The Scandal of the Season

by Aydra Richards

  Beneath the vacuous exterior there was a core of tempered steel. Like those eyes that he had thought such a plain, uninspired grey—until they shone like silver, a banked fire burning behind them that would take just a handful of kindling to burst into an inferno.

  He didn’t much like the company of the footmen lingering at the walls, pretending to be invisible. It was a queer habit of the nobility to surround themselves with servants and then behave as if they were in private, as if donning the livery of a noble household somehow changed a person into something less than human. He didn’t want them to hear her challenge him, which was not strange, but more than that he didn’t want them to witness her humiliation, which was.

  He snapped, “Out.” Just that, and the footmen marched away. And then, “Not you, Mouse,” when her palms flattened on the table and her elbows locked, prepared to rise.

  For a moment he thought she would disobey, and it stirred something feral in him. Some odd instinct—the primal sort that set his kind apart from hers—swelled in his chest and rose to the forefront of his mind. A wolf lying in wait for the juicy little bunny to flee, preparing to snap it up in his jaws. And in that queer moment, he wanted it. An excuse to show her what her place was, to remind her of the natural order of the world.

  But she slowly reclaimed her chair once more, and the disappointment that rode in on the receding wave of that odd exhilaration struck deep.

  “Shouldn’t you like to thank me?” he inquired, hoping to needle her once more.

  Her head popped up, brows knitted. “For what?”

  “Oh, anything.” He gestured vaguely. “Your gowns. Your room.” He imagined he could hear her teeth grinding together.

  “Unmarried ladies wear white, or perhaps very pale shades. Yellows. Pinks. Possibly blues.” Her fingers clasped the stem of her wine glass.

  “I loathe pastels.” He gave a mock shudder, and with it he painted everything she valued worthless, insignificant. “They’re so very…juvenile. Yellow in particular would not suit you, and I do not prefer it.”

  “I didn’t ask what you preferred. I told you what is done.”

  “Ah, but not in my household.” The cool metal of the spoon in his hand had warmed to his touch at last. He put his thumb to the bowl and pressed—and the metal gave, caving to the manipulation of his fingers. “In my household, what is done matters only so long as it aligns with what I wish.”

  Her left palm slapped upon the table, the taut line of her jaw a razor edge. “Good evening, my lord,” she hissed, and shoved herself up from her chair. Dinner still mostly uneaten, merely rearranged on her plate.

  But Grey’s mind was always working, assessing, examining angles, and he saw what she hadn’t wished him to—she’d palmed her knife in her right hand, concealing the blade as she tucked it against her arm. She’d made a choice, then. And he had thought she would go meekly to her fate, that she would bow her head and bend just like the spoon he’d mangled.

  Unexpected. Intriguing. Interesting. And it had been so long since anything had been interesting.

  He said, “Drop it.”

  Mouse stutter-stepped—but she did not acknowledge him beyond that. It was a challenge in itself: to let the slight pass, or to counter with a challenge of his own.

  And Grey…could not predict what would happen. He saw possibilities spinning down into a dark fog, with no clear resolution. There was no one single action to achieve the result he desired, no wall to shift to force her in a direction of his devising, no string to pluck to make her sing to his tune.

  For a man too accustomed to predictability, her refusal to be cowed even in what ought to have been resounding defeat was exhilarating. He was on his feet before he’d even realized it, moving faster that she could with her lady’s mincing steps, and he caught her shoulder in the cup of his hand, turning her.

  A laugh—an honest laugh—burned his throat as the knife flashed out toward his neck. She held it all wrong; a utensil and not a weapon, as if she would daintily carve him into perfect, bite-sized portions. But that fire glowed behind her eyes, even when he caught her wrist in his fist, even when he maneuvered her back against the wall with his superior strength.

  Her chin tipped up, not down. And that was right, he thought. Beaten, but unbroken. A hot splash of color seared her cheeks; fury and indignation and perhaps a little fear. She looked him in the eye without flinching, without backing down. So she could look at him after all, then, though she’d kept her eyes largely downcast throughout their awkward dinner.

  For the first time he wondered if he had misread the situation. If it hadn’t been so much his very presence to which she had taken exception, but the state in which he had presented himself before her. She was, after all, a lady—he doubted she’d seen a man shucked of his shirt in the entirety of her life. Much less that she’d been compelled to dine with a man in such a condition.

  Her wrist flexed in his grip, but she refused to relinquish the knife.

  “I won’t do it,” she spat, a sneer turning her teeth to fangs. “I won’t. I’ll kill you first.”

  That he did not believe. Not because she didn’t have the prerequisite loathing necessary to commit such an act, but because her voice had trembled on the threat, as if she’d had to force it through her throat. Mouse didn’t have a murderous bone in her body. He’d have staked his life on that much, for all her bluster.

  “Not even to save your father?” he inquired. “Your brothers?”

  Her pulse hammered in her throat, and though mention of her father had not elicited a favorable response, mention of her brothers had made something fragile and hopeless swim across her eyes, temporarily banking that fire. So her brothers, then—her pressure point. Exploitable. He was almost disappointed.

  Mouse was the self-sacrificing sort, then. Her fingers had even loosened upon the knife—if he pressed her, she would follow him up the stairs and let him do as he pleased. She would close her eyes and pretend herself away, until it was all happening to someone else. He saw it, plain as day, and it was wrong—all of it, wrong.

  He didn’t like much that he’d even bullied her with it. All at once she had become a boring, predictable little mouse, and he mourned the loss of the virago who had snapped at him, threatened him.

  It seemed like such a cheap method to win. There was no fun to be had in smothering her fire before he’d had a chance to watch it blaze. She could always be brought to heel, but that fire, once doused, might well be beyond his means to reignite. Even those bent spoons of which he had grown so fond could not easily reclaim their prior shape. Conquering something forever changed it, and…he thought he might prefer Mouse precisely as she was.

  Rule one, he thought to himself. Andover’s sons are out of bounds.

  But how to get her back to the moment before he’d cast her brothers at her? He suspected the right tack was something halfway between provocative and dismissive. And so he said, “If you’re going to threaten a man’s life, Mouse, you’d better be prepared to carry it through.”

  There. Yes. That glow returned, goaded once more into igniting.

  “I would,” she said, her voice carrying the clench of her teeth. “I tried.”

  “A pitiful effort,” he scoffed. “For the record, Mouse, the jugular isn’t all that easy to slice through. And with that blade, you’d need to do a great deal of sawing.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed, but he thought she had gone at least a shade paler. In this, at least, he had judged her correctly—Mouse simply did not have the stomach for violence. Her dry lips formed half a word, silent and horrified.

  “You can’t even hold your knife correctly,” he said, warming to the task. “When you wield it against a man, it’s a weapon, not a utensil. Had you expected me to stand politely while you sliced me to pieces? You must strike with purpose. It’s not a civil battle of wits; it’s a fight to the death and you must put your opponent down as swiftly as possible.” He peeled her fingers from the handle
of the knife, rearranging them to suit the purpose. “Like this,” he stressed. “You hold it like an extension of your arm. And for God’s sake, be a little more creative.”

  “C-creative?” Her voice was a squeak, a full octave higher than normal.

  “Don’t go for the throat,” he said. Grasping her hand in his, he positioned the point of the knife over his chest. “Lung,” he said. “Strike right, and you’ll puncture it, debilitating your opponent.”

  She drew in a distressed breath, her cheeks hollowing.

  “Heart,” he said, sliding the point of the knife above it. “That’s a good killing blow, Mouse, but mind the ribs.”

  Her hand shook in his. Her shoulders hit the wall and stayed there, wilting against it.

  He dragged the knife down, to his side. “Kidney,” he said. “Better you stab from the side or the back for those. And if you really wish to make an impression, twist the knife. You’ll do more damage.”

  Her face leeched utterly white. A moment later her knees buckled and she slipped down the wall in a puff of emerald skirts, landing at his feet. Her chest heaved with a few frantic breaths, and she clapped her hand over her bloodless lips, presumably in an effort to avoid casting up her accounts.

  Grey backed a step away, seizing her wine glass from where it sat upon the table, still mostly full. He tucked the knife into his pocket and crouched before her, tilting her chin up to see her face.

  “Drink,” he said, handing off the wine glass. “It will pass.”

  She grabbed for it like she might a lifeline, her throat working as she downed a few swallows in desperation.

  “And you thought you could stab me,” he mused, not unkindly. “I doubt you could stab someone if your life depended upon it, much less your virtue.”

  “What a horrible thing to say,” she croaked.

  Again he felt a laugh rumble in his chest. “As it happens, Mouse, I don’t want you for that,” he said, and it had, once, even been true. Had it been only last evening that he had judged her a spiritless, vapid thing?

  Her eyes, which had been staring down into the dregs of her wine, jerked back to his. “You—you don’t?” Her lips pursed, eyes wide, afraid to hope.

  He hadn’t noticed how heavily-lashed her eyes were until she blinked a few times in rapid succession, the inky fringe fanning her cheeks for a split-second at a time.

  Kindness disguised as cruelty, he told himself. Just enough to be reassuring to a frightened woman putting on as brave a face as she knew how. “Of course not,” he said. “What need have I for an inexperienced chit like you? I assure you, I suffer no dearth of women who are pleased enough to share my bed—beautiful women, Mouse. Your charms, such as they are, are of no interest to me.”

  For a fraction of a second, her brows drew together—and then relief settled across her face, chasing away the last of the fear. It was only natural that relief would be the predominant emotion, but he thought there had been a sliver of hurt there, just for a moment.

  She had made a similar expression in her father’s office earlier in the day. Just a flash, a there-and-gone-again ripple of something she had swiftly masked. A hurt that she wished to hide.

  “Why should I believe you?” she whispered.

  “Because I’ve no reason to lie,” he said. “I want something else from you, Mouse. Your downfall will reflect poorly on your father, so we’re going to make a good show of it, you and I. So long as you play your part—the merry mistress—there’s no reason that it must be anything other than a role.”

  “He doesn’t care about me.” Her lashes fluttered, concealing those bright eyes. “He never did.”

  “No,” he said. “Regrettably, he does not. What he does care for is his reputation, and together we’ll do quite a bit of damage to it.” He paused, watching a brief tightness chase across her face. “You’ve got nothing left to lose. There’s no reason your time here must be unpleasant, unless you wish it to be so.”

  A white-hot flare of anger burned in her eyes for a moment, and he knew she was thinking that she had nothing to lose only because he had already taken everything from her. But that heat subsided swiftly, and she made a sound that was nearly a sob. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m already ruined in the eyes of society.”

  “You were ruined years ago, Mouse. You simply didn’t know it yet.” Though the words were true enough, he doubted they would hold any comfort for her. “Really, you should prefer it this way. All ladies sell themselves, whether in marriage or otherwise. The moment you speak your vows, you become property of your husband, chattel in all but name. But a mistress is free, generally, to make her own choices. She’s more than a mistress of a man—she is mistress of her own life.”

  “Cold comfort,” she said, and dropped her head back against the wall. The movement revealed the long line of her neck, the pale skin of her throat.

  And he—he supposed he was moved to some heretofore undiscovered bit of pity buried somewhere deep in his soul for the unfortunate lady who had become his most recent victim. Perhaps a begrudging respect for her mettle. She was brave enough—amusing enough, interesting enough—to merit a reward.

  “Carte blanche,” he said. “Whatever you like while you’re here. And when I’m done with you, I’ll buy you a house of your own, set up a bank account in your name. Enough to keep you in comfort for the rest of your life. It won’t give you back your reputation, but at least you’ll have the freedom to do as you please.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it the moment her eyes flashed open. Why it was the wrong thing to say, he did not know—money had always been the highest concern among his women before.

  But Mouse—she made an infuriated sound in the back of her throat and cast the dregs of her wine into his face. “How could you possibly think,” she seethed, “that money could account for all you’ve taken from me?”

  Not an inferno, but a glorious cold fire. Frostbite in her voice, flame in her eyes. He swiped the wine from his face with one hand and chuckled. “I think there will come a time when you’ll appreciate what you have more than what you once had,” he said. “Save that fire for privacy, Mouse. In public, I’ll expect your utmost devotion.”

  “I’ll spend you into the poorhouse,” she snapped. “By God, I will beggar you.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” He seized her elbow and hoisted her to her feet, tearing the wine glass from her hand lest she make a weapon of it. “You’re welcome to practice sharpening your claws on me, Mouse, but be warned—I give as good as I get. Keep that in mind whilst you’re plotting your revenge.”

  She yanked her arm out of his hold, stumbling away from him. A coil of hair had drooped free from its pins, sliding down her back to her waist. He had thought it such a bland color before, but against the emerald silk it shone like a stray moonbeam. She had only needed brighter colors to capture the vibrancy that had been masked until now. A backdrop against which to shine, like a star in the sky. It was something like discovering a diamond glittering amidst a handful of paste gems. Disconcerting and gratifying at once.

  He slipped the knife from his pocket, flipped it in his hand, and presented the handle to her. “Take it,” he said. “Sleep with it beneath your pillow for all I care. If you ever do work up the nerve to stab me, know you’d likely be doing all of London a favor.”

  She snatched it from his hand with an urgency that belied her earlier reticence to inflict damage upon him; a cornered fox, considering her options. But as yet she was more mouse than vixen—she clenched the handle of the knife in her fist and turned resolutely away, striding for the stairs.

  Against all reason, Grey regretted the loss of her company. It had been an age since he had last been so entertained.

  Chapter Six

  Mouse had begun to make good on her promise with a vengeance. Perhaps it was because he had not, in his adult life, shared a residence with a woman, but Grey had been entirely unaware that a woman could shop without ever leavi
ng the premises.

  He had learned swiftly, however, that with a veritable army of footmen and maids at her disposal, there was very little that Mouse could not accomplish, even from the privacy of her room. Various things had begun arriving shortly after he’d risen in the morning—books, hats, a truly alarming number of gloves and other feminine fripperies—but the pianoforte hadn’t arrived until well after noon.

  Mouse had not come down to breakfast, not that he had expected her to do so. But damned if she hadn’t come down for the pianoforte.

  “Perfect,” she said from her perch on the stairs, clad in a lovely violet gown, her features cool and aloof. “In the drawing room, I think.” She gave a little flick of her fingers, and the footmen began carting the instrument to the indicated location.

  “A pianoforte, Mouse?” Grey inquired. “Truly?”

  “I enjoy music,” she said archly. “And instruments are so dear, you know.” There was a sliver of a smile lingering about the corners of her lips, as if she were already composing a concert—chiefly consisting, of course, of whatever songs she imagined he would most dislike.

  He offered only a shrug. “Fill the damned house with them if it pleases you.”

  “Hmm,” she said, affecting a speculative expression. “You did say carte blanche, did you not? Perhaps an instrument for every room. Did I tell you how very much I enjoy music? I expect to play a great deal.”

  Grey felt his lips twitch in what once would have been a rare show of mirth. “I must say, Mouse, I had expected more of you. A stunning lack of imagination, really.” He shook his head, adopting a disappointed air.

  Her composure wavered, figurative feathers ruffling in infuriation. One hand clenched upon the railing, and the other fisted at her side. The remoteness in which she had cloaked herself vanished, and she was again incandescent; an avenging angel descending upon the world to strike down her enemies.