House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2)

by Elizabeth Kingston

  “Marie-Anne!” Helen had squealed, and they had both laughed so hard that Marie-Anne put down her glass of whisky and began to slowly sober up. She had managed to tell her friend just about everything and had finally gotten to how Mason had proposed. Now she sat back on the divan and recounted how hesitant she had been to say yes, while she waited for her head to stop its gentle spinning.

  She spent such a long time moaning about her heartache that her head had stopped spinning and begun to ache with the aftereffects of drink by the time she finished. Helen was very good and did not interrupt, even though it was obvious several times that she wanted to.

  “Now I do not know what to think, or if I am right,” a sober Marie-Anne at last concluded. She had closed her eyes against the little headache. “Tell me what is your advice, please.”

  When Helen did not answer, Marie-Anne opened her eyes to see her friend was a little startled.

  “I don’t believe you’ve ever asked my advice before, Marie-Anne! I hardly know what to say. It’s always me who needs setting right, not you. Whether it’s a matter of fashion or a matter of the heart, you always seem to know. It’s so rare to see you doubt yourself.”

  Marie-Anne sighed. “Yes. I do not like it. It is very vexing!”

  “I suppose it is noteworthy that you do not seem to doubt him, though, in spite of his duplicity.”

  “This is true. I trust in his love for me, and I trust his intentions are good.”

  “His intentions seem especially important–”

  “But it is that he does not trust in himself!” she burst out, which caused her head to throb. She rubbed her temple, and vowed to confine her future drinking to a single glass of wine in the evenings. “It is this that confuses, that I am not happy to have him come back to Bartle with me. It makes me angry to think of it! My Mason should be in Paris or Florence. Or even here in London, but not hiding his talent in little Bartle-on-the-Glen.”

  “I must say, Marie-Anne, that I do not find it confusing at all.” Helen got up and spoke as she crossed to the bell pull. “I cannot imagine you would respect anyone who would be so cowardly that they would not even try to pursue their dreams. You have always scorned self-denial in every way, and that’s what it would be, isn’t it? Oh yes, Collins,” she said, turning to the butler who had appeared. “Tea, please.”

  She came back to sit on the divan beside Marie-Anne, and very gently said, “But perhaps he needs time to accustom himself to the idea, if it is such a very new one. We do not all throw ourselves into new experiences with good cheer and enthusiasm, as you do.”

  Helen was very diplomatically saying that Marie-Anne was too impatient, and she was not wrong. Marie-Anne gave a very heavy sigh, and eased herself down until she lay on the divan with her head on Helen’s lap. She pulled her feet up too, and noticed distantly that she’d lost a slipper somehow.

  “Was it right, what he said to me?” she asked. “Do I hide myself in my little village, and away from living?”

  “I think you needed to, as I did, for a while. Only you can say whether you need to hide anymore.” Helen stroked her aching forehead. It felt very nice. “But you are built for adventure, Marie-Anne, he’s right about that. Built for adventure and impulse and all kinds of untidy, human things.”

  Startled by this insight, Marie-Anne’s eyes snapped open. This was so true that it was disturbing she had ever questioned it. She had even tried to tell herself to be responsible, of all the ridiculous things. “Mon dieu. You are right,” she said. “And now I am thinking also that Richard would hate that I sit in Bartle alone for the rest of my life.”

  “Well, what would you like to do instead?”

  She sighed. “Have little babies with red hair. But I am trying not to think of that.”

  Helen looked down at her. Even from below at this unflattering angle, she was very lovely. “You asked my advice, Marie-Anne, so I’ll tell you I think you should be with this Mason. You love him far more than you even realize. Do you know why I am so sure?”

  Marie-Anne shook her head. “Why?”

  “Because you’ve mentioned Richard more than once today. Just Richard, not ‘my Richard’. In all the years I’ve known you, he was always your Richard. Surely that means something.” She smiled. “And if that wasn’t telling enough, there is an entire plate of cakes right there that you haven’t touched in all this time.”

  Well, there was no disputing either point. She would always love Richard, and cherish everything he had been to her. But it was Mason’s heart that was in her care now. Or at least she hoped it was. She supposed she must go claim it for herself, just as soon as she could sit upright without her head splitting open. Perhaps a bit of cake would help.

  Helen’s nearly untouched glass of whisky sat on the little table near her, and the sight of it made Marie-Anne feel too queasy to eat. “You are a terrible friend, to let me drink so much by myself. And why do you only take a little swallow? The whisky from Scotland is your favorite.”

  Helen gave a telling pause before saying, “It will upset my digestion. Everything seems to do lately, I had a terrible time with the fish in Norway.”

  “Oh! I am a very bad friend!” Marie-Anne sat up too suddenly and clutched her aching head. “I have not even asked why you came back so soon! Are you ill?”

  Helen was trying not to laugh at Marie-Anne’s wincing. “No, not ill. Not truly. Oh dear, I should have asked Collins to bring you a cold cloth for your head.”

  But now Marie-Anne was smiling wide enough that her face hurt too. “Hélène! Is it true? Tell me!”

  Helen shrugged, still holding back a laugh. “You are trying not to think of babies, I thought.”

  “Oh!”

  Marie-Anne was unequal to saying anything more comprehensible than that for some time. She merely threw her arms around her friend and let herself think of nothing but the joy of it. What happy, happy news. She quite forgot her own troubles for a few minutes.

  When Collins entered with the tea, she was almost giddy. “Don’t you think Marie-Anne is a perfect name for a girl, Collins?” she asked over Helen’s laughter. “But of course it is only a suggestion, Hélène, you may name her anything you like. What about Marie? Or Anne? So many choices!”

  “All excellent choices, madame,” was the butler’s sedate reply. He cleared his throat and addressed Helen. “Lord Summerdale wished you to know that he will be going out this afternoon, my lady, but he anticipates returning in time for dinner.”

  “Going out? How very odd, he said nothing about an engagement. Did he say where he is going?”

  The butler slid an impassive look toward Marie-Anne. “I believe he will be accompanying Mr. Mason to pay a call upon Lady Whitemarsh.”

  Helen’s curious “Lady Whitemarsh?” competed with Marie-Anne’s yelp of “Mason!” Collins, unflappable, looked at each of them in turn and said simply, “Yes.”

  “But is Mr. Mason here?” Helen was asking. Marie-Anne was already on her feet – entirely too quickly, causing the ache in her skull to swell and her stomach to make dire threats.

  “He is,” Collins was saying behind her. She was rushing to the door, not stopping to find the slipper that had fallen off. She stood in the entrance hall and turned a circle, looking up the elegant staircase, wondering where he could be.

  Just as she decided it must be Stephen’s office and began to make her way toward it, the door opened and the men emerged. Oh, his wonderful red hair and his glorious freckles, she had missed them terribly. One little day – one ghastly, miserable whole day – and she never wanted to pass another one without him.

  He caught sight of her and stopped, arrested, gazing at her. How long had he been here while she drank too much and moaned about him to her friend? He didn’t say anything, or move nearer, and she suddenly realized that he may not have come here for her at all. Oh, what an awful thought.

  “Mason?” She looked at Stephen and then back to Mason. “What are you doing here?”

>   “I just – we’re going to…” He clearly had no idea what to say, and her heart began to sink, thinking he must once again be caught in some lie. Thoroughly caught, if he faltered so obviously. “I was going to tell you after we arranged it. Nothing’s settled yet.”

  “Arrange what?” she asked, but she had noticed the large folder in Stephen’s hand. They were his drawings. He had brought his drawings to Stephen.

  “Lady Whitemarsh’s cousin is presently staying with her,” Stephen explained. “He is a very accomplished artist of considerable standing. Trained in portraiture, I believe. I’m given to understand he accepts students if they are sufficiently talented.”

  “He is,” said Marie-Anne promptly, never taking her eyes off Mason. “You are.” She took a few steps toward him, but he stayed where he was. He seemed frozen, and she recognized a kind of faint panic in him. “Oh mon coeur, he will love your work, I promise you. You are very frightened?”

  He swallowed. “Terrified. I might vomit on this very fine carpet.” A smile began to pull at his lips, though. “You?”

  “I drank too much,” she said, in case standing before him with loose, bedraggled hair and one bare foot did not make this obvious. She beamed at him. “My head is splitting.”

  His smile grew to reflect hers, and suddenly everything was perfect. They just stood, smiling at each other for a long moment in which Marie-Anne thought her face might crack, until he took a step toward her and she threw herself at him. His arms around her were absolutely what she wanted, but when he immediately began to whirl her about, she beat at his shoulders and protested that he would make her ill. He laughed and put her down, but did not let her go. That was good. She never wanted him to let her go again.

  She pulled back a little to see him, and his face so full of joy made her feel like he had spun her about. She was dizzy with happiness.

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly a little anxious, her hands holding his face as she looked for signs of misgiving. “But it is what you want? I should not push, it is very bad of me to be so impatient! You must want it for yourself, Mason.”

  “I like you impatient.” He curled his fingers in her tangled mass of hair. “I want it. And I want you. It seems crazy to think I can have both, all at once.” He gave a disbelieving laugh. “It’s an embarrassment of riches. And I’m not used to any kind of riches.”

  She smiled again, elated. “You will get used to it. It will be a new habit.”

  “Will it?” he grinned, and she nodded.

  She was interrupted in her intention to kiss him because she became conscious of some kind of mild commotion behind her. As she didn’t have any desire to take her arms from around Mason, she didn’t turn around. Instead, she pulled him a little, shuffling their feet as they still embraced, until they could both see what it was.

  “Under no circumstances will you allow her entrance, Collins,” Helen was saying to the butler. Amy and Dahlia had appeared in the entrance hall, and Collins held the front door open at barely a crack. “Lady Shipley is not welcome in my home, nor will she ever be. Her husband as well.”

  A squawk, rather like an outraged chicken, came from outside the door where presumably Lady Shipley was being made to cool her heels. Marie-Anne snorted with laughter as Collins closed the door firmly and Helen assured the girls they were most welcome, unlike their mother. It was as Mason had said – an embarrassment of riches, to have such a loyal friend by her side and such a man in her arms.

  “Marie-Anne, it’s the most dreadful thing!” Dahlia was very pale. “Phyllida has run off!”

  Marie-Anne felt a little twinge of guilt. She’d completely forgotten she had promised to look for Phyllida – though really, she’d only ever planned to call in at the Shipley’s townhouse to see if she was there, and obviously she wasn’t.

  “She left a note. We only found it this morning.” Amy clutched the paper in her hands and looked like she was also a candidate for being ill on the very fine carpet. “She’s gone off with the hermit. She says they are to be married.”

  “But he’s not a hermit at all, as though that weren’t bad enough. He’s a farmer!” Dahlia looked appalled. “He raises pigs!”

  Marie-Anne was too supremely happy to be anything but delighted at this news. “How lovely! Will we be invited to the wedding?” Dahlia looked stricken. “Oh, I am so sorry to be rude! I forgot, dear Dahlia. Do you mind if I marry Mason?” She turned her face back up to him. “We are very much in love.”

  “I can’t see – Marie-Anne, you – well no, of course I don’t object in the least!” Dahlia spluttered, clearly thinking this was far from relevant.

  “You want to marry me?” Mason asked. “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, very sure. Can I marry you twice? Three times, for luck.”

  “I’m very happy for you both, truly, but there is little time.” Amy sounded a little frantic. “Mr. St. James believes he knows where they are, and if you can come with us I’m sure you can persuade Phyllida–”

  “I’m not going to persuade Phyllida.” Marie-Anne didn’t look away from Mason, because he was the only thing she really wanted to see. “Phyllie is in love with her farmer. She follows her heart, as you have both done. Good for her.”

  “But my sister cannot be allowed to marry a pig farmer!” Dahlia protested.

  Marie-Anne’s only reply to this was a concise, “Pfft.” It made Mason laugh. Delightful, perfect sound, this laughter she would get to hear every day now.

  “But Marie-Anne!” Amy was using her most practical tone. “You know she will come to regret it. It is a terrible match, you can’t think she’ll be happy.”

  “Oh, it is probably a very bad idea,” Marie-Anne agreed. “You may tell her from me that to be a farmer’s wife is much less romantic than she has considered. After that, if she marries him, then I will only wish her joy. As you should.” She moved her hands up to the back of Mason’s neck so she could feel his hair against her fingertips. “Now go away. We are going to be very improper.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear,” said Mason as he bent his head to kiss her.

  It was very passionate – very deep and very long, as he had long ago promised his kisses would be. She held on to his shoulders as his hands gripped her bottom and lifted her closer to him, as tight as they could be. Really, why would anyone ever want to be less than shocking? All the best things were a little scandalous, like the way her hips fit against his and that little hint of a groan at the back of his throat.

  She thought she heard Helen invite the girls into the morning room for tea, but only came up for air after she heard Amy reluctantly say that they should not leave their mama on the front step. Then Collins announced to Stephen that the carriage was ready. Marie-Anne sighed against Mason’s lips, which were blessedly still near hers for the moment, and told herself he would be back very soon. She could make herself presentable while he was gone, even though she had a burning desire to be extremely unpresentable.

  He pulled his face back from hers a little. “Lord Summerdale,” he called to Stephen, still looking into Marie-Anne’s eyes. “Can we postpone this interview until tomorrow? I have a headache to cure.”

  “Yes, I will show him to his room,” Marie-Anne laughed.

  “That is easily arranged,” said Stephen, trying and failing to suppress his amusement. “Helen, shall we call on Lady Whitemarsh? We’ll meet this cousin.”

  Mason lifted off Marie-Anne off her feet and made his way toward the stairs with her.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Mason!” Helen called after them, as they headed up the stairs. “We’ll be back at dinner, and I shall thank you properly for putting stars in her eyes again.”

  Mason paused on the stair. “It’s my pleasure, ma’am,” he said over his shoulder. He grinned at Marie-Anne. “Quite a lot of pleasure.”

  Marie-Anne pulled at his hand, giggling like a girl. A girl who had temporarily forgotten that she was indeed built for adventure, and messy love affairs,
and impulsive acts. But she remembered now. She could hear the Shipley girls tittering, and imagined her friend’s blushes.

  “I will be a married woman soon, Hélène,” she shouted down the stairs. “I do not promise anymore that I will not be outrageous!”

  After all, if he was to become who he was always meant to be, then so would she. And it was her true nature to be a little shocking. What a wonderful thing, that she enjoyed it so well.

  Epilogue

  Mason had fully intended to arrange his day differently, so that he might actually be able to help Marie-Anne for once. But instead of coaxing a child to sleep in the middle of the day, somehow he was hunched over a table on the little terrace, carefully mixing pigment in the shade with the Italian sunlight warm on his back.

  “I’m sorry.” He called it softly over his shoulder when he heard her step behind him. The children were probably already asleep and it took a lot more than a shout to wake them, but better to be safe than sorry. “I was working on the Bronzino all morning and I lost track of time.”

  Marie-Anne snorted. “He will not be happy even if you spend a year at it. If he did not pay you so well, I would tell him his face is very ordinary and it does not deserve so much attention.”

  Mason smiled to himself. Her exasperation with Signore Bronzino was no different from her impatience with anyone else who paid him to paint them. She couldn’t think of Mason as a beginner still, so he had given up trying to get her to understand. Like everyone, Bronzino saw himself one way and Mason saw him another way, and the job was to make something the paying customer wanted. Marie-Anne saw every requested change as a slight to his talent; Mason saw every new iteration as a chance to learn – so much so that he had moments where he questioned whether this was actually honest work, getting paid to learn.

  His unreasonably adorable wife had come up behind him to kiss his neck. “But what is this?” she asked. “You made two different blue paints this morning. Already you need more?”