Bound by a Scandalous Secret (The Scandalous Summerfields)

by Diane Gaston

  She stood her ground. ‘I will not marry him.’

  He hobbled closer to her. ‘Then pack your things! I’ll not see your face in this house, not with the fuss you are making. Crying off. A duke’s heir, no less. I can hear the gossip now.’

  ‘You cannot send her away!’ Lorene cried. ‘She has a right to cry off.’

  ‘She’s a fool. I do not suffer fools.’ He shook his cane at Lorene. ‘And I’ll not have you contradicting me, Wife. Enough of that talk from you.’

  Genna turned to leave, but Lorene stopped her. ‘You could go to Tess. You should stay in town. Work things through with Rossdale. I am certain he will want to. You are not inconsequential to him, I am sure of it.’

  She gave her sister a quick hug. ‘You are a romantic, are you not? Do not fret, though, Lorene. I want to go.’

  Lorene faced her husband again. ‘You cannot simply toss her out. It—it will reflect poorly on you.’

  He waved a hand and his cane pounded his way to the door. ‘She can go to Tinmore Hall, but she needs to be out by the time we return there. I’m done with her.’

  When he left the room, Lorene spoke again. ‘Genna, do not do this. Give love a chance. It is all I’ve ever wanted for you.’

  She touched her sister’s arm. ‘A person can have love and ruin it, Lorene. I must pen a letter and pack. It is better this way.’

  * * *

  The next morning at breakfast, a footman handed Ross a letter. ‘This just came for you, sir,’

  He opened it and read:

  Dear Ross,

  Recent events have convinced me it is better if we break the engagement now and that I leave town for a while. You deserve, at the very least, a peaceful Season without interference in your affairs. Who knows? Without me around, you might even meet a young lady worthy of you.

  Please know that you have my sincerest gratitude. To you I owe my life and future livelihood, as well as treasured memories of all the wonderful places you took me. Carlton House. The Elgin Marbles. Mr Turner’s gallery. Words cannot express what it meant to me to see those places. And to see them with you.

  I realise we can never now be the friends we have been over these last several weeks. I am to blame, but please know you will always be my very best friend in my heart.

  With fondest regards,

  G.

  He felt punched in the chest.

  ‘What is it, Ross?’ his father asked. ‘Bad news? Nothing to interfere with our meeting today, I hope.’

  The estate manager of their Kessington estate was in town expressly to meet with Ross, his father and his father’s man of business. Overseeing the Kessington estate was one of the responsibilities Ross was assuming for his father.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

  With Genna gone, where else did he have to be?

  Why did he feel as if a rug had been pulled out from under him? This was what he had planned, after all. He’d arranged it so she could become the artist she wished to be. He’d pay Vespery to make certain of it. He’d had a fine Season full of new experiences, shared with her. And finally she would cry off. He could search for what the Duchess would call a more suitable match.

  Although that idea made him faintly ill.

  Very ill, actually.

  He’d made a terrible mistake with this scheme he’d talked her into. He’d been attracted to Genna right from the first meeting. It was not enough that he liked her; he’d also desired her. He thought he could keep that side of him in check. He had no illusions any more. She would have defied Tinmore’s pressures, as she’d defied the Duchess’s. She did not break the engagement because of Tinmore, she did it because he’d allowed his desire for her to go unchecked. He’d known the power of lovemaking; she had no way of knowing it. It was because of him she’d cried off.

  Now he would likely never see her again.

  That thought made it hard to breathe.

  He fought to get it out of his head.

  He glanced over at his father. ‘Did you know the Duchess called upon Miss Summerfield yesterday?’

  His father lowered the Morning Post. ‘Did she? Glad she is coming around. We all have reservations about your choice of Miss Summerfield…’

  By ‘all’ Ross assumed his father meant the Duchess and his cronies.

  ‘But she is your choice, so we might as well become accustomed to her.’

  Well, if that was not damning with faint praise, Ross did not know what was. ‘Is that how Grandfather perceived my mother when you became betrothed to her?’

  His father placed the newspaper on the table, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘No, but, in those days, I would not have cared what he or anyone thought.’ He picked up the newspaper again. ‘I was a great deal younger than you, though. I must suppose yours is a more mature choice, even if I cannot see it.’

  Ross had been living a fantasy, the fantasy that he and Genna could be together without consequences. To others. To Genna. To him. He’d made everything worse.

  ‘Do you regret marrying my mother?’ Ross asked.

  ‘No,’ his father said wistfully, but his expression hardened suddenly. ‘Yes. Yes, I regret it. If I had not married her, she might still be alive.’

  Ross stared at him.

  His father lifted his newspaper again and spoke from behind it. ‘Your Miss Summerfield is made of sterner stuff, I hope.’

  Genna had been honed by living under an umbrella of scandal. She’d forgone all expected roles for herself to embrace one that fed her soul. Yes, that pointed to sterner stuff.

  His father put down the Morning Post and stood. ‘Well, I have much to do today before our meeting—’

  His father listed several things he had to do, but, as Ross listened, he realised most were not important. What, really, would be different if his father chose to use that time, say, to visit the Elgin Marbles? Ross suspected the Duchess’s duties were like that, as well. Optional.

  His father left the room. Ross opened Genna’s letter again and reread it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A week later, Genna sat on the hill overlooking Summerfield House, her wide-brimmed straw hat shading her face from the warm sun. What a contrast to the chill and snow of the last time she’d been in this same place.

  She glanced down at her sketchbook. Painting Summerfield House in a snow storm was a challenge in itself, especially on this fine May day with the hills dotted with white cow parsley, blue forget-me-nots, and, like an exotic accent, purple snakes’ heads.

  Perhaps she should give up painting memories and commit to what was presently before her eyes. Paint what you have, not what is gone.

  She turned the page of her sketchbook and started again.

  It was time to stop dreaming and to face life as it was. Not as vibrant and exciting as her fanciful drawing of Summerfield House with its impossible sky and grass, but lovely enough nonetheless.

  She added the colour she saw before her and a peace descended upon her for the first time in days. There was beauty enough in the world as it was. Why had she not seen that?

  She stepped back from the watercolour she’d produced and decided to add one more thing to finish it, something not really in the picture in front of her.

  One tiny memory could not hurt, could it?

  She added a grey horse and rider, galloping across the field. The horse’s mane and tail were raised in the wind and the man’s grey topcoat billowed out behind him, just like it had last December.

  She’d been at this vantage point for over two hours and the sun was getting lower on the horizon. It was time to pack up, although returning to Tinmore Hall held no real appeal. She was barely tolerated by the servants there, who seemed to go out of their way to let her know they resented serving her. Perhaps she would write
to Lord Penford and ask if she might stay the rest of the time at Summerfield Hall. She’d be content to use a room in the servants’ quarters and she’d be happy to perform whatever useful service he might require.

  As she rinsed her brushes in her jug of water, something caught her eye. A horse and rider galloping over the same space in the field where she’d painted them. A grey horse. Its rider wore no topcoat, though, and he was too far away to identify.

  Could it be? It made no sense that it would be.

  Hope could turn fanciful, apparently.

  She dried her brushes with a clean cloth and poured the water on to the ground. Packing up her paints and her rags and placing them in her large satchel, she remembered the last time she’d done this very thing. It had started to snow and he had been watching her.

  She heard a rustle behind her and the sound of a horse blowing air from its snout. She spun around.

  ‘I did not nearly run you over this time,’ he said.

  The breath left her body. ‘Ross.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I came to see if you needed assistance. A creature of habit, I suppose.’ He dismounted and his horse, Spirit, contently found some grass to nibble. ‘I see you are a creature of habit, as well, drawing the same scene.’ He walked over to her easel and examined it. ‘You’ve captured it,’ he said. ‘With the real colours this time.’ He did not mention the horse and rider, though, but he touched them lightly with his gloved finger.

  ‘I still do not understand why you are here,’ she said.

  A gust of wind blew over the easel. Ross caught the sketchbook before it tumbled to the ground.

  He did not answer her. ‘Are you returning to Tinmore Hall?’ he asked. ‘If so, may I convey you there? There is a place I would like to see on the way back. We could talk there.’

  She nodded and he helped her pack the rest of her things into her satchel. He helped her on to Spirit and climbed on behind her. She knew where he was heading.

  To the folly.

  This part of the estate was as overgrown as ever. Apparently Lord Penford’s improvements had not yet reached here. The white wood anemone covering the barely visible path reminded her of the snow that dotted this same area last time they rode here. They came to the folly, now canopied with trees bright green with new leaves. It looked even more fanciful than it had in the snow.

  Ross slid off Spirit and reached up to help her down, their eyes catching as he held her waist. She climbed the three steps of the folly and sat on the bench, dangling her feet as she had done before.

  She looked up at him. ‘So?’

  He leaned against one of the columns. ‘I missed you.’

  The words were like needles. She’d missed him, too. ‘That cannot be why you are here.’

  He paced. ‘Not entirely.’ He stopped and looked down at her. ‘You once were willing to take a very big chance and I would not let you. Are you willing to take another?’

  ‘Am I willing to seduce you again?’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Not that—although I might not object this time, provided you are willing to take this other gamble.’ His eyes were warm on her face and filled her with so many memories.

  ‘Just tell me what it is, Ross.’

  He sat next to her and took her hands in his. ‘Marry me.’

  ‘Marry you?’

  ‘Take a chance on me.’ His voice was low and earnest. ‘I know you do not believe in love, but I do. I have felt it since I met you and it did not leave even when you did.’

  She pulled her hands away. ‘No, Ross. I am unsuited. The Duchess was right in that regard. I would make a terrible duchess.’

  ‘You would make an unconventional one,’ he corrected. ‘And I’ve no objection to that. I’ve watched my father plan his day and discuss his activities afterwards. It struck me that most of what he does is unnecessary. I do not have to play politics all the time. I can be a duke differently than the one he is, than who my grandfather was. You can be who you wish to be, as well. God knows I do not wish you to be like the Duchess. You can paint portraits or landscapes or whatever you wish. I have no desire to limit you—’

  Think of the good she and Ross could do! Perhaps they could help all the hungry people, all the out-of-work soldiers—

  No. Ross, perhaps, but not her. The ton would never accept one of the scandalous Summerfields as the Duchess of Kessington.

  ‘I’m happy to use my rank to open doors for you,’ he went on. ‘And I will not require anything of you that you do not wish to do. All I ask of you is to take the chance to believe me. Believe that I love you and want you with me.’

  He loved her now. Would he love her later? Or would he leave her like everyone else she loved?

  ‘Would you answer me, Genna? Say something.’ His voice sounded anxious.

  She should stay safe and refuse him, but if she refused him now, it would guarantee losing him, would it not?

  ‘I am too scandalous,’ she said. Would he resent that some day? ‘I have already caused scandal by breaking our engagement. I cried off. Surely the ton is abuzz with that news. Think what they will say if we wind up betrothed again.’

  He stood and paced again. ‘Do I care about that? Not a whit.’ He turned and stood before her again. ‘Besides, no one knows you cried off besides you and me. In the eyes of the ton, we are still betrothed.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Truly?’

  He smiled. ‘Truly.’

  She glanced away again. ‘I’m afraid, Ross. I’m afraid you will stop loving me, that I will do something odd or something scandalous, or something wrong and you will despise me for it.’

  ‘I cannot promise to never be angry,’ he said. ‘Only to love you and be faithful to you.’

  She thought of all the things he’d done for her. He’d known her better than anyone, even her sisters.

  ‘Take a chance on me, Genna,’ he murmured.

  She rose and faced him. ‘There is no one more important to me than you, Ross. No one. You have never failed me. Not once.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Very well, Ross. I will take a chance on you.’

  He opened his arms and she bounded into them, holding him tight.

  ‘I shall try to never fail you.’ His lips caressed her ear.

  ‘I love you, Ross.’ Now she knew. Her feelings of friendship. The carnal desires. The wish for his well-being and happiness even over hers. What she felt was love.

  ‘And I love you, Genna.’ His head dipped down to hers. Before his lips touched hers, he added. ‘For always.’

  EPILOGUE

  Lincolnshire—Christmas Day 1816

  Summerfield House was fragrant with evergreen, with the turkey roasting in the kitchen and the flames licking around the yule log. The host and his guests burst into the hall, back from Christmas church services. Their cheeks were pink, and white flakes of snow on their hats, lashes and shoulders rapidly melted. They’d walked back from the village church, the one Genna and her sisters had attended all through their childhood. It was glorious to sit next to Tess again in the pew reserved for the Summerfields.

  Almost all the Summerfields would be together to celebrate Christmas Day. Tess and Marc were staying at Summerfield House with Dell, Ross and Genna. Lorene and Tinmore were expected for dinner. No one was eager for Tinmore’s company, but he was the price they would gladly pay to have Lorene with them.

  Only Edmund could not be with them, which was a shame, but it was for a very happy reason. His wife, Marc’s sister, was about to deliver a child in two or three months.

  Other than Edmund being gone, it would almost be like it used to be.

  Only better.

  Because Genna was married to Ross.

  People actually called her the Marchioness of Rossdale. It made her giggle.


  In the hall of Summerfield House this Christmas Day, Genna hugged Lord Penford—Dell—the man responsible for this lovely day. ‘Have I thanked you for inviting us all for Christmas, Cousin?’

  ‘A dozen or so times, Genna.’ Dell extricated himself from her grasp and turned to the others, who were all divesting themselves of topcoats, hats and gloves. ‘I’ve asked the servants to have some wassail for us in the drawing room and something to eat.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Marc offered Tess his arm.

  Before they had a chance to leave the hall, though, there was a knock on the door. The two footmen were already laden with coats and such, so Ross opened it.

  ‘Lady Tinmore!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Lorene,’ she corrected, stepping inside. ‘I did not expect to see you attending the door.’

  He leaned his head outside before closing it.

  ‘Lorene!’ Genna ran over to her and gave her a buss on the cheek. ‘Let us get those wet things off you. How did you get so full of snow?’

  ‘I walked,’ she said.

  ‘Walked?’

  ‘You are alone?’ Ross asked. ‘Where is Tinmore?’

  Dell helped her off with her cloak.

  ‘Tinmore refused to attend,’ she said. ‘I do not think he wished to be among my family. He tried to keep me from coming. Refused me the carriage, so I walked.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Tess said. ‘Was he very angry that you defied him?’

  Lorene shrugged. ‘Quite. But I wanted to spend Christmas with my sisters. So I came anyway.’

  ‘Good for you!’ Genna said. ‘You stood up to him.’

  ‘We will see how good it is when I return home.’ Lorene laughed.

  ‘I do not know about the rest of you, but I am in great need of wassail,’ Marc said.

  ‘As am I,’ Ross agreed.

  * * *

  The Summerfield sisters had a lovely afternoon together and a lovely dinner with the men most important to them. Afterwards, they all sat around the yule fire, exchanging gifts, Dell gave Lorene some piano music. He gave Tess and Genna trinkets from the house. Tess and Marc gave everyone books. Like the previous year, Genna gave them paintings she’d done. She’d painted scenes of Summerfield House, parts of the house or estate that had been special to each of her sisters. She gave a miniature of herself to Ross and one of Tess to Marc. She’d done one of Lorene for Tinmore, as well, as she had the year before. At least this one would not be thrown on the floor. Dell offered to hang it in Summerfield House instead. For Dell she framed an oil painting of the landscape around Summerfield House, showing the house in the distance.