Scandalous Brides

by Amanda McCabe

  She looked like a wraith, silvery-white in the firelight, her eyes huge and her dark, short hair tangled over her ears. Even her nudity, the tall, angular body she had despaired of all her life, seemed not her own. She looked, and felt, quite otherworldly.

  Everything had turned top-over-tail, the whole existence she had painfully built for herself, and it seemed certain that it could never go right side up again.

  Peter was alive! She had hoped, oh, a thousand times that she could she him again, just once, to touch his face, feel his arms about her. For just a glimpse of his smile, she would have given her own soul.

  Now it seemed her prayers were answered. He was alive! Yet how he had changed. He seemed so old now, as old as she herself often felt, and so very hard. And his anger toward her was a very powerful force; it had obviously been festering inside him for six years, poisoning all they had once had, and hoped to have, together.

  Carmen’s hand drifted over her pale midriff, to her belly above the white silk drawers, across the faint stretch marks from when she had been carrying Isabella inside of her. She had been a small baby, but so active, always kicking and turning ...

  Isabella!

  Carmen pressed her fist to her mouth to muffle a sudden cry. What if Peter came to hear of Isabella? What if he saw her, this golden-blond child? He would doubtless guess the truth in an instant.

  And she, though titled, was a foreigner. She would be powerless against the Earl of Clifton if he decided to take their child.

  “That cannot happen,” she said aloud, fiercely.

  A knock sounded at the door, startling her. She grabbed up her dressing gown and slipped it over her nakedness. “Yes?”

  Esperanza peered around the door, her wrinkled face framed by an absurd pink ruffled nightcap. “Carmencita! You are home early.”

  Carmen forced herself to smile lightly. “It is hardly early, after one.”

  “That is early for you. You are usually gone until the dawn.” Was there a hint of disapproval in her tired voice? If there was, it was concealed as she bustled about the room, shaking out the discarded gown and locating hastily kicked off slippers. “Did you have a good time at the ball?”

  “Hm, not really. It was such a dreadful crush, just as everyone said it would be. I could not breathe at all. And so many things happened ...”

  “Things such as what, Carmencita?”

  Carmen shook her head. “I will tell all later, Esperanza, but I am too tired now.” She sat down beside the fire and poured herself a liberal amount of the sherry. “I cannot remember when I was last so tired.”

  Esperanza eyed the sherry. “You should eat something before you drink that, Carmencita. Did you have supper at the ball?”

  “No, more is the pity! I heard that the duchess’s lobster patties are delightful.”

  “Then, you must eat those sandwiches. You look pale as the grave.”

  Carmen gave an unladylike snort. “Thank you, Esperanza, for that encouraging compliment!” But she did pop a cucumber sandwich into her mouth.

  Esperanza nodded in satisfaction, and bent to pick up the mantilla. “Carmen!”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you not wear your ivory comb tonight?”

  Carmen’s hand flew to her hair. “Oh, no! It must have fallen at the ball.”

  “How could that have happened? We used ever so many pins!”

  Carmen closed her eyes and shook her head. “It simply fell, that is all. I will send a note ‘round to the duchess tomorrow, and see if anyone found it in her ballroom.”

  “That comb belonged to your mama,” Esperanza clucked. “Really, Carmen, sometimes you are so very careless.”

  Esperanza was always quick to point out her shortcomings, and had done so ever since Carmen’s babyhood. “I am certain someone will have discovered it. But I am far too tired to think of it now!”

  “My poor niña,” Esperanza cooed, her irritation forgotten. “You must sleep. I know something did happen tonight, something terrible you are not telling me. I can see it in your eyes. But I will wait.”

  Carmen kissed Esperanza’s cheek. “I will tell you later. Now, dear one, good night.”

  “Buenos noches, niña.”

  When Esperanza had gone, Carmen climbed gratefully between her cool sheets and fell into deep, dream-plagued sleep.

  At last Peter was alone in his bedchamber. It was nearly dawn; a few gray-pink tendrils were reaching through the curtains. Yet it had still taken several protestations of complete exhaustion on his part to persuade his chattering sister to cease prattling about the ball and retire to her chamber.

  He splashed cold water from a basin onto his face, unmindful of the damp spots that appeared on his open shirt and scattered across his chest. When he lifted his eyes to the small shaving mirror, the face that stared back at him was positively haggard. Haggard, and pale, and ... haunted.

  Could Elizabeth have been right when she expressed concern for him in the carriage on their way home? Was his old madness coming back upon him?

  Peter pushed away from the mirror with a muttered curse. It could not be. He had fought too hard to overcome his ghosts, to come back to the light and try to make a life for himself where he could not hurt anyone ever again. He would not give in to that darkness again, even if he had held a ghost in his arms that night.

  The darkness, what Elizabeth called his spells, had come over him when he had returned from Spain, wounded in both body and spirit. Home was not as he had remembered it, not the fantasy he had longed for when he had lain alone in a Spanish field hospital. Elizabeth had grown up into a dark beauty in his absence, with an iron will of her own that he had not been prepared to deal with. And her every glance at him had spoken of how frightened she was of the monster he had become. It finally forced her to run away.

  Six years ago, on that fateful day, he had thought Nicholas Hollingsworth, his best friend, dead. Yet fortunately he had lived and was now married to his sister. However, Peter had thought Carmen not only dead, but had later learned she was their betrayer.

  Now he saw that Carmen was not dead, and the realization was vexing. She was here, in England, healthy and whole, and more beautiful than she had ever been even in his dreams.

  Why had she come into his life again, opening old wounds and reminding him of the foolish dreams he had once cherished? Peter could not flatter himself that she had come to England to find him. She had been so obviously shocked to see him; as shocked as he was to see her.

  To see that emerald on her finger.

  Carmen, dead Carmen, was the famous condesa. It was strange, a nightmare—a dream. But he also could not ignore the deep joy that had coursed through him when he had first glimpsed her face.

  Then his eye caught on the ivory comb he had tossed onto the bed, gleaming against the burgundy velvet counterpane. He reached for it, turning it over and over on his palm.

  Its cool smoothness against his skin, callused from riding, reminded him that this was a nightmare, or a dream, that had become all too real.

  Chapter Five

  “Look, Peter, here is an account of the ball last night!” In her excitement Elizabeth rattled the newspaper so vehemently that her morning chocolate sloshed out of her cup onto the white damask tablecloth.

  “Indeed?” Peter did not look up from his letters, which he had not actually read a word of since he had sat down.

  “Indeed! And we are mentioned.”

  “You are always mentioned, Lizzie. You cannot step from the front door without causing a stir these days.”

  “Hm, but here they have actually gone to the trouble of describing my gown and jewels. Usually they just say I was there. See here, ‘cerulean silk trimmed in white alençon lace and satin rosebuds, created by the new couturier Madame Auverge, and the stunning Everdean pearls.’ My consequence must be increasing. This is excellent, since I am unveiling Lady Kingsley’s portrait at a small soiree next week, and I think it is quite the finest work I have done thus
far. The portrait, and my being mentioned at all the right gatherings, should mean even more commissions.” She scanned the rest of the column. “Do you not want to know what they say about you?”

  “What do they say? That I wore a ‘stunning’ blue—no, cerulean—coat, created by Weston?” Peter smirked.

  “No, much better by far! They report that you appeared quite fascinated by the lovely Condesa de Santiago, who is recently arrived from the Continent, and that you were seen escorting her onto the terrace.”

  Peter’s coffee cup slipped from his hand, but he did not even notice the hot stain that spread across his new doeskin breeches. He frowned at his grinning sister, who he wouldn’t put it past to have sent that little tidbit in to the papers herself. “Scandalous rag! What is it you are reading, Elizabeth? They shall be out of print by the end of the day.”

  “Why?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened innocently. “Is it not true? Were you not on the terrace with the condesa? Locked in an embrace?”

  “It was not like that.” Peter’s jaw was taut.

  “Not like—what? She is beautiful, is she not? And rather familiar-seeming, as well.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The condesa, of course. Quite intriguing. I was beginning to have hopes that your tastes are improving. That actress Yvette ...” Elizabeth frowned. “I have never seen that shade of blonde in nature.”

  “Yvette is hardly a suitable topic for a man to discuss with his sister, Elizabeth. Besides which ...”

  “Oh, how every vexing! I did so want to ‘discuss it,’ ” Elizabeth cried.

  “Also, if you would please not interrupt, I have some other news for you.”

  “Really?” Elizabeth blithely reached for the butter. “What is that?”

  “I have decided to make an offer for Lady Deidra Clearbridge.”

  Elizabeth’s reaction was not at all what he had expected. The piece of toast she was buttering fell from her hand and landed butter-side-down on the lap of her green morning gown. Her jaw gaped. “You are what?”

  “Going to offer for Lady Deidra Clearbridge. I thought that would make you happy. You are always harping at me to make a respectable match and set up my nursery. I am going to do so.” As soon as he could figure out what to do with the very-much-alive first Countess of Clifton.

  “First of all, I do not harp! And Lady Deidra is not at all what I could have wished for. She is such a milk-and-water miss.” Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled.

  “Living in Italy has made you bold, Lizzie. Lady Deidra is perfectly proper.”

  “You would run her over in a month, Peter! I know you. The condesa is much more your style.”

  Peter tossed down his letters and rose to his feet. “I must go out, if you will excuse me, Lizzie.”

  “You are avoiding the subject, as usual. Where are you going? And are you going like that?” She looked pointedly at the large coffee stain on his leg.

  “I was going to go upstairs and change, but if you think I could start a new fashion ...”

  “You are in a mood this morning. But if you do not want to tell me where you are going, I certainly have no wish to know.”

  Peter laughed and bent down to kiss her cheek. “I am in a ‘mood’ because of the late night last night, thanks to my social sister! I am an old man, and need my sleep.”

  “You? Old? Ha! I have more gray in my hair than you.”

  “You, dear, are eternally young. And when is your husband coming to Town, O Goddess of Youth?”

  “The day after tomorrow, thankfully! I need his assistance in planning a house party at our new country manor, since I know that you will be of no help.”

  “Well, do try to stay out of trouble until then.” He started to turn away.

  Elizabeth caught his hand, suddenly serious. “Peter, dear, are you quite certain you have been well? You look rather pale this morning, and I think that ... well, I know you said you have not had any spells of late, and I believe you, but ...”

  “Lizzie,” Peter interrupted. “I am really quite well. And now I must be going. I have an appointment that I must keep.” He kissed her cheek again, and left the breakfast room.

  Elizabeth watched him go, worrying with her teeth at her lower lip. “Don’t forget!” she called. “We are engaged to attend Lady Castleton’s musicale tonight.”

  Across Town, another pair of eyes scanned the same newspaper over the breakfast table.

  “Scandalous!” Carmen hissed. “Deep in enraptured conversation, indeed. I think this paper must employ the same writers that create your horrid novels, Esperanza.”

  “Mama?” a little voice piped up. “What are you reading? Can I see it?”

  “May I see it, and no you may not. You do not know how to read yet, anyway, niña, and when you can you will read more edifying literature than this rag.” Carmen made a concerted effort to smooth the frown from her face. She folded the paper, placed it carefully beside her plate, and smiled at her daughter.

  “I can so read! A bit. Esperanza is teaching me to write my name.” While her mother’s attention had been turned, Isabella had systematically demolished her toast into minuscule crumbs. She carefully picked up one of the crumbs with one sticky fingertip and popped it into her mouth. “But it is a very long name, Mama. Why could you not have named me Mary? It’s much shorter.”

  “Isabella was your abuela’s name!” said Esperanza, crossing herself as she always did at the mention of Carmen’s long-dead, sainted mother. “You should honor it, Isabella.” Then she swept out of the room to fetch the morning post, black bombazine skirts rustling.

  Carmen watched her leave, puzzled at her cross behavior. “Indeed, it is your grandmother’s name, Bella, and a pretty name, too.” She reached out with her napkin to wipe Isabella’s small chin. “And soon, we shall find you a governess, to teach you to behave like the fine lady your grandmother was.”

  Isabella pulled a face. “I do not need a governess! I have you and Esperanza.”

  Carmen tousled Isabella’s already tumbled golden curls. When she made that stubborn, set-jawed face, the child looked so like her father. “Certainly you need a governess. She will be able to teach you so much more than we can.”

  “But, Mama ...

  Carmen held one finger to her lips. “No more, Bella. But if you are very good this morning, perhaps we could go to Gunter’s for ices this afternoon.”

  Isabella brightened. “Really?”

  “Really. But only if you have a bath and let Esperanza dress you in your new pink frock.”

  Esperanza came back into the breakfast room at that moment, the letters on a silver tray. She smiled, her earlier dark mood apparently forgotten. “So very many invitations again, Carmencita!”

  “Thank you, Esperanza. It would appear so.” Carmen surveyed the thick stack of cards and letters. Thankfully, there were no missives sealed with black wax today. “My, but we are becoming popular! Here is an invitation to a supper party at the home of the Marchioness of Penshurst, an invitation to the opera ... but what is this?” She held up a letter written on rich, pale blue stationery, neatly folded and sealed with an elaborate E pressed into darker blue wax. She tore it open and read aloud, “My dear Condesa, please forgive me for writing to you so quickly after our meeting. I know we were not properly introduced at the Duchess of Dacey’s ball, but we are women of the world, and can overlook such silliness! If you are not otherwise engaged, could you take tea with me this afternoon? I am quite longing to become better acquainted with you. Sincerely, Lady Elizabeth Hollingsworth.”

  “Hollingsworth?” Esperanza said. “The lady artist we heard of when we were in Italy?”

  “The very one. I met her at the ball last night. She said she would like to paint my portrait; she was very charming. And she was married to one of the English officers I knew during the war.” Carmen did not mention the fact that Elizabeth was, in reality, her own sister-in-law. She had told Esperanza, long ago when she had arrived home encei
nte, that she had been married briefly. But she had never said to whom, and she had always thought Esperanza only half believed that she had been legally wed. It seemed rather ill timed to bring it up now.

  “Carmen, this is wonderful!” Esperanza cried. “This Lady Elizabeth is so well-known.”

  “Hm, yes, she is. But I really don’t have time to sit for another portrait now.” She carefully folded the letter. “You are right, though, Esperanza dear, in saying that she is quite well-known. Patrons are lined up to have her paint their portrait, and she does me great honor in requesting I sit for her. So I shall have tea with her. After I look at these letters of application for the post of governess.”

  After quieting Isabella’s protests about the governess, Carmen sent her off with Esperanza to be washed and dressed for the day. Then she retreated to the small room that would be her library, a cozy room with deep, comfortable sofas and chairs, and crates of well-loved books waiting to be unpacked and placed on the empty shelves. From the tall windows, she could see the small park across the way, where children and nursemaids were gathering.

  She had hopes that soon this room would feel a haven of quiet from the world.

  Today, it was not.

  She sat down at her little French desk to pen a reply to Elizabeth’s letter, but somehow the polite, simple words would not come. Instead, she sat, chin in hand, and watched that park, watched the children at play.

  Was she making a mistake in responding, even in a small way, to Elizabeth’s friendly overtures? She genuinely liked her, even on such brief acquaintance. She was merry and charming, unafraid to go after what she wanted; Carmen sensed that they could well be kindred, unconventional spirits. And Carmen remembered well Elizabeth’s handsome, funny husband.

  But Elizabeth was also Peter’s sister.

  Peter, who had become so bitter that he no longer seemed the same gallant man she had once known, once loved. The years had changed him so.

  Just as they had changed her.

  Carmen twisted the emerald on her finger, finding its familiar weight comforting. No, she was not the same idealistic girl she had been then. Despite the disappointments of her first marriage, the horrors of war, she had been so full of romantic hopes and dreams.