A Lady’s First Scandal

by Farmer, Merry

  Reese looked as though the last thing he wanted to discuss was his opinion on Home Rule. Even less so when Harrison and John stopped playing chess and turned to listen to the debate. But Reese sighed and said, “I’m not one of those who believe the Irish are incapable of governing themselves, you know. Yes, that belief is insidious. I deplore the men who see your fellow countrymen as somehow subhuman. The suffering your people have undergone is staggering, and I wish there were something I could do about it.”

  “Then do something,” Fergus said. “Let us have our own parliament and govern ourselves.”

  “If only it were possible,” Reese went on. “The entire empire is at stake. How can we expect to maintain the respect of our various, far-flung colonies and continue to govern them if we are seen as unable to govern our closest colony of all?”

  “Perhaps you should stop thinking of Ireland as your colony and start thinking of us as a sovereign nation,” Fergus suggested, anger infiltrating his tone.

  Reese looked genuinely alarmed. “Ireland as a sovereign nation?”

  He posed the question, but before any of them could answer it, Freddy unceremoniously blurted, “Rupert, how are your efforts to win back Lady Cecelia progressing?”

  Rupert was so grateful for the chance to diffuse what was on the brink of turning into a war between two of his closest friends that he felt no guilt at all in answering in an overly loud voice, “Splendidly.” He took a last sip of tea, put his cup aside, and sat forward in his chair. “Not only have I turned her head with hints of absolute wickedness, I think I’ve managed to give her the impression that hers might not be the only attentions I could seek out.”

  He sounded like the worst sort of cad to brag about those things, but his words had the desired effect. Fergus stepped back, moving to take a biscuit from the side table, and Reese relaxed into his chair. The flush that had come to his face began to subside.

  “You can’t mean to tell me that you’re deliberately making a lovely young woman like Lady Cecelia jealous, can you?” Harrison said, stepping forward to take Fergus’s place.

  With the initial mission of stopping Fergus and Reese’s argument completed, full sheepishness for his declaration slithered down Rupert’s spine. “It’s all just a bit of fun,” he insisted. “Cece knows my true feelings.”

  John groaned, crossing to sit on the edge of Freddy’s sofa. “I have never observed an incident of a man assuming a woman knows he’s merely joking turn out in the gentleman’s favor.”

  Freddy made a sound of agreement. “You’re playing with fire if you think making Lady Cecelia jealous is going to win her back to your side.”

  “Maybe,” Rupert said, “but you should see the way she flushes and how her whole body quivers with frustration when I get under her skin.”

  His friends hummed and murmured, making sounds of warning and amusement together. He had the feeling they were amused by his stupidity, though.

  “If you really want to win a woman like Lady Cecelia back to your side,” Harrison said, “you need to do it with flowers and hearts and poetry. Nothing I have observed of the woman says she’s the rougher sort.”

  “She’s lovely,” John agreed with a smile. “In fact, if Rupert here hadn’t already staked a claim years ago, I might have given it a go myself.”

  Rupert’s grin dropped. “I say,” he protested.

  “That’s a good point,” Reese said. “Lady Cecelia is lovely. You’d better be careful, Rupert.”

  “Didn’t you dance with Lady Cecelia at the ball welcoming the soldiers home last week?” Harrison asked Reese, sending a teasing grin Rupert’s way.

  “I did.” Reese nodded.

  “I thought you never danced,” Freddy said, his grin growing as well.

  “I don’t,” Reese admitted with a shrug. “But Lady Cecelia looked as though she needed rescuing.”

  “I wasn’t at all pleased with the two of you,” Rupert told him with a scowl.

  Reese didn’t appear to be the least concerned. “And why shouldn’t I consider the possibility of making her my new marchioness? Harry needs a mother, now that Constance has passed on.”

  Rupert was convinced his friend was teasing, up until his last statement turned serious. Then a hard knot formed in his gut. Cece would make a brilliant marchioness and she would be an excellent mother to little Harry. Reese might even be able to summon up what was needed to give her a child of her own, although they all knew any bond of an intimate nature would be unlikely to the point of impossible. All the same, the suggestion put the fear of God into Rupert.

  “Enough of this sort of talk,” he said, clearing his throat. “You all know Cece is mine, and I would thank you to keep it that way.”

  To his surprise, Harrison burst into laughter and chucked him in the shoulder. “I think you’re the one who needs to remember that and take responsibility for it,” he said.

  “Hear, hear,” Fergus seconded, rejoining the more jovial conversation. Rupert thanked heaven that he looked as though he’d shaken off his political and nationalistic fervor.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Rupert insisted.

  “Are you?” Freddy asked.

  “You can all see for yourself,” Rupert went on. “Mama is throwing a ball at Campbell House in two days. If you all come, you’ll see just how much Lady Cecelia is enjoying this game of ours.”

  The others groaned in protest. Freddy picked up his book and looked as though he would dive into it and ignore the conversation. Harrison took a long swig of tea as John walked back to study the chessboard. Reese merely squirmed in his seat.

  “I thought you all would enjoy a chance to come out and watch me at work,” Rupert said, shaking his head at them all.

  “Balls are such a nuisance,” Harrison sighed. “Fortune-hunting mamas litter the events like mines.”

  “I have yet to go to a ball where fewer than half a dozen matrons ask me about my intentions to remarry,” Reese agreed.

  “And I have yet to attend one where my sister doesn’t point out two dozen eligible young ladies for me to marry,” Freddy lamented.

  “Yes, but there will be a heap of first-rate refreshments,” Rupert argued, his grin growing. His understanding with Cece had enabled him to avoid much of the pitfalls of balls and the matrimonial games that went with them, but he’d watched for years as his friends were tossed from one hungry young maiden to another.

  “What’s this I hear about a ball?”

  Every bit of mirth in the room died as Lord Charles Denbigh stepped into the doorway, his ever-present stooge, Lord Montgomery Conrad, half a step behind him. It was as if someone had struck a match and lit the long fuse of a bomb. Rupert could practically hear the sizzle in the air as they waited for the explosion.

  “My mother is hosting a ball at Campbell House next week,” he said, rising. It was always better to face men like Denbigh on one’s feet.

  “I know,” Denbigh said with a superior smirk. “My sister and I received invitations days ago.”

  “Then why bother asking?” Harrison muttered, moving to stand with Rupert.

  “I heard your talk just now and thought I should come investigate what sort of ball this occasion will be,” Denbigh said.

  Rupert could see the ambush, but short of making a rude gesture and showing Denbigh the door, there was nothing he could do about it. “Who knows why my mother throws her balls and events. She likes to entertain, I believe.”

  “I assume she’ll be barring undesirable sorts from entering?” Denbigh asked with a pointed look to Fergus. “It’s disgusting how lax some people and institutions have gotten lately when it comes to inviting chattel through the door.”

  There it was. Another excuse to throw Fergus into a temper.

  “I beg your pardon?” Fergus asked, the new argument beginning exactly the way the last one had. Only this time, Rupert had no faith in Fergus’s adversary to keep things above board.

  “You heard me,” Denbigh said with a
sneer, looking down his nose at Fergus. “I’ve complained to the secretaries about allowing a dirty Irishman within these walls, you know.”

  “Thankfully, they have no intention of going back on their decision to admit him as a gentleman,” Rupert said.

  “Have they?” Denbigh asked, arching one brow.

  “No.” Rupert stood his ground. Denbigh was nothing more than an obstacle, in life and in the House of Lords, just like his father had been before him.

  Denbigh looked as though he didn’t believe him. “I have half a mind to forbid my sister from attending any sort of ball where dogs are present,” he went on.

  Rupert’s nerves bristled, and he longed to punch Denbigh in his patrician nose. There was no need at all to ask what he meant by dogs being present at a ball, which was horrible in itself.

  “What is the point of this interruption?” Rupert asked instead.

  “Nothing,” Denbigh answered, exchanging a grin with Conrad. “We just popped in to see what sort of mess you all were making of things.”

  “The only mess I see is the one standing in the doorway,” Fergus said, his Irish lilt sounding more like a growl.

  Denbigh’s face pinched into a deadly glare. “Watch your tongue,” he snapped.

  “Watch your tongue, my lord,” Fergus corrected him.

  Denbigh laughed bitterly. “You think some miserable patch of land in that festering hellhole of an island makes you my equal?”

  “No.” Fergus crossed his arms. “It makes me your better.”

  Denbigh flinched forward, his fist raised. Fergus braced himself, but Rupert and Harrison stepped between the men as Reese leapt to his feet to defend Fergus as well and Conrad held Denbigh’s arm. The whole rush of activity happened in one, startling instant, followed by complete stillness and silence. The tableau rippled with hatred and tension.

  A moment later, Denbigh stepped back, lowering his arm, though his face and neck remained bright red. “You’ll pay for that,” he warned Fergus in a hiss.

  “Will I?” Fergus arched a brow at him, the personification of defiance.

  Denbigh stared at him as though contemplating spitting on him. Thankfully, he turned and marched out of the room instead. There would have been a fight that would have ended with them all being expelled from the club if he hadn’t.

  It took a few more seconds for the air to clear and tempers to settle.

  “All the more reason for the lot of you to attend my mother’s ball,” Rupert said, attempting to joke in spite of the anger still pulsing through him. When the others glanced at him in question, he said, “We need to stick together and make a public show of what we believe in so that men like him aren’t taken seriously.”

  “And you think we’ll all take a stand at a ball?” Freddy asked.

  Rupert stared at the doorway where Denbigh had been. “We need to take a stand everywhere, balls included.”

  Chapter 9

  Even though it was currently Rupert’s haunt, on the day of the ball at Campbell House, the entire family decamped to their second home, abandoning Marlowe House for the night. Campbell House was certainly large enough for the lot of them, as well as a few of Lady Katya’s and Cece’s father’s friends who weren’t already staying in London. As loath as Cece was to get too comfortable under the same roof as Rupert, considering the way just the sight of him sent tremors through her of late, it certainly was easier to dress for a ball in the same house as the party.

  “You look outstanding,” Bianca commented as she, Cece, and Natalia gathered at the top of the grand staircase, ready to make their entrance. “My poor brother isn’t going to know what to do with himself with you in a gown like that.”

  “Are you certain it’s not too revealing?” Cece asked.

  Ball gowns that season exposed a shocking amount of shoulder and were cut lower than she was used to wearing. Red was a daring color to wear in the best of times, but seeing as the May Flower uniform for the week involved white roses, Cece had commissioned the gown at the last minute to set them off. The true rose pinned above her heart was complimented by a garland of white silk roses dipping low on her chest so that just a hint of her bosom was exposed. They continued across her skirt, highlighting the copious fabric of her bustle. How women were supposed to move, let alone dance, in the styles of the day was a mystery to Cece.

  Bianca looked just as glorious and even more scandalous in her peacock blue gown. Her neckline was so daring that Cece was convinced her friend wanted men staring at her chest instead of simply believing she was a delicate beauty. Although, the purpose of Bianca’s wild ensemble was obvious as Mr. Jack Craig stepped through the doorway and into the hall below where the ladies stood.

  “Does Mama know Mr. Craig was invited?” Natalia asked, peeking through the gap between where Cece and Bianca stood side by side.

  “Of course, she does,” Bianca said, flicking open her peacock feather fan and fanning herself. Mr. Craig glanced up at that moment. His expression filled with warmth and appreciation of an entirely inappropriate nature. “She’s the one who invited him.”

  “Invited him to tell him off, no doubt,” Natalia said. “The way he’s looking at you is decidedly wolfish.”

  “Yes, it is,” Bianca said in a sultry voice.

  She bit her lip as she stared down at Mr. Craig. Mr. Craig’s eyes narrowed with amusement and his smile widened. He winked at her, then walked on with the rest of the guests making their way to the ballroom.

  Cece glanced sideways at Bianca. “How long have the two of you been carrying on now?” she asked with a note of disapproval.

  “Jack and I aren’t ‘carrying on’ at all,” she said, sounding more disappointed than anything else. “We’re friends. That’s all.”

  “Friends who kiss behind the bandstand in Regent’s Park,” Natalia added with a snort.

  “No one is kissing anyone tonight,” Lady Katya said, marching up behind them and startling them all.

  Cece gulped, even though she hadn’t done anything untoward at all, and stepped aside for her stepmother. Lady Katya wore a stunning gown of emerald green that set off her dramatic coloring. Even though she was the hostess and a matron, her gown was cut as daringly as Bianca’s, giving the impression that she was still in her prime. Cece only wished she would look as beautiful and fresh and be as commanding, when she reached Lady Katya’s age.

  “Come, girls,” Lady Katya said, walking past and leading them down the stairs. “We’re late for our guests’ arrivals. We should be in the ballroom already, welcoming them to our home.”

  “It isn’t really our home, though, is it?” Natalia asked as the four of them paraded down the stairs, turning the heads of the guests in the hall below.

  “Of course, it’s our home,” Cece said. “And tonight, it’s our palace.”

  Her comment brought smiles to all of their faces. Cece rather liked the effect. She held her head high and her shoulders square, and didn’t even flinch at the way it exposed the creamy expanse of her chest above her neckline. In that moment, as they entered the ballroom and turned every head there, she felt as powerful as a princess surveying her court. She felt as powerful as Henrietta must when she stood at the front of a crowd, speaking about things their mothers’ generation could never have dreamed of speaking about. It left her with a surge of energy and the hope that things were advancing for womankind.

  That feeling of potency took on a sultry feeling as Rupert and his friends dropped their conversation to stare at them. Mr. Craig had joined their group, and he leaned over to whisper something in Lord O’Shea’s ear that made him laugh and nod. Beside Cece, Bianca stood taller, a haughty grin making her look so much like Lady Katya that Cece almost laughed.

  Within seconds, Mr. Craig broke away from Lord O’Shea and approached them.

  “Lady Bianca, may I have the first dance?” he asked, extending his hand.

  “The orchestra hasn’t finished setting up yet,” Lady Katya informed him with an arch
look.

  “Then we shall simply have to make our own music,” Bianca said, slipping her hand into Mr. Craig’s and allowing him to lead her off. As they headed toward the French doors leading to the courtyard at the back of the ballroom, he whispered something to Bianca that made her laugh indecorously.

  “I fear we’re heading for trouble with those two,” Lady Katya said with a sigh.

  “Can’t you stop them?” Natalia asked.

  Lady Katya pursed her lips for a moment, studying the couple as they paused to say hello to one of Bianca’s friends. “No,” she said at last. “I don’t think I can. The time to nip that unholy alliance in the bud was four years ago, when they first met. Bianca has grown too headstrong now. She’ll have to learn the hard way that there is too great a class difference for them to marry.”

  “I’m not sure whether to express my admiration or my alarm at your willingness to let her learn her lessons on her own,” Cece confessed.

  “Neither am I,” Lady Katya told her with a pointed look.

  Their conversation ended there. Cece’s father approached them to let them all know how beautiful they looked, but his eyes were for Lady Katya alone. Natalia spotted some of her friends and flitted off to gossip with them. That left Cece free to cross the ballroom to join Henrietta and some of the other May Flowers, who were, of course, talking politics. In making the move, she deliberately avoided rushing straight to Rupert, who looked as though he expected her to run to him and beg for compliments. The result of that was to draw Rupert instantly across the room, like a moth to her flame.

  “Lady Cecelia, you look like a vision tonight,” he said, eyes glittering with appreciation, particularly for her neckline.

  “Thank you, Lord Stanhope,” she said with cool formality, knowing full well that her true feelings were painted vividly in her face.

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you wear that shade of red before,” he went on.

  “I don’t believe you’ve seen me wear a great many things before, my lord,” she fired back, snapping her fan open to cool her growing heat.