Scandal

by Carolyn Jewel

  “You are determined to disagree with me at every step, aren’t you? That’s vexing of you.”

  Her smile deepened. “And what would I have thought of you if I’d met you before Tommy?”

  He put his other hand on her cheek, too. “You would have thought, there stands a man to make my pulse race,” he whispered. He stroked his thumbs along her cheeks. He wished he didn’t have on his gloves and that she wasn’t so bloody damn wary of him now. “The Earl of Banallt and the master of Darmead. No doubt you’d have wanted to marry me straightaway. I’d only have needed to crook my finger at you.”

  “You ought to write a novel of your own.” She drew back, but he tightened his hands on her face.

  “I tried that once, as you may recall. Such a hideous failure I’ll never unleash on paper again. Don’t,” he said, keeping his hands on her to prevent her from looking away. “Let me look at you a little longer.” With his thumbs, he stroked her eyebrows, followed the strong line of her nose, and at last traced the sensitive curve of her mouth. Her eyes slowly closed. She was going to let him kiss her; he knew it because he was a connoisseur of women and their sexual responses. He didn’t do it because he was afraid of what might happen if he did. He had only one chance left with her. One only.

  “Let us get down and walk, Sophie.”

  Twenty-seven

  SOPHIE PUT HER HAND IN BANALLT’S WHEN HE CAME around to her side of the phaeton. She stood, and he put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. He dipped his chin toward her, but he didn’t kiss her. She didn’t know what she thought of that. Nor was she sure of his mood.

  “Not a long walk,” he said. “I don’t want the horses to get cold. Perhaps just to the end of the drive and back?”

  “Very well.”

  They said nothing to each other until they were well away from the cottage. He walked with her into the shade of a tree, and when they stood in the shadows, he touched her cheek with his free hand. The other gently held her arm.

  “Did you really come here to rescue me from shame and humiliation?” Her thoughts hopped from one memory to another; her first sight of his silver tarnish eyes, an afternoon spent discussing novels. The first time his lips touched hers. The way she’d felt so alive when he held her. “After I ignored all your letters?”

  For far too long, he stared into her face, and Sophie’s vision darkened. “Did you even read them?”

  She tried to pull away, but he didn’t release her. She looked away. “I didn’t dare, Banallt,” she whispered.

  “Why not?” He sounded calm, and that made her risk a look at him. He smiled at her. Why wasn’t he angry or hurt? “Were you afraid of wretched poetry? I acknowledge you as my superior in literary matters. I wouldn’t dare write you poetry.”

  “Be serious.”

  He took her hands in his. “Shall I? Tell me, then, my darling future wife, what’s happened to you. Why did you fill your letter to Fidelia with nothing but lies?”

  “Lies? Has she said they were lies?”

  “I say they were lies. Except about your brother every single word you wrote her was a lie.”

  She slipped her hands free of his, and all the emotion she’d worked so hard to keep back overflowed her. Her body shook. This explosion of feelings was precisely why she hadn’t read any of his letters. She didn’t want to feel anything, and here she was with her numbness fading, leaving her exposed. “Why would I write anyone the truth?” The flash of heat in her words took her by surprise. “I hate it here.” She managed to level out her voice. “I never thought I’d hate Havenwood. I would have said it impossible. But I do.”

  “Darling.” He glanced back to the cottage and his horses and walked her to a bench built around the trunk of the elm. She let him draw her down beside him. “Tell me everything. How is it that you are here at Havenwood with these poor imitations of Mercers and not living independently? I was certain you’d pack up and leave if your brother’s heir came here. I’d thought I’d have to track you down all over again just to make you tell me if we’d managed to make a child. Why didn’t you take your inheritance and remove yourself to Yorkshire or Cumbria or some god-forsaken backwater so I’d spend the rest of my damn life discovering where you went with my child?”

  “Why?” She laughed. “That’s easy. Because there was no inheritance,” she said.

  “Of course there is.” His eyebrows drew together. “Your brother had a fortune independent of the entailment.”

  “Yes. He did.” Her throat closed off, and she bowed her head until she had herself under control. She’d not needed to control herself in a very long time. “John meant to do well by me, Banallt, but...”

  “What?”

  “It does no good to imagine what might have been. I inherited nothing from my brother.”

  He frowned. “No annuity? No trustor in charge of your money? Has your cousin stolen it from you?”

  “No.”

  Banallt scowled until his eyebrows nearly met. “I had understood from your brother himself that you would have no worries for your future, whether you married or not.” He held up a hand. “When we had such a discussion is beside the point, Sophie. In fact, he assured me that was the case.”

  “He did not leave behind debts, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What did he leave you? Not nothing. He would not leave you with nothing. That’s inconceivable.”

  “And yet he did, Banallt.” Her voice rose with the anger boiling inside her, fresh, hot, and welcome. “He meant to look after me. But he didn’t.”

  Banallt shook his head. “How could this happen?”

  “According to his solicitor, the changes to his will were never executed.” She let out a breath. “And so I was once again cast adrift and dependent upon relatives for every breath I take.”

  “You should have told me.” He stood up and took two strides in the direction of the cottage then turned and walked back to her. His eyes flashed. “You should have written to me the moment you knew you’d been left with nothing.”

  Sophie gave him a push, but he didn’t budge. “To what end, Banallt? Whether I wrote to you or not, my situation would be the same. Destitute again and dependent on the kindness of my relations.”

  “You are too proud for your own good.” His fingers tightened on her face, and she curled her hands around his wrists and pulled down. To no avail. “Had I known, I would have come sooner than this. I thought you needed time. I never dreamed you were in straits yet again. I thought the only risk was that you were pregnant and plotting your retirement to the deep countryside.”

  “Hardly straits, Banallt.” She let out a puff of breath and this time managed to step out of his embrace. But, she suspected, only because he let her go. “The Mercers have been very kind to let me stay at Havenwood.”

  He sneered. “That woman? Kind? She despises the very ground upon which you walk.”

  “It does not signify.” She started back to the phaeton on her own. “I don’t expect to be here much longer.”

  “Meaning?” He caught up with her and had no trouble matching her stride for stride. “Have you told Tallboys yes? You can’t have.”

  She scowled at him. “What business is it of yours?”

  “Don’t pretend it isn’t,” he said in a dark voice.

  “I have not accepted Mr. Tallboys.” She took a step back. Banallt’s body relaxed. She folded her arms under her bosom and hid her fists under her arms. “How could I when I don’t know whether I’m disgraced?”

  He grabbed her arm and leaned in. “There will be no disgrace, Sophie. None.”

  She pulled free. “I’ll have you know I am writing again.”

  “In secret,” he said bitterly. “And in the dark of night, I’ll warrant. As if you had no other choice.”

  “Choice? What choice have I, my lord?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  “I’d never let you give my child another man’s name.”

  “I don’t nee
d a husband.”

  “That’s absurd beyond belief.”

  “When I’ve sold the book,” she said, looking ahead to the phaeton, “I intend to remove to lodgings elsewhere. In Duke’s Head, perhaps. If I tutor some of the children—young ladies are always in need of French lessons and I think I sing tolerably well so I might add music to my repertoire of useless talents to pass on to future generations of idle young wives—I expect I’ll supplement my income and scrape along well enough. I’ll only have my own bills to pay.”

  “Scrape along. On ten pounds a year. If you’re fortunate and only if you’re not with child.” The corner of his mouth curled.

  “You’ve never been without more money than anyone should have, my lord. But I assure you, I have. I’ll manage on ten pounds a year. I’d manage on five, if I had to. For me, that is a fortune. And I shall be happy to have the money, I do assure you again.”

  He turned, grabbing her hand so that she had to stop. “You wrote Fidelia pages of nonsense, lies about how pleasant it was at Havenwood. How you and Mrs. Mercer had become bosom friends. You told her you’d been to Brighton and enjoyed a bathe in the ocean. I recall the setting quite distinctly.”

  “I’ve a gift for a telling detail.”

  “You wrote an excellent fiction, Sophie. I only wonder that you never added in a brooding hero who lived in the next village and whom you suspected of nobility and of having a heart you felt had been cruelly treated. Or perhaps a villain with designs on your delectable innocence.”

  “I might have got around to it eventually.” She hated that he was so much taller than she. He made her feel insignificant the way he towered over her. “Do you make it a habit to read letters that were not directed to you?”

  “My dear Mrs. Evans.” He loomed over her now. “Fidelia read your letter aloud. We were all touched by your description of the day your brother’s headstone was placed. And Fidelia is now mad to go to Brighton herself.”

  “I meant to entertain, after all. I’m pleased to know I succeeded. And if she longs for Brighton, then you must take her.” She was beyond rational reaction. She wasn’t in a state of hysteria, but she knew she was overreacting and could do nothing to stop herself. “On your wedding trip, perhaps.”

  “This is absurd.” He took a step toward her, and she stepped back, and he came toward her again. And by then, she found herself with her heel against a rock. If he hadn’t put his hands on her shoulders she would have tripped.

  “It’s not absurd at all. I won’t be the only woman to support herself with her pen.”

  “Marry me.” His voice went low and harsh. His fingers dug into her shoulders. “I fail to understand this absurd conviction of yours that you must live without friends or lovers or anyone who cares for you.”

  “I hate it here,” she said. The words came from nowhere. “I’ve been so terribly unhappy. I’d do anything to be free of this place. Even if it was the worst mistake of my life. Even if it meant I’d never be happy again.”

  “Marry me, Sophie, and you will never want for anything.” He loosened his grip on her shoulder. “I don’t mind if you write, you know that. You know I’d encourage you in that.” He spoke dispassionately, which seemed so odd in a man making his second offer of marriage. “I’ll take you away from here. You need never see the Mercers again.”

  “Banallt, I—I couldn’t bear it.”

  “You’ll never forgive me for that night, will you?” His mouth twisted. “I was out of my mind, you know that.” His fingers tightened on her. “You know that, Sophie. You know what happened. I was not entirely myself.”

  “You’re wrong, Banallt. You don’t understand.”

  “Then help me understand. Make me understand.”

  “I can’t marry you, Banallt. How can I?”

  “All you have to do is say yes.”

  She took a step toward him, hands fisted at her sides. “Imagine that I did, Banallt.”

  “Very well.”

  “You’ll be bored one day, and you’ll see a woman who’s lovely and I’ll be miserable all over again. Trapped, just as I was with Tommy. You’ll crush my heart into dust the way Tommy did.”

  “I am not Tommy Evans.”

  “I cannot live like that again. I won’t!”

  “Don’t be a fool, Sophie.”

  Twenty-eight

  Rider Hall,

  AUGUST 10, 1813

  SOPHIE CAME INTO THE BACK PARLOR AT SUCH A CLIP THAT by the time she saw Banallt, it was too late to slow down. Not that it mattered. He had some nerve calling here at half past ten at night when everyone knew that only something dreadful would bring a man from London at this hour. Banallt, she well knew, had been in London. With Tommy. She came to a halt and smoothed her skirts. But Banallt never thought of those things. He’d come here never imagining the terror she’d feel at being told she’d a caller so late at night.

  “What is it, my lord?” she asked without bothering to hide her annoyance at being disturbed so late.

  The moment she saw his face, her heart stopped beating.

  Lord Banallt stood at the fireplace, his greatcoat still on, a beaver hat in his hands. His hair was brushed back from his high, pale forehead, spreading like spilled ink to his shoulders. Cashmere trousers fit close along his legs, and one of his driving gloves poked out from his greatcoat pocket. Absurdly, she noticed the aquamarine he wore on his right index finger. A cabochon set into a heavy gold band. He seemed never to keep a neckcloth properly tied, and tonight was no exception, though a diamond sparkled at the base of the knot. Standing there in the shadows, with his dark, too-long hair and his too-pale face, he looked like a man whose life had just shattered beyond repair.

  Tommy must be injured or ill or worse, she thought with a suffocating panic. Why else would Banallt come here with that broken horror in his eyes? A plate of figs, left by the day servants who ought to have known better than to leave them out, sat on the table near where she’d stopped. A stack of books from the subscription library was too near the edge. She put her hand on the table to steady herself and had to catch one of the books to prevent it from falling to the floor.

  “Mrs. Evans.” He took a step from the fireplace. His eyes were tortured. He’d not shaved. He wasn’t untidy, but he wasn’t immaculate. “Sophie.”

  She gripped the edge of the table. “What’s happened?” she asked. She pressed a hand to her heart. “Is Tommy all right?”

  He smiled, but it was the bleakest smile she’d seen in her life, and it struck cold terror into her blood. “Your husband is, to my knowledge, quite well.” His voice was low and controlled. Horribly controlled. For a moment he turned back to the fireplace, but only to balance his hat on the ledge. Just so.

  “Then why have you come?” she asked. Something had happened. She knew it. She knew the moment she saw his eyes that something dreadful had happened. While his back was turned, Sophie picked up the book next to the figs. It was not one of the few volumes in the house and not one from the circulating library, either, but one from Banallt’s private library. He must have brought it with him. The morocco cover was engraved with his crest.

  “Do you read Latin?” he asked without moving from the fireplace.

  She dropped his book. “No.”

  “Just as well. Ovid is a rather ... fast poet. I do not think you would approve. I should not have brought it. I wasn’t thinking.” His expression was perfectly calm, but his eyes frightened her. She found herself looking into a storm of despair. How would he survive if that storm broke?

  “Why not?” She couldn’t bear his eyes and so stared at the straight black hair falling to his collar. His beauty had always unsettled her. He looked as she imagined Satan had looked in the instant after he was cast forever out of heaven.

  “If you read Latin, you would know.” He watched her with his tarnish eyes and then walked to the table of books. “But you do not read Latin, and there I think we should let Ovid rest. Perhaps one day I will translate him for
you.” He took another book and inspected it, coldly controlled. “I wonder what you would think of my library, Sophie.”

  She let his use of her given name pass. “I’m sure it’s much better than the circulating library here.”

  “Mm.” He closed the book and said, “I like to balance the light with heavy, spice with bland. Hot with cold.”

  “Romance with Latin?” she said. Why was he here? The chill in her blood settled in her chest and slowly spread.

  “Amour with hate,” said Banallt. His hair spilled across his cheek when he turned his head toward her. As always, his eyes defied interpretation of his thoughts. The pit of her stomach clenched. With another of his reserved smiles, Banallt tapped the top of the stack of books. “I’m curious, Sophie, do you write novels to feed your reading habit? Or does your reading habit feed your novel writing?”

  “Why have you come here?” She stared into Banallt’s pewter eyes, her throat threatening to close, as if he’d somehow transferred to her the horror banked within those tarnished depths. She filled her lungs with air, but it didn’t help, because she knew, she knew with absolute certainty, that someone had died.

  “If not Tommy, then who?” she whispered. Banallt’s face slid into nothing. He opened his mouth and then closed it. She went to him, against her better judgment, narrowed the distance between them, and laid a hand against his cheek. “Banallt, what’s happened?” At first she thought he meant to deny anything was the matter. “You know you can tell me anything. Anything at all, Banallt.”

  “My daughter,” he said, and then his voice cracked, and with that break emotion stormed in his eyes. He bent his head to her shoulder and put his arms around her, holding her tight. He sobbed until Sophie thought her heart would never mend itself. She held him until the worst had passed.

  “What happened?” she softly asked.

  His breath trembled on the way in and more on the way out. He shrugged once, a slight movement of his shoulders as he lifted his head. “Everyone said she’d be fine. The physician more than anyone, and I believed him. Children fall ill and recover all the time. But she didn’t. She died in my arms, Sophie, and there was nothing I could do.”