Twelve Nights 0f Scandal Read online

  “I beg your pardon?” Holly demanded with affront. Finn began to feel like a tennis ball bouncing between the arguing women. Amity was right. Holly’s lighthearted and thoughtless banter served her well in London, but in the countryside, here barbs were too pointed to be kind. Finn wondered how he had failed to see it before. That spoke poorly of his judgment. He too had been blinded by expectations for marriage. He had taken Holly’s banter personally. Now, he knew that Holly was a flirt.

  “You needn’t badger Mr. Tillet about his reticence, cousin. In fact,” Amity declared with narrowed eyes, “you might consider exercising some yourself.”

  “Ladies, as much as I appreciate your active discussion, it makes me blush to be the subject of such controversy. Please, for my sake, be friends,” Tillet asked. Finn’s estimation of the older man rose.

  Holly pouted and took the excuse to wiggle her way beneath his arm. Finn stiffened. He shifted away, but Holly leaned closer against him until there was a six-inch gap between her and the right wall of the sleigh. From his left, he had moved so close against Amity that he belatedly realized he might be crushing the breath out of her. Awareness coursed through him as he shifted to give her more space. This had the unfortunate effect of increasing his contact with Holly. Carefully, he eased his arm out from between them and stretched it across her shoulders. Amity, a few inches taller than her cousin, nestled perfectly against him.

  “Well, look at this.” Tillet chuckled. “A cozy winter scene if there ever was one.”

  They glided over the snow. Holly continued to burrow inappropriately against his side. She strokes his knee, which made Finlay stiffen and jerk his leg away. Was she under the mistaken impression that accosting his person was the way to win his heart? The way she petted him and curled like a kitten against him didn’t make Finlay want her more. It made him feel like an object used for retaliation in her argument with Amity.

  Amity studiously ignored her cousin. She remained stiff beside him while the wintry scene whisked by. The sleigh whisked up to the portcullis of Wells House. A few stray snowflakes danced in the air as Finlay handed down Holly. Amity had accepted Tillet’s assistance. They stood huddled beneath the shelter. Snow dotted Amity’s dark eyelashes like tiny diamonds. Envy clutched his innards.

  “I regret that I must depart this afternoon,” Tillet said, looking indeed contrite. “I wish that I had been so fortunate to meet such a lovely young lady before committing myself elsewhere,” he said, raising Amity’s gloved hand to brush a kiss over the back. “Alas, I am recently engaged. I wish you great success in finding your own match, Miss Mayweather. The other Miss Mayweather too.”

  Tillet glanced over at Finlay and winked. A shock ran through his body. Was their awkward little trio’s dynamic so obvious?

  “Oh.” Amity said, taken aback. “I wish you a quick recovery from your croup and a happy nuptial.” Was Finlay imagining it, or did she look crestfallen?

  Amity could not have been entertaining him as a suitor. Finlay’s fists clenched at his sides. He flexed them open and closed as though he might wrap them around Tillet’s neck.

  “Do come and visit us again soon,” Holly interjected, grabbing Tillet by both hands. “I hope to have similarly happy news to report upon our next meeting.” She cast a sidelong simper at Finn. He swallowed. Amity’s gaze dropped to her feet. How disappointing it must feel to be rejected.

  “As do I,” Finn said as he bowed to Tillet. But it was not the shorter blonde beside him who blushed. Amity’s cheeks turned pink from more than the cold. Beside him, Holly stamped her foot, breaking the spell.

  “I must go inside before I lose my toes to frostbite. Come, Amity.” Holly took her cousin by the arm and marched her into the house, where the yule log burned low and bright.

  “Miss Holly is a fine lady,” Tillet offered once the women had gone inside and the driver had taken the horses around back to be unhitched.

  “She is,” Finn said repressively.

  “She would make a fine wife,” Tillet added. “As would Miss Amity.”

  “You speak out of turn,” Finlay declared with heat in his voice.

  Tillet responded with a knowing smile. “The Mayweathers are good people, but they believe too firmly in their infallible judgment. Had I known Mr. Mayweather believed I might propose to Amity, I would have remained in my bachelor’s quarters in London for the holiday. I came here in hopes to conclude a small matter of business unrelated to marriage.” Tillet smiled ruefully. “I find I cannot get any time with Mayweather, as it seems our host has grandiose ambitions to play matchmaker this season.”

  Finlay grimaced, for he had dived headfirst into the drama the way he had done with Ellis and Amity when they’d been children jumping into the river that marked the border between the Mayweather and Weston estates.

  “A bit of romance of holidays can be a lovely thing,” Tillet observed.

  “’Tis not a bad thing to want, when all the players are aware and informed,” grumbled Finlay.

  Tillet sent him a speaking glance. “I must be going. It looks as though you have a dilemma to sort out. I wish you the best of luck with it.” Tillet tipped his hat and left Finlay to kick at the snow, wondering how to untangle this mess. A certain base part of him was flattered at the prospect of two pretty ladies going to war over his affections—which might be enticing if his body was not similarly at war with his mind. Men’s heads were placed above their hearts, and Finlay Weston was not about to make the mistake of reversing the natural hierarchy that placed reason above affection.

  * * *

  When can I go home? Amity wondered miserably. Across the room, Holly engaged everyone around her in conversation about nothing and everything. Every few seconds, her eyes darted to Finn as if to say, can’t you see how much everyone likes me?

  Finlay, to his credit, mostly ignored her cousin’s increasingly obvious bids for attention. Amity had never been embarrassed of Holly until this evening. But then, she had only known her cousin from letters ever since she’d had her first season. Holly had changed, and not for the better.

  Amity eyed Mr. Gibbs warily. Every few minutes, he cast her a longing glance. Each time, it sent a shiver of disgust through her body. She had avoided the mistletoe hanging above the parlor doorway, going out of her way to exit through the dining room to keep from passing beneath it. Amity shuddered every time she recalled the punishment of his kiss. This morning, Mr. Tillet had shot to the top of the list of men from whom Amity might consider accepting a proposal, and he had departed for London immediately after dinner.

  Which was not altogether a disaster, considering the maids had arranged for her to take his room. The prospect of sharing a bed with her cousin as she gloated about Finlay had worried Amity all day.

  “You look displeased.”

  Amity started. Finn’s cool voice at her side had the opposite effect of Gibbs’ unfeigned interest. Her stomach clenched. She replied under her breath. “I apologize for Holly’s behavior—”

  “Don’t,” Finlay replied, cutting her off. “Her behavior her own responsibility. Not yours. All she has done is flirt with an excess of enthusiasm. Any young woman might be excused—”

  “After giving you the cold shoulder for days,” she responded with heat. “It speaks to an unbecoming inconstancy. I fear my cousin has been spoiled by her excessive time in London. Three seasons, going on four…”

  Amity trailed off as she recognized her own jealousy speaking. She clapped one gloved hand over her mouth to stop words she would regret from spilling out.

  Finlay gently urged her around the corner from the parlor, where the Mayweathers and their guests had gathered around the still-burning yule log for a game of charades. They could speak privately yet be visible and therefore appropriate. “Your cousin’s indiscretions are far more forgivable than what Lunt did to you. Are you all right?”

  Amity wasn’t, and now that she was friendless in a house full of people who had conspired in secret to marr
y her off without consulting her on the subject, she needed a friend more than ever. Shame at her initial spitefulness toward her old friend washed over Amity. “I wish my first kiss hadn’t been so unwelcome,” she mumbled.

  “Your first kiss?” Finn echoed in surprise.

  Amity’s face burned. She might as well have said, we are too poor for me to attract gentleman callers. How embarrassing it was to reveal her family’s circumstances. “Yes,” she confirmed. They had edged away from the doorway, out of sight from the game taking place.

  “Then we ought to make sure your second kiss makes up for the awfulness of your first.”

  Amity’s gaze met his. Heat streaked down her midsection.

  “With your permission?”

  She nodded once. Finlay tilted her chin up, and his mouth closed over hers. Warm. Gentle. Perfect.

  Amity sighed. Finn’s palm found her waist. His thumb skimmed her ribcage in an echo of the many times he had held her down and tickled her until she’d breathlessly fought free. When was the last time she had felt that carefree? A lifetime ago…and now, here in his arms. Finn nipped the plump center of her lower lip. She gasped. Finn teased her mouth until she parted, giving pleasure, waiting at each intrusion for her to indicate she welcomed his embrace. She opened to him in welcome. Finn anchored his arm around her waist and teased her tongue with his. His free hand traced the line of her jaw, shifting her into place for a thorough ravishing of her mouth. Amity moaned against his cheek as his rough fingertips stroked the curve of her neck. She pressed her body close to his seeking more.

  “Oh. My. Lord.”

  The spell broke. Finlay loosened his grip around her waist. He sighed and reluctantly withdrew his hand from her cheek. Amity felt the loss of his touch, not unlike the moment she had first learned of her father and brother’s deaths: with cold shock and devastation. Finn’s kiss had reoriented her place in the world, and Amity would never be the same. She dragged her kiss-hazed gaze to meet Holly’s furious glare. Immediately behind her stood Mrs. Mayweather, aghast.

  “You horrid strumpet,” Holly hissed. “Under my own roof, my own cousin seduces my intended fiancé.”

  Never mind that Wells House had once belonged to Amity’s family. She knew every nook and cranny of this grand old pile. The familiar dings in the wainscoting along the music room, where she had gouged the wall with her bow during music lessons. The window seats in the library, where it was possible to lose oneself for days in histories and novels, back when books had not been a rarely affordable luxury. It had been her roof once too.

  “Holly,” Mrs. Mayweather snapped. Amity realized Finlay had moved to speak. To defend her, or to grovel to Holly? What might have he said to repair the damage, had Mrs. Mayweather not intervened? “Enough, child. A man is entitled to change his mind. I daresay you’ve expressed little interest in Mr. Weston until this very morning. It’s hardly a wonder if he directs his affections elsewhere.” Mrs. Mayweather narrowed her eyes at Amity. Her heart galloped like a frightened horse. “We presented you with three fine men seeking wives, not because we expected you to marry one of them but because we thought you might need a bit of assistance with finding a husband. I never could have anticipated that you, of all people, might make a claim upon my own daughter’s intended.”

  And that did make her feel small. Greedy. Amity folded her hands behind her back and examined the pattern on the rug as if it were the most intriguing thing in the world. The others in the parlor craned their necks to see what the commotion was about.

  “I…uh, believe there has been a misunderstanding,” Finlay interjected. “Miss Mayweather happened to be standing beneath the mistletoe. I felt obliged to honor the spirit of the season.”

  Amity glanced up. Sure enough, green boughs with their red ribbons and white berries mocked her from above. They had shifted out of direct alignment with the greenery, but as excuses went, it wasn’t bad. Mrs. Mayweather’s expression transformed. Holly, however…

  Kissing her cousin’s husband-to-be had lit a pyre beneath their friendship. The hurt anger in Holly’s blue eyes pierced Amity’s heart with regret. It didn’t matter that Finlay had not asked Holly to marry him yet. He had asked her father, which was arguably more serious. Had Amity alienated her family to win the heart of a man who had all but forgotten her since her brother’s death?

  Perhaps Amity had only seen what she’d wanted to.

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Mayweather replied evenly, her eyes darting between their faces.

  Amity had no doubt her cheeks were as scarlet as the ribbons hanging that wretched mistletoe. Nonetheless, she bobbed her head in agreement. “It meant nothing, Aunt Jane. Please understand I intended no harm.”

  “That’s not what she said last night—”

  “Holly. I believe our guests have tired of the entertainment. Will you please take your place at the pianoforte?”

  “Mother—” Holly wailed in protest.

  “Mr. Weston, if you will please join my daughter?” Mrs. Mayweather took Finlay by the arm. Amity mustered a wan smile as she watched him lean over the instrument beside Holly, the better to turn the pages of her sheet music.

  Mr. Gibbs caught her eye and waggled his fingers her direction. Amity brushed away her feelings and managed to smile back. Not to be outdone, Mr. Lunt moved in her direction.

  “Miss Mayweather, might I entice you into dancing a reel?” he asked.

  Amity judged the chances of him attempting to kiss her again in full view of everyone as slim to none. Besides, it was in her favor to act as though nothing was wrong. Dancing with Lunt was the perfect way to demonstrate that the kiss with Finn had been more or less within the bounds of propriety.

  That, more than anything, made the memory of their kiss feel dirty. It didn’t matter that she had only been one half of the scandal. Amity bore all of the blame for their coequal transgression. She could rail against the fact all she wished, or she could remember her station in life, accept the consequences and move on. She had her sisters’ futures to consider, after all.

  “With great pleasure, Mr. Lunt.” Amity offered the man her hand. He bowed over it, and they took their places for a country reel. A few minutes later, she was laughing a little too loudly as she skipped through the half-remembered steps. Finlay’s dark blue gaze bore into her back. She cast him a fleeting glance. Frustration was etched in the flatness of his mouth and the furrow of his brow. He and Holly made a charming pair on the surface, but there was no warmth between them. Amity and Holly had agreed to let Finlay Weston choose his preferred bride. Holly clearly meant to have a proposal from him, but Amity was through with romantic manipulations. She had a single, perfect kiss to carry her through years of marriage to Gibbs or Lunt, or any other man.

  One day, she might learn how not to want more of Finn’s touch. Tonight, however, she had suitors to encourage.

  7

  “Are you planning to ask my daughter for her hand or not?” Mayweather demanded while they were out hunting—again—with Lunt and Gibbs three days later. Finn had managed to avoid asking Holly the most important question on his mind despite Holly’s determined campaign to charm him into proposing. Now that Mrs. Mayweather’s relatives had departed, the Foster Mayweather was losing patience with Finn.

  “I am…” Finlay coughed. Not. He was not planning to offer for Holly at all. Not when the mere sight of Amity sent a confusing bolt of emotions through his body. “Getting to it.”

  Mayweather’s brow creased into canyons of irritation. Finlay arched one eyebrow in return. He hadn’t worked up the courage to inform his host of his decision yet. Once he did, he would undoubtedly be asked to leave—thus depriving him of Amity’s company. Not that she had been any company at all over the past three days. Amity had been the closest thing to a ghost that Wells House possessed. When Finlay entered the drawing room, she bobbed a curtsey and took her leave. It left him with the sinking feeling that he had overstepped in kissing her. Her avoidance withered his pride an
d made him question the yearning he’d read in her green eyes.

  Holly, on the other hand, stuck to his side like a burr. Yet, still, he didn’t believe her abrupt shift in interest. He found it calculated and dishonest.

  “See that you make it happen soon.” Mayweather raised his weapon and fired. A moment later, he cursed. “Damn birds have learned not to rest easily when I am out with a gun and a dog.” He grunted. “I can’t understand it. Two weeks ago, in London, you were keen enough on Holly to seek my permission to marry her. I invited you to my home to give you ample time to get the job done. What’s changed?”

  Amity. “There has been a misunderstanding concerning the depths of my affections for your daughter,” Finlay began. Meeting Amity again, as a woman, had shuffled his views on the necessity of affection to marriage. Until one week ago, he had blithely presumed all it took to make a successful union was a general compatibility with another human being by whom one wasn’t utterly repulsed. Holly did not repulse him. Yet, away from the glamour and gossip of London, Finlay did not find Holly’s company as appealing as when they had exchanged banter on crowded dance floors. She flirted with everyone. How would Holly manage long winters here in the countryside with no one to chatter at? She would drive him mad.

  “Mayweather!” called out Gibbs from across the pond. “Come quickly! He’s been shot!”

  “Hold that thought, Weston.” Mayweather plodded off through the fresh-fallen snow toward Gibbs. Finn followed. The sight of crimson droplets spattered over the snow quickened his pulse. The trail led to Lunt, who clutched his leg and moaned a few feet from the scene of the accident.

  “He’s been shot,” Finlay breathed.

  Lunt’s face contorted with pain. Gibbs tried to assist the larger man to his feet, but he couldn’t get enough leverage. Mayweather took his other arm and bent to haul him up. His face was pale and grim.

  “We ought to look at the wound before moving him,” Finlay declared. Mayweather stopped mid-shuffle to glare at him. Hot clouds of breath billowed from his nose and mouth.