An Invitation to Scandal (14 page)

Reacquainted. As if she had ever truly known the man. Or he, her.

He spoke of nothing but his gardens and Maynerly, his estate. On occasion, he broached the subject of horseflesh, and on his last visit, politics. However, when Abigail ventured an opinion on the state of workhouses, Lord Tarrington quickly quelled her, making it clear women had no business having an opinion on anything of a political nature. Women, he indicated with a rather pompous amount of authority, simply didn’t possess the mind for it.

Indeed.

Abigail rose from the sofa and walked to the window. How would she ever manage marriage to this man?

“That is the sixth time in the past ten minutes you have paced to the window,” Benedict pointed out, keeping his voice low enough so as not to disturb Aunt Edythe who worked diligently on her needlepoint closer to the fire. “Please sit down. He will be here when he gets here. You know Tarrington keeps his own timetable.”

“Which I find abominably rude,” she stated flatly, glancing over her shoulder at her brother. He hated these visits as much as she did. Both found the old man antiquated and hard to get along with. She knew it bothered Benedict to consider a marriage proposal between the old man and her, but really, what other option did they have?

Ben could marry, of course, but with the taint of scandal still clinging to their name, finding an available bride with a sizeable dowry willing to marry into their family…well, to describe it as a herculean feat would be an understatement. Why it had become so desperate, Benedict had even broached the idea of marrying an American heiress. Or worse, a French aristocrat looking to escape the upheaval in France.

Imagine!

No, it was up to her. She understood her duty, and while she did not like it, little could be done to change it. Her brother had never asked anything of her. He had allowed her a degree of independence most young women her age did not have and had given her every opportunity to educate herself in areas often reserved for men.

Perhaps if he hadn’t done those things, marriage to Lord Tarrington would be a little easier to swallow. Perhaps she would not have rushed into sharing such a humiliatingly intimate interlude with her sworn enemy.

But she could not change who she was, or what she had done, any more than she could erase the memories of the pleasures to be had between a man and a woman. To know such pleasure existed, to taste it, and then know you would never experience it again…could anything be crueler? Perhaps only knowing who she had shared the pleasure with.

Her skin scalded with heat. Since his rejection of her two years previous, Abigail had done everything to put Lord Roxton and the hopes she had built around him out of her mind. When he had dropped his suit, without even the courtesy of an explanation, she had been heart sore for months. She had turned down other suitors, too bruised from her encounter with Roxton to even consider someone new. Only when the scandal with Uncle Henry broke did she turn her feelings of hurt into a more useful emotion—retribution.

Now he had even robbed her of that. How would she face him without expiring from humiliation? A carriage stopped outside their townhouse, the Tarrington crest emblazoned on the side in gold and blue. A moment later, a footman assisted Lord Tarrington out. He walked up the steps on spindly legs, his walking stick clutched in a gnarled hand. Though sixty, he looked much older.

“He is here,” she said, her voice void of enthusiasm. She took a deep breath and turned to face her future.

Ben rose from his chair and glanced out the window, squeezing her shoulder as he went to greet Lord Tarrington at the door.

“Pinch your cheeks,” Aunt Edythe instructed, setting aside her needlepoint. “You look like death.”

Abigail pursed her lips to keep her tongue silent. Aunt Edythe, with her mourning wardrobe, severe hair and dour countenance could scare off the Grim Reaper.

Lord Tarrington walked into the room moments later, Benedict in tow, and greeted Aunt Edythe before addressing her.

“Miss Laytham.” He bowed over her hand, then allowed his dry lips to rest briefly against her skin. Abigail suppressed a shudder. The very notion of allowing this man access to her body seemed inconceivable.

She offered a brief curtsey. “My lord, I trust you are keeping well. Won’t you please sit down? We have ordered tea and Cook has made those jelly biscuits you so love.”

Lord Tarrington smiled, revealing a full set of teeth, albeit yellowed with age and those awful cigars he loved to puff on. She imagined his estate reeked of them.

“It is lovely to see you again. You grow more beautiful with each passing visit.” He let go of her hand and lowered himself into a nearby chair.

“Thank you, my lord. How kind of you to say. How do things fare at Maynerly?”

“My gardens are beginning to bloom. I think I shall have an exceptional assortment of roses this year. I am working diligently on a hybrid that I have the highest hopes for.”

“How wonderful. I am pleased to hear it.” Abigail cut him off before he launched into a soliloquy on botany that left her bored to tears.

“Benedict, my good man, I wonder if you would allow me the great privilege of escorting your sister to Lady Perth’s garden party tomorrow afternoon. Did you receive an invite?”

Benedict slid a glance in Abigail’s direction. Their social calendar remained dismally empty. “I am unsure,” he hedged. “My mother usually attends to our social calendar and she is indisposed at the moment.”

If one could call hiding in her room to avoid facing the fact circumstances forced her daughter to marry a doddering old man, indisposed.

“I see. Well, it is of no consequence. I would like Miss Laytham to come as my guest.”

“Ah,” Benedict stalled once again, drawing the word out.

“I am most certain my niece will be more than pleased to attend,” Aunt Edythe said.

Abigail gave Ben a small shrug. What did it matter, after all? Despite the inevitability of the marriage, she supposed a certain amount of courtship was to be expected. The sooner she resigned herself to the fact, the better off they would all be.

Or so she kept telling herself.

Perhaps one day soon she would even believe it.

“I would be pleased to accompany you to Lady Perth’s tomorrow, Lord Tarrington. Indeed, I look forward to it.”

He smiled his yellow-toothed smile and Abigail suppressed another shudder. But this time it had little to do with Lord Tarrington and everything to do with the question of whether or not Lord Roxton would be in attendance at this same event.

* * *

It was a beautiful day for a garden party. A warm June afternoon where the rain had dissipated, leaving the grass a brilliant green and the early summer flowers bursting from their buds. The full power of the sun had not yet reached its zenith and those families who had not yet escaped to the comfort of their country estates tried to squeeze the last drop out of the Season before they left. The garden party made for a pleasant diversion, if one subscribed to that sort of entertainment.

Which Nicholas decidedly did not.

However, Miss Caldwell’s family had requested he attend and he had little choice but to go. After the debacle at the masquerade, he needed all the help he could get to keep his passions in check. Being around Miss Caldwell helped him do just that. He did not experience even the smallest stirring of desire when in her company.

Despite her uncommon beauty, she held little interest for him. She rarely steered their conversations to areas of consequence and certainly never made a stand on any topic of importance. She never argued her own opinion or contradicted his. There were no long looks, or sly sideways glances. No inappropriate touches when attentions were diverted away from them. She appeared to have no feelings whatsoever—for him or for anything else.

For all intents and purposes, she appeared a pretty package with nothing inside.

And someday she would be his wife.

His mother turned to him, interrupting his thoughts. “Darling, Miss Caldwell is over by the rose arbor. Why don’t you pay your respects to her? I see an old friend I would like to speak with.”

He forced a smile. “Of course, Mother.”

“Do not look so dismal,” Rebecca whispered, looping her arm through his and leaning against him as their mother walked away. “It cannot be as bad as all that.”

“Perhaps I should stay here with you,” Nicholas suggested hopefully.

His sister had been thrilled with the invitation to Lady Perth’s party, knowing Lord Selward planned to attend. She saw this as a good opportunity to gauge his true interest. Nicholas found it hard to believe any man could not be thoroughly engaged by his sister, but for some reason Lord Selward continued to drag his feet when it came to declaring his intentions. Nicholas wanted to press the man, but Rebecca forbade him from doing any such thing, insisting true love would unfold in its natural course, one only had to have faith.

But Nicholas didn’t put much stock in faith. Nor was true love. Not anymore.

Rebecca gave him a little push. “Do not be silly. I have Mr. Bowen here to keep me company. Go and do your duty.”

Nicholas and Bowen exchanged a look, his friend’s expression conveying his sympathy. Though Bowen was a man of few words, he possessed a level of perception Nicholas often found uncanny.

“Take care of my sister,” he told him.

“I shall fend off all unsuitable suitors.”

“See that you do. I am rather fond of her and would hate to see—”

“You’re stalling.” Rebecca gave him another small shove. “Go.”

Nicholas scowled, then quickly schooled his features and made his way across the lawn to the rose arbor where his inevitable future stood. As he crossed the well-manicured lawn, Miss Caldwell was joined by an old man and—

He froze in his tracks.

Devil take it!

She
was not supposed to be here.

Chapter Nine

Abigail stood at the elbow of the aging lord, her spring green dress pressed against her lithe body by the breeze. Nicholas tried to avert his gaze, but his strength failed him and his eyes greedily gulped up the sight of her. The material outlined the sweet curve of her hips and gentle slope of her thighs. He had touched her there. He had run his hands and mouth along the smooth, soft skin. Tasted her—

He faltered, the toe of his boot catching a tuft of grass.

Dammit, man, get your wits about you!

He pulled his gaze upward and realized Abigail, who had yet to see his approach, looked decidedly miserable beneath the pasted on smile curving the corners of her mouth. And no wonder. Tarrington was sixty, if he was a day, and in no way able to pleasure a woman of Abigail’s fiery passions. Nicholas wouldn’t be surprised if the man expired on his wedding night. Then again, that might be the best thing that could happen to Abigail. At least then she would be free of him.

“Ah, there you are Lord Roxton,” Miss Caldwell said, though her smile never quite made it to her dark eyes. Nicholas forced one of his own and wondered which would be the first to falter—his or Abigail’s.

Next to Tarrington, Abigail stiffened, the already pinched corners of her mouth growing more pronounced. She avoided his direct gaze, looking off in the distance somewhere just beyond his shoulder.

“Good day, Tarrington, Miss Laytham.” He gave a brief bow, then turned his attention to his soon to be fiancée. “It is lovely to see you again, Miss Caldwell. I trust the day finds you well?”

“Well enough.” Her voice flowed placid and plain, as if showing any hint of emotion was a strict breach of etiquette.

If so, Abigail had apparently skipped that lesson. Her pale skin flushed to a rosy hue that had nothing to do with the warm sun and everything to do with his arrival. Even without words—she likely could not fit any through her clenched jaw—he could read anger and disgust, and a strong desire for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Or perhaps in piecemeal. He doubted she would be particular about the process so long as the end result meant he disappeared completely, never to return.

He could not blame her. Those were the same emotions he’d experienced each time he looked in the mirror since the night of the masquerade.

He struggled to fill the awkward silence that had descended upon their quartet and to keep Miss Caldwell from making some benign comment about the weather. “Tarrington, what brings you to town?”

“I have come to pay my respects to Miss Laytham and her family.” He patted her hand, a motion that only seemed to intensify her discomfort. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. “It is unusual for me to leave my estate. This is a crucial time for my roses, but Miss Laytham requires my attention as well. It would not do to propose without a little courting first.”

Abigail’s rosy blush turned into a crimson stain.

How horrified she must be to face him now. No, horrified did not even begin to do justice to what she must be feeling. Had Nicholas known Abigail planned to attend Lady Perth’s tea, he would have begged off, regardless of Miss Caldwell’s request of his presence. He could not avoid her forever, but he at least wanted to give her time to come to terms with what had happened. What he had done.

Though given the anger she harbored against him for her uncle’s death, he wouldn’t hold his breath and expect her to forgive one more slight.

Especially when said slight was so horribly unforgivable.

Yet, even now, feeling the fury rolling off her, he could not help but be aroused. He could still taste her. Still feel her body’s eager response to his touch. The warmth of her skin. In that one brief interlude, she had emblazoned her image into his memory with such heat it had scorched his soul.

He hated this weakness, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He was a creature of passion. Regardless of how much he tried to suppress or ignore the base, sinful needs of his body, he could not deny their existence. Or the way her presence preyed upon them.

“Do you not think so, Roxton?”

Nicholas pulled himself out of his thoughts and forced his attention back to the conversation at hand. Tarrington droned on about his flowers, likely assuming it impressed the ladies, though from their expressions, Abigail appeared far from impressed and Miss Caldwell…well who knew what she thought of it.