Scandal

by Carolyn Jewel

  “My poor Banallt,” she said. Emotion quavered in her voice, too. She knew he loved his daughter, wholly and without any reservation whatever. She wanted there to be a way to take away his devastation and there wasn’t. “My heart is broken for you.” She stroked his cheek. She’d never touched him like that before, and despite the unshaven face, his skin was softer than she’d imagined. “But you held her, and that must have been a comfort to her and to you, as well. She was not alone.”

  “I am her father,” he said. “I should have been able to save her. It was my duty. She is the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life, and now she’s gone.”

  “Hush,” she said. Tears dammed up in her throat.

  “The world stopped,” he said. “And began again. Without her.”

  “I am here.” She walked to the sofa and sat down, Banallt next to her. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

  For quite a long time he talked about his daughter, the why and how and all the moments when he fell into the unconditional love of a parent for a child. During the silences, she held his hand and sometimes pulled his head to her shoulder. But after a while, he recovered himself and sat back. She stroked his cheek, brushed away a lock of hair that fell like silk across her fingers. His gaze found hers and held hers. She was aware, all too aware now, that theirs could be a lover’s embrace. She stood, and his hands slid along her hips as she did. “Let me get you something to drink.”

  He watched her all the way to the side table where Tommy kept the brandy she never touched. How many times had she wanted to dash the bottle against the wall? The silence was altogether different now. His mood had shifted from broken to dangerous, and she was no longer certain how to behave. An intimacy had been breached. She wiped her hand on her skirt before she dared fill a glass with brandy. Banallt left the sofa. Her pulse raced at the thought that he was walking toward her, but he was only going to the fireplace. She heard the skittering of the scuttle against the bin that held the coal.

  He wouldn’t, she thought. She trusted him. He wouldn’t presume.

  The silence deepened. Banallt replaced the screen. She could not see him but knew he’d walked behind her. If she were to look at him now, she’d have to crane her neck. She took great care in stoppering the brandy. The stopper tapped the rim of the bottle and let out a perfect crystal chime.

  “Are you writing still?” he asked. He wasn’t as near to her as she thought. Thank God. She turned, put the glass into his hand, and retreated.

  “Yes.”

  “Is your heroine in danger?” he softly asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. His voice sent a ripple of awareness up her spine. “Trapped in the ruins of an abbey with a ghost and the body of her murdered mother.”

  “Has she swooned yet?” His fingertips moved up and down the glass, and the light from the fireplace caught the aquamarine.

  Sophie nodded.

  “Why do you suppose heroines are so weak-minded as to swoon whenever they are in danger?” he asked. He took a sip of brandy, but his eyes stayed on her. She did not like the hunger she saw there.

  “Convenient, I suppose.” She walked to the table and went through the stack of books there, arranging them in opposite order nearer the center of the table.

  “Would you swoon if you were in danger?” he said.

  “I’d like to think not. I expect I shan’t know until it’s too late.” She heard him walking again, and a moment later, he appeared beside her, one hip leaning against the table. Sophie’s stomach somersaulted when he put down his glass, empty now, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  His eyes were pools of shadowed silver, drawing her under the depths. “You are a very great beauty, Sophie.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t bother.” She summoned a smile with the hope of dispelling the odd and far too intimate mood. “You can’t flatter me.”

  “Of course I can.” His greatcoat hung open, exposing his coat and waistcoat.

  “Go on then just as you like.” She moved another book. “You know I am not vain enough to believe your lies.”

  “Lies? No lies between us. Trust me, darling,” he said bitterly, “I’ll never lie to you.”

  She laughed. “Gentlemen lie all the time.”

  “Gentlemen pay good money for a mistress with a figure like yours. Delicate and yet, a woman’s curves.” He leaned over her, which was rarely difficult for anyone, least of all him and his six feet and some inches, his hair falling forward. “Your eyes are intelligent, and your clever mind informs your every expression. An intelligent woman confident and happy in herself always attracts a man of discernment. There is no doubt of it, Sophie. You are a beautiful woman.”

  “It isn’t true,” she said tartly. “But thank you for saying it so convincingly. If it were anyone but you saying so, I might be flattered.”

  He pushed away from the table. “Must we constantly argue?” he said.

  “Are we?”

  “You are astonishingly good at disagreeing with me.”

  “Everyone has at least one talent, my lord.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you called me Gwilym.”

  “But I would.” She started again on the books, restacking them and taking Banallt’s Ovid out of the pile. If he left it behind, she’d find a Latin grammar and try her luck with a translation.

  He put his bare hand over hers. The warmth of his palm startled her. “I had to come here,” he said. “No one else would do. No one else will ever do.”

  She lifted her head. “I am so sorry.”

  His fingers curled around hers, and for a moment, Sophie relaxed. They would get through this moment after all, without disaster. “I thought of you all the way from London. I must be mad, I told myself. She’ll not want to see me.”

  “That’s not so.”

  “And here we are.”

  The moment crossed back into danger. His smile was wrong. Inappropriately intimate. “Don’t,” she whispered. She pulled her hand free of his. “Please don’t.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Your husband is even now in London and I daresay hasn’t thought of you in weeks.”

  Sophie’s head jerked up. “Don’t,” she said again, more forcefully. “You will only regret where this leads us.”

  “What will it take to woo you from your worthless husband?” He made a face. “No woman could be as faithful as you for no reason on earth.”

  She shook her head.

  “Ten thousand pounds? Twenty?”

  “That’s quite enough.” She pulled herself upright. “No more of this. You’re distraught and—”

  “I’m dying for want of you. Fifty thousands pounds, Sophie. That’s in addition to the discharge of your husband’s not inconsiderable debts.”

  Her heart raced. This couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t do this to her. “You’re mad with grief.”

  He laughed. “I’m mad with lust. You’re not so naive that you don’t understand that I want you. Come now, you know I’ll treat you better than Tommy ever has or will.”

  “I’m married, Banallt.”

  “So is your husband, as I recall, and yet I left him quite happily in the tender arms of my cast-off mistress.”

  She lifted her hand, but he caught her wrist and pulled her toward him. “Carte blanche,” he said. His face was hard, his mouth tense, and something wild came up from him and she was in an instant reminded of just how much smaller she was than him. Fear spilled down her spine, and she hated Banallt for this. For making her afraid of him.

  “Get out.” She shoved him hard enough that he let her go.

  His eyebrows rose. “I’m quite serious about this Sophie.” His gaze raked her from head to toe. “I adore you, I have since nearly the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Of course I do. I’ve never offered any woman carte blanche. But the offer’s there for you. Only you, my beautiful, lovely Sophie. My fortune at you
r feet. Ruin me if you like. You’ve already ruined me for any other woman. You may as well complete your triumph.”

  She reared back. “Don’t ever call here again. Do you understand me? I shan’t see you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Sophie.”

  Twenty-nine

  Near Withypool, one and a half miles from

  Castle Darmead,

  MAY 7,1815

  BANALLT FROZE. HE WANTED TO HEAR YES SO BADLY THAT he fully believed his brain capable of manufacturing the answer he wanted, no matter the words that came out of her mouth. Her chin was pointed up so that she could look into his face. Her eyes were on his. Locked with his. She wasn’t pushing him away or uttering trite phrases meant to guide his disappointment away from her answer. Could he possibly have heard correctly?

  He didn’t want to believe she’d said yes if she really hadn’t or if she didn’t mean it. His instinct to disbelieve warred with the thought that if she’d said yes, he needed to act quickly. Now. Before she changed her mind. He didn’t know what the hell to do, so he just continued as they were.

  Slowly, she tipped her head down until her forehead rested on his chest. Her palms were flat on his torso, but she wasn’t pushing him away. His hands tightened on her shoulders as the truth washed over him. My God, she really had told him yes.

  He opened his mouth to ask if she was certain then didn’t. If he did, she might change her mind, and he had no intention of giving her that opportunity. Underneath his hands, her shoulders quivered. She raised her gaze to him again, and his heart plunged into the depths. She had her lower lip trapped between her teeth, and her eyes were tormented pools of blue green. His heart broke just looking at her.

  She was not in love with him. He knew that. Her acceptance of him had nothing to do with the sort of desperate longing he had for her. Not that he hadn’t known that the first time he proposed to her, but to have her say yes out of despair added an edge of pain to his euphoria. He knew she wasn’t indifferent to him, after all, and for the moment, that sufficed to keep the hurt at arm’s length. “You won’t regret this,” he said. “I’ll see that you don’t.”

  “I know,” she said softly. But her eyes said otherwise. He knew she was thinking back to the days when he’d not been worthy of her respect, when he’d told her, far too bluntly, that it was not in his nature to be faithful and then proceeded to demonstrate exactly how reprehensible a man he was.

  His chest felt too tight, but the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She wasn’t certain she’d made the right decision, but he was. This was right. They would be good together. “I’ll make you happy, Sophie. I’ll give you everything you’ve missed all these years.” An adoring husband. A man who admired her intelligence and looked forward to the challenge of making a life with her. “I will take care of you.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  The enormity of the moment took his breath. Sophie was going to be his wife. At last. He couldn’t hold back a smile.

  She drew her shawl around her shoulders. “It’s late, Banallt. I ought to be getting home.”

  When he turned his phaeton back to Duke’s Head instead of making the turn to Havenwood, Sophie roused herself out of her silence. “Where are we going?”

  “To St. Crispin’s,” he said. “I’ve already spoken with Reverend Carson.” He inhaled deeply. “I have a special license.” His hands tightened on the reins, and he had to force himself to relax. “I wish we could be married by banns, but under the circumstances, I think it best not to wait. Besides, I might be recalled to London at any time. Vedaelin’s been talking about sending me to meet with Wellington when he arrives in Brussels.”

  “Brussels?”

  “If you’d read my letters, you’d know. War is inevitable. Napoleon will never step down. Why should he when he’s in possession of Paris and every day more of the French army defects to him?” He slowed the phaeton. “You asked me earlier why I came here. I’ll tell you one reason now. I came because if I’m to be sent to the Continent with war about to erupt, I needed to know if there was hope for us.”

  “Banallt.” She put a hand on his shoulder.

  Reverend Carson was waiting for them at the church. The clergyman’s wife was there as well as his curate, asked to be on hand in the event Banallt came back with a bride.

  Banallt stood with Sophie at the altar, holding her hand until the time came to slide a ring on her finger, a gold band engraved on the inside with their given names. The words were said, their responses were given, and the vow that bound them together forever was made. They signed in turn the parish records and it was done. Sophie was his.

  He drove her back to Havenwood in silence. But when he waved off the groom who came out, he handed her down and pulled her into his arms. “I love you, Sophie.” He knew she didn’t believe him, but he said it anyway. Because the words were true. He brought her closer and, one hand on her cheek, brushed her mouth with his. His belly went taut. How long had he dreamed of making love to her? Years. For years and years. Illicitly at first with his pleasure at the forefront of his desire, and then with the thought of her foremost. And now with her as his wife.

  “Ahem!”

  That didn’t come from Sophie so he ignored it. She was in his arms, her mouth was soft, soft, unconscionably soft, her body warm against his. Whether she knew it or not, her torso leaned into his. She might have ruined him for other women, but she certainly hadn’t affected the sorts of things he adored about women and their bodies.

  “Mrs. Evans! You are home at last,” said a woman’s voice. A girlish voice. He lifted his head and dropped his hand from Sophie’s cheek. He left his other hand on her shoulder. Mrs. Mercer stood on the path, dressed in incongruously youthful clothes for a woman of her age, her cheeks pink with outrage, a closed fan extended in her hand.

  “Oh dear,” Sophie said in the direction of his chest.

  “My lord.” Mrs. Mercer lowered her fan. “Mrs. Evans has only recently lost her beloved brother.” Her mouth thinned. “It is not good of you to take advantage.”

  “Mrs. Mercer,” Banallt said. “You shall be the first to hear that Sophie has just made me the happiest man on earth.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her eyes narrowed, and she looked from Banallt to Sophie and back. “Happiest man?”

  “We are married. Sophie is my countess.”

  “Countess?” She gaped. “When?”

  “Just now. At St. Crispin’s. With Reverend Carson doing the honors.”

  She snapped open her fan and waved it under her chin. “My good heavens. Countess? Mrs. Evans is your countess?”

  Banallt bowed. “Yes, Mrs. Mercer.” Sophie, he saw, was staring at Mrs. Mercer as if she’d grown two heads. “She’s the reason I came to Duke’s Head at all.”

  “Married?” She looked from him to Sophie and back several times. “Have I heard correctly? She is now Lady Banallt?”

  “Ma’am,” he said. “You have.”

  “Mrs. Evans?” Her voice slid up into an even higher register. “Lady Banallt, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Sophie replied softly. She didn’t move from his arms. Not that he would have let her. “I have at last told him yes.”

  Mrs. Mercer’s expression softened. “I wish you both all the very best.” She clasped her hands. “I hope you will be as happy as Mr. Mercer and I have been these years.”

  “Thank you,” Banallt said. That was really very decent of her. She might be an absurd woman, but he didn’t doubt the sincerity of her good wishes.

  “Will you come to the house, my lord? Mr. Mercer must hear this news himself.”

  “Directly, ma’am. I’d like a word with him in any event.”

  Sophie stared after Mrs. Mercer as she walked back to the house. “I dislike her, Banallt. She grates on my nerves. She has no conversation with me except what duties she expects me to carry out on her behalf.”

  He laughed and pulled her back into his embrace. He was happy. His world and ever
ything in it was perfect. “Let me kiss you, Sophie.”

  Sophie glared in the direction of Mrs. Mercer’s retreating back. “How dare she be so gracious?”

  He barked with laughter, and a moment later, she laughed, too, and then he brought her head to his so that she had to go up on her toes and hold on to his shoulders. He kissed her and knew for a fact she was not in the least indifferent to him. Letting go of her took all his reserve.

  Inside the house Banallt repeated to Mr. Mercer the news of his marriage. “Lady Banallt will return to Castle Darmead with me, directly.” He lifted a hand. “If you would be so kind as to see that her belongings are sent on to the castle, I would be much obliged.”

  Mrs. Mercer opened her fan. “We shall, my lord. You may rely upon it.”

  “Sophie,” he said, “I’m sure you will let Mrs. Mercer know if anything has been left behind?”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you, Mrs. Mercer.” She licked her lips. “There are a few things I’d like to fetch immediately.”

  Mercer stood up. “While your wife attends to that,” he said, “might we have a word in private, my lord?”

  He followed Mercer to his office. He didn’t wait for the other man to come to the point. “I am happy to show you the contracts drawn up when I first made my intentions known to Sophie’s brother. I see no need to change them, though I invite you to offer your opinion and suggestions if you feel she is not adequately protected.”

  “That would be good of you, my lord. She is our relative, after all, and I am obliged to look out for her interests, despite that you have taken my wife and me quite by surprise with this news.”

  “I understand.”

  “You will also understand when I ask you to please make provisions for her in your will without delay. Her brother was remiss.”

  “That, sir, has been done.”

  Mercer clasped his hands behind his back, and for a moment Banallt was strongly reminded of John. “Her sensibilities are delicate, my lord. You never saw a woman so utterly shattered as was Mrs. Evans when we arrived at Havenwood.”