Scandal

by Carolyn Jewel

  He levered up his torso, rocking into her, long and slow and then, when her knees bent on either side of him, long, deep, and fast, her with him every moment, and him chasing after his command of the encounter. He bent his head and fit his mouth over hers. She matched him beautifully. He was close. Very close to a spectacular climax. She held him tight.

  “Sophie, I can’t. Let go. I’m going to come inside you,” he said. “Let go.”

  “Don’t leave me, Banallt. Please don’t leave me.”

  He was astonished he had any discipline left to him at all. His sex was eager to continue, driving him. And he was well aware that if he came inside her he’d be well within his rights to demand a marriage of her. In fact, he’d be honor bound to do so. He quivered with the effort of remaining still. He drew himself partially out and felt the spiraling drive toward orgasm. His body wound tight. He was balanced on a chasm of pleasure, tilting toward what would undoubtedly be the biggest mistake of his life. And yet, it would get him what he wanted.

  “I can’t do this,” he said. “I won’t have a bastard on you. Oh God, Sophie, don’t.” He threw back his head and she thrust her hips toward him. The tickle in his belly expanded, commanded his body. His balls went tight.

  “Like that,” she whispered. “Please, yes. Just like this. Banallt, don’t stop. Like this.”

  He slipped over the edge into a chasm where all that mattered was rocking and thrusting. His last coherent thought was more reflex than anything else. This had to be perfect for her. Tonight of all the nights of his life, this had to be perfect. “I love you, Sophie,” he said. “Oh, Sophie, I am a ruined man. I love you, and I’ve gone and spoiled everything by telling you so.”

  Her hips lifted. Her hands slid down his back to his hips and brought him forward, accepting his fever and heat. And still the pleasure wound tighter. He should have fallen by now. God, why couldn’t he? And then, he crested. For an instant, he resisted the pressure and began to withdraw, but Sophie clung to him, sobbing quietly. “Stay,” she said. “Stay, Banallt. Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t,” he whispered harshly. “I’m not leaving you.” His climax crashed over him like a wave. Pleasure surged through him, consuming him. “I love you,” he said. “I love you.”

  Sophie’s arms tightened around him. He knew he should withdraw, but he’d gone too far. He came so hard he couldn’t breathe. He shattered. Broke apart. When the world returned to him, he was still inside her. He knelt, hands on his knees.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

  Sophie lay amid the tangle of her nightrobe and chemise. She looked at him and said in a low, emotionless voice, “If I burn in hell for this, it was worth it.”

  Twenty-three

  Havenwood,

  APRIL 7, 1815

  THE DUKE OF VEDAELIN GAVE A TOUCHING EULOGY at John’s funeral. Banallt, Mrs. Llewellyn, and Fidelia attended as well. The service was originally to be held at St. Crispin’s Church in Duke’s Head, but Reverend Carson moved the gathering outdoors when it was clear there would be well over a hundred in attendance. Fifty or more people came down from London, a living copy of the peerage, Sophie thought at one point. A good many of John’s fellow members of Parliament attended. At least as many came from Duke’s Head and beyond. Mourners filled the inns around Duke’s Head and the neighboring towns and villages. In the days just before and after John’s funeral, Sophie did little but accept condolences. John had been beloved.

  Banallt stayed beside her at every turn, dealing with matters as they came up, meeting with Reverend Carson or the vicar, with the casket maker and the stonemason, too. He intercepted the post and handed over to her letters of condolence, reserving for himself anything to do with arranging the burial or the reception afterward. He consulted with her on a headstone, and with Charles, the butler, about the decorations to be laid by and the hanging of mourning wreaths. A selection of her clothes were dyed black; slippers and gloves, too. Banallt had known loss. He understood her grief. But he hadn’t forgiven her for what she’d done the night John was killed. He must feel she’d trapped him as so many other women had tried before her.

  After the guests had gone home or returned to their lodgings for the night, Sophie walked to the conservatory and sat staring out the glass-paned walls as the sky darkened to dusk. Someone, she didn’t even recall who, probably Banallt, come to think of it, had given her a black shawl. She clutched it around her shoulders trying her best not to feel anything and succeeding admirably. The damask roses were blooming again, and their scent hung heavy in the air. There had been a bowl of them in the parlor where she’d shaken so many hands. Thank goodness she’d learned when Tommy died the usefulness—no, the absolute necessity—of phrases that seemed trite until you had nothing left but the words everyone expected. Everyone said she held together wonderfully. With so much to do, so many people to entertain, and Banallt close by to prevent her from having to do anything but politely react, she was blessedly occupied, and when she wasn’t, she had only to clasp a proffered hand and murmur her thanks. Thank you for your kind words. Yes, I shall miss him, too. I’m so grateful you came.

  “Sophie?”

  She moved her head in the direction of the door. She felt nothing, not even a hint of the spark she used to feel around him. She hadn’t felt anything after the night John died. “My lord.”

  Banallt walked in. “I’ve been looking for you. To speak with you.”

  She extended her hand to him and he pressed her hand between his. “Have I thanked you for all you’ve done?”

  “You needn’t.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment and released her hand. “You know that.” He’d been constantly at Havenwood, but when she saw him or they were for one reason or another near enough to speak, he was solicitous and nothing more. Distant. As if they’d never been lovers at all. Sophie didn’t know whether to be grateful or heartbroken. Staying numb seemed the safest choice. She didn’t need to think. She didn’t want to.

  “Thank you for your kind words, my lord.”

  “Sophie.” He pressed his mouth tight. “I’ve business to attend to in London.”

  She leaned against the bench. “Yes, of course.” The world had not stopped merely because of her tragedy, and Banallt would not always be here to manage for her. When she first walked into his arms, she’d known there would be an end to that beginning. Now that it was here, she was grateful she felt nothing.

  “I don’t mean to upset you. That’s the last thing I want to do.” He put his hands behind his back.

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “I’m to give evidence at Drake’s trial. But when that’s done, Sophie—”

  “There’s no need, Banallt.” She clasped her hands on her lap and leaned forward. “Really, it’s not necessary.” She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of roses. When she opened her eyes again, his expression was impassive. “I can’t feel anything just now.” She swallowed. “I’ve gone empty inside. There’s nothing in me at all.”

  “That will pass,” he said.

  Banallt knew better than most the sort of grief that had taken her ability to feel. Was it not best to make the cut now, when she wouldn’t feel the slice through her heart? “I think... I think you and I were a mistake. And I apologize, Lord Banallt, for what I did.”

  “No.” He spoke fiercely, but Sophie could only remark the sound. The emotion behind the word remained foreign to her. “There was no mistake.”

  “Passion never lasts. It must burn out.” She gripped her fingers and shut off the storm of emotion inside her. “It’s better to end like this,” she said. “It’s better that we’re left with fond memories rather than bitter accusations. You know, Banallt, that we would end badly, you and I.”

  “No, Sophie.”

  “You forget how well I know you.” She leaned toward him. “Please. Let me have those memories. That will be worth having.”

  His jaw clenched. “You will tell me if
there are consequences.”

  “There won’t be.”

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not because she felt anything but because she knew what she’d done was wrong.

  “There were two of us that night.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “The fault is more mine than yours.”

  “There are no consequences,” she said dully. How easy it was to lie. She knew no such thing, of course.

  “Well. And so.” He drew in a breath. “If Vedaelin proposes,” he said, “will you say yes? Or will it be Tallboys?”

  She lifted her chin to look at him. He meant the question seriously. “A duke,” she whispered. “Can you imagine me as a duchess?” She knew she ought to feel something, but she had closed off her heart and she didn’t dare risk feeling. “He won’t,” she replied. “He finds me too passionate. Too prone to opinion. He thinks me excessively bold.”

  “Has he told you that?”

  “No. But he thinks it of me.” She forced herself to smile. “His Grace will not propose to me. Why would he now? With John gone.”

  He didn’t say anything for quite a while. She found the silence restful. “I don’t know how long I’ll be engaged with Drake’s trial. I’ll let you know the outcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This time, you’ll write to me if you need anything? If anything should happen, you’ll let me know?” He scowled. “Promise me, Sophie. Promise me you’ll let me know.”

  “I’ll be here, Banallt, at Havenwood. This is my home. Where I belong. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  He took a step toward her and stopped, his mouth a slash of frustration. She said, “Frederick Drake killed my brother. You didn’t. I understand that, Banallt. It’s just ... I miss him. I miss my brother. And I simply can’t feel like this again. I can’t. You know it would happen one day, between us.”

  “Sophie—”

  “You must go and be certain that Drake is called to account for what he’s done.”

  He nodded, and then was gone. And she didn’t feel anything at all.

  Sophie didn’t sleep on the night Banallt left, and only fitfully on the second. On the third day, she walked to the cemetery at St. Crispin’s Church in Duke’s Head. The headstone was not yet in place. Only fresh-turned dirt marked John’s grave. The following day, a carriage drew up in front of the house, and when she peeked out a window to look, she thought at first so fine a carriage could only belong to Banallt.

  She stood there in her black-dyed gown, hands clasped hard, her pulse fluttering so that—how ridiculous—she was actually a little dizzy at the thought that Banallt had come back. But when a groom opened the carriage door and lowered the step, a woman stepped out. A stout woman followed by a man she didn’t recognize at all from the glimpse she’d got of him.

  Not Banallt. Her disappointment was almost as bitter as her initial reaction had been excited. He’d only done what she’d told him she needed from him. Without him, she was safe from hurt.

  Soon enough a servant found her. They were Mercers. Mr. and Mrs. David Mercer. Related via a long-deceased cousin of her father’s. They had never visited when she was a girl. Nor come to the funeral. David Mercer was now the eldest surviving Mercer, and Havenwood was entailed.

  She looked up from the card the maid had brought her. A sliver of uneasiness slipped into her. She’d not realized until this moment that Havenwood was no longer her home. “Please tell them I’ll be down directly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young woman scrunched up her face. The grimace lasted only a moment, but enough to guess the Mercers had not made a good impression on the servant. Dread worked its way around her heart.

  In the parlor, Mrs. Mercer turned around at Sophie’s entrance, a porcelain vase in her hand. The woman set it down, and after a lingering look at it, cocked her head at Sophie. Mr. Mercer stood by the fireplace. He was a small man, compact, with a pointed chin and sharp blue eyes.

  “Mrs. Evans, I presume?” said Mrs. Mercer. Her voice was high-pitched, a tone more suited to a girl than a grown woman, though Sophie supposed she could not help her voice.

  “Yes, I am Mrs. Evans.” She disliked Mrs. Mercer on sight. The woman had a sharp face softened to roundness by avoirdupois. One would not stretch the truth in calling her a handsome woman. But her gaze held no kindness, none of the sort of intelligence Sophie could respond to. The coldness around her heart stayed.

  Mr. David Mercer came forward and took her hand. He gave a stiff bow and retreated. “Please accept our condolences on the tragic loss of your brother, Mrs. Evans.”

  “Thank you.” She sank onto a chair. They were here, she realized with a sickening drop of her stomach, because John was dead and Havenwood now belonged to David Mercer. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Mercer?”

  He nodded, more of a bob of his head than a nod, a curt acknowledgment that she had spoken to him. “I should rather stand, but thank you nevertheless.” He cleared his throat. “We received word from your brother’s solicitor. We have been given to understand the reading of his will is to take place tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Mr. Pitt has agreed to come to Havenwood ...” That was Banallt’s doing, actually. He’d wanted to save her the inconvenience and expense of traveling to London. “I suppose you know that,” she said. She waited for the lump in her throat to loosen. Mrs. Mercer strolled the perimeter of the room, which Sophie found quite distracting. Anger flickered through her. Was the woman totting up the value of everything in the room? “Forgive me, I’m not at my best.” She speared Mr. Mercer with a firm look. “I’ve only just buried John.”

  “Tragic,” David Mercer said. “Such a tragic death. He was murdered, we heard.”

  “Yes. I hope to hear word of the trial any day now.”

  Mrs. Mercer stopped and faced Sophie, which obliged her to look away from the woman’s husband. “Mrs. Evans.” She gave Sophie a treacly smile, which Sophie despised even more than her pacing the room. She might as well bring out a notebook and start her inventory. “You needn’t worry for a roof over your head.”

  She stiffened. “Thank you.”

  The woman stared out the window. “What a pretty garden.” She looked back to Sophie. “How many acres is Havenwood?”

  “Three hundred and twenty-two,” Sophie said.

  “And how many acres do you farm?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know at the moment.”

  “Madam,” Mercer said to his wife. “Your curiosity will be satisfied by and by. Mrs. Evans, if you would be so good as to show us to rooms, we would be grateful for the chance to wash away the dirt of travel.”

  “Rooms?” She ought to have foreseen this. Mr. Pitt would not be here until tomorrow. Naturally, the Mercers would expect to stay at Havenwood.

  The Mercers exchanged a look. “Madam,” Mr. Mercer said. “Whatever your brother’s will says, there can be no doubt of the entailment, and I am the eldest living Mercer descendant. Havenwood devolves to me.”

  “Of course.” John had made provisions for her, that was certain, and yet Sophie felt hollow with the conviction that she would find herself wholly dependent on the goodwill of two people whom she had despised within moments of meeting them. Such an outcome was inconceivable. John would never have left her with nothing.

  The following day, John’s solicitor came down from London with her brother’s will in hand. Indeed, Havenwood belonged entirely to David Mercer. There were bequests to friends and maternal relatives and to several of the servants. He was generous to his valet and Havenwood’s longtime butler, Charles. There was no mention of her. The Mercers exchanged looks.

  Mr. Pitt put down his papers and cleared his throat. He folded his hands on the pages. “Your brother’s will is several years old, Mrs. Evans,” he said. “Executed when you were still married and unreconciled to your family.”

  Sophie interlaced her fingers and squeezed them hard. “I see.”

  The solicitor’s attention moved
to the Mercers. “In London, he gave me new instructions. Indeed, I have in my office papers in which he made substantial changes to the disposition of the property and chattel he owned outright. Under those terms, Mrs. Evans would have had no worries for her future.” His mouth tightened. “He was killed before he could sign them. No young man expects to die, and I regret to say that therefore it is this document”—he tapped the pages on the table—“that controls. And in this document there is no provision for Mrs. Thomas Evans, née Sophie Mercer. His property is to be divided among the legatees specifically named therein with the residue individually to the eldest surviving Mercer male.” His dark eyes moved back to the Mercers. “I am quite sure, however, that you will wish to see his desires carried out.”

  There was a moment of profound silence. Pitt cleared his throat and began gathering papers.

  “This is all quite shocking,” said Mrs. Mercer in her too-girlish voice. She fluttered a hand over her torso. Sophie knew then her premonition had been accurate. She could expect nothing from these people.

  “Legal matters take some time to resolve, I do believe,” Mr. Mercer said. “We never expected Mrs. Evans to be cut out entirely. You may stay here, ma’am, as long as you desire. We should be happy to have you here. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Mercer?”

  Sophie rose. This was all so horribly familiar. She half expected Mr. Pitt to hand her a pile of bills with a demand that she pay them immediately. “But my things remain mine, is that not so? My gowns, my personal possessions? Or do those, too, belong to the Mercers?”

  The attorney frowned and straightened the papers he held. “Your personal property remains yours, Mrs. Evans. Any gifts from your brother, items you brought with you from your husband’s home are yours, naturally, and remain so no matter what.”

  She felt as if she were going to crack open. She had very little jewelry to sell, if it came to that. All she had left, besides her clothes and her books, was her writing. And of that, she had, at present, none to sell.

  Pitt put his papers into a leather case. “You have my card, Mr. Mercer, Mrs. Mercer, if you should have any questions.” He looked at Sophie, then quickly away. “I’ll show myself out.”