It Takes a Scandal (12 page)

This time her breath did stop in her chest, even as her heart seemed to have been jolted to thump at twice its normal pace. “Why? What do you want?”

His mouth curved. Not in a sweet, lighthearted way, but in a way that could only be called seductive. His eyes had grown as dark as a moonless midnight sky, and even though he hadn’t moved an inch, Abigail could swear he was somehow much closer to her. “Many things I cannot have.”

“Don’t we all!” She managed a shaky laugh. “I wish my hair was blond, like my sister’s. I wish my eyes were any color at all—green, blue, brown, even black.”

“You’re wrong to wish for those things. Never wish your hair was blond; such a pale insipid shade would never do you justice. You glow with passion and joy, as rich and warm as your hair.” He reached out, and with one sharp tug, loosened her bonnet ribbons and pushed the hat to hang down her back so he could touch her hair. “Never wish your eyes were blue or brown.” His thumb brushed over her cheekbone as he studied her face. “They are as fresh and clear as a new dawn, filled with promise and hope. You’re perfect as you are.” Abigail tilted forward, expecting a kiss—yearning for a kiss—but he stepped backward instead, giving her an almost physical start. She had been so focused on him, held so immobile by his burning gaze, she felt unsteady and disoriented without it. “We’re not making very good progress looking for Boris.”

“You said you weren’t worried about him!” She scrambled to catch up as he strode onward without another glance at her.

“I’m not, but you were.”

“Oh—well—I don’t want him to be lost or hurt . . .”

“Boris is more than capable of finding his way home,” he said. “He knows these woods as well as any creature who dwells in them.”

“If you’re not worried at all, then why were you in the woods looking for him?” She could barely keep up, he was moving so briskly. Did he regret what he’d said? If he didn’t, how he could practically sprint away from her?

“You make an excellent point, Miss Weston. I should return home at once and leave you and your sister to an uninterrupted stroll. Forgive me.” His eyes flashed her way as he touched the brim of his hat.

“Well, that’s a fine thanks, after we both offered to help find your dog.” She stopped, clutching one hand to her side as her lungs heaved. “Good day, Mr. Vane.”

He continued a few more steps before he, too, stopped. For a moment he stood motionless, then he turned and walked back toward her, not quickly as before, but a deliberate prowl. Abigail held her ground and waited, keeping her chin up. She didn’t shy away from his gaze, even though he looked almost angry.

“You ask what I want,” he said, his voice low and even. “Very well. I want to walk normally again. I’d give anything for two good legs.” He shifted his weight to prop the heel of his left boot on a nearby stump. “Instead I’ve got a shattered knee that aches in every heavy rain and betrays me at odd moments, sending me to the ground like a true cripple. I will never be able to walk without a cane again, nor dance with a woman, nor climb a tree, nor ride a horse comfortably.”

She stared at his wounded knee, her lips parted in dismay. “Oh . . .”

He put one finger on her lips. “I also want my land back. My father sold it for a pittance and everyone agrees the sale was legal, even though he was mad as a hatter at the time. I want my mother’s grave to be on my property.”

Abigail gasped. “You cannot repurchase even that part?”

His smile was bitter. “Even if the buyer would sell it back to me, I haven’t got the funds.”

She bit her lip. That was terrible. What comfort could one offer in the face of that?

He put his foot back on the ground and took a step toward her. Abigail had to tip back her head to meet his eyes. “And the last thing I want is something I can never have.”

She wet her lips nervously. His eyes tracked the motion. “What is that?”

He just smiled that twisted smile again. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted my lot. You should believe some of what they say about me in town; I’m no noble hero.”

“Really?” She arched one brow. “Your father went mad and ran naked through the streets of Richmond? You killed your father? Your dog is a witch’s familiar?”

“A witch’s—?” He broke off and shook his head. “I hadn’t heard that one. Boris is an ordinary dog.”

“Of course he is! Rumor is so ridiculous. I never believe half of what I hear.” She hurried after him as he started walking again, but at a normal speed this time.

“You should believe more. My father really did run mad,” he told her. “He regularly ran through these woods, and even into town, wearing only his nightshirt—if he wore anything at all. He refused to bathe or eat for weeks at a time, he refused to have his hair or nails cut, he looked like a wild beast. I didn’t kill him, even though he begged me to.” He slanted a challenging glance at her. “I’m sure they also told you I’m going as mad as he was. You can add my good name to the list of my hopeless desires.”

“You’re not mad at all.” She rolled her eyes. “Aggravating, perhaps.”

“Then why are you still speaking to me?”

Abigail bit back the tart reply that leapt to her lips. He was trying to chase her away, but the way he’d looked at her a few minutes ago, when she asked what he wanted, tormented her. The way he’d touched her face resonated deep inside her. “Because I like you,” she said softly. “I like talking to you, even when you’re telling me to run away from you. You look at me as if—”

This time he stopped so suddenly, she ran into him. Instinctively she clutched at his shoulder, and his arm went around her waist to catch her. Abigail’s eyes grew wide as she stared up at him. His eyes were no longer hard and angry, but dark with raw longing. “As if I want you?” he asked, not making any effort to release her. “I do. I came into the woods today because I wanted to see you, even though I said I wouldn’t—even though I know I shouldn’t. I want you in every wicked way a man can want a woman. And if I had you, I could show you many, many more than fifty ways to sin.”

Her eyes had grown wide at his first words, but she froze in shock at the last bit. “What?” she squeaked.

“You know what I mean,” he murmured. His hand moved up her back, his fingers spread wide to hold her to him. “The pamphlet you bought in Mrs. Driscoll’s shop.”

“You
read
it?”

He nodded.

Abigail made a silent vow to murder her sister for this. She’d known it would land her in trouble somehow. “But—but—why did
you
buy it?” She really wished she could look away, but her wits—and her will—seemed to have gone missing.

“Because you bewitched me, and I wanted to know you, even if just what you read.” He wound a stray wisp of hair around his finger before smoothing it back from her temple. “Why did
you
buy it?”

Abigail’s heart was beating a tocsin against her breastbone. It was tempting to blame it on her sister, but she’d found that issue so arousing . . . “Curiosity,” she finally whispered.

Something flared in his eyes. “Indeed. You torment me, Miss Weston. Was your curiosity . . . sated?”

A tide of heat rolled through her, igniting her skin from her toes to the top of her head. Abigail swayed, lowering her eyes to hide her thoughts as much as to avoid his searing gaze. “It—it was illuminating,” she stammered. “Educational.”

“Sufficient to quench your hunger . . . for knowledge?”

He knew. She could hear the thread of amusement in his tone. He knew she’d read it and reread it for the sheer wickedness it portrayed. Lady Constance’s lover had come to her in the darkness, blindfolded her, and instructed her how to touch her own body for her pleasure while he watched. Abigail was sure her thoughts were written on her face as she recalled every sinful way Constance had caressed herself—and how she had done the same, in the privacy of her bed. She prayed he never knew that she had thought of him while she did it. “Partly,” she whispered.

He only held her tighter. “Read it again,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. “Tonight in your bed. Put your hands on yourself and see if Lady Constance had the right of it.”

A screech echoed through the woods.

“Penelope!” she gasped as Mr. Vane bolted past her. She took off running after him, grabbing up her skirts in one hand as her basket swung wildly on her other arm and her bonnet bounced on her back. For a moment real panic seized her; she’d completely forgotten about her sister, who was far more at home in a modern city than in the woods. Penelope could be injured or trapped. But as she crashed through the bracken toward the sounds of her sister’s voice, she realized it was cursing and not real cries for help. She slowed her pace a little as Mr. Vane tore on ahead. For a man who called himself a cripple, he could move astonishingly fast. He vaulted over a dead tree and disappeared around a thicket, running with only a slight limp. By the time Abigail caught up to him, nearly down a slope thick with dead leaves, she was just in time to see him help Penelope out of a thick swamp of mud. From the looks of her skirts, Penelope had fallen on her knees in it, and she gave Abigail a scalding look as she staggered up the hillock that must have tripped her.

“The dog is probably better able to survive in the woods than I am,” she said through her teeth.

Relieved that her sister wasn’t trapped or injured, Abigail nodded.

Mr. Vane tramped up the slope, his boots covered in mud to the ankle. “Are you hurt, Miss Penelope?”

Penelope grimly surveyed her skirt. “Yes, I believe I am. Grievously. Abby will have to bring me tea and cake for several days while I recover. And something to read, as I may be confined to my bed.”

“Of course,” Abigail murmured, knowing what her sister meant.

Penelope glanced between them. “I’m going home now.” Without waiting for a reply from either, she started off, holding her muddy skirts wide. Her slippers squished with every step.

Abigail hesitated. She wished Penelope hadn’t screamed when she had, before he could have said just what he did want, but now the moment had passed. Perhaps he would have said that he didn’t really want her, that he was in love with Lady Samantha. Perhaps he wanted her, but only the way Lady Constance’s lovers did: wanton and willing but only for one night. Surely if he felt anything else, he would say so—and he hadn’t. Perhaps she was just a fool. “Thank you for helping my sister, Mr. Vane. I’m sorry we interrupted your search for Boris. I hope you find him soon.” She ducked her head and started to go.

“Miss Weston.” His voice was low, but she stopped at once. “Forgive me.” Cautiously Abigail turned around. His expression was still unreadable, but the heat was gone from his voice. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

She blushed. “Oh. I-I’ve been impertinent to you, too.”

One corner of his mouth crooked. “Why do you think I like you?” She blinked in hopeful confusion. He hesitated, his gaze dark and probing. “Do you truly want to see the old grotto?”

She nodded.

This time it was a real, though slight, smile that curved his mouth, the same expression that had so entranced her in the bookshop. “Meet me at the end of the Fragrant Walk tomorrow at two o’clock.”

Abigail gasped. “You’ll show me?”

“You shouldn’t endanger the rest of your family hunting for it.”

She was startled into a laugh, and his reluctant smile grew a little bit. Oh, he was definitely handsome when he smiled. “Until tomorrow, Miss Weston.” He touched the brim of his hat, and was still smiling when she finally tore her eyes away and hurried after her sister.

S
ebastian watched until she vanished into the trees and he could no longer hear her footsteps. God above. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been offered a new chance at happiness, or an insidious opportunity to ruin himself for good.

Either way, he was going to see Abigail Weston again tomorrow, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

He limped back through the woods to where he’d dropped his cane. He stooped to pick it up and could swear her perfume still lingered in the air. He set the cane against his injured leg and headed for home, hardly aware of the ache in his knee after the mad dash into the mud. It had felt good to drop the cane and just run, not tensing with each step in anticipation of pain. He’d pay for it later, but for now he felt almost like his old self, able to help a woman in distress the way a gentleman should.

And it had made Abigail look at him with gratitude and respect, which was almost as appealing as when she stared up at him with that arousing combination of desire and embarrassment. He wondered if she would do as he dared her to do, and reread
50 Ways to Sin
. He wondered who she would imagine watching her as she pleasured herself . . .

He took an uneven breath. God damn him for a fool. As if he didn’t have enough torment already.

He headed toward home. At the edge of the trees, just before he emerged onto the grassy slope leading up to Montrose Hill, he put his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Boris had been a convenient excuse; the moment Mrs. Jones remarked that the dog was still out, Sebastian had put on his hat and headed for the woods. Avoiding Abigail Weston hadn’t put an end to his fascination—no, it had made it stronger. In the few days since he’d seen her last, he’d been driven half mad by wondering about her. If her interest would fade when she heard confirmation of the rumors about him. If her professed desire to find the grotto was just a taunt. If he could possibly keep himself away from her for long.