The Lady and the Rake: A Scandalous Arrangement (The Eardleys of Gostwicke Hall Book 1)

by Penelope Redmont

  Within a week of arriving in London, Bess understood that her her dowery gave her power. Men wanted her money, even if they didn't want her. She'd already had four marriage proposals, and hadn't accepted any of them.

  She'd decided that before she chose someone to marry, she would make her way in this fashionable world. After all, she would be bearing the children of the man she married. She couldn't rush into it.

  Her brother had told her to take her time. "You're young yet. Take the time to find your feet, and don't marry the first man who offers."

  At 24, Bess was almost a spinster, but Gordon was kind to suggest otherwise. Most women would have been married long since. Her Fleming cousins, who were around her own age, were all married. One already had three children. Bess wanted children too.

  Gordon had also asked her to mind her temper. "Promise me," he said.

  She had promised, even though she thought that he was being unjust. A temper? Her? She didn't think she had a temper at all, and said so.

  Her brother snorted. "Aye? Is that so? Recall the time you smashed every plate on the dinner table, and what about the way you attacked Rosie McTavish when she stole your beau." He laughed. "It was funny, though, I grant you. You grabbed her by the hair — and her a couple of heads taller than you. It was like a cat attacking a mastiff."

  How unjust, she thought. She'd smashed the plates when her father told her that he'd sold her favorite mare. The mare was just in foal, and she'd already made plans for the foal. As for Rosie McTavish, that cow had bullied and teased her for years. But, because the McTavishes were poor, and Father said that you needed to be kind to people who were less well off, she'd taken Rosie's taunts, pinches, and sneers. She'd tried to be kind. Then just because she could, Rosie kissed Douglas right in front of and then peeked around his shoulders, to smirk at Bess.

  "Promise me," her brother repeated.

  She promised.

  London, 1810

  The season was drawing to a close. Many people had already left London for their country estates, or for a few weeks at the seaside.

  Bess was looking forward to a relaxing summer with Jane. They thought to go to Bath, so that Jane could take the waters. After that, they had accepted an invitation to spend several weeks with Jane's connections who lived in a grand house in Dorset.

  To date, Bess had refused no fewer than six proposals of marriage — she'd had two in one week. She didn't ascribe her success to her looks or charm. She knew that she was courted for her fortune alone.

  When she said so, Jane told her that her cynicism wasn't attractive.

  Gordon was becoming fretful. He'd written Bess a very sharp letter. Bess had written back, just as sharply, telling him that she wouldn't marry to oblige him, although she would marry — perhaps in her second or third season.

  She didn't see why she should hurry to pick someone. She would spend the rest of her life with this person. At the back of her mind, was the thought that marriage could be the death of her. Gordon's wife had died in childbirth. As had their mother. Marriage was a dangerous business for females. She couldn't see that she needed to rush into it.

  She risked becoming known as a flirt and heart-breaker, Jane warned her one morning at breakfast.

  Bess was shocked. She sipped her chocolate to give herself time to mentally assess her behavior. Finally, she said: "I don't flirt, Jane — you know that."

  Gordon, she thought. She barely restrained herself from snapping at Jane. Gordon could only have learned of the offers which Bess had refused from her. Jane was Gordon's spy.

  "I admit that you've been circumspect, my dear, but look at this morning's paper."

  Jane handed Bess the Morning Advertiser and Bess read a small item Jane tapped with her finger:

  "The delicious and wealthy heiress Miss F has cut a swathe through our gallant gentlemen, but this reporter has learned that the gay charmer will have none of them. One wonders whether the lovely lady has already surrendered her charms, and to whom."

  Bess felt the color leaving her face. The item was about her, and it made a scandalous allegation. Libelous even.

  She read the item again and again, until Jane snatched the scandal sheet from her. "It's all right my dear. It seems that you've made an enemy. Don't concern yourself. I was worried about that something like this could happen. Mere gossip my dear, it will die down."

  "What can I do?"

  Jane shook her head. "I won't have you rushed into an alliance simply to weather gossip. We'll ignore it. You'll hold your head high... But perhaps you could let it be known that you favor someone? The gossips find it peculiar that you don't show a partiality for any of the gentlemen who court you."

  "I don't favor anyone — and why is that so strange?"

  "It's strange, because most young women are a good deal sillier than you are. They allow their head to be turned. You don't." She paused for a moment. "You have a fortune, and that's set people to talking. You're a prime plum on the marriage mart, and you're from Scotland. I've my suspicions about where this gossip comes from." She frowned darkly.

  "Who's gossiping about me?"

  "It doesn't matter. However, you do need to favor someone. So pick someone, anyone," Jane said firmly. "Anyone you like. What about Lord Darius Saville? He's the son of a duke — an earl. His father would leap onto such an alliance with pure joy — the family needs an infusion of funds."

  She paused for a moment when Bess shook her head vehemently. "You don't have to marry him, but you must show a partiality to a gentleman."

  "Marry that man? Never — besides, he would never countenance an alliance."

  "Why have you taken such a set against him? And what do you mean, he wouldn't countenance it?"

  Bess knew why she'd taken Lord Darius in dislike. Calling her uncivilized had been the beginning of it, and she disliked him intensely after that. She'd only seen him three more times. He never paid any attention to her, and yet, she found herself looking for him in the ballroom, or glancing at him at a dinner party.

  She didn't like him at all, and yet he claimed her attention.

  "He called me uncivilized." She explained to Jane what she had overheard.

  Jane's eyes widened, then she smiled. She said drily, "Uncivilized, is it? He's a member of Fox's set, so he's one to talk. That set is quite uncivilized enough for anyone, I should think. The things I could tell you…" She stopped, and winked at Bess. "I'll tell you when you're married, my sweet."

  That very same night, Bess met someone whose attentions she decided that she would welcome.

  India Browne, a young woman she'd befriended, introduced her to Mr Melrose at an evening party.

  India was 21, her family were poor, and she had confided in Bess that she needed to marry someone with a fortune. Her family were counting on her. India was desperate, because the season was almost over, and she hadn't had any offers.

  Bess asked Jane to ask India to accompany them to Bath, because she knew that otherwise, India would be forced to return to her family in Yorkshire. Many matches were made in Bath.

  "Miss Fleming," India blushed prettily, her pink cheeks flaming, "may I introduce Mr Melrose to you? His family originates from Scotland."

  Melrose bowed over her hand. He was very attractive, she saw, with burnished copper red hair, and brilliant blue eyes. He dressed well; a diamond stick pin glittered in his snowy cravat.

  He smiled at her. "I've heard of your beauty, Miss Fleming, and what I've heard doesn't do you justice. You're lovely. Come, and walk with me. What part of Scotland are you from?"

  He was very easy to talk to, and Bess enjoyed the time she spent with him.

  When she returned to Jane, Jane shook her head, and whispered to her behind her fan. "Be wary of him, my dear."

  "Why?"

  "It's well known that Mr Finlay Melrose is looking for a wealthy bride."

  "He's a fortune hunter?"

  "Later…" Jane said warningly, because India Browne was approaching th
em.

  In the carriage on their way home, Bess asked about Mr Melrose again.

  Jane tucked her evening shawl more closely around her. "There was some trouble, and Finlay Melrose was sent away, to Ireland." She glanced at India, and then hesitated. It seemed that whatever she was about to say, she had decided against saying it.

  "Why are you so curious about him? Is it his looks?" She asked.

  "He's very attractive," Bess said. "And he's charming too. He doesn't compliment me in that overdone way that other men too. I feel comfortable with him."

  Her maid was helping Bess to disrobe when Jane entered her dressed room. "Leave us for a moment," she said to the maid

  Bess looked at her in surprise. "What is it?"

  Jane waited until the maid had left. "I didn't want to speak about Mr Melrose in front of India. But you need to know his history. I saw the way he looked at you."

  She sat on the settee, and patted the spot beside her. "Sit with me for a moment. Melrose hasn't any money, and he's in debt. However, that describes most of the men in London…"

  Bess sat beside her. Jane paused for a long moment. "I might as well tell you. You'll hear whispers of it. He killed a man in a duel. That set him beyond the pale for several years. He spent some time in Ireland, and has recently returned. Avoid him, my dear."

  A duel? Bess didn't know what to say to that. She was shocked, and yet, she felt some sympathy for the man.

  "What was the duel about?"

  Jane shrugged. "No one knows. Whispers say that Lord Trumball found him with his wife, and called him out. Melrose killed the man. However, that's gossip, and I shouldn't repeat it. And neither should you. Now, let's hear no more about Mr Melrose."

  When Jane left, Bess thought about Mr Melrose. Finally she decided that Jane was right. Mr Melrose was attractive, and she liked him, but she couldn't court any more gossip by showing him any favor.

  One item in a scandal sheet was one item too many.

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  Also by Penelope Redmont

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