Amanda Quick: Scandal

"Of course not," Simon murmured.

Lord Gillingham straightened slightly in the saddle and smiled kindly at Emily. "Good afternoon, Miss Emily."

"Good afternoon, my lord. Lovely day, is it not?" Emily brought her mare to a halt and smiled warmly at Gillingham. "Are you joining us this afternoon?" She started to dismount without assistance.

"Allow me, Miss Faringdon." Simon was already out of the saddle, tossing the reins to Gillingham. His eyes skimmed quickly, assessingly over Emily as he strode forward. He was still having trouble believing he had run his quarry to earth at last. Every Faringdon he had ever seen had been tall, fair-haired, and inordinately handsome.

Looking at Emily now, Simon could only assume that some mischievous fairy had slipped a changeling into the Faringdon nursery twenty-four years ago. Emily even looked a bit like an elf. For starters, this particular Faringdon was no statuesque goddess. She was much too short, very slender, and had no bosom to speak of. Indeed, everything about her appeared to be slight and delicate, from her little tip-tilted nose to the gentle curve of her hip, which was nearly indiscernible beneath the heavy fabric of her old-fashioned, faded riding habit.

Sunlight glinted again on the lenses of Emily's spectacles as she turned her head to look down at Simon. He found himself pinned beneath that inquisitive green gaze. It was a gaze that fairly glittered with a curiously refreshing blend of lively intelligence and good-natured innocence.

Simon decided in that moment that Miss Emily Faringdon was going to prove anything but dull. A bit unfashionable, obviously, but definitely not dull. She was just like her letters, after all, he thought. The lady was an original.

Simon reached up, his hands closing about Emily's small waist. She felt lithe and supple under his fingers. Strong for her size, too. And full of feminine vitality.

Damnation. He was growing aroused just touching her. Simon frowned and instantly regained control of himself.

Gillingham started hasty introductions but Emily was not listening closely.

"Thank you, sir," she said a bit breathlessly as she started to slide down off the mare. Her attention was on her bulging reticule, which she had attached to the saddle. "Blade, did he say? Gracious, we are certainly not in the habit of entertaining earls on Thursday afternoon."

"My given name is Simon. Simon Augustus Traherne," Simon said deliberately. "I believe you know me as S. A. Traherne, Miss Faringdon."

Emily Faringdon's mouth dropped open in shock and her large eyes widened in obvious horror behind the lenses of her spectacles.

"S. A. Traherne? No, you cannot possibly be Mr. Traherne." She jerked backward out of his grasp as if burned.

"Have a care, Miss Faringdon," Simon snapped as he saw the mare's head come up in sudden alarm.

But his warning came too late. Emily's booted foot accidentally struck the rounded belly of the mare. The poor animal took offense at such ill treatment and danced sideways with a nervous movement. The reticule banged against the mare's flanks.

Emily's spectacles started to slide off her nose. She tried to push them back in place and struggled to control her mount at the same time. But she was already halfway off the horse and when the mare snorted again and made another abrupt, sidling movement, Emily began to slide inevitably downward.

"Good heavens," shrieked Miss Bracegirdle, "she's falling off the horse."

"I say," Lord Gillingham began in obvious concern.

One of the Misses Inglebright rushed forward to make a wild grab for the mare's bridle.

It was the last straw as far as the mare was concerned. The animal heaved its front half upward, pawing at the air with her hooves.

"Bloody hell," Emily muttered as she lost her balance completely and fell straight into Simon's waiting arms.

Emily wished the floor of Rose Cottage would open up beneath her chair and swallow her whole. She was mortified. She was humiliated. She was in the throes of excruciating emotional anguish. She would have given anything to be able to succumb to a fit of the vapors. Unfortunately, her sensibilities were not quite that delicate.

Above all, she was furious. It was absolutely intolerable that the great love of her life should have snuck up on her and caught her so woefully unprepared for such a momentous occasion.

She took a sip of tea to calm her nerves, listening as the ladies of the local literary society made a desultory effort to discuss the latest articles in a recent edition of the Edinburgh Review. There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm attached to the project.

The cup rattled in the saucer when Emily replaced it. The sound made her realize how strained her nerves were. At this rate it was just a matter of time before she spilled tea all over the carpet.

"I suppose I should not have been surprised by the review of Southey's latest effort." Simon's cool, deep voice cut through a fluttering conversation on John MacDonald's

rather tedious work, A Geographical Memoir of the Persian Empire. "As usual, the editors are entirely off the mark in their comments. They simply do not know how to take Southey. Of course, they do not seem to know how to take Wordsworth or Coleridge, either, do they? One would think they had a vendetta against the Lake poets."

The weak discussion, which had had a difficult time getting started in the first place, promptly ground to a complete halt. Again.

Simon sipped his tea and glanced around the room expectantly. When no one spoke, he tried valiantly to restart the conversation. "Of course, what can you expect from that lot of Scotsmen who call themselves reviewers? As Byron pointed out a few years ago, the Edinburgh critics are a petty, mean-spirited lot. I'm inclined to agree. What does your little group think?"

"You are referring to Byron's verses entitled English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, my lord?" Miss Hornsby managed to inquire politely.

"Correct." Simon's voice crackled with impatience now.

Miss Hornsby blanched as if she'd been bitten. One or two of the other members of the literary society cleared their throats and looked at each other nervously.

"More tea, my lord?" Lavinia Inglebright demanded bravely as she seized hold of the pot.

"Thank you," Simon said dryly.

Emily winced at the earl's obvious annoyance and frustration as the conversation trailed off into nothingness once more. But she could not resist a fleeting grin. Simon's thoroughly chilling effect on the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society was amusing in some ways.

It was rather like having a dragon in the parlor. One knew one ought to be extremely polite, but one did not know quite what to do with the creature.

Seated in a place of importance near the hearth, S. A. Traherne appeared to take up all the available space in the tiny, frilly, feminine room. In fact, he overwhelmed it with his overpowering, subtly dangerous masculinity.

Emily shivered with a strange excitement as she studied him covertly. The earl was a big man, hard and lean and broad-shouldered. His strong thighs were clearly outlined by his snug-fitting breeches. Emily sensed Lavinia Inglebright casting anxious glances at the dainty chair in which the earl sat. Poor Lavinia was probably afraid the fragile piece of furniture would collapse. Social disaster loomed.

Now, the earl sitting amid the ruins of Lavinia Inglebright's chair would be an interesting sight to see, Emily told herself. In the next breath she decided she must be getting hysterical. Would this interminable afternoon never end?

She stifled a groan and squinted a little, trying to locate the nearest table, where she could safely set down her rattling cup and saucer. Everything was a colorful blur without her spectacles. She had, of course, whipped them off and stuffed them into her reticule as soon as the earl had set her on her feet. But the damage had been done. He had seen her in them.