by Carrie Lomax
Twelve Nights of Scandal
Carrie Lomax
Contents
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Books by Carrie Lomax
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Enjoyed this book?
Acknowledgments
Excerpts from London Scandals Series
The Wild Lord: London Scandals 1
Becoming Lady Dalton: London Scandals 2
The Lost Lord: London Scandals Book 3
The Duke’s Stolen Heart: London Scandals 4
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Books by Carrie Lomax
Regency Historical Romance
Twelve Nights of Scandal: A Regency Holiday Novella - December 2019
The Wild Lord (London Scandals Book 1)
Becoming Lady Dalton (London Scandals Book 2)
The Lost Lord (London Scandals Book 3)
The Duke’s Stolen Heart (London Scandals Book 4) - January 2020
Contemporary series:
Say You Need Me (Janelle & Trent)
Say ‘I Do’ (Bonus Novella: Fiji Wedding)
Say You’re Mine (Olivia & Ronan)
Also by Carrie Lomax
Trick or Treat Me: Six Hot and Humorous Halloween Novellas
Find Buy Links at www.CarrieLomax.com
1
“I refuse to wear old bed linens to Uncle Foster’s Christmas house party.” Amity Mayweather had standards, and they did not include dancing in bedclothes. Her mother cast her an exasperated glare. A pebble of guilt formed inside Amity’s chest. Nonetheless, Amity crossed her arms over her bosoms and raised one eyebrow. Then, her chin.
“I could send Mary Anne instead,” Mrs. Mayweather mused casually. With the broad sheet of fabric as wide as her arms, she matched the corners and folded it neatly in half. “She has at least one proper gown. Your green one could be made over if we add several inches—”
“Your best chance of seeing one of us wed is to send Letty,” Amity cut her mother off. Her third-youngest sister had all the beauty in the family. Amity judged her own appearance passable. Her best features were a creamy complexion, dark eyes and even teeth, but her brown hair refused to hold a curl on the rare occasions she had to attempt making one. Her late-adolescent growth had brought with it bosoms, even if she couldn’t fill out a bodice the way her youngest sister, Charity, could. At sixteen, Charity might have been regarded as more attractive if her wide eyes were not offset by an equally large mouth, which she exercised to great length—a trait the family hoped she might yet outgrow. Mary Anne, the second-oldest sister, was as tall as a giraffe and about as graceful, thanks to nearsightedness. But Leticia possessed all the sisters’ best qualities combined. An enviable complexion, tall, willowy figure, and doe eyes the color of spring ferns. Thanks to Mr. Mayweather and her brother Ellis’s untimely death, Letty’s beauty was the sum total any of the women had to recommend them in marriage.
“You are the oldest,” Mrs. Mayweather replied thoughtfully. “As well as the only girl who hasn’t had a new dress since…” Her voice hitched. “We can turn your green wool to freshen it and add new cuffs.”
In the years since the Mayweathers had lost Amity’s father and brother in a single afternoon, their station in life had taken a steep dive into penury. Although her mother’s jointure gave the family the right to live on the premises of Wells House, the mansion where Mrs. Mayweather had once been mistress, an acrimonious disharmony between Anne and her brother-in-law had made the relationship unpalatable. The new Mayweather occupants—Amity’s uncle and aunt—so desired for their newly dependent relative to remarry that they had all but placed the grieving widow in a halter and marched her around the town square to be rid of her. Mrs. Mayweather had been so offended by her brother- and sister-in-law’s meddling that she’d moved the family of five women to Kearny, a tiny village on the edge of Hertfordshire and Essex. Though charming on a bright afternoon, there was little to recommend the village beyond inexpensive property to let.
Amity dropped her arms. “I can fit into Charity’s red velvet if it isn’t too moth-eaten.” She and her youngest sister were of a similar height.
“There, you see? One red, one green, one white, and your best blue dress with the yellow ribbons at the bodice. Enough for a fortnight of visiting. The blue will be perfect for a Twelfth Night ball.” Mrs. Mayweather spoke with a certain determination, a hardness that belied her cheerful words. “It is kind of Mr. and Mrs. Mayweather,” she said, meaning Amity’s uncle and aunt, a common confusion in such a large family. “So few families are hosting this year on account of the poor harvest.”
The year had been horribly cold. Crop failures had hit Kearny with the force of a battering ram. Amity, Mary Anne, Leticia and Charity had borne the transition from well-tutored young ladies to penny-hoarding tenders of chickens and reluctant gardeners with relative equanimity. But this year, the women had been hard-pressed to figure out how to scrape together edible meals as their egg money dwindled. They had been forced to sacrifice members of their flock to the stew pot.
“You can’t cut up your last set of good bedsheets, mother,” Amity chided.
“Only one,” her mother insisted softly, eyeing the long fall of pristine white linen. “There are two in a set, and cases as well. There will still be enough for the first girl to marry. The lot of you are taking your time about it, if I am honest.”
Whoever married first was to receive the contents of Mrs. Mayweather’s trunk as a wedding gift. It contained everything they had saved from their comfortable old life and had avoided selling to get them through the lean years. One quilt. Two goose down blankets so light and soft and warm that pulling them out of the chest had become Amity’s favorite winter ritual. A warm plaid shawl, a gift from a long-forgotten friend of Mrs. Mayweather’s, carefully maintained for each winter. Christening gowns. A silver baby bowl and spoon. These objects had been invested with their most heartfelt dreams. It was imperative that whichever Mayweather girl married first, she married well enough to earn these precious gifts.
Amity held no delusions that it could be her.
She watched the long column of her mother’s neck work as she swallowed. Finding suitable marriage prospects might have been easier had the Mayweathers confessed the degree of their poverty to their relatives. Their ability to purchase things like fabric for new gowns, or gloves, or ribbons for the bonnets they tried to repair by weaving straw into the holes, could have been alleviated by a few coins from their wealthier relatives had Mrs. Mayweather been inclined to ask.
“I shall try to find a husband at the house party,” Amity replied with a lump in her throat. Luxuries like love and romance were well out of her budget.
“All I want is for my eldest—” Amity did not miss the hesitation in her mother’s voice, for her brother, Ellis, had been older by one year, “—daughter to enjoy this visit with her favorite cousin.”
Amity grinned. “Holly won’t care how I dress, Mum. Save your bed sheets. Seeing Holly is the greatest gift I could ask for this Christmas.”
Snowflakes as fat as goose feathers floated down from the bright winter sky to dissolve on Amity’s cheeks. Beneath the fur sleigh blanket she was almost too warm. A brick at her feet made sweat dampen the double layers of stockings in her worn but sturdy boots. Her breath fogged the cold
air.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” her cousin said, squeezing her gloved hand. Holly’s infectious smile revealed even white teeth above a plump lower lip. Her fair hair had been curled into ringlets that bounced as the horse pulled them over fresh snowfall. All Amity could think about during the long journey was how little she deserved this and how much it had cost her mother to send her such a distance. Once, it would have been nothing, but those days were gone. Tucked deep pocket were a handful of coins, Amity’s share of the egg money.
“I saved every letter,” Amity said, squeezing back. “Such as it was.”
Holly laughed, a tinkling sound injurious to Amity’s ears. Holly had the means to write often. Amity did not. She stretched her money by saving odd scraps of paper and writing on them with chicken feathers sharpened into quills. Proper writing quills were hardened to hold a sharp point between trimmings. The backyard variety left blots across her missives that rendered portions of Amity’s letters nearly illegible.
“You know me,” Amity agreed with all the humor she could muster.
“Couldn’t you have used a full sheet of paper?” Holly teased, not knowing how it cut. Amity focused on the bracing air and the jingle of the horse’s tack, but her cousin continued. “You cannot be so busy in that little village that you must scratch notes upon any paper you find at hand.”
“My thoughts run too fast to capture at once.” Amity forced a laugh. In truth, she would give her right arm for a proper stack of writing paper. Amity pushed away the thought. The sleigh rounded a curve in the road. Her breath stilled as she waited for a glimpse of her childhood home…there. Past the trees, Wells House stood as it always had. Amity’s heart expanded at the vista spread before her, timeless and grand. When she remembered herself, she asked, “How are you enjoying London?”
The rote question cost her nothing to ask. Amity had been on the cusp of her first season when her father and brother had died in a carriage accident. London remained indistinct in her imagination.
“I love it!” Holly clapped, before burying her gloved hands in the blankets. “The balls, the dancing, the theatre, it’s all so medical. I wish you could be there, Amity. You would thrive.”
They hit a bump and flew an inch off the leather seats. Amity’s teeth clacked together when they landed. Holly laughed.
“Or go mad,” Amity replied archly. Despite her denial a kernel of jealousy sprouted in her breast. Holly was living the life she might have had, if Amity’s father or brother still had breath. Envy was a useless emotion, though, so Amity pushed it away. “My country sensibilities aren’t suited to town life.”
“Nonsense. I wish you were there with me. My father is pressing me to accept a suitor.” Holly made a face. “Finlay Weston, believe it or not.”
Amity’s blood froze as if the carriage had taken an unexpected detour into the river. “Not my Finn?”
“No, not yours. Ellis’s.” Holly clapped a hand over her mouth. “Does it pain you to speak of your brother?”
“Of course not,” Amity replied, distantly. She could talk of Ellis for hours. Her brother had been her best friend and constant playmate in the summers when he hadn’t been at school. He had thought school boring, but Amity had longed for more than the simple lessons provided by the governess and, later, tutors, for the girls educated at home. She, Finn and Ellis had been inseparable every summer—whether the boys had welcomed her presence or not. “Is he coming, then?”
“Mr. Poker-arse?” Holly chortled. Amity cast her cousin a scandalized look. “He’s not the boy you played with anymore. Mr. Weston is handsome, but he has no humor whatsoever.”
Amity pasted a smile on. Finlay Weston wasn’t the only one who had changed. In the three years since Amity had last seen her cousin and best friend, Holly had acquired a certain calculating affectedness that one might call “polish.” She smiled too much and tossed her head coquettishly. Although she was more beautiful than ever, Amity liked her less than when they had been girls braiding one another’s hair during infrequent visits to Wells House. Still, she was Amity’s favorite cousin, and her presence at Wells House this Christmas was a privilege Amity was determined to enjoy.
The sleigh stopped before the great stone house, and Amity gazed up at the edifice that housed her happiest childhood memories. Sadness dragged at her heart. She wished Finlay Weston wasn’t coming. There was no one in the world Amity would less rather see. He would remind her of how much everything had changed, and not for the better. That way lay self-pity. She straightened her shoulders.
“You must protect me from him,” Holly whispered, gripping her hand hard enough to pinch Amity’s fingers. “Stay by my side so Mr. Weston doesn’t have an opportunity to offer for me.”
“Aren’t you worried that after a fourth season, you’ll be on the shelf?” Amity asked, squeezing back.
“No, for I have a secret beau,” Holly confided as the sleigh pulled up in front of the house. “Father doesn’t approve of him, but I am in love with Lord Stanton.”
The name meant nothing to Amity. “If Uncle Foster doesn’t approve of him, why do you think he would give permission?”
“He won’t, unless I can find a way to deter Mr. Poker-Arse,” Holly said with nonchalance. “I’m sorry, I know he was your dear friend. I oughn’t speak that way.”
“I shall never leave your side,” Amity vowed. She gripped her wool cloak tight around her neck and let the footman hand her down from the sleigh. Holly’s high spirits and penchant for intrigue ought to make for an entertaining Christmas holiday.
2
Due to a renovation of the grand old pile of a house that would not be completed until spring, Finlay Weston had nowhere to stay at Christmas. Oh, there was his younger brother’s neat home the next county over, or his sister’s house in London, where she resided with her barrister husband and four small children, but young children gave him headaches. His mother had also taken up residence in Town. Logically, that was where he ought to spend the holiday.
Yet, there was Miss Holly Mayweather to consider. Her bright smile and sense of fashion made her an excellent prospective mistress of Weston Manor.
The coach struggled through the fresh snow and came around the bend, where the vista of Wells House spread before him as charming as a vista on a framed painting. Wells House glowed with welcoming lights in each window beneath its snowcap. Dusk had fallen hours ago. Somewhere behind the house, children might be out exploring the winter landscape—as he and his best friend Ellis Mayweather had done as children. Finlay felt his mouth pull into a half grin at the memory. Sledding. Tossing snowballs. Building forts.
A heartbeat later, he recalled the awful day when Ellis and his father had gone over a ledge in a carriage. They, two footmen and the horses had perished in the accident. Joy melted as easily as a snowflake on his cheek. The familiar seesaw of emotion was the primary reason he avoided spending much time here. Now that he was a grown man of twenty-six, however, it was time to make his mark on the crumbling country estate. It was time for him to take a wife.
Ideally, but not necessarily, one of means.
Lively, pretty Miss Mayweather would make an excellent companion. Finlay had approached her father to ask for her hand two weeks ago. Ever since, he could swear Miss Mayweather was avoiding him. When he showed up for a dinner, she laughed demurely and claimed her dance card was full. Which, in fairness, it generally was.
“Welcome, Mr. Weston,” Mr. Mayweather intoned once the coach had halted and the footman released him from the confines of the carriage. “I trust you had an uneventful journey?”
“Indeed,” Finlay replied. “No worse than could be expected.”
Mayweather’s jolly face tightened ever so subtly around the corners of his eyes and mouth.
“I meant, considering the heavy snowfall.” Finlay continued hastily in an attempt to course-correct. “It was, as you say, an uneventful journey. I had time to anticipate with great pleasure the prospec
t of renewing my acquaintance with Miss Mayweather.”
His phrasing was as stiff as an icicle, but Mayweather’s features relaxed imperceptibly. “Of course. I expect Christmas to be a felicitous time to welcome you to the family.” Mayweather raised his eyebrows suggestively. Finlay exhaled in relief. His childhood had been cut short at the age of fourteen when his father had perished unexpectedly. Ever since, he had strived to be as good a master of [ESTATE] as his father. “My staff will show you to your room. We shall gather in the parlor this evening for music and light dancing before supper.”
Finlay’s stomach gurgled with hunger. He hoped he could remember the complicated steps to a country reel, given how his brain had been commandeered by the grumbling of his empty belly. “Excellent, excellent.”
Nothing felt excellent, however. Finlay bore it the way he had schooled himself to bear all discomforts and inconveniences of life—with the stiffest of stiff upper lips. Breakfast had been many hours ago, his stomach reminded him urgently. The journey had taken much longer than anticipated. Finn had expected to arrive in time for dinner, and here it was nearly suppertime.
His stomach plagued him to the point of irritability as Finlay dressed for dinner in buff trousers, a gold-embroidered ivory waistcoat and fresh cravat. Over this he added a deep blue jacket brushed to a high sheen of polished cobalt. Satisfied, he descended to join the gathering in the parlor. A tune from the pianoforte carried up the stairs, accompanied by a woman’s lilting voice. He hesitated at the door to the gathering, ever feeling like an outsider. With his abrupt thrust into responsibility had come an unwarranted but crippling sense of inadequacy.