A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (32 page)

“There is no question whatsoever,” Lady Farleigh said firmly.

“Then . . . who are the rest of you, anyhow?” Mrs. Fincher said. “Meaning no disrespect.”

“We're her family,” Colin said firmly. “We are all her family, and we should very much like to take her home.”

The next few hours were chaos. It took ten minutes to gather young Marie's belongings, but two hours to sort out the legality of bringing her home with them, and to allow her to say a temporary farewell to her friends (with many promises to allow visits). Elinor became rather concerned as a flock of pint-sized females swarmed Lord Farleigh with tearful exhortations to look after their friend that he would adopt the whole brood. Luckily, it seemed the majority were spoken for, their parents being in good working order.

Mrs. Fincher finally agreed to allow Lady Farleigh temporary guardianship until they could arrange for Mr. Bhandari to take custody of the young girl. Young Marie was installed in the town house and showered with so much attention and so many hastily acquired gifts that Elinor worried the girl would be suffocated. Luckily, she took more after her mother than Elinor, and clearly thrived on the attention.

Which left Elinor to return, belatedly, to the Hargrove town house, where she discovered Joan in the process of packing.

“False labor,” Joan said. “Doesn't
feel
false, I'll tell you that. But at least I have the chance to escape back to Thornwald. Are you married yet?”

Elinor blinked. “Married?”

“You and Farleigh. I'm joking, mostly. I assume you've sorted yourselves out. You look significantly less morose. I think you might be on the edge of effervescent, actually.” Joan grinned.

“There's rather a lot going on,” Elinor said. “I imagine it will be some time before everything gets sorted out enough to even talk about marriage.”

There was a knock on the door, and Martin peered in. “Elinor, Farleigh's at the door. He says he's on his way to get a special license if I say yes, and wants to know if tomorrow will do for the wedding. Am I saying yes?”

“What? Oh. Yes,” Elinor said. “Joan, can you hold out another day?”

“If this child is anything approaching as stubborn as his parents, we have weeks,” Joan said.

“
Her
parents,” Martin corrected, apparently an automatic reflex. “Tomorrow's fine, then?”

“Tomorrow's excellent,” Elinor confirmed.

“And you're sure you wouldn't rather I dump a bucket of ice water over his head and never speak to him again?” Martin said.

“Yes, I'm sure!” Elinor declared, throwing up her hands. “For God's sake, Martin!”

“Just checking,” he said with a grin, and disappeared.

“I have no idea how you put up with him for so long,” Joan said with a sigh.

“You're the one that married him.”

“And look where that got me,” Joan said, but she was grinning, too.

*   *   *

It was not one more day, but three. Three days, long enough for the rest of their siblings to arrive, long enough for little Marie to put the whole household under her spell, long enough for sorrow and joy to rise and fall again and again in a constant dance.

It was strange, grieving a thing that had happened so long
ago, and rejoicing in discoveries freshly made. It felt almost like madness, Colin thought. And then he stood at the altar in the chapel, and looked in Elinor's eyes, and looked at their families gathered in the pews, and the two sensations—that plummeting low, that exultant height—twined together into something that did not seem contradictory at all.

Kitty was holding little Marie's hand. Kitty was smiling, the first time he'd seen her do so in months. Mr. Bhandari stood to the girl's other side, and could not seem to help glancing down at her every few seconds, as if to assure himself that she was there. Lady Farleigh herself, she who had glared down the minister when he objected to Mr. Bhandari's placement, was surreptitiously dabbing at her eyes. And Phoebe, brilliant Phoebe, had finally put her spectacles on in public because, as she had declared, she wouldn't believe it if she didn't see it clearly. She was sneaking her own glances, flashing secret smiles at Maddy, who sat with the Hargroves.

There was so much love in this room. It didn't make anything easy. It didn't fix things. Phoebe still had so much to navigate. Little Marie would never have an easy time of things.

But it bore them up. And when Colin kissed his bride, if there was something of sorrow in the kiss, it only made it sweeter.

“Well,” Colin said, closing the door behind him. “That was a rather smashing success, don't you think? I admit I don't have much experience getting married, but I seem to have a natural aptitude.”

“Lord Farleigh, you appear to be in my bedroom,” Elinor said, arching an eyebrow. She was dressed in the most exquisite cream dress; it clung to all the right parts of her and floated airily over the rest, and looked extremely easy to remove. Colin intended to test this theory momentarily.

“I am your husband, now,” he pointed out.

“Indeed. And my husband's quarters are to the other side of that door,” Elinor said, pointing toward the adjoining room.

“There is a slight problem with my room,” Colin said delicately.

“Oh?”

“It lacks a bed,” he admitted. The raised eyebrow shot up further. He advanced a step, spreading his hands helplessly. “I've had my eye on this town house for years, but the sudden acceleration of the timetable required certain compromises to be made.”

“We could have
rented
a room. Or just stayed at your
old
town house,” Elinor pointed out.

“Yes, but my old town house was full of my female relatives. And this was rather exhilarating. I had no idea one could acquire real estate so quickly.”

“So long as you don't mind compromising on the number of beds,” Elinor observed. She turned her back on him and patted the bedspread. “Ah, well. I
suppose
I could be convinced to share my bed with you. But you will have to be very,
very
convincing.”

He moved up behind her, setting his hands to either side of her perfectly curved waist. She looked back toward him, her lips ever so slightly parted, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Please,” he said.

*   *   *

The dress was, indeed, very easy to remove.

Keep reading for a preview of Kathleen Kimmel's Birch Hall Romance

A Lady's Guide to Ruin

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Sensation!

Elinor's arrow struck a scant few inches off center with a satisfying
thunk
, and she gave a tight nod, pleased. “I haven't entirely lost my skill,” she said. “Though I would once have called that shameful.”

They stood on the lawn before the great house, several hounds lolling behind them—along with Mrs. Wynn, who was perched on a stool brought out for her comfort—and three targets arrayed at a respectable distance. Elinor had insisted on the first shot and on stringing her own light bow. Joan, clad in her favorite of the gowns Maddy had tailored for her—a dove-gray with sleeves that clung without restraining and a frothy petticoat just showing beneath—hung back.

Martin stood near her, though not
too
near, a distance that felt carefully calculated. Despite the bright day, the only clouds being some wispy things off in the middle distance, his patch of lawn seemed overcast. The man was withdrawn. More than that,
brooding
. Yesterday had been entirely without incident. She could not imagine what left him scowling so. It was not a good look for him. Or at least, not one she preferred. He was handsome even in such a dark state, and she knew plenty of girls who would swoon all the more for it, but unhappiness had never allured her.

“It is your turn, cousin,” Elinor said. Joan hefted her own bow, smaller and lighter than Elinor's. It was no more than a length of wood in her hand. She might have more luck walloping the targets directly.

“Perhaps we should move the dogs,” she said, a little desperately.

“You won't shoot backward,” Elinor pointed out.

“If it can be done, I'll manage it,” Joan said, and for once Joan and Daphne spoke as one. “Someone will have to show me. Else I will not be responsible for the mayhem.” She widened her eyes a bit at Elinor—the safer instructor of the two. Elinor started forward.

“Here,” Martin said, striding forward before his sister could reach her. “It's easy enough to get it going in the right direction, at least. And once you have that, we'll work on your aim.” He offered her a smile—a strangely delicate smile, like one might offer a small child one didn't know. He stood beside her. She cast an apologetic glance at Elinor, who only shrugged. Nothing for it.

“Hold the bow in your right hand. Yes, like so. Now, do not draw yet but make the motion.” He demonstrated, drawing his hand back toward his ear. “You will be able to sight down the arrow, to see that it is straight. There, yes. No, your elbow is too low, lift it up.” His hand twitched, like he'd been about to correct her with a touch, but it stilled. He walked her through the steps of drawing and releasing once, twice, three times, all without moving closer than five steps from her.

Which was a good thing, she reminded herself for the hundredth time, but still she could not help a little sigh when he handed an arrow to her from as far away as their arms' length allowed.
There must be some middle ground between broken hearts and pure standoffishness
, she thought peevishly. She fitted the arrow to the bow. It slipped from the string when she tried to set it. When she got the end fitted rightly, the head drooped off the bow like a nodding tulip. She caught herself just before she uttered a very un-Daphne-like curse.

Martin's curse was quiet but her ears were sharp. She
looked at him with an eyebrow raised in mimicry of his habit. He did not seem to catch the reference but closed the distance between them. “May I show you?” he asked, voice clipped.

“I think you'll have to,” she said.

One hand closed around her right, adjusting her fingers. His touch was firm, his skin warm against hers. He took her left hand next and guided her to nock the arrow to the bow. His breath was against her ear when he spoke. “There,” he said. “Can you see?”

Not really. This was a terrible idea. Standoffishness was preferable.
His chest was against her back, so close she could feel the heat of him. His fingers, gentle as their touch was, were like brands against her skin. And the scent of him—
cloves
, she thought,
and honey, and saddle leather.
She wanted to turn her face against his neck and drink him in. “I see,” she whispered.

His hand moved near her hip, but he did not touch her. But she could feel the touch, where his hand would have rested, how his fingers might have splayed, pressing flat the fabric of her skirts. “Widen your stance,” he said. “You need stability. Drop your shoulders. Your strength is in your chest as well as your arms. Now draw.”

She drew, and he moved with her, guiding her hands, sliding his fingertips out to her elbow to mark the straight line of her arm. She sighted down the arrow. It meant nothing. His touch meant nothing. Not to her, not to him. It could not mean anything.

“It helps if you think of someone you despise,” Elinor called.

“And breathe out before you let go,” Martin told her, voice a growl in her ear.

Moses
. She almost whispered the name as she loosed. The string sang. She heard an intake of breath from behind her. The arrow struck. Dead center. She stared. Then Elinor whooped and clapped, and Joan grinned. Even Martin laughed, and turned her around with his hands on her shoulders.

“Quite the Diana we have,” he said. She darted a glance at his hands. One thumb rested on the neckline of her dress,
a millimeter's grace from bare skin. He followed her gaze and flinched, dropping his hands.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“For what?” she asked, mystified. He only shook his head.

“Try again,” Elinor urged. “Let's see how far your talents will take you.”

Martin stepped back, hands folded behind him, and inclined his head. She scowled as she drew the next arrow.
Hugh,
she thought, aiming at the rightmost target.

Thunk
. Center.

Another arrow. Another draw, another release.
Joan Price
, she thought, and the arrow struck the left target at its heart.
If only I were Daphne.

Elinor was cheering. Martin had a dumbstruck look on his face, and then he grinned, storm cloud banished.

“Diana indeed,” he said. “Our goddess of the hunt! You've played us, certainly. You've shot before.”

She shook her head. Slings and rocks, a brick or two, clots of mud, a post heaved like a spear, once. But never a bow. “It is only that I am standing so close,” she said. “And I got lucky.”
And had excellent targets
.

“Not to mention the finest of instructors,” Martin added.

“Well, then, we'll have to see how long your luck holds,” Elinor said. “Martin, won't you take your turn?”

“I don't think my pride can withstand it, matched against the two of you,” he said. “I am content to watch.” He gave a formal bow and retreated again to a safe distance. Joan took up another arrow. Imagined his hand on her waist, setting her stance, then on her shoulders, her elbow. Running down her back. Imagined him behind her, a solid wall. Not taking the shot for her, but steadying her.

This time, the arrow went wide. It struck the target, but barely, wobbling at the edge. She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “D—rat,” she said, catching herself short of worse blasphemy.

Elinor chuckled. “Oh, good. I had worried you would never miss and I should have to hang up my bow for good. You let yourself think too much, but that's all right. You'll
have it in your limbs if you keep practicing, and the limbs are slower to forget than the mind.”

Joan nodded and set her teeth. She wouldn't let a round of straw and burlap conquer her.
Moses
, she thought.
Hugh
. She and Elinor stood aligned and the arrows sailed one after the other. And all the while she felt Martin's eyes on her.

*   *   *

He had feared he would harm her by his touch. That she would flinch or shrink from him. But she did not, any more than she had on that excruciating ride. Now, as then, it was all he could do not to lean close, feel her hair against his cheek. Let his hands wander to her back, her waist. Creep higher. Hell. He might as well think of tearing her gown from her in full view of Mrs. Wynn, the dogs, and the damned gardener.

He paced in his study. It was long past the hour he should have retired but he could not abide even the thought of lying down, of trying to sleep. She had not flinched from him. Shouldn't she, if she had been ill-treated at some other man's hands?

He did not know that she had been, he reminded himself. He had written to Mr. Hudson, instructing him to quietly investigate the matter, but news on that front would be some time in coming. He could pace all the night and into the morning and it would not speed the information to him. He should rest. He should behave like a sane man, but he did not feel like one.

Daphne clearly did not wish to be handled like a piece of porcelain. Nor did she want him; that was clear enough. Every time he thought she might, whatever Elinor said, she fluttered her lashes and vanished behind her role. If only he could make himself stop thinking of her.

A floorboard creaked in the next room; a scrape of metal sounded. He stiffened. No one should be about at this hour. Next door was the Blue Room, though the color that lent it its name had long since been replaced with the dull cream his father had preferred. It was where the ladies took their
tea. A thump, rustling. Someone was definitely in there. He seized his walking stick where he'd leaned it against the wall and moved with all the stealth he could muster. The door was open a sliver. Warm light spilled from it into the hall. He pushed open the door, wincing at its deep groan.

Daphne knelt by the hearth, stoking a small fire to life. She jerked to her feet when he entered, pale-faced as a thief caught with hands on the silver. She wore a pelisse over her nightgown, the sleeves billowing around her wrists. Her hands were dark with streaks of ash from the grate.

“Daphne,” he said, loosening his grip on the walking stick. “I see you are still having trouble sleeping.”

She cast her eyes downward. “I'm sorry I disturbed you. I had forgotten.”

“Don't apologize. I had hoped that you might find sleep more easily at Birch Hall. Do you . . . is it nightmares, that keep you awake?”

“Sometimes,” Daphne said. “But more often only the racing of my mind. And what keeps the Earl of Fenbrook awake?” she asked lightly. Deflecting his attentions. If he were a kinder man, he would allow it. He had a vague answer balanced on his tongue, and a farewell ready to follow it. But instead he stared straight at her.

“You,” he said. It had the desired effect: the mask beginning to settle around her features dropped and she stared at him with no one's eyes but her own.

*   *   *

She ought to laugh. Or tilt her head quizzically, like a bird examining an insect. But instead she said, “And why would I keep you awake?”

“I worry about you.”

“I'm well,” she said, managing caution, at least, if she could not quite claim wisdom.

He fell silent, and his fingers worked at the handle of his walking stick. “Who hurt you?” he asked after a long pause.

She parted her lips, confused. “I told you I did not know
them,” she said. Did he doubt her story? He had seemed sold enough on it in London.

He shook his head once, fiercely. “Not them. Before. The marks on your body are older. Who hurt you? Elinor would not tell me.”

Her breath caught in her throat. There was no answer she could give him. The men who had chained her, held her in the water, cut off her hair—those men did not even have names or faces in her mind. They did not matter. They did not have her, and she did not fear them. It was Hugh and Moses she feared, and to tell him that was to tell him everything.

“I must know,” he said. “Tell me.”

She shook her head. “I can't.”

“I can protect you,” he said. “Daphne.”

She looked away. Yes, Daphne. He wanted to protect his cousin. If he knew the truth, he would not be so forgiving as Elinor. That anger in his voice would be for her, not on her behalf. “I cannot tell you,” she said. “Please don't ask again. It's over. They will not harm me again.”

“No, they won't,” he said. He'd drawn closer. Too close. Close enough to touch. The firelight glowed against his skin, marking the tense lines on his neck and temple. She locked her gaze on the mantle. “Daphne.” He touched her chin. Turned it toward him. She let out a sound she did not recognize, a short hum that turned into a sigh. “You must tell me.”

“I can't,” she said again. His hand had not left her. His thumb stroked her jaw. Made a soft circle. It brushed the corner of her mouth. “You told me I would be safe here,” she said. “I am.” If he did not move his hand, all the promises in the world would not stop her from kissing him. “Martin,” she said. She meant it as rebuke. But he gave a huff as if in frustration and bent, moving his hand to cup her head, turn her face toward his—but she had already tilted her mouth upward to meet his. Their lips brushed once, softly.