Scandalous. Part 8

Priscilla wrinkled her nose but did not deign to honor his remark with a comment. Frankly, she could not think of one. Instead, she reached for her own sewing bag, tucked beneath the chair, and pulled out the small night-dress that she was embroidering for the same newly arrived baby.

She concentrated on the delicate needlework, resisting the temptation to glance over at John Wolfe. She had the definite feeling that he was watching her, but she was determined not to appear to have any interest in him. He was, in her opinion, altogether too sure of himself and of his obvious ability to charm women. No doubt, because of her behavior last night, he thought she would fall into his arms at the crooking of his finger, but he would find out that she was made of sterner stuff than that. She had never before behaved the way she had behaved last night with him; she had never felt any of those wild emotions with any other man. But now that she knew how he could affect her, she would be on guard. She would be able to control herself.

A loud boom outside made her jump, and she stabbed herself in the thumb with her needle. "Ow!" she cried out crossly, and sucked at the injured thumb.

"What the devil was that?" Across the room, Wolfe jumped to his feet, dropping Miss Pennybaker's yarn, and started across the room toward the window. Miss Pennybaker, with a little shriek, dumped her end of the yarn and followed him, twisting her hands anxiously.

Priscilla sighed. "Only Papa, I imagine." She stuck her needle into the dress and rose, joining them at the window.

They gazed across the backyard to the shed that was her father's workroom. A cloud of yellow smoke was billowing out of the open window, and a moment later the door flew open and her father emerged, more smoke gushing out after him.

Miss Pennybaker gave a loud sigh of relief, her hand going up to her heart. "Thank goodness he's alive."

Priscilla flung open the window and leaned out. "Are you all right, Papa?"

Florian turned at the sound of her voice and smiled at her, waving a hand. His teeth shone white in his smoke-smudged face. His hair stuck out wildly, and the front of his white shirt was blotched with streaks of black and yellow.

"Perfectly fine, my dear!" Florian called back. "Splendid bang, wasn't it? No, that's all right, Mrs. Smithson." He turned toward the cook, who had come bustling out the back door with a bucket of water. "No fire this time."

"Mm... Just splendid, Papa," Priscilla responded dryly.

She turned to go back to her chair and caught sight of John's slack-jawed face. She had to giggle. "Don't worry, Mr. Wolfe. It is not an unusual occurrence. Papa often blows things up."

His eyebrows vaulted upward. "Why?"

"Now that is a question that only he can answer. 'All in the name of science,' I believe he says. Personally, I think he likes to hear things go bang. My brothers often did when they were younger."

"Priscilla!" Miss Pennybaker scolded, as if Priscilla were still her pupil. Bright spots of color stood out on her cheeks. "That's not fair. Your father is one of the greatest scientific minds of this, or any other, century."

"I know, Penny, dear. But don't you find it rather awkward sometimes to live with a great scientific mind?"

"Oh, no, I consider it an honor!" Miss Pennybaker's eyes glowed with the zeal of a disciple. "To be able to witness the workings of such a mind..."

Priscilla felt a tug of sympathy for the older woman. She had suspected for years now that her governess held a much stronger feeling for her father than mere friendship or the devotion of an employee. The sad thing was that Florian Hamilton was barely more aware of Miss Pennybaker than he was of a piece of furniture. His life was wrapped up in his studies and experiments, and it was only because Miss Pennybaker had started copying his notes and papers that he paid any attention to her at all. It was not that he was cold or insensitive to her feelings, Priscilla knew; it was simply that everything and everyone else was mere background to his work. Even his children, despite his love for them, were perennially relegated to second place.

There were footsteps in the hall, and Florian soon appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. Up close, he was an even more appalling sight. Yellowish vapor drifted up from his clothing, and his face and hands were blotched. The unmistakable odor of rotten eggs emanated from him.

"Papa!" Priscilla protested, raising her hand to cover her nose.

John's nostrils flared, and he stared at Florian, seemingly stunned.

Florian smiled benignly at them all. "Pris, you should have been there. It was perfect."

"I'm sure it was, Papa." Priscilla could not help but smile at him. His innocent enthusiasm was infectious. Over the years, he had burned holes in the carpet, discolored the wall in his study and broken out the gla.s.s in several windows. That was why she had finally insisted that he conduct his experiments in the shed behind the house, paying for its conversion to a laboratory with part of her payment for her first book. But the glow of discovery that would light his face, the childlike curiosity and glee with which he approached life, the warm intelligence of his eyes, made it impossible to stay irritated with him.

"You've cut yourself!" Miss Pennybaker cried, going up to him with unaccustomed boldness and reaching out to dab her clean handkerchief upon a spot of red on Florian's cheek.

"What? Oh, yes, one of the beakers broke. But it was a minor setback. Nothing important."

Miss Pennybaker clucked over him, wiping a clean spot on his smudged face. He paid little attention to her, saying, "A really important step, you know. I must write Rigby, in Boston, and tell him. Last letter I got from him, he told me I'd blow up my whole house if I tried that combination. Guess he was wrong, eh?" He chuckled with glee over his scientific victory.

John Wolfe's eyebrows shot up at that statement, but Priscilla merely smiled, long used to her father's way of thinking. "He certainly was," she agreed, smiling. "But, Papa, you really should change clothes. You, ah, smell of sulfur."

"'Course I do," he replied matter-of-factly. "Been working with it. Anyway, I haven't the time to change now. I've got to get all this down on paper."

"I'll write down your notes for you," Miss Pennybaker volunteered.

"What?" Florian turned and looked at her, as if noticing her for the first time. "Yes, of course. That will be fine."

"Thank you, Penny," Priscilla said gratefully. In the past two years, since she had started writing, Miss Pennybaker had taken over more and more of the ch.o.r.es that Priscilla had done in the past for her father. Priscilla thought that she probably should not shove her burdens off onto Miss Pennybaker that way; if nothing else, being around Florian so much seemed to make Miss Pennybaker's adoration of him even worse. But, frankly, Priscilla often found her father's notes and letters rather boring, and she begrudged the time spent away from her writing. Miss Pennybaker's willingness to take over such ch.o.r.es seemed a heaven-sent opportunity.

Florian departed, still talking about his experiment, and Miss Pennybaker trotted after him. Priscilla watched them go. It occurred to her that Miss Pennybaker's absence meant she was left alone with John Wolfe. She glanced over at him. He was watching her. She felt suddenly, terribly, ill at ease. She cleared her throat.

"Well...a bit of excitement."

"Yes. No wonder you took a battered stranger turning up at your door in stride," he told her. "You are obviously used to unusual events."

"Not quite as unusual as that," Priscilla a.s.sured him, a small grin curving her lips. "Your situation was unique."

She walked back to her chair and sat down, picking up her embroidery and trying to concentrate on it. She could feel his eyes on her. She wondered what he was thinking, whether he was remembering the embrace they had shared the night before. It was something she had a great deal of difficulty getting out of her mind.

"I know I should apologize," he said finally. Priscilla looked up at him, struggling to keep her face cool. "No doubt you think me a boor."

Priscilla shrugged. "I don't know that it is particularly important what I think about you."

"It is to me."

She regarded him for another moment, then her gaze dropped. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She didn't know what to think or say. Why did he have this effect on her?

"You have a peculiar effect on me," he said grimly, echoing her thoughts. "I am not the sort to force my attentions on a young lady."

"You did not exactly force them," Priscilla admitted in a m.u.f.fled voice, avoiding his gaze.

"But I hardly exercized any control, either. d.a.m.n it!" He thudded his fist against the wall, causing her to start in surprise and look up at him. "I enjoyed it too much to say I'm sorry for it. I am not sorry it happened." His eyes gazed intently into hers. Priscilla's breath caught in her throat. She found she wanted to rise and go to him.

Finally he swung away, breaking the contact. "But I do apologize for distressing you."

"I was not distressed." She was not sure what she had been, but distress certainly was not the word to describe it. "Mr. Wolfe, I am not sure that we should talk about this. Last night was..." What? What had last night been? Delightful? Irritating? Scary? It seemed to her that it had been all those things and more. She had lain in bed for several hours afterward, trying to figure out what she felt or thought about it, and she never had been able to come to a conclusion. "...out-of-the-ordinary. Unusual. I am sure that neither one of us was really ourself. Why don't we agree to forget about it?"

"Forget?" he echoed. "I hardly think that is possible."

"Then put it aside for a time. There are so many things happening-those men, your inability to remember, the problem of what you are going to do-that I think it would be easier if we ignored what happened."

"Pretend it didn't happen?"

"Yes, if you would rather put it that way."

"I am not sure I can do that."

"When you don't even know who you are, you hardly need further entanglements, do you?"

They had been regarding each other frowningly, so it surprised her when he suddenly grinned. "My dear Miss Hamilton, need is hardly the same thing as want."

"And, of course," she snapped, "you always do what you want!"

He chuckled. "Obviously, I am not sure what I always do."

Priscilla grimaced. "Must you joke about everything?"

"It makes life easier."

There was the sudden sound of footsteps in the hall, and then a young man's voice, calling, "Priscilla!"

John's eyes opened wide in question, and Priscilla muttered, "d.a.m.n!" under her breath.

"Who-?" he started to say, but was interrupted by the entrance of a young man with tousled blond hair.

His eyes were large and bright blue, with absurdly long lashes, and his face was even-featured and handsome, though it was marred at the moment by a ferocious scowl.

"She won't let me do it!" he exclaimed without preamble as he strode in the door, flinging his hat down carelessly on a table by the door. "Blast it, Pris! She treats me like a baby! I swear, when I turn twenty-one, I'm off to the army no matter what she says. Once I have my inheritance, she won't have anything to bind me with." He flung himself sulkily onto a chair, turning sideways a little and draping one long, muscular leg over the arm. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Priscilla.

"Alec!" Priscilla said in a reprimanding tone. "Where are your manners? I have a visitor." She nodded toward where John stood, eyeing with some suspicion the young man she had called Alec.

"Oh." Alec turned and saw Wolfe for the first time. "I say. I am sorry. I didn't see you there." He straightened and rose to his feet and made a polite sketch of a bow in his direction.

"Alec, this is my cousin from America, John Wolfe," Priscilla told him, wishing that Alec had not walked in on them. The fewer people who knew about her visitor, the better, as far as she was concerned, and she was well aware that Alec was something of a chatterbox. He would likely tell his mother, and the servants would overhear, and soon it would be all over the village. She wondered whether there was any way to persuade Alec to keep his mouth shut without making him suspicious.

"From America!" Alec repeated with interest. "I say, that's dashed interesting. I've always been curious about America, myself. Are you from the West? Have you ever seen any Indians? Have you ever shot a man?"

John blinked and was silent for a moment in the face of this a.s.sault. Finally he answered, "No, I am not from the West, nor have I ever seen an Indian. As for shooting a man, well..." He grinned devilishly. "I don't do that unless he deserves it."

Alec's eyes grew as big as saucers for an instant, but then he let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, I see. A joke, eh?"

"Afraid so."

"I didn't know you had any cousins from the States, Pris."

"On my mother's side," Priscilla replied quickly. "He's quite removed, actually. Our grandfathers were cousins, or something like that. And, Alec, don't tell everyone about his being here. We would be swarmed with visitors, and my cousin is just recovering from a fever."

"Oh, of course," Alec a.s.sured her casually, moving on to a topic that interested him more. "Where in America do you live?"

"New York."

"That's a large city, right?"

"Yes, quite big."

"Not like London, though."

"No, I wouldn't think it is much like London."

"I should like to see it. And Paris. Or India or Africa. Dash it, I'd like to go anywhere. London is the only place I've ever been-and Scotland. We've often summered in Scotland."

"I've heard Scotland is beautiful."

Alec shrugged. "I suppose. Deadly dull, though. Nothing but trout fishing or hiking up mountains. And half the time you can't understand what any of them are saying. It's like being in a foreign country, only not exciting. Have you ever been there?"

John shook his head, unable to suppress a smile at the young man's chatter.

"Well, Alec, what brings you here?" Priscilla asked cheerfully, more to lead him away from asking any more questions of John than from any desire to know. "You seemed upset. Is it the d.u.c.h.ess again?"

"I was. I am." He heaved a sigh and turned back to Priscilla. "Mother refuses to acknowledge that I'm a grown man. I keep telling her that all I want is to join the army with Gid." His eyes sparkled. "I got a note from him today, and he's having the grandest time. And Gid never was half the horseman I am."

"I know," Priscilla agreed, adopting an air of sympathy.

"But there he is, in the Guards, and here I am, stuck at Ranleigh Court."

"You've never met my brother Gid, I believe," Priscilla said in an aside to her "cousin," feeding him information. "He and Alec are the best of friends."

"Since we were lads," Alec agreed, looking gloomy. "But his father lets him do what he wants to, so he is an officer in the army, and I am..." He paused sourly.

"A future duke," Priscilla supplied smoothly.

"A duke?" John Wolfe looked interested. "Really?"

"Yes," Alec agreed grumpily. "A duke. Except that I'm not actually a duke, not recognized, that is. I am not even the Marquess of Lynden, when you get right down to it, though Father used to call me that."

"Oh." Wolfe looked blank. "I'm sorry."

Priscilla chuckled. "He doesn't understand, Alec. He is American, remember?" Priscilla turned toward John. "The Marquess of Lynden is the t.i.tle of the heir to the Duke of Ranleigh. So the Duke's oldest son is Lynden-until the Duke dies, and then he becomes the Duke."

"I understand, I think."

"But Alec, you see, cannot be called either, even though he is probably the heir to the dukedom. There is an older son who disappeared many years ago. He was Lynden, but no one knows what happened to him, or where he went. He has been gone thirty years now, and everyone a.s.sumes he died. But when the old duke died a few months ago, the solicitors said they had to look for Lynden before Alec could become the duke."

"So in the meantime, Alec is in a sort of limbo."

"Exactly," Alec agreed, pleased that he understood. "It isn't as if I want to be the duke, anyway. I told Mother that. What would I want with all that responsibility-the name and the land, all the people that live on it? It's too much. All I want is to be a cavalry officer."

"But she didn't understand?" Priscilla guessed.

"Of course not. She thinks my being the duke is the grandest thing." He grimaced.

"It is a very old and honored t.i.tle," Priscilla pointed out.

Alec wrinkled his nose. "I don't care about that. You know I don't. I wish they would find Lynden, frankly. Then he would have to come back and take over, and I would be free to do what I please. Father left me a fair portion."

"I'm sure he did. He loved you very much."