the stairway.

  A cry came from above.

  From the children’s wing?

  He hurried up the flight of stairs and stopped at the top to listen.

  He heard it again.

  ‘Nooooo!’ came the cry.

  Brent rushed towards the sound, which grew louder and louder.

  ‘Nooo! Do not hit me! Do not hit me!’

  He flung open the door to the room that had once been his childhood bedchamber. Calmount was sitting straight up in bed, flailing his arms, a look of terror on his face.

  ‘No!’ he shrieked.

  Brent ran to his side and seized his arms. He tried to awaken him. ‘Cal! It is a dream. Wake up! Wake up.’

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway and Miss Hill rushed in, dressed in nightclothes, her auburn hair loose about her shoulders.

  ‘What is it?’ she cried.

  ‘A nightmare. I cannot wake him.’ Brent held the boy. ‘Wake up, Cal. You are dreaming.’

  Calmount’s eyes suddenly focused on him. The child gasped and pulled away, scooting to the wall and cowering.

  ‘Do not hit me!’ he cried, awake this time.

  And speaking!

  ‘I will not hit you.’ Brent reached for him. ‘You’ve had a nightmare. That is all.’

  The boy shrank away.

  ‘I would never hurt you.’ Brent wrapped the boy in his arms and held him close. ‘It was only a dream.’

  The boy stiffened. Brent felt his struggle, his terror, but finally Cal relaxed against him and his tears dampened Brent’s shirt.

  Miss Hill sat on the bed next to them, stroking the boy’s hair and murmuring, ‘There. There. It will be all right now. You are safe now.’

  Brent rocked the boy as Miss Hill’s warm voice assured him, over and over, that he’d only been dreaming. Eventually Cal fell asleep again, an exhausted sleep.

  Brent laid him down on the bed and tucked the blankets around him.

  He turned to Miss Hill. ‘Good God. What was that all about?’

  She whispered, ‘This has not happened before.’

  ‘Yes, it has.’ A voice came from the doorway. Dory stood in the threshold in her nightdress. ‘Cal has bad dreams a lot.’

  Miss Hill picked Dory up and held her.

  ‘Do you know what the dreams are about?’ Brent asked the girl.

  She nodded. ‘They are about Mama. About that bad time.’

  ‘What bad time?’ Brent did not want to leave Cal, but did not wish to wake him either. He gestured for them to step further away from Cal’s bed.

  Dory snuggled against Miss Hill’s chest. ‘That bad time. I did it, though, so you should kill me and not Cal.’

  Kill her?

  Brent felt as if the child had pierced him with a dagger. ‘I’m not going to kill anyone.’

  ‘Why would you say such a thing?’ Miss Hill asked.

  ‘Because Mama said that Papa would kill us for breaking anything, especially the big vase, but I broke it. I ran in the hallway and knocked it down. Cal said he did it and told me to hush. So he got the beating and not me.’

  ‘Beating?’ Brent felt the dagger twist.

  ‘Mama gave Cal a terrible beating. She said he was a terrible boy, but it was really me who was bad.’ The child’s voice rose. ‘And then...then...she hugged Cal and said she was sorry. She was unhappy, she said. And...and that she was only trying to protect Cal. That it was you who would kill him if you found out about the vase.’ A sob escaped her lips. She fell into a fit of weeping.

  Brent could not breathe. He’d never imagined that Eunice’s unhappiness had been that acute. She’d always vowed her children were more precious to her than any jewel and that she could not bear to be parted from them. But she beat her son. Because of her unhappiness?

  How much responsibility of this belonged to him?

  Dory’s weeping quieted.

  ‘Dory,’ Brent asked. ‘Did this sort of thing happen often? That your mother hit Calmount?’

  ‘She hit me, too.’ She turned to him, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘And then she hugged us. Mrs Sykes told us we must be very good around Mama. Not be noisy or bother her. Mrs Sykes said we should stay in the nursery.’

  Brent felt sick inside.

  ‘We must get you back to bed,’ Miss Hill told Dory.

  She tightened her arms around Miss Hill’s neck. ‘I don’t want to go. I want to stay with Cal.’

  ‘Let her stay,’ Brent said. ‘I do not want Cal to be alone.’

  Miss Hill carried her to the bed and tucked her in. ‘You come to me if he has another bad dream.’

  ‘He won’t.’ Dory yawned. ‘They always stop if I stay with him.’

  Brent fetched the candle and walked out of the room behind Miss Hill.

  When they were in the hallway, he stopped her. ‘Will you come with me? I am in great need of a drink.’

  She hesitated for a moment, but nodded.

  They walked side by side to the library, which still had coals glowing in the grate. He placed the candle on a table and added a few chunks of coal to the fire.

  ‘Please sit, Miss Hill.’ He gestured to one of the large comfortable chairs facing the fireplace. He retrieved a bottle from a cabinet nearby, glad he’d instructed the footman to keep it stocked. He lifted the bottle. ‘It is brandy. Would you care for a glass?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I believe I am in great need of drink, too.’

  He poured her glass first and handed it to her, his fingers grazing hers as she took it. He poured himself a glass, downed it and poured himself another before lowering himself in the chair adjacent to hers.

  ‘What you must think of me.’ He could not face her. ‘I must tell you that I knew nothing of Eunice’s treatment of the children.’

  She looked unconvinced.

  He took a gulp from his glass. ‘I thought she was devoted to them.’

  She took a small sip from her glass.

  He gave a dry laugh. ‘I’m astonished you do not ring a peal over my head. Chastise me for not being around enough to know that my son and his sister were in the hands of a monster.’

  She faced him. ‘It is not my place—’

  He lifted a finger. ‘Ah, but you thought it, all the same.’

  She looked away. ‘It should not matter to you what a governess thinks.’

  He fixed his gaze on her. ‘It matters what you think.’

  She looked as if she was considering whether to answer. She met his eye. ‘I think it was convenient for you to stay away.’

  He bowed his head.

  She was right, of course. He didn’t look too carefully at his children because he wanted to stay away. From them. From Eunice. From this house and its memories.

  He took another gulp and refilled his glass. ‘What do you know of me, Miss Hill?’

  She blinked. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I am surprised Lord Lawton did not warn you.’ The earl ought to have told her. ‘I am half-Irish. Did you know that?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘My wife did not know it when I married her. She thought she was marrying an English marquess.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘It never occurred to me that she did not know. Or perhaps I did not wish to consider that possibility. I was quite smitten...’ He glanced at her. ‘I did not wish to lose her, but I did that anyway.’ He stared into his brandy. ‘I knew she was unhappy. Her efforts to seek comfort elsewhere led to great scandal.’ He downed his glass. ‘And great conflict between the two of us. When I was with her there was turmoil. The opportunity offered itself to work for Lord Castlereagh on the Continent. I seized it. It seemed the perfect s
olution. I thought it would make her happy.’

  The expression on her face gave him no idea of her reaction to this story.

  He turned away again. ‘Over the better part of three years, my visits to Brentmore were brief. I thought my wife’s unhappiness was confined to the times I was present. I...I had no idea...’

  She took a sip of her drink. ‘You see the problems now, my lord. It is now you who must change.’

  He rose from the chair and took out another bottle. ‘What can I do? Except feel responsible for all the misery the children have endured?’

  He could feel her eyes following him.

  ‘If your neglect was responsible, as you say, then taking charge of making it better is what you must do.’

  His gaze snapped back to her. ‘Taking charge?’ His head swam and his legs seemed unsteady, but he made it back to his chair. ‘I must take charge.’

  ‘Do not think of the past.’ Her tone was soothing, as it had been when she murmured to his son. ‘You cannot change what is past.’

  Did she really believe he could atone for his past neglect? He would not know where to begin.

  He gazed at her, at her long flowing hair, the thin layers of cloth that covered her naked body. He yearned for the comfort of her arms just like when she had held Dory.

  He lifted his gaze. ‘Will you help me, Anna Hill? I do not know what to do.’

  The intensity of Lord Brentmore’s gaze shook Anna. She’d watched him drink glass after glass of brandy, knowing he was trying to dull his pain. When he rose to fetch a second bottle, though, she could see he was quite inebriated.

  ‘Anna,’ he repeated. ‘Such a pretty name. So much prettier than Miss Hill.’

  Her face grew hot. No one had ever spoken her name like that before.

  ‘Anna,’ he repeated, then turned away, running a hand through his thick dark hair. He returned to his chair. ‘Forgive me. We were talking about the children. You were going to tell me what to do.’

  She sipped her drink, surprised that the brown liquid felt so warm in her chest. This had been her first taste of brandy.

  She must say something quickly or he might speak her name in that deep, velvet voice again. ‘I think you spend time with them. Let them become accustomed to you and you accustomed to them. Then you will know better what to do.’

  That sounded wiser than she felt.

  Since she arrived at Brentmore, she’d been sure that the children needed to be free of the nursery, free to run and shout and play. She knew that Lord Cal’s muteness could improve, as Charlotte’s bashfulness had improved. But what she did not know—and what she could not allow Lord Brentmore to guess—was if she was even a passable governess. Perhaps she’d helped only because the children’s situation had been so dire anyone would have helped.

  Now Lord Brentmore was relying on her to help him. The children’s fate seemed squarely on her shoulders.

  Not even for the children’s sake should she be sitting in a dark room, so late at night, in her nightdress and robe, sipping brandy with a man who spoke her name in that disturbing way. She’d never been with any man like this, not even her father, but then her father rarely spent more than a few minutes in her company.

  Something besides the children was vibrating between this powerful marquess and herself, something that made her think of him as man, not merely her employer.

  He rubbed his hand back and forth on the arm of his chair and she felt it as if he touched her own bare skin.

  ‘I must stay at Brentmore, then.’ His words slurred.

  He stood. So suddenly she jumped in surprise.

  He crouched down in front of the fireplace and poked at the coals. Sparks scattered, brightening the room momentarily. ‘I despise this house and have done since I was a child. Eunice wanted to be here, but even living here did not make her happy. There is nothing but unhappiness here.’ He threw down the poker and it clanged like a bell against the stone hearth. ‘From my grandfather to Eunice. Unhappy memories.’

  He turned back and loomed over her, taut with pain. ‘I do not want to stay here.’

  She felt small in the shadow of this man who’d turned suddenly forbidding.

  ‘Perhaps—’ She swallowed. ‘Perhaps this is a time when you must not do what you want, but what the children need.’

  He dropped into his chair again and downed yet another glass of brandy. ‘The children. I wanted to give them an easy life. Every advantage. Nothing like—’ He broke off to pour more brandy.

  She was afraid to speak.

  Lord Brentmore buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook and, in spite of her fear, Anna’s heart went out to him. Without thinking, she left her chair and came to his side. She pulled his hands away from his face and made him look at her. ‘Do not despair,’ she said. ‘It will come to rights, my lord. You will see.’

  He rose and his arms went around her, pulling her flush against him. He buried his head in her shoulder. She felt the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, the steady beating of his heart, the prickly texture of his beard.

  But his pain shook her most of all.

  She held him close and murmured to him, trying to soothe him the way she had tried to soothe Lord Cal. Could she make everything turn out right, as she was promising?

  He eventually relaxed, as Lord Cal had relaxed.

  His hold on her loosened and she drew away. ‘I think you should go to bed, my lord.’

  His eyes darkened and he did not answer her. Another sensation flashed through her, one she could not identify. Not fear. Not pity. Something else. She felt as out of breath as if she’d run a mile.

  He seized her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers.

  She pulled her fingers from his grip and held his arm to steady him. Picking up the candle, she urged him to walk with her to the stairway. They climbed together, Lord Brentmore gripping the banister. He led her to his bedchamber, a room she’d only glimpsed during that first tour of the house. She intended to leave him at the door, but he pulled her in the room and took her in his arms again.

  ‘Stay with me, Anna,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Do not leave me. I have no wish to be alone.’

  His hand slid down the length of her body and pressed her derrière. She felt the bulge of his manhood beneath his trousers.

  She gasped, almost dropping the candle.

  It was the drink causing him to behave so. And his unhappiness. He was not in control of his mind or his urges.

  Her head was clear, however. So why did she not push him away? Why so wantonly allow his hands to move over her body, sparking sensations she’d never known possible?

  Why was his invitation so difficult to resist?

  ‘Of course I will stay,’ she murmured. ‘Let us get you to your bed.’

  She placed the candle on a nearby table and let him lean on her as she walked him to his bed, its covers rumpled and disordered as if abandoned after a fitful sleep. He climbed into the bed and reached for her.

  ‘In a moment, my lord,’ she managed.

  His fingers twisted locks of her hair, causing even more disturbing new sensations. He pulled her towards him and placed his lips upon hers.

  Her first kiss from a man.

  And such a kiss. Dizzying in its intensity. His lips were warm, firm. Wanting. Coaxing her to part her lips. His tongue touched hers, tasted her, savoured her as if she were some exotic delicacy. He tasted of brandy and heat and her body ached with new urges. Carnal urges.

  With difficulty she broke off. ‘Settle yourself under the covers, my lord.’

  ‘Join me,’ he rasped as he slid himself under the covers.

  ‘I will.’ She tucked the blankets around him the way she had done for the children. ‘Close your eyes. I’ll be only a moment or two. I must blow out the candle.’

  ‘Candle,’ he murmured, pulling on the sash of her robe.

  She stepped away and her sash slipped off, but she did not dare pull it from his grip.
Instead she waited, watching him by the light of the candle. He lay still, her sash in his hand. In a moment his breathing turned even.

  She picked up the candle and backed towards the door. Still he did not move. She quietly crossed the threshold and pulled the door closed as she stepped into the hallway.

  As quickly as she could, she returned to the stairway and made her way to the second floor. Before returning to her own bed, she peeked in at the children, snuggled together and sleeping peacefully.

  She might have lain with Lord Brentmore as close, his strong arms encircling her, but nothing about lying with him would be peaceful. Her heart pounded in her chest as she returned to her room. Her senses still flared with the memory of his body against hers, his lips tasting hers.

  But she climbed into her bed alone.

  * * *

  Brent woke to the sound of rain pattering the windows and a servant tending to the fire in his fireplace. He found a sash in his hand.

  Miss Hill’s sash.

  The events of the previous night came back in a muddle. He remembered being unable to sleep. Remembered hearing Cal cry out in a nightmare. Remembered hearing of the abuse the children suffered out of Eunice’s unhappiness.

  The rest was confusion. He could recall drinking brandy in the library, confessing to Miss Hill his mistakes. His devastating mistakes.

  Why was her sash in his hand?

  He vaguely recalled the feel of her hair through his fingers, her soft skin under his hands, the taste of the soft recesses of her mouth.

  Lawd. Had he seduced her?

  He quickly hid the sash under the covers so the servant would not see, not that this sort of thing could ever be kept secret in a country house. As a boy, he always knew which of the maids his grandfather took to his bed. Poor women. They’d hardly been in a position to refuse.

  Had Miss Hill presumed the same? That she must do as he asked or be tossed out on her ear?

  Even in his misery and his drink-soaked mind, he’d noticed how beautiful she’d looked with her hair loose about her and her robe tightly cinched at her waist. He remembered that.

  He balled the sash into his hand. He also remembered calling her Anna.

  Anna. She could no longer be Miss Hill to him, but he hoped it was not because he’d forced an intimacy upon her that was beyond all that was respectable.