by Ingrid Hahn
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Get Scandalous with these historical reads… The Beast of Aros Castle
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The Affair
Discover the Landon Sisters series… To Win a Lady’s Heart
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Ingrid Hahn. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
Cover art from Period Images and Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-63375-836-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2017
To Jonathan again, forever, and always, with all my love. And to the sweetest pea in all the pea patch, our little Henry.
Prologue
London. Late April, 1812
“My dear son, I love you more than life itself, but you must be joking.”
George Tiberius Fitzhugh, Earl of Maxfeld—Max—could not believe what he was hearing. He pushed to his feet and strode to the other side of the room. Before he could speak, he took a long, deep breath to manage the hot burst of anger. “You trust me so little?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Lady Maxfeld reclined in a plush blue chair. She was wrapped in rugs and clutched her dead daughter’s portrait in her hand. A robust fire burned continually in the drawing room where she spent her days.
“So this is what you think of me, is it?”
His mother’s health and spirits had declined severely in the past few months. It was absurd to think she could provide a proper home for her grandson—Max’s nephew, Thomas.
“After devoting your life to the pursuits of pleasure, you’re perhaps not the very last person in the world to whom I would trust the child.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?” He pushed his tight fist against the sharp edge of the mantelpiece to stop himself from overreacting.
“Please don’t make me enumerate the ways in which you taking the boy would be a terrible idea.”
Max turned.
“Very well. You spend more time at the gaming tables than at dining tables. You refuse to attend balls with our kind, instead choosing only the balls of the demimonde. And then there was that time you were seen leaving Lady Crabtree’s with a par—”
“Enough, Mother, I beg of you.” Apparently, she’d kept better track of him than he’d guessed if she’d heard that particular story.
His mother pursed her lips at him. “You can scowl at me all you please. You will not change my mind. The life you’ve lived has brought us to this pass. You’ve steadfastly refused to marry—”
“Is this another attempt to force my hand?”
“It most certainly is not.” She exhaled noisily, her features softening. “But if you were to find a nice girl from an upstanding family…oh, it would make me ever so happy, Max.”
Those were words he’d heard all too often. But this time, they did not fall on deaf ears.
Which is how, two nights later, he found himself at a ball, nary a demirep in sight. Max didn’t habitually suffer Society gatherings—much too stuffy for the likes of him.
Tonight, however, he had no choice. Just as he would have no choice when he played his hand.
On the gilded edges of a crowded ballroom, he stood positioned so as to watch the guests arrive, nodding acknowledgment to those who acknowledged him. The scents of various perfumes mingled with the smell of a century of wood polish.
It was predatory, to be sure, this lying in wait. But it was far from the worst thing he would do tonight.
To gain custody of Thomas, he needed to play by his mother’s rules. Or at least appear to do so, at any rate.
For that, he needed a wife—the pretense of one, to be specific. The pretense that he would one day have a wife, to be yet more specific. Because, of course, he would never marry. He needed his mother to only think he would.
He would certainly ask the lady in question to go along with his ploy before he resorted to the dastardly scheme.
Given her family’s history of scandal and the implications of the inevitably broken engagement, it was extremely unlikely that she would agree. However, whatever conscience he might possess had no bearing here, not in this matter.
So, if blackmail it had to be, blackmail it would be. Luckily for him, having happened upon a potentially incendiary secret quite by accident, fate had given him information he would put all compunction aside to use, to ensure he’d get exactly what he wanted.
Chapter One
Lady Phoebe Landon had lost count of the number of balls she’d attended this Season.
This Season. It sounded like something other people did. Not her. Life was so different now. For almost as long as she could remember, she’d been little more than the youngest of the late Earl of Bennington’s daughters. Penniless. Dependent on charity. Ostracized.
For the past ten years, every garment she’d worn had been passed down from her sisters. Being the last girl of four also meant she’d worn colors fallen from fashion, none of the frocks without patches and repairs. It had also meant many, many hours spent wistfully wishing for a new dress of her own.
Now, she had more than seemed right for any one person. The gown she wore tonight was a particular favorite, a radiant ivory sewn with gold threads that, back in her chamber when she’d turned before the mirror, had caught the candlelight just so. It veritably glowed. A mere six months ago, it was the sort of creation that she could have imagined only in fairy stories. And she loved it beyond reason.
What a difference a sister’s fine marriage made. Even if, indeed, said marriage hadn’t been without a smudge of scandal. Phoebe’s eldest sister, Grace, had been locked in a storeroom with a man and caught by no fewer than three matrons who had all instantly believed the worst. To protect her reputation, Gr
ace and the man—Lord Corbeau, a rather stodgy earl whom Phoebe had begun to like only upon witnessing his unflagging devotion to her sister—had become instantly engaged. They’d been married not long after Christmas last, and now acted as if they’d married for nothing other than love.
Phoebe’s brother-in-law’s upstanding reputation had raised the family to a new, if restrained, esteem. He was ultimately responsible for her invitations to all these balls. And because, to her mother’s way of thinking, there could be no answer to a woman’s life but marriage, they accepted every invitation they received. There was no question in her mother’s mind. She had one daughter exceptionally well-married and only three more of whom to dispose.
So, to the balls Phoebe went. Or, was marched, more like. Night, after night, after night.
Judging by the number of carriages crammed in the street, this ball seemed larger than any previous.
Phoebe gaped at the massive pillared house of white stone, palatial and magnificent by torchlight. The building fairly glowed.
She leaned close to her mother as they took the shallow steps side by side, careful of their slippers and hemlines. It was a clear night, but it had rained recently enough that the ground remained damp. Water pooled in shallow impressions in the streets and in the cracks between stones. “I’ve forgotten the name of our host.”
Her mother shook her head. “Huntsford, my dearest one, Huntsford. Do make an effort tonight, I implore you.”
“I always do, Mama.”
“Are you going to dance tonight?”
“If I’m asked.” Which, surprisingly, upon occasion, she was. She wasn’t a complete wallflower.
But neither could she claim any measure of popularity. The Landons might have been good enough to merit an invitation—at least, from those who wanted to stay in Corbeau’s good graces—but many people still maintained a wide berth.
Phoebe and her family had been allowed back into Society, but at the same time, not fully allowed back into the ranks.
Nobody, it seemed, wanted them to forget the favor that was being oh-so-charitably bestowed upon them. The fall of the last Earl of Bennington had not been forgotten in the dusts of time. The ruination of the house and estate, Idlewood. The devastation of land worked far beyond capacity. His wife and daughters left to the gutter upon his death. A legacy eviscerated. A once illustrious name lost to honor.
All because he hadn’t been able to stop gambling.
It was difficult to think about with any measure of composure. Phoebe wanted to do her mother and sisters proud, so she swept the melancholy thoughts aside as she and her mother passed through the doors. The hall was magnificent, glittering and glowing and dominated by the largest staircase Phoebe had ever seen.
They proceeded slowly amidst the throng. Having never belonged to these people, moving among them made her uneasy, even after all the innumerable balls, musicales, and afternoons in the park.
She could never predict how she and her mother would be received.
“It would help if you smiled,” Lady Bennington spoke from between closed teeth, barely moving her lips.
“Only fools smile without provocation.”
One of the women in the group before them, a turban on her head and a cameo on the belt under her bosom, turned to cast Phoebe a look of haughty displeasure. Lady Bennington returned a spurious smile.
When the woman turned around, Phoebe’s mother glared sharpened daggers at the other woman’s back, but when she spoke again, she’d lowered her voice. “Then play the fool tonight.” She tapped Phoebe on the arm with her fan. “Remember—”
“Please.” Phoebe braced herself. So her sister had married well, so what? Why should it be automatically assumed that she wanted to become someone’s wife, as well? She leaned toward her mother that they might spare others around them their conversation. “Don’t say it. There’s more to life than matrimony.”
If only she had someone with whom to commiserate. Fineries and invitations and not relying on begrudging charity aside, the one thing she couldn’t get used to was being without a confidante.
There were advantages and disadvantages to having one’s sisters lost in their own various pursuits.
Advantage: Nobody with whom to quibble.
Disadvantage: Nobody with whom to quibble.
Advantage: Being the sole recipient of all Mother’s care and attention.
Disadvantage: Being two-and-twenty and suddenly finding oneself with all of a parent’s care and attention after a lifetime of sharing. It was nothing, if not stifling.
“As I know very well for myself, my dear.” Lady Bennington kept her voice low, thank heavens. “But it’s an advantage in a great many respects, none of which should be either downplayed or discounted. You can take my word on the subject.” And here she launched into the family history, which any of the Landon sisters could recite. “I was over thirty when I accepted your father’s suit.”
Phoebe’s mind drifted away as her mother continued through the familiar terrain of her story.
Marriage. She had been meaning to jot down an Advantage versus Disadvantage list on that subject for the last, oh, eight or twelve weeks. But she always had something more important to occupy her time.
In truth, she’d sidestepped the task quite neatly, if she said so herself. Phoebe smiled in satisfaction.
“There. Was that so terribly difficult?” Her mother beamed at her. “How lovely you are when you smile, my dear, how truly lovely.”
They paid their respects to the hostess and followed the others into the ballroom, sumptuous with thousands of candles, mirrored walls in heavy frames painted gold, and intricate scrollwork decoration.
And so many people. Lord, what a number.
Phoebe was still becoming accustomed to this mad whirl of parties and finery that was her life. Her sister’s wealthy husband afforded them a number of previously unthinkable luxuries beyond beautiful gowns. Like use of his London house for the Season…and all the trappings deemed necessary therein.
Privately, Phoebe suspected her new brother to be willing to pay any price to pry them out of his estate, Corbeau Park. Anything to buy time alone with his new bride. Who could blame him?
Lady Bennington gripped her arm, making no effort to speak over the noise. “Don’t look to your left, my dear.”
“Why ever not?” Phoebe strained to see anything she could in her peripheral vision, but there was nothing but scads upon scads of people.
“You don’t want to work to catch any man’s attention. Even his.” She paused. “Especially his.”
At that moment, regret hooked itself into Phoebe’s heart. She wasn’t up to making herself pleasant to men, not when she was so undecided what she wanted her ultimate fate to be.
She should have feigned illness tonight. She could be home by the fire in her chamber, feet curled under her. Her nose would be stuck so far into some lurid and entirely inappropriate novel, she’d not be able to set it free again until dawn. And she knew just from where she’d pilfer such a book, too. Her mother’s bedside table.
Then again, it would have been a shame not to come tonight, for she did like her gown. But there would be other nights, other balls, other chances.
“Who’s ‘him’?” Phoebe wasn’t desperate for anyone to join them, but she couldn’t say so where there was a chance at being easily overheard.
“Oh!” Clutching a fist against her breast, her mother’s eyes went big. “He’s coming this way.”
“Mama, you tell me not to look, and yet you make a spectacle of yourself.”
“No.” Her mother’s voice flattened. “No, he’s not coming here. He’s turned away. He’s—oh! He’s coming back this way, after all.”
“It’s impossible to tell whether you want him to come or to stay away.”
“Truth be told…” Her mother frowned, seeming to think the better of whatever the truth might have been. “Never mind, he’s still the son of my dear friend, and we shall treat hi
m accordingly.”
Phoebe turned just in time to catch the eye of the man in question and prickled in that horrid way she did when she was aware he was close.
“Oh no. Not him.” Lord Maxfeld? Here? Tonight? Of all the ballrooms in all of London, why did he have to be in this one?
Aside from the obvious, of course—which was that everyone else in all of Mayfair was squeezed in tight.
But didn’t he have some rakish business that should have kept him occupied elsewhere? Somewhere more suited to his kind. That is to say, somewhere entirely unrespectable. She’d heard a story about him having been seen leaving Mrs. Crabtree’s with a parlormaid and a goat, but that seemed a bit farfetched, even for Lord Maxfeld.
“What’s wrong with the gentleman?” In her mother’s voice was a thread of strain, as if she was gauging what Phoebe did or did not know about the man.
“He’s not much in the way of a gentleman.” Neither did he look like a gentleman, either, for no gentleman could possibly look the way he did. On one extreme were the homely men. On the other, the handsome men. Well, well beyond handsome was Lord Maxfeld. Alone. Defying the bounds of what should have been humanly possible.
“Yes, but he is a particular friend to dear Lord Corbeau, and his mother is an old friend of mine, my dear.”
“I don’t think a man like him reports back to his mother, Mama.” She knew only too well what a particular friend to her new brother Lord Maxfeld was. At the end of last autumn, they’d had to stay at the Maxfeld family seat, Sutterton Grange, for an interminable week. That had been bad enough. Worse had been enduring him at Corbeau Park in the days leading up to Christmas.
He had always looked at her in a way that made her skin warm. Blast the rotter.
Her mother didn’t seem to be paying her any mind. She seemed to gather her resolve, her chest expanding as she drew in a breath. “What others say about him is their business. I keep my own counsel.” And she punctuated the words with a decided nod.
Lady Bennington was fond of saying one couldn’t be a Landon without keeping one’s own counsel.
“He’s not the sort one likes, Mother.”
“For tonight, we’ll pretend he’s the same as anyone else. For his mother’s sake, we shall ignore all those silly things people say—but only for tonight, mind.”