Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  She strained against him, and he tilted her hips to stroke deeper. She gave a throaty moan, a siren song luring him to the edge. In a convulsive thrust, she broke the rhythm and cried out, arched and trembled beneath him. He gripped her hips and plunged into darkness, and the blinding, searing release shook him with a ferocity he’d never imagined. He pumped his seed into her with a harsh, guttural groan and collapsed, a shuddering, breathless weight sprawled over her lovely body.

  Closer than ever before.

  Moments passed before he realised. He had not withdrawn in time. Barely able to summon the strength, he rolled away.

  Too late.

  Somehow, he found his voice. “Gemma. Please, you must marry me.”

  She turned her head and the shock in her eyes mirrored his own. He could hardly believe the words had come out of his mouth as a plea. Yet it felt so utterly right, that they should be together like this for the rest of their lives. And so wrong if what they had done was for mere physical gratification. To him it meant much more. But how could he put it into words?

  Quietly, she said, “Don’t.”

  He gripped the hand that rubbed agitatedly at her throat. “But I have to. Don’t you know how much I need you?”

  Gemma glanced away. “I only came to Laidley as a temporary measure. My place is at Ware.”

  He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her tumbled golden beauty, her full lips bruised from his kisses. She was everything he wanted, and it seemed incredible to him that they had made love. After all these years, who could have guessed it would be Gemma Maitland who held his heart, his future, in her small hands?

  “Gemma . . .” I love you.

  He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say it, knowing she would never say it back. She would not laugh, as Caroline had done so many years ago. But she would gaze at him with those deep eyes full of pity and remorse, and that would be infinitely worse.

  He flung himself onto his back, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared at the canopy above them the same fathomless blue as her eyes. He had meant to spend the whole night loving her, but now he could not even glance in her direction. Something inside him was shattering into tiny splinters and he couldn’t find a way to stop it.

  Sebastian hauled himself out of bed and padded to the brandy decanter. He had never known such miserable indecision. This was what came of a lifetime of letting no emotion touch him, of shrugging off others’ sensitivities. He had not the slightest clue how to appeal to the woman in his bed. With Gemma, neither suave love talk nor a display of prowess between the sheets would work.

  Her soft voice broke his thoughts. “You are very kind, Scovy. It is truly noble of you to feel you must marry me, but don’t you see? I am Sybil Maitland’s daughter. No one would expect it of you.”

  His fingers clenched so hard the brandy balloon cracked. Slowly, he opened his hand and let the shards fall onto the drinks tray, hardly aware of a small, stinging cut on his palm. He turned back. “Don’t ever say anything like that to me again.”

  Gemma sighed. “Sebastian, you want to believe that I am a gently bred lady to be set on a pedestal, but I’m not. I’m just a woman.” With a scintillating smile, she stretched her arms above her head. His groin tightened at the sight of those luscious breasts thrusting upwards, her slender torso arching as if in the throes of passion.

  “Please, Sebastian. Make love to me again.”

  He wrenched his gaze away. “And that’s all I am to you, is it? Someone to warm your bed. Well, I want more than that, Gemma. I want marriage.”

  Sebastian rolled his eyes in disgust. He could not believe he had just said something like that, something a woman would say. But he meant every word.

  She shook her head. “It’s not possible. You know it isn’t. You must marry a high-born lady with an unblemished reputation. I am not that. Certainly, not anymore.”

  He closed his eyes. It was not an accusation, she said it almost with relish, but guilt swept over him. He should have been strong, resisted temptation. Now he had ruined her, and she would not let him make the only reparation possible.

  “Sebastian.” Her voice was smoke and honey. “We might not have a future, but we have tonight. Come to me.”

  Unwillingly, he opened his eyes and watched her, the tantalising half-smile as she twirled a bright lock of hair around her finger, the heat in her eyes pulling him towards certain destruction. What had happened to Gemma tonight? It was as if she’d suddenly discovered every feminine wile ever practised on mankind and invented a few more.

  He cleared his throat. “No. We need to talk about this sensibly.”

  She blinked, but continued to smile and twist her long, silky hair. “Oh, by all means. Do let us be sensible, dear Scovy.”

  “It might be better if we dressed.”

  She sighed theatrically, and her lips trembled with a suppressed amusement that galled him. “Very well. Would you fetch me my peignoir, please?”

  He shot her a dark glance and tossed her his dressing gown instead. He found a shirt and breeches and put them on while she donned his robe. The mannish garment concealed her body, but it threw all that heavy-eyed, tousled femininity into startling relief. She rubbed her cheek against the satin lapel like a cat, lowered her thick, dark lashes and sniffed, as if she scented ambrosia.

  The provocative sensuality of her movements roused him to blind, cold fury, even as his body raged to take her. She rejected him for the most altruistic reasons, no doubt, but it was still rejection, and the excruciating pain of it was killing him inside. She had ripped away his cynical, protective shell, and for that brief, explosive paradise in her arms the rawness of exposure had been worth it. But against her indifference, he now had no defence.

  Softly, she said, “Sebastian, I know you mean to be honourable and gentlemanly, but there is not the least need . . .”

  She had flayed him with her talk of Ware and now she rubbed salt into his bleeding flesh. Deliberately, he lashed out, wanting to hurt her, desperate to prove he could.

  “Oh, but there is. You see, I promised Hugo I would marry you.”

  Seventeen

  “YOU promised?” Gemma stiffened. “What nonsense is this?”

  In the twin grip of jagged, savage agony and cold, numbing rage, Sebastian answered with a lift of his brows. “Can’t you guess? I gave my word to Hugo if I didn’t find you a husband in three months, I would marry you myself. That is what all this has been about.”

  “You did . . . all this to fulfill a promise? I don’t believe it.”

  Gemma leaped from the bed and marched over to him to search his face, trying to read him. Even in her fury, she looked wildly desirable, but despite his reluctant admiration he kept his expression cynically amused, gave nothing away.

  With a frustrated growl, she turned and paced, all slender, lithe energy, even as his dressing gown gaped about her and dragged on the floor behind her heels.

  She pivoted to face him, realisation sweeping her features. “So this visit to Laidley was just some little plan you cooked up with Hugo to lure me away from Ware?”

  He simply looked at her, couldn’t believe that after all they’d done, after the poison-tipped arrow he’d aimed squarely at her heart, her first thought was still for Ware. His emotions slammed shut.

  She bunched her fists in his shirt. “Answer me, damn you!”

  From behind a wall of ice, he replied, “Hugo did not inform me of his plans.”

  She released him and struck her fist on her palm. “Oh, I should have known better than to leave Ware.”

  He said nothing. Realising beyond doubt there was no hope for them now, he wished she would just leave him to lick his wounds in peace.

  Gemma stared at him with narrowed eyes. “He has done something while I’ve been away, hasn’t he? He has made his will. He has been breaking in his successor. One of the cousins? Sebastian, tell me what you know.”

  He could not endure much more of this. He turned away. �
�I know nothing more than you.”

  Silence stretched between them. He could not speak, though all the things he wanted to say, all the things he should have said, echoed in his mind.

  I love you.

  She would never believe him now.

  As the slow, steady tick of the mantel clock was about to drive him mad, she turned and strode to the secret door.

  “If you will not tell me, I shall have to ask Mama.”

  GEMMA hurried back to her room, stumbling a little over the trailing brocade of Sebastian’s robe. As the secret panel to her bedchamber clicked shut behind her, she slumped against it and let the tears pour down her face. Her lungs had compressed into hard lumps, her throat closing over so tightly, she could barely catch her breath. Harsh, angry sobs tore from her chest.

  How could Sebastian do such a thing? How could he play a hand in thwarting the one dream that had sustained her all these years—the one thing she had worked so hard to achieve?

  She’d thought he knew her, loved her as a special, dear friend—as she loved him. But everything he had said to her since he’d arrived at Ware had been a lie. He had pretended to support her bid to run the estate, but instead, he’d ridden roughshod over her dream. Coming to him tonight, she’d thought they shared a bond so enduring and special it did not need marriage vows to strengthen it or tie it down, but Sebastian’s loyalty to Hugo far surpassed his attachment to her, it seemed. He’d even been prepared to marry her— clearly against his inclinations—since his more fastidious friends had declined to do the job.

  She slid down to huddle against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She did not want to marry Sebastian, so why, why did it hurt so much that he had gone to such ridiculous lengths to avoid marrying her?

  Gemma scrubbed at her face with the trailing sleeve of Sebastian’s robe, taking perverse satisfaction in the salt water marking the richly patterned silk. She glared up at the moulded ceiling, blinking back more tears.

  No, she would not think about Sebastian anymore. She would fix her sights on the future.

  In no time at all, she would be back in Sussex, where she belonged, and then she could sort out this ridiculous mess. How glad, how truly, utterly ecstatic she was to be going home.

  With a low, animal cry, Gemma scrambled up and flung herself on the bed.

  GEMMA blinked stinging eyelids against the morning sunlight and raised her head from where it rested on her crossed arms. She supposed she must have slept, but sleep had not refreshed her or made the future appear any rosier, despite the fact she was going home today. She felt wrung out, drained of tears, drained of life.

  She still wore Sebastian’s dressing gown. Gasping at her recklessness, Gemma stripped it off and hid it in the carved oak blanket box at the foot of her bed. Carefully, she removed the sponge soaked with vinegar she had inserted as a precaution against conception, Sybil’s thoughtful gift. Then she washed herself with a wet flannel, scoured her body clean of any trace of Sebastian, and threw the sponge and the flannel into the fire.

  Her body ached from the night’s pleasure. Her stomach churned and her throat still felt clogged with the aftereffects of her crying bout. Moving like an old woman, she dressed in her demure night rail, her own dressing gown and slippers, and crept along the corridor to tap on Sybil’s door.

  “Enter.”

  Sybil was in bed, reading, an almost matronly cap tied over her bright curls. Her face lit when she saw Gemma, but her smile switched immediately to concern.

  “Oh, my darling. Come here.” She put down her book and held out her hands. Though Gemma edged towards the bed, she did not touch her mother’s outstretched hands. After all, she did not know where Sybil’s loyalties lay.

  “I heard something last night which interested me exceedingly,” she said in a brittle voice. “I heard that Hugo made a bargain with Sebastian concerning me.”

  She detected genuine surprise in Sybil’s frown. “You knew nothing of this?”

  “No, my dear. What bargain, exactly?”

  “Sebastian was to try to find me a husband. And if he failed, he would have to marry me himself.” Gemma sat down on the bed. “No wonder this house is full of eligible bachelors. He has gone to the most elaborate lengths to avoid marrying me.”

  “Well, it takes two to make a marriage,” said Sybil. “Would you have accepted him?”

  Gemma lifted her chin. “Most certainly not.”

  Nodding, Sybil flicked a hand. “There you are, then. Two foolish men scheming to do what is best for you. Mutton-headed, but well-intentioned, surely? Is that all that troubles you?”

  “All?” Gemma started up. “All, Mama? How can you say that? It is the most degrading, humiliating—”

  “Mutton-headed,” murmured Sybil.

  “Yes, all right, mutton-headed thing I’ve ever heard of. And another thing! I’m convinced Hugo sent me to Laidley to get rid of me while he made changes at Ware. Do you know anything about that?”

  “We-ell . . .”

  Gemma pounced. “You do! You do and you did not tell me. He is leaving Ware to one of the cousins, isn’t he?”

  “No, he is not.”

  “Then . . . you, Mama?” Gemma held her breath. If Ware went to Sybil, she would come home for good and Gemma could go on the way she had before Hugo thought of this mad idea to employ an agent.

  “No,” Sybil said quietly. “He is leaving it to Charles Bellamy. His grandson.” A radiant smile burst over her face. “Your brother, Gemma.”

  Gemma’s surroundings shattered and whirled around her like coloured glass in a kaleidoscope. She clutched at the bedpost as rage overcame her in a red, blinding rush. “What? You mean you have a love child? And he is going to take over Ware?”

  The slap was sharp but it stung Gemma’s cheek for only a moment. Sybil’s eyes blazed into hers. “Never speak to me like that! I have endured unfounded gossip and innuendo for half of my life, but I will not endure it from you, Gemma. Charles Bellamy is your legitimate brother. He will inherit Ware. It was not my decision. I had nothing to do with it. If you want to take it up with Hugo, you may, but I can assure you, you are likely to be dealt short shrift. Hugo never intended you to have Ware and you know it.”

  Stricken at the terrible accusation she had made, bewildered by Sybil’s revelation, Gemma put her hand to her hot cheek. “Mama, I am sorry—”

  “I am sure you are, my dear.” Sybil picked up her book and opened it to read, dismissing her. “I am sure you are.”

  GEMMA stood by the window and watched the last of the houseguests roll away in their glossy black carriages. She had not bidden any of them good-bye, unsure whether she was in disgrace.

  The question of her reputation that had loomed so large last evening hardly mattered now. She could scarcely comprehend all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. Weakened by sadness and guilt, she submitted to Dorry’s ministrations, tormented by thoughts of her mother, and questions about Charles Bellamy. How on earth could he be her brother? But mostly, she thought of Sebastian.

  She had been too hard on him last night. She should have realised he would only act out of genuine concern for her future in trying to see her wed. If he had known Hugo was adamant about excluding her from running the estate, Sebastian might well have considered marriage her only choice. He had expended effort and money, remained in a house he despised, to make her future secure. Mutton-headed, but well-intentioned, as her mother had said.

  While Dorry braided her hair with swift, practised movements, Gemma closed her eyes on a vision of her mother’s face before Sybil slapped her. She dreaded the carriage ride home. What if her mother never forgave her? She would certainly be within her rights never to speak to Gemma again.

  Hot shame rushed through her at those unforgivable words she had spoken. She had released her resentment at the wrong person. She hardly knew who was to blame anymore.

  Perhaps no one. Perhaps herself?

  Heartsick, Gemma bade farewell to
Ripton and the other servants, then visited Lady Carleton’s sitting room. She found her hostess sitting at her escritoire with a ledger of some sort open before her.

  Gemma tapped on the door and entered at her hostess’s command. “I have come to say good-bye, Lady Carleton, and to thank you for your kindness.”

  Lady Carleton looked up from her work and smiled. She moved away from her desk and gestured for Gemma to sit beside her on the sofa. “It was a pleasure, my dear. Though if we are to speak of gratitude, I cannot tell you what your being here has meant to me, to our family.” She paused. “I can never repay what you have done for Sebastian.”

  A hot, guilty flush scorched Gemma’s cheeks. She hurried into speech. “You saved me from a terrible scold from my aunt on the night of the harvest feast. I never did thank you properly for that.”

  Lady Carleton chuckled and laid her hand over Gemma’s. “You will be glad to know that your mama and I routed the old dear last night as well. Oh, nothing drastic, but you may be sure that we put Matilda firmly in her place for gossiping about you. We smoothed over the stir she caused, but in truth, our efforts were scarcely required. Everyone loves you, my dear. At all events, I don’t think Matilda will trouble you again. She took quite a pet last night and announced her intention of removing from Ware to live with her widowed sister in Bath.”

  Gemma smiled a little at this news. So there was a silver lining to the vast black cloud above her head. “You have done me a great service, ma’am.”

  She waited for Lady Carleton to mention her gown, but it seemed that story had not reached her ears. So perhaps Lady Russell had not spread the tale. The relief did not lighten Gemma’s heart as it should.

  “We will miss you terribly, my dear.” Lady Carleton’s dark eyes misted and she looked anxious. “What of Sebastian? He is out riding. Will you not wait and say good-bye to him?”

  Gemma balked at seeking Sebastian out. She asked instead for Fanny and Romney, but neither could be found. There was nothing to do but wait, she supposed. She did not want to look as if she was sneaking away, and leaving without saying good-bye would be poor return for Fanny’s kindness.