Ripe for Scandal (16 page)

“Glennalmond?” His voice held utter disbelief.

“Fine,” Beau said. “The men in my own family as well. What are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Gareth said, blue eyes weary, brows slanting down in exactly the way that always made her most wish to offer comfort.
“We’re going to enjoy ourselves while we purchase the most obvious of necessities and then we’re going to decamp to our new
home and let things settle down. We’ll come back in spring when the Season starts and see if our scandal has blown over enough
for us to be received back into the arms of the
ton
. Perhaps someone else will eclipse us by committing an even more entertaining folly.”

Beau smoothed her thumb over one of his eyebrows, hand cupping his cheek. “You’re half hoping our exile will be permanent,
aren’t you?”

He captured her hand in his own and kissed her palm. “It would mean keeping you all to myself, brat.”

The frisson of awareness flooded through her, making her breasts ache and her heart beat unevenly. “I expect that come spring,
you’ll be glad enough to share me.”

“Don’t be too sure, love.”

The sound of a door closing in the distance made her sharply aware of the danger of remaining closeted with him. It was her
parents’ home they were in, not their own. Being discovered
cavorting
in the drawing room was the last thing either of them needed.

Holding his hand in both of hers, Beau stood. “Come for a ride.”

Gareth waggled his brows, and she made a face at him.

“I mean it. I can’t stand being cooped up for the rest of the day.”

A cold, dismal fog swirled about their feet, obscuring the pavement and muffling the ring of the horses’ metal-shod hooves.
Beau shivered, wishing they’d gone earlier, when the day was crisp and clear. Thin of company as London was at the moment,
late afternoon was still the most popular time for a ride along Rotton Row. There were already a good number of people shuffling
along the wide path that cut through the park. Far too many for her to be able to shake out her gelding’s fidgets with a quick
gallop.

Beside her, Gareth reined Monty in and gave her a lazy, seductive smile. Heat crept up her cheeks as Beau attempted to force
her mind away from the reason for his sleepy state. It was just cold enough that an observer
might mistake her blush for a rosy glow. Might, but probably wouldn’t.

“Explain to me again why we couldn’t simply retire to your chamber for an afternoon of sport?”

Laughing, Beau brought Gunpowder up to the bit and urged him into a canter. Muscle, bone, and pure spirit surged down the
sandy track, carrying her along. The steady tattoo of the gelding’s hooves was the only thing that existed in the moment.
The simple pleasure of motion, the rush of cold air across her skin, the feeling, almost, of flight.

She flashed by a group of women, eliciting a shout of annoyance from one of them. A rumble of masculine laughter chased after
her. At the end, she slowed to a walk. Gunpowder’s ribs went in and out like a bellows, and he snorted his displeasure.

Beau clapped him on the shoulder and ran her hand soothingly along his neck. The bit jangled as he shook his head in protest,
mouth yawning wide.

“One of these days that animal is going to bite you.”

Beau turned her head to find Roland Devere trotting toward her on a chestnut hack with a piebald face. “Not a chance.” The
gelding swung his head toward Devere, teeth snapping. “Stop that,” she said to the horse. “But he may bite you, nasty beast.”

She turned Gunpowder in a sharp circle and fell in beside Devere. “Had a pony like that as a boy. It was always biting someone.”
He grinned suddenly, clearly enjoying the memory.

Beau gave him an amused glance. “I assume the
someone
was mostly your brother, Segrave?”

Devere’s grin widened. “Gingerbread—my sister named him—never could stand poor Segrave. So he went from Margo to me. Ancient
thing is still alive, a doted pet, and it still can’t stand my brother.”

They skirted past a group of slightly raucous blades, moving slowly back toward the entrance of the park. The fog had begun
to thicken, so that people materialized out of the shadows like ghosts.

Beau put her hand tentatively on Devere’s arm, and he reined in beside her. “How bad are things, really?”

Devere’s expression went slack for a moment, his dark eyes shuttered. “Bad enough.” He thrust his fingers under his hat and
scratched his head, pulling hair from his queue.

“Damn my brother.” Beau removed her hand from his sleeve and gave Gunpowder a sharp correction, pulling his head away from
the vicinity of Devere’s knee.

Devere’s response was a cackle of laughter worthy of the witches from
Macbeth
. “A worthy sentiment, I’m sure. And one you can express to its fullest should he choose to show up for our cricket match
tomorrow.”

Beau found herself smiling back at him. Devere had that effect on people. He had a talent for making one see the amusing and
absurd side of things. Things couldn’t be as bad as she feared if he was still thinking of cricket.

“I just don’t understand what Leo finds so objectionable,” Beau said.

Devere’s face drained of merriment. “Well, perhaps the tableau awaiting us might make your brother’s concerns clearer.”

Beau froze, yanking Gunpowder to a stop. Gareth had dismounted and was standing beside a lady mounted upon a small bay, locked
in heated conversation.

Lady Cook. Flushed and obviously unhappy. Her blond curls trembled as she shook her head. She sawed at the reigns, trying
to yank them from Gareth’s grasp. An audience was building up, hazy in the fog, but clearly growing by the minute.

Gareth cursed loudly, hands falling away from her, as Lady Cook brought her crop down across his face. “I hate you, Gareth
Sandison.” Her horse minced in place, as agitated as its rider. Sand sprayed up from its hooves.

Lady Cook stiffened as she spied Beau, and her expression hardened. Her eyes bored into Beau. They’d never got on, but Lady
Cook’s palpable dislike was new.

Beau stared her would-be adversary down, the moment pregnant with the promise of violence. She knew hatred when she saw it.
Beau urged Gunpowder forward, and Lady Cook shrank back, eyes wide, full of impotent rage.

“Don’t you think you’ve humiliated yourself—and your husband—enough?” Beau said. It wasn’t kind of her, and it probably wasn’t
wise, but she couldn’t help herself. The sight of Gareth with his hands so familiarly on his lover had turned her blood to
ice.

Lady Cook straightened in the saddle, shaking her hair back over her shoulder and raising her chin. “Not as much as your husband
is likely to humiliate you,” she said with a flash of satisfaction.

Gareth swung up into the saddle as Lady Cook rode off, his expression hard to read. It could have been any
thing from anger to disgust, perhaps even regret. The crop mark on his cheek stood out in sharp, brilliant relief.

Devere tipped his hat and disappeared into the slowly dispersing crowd. Beau’s stomach churned, fighting against the constriction
of her stays.

CHAPTER 21

G
areth spun the cricket bat in his hand and then tapped it on the ground. The clouds parted momentarily, and he squinted at
the bowler as the sudden shaft of sunlight nearly blinded him. He dug his feet into the ground and waited.

His own side didn’t want him here. Their icy welcome when he’d turned up had been one more slight to bear. Vaughn wasn’t even
here to witness it, which meant it was utterly genuine. His friends despised him, and the feeling was beginning to be mutual.

The dull roar of those gathered beyond the boundary filled his ears like the din of an orchestra tuning up. It diminished
to a hush as the Etonian’s new bowler toed the line. Behind him, the wicketkeeper snickered. Harrow had been having quite
the day of it so far, a run of luck Gareth fully intended to end here and now.

Beau was standing at the boundary, hands gripping the rope, her scarlet redingote unmistakable in the sea of dark-coated gentlemen.
She shouldn’t be here, but
she’d refused to stay home, threatening to make her own way if he refused to bring her. He’d left her in the care of Devere’s
father, who’d promised to see that she wasn’t trampled by the crowd.

The ball came at him with a wicked spin, and Gareth sent it flying back, high and long. Gareth sprinted down the pitch, passing
Devere as the nonstriker did the same. Gareth reached the crease and reversed, shoes sliding on the grass.

Devere was no longer running; he was smiling, standing stock-still midpitch, hair down around his shoulders. Gareth skidded
to a halt, attention riveted to the still-standing wicket.

“Boundary,” the umpire called. “Six.”

Devere stopped to clap Gareth on the shoulder as he made his way back to his wicket. The very public gesture wasn’t lost on
him. “One more like that,” Devere said loudly, “and the umpire could call stumps.”

Young Crawley screwed up his face. He caught the ball as it was returned by one of the fielders, turning it about in his hand
as though examining it for defect.

Gareth took his place before the wicket and flicked his eyes to Beau. He could make out the flash of her smile from here,
as well as those of her circle of admirers. She was surrounded, the center of attention in her own little island.

His chest felt suddenly heavy. Who would she have chosen if her hand hadn’t been forced? Not him, certainly.

“Shouldn’t even be here,” the Etonian keeper said to his back, his animosity clearly not confined to the game.

Gareth grimaced as what little enjoyment he’d managed
to squeeze out of the day evaporated. Devere was right. One more over the boundary and they could go home.

The Etonian’s bowler sent the ball hurtling toward Gareth, but it was wide. The boy was shaken. He’d knocked out the opposition
one by one, but Gareth had been hitting—and scoring—steadily since coming up to bat.

The boy bowled again, and the crack of the bat made Beau jump. Gareth and Devere, both stripped to their shirts, dashed across
the length of the pitch, scoring again. Lord Moubray cheered, elbowed her gently, and held out a flask.

“You must be freezing, my dear,” he said, rubbing his hands together to fend off the cold.

Beau tipped the flask carefully into her mouth and let the slow burn of the brandy warm her from the inside out. “I’m fine,
truly, my lord.”

“Your ears are turning pink, and you’re not one for blushing,” he said with a sly grin so reminiscent of his son’s that Beau
nearly burst into laughter.

She tugged her fur-lined hat down. “No, blushing was never a talent of mine.”

He nodded, eyes darting back to the match. “Don’t start now,” he advised. “Take your mother as your example. The duchess could
ride through the streets of London naked as Lady Godiva and no one would dare to sneer at her.”

Beau stared at the earl’s profile, surprised by his advice. After a moment he turned back to her, brows meeting in a frown.
“Don’t ever let them cow you,” he said
earnestly. “No one speaks of it, of course, but we’ve all born witness to many a girl who could have saved herself by demonstrating
a bit of pluck in the face of adversity.”

He placed her hand on his arm, and Beau squeezed it. She knew full well that once you let the
ton
snub you, it was nearly impossible to claw your way back in.

Some, like her sister-in-law, didn’t even try. Viola was comfortable, happy even, living on the fringes just as she had before
marrying Leo. Beau couldn’t quite see herself accepting such constraints with equal equanimity.

Out on the field, Gareth struck the ball again, sending it flying over their heads to a victory.

CHAPTER 22