Nothing But Scandal (2 page)

All Elizabeth really wanted to do was run to her room and hide her mortification under her bedcovers, but instead she schooled her features into a polite expression. “Mother.”

Lady Medford started down the hall, and Elizabeth resignedly followed, dragging her feet over the polished wood floors. They entered the salon, a room decorated in delicate shades of rose—a room Elizabeth had always found completely uncharacteristic of her mother.

Lady Medford turned and faced her daughter like a general dressing down a private. “It has come to my attention that you were seen dancing with the Duke of Beaufort.”

Elizabeth stifled a groan. The duke was the
last
person she wanted to talk about right now.

“Yes, at the Peasleys’ ball,” she answered cautiously. Her mother had chosen not to attend, pleading a headache. Elizabeth had been chaperoned instead by Lady Tanner—an older lady of venerable reputation, who would surely exact a favor in return for having performed the duty of chaperone, in spite of having performed said duty in a rather lax fashion. Just one more thing Elizabeth had to look forward to.

“Is he pursuing you?”

Elizabeth’s attention snapped back to her mother. “I don’t believe so.” She nearly choked on the understatement. Beaufort had made it abundantly clear how little intention he had of “pursuing” her.

“Good. I think it would be best if you did not get involved with him.”

Now Elizabeth was truly confused, for Lady Medford’s statement surely qualified her as the only mama in the entire ton who didn’t want her daughter pursued by the extremely wealthy, handsome, and eligible Duke of Beaufort.

Reminding herself her mother had no idea of what had actually just transpired, she replied, “Mother, I assure you there was nothing untoward; it was merely a dance.”

“Nonetheless, the man has a reputation. Why, he’s practically predatory. Any involvement with him is likely to end in disappointment on your part.”

Well, that much was true. But since when did Lady Medford care about her daughter’s hopes getting crushed? That would be a new development in their relationship—if it was true.

“Also, I don’t believe your father would have approved.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply. Her mother had meticulously avoided unnecessary mention of her father since his death, so why would she bring him up now? None of this made any sense.

It really didn’t matter whether her father would have approved, given that she would not be seen consorting with the duke again any time soon. He’d made that abundantly clear.

“It’s all right, Mother. I’ve no hopes of snaring the duke’s hand,” she said in a tightly controlled voice.

“Right.” Her mother sniffed. “Very well, then.” She sniffed again. “I believe this room needs airing. The servants are becoming intolerably slack in their duties.”

Elizabeth kept her mouth shut. The servants weren’t becoming slack. They were
leaving
. They knew as well as anyone that her father had died with no heir and considerable debt. Slowly but surely they were finding employ in other, more stable, noble homes. If her mother chose not to recognize that, Elizabeth wasn’t going to be the one to point it out. She turned to go, assuming her mother’s change of topic meant she’d been dismissed.

“No, don’t leave. You have a caller.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. Could her day get any worse? First that humiliating and unsuccessful scene at the park. And now, when she wanted nothing more than a moment’s peace, she had to entertain. And to what purpose? Her mother would announce her engagement in mere hours, and Elizabeth had run out of ideas for avoiding it.

“Wetherby is waiting in the drawing room. I wanted to be certain you had no foolish yearnings for Beaufort before I sent you in to see him. But I see that, in this matter at least, you are a sensible girl.”

Elizabeth cringed. She’d been wrong. Talking
about
the Duke of Beaufort was infinitely preferable to talking
to
Harold Wetherby. At least her mother hadn’t seen her “sensible” daughter’s behavior thirty minutes ago.

“We can afford to wait no longer, Elizabeth,” her mother told her. “Wetherby’s lack of title may be lamentable, but his income is not. I’ve given him every reason to expect his suit will be accepted, though of course he’ll want to hear it from you as well.”

Elizabeth nodded woodenly. Yes, her day could definitely get worse. Her plan may have failed, but she was not yet ready to face her volatile cousin.

“Yes, Mother. I’ll be in to see him as soon as I’ve had a moment to tidy my appearance.” Her mother was a stickler for propriety, so Elizabeth knew she would approve of the short delay. One did not meet one’s future husband looking mussed from the outdoors.

The baroness nodded. “I’ll have the butler give him your message. Don’t dawdle.”

Fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth entered the drawing room, having dawdled only a little. The panicked whispers she’d shared with Charity had given her no new inspiration.

Her unwanted soon-to-be fiancé stood by the window, tapping his expensively shod foot. He did not look especially pleased to see her.

“Harold.” She said it with as much politeness as she could muster, forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile.

“Elizabeth.”

She stiffened her shoulders as he strode toward her.

“You’re looking well,” he told her, stopping only when they were separated by a scant few inches. “Better than I expected for someone distraught with grief.”

“Right. Well. One must go on,” she lamely replied. What was he after?

“One must. Though to hear it, you’ve been doing a bit more ‘going on’ than I would like.”

Elizabeth held her chin up but said nothing. If he was going to accuse her of something, she wanted to know exactly what.

“Nothing to say for yourself, my sweet?”

“Your meaning is unclear.” She managed to keep her tone modulated and polite, though she clenched her fingers in the folds of her gown.

“No? Then let me explain.” His voice was silk but his quivering jowls gave away his simmering rage. “Why do you think I offered for you?”

Elizabeth had several theories on that, but as Harold wouldn’t appreciate any of them, she kept silent.

“Respectability, Elizabeth!” He was openly angry now. “Your lack of dowry I can tolerate—I’ve sufficient funds of my own. But I plan to go places in Society, and I damn well want the respect that comes with marrying a nobleman’s daughter!”

“I see.” She was a means to an end for him. Well, she’d known that. “But that doesn’t explain why you chose me.”

“You know bloody well why. Your father, gambling fool that he was, left you within my reach.”

“I see,” she repeated. She refrained from mentioning that for someone who claimed to want respectability, he didn’t seem to have any qualms about using vicious language in front of a gently bred woman.

“Obviously you
don’t
see, or you would have more care for your reputation.”

“My reputation is my own to worry about.”

“Now see here, Elizabeth! I won’t have a wife who speaks back. Or one who has sullied herself.” The acrid scent of sweat assaulted Elizabeth’s nostrils as he railed at her.

Insulted though she was, a ray of hope filtered through her anger. She hadn’t done anything inappropriate—a fact she was all too aware of—but if Harold believed otherwise, perhaps she could convince him she was not worth marrying. She’d have to play it right.

“I am not your wife yet, and you overstep your bounds if you dare accuse me of impropriety.”

“Oh? Then what is
this
all about?” His fleshy finger viciously prodded the bustline of her gown.

“How dare you! You should leave. Now.” She stepped away, furious, her glance flicking down as she thought about the alterations she’d made to the gown earlier that spring, when she’d still hoped to attract a more desirable suitor. The ploy hadn’t worked.

“Why shouldn’t I dare?” He advanced again, giving her a nasty leer. “You’ve gone to great lengths to put yourself on display. Why else if not for a man to touch? A respectable woman would take more care to cover herself. You will do so, at least in public, as my fiancée and my wife.”

“I will most certainly not—”

“And furthermore,” he cut her off, “you should take more care in the company you keep.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Now he really went too far. She stepped beyond his reach.

“The Duke of Beaufort!” he exploded, face red and eyes bulging.

She folded her arms. “If you’re so concerned with advancing in Society, you should be pleased to be marrying someone sought after by more prominent personages than yourself.” Elizabeth couldn’t help firing back at him, though it filled her with disgust to refer to their impending marriage.

Harold blew past her retort. “For all the duke’s prominence, he’s a known libertine and rake! Everyone knows it, yet you cavort with him as though you were a common serving wench!”

Perhaps her plan was working. She tossed him a deliberately provocative look. “His Grace appreciates me.”

“Bah. He appreciates how gullible you are, perhaps. But from now on, you’ll keep your flirtations, and that delectable little body of yours, for me alone.” Spittle flecked his lips as he raged at her.

“I hadn’t realized you were so, er, old-fashioned. Hardly anyone in the ton expects a faithful marriage.” That wasn’t
entirely
true, but it was accurate enough and suited her current purpose. “Perhaps we aren’t so well suited after all.”

“We’re well suited enough.” He stepped forward, closing a meaty fist around her arm. “I won’t have you sullied by another man. The right to your body is mine alone. I’m marrying a baron’s daughter, not a tavern slut.”

Bile rose in her throat at the idea of enduring intimacy with such a beast. Without thinking, she reached up and slapped him with all the force she could muster.

Her hand connected with his beakish nose—the only part of him where bones were more prominent than flesh—with a satisfying
crack
. He released her so swiftly she staggered.

“You vicious little bitch!” he bellowed, holding his nose.

“Get out. Just get out.” She pointed an imperious finger toward the door.

He stalked over to the door, then turned. “Don’t think this is over, Elizabeth. You may get away with this now, but as my wife you’ll learn to bend to my will. Bend, or break.” He shut the door behind him with enough force to leave it reverberating in its frame.

Elizabeth sat, limbs quaking, on the nearest available piece of furniture—an uncomfortable beige settee she usually avoided. She pressed a hand to her heart, then hugged herself tight. Her flesh still burned where he’d prodded her. There would be bruises tomorrow.

She’d thought for certain that Harold’s railing at her meant he was about to cry off. He couldn’t possibly treat her that way and still expect to marry her!

But, apparently, given his exiting remark, he did.

Rage and humiliation coursed through her. How could her mother care so little for her eldest daughter that she would see her married to such a pig?

Well, she wouldn’t have it. Elizabeth stood with renewed purpose. She’d told Charity she could work for a living, and so she would. Her mother might announce her engagement to Harold in every one of London’s papers, but Elizabeth wouldn’t be there to fulfill it.

Alex stared at his brandy. Darkness closed in on the windows of his study, his business for the day long since concluded. He’d thought to spend the evening at home, but the morning’s incident in the park kept replaying itself in his mind. Weakness. Why couldn’t he simply block it—her—out? The red-tressed chit was as mad as her father, for certain, but the hint of desperation he’d seen in Elizabeth’s misty green eyes ate at his soul.

She’d never have come to him if she’d known what he’d done. Or maybe, he reflected after a long swallow of the brandy, she would have. After all, he’d had a hand in the family’s destruction, however unintentional. Why shouldn’t he be the one to finish the job?

No. Irredeemable though he was, he’d not stoop that low. It went against his code.

The Code, as he liked to think of it, was a sort of modified creed of honor. It wasn’t going to get him nominated for sainthood, but there were lines even a dissolute rake such as he shouldn’t cross. Don’t hurt anyone, and don’t get involved with anyone who doesn’t know how the game is played. It had worked for drinking, gaming, and women. Except that once, last fall. And there was no atoning for it now.

Elizabeth’s hurt green eyes flickered into his mind. If only she knew.

It would have been no hardship, her suggestion. He could easily envision himself kissing the fullness of her lower lip, or the corner of her wayward smile. He’d explore the slim column of her body, the ripe curve of her breast, that impossibly smooth skin…

Alex tossed back the rest of his brandy and stood. Even thinking of her aroused him. Damn Medfords.

“Hanson!” he bellowed for his valet. He needed diversion. A night of cards and drinking. Since he’d pensioned off his last mistress, and had no liking for the bawdy houses, he’d restrict himself to the gentlemen’s clubs. Besides, another woman would only remind him of the one he was trying to forget.

Alex arrived at White’s later that night, only a little drunk, and went immediately to his regular table. Lords Stockton, Wilbourne, and Garrett, veteran gamblers all, were already seated, engaged in the pleasurable pastime of betting obscene amounts on the trivial fall of the cards.

As Alex sat, a waiter appeared with a glass of his usual brandy. He quaffed it eagerly, as the three he’d drunk before leaving home had not sufficiently dulled his memory of the tempting minx who today had rashly offered up her own ruination. Nor had they dulled the memories of that same minx’s father.

The other men dealt him into a game of five-card loo. They played several hands, but Alex’s mind wasn’t on the cards.

“Do you ever wonder,” Lord Wilbourne joked as he raked in the cards after winning a hand, “how wealthy Beaufort would be if he didn’t insist on losing such large sums to me?”

Alex grinned, the additional brandy having softened his mood. “I won twice that sum from you last week, Wilbourne.”

Wilbourne’s bushy brows lifted. “Quite right. I’d forgotten. I suppose I’ll have to hope my luck holds a while longer tonight.”

Alex knew Wilbourne didn’t care one way or the other. The man was wealthy in the extreme, as were the others at the table. Playing with such companions made the game far more civilized.

They played some more, and Alex’s mind drifted back to a pair of beautiful but desperate green eyes. A waiter appeared to replace his brandy, and he mindlessly took a swallow of the new one.

Lords Stockton and Garrett began discussing some of the more outrageous bets in the book at the front of White’s.

Stockton, the eldest at the table, had a stodgy sense of propriety. Cards were well and good, but he couldn’t understand what possessed people to bet on such foolish things as the type of jewels a certain courtesan would wear to the theater, or whether Lady X’s garden party would be rained out—the latter of which Lord Garrett had bet in favor of and was devoutly hoping would come true, as he’d promised a friend to attend that unbearably dull annual affair.

“I just don’t see how you can engage in such trivia,” Stockton averred.

Garrett grinned. “I can afford it, and it keeps me entertained. What else is a man to do during the Season? Attend Almack’s?”

“God forbid.” Wilbourne shuddered at the mention of the marriage mart. “Even betting on the weather is better than that.” He dealt the cards again.

Alex picked his up and tried to concentrate, both on the game and the conversation. His friends could afford to bet on whatever ridiculous whims they chose, but their conversation reminded him too much of those who couldn’t but did anyway. He took another swallow of brandy and leaned back in his chair, allowing himself to float peaceably in an alcohol-induced haze.

“All right then, what’s the strangest thing you’ve ever won at cards?” Wilbourne asked.

“A small estate in Scotland,” Lord Stockton offered. “Way up in the highlands. Wild place. No Englishman in their right mind would live there.”

Lord Garrett, the youngest at the table, shrugged. “Still, land is land, and is gambled upon often. That’s not so strange. I, on the other hand, recently laid claim to a prize-winning sow.”

Wilbourne laughed. “You, owner of a pig?”

“For as long as it takes my man to sell it, at any rate.”

Stockton shook his head. “A man who resorts to betting his livestock ought not be betting at all.” A longtime gambler, he dealt only in cash and land.

“Whyever did you allow the man to bet on it?” Wilbourne asked curiously.

Garrett shrugged. “I was enjoying the game. Didn’t want it to end.”

“A pig.” Wilbourne shook his head. “Beaufort? Anything you’ve won that can top that?”

“A woman,” Alex said, and almost immediately regretted it. He should have stopped drinking about three brandies ago, if he’d reached the point where his mouth functioned faster than his brain.

The other three men looked interested. Wilbourne set down his cards. “Do tell.”

“A servant?” Stockton asked.

“Someone’s mistress?” Garrett guessed.

Alex shook his head, wishing he didn’t have to explain. “Someone’s daughter.”

To their credit, the three men looked horrified.

Alex raked a hand through his hair. “I was gambling with a man who got in over his head. I didn’t know it, or I’d never have played with him. Anyway, suffice it to say, when he realized he couldn’t pay off his many losses, he offered up his daughter to work them off.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Wilbourne breathed.

“The man’s deceased. I’d rather not name him and tread further on his memory.”

“Barbaric,” Stockton grunted.

“Positively medieval,” Wilbourne confirmed.

“Did you accept?” Garrett asked.

“Of course he didn’t,” Wilbourne answered for him.

A man at the table closest to theirs—a man that Alex, in his brandy-induced haze, couldn’t place—stood and brushed past, headed for the entrance. The stranger glanced at Alex a little longer than polite behavior dictated. Clearly, he’d overheard their conversation.

Garrett looked at Alex for confirmation.

“No. I didn’t,” Alex said shortly. Was his reputation truly so bad even some of his friends thought he’d stoop so low? He’d had any number of mistresses and lovers, but he’d never taken a woman who hadn’t come to him willingly. Although, if this morning’s encounter had been any indication of Elizabeth’s willingness…

He stood. “I’m sorry to dash your hopes, Wilbourne, but you’ll have to content yourself with winning these other gentlemen’s money for the rest of the night.”

“Leaving so soon?”

Alex shrugged. His fogged mind tried to come up with a decent excuse, since he usually played cards well into the wee hours of the morning, but the only thing that came to him was a vision of a red-haired temptress with hurt green eyes.

“Sorry,” he said to the men remaining at his table, and left.

Elizabeth reached the temporary sanctuary of her room, paced for a few moments, then threw open her wardrobe and trunks. She contemplated which things were most essential to bring with her. The wild anger and fear she’d felt toward Harold had receded, leaving behind a steady resolve.

“He’s a horrible man. An animal.”

Elizabeth started. “You do have a way of sneaking up on people, Sister dear.”

Charity managed to look mildly abashed, then gave herself away by grinning. “How else is a body supposed to hear anything worth listening to?” She sobered. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, not really. You heard what happened in the study?”

“Most of it.” She tugged at her blond hair, distressed.

For a moment Elizabeth felt a pang of jealousy. Charity had golden hair and wide blue eyes, and she was irrepressible and fun. She’d have been an instant success in Society—if their mother hadn’t held her back this year, embarrassed by their circumstances. If Charity had been the older sister, she’d likely have found a bevy of pleasant suitors, and their whole family would be out of this mess. Or perhaps not. As the eldest, Elizabeth had sheltered her sister for most of their lives. She’d always been the responsible one, the one to deflect their parents’ displeasure over childhood foibles, and the one to try desperately to atone for not having been born a boy. Was it any wonder they’d turned out so differently?

Yet Elizabeth loved her sister far too much to remain jealous. Gently she pried her sister’s hand from her hair. “You’ll ruin your lovely curls.”

Charity shrugged. “I don’t know why I let Emma bother with them today anyway. E., how can you stand it? He’s just too awful. Income or no, I can’t fathom why Mother and Uncle wish you to marry him. I, for one, am glad you slapped him.”

Elizabeth cringed, embarrassed when she recalled all Charity must have overheard. “It wasn’t my finest moment.”

“You’re wrong. He deserved that and more. You just
can’t
marry him.”

“I know.”

Charity glanced around, seeming to notice for the first time that Elizabeth was packing. “I take it you’re leaving.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“As well you should. But where will you go?”

For that, at least, she had an answer. “I’ll visit Beatrice. She’ll take me in until I can figure something out.”

Lady Beatrice Pullington had made her bow to Society the same year as Elizabeth, and they’d been fast friends ever since. Bea had married almost immediately, for her family had made prior arrangements with Lord Pullington, an older member of the peerage. That gentleman had survived only six months of his marriage before his failing heart gave up entirely, leaving Bea a wealthy young widow.

For the past two years, Bea had kept her own house in town—a privilege afforded her by her widowed status. She was certainly pretty, and wealthy, enough to attract another husband, but she had no desire to relinquish the independence she felt she’d earned during her brief but stifling marriage.

Elizabeth knew she could find a temporary haven there. She had too much pride to prevail upon Bea’s generosity forever, but she could at least hide there while she formulated a new plan. Bea knew how to be discreet.

Charity nodded, her eyes wide. “Shall I compose a message to her while you pack?”

“No. It would have to be delivered, and it’s better if fewer people know my whereabouts. I can trust Bea not to leave me standing on her doorstep, unexpected though I may be. And I know I can trust you not to speak of it to anyone.”

“Of course. See, you can do this on your own. You didn’t need Beaufort to ruin you at all.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Whatever was I thinking?” Elizabeth pressed her hand to her forehead. The fight with Harold had one benefit: it had made her temporarily forget her humiliating and short-lived foray into wickedness.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Perhaps you just wanted a bit of fun before consigning yourself to a life of drudgery. The duke is rather, um, red-blooded, isn’t he?”

“Charity!” Elizabeth giggled in spite of herself.

Her sister grinned back. “When will you leave?”

“This evening, after Mother has gone out or retired for the night.”

“Perfect. I’ll simply say you sneaked out while I was sleeping. And I shall act hurt, as though I’m disappointed you didn’t confide in me.” Mischief lit Charity’s eyes as she warmed to the falsehood.

“Thank you.” Her sister’s love for drama had gotten them into more than one awkward scrape, but Elizabeth was grateful for it now. She gave Charity a quick hug, then snapped her valise shut. There was no point in packing more, since she had no idea what her next step in life would be. If she needed additional items later, she could always have Charity sneak them to her.

The two sisters moved aimlessly about the house for the next several hours, pretending all was normal whenever the servants were near, and making plans in whispered exchanges when they weren’t.

The darkness of night now lurked at the windows, but neither girl showed any inclination toward sleep. Charity was staring out Elizabeth’s window, unconsciously gripping the curtains until her knuckles turned white. Elizabeth, oddly calm, sat near her dressing table.

“I heard Mother say she was attending a gathering at the Jameson residence this evening,” Charity said. “As soon as she goes, you can be on your way. There. That new man is preparing the coach.”

Elizabeth nodded. Their old driver, Fuston, had disappeared shortly after her father’s death. He’d been driving the night of the accident. Presumably he’d been too guilt-stricken to remain in the Medfords’ employ, though from what Elizabeth understood, there was little he could have done.

“There. Mother’s climbing in. He just closed the door.”

Elizabeth stood.

“They’re gone. The coach just turned the corner. You can leave now and not be seen. I’ll find a hired hack and tell them to pull around back, if you want. That way no one else will see you leave either.”

Elizabeth looked at the golden-haired little sister she loved with all her heart. “Charity, are you absolutely sure you’ll be all right after I go?”

Her sister grinned. “Of course. Oh, I know they won’t be happy with me, but I can stand it, E. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”

Elizabeth gave her a quick hug, then quickly composed herself. “I’ll miss you more than anything. Go ahead and hire a carriage. I’ll finish here and be ready by the time it arrives.”

She gathered a few last things as Charity left the room. She debated leaving a note, then decided against it. Better to simply let them wonder.

Her mother would be furious, especially when Harold cried off, but Elizabeth was long past the point of caring. She was strong enough to make it on her own, and Charity was wily enough to withstand their mother’s interrogations. That was all that mattered.

Elizabeth took one last glance at the lovely green-and-gold bedroom she’d known for years, then shut the door on that former life.

The Derringworth stables, located just outside London, catered only to discerning customers—mostly the nobility. The firm raised everything from racehorses to ladies’ mounts, with only one stipulation: any horse the Derringworths signed off on was of highest quality. The operation represented the epitome of what Harold Wetherby aspired to be. Which was exactly why he was on his way there to purchase a new mount, preferably one that would draw attention to him.

He even had an appointment. The morning held considerable promise.

Harold left his unimpressive rig—another item that would have to be upgraded, now that he was marrying nobility—out of sight when he neared the stables.

He tugged down his straining waistcoat, then entered the posh facility. It smelled of leather and fresh hay—so unlike the manure and sweat of the farmers’ stables where he’d grown up.

A young man sat in a small office to the left of the entrance. He stood as Harold entered.

Harold thrust out his chest. “Harold Wetherby,” he announced. “Here to see about that stallion I’ve heard is for sale.”

“Mr. Wetherby,” the young man said. “Yes, I see your appointment in our book. Tim Kemble here, Mr. Derringworth’s assistant manager. So, it’s the stallion you’re interested in?”