Scandalous (10 page)

“You have a peculiar effect on me,” he said grimly, echoing her thoughts. “I am not the sort to force my attentions on a young lady.”

“You did not exactly force them,” Priscilla admitted in a muffled voice, avoiding his gaze.

“But I hardly exercized any control, either. Damn it!” He thudded his fist against the wall, causing her to start in surprise and look up at him. “I enjoyed it too much to say I'm sorry for it. I am not sorry it happened.” His eyes gazed intently into hers. Priscilla's breath caught in her throat. She found she wanted to rise and go to him.

Finally he swung away, breaking the contact. “But I do apologize for distressing you.”

“I was not distressed.” She was not sure what she had been, but
distress
certainly was not the word to describe it. “Mr. Wolfe, I am not sure that we should talk about this. Last night was…” What? What had last night been? Delightful? Irritating? Scary? It seemed to her that it had been all those things and more. She had lain in bed for several hours afterward, trying to figure out what she felt or thought about it, and she never had been able to come to a conclusion. “…out-of-the-ordinary. Unusual. I am sure that neither one of us was really ourself. Why don't we agree to forget about it?”

“Forget?” he echoed. “I hardly think that is possible.”

“Then put it aside for a time. There are so many things happening—those men, your inability to remember, the problem of what you are going to do—that I think it would be easier if we ignored what happened.”

“Pretend it didn't happen?”

“Yes, if you would rather put it that way.”

“I am not sure I can do that.”

“When you don't even know who you are, you hardly need further entanglements, do you?”

They had been regarding each other frowningly, so it
surprised her when he suddenly grinned. “My dear Miss Hamilton,
need
is hardly the same thing as
want.
”

“And, of course,” she snapped, “you always do what you want!”

He chuckled. “Obviously, I am not sure what I always do.”

Priscilla grimaced. “Must you joke about everything?”

“It makes life easier.”

There was the sudden sound of footsteps in the hall, and then a young man's voice, calling, “Priscilla!”

John's eyes opened wide in question, and Priscilla muttered, “Damn!” under her breath.

“Who—?” he started to say, but was interrupted by the entrance of a young man with tousled blond hair.

His eyes were large and bright blue, with absurdly long lashes, and his face was even-featured and handsome, though it was marred at the moment by a ferocious scowl.

“She won't let me do it!” he exclaimed without preamble as he strode in the door, flinging his hat down carelessly on a table by the door. “Blast it, Pris! She treats me like a baby! I swear, when I turn twenty-one, I'm off to the army no matter what she says. Once I have my inheritance, she won't have anything to bind me with.” He flung himself sulkily onto a chair, turning sideways a little and draping one long, muscular leg over the arm. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Priscilla.

“Alec!” Priscilla said in a reprimanding tone. “Where are your manners? I have a visitor.” She nodded toward where John stood, eyeing with some suspicion the young man she had called Alec.

“Oh.” Alec turned and saw Wolfe for the first time. “I say. I am sorry. I didn't see you there.” He straightened and rose to his feet and made a polite sketch of a bow in his direction.

“Alec, this is my cousin from America, John Wolfe,” Priscilla told him, wishing that Alec had not walked in on them. The fewer people who knew about her visitor, the better, as far as she was concerned, and she was well aware that Alec was something of a chatterbox. He would likely tell his mother, and the servants would overhear, and soon it would be all over the village. She wondered whether there was any way to persuade Alec to keep his mouth shut without making him suspicious.

“From America!” Alec repeated with interest. “I say, that's dashed interesting. I've always been curious about America, myself. Are you from the West? Have you ever seen any Indians? Have you ever shot a man?”

John blinked and was silent for a moment in the face of this assault. Finally he answered, “No, I am not from the West, nor have I ever seen an Indian. As for shooting a man, well…” He grinned devilishly. “I don't do that unless he deserves it.”

Alec's eyes grew as big as saucers for an instant, but then he let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, I see. A joke, eh?”

“Afraid so.”

“I didn't know you had any cousins from the States, Pris.”

“On my mother's side,” Priscilla replied quickly. “He's quite removed, actually. Our grandfathers were cousins, or something like that. And, Alec, don't tell everyone about his being here. We would be swarmed
with visitors, and my cousin is just recovering from a fever.”

“Oh, of course,” Alec assured her casually, moving on to a topic that interested him more. “Where in America do you live?”

“New York.”

“That's a large city, right?”

“Yes, quite big.”

“Not like London, though.”

“No, I wouldn't think it is much like London.”

“I should like to see it. And Paris. Or India or Africa. Dash it, I'd like to go anywhere. London is the only place I've ever been—and Scotland. We've often summered in Scotland.”

“I've heard Scotland is beautiful.”

Alec shrugged. “I suppose. Deadly dull, though. Nothing but trout fishing or hiking up mountains. And half the time you can't understand what any of them are saying. It's like being in a foreign country, only not exciting. Have you ever been there?”

John shook his head, unable to suppress a smile at the young man's chatter.

“Well, Alec, what brings you here?” Priscilla asked cheerfully, more to lead him away from asking any more questions of John than from any desire to know. “You seemed upset. Is it the Duchess again?”

“I was. I am.” He heaved a sigh and turned back to Priscilla. “Mother refuses to acknowledge that I'm a grown man. I keep telling her that all I want is to join the army with Gid.” His eyes sparkled. “I got a note from him today, and he's having the grandest time. And Gid never was half the horseman I am.”

“I know,” Priscilla agreed, adopting an air of sympathy.

“But there he is, in the Guards, and here I am, stuck at Ranleigh Court.”

“You've never met my brother Gid, I believe,” Priscilla said in an aside to her “cousin,” feeding him information. “He and Alec are the best of friends.”

“Since we were lads,” Alec agreed, looking gloomy. “But his father lets him do what he wants to, so he is an officer in the army, and I am…” He paused sourly.

“A future duke,” Priscilla supplied smoothly.

“A duke?” John Wolfe looked interested. “Really?”

“Yes,” Alec agreed grumpily. “A duke. Except that I'm not actually a duke, not recognized, that is. I am not even the Marquess of Lynden, when you get right down to it, though Father used to call me that.”

“Oh.” Wolfe looked blank. “I'm sorry.”

Priscilla chuckled. “He doesn't understand, Alec. He is American, remember?” Priscilla turned toward John. “The Marquess of Lynden is the title of the heir to the Duke of Ranleigh. So the Duke's oldest son is Lynden—until the Duke dies, and then he becomes the Duke.”

“I understand, I think.”

“But Alec, you see, cannot be called either, even though he is probably the heir to the dukedom. There is an older son who disappeared many years ago.
He
was Lynden, but no one knows what happened to him, or where he went. He has been gone thirty years now, and everyone assumes he died. But when the old duke died a few months ago, the solicitors said they had to look for Lynden before Alec could become the duke.”

“So in the meantime, Alec is in a sort of limbo.”

“Exactly,” Alec agreed, pleased that he understood. “It isn't as if I want to be the duke, anyway. I told Mother that. What would I want with all that responsibility—the name and the land, all the people that live on it? It's too much. All I want is to be a cavalry officer.”

“But she didn't understand?” Priscilla guessed.

“Of course not. She thinks my being the duke is the grandest thing.” He grimaced.

“It is a very old and honored title,” Priscilla pointed out.

Alec wrinkled his nose. “I don't care about that. You know I don't. I wish they would find Lynden, frankly. Then he would have to come back and take over, and I would be free to do what I please. Father left me a fair portion.”

“I'm sure he did. He loved you very much.”

“I know.” Alec sighed heavily. “That's why I agreed to stay here so long. I wanted to go away with Gid, but Mother kept telling me, ‘No, wait until he is gone. He so wants you to be home with him. Can't you go then, after he dies?' Then I'd feel so damn low and guilty, I would agree to stay. Now he's gone, and she doesn't have that excuse anymore, but she still refuses to let me go!”

“Why don't you simply leave?” John asked curiously.

The other two turned and stared at him in surprise. He gazed back at them. “I mean, you are pretty much grown. Why don't you do as you want to?”

Alec seemed at a loss for words. Finally he said, “Mother says it isn't fitting for a duke—though it seems to me I could be a duke and still be in the army. There's
the Duke of Wellington, after all, and the Duke of Marlborough.”

“I believe they were given the titles after their victories as generals,” Priscilla pointed out.

“Oh. Well, the Earl of Cardigan fought in the Crimea, and he was an earl to begin with.”

“Very true.”

“Why is it so different for a duke?”

“You do have responsibilities,” Priscilla pointed out. She turned toward John, offering an explanation to him, “You see, a title carries with it certain duties and responsibilities. One cannot just do as one pleases.”

“Why not? It is his title, isn't it?” John asked.

“Yes, of course, but he has a duty to future generations. For instance, he should not do anything that would bankrupt the estate.”

Alec let out a short laugh. “As if the place were not falling apart already. It costs too much to keep all the houses up. The manor house in Corksey is a dead loss—wormwood got to it. The whole east wing of the Court had to be closed off. Structurally unsound, you see. It needs massive repairs. We are land-rich, cash-poor.”

“And,” Priscilla went on valiantly, “what would happen if you were killed in the army, Alec? You are the last, the only, son, if Lynden doesn't turn up. You cannot let the title die out.”

“There's Cousin Evesham,” Alec pointed out. “He would get it. I told Mother that, too, and she said she would rather die than let him become the Duke of Ranleigh. Can't blame her, in a way. He's a terrible reprobate. Father disliked him, too. But at least there is a succession. It wouldn't die out. Besides, I'm not likely to get killed. There are hardly ever any wars anymore,
just little skirmishes with the natives now and then in India or someplace.”

“There. You see?” Wolfe said to Priscilla, as if they had been arguing. “What's to stop him going if he wants?”

Alec screwed up his face as he tried to come up with an answer to a question he had never been asked before, indeed had never even considered. Finally he said, “Well, it's the family, you see. One doesn't go against one's family.”

“But surely you don't plan to live your whole life to suit your family, do you?” John pressed. “Marry who they want you to? Live where they want you to?”

Alec looked confused. “I wouldn't marry a girl simply because she suited Mother. Might not suit me, you see.” He paused, then went on, “'Course, I suppose I would not marry someone wholly unsuitable, either.” He looked at John interestedly. “Would you?”

John smiled. “I haven't a title to worry about. But I can't say as I see much reason why being a duke means you have to do what other people tell you.”

Alec seemed much struck by this thought. “You know, I always used to think that, too. I thought if you were a duke, you did exactly as you pleased, and it was other people who had to do as you said. It certainly seemed that way with Papa.”

“You
can
do quite a bit because you are a duke,” Priscilla pointed out. “I am sure a number of people would love to be in your position.” She turned and frowned pointedly at John. “I suspect that my cousin, being an American, doesn't precisely understand what an important title entails.”

John looked appropriately abashed. “I'm sure you are right. My American ignorance is appalling.”

Priscilla made a face at him, but went on smoothly, “Now, Alec, let's talk about something more pleasant. I heard that you have bought a new hunter.”

Alec immediately perked up at the mention of the horse, and all his sulkiness fell away as he sat up and began to describe his new purchase. “Oh, you should see him, Pris. A bay, sixteen hands. A sweet goer…”

 

T
HEY SPENT MUCH OF THE REST
of Alec's visit discussing horses, and John contributed little to the conversation. When Alec was gone, John commented, “Poor lad. I suspect his not joining the cavalry has more to do with his being henpecked than with any ducal responsibilities.”

“You are probably right,” Priscilla agreed. “But it was unkind of you to encourage him.”

“Unkind? I thought I was doing him a favor—you know, pointing out that he had a free will and could do what he wants. Isn't that true? Or does being English do away with one's freedom?”