Scandal

by Carolyn Jewel

  “You don’t scare me.” She wore yellow gloves. With great deliberation he pulled off her glove and put that in his pocket, too. Her eyes followed the motion. “That’s mine.”

  “Not anymore.” He curled his fingers around her bare hand. She had long fingers and short but strong nails. Ink stained the side of her middle finger. He turned her hand over and brushed the back of his fingertips across her palm. “What lovely hands you have, Sophie.” She frowned at his use of her given name and tried to withdraw her hand. He didn’t permit it. “Were you writing again last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what’s happened to poor Beatrice now? Has her odious cousin taken advantage?” He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips, one after the other.

  “Let go, my lord.” Her eyes—very hard and unswerving—fixed on his mouth until he released her hand. Banallt was beginning to think she was immune to seduction. And yet Tommy Evans had managed it. Surely she could be brought around to succumb to him as well.

  “Tell me about your story, then.” He settled against the tree trunk, hands in his greatcoat pockets. He fingered her glove.

  She retreated to the swing but sat facing him with her book on her lap and her toe dragging in the dirt. She let out a puff of air. “Everything sounds so foolish.”

  “Not to me.” She wrinkled her nose at that, and Banallt found that oddly charming. She really had no idea of her gifts. Her stories enthralled him—every one that he’d read. Including the one she was working on now. “I’ve not your talent for words, Mrs. Evans. Anything I write is wretched beyond endurance.”

  She leaned forward, and he got a glimpse of the top curve of her bosom. An excruciatingly modest view to be sure. Her bosom, so surprisingly revealed by her frock, suggested the existence of more curves than he’d previously suspected. He wondered about the shape of her naked breasts, how she would fit his palm, and the color of her nipples. With her complexion, he guessed pale pink. “You write?” she asked.

  “In my callow youth, I once set my hand to a story. But now?” He shuddered. “Most assuredly not. Believe what you will of me, but I’ve grown wise enough to know my limitations.”

  She frowned and leaned back. His belly went taut as she examined him. Her eyes slayed him, pulled him in to drown. “I don’t understand you at all. One minute you’re a rogue and a cur—”

  He waggled his eyebrows at her. “A scoundrel?”

  “A rake.”

  “A libertine?”

  “A cad.”

  “No, Mrs. Evans.” He stopped smiling. “Not that. I am never a cad. No matter what you have heard.”

  “Reprobate, then.”

  “Quite possibly.” He pulled his hands from his pockets.

  “What am I to do with you?”

  A dozen wickedly suggestive answers came to mind, but he kept them back. Most unlike him. “Tell me what you’ve done to Beatrice. Did she escape from the crypt or did her guardian have his way with her?”

  “Dungeon,” she said. She frowned and pushed herself on the swing again, without taking her feet from the ground. Her slippers were going to be quite ruined. “I changed the crypt to a dungeon.”

  “Manacled to an icy wall?”

  “Do you think that would work? It seems so cruel.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “She escaped through a secret tunnel, but perhaps Ralf ought to put her in chains first.”

  “Her guardian is a cruel man, after all. And is he not already married?”

  Her eyes sparkled with humor, and Banallt felt the impact in his gut. Her eyes were nothing short of spectacular. Dark lashes, naturally, since she was a brunette, but eyes for a man to drown in. Large, and such a luscious color in so serious and prim a face, her eyes were a blue green shade uncannily bright. “To a woman who’s left him to become a nun,” she said.

  “And yet he remains bound by his marriage vows. He is not free to love Beatrice.”

  She tilted her chin in order to look into his face. He’d never made love to a woman as delicate as she was, and he wondered if it would be inconvenient, with him awkwardly reaching for her interesting parts, or if he’d find it exhilarating. How could a man not feel his virility when his partner, with all those delicious and unexpected curves, was so dainty? Still, he did not care to worry about hurting his lover from the mere difference in their size. “But he does love her,” she said. “He has no control over his heart.”

  Banallt snorted. “He was careless of it, then. No man with even half the wits he was born with loses his heart like that. He ought to have seen from the start the thing was impossible. A true villain would seduce her, perhaps marry her illegally—a sham ceremony—if that’s what must be done to secure her person.”

  “Ah.”

  Banallt could tell from her eyes that she was wondering if his suggestion came of personal experience. “No,” he replied to the question she wasn’t asking. “If I wish to secure a woman’s person, I don’t resort to trickery. It’s unsporting.”

  Once more her expression shut down. “And after Ralf deceives her, what then?”

  “Then the bedroom doors close upon the loving, deluded bride and her faithless lover.”

  With the toe of her slipper, she pushed the swing forward half an inch. “You wrote a tragedy, didn’t you?”

  He laughed. “There’s no doubt the result was a tragedy. No, I now adhere to the principles of Aristotle. If ever I put pen to paper again, I shall write a play. In three acts. Perfect in every way.”

  “By the end everyone is dead?” She snorted. “I wonder what Aristotle would have written on the subject of art had he read Mrs. Radcliffe.” She crossed her eyes. “He would not have written anything.”

  “Pray tell, why not?”

  She looked over her shoulder, and for a moment, a shadow passed over her face. “Because, he’d have been up all night reading straight through to the end, heart in his mouth every moment. By midday, he’d have fallen asleep and never written his treatise.”

  Banallt looked toward the house, too. Tommy was crossing the lawn toward them. He was hatless and barely dressed; a shirt with a cravat hanging untied across the back of his neck. Waistcoat and coat unbuttoned. Breeches respectable, boots in need of polish. Sunlight glinted off his golden curls. The man’s dissipation had yet to affect his looks.

  “Sophie,” Tommy cried when he saw them. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” He shot a questioning glance at Banallt. “Why the devil would you be out here?”

  “It’s a lovely day,” Sophie replied.

  “Not so loud.” He put a hand to his head and winced. “I’m in a bad way this morning.”

  “I’m very sorry for it,” she replied in a lower voice. “Perhaps you ought to have had less to drink if you don’t care to rue the morning.”

  “It’s afternoon now anyway,” Tommy replied sharply. He yanked on the ends of his neckcloth. “My damned valet is useless with cravats, Sophie, you know he is. You must tie me. I can’t go out like this.” He dropped a hand on her shoulder and addressed Banallt. “Why are you looking so chipper, Banallt? You drank just the same as I did last night.”

  “Constitution of iron,” Banallt replied. In truth, he hadn’t had much to drink at all, but Tommy hadn’t been in any condition to know.

  “Sit down,” Sophie said to her husband. Banallt reached in and took Sophie’s book. “Thank you, my lord.” Tommy sat on the swing and slipped off his coat to give her unimpeded access to his neck. She tied Tommy’s cravat quickly with a stunning result.

  “What do you call that knot?” Banallt asked.

  Sophie tugged a bit on one of the ends. “Neat and tidy, my lord.”

  “Can you teach it to my valet?”

  She faced him, and he got another dose of her blue green gaze. She held out her hand for her book, which he gave to her. Jesus, she had a courtesan’s eyes. “Why?”

  “Never mind why.” Tommy settled his coat over his shoulders and se
nt his wife a sour look. “Show him and there’s an end to it.”

  Her mouth thinned. “It’s not proper.”

  “Banallt’s cravat isn’t very neat.” Tommy buttoned his waistcoat. “Tie his and then he can go show his bloody valet himself.”

  She might have turned to stone, she was so still. The color drained from her cheeks not from anger, he realized, but from embarrassment. Banallt felt another of those pangs in his chest. “Of course,” she said. “Won’t you sit, my lord?”

  “It’s not necessary,” Banallt said. Was he that great a fool? This was a perfect opportunity to have her near him.

  Tommy stood and slapped him on the back. “Of course it is. Can’t have you going into town looking like that, can we?”

  “I had rather thought we were staying at Rider Hall today.”

  Tommy glanced at his wife, standing with her book in her hand. “Quentin invited us to luncheon at the Stag and Thistle. I said we’d come.” The Stag and Thistle housed a gaming hell in the basement and was next door to a bawdy house. Considering he wasn’t getting anywhere with Mrs. Evans, he could at least slake the surface needs of his body. “Go on, Soph,” Tommy said. “See if you can make Banallt presentable.”

  The thought of having Mrs. Evans so close to his person seemed quite a delicious encounter, but when he saw her face, he said, “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Evans, I prefer King tie my cravats.”

  She looked rather too relieved. Mightn’t she be just a little disappointed?

  “I’ll write out the instructions for him, my lord. Will that do?”

  He bowed. “I’m sure it will, ma’am.”

  He and Tommy walked toward the stables. When he was certain he was out of earshot of Mrs. Evans, Banallt said, “I don’t see why I should fix my cravat when I’ll only have it off in an hour.”

  He had the feeling he’d be dreaming of Mrs. Evans again tonight. Something wicked, he thought, involving novel uses of a cravat. They visited the bawdy house after luncheon, and damned if he didn’t call out Sophie’s name when his crisis came.

  Sixteen

  Upper York Street, London,

  MARCH 30,1815

  SOPHIE PLACED HER GLOVED HAND ON BANALLT’S EXTENDED palm, and his fingers closed around hers, a light touch. Proper. Nothing remarkable. They were friends. Nothing more. As the music swelled, tardy couples hurried to take their places. She was peripherally aware of Mrs. Babington and Miss Wright continuing to stare. Miss Wright clasped her hands under her chin and grinned madly.

  “My lord,” Sophie said. She could hardly hear herself over the pounding of her heart. Time bent around her again, and for an eternity, she imagined how lovely it would be to dance with Banallt. Completely inappropriate, but lovely. She wanted nothing more in the world than to dance with him.

  “I mean to dance with you before Tallboys finds you again. Or Vedaelin. Or some other ... rogue.” She shook her head, and he went on, “It’s only a dance. Friends may always dance with one another.” Then he smiled, and her breath caught again. “Am I such a monster that you cannot have a public peace with me?”

  “That’s not it, Banallt.”

  One black eyebrow rose. How on earth did he do that? “No?”

  She turned to the women at her side and decided they did not look offended to be in Banallt’s presence. Quite the opposite. “Mrs. Babington, Miss Wright. May I introduce you to Lord Banallt?”

  Mrs. Babington and Miss Wright offered their hands in turn. “My lord,” they murmured.

  Banallt inclined his head when he’d kissed the air over their hands. “Ladies. I trust you’re enjoying yourselves?”

  Miss Wright recovered first. “Yes, indeed, my lord. We’ve been delighted to meet Mrs. Evans. Such a charming young lady. Don’t you agree?”

  “Completely, Miss Wright.” He returned his attention to her. “I hope you will not think poorly of me if I take her away from you? The waltz is next, and she is not engaged.”

  “Not at all,” said Miss Wright. She opened her fan and waved it beneath her chin. “Not at all. Her foot’s been tapping since she sat here.” She sent a look in Sophie’s direction. While she did that, Banallt took Sophie’s hand and brought her to her feet. “She’s too young to sit with old women like us.” Miss Wright fluttered her eyelashes at him. “And every young woman ought to waltz with a wickedly handsome man at least once in her life, my lord. Don’t you agree?”

  Banallt bowed. “I cannot agree more, Miss Wright.”

  “Banallt,” Sophie murmured.

  He smiled, though perhaps smile was too charitable a word for the look that came over his face. He was all hauteur and ice-cold certainty. “There is no complicated pattern to learn. All you have to do is follow my lead.”

  “I’ll humiliate us both,” she said. “People will talk.” She took a step toward him. “There will be a scandal.”

  “A scandal over dancing? I think not. All anyone will see is Banallt waltzing with the sister of Vedaelin’s political protégé. I will be accounted astute for it, I assure you.” His fingers tightened around hers, and she let him draw her onto the ballroom floor because, after all, she must mend things between them, if only for John’s sake. And hers, she thought. “We will continue to be thrown together, you and I,” he said, drawing her into the proper position for the waltz. “Can we not make our newfound acquaintance a public one? If only for the sake of my reputation, ma’am.”

  “Your reputation,” she said with the slightest emphasis on the word your.

  “You are admired for your good sense and taste. To be in your apparent good graces would be quite a coup for me. You won’t be cast out of the ton merely for waltzing with me.”

  She was not so distracted by him that she didn’t notice they were being stared at. Well, was he not the Earl of Banallt, a wicked man by a reputation he’d earned, and yet one of the most eligible men this season? An earl without a wife or an heir, still young and handsome.

  “I’m hoping as well to frustrate Tallboys and all your other admirers who haven’t the nerve to approach you.” The music started and he looked meaningfully at the dance floor.

  “Admirers?” She laughed. “I won’t have any left after they’ve seen me try to waltz.”

  He leaned close enough to put his mouth near her ear and said, “Mrs. Evans. I will not permit you to humiliate us while we are dancing. Have no fear. I will get you through the ordeal unscathed and with your slippers and toes intact.”

  “On your head be it, my lord,” she said.

  Banallt nodded, and before she was ready, he swept her among the dancers, one hand holding her palm, the other pressed to her back. Her feet stuttered, but he adjusted smoothly. Though she felt awkward, they glided across the room as well as anyone else seemed to be doing. The pressure of his hands on her back and around her fingers tightened whenever he physically directed her body.

  She quickly caught on to the count and pattern, and after that hurdle was bested, she and Banallt moved through the room with hardly a misstep. She felt it when she went wrong, but he always recovered easily and gracefully. Sophie relaxed, and their movements became more fluid yet. She felt herself smiling, inside and out. Dancing with Banallt was lovely. Too lovely for words.

  “What are you thinking,” he asked, “that’s put such an expression on your face?”

  She headed right when she ought to have gone left, and his arm tightened around her as he bodily pushed her in the correct direction. She frowned and tapped his shoulder. “Hush, my lord. I need to concentrate.”

  “Forgive me. I shan’t distract you again.”

  And he didn’t. She fell back to the joy of waltzing. Alas, though, the music ended too soon. Couples broke apart, and the noise of conversation buzzed through the room. More than a few women laughed or giggled. They’d done the right thing, she and Banallt, to renew their friendship. She was glad, fiercely glad that he was back in her life. For a very long time, he’d been her only friend, and she had missed that mor
e than she’d realized.

  Banallt stepped away from her. Only a half step, but her hand slipped off his shoulder and his palm dropped from her waist. Slowly, he released her other hand and bowed. Very properly. The other ladies curtseyed to their partners. Sophie realized too late that she ought to do the same. His attention followed her movement. When she straightened, his eyes were on her, and for a moment, she was frightened at her reaction to that dark gray gaze.

  The intensity of his regard was nothing unusual for him. She’d never known his eyes to be anything but compelling. And, though his gaze burned through her, his manner was reassuringly cold and distant. “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” She’d danced the better part of the last forty minutes and was parched. “I should like that very much.”

  As they walked along the side of the ballroom, Banallt gave no sign that he either noticed or cared that they were an object of curiosity. Doubtless, he was used to such attention. So be it, she thought. They reached the tables where the punch bowls were arranged. Three tables, each with a liveried footman in attendance.

  “Orgeat?” Banallt asked. “Or ratafia? It’s possible there’s lemonade.”

  “Orgeat, if you please.” Rider Hall was a world away. The rules there had been different. Their roles, their relationship to each other had fundamentally changed since then. She was not the same woman she’d been at Rider Hall, and she was beginning to think Banallt was no longer the same man.

  She stared at his back while he made his way to the punch bowl. Compared to her, most everyone was tall, but Banallt towered over most of the other men nearby. His hair gleamed blue black in the light, and Sophie couldn’t help but notice his body was trim. He was an athletic man. Even when he was sitting indolent on a couch or chair, he was physically intense. Just as his eyes were emotionally deep when he let down his guard. Just before a space appeared for him at the bowl, he glanced over his shoulder. His gaze met hers, and his mouth curved in a smile. Sophie felt he’d touched her someplace private. She’d missed him terribly. More than once after Tommy died, she’d found herself thinking how Banallt would react when she told him of something she’d read or heard—and she’d had to stop the thought there.