Six Degrees of Scandal (3 page)

“I'm a quick study,” he promised, and then he set about proving it, learning which touches made her giggle and which ones made her twist and sigh in longing. Her chemise came off, then his drawers, and under the bright Sussex sun he made love to her. It was joyful, if a little awkward, and hurt a bit at first, but he cradled her against him and moved so tenderly she clung to him until he shouted and flung back his head in ecstasy. And when he realized she hadn't found that same rapture, he started all over again, testing and tormenting every inch of her skin until he learned the secret and left her weak and trembling and
absolutely dazed with adoration for the young man holding her.

“Oh my,” she gasped as he collapsed on the ground beside her. “Oh my, Jamie. That was . . .”

“Brilliant?” He opened his eyes a little and gave her a triumphant, lazy smile. “I agree. Just wait until we've got some practice.”

Later he walked her home, hand in hand, and told her his plans—as usual, Jamie had a plan, and it was a grand one. He'd been learning from his father and wanted to make his own investments. Mr. Weston had promised him a generous amount of capital, and Jamie said he could provide for a wife within a year. Olivia blushingly agreed they would wait, although not perhaps without more of that wonderful lovemaking, and he left her with a scorching kiss at the lane to Kellan Hall. Olivia barely felt the overgrown lane under her feet: she was in love, engaged to be married, and everything in life was perfect.

Her mother caught her returning to the house. “Olivia Herbert! What happened to your dress?”

Olivia blushed—it had spent the afternoon flung over a tree branch, and looked it.

“And your hair!” Her mother peered closer and frowned. “What were you doing at Haverstock House?”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Jamie was sent into town, and I walked with him . . .”

“And where did you walk that you come home looking as though you've been rolling in the grass?” exclaimed Lady Herbert. And then she stopped. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened in a silent O. Before Olivia could say a
single explanatory word, her mother seized her arm and hurried her into the nearby parlor, closing the door behind them. “Did that boy take liberties with you?” her mother demanded. “Do not lie to me.”

Happiness still sizzled in her veins. When she married Jamie, she wouldn't have to live with her parents anymore, and hear how much her mother preferred Daphne's looks to hers, or listen to her father complain about the cost of two daughters. She would have a home with someone who loved her—a whole family of people who loved her—and she need never return to Kellan Hall. “I'm in love,” she boldly said. “And he loves me, Mother.”

Lady Herbert caught her arm in a fierce grip. “Did he tumble you? You have the look of it about you.”

Olivia felt her face grow hot. She pulled loose of her mother's hold. “He wants to marry me.”

“Does he, now?”

“Yes, and I know Father won't refuse, because Mr. Weston's promised Jamie a very handsome sum now that he's finished his studies at university.” Lady Herbert fell back, blinking. Olivia felt invincible. “I'm engaged to him, Mother, and I begged him to make love to me. I know he's not the viscount you used to dream I would wed, but you've still got Daphne. Perhaps Mr. Weston will be generous in the settlements and you'll be able to take her to London for a Season as you always hoped.”

Instead of shrieking or scolding, Lady Herbert clapped her hands together. “Olivia,” she choked. “Oh, my dear! You'll be the saving of us!” And she threw her arms around her daughter.

For the next few days she was her parents' favorite child. Lady Herbert kept her at home, saying she must make the young man come to her. Daphne, who had already been promised a Season as a result of Olivia's impending marriage, was loving and sweet. Even Father clasped her in his arms and called her “dear child,” promising to wait at home every day until Jamie came to ask his permission.

The only thing that came to Kellan Hall, however, was a note. Olivia's heart fluttered as she tore it open and saw Jamie's familiar handwriting, sharp and sprawling from the speed with which he wrote . . . that he was leaving for a few weeks and going into Wiltshire to see a canal where his father was considering investing. He closed the note with his usual farewell, and if he hadn't written her name with the O looking vaguely like a heart, she would have thought it was a letter from any passing acquaintance. Still, she trusted him, so she put the letter aside, and when her parents asked why he hadn't come yet, she told them the truth. Truth, she had been taught from birth, was virtuous, and obedient children never lied to their parents.

But before long, Olivia realized that was precisely the worst thing she could have done.

H
er father barged into her room two days later. “Did you lie to me?” he demanded.

“What? No!”

He raised his hand as if he would strike her, but only curled his fingers into a trembling fist. “About the Weston boy,” he snarled. “I've just been to Haverstock House and Thomas Weston has no idea his son is engaged to marry you.”

Olivia gaped, more at her father's fury than at Jamie's actions. Jamie had never lied to her. “But—no, Father, he did. I swear to you! Perhaps he didn't tell his father yet, but I'm sure when he returns he'll explain everything—”

He slapped her. “He's not expected back for weeks, perhaps months! When is this wedding to take place?”

“Not for another year,” she cried, cowering away from him. “We agreed—he won't have enough income until then—”

“I cannot wait a year!” He grabbed her shoulders. “Did he put a babe in your belly?”

“I don't know,” she sobbed.

Sir Alfred pushed her away, and she toppled
onto the bed behind her. “If he has, this will all end well,” he muttered. “If not . . .” He shook his head and stalked from the room.

Olivia huddled in stunned silence on her bed. Jamie must have forgotten to speak to his father before he left, or not been able to, or not thought it urgent. If only Mother had let her go to Haverstock House as usual . . .

She scrambled off the bed and flung open her desk, dashing off an impassioned letter. A few tears streaked down her sore cheek and blurred the ink, and when she read it over, the words were illegible, incoherent, or both. Jamie would think she'd gone mad. Olivia hesitated, then ripped the page in half and took out a fresh sheet. She dried her eyes and took a deep breath, and wrote a much more civilized letter asking when he would be home. She didn't want to tell him of her father's furious rant, so she simply wished him luck in his journey, and signed it with her name—taking care to make the O look like a heart, to show her love.

Feeling better, but still anxious, she walked to Haverstock House. Nothing was in uproar there, so Mr. Weston must not have taken alarm at her father's visit. She was at Haverstock so often, the butler merely told her where to find Abigail and Penelope. They were in the garden, Abigail dutifully sketching a rose and Penelope plucking the petals off another.

“There you are!” Penelope cried at her appearance. “You've abandoned us for over a whole week now!”

“I'm sorry.” Olivia sat down at the table where they worked. “Did you write your essay?”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Yes, horrid thing. Mama made us read each other's aloud at dinner that night, and Jamie laughed at mine.”

Olivia twitched at his name. “I'm sure he didn't mean it. I—I understand he's away from home now?”

“Thankfully,” murmured Abigail, still sketching.

“All the way to Wiltshire,” Penelope added with satisfaction. “He won't be home for months.”

“Oh?” Her voice rose an octave. “Why so long?”

“Jamie doesn't go anywhere directly,” said Abigail. “The last time Papa sent him somewhere, it took him over a fortnight to arrive. He kept stopping off to see interesting libraries or inventors along the way. And once he gets to his destination, he wanders off. I daresay he won't spend half his time at the canal; he'll find his way to see the boat builders' workshop, and the bankers' offices, and landowners who live nearby. Papa says he does a good job investigating, but he takes forever at it.”

“Good riddance,” Penelope declared. “He's been like a caged bear this week! Three weeks in Sussex, and he couldn't wait to be off.” She put down her ruined rose. “Livie, are you ill?”

“No,” she said faintly. “I just . . . I had a question to ask him. Could I write to him?”

Penelope shrugged. “Who knows?”

Olivia wet her lips, which were bone dry. “Is your mother home?”

The girls directed her to the morning room, where Mrs. Weston rose to greet her. “How are you, Olivia? Your father was here this morning.”

“I know.”

“He was quite agitated, and hinted at a match between you and James. Neither you nor James ever mentioned such a thing to either of us, and Mr. Weston didn't know what to say.”

Put that way, neither did Olivia. Jamie hadn't told his parents. His sisters said he was wild to be out of the house. Had she imagined the whole thing?

At her dismayed silence, a slight frown touched Mrs. Weston's brow. “I didn't mean to upset you. Mr. Weston put your father off because he didn't want to presume there was more affection between you and James than he knew. You're both so young. We would never encourage a match between you if your hearts were not engaged.”

“No, I—I am fond of Jamie,” she said in a faltering voice. “Very fond, Mrs. Weston.”

“I see.” The older lady's eyes were keen and direct, so like her son's. “Did he make you any promises, Olivia?”

Her composure wavered. “I'm not sure,” she said softly.

Mrs. Weston smiled and clasped her hand. “I wouldn't be disappointed, my dear. You're like a daughter to me already! James couldn't do better than choose you, and if you love him in return, you would have my blessing—and Mr. Weston's as well.”

That made her feel marginally better. She took a deep breath and pulled out her letter. “Could I send this to Jamie? I didn't know he would be gone so long . . .”

“Of course. We'll make this right. Give me your letter and I shall send it to him, along with one of
my own. Weston men can be oblivious to all outside their immediate interest unless something smacks them in the face.”

Gratefully Olivia handed over the note. By the time she reached home her confidence was restored. Jamie would get her note and come home; he would speak to his father, then to her father, and everything would be fine.

Except it was not. A week later no reply had come, nor had Jamie. Another week passed the same way, and Sir Alfred abruptly told them to pack. They were going to Tunbridge Wells the next day. No explanation was given, and no opposition was tolerated. The whole house felt quiet and tense as they obeyed, and the atmosphere didn't improve when they reached Tunbridge. In fact, Olivia was just as happy not to speak to her parents at all, until she discovered the reason they had come to town.

One evening a gentleman named Mr. Walter Townsend dined with them, and the next night he brought his son Henry. Henry was an amiable fellow, moderately handsome and not too tall, who chatted merrily with everyone. Olivia was seated next to him, and when dinner was over and her father asked how she found him, she agreed that he was very charming.

“Very good,” said Sir Alfred. “You're to marry him Monday next.”

Olivia thought she'd misheard him. “What? No—I'm engaged to Jamie Weston! I cannot marry someone I only met tonight!”

“You can. Walter Townsend is an old friend of mine from university. His son needs a bride, and
you need a husband.” He fixed a hard look on her. “Especially one who won't mind that you're not as fresh as you look.”

She felt a rise of panic in her chest. “I won't!”

“Thomas Weston said his son is too young to marry. The boy himself told you he wanted to wait a year. Why do you think he did that? He only wanted under your skirt, Olivia.” He shrugged as she recoiled. “It's not just him, it's all men. You were a silly fool to let him, and now you've got to pay the price.”

She sat gaping. By now she knew she wasn't carrying a child, which meant there was no reason not to wait until Jamie returned. But then . . .
I cannot wait a year
, her father had said. This wasn't about her honor at all. “How much is Mr. Townsend offering for me?”

Her father scowled. “None of your concern.”

“I think it is.” Her voice rose shrilly. “Why must Mr. Townsend resort to buying a bride for his son—is he a lunatic? Will I end up murdered in my bed?”

“Don't be ridiculous. Henry's a good man in need of a wife to settle him.” Her father turned to go, but paused. “And the answer is four thousand pounds. A handsome sum that will save Kellan Hall.”

When Olivia went to her mother, the answer was the same. Lady Herbert's only consolation was an offer to buy her bride clothes in Tunbridge Wells. The marriage contract was signed, the days sped by, and Olivia prayed every night that Jamie would arrive in time. If he appeared even a moment before the wedding service was
done, she would run away with him, and damn the marriage contract. She sent a second note and then a third, but deep in her heart she feared there wasn't enough time. Wherever he'd gone, her letters weren't catching up to him. She lay awake at night plotting how she would refuse to speak during the ceremony, but her father had taken care of that. The curate was paid well and he plowed right over her stubborn silence. With a bemused look, Henry slid a ring on her finger, and it was done.

Four days later Jamie arrived. Olivia heard his voice, echoing urgently through Henry's small house, and then she heard him pounding up the stairs. He burst into the drawing room, dusty and disheveled and wild-eyed. “Tell me it's a lie,” he demanded. “Tell me . . .” His voice died as she deliberately folded her hands to show her ring.

She'd had four days to prepare for this. Four days to acquaint herself with the knowledge that Jamie would never be hers, that the stolen day by the pond in the woods was a halcyon moment of bliss, not a portent of her life to come. So far Henry didn't seem a bad sort—he was so charming, everyone liked him immediately, and he had a generous allowance from his father—but he would never be Jamie.

And part of her blamed Jamie for everything. He'd made her a vow, then carelessly walked away without securing her father's permission. If only he'd come to see her father right away. If only he hadn't gone rambling about the countryside without so much as a farewell visit. If only he'd
stayed in posting inns where her letters could have reached him. But he hadn't, and now she was paying for it.

“How do you do, Mr. Weston?” she said evenly. “Won't you sit down?”

“No!” He strode across the room, stopping only when she took a step backward. “
Why
, Livie? What happened?”

The anguish in his voice was real, and it tore at her heart. Whatever else he was guilty of, Jamie did care for her. Her composure wobbled. “My father arranged the match. He was concerned for my reputation.”

He flinched as if struck before his horrified gaze dropped to her midsection. “My God. You're not—?”

“No!” She glanced uneasily at the door, but a helpful servant had closed it behind Jamie. “I'm not carrying your child.”

Relief flooded his face, followed quickly by angry confusion. “Then why such haste? Even if he feared such a thing,
I
should have been the one he turned to.”

“But you weren't here,” she said tightly. “You left without a word of where you would be or when you would return.”

He flung up his hand in a gesture of impatience. “I only intended to be gone for a few weeks. I wrote and told you so.”

“But you gave him no reason to wait!” Her temper was fraying. “You never came to ask his permission—”

“As if he would have refused,” Jamie scoffed. “We both know he would have squeezed my
father for every last farthing and fetched a curate as soon as the contract was signed.”

It was true, and it made her furious. “Oh, you know he would have consented, but still you couldn't be bothered to speak to him? What does that say about you, James Weston?”

He flushed. His mouth compressed. “I didn't know he was so anxious to marry you off.”

“Neither did I!” She pressed her hands to her face, which burned with anger and humiliation. “You didn't even tell your parents . . . Perhaps you didn't really mean to go through with it, and that whole day was a lark to you—”

“Don't say that,” he interrupted. “I meant every word I said!”

“But those were only
words
, Jamie—they were not binding, and they couldn't be exchanged for money!” She was breathing hard now, vibrating with agony. “That's all my father wanted—the money. If you'd been there, he would have got it from you, but you weren't, so he got it from Mr. Townsend. And I'm married to someone I don't even know.”

Jamie stared at her, looking stunned and angry and very young. For the first time Olivia felt like the older and wiser one of them; it seemed as though she'd aged a decade in the last week. “I didn't know. You—you didn't tell me!” Growing agitated again, he plunged one hand into his pocket and pulled out her letter, crumpled and stained. “I was all the way to Wiltshire before it caught up to me—my mother sent it to the wrong inn. You didn't hint at anything like this! Livie, you only asked when I planned to return home. If
my mother's letter hadn't scolded me, I wouldn't have taken any alarm at all. I turned back but I would have raced like the wind had I know how urgent it was . . .” He shook his head, frustrated and perplexed. “Olivia, we talked about waiting a
year
. I didn't think there was any rush to speak to your father. I wanted to establish myself first.”

“You'll have plenty of time now,” she replied before she could stop herself.

Jamie's eyes flashed. “You never told me how bad things had become at home. I knew your father was in debt but I'd no idea he was this desperate.”

Olivia gave a despairing laugh. “Well. That hardly matters now.”

The wild, mad light went out of his eyes. All the light, in fact. He stared at her ill-fated letter for a moment, running his thumb over it to remove the creases. “No. I suppose not.”

For a long moment, so long it seemed to last an eternity, they stood in silence. Olivia's fury had vanished and now she had to blink back tears. The urge to fling herself into Jamie's arms and beg him to take her away was almost overpowering. She knew it would be fruitless, and unfair to Jamie, but at this moment, when her life seemed to be ending just when she'd thought it was about to begin, she felt she would gladly throw away any chance of respectability if only they could be together.