A Proper Scandal

by Charis Michaels

  To this, he said nothing, and for a thrilling moment, she thought he would suggest the opposite—that they stay huddled on the wet balcony—but then he nodded, dropped his hand, and stepped away.

  She slipped from the coat and held it out. The cool night closed in around her, and she was immediately cold. She reached for the door. He held it open and, God help her, she brushed against him when she passed. His body felt hard and warm, solid and unmoving. She tucked the sensation away for later—for many, many laters. Their previous exchange had sustained her for fifteen years. This would have to last her for the rest of her life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The morning after the Countess of Banning’s dinner party, Rainsleigh held his pen over the notes from his last meeting with Dunhip.

  Wife.

  Solve.

  Marry by year’s end.

  He hesitated only a second before crossing out the first two items, but honestly, few decisions felt more decisively right. By nature, Rainsleigh was a careful, measured man, but he was also decisive and swiftly capable of identifying value when he saw it. Elisabeth, he thought, was valuable. She also presented several other captivating qualities on which he would not allow himself to focus, but there was no mistaking it. She came from a good family. She was reserved and mature and clear-minded. She would be ideal for the viscountcy—and for him. Wavering and waffling and (God forbid) love sickness could be left to some other, less practical man. He’d set out to find a wife, and he’d done it. If only he’d known it would be this easy, he would not have burdened Dunhip. Now, he’d have to deal with the secretary’s thinly veiled disappointment.

  He looked up at the loyal, eager man. “Dunhip, you may let go of the item I mentioned before.” He cleared his throat. “About finding a wife.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Oh, not again. Rainsleigh added a note finality to his tone. “I believe I made myself perfectly clear.”

  “But, my lord, I wasn’t given enough time.” Dunhip began to turn oddly purple. “I wanted to ensure only the best—”

  “It’s not your fault, Cecil.” Rainsleigh sighed. “I have identified a candidate for the position all on my own. Shocking, I know, but perhaps it’s for the best. I will, after all, be the one to have to marry her.”

  “Found her on your own?”

  Rainsleigh made a vague sound of agreement. He was disinclined to justify Lady Elisabeth to bloody Dunhip. “She’s the daughter of an earl,” he said. “Lovely girl—a woman really. ‘On the shelf,’ some might say, but her maturity suits me. Everything about her suits me. In any event, you may remove the task of wife-hunting from the heap.”

  The secretary nodded with faux pleasantness, staring at his knees.

  “It was ambitious, I think, to pin the whole thing on you.”

  “As you say,” said Dunhip carefully, “but would you have me look into the girl’s family or her father’s holdings? That is, before you—”

  “Protecting me from mercenaries, are you? Bloody good of you, Cecil. I’m touched. But you needn’t worry. She comes from an established family and is preoccupied with charity work. Doubtful she’s stalked me for my money. If she intends to fleece me, it is for her charitable cause. To that, I will happily submit. Philanthropy is good for business.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Dunhip sighed sorrowfully.

  “Oh, but this reminds me, leave the paperwork for the charity prize on my desk. She intends to apply and may call today to collect it.”

  “She will marry you and apply for the prize?”

  “That is the hope, Dunhip, and thank you for your confidence.”

  The secretary had the decency to look chastened. “As you say, my lord.”

  A heavy pause.

  Dunhip cleared his throat. “What, might I inquire, is the nature of your betrothed’s charitable cause?”

  “We’re not betrothed yet; I only met her last night.”

  This, Rainsleigh could admit, sounded a trifle reckless and precipitous when he said it out loud, but if Dunhip had been there, he would have seen. He would have known, as Rainsleigh did.

  “I don’t know about her charity,” the viscount said. “Something to do with lost girls. The poor among us. Innocent children with no hope or some such.”

  Dunhip made a face. “My vision for the application was a very detailed description of the charity, along with specific initiatives for current and future work. We would not want to grant the money to a fly-by-night or an unproven group, my lord. If it pleases you, I can explain to her.”

  Rainsleigh picked up a file and flipped it open, studying the charcoal rendering of a dry dock. “I alone will be furnishing the paperwork to her, in particular, Cecil.”

  “Quite so. Of course. But, my lord, if I might be so bold, I’ve conceived the application such that we may sift the wheat from the ch—”

  “I don’t care how you conceived it, Cecil.” He tossed the sketch aside and leaned back in his chair. “The application is immaterial. She’s here for paperwork, but my motive is to see her again, learn more about her, ask her permission to call.”

  “Oh, but certainly, any woman in England would be honored to be called upon by you, my lord.”

  Rainsleigh laughed. “ ‘Certainty’ is one of the few things that money won’t buy. I cannot say what she might or might not be honored to do. All I know is that I want her.” The words surprised him—out before he realized what he was going to say. He rubbed a hand over his neck and pictured Lady Elisabeth’s face in his mind. It was a true statement. He did want her. Very much.

  “If only everyone were as easy to impress as you, Dunhip,” Rainsleigh said. “I don’t intend to wheedle her for an audience, if that’s what you think. It’s merely . . . ” He rubbed his finger across his lips. He wasn’t entirely sure, he acknowledged, what he would ask her or why. He could hardly go in with his sudden designs on her future. All he knew was that he wanted to see her again.

  “I’m sure you won’t be surprised that I wish to do things properly,” Rainsleigh finished. “If I intend to call on her, then I should ask permission first. It will sound more natural, I think, if she is already here on the charity errand. That said, leave the paperwork.”

  The secretary complied begrudgingly, and they worked on shipyard invoicing for an hour more, until the butler interrupted to announce a guest.

  “The Marchioness of Frinfrock,” Sewell intoned, handing the viscount her card. “I told her I would ascertain if you were ‘in,’ my lord, and she assured me that you are. Claims you promised her a tour of the house.”

  Rainsleigh thought about it, turning the card in his hand. Lady Frinfrock. His inquisitor from last night. His first inclination was to send her away, if for no other reason than he was exceedingly busy, and Dunhip was already in a petulant mood. Still, in hindsight, the old woman had done him a great service last night. The result of her interrogation was that, for once, everyone had the story straight. The guests left the Countess of Banning’s dinner with answers to the questions no one dared ask. No one but this old bat. She’d pumped him for the unknown details of his life and allowed him to speak for himself—or rather, had allowed a certain ginger-haired lady to leap from her seat and rattle off an impassioned history that summed up everything in glowing terms.

  The entire exchange was over and done in a quarter hour or less, and the only person who looked truly ridiculous was the marchioness. Clearly, she couldn’t have cared less. The least he could do was give her a tour.

  “I will see her,” he told Sewell slowly, dismissing Dunhip with a nod.

  Ten minutes later, the marchioness informed him of how the tour would go. “My companion is here to accompany me because the sheer distance we may travel within this mammoth structure might do me ill. Miss Breedlowe, please,” she hissed to the tall woman beside her, “do not hover. I am not on the verge of collapse”—she shot Rainsleigh a warning look—“yet.”

  Rainsleigh nodded to the
younger woman. “How do you do?”

  The woman bobbed a respectful dip and inclined her head. With a gentle smile, she said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. I am Jocelyn Breedlowe.”

  “Miss Breedlowe, yes,” he said, “I believe I’ve made your acquaintance once or twice before. Next door, is it?”

  She nodded. “Indeed. When I am not serving as, er, companion to the marchioness, I assist the Countess of Falcondale with personal matters. Before they sailed for Far East, she spoke very highly of you.”

  “Let us not bore Lord Rainsleigh with your myriad occupations, Miss Breedlowe; we’ll be here all week.” Lady Frinfrock looked right and left. “Very well, Lord Rainsleigh. Let us commence. My God, is there a written guide? An atlas, perhaps?”

  Their hour-long tour visited every room, including the closets and cupboards, with a triple turn around the garden. When they’d finally seen it all—indeed, when they’d heard a critical comment about nearly every detail—the marchioness pronounced the lone compliment of the day. “ ’Tis, at the very least, an improvement over the neglected heap that Lord Falcondale would have it be. You may call upon me about your garden drains before the next heavy rain.”

  “Thank you,” he said, the only appropriate answer. He nodded to Sewell to open the front door and effectively send them on their way. He’d been patient and amenable for forty-five minutes longer than he was, on most days, capable. He’d only just turned to go when the marchioness could be heard gasping on the stoop.

  “But who is this?” she breathed.

  Gritting his teeth, Rainsleigh turned. A carriage had arrived. The marchioness now squinted disapprovingly into the glare on its polished door. “The Countess of Banning?”

  Rainsleigh went still. Something like satisfaction seeped through his chest. In that moment, he became doubly motivated to be rid of the marchioness. Miss Breedlowe sensed his impatience and endeavored to spur the old woman along.

  “It is likely,” Miss Breedlowe said, “that the viscount will entertain numerous callers before luncheon. Let us find our own lunch and leave him free to attend other business.”

  “Other business?” the marchioness asked. “But he was at Denby House in the company of the countess for hours last night, as was I. The meal was interminable; I thought it would never end.

  “Oh!” the marchioness went on, shaking her head. “But ’tis not the countess. ’Tis the niece of the countess.” She shaded her eyes and watched a groom fuss with the carriage steps. “But surely she has not come alone. To call on you, Rainsleigh?” She peered back through the front door.

  “I cannot say,” he drawled, “but if it is Lady Elisabeth, she has likely come on the business of her charity. She expressed her interest in my charity donation last night, I believe.”

  The marchioness harrumphed and shook her head. She looked at Miss Breedlowe. “What is it about this house, Miss Breedlowe? Young women, turning up alone, with this business or that? If it’s not one bachelor, it’s another.” She pointed her cane at Rainsleigh. “I urge you to apply to your erstwhile neighbor, Lord Falcondale, if you want to know how much carrying on I will tolerate in Henrietta Place. Very little, in fact. Better still, none at all.”

  Rainsleigh sighed. “I can assure you, my lady, there is no ‘carrying on.’ ” The words were cordial, but he was rapidly becoming genuinely annoyed. Of all the transgressions of which he could be accused, he was most sensitive to imprudence.

  He opened his mouth to offer his most civil version of Get out, but Lady Frinfrock spoke over him. “Take note, Lord Rainsleigh. Miss Breedlowe, God save her, has served as chaperone in instances such as this. Do you hear? I cannot speak for her, but I feel certain she would be predisposed if situations with young lady callers persist. I’m sure you are aware this is highly irregular.” She looked back and forth between Rainsleigh and the young woman in the street. “Charity business or not.”

  Miss Breedlowe turned pink and sighed. “Oh, Lady Frinfrock.”

  Voices could be heard now—her voice—and Rainsleigh lost all interest in the conversation. “There is no cause for concern, I assure you,” he lied, “but I appreciate your attentiveness and resourcefulness. Good day, my lady.” He nodded to Sewell, and the butler assisted the duo down the steps and on their way.

  In the next moment, Lady Elisabeth was inside, smiling, fussing with Sewell about her cloak, shooting Rainsleigh a glance and then away, looking around the marble entryway in wide-eyed wonder.

  “Thank you,” she said for a third time, declining the butler’s help. She held a hand to the clasp on her wool cloak. “I won’t stay long.”

  Oh, but you might, Rainsleigh thought, working not to stare.

  Today, she wore pale green—the cloak, at least, was green. He was immensely curious about what she wore beneath it. Her gloves were ivory. Her hair was bound only at the crown of her head; the length of it spilled long and loose down her back. Last night, she’d worn it pinned. Now, he hoped to never see it pinned again.

  She looked bright and energetic, standing in a beam of sunlight that spilled from the transom above the door. He had the unthinkable urge to touch her, as he had done, fleetingly, on the balcony last night. He was bombarded, he realized, with unthinkable urges. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

  Elisabeth smiled at him again and craned to see the hall beyond. “Lady Frinfrock was not exaggerating, my lord. This is quite a house. It dwarfs the other houses in the street.”

  He stopped short of asking her if she liked it. “Fancy a tour?” he said.

  She laughed again. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of detaining you. I’ve only come for the application. In fact, I assumed I would not see you at all. I thought perhaps your secretary could provide it.”

  “ ’Tis no disruption. But do allow Sewell to take your cloak. And please,” he said, leading the way, “join me in the library.”

  The room into which Elisabeth was led reminded her of an aviary. An ornately carved, dark-stained-oak aviary with at least a thousand books. The ceiling was so high, birds could have flown freely, built nests, preened, sung, perhaps even migrated. She wondered if he considered this possible dual purpose. Likely not—although his desk, a massive slab of polished wood in the middle of the room—was littered with papers. To catch droppings? She almost laughed out loud. Nerves wreaked havoc on her composure.

  Strictly business, she reminded herself.

  Rainsleigh closed the door behind her and followed her in. “Please,” he said, “let us sit.” He gestured to a pair of plush leather chairs beneath the towering, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a lush garden.

  “Oh,” she said, studying the chairs that would position them knee to knee. “I will not tarry, my lord. If the application rules are at hand, I’ll simply collect them and be on my way. I have my own work, as I know you do.”

  The viscount clasped his hands behind his back. “I was hoping to learn, firsthand, more about your work. Can you not spare five minutes?”

  Could she? She bit her bottom lip and looked to the window. Well, yes. Of course, just . . . not in good conscience. Not without engaging in silly fantasies that had no place in a philanthropic transaction. Just as they also had no place in last night’s perfectly mundane dinner party. Or afterward on the balcony. In the rain. With his coat.

  Dear Lord. Why had she come here alone? Why had she relinquished her cloak?

  Rainsleigh waited, staring at her in his intensely focused way. It would be rude, she thought, to deny him. Far be it for her to put him off, considering this unexpected degree of solicitousness. She was, after all, entering the charity contest to win.

  She lowered herself into the soft leather chair. With a detached, professional tone, she asked, “What do you wish to know?”

  “What do you feel I should know?” He leaned on the arm of the adjacent chair.

  As little as possible, she thought. The fewer specifics he knew about the foundation, the better.

 
“Well,” she said, hedging, “what is your goal for donating the money?”

  He watched her. “ ’Tis no secret that the contest will draw attention to my shipyard and my name. Philanthropy has many advantages, as you know. But I’m not entirely motivated by my own ambition. I see the broader value in giving others a step up.”

  She nodded. “But this is the purpose of my foundation. To give others a step up.”

  “How many people do you serve?”

  “At the moment? We have fifteen in residence.”

  He raised one eyebrow.

  It sounded small, she knew. She huffed out a breath, searching for a better, vaguer answer. “Since the beginning, however, we have given refuge and aid to more than one hundred young women. We provide everything to the girls who come to us. Food, new clothes, lodging, education, a doctor’s care. The foundation is everything from a safe haven, to a schoolroom, to a hospital, to a—well, to a home. Our numbers may be small, but we aim to serve every need of the girls who come.”

  “Your patrons are mostly children?”

  “Young women, mostly. Sometimes they are younger. And we have never turned anyone away based on age. I have hosted girls as young as nine and as old as twenty-five.”

  “How do they find you, these girls? How do they come to you?”

  Elisabeth chewed her bottom lip, thinking of the least colorful way to term it. “Actually, we seek out needy girls.”

  “Seek them out where?”

  She took a deep breath. “We rescue them.”

  “Rescue them from what?”

  “Deplorable situations.”

  “Such as?”

  And just like that, she saw her bid for his donation drift away. To answer in any truthful way was to say entirely too much. She could lie, but what was the good in that? Worse, she found herself wanting tell him. His attentiveness drew her in. His probing questions validated her. His affecting ice-blue eyes . . .

  She swallowed. “Lord Rainsleigh—”