A Scandal In the Making

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  "Evan." He could hear the anguish in her voice but he didn't care - at least not just then.

  This time, he scoffed openly at her as she reached for him, her mouth refusing to form whatever words she wished to speak. "You ask how I could not know that you love me? Then I ask you the same thing. For I showed you, Cassandra. Each time I took your body with mine, I showed you that love. I simply never said the words. I didn't know how. But I wanted to, so very badly. It seems that you didn't know how to say them any better than I did."

  Evan was tired now, the strength gone from his body. He looked at Cassandra, the woman he loved, and now no longer saw a bright and beautiful future but rather a past destroyed by lies and secrets and half-truths.

  "I need time," he said softly, not bothering to wait for whatever else she might say.

  "As do I." Evan had not expected that response from her but perhaps he should have, for he knew that she had been hurt, too. A small part of him could still admit that much, at least. He also saw that same exhaustion echoed in her eyes, and he wanted to reach for her, comfort her, tell her that all would be well. But it was too soon.

  "Do no expect me home this evening." With that, he turned and walked out of Lady Knightly's music room, leaving the woman he loved behind. He couldn't face her just now. Maybe tomorrow, perhaps, but not now.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Evan popped open an eye as someone shook him firmly on the shoulder. "Go away," he mumbled, getting a mouth full of fuzz for his troubles. His neck also felt scratchy and his left foot was freezing cold. Odd that. Last he remembered, he was at a table in Noroc, one of the many clubs he belonged to and frequented when he needed a rest from Berkshire House. A club owned, at least in part, by the Bloody Duke and several of his friends, so all manner of illicit pleasures could be easily obtained. All of the best gentlemen in London longed for membership at Noroc, and the club was noted for the fine care the staff took with the members at all times.

  Which was likely why he was lying on something soft and not waking up in the filthy gutters of Whitechapel. That was always a benefit in his opinion.

  If only he could remember how he had come to be in this prone position. He did last remember sitting up, after all.

  There had been...people with him. Females? Possibly. Evan could not be completely certain. Well, there had been some men, too. He knew that much. At least he assumed so, for the fuzzy images in his mind were too large to be women. He hoped. He had been drinking as well, though someone had taken his last bottle of scotch before he could take more than a few swallows. Bugger that. Why had he allowed it? He gave no man any quarter. Didn't he? Maybe not? At the moment, that entire issue wasn't very clear either. In fact, the entire last evening was a little blurry in his mind. Presuming that what he remembered was, in fact, last evening.

  Oh, Lord, Evan no longer remembered what he did or did not do, bloody fucking hell. Still, he did remember that he had been at the gaming hell. That was something, he supposed.

  So if he had been at Noroc - and possibly still was - why was his mouth full of something that tasted like wet sheep?

  "Well, at least he's not dead. There is that." Though the alcohol-induced haze, Evan rather thought that voice sounded a bit like Lord Underhill's rough tones, though he could not be certain. Though why was Underhill in Evan's...bedchamber? Unless, of course, he was not in a bedchamber, let alone his own bedchamber. That was quite possible.

  Where was he again? Oh. Right. Noroc. Maybe? Or not? Bugger that.

  "How long has he been here?" another voice asked, one that sounded suspiciously like Lord Hathaway's. Damn it all to bloody fucking hell twice over! Why was there a duke in his bedchamber, too?

  A pause. "Since just before midnight according to Jacob. Thank God he was on duty and not about his barrister business." Evan thought that might be Lord Hallstone. At least if Hallstone had a mouth full of frogs. On the other hand, the marquess was half Scottish and had been raised in the Highlands, so that might account for the garbled words. As would his pounding head. "Nasty bit of business last night, I take it."

  "Utterly reprehensible." Now Evan was certain that was Hathaway. The man sounded as if he had swallowed gravel. Or maybe Evan's ears were just as plugged up with wet, sheep-y tasting fuzz as his mouth seemed to be. "I thought the two of them were going to talk things out reasonably. Abby said there was a note, so I just assumed...well, that was wrong of me, I suppose. And Lord knows, they do care for each other, though I'm not certain one could call it love. Well, unless you accept the blood lust they both seem to enjoy where the other is concerned, that is. Still, I assumed they would be reasonable. Otherwise, I never would have left when I did."

  Pushing himself up on an elbow, Evan blinked a few times in order to finally get a better sense of his surroundings. The walls were a brilliant crimson, and the heavy brocade and satin bed hangings were done in a matching color with black lace and golden trim abounding everywhere. There were also tassels. Lots of them. So bloody many that the sheer number made his head spin.

  Speaking of which...

  His head - which was partially hanging over the edge of the bed and likely explained the painful crick in his neck - was pounding fiercely again, but he was still able to take in the black Turkey carpet shot through with gold threads - a custom order requested by the Bloody Duke himself. So even though his skull was throbbing, Evan felt some relief knowing that he was still inside Noroc. Even if he was in the so-called "Covent Garden" room, a room designed for a man to indulge as many women as he liked at once.

  "Oh, God!" Evan groaned as he struggled to sit up a bit more, noting that what he had earlier mistaken for a wet sheep was actually a thick, woolen blanket that he had drooled upon rather profusely. Given that wool sometimes made him itch, that explained the rest of his neck discomfort as well. "What did I do?" He looked around but did not see any sign of female company, though his friends could have sent the women off when they first arrived. Given how comfortable they looked in chairs scattered about, however, his fellow peers had clearly been here for some time. "Did I...?" He could not bring himself to complete that thought.

  Underhill pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Thanks largely to Jacob, no, you did not." He glanced at Hallstone. "Remind me to recommend the man for a raise. He deserves it after last night."

  "So noted." Hallstone's already faint Scottish burr was all but gone now, his English crisp and clear once more. No sign of the frogs Evan had heard earlier. "And now, Berkshire, why don't you tell us exactly how you have mucked up your marriage so that we might help you repair it. If such a thing is even possible."

  Evan shook his head and then thought better of the movement when a band of heavy-footed Irishmen seemed to take up clog dancing in his skull. "I didn't. That is to say, I did nothing. And the marriage was a business arrangement at best anyway. It wasn't real." Though as of late, it had certainly felt real enough.

  "That is not what my wife tells me." Hathaway sat back looking ever so smug. "And I, for one, am not so foolish as to discount what my wife tells me. I know better than that, especially if I wish to keep both my cock and my bedchamber privileges intact."

  Frowning, Evan managed to sit up the rest of the way on the bed and put his feet on the floor, which, he quickly decided, might not have been such a splendid idea as the room spun wildly when he did so. The clog-dancing Irishmen seemed to cease, however, which was welcome. "She was kissing him. That bastard Taylor. I saw them with my own eyes." He shook his head and then winced. Another not so brilliant idea, as the Irish cloggers were now back. Apparently, he was full of brilliant ideas as of late. "Cassandra, I mean." He cast an eye towards Hathaway. "Not your wife, certainly. No offense meant."

  "No offense taken." Hathaway seemed mildly amused by the entire scenario. "I am simply thankful that you choose to drag your sorry arse to Noroc. God only knows where you would be otherwise. Perhaps being nibbled at by rabid hedgehogs on someone's front lawn."

  It was clear Hat
haway was poking fun at himself, as there was a persistent rumor going around that the man's wife - who was then merely an innocent young miss - had stumbled upon Hathaway half-naked in the Duke of Enwright's garden the previous summer as he was about to be nibbled on by a rather fat little hedgehog. But the duke didn't make jokes, did he? Not to Evan's knowledge. Not unless he found a situation too humorous to resist poking fun at himself and everyone around him. And those situations were few and far between, even now that the duke had loosened up considerably. Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.

  "How long have I been here and what time is it anyway?" Evan asked, squinting through one eye, the light from the room making his vision cloud and funny colors dance before his eyes. He had a pocket watch somewhere on his person, though he doubted that he could find it at the moment. Nor did he wish to try.

  "Half four in the morning," Underhill replied far too cheerfully for such an ungodly hour. "You haven't been asleep that long."

  "Though I suspect you have mucked up things with your wife for far longer. Especially if you brought whores." Hathaway yawned and stretched. "Tick tock, man. There's only so much time to woo a woman's heart back after such an egregious transgression, you know."

  Evan swallowed thickly, wishing for some water. "But I didn't...I mean I saw...or, well, I thought I saw my wife..." He trailed off, no longer quite certain what he had seen in Lady Knightly's music room.

  "Did you even bother to ask why or how she came to be there with the man?" Hallstone inquired mildly as if he was asking after the weather. "After all, my wife once came upon me with my hands upon my stepmother. True, I was more likely to throttle the very life out of the bitch than anything, but my beloved Diana did not know that at the time. Thankfully, she had the good sense to listen to me as I begged her to understand while I explained myself. On my knees. All but prostrate before her as she deserved for my foolishness." The marquess crossed his arms over his massive chest. "Please tell me that you and your Cassandra did the same."

  "We...did not." Actually, after the fight, most of the details of the previous evening were a little fuzzy, but Evan was fairly certain he and Cassandra had not discussed a damn thing. Save for love. They had talked about that topic to the detriment of them both.

  He also didn't think he had been on his knees before her. Well, at least not last night anyway. If he had, he was fairly certain he would have remembered.

  "God, what an idiot." Evan hadn't heard the door open or heard Jacob Beeston enter the room until the other man spoke. Jacob was the son of a maid in the previous Duke of Candlewood's household who had elevated himself in Society through hard work and a fine education. Well-respected, Jacob was often referred to as "the Barrister to the Peerage," but given how few times the lords and ladies of England were actually required to go before a court, there was not always much work available for him.

  To supplement his income so that he might continue to afford his small town home just off of Cavendish Square, Jacob also served as the head manager of Noroc. There were other managers who worked under him so that he could attend to his other business when necessary. However, when the lords that frequented Noroc were in need of assistance, it was Jacob they turned to for help each and every time.

  Now Jacob strode into the room as if he owned it, a glass of some foul-looking liquid in his hand. "Drink this," he ordered and Evan didn't hesitate to do as commanded.

  Though Jacob did not have the unlimited wealth or high social standing that Evan and his friends enjoyed, it was suspected by many that he was every bit as blue-blooded as they were and often times, a bit more level-headed since he had not grown up in a life of privilege.

  "This is why I denied entry to those three whores you brought along with you last evening," Jacob scoffed, looking every bit like an angry father. "You need many things, my lord, but the likes of those three? The worst that Whitechapel has to offer, stinking of cheap wine and even cheaper perfume mixed with the stench of old sex? No, sir, I don't think so. Not in Noroc and not for you, a married man."

  Evan winced, his head throbbing a bit less than it had a moment ago, the cloggers having departed for a moment. Additionally, the room was no longer spinning quite as much as it had been. "Did I do that? Truly?"

  Underhill snorted now. "Had Jacob not intervened, you likely would have done all three of them and more. Possibly given yourself the pox from what I gather." He made a clucking sound that made him seem a bit like a fussy old maid. "Not exactly the best quality of whores one could choose, I'll say that much. Then again, from what I am told, I am not surprised either. You were already on your second bottle of scotch when you turned up here late last night."

  "Third," Jacob corrected from where he now leaned almost lazily against the wall. "Good thing you're not dead, Berkshire. Actually, a few times this morning, I thought you were."

  Turning his gaze to Hathaway, Evan did his best to focus his thoughts, something Hathaway said earlier somehow sticking in his scrambled brain. "You said Abby mentioned a note. What note? Was it important? Did I read it?" It could have been yet another detail he had forgotten, he supposed. How was he supposed to remember everything when he had a bottle of scotch or two in him? Nearly three bottles, if Jacob was to be believed, and Evan had no reason to doubt the man.

  Hathaway glared at him. "Your wife showed mine a note last evening before she left the ballroom. Cassandra claimed it was from you, delivered by a footman. This note directed her to the music room. I think."

  "I didn't write any note." Evan wasn't certain of much, but he did know that.

  "I would then assume that Taylor did." Underhill rubbed at his eyes, indicating that he had not slept any better than Evan had, though likely for very different reasons. "You do that peculiar thing, writing with your left hand when you've a mind to do so. If the note was smudged or messy, could Lady Berkshire have mistaken the handwriting?"

  Had Cassandra ever seen his left-handed writing? Evan didn't think so but there was no way to be certain. However she did know about his talent in that regard, he was certain. So could Taylor have scribbled a hasty note and passed it off as Evan's own handwriting? Given how absolutely giddy Cassandra had been at the prospect of returning home with him the previous night, it was certainly likely. They had both been eager to be alone, so a note requesting that she meet him in the music room? Well, it would not be unthinkable, given the way they had been coupling as of late.

  Was that why she had gone to the music room? In search of him? Thinking he wished so badly to tumble her that he could not wait?

  When he had found her there alone with Taylor, Evan's old suspicions had kicked in and he had assumed that his wife had either followed the other man there of her own volition or the man had coaxed her somehow, tempting her with sweet promises. It had never occurred to Evan that Cassandra might have been tricked. Nor had it occurred to him that she might have been anticipating finding him - and not Matthew Taylor - waiting for her.

  Why hadn't he asked? Why hadn't he paused and taken a bloody fucking moment to think?

  Because he was hurt, Evan realized as the fog of excessive alcohol began to clear a bit. He was still smarting over Cassandra's decision not to tell him about their child, and when confronted with a volatile situation, he had quickly assumed the worst. He hadn't given her a chance to explain herself, likely assuming that she could not. Or worse, would not. Just like she hadn't been able to speak about the child she had lost.

  But he should have given her the chance. Not just to explain about Matthew Taylor, but to explain about their child as well. He should have told her that he knew about the babe, the scant few days old that it had been, and would listen when she was ready to speak. The child hadn't just been a loss for him. He understood that now. It had been a loss for her as well. It was a shared loss and he had been a fool not to recognize that. Some men might turn a blind eye to their wife's suffering, but that was not Evan. It never had been and never would be. He knew better and in that, he had
failed her. His beloved Cassandra.

  Just as he had failed her when she had not immediately explained about Taylor. Evan had seen her throat working, her mouth trying to form the words she so clearly wished to speak. However, Cassandra had lived her life keeping much to herself, including her most private of pains and deepest of fears. The previous marquess and her devious Aunt Ellie could hardly be considered paragons of honesty and forthrightness. What lessons Cassandra learned from her father Evan could not guess at, but he doubted that they were much better. The child was only one example of Cassandra's reticence regarding difficult subjects. The way Taylor had attacked her last night was another. She had tried to find the words and failed, but that did not mean that she was guilty of adultery.

  It simply meant that in the face of a dragon, the queen had lost her voice. Nor was it the first time such a thing had happened. The occurrence was rare, true, but it was not unheard of. Just like the night in Evan's study when Cassandra had announced she desired a husband. She had made her announcement and then gone silent. It had taken a great deal of taunting from him before she had finally found her voice again, railing at him the way she normally did. Was last night in the music room any different?

  It had taken quite a lot to convince Cassandra to speak freely to him that night several weeks past, but Evan had managed it. In time. Though at first, she had been reticent. Just as reticent as she had been in Lady Knightly's music room. Last night, Evan now concluded, had likely not been any different. Had he goaded her as he had the night in his study, she probably would have loosened her tongue.