It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  Amelia scowled. “Do you have a better offer?”

  “No, but Mother agreed to sponsor Cousin Eustice for the Season, so she may need me at home.”

  “For what?” Amelia demanded, her voice full of skepticism.

  “I don’t know,” Philip growled, starting to feel trapped. His sister was making it incredibly hard not to lie to her, a thing he did not want to do. “Maybe Mother will want my help making a list of eligible bachelors for Eustice.”

  Amelia shook her head. “Mother wouldn’t do that.”

  “She may,” Philip argued. Who was Amelia to say what someone would never do? She probably thought he would never marry for money, after all.

  Amelia narrowed her eyes. “All right. I’ll play along. Let us say Mother did want to make a list. That’s not something you would do.”

  Philip stepped around Amelia and edged his way toward the door. “I’d do anything for Mother,” he said without looking back. “You know that.”

  “Well, any man who writes a poem titled The Champion of True Love would never make a list of men for a woman trying to catch as a husband,” Amelia said to his back.

  Philip scowled at the reference to the poem he’d written after Mary had broken off their betrothal. “Only a sister would dare to allude to the lowest point in a man’s life.”

  Amelia clicked her tongue. “I’m here to remind you of your true self.”

  He stepped through the threshold with one foot in the study and the other in the passageway. “Do I appear to have forgotten my true self?” He faced his sister, wanting to see her expression. He had a sudden suspicion that his sister had been eavesdropping at Aversley’s study door.

  She stood wide-eyed and the picture of innocence, which he knew could be quite deceiving, knowing Amelia as he did. She offered him a sweet smile. “Are you not the one always saying true love simply happens and that one cannot plan for it?”

  “Mother is not planning for love,” Philip grumbled, not liking that Amelia’s comments were making him feel as though he was betraying who he was when all he was doing was trying to save his family and maintain his pride. “She is planning for marriage.”

  Amelia’s brows dipped. “Do you no longer believe the two go hand in hand?”

  “In a perfect world.”

  “Oh, Philip!” Amelia’s voice trembled slightly. “When did you quit thinking like a poet?”

  When I realized I was about to no longer be able to afford food, he wanted to say. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to go.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He charged out of the study, down the corridor into the main hall, and brushed past the footman who was reaching to open the door for him. Philip, needing an escape from his own thoughts, flung open the door and stormed outside. He would have kept going straight to his awaiting carriage if he hadn’t crashed right into something very soft. That something let out a hearty umpf that told him right away the something was a someone. And when he looked up, he realized that someone was Jemma, teetering on the edge of the steps, her eyes wide and her arms waving frantically in the air as she tried to right herself.

  For a moment, he stood stock-still, fascinated with the emotions careening across her lovely face. Determination. Fear. Frustration. Back to determination. An inspiration of words hit him: An Ode to a Tempestuous Woman.

  She swayed backward, and he reached out and snagged his hand about her waist to save her. He meant only to bring her forward, but he overestimated how hard to tug and she ended up barreling into his chest, her hands grasping—no doubt in self-preservation—both his arms. The beat of her heart hammered against his chest, and the poetic words that had failed to come to him for more months than he could remember flowed through his mind as he stared down into her dazzling eyes. How had he failed to notice that gold flecked her blue-green eyes? He’d never seen the likes of the color.

  “I could write a hundred poems about your eyes,” he blurted, lost in them.

  Immediately, she tugged away, then moved down to the step below him and tilted her head up to look at him. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun, or maybe to hide her eyes from him so he wouldn’t wax eloquent about them anymore. He felt like a fool. He could make a joke of it to save his pride, but he refused to do so.

  The moment she realized he wasn’t jesting was clear by the flare of her nostrils and the subtle way she tried and failed to inhale a deep breath. “How boring that would be,” she finally said. She lifted her chin. “Would it go something like, She had round eyes, very oddly colored both green and blue?”

  Ah. She didn’t truly see herself. Given that he barely knew her, he couldn’t decide if the revelation was surprising or shed light on her prickliness. If she saw herself as odd, maybe her sharp wit was a defense against her insecurity. The thought tightened his chest. His sister had seen herself in that same light for most of her life, and it had been hard to watch the toll it had taken.

  Devil take it. He should simply leave, but he couldn’t do it. He wanted her to see herself through his eyes, so she would have a bit of confidence when having to brave the cruel ton in her debut. “I think the poem would go more like this: She had eyes of emeralds and sapphire ice, entrancing and fearsome at once. Beguiling, beseeching, bewitching in thrice…”

  His heart pounded as he looked at her. He didn’t know where that had come from, but he was damned proud of it. That was his one last act as a non-rake.

  She turned her face away for a moment, and when she glanced back at him, she shook her head, almost as if at herself. “You have a beautiful gift for lying.”

  He frowned. “Was that your version of a compliment?”

  She cocked her head and drew her eyebrows upward. “Take it as whatever you desire.”

  He wanted her to realize she was lovely because soon she would realize how little it might matter without a dowry, but it appeared he had bungled it. He could feel the heat in his cheeks. Rakes didn’t blush, damn it all.

  “I do not lie, Miss Adair.”

  “You’d be the first man, then, Lord Harthorne.”

  “Jemma!” a voice said in clear dismay from a few steps beneath her. Philip blinked in surprise at Jemma’s sister, Miss, Miss— Ah, hell. Her Christian name had completely escaped him. He could recall she was the younger sister, though, so propriety demanded he use her Christian name. Jemma had struck him dull-witted. Fine start to being a rogue, this was.

  He sketched a hasty bow. “I didn’t see you standing there Miss…?” He certainly couldn’t pretend he remembered her name when he’d just told Miss Adair he didn’t lie.

  “Miss Anne,” she said, offering one of her pleasant smiles.

  She was a pretty thing, her pale looks currently all the fashion, but strangely not compelling to him as her flame-haired, freckle-flecked sister was. Everything about Jemma begged inspection, dissection, and quill to paper to figure out the conundrum she presented. Whereas Miss Anne appeared to be an open book. There was nothing wrong with that, but he had always liked the puzzles of life.

  He cast a sideways glance at Jemma and found her studying him as if he were some foreign specimen she wasn’t sure whether to crush under her slipper or capture in a jar. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said to Miss Anne.

  “You’ll be seeing more of me,” the young lady gushed. “And my sister. We’re making our debut this Season.”

  His gaze immediately went to Jemma’s face. He couldn’t help it. She displayed her displeasure vividly. A dark scowl marred her lovely features, and her lips pressed into a thin, white line. Clearly, she was not nearly as pleased to be making her debut and partaking in the Season as her sister was. He could relate. The prospect of countless balls filled with nonsensical chatter and false smiles, not to mention his having to actively search for an heiress, did not entice him in the least, but it was necessary.

  “I wish you both happy hunting,” he said, unsure what else to say. “I’m certain we wil
l run into one another again very soon.”

  Jemma snorted, and her sister elbowed her in the side. Jemma cut her eyes to her sister before focusing on him once again. Something mischievous stirred in the depths of her eyes that matched the wicked smile suddenly lighting her face. “Is that what you are doing, Lord Harthorne? Hunting?”

  “Are you?” he parried to sidestep the need to lie.

  “No. I’m running.”

  “Jemma,” her sister groaned.

  She shrugged. “I doubt Lord Harthorne is bothered by me speaking my mind. Are you, Lord Harthorne?”

  He had to smile. He rather liked her bold nature. “As long as your words don’t sting me, I am not bothered a bit. In fact, I find I’m quite intrigued.”

  Her eyebrows knitted together. “My aim is not to intrigue.”

  “Don’t you want a husband, Miss Adair?”

  “About as much as I want the plague,” she replied cheekily.

  He threw his head back and laughed, even as her sister grabbed her hand and started tugging on her. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Harthorne. My sister is not herself tonight.”

  “I’m myself,” Jemma called over her shoulder as her sister dragged her up the few steps to the front door.

  As the door opened, Philip remembered the money in his coat. He’d forgotten to give it to his sister. “Miss Adair!”

  Jemma swung around to face him and quirked her brows up. “Miss me already?”

  By God, she was an outspoken lady. He itched to get home and create a poem worthy of her. He pulled the paper out from his coat. “I believe I owe you this.”

  Her eyes widened, and she scurried down the three steps and took it. As she read what he had scrawled on the outside of the note she laughed, and he smiled. He’d written the name Katherina across it. “Thank you, Petruchio,” she said, performed a perfect curtsy, and then swiveled away and disappeared within the house.

  Philip was left standing in the growing twilight, staring at his carriage and thinking of Jemma and her sister. Jemma was beautiful and Anne was lovely, but most men of the ton would place a good dowry over appearances, with disposition coming in last. Disgust filled him, and he jerked. Now he had to put himself in the classification of those he had long held in contempt, those who considered a dowry the most important thing on the list of qualities to be had in a wife.

  A sweat broke out on his forehead as he trudged toward his awaiting carriage. He was looking forward to the start of the Season about as much as one looked forward to the prospect of death.

  Chapter Three

  Two Days Later

  Jemma sat as still as she could while her lady’s maid, Eliza, carefully arranged her hair into a coil atop her head and placed a circle of white flowers in her hair. She’d told Eliza that she’d planned to wear it down, but Eliza, her face turning fiery red, had stuttered and stammered and finally spit out that Grandfather had given her specific orders to make sure Jemma’s hair was up and tamed. If she didn’t make it so, Eliza would likely hold the record for the shortest-employed lady’s maid to ever work in this home. Jemma had relented at once. She may want to shock and dismay Lord Glenmore when she met him at the ball tonight, but not at the expense Eliza’s job.

  “I’m finished,” Eliza pronounced, handing Jemma the looking glass. Despite herself, Jemma smiled. Eliza had indeed tamed her hair and made it look quite lovely. Jemma complimented her profusely while Eliza helped her get into one of the ridiculous white, frothy gowns her grandfather had ordered made for her and Anne some time ago. The only thing good she could say about the gown was that the color white did not flatter her one bit. In fact, it made her freckles contrast vividly.

  Anne, who was naturally resplendent in white, breezed through the door looking like a delicate flower as Jemma tried to bat Eliza’s hands away when she attempted to powder her face to hide the freckles.

  “No powder,” she said.

  “But, Miss Adair, your grandfather—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jemma huffed. “Don’t tell me you’ll lose your position if my freckles are showing.”

  The maid nodded. Jemma let out a disgruntled sigh but turned to face Eliza so the woman could powder her. When she was done, Jemma looked in the mirror and frowned. The powder had done its job, which was the opposite of what Jemma had wanted.

  “I believe my work here is done,” Eliza said. She bobbed a curtsy and rushed out the door.

  Jemma grunted. “I’m surprised Grandfather didn’t tell her to bind my feet. After all, they’re too big compared to most women’s.”

  “Your feet are perfect,” Anne said with a slight wince.

  Jemma touched Anne’s shoulder. “Is your leg bothering you?”

  Anne nodded. “It’s the horseback riding lessons. I think I overtaxed myself.”

  Jemma nibbled her lip. “Perhaps you ought not go tonight.” She didn’t voice what Anne already knew: when her leg was bothering her, her limp became incredibly pronounced and could make even walking painful. If Anne had to dance…

  “I’m going! So don’t you dare say a word, especially in front of Grandfather. He might say I cannot attend tonight because he’s afraid I’d embarrass him with my graceless gait. I refuse to be denied.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Anne. Missing one ball will not be the end of your life. You will have opportunity aplenty to meet a man.”

  Anne opened her mouth as if to say something, then clamped it shut. “I’m going. I must, and that’s the end of it. Besides”—she hiked up her dress and pointed at her new slippers—“these do help me tremendously. For all Grandfather’s coolness, it occurred to me how incredibly thoughtful this gift was.”

  Jemma frowned. It was thoughtful, which was completely unlike him. “He must have an ulterior motive.”

  A dark, mutinous look crossed Anne’s face, and she thrust out her chin. “You’ve become a judgmental, cold, tart-tongued shrew.”

  Jemma gasped. It had been funny when Lord Harthorne had called her Katherina from The Taming of the Shrew because she knew he had been teasing her, but Anne was wholly serious. “I do believe that is the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  Anne sighed. “Well, I’m sorry but it’s true. Just look how tart you were with Lord Harthorne. He paid you a compliment and you told him he had a beautiful gift for lying!”

  Jemma winced. She did feel the teeniest bit regretful about that. Though, it was probably correct. He was man, after all. She shrugged. “He didn’t seem overly wounded.”

  “What was he supposed to say? That you’re rather nasty? He’s a gentleman. And unless you are blind, surely you see how handsome the man is with his mahogany hair and dark, dazzling eyes.”

  Mahogany hair? Dark, dazzling eyes? Anne’s language was so flowery, yet Jemma would have chosen those exact words to describe Lord Harthorne. She could picture his eyes and hair now—in exact detail—and that was the problem. It raised her defenses. He raised her defenses.

  A gleam came to Anne’s eyes, as if she could read Jemma’s thoughts and understood that now was the time to strike. “And as for Lord Glenmore, you’ve judged him unworthy before you’ve ever met the poor man! You, sister dear, are the sort of old, lonely, bitter woman we used to feel so sorry for when she came into the bakery, except you are not old.”

  Anne’s words stung, especially because Jemma worried that the bitter part was true. Will’s betrayal had changed her. Before he’d broken her heart, she’d believed Mother had just had rotten luck with Father and that Grandfather was your typical stuffy aristocrat who couldn’t move past the fact that his daughter had defied him. But after Will, she knew she’d been fooling herself, and that made her angry at Will, at Father, and at Grandfather. She didn’t want to be bitter for the rest of her life. She had to work to let that anger go, she knew. But that didn’t mean she was changing how she felt about men. She was not.

  “Jemma?”

  “I don’t want to be bitter,” she relented.

&
nbsp; Anne quirked a brow. “And Lord Glenmore?”

  Jemma shook her head. “Any man who would agree to court a woman he’s never met would never be the sort of man I would have considered for marriage, even before I became a shrew,” she said with a smirk.

  Anne smiled. “I suppose I’ll have to take what you’ll give me.”

  “Smart sister.” Jemma winked.

  Soon they were on their way to their first ball of the Season with their grandfather and their chaperone, Mrs. Featherstone. It didn’t take long to get to the Duke of Scarsdale’s home, and once they arrived, Grandfather turned to Jemma and waved a hand.

  “Come, I already see Lord Glenmore.”

  Jemma barely stifled her groan as she, Anne, and Mrs. Featherstone followed Grandfather through the thick crowd. Within moments, she found herself curtsying as she was introduced to Lord Glenmore and his father, the Marquess of Wynfell, under glittering chandeliers and surrounded by the swirling notes of a quadrille. When she came up from her curtsy, she searched out Lord Glenmore’s eyes and realized, with a start, that the small, beady things were focused on her bosom. She slid Anne an I-told-you-so look, but Anne wasn’t even paying attention. She had her head turned to the dance floor, and as Jemma tried to ferret out at what or whom her sister might be looking, Lord Glenmore spoke and she turned sharply back toward him.

  “I’ll be pleased to court Miss Adair,” he said in a most lecherous tone, not bothering to take his gaze from her chest as he spoke.

  Was the fiendish man talking to her, her grandfather, or his father? Regardless, her temper sparked to life like a raging river, and she opened her mouth to ask him if he always ogled women’s bosoms, but he drew his gray eyes upward to her face and curled his lips back in a feral sort of smile.

  “I’m sure it won’t take us long at all to ascertain whether or not we suit.” A sneer pulled his lips even farther back as his gaze drifted slowly once again down to her bosom.