Scandalous Scions Two

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Will hid his reluctance and moved into the room. “You made yourself tea?” he asked, astonished.

  His father lifted a brow. “I do know how to light a stove. There is little else required to make tea other than a delicate hand with the tea leaves.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Will said dryly. His throat contracted. He would appreciate a cup of tea himself, although he had no intention of asking his father if he could take a cup from the big teapot sitting on the sideboard beside the biscuit basket. Instead, he lifted the basket lid.

  Gingerbread and tea biscuits. He liked the ginger biscuits Raymond’s cook made. She only made them when fresh ginger was available, though. Ah well. He took three pieces of gingerbread and a cake plate from the stack and sat in the chair at the middle of the table. “Today’s papers are here already?” he asked.

  “These are yesterday’s,” Vaughn said.

  Not for the first time, Will consciously noticed the amount of gray in his father’s hair. Vaughn still had thick, vigorous locks, yet the gray at his temples was solid silver, with little black left elsewhere.

  The skin about Vaughn’s jaw was loose, too. The flesh beneath his chin soft and rounded. Yet, his green eyes were still those of a young man. Will had seen them snapping with fiery anger when Vaughn was roused to one of his rare fits of temper.

  Will busied himself arranging the plate in front of him and reaching for a napkin and spreading it across his knee. It was uncomfortable to think of his father growing older. “You didn’t read those papers yesterday?” he asked.

  “I did,” Vaughn replied. “However, it pays in unexpected ways to occasionally read every word in them.”

  “Even the classified advertisements?” Will asked, thinking of the hyperbole and gossip found in those columns.

  “Especially the advertisements,” Vaughn said. He pointed to the heavy black ink of the Times. “I keep waiting to see a certain announcement among them.”

  His heart skipping, Will busied himself with eating a mouthful of the gingerbread. It was stale and dry.

  “Will,” his father said, his voice firm.

  Will sighed. It had been several months since they had last argued over his unmarried state. One could almost say another argument was overdue. “Father, please, not today,” Will begged him. “You can scream and take your pound of flesh tomorrow.”

  “Today is better than tomorrow,” Vaughn said. “You keep putting this matter off. I cannot.”

  Will pushed the fingers of his spare hand against his temple. “Why must I marry?” he demanded. “Why now? Plenty of fellows don’t bother with getting an heir until they’re almost too old to manage it. I’m only thirty—”

  “And I am fifty-eight,” Vaughn shot back, his tone cold and filled with iron. “Your mother is sixty-two, Will.” He hesitated. “Of course, I did not share that number with you.”

  “Of course not,” Will said, while his heart squeezed and his gut roiled. Sixty-two! Elisa had been frail after the illness that had taken her two years ago, although Will had not coupled that to her advanced age. She still looked younger than many women he presumed would be near to her in years.

  Vaughn nodded, as if he could see Will’s thoughts. “Time is relentless, Will.” He tapped the newspaper sheet in front of him. “Reading the classified advertisements, with their death notices and their birth notices is a reminder that this family has been luckier than many others. Death has not visited us often. I’d like to think our luck is because of the family’s insistence upon living well and finding happiness in whatever way we can—”

  “Yes!” Will said, leaping upon the statement with relief. “Exactly! Why can I not stay happy, father? Why are you insisting upon a wedding and a child, when I will be perfectly miserable and so will she?”

  “Are you happy, Will?” Vaughn asked, his gaze direct and unwavering. “You came down to Sussex for Christmas, although you have spent little time with everyone here.”

  “There are clubs in Brighton…” Will said weakly.

  Vaughn nodded. “I am aware of them,” he said. “You have been gone two days, Will. Two days, without a word to your host, or your mother. And now you drag yourself in here at the crack of dawn, looking as if you have spent most of those two days at the bottom of a brandy barrel. You reek of cologne and it is not yours.” His mouth turned down. “You look like a man who is living hard and fast. Not a single man I know was ever truly happy living as you are.”

  “It’s better than being married,” Will said, his voice tight. His heart worked uneasily, the beat echoing in his head. What his father was saying was an echo of what Bridget had once said to him. He remembered that stinging observation of hers now.

  Well, Bridget was off ensuring her own happiness, this Christmas. Just as he was making his own.

  Only, was he happy? Now his father had said the words aloud, Will could not avoid the truth. Clubs and brandy and cigars, women both refined and not…none of it gave him any satisfaction, anymore. He had spent two days at the small, provincial club in Brighton, determined to stay and carouse until he enjoyed himself. If he could get drunk enough, the dissatisfaction and the restlessness evaporated. For a while, at least.

  “You used to hunt all the time,” Vaughn added. “You’ve stopped even that, which was at least good exercise, out in fresh air.”

  “You may have noticed it is Christmas, father. Hunting is done for the year.”

  “Did you hunt at all, this year?” Vaughn replied.

  Will stared at his plate.

  “My observation stands, then,” Vaughn finished.

  “If it is a matter of fresh air…” Will began.

  “It is not only that,” Vaughn said. He sighed and sat back. “You are determined to find any way that will let you avoid looking the truth in the eye. You haven’t been happy for a long time, Will. It runs deeper than that, though. It’s eating at your soul. Whatever it is, it won’t let you consider taking a wife, when you have examples all around you of how comforting and pleasant married life can be.”

  “You love Mama,” Will ground out. “That’s why you like being married.” He couldn’t lift his gaze from the plate. The pounding in his head was increasing.

  “I love Elisa in ways you barely comprehend,” Vaughn said. “Although I was once exactly like you. I was too busy looking for the next adventure, the next warm bed, to let myself do anything as foolish as fall in love.”

  Will jerked, surprise biting deep. “You were?” He met his father’s gaze. “You?”

  Vaughn’s smile was small. “You and I are much alike, even though all anyone can see in you is your mother’s good looks. That has made life rather easy and pleasant for you. I suspect you have never had to work hard to woo a lady.”

  Will cleared his throat, his discomfort rising like a hot wave inside him. It was eerie how precise his father’s observations were. That it was his father saying such things increased his uneasiness.

  Vaughn gave a soft laugh. “I can see I am right, by the way you wriggle upon the chair. Enough said. We understand each other, I think. It’s time for you to reconsider, Will.”

  “Reconsider what?” Will asked, his voice strained.

  “Everything,” Vaughn replied. “The end of the year seems like an appropriate time to review one’s life, does it not?” He rested his hand on the paper, close to Will’s elbow. “I know speaking of these things is awkward, Will. Men have a hard time dealing with such matters. However, if you wish to speak further, I am willing to spend whatever time you need, to help you arrive at a new perspective.”

  Will shook his head. “You will do whatever it takes to see me married,” he surmised.

  “Oh, Will,” Vaughn breathed. “I would do whatever I must to see you happy. I believe finding a good woman and marrying her is one way. It was for me. However, if you examine yourself and arrive at the conclusion that marriage is truly not for you, if you can determine a different way to be happy, then I would applaud you for t
he effort.”

  Will blinked. His eyes burned. A childish wail built in his innards. “What about heirs?” His voice was husky, barely there. “The titles…”

  “If it comes to that, we will deal with it,” Vaughn said, his voice gentle. “Just don’t cut yourself off from one of life’s greatest pleasures, son. Think carefully, before you decide.”

  Will closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at his father. Misery clouded his thoughts.

  Vaughn’s chair scraped the floor. His father’s hand settled on Will’s shoulder and squeezed, then lifted away. “Get some sleep, Will,” Vaughn said, his tone still gentle. “Things will look better once you’ve rested. They always do.”

  Will didn’t have the courage to speak. He was afraid that if he tried, everything would pour out of him, a dark river of woes. He listened to his father leave the room, heading for the main stairs, then put his head in his hands and shuddered.

  * * * * *

  Gloucestershire. Christmas, 1868

  Bridget smoothed down the velvet of her gown even though not a fold of the dress was out of place. She felt conspicuous, for the dining table she stood beside could easily contain another forty people, yet it was set for only two.

  Bridget looked at the other diner. Alan Hardwick, Duke of Taplow, waited for her to seat herself, for no butler or footman was in the room to assist and clearly, he was not about to do that service for her either. He was a duke, after all.

  Her throat tightened and her heart knocked against her chest. She had arrived at the estate late this afternoon, with barely enough time to wash the dirt of travel from her and change for dinner. She had made her way downstairs, expecting to meet the rest of the Duke’s family in the drawing room, only to find Taplow standing at the fireplace alone.

  He had hurried her into the dining room and now stood waiting for her to sit.

  Bridget brought her hand to her throat, unease squeezing it. “I am afraid I do not understand, your Grace. We are the only diners? Where is your family? It is the day before Christmas Eve…”

  “It will just be us, Lady Bridget,” Taplow replied. He was a handsome man, in a clean and dark way. His hair gleamed blue in the light of the overhead candelabra and his jaw was refined, even if it did come to a rather feminine point at the chin. His smile was warm. “I thought we should learn about each other before…well, before anything else happens.”

  Before she was presented to the family, Bridget guessed.

  Taplow’s smile grew warmer. “And did I not encourage you to call me Alan, the way your family do among themselves?”

  Bridget tried to clear her throat, to relieve the pressure there. “I am uncomfortable with the idea of dining with you alone, your—Alan. Where is your butler, by the way?” She looked around.

  “I dismissed him for the night,” Taplow said. “We cannot talk freely with him hovering over us. I would prefer that we be able to talk. Sit, Bridget. Please.”

  She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, considering the big, empty table. The varnished walnut surface beyond the edges of the white tablecloth gleamed, looking empty and cold.

  “I’m afraid my appetite has deserted me,” she confessed.

  Taplow let his hands drop from the back of his chair. “Oh, good,” he breathed, relief sounding in his voice. “I have no desire to eat, either.” He stepped around the table and picked up her hand. His black eyes met hers. “I can only think of you,” he added, his voice low. His lips touched the back of her knuckles. It was a warm touch. A soft one.

  Bridget shivered. “We should…perhaps, go back to the drawing room, where the staff can find us…” Her voice was weak. She did not understand what was happening, here. She had never been put in a situation like this, before. There were no guidelines, no protocol to instruct her.

  “Why would we do that?” Taplow asked. He curled his arm around her waist and drew her close, so that her dress swayed back and she was nearly pressed against him.

  Bridget’s heart chattered. Her breath hurried. She wasn’t sure if she was frightened or if she liked standing this close to the man. She had no experience to measure her reaction.

  Only, it did feel rather nice. Taplow was taller than most men—although he certainly didn’t have the height that Cian and Peter and other men in her family did. Standing beside a tall man made her feel small and weak and feminine.

  This close, she could feel his warmth, too. That was a novel experience.

  Taplow watched her, his smile lingering. “There. See? The world did not shatter.”

  Bridget tried to laugh. Her throat was far too restricted. She smiled instead, forcing herself to it. “Perhaps I misunderstood your invitation, your—Alan. I thought you were inviting me to share Christmas with your family.”

  “I did,” Taplow assured her. “Tomorrow, I will take you to the other house. Tonight, though, I wanted to be just about you and me.”

  Relief touched her. She was still wary, though. “Intimacy is supposed to be for after…other things.” She would not be uncouth enough to mention marriage right now. It would make her seem manipulative.

  Taplow nodded. She could see he recognized what she had avoided saying. “You are a woman with a mind,” he said. “I would have you know me properly, to make up your own mind, before those other things. I want us to understand each other thoroughly, so we can be certain. Don’t you agree?”

  Something in her relaxed. She could breathe once more. “Oh, yes, Alan,” she murmured. “I would like that above all.”

  Why had she been concerned? She had not misread the situation at all. This was Taplow’s way of ensuring their commitment was based upon mutual….well, knowledge.

  At least he had not smothered her with declarations of love she could not believe. He was sparing her that hypocrisy. Instead he was offering a chance to form an intimate relationship before they committed to each other. It was more than many men would bother to do.

  The last of her fear fell away. Bridget met his gaze once more. “How did you guess?” she asked.

  “Guess what?”

  “That I would prefer above all to know you properly before…those other things?”

  Taplow drew her closer, so their bodies were against each other. Bridget shivered at the contact, which wasn’t unpleasant at all. “Either I understand you completely, or a little bird told me,” he murmured and pressed his lips to hers.

  Bridget sighed into his mouth. There had been only two kisses before this one, yet they had been enough to tell her she liked kissing. This kiss was far more thorough and far more pleasurable.

  Taplow—Alan—kissed her until her breath was quick, shallow pants and her body throbbed.

  Then he took her hand and drew her from the room, up the stairs, to her borrowed bedroom. Bridget went willingly, eager to learn this great mystery of life and cement her relationship.

  How sweet Taplow was, to consider her fears and feelings and try to ease them like this! She had until now wondered if she was doing the right thing, allowing Taplow to court her. Now, though, she could see her instincts had been correct. Taplow was a good man.

  This coming night would cement the unspoken agreement between them, paving the way for Taplow to propose…possibly in the two days while celebrating Christmas with his family.

  When Taplow opened the door to her room and stepped inside and waited for her to enter, Bridget didn’t hesitate.

  Chapter Three

  Marblethorpe Manor Estate, Sussex. January 1869.

  The mist was so thick it would have been more correct to call it a fog. It swirled over the fourteen shooters, the spotters and the dogs, as they moved across the field, strung out in a wavering row. The dogs were panting, eager to dive into the clouds. They pulled at their leashes longingly. They were well trained and didn’t bark or make sounds that would startle the pheasants before the shooters were ready.

  Will tucked the broken-open shotgun under his arm into a more comfortable position and trudged forward,
gritting his jaw. It was cold. Colder than he ever remembered it being, especially down here in Sussex. He shivered under the layers of coat and jacket and scarf.

  Worse, he couldn’t catch his breath. The line of shooters was not moving fast, although the mud of the fields and the uneven plowed furrows left from the summer took effort to navigate without turning an ankle. His breath bellowed and his calves ached. He couldn’t remember shooting being this exhausting before and they hadn’t even started yet.

  He glanced to his right. Bedford had no trouble keeping up with the line. Lord John Barstow, newly minted Marquess of Bedford, was the same age as Will and just as capable of finishing a decanter before dinner as Will.

  Bedford saw Will’s glance and grinned, his dark features lightening. Beneath the hunting cap, his black, shaggy hair was damp with the fog and clung to his forehead and cheeks. His cheeks were ruddy with the cold. “Just think of the breakfast we’ll have when we’re done and cheer up, old chap!”

  Will grimaced. “I would cheer up, except for the thought that we must walk all the way back, afterward.” He tripped over a clod of earth and swore under his breath. Really, this was ridiculous. He was a young man. Well, young enough that he should not be breathless from walking across a field.

  “Tell you what,” Bedford replied. “If you bag more than me, I will carry you back. How does that sound?”

  Will snorted. “Done,” he said swiftly. “You’re a fool, Bedford. I can always out-shoot you.”

  Bedford laughed, keeping his voice down. “You haven’t been on a shoot for over two years. You’re rusty, Rothmere.”

  Will didn’t respond. He needed his breath just to walk. Also, Bedford was right. He was out of practice. Only, he was still a good natural shot and there were trophies and awards on the bookshelves at Farleigh Manor and even more of them at Kirkaldy to prove it. More of them than Bedford could lay claim to, for most of them he had stolen from Bedford by a hair’s breadth.