One Night Of Scandal (6 page)

"You still don't understand, do you, poppet? This isn't like the time you tied the basket of frogs to Lady Hewitt's train or the time you hid the fox from Lord Draven's hunt beneath your bed. I can't fix this. I can't make it go away. All of my wealth, my titles, my political weight, my social standing — it's all worthless in the face of a scandal such as this. A reputation isn't a torn gown that can be mended with a needle and thread. Once ruined, it's forever lost." He reached up to stroke her hair, his amber eyes stricken by regret. "In all these years, the only thing I've never been able to protect you from has been yourself."

Lottie pressed his hand to her cheek, overwhelmed by the sense of helplessness that had brought this powerful man to his knees at her feet. As Laura bit her lip and Harriet reclaimed George's handkerchief and buried her face in it, Lottie was forced to blink back her own tears. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to make you proud tonight. Truly I did."

The effort Sterling put into his tender smile broke her heart anew. "I know, sweetheart. Now why don't you run along to bed and get some sleep while your sister and I decide what must be done."

* * *

… while your sister and I decide what must be done
.

The utter finality of Sterling's words made even the thought of curling up in her cozy canopied bed impossible. She couldn't shake the suspicion that Sterling had already reached some irrevocable decision about her fate. Just as soon as George had escorted Miss Terwilliger to her carriage and two footmen had carried Harriet to a guest bedchamber, Lottie came creeping back downstairs, thankful that all the lamps in the foyer had been dimmed for the night.

The towering drawing room doors were still open. She slipped behind one of them and peeped through the crack between door and hinge.

Sterling was seated at the secretaire, his hand moving rapidly as he scrawled something on a piece of stationery.

Laura was pacing behind him, her lovely face shadowed by agitation. "We should be relieved, shouldn't we? After all, this Lord Oakleigh is hardly the husband we would have chosen for Lottie. What do we know of him besides what's been written in the scandal sheets?"

"One can hardly rely on the tabloids for taking an accurate measure of a man's character."

Lottie wondered if Sterling was remembering the scandal his and Laura's own hasty wedding had ignited. The scandal sheets had refused to believe a notorious rakehell like the 'Devil of Devonbrooke' could have lost his heart to an orphaned rector's daughter without some subterfuge on her part. Of course, the true story was twice as shocking as what they'd printed.

"Perhaps it's just as well that he refused to offer for her," Laura said. "How could we have asked Lottie to marry a man who didn't want her?"

Her sister wasn't entirely right, Lottie thought with a dark shiver. Hayden St. Clair did want her. Just not for a wife.

"A man who might never love her?" Laura finished.

Sterling dipped his pen in a bottle of ink and continued writing. "Many long and solid marriages have been built on far more stable foundations than love."

"Not ours," Laura reminded him softly. "And not Thane's and Diana's. Or even Cookie's and Dower's. We're the ones who taught Lottie that love is the
only
foundation for a marriage. How could we be so cruel as to ask her to live the rest of her life without it?" Laura rubbed his rigid shoulders. "Why don't we just skip the Season and all go back to Hertfordshire in the morning? We've always been our happiest there. With enough time, some new scandal should drive all thoughts of Lottie and this marquess from everyone's mind."

Sterling reached back to pat her hand. "Time will solve nothing, my dear. I'm afraid that society has a very long and unforgiving memory. Hayden St. Clair should know that better than anyone," he added bitterly. "On the contrary, it will only be a matter of time before the less scrupulous gentlemen of our acquaintance come beating a path to our door, whether it be right here in London or in Hertfordshire. They will murmur their regret over our
difficult situation
. They will offer our Lottie their
sympathy
, their
kindness
, their
protection
. But they will not offer her their good names."

Laura shook her head in dismay. "Surely that can't be her only possible future."

He folded the sheet of stationery, dribbled sealing wax along its seam, and pressed his ducal seal into the warm wax. "It won't be. Not if I can help it." Rising, he gave the bell rope hanging over the secretaire a sharp tug.

Lottie huddled deeper behind the door as Addison, the duke's butler, emerged from a darkened corridor and came striding past. From his bright-eyed alertness and the impeccable state of his attire, one would never guess that he had been jarred from a sound sleep. Lottie had always suspected that he slept in his crisply pressed trousers, starched shirt, and waistcoat.

"You rang, Your Grace?" he intoned.

When Sterling turned, he was holding two missives, nearly identical. "I want you to see that these are delivered immediately."

Lottie frowned, chilled by his resolute expression. What missive could possibly be so urgent that it required delivering in the middle of the night? She squinted at the clock on the mantel. Or in the first wee minutes of the morning?

Laura grabbed his arm, a panicked note creeping into her voice. "Sterling, what are you doing?"

"What I must." He gently shook off her grip. "And Addison?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"I also need you to insure that my pistols are made ready by dawn."

Lottie clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her horrified gasp.

For once, Sterling had succeeded in ruffling the manservant's composure. Addison hesitated before slowly saying, "Yes, Your Grace. I shall see to it myself."

The manservant's bow lacked its usual crisp flair. He exited the drawing room, leaving Laura staring at her husband in open-mouthed disbelief. "In the name of all that's holy, what have you done?"

He turned back to the secretaire, busying himself with capping the ink and shoving the wax sealing sticks back into a cubbyhole. "In defense of my sister-in-law's honor, I've challenged Lord Oakleigh to a duel. And I've asked Thane to serve as my second."

"Thane won't do it. Diana won't allow it." Laura shook her head, her expression fierce. "And neither will I."

Giving up all pretense of efficiency, Sterling slammed both palms against the hinged desk, his back still to his wife. "None of us has been left with any choice in this matter, including you!"

Tears began to spill down Laura's cheeks. "This is madness, Sterling! You know how much I adore my little sister, but you've already said it's too late to salvage her honor. So what can this possibly prove?"

"That she is of value. That she is worth fighting for."

Laura tugged at the back of his sleeve. "And is she worth dying for?"

Sterling turned to face her, his own eyes damp. "Yes. She is."

Laura gazed up at him for a long, helpless moment before throwing herself into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes as he buried his face in the softness of her hair.

Lottie slowly backed into the shadows of the foyer, the full enormity of her folly weighting her steps and making her stomach churn. This was no thrilling melodrama crafted by her clever pen. This was her brother-in-law's life, her sister's heart, her niece's and nephew's futures. She'd not only disgraced herself this time. She'd brought ruin down upon them all.

Any man who would kill his best friend in a duel would surely suffer no qualms of conscience about gunning down a stranger. Her overwrought imagination quickly provided an image of Hayden St. Clair standing on some dewy common, his dark hair blowing in the wind, smoking pistol still in hand. She could see Sterling lying in a pool of his own blood, Laura cradling his lifeless body in her arms, her pale face streaked with tears, her gentle brown eyes bitter with accusation as she lifted them to Lottie. An accusation that would inevitably harden into hatred as she realized just what her sister's recklessness had cost them all.

Lottie closed her eyes to blot out the terrible image and for one traitorous heartbeat, it was St. Clair lying in a crimson pool of blood, his sooty fringe of lashes resting against his pale cheeks. Only there would be no one to weep for him, no one to cradle his lifeless body in their arms and mourn his loss.

When Lottie opened her eyes, they were dry and burning. Despite all of his noble intentions, Sterling had been wrong. One of them had been left with a choice.

She crossed the foyer with sure strides, breaking into a run before she reached the stairs.

Chapter 4

I blushed before his bold proposal…

H
AYDEN HAD JUST SUNK DEEP INTO THE
feather mattress of his rented bed, his exhausted muscles groaning with relief, when an all too familiar banging sounded belowstairs.

"Surely you jest," he muttered, throwing himself to his back and glaring up at the underside of the bed's wooden canopy. The one thing he'd looked forward to in London was a few nights of uninterrupted sleep. But it seemed even that was to be denied him.

Not even that rascal Ned could have devised a torture this diabolical. Hayden was a man who valued his solitude above all other comforts, yet in the space of a few hours his privacy had been besieged by a snooping virgin, an insolent strumpet, and an irate duke. Perhaps Ned had returned to confessthat the entire nightmare had been one colossal joke, that the delectable debutante and her infuriated brother-in-law were only actors hired to perform in some ridiculous farce of which he'd become the unwitting lead.

But if that were true, then the woman he'd held in his arms tonight had been an accomplished actress indeed. Any Fleet Street doxy could mimic passion, but the innocence he'd tasted in her kiss was not so easily feigned.

The banging ceased. Hayden soaked in the blissful silence, afraid to breathe. Perhaps it had just been his valet or one of the other servants, stumbling back from their night of revelry at one of the local gin shops.

He rolled to his side and plumped up his pillow, determined to steal at least a fitful nap before sunrise.

The banging resumed — sharp and persistent.

Throwing back the covers, Hayden jumped out of the bed. He jerked on his dressing gown, yanking the sash in a careless knot. Snatching up a candlestick, he went storming down the stairs, cursing himself for having ever given the servants the night off in the first place. For a man who wanted nothing more than to be left alone, his company was certainly in very high demand these days.

As he flung open the door, the last person he expected to find standing on his stoop was Carlotta Anne Fairleigh.

She opened her mouth.

He closed the door.

There was a brief pause, then the banging resumed, twice as forceful as before.

Hayden threw open the door, using the full advantage of his height to glare down at his uninvited guest. She'd changed out of her torn gown and now looked less ravished than ravishing in a maroon skirt and a fur-trimmed spencer of emerald green velvet. The short jacket hugged her trim waist and accentuated the gentle curves of her bosom. She'd even crowned her curls with a saucy felt hat topped with a pink feather. Oddly enough, it was the defiant angle of that jaunty little feather that gave Hayden's heart an unexpected tug. If she was nonplussed at being confronted with six feet, two inches of angry male wearing nothing but a burgundy dressing gown and a ferocious scowl, she hid it well.

"Good evening, Miss Fairleigh. Or should I say good morning?" He searched the empty street behind her. A public hack was just disappearing around the corner, crushing his hopes of ridding himself of her quickly. "Are you alone or should I expect an outraged uncle or second cousin to come leaping out of the bushes at me at any minute, brandishing a rapier?"

"I'm alone," she replied, although she did flick a nervous gaze over her shoulder.

"That's what I was afraid of. Shouldn't there be a nursemaid or a nanny to see that you're tucked safely away in your bed? Hiring one would prevent a great deal of bother — especially for me."

Hayden was struggling to forget that only a shortwhile ago, he had come dangerously close to tucking her into his. Although if he had got her off her feet, he doubted they would have made it any farther than the Grecian couch in the study. At least the first time.

She sighed. "As I tried to explain to you earlier, Lord Oakleigh, I've been out of the nursery for quite some time now."

"Which means you should be old enough to understand the perils of engaging a public hack and visiting a lone gentleman in the privacy of his home in the middle of the night without a chaperone."

Clutching her silk reticule as if it were a talisman, she drew herself up. "According to my family, my reputation is already in ruins. I have nothing left to lose."

"If that's what you believe, Miss Fairleigh," he said softly, "then you are far more young and naive than I first thought."

Although she forced herself to hold his gaze, a becoming blush tinged her cheekbones.

Feeling like the worst sort of bully, Hayden sighed and stepped out of the doorway. "You may as well come in before someone sees you. There might still be one or two people in London who aren't aware that I've added debauching debutantes to my catalogue of vices."

She wasted no time in accepting his reluctant invitation. Before he could close the door, she was already heading for the study. "Do make yourself at home while I dress," he called after her. "Again."

If she could ignore his sarcastic pleasantries, surely he could ignore the hypnotic sway of her hips beneath the rippling skirt. He returned to the study a few minutes later to discover she'd stirred the dying flames in the hearth to life and settled herself in the chair before the desk as if she belonged there. If nothing else, she was resourceful.

Hayden sank into the chair behind the desk, studying her. Although there were countless poets and romantics who would doubtlessly classify her heart-shaped face as angelic, it was the spark of devilment in the heavenly blue shade of her eyes that intrigued him. Her honey brown lashes and brows provided an irresistible contrast to her golden hair. Her mouth was a lush Cupid's bow, uptilted at the corners. Her slender nose was stylishly
retroussé,
but her pointed little chin betrayed more determination than was strictly fashionable.