Miss Watson's First Scandal (A Miss Mayhem Novella) (8 page)

“But why not? You’re lovely.”

“The gentleman’s thoughts and mine didn’t align. I thought I had found the love of my life and planned to marry him but he thought he’d found a naïve and willing girl to warm his bed for the summer.”

“That’s terrible.” Abigail stopped. “What happened?
When
did this happen?”

“Two summers ago.” They let a carriage pass and then continued on for the seashore. “When I discovered my error, and his plans, I made sure the gentleman walked with a distinct limp for a little while.”

“You did what Peter warned me to do if ever I was importuned.”

Imogen nodded. “I’ve considered thanking him for the suggestion, but that could lead to questions I’d rather not answer. Since then, I’ve made a study of the men of our acquaintance. They really are simple creatures. A suggestion of pleasure or a favorite treat can often be the perfect lure to get what you want from them.”

Abigail sighed. So far she had failed to tempt David into doing what she wanted. He did exactly as he pleased. “David Hawke is not like that.”

“Hawke is exactly like that. So is your brother, by the way. Men each have desires that drive them and those needs can be fulfilled if you are brave enough to tempt them the right way. However, you must be careful because marriage is not at the forefront of their thinking. Everything else decadent is.”

“Imogen,” Abigail began with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had Imogen gone too far and been ruined? Was that why her opinion of men was so low? “Have you ever been
very
brave when it comes to men?”

 
“In my opinion, a lady should never admit to her own ruin.” Imogen stared out to sea, her gaze thoughtful and serious. “However, the answer is no. I’ve never found a man who could tempt me to throw my principles aside so completely for the sake of a little passion. Mind you, I’m not adverse to the idea where there is love involved. Yet circumstances and my nature make me doubt I could ever be so foolish as to trust my heart to any man unless it was for the deepest bonds of affection.”

CHAPTER TEN

David leaned back in his chair, listening to the familiar tick of the ormolu mantle clock and the silence of his Brighton house. The stillness bothered him a great deal today. He’d gone out earlier to visit Mrs. Wiggins, an old acquaintance of his mother’s, to offer his condolences on her husband’s death. But their time together had only reminded him of the barren emptiness of his home life. During his visit, Mrs. Wiggins’ two daughters had called, young ones clinging to their skirts.

Her questions about his solitary state and lack of children had been excruciatingly direct. He’d actually blushed and stammered like a younger man would when embarrassed because the image of a likely wife and children were remarkably like Abigail Watson in appearance. It didn’t help that Mrs. Wiggins had mentioned Abigail in passing at least a dozen times. He’d had no idea his neighbor had become fast friends with the woman.

Since his return, he’d given in to the urge to check he was alone in the house, and not about to be besieged by Abigail. It was ridiculous to think she might come back. Although he hoped she would not risk her reputation again just to speak to him, a part of him looked forward to it. He would see her at dinner tonight, with actual chaperones this time, but he had no further insights to share on how to make Peter Watson—or any man—propose marriage to a woman if he didn’t want her for his wife.

He tucked away his folder of notes, the topmost of which was Miss George’s banking statement, disturbed by his lack of focus. He’d meet with Miss George and her brother tomorrow afternoon, well ahead of his departure for London, and hopefully discuss investment opportunities for the next year. Miss George should be pleased with the state of her investments. However, after the Watsons were served with their notice, he had doubts he’d remain as banker to the Georges.

However much as it tickled him to know Miss George was the celebrated and much read author, K.L. Brahms, as a customer of his bank, she surely wouldn’t remain so. A pity. Miss George’s writing really was wonderful and he enjoyed getting his hands on each new story before anyone else. Aside from him, and her editor, she demanded the matter was to be kept secret. He’d not even shared the real identity of K.L. Brahms with his business partner and he hoped whoever replaced him would share the same scruples of discretion. Society would be scandalized to know the darling of literary circles was not in fact a man but a very young spinster.

David picked up the tea tray, deposited it in the kitchen, and then strolled out of the house to look up at the sky. The day hadn’t turned out particularly pleasant. Grey clouds clustered above him so he couldn’t venture too far from home without risking becoming uncomfortably wet. The only bright spot on his horizon was tonight’s dinner.

A small whimper reached his ears and he looked about the garden for the source. Huddled by the wall of his garden, between wilted radishes and sad cabbage heads, sat a small ball of filthy brown fluff. Bedraggled, trembling, small beady black eyes stared at him and a black nose sniffed the air. A puppy? He glanced about but the poor thing was entirely alone.

He crept closer. Animals never really warmed to him, but its forlorn whimpers touched him. He leaned down to scratch its damp head. The little beast wagged its tail hesitantly. As he stroked the tips of its ears the speed of its wagging increased. Encouraged, he carefully eased his hand beneath the puppy and lifted it away from the vegetables so he could get a better look. Four very muddy paws scrambled in the air for purchase just as the sky opened up and hard rain fell.

Startled by the rain and sudden wriggling, David drew it against his chest and hurried toward the shelter of the house before they were both drenched through to the skin. He stepped into the warm, and thankfully, empty kitchen, uncertain of what he should do with the beast. Its whimpers and struggles pulled at his heart. Cleaning and drying it off seemed a necessary first step. He dropped the pup onto the battered work table and peered at him. Or was
he
a
she
?

The little beast shivered, dropping spots of mud onto the clean surface, and made to return to him. David pushed it back to the middle, but kept a restraining hand on it this time. Poor creature. What a sorry state to be in, all mud and misery; all alone in the world, just as he was.

He dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped ineffectually at the muck and water around its dark eyes. However, the handkerchief proved no match for the mud caked to its paws. He’d barely made a dent before he realized a thorough dunking and scrub would be called for to make the beast in any way presentable.

“You, sir or madam whichever you may be, are not fit for decent company,” he said out loud as he struggled out of his coat and ruined waistcoat.

The puppy’s ears flattened at his tone and David rubbed them until the beast perked up again. He rolled up his sleeves in between petting the pup, leaving smears of mud on the white cotton shirt. Resigned to the ruin of his attire because of one small creature, he peered about the kitchen, searching for what he would need to save the rest of his wardrobe. He wrapped the animal in a rag he spied hanging from a chair and tucked the pup tight against him while he organized a bucket of warm soapy water.

He chatted to the pup as he worked and by the time he had readied the bath the animal had fallen fast asleep against his chest. He felt cruel to wake it, but it couldn’t remain as it was. Not if it wanted to enjoy more of his attention. He carefully unwrapped the rag from the animal and slowly lowered it into the bucket.

The pup did not enjoy the bath at all; especially the repeated scrubbing and dunking required for cleaning. However, the drying seemed to improve its mood as did the combing to a degree. The odd snarl had the pup nipping at his fingers and he grew more careful as he brushed through the short coat. In the process of cleaning, he discovered he held a pure white pup, a terrier of some description, and a female. “So, you are a lady, eh?” The pup burrowed under his hand in search of more attention. “How much trouble will you be for me, princess?”

By the end of the chore, David was tempted to keep her. How much trouble could a pup be? The only thing that worried him was the hours the pup could spend alone at his London apartment and the fuss that might be raised if he were to take her with him to the office. How could he possibly entertain the idea of keeping an animal that would demand all his spare time and then some? He couldn’t very well rush out into the park every hour to let it tend its business. Regretfully, he concluded that he’d have to find someone to care for it, someone living here in Brighton would be best.

He found Princess—for that’s what he decided to name her—something she seemed to enjoy eating and when she would take no more nourishment, he carried her upstairs to his bedchamber while he dressed for dinner with the Watsons. He dragged an old, sturdy traveling trunk out from under the bed and placed bed linens inside. Given the sides were quite high, the pup should be safely contained while he changed. The pup walked around in circles sniffing her new bed, curled into a ball with a whimper, and then promptly fell asleep.

Hopefully, she would sleep all night or at least until he returned from dinner.

David turned back to his wardrobe and changed as quietly as he could. When he was satisfied he was dressed well enough to call upon the Watsons, he picked up the pup, trunk and all, and quietly took her back to the kitchen being careful not to jostle her about too much.

Once he was sure Princess remained asleep he eased out of the room and let himself out the front door and locked it behind him. David took a large steadying breath. It was just a friendly dinner with the most beguiling Abigail Watson, followed by a possibly hostile interview with her brother. He patted the letter in his pocket while his heart grew heavy. The time had come. He would deliver the demand for payment at the very end of the evening. With luck, Abigail would not become distressed should her brother turn surly.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Acting as hostess for Peter’s friends had never bothered Abigail very much before, but tonight her nerves were a jangled mess. She wanted everything to be perfect when David arrived. The flowers on the table were low enough to prove no barrier to conversation; the menu was simple and should prove a success.

“Abigail, if you move that accursed vase one more time I’ll toss it out the window,” Peter grumbled from the doorway. “What’s gotten into you?”

David was coming and she was anxious to see him. Her visit to his house had stirred up all sorts of mischief, especially her thoughts about the future. She liked David a great deal more than she’d first realized. She’d had a brief idea that climbing into bed with him and snuggling up against his broad bare chest would not be a very terrible thing to do before she was married. The idea was rather intriguing. That sort of thought rarely occurred to her around other men. But the memory of his bare chest, the fine hairs disappearing beneath the tumbled sheet had set her heart to racing repeatedly since that moment.

He was much more muscular and imposing without clothes than she’d imagined a man could be. In fact, she’d had to keep her hands clenched on her lap to control her curiosity.

Imogen cleared her throat, alerting Abigail that she’d been staring off into space and hadn’t answered her brother. “I want the evening to be perfect, that’s all.”

He stared at her hard. “Why is tonight different than any other? You don’t usually go to this much trouble. It’s just Hawke, not the king, coming to dine.”

“And I have never hosted a dinner for him before,” Abigail snapped. “You’ve likely forgotten, but I have behaved exactly this way before entertaining any of our friends for the first time.”

Imogen slipped into the room, her gaze darting between them anxiously. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Watson, don’t bother her. Ladies like to have everything just so. Men, however, will leave everything to chance and pot luck and let the sensible run the gauntlet of their misadventures.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he stared at Imogen. “I know that saying. Do you read K.L. Brahms?”

Imogen shrugged. “Of course, doesn’t everyone with sense?”

He rubbed his jaw. “Well, I suppose most of my acquaintances would, but I would have thought the material somewhat broad and, perhaps a trifle vulgar, for a woman your age.”

“Vulgar?” Imogen laughed and turned away, covering her mouth. “They are subjects one hears spoken of everyday. How can the truth be vulgar?”

“Yes, but surely your brother doesn’t approve of you reading that man’s work,” Peter continued.

Imogen turned and the look she leveled at Peter should have sent him scurrying. Abigail sighed. Peter should know better than to lecture Imogen. She would do exactly as she pleased regardless of his opinion. Abigail quickly stepped between them. “Perhaps what my brother thinks on the subject of K.L. Brahms could be kept for discussion until after we dine.”

A throat cleared at the door and Simpson showed David in.

He smiled warily. “Am I interrupting?”

Abigail’s breath caught. A blush heated her cheeks as she stared across the room’s expanse. David’s London finery filled the space so completely he made her brother’s attire seem terribly shabby and outdated.