To Wed in Scandal (A Scandal in London Novel)

by Liana Lefey

  “Have you lost your mind entirely?” asked her mother loudly. “You know what kind of man he is!”

  “Yes. I do. And he is my choice, Mama!” Calming herself, she lowered her voice. “You agreed to let me choose my husband, and I have. He is wealthy, titled, and he genuinely cares for me. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No! Not if you love someone else. And not if that someone loves you as well. And you know Henry loves you—a blind fool could see it.”

  “He has never said it,” Sabrina countered. But she knew it was true, even if he had not actually spoken the words.

  “You do not have to give Falloure an answer today. Let me send for—”

  “I still wouldn’t consider him. We are not suited.”

  Her mother stared at her for a long moment before she finally spoke. “I can see there is no point in trying to change your mind.” Striding to the door, she paused. “I never thought any of my children would turn out to be cowards, least of all you. God help you both.” She jerked it open and summoned Falloure.

  Though she’d been cut to the quick, Sabrina pasted on a smile for her husband-to-be.

  “You have declared your intent to marry my daughter,” said her mother. “I find your proposal acceptable, provided your family is also agreeable to the match.”

  “My mother will certainly have no objection,” assured Percy. “In fact, I believe she’ll want us to marry as soon as possible.”

  Her mother stiffened. “I was going to suggest the beginning of next Season. Is there any particular reason for haste?”

  “No, my lady.” He flushed at the insinuation. “Other than the most respectful eagerness, I mean.”

  She relaxed. “Very well,” said her mother. “If that is your wish and your parents are amenable, then I also see no point in delay. The end of June shall suffice.”

  Sabrina was both relieved and pleased. June wasn’t that far off. Mama would forgive her as soon as she began producing grandchildren.

  Sabrina stood in greeting when Fairford entered. “Good morning, my lord.”

  Stepping forward, he bowed and held out his hand, but she did not offer him her fingers, as had become her custom. He dropped his arm. “I was pleased to receive your summons and came as soon as possible—to hear good news, I hope.”

  There was no point in putting off the inevitable. “Lord Falloure has asked for my hand. I have accepted.”

  Fairford’s wary mask fell away, replaced by incredulity. “Why in heaven’s name would you marry that, that—”

  “He is the logical choice,” she cut in, casting a nervous glance toward the door. Mama had deigned to allow her a measure of privacy, but she was not far away.

  “Logical? That you would choose him over me is, is incomprehensible! Montgomery I could understand, at least—but Falloure? I have put up with your indecision and Montgomery’s insufferable interference in the hope of securing your favor, and now you tell me that this blackguard has charmed his way into your good graces in a matter of weeks?”

  “My lord, I—”

  “You cannot possibly love him!”

  She flinched but did not back down. “We discussed this at length, my lord. I thought you understood I had no interest in a love match.”

  “I didn’t think you actually meant it. Women often say one thing and mean the opposite.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

  “I am truly sorry, my lord,” she said, again glancing at the door. “I genuinely regret any pain I may have caused—I assure you such was not my intent.”

  His normally cool gaze burned with fury, and his hands were clenched into fists. The situation was rapidly deteriorating.

  “Please, my lord, you must under—”

  “I have nothing more to say to you,” he snapped. Turning on his heel, he stalked to the door, yanked it open, and pushed past the startled footman waiting on the other side.

  She watched from the window as he stormed out of Aylesford House.

  Nervous sweat trickled down between her breasts as her heart finally began to slow. Cold disdain she’d anticipated, but never an emotional outburst like that.

  Drained by the encounter, she sat, just as the connecting door opened and her mother peeked through.

  “I’d say that went rather well, all things considered.”

  “Not now, Mama. Please.”

  “You think that was difficult, just wait,” said her mother. “There is still time to change your mind.”

  “I have made my decision, Mama. Now please, have pity and allow me a moment’s peace before he arrives,” Sabrina begged.

  The door closed, and she sagged into the cushions. Henry would be here soon.

  She stared at the ceiling, her thoughts racing. The clock struck the hour, and she looked up in surprise. Where had the time gone? She forced herself not to bolt from the room as the sound of someone being ushered through the front door echoed back down the hall.

  Punctual, as always.

  Steeling herself, she waited. It had to be done. Better a little heartache now than complete devastation later, she reasoned, twitching her skirts straight and taking a deep breath. With a stab of pain, the crack in her heart widened a little further as he entered wearing a happy smile. Her eyes devoured his face, taking in every detail, burning it into her memory.

  His smile slowly vanished, replaced by a look of concern. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  She could not bear to look at him, yet could not tear her eyes away. With an iron will, she made her numb lips move. “I’ve made my decision and accepted an offer of marriage from Lord Falloure. We are to wed at the end of the Season. It’s for the best. For both of us. You’ll agree with me, one day.”

  “So fear has won the battle, then.”

  She did not answer.

  Stepping forward, he grasped her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. He bent, and as his lips moved gently over hers, her body rallied, responding to his touch with enthusiasm for one last time.

  Giving back in full measure, she moaned softly, arching into him as his hands roamed down her back to mold her buttocks, pressing her closer.

  After only a moment of bliss, however, she broke away, pushing feebly at his chest.

  Reaching out, he tucked a stray strand of fiery hair behind a delicate ear. “I will remain in London until the day you wed. Should you change your mind—”

  “I cannot.” Closing her eyes, desperate to shut out the sight of him before it undid her completely, she waited.

  One heartbeat.

  Two.

  Ten. The door closed with a soft click.

  He was gone.

  Her lungs felt like they would explode. She waited until his footsteps retreated into silence before quietly following him out. She had no desire to discuss with her mother what had just happened.

  Upon reaching her chamber, she flung herself on the bed and sobbed until the light in the windows faded to darkness.

  What have I done? her heart wailed.

  The only wise thing, her mind answered.

  Fairy tales were for children, and she was no child. It was time to grow up. Percy was a fine match, a reasonable match. In a few months’ time, she would forget all about Henry and this horrible day. She would be preparing for a new life, a life of peace and domestic contentment.

  You will never be able to forget him, her heart whispered, unwilling to be silenced.

  Eyes she’d thought incapable of producing any more moisture began to well once more.

  SABRINA GAZED AT the glittering promise on her finger. The large sapphire flickered becomingly against her pale skin, its richness set off by the small diamonds encircling it.

  A smug gleam crept into Percy’s eyes as he made his move.

  She’d already made two mistakes this game and was well on the path to losing. A heavy sigh lodged in her throat. The things she’d always enjoyed seemed to have lost their appeal of late. Her next move was an attempt to distract her opponent from her q
ueen’s vulnerability.

  He wasn’t fooled in the least. “Three moves to checkmate.”

  She conceded.

  “I hear Fairford approached Miss Bidewell again, and that she has agreed to give him another chance,” he murmured, resetting the pieces for another game.

  “Good for her,” she replied, attempting to smile. “I hope they will be very happy.”

  “I hear Chadwick has also found a match.”

  This time her smile was not forced. “Has he?”

  “It seems Miss Chatworth has taken a fancy to him.” He warmed to the subject. “Caused quite a stir by accepting his offer. No one expected him to find a wife this Season, but I suppose you changed all that, didn’t you, my dear? You seem to have a profound impact on everyone you meet.”

  He’d said it in admiration, she knew, but his words burned like a hot poker. She’d had an impact, all right. Never for as long as she lived would she forget the look in Henry’s eyes when she told him she’d accepted this man’s offer. Even now, a week later, when she expected the pain to be fading, it was as sharp as if it had only just happened.

  Tears welled, and she ducked her head, busying herself with arranging the chess pieces just so until she regained control. She had to stop thinking about him!

  “Sabrina?”

  The rook in her hand tumbled to the floor as she jerked to attention, a guilty blush stealing up her neck and cheeks.

  Percy watched her bend to retrieve the wayward piece. “Is your mother still arguing with you over the details of the ceremony?”

  In spite of herself, she nearly laughed aloud, relieved he couldn’t read her well enough to know what was really wrong with her. Had Henry been sitting there, he would have known exactly where her mind had wandered.

  “I’m sorry, Percy. I’m just a bit out of sorts today.”

  “I’ve just the cure for your doldrums,” he whispered with a wink. He hopped up to reseat himself beside her.

  Before she could discern his intent, he kissed her.

  A shock ran through her flesh at the contact. It seemed an age since she’d been held this way, and even though it wasn’t Henry, her heart and body craved closeness with another human being.

  She wriggled impatiently. It wasn’t enough. He was being so gentle, so agonizingly slow! All she wanted was the feeling of Henry erased from her flesh, for Percy to ravish her and make her forget! Her fingers sank into the hair at the back of his head, pulling him closer.

  Groaning, Percy dipped lower and softly kissed her neck. Exposing her shoulder, he traced a path downward with his lips. Before he reached the neckline of her gown, however, he stopped.

  “Look at me.”

  She pulled at him, demanding that he continue.

  “Look at me. Open your eyes.”

  Obediently, Sabrina cracked them open to find him staring down at her.

  For a long moment, they just stared into each other’s eyes.

  Then, with a regretful sigh, Percy released her. “Sabrina, what is it you want of me?”

  Taken aback, she blurted out her ready answer. “To marry you, of course. And to care for our home and our children.”

  He waved away her words. “I’ve heard that before. I mean, what do you want of me as a man?”

  She shook her head, confused. “I don’t under—”

  “Do you care for me?”

  “I’m extremely fond of you, Percy. You know that. I would not have accepted your proposal otherwise.”

  “But you do not love me.”

  Her heart stopped.

  “Love is not what matters,” she snapped. Damn it, she could not lose him now! “Stability and compatibility are the most important elements in a marriage, and you and I are eminently well suited in both areas. Not only that, but I consider you my friend. What better match can one possibly desire?”

  “Ah, desire,” he said, his eyes lighting briefly. “That’s just it, don’t you see? You don’t desire me.”

  “I do!” she protested. “Why, just now, in your arms, I wanted you to—”

  “Blot out his memory,” he finished for her. A faint smile flickered across his lips. “I’ve comforted enough women in the aftermath of a disappointment to know such when I see it.”

  “I want to marry you,” she insisted. But the look on his face said he didn’t believe her. Panic grabbed her and squeezed her in an iron grip. “I cannot marry Henry,” she said, her voice shaking.

  Resignation crept into the set of his mouth. “You are in love with him, then.”

  “I am not,” she insisted. “I will admit to there being some attraction between us, but I refuse to marry him simply because of a physical reaction when I can hardly stand to converse with the man.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I would far rather spend a happy life as the wife of a man I genuinely like than chain myself to something as inconstant as passion.”

  “Sabrina, I would like nothing better than to make you happy, but you don’t really want—”

  “You are what I want!” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. She did want him, just not in the same way she wanted Henry. That sort of want was madness. This sort of want was reasonable, manageable, safe. “When you proposed, you spoke of building a marriage on the solid foundation of our friendship.” She looked up at him, desperate to reestablish that sentiment. “Percy, you are all I have ever desired in a husband. I am not in love with Henry. I wish only to marry you.”

  A defeated soul looked out from Percy’s eyes for a moment before the habitual veil of cynicism fell over them once more. “Then alas for Percival Falloure, the reformed Terror of the Ton. If I am truly what you want, then I shall be glad of it and honor my offer.”

  Relief flooded through her. She was safe!

  No, her pragmatic mind corrected. She would not be safe until she was married.

  Over the next several weeks, Sabrina carefully maintained the brightest of smiles in public, giving every visible evidence of happy bridal anticipation.

  But each night was spent in torment. She tried everything from chamomile tea and warm baths to reading until she could no longer keep her eyes open. Yet each morning, she still awakened with wet cheeks, her body filled with longing.

  Each morning, she wondered if the ache in her heart would ever subside.

  Henry’s gifts she hid away, eschewing anything associated with him. Even so, her mind was constantly filled with remembrances. She found him in the smallest of things: a songbird’s call, an elusive scent in the air. The irises in the bloody garden recalled the peculiar color of the man’s eyes, for pity’s sake!

  He was everywhere—and nowhere.

  Without Henry harassing her all the time, she felt oddly misplaced, lost. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror these days, it was almost a shock. It felt as though some strange semblance of her was walking, dancing, smiling, and conversing with people. She felt removed from everything except the pain in her heart.

  It’ll get better with time. Just give it time, she told herself.

  Her appetite all but disappeared. Everything tasted like ashes, and nothing, not even her favorite dishes, held any appeal anymore. Her generous curves slowly began to shrink, her cheekbones growing more and more prominent.

  When her mother commented on her lack of color and gauntness of cheek, Sabrina panicked. Though it made her feel slightly ill, she forced herself to eat and had her maid begin applying cucumber poultices, creams, and subtle maquillage to her face to counter both her pallor and the dark circles beneath her eyes. Although she detested such subterfuge, it was vital to maintain appearances.

  Today, Madame Trillon’s models paraded the latest Paris wedding fashions before her, her mother and sisters, and a select group of friends. Every female in the room was in an utter transport of delight—with the exception of herself. Though she tried her best to appear interested, she truly cared not which gown she ended up wearing.

  When her mother expressed great admiration for one in pa
rticular, she let three more pass and then chose her mother’s preference. Measurements were taken amid a flurry of giggles and teasing, and strict orders were given for her not to gain so much as an inch anywhere, lest the gown not fit properly on the happy day.

  She didn’t foresee that being a problem.

  Arrangements were moving right along—at a snail’s pace, it seemed. It was all she could do not to crawl out of her own skin. Impatience boiled just beneath her serene mask, impatience to be out of this house, out of London. How she yearned for new surroundings, to be in a place with no memories to haunt her! Memories of her father, of happy times with her sisters…of Henry.

  It was high time to move on, to set aside the past and look to the future. The end of the Season just couldn’t arrive soon enough.

  HENRY STAGGERED OUT of White’s, listing like a rudderless ship, insensate to the chill rain pelting his bent head and bowed shoulders.

  His carriage pulled up, and the footman opened the door.

  Straightening, Henry advanced with purpose—and banged the top of his head against the doorframe. Clutching his skull, he released a stream of invective and clumsily dragged himself the rest of the way up onto the plush squabs.

  “My lord?” the footman inquired, concerned for the trickle of crimson running down his master’s forehead.

  Having at the moment no tolerance for being fussed over like a wayward child, Henry reached out and grabbed for the door, intending to snatch it shut. In his haste, however, he overreached and tumbled out of the vehicle, headfirst, into the street.

  Several passersby laughed outright at the sight of his high and mighty lordship wallowing in the gutter.

  Henry groaned, partly due to the pain blossoming in his head, partly due to the smell emanating from the muck now covering the majority of his person, but mostly due to a distant sense of humiliation. This would be all over London by morning.

  Carefully bracing himself on the footplate, he stood and removed his soiled cloak, tossing it on the floor of the carriage before clambering in after it. This time, he allowed the footman to assist him and close the door behind him.