A Proper Scandal

by Charis Michaels

“Oh, so now you’re telling me that you can weather the gossip of my aunt’s great escape?”

  “If they will consider a few suggestions I might offer on the timing and the strategy of their departure—yes.”

  “But they must actually go, and they must actually wed.”

  “Oh, yes they must.”

  She thought about this. He was a man of his word. If he promised it, it would be done. Aunt Lillian and Quincy—finally married and openly living as man and wife. The reward for their long-awaited happiness was nearly enough to make her immediately consent. Their sacrifice all these years had been for her. She could now make one for them, could she not?

  A moment later, she asked, “And you would not promise the money for my foundation if you did not mean to give it?”

  “The money is yours. Your good work will flourish.”

  “And . . . and . . . ” Her voice grew stronger now, more demanding. “May I find employment in your shipyard for the girls I rehabilitate? Sewing sails or sweeping up? Whatever honest work you may have for them?”

  His eyes grew large, and he scratched his jaw. He made a faint growling noise.

  She shrugged. “It is the right thing to do.”

  He growled again, shifting in his chair. He’d tossed his coat over a quilt stand, and he leaned back and reached inside it now. She watched him pull out the ring she’d dropped in his hands ten days before.

  “The agreement comes with jewelry,” he said. “Part of our public appearance.” He handed it to her.

  She reached out and took it, their fingers brushing in the exchange. “Shall I remove it when we are behind closed doors?”

  He blinked. “If you prefer.”

  “Perhaps we can add the rotation of the ring to the strategically timed appointments . . . ” She turned away to slide it on. The weight of it was a conscious thing. She had only worn it for a moment in time, but she had felt its absence since she’d pulled it off that night. Like ripping off a layer of skin. She opened and closed her finger, trying not to stare at it.

  When she looked up, he was watching her carefully, intimately.

  “Does that mean you agree to the marriage? The business arrangement?”

  “Either that, or I am stealing this ring.”

  “And you are . . . content?”

  “Oh,” she mused, unable to resist gazing at the ring, “let us not classify the vivid spectrum of our current contentedness.” She tore her eyes away. “Yours or mine.”

  He nodded, allowing the topic to dissolve. What more was there to say? She could identify only two truly happy things: Her aunt was now free to marry and go, and she would never have to worry about resources for the foundation again.

  As for the rest of it?

  Well, marriage to him could not be worse than the last ten days without him had been.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The irony of the wedding, Rainsleigh thought, was its utter perfection. He and Lady Banning had thrown the whole affair together in just three weeks’ time, not that anyone could guess. The church dripped with flowers. The musicians and robed boys choir transported the audience to an angelic realm. The esteemed guests—a mix of the countess’s society friends and Rainsleigh’s well-heeled shipping clients—were a colorful bouquet of hats and fans and sugary-colored spring finery.

  The ceremony was at St. Paul’s, an obvious choice, but he and Lady Banning had clashed over the site of the breakfast. As Elisabeth’s guardian, the countess had expected to host the guests at Denby House in Grosvenor Square. But Rainsleigh had pressed for a grand feast in his new townhome in Henrietta Place. He’d gone to the expense of building and furnishing the bloody thing; what more legitimate reason to trail all of influential London through its doors than his own wedding?

  If circumstances had been different . . . if his and Elisabeth’s relationship had been as it was before . . . then perhaps he would be less inclined to exploit the exposure. But now? Now the purpose of their union was exposure. He married her so that no one would talk about a showy engagement that fizzled out. And even before that, he’d chosen her because she appeared to be an ideal wife.

  As to the wedding, he would have curtailed any detail if she would but have asked. But she was never at home when he called to discuss the wedding with her aunt, and Lady Banning assured him that she had no preference whatsoever. When he insisted that he should hear it from her, he was given no choice but to write her to ask what she wished. A note came back by her boy, Stoker. One line:

  I have no preferences for the wedding. Do as you wish.

  Well, he had wished to host the bloody wedding feast. In the end, Lady Banning conceded, as her home could not easily be made ready to host three hundred guests in such a short period of time. Rainsleigh would have his way, and the party was set for Henrietta Place.

  After the venue and the food, there was the matter of the dress. Rainsleigh and the countess agreed it must be exquisite and unique and unforgettable—and complete in three-weeks’ time. Rainsleigh had wanted to buy it—he’d wanted to buy everything—but her aunt would not be swayed, and she paid triple to London’s most esteemed modiste to have a singular frock rushed into production.

  In the end, it was worth whatever the price. When Elisabeth emerged from the vestibule at the far end of St. Paul’s, Rainsleigh worked to curtail the jaw-drop and intake of breath. He had not seen her in twenty-one days. He had thought of her many times in those weeks (if he was being honest, he thought only of her during that time), but the memory of her beauty did not compare to the living, breathing golden glow of life. Or perhaps she had, in fact, never looked quite so lovely as on her wedding day. Whatever the reason, he could not look away.

  Ironic, because he had meant to glance at her once and then to look anywhere else—one of many moments about which he’d lain awake at night, planning in advance. His brother had teased him for plotting simple reactions, but it was a way of assuming control of an event that, despite the design of every detail, had felt wildly out of control. And anyway, why should he stare? It would be too personal. Staring revealed too much.

  But oh, when the moment was upon them, detachment was lost to him. No reaction this strong could possibly be concealed. The full scope of his desire surely burned in his eyes.

  The dress was perfection. No garment had better suited her, he thought. The design was simple—light, gauzy fabric of the finest silk, falling in yards and yards from tiny gathers at an empire waist. It was the color of forest in the shade. The contrast against Elisabeth’s lightly bronzed skin, freckles, and red-gold hair was nothing short of ethereal in the sunlit church.

  And her hair? He’d never known her to wear even the simplest jewelry, but today she wore a sparkling coronet, diamonds mounted on a slight silver setting, as beautiful as it was regal. From the crown fell her veil, with her hair pulled back from her face and then long down her back.

  When Rainsleigh recovered from the sheer shock of her breathtaking beauty, he began searching her face. Was she unhappy? Resigned? Was she afraid? Bitter? Regretful? Did she approve of the flowers and the music and the great many guests?

  Did she approve of him?

  He could not say. She returned his gaze. Her blue-green eyes grew large. She smiled a little. And then she was the one who coolly looked away. Her eyes darted away, and she remained transfixed on the stained-glass window above his head until the bishop invited them to kneel.

  When the ceremony began, she glanced at him only when the vows called for it. She repeated the familiar words in low, even tones. Her hand was warm and steady when he slid the ring on.

  At Rainsleigh’s request, the ceremony was classical and formal, and there was no place for a kiss. When it was finally over, the bishop bade the bride and groom to face the guests, and he intoned, “Lord Bryson Anders and Lady Elisabeth Rose Courtland, the Viscount and Viscountess Rainsleigh.”

  And then it was done.

  Rainsleigh could not resist and stole another long, sea
rching look at her face. If she gave some reaction, any at all, he would not miss it.

  She stared back, cordial but vague, her beauty heartbreaking at such close range. And then she stared out at the great crowd with her chin high. He felt an unaccustomed clench in his chest, a physical reaction to her profile, or that raised little chin, or simply to the fact that she was standing so closely beside him again. He forced himself to look away.

  Adhere to the plan, he ordered and proffered his arm to lead her down the aisle. Her hand settled over the top of his hand, light and stiff, barely touching. A formality. The message was clear. She could march independently down the aisle in the same way she’d marched up, but she would follow convention. She would play along. Resigned. Formal. Entirely for show.

  It’s what you wanted, he reminded himself.

  Before you met her, when any future wife was but an ideal. And after you knew her, after you really knew her. You wanted this. Resigned and formal and just for show.

  It it’s all you wanted.

  In that instant, while hundreds of guests beamed up at them, Rainsleigh felt deeply, crushingly sad. Sadder than he had been in a very long time.

  Underlying the sadness was anger. Only a spoiled child would demand something, receive it, and then declare it not enough.

  But it’s not enough, he thought, forcing a grim smile.

  It’s not bloody enough.

  They were silent in the carriage to the breakfast feast, each on opposite seats for the short ride to Henrietta Place.

  Elisabeth could have made some idle chatter, but she refused to be trite. She would not prattle on about the beauty of the church or the flowers and the songs—not when there were so many more pressing and important things to discuss. When Rainsleigh had proposed (well, when he had proposed the second time), the conversation had been painful, but it had also been frank and honest. She could not bear for them to become disingenuous and petty now. If there was any hope for civility between them, they must have honesty or nothing at all.

  The quietness felt strange in the closed carriage, not to mention rude, but she allowed herself to lean her head back on the soft leather seat and embrace it. He had pressed for this arrangement; surely the burden was on him. She closed her eyes, willing the gentle sway of the vehicle to while away her regret for what might have been.

  When the carriage turned onto Henrietta Place, Rainsleigh cleared his throat, and she opened one eye. He watched her.

  She sat up.

  “Elisabeth,” he began, “I thought we should discuss the domestic . . . er, positioning.”

  “All right.” She had no idea what this meant.

  “My housekeeper, Mrs. Linn, is very proficient at running the house and managing staff, working in tandem with Sewell, the butler. I have told her that you will direct her in your preferred level of involvement. Please consider your own work at the foundation and choose what best suits you. It makes no difference to me either way.”

  Elisabeth nodded. If he meant what he said, this was a generosity indeed. She had no time for (or interest in) running his overgrown house, but naturally, it would be expected of a wife. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Your trunks from Denby House arrived yesterday, and I instructed Mrs. Linn to see your things put away in the viscountess’s suite. I hope that is acceptable.”

  “It is,” she said carefully, searching the statement for deeper meaning.

  “You may arrange the suite as you see fit,” he went on, “and send out for anything more you require. I hired a man to furnish the suite in the style of a lady of means with a considerable wardrobe. God knows if he got it right.”

  “I will look forward to settling in,” she said, but she thought, I don’t care about the room. I don’t care about the trunks or Mrs. Linn.

  They’d said so very little to each other since he’d learned her terrible secret. Was there nothing he wanted to discover, now that he could look on her real, true self? Nothing at all?

  But perhaps he could not bear to look upon her real, true self.

  She had no idea how to ask this, of course. And honestly, was it her right to ask? This was a business arrangement, after all.

  “I am aware of your . . . fatigue,” he continued. “I thought I’d show you to your chambers tonight, and perhaps Mrs. Linn can take you around to every nook and newel in the morning. Since we are not bothering with a wedding trip, I assumed we would each resume our normal lives and schedules tomorrow.”

  In response to this, she could but nod. She tried not to think of the grand tour of his house he had planned before their courtship had so abruptly come to an end. It was his idea of an outing, and he suggested it more than once. He’d said Miss Breedlowe would chaperone, as in the visit to his shipyard. He had not yet asked her to marry him, but he had alluded to “learning her preference” for changes to decor or the function of rooms. He’d hinted at a suitable guest room for Stoker on school holidays and a “second office” for her beside his own.

  What a difference three weeks made. Now someone named Mrs. Linn would provide the tour. Now Elisabeth would discover her new home by walking in the front door as a resident. It was only her second time.

  “After the crush of the reception, I assume you’ll want to take supper in your rooms,” he finished. He pushed the carriage curtain aside with one gloved finger and looked out the window.

  “Perhaps. Yes,” she said quietly, mortified to hear a quaver in her voice. “It might be best.”

  Now? she thought, swallowing hard. Now I will cry?

  She’d endured the lavish ceremony, the dazzled guests, and the misguided vows with dry eyes, and now she would cry?

  The carriage bounced to a stop in front of his house, thank God, ending the conversation. The door flipped open, and a line of liveried servants could be seen standing sentry outside. She blinked, swallowed hard, and braced herself for more of the same.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Quincy was not a guest at the wedding breakfast. Elisabeth had seen him at the church, seated in the back beside Stoker, but he was nowhere to be found in Rainsleigh’s elaborately bunted garden or ballroom.

  When she consulted Aunt Lilly, she was told that Lilly and Quincy had decided not to raise the topic with Rainsleigh when the guest list was set. They were grateful for the viscount’s understanding about their . . . circumstance, and they did not wish to embarrass him or shock guests at the wedding. They would not elope for another month.

  “Please do not fret over it, darling,” Lillian told Elisabeth when she pulled her into a far corner of the garden. “You made the decision not to take part in the planning, and so we made such choices without you. Quincy is here in spirit.”

  “But he should be here in body,” Elisabeth said, her voice breaking.

  Elisabeth had needed the intervening weeks between the proposal and the wedding to make peace in her mind with the agreement and her new life. Perhaps it was indulgent to leave the plans to others, she now thought. Yet another bungled thing. She squeezed back tears.

  “Quincy is like a father to me,” she said.

  “And you are the daughter of his heart. That is why he made the sacrifice.” Lillian handed her a plate of wedding cake. “But come, please do not be sullen. It is the last thing Quincy would wish. Let me get a look at you in the sunlight. Just stunning. I couldn’t be more pleased with the color of this dress. But, oh . . . ” She frowned. “Do take more care with the hem on these outdoor paths.” She stooped to cluck over Elisabeth’s skirts.

  “I’m never sullen,” Elisabeth said, sniffing the cake. “And what could sullenness possibly matter now? We’re married; isn’t that enough? Your dastardly plan has been realized. Although I feel compelled to point out that you nearly missed the mark—”

  “Nearly but not entirely,” Lillian mumbled, shaking dust from Elisabeth’s hem.

  “And anyway, the marriage is not an authentic one. Do you know what we discussed in the carriage from St. Paul’
s? My baggage. The trunks. The housekeeper, Mrs. Someone-or-Other. It’s a business agreement, Lilly, there is no love or romance—your personal life’s quest.” She took a tentative bite of the cake. Sugar and butter melted in her mouth, and she sunk her fork in again.

  “But what business agreement?” scoffed Lilly, studying Elisabeth’s coiffeur. “The marriage will overflow with love, once you settle in. It seems ambiguous now, but it is only a matter of time.”

  Elisabeth shook her head. “Our relationship will be nothing like what you enjoy with Quincy; it will not be like Mama and Papa.” She was swamped with sadness, saying the words out loud. “We are to be associates, he and I. What use has he for a dishonest wife? Or for a wife who cannot be the virginal vessel of innocence for whom he waited so long?”

  “So be someone better—be yourself. Waited for a vessel, has he? Make him burn for you.” She snatched a pin from Elisabeth’s coiffure and then reapplied it to her coronet.

  “Ouch.” Elisabeth rubbed her head. “It’s all an operetta to you, naturally. ‘Burn’? Honestly, Lillian.”

  “You think I am being whimsical?”

  “I think you’re being ridiculous.” Elisabeth didn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it only inclined her to believe. And she should not, would not believe.

  “But you are so much more—so much better—than the boring wife for whom he thought he waited. You are a gift to any man but especially to him. He needs only to unwrap you. And you need only to assist him.”

  “He will not touch me,” Elisabeth said. The cake was suddenly far too sweet in her mouth, and she balanced the fork on the plate. “He said so himself. You’ll remember the conception of children is to be set out, a year in advance, on a scheduled rotation. I can only assume this allows him to become very drunk before he embarks, so he can suffer through it.”

  “Now who is being dramatic? You know nothing about men, darling, especially a man who stares at you as long and as hungrily as Rainsleigh does. If he wants innocence, he certainly has that in you. You can’t see his considerable desire for you, even now. But he is stubborn and ashamed of his behavior—as well he should be. It may be up to you show him how to seize that desire.”