An Invitation to Scandal (20 page)

But he knew. He had always known. His feelings for her were there from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her and had lurked beneath the surface ever since their courtship ended. He should have ignored Lord Glenmor’s refusal of his suit. He should have pressed on until the words came from Abigail’s mouth only. Would she have issued them? Did she consider him unworthy of her affections as Glenmor had? She had never given him that impression when they were together. He thought it had been a mutual attraction.

They spun around again and Nicholas could not stop himself from inching her closer as they turned. Her scent, a mixture of honeysuckle and rose, surrounded him like an aphrodisiac. Even now, after everything he had done to prove Lord Glenmor’s opinion was true, he wanted her still. The need for her entrenched itself within him and planted roots so deep they tangled around everything else.

“Is it always like this when you go out in public?” he asked, trying to distance his morose thoughts with conversation.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes. It is always like that.”

“I am sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes. Something in his tone must have caught her attention, for when he reopened his eyes she stared at him, but then glanced away before he could fully read her expression.

“My mother was most pleased to receive Lady Blackbourne’s invitation.”

It was the only acknowledgement he received for his woefully inadequate apology. It mattered not. Redemption and absolution were too far beyond his grasp. His past actions had made certain of it and his most recent ones threw more dirt on the grave.

She was lost to him forever.

He thought he had accepted this truth, but holding her now, he knew he hadn’t.

Across the dance floor he caught a glimpse of Miss Caldwell standing near his mother, a bland look on her face as if nothing around her attracted her interest. She was his future. The thought left him cold.

He pulled Abigail a little closer as the strains of the waltz rose and fell. It would end soon, and he would have to let her go. He wanted to savor this moment, unsure if it would ever come again.

“Is there nothing I can do to convince you of my regret for what I have done?”

She looked at him, her mask of indifference cast aside, letting him see the pain she lived with every day. It grabbed his heart and squeezed with a painful grip, her next words shredding it to bits.

“Can you turn back time, my lord? Can you give me back my uncle?”

His shook his head. “I cannot. I sincerely wish I could.”

“What of the past would you change if you could? How far back would you go?”

How far back? He had considered the question on a regular basis since the night Lord Glenmor stood in front of him and ended his life. Would he change that one night, or would he go back further—to the first night he set his sights on Opal St. Augustine? Perhaps he would go even further still, to the night Lord Glenmor cornered him and demanded he drop his suit. How far did one have to go to change the course of their life?

“As far back as I needed to.”

His words were empty consolation. “A pity you didn’t think of that before your actions made it impossible to do so.”

“I would—” He started, and then stopped, gathering his thoughts before he spoke again. He didn’t know when, if ever, he would have her as such a captive audience again, and he did not want to waste this precious opportunity. “You have every right to revile me.”

She lifted one eyebrow. The brilliant blue eye beneath it let him know she agreed.

“But I have changed,” he insisted. “I
am
changing.”

“Perhaps you are,” she said, “and perhaps you do regret your actions and the pain they caused. Unfortunately, Lord Roxton, your regret does not change my family’s situation. While I am certain the eventual outcome was not your intention, it does not change what happened. It does not alter the fact my family must bear its weight every day. You do not. So I find it difficult to accept your apology when you can give it so easily yet walk away without a mark.”

He wished she knew how wrong her claim was. His actions had left a mark, deep and indelible. The scars hidden deep inside where no one could see them.

“My apology is too little too late, but it is all I have to offer. All I have left. I was young, stupid, and selfish. I took my hurt and anger, and behaved every inch the fool. If I could change it all and give you back what you have lost, I would do everything in my power to see it done. I cannot, but know I live with that every day, though it pales in comparison to what you have suffered.”

“Hurt and anger? Over what?”

The music ended, but Nicholas continued to hold her in his arms, staring at her, at the confusion wrinkling her brown. Could it be she did not know of her uncle’s insistence he end their courtship? He had assumed she had. Was he wrong on that account?

“Over losing you.” He left the words plain and undressed.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“You do not know?”

She shook her head. Bewilderment filled him with equal parts joy and horror. Joy that she’d had no part in his rejection, and horror at the hurts he’d perpetrated thinking she had.

Only a few guests remained on the dance floor. They stood near the middle, a spectacle for all others to see. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone approach.

“Lord Roxton.”

Nicholas pulled his gaze away from Abigail to rest it on her brother, hovering near them like a guardian angel, one with a dark enough expression to scare the Devil.

Nicholas let his arms fall away. Emptiness invaded his soul and bled through him like poison. Nothing could be done about it now. Too much time had passed. Too many hurts committed.

“Lord Glenmor, I was about to escort your sister to her mother. Perhaps you would prefer to do the honor?” He had to let her go.

“I think it best. People are beginning to stare.” Abigail’s brother held out his arm, but his warning gaze remained on Nicholas a moment longer, before lightening and shifting to his sister. “Would you like some punch, my dear.”

“Yes,” she whispered, allowing him to pull her away. She glanced over her shoulder once, questions and uncertainty marring her expression. He wished he could explain, but would it even matter now?

He turned away and strode across the dance floor, seeking solace in the fresh air, away from the crowds and the gay laughter and jovial music. But, no matter how far he walked he could never outdistance his guilt-stained soul.

He had driven a man to kill himself—and for what? A rejection that had never happened?

It was all too much.

Chapter Thirteen

The day dawned warm and sunny, perfect weather for the planned picnic. Abigail had expected the subversive shunning they had experienced over the past eight months to continue, however little by little the other guests warmed to their presence, or at the very least did not shy away from it. A change precipitated by Lady Blackbourne’s open welcome of them, and enhanced by Lord Roxton’s dancing with both she and Caelie last evening.

It gave Abigail hope all would be well, but she doubted hope would speed up the process soon enough to save her from marriage to Lord Tarrington. Still, at least it boded well for Caelie’s future, if the welcome continued beyond the party. Before the scandal, Caelie’s beauty and bright spirit had made her much sought after. Abigail saw a hint of that old spirit last night. It did her heart well.

Abigail bent to pick a daisy growing near the large pond filled with lily pads and croaking frogs and the buzz of other things she couldn’t name or see. She had left the others to their entertainments, most choosing to partake in or watch the ensuing cricket match. She needed a few moments of solitude.

Abigail’s mind refused to rest. It continued to reflect upon the things Lord Roxton had said to her during their dance.
He
had lost
her
? How could he make such a claim when he had been the one to leave? What did he have to feel hurt or angry about?

She’d not had the opportunity to ask, and in truth, she did not know if she wanted to—afraid the answer would cause more pain than the knowledge was worth. She closed her eyes, and for a brief moment allowed herself to relive the moments they’d spent in the music room at the masquerade, when he had given her the pleasure she’d asked for, knowing who she was the whole time. Afterwards, when she discovered his identity, she’d assumed it had been another callous action from a man who cared little about who he hurt. Did she have it wrong? Could his motivations have been something other than what she’d imagined? Had the desire shared at the masquerade been mutual as she’d originally believed?

She shook her head and re-opened her eyes. No, she could not allow her thoughts to drift in such a silly direction. Such ludicrous ideas only served to muddy the waters. Perhaps it would be best if for the remainder of their stay here she avoided Lord Roxton and any further conversation with him.

As she turned to rejoin the others, however, her plans of avoidance met instant resistance.

Lord Roxton approached, making a steady path toward her, his intent clear, and unless Abigail considered jumping into the lake to avoid him, she was stuck. And with her luck, he would only dive and save her.

She braced herself and reined in the foolish giddiness her heart exuded at the mere sight of the man.

“You are not partaking in the cricket, my lord? I thought you would take such an opportunity to show off your prowess on the field to Miss Caldwell.”

He stopped within a few feet of her. Abigail glanced over his shoulder to the hill beyond to avoid his gaze.

Miss Caldwell watched the game, though she was too far way for Abigail to see the expression on her face. Boredom perhaps? Miss Caldwell did not strike her as the type to get excited over a cricket game.

“I am not in the mood today, I’m afraid.”

Abigail did not request clarification on whether he meant impressing Miss Caldwell or playing cricket. “I see.”

“I thought I would join you down by the lake instead and see if you would care to take a stroll.”

“With you?”

Nicholas—it grew increasingly more difficult to think of him as Lord Roxton—glanced around them. “Did you have someone else in mind?”

Most of the younger guests had moved further up the hill to watch the game, cheering and jeering, depending on where their loyalties rested. The remainder of the guests had spread themselves about. Some lounged on blankets beneath the shade of the elm trees while others sat in chairs brought down from the manor. She and Nicholas were far enough away from the crowd in either case to enjoy a modicum of privacy while still being within view for the sake of propriety.

Unfortunately, it also meant no one would rescue her. Rebecca had invited both she and Caelie to watch the game with her, but Abigail had declined. She had needed time to herself. Time reflect upon Nicholas’s partial confession of the night before and what it meant, if anything at all.

Nicholas had shown her a side of himself she’d no longer believed existed. She reminded herself his remorse was only a ruse, but her heart, fool that it was, did not believe it.

“Fine then,” she conceded. What harm could there be? It would do her family good for her to appear to be on better terms with Nicholas. Or so she told herself as he swept a hand in the direction of the pathway and she turned to follow it, thankful he did not offer her his arm. The less physical contact she had with him, the better.

“It’s a lovely day for a picnic,” he said, glancing upward to the sky.

Abigail lifted her gaze. Puffy white clouds drifted across the azure blue, lazy from the warmth of the sun’s rays and in no hurry to get where they were going.

“Indeed.”

Were they really going to discuss the weather? She remembered a time when they would talk about any manner of subjects. Politics, gossip, books. They had shared a wonderful relationship, short-lived though it was.

She had thought him perfect.

She should have known it was too good to be true.

“Perhaps it will last for the duration of the party, do you think?”

“One can hope.”

She glanced over and caught his eye as he looked down at her. The hint of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and a tiny flutter endangered her heart. “Shall we progress on to some other prosaic topic? I can think of nothing else to say about the weather.”

Abigail stifled a grin and looked quickly away, frantically searching her mind for something—anything—to talk about. She and Nicholas had rarely engaged in small talk before, preferring broader topics, but to venture back there would be to claim nothing had changed, when everything had. She searched for a safe topic, but her mind drew a depressing blank.

“It is sad that this is what we have come to,” she said. “We were friends once, were we not?”

Nicholas fell silent for a moment, then, “We were much more than friends, I think.”

The reminder resonated deep within her. She did not like to remember. It made what he did to her family so much worse.

“Tell me something…” She hesitated, unable to look at him or acknowledge the truth of his statement. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ancient oak in the distance, its bright green leaves moving gently in the breeze, feathering against the blue sky.

“Yes?”

“Last evening when we danced, you said you were hurt and angry over losing me.”

She ventured a quick glance up but he kept his gaze straight ahead. He too seemed mesmerized by the old oak.

Abigail took a deep breath, gathering her courage. “I’m curious. How did you lose me when you were the one who left?”

This captured his attention and brought it back to her. “
I
was?”

She stopped walking and turned toward him. “Indeed you were. One day we were courting and the next…the next… Well, there was no next, was there? You simply…disappeared. What reason did you have to feel hurt or angry? You didn’t lose me, you tossed me aside like a piece of old news.”