Beyond Scandal and Desire (Sins for All Seasons #1) Read online

  Dedication

  In loving memory of Patti Wade Hickerson

  You lived life to the fullest, my dear friend.

  Thank you for all the smiles, laughter, hugs,

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Gillie’s Story

  About the Author

  By Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London

  1840

  He was scared. More scared than he’d ever been in all of his twenty-­four years.

  For sixteen hours, drowning in more scotch than was wise, he’d prayed for the torment to end while his love screamed. Odd, then, that when the silence finally arrived, it filled him with such unheralded terror. His gaze never leaving the door that opened into her bedchamber, he sat as still as death in the straight-­backed chair in the dimly lit hallway. Unable to make his limbs move, he merely waited, barely breathing, listening intently, praying now that he would hear no cries, that the babe would be stillborn.

  But the howls of outrage at being forced into a cruel world eventually came, strong and robust, and he cursed heaven and hell for the unfairness of it.

  The heavy oak door opened. A young maid—­damn, what was her name? He didn’t remember; he didn’t care—­gave a quick curtsy. “It’s a boy, Your Grace.”

  Swearing harshly, he squeezed his eyes shut. The gender shouldn’t have mattered, and yet the pronouncement hit him like a solid blow to the chest.

  After setting aside his glass, he slowly, laboriously shoved himself to his feet and, on legs that did not seem to belong to him, staggered into the room that smelled of sweat, blood and fear. The child had ceased its bellowing. Wrapped in a swaddling blanket bearing the ducal crest, it was now cradled in the arms of another maid.

  She smiled hopefully at him. “He’s a fine one, Your Grace.”

  He took no pride, no comfort in her words. Cautiously he approached. He saw the thatch of thick black hair, the same shade as his, the pinched face. It was difficult to believe something so tiny could be the cause of so much pain, grief and despair.

  “Would you care to hold him, sir?”

  Knowing he would be lost if he did, he shook his head. “Leave us now. All of you. Get out.”

  She placed the bundle into the bassinet, before scurrying after the midwife and other maid, closing the door in their wake, leaving him to face what must be done in this room that still seemed to echo his love’s agony.

  Quietly, hesitantly, he wandered over to the four-­poster where she lay, her face averted, her gaze on the windows and the inky midnight blackness beyond them. It seemed appropriate for the child to arrive in the dead of night, in this residence where his own father had kept his mistress. They were both long gone, but the dwelling still had its uses, assured no memories of this night would haunt his beloved estates or London residence.

  The woman on the bed was another matter entirely. Having endured what she had, how could she not be haunted? He’d never known her to be so pale, so lifeless, all joy and dreams sucked from her. Taking her hand, he wasn’t surprised to find it as cold as ice. “Have you seen him?”

  Her head barely moved in a shake. “He’s a bastard. You know what you must do,” she rasped, then turned imploring tear-­filled eyes toward him. “For me. We must be rid of him. You know we must.” She released a sob, bit down on her knuckles and began to cry in earnest.

  Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he enfolded her into his arms and rocked her gently. This child should have never come into existence. He knew its presence would plague her unmercifully. “Shh, my love, don’t fret. I shall see to it.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so incredibly sorry.”

  “You are not to blame. If I’d taken greater care . . .” His voice trailed off, the incriminations clogging his throat. He hadn’t taken the precautions necessary to protect her. Now he would do everything necessary to save her from scandal.

  He held her until she quieted, until she fell into a fitful sleep. Then he took the babe from the bassinet in which it had been placed. It. It. He would not think of it as a child, but as a creature. It looked up at him with huge blue eyes. Carrying his burden, he strode from the room without looking back.

  The journey in his coach was the longest of his life. It seemed wrong to set the child down, so he held it, all the while sensing its gaze upon him, knowing he would feel that unblinking stare until the day he died.

  At last the coach came to a stop outside a ramshackle dwelling on the outskirts of London. The thickening fog swirling silently over the stoop made it seem all the more ominous. Hesitating, he shook his head. Now was not the time to turn cowardly. With the babe clasped against his chest, he disembarked and made his mind go blank so he couldn’t consider the ramifications of what he was doing.

  He knocked briskly on the door. The youth of the woman who opened it shocked him. She was not at all what he’d expected, but then he could very well have the wrong residence. “I’m in search of the Widow Trewlove.”

  “You have found her.” Her dark eyes dipped to the burden he carried, her face impassive as though she, too, could not acknowledge what was about to transpire. “Will you be paying by the month, or am I to take in your bastard completely?”

  Her voice held no accusation, no condemnation. He almost imagined he heard a bit of sympathy, of kindness, in it.

  “Completely.”

  “Fifteen pounds.”

  He knew the amount. He’d read her advert carefully a hundred times during the passing months while he awaited the arrival. Widows taking in children born out of wedlock was a common enough practice. One of his friends farmed out all his illegitimate whelps. With a single payment one never had to think of them again. Or at least that was the theory. He doubted he’d ever forget this one.

  Mrs. Trewlove took the child and cradled it in her arms as though it were something precious. Meeting his gaze, she held out her hand. He dropped the heavy pouch into her waiting palm, his stomach queasy as she closed her fingers around the blood money.

  “I’m paying ten times what you ask. I don’t want it to suffer.”

  “Never you fret. I’ll take proper care of your by-­blow.” Turning, she went inside and closed the door quietly behind her.

  Spinning on his heel, he hurried back to the coach, leaped inside and pounded the ceiling. As the conveyance took off at a fast clip, he let the tears fall and acknowledged himself for the monster he was.

  He could only hope his actions tonight would help to restore his love’s sanity, would return her to him as she’d once been.

  Although he doubted that he, himself, would ever again be able to look at
his reflection in a mirror.

  Chapter 1

  London

  1871

  Mick Trewlove was intimately familiar with Cremorne Gardens, but as a rule he limited his visits to the later hours when loose women could be had cheaply, cutthroats abounded, decadence flourished, men well into their cups were willing to spill secrets, and those who had once slighted him could be paid back in full.

  But wandering along the path this early into the night—­as twilight was beginning to settle in and full darkness was but a whispered promise of seduction—­made his skin itch and his well-­tailored clothing feel far too tight. Decent folk meandered about enjoying the evening’s innocent entertainments, some taking pleasure in doing little more than leisurely strolling through the gardens that the Thames kept lush and green. He couldn’t imagine having so few cares, of being so relaxed that his laughter would easily fill the air. Although in all fairness, he wasn’t known for laughing—­at least not with joy. His harsh bark tended to make people wary, especially when it was directed at them. With good reason. It was usually a signal that he was on the verge of claiming his retribution.

  “Why are we following that couple?”

  He’d always known the young beauty on his arm was no fool, but he’d hoped finally satisfying her curiosity about the gardens would have distracted her from his purpose. “I know not of what you speak.”

  “Liar.” With one arm entwined around his, she slapped him with her free hand. He hadn’t given any thought to the fact that, in escorting her publicly, she might undermine his hard-­earned reputation for being the unforgiving sort. Although he doubted any of his acquaintances were here at this early hour. “An assortment of people have passed in front of us, and you’ve not even given them a withering glance. When someone gets in our way, you stiffen and hurry around them as though they’re an obstruction to your goals. You’ve totally ignored the jugglers and tumblers no matter how hard they strive to catch your attention. I’ve deduced your reason for bringing me here was not as a gift for my birthday—­as you claimed—­but because you decided you would be less noticeable with a woman on your arm.”

  “You’re but a girl, pet.”

  “I’m ten and seven. Old enough to marry.”

  “You’re not marrying.”

  “Someday I will.”

  “There’s not a bloke alive to whom I’d grant approval to take you to wife.”

  “It’s not your decision to make.”

  “With no father about, as your eldest brother, it damn well is.”

  The little brat slapped at his upper arm again. “You’re trying to distract me so I won’t pester you with my questions. I won’t fall for it.”

  The couple ahead stopped to listen to a small orchestra playing a soft yet somber tune. Stilling as well, he glanced down in order to see his sister’s triumphant expression as he groused, “You’re too smart by half.”

  With the praise, she squeezed his arm and smiled brightly. “Tell me everything about them.”

  “Shh. Keep your voice low.” He didn’t need someone easing by them to hear his words, to know he did indeed have a keen interest in the couple.

  “I will,” she whispered. “Who are they?”

  “He’s the Earl of Kipwick, son to the Duke of ­Hedley—­a title he will one day hold.”

  “Something about him seems familiar. Can’t we move to the other side of them so I can see him more clearly?”

  “No. Not yet anyway.” He had no desire for her to examine the earl too closely, to figure out precisely why he had a keen interest in this particular lord.

  “Do I know him?”

  “I doubt it. He doesn’t exactly frequent your circles.”

  “Does he frequent yours?”

  “He will . . . eventually.”

  “And the woman on his arm? She’s rather pretty. Tell me about her.”

  Because she’d only recently come to his attention, he didn’t yet possess a great deal of information about her, but that would change in time. If his plan went accordingly, she’d eagerly fill in the particulars. “She’s Lady Aslyn Hastings, daughter to the Earl of Eames. Although she’s been the Duke of Hedley’s ward since her parents died when she was a girl.”

  Sorrow washed over his sister’s face. She was far too sensitive for the world in which she lived. “Then she’s an orphan, like you.”

  She was nothing like him. No one was like him.

  “Do you know how her parents died?” Fancy asked, sadness woven through the curiosity in her voice, perhaps because she’d never known her own father, had always referred to herself as a half orphan, a much kinder term than the one attributed to him.

  “Not yet.” But eventually he would know every small detail about her: her likes, her dislikes, her dreams, her fears, her hopes, her worries.

  “She’s rather pretty. I always think when someone is comely she—­or he for that matter—­is immune to misfortune.”

  “No one is immune to misfortune.”

  The couple began strolling off, obviously having grown bored with the musicale. Fancy didn’t hesitate when Mick started walking again, quickening his pace to keep them within sight as they entered an area where the crowds thickened and more entertainers sought to earn their keep, presenting small performances, hoping a coin or two would be tossed their way.

  “So why are we following them?” Fancy asked.

  “I’m seeking an opportunity to make the earl’s acquaintance.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I intend to take from him everything he holds dear—­including the lady at his side.”

  With her arm snugly entwined around the Earl of Kipwick’s, Lady Aslyn Hastings couldn’t shake off the ominous sensation she was being watched. But then, if she were honest, she always felt under scrutiny. Perhaps it was because of her overly protective guardians or all the dire warnings about the dangers lurking about in the world that the Duchess of Hedley continually cast her way. Or the fact the duchess never left the residence and encouraged Aslyn to follow her example by staying within Hedley Hall. Except Aslyn longed for more: the independence afforded those who weren’t expected to make a suitable match, the carefree moments enjoyed by those not shackled by duty, the excitement offered within the shadows of the night.

  Those very shadows were falling rapidly and deepening now. The occasional streetlamp was being lit, but the dim light was little match for the darkness easing in around her. She was hoping to convince Kip to stay within the gardens long past the time proper folk did. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the naughty undertakings that had been alluded to in the newspaper articles and gossip rags she read when no one was keeping a watchful eye over her. They hadn’t gone into great detail—­only enough to titillate the imagination.

  Fortunately—­or unfortunately depending on one’s perspective—­Aslyn had always possessed a rather active and creative imagination. She assumed the music that filled the air after ten o’clock was not something found among her music sheets nor would her fingertips be allowed to coax it forth from ivory keys. The gowns worn by the ladies who strolled with the gents would reveal a good deal more than the hint of a bosom. The women would certainly be snuggled against their escort’s side—­not walking along as she was with her hand merely resting on her escort’s arm as lightly as a butterfly might settle upon a rose petal. There would be nothing proper, nothing decent in the other ladies’ actions. But there her imagination ground to a halt, because she couldn’t quite envision what the indecent activities might entail. Might a gentleman press his lips to her bared shoulder? Might he nuzzle her neck?

  And what would that feel like?

  For all of Kip’s interest in her, he’d never been untoward, never even tried to steal a kiss. He respected her, honored her, fought his baser instincts to ensure she came to the marriage bed untouched. Which the duchess assu
red her was how it should be between a man and a woman—­if a man truly cared for her. Only the most morally inept would seek to take advantage of a lady, would seek to seduce her outside the bonds of marriage. Aslyn didn’t want to admit what it said about her own morals that she was rather hoping tonight Kip might ask for permission to place his lips against hers, to remove his glove and touch her cheek, to whisper sweet passionate words in her ear.

  She was all of twenty and had never been kissed. Not that she knew any not-­yet-­betrothed maiden who had been. Ladies in her position were to guard their virtue and be above reproach at all times. Still, there were moments when being morally upright chafed. One could flirt innocently but was never to engage in any questionable action. Buttons were to remain buttoned, lacings laced and skirt hems hiding ankles.

  She wasn’t about to place herself in a compromising position, but she did often wonder if Kip found all the rules as bothersome as she did, if he yearned to do more than simply stroll along beside her. Guilt pricked her conscience because she should be grateful he was such a considerate, upstanding beau so she never had to ward off any untoward advances.

  “I hear the siren call of a soprano,” Kip said suddenly, placing his hand over hers where it rested on his arm and squeezing ever so slightly. “Shall we head in that direction?”

  “If you like.”

  He glanced down on her. While the shadows were moving in so his hat cast shade over his face, she could still make out his handsome features. He’d inherited his father’s brilliant blue eyes, thick black hair and the distinctive cleft in his chin. It had fascinated her as a child, and she’d often poked her finger into it, especially when she caught him sleeping. It had become more pronounced as he’d aged and left no doubt he was indeed his father’s heir. Not that anyone would doubt it really. The duke and duchess were devoted to each other, so much so that, at times, it was as though no one existed beyond them.

  “Are you not enjoying yourself?” he asked. “Is there something else you’d rather see?”