Scandal by Carolyn Jewel Page A

obviously washed her face and re-pinned her hair. The two of them waited while she made her way to them.
    â€œIs everything all right?” Mercer asked her with a hard glance at Banallt.
    â€œYes.” She looked up at him grave as ever she was. “I decided you were right, my lord. I’m fine, John. Nothing’s the matter.”
    Banallt bowed and clamped his jaws shut. “Mrs. Evans. Mr. Mercer.”
    â€œMy lord,” she said.
    Mercer glared at him.
    From the corner of his eye, he saw Reginald Tallboys walking toward them. Good, he thought fiercely. Let her fall in love with a decent man like Tallboys. Hell, let her complete the spell she’d cast on Vedaelin. Either man would do. If she was married to someone else, he could leave her alone. “Good night,” he said.

Eight
    Number 26 Henrietta Street, London,
MARCH 16, 1815
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    SOPHIE DREAMED OF BANALLT THAT NIGHT. SHE HAD dismissed him from her life, but he was haunting her anyway. Out of sheer spite, she thought. He never did like not having his way. In her dream, Tommy had only recently died. She was poor again and living at Rider Hall, wondering how she was going to survive. The bailiff had taken away all the furniture. Rider Hall was empty, with bare windows and empty fireplaces. In reality, the house had not been stripped quite so thoroughly, but she’d felt as empty as the structure was now in her dream.
    She dreamed she’d been left a single trunk in which there was nothing but a book she didn’t care for, and she needed to write Banallt a note, explaining where she’d gone and what had happened. But she had no pen or ink or paper. Everything was gone. And just as she was about to cry with frustration, Banallt walked through the door, bringing with him the recollection of his lingering glances and memories of their friendship. He handed her pen, ink, and paper, and they agreed she would move into the guard tower at Castle Darmead where she could write as much as she liked. Novel after novel, if she so desired. And because she was grateful, she kissed him. For a very long time because at last she could. The kiss became more. A hungry and needy embrace. She wasn’t married anymore. When they parted for air, with her trembling in his arms, he smiled and said, “Have I told you I’ve remarried? To Fidelia.”
    Long after she’d risen in the morning, images and emotions from the dream came at her. She didn’t need to write anymore, but the fact was the stories had never gone away. The difference was that now she kept them in her head rather than writing them down. As for Banallt marrying, he’d told her himself that he must. His title required it. Whoever Banallt decided to marry, she would always feel a little pang of regret, which was ridiculous. The Earl of Banallt would never be faithful.
    She sat at the desk in her room on Henrietta Street and remembered all the nights she’d stayed up to write when Tommy was alive. Words that supported her. All her life, she’d made up stories. When Tommy left her without funds, she’d done the only thing she could: write her stories down. She took out paper, but instead of dashing out the history of a knight determined to reclaim his birthright, she made out a list of items the house needed and that had not been fetched from Havenwood. Paper, for one.
    At half past one John came home. He burst into her room without a pause between knocking and his entry. She put down her pen. “What is it, John?”
    He grinned. “You’ll never guess who I’ve brought home with me!”
    His smile was always infectious, and she smiled back. “The Prince of Wales?”
    John tweaked the end of her nose. “No, Sophie. An admirer of yours.”
    â€œJohn.”
    â€œIt’s Vedaelin.” He put a hand on the top of her desk and leaned over her. “Change your gown. He practically invited himself here when I