It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

Mother’s brown eyes widened, giving her the appearance of an owl. “Well,” she said on a huff. It was certainly not every day the Countess of Wakefield was left speechless.

  Katherine stared at the door where Jasper Waincourt, the 8th Duke of Bainbridge, just exited.

  Well, indeed.

  Chapter Four

  A sharp rap sounded on Jasper’s office door. He didn’t pick up his head from the ledger atop the surface of his desk. “Enter,” he barked.

  The door opened. “Your Grace, the Marquess of Guilford has asked to see you.”

  “I’m not receiving callers.” Jasper dipped his pen into the ink and marked several columns.

  “I explained you were not receiving callers.”

  “But I explained that I’m not merely a caller, but rather a friend,” Guilford drawled from the doorway.

  Jasper dipped his pen and made another mark. He scanned the first three columns, and then tossed his pen aside. “What is it?” he asked, impatiently. He waved off the butler, and the older servant bowed and hurried out.

  Guilford strolled into the room. He stopped beside the sideboard filled with crystal decanters. He studied several bottles and then picked up the bottle of brandy. He poured himself a glass. With the patience better reserved for one of the cloth, he strolled over to Jasper’s desk, and sat in the lone chair, directly across from him.

  “Really, Bainbridge,” he said, after he’d taken several sips. “You ask ‘what is it’ as though you didn’t create quite the stir with your heroic rescue of a mysterious young lady from the Thames River.”

  A growl worked its way up Jasper’s throat, and he reached for his pen. He dipped it angrily into the ink well, and completed the next row of tabulations. The last thing he desired was to become gossiped about by the bloody ton. He’d imagined after three years as the Mad Duke, Society had forgotten about the Duke of Bainbridge and his now dead wife, Lady Lydia.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Dead and buried. Cold in the grave.

  Jasper lashed at himself with the reminder of it. He accepted the stark remembrance of Lydia’s smiling visage, and then replayed her face contorting with the pain of being torn apart by their unborn child.

  The pen snapped in his hand. Ink smeared across his previously immaculate page. Jasper tossed the pen aside. “I don’t hear a question there,” he snapped. He appreciated Guilford, but many times he wanted to send his only friend to the devil. This happened to be one of those times.

  Guilford folded an ankle across his knee. “Imagine my shock to find you gone.” He waved his hand. “Oh, I’d briefly considered perhaps you’d gone to help yourself to another tankard of ale, but then thought you’d never do anything even remotely emotional as to indulge in too much drink.” Suddenly, Guilford leaned forward. “Therefore you can imagine my absolute shock to discover you’d gone and done something so very public as to risk your life to save an unknown woman.”

  The woman, Lady Katherine Adamson, slipped into his mind. With her snapping eyes, the tart edge to her words…his initial opinion of the young lady held true—she was no great beauty. And yet, there had been something very intriguing about this woman who’d not been at all cowed by his presence. Jasper refused to rise to his friend’s bating. Instead, he sat back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest.

  All the air seemed to leave Guilford. “Blast and damn, does nothing I say or do manage to get a rise out of you?”

  Jasper scowled. “Is that what your intentions are? To get a rise out of me?” It would take a good deal more than his friend’s ineffectual attempts to bait him to rouse any emotion in him. Again, the ice princess, Lady Katherine, slipped into his mind.

  And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the king decreed it to spare my life. Yes, Lady Katherine Adamson was no grand beauty; brown hair, brown eyes, and the faintest dusting of freckles along her cheekbones. And yet…her slender frame, well over a foot shorter than his own six-foot-five-inch figure, had possessed remarkable curves that had layered very nicely against his body. With her body atremble from the cold, and her teeth chattering uncontrollably, he’d imagined her near death experience would have dulled her spirit. Instead, her snappish tone had put him in mind of a hissing and spitting cat cornered in the street.

  Guilford continued to sit there in silence, seeming to study Jasper over the rim of his partially emptied glass of brandy. He took another sip. “Who was she?”

  “Who was who?” Jasper replied, and tugged open the front drawer of his desk. He withdrew a new pen, and touched his fingertip to the point.

  His friend gritted his teeth loud enough for the sound to reach Jasper’s ears. “Don’t be an ass.”

  Jasper kept his gaze trained on the ledger in front of him. He turned the page, and dipped his pen in ink. “Lady Katherine Adamson.”

  Silence.

  “Ahh.”

  Jasper’s jaw clenched. He counted to ten, making a desperate bid not to feed that ‘Ahh’. And failed. “And?” he barked. “Do you know the lady?” Jasper didn’t know why it should matter if Guilford knew the spirited creature. It didn’t, he assured himself. It didn’t matter who the hell she was.

  Guilford uncrossed his leg, a grin on his lips. “There is an elder sister.” His brow wrinkled. “I believe Lady Aldora. She’s been recently wed to Lord Michael Knightly.”

  Lord Michael Knightly. The second brother to the Marquess of St. James purported to be as rich as Croesus, and ruthless in matters of business.

  Jasper had heard of the man; knew there was some scandal or another attached to his name, but it went back years ago, to a time when bits of information such as that might have interested Jasper. No longer.

  Furthermore, Jasper didn’t give a damn about Lady Aldora.

  His friend must have followed the unspoken direction of his thoughts, for he continued.

  “It is my understanding that Lady Katherine has a twin sister. A lovely creature, far more beautiful than the lady you fished from the river. They made their Come Out this year. Both remain unwed.”

  And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the king decreed it to spare my life.

  His lips twitched in remembrance of her spirited outburst.

  “I say, did you just smile, Bainbridge?”

  Jasper growled. “No.”

  Guilford downed the remaining contents of his glass and then leaned over, placing it with a loud thunk upon Jasper’s mahogany desk. The usual easy smile worn by his affable friend now gone, replaced by a somber set to his mouth in a show of pity that was neither wanted nor appreciated. Jasper had seen that look those three years ago. He gripped the arms of his chair hard enough that his nails bit into the wood and left marks upon the surface.

  “She would not want you to live like this, Bainbridge.”

  His grip tightened.

  Guilford seemed unaware of the volatile emotion thrumming through Jasper, for if he was, he’d surely have known to cease his barrage.

  Instead, he continued. “Lydia loved you. She would want you to be happy.”

  Jasper looked at a point over Guilford’s shoulder, flexing his jaw. “You dare presume to know what Lydia would want?” Not a soul had known another so well as Jasper had known his wife. From her smile to her gentle spirit, he knew her better than he knew the lines that covered his palm.

  Guilford shifted forward in his seat; the aged leather cracked in protest. “Then you tell me, Bainbridge, you who knew her better than any other. Would Lydia be so cold and cruel as to want to see you live your life as this hard, unforgiving, empty man you’ve become?”

  “Go to hell,” Jasper snapped.

  His friend inclined his head. “I believe your response shall suffice as an answer.” Guilford climbed to his feet, and fished around the front of his pocket. He extracted a small book, no larger than the span of his palm and dropped it onto Jasper’s desk. “Consider it a bit of
an early Christmastide present,” he murmured.

  Jasper dropped his gaze.

  Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.

  “It is the story of a world-weary man looking for meaning in his life,” Guilford went on.

  “I don’t—”

  “Read poetry. I know. But you used to, and I thought perhaps as it is Christmastide, and a time of hope and new beginnings, that you might find a renewed love for the written word.” Guilford opened his mouth as if he wished to say more. Instead, he sketched a short bow. “Good day, Bainbridge. I shall see you tomorrow.”

  “You needn’t come by,” Jasper barked when his friend grasped the handle of the door.

  “I know. But that is what friends do.” He paused. “Oh, and Bainbridge?” He reached into the front pocket of his jacket once more and fished something out. He tossed the item across the room. It landed with a solid thump atop Jasper’s desk, coming a hairsbreadth away from his ledgers. “I managed to retrieve Lady Katherine’s reticule. I thought you might return the item to your lady.”

  “She’s not—”

  Guilford took his leave. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.

  “My lady,” Jasper finished into the silence. He momentarily eyed the small pale green reticule, reached for it, and then caught himself. With a curse, he shoved it aside and instead picked up Byron’s recent work. He turned it over in his hands. At one time, Jasper had read and appreciated all the works of the romantic poets. When he’d courted Lydia, he’d read to her sonnets that bespoke of love and beauty. Her death had shown him that sonnets were nothing more than fanciful words, not even worth the ink they were written in.

  Yet, Guilford somehow believed the remnants of the man Jasper had been still dwelled somewhere inside him. When all the servants had fled in fear of the Mad Duke after Lydia’s death, Guilford had been unwavering in his steadfastness; the one constant in Jasper’s life, when all friends had gone.

  And how did Jasper repay that devotion? With curt words and icy dismissals.

  Jasper tossed the book down and stood so quickly his chair scraped along the hard wood floor. He proceeded to pace. Guilford dared to drag him away from Castle Blackwood and thrust him back into the joy and merriment enjoyed by mindless members of Society. His gaze skittered off to Lady Katherine’s reticule, and he cursed.

  Why couldn’t Guilford have just left Jasper to wallow in the misery of his own making in the country? There, Jasper was not made to think of anything beyond the loss of Lydia. His staff, a deferential lot, knew to judiciously avoid Jasper’s path. Yet, in the span of a day, he’d been forced to take part in the Christmastide festivities upon the Thames River, and he’d not enjoyed any hint of a reminder of the time of year when Lydia had died amidst a pool of her own blood.

  He punished himself by dragging the memory of her into focus, except…

  He blinked.

  And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the king decreed it to spare my life.

  And yet, the fiery, vixen whom he’d pulled from the river flashed to his mind.

  Jasper raked a hand through his hair. In that moment, he loathed Guilford for dragging him off to that infernal fair, and he loathed himself for allowing Guilford to drag him off, because then he would remain blissfully ignorant of the snapping Lady Katherine, who’d infiltrated his thoughts and robbed him of Lydia’s image just then.

  His jaw set in a hard angle. If his friend believed Jasper had returned to London to rejoin the living and take part in any of the winter festivities, he was to be disappointed. Outside of his own solitary presence, Jasper had little intention of intermingling with any members of Society.

  He picked up the book of poetry at the edge of his desk, and fanned the pages. His friend thought to give him poetry of the romantics. Either Guilford was a lack-wit, or foolishly unaware that the last book Jasper would ever pick up was the drivel of romantic poets spit upon the written page. There had been a time when he had enjoyed the words of Blake and Byron immensely. Not any longer. Not since life had taught him the perils of love.

  He tossed the gift aside. Since that night, he still allowed himself to read, but his interests had changed a good deal. A hard smile formed on his lips. And certainly the last thing he’d care to read were books of romance and love.

  Jasper strode over to the table filled with crystal decanters. He pulled the stoppered out and splashed several fingerfuls into a glass. If he was to remain in London, he had little intention of resuming his previous way of living.

  The sooner Guilford realized that, the better off they all would be.

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, my goodness, Katherine, will you not speak of it?”

  Katherine sat at the window seat that overlooked the back gardens. Her sister knelt at her side, her eyes fairly pleading for details Katherine did not want to give.

  She hugged her arms around her waist as the remembered terror of that day came flooding back. “There is nothing to speak of, Anne.”

  Her sister sat back in a flounce of skirts. “Hmph,” she muttered. “You nearly drowned.”

  “Because I was at that silly fair.”

  “For which I’m ever so sorry,” Anne continued. “If you’d only stayed with me while I shopped…”

  Katherine glared her into silence.

  Her normally loquacious sister had sense enough to let that thought go unfinished.

  Katherine returned her attention to the grounds below, and thought of the moment when her water-logged skirts had tugged her downward. And then he’d appeared. A kind of angel rescuer—more of a dark angel, but an angel nonetheless. The Duke of Bainbridge may be an unsmiling, boorish lout, but he had saved her, and for that he would forever have her gratitude.

  A smile played about her lips. Whether he wanted it or not. She suspected the last thing the dark, cold duke would ever care for was warm expressions of gratefulness.

  “Will you at least speak of the duke?” Anne pressed.

  “No,” Katherine said automatically. She studied the snowflakes as they swirled past the windowpane. She’d not speak of him. She’d resolved to remember him for his rescue but beyond that, to bury thoughts of his harsh coldness.

  “Mother said—”

  “Anne,” she warned.

  “Mother said a scandal surrounds him.” She leaned closed, and braced her hands upon the edge of the window seat. “She says they called him the Mad Duke for several years, and then Society ceased talking of him. Said he disappeared to the ruins of his castle.”

  Katherine fisted the fabric of her skirts. She told herself she’d not feed her sister’s salacious appetite for gossip. She told herself to not ask. The Duke of Bainbridge’s business was his own. And yet…

  “What happened to him?” The words tumbled from her lips.

  From the clear pane of glass she detected her sister’s slight shrug. “Some say he murdered his wife.”

  Katherine gasped. “Anne,” she chided. “Do not speak so.” She thought of the veneer of icy hardness that clung to him, the apathy in his pale green eyes. Such a man was surely capable of violence, and yet, that same man had risked his own life to save hers. Those were not the actions of a gentleman capable of murder.

  Anne rose amidst a flutter of pale, pink skirts. She, however, appeared to have identified Katherine as a captivated audience. “That is all that is known,” she said, sounding like a child who’d just been told they are not to receive any plum pudding for Christmas dessert. She settled her hands upon her hips. “How can a man have been said to have murdered his wife, and no one knows any details of the night?”

  “That is enough, Anne.” She’d not condone such gossip.

  “Hmph, very well, then. You are a bore today, Katherine, and I merely sought to provide you company.”

  “You can join me on my outing to the book shop.”

  An inelegant snort escaped her sister. “Don’t be foolish.” She glanced out t
he window. “You’d brave snow to go—.”

  “I’d hardly call it snow. It is merely a few flakes.”

  “To find some dull books about …?”

  “They aren’t dull.”

  “Poetry.” Anne continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “You should at least read the words of love and—”

  “Enough, Anne,” Katherine said on a sigh.

  She gave a flounce of her golden ringlets. “Well, I for one would far rather see to my pianoforte.”

  For all of Katherine’s lack of ladylike abilities, Anne seemed to excel in every endeavor, particularly her ability to play and sing. And Mother was quite indiscriminate in the frequency in which she pointed out the differences to Katherine.

  Katherine flung her legs over the side of the window seat and her brown muslin skirts settled noisily about her ankles. “Poetry is the fruit of the soul.”

  Her sister snorted. “Not the poems you read.”

  Katherine closed her lips tight. No, her interests didn’t lie with the romantics. As a child, studying with their governesses, upon Father’s betrayal, and Aldora’s frantic search for a wealthy, titled husband, all foolish dreams had been quashed.

  “Are you certain you’d not care to join m—?”

  “Quite certain,” Anne said with a decisive nod. She paused, and the usual cheerful, carefree glimmer in her sister’s sky-blue eyes turned uncharacteristically serious. She took Katherine’s hands. “That day, I…” she shook her head, dislodging a single golden curl across her I. “I saw the crowd of onlookers and I knew. I…”

  Katherine gave her hands a squeeze.

  “I really am just so glad you were uninjured. I would be…”

  Katherine nodded. “I know, Anne,” she said quietly. “I should be lost without you as well.”

  Her sister kissed her cheek, and hurried from the room.

  Katherine stared after her. They always had possessed an eerie ability to know just what the other was thinking, an ability to finish one another’s sentences, even. It had grated on Mother’s nerves to no end. She grinned in remembrance of the good fun they’d had as children tormenting their poor mother.