Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  She lowered the page. “That is really . . . something, is it not? The woman is a harlot, while the gentleman should be an afterthought. Not that I agree with their opinion on Clayton. That is neither here nor there.”

  “Enough,” Cora whispered loudly, nudging her sister in the knee into silence, then casting a less-than-discreet nod in Sylvia’s direction.

  Oh, God, it was too much.

  Sylvia looked away from the pitying stare over to where her mother sat between Clara and Lila. And Sylvia would hand it to her mother. Give credit where credit was due. She would have expected the dowager countess to be reduced to a blubbering mess of rage and tears, as she’d been when Sylvia stated her intentions to not move back in with her family, as they had both wished and expected.

  What Sylvia had not expected, however, was for the dowager countess to join the Mismatch Society . . . and remain so very composed through Sylvia’s scandal.

  No, in the greatest of role reversals, Sylvia sat there, fighting to not give in to histrionics, while her mother was the composed one.

  Nay, not composed—her mother was enraged . . . on her behalf. And that show of support proved somewhat steadying.

  “A lover,” her mother spat. “As if you would ever.”

  The other ladies present all added their support of the dowager countess. Sylvia briefly directed her gaze up to the ceiling out of fear that someone present might see an imprint of that wickedness she’d shared with Clayton. Only, it hadn’t felt wicked. It had been wonderful and freeing, and there’d been no shame in it. And now to have their relationship called into question before all of Polite Society? In a scandal sheet?

  Sylvia returned her gaze to the table before her, covered with various newspapers.

  In many scandal sheets, she silently amended.

  “It is . . . preposterous. You are none of these things,” Anwen said in Sylvia’s defense.

  “Of course she’s not,” Cora said.

  But it didn’t matter what she was. Just society’s belief and perception were the reality. And the reality was, a mother of ill repute could and likely would have her authority over her child questioned.

  Oh, God.

  KnockKnockKnock.

  Sylvia looked over to the one wielding the gavel, the unlikeliest one. Her mother, having commanded the attention of the room, stood at the center. “Now, lamenting what has been said is a waste of our energies and efforts. What we must concentrate our attentions on is correcting the situation.”

  Correcting the situation. As if they were speaking about repairing a torn hem or retuning an old pianoforte, and not Sylvia’s thoroughly shredded reputation.

  “She is correct,” Clayton’s mother called out, her support earning a pleased little nod from the dowager countess. “We simply need to . . . fix it. Make it go away.” Her eyes narrowed. “Find those responsible and see that we make their existence very, very uncomfortab—”

  Approving cheers went up around the membership.

  “That isn’t . . . ,” her mother tried again, struggling to make herself heard over the rambunctious group. “That isn’t what I was saying,” she said, and raised her voice—in vain—to be heard. “I said, that isn’t what I was saying.”

  Clara stood and held her arms wide, silencing the group once more. “Our individual rage does nothing. Collectively, a show of support, however, is what Sylvia needs. Along with possible solutions.”

  The ladies all looked around at one another helplessly. As helpless as Sylvia herself felt.

  “Society knows better,” Brenna murmured. “Clayton would never go about . . . doing . . . doing . . . what it says he’s done.”

  Actually, he had done that . . . and more. Such were truths, however, that Sylvia would never share with anyone, let alone his sisters.

  “Perhaps if he and the proper gentlemen he is friendly with vouch for him?” Anwen volunteered with the same level of optimism as her brother.

  “Yes, let’s begin with Landon and Scarsdale. The two worst rogues should do much toward helping the situation,” Cora muttered, earning a sharp kick from her eldest sister. “Ouch.” Cora rushed to grab for the bespectacled girl when the Viscountess St. John placed two fingers to her lips and whistled sharply.

  Both women instantly stopped their fighting.

  Sylvia’s mother winced and gave her head a faint, horrified shake.

  “We might launch a campaign ourselves,” Miss Dobson suggested. “Between the lot of us and our familial connections, surely we might quash the gossip?”

  This wasn’t going to go away. Because it wasn’t supposed to. Lord and Lady Prendergast intended to bury Sylvia with her sins and scandals. Think. Think. Sylvia pressed her fingertips against her temples in a bid to drill a solution into her head and rid herself of the growing megrim.

  “It is more likely it will lead to the quashing of the Mismatch Society,” Emma Gately said on a pain-filled whisper.

  Yes, there was that reality, too.

  “Does anyone have any other solutions?”

  “Have we even heard one?” Annalee asked with her usual dryness.

  Valerie scanned her notes. “We have the idea of Lord St. John’s influence, and the influence of the Mismatch Society, and . . .” She lifted her forlorn gaze. “That is all.”

  That was all, indeed.

  “There is always marriage,” Sylvia’s mother put forward, her half-hearted suggestion drowned out once more.

  This was going nowhere. Sylvia climbed to her feet. “I thank each of you for your support and unswerving loyalty. I am grateful. I also need to think.”

  Clara claimed the gavel, and banged it once. “I think that is wise for all of us. We need to reconvene. We need to come together when we’re in a clear frame of mind and we’ve each had time to think individually on a way out of this.”

  Sylvia forced her features into a serene mask, one that belied the panic knocking around at her insides, as she said her goodbyes to each member of the society, until only her family and Annalee and Valerie remained.

  “Do you want company?” Valerie offered tentatively.

  No. There was no one she wished to see just then.

  She was proven wrong a moment later.

  Her son came hurtling into the room, laughing as he raced ahead of his nursemaid. Vallen tossed himself at Sylvia, and she caught him up in her arms, swinging him about. “I needed that,” she said in all sincerity as he wrapped his chubby little arms around her neck and squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe for a moment. He planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “Go,” she said to the group still gathered. “I am fine.” Nothing would be . . . but in this moment, it was.

  “Bye-bye, Grammy,” Vallen said, waving a hand wildly at the reserved matriarch of their group.

  And though she prided herself on her strict reserve, the dowager countess went all soft in the eyes, waving both her hands in a greeting and a goodbye.

  Valerie was the last to leave, closing the door behind her.

  And then Sylvia and Vallen . . . were alone.

  “You’re sad.”

  “I’m not,” she said as she set him down on his feet.

  He sucked on his thumb. “Scared?”

  “Does Mama get scared?”

  “You said everyone gets scared and—” He giggled wildly as she tickled him in the sensitive spots under both of his arms until she drove away his worry.

  “Will we see Eris and Clay?”

  Eris and Clayton.

  How could they go out now without attracting more gossip and scandal? Sylvia felt tears sting her eyes, and she furiously blinked them back to keep her son from seeing them. “Not this morn, love.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “No, I’m afraid Mama has things to see to.” The important one of holding on to her son at all costs. Sylvia fought the rising panic. Damn her in-laws. Damn—

  “What ’bout tomorrow?”

  “I said I don’t know when we can see them again,” she
cried, and then immediately hated herself. Vallen’s lower lip trembled, and big tears filled his eyes, and she hated herself all the more. “I’m sorry,” she said, gathering him into her arms once more, and just holding him for all she was worth. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “I like them.”

  “I do, too, love,” she soothed as he wept.

  “I want him to be my da.”

  Oh, God. Her heart couldn’t take this. For Clayton was the manner of father her son had deserved, and he was the manner of man she had always dreamed of and wanted and—

  There is always marriage . . .

  Her mother’s suggestion danced in the air.

  And yet the idea of it, her consideration, didn’t come from a solution to her crisis, though it would certainly be one. It came from a place of finally being able to acknowledge to herself that she loved him. She always had. And when she imagined a future between him and another, it ravaged her. Because she wanted him in her life. Not as some secret. Not as a friend she had to surreptitiously steal time with.

  She . . . wanted to marry him. She wanted to wake up in the same bed as him. She wanted to travel with him. She wanted to spend every moment of every waking day they had together. Sylvia waited for the rush of horror and the panic to come. After years of living in a loveless marriage and then learning of her husband’s betrayal, she was now considering entering into that state . . . again.

  Only, this time, it would be . . . with Clayton. Her friend. Her lover. Her partner.

  It was Clayton. It had always been him. Then, she’d been a girl, waiting for him to move from friend to suitor before coming to accept there were no romantic feelings on his part. Now, she was a woman. A woman determined to take her future—their future—into her own hands.

  And for the first time since her world had fallen apart that morning, Sylvia smiled.

  Chapter 25

  Clayton found himself with an unlikely quiet at the breakfast table. A rarity in a household full of women.

  That silence proved short-lived.

  “They’ve left me.” Eris sighed, dropping her chin forlornly atop the table.

  Clayton accepted a cup of coffee from a footman, and waved off the copy of The Times the young man offered. “Who?”

  “All of them,” she groused. “Mama, Cora, Anwen, Brenna. Even Daria and Delia went this time. I want to be old. Like you.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “You’re welcome.” Eris let out another aggrieved, exaggerated exhale.

  He would miss these days when her innocent ability to let sarcasm go undetected was at an end. Clayton set down his glass and leaned over to whisper near her ear. “Trust me, you don’t want to wish it all away, poppet.” He rustled her curls. “The older you are, the more difficult and complicated everything else is.”

  She swatted his hand. “Don’t patron me.”

  Patron . . . ? “Patronize?”

  “That’s what I said, Clayton. You go to bed when you want. You eat all the sweets you want. You stay out late. You see your friends whenever you want.”

  It was an impressively sturdy argument from his youngest sister, indicating that mayhap she wasn’t so very far away from losing that pure child’s innocence. It was a sad and sobering realization. “Point . . . taken. There are some benefits to being an adult. But there’ll be time enough for all that. For now, enjoy being a child.”

  She glared at him.

  And to soften that display of her disapproval, he offered her one of his two chocolate biscuits.

  Eris gave him a look.

  Clayton hesitated, eyeing the tray where the remainder of the chocolate biscuits had been, before they’d likely been devoured by his uncharacteristically earlier-rising sisters. With a sigh, he handed over the last one on his plate.

  His youngest sister smiled around the mouthful of biscuit she’d already started devouring. “Thatsbevver,” she said, dusting the back of her hand over her mouth. She swallowed a big bite, and then took another.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall.

  Alas, it appeared his sisters had returned.

  Landon appeared in the doorway with Scarsdale at his side.

  “There’s a scandal, a—” He stopped midsentence and dropped a deep bow. “Lady Eris.”

  “I’m a miss.” Eris rolled her eyes. “You should know that. I keep telling you.”

  “Alas, I’m still learning.”

  Eris promptly ignored him and turned her attention on Scarsdale. “Wherefsyourbow?” she demanded around another big bite of her morning treat. With a chocolate-stained finger, she wagged it in the gentleman’s direction.

  Properly scolded, Scarsdale bent low at the waist. “Miss Eris.”

  Clayton’s sister nodded slowly. She took a long and audible swallow. “Better.”

  “Why don’t you run along, poppet, so I can discuss whatever business has brought these scoundrels here to visit so early.”

  It was the wrong thing for Clayton to say. His sister set her jaw at a defiant angle. “I want to stay.”

  Of course she did. From over the top of her head, he caught the amused look exchanged between Landon and Scarsdale.

  With a wide smile, Landon brandished a small leather sack from inside his jacket front; he dangled it by the two black strings.

  Hopping up, Eris held out a palm and wiggled her fingers.

  Taking that as an invitation to join her, Landon placed the item in her hand.

  Her head bent, Eris opened it and peered around the inside, sifting through whatever those contents were. She nodded once. “Peppermints will do,” she said, and with a jaunty little wave, she skipped off for the doorway before stopping midstride. Doubling back, she stuck the strings for the little velvet sack between her teeth and filled her hands with the remnants of her biscuits. Not bothering to turn back, she lifted them both, waved, and then was gone.

  Scarsdale gave his head a rueful shake. “Remind me never to complain about my four brothers. Your sister is positively ruthless.”

  “Speaking of ruthless.” Landon snapped his fingers, and Scarsdale waved a copy of The Times, which had until now been tucked under his arm. The marquess looked to the servants. “If you would?”

  “Dismissing my servants, are you?” Clayton drawled when the young men had all filed neatly from the room. He picked up his coffee. “What crisis is it now?” he asked as Scarsdale took the liberty of shutting the door behind them. “A problem with the mistress? Another bad hand at cards?”

  Landon laughed good-naturedly. “Alas, this time, there’s a different naughty scoundrel amongst us. Scandal is a-brewing.” Landon tossed a paper at Clayton’s chest, knocking the grip Clayton had on his cup, spilling droplets of the black brew into what was left of his morning meal. “And it appears for once you are at the heart of it.”

  “What in hell is this?” he muttered as he scanned the front pages of the favored society paper.

  “And cursing now, too,” Landon remarked with a sharp bark of laughter. “It appears you have been corrupted, after all.”

  Corrupted.

  And yet . . .

  That was precisely what the newspaper was reporting.

  Scandal!

  What in hell was this? With every word read, he sat farther and farther upright in his seat.

  A wanton widow . . . caught leaving the company of a gentleman whose identity is believed to be that of Lord S. John . . . though most have contested the gentleman’s identity. It is highly unlikely, given the gentleman’s reputation . . . Now, that of the mother? There is no doubting the manner of woman she is . . . A shameful mother . . .

  “You’re only just telling me of this?” he cried.

  Landon bristled. “I had business at my clubs, and . . .” He angled his head in Scarsdale’s direction. “Who the hell knows what he was doing. Disappearing with one of his mistresses or another, which you really shouldn’t make him feel badly for, as he’s been hear
tbrok—”

  “All right. All right!” Clayton interrupted that seemingly never-ending defense. Not that any defense was needed. It was hardly Landon and Scarsdale’s fault.

  Flummoxed, he collapsed against the red velvet upholstery of his breakfast chair. Horror. Fury. Worry. So many emotions that he couldn’t settle on just one and was left with a tumult inside. He didn’t give a jot what the papers printed about him, but what they said about Sylvia? Nor did he have a doubt as to who was responsible for spreading the poison here.

  Rage darkened his vision.

  When he could properly see again, Clayton read and reread the words written there. And then he read them once more for good measure. Wanting them to change. Needing them to change. And yet, they did not. The vile, ink-black marks remained the same. About her. Shameful, unfair, and hateful ones she was undeserving of.

  Hurling the paper across the room, Clayton let fly a string of curses.

  With a contrasting calm, both men settled into chairs, each on the opposite side of Clayton. And what was worse . . . In place of their usual banter, there was only a damning, accusatory silence.

  Clayton sat, staring at the wall ahead of him, avoiding looking at either man. For a moment, he thought the other men knew. That they suspected all the wicked and wonderful things he’d done to and with Sylvia.

  “We know it’s not true,” Scarsdale said quietly. “You’d never do something in bad form . . . and certainly nothing so outrageous as pursuing the lady.”

  Their late best friend’s widow. Why didn’t they just say it? They were both thinking it.

  “Of course he wouldn’t . . . ,” Landon scoffed, and then there was a noticeable hesitation. “Right?”

  Clayton closed his eyes on his friend’s question. This was certainly not a discussion he wanted to have now or ever. Particularly even less at this moment, when all he wanted to do was go to Sylvia. For years, he’d said nothing. For years, he’d concealed from his friends all he felt for Norfolk’s wife.

  “I cannot say that,” Clayton said hoarsely. “I love her. I have loved her since I met her. And I would do anything to see her spared from pain.” And yet, doing just that all those years ago, he’d inadvertently sentenced her to an unhappy marriage with Norfolk. He made himself open his eyes and look at the silent pair of gentlemen next to him. Braced for their condemnation. Waiting for them to call him out as a dishonorable friend.