Scandal

by Carolyn Jewel

  Her mind wandered off, as so often happened with her. Banallt had proposed marriage. He’d not been serious, not the way a gentleman ought to be, but all the same, had things gone differently, she might be waiting for her husband to rejoin her. What an unsettling notion. And if she had? Her chest went tight at the thought of Banallt having that level of control of her life and happiness. As a husband, he could only break her heart. Just as Tommy had.

  Banallt returned with the orgeat. As he was extending it to her, another gentleman bumped him from the side. He lurched, only just saving the drink from spilling on Sophie. Some of the contents sloshed onto the floor and slopped onto his coat.

  “Oy there! So sorry,” said the gentleman. His booted foot landed in the spilled orgeat, and he slid. Banallt caught him by the elbow and steadied him. “Is that you, Banallt?”

  “MacNaill,” Banallt said. He released MacNaill to brush the liquid off his double-breasted waistcoat. MacNaill dropped a hand on Banallt’s shoulder and held on, very nearly causing another spill. A sharp-eyed footman swooped in to mop up the mess, and the two men stepped out of the way. MacNaill was about Banallt’s age, possibly younger, and quite obviously had overindulged in spirits. She recognized the name immediately. When Tommy was home, she’d often heard him lament that MacNaill was not here to entertain him.

  “Good evening, MacNaill,” Banallt said.

  “Haven’t ruined your coat, have I?” MacNaill hung over Banallt, though he wasn’t tall enough to succeed well in the maneuver.

  “No, no.” Banallt sidled out of the way of the footman, but MacNaill kept his grip on Banallt’s shoulder and moved with him. “All’s well, thank you. Disaster was averted.”

  “I’m headed to the Golden Swan after. Do you fancy going with me?”

  Banallt’s expression turned about as hot as ice, not that MacNaill noticed. “No.”

  “Pity.” MacNaill was a sloppy drunk. “Dropped all your old friends, have you? But look here, I’ve another complaint to lodge against you, my lord.”

  “Oh?” He glanced at Sophie and gave a little shrug. “Perhaps another time you’ll tell me what it is. At present I’m—”

  “Mrs. Peters won’t give me the time of day.” He shook a finger in Banallt’s face. “ ‘Tis all your fault, I know it.” Banallt’s smile vanished, a fact MacNaill failed to notice until Banallt pushed free of the younger man’s grip, and even then MacNaill didn’t appreciate his danger.

  “That is quite enough, MacNaill,” Banallt said in a venomous tone. “You are speaking out of turn.”

  “Out of turn?” He draped an arm around Banallt. “Come now, you’ve been nothing but dreary since you came back. Liven up, or you’ll die an old man before you’re forty.”

  Banallt disengaged from MacNaill and set a hand to the man’s chest. He pushed. “Good evening to you, MacNaill.” He crossed the distance to Sophie and took her elbow in a firm grip. “Shall we find someplace less crowded?”

  “Of course.” She was glad, actually, to be reminded of Banallt’s relationship with Mrs. Peters. It kept her from the sentimentality that had been threatening her all evening where Banallt was concerned. The lump in her throat almost didn’t go down when she swallowed. She had to clear her throat. She was Sophie Mercer Evans, and no one stirred her. No one disturbed her peace of mind. Whatever Banallt chose to do in his private life needn’t affect her. Why should it? Their relationship was not what it had been. “Some fresh air would be pleasant, my lord.”

  He frowned. “My lord. Must you be so formal?”

  “All right then, some fresh air would be pleasant, Banallt.”

  “Better.”

  She placed her arm on his, and he led her out of the ballroom, holding her orgeat in his other hand. Not outside, which she for some reason expected, but to a withdrawing room just down the hall. “Lord Harpenden has a book I thought you might enjoy seeing.” Banallt handed the orgeat to her. Overhead, a crystal chandelier cast shimmering candlelight upon the room, but Banallt struck fire to a lamp and settled it on a side table.

  “Really?” she said. She took a sip of her drink. The air here was much cooler, and the door was open. No one would remark if they should be seen. “What sort of book?”

  He walked to a mahogany stand on which there sat a thick volume a foot tall and nearly two inches thick. The edges of the pages were gilt. “Come, Sophie.”

  Banallt’s voice echoed in her ears, though he’d not spoken very loud.

  Come, Sophie.

  Her stomach fluttered from the effect of her name uttered in his velvet-smoke voice. He summoned her blithely, and yet her body shivered with anticipation of what might happen. Nothing would happen, though. He gave no sign of having any intentions toward her at all, aside from showing her the book and providing them both a respite from the crowd. She stood beside him, orgeat in her gloved hands. She tipped her head to read the title engraved on the spine. A collection of Dutch maps, a two-hundred-year-old travel guide of the then-known world. “Yes?”

  He opened the book, carefully fanning out the pages until an image appeared in the gilt edges. A pirate ship danced on the ocean waves, painted there on the edges of the pages. She caught her breath.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” he said.

  She bent to get a closer look. “When I was a girl, Papa had a book with painted edges like this. Not as fine as this one, but I used to make him show me until I’m sure he wished he’d never demonstrated.” She glanced up and found him watching her intently. As always, his eyes drew her in, and she could look away only with difficulty.

  “I brought you here for a reason,” he said.

  “Did you?” Her orgeat felt awkward in her hands now, and she looked around for a place to put it. Not near the book. In her current state of physical and mental frustration she’d likely knock it over and ruin the book and Banallt’s waistcoat, too.

  He took the glass from her and set it on the side table next to the lamp. For the space of two heartbeats, they locked gazes. “It would be unfair of me not to tell you that your brother has forbidden me to call on you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The edge of his mouth quirked. His quicksand smile was dangerously familiar. “You heard me.”

  She frowned and drew herself up. Not that it did much good. She still had to tilt her head to look into his face. “He had no right. Why? Why did he do such a thing?” Indeed, why, when such an instruction would doom his hopes for Fidelia? “And when?”

  “When?” He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does. I should very much like to know if John has interfered.”

  He brushed at his waistcoat. “I called at Henrietta Street and was told, in no uncertain terms, that you were not at home. And would never be. Allow me to restate.” His mouth quirked again, but this time there was a bitter cast to his smile. “You were not at home to me.” He lifted his hands. “Sophie, don’t misunderstand. I am well aware your brother refused to inform you I’d called. As to why, I don’t imagine that can be any great mystery to you. He disapproves of me.” He let out a breath, a quick puff of air. “Brothers often do. He wishes to protect you from me. I don’t blame him, but it’s frustrating, all the same, not to be able to call. I prefer an even playing field. After all, Tallboys and Vedaelin may call whenever they like.”

  “I’m a grown woman, not a child.” She rolled her eyes ceiling-ward then met Banallt’s gaze again. He was watching her with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “He made it plain he expected there would be rivals for your affections. He was right.”

  She gaped at him. “Rivals?” And then she immediately regretted her outburst. “What on earth do you mean by that? We are friends, Banallt. And friends do not have rivals. You have no competition for my affections.”

  “Darling,” he said in a low, silky voice that ought to have set her back on her heels. He sounded like the old Banallt just now. She had the thought, quickly dismissed, that she ou
ght to put more distance between them. She didn’t. “You cannot imagine my relief.”

  She crossed the room and took his hand, determined to treat him as a friend. “I’ll speak to John if I must. Of course you may call at Henrietta Street. Whenever you like. How dare he forbid you to call?”

  Banallt stared at their hands. “Your brother wants you to remarry. For your future security, if for no other reason. I feel compelled to point out that as my countess, you would be secure.”

  “Banallt.” She rested her other hand on his chest. “You would be an exhilarating husband for any woman. How could you not be? You’re handsome and intelligent, a man of position and consequence.” He interlaced their fingers, and she hurried to explain herself lest he misunderstand. “If I were to remarry, it would be to a man I know would be as faithful to me as I would be to him.”

  Their fingers slipped apart, and she took several steps back. “Will you accept Tallboys, then?” he asked. “When he asks.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t imagine so.”

  “Why not? Because you don’t love him?”

  She met his gaze. When she looked at Banallt, she could hardly recall what Tallboys looked like. Her world had changed, and she had the sense she wasn’t precisely certain what these circumstances required of her. Tommy was dead. And the man standing before her now was no longer a threat to her marriage or to her person. She was free to think he was the loveliest man she’d never known. She was even free to take a lover, if she liked.

  The atmosphere changed. She didn’t understand how or why, only that it had. Banallt hadn’t moved. Nor had she. He couldn’t read minds, after all. They were alone, but not private. The noise of the ball was audible. Music, laughter, people talking. The door was open, and all they’d done was come in here to look at a book. But everything had changed.

  Was it she who was different? Of a certainty, she noticed the deep claret of his jacket against the embroidered bronze of his waistcoat and the way his jacket fit his shoulders, the paleness of his skin in contrast to the inky black of his hair. She was aware, viscerally aware, of a warmth deep in her body, of a longing of her body for his. Or was Banallt responsible for the change, with his pewter eyes lingering on her face? Drinking her in. Taking her places that frightened her.

  He tipped his head to one side, gaze moving from her head to her toes and back, and when he was done with that long and slow perusal, he said, “Sophie, darling, come here.”

  And she did. Because he was Banallt. Because she was widowed now, and so was he. Because he wanted her and no one else ever had. Not even her husband. She went to him because she wanted to feel his arms around her, his hair slipping through her fingers. She wanted to know what would happen to her if she let him take her in his arms.

  When she stood before him, wondering if she’d lost her senses and even whether she dared go through with whatever he had in mind, she lifted her chin and fell, lost immediately, into the tarnished silver of his eyes.

  Banallt brushed her cheek with the side of his thumb. He’d taken his gloves off so his bare skin touched hers. “My feelings have not changed, Sophie.” He gave a short shake of his head. “No. Please, say nothing just now. All I ask is that you give me a chance.”

  “To break my heart?” She didn’t pull away from him.

  “To prove myself.” He slid his hand along the edge of her jaw, and then his fingers curled around her nape and drew her toward him. She had to take a step forward to keep her balance. His other hand slid around her waist. “If you fear for your heart, then you give me hope, and that, Sophie, is more than I expected.”

  “John had no right,” she said.

  “We shouldn’t,” he said. “Your brother will never forgive me.”

  “I’ll make my own friends, thank you.”

  His hand slid up her spine, bringing her closer to him. Up her spine and over her shoulder until he stood with both hands cupping the sides of her face, thumbs sliding along her cheeks, his fingers spread over the sides and back of her head. “I won’t promise never to make you angry. Friends sometimes argue, whether they are acquaintances or man and wife.” His voice dropped. “Or something else.”

  Something else. Sophie was horribly aware that she longed for something else in her life. Something other than what she’d had with Tommy. For months she’d known she wanted something more. She hadn’t understood what until now.

  Banallt lowered his head and pulled her toward him. At the last minute, her courage failed her. She looked away. Her body wanted him, though. Desperately.

  “Now, Sophie,” he murmured. He put a fingertip to the underside of her chin and tipped her face so that she had to look at him. “You’re no coward.”

  “It’s not whether I’m a coward, Banallt.” The words came out too breathless for either of them to pretend she wasn’t under his influence. “It’s whether I’m a fool to let this happen between us.”

  He smiled at her, and her heart dropped to her toes. “Just once in your life, Sophie, forget whatever foolishness keeps you from living. You’re a passionate woman. Stop living as if you are not.”

  “Did you know when you arrived here tonight, I didn’t recognize you?” His eyebrows lifted. “It’s true.” His finger slid from her chin to just beneath her lower lip. “I saw you as if you were a stranger.”

  “And?” He traced the bottom of her lip.

  “And I thought to myself, whoever that beautiful man is, he’s dangerous.”

  His mouth curved. “What do you think now?”

  “The same.”

  “Your instincts have always been good,” he murmured.

  He meant to kiss her. She knew she ought not permit it. But she did. Because she was twenty-six years old and had never been kissed by a man who wanted her. And she wanted that. She wanted that with Banallt because he’d always been forbidden to her. Because he had never once lied to her about his desire for her.

  The pressure of his fingertip beneath her chin drew her near. She looked at him from under her lashes. She wanted him to kiss her. The air thickened. Sizzled, almost. She could have leaned back, but she didn’t. She wanted to know. She needed to know what it would be like.

  He shifted his weight. She heard the scrape of his foot sliding on the floor, the whisper of his coat accommodating his motion until only the barest inch separated them. He touched one of her hands, they both dangled uselessly at her sides, and his fingers intertwined with hers. His eyes drifted closed; both his hands drew her nearer yet. Perilously close. But this feeling of anticipation, the giddy drop of her stomach was precisely what she wanted to feel.

  Too close, Sophie thought, right before his mouth brushed hers. His breath warmed her skin. Oh.

  Only a light touch. Practically not a kiss at all.

  Then, his mouth touched hers again, parting, pressing against her lips, then moving away. His fingertip moved from her chin to the side of her jaw, joining the rest of his hand, and pressing gently upward, toward him. Their breath mingled, they were so close. Their mouths touched again. He was kissing her. Lord Banallt was kissing her, and it was as wicked and soul-stealing a kiss as she had ever imagined. His mouth probed, nudging her lips apart.

  Anxiety surged through her. As if he knew, he tightened his hold on her forearm. Not hard, just firm. He leaned toward her and his mouth covered hers even more firmly. She stopped comparing him to a man years gone and let herself think of him as he was now. He smelled good, she thought, and his mouth was astonishingly soft. Banallt’s mouth was soft.

  Time stopped, collapsed on her. During that compression of past, present, and future that might have lasted no time at all or an eternity, Sophie was incapable of thought. And when she could think again, she was without the aid of her wits. His tongue slid along the seam of her lips, and, without the slightest hesitation, she opened her mouth. His touch turned firmer; his hands tightened. His tongue moved past her lips, smoothly, intimately. Dizzyingly intimately. Her stomach did a flip-flop. The
world balanced in that instant.

  He withdrew, though he still held the side of her face and his fingers remained curled around her arm. He rested his forehead against hers for a moment. She heard him take a breath. He pressed his mouth to her cheek, to a spot close to her ear, then to her forehead. His fingers slipped from her face as he leaned back. But his hand on her arm slid down to enfold hers.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered. “I never intended to.”

  Was she imagining that his voice sounded as shaky as she felt? Probably. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I didn’t bring you here for that,” he said.

  “I know that.”

  He laughed. “Are you going to slap me? I deserve it, I know.”

  “No,” she whispered. She couldn’t quite believe she’d let Banallt kiss her or that she’d let things get so ... out of control. No wonder he’d cut a swath through half the women in London. He’d made her dizzy with wanting him. She stared, knowing he was too close to her, and that she was going to fall under his spell. If not tonight, then eventually. The only question she wished she could answer was whether the scandal could be managed when she did.

  Seventeen

  Hightower House, Gray Street, London,

  APRIL 2, 1815

  BANALLT WAS FAR TOO AWARE OF SOPHIE. HE HAD YEARS of practice in not staring at a woman who interested him if his doing so might arouse suspicion. The skill he’d honed to an art form eluded him now. His present circumstances were fundamentally different than in those days. Before Sophie, his interaction with women had been, in essence, about him. His choices. His reactions. His anticipation. Back then, he didn’t gaze endlessly at a woman who struck his fancy, because if he did, his seduction of her would have been thwarted by gossip or someone’s interference. With Sophie, the compulsion to stare came from someplace deep inside him, and he could no more stop himself from looking at her than he could stop breathing.