It Takes a Scandal (8 page)

“You own Montrose Hill, do you not?” Mama prepared a cup of tea and handed it to him. “We have a fine view of the house from the lawn, and I have often admired it.”

“Yes.” He glanced around the room. “I might say the same about Hart House. It looked so lonely after Lady Burton’s death. I’m glad to see it bright with life again.”

Mama smiled. “Thank you, sir. My husband assured me it would be an ideal refuge from London, and I must confess he was entirely correct.”

Mr. Vane nodded. He still hadn’t smiled, and aside from that moment of almost intimate appraisal, he hadn’t looked at Abigail, either. “I’ve lived here my entire life, ma’am, and have always found it preferable to town.”

“As do I,” Abigail put in, determined not to be ignored. “It’s so peaceful.”

He barely glanced at her. “Indeed, Miss Weston.”

“I owe you a great thanks for saving my dear Milo, Mr. Vane. Abigail told me how you rescued him from the woods.” Mama scratched her pet’s chin, and he gave a little yap before tearing at the rope again. “I don’t know what I would have done had he been lost.”

“I merely pulled him from the brambles, Mrs. Weston. Your daughter deserves more credit for his rescue. She tracked him into the woods.” Still unsmiling and grave, he darted a glance toward Abigail.

“And she was very pleased not to have to chase him further.” Mama’s tone was light as she petted her dog, but her eyes were sharp and inquisitive as she looked at Abigail, as if she could sense her daughter’s tension. “It spared her favorite gown, I understand.”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “I’m very grateful. We could have found a new dog, but that dress was one of a kind.”

Her mother gasped in affected outrage. “Milo, don’t believe a word!” The puppy wagged his tail at the sound of his name. “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“I trust the pup suffered no harm from his adventure,” said Mr. Vane.

“None that a brisk bath couldn’t cure,” Mama assured him.

“Mr. Vane suggested you cut his coat, Mama, so he wouldn’t get caught in any thorn bushes.” Abigail watched him as she spoke. His eyes were trained on the cursed little dog, still gnawing on a knot almost as large as his own head. She was completely perplexed. Had he really just come to pay his respects to Mama, as a neighbor? If his manners prompted him to that, why did he refuse to tell her his name the night they met? He seemed determined to ignore her, barely looking at her and replying dismissively to her conversation.

“Cut his coat! Oh, he’s such a handsome dog with his fur long,” Mama protested. “We’ll just keep a close eye on him from now on, and not let him run through the woods.”

Milo, who had been absorbed in chewing his rope toy, suddenly sprang up on the sofa. His ears stood up, his fur bristled, and a little growl rumbled in his throat. He barked a moment before the butler tapped at the door. “Mrs. Huntley, madam,” Thomson announced.

“Do show her in,” said Mama. “Hush, Milo.” The puppy sank down on the cushion, his dark little eyes fixed on the door.

Mr. Vane was already on his feet. His cup of tea was back on the table—untouched, Abigail realized. “It was a pleasure, Mrs. Weston,” he said, reaching for his cane. “I shan’t keep you.”

Mama looked startled. “Why, no—do stay and finish your tea, sir.”

“Thank you, no; I must be going.” He bowed and turned, looking for all the world like he wanted to run out the door, but it opened before he got there, and Thomson ushered in Mrs. Huntley.

Anne Huntley was the wife of a gentleman who owned a large house near the gates of Richmond Park. It was rumored that his family was descended from a favorite retainer of King Charles II, who had granted the land himself. Since Mrs. Huntley herself had told them this rumor, Abigail supposed it was true, as well as a mark of the woman’s pride. For some reason she and Mama had struck up a friendship very easily, but Milo didn’t like her. Every time she called, the little dog barked until Mama had him taken away.

This time was no different—Milo erupted in a fury of yipping as soon as the woman stepped into the room— but more striking was the reaction of Mr. Vane and Mrs. Huntley to the sight of each other.

Mrs. Huntley gasped and clapped one hand to her bosom, stopping in her tracks.

Mr. Vane, his face more stony than ever, bowed very formally. Without another word he left.

Mama, still trying to calm Milo, didn’t notice. But Abigail could have sworn Mrs. Huntley drew away from his approach as if he had the plague. She was now the second person who had looked at Mr. Vane as though she smelled brimstone in his presence.

Impulsively, she scooped up Milo from the sofa. “I’ll take him outside so you can enjoy Mrs. Huntley’s visit,” she told her mother, and without waiting for permission, she rushed out. “Hush, dog,” she muttered to Milo as she hurried toward the hall. How could Mr. Vane have made it so far, so quickly? He walked with a cane, while she was practically running. By the time she had snatched a lead from the hook behind the door, Mr. Vane was already striding down the drive.

“Mr. Vane,” she called. His stride hesitated only a moment, and he didn’t look back. Cursing under her breath, Abigail slipped the lead over Milo’s head and put him down. Now that he was away from Mrs. Huntley, he had stopped barking, and trotted along eagerly enough as she hurried after the mysterious man. “Mr. Vane!”

He only stopped when she caught up to him. “Yes, Miss Weston?”

“You left so suddenly,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I hope Milo didn’t cause it.” The little pest was sniffing around his boots, with no sign of the frenzy that had gripped him just a few minutes ago. Now that she thought about it, Milo barked at most everyone except Mr. Vane.

He looked down at Milo. “No.”

“I hope you didn’t leave because of me,” she dared to say.

“Why would you think that?” He glanced at her, then back at the dog. “Nothing of the sort.”

“You seem determined to avoid looking at me,” she said softly. “If I’ve done something to offend—”

“You haven’t.” He stepped over Milo and continued walking. Abigail realized he had come on foot from Montrose Hill. Excellent; that gave her more time to draw him out.

“But you
are
avoiding me.” She kept pace with him, Milo at her heels.

“No,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I never intended to stay long; your other visitor barely hastened my departure.”

“Yes, and I’m
so
anxious to hear all about Mr. Huntley’s illustrious roots,” she muttered. “For once I agree with Milo.”

Her companion made a noise like a faint snort.

“I think you agree with him, too,” she said, encouraged. “I gather Mrs. Huntley was the reason you left so quickly.”

He sighed. “If I didn’t go, she would have, and that would have been uncomfortable for your mother. I had expressed my niceties, so I took my leave.”

“Why on earth would she have left?” Abigail thought it was better to pretend she hadn’t noticed the antipathy between them. “You aren’t so fearsome as all that, sir.”

He slanted a look at her. “How would you know?”

Abigail tilted her head and met his gaze thoughtfully. “You just aren’t. Not in my opinion.”

He stopped walking. “And your opinion is infallible?”

“Of course not!” She laughed. “I never said so. But I expect I’m more fearsome than you, as you look like you want to run the other way every time we meet.”

And again his mouth softened. It was the only change in his face, but it had a remarkable effect. “How do you know what I want?”

“You wouldn’t tell me your name the first night we met,” she pointed out. “You started to duck back out the door when you saw me in the bookshop. Today you barely glanced my way, even when I spoke directly to you. What conclusion would you draw, if you were in my place?”

For a long moment he just regarded her in silence. Abigail met his gaze without flinching, ignoring the little jerks on the lead as Milo tried to wander away. “Yes,” he said at last. “You are correct. I do want to run the other way when I see you.”

“Why?” She hurried to keep up as he walked on, more briskly than before. “What have I done?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he said, adding under his breath, “and I pray it stays that way.”

“Then what ought I to do?” They were making good progress down the road. She had run out without a shawl or a bonnet, and had to squint against the sun when she looked up at him.

“Absolutely nothing,” he repeated. “For your own sake.”

“But if I’ve been doing nothing and it disgusts you, it makes no sense that I continue doing nothing.”

He paused. “You don’t disgust me.” He pointed past her with his cane. “There is the path to my home. Pardon me, Miss Weston.”

She let him pass, but kept dogging his heels, dragging poor Milo in her wake. “If I don’t disgust you, why won’t you speak to me? There was only that one moment, when you told me about the lost grotto, when I felt we were cordial.”

He heaved a soundless sigh. “I’m speaking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Without saying anything,” she grumbled. “We are neighbors, sir. Surely we can have an amiable relationship.”

With unexpected speed and grace he whirled on her. Abigail nearly tripped as she leapt back once, then again until her back hit a tree as he stalked toward her. He loomed over her, so close she could see the lines around his eyes, but not so close he was touching her. “Amiable,” he whispered. “We will never be amiable.”

“Why n-not?” she stammered. Her heart was beating a tattoo inside her chest.

He smiled, but there was nothing light about it. It was a black and bitter expression, and the sight made her eyes grow wide. “Because I am a wicked man, Miss Weston. Don’t you listen to the gossip? Madness runs in my family. My estate is utterly ruined. People call me a thief. They even say I killed my father. Ask anyone in town, and they’ll warn you to stay far, far away from me. To a beautiful, innocent young woman, I might as well be the devil incarnate.”

“
Did
you kill your father?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Abigail wished them back.

“What do you think?” he asked in the same soft, dangerous tone.

She frowned. “I doubt it.”

“But you don’t
know.
That should warn you to run away.”

She stared at him. “You intrigue me.”

He leaned closer. In confusion she closed her eyes. “And you intrigue me,” he replied, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. “That’s why I avoid you.”

“Isn’t that all the more reason not to avoid someone?” she asked unsteadily. She could smell his shaving soap and a fresh scent that put her in mind of a sun-drenched field. This was attraction, potent and primitive and reckless.

He shuddered. “Not in this case.” She forced her eyes open. His face was still taut and tense, but his eyes were dark with longing. Slowly he reached up one hand, as if he would touch her cheek, but at the last moment he let it fall.

“Why did you come today, if you mean to avoid me?” She had no idea what she was doing, arguing with a man who baldly admitted he wanted to run the other way when he saw her . . . even though she intrigued him.

He stepped back. “Foolishness.”

She didn’t move. “Will you show me the grotto, before you begin ignoring me forever?”

“No.”

“Then I shall have to find it on my own.” She eased away from the tree. “You did give me permission to walk in the woods. Do you mean to rescind that?”

He looked like he very much wanted to say yes. “No.”

“Very well then.” She stepped closer to him, thrilling at the way his eyes darkened even more and his breathing hitched. He did find her intriguing. Abigail had heard enough rumor and innuendo in her life to discount at least half of anything the gossips said. She hadn’t heard enough about Sebastian Vane—yet—to decide what she thought of it in his case, but the edge in his voice when he threw the rumors in her face hinted at a man more wronged than wicked. She’d get to the bottom of that later, but for now . . . “I intend to search every inch of these woods until I find it.”

“As you wish, Miss Weston.”

She glanced at him from under her lashes. “If you don’t want to see me again, you had better avoid the woods at all times.”

“I will bear it in mind.”

“Then I suppose this is good-bye, Mr. Vane.” She tugged Milo out of the bushes where he’d been happily snuffling, and walked past him, very near. When her shoulder almost would have brushed his, she paused and looked up at him. The grim distance was gone from his face; he watched her with a mixture of wariness and fascination. She chose to focus on the fascination, hoping he was as helpless against it as she was. “But I hope it’s not.”

She turned and walked away without looking back, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Chapter 6

A
bigail decided it was time to cast off subtlety. When she got back to the house, she sent Milo away with a footman and went in search of her sister, who turned out to be in the bright conservatory at the southern side of the house. “You should have seen the way Mrs. Huntley reacted when she saw Mr. Vane was here this afternoon.”

Penelope put down her book without a second glance. Abigail thought she saw the edge of a pamphlet sticking out from between the pages. At least Pen was being more cautious about reading
50 Ways to Sin
this time; Mama never went into the conservatory, claiming it made her sneeze. “Why did no one tell me he was here?”