It Takes a Scandal (35 page)

Something caught his eye as he neared the house. There was a movement in the woods, and then, to his intense relief, Abigail emerged from the trees, a look of deep uncertainty on her face. She raised one hand, and he saw Boris’s big black head butting her arm. She stopped and turned to the dog, bending down to him and patting his ears. Sebastian had no trouble recognizing his dog’s expression, even in the fading light: bliss.

“Good dog,” he muttered. “
Damned
good dog.” Then he raised his voice. “Abigail!”

She turned toward him, and the hesitation on her face vanished. In the blink of an eye, Sebastian’s heart went from pounding with apprehension to throbbing with hope. He took a step in her direction, and she ran at him, holding up her green skirt. He dropped his cane and caught her in both arms, inhaling a harsh breath of elation at the feel of her against him again.

“Oh, Sebastian,” she gasped against his chest. “I worried so when you disappeared last night, and Penelope said you were avoiding me—”

“Even when I wanted to avoid you, I couldn’t.” He tipped up her chin until she met his eyes. “I was just at Hart House, hoping it wasn’t too late.”

Her bosom heaved with every breath she took. “Too late for what?”

He gazed into her eyes, those starry eyes that had bewitched him from the start. “To tell you I adore you. I tried to deny it, and then I tried to ignore it, and now it seems like the only truth I know. I love you, Abigail Weston.”

Her smile was glorious. “Lord Atherton proposed to me today.”

“What did you tell him?” he asked in a low voice, tensing in spite of himself. Penelope could have been completely wrong, after all . . .

“No,” she exclaimed with a little burst of disbelieving laughter. “I told him no! And he—and he—” She stopped, staring pleadingly at him.

“What did he do?” Sebastian felt the sudden urge to go pound Ben into the dirt.

“He asked . . . if I was rejecting him for you,” she whispered. “I told him of course not, because you hadn’t asked me anything, and yet . . . I think I rejected him because I was hoping so desperately you
would
ask me . . . because I am in love with you, and I could never marry him when I would always want you instead.”

His heart soared. “And you came here to tell me that?”

She nodded.

All the glory of heaven seemed to shine on him. Sebastian thought he heard angels singing. A smile curved his mouth. “I wasn’t going to Hart House merely to tell you I love you. I want you to choose me over Ben, whether I deserve it or not.”

“I already did,” she said softly. “Weeks ago.”

His fingers tightened on her arms as the joyful glow receded. “But I spoke to your father today. I asked his permission to marry you—”

“Yes,” she cried, straining toward him.

He held her at bay. “He refused, darling.”

“Bother him!” Her smile was blinding with happiness. “He’ll change his mind after I talk to him.”

Sebastian knew he should doubt. Thomas Weston had been firm in his denial. But her reply was everything he’d hoped to hear; her confidence swept aside his worry, and recklessly he believed. He kissed her hungrily. “Marry me, Abigail,” he breathed against her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, winding her arms around his neck. “Yes, yes,
yes
.”

They might have stood there kissing for an hour, but the storm chose that moment to break. Icy drops of rain pelted down, swelling to a downpour in a matter of seconds. Abigail shrieked with laughter, Sebastian cursed, and they ran for the house, hand in hand. By the time he managed to get the door open and let them in, her hair hung in dripping locks and his neck was soaked where the water had run down his coat collar. Boris trotted past them and gave a great shake, sending water everywhere.

“Boris!” He wiped his face as Abigail laughed again. “I’m sorry, I’m not prepared for visitors,” he said, belatedly realizing how rough his home was. The fire was laid in the grate, but not lit until absolutely necessary. The furniture was old and threadbare, the floors scuffed. He could make her a cup of tea, but there was no milk, no cake, no biscuits.

“I didn’t come for tea.” Her eyes shone. “I consider myself at home.”

He grinned. “You are.”

She pulled a few pins from her hair and shook her head, sending wet curls tumbling down her back. “Perhaps you could read to me?”

Sebastian went very still. “What would you like to hear?”

Beautiful color bloomed in her cheeks. “I think you know . . .”

Rain lashed the windows. It might last an hour or all night. A man of honor would resist. A man of conscience would remember her father’s very definite refusal. But Sebastian was done with all that. He wanted Abigail; he wanted to marry her. Making love to her would satisfy the first driving desire, and almost surely lead to the latter. For once in his cursed life, he was going to get what he wanted, scruples be damned.

“I do,” he murmured, and led her up the stairs.

Chapter 22

A
bigail knew she was being wicked, and she didn’t care.

She firmly blocked all thought of her parents or Lord Atherton from her mind. Her initial urge to run had indeed come out of her desire to avoid facing them, but as soon as the quiet of the trees enveloped her, she knew where she was going. Or rather, she knew where she wanted to go—getting there proved a challenge. She’d almost gasped in relief when Boris came bounding through the bracken toward her, his tail wagging in greeting. As if he’d been looking for her, he began nudging her up the hill, and before she knew it the pink brick of Montrose House appeared through the trees.

Now she was here, where she longed to be—where she belonged. Sebastian only let go of her hand when he had to kneel down and stir up the fire. His bedchamber was plain and bare. A worn leather armchair, a table, a chest of drawers, a blanket near the hearth that was clearly Boris’s. And a bed.

The sight of the last gave her a moment of pause. She wasn’t nervous, precisely, but suddenly she wished she knew better what to expect. Devoted readings of
50 Ways to Sin
had given her some ideas, but they felt wildly insufficient now. She wasn’t really like Lady Constance. What if Sebastian thought she was actually that uninhibited and wild?

She closed her eyes and told herself not to be silly. Sebastian was far better than Constance’s lovers; he was alive and real and he was in love with her, ready to make love to her. In the grotto and in the woods, he’d known just the right touch, just how far to take her down the road to ruin. He knew she hadn’t much experience, and it hadn’t stopped him from showing her a world of pleasure she’d never dreamt of before, and he’d made her feel adored while he did it. Her heart skipped a beat at the memory, and she opened her eyes, her moment of shyness evaporating.

Sebastian was watching her. “Uncertain?” he asked. “I won’t do a thing you don’t want me to do.”

Abigail smiled. “I know. I trust you.” She caught sight of something then, and blushed. “You kept it!”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “Of course I did. It made me think of you.”

Her blush deepened. She picked up the item in question, the issue of
50 Ways to Sin
where Constance pleasured herself, wearing a blindfold, while her mysterious lover watched. “You mentioned it in the grotto.”

One corner of his mouth crooked. “I had trouble thinking of anything else in the grotto. When the candle went out, I thought God had sent yet another plague to torture me.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“Constance called her blindness very freeing.” He started toward her. “I have to say, I believed her. I never would have kissed you that first time if not for the darkness.”

“Never?” She arched one brow.

“Well.” He gave her his sinful half smile. “Not that day.”

“Sometimes I feel I owe a debt to Lady Constance.” She picked up the wicked pamphlet and opened it, choosing a passage at random. “ ‘In my admittedly debauched adventures, I had never felt such longing. The absence of sight only made my skin more sensitive to his touch; my ears more attuned to his breathing,’ ” she read aloud. “Perhaps we should put out the lamp . . .”

Sebastian crossed the room and took the pamphlet from her hands. “Enough. I don’t need a story to give me ideas.” He turned and tossed the pamphlet onto the fire. “I could write my own series, and not mention half of the thoughts and desires you’ve inspired.”

“Really?” Abigail tore her eyes off the burning pamphlet. “You would write one?”

He grinned. “Only for you, my love.” He touched her wrist. “Dearest Abigail,” he began. His fingers trailed up her arm. “There is much I have longed to tell you since we met. I daresay you would blush to hear most of it”—she smothered a laugh, and he grinned—“but someday I hope to show you.”

“I like this story.” She started to turn as he moved behind her, but Sebastian stayed her with one hand on her hip.

“You should,” he whispered, brushing her damp hair gently over one shoulder. “It is an ode to your beauty, your charm, your compassion. Where was I? Ah.” He pressed a lingering kiss on her nape. “You have haunted my dreams since the night we met. You burst into my life like a comet, dazzling my eyes and heart. Still, not even I was mad enough to think you would ever turn to me . . .”

“You were never mad.” Abigail shivered. He was unlacing her dress, slowly and deliberately. She could feel every tug on the lace, every fractional loosening of the bodice. Her hands were in fists at her sides as he prolonged the torment.

“Not in the way everyone thought,” he muttered before resuming his tale. “If being near you drove me mad, it was a madness I would happily embrace. Not being near you was a torment I could not long endure.” He eased the bodice forward and Abigail let it slip down her arms.

He inhaled a ragged breath. “God in heaven.” He smoothed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, pushing the dress off. Abigail let her head fall back as his lips skimmed over her neck. His fingers plucked at the ribbon of her chemise, tied in a bow between her breasts. “So lovely,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “So perfect.”

“And impatient!” She tugged her arms free of her sleeves and put her hands over his to yank at the ribbon. She wanted the shift off, so she could feel his skin against hers.

This time Sebastian didn’t protest. He shoved down the loosened shift and cupped his hands over her breasts, first lightly, then firmly, drawing her solidly against him. A shudder ran through him. “Abigail,” he whispered, his voice raw with longing.

She twisted in his arms. “I love you,” she breathed, stretching up to kiss him.

He returned the kiss with fervor. With one arm, he held her tightly to him. With the other hand, he made short work of her stays’ lacing. Barely taking his mouth from hers, he divested her of one piece of clothing after another.

Her heart raced. With each layer of fabric that came off, her flesh seemed to grow more tender, more sensitive. By the time she was left in just her shift and stockings, she felt feverish, burning on the inside while shivers rippled over her skin as if a chill wind blew on her. She reached for him instinctively.

“Cold?” He folded her into his arms even as he continued nuzzling her ear.

“Not really.” She slid her hands up his chest, feeling the hard thump of his heart, and toyed with the end of his cravat. “I’ve never seen a man’s bare chest before . . .”

He paused. “Would you like to?”

Her face warmed, but Abigail nodded. Without a word Sebastian shrugged out of his coat and yanked loose the knot of his cravat. Feeling very brazen and bold, Abigail began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, and within minutes it was on the floor, along with the long crumpled cravat. Taking one more long look at her, he undid the button at his throat and pulled the shirt over his head.

“Oh my,” whispered Abigail, transfixed. His chest was a shade paler than his face, with a light sprinkling of dark hair. He was lean, but sculpted with muscles like she’d seen on statues. Her gaze caught on his arm as he tossed the shirt aside. Goodness, he looked so strong without the shirt, and her fingers itched to touch him. “You’re beautiful,” she said helplessly. “Not a wreck of a man at all . . .”

“You haven’t seen my knee yet. But I truly was wrecked.” He took her hand and laid it on his breastbone, right over his heart. “Until you salvaged me up and brought me back to life.”

“I did no such thing,” she said in a low voice. “You had locked yourself away, and you were the one who decided to cast off your solitude.”

“But only because of you, darling,” he replied. “Only you could have lured me. I don’t mean you gave me life; you made me want to live. I cannot tell you what vibrancy and happiness you breathed into me, whereas I have nothing to offer you—”

“Stop.” She laid her palms on his chest, marveling at how warm he was. “You understand me. We’re alike, you and I—if I were in your place, I would have reacted much the same way you did, to all the injustices you endured. We are both inclined to be solitary creatures, and yet we both want someone at our side. Someone who will appreciate a long-lost grotto, or a treasured book.” She darted a glance up at him through her eyelashes. “Someone who understands our improper curiosities and desires . . .”

The muscles under her hands tensed. His eyes reflected the fire. “Indeed.” He wound one finger in the trailing ribbon from her shift. “My only desire is to show you every wicked sort of pleasure you crave.” The shift slipped off her shoulders at his gentle but relentless pull.