Amanda Quick: Scandal

"What in God's name do you mean, you don't have any common sense in this sort of thing?"

"Oh, nothing—nothing, really," she said hastily, not wanting to have to explain about the Unfortunate Incident until it was absolutely necessary. After all, once Simon became aware of what had happened when she was nineteen, he would be obliged to cease all this wonderful talk of love. "It is just that my family feels I have been rather badly affected by my love of romantic literature," she explained weakly. It was true as far as it went.

"And have you?" His golden eyes were unreadable.

Emily blushed and looked at his perfectly tied cravat, which did not seem to have been in the least disturbed by the recent excess of passion. "You should know the answer to that, my lord. You know me better than anyone else knows me."

"Because of your letters?" He caught her chin gently on the edge of his fist and forced her to meet his eyes. "Do you know, you may be right. I have the distinct impression that you are a sadly misunderstood young woman. But it is a mistake for you to assume that you know as much about me as I do about you."

"I do not think for one moment that my belief is a mistake, my lord." She looked up at him very earnestly. "Through our letters you and I have developed the most perfect intellectual and spiritual companionship of the mind. I am quite certain that our communication, which takes place on the highest of planes, has led us to a true comprehension of each other's—"

"Enough," he interrupted curtly. "Miss Faringdon, it is always a mistake to assume you can trust a man completely when it comes to matters of passion."

She smiled serenely, knowing he was wrong. "I do not think so, my lord. Not in your case. I would trust you with my heart and my life."

"Damn." Simon shook his head slowly and released her chin. "Your family appears to have the right of it. No common sense in this sort of thing at all. You do not mind the risks involved in the game of love, I take it?"

She shrugged lightly. "I come from a long line of gamesters, my lord. It is in the blood."

"And how often have you taken this particular sort of risk?" he inquired with sudden, silky menace.

Emily looked out over the small pond, choosing her words carefully. She knew honor required her to be honest, but she could not bear to ruin this idyll by telling him the whole story. "I have never before been in love. Not really. I know that now. Once, a long time ago, I thought I was, but I was proven wrong. Since then there has been no one else with whom I have wanted to take such a risk."

"Interesting."

Uneasily she turned her head to find him watching her with his cold, assessing eyes. "My lord?"

He said something under his breath and got to his feet. "Pay me no heed. I am obviously not thinking very clearly at the moment. A direct result of sailing too close to a transcendent, golden shore, I imagine. Come. I will ride with you until you are within sight of St. Clair Hall."

"Have I said something wrong, my lord?"

"Not at all. I believe everything is going to go very smoothly between us from now on. I simply needed to acquire certain information before proceeding further and I have done so."

"I see. Very wise." Emily relaxed and smiled up at him, not caring if her heart was in her eyes. She knew very well there was no future for them, but there was the present and she was determined to enjoy it as long as possible. "In your most recent letter you said you were very affected by my verses about urns and broken hearts."

His mouth curved faintly as he took her arm and led her back to the waiting horses. "Indeed I was, Miss Faringdon."

"Well, I am glad you are interested in them," she said cheerfully. "Mr. Pound, the bookseller and publisher, was not. I got another nasty rejection from him in the morning post."

"Mr. Pound obviously has even less taste than the critics of the Edinburgh Review ."

Emily laughed in delight. "Very true." She paused once more, her expression sobering as a shaft of guilt assailed her. She really ought to give him a small warning about the doomed nature of his affections. "My lord?"

"Yes, Miss Faringdon?" Simon was busy untying the dappled gray mare.

"Did you mean it when you said you were here to… to speak to my father about asking for my hand in marriage?"

"Yes, Miss Faringdon. I meant every word." He hoisted her lightly up into the saddle.

She touched his hand as it slid away from her waist. Tears began to well up in her eyes. "It is quite impossible, as you will soon see. But I want you to know that I will be forever grateful for this moment. I shall hold the memory of it close to my heart for the rest of my life."

"What the devil?" Simon scowled up at her.

Emily could not bear to stay near him any longer. He was bound to inquire about the tears. Applying her ankles gently to her mare's flanks, she turned and cantered away from him toward the road to St. Clair Hall.

The chilly breeze whipped away the drops of moisture that trickled down her cheeks.

Simon managed to contain his brooding curiosity until Lady Gillingham, graciously vague as always, had risen from the table to leave the gentlemen to their after-dinner port.

As soon as the lady had departed, the gentlemen promptly relaxed. They leaned back in their chairs, thrust their legs out beneath the table, and picked up their glasses. Lord Gillingham lit a cigar.

Simon prepared himself to do what unconscionable gentlemen had done since time immemorial: discuss a lady over a bottle of port. He waited for an opening and it came quickly. Gillingham was in a talkative mood, having already consumed a fair amount of claret at dinner.

"Enjoy your visit with the lit'ry society?" Gillingham inquired as he squinted through the blue haze of his cigar smoke.

"I found it interesting." Simon turned the cut crystal glass in his hand, watching the light play on the facets. "It's obvious the rage for the new romantic poetry has spread beyond London. At least among the ladies."

"Don't know what will come of it," Gillingham said with a grim shake of his head. "All that romantical nonsense is bound to have a very bad effect on females."

"Surely not on the good ladies of Little Dippington?"

"Well, p'raps no real harm done to the older ones like the Inglebright sisters and the others, but't'ain't at all healthy for young ladies."

"Such as Miss Faringdon?" Simon inquired gently.

"Damn poetical nonsense was the ruination of that poor gel. Pity. But, then, never had much chance anyway, not growing up in that nest of wastrels and gamesters. Just a matter o' time 'fore she got into trouble after her mother died."

"Her mother died about six years ago, I understand?"

"Lovely woman. Beautiful, o' course. All the Flighty Faringdons is dashed good-looking, male and female alike. 'Cept for Miss Emily. That red hair and those freckles ain't the thing, y'know. Then there's the spectacles. Might have been able to cover up some of the defects long enough to get her through a Season but the poor gel never had a chance."

"Because of her mother's death?"

"Followed by the Unfortunate Incident," Gillingham explained sadly.

"Just how bad was the Unfortunate Incident?" Simon asked carefully. It was time to get all the sordid details, he thought.

"Bad enough, according to her father. Poor chit."

"It happened five years ago?" Simon probed.

"About that, I believe. Miss Faringdon was nineteen at the time. She'd lost her mama a year or so before. That damn father o' hers and those rakehell brothers were always gone, leavin' her alone in that big house. Can't pry a Faringdon away from the gaming hells for long, y'know. In any event, Miss Faringdon was more or less left to her own devices with only the servants for company. Lonely, no doubt. No one to advise her. Poor thing was ripe for disaster."