Scandal (30 page)

She looked in the direction of his pew, but he wasn't there. She didn't see him anywhere in the church. As the parishioners filed out, the Misses Quinn bombarded everyone with the same question: Was that really the Earl of Banallt? Why ever was he here? When the questions were directed at her, Sophie answered with either a nod or something banal.

Her chest felt tight, and the longer she stayed inside the church, the more aware she became that six of the eleven stained glassed windows had been endowed by the earls of Banallt, and that Banallt himself had just ten minutes ago been sitting in the ornate pew near the nave. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer had gone outside already, expecting, one imagined, that Sophie would follow. She extricated herself from the young ladies—and it was mostly young ladies, dizzyingly eager for any morsel of information about the Earl of Banallt—and went outside.

By the time she came out into the morning sun and had given Reverend Carson her hand, she didn't see Banallt anywhere. Nor the Mercers, for that matter.

“Mrs. Evans,” the reverend said. He clasped her hand between his. “Good morning to you, my dear.”

“Reverend.” The sun was in her face, and she had to shade her eyes to see him. “Good morning to you, too.”

He pressed her hand once more then released her. Sophie walked down the flagstone path to where she expected the Mercers would be waiting for her, impatient at her delay. Another crowd gathered at the gate, young men this time, all of them admiring the phaeton in the street. A man in a home-spun wool suit held the head of the gray gelding in the traces.

Banallt stood there on the street side of the gate. He'd just shaken the hand of silver-haired Mr. Jenkins, who raised horses and owned the land abutting Darmead to the north. There was no other exit to the street. The Mercers were nowhere to be seen. She fancied herself Catherine Parr, walking her final steps at Windsor.

The earl's attention left Mr. Jenkins, and his eyes found hers, and for one exquisite moment, Sophie believed everything would come right. Foolish, foolish woman, she thought. She continued to the gate. Today, for some reason, it was harder to stop herself from feeling. Banallt turned his back to the crowd of young men and held out a hand. Mr. Jenkins beamed at her.

“Mrs. Evans,” Banallt said.

“My lord.” She put her hand in his and curtseyed. The shock of their contact traveled from her hand to a deep place in her body.

“Mrs. Evans,” said Mr. Jenkins. “How lovely you are today.”

She removed her hand from Banallt's, certain he'd felt her trembling. Why had he come? “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. You are kind as always.”

“I remember when you were just a little thing, just half as tall as you are now.” Jenkins turned to Banallt. “Did you know, my lord, that Mrs. Evans, she was Miss Sophie in those days of course, used to tell the most magnificent tales of how she'd one day be mistress of Darmead?”

“Mr. Jenkins,” Sophie said. Her heart sank. “I was a girl. Anything was possible then. Magic and fairy tales, that's all it was.” She refused to look at Banallt, but the back of her ears itched with the knowledge that he was staring.

“When you weren't convincing my girls the castle was haunted by the ghost of a crusading knight, indeed you did, my girl.”

“I believe,” Banallt said, “that one of my ancestors did march on the Crusades.” He leaned against the stone fence post, arms crossed over the top of the carved granite.

“Edmund,” Sophie said automatically. “Edmund Llewellyn, the third viscount.”

Jenkins beamed at Banallt. “I'll warrant she knows the history of your family better than anyone in Duke's Head, my lord. You'll not be surprised to learn her mother used to tell us she couldn't but think Miss Sophie would have her way.” He laughed again. “I for one never doubted her.”

“I was telling tales,” Sophie said. “Children do, you know.” How mortifying. What must Banallt think to have a country esquire matchmaking in so painful a manner?
Why was he here?
“What girl doesn't dream of growing up to marry the prince and live in a castle, Mr. Jenkins?”

Mr. Jenkins chuckled. “Not many, I daresay.”

“A good tale requires enough truth to make it believable, and so I acquainted myself with as much truth about Castle Darmead as I could.” The crowd around the phaeton was thinning. “How else would I balance out the rest of my inventions?” At last she looked at Banallt. “Your ancestor, my lord, was one of my more convincing ghosts. I terrified dozens of children, including my brother, though he never would admit it afterward.” Her heart turned over at the thought of John. But for once the reaction was bittersweet.

“I should love to hear the tale,” Banallt said. The perfect curve of his mouth sent a shiver through her with the recollection of who and what he had been to her. He reached out and tapped the tip of her nose. “I adore a terrifying ghost.”

Jenkins reached for her hand. “Ah, Miss Sophie. Sometimes you look so much like your mother it breaks my heart.”

“My mother was beautiful,” she said. “I look nothing like her.”

“You have her eyes.”

“Hers were green.”

“Just so. But the shape, my dear, the shape. You're a beauty in your own way, Mrs. Evans. Do not doubt that for a moment.” He ended with a stern look at Banallt.

“She is, of course, a most lovely woman,” Banallt said. He uncrossed his arms and touched the brim of his hat. In the light, his eyes looked darker than usual. “She does not seem to believe it.”

“I look like my father,” Sophie said. Panic rose up, making her light-headed and shaky limbed. She looked around for the Mercers and did not see them anywhere. Enough of this, she thought. She'd had more than enough of pretending everything was all right. If Banallt had something to say to her, then let him speak and have this over. She took a step through the gate and peered down the street in both directions. “Do you know where my cousins have gone, Mr. Jenkins?” she asked. She adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. The black shawl Banallt had given her.

“They have gone home,” Banallt said.

“Home?” She faced him. “Without me?”

“I told them I'd drive you back to Havenwood.” Banallt looked at the sky. “It's a lovely day to drive out. Don't you agree, Mr. Jenkins?”

“It is indeed,” Jenkins said. He pumped Banallt's hand again. “Come by the Grange, my lord, and I'll show you my yearlings. I've a pair who'd be excellent in front of a phaeton one day.”

“I will.” Banallt held out his arm to Sophie. “Come, Sophie.”

Twenty-six

BANALLT HELD OUT HIS ARM, AND EVEN THOUGH SOPHIE placed her hand on his elbow, he actually hesitated, expecting her to demand that Mr. Jenkins be the one to return her to Havenwood. She didn't, despite the fact that she'd lost all color to her cheeks. Well. And so. She ought to be ashamed. Not one word from her in the days since he'd left Havenwood; no replies to his letters, no correspondence from her, leaving him wondering if her post was being intercepted or worse. “I assure you,” he drawled, looking at her but speaking for Jenkins's benefit, “you'll be home in time for supper tomorrow.”

Jenkins laughed, and that seemed to reassure everyone within earshot that their beloved Mrs. Evans wasn't consigning herself to a kidnapping and ravishment at the hands of the notorious Earl of Banallt. He had no illusions that the residents of Duke's Head weren't protective of Sophie. They were. To a man, woman, and child. “You'll call on us, won't you, Mrs. Evans?” Mr. Jenkins said. “My wife would dearly love to see you again. We've missed your visits, you know.”

Her eyes were deceptively calm. “Yes, I will.”

Jenkins beamed at her. “And bring your young gentleman with you?”

Sophie glanced at Banallt. He kept his reaction muted. “Anything for Mrs. Evans,” he said with a bow in her direction. “Including presenting myself at every home in Duke's Head.”

“Have you time for that, my lord?” Sophie asked, having, apparently, and thank God for it, decided it was best to follow his lead and adopt a bantering tone.

“Certainly.”

“Most excellent.” Jenkins grinned then cast an eye at the sky, which was at the moment a clear blue. There were clouds on the horizon, though. “Best take that drive before the weather comes in, my lord.”

Ten minutes later, Banallt had Sophie at his side and his pair of grays heading east on a narrow oak-lined lane. For some time, they didn't speak. He was content with that.

“You don't really mean to call on Mr. Jenkins, do you?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. For one thing, I want a look at his yearlings.”

“Why have you come back?”

“Need you ask?” He watched her face, but she was expert at hiding her emotions. A trick she'd learned while married to Tommy, devil take the bastard. “Are you with child?” She turned paler yet. Her hand clenched a handful of her cloak. “Well?” His heart thudded hard. “Sophie. This is not a question you can refuse to answer.”

Her fist unclenched and clenched. “I don't know.”

“When will you know?” But he'd already done a calculation of his own. If she didn't know yet, then there was reason for concern. “I thought you'd put me behind you,” he said. Now was not the time to push her. Not yet. “When I heard Tallboys had been here and come back without an announcement—” What Banallt had thought was that Sophie wouldn't marry Tallboys if she was pregnant by Banallt. Either way, he needed to see her. “I came here to marry you,” he said.

That made her laugh. “No, you didn't. You came here to find out if you've had a convenient escape.”

He drew a breath and controlled his temper. “You know that's not so.”

She gave him a stony look. “What gentleman wishes to marry a woman who won't read his letters?”

“Nor answer them,” he said.

“What lady wishes to involve herself with a gentleman whose name is connected with so many lovers? Mrs. P. Lady W And I can't recall how many others.” She dangled a hand over the side of his curricle and then leaned over the side, staring at the ground.

“There are no other lovers,” he said.

“How fast do they go?” she asked. “The horses, I mean.”

He flicked the whip, and the grays responded with a smooth canter. “They are not yet at top speed. I made nearly fourteen miles per hour when I drove here from London.”

“Really?” She leaned over the side again, staring at the ground.

“Sit up, Sophie.” When she did, he flicked the whip. “Too fast?”

She tilted back her head and let the wind blow past her face. His heart thumped in his chest. “Can we go faster?”

Easily. He urged more from the grays. Sophie kept her head tilted back. “We're flying,” she cried.

“Not yet. Do you want to?”

“Oh yes.”

Cold air blew past them and threatened to send his hat whirling away. If it went, he didn't give a damn. They reached a straight section of road, and he let the grays go. The curricle flew. Beside him, Sophie raised her arms to the sky. Her laugh vanished in the thunder of hooves and wheels. Banallt laughed, too, a deep bass rumble that ended on a whoop as he took them around a corner with hardly a decrease in speed.

When at last he slowed them down, Sophie said, “That was wonderful. Thank you for that. Thank you.”

“Reckless, are you?” God, he hoped so. He wanted her body under his, wrapped around his. He wanted her breath low and on the edge of control, her voice capable of nothing but a ragged echo of his name.

“I am today.”

“Have you driven before?”

“Many times.” She leaned forward, hands on her lap, turning her head to look at him. “Does that shock you?” she asked, so openly curious that he realized she'd not understood what he meant. “Did you think I'd never been in a phaeton before?”

“I mean, have you ever held the ribbons yourself?”

“Oh. That.” She sat back. He knew immediately her thoughts were back at Rider Hall and some recollection of her husband, that worthless bastard Tommy Evans. “No.”

“I'll show you how if you like.” Tommy had ignored Sophie as much as he could, and when he hadn't, he'd played a heavy hand on a woman who needed gentle treatment. Banallt presented her with the whip and with a few quick motions taught her the light touch his grays required. When she had that, he handed over the traces. She gripped the reins like a drowning man would a rope and gave him a sideways look. “You'll catch on quickly. Do as I say,” he said when she tried to give them back. “Or I must conclude you are a coward.” At that, her back stiffened anew, but not, this time, with disapproval. “My wife, Sophie, must be a dab hand. I can't have a ham-fingered countess driving my cattle through London.”

“Shall I have a phaeton like this, then?” she asked, laughing, but not as if she believed him.

“If you like.” His easy agreement got her attention. He kept a smile off his face. “Eyes on the road, Sophie. I won't allow you so much as a pumpkin with wheels until you prove you can drive without risk of breaking your neck or injuring the animals.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The day was fine with very little wind, despite Jenkins's worry for the weather. Excellent conditions for a drive. He slid his torso partially behind her, arms around either side of her in order to adjust her hands. Alarm flared in her eyes. Stiff as a board. In answer, he loosened his hands over hers. Christ, she was skittish.

“Like so.” He pressed his chest against her back but stopped when he felt her stiffen again. “Not so hard. There. Yes. You're doing well.” He lowered his head. Thank God she wasn't one of those women who favored clumps of feathers in her hats. The inner surface of his coat sleeves brushed the sides of her bosom. His balls tightened pleasantly, a natural reaction to his proximity to the woman who'd been in all his erotic dreams since the day they met. “Put your hands here. Just so.”