Beyond Scandal Page 2

  Waverly Hall, 1856

  It was a perfect summer day: warm, sunny, cloudless. Perfect except for one fact. It was the day of the marquis of Waverly’s funeral.

  His death had been both sudden and unexpected. He had only been fifty years of age, and his health had appeared to be good. And his father was still hale at seventy-four. Then, very suddenly, he had become ill with the influenza. Within days he was dead.

  Because Waverly was being buried in the country, only a hundred mourners now gathered at the grave. The local gentry, squires and tenant farmers, rubbed elbows with dukes and earls, and they in turn brushed up against the entire village population of Dulton: bakers, butchers and furniture makers, dairymaids and shepherds. No one had come out of affection for the late marquis. Philip St. Georges had been a reclusive scholar, one who had spent most of his time out of the country journeying to exotic places. Respect brought some. Duty brought everyone. Duty to Waverly—and duty to his father, the duke of Rutherford. Even the queen had sent her regrets.

  But one and all murmured about how odd it was, that Philip had specified that he be buried in the country at Waverly Hall, instead of at the mausoleum at Rutherford House with his many illustrious ancestors.

  Anne did her best to comfort the duke, who had become her support during the past few years. She slipped her arm around him while he wept for his only child, his only son. And although Anne had never been close to, or even fond of, Philip, she had become fond of his father. His grief became her grief. Her vision blurred as the pallbearers appeared, the coffin on their shoulders.

  She had only attended one other funeral in her short life, and that had been her father’s, when she was ten years old. Anne remembered far too vividly the pain and anguish and grief. But that funeral had been nothing like this one. Her father had been a drifter and dreamer without means, and she had been completely alone, without any other family, and only a handful of neighbors she did not know had attended the brief, bare ceremony in Boston. No one had come to the grave except for the preacher. Soon after, she left America, never to return.

  Anne gripped the duke’s arm more tightly, stealing a glance at his ravaged face. She sympathized with him completely, wished to take away his pain, even though she knew she could not. These past four years he had been her dearest friend.

  Waverly’s wife, now the dowager marchioness, tossed a single white carnation into the grave. Clarisse’s face was as pale as the finest ivory, her blue eyes sheened with tears, but she held herself erect. No one approached her to comfort her, no one dared—not even Anne, who wanted to, in spite of their differences.

  Dirt began to spill on top of the coffin.

  The crowd rippled. Restlessly, or for some other reason? Anne did not care. She had been careful to ignore everyone all day, as they had ignored her for so many years, but because she stood at the duke’s side, it had proved impossible. The villagers who had laughed at her and condemned her through the worst period of her life, the gentry who gossiped about her but never came to call upon her, the nobility she had not ever met because she did not dare go to London, not even once, one and all now pressed her hand and murmured their condolences. Almost fascinated, Anne watched each mourner turn to the duke. Their expressions changed. The villagers were anxious, the tenants reverent but nervous, the gentry respectful but still, somehow, cautiously reserved. His own class was respectful yet openly concerned. More than a few of his peers embraced him warmly. Anne felt another surge of sorrow, but not for herself, for him.

  The crowd seemed to shift uneasily. Or was it with curiosity? A murmur seemed to follow in its wake. Anne became aware of heads turning. Her gaze turned as well.

  And for one instant, she thought her entire world had disintegrated.

  On the ridge above the grave, Anne saw the black lacquer coach with the huge silver Lyons crest emblazoned upon its door. Four black horses champed at their bits in the traces. Two coachmen in black-and-silver livery held the reins, and two footmen, similarly uniformed, stood upon the back runner. The door was flung open.

  Anne became utterly still. It seemed that even her heart ceased to beat.

  And Dominick St. Georges stepped from the coach and paused, silhouetted sharply against the brilliantly blue sky.

  Anne began to shake.

  His golden head was bare and held high. His broad shoulders seemed impossibly wide, his legs longer than Anne remembered. He was too far away for Anne to discern his expression. But Anne did not have to see his face to recall his every feature. His was a face she would never be able to forget—no matter how much she wished to.

  How she hated him.

  Because of him, she had suffered for the past four endless years, accepted by no one, condemned as something she was not, considered an outsider, notoriety clinging to her like her very own clothes. Because of him.

  And he had not shared her shame.

  Anne could not move, she could not breathe. He had come back. She had not been sure that he would—not even for his own father’s funeral.

  Her breathing was jerky now, small, sharp, hurtful little breaths. And she had thought he could not affect her any more, but no, she was wrong. He could still affect her, as much as ever.

  Anne told herself that she would be strong now, especially in front of the crowd who had gathered to lay Philip St. Georges to rest. In front of the crowd who had accused her years ago of being an American adventuress. If she appeared shaken or distressed, everyone would think that she still loved him—perhaps he would even think it, too. Anne had learned the hard way how to be strong—it had been a matter of survival.

  Heads were turning her way, gazes darting from Dom to herself. Anne could not help but feel a flash of bitter dismay. They had caused a scandal four years ago, but he had not suffered, oh no. She was the one who had been made an object of lewd speculation, a target of stares and whispers—she alone. She was the one who had been grievously betrayed. And now he had dared to come home.

  Anne would not have it.

  Dominick St. Georges stared down at the somberly dressed crowd standing at the graveside below him. He stared out of wide, shocked eyes, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  The horses behind him were blowing, their hides coated with sweat and mud. Dom had been in Paris when his father had fallen ill. News of that illness had reached him two days ago. Dom had left France immediately. He had been traveling hard for two days and two nights.

  But the missive had not said that his father might die.

  Dom felt dizzy. Disbelief overwhelmed him. The gentlemen in their black frock coats and hats, the women in black bombazine. The minister, standing over the open grave. Good god, the marquis was dead.

  His father was dead.

  Dom reeled. He was aware of someone coming up behind him—his valet, Verig. “My lord, sir,” the small blond man said.

  “Leave me,” Dom said hoarsely.

  Verig returned to the coach, his expression one of grave worry.

  Dom had not been home in four years. Tears suddenly filled his eyes—and he was not an emotional man. He suddenly cursed himself for staying away, for everything—for not even knowing his own father.

  He could not even claim to have loved Philip. He had been raised by nannies and tutors. He had seen his father every day for a precise ten-minute interval just before supper, but only to be interviewed about his studies, and only when his father was in residence at Waverly Hall, which was rarely. His father had been a scholar of antiquities who loved to travel. He had been abroad most of the year.

  And Dom had gone away to Eton on his twelfth birthday, and from that moment, he came home as rarely as his father. Sometime just before Eton, or perhaps just afterward, he had become as indifferent to Philip St. Georges as Philip was toward him.

  They were father and son. But they had not had any kind of relationship.

  Dom did not feel indifferent today, though.

  He rubbed his stubbled jaw with his hand. He felt ill, enou
gh so to vomit, but fortunately he had not eaten anything since last night. How could this have happened? How could Philip have died? He had only been fifty years of age. He had been slim and fit, he had never suffered much illness during his lifetime, even though he had traveled so often to places as disease-ridden as Bombay.

  With an effort, Dom moved his legs and walked to the very edge of the ridge. He stared down at the mourners.

  Now he would never know his own father.

  Dom did no! have to search his memory to recall their last encounter—on Dom’s wedding day. A day Dom avoided thinking about as a hard-and-fast rule—but today was an exception.

  He stood with his father and grandfather on the steps of the small country church in the village of Dulton, greeting the guests—who numbered but two dozen relatives. Still, they were distant relations, already envious of what they did not have, and Dom was the object of numerous stares and whispers. He had already decided to pretend that nothing was wrong. To pretend to he oblivious to the scandal he had created, right there in the heart of Rutherford’s estates, right there in his very own home.

  “Perhaps you might smile, Dominick,” Philip suggested under his breath as they began greeting their guests.

  “What do I have to smile about?”

  “You created these circumstances yourself,” Philip said calmly, ignoring the pointed accusation. “Perhaps you might think to cultivate a conscience, Dominick.”

  Dom’s temples throbbed. He already despised himself. “You will not believe this, but I do have a conscience.”

  Philip’s laughter was highly cultivated. “Perhaps you should have heeded it years ago—or at least during your engagement party to Felicity.”

  He inhaled, turning very grim. The pounding in his head increased “Touché.” They had been careful never to discuss that night—not after he had first been discovered with Anne Stewart in a highly compromising position.

  “Of course, your conscience or lack thereof does not matter to me. You will conduct yourself as you choose—you always have. I do hope, though, that one day, when I am dead, you will behave in a more fitting manner, one appropriate to your station.”

  “I didn’t know that you were at all concerned about my behavior,” Dom said tersely.

  “I am not,” Philip said. “Except for the fact that you are my heir, and all that you do reflects upon me.”

  Dom was silent. What had he expected on his wedding day? A hearty embrace? Some sign of paternal affection—of real caring? “Isn’t it a bit late for fatherly advice, Father?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Philip’s tone was bland.

  The black-clad mourners in the cemetery below Dom suddenly filled his vision, sweeping him from the past. Dom tried to control his trembling. The last time he had seen and spoken with his father, his father had spoken of his own death. How ironic it was.

  Dom forced his memories of those last few shared words aside. But the guilt remained, intensifying. And he already had enough guilt—and regret—to last an entire lifetime.

  He inhaled deeply, fighting for equilibrium until he found it. His gaze moved over the familiar countryside. It was a warm and sunny summer day. The sky sharply blue, the grass lushly green, and flowers were in bloom everywhere one looked. The terrain was a series of gentle slopes, Waverly Hall a pink-and-white blur just visible in the distance. Several miles behind the Hall, one would find the Channel coast. To the north, the hills rose far more dramatically, laced with hedges and stone walls, dotted with sheep and cows.

  Dom’s gaze returned to the grave. It appeared obscene. It was a dark, wet, reddish brown hole, and it seemed to Dom very much like an oozing, gaping wound in the fertile countryside. He was not given to prayer—he had stopped believing in God during the war—but the urge to pray overtook him now.

  He whispered, “Dear God, rest my father’s soul, help him find peace—bless him. Amen.”

  His gaze blurred thickly. Dom blinked furiously, until he could see. His regard riveted on one of the mourners. Taller by a head than those around him, the duke of Rutherford stood with his white head bowed, his black-clad shoulders shaking, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth. He was weeping visibly.

  Dom swallowed. His grandfather had been far more fatherly toward him than his own father had ever been.

  The coffin was already in the ground. It was a rich shining mahogany, polished to a high sheen, and wreathed in white carnations. Dom’s heart clenched. His mother had made sure the casket was displayed to perfection. She never erred when in the public eye. Sometimes he had sensed that she was afraid of committing some terrible and public mistake. She was always elegant and genteel, gracious and ladylike. He could not fathom how she kept up appearances so, especially now. But he understood why the endeavor was so important to her. Clarisse St. Georges had been born a vicar’s daughter, but to look at her now, no one would ever guess.

  Had Philip lived, Clarisse St. Georges would have made a graceful duchess one day. Dom strained to see if his mother wept, but, as she wore a full veil, that was impossible. He did not think she would grieve openly. He was not sure she would grieve at all: she and Philip had lived apart for years.

  Dom stared fixedly at the casket now being lowered into the grave. Too late, he regretted his soul’s emptiness—he regretted not loving his own father the way a son should. Too late, he regretted the past—all of it.

  If only she could forget that one single moment of explosive passion on that long-ago sultry summer night in the gardens behind Waverly Hall.

  But she could not forget. Nor would she, ever. Not until she herself died. It had been the culmination of all of her dreams, of her wildest fantasies. That night, Anne had known that he loved her the way that she loved him.

  Only to find out two weeks later how horribly wrong—and naive—she herself had been.

  Anne realized that she was staring. She had been staring at Dom St. Georges for far too long—while the mourners stared at her.

  Anne squeezed her eyes closed, perspiring beneath the many layers of clothing she wore. She reassured herself mat he was not intending to stay for very long at Waverly Hall.

  She would not allow it.

  But Anne could not help herself, and when her eyes opened, her gaze turned straight ahead in the direction she had avoided facing ever since arriving at the cemetery. Felicity had chosen to wear a dove gray dress instead of black, and she had never been lovelier. Or was it merely that, after four long years, Anne had failed to recall just how astoundingly beautiful her cousin really was? She was picture-perfect. Her presence made Anne feel shorter, darker, more childish, and far more awkward than she had felt in years.

  Anne lifted her chin and held her head high. She was twenly-one. She would never be a child again. Dom had made sure of that. She need not be intimidated or anxious or even afraid now. Felicity would probably return to London soon, too. She hardly ever came to the country. Anne wished them both gone, immediately.

  Felicity had also espied Dom and was staring openly at him. It was easy to read the emotions in her eyes. Anne’s heart sank. The past became the present with storming force. Felicity still wanted Dom. Anne told herself that it did not matter—that she did not care.

  She was trembling now. She felt faint. She wished she were not there, at the graveside. She wished to be anywhere but there. If only Dom had not come home. But Anne was only deluding herself with such thoughts, and she knew it. The truth was that she had been waiting for Dom to return for a very long time. She had been waiting for four years to have her say—and her revenge.

  She would never forgive him.

  Anne’s arm was still around the duke and she knew the moment that he espied his disreputable grandson. Rutherford stiffened. In that instant, Anne realized that Dom was wearing a tweed hunting jacket, riding breeches, and muddy Hessian boots. Her eyes widened. Would he never cease to be irreverent—even at his own father’s funeral?

  “He needs to be brought to heel, Anne,” Rutherford s
aid pointedly. As if instructing her that she should be the one to take on the impossible task of taming such a man.

  Anne felt her cheeks heating at the mere notion. “He needs to be horsewhipped,” she snapped. Her trembling was worse—she was actually shaking. “How could he come in such attire? Or is he planning on attending a foxhunt later today?”

  The duke reached out and squeezed her hand, very briefly. “We’ve got plenty of whips in the stable. Feel free to choose one. If you want, I’ll help you.” But his tone betrayed his affection for his only grandchild.

  Anne did not laugh even though the idea of whipping Dom as one might a very bad boy gave her a twinge of satisfaction. Anne realized that she was hugging herself.

  He had come back. Surely he did not think to stay?

  After all, four years ago he had left without even the slightest good-bye. Coldly, carelessly, callously. And in all the years since then, he had not bothered to return, not even once. He had not sent her a single message. Not even an apology, which was the least to be expected, even were it insincere.

  If he intended to stay, Anne knew she would have a battle on her hands.

  Grimly, Anne stole another look at Felicity—and was shocked to find her cousin watching her. Immediately Felicity looked away, but not before Anne had remarked both her excitement and her air of calculation.

  Anne’s agitation knew no bounds. Dom’s return was distressing enough, but clearly Felicity thought to continue matters with Dom where she had last left them four years ago. She began to breathe harder now, watching as the final shovelfuls of dirt covered the grave. The crowd was dispersing, the ladies and gentlemen moving to their waiting carriages, a few men pausing to speak with the duke. Glances continued to be sent her way, though, too, and then at Dom, standing up there on the ridge. Anne knew that they were being talked about. She could not wait. The situation was untenable—impossible. Lifting her skirts, she ran to her own victoria and hurled herself inside. Picking up the reins, she cracked them, hard.

  The victoria jerked off, the chestnut mare trotting briskly forward. Anne dared to look back over her shoulder. Her fear increased. The black lacquer coach with the silver Lyons crest was gone.