Summer of Scandal

by Syrie James

  Saunders chuckled. “How on earth did you come to know all that, Miss Atherton?”

  “I had a rather remarkable English professor in my second year at Vassar.”

  He paused. “Ah, yes. Your sister mentioned that you just graduated from college. May I congratulate you on your accomplishment?”

  “Thank you.”

  He cocked his head slightly, regarding her with what appeared to be a mixture of esteem and curiosity. “I find you most unusual, Miss Atherton.”

  “Do you? Why?”

  “Your father is one of the wealthiest men in America. You have no need to work. Yet you chose to attend university.”

  “Every member of the peerage goes to college,” she pointed out, “and you don’t engage in a profession.”

  His brows furrowed at that and he seemed perturbed. After a moment, he commented, “Yes, but that’s different.”

  “Why is it different? Why shouldn’t I educate myself? Because I’m a woman?”

  An awkward laugh escaped him now and he seemed incapable of a reply.

  Madeleine leaned forward in her seat, passion fueling her words. “Women are just as smart as men, my lord, and sometimes smarter. We are equally as capable. We can do anything men can do.”

  He studied her. “Is that so? Anything?”

  “Anything. Women are doctors and surgeons now—highly skilled ones. And we have women lawyers now in America.”

  “So I have heard,” he admitted. “But you must admit, there are some limits as to what women can do.”

  “Name one.”

  “Well, for example, a woman could not dig ditches.”

  “Give me a shovel, and I will prove you wrong.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Something tells me you would. All right, then. A woman could not be a police officer.”

  “Why not?”

  “She does not have the physical prowess the job requires.”

  “I beg to differ. You’d be surprised how strong a woman can be, my lord, when the circumstances demand it.”

  He took that in, seemingly considering it, but shook his head. “I do not see it. In the same vein, a woman could never serve in the military or go to war.”

  “Untrue!” Madeleine protested. “Absolutely untrue.”

  “How so?” He pointed a finger at her. “And pray do not use Joan of Arc as an example. She was an anomaly.”

  “Joan of Arc was not an anomaly. Women have served in combat since the dawn of history!”

  “Have they? Who?”

  “Chinese General Fu Hao, for instance, a woman, led thousands of people into battle in the thirteenth century BCE, and defeated the Shang. In the eleventh century CE, Matilda of Tuscany, an accomplished archer, commanded armies to defend the pope and made kings kneel before her. In our American Civil War, hundreds of women concealed their gender so they could fight alongside their Union and Confederate counterparts. And that’s barely scratching the surface of the—”

  “Truce! Truce!” Lord Saunders laughed again and raised his hands in defeat. “I stand corrected. This is clearly a subject which you have studied and I have not.”

  “Given the opportunity, women can accomplish great things, Lord Saunders. And one day—I hope to see it in my lifetime—we will have that opportunity. When we have the vote, men like you will be obliged to accept us as your equals.” She paused, conscious that she’d put a somewhat negative emphasis on the words men like you, and worried that she’d gone a bit too far. After all, she was a guest in his carriage, and beyond expressing doubts about women’s physical capabilities, he hadn’t said anything too terribly chauvinistic.

  He went quiet for a moment as he stared at her. “Miss Atherton, since the first time we met, I have had the sense that you do not like me very much.”

  “Oh, my dislike for you began long before we met, Lord Saunders.” The words tumbled from Madeleine’s mouth before she had a chance to stop them. She stifled a gasp at their brazenness, instantly regretting them. “Forgive me, I should not have said that.”

  “No, I appreciate honesty, Miss Atherton,” was his astonished reply. “But pray tell me, what did I ever do to give you offense, before we had even met?”

  Chapter Two

  Madeleine paused. Every nerve in her body itched to tell him exactly what she thought of him. To say:

  I know what happened four years ago. That you stole your best friend’s fiancée a week before the wedding and ran off with her to America.

  The fact that the best friend in question was Thomas Carlyle, her sister’s husband, made the whole thing cut even more deeply. Although Saunders didn’t end up marrying the heiress involved, and the woman had been more than a little at fault herself, the circumstances still marked a flaw in his character. He could have said no. How Thomas could have brought himself to forgive this man was beyond Madeleine’s comprehension. To be betrayed by a dear friend, in such a callous manner! After something like that, a person could never be trusted again.

  But did she dare to mention it?

  The finishing governess her mother had hired to prepare her and her sisters for their London debuts had impressed upon them the importance of reticence in English society. “Never say anything,” Madame Dubois had insisted, “unless it is unfailingly prudent and polite.”

  The thoughts coursing through her brain at the moment were neither prudent nor polite.

  So, she merely said, “You have a reputation, Lord Saunders.”

  “Do I? What kind of reputation?”

  “I think you know exactly what I mean, my lord.”

  His lips twitched slightly. “What have you heard? Rumors about myself and . . . the ladies?”

  It annoyed her that he seemed to find this amusing. “Yes.”

  Lord Saunders leaned forward, hands clasped together, elbows resting on his knees as he studied her. “I am unmarried, Miss Atherton. Don’t you think a single man ought to sow his wild oats while he can, before he settles down for life?”

  “I have no problem with that. Unless the woman with whom he’s sowing those wild oats is promised to another.”

  He flinched. Madeleine felt a heat rise to her face. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt.

  “I presume,” he said quietly, “you are referring to my relationship with Miss Elise Townsend?”

  It had not been her intention to force the issue into the open or to goad him. And yet she had. Swallowing her misgivings, she answered, “I am.”

  He let go a deep sigh. “I suppose your sister told you all about that?”

  “Yes, but it’s common knowledge.”

  “Is it?”

  “How could you do it?” she blurted. “How could you betray your best friend like that?” She knew full well what it was like to be on the receiving end of such a blatant betrayal, knew how much it hurt.

  He didn’t immediately respond. “What can I say, Miss Atherton? It happened a long time ago.” Bitterness took over his face. “And it was a mistake. The biggest mistake I have ever made.”

  Once again, Madeleine was sorry for bringing up a subject that appeared to cause him distress. Her feelings on the matter remained unchanged, but at least he had the decency to feel bad about the affair. That counted for something.

  He turned to gaze moodily out the window at the rainy landscape as the carriage rattled along. Silence stretched between them. Well, they had a long ride ahead of them. She might as well read.

  Madeleine slowly withdrew the novel she’d brought from her tapestry bag, being extra careful not to allow a glimpse of the other, more precious cargo the carryall contained. Glancing up, she noticed Lord Saunders watching her. A flush rose to her cheeks as she shut the clasp, then opened her book, and lost herself within its pages.

  Charles studied Miss Atherton as the carriage lurched on.

  Conversation had ceased long ago. He did not appreciate the topic she’d just brought up—it was something he preferred to never think or talk about again. Despite that, he found himself
drawn to her.

  Her eyes were focused on the book she had retrieved from her tapestry bag. She certainly seemed possessive about that bag. He wondered what was in it. Gold bullion? Diamonds and rubies? She was an heiress, after all. He wouldn’t put it past her to carry her weight in jewels whenever she traveled.

  Today, her jewelry was relatively modest, though. Just a pair of pearl drop earrings. They looked well on her.

  Everything looked well on her.

  Madeleine Atherton was, unequivocally, an attractive woman. Her complexion was fair. Her reddish-brown hair was woven up in a becoming style beneath her fashionable hat. Her velvet cloak masked her figure, but he remembered the lines and curves of her body. He had seen it before.

  Charles would never forget the moment he’d first set eyes on Madeleine Atherton. It was at a party at Polperran House the previous autumn, a week before Longford’s wedding. Charles had been speaking with the vicar when he happened to look up and catch sight of Longford’s bride-to-be descending the grand staircase with two other young ladies. The resemblance between them was striking; they were clearly sisters, each as lovely as the next. But it was the woman in the middle who had captured his attention.

  Madeleine Atherton’s gown had been of lilac satin, embellished by spectacular beading that glimmered beneath the chandeliers. Her figure, he remembered, was lithe yet curvaceous in all the right places. As she’d regarded the festivities below, her smile had been incandescent, as though she were lit by a flame from within.

  Charles had lost sight of her as she’d made the round of introductions. Suddenly Longford was at his elbow, he turned, and there she was. Beauty incarnate, standing before him.

  Except that instead of the radiant smile he had formerly observed, her face had held a frown, and her eyes had flashed with something like disgust. He’d had no idea what was behind that expression, had certainly never dreamt that it had anything to do with him—that it was a reflection of her disapproval over something he had done years before.

  He had bowed and said hello, she’d murmured something in response, and Longford had hurried her away to greet someone else.

  All evening long, Charles had looked in vain for an opportunity to speak to her again. They had barely exchanged three words at the wedding. Soon after that, she and her parents and younger sister had sailed back to New York.

  When he’d spotted her last month in town, she always seemed to be frustratingly just out of reach. He now suspected that she had been dodging him deliberately.

  And why? Because of the Miss Townsend affair?

  He’d thought the subject long since dead and buried. No one else had mentioned it in years. Her brother-in-law had been affected, yes, but it hadn’t affected her. And no one regretted that episode more than he did. He wondered if Miss Atherton knew the whole story. If she did not, it bothered him that she was judging him based on an incomplete picture. That of all things, that was the reason she disliked him.

  Not that he required her to like or approve of him.

  It wasn’t as if his attraction to her could ever go anywhere. A relationship with her was out of the question—not just because of Sophie, or because of the offer Miss Atherton had just received from Osborne—but because she was an heiress in search of a title, and therefore in his eyes, persona non grata.

  He had been down that road before. He had vowed to never venture there again.

  He drummed his fingers on the seat, recalling the other things she’d mentioned about him. That thing about his reputation was interesting. Even though she had it all wrong.

  It was true that he’d had a number of relationships over the years. Never with a debutante or a virgin, though—he knew better than to entangle himself in something like that. He restricted his affairs to experienced women. Even those liaisons had been few and far between, and nowhere nearly as plentiful as people believed. It had been months since he’d ended the last one.

  The hints which he deliberately dropped, to let it be presumed that he was with some unnamed actress or widow, suited his purpose. They explained his absences from many events in town, allowing him the time to pursue his secret passion. A preoccupation of which his father—and society—would surely not approve, and was therefore best kept under wraps.

  In the meantime, did he enjoy flirting during the Season? Of course he did. What was the harm in it? Time was fleeting. One day soon, he would be tied down for life. His mother and father had nearly lost their minds when he had defied them and run off to America with Elise, a lapse in judgment that had nearly destroyed his friendship with Thomas. When it all blew up in his face and, to his great relief, he found himself still single, his parents had made him solemnly promise that he would never do anything so harebrained again.

  That he would marry an English girl. A woman who suited their notion of a proper marchioness.

  His cousin Sophie.

  The daughter of his mother’s favorite brother.

  It was a hope of long standing, that had been born in his mother’s breast on the day of Sophie’s birth. No one had asked his opinion on the matter, of course. But then, he was only seven years old at the time. If his mother had had her way, Charles would have married Sophie years ago and be living in Parmoor House now, raising five children.

  As the eldest son, Charles knew he was obliged to follow a particular path. Oxford was supposed to have been a minor step on the road, a suitable education followed by a lifetime of socializing, hunting, drinking, and card-playing, interrupted by the occasional duties required in overseeing the estate.

  But he didn’t fit the mold. Never had. Never would. Not without giving up a piece of his soul.

  He was to be the next marquess, no way of getting out of it. When the time came, he would grit his teeth and do his duty. But until that day, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to spend every spare second doing what he wanted. Following his inclinations and dreams.

  It was those inclinations and dreams that kept his mind engaged. That made life worth living.

  If only he could make his parents understand that. His entire life, his father had looked down on everything Charles aspired to, insisting that it was a waste of time. His mother had been more interested and appreciative, but refused to stand up for him. His father’s word was law.

  And she wanted grandchildren.

  “Sophie will make you the ideal wife, Charles,” his mother had been insisting over far too many breakfasts and dinners to count, ever since he could remember. “You are approaching thirty,” she had reminded him only last month. “What are you waiting for? It is high time you asked Sophie to marry you and settled down.”

  He hadn’t seen Sophie in a couple of years. During her last visit, he had caught her staring at him meaningfully several times from under her pale lashes. He’d heard that she had turned down two offers of marriage because she was waiting for him. He felt a bit guilty about that. He hadn’t promised her anything, not yet.

  Unless you counted the talk they’d had all those years ago when she was what, sixteen? The one and only time he had kissed her. He hadn’t felt any particular excitement in the event. But Sophie had practically swooned. Every day since, he had been keenly aware of her and his parents’ expectations.

  Charles closed his eyes, trying to imagine what his life would be like if he married Sophie. She was the daughter of an earl, and a true English rose. Pale. Quiet. Pretty. What society called accomplished. She had impeccable manners, was adept at small talk, played the piano, sang a little, excelled at dancing, spoke some French, had been taught (so he had been told) how to manage a household and throw a dinner party, and did prodigious amounts of needlework. All the skills which were required of the wife of a peer.

  Why, then, did he feel that something was lacking? Why, then, was he dragging his feet?

  His mother was probably right, he told himself now. When he decided to settle down, Sophie would make him the ideal wife. If he should wish to go off for days at a time to pursue
his other interests, Sophie would look the other way. She was not the kind of woman who would openly question his activities, or his reputation.

  He would certainly never marry someone like—

  The carriage came to a sudden, jarring halt, casting his thoughts to the wind.

  Rain was pouring down in sheets and battering against the windows. Why had they stopped? Charles heard Ned jump down from the box. Seconds later, the carriage door was yanked open.

  Ned, looking more like a drowned rat than a human being, said in his strong Cornish accent: “Beggin’ yer pardon, milord. A tree be fallen ’cross the road. It so be we can’t pass this way.”

  Charles wiped condensation from the inside of a window with his coat sleeve and glanced out. He could perceive the large tree trunk that impeded them. “I suppose we shall have to backtrack then, and take the longer way around to Polperran House.”

  Ned shook his head. “Nary can do that, milord. I seen that road when we passed it by. It be flooded and so deep in mud, no coach could pass through this day. We best ways go back to the main road and on to Trevelyan Manor, right quick.”

  Miss Atherton looked up from her book. “I beg your pardon. What did your man say?”

  Charles frowned. “He says we are unable to reach Polperran House after all. I have no alternative but to take you home.”

  Chapter Three

  Madeleine gazed out the window in frustration as the carriage rumbled along, pelted by the interminable downpour.

  Under normal circumstances, Madeleine adored the rain. Growing up in their old house in Poughkeepsie, she’d loved snuggling in her bedroom under the eaves, listening to the raindrops batter the roof during a storm. In the gilded mansion her parents had built on Fifth Avenue in New York City, she’d enjoyed cozying up with a book by her favorite window, watching the rain dance against the pavement as horses and carriages passed by in the street below.

  Today, however, the rain was just a cold, wet inconvenience. It was freezing inside the carriage. The windows were too fogged up to see out. How she longed for a hot bath and a seat by a warm fire.