A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (26 page)

Her climax broke over her suddenly, and she rocked back against him, sucking in a sharp breath. He held her there,
his fingers pressing against her most sensitive spot, letting her ride it with slowing movements. She came down from her peak gasping, grinning, and he drew sweat-dampened hair back from her neck. His cock gave a faint twitch within her, and she shifted her hips, enjoying the subtler feeling.

“We can be done, if you like,” he said, his voice stretched with such reluctance she almost laughed.

“Let me face you,” she said.

He drew out of her, and she turned, hitching herself up onto the table as she did so. She parted her legs and tossed back her head.

“Come here,” she said.

“I thought I made the rules,” he said.

“Please come here,” she said, teasing. “And let me watch you.”

He was against her again in an instant, sliding inside her without hesitation. His thrusts were quick now, insistent, and she wrapped her legs around him. Pleasure coiled low in her belly, and she gasped against his neck as a second crest found her. The sound seemed to undo him. He grunted, and withdrew abruptly, thrusting once more against her thigh before he came.

He gripped the lip of the table in both hands, to either side of her, and rested his brow against her shoulder, catching his breath. She had to catch her breath herself; that second peak had not been as intense as the first, but it still left her panting.

“You amaze me,” he said softly.

“It was good, wasn't it?” she asked playfully, brushing his hair behind his ear. “Better than I expected.”

“I gave you little cause for optimism, last time,” he said. He handed her a handkerchief and winced. “God. I did at least withdraw last time, didn't I?”

Elinor froze. She hadn't thought—it hadn't occurred to her— “I'd forgotten,” she said. “Oh, God. I forgot that you thought . . .”

“What did I think?” he asked, puzzlement creasing his brow.

“That you'd bedded me,” Elinor said, shame creeping through her and banishing every remnant of pleasure. “That first night at Beauchene's. You passed out; nothing happened between us. I only told you otherwise because I feared you would get yourself killed if I left you to your own devices.”

Slow horror crept over Colin's face. He pulled away from her and turned, rearranging his clothing as he did. Elinor wiped her thigh with the handkerchief and pulled and tugged her dress back into a semblance of order, not daring to look at him. “Colin—”

He turned, his expression tortured. “You let me believe—everything we've done since—”

“We wanted to do,” Elinor said. “I wanted to. I know you did.”

“I would never have done what we just did if I had known you were still a virgin,” he said.

“I wasn't,” Elinor said.

He blinked. “You—what? You weren't?”

“No. I never said I was.”

Colin stared at her as if she had revealed she had a second head. “You have had sex before,” Colin repeated. “You. Elinor Hargrove.”

“Yes. Twice,” Elinor said, and jutted out her chin defiantly.

“Oh, well. Twice!” The sarcasm dripping from his words stung, but she knew she deserved it.

“I should have told you. About that first night, I mean, not—I'm sorry. I didn't even think of it,” Elinor said. “I only wanted you.” She looked away. She had deceived him. Did it matter that it was for his own good? “I should know soon enough if I am with child. I doubt it. You can forget this ever happened. It need have no significance.”

“Significance,” he said flatly.

“You know. It need not be personal,” Elinor said. “You can marry Penelope Layton and I'll . . .” She waved a hand. “I'll go be scandalous and take lovers, or lock myself in a tower and read myself to death. I'm a rich spinster; I'm practically required to become eccentric.” She was talking
too much. On the edge of babbling. She couldn't stand to look at him, didn't dare glance and see the anger that must be glinting in those eyes. “I should think you'd be relieved,” she finished airily, her mouth sour.

He was silent for a long moment. Then his expression stilled, and he slowly, purposefully, arched a single eyebrow. “Relieved. Yes. I had feared I'd have to make an ass of myself, breaking my engagement,” he said. “What a fool I'd look, marrying Elinor Hargrove.”

Anger sparked, chasing away the shame for a heartbeat's time. “For only a fool would marry me?” she asked acidly.

He shrugged. “I've known you for over twenty years, Elinor. I'd have to be a fool not to have asked you to marry me before now, if I had any desire to do so.”

“And Lord Farleigh is many things, but never a fool,” she said. Always precise. Always not a stitch out of place. Well, she'd seen him knocked askew now, and she wasn't taken in any longer. “One thing I can guarantee,” she said. “You will always be a fool to me, Lord Farleigh.” Her cheeks hot, she strode past him, tugging her skirts into order.

*   *   *

Had he only been sober for two full days? It felt like a great deal longer. Long enough, in any case.

Colin barricaded himself inside his study on the strength of a few well-placed scowls in the direction of the staff and poured himself a healthful quantity of brandy.

She'd lied to him. She'd let him believe for two long days that he had committed the worst of transgressions against her. And on the strength of that belief, he had—he had given into his desires, and risked everything. His friendship with her, with her brother; his engagement; his future. There was no other barrier of honor, propriety, and reputation that he had not breached.

And it was all her fault.

The brandy struck the bottom of his glass with enough force to splash over the rim and onto the back of his hand.
He touched his tongue to the wet spot, and the heat of the liquor stung his mouth. That was what he needed. That was exactly what he needed.

What had these few days accomplished? He had failed to kill Foyle. Failed also to find evidence of his criminality, or a definitive answer regarding Marie's death. He had, perhaps, aided Mr. Bhandari in an escape from Foyle's onerous employment, but that was little consolation. And he had tortured himself with intimate proximity to the woman he loved and could not have. And just now, of course, he had said unpardonable things. But for once, they had been on purpose. They had been born of his anger, his hurt. And he had spoken them with vicious pleasure. Pleasure that refused to return now, instead leaving a sick, curdling feeling that entirely ruined the taste of the brandy.

She'd deserved every ounce of it, he told himself. She'd tricked him. Tricked him into doing exactly what he wanted, mind you, but she'd tricked him all the same.

Tomorrow he'd see her returned home. And see her as little as possible from that moment on.

Tonight, though, he was going to drink. Extensively.

Elinor did not weep, as a rule. She found it to be an undignified affair. She was not one of those women who could shed tears becomingly; she always wound up red-nosed and snotty. She did not weep now. She would not allow it. She had only herself to blame for all of this. She had quite rightfully ignored Colin as any kind of romantic possibility since she grew out of her childhood infatuation with the boy. She had thought herself capable of separating such an emotional entanglement from the enjoyment of their mutual pursuits, these last few days. To be proved wrong so spectacularly was humiliating.

She did not know how she would ever be able to apologize to him. Especially as she could not imagine seeing him ever again, just at this moment.

She was stalking the halls, getting turned about. She'd spent time here now and again, but it was always Birch Hall their flock of friends flew to when it came time to gather. She wasn't as familiar with these corridors. And so she was not entirely surprised to find herself in the salon when she meant to find refuge in the library. She was far more surprised to find Mr. Bhandari there, and Lady Farleigh, the dowager marchioness and Colin's mother. Elinor froze in the doorway.
Lady Farleigh adjusted the gold-rimmed spectacles on her nose, the better to peer over them. She and Bhandari were seated to either side of a round table, the papers Elinor had liberated from the Beauchenes spread between them.

“Lady Elinor,” the older woman said. “There you are at last.”

Elinor remembered her manners belatedly and managed a rushed curtsy. “Lady Farleigh. I had no idea you were at home. I apologize for not greeting you.”

She waved a hand. “I only just arrived. I would have made my presence known, but I was given to understand that you and my son were indisposed.” Her lips pursed. Elinor cleared her throat, frantically searching her mind for an explanation and finding none. “Mr. Bhandi has been keeping me company in the meantime,” she said.

“It's Bhandari,” Elinor corrected.

Lady Farleigh's eyebrows shot up, and she looked at Mr. Bhandari. “Is it really? How dreadful of me. You ought to have told me.”

“I did not wish to offend,” Mr. Bhandari said meekly. It was a tone Elinor well recognized. Lady Farleigh tended to have that effect on men, whatever their station; she gave the impression of a hawk stooping before a strike, and gentlemen instinctively recognized themselves as her preferred prey. It probably did not help that Mr. Bhandari was likely imagining what would happen if the woman found out about his relationship with her eldest daughter.

“Elinor, sit down,” Lady Farleigh said. “Looking up at you is wearying. Whatever possessed you to grow so tall?”

“I can't imagine,” Elinor said. She sank into the chair between the two of them and looked down at the scattered papers. “Have you found anything out?” Her mouth was dry. Lady Farleigh shouldn't see these documents. The story they told was too brutal.

“I have found a great deal out,” Lady Farleigh said. Her dry tone didn't waver, but she paused before speaking again, and sorrow filled in the silence. “Mr. Bhandari has been explaining to me what he knows about Marie's time in India.”

Elinor looked to the man in question. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and he did not quite meet her eyes. Lady Farleigh must have employed quite a bit of persuasion to get him to explain all of that to her. “I am very sorry,” Elinor said. “It must be difficult to hear.”

“Lord Farleigh thinks he hid his suspicions from me completely,” Lady Farleigh said with a sniff that indicated it was definitely not true. “When I learned Mr. Foyle was returned to England, I was rather concerned that Lord Farleigh would take things into his own hands. It seems I was right. And it further seems that I owe you some thanks, for dissuading him from rash action.”

“I'm not certain we entirely avoided rash action,” Elinor said.

“Obviously,” Lady Farleigh drawled. “My son remains engaged to Lady Penelope Layton, does he not?”

“He does,” Elinor acknowledged, her back teeth clenching.

“And is that a failure on your part, or by design?”

Elinor stared at the woman. “I don't see how—”

“It is any of my business?” Lady Farleigh finished for her. She sighed. “I have one daughter dead. One married to a waste of good breeding. And one who seems utterly immune to my attempts to arrange a suitable match. Which leaves my son. I would very much like to be able to count one successful marriage among my children. And Colin has not made the best start of his. I was madly in love with his father, you see; I think Colin rather rejected the notion that he might be able to replicate the phenomenon, and I fear it may have led him to ignore the match he most desires. You would make him a most suitable bride, Lady Elinor.”

“I would not,” Elinor said stiffly. “For he is certainly not madly in love with me, or in love with me to any degree. He made that quite clear. I believe he said that he had absolutely no desire to marry me, to be precise.”

“Pity,” Lady Farleigh said. “Lady Penelope is such a . . . confection.”

“We are against confections?” Elinor asked, feigning detachment.

“Entirely, I'm afraid,” Lady Farleigh replied. “Well, if you and my son will have nothing of each other, you will have nothing of each other. Understood?”

“That won't be a problem,” Elinor assured her.

“Less of one if we manage to get you spirited back to where you belong,” Lady Farleigh said. “It won't do to have you found here. I will escort you back to London. That will minimize the chance of your brother determining your origin. And Mr. Bhandi—Bhandari—will accompany us, of course,” she added.

“I will?” Mr. Bhandari asked, adding a belated
My Lady
at the end in a gulp.

“You will. It is the most likely place to begin finding you a position.”

“That is not necessary, Lady Farleigh,” Mr. Bhandari assured her.

“Of course it is. My goodness. You begin to grow gray and everyone assumes that your brain has dribbled out your ears,” Lady Farleigh said. “You were very fond of my daughter, were you not? And she was fond of you. It would take an idiot not to realize as much when you speak of her. I cannot say I approve, of course, but I have had precious few opportunities to honor my daughter's memory. And I dare say I see the appeal.” Elinor gaped as Lady Farleigh gave Mr. Bhandari an appraising—and lingering—look. “Let me do this small favor for my daughter, Mr. Bhandari. Do not take it from me.” Her eyes shone with rare intensity. He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Now, I am going to go speak to my son,” Lady Farleigh said. “And you, Lady Elinor, should take another look at these letters, and tell me what you see.” She pushed the ledger page toward Elinor. Elinor frowned.

“I've seen them,” she said. “They seem remarkable only for their dullness.”

“You had only a brief moment to look them over. Look closer,” Lady Farleigh prompted.

Elinor scanned the page. All she could see were the names of birds, coupled with descriptions of the weather.
Then she frowned. “Hang on. Why is there ‘a scattering of snow' in the midst of June?”

“Much less a lesser kestrel midwinter,” Lady Farleigh said.

“It's a code,” Elinor said, realization dawning, and read through again. “Number of birds . . . nest locations . . . weather. These were written during the war. Foyle was a spy.”

“The question is, for whom?” Lady Farleigh said.

“If Beauchene thought these were worth keeping, I would guess it was not for England,” Elinor said. “Have you ever seen these, Mr. Bhandari?”

“I may have seen him writing them, but the contents are unfamiliar,” Mr. Bhandari said. “And Mr. Foyle most definitely did not have an interest in birds.”

“What about soldiers?”

“He was very fond of buying officers drinks,” Mr. Bhandari said darkly.

“Well. I am certain you clever young folk can figure all of this out,” Lady Farleigh said. Elinor and Mr. Bhandari rose with her, but she waved them back to their seats. “Bend your heads together and see what you can make of it,” she said. “And then be ready to leave. I do not intend to tarry.”

She swept out in a rustle of skirts. Bhandari cast Elinor a bemused glance. “Are they all like that?” he asked.

“All of who?”

“The ladies of this house,” he said.

“No,” Elinor assured him. “At least, Kitty isn't. Phoebe's getting there. And don't worry, she intimidates everyone. Except possibly Colin.”

“I suspect that you are incorrect on that account,” Mr. Bhandari said. “With respect, only a madman would fail to be intimidated by that woman.”

*   *   *

Colin glared at his glass. It was half full with the most delicious-looking shade of brandy. He could smell its heady aroma from here. It had been taunting him thus for some time now, promising that as soon as he slugged it down, he
would obliterate every one of the memories dancing through his skull. Elinor's laugh. The delight in her eyes when she had burst out of that room, Matthew's hand in hers. The taste of her lips. The venom in her voice. Every cruel thing he'd said to her, intentional or not, in the past twenty years.

“A marquess should never feel sorry for himself,” his mother said, and he sat bolt upright in the armchair he had been slouched in. She entered the room with hands folded before her and a stern look on her face. He staggered upright, surprise making him as clumsy as drink.

“Mother,” he said, with a trace of a gasp about the word. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“It is my primary residence,” she said. “As you may recall. Unless you care to relocate me.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “I was given to understand you were remaining with Kitty the whole summer.”

“I was. I returned when my mission was successfully completed.”

“Your mission?”

“I took charge of your sister's household, ordered her servants around, drew up menus of her least favorite foods, and finally had to begin redecorating the entire house before she grew irate enough to form an opinion. I think it's the first one she's held since that rat of a husband abandoned her. I left her undoing all my hard work and threatening to burn the curtains I'd so thoughtfully acquired. I consider it a triumph.”

Colin gave a startled laugh. “Is that what you were doing?”

“Someone had to. The girl was moldering. In any case, I do not intend to stay long. I depart for London in the morning,” she said. “Lady Elinor will require an escort.”

Colin paled. She knew Elinor was here? What must she think? “I can explain everything,” he said.

“Good Lord. Please don't. What I know is bad enough already,” she said. “I have no desire to hear the particulars of whatever misadventure you and Lady Elinor have undertaken. I understand that it has been entirely inappropriate
and somewhat fruitful, and that is enough detail for me. Now. There are a few questions you must answer. Sit.”

He obeyed automatically. He might be the marquess, but his mother had never lost her ability to command him.

“First. Are you in love with Lady Elinor?”

He looked up swiftly in alarm. “No,” he lied.

“I see. And why haven't you told her this?”

“Told her that I'm not in love with her?”

“Darling, you have never been able to lie to me. Please stop trying. Why have you not told Lady Elinor that you are in love with her?”

“Because she won't have me,” he snapped.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“You are absolutely certain.”

“
Yes.”

She sighed. “Then I suppose you'll have to marry the Layton girl after all. A shame. No wonder you're drinking.”

“I'm not,” he said. He waved at the glass. “I've been staring at that glass for an hour now.”

“You have rarely needed an excuse to drink. Now you have the perfect one, and you abstain? What has gotten into you?”

“If I start, I won't stop,” he said darkly. “I knew it as soon as I tasted a drop of the stuff.”

She nodded. “Your father had the same problem.”

He jerked his gaze toward her, startled. “He did? He never said anything.”

“He was no more fond of confessing his weaknesses than the rest of the world,” she said stiffly. “In any case, I applaud your restraint. I have full faith in your ability to do what needs to be done. In the meanwhile, here is what must happen. Elinor and I are traveling to London tomorrow. You will put yourself in some semblance of order and follow. By the time you reach the city, I expect you to have decided what to do with yourself. Because you cannot continue to pursue this vendetta against Edward Foyle if you wish to be
married. It has too much of a potential for scandal and worse. Decide what you want, and take it. I have no patience for this brooding.”