It Takes a Scandal (33 page)

“You’re very quiet today, Miss Weston,” he said to her after a while. “I hope you’re well?”

She made herself smile. “Yes, very well. Forgive me, I’m a little tired.”

“As am I,” said Lady Samantha. “Last night was so delightful, I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. I’m so glad you came to dine.”

“Perhaps a turn in the garden will revive us,” suggested Atherton. “Mrs. Weston?”

“Of course.” Mama’s eyes flickered Abigail’s way. “Fresh air will do you some good.”

Abigail had no choice but to smile and fetch her bonnet. On the terrace they met Penelope, with Milo on a lead. “There you are,” remarked Mama. “Milo must be exhausted! Let me take him, Penelope. You may walk in the garden with our guests and your sister.”

Penelope handed over the lead with reluctance. Abigail wondered if she’d taken the dog out explicitly to avoid Mama or their callers, but now she was as caught as Abigail was. Her sister flashed her a glance, then maneuvered to walk beside Lady Samantha as they reached the garden, leaving Abigail no choice but to walk with Lord Atherton.

“Miss Weston,” he murmured. “I’d hoped to have a private word with you.”

“We’re virtually alone now, sir.”

He glanced at their sisters, some distance ahead. “Would you show me the Fragrant Walk? I remember it was very beautiful.”

Abigail’s heart squeezed in apprehension. “There’s so much beauty in the world. I constantly find new things that enchant me right here in the garden.”

“Will you humor me this time?” He gave her a charming smile.

Inwardly she groaned, but she put her hand on his offered arm. “Of course.”

She tried to talk of inconsequential things as they strolled, but it was hard. Mention of the climbing roses brought back memories of her stolen embrace with Sebastian, right by the pink tea roses. Any comment about the looming woods made her think of the grotto, and the sensual pleasure Sebastian had shown her there. When she commented on the gathering clouds and found her eyes caught on Montrose Hill, visible from this side of the house, she gave up.

Lord Atherton noticed her disquiet. He slowed to a stop as they reached the edge of the Fragrant Walk. “Perhaps we shouldn’t walk on.”

“Yes, it’s grown quite threatening. I think it may rain soon.” She made to turn back, but he stopped her.

“Stay a moment. I have something to say to you.” He came a step nearer. “You’re a very lovely girl, Abigail.”

Oh dear. This couldn’t be what she thought it was, could it . . . ? She smiled as lightly as she could. “Why, thank you, sir! I’m flattered you think me so.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks so.” He took her hand. Abigail’s smile faltered. “But I do believe I’m the most appreciative.”

“I can hardly comment on that.” She wondered if it would be rude to pull her hand away. As if he sensed the thought, he clasped his other hand around hers.

“Has no one else told you so?” He arched one brow as he toyed with the buttons at her wrist, holding her glove closed.

Sebastian had. He’d called her ethereal, so beautiful she struck him dumb. She cleared her throat at the thought of Sebastian. “Yes.”

Lord Atherton’s eyes narrowed a tiny bit before he dropped his gaze to her hand. “I suppose I can guess who.” He undid a button. “Did you believe him more than you believe me?”

Her mouth was dry. She wanted to run away before he could say anything more. “It’s not—not a matter of belief,” she began awkwardly. “Calling someone beautiful is a compliment, an expression of the speaker’s belief, and whether the recipient of the compliment believes it or not has no affect on the speaker’s feelings. I suppose it only matters if the recipient trusts that the person paying the compliment believes it.”

He smiled. “How astute you are. Do you believe me when I say it?”

She wished her sister would come interrupt them. She wished Milo would come streaking down the path with a squealing rabbit in his teeth. She wished for something, anything to disrupt this increasingly uncomfortable conversation. “I would never question your integrity, my lord.”

“So very proper, Miss Weston.” He’d got all three buttons undone, despite a few efforts on her part to slide her hand free, and now he began inching her glove off her hand with a slow tug on each finger in turn. “I beg you, call me Benedict.”

“I think that would be too familiar, Lord Atherton.”

“But I’m giving you permission.” He took a step closer. “I would like us to be more . . . familiar.”

She said nothing. Somehow when Sebastian had asked her to call him by name, it had seemed heartfelt; no one ever called him by name, he’d said. But Lord Atherton had invited her to call him Benedict, and she knew quite well his family called him Ben. It was an invitation to familiarity, but only a partial one.

Not that she wanted to be completely familiar with him. She had to put a stop to this. She drew a deep breath and tried to tug her hand loose, but only succeeded in pulling her hand out of her glove entirely. “My lord,” she began, but he put one finger on her lips.

“Let me finish, my dear; please.” His eyes gleaming, he raised the limp glove to his lips. “Your parents have been very kind to me.”

“What did you expect? They’re kind people.”

“It’s no secret in town that your father is ambitious for his children.”

Her temper began to stir. “Is yours not the same?”

He laughed. “He’s exactly the same.”

Abigail had a feeling the Earl of Stratford was much worse than her father in every way. There was something very cold and hard about His Lordship. “My sister will wonder what’s become of us!” She forced a laugh. “And my mother. She’ll ring a peal over me for straying this far from the house.”

“Not today she won’t.” He stayed her motion toward the garden by catching her bare hand. “I spoke to your father last night, my dearest Abigail.”

Oh dear. She cast a longing look over her shoulder, but her sister and Lady Samantha were nowhere to be seen. “Indeed? I’m sure he was very pleased to speak to you, sir.”

“Benedict. And yes, he was delighted by our conversation.”

She thought about yanking loose and running for it. She knew what he was going to say—what had pleased her father so much—and she didn’t want to hear it. Benedict Lennox was a charming, handsome fellow, everything her parents wanted for her, and she had absolutely no desire to marry him. She didn’t even want him to ask, for then there would be no awkward scene where she had to refuse. “He’s at home today,” she tried once more. “If we return to the house, I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you . . .”

He held tighter to her hand. “Abigail. I am trying to ask you a very serious question.”

“Now? Surely it’s too early in the day for serious conversation.”

Her attempts at delay seemed to have annoyed him at last. His jaw hardened. “Why not?”

There was no escaping it. She stiffened her spine and looked him in the eye. “Very well. What is your question, my lord?”

For a moment he didn’t move. There was a crease of frustration between his brilliant blue eyes. For a moment Abigail had a flicker of hope that he wouldn’t ask what she thought he was about to ask. “Why won’t you call me Benedict?”

“I told you, it’s too familiar.”

“Hmm.” He raised her hand and brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. “Would you call me Benedict if I asked you to marry me?”

“That seems an extreme step to take merely to hear me say your Christian name.”

“What would your answer be, if I asked you to marry me and call me by that name for the rest of your life?”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said before she could think of a better way to put it.

He froze. Several seconds ticked by, the trees rustling in the rising wind. “Sebastian Vane is ruined,” he said at last, his voice tinged with concern. “Surely you’ve heard the rumors about him. If you’re betting your happiness on him—”

“That would be my risk, wouldn’t it?” This time when she pulled, he let go of her hand.

“Are you refusing me for him?” Lord Atherton sounded somewhat shocked.

“No,” she said. “Because he hasn’t asked me anything. I am refusing because I don’t care for you the way I hope to care for my future husband.”

He stared at her in amazement. “Forgive my plain speaking, but—are you certain about that? We get on so well together. I’ve never enjoyed another lady’s company as much as I do yours. I thought you felt the same. Surely you know how advantageous our marriage would be. Your father has already blessed the match! Do you think he’ll be so quick to bless a union between his daughter and a bitter, reclusive man on the brink of ruin, a man suspected of murder and thievery? For God’s sake, Abigail, surely you’re not so foolish and sentimental as that.”

She could stand it if he listed his advantages; she could stand it if his pride was wounded and his family snubbed her forever. But she couldn’t stand to hear him disparage Sebastian that way. “He is
not
bitter, or reclusive,” she snapped. “The rumors are just that—idle chatter with no substance to them, only animosity. He’s shunned by your father largely out of guilt, because your father took advantage of old Mr. Vane’s illness to loot the Montrose Hill estate. Don’t you dare deny it,” she warned him as he rocked back on his heels and scowled. “Eighty acres of land for less than fifty pounds? And then he only offered to sell it back for more than five thousand pounds?”

“There was more to it,” he began.

“What?” Abigail asked bluntly. “Do you think I didn’t notice every little cut your father made at him last night? Mr. Vane was invited to Stratford Court as a guest, yet your father treated him as a leper. I’m tired of hearing vague whispers of terrible deeds when no one seems to have a shred of convincing evidence, let alone proof. And you were once his friend.” She spread her hands in amazement as his face grew dark. “Have you proof he killed his father? Or stole anything?”

Lord Atherton said nothing. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Ask yourself how advantageous a husband you would be if your estate dwindled to a few acres around a heavily mortgaged house. Ask yourself how many young ladies would simper and sigh over your attentions if there were rumors in town that you were possessed by devils. Ask yourself how dashing you would be without an income, without the use of your sword arm, without your father’s title easing your way in every part of life. And then ask yourself how you would bear up under the lies and suspicions heaped upon you by people who were once your friends.”

He was staring at her in shock. Her fury relented, and she put one hand on his arm. “I don’t blame you for what your father did,” she said more calmly. “I do like you a great deal, my lord. You are right, marrying you would be very advantageous. You’re handsome and charming and I enjoy your visits enormously . . . but I don’t love you, and that’s why I cannot accept your proposal.”

“You’re refusing me for him,” he repeated, but not with the same heat as before.

She shook her head. “I would refuse you in any event. We might get along well enough as husband and wife, but I want more out of marriage—and I suspect you would, too, eventually.”

“And that is your final decision.” He sounded numb.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “I see.” Somewhat jerkily, he made a stiff bow. He took a few steps back toward the garden, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Miss Weston . . . You may not understand everything that happened between my father and Mr. Vane, but . . . you may be right about Vane. There is no proof that I know of that he killed his father.” He gave her a quietly wry look. “I wish you every happiness with him.” And before she could say a word, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching on the path.

Abigail’s shoulders sagged in relief. Thank goodness that was over. It could have been much worse; why, if her parents knew how she’d shouted at him . . .

The thought seemed to echo in her mind for a moment as the import sank in. Her parents. Lord Atherton had spoken to her father last night. Her father had blessed his suit. Papa had no doubt rushed to tell Mama to begin planning a wedding. That must be why Mama had kept her close all day; they had expected him to call and propose. Both her parents would be eagerly waiting to congratulate her. If Lord Atherton went back to the house and told them she had refused him . . .

Abigail’s breath grew short. Surely he wouldn’t. Lord Atherton was a gentleman . . . but he was also taken off guard and hurt by her answer, and he had only to reveal a few key details of her reply to horrify Papa.

She looked toward the house in dismay. How could she just walk back there and smile as if nothing had happened?

Sebastian. Had she refused Lord Atherton for him? She couldn’t say that, because she certainly didn’t have Sebastian, either, but . . . But he had her heart. How could she marry another man when she would always wish for him?

Without thinking she raised her eyes toward Montrose Hill. She couldn’t see it from here, but she knew what it looked like, faded pink brick and ivy, alone on the hill. She was desperate to know if he was well after last night. If only he had come to see her today instead of Lord Atherton. If only he were here now, to tell her he loved her and wanted to marry her, and that everything would turn out well.

Thunder rumbled above. The sky had grown darker since she’d come out, deepening to an almost violet hue. Dimly she thought she should go back to the house, but her heart and mind strained not toward home, but toward Sebastian. And before she was aware of making any decision at all, she picked up her skirts and plunged into the woods, up the hill.