Summer of Scandal

by Syrie James

  As her mother droned on, Madeleine tuned out the words. Her mother’s plans made her shudder. The London Season had been difficult enough. Now, was she really to be subjected to months on end of visits to country houses? More dinners, more parties and balls, where she’d be put on display again like a piece of meat at a market? She knew where it would lead. Her mother would hound her day and night, hoping Madeleine would finally give in and say yes to someone, just to have the ordeal over with.

  Madeleine walked to a window and stared outside. In the fading evening light, she could make out a small bird flitting to and fro around a huge, leafy elm. Suddenly, the bird took off, dashing up into the sky and disappearing from view.

  Oh, to be like that bird. To be able to fly away.

  She’d no sooner had the thought than Madeleine realized she had the answer to her dilemma.

  Charles aimed the flame of the torch at the wire, watching as the thin strip of metal liquefied, sealing the connection of the fitting. The torch wobbled in his grip and the flame singed his fingertips.

  Uttering an oath, he extinguished the device and slammed it down, then moved to a basin where he submerged his stinging hand in cold water.

  He glanced at the clock. It was nearly 6:00 a.m. He should have gone to bed hours ago, but he had been too agitated to sleep. All night long, his mind had kept returning to what had happened the afternoon before. Miss Atherton. Madeleine. Upstairs. Naked. In his bed. In his arms.

  And the confrontation that had followed.

  Charles dried his hand and began pacing angrily, trying to make sense of it all. The demands he had fully expected her to make had never materialized. Rather, she had seemed shocked and hurt by his reaction.

  You seem to forget, I don’t need to trick anyone into marriage. I’ve already turned down a title higher than yours.

  That was true.

  He’d congratulated himself on having the presence of mind to ensure that she wouldn’t become pregnant. But it occurred to him now that she had expressly asked about such a thing, and only continued when he’d assured her that she would be safe.

  Apparently he’d been wrong. Apparently she hadn’t been after a marriage commitment after all.

  Which meant he had behaved like an absolute bloody cad.

  Damn it all to hell and back.

  Charles had made love to many women, but no experience had ever affected him this way. Their lovemaking had been wondrous, electrifying. The memory of it, he suspected, would live with him for the remainder of his days.

  Yet what had he done? He’d taken her innocence and then sent her off weeping. He hated himself for that. He had never sent a woman from his bed in tears.

  Guilt settled over him like a prickly blanket. How could he have intermixed in his mind what had passed between them, with that other affair so many years before?

  With Elise, he had been drinking. He had felt nothing for Elise but lust, and could hardly even remember what they’d done. Whereas this afternoon, he’d been stone-cold sober and remembered every last detail. If he were honest with himself, his feelings for Miss Atherton went far beyond lust. Yes, he had wanted her body. But over the past couple of months, he had developed another kind of connection with her, an intellectual and emotional connection more powerful than anything he had ever felt in his life.

  Charles swallowed hard, biting back his frustration. Was he never to feel that way again?

  He had long known that whatever was to happen in the marriage bed between him and Sophie would be a staid, by-the-numbers experience, for the purpose of producing an heir and a spare. Until today, he had always accepted that as his fate. He hadn’t allowed himself to think much about it.

  But now he questioned it. Could he truly resign himself to a life without passion?

  He couldn’t help but recall Sophie’s reaction when he’d brought her here to his workshop. How she had belittled his work. Whereas in Miss Atherton, he’d recognized a kindred creative spirit.

  Simmering with fury, Charles shoved a box off a nearby table. It crashed, spewing parts across the floor. He felt trapped. Like a tiger in a cage. Promised from childhood to a woman he did not love.

  A man, he thought angrily, should not be bound by the dictates and expectations of his family. He wasn’t a king, compelled to marry for the good of the country or to unite nations. He was simply a man with a title. A title he would happily walk away from this instant, if it would give him his freedom, the ability to choose the woman he wished to marry.

  If he could choose any woman, he knew exactly who it would be.

  Madeleine Atherton.

  The realization hit him like a physical blow.

  He wanted to marry Madeleine Atherton.

  She was everything he had ever wanted in a wife. She was the most intelligent woman he’d ever met. In her arms, he had felt more passion than he had ever believed to be possible. She was highly imaginative, incredibly talented, with a sparkling personality and a generous disposition to boot. Whenever they talked, he wished it could go on forever. She understood him and what he wanted to achieve. She had ambitions of her own that went far beyond those of the members of their class, ambitions he admired.

  Their class. The thought came unbidden, but he suddenly knew it was how he truly felt. When it came right down to it, they were in the same class. Her family was a kind of American nobility. His gut wrenched with shame as he remembered what he’d said to her—how he had accused her of title-hunting. Yes, if they married, she would gain a title, but so what? He would gain the biggest prize. He would have her by his side forever.

  If they married, it would be a marriage of equals. And he did want to marry her, wanted to spend every day of the rest of his life with her.

  Because I love her.

  I love her with all my heart.

  How was it that he hadn’t seen that before?

  He had not seen it, for one thing, because he’d allowed himself to be blinded by a mistrust of heiresses in general, Americans in particular. Whereas if he’d had any sense, he would have been inspired by Thomas’s example, a marriage that was eminently successful—perfection itself.

  But more importantly, perhaps: he had not seen it because the very idea had been forbidden to him.

  Miss Atherton had felt herself to be off-limits as well, because she’d been contemplating an offer from Oakley. But that was off the table now. She was free.

  Would he ever be free? He had promised his father that he would marry Sophie. But that promise had been made under the belief that his father was dying. The man seemed healthy as an ox now—a turn of events which, ironically, had been Madeleine’s doing. Still, that marriage was what his mother wanted. What Sophie wanted. But was it fair to Sophie, to marry her when he was in love with someone else?

  Had he ruined any chance he had with Madeleine, by his awful behavior?

  Damn it all to bloody hell.

  Charles upended another box with a thundering crash. He didn’t know what to do with all the fury inside him. Everything he wanted was forbidden to him. The woman he loved. The work he loved. He could not acknowledge any of it.

  Well, he’d had it. He was sick and tired of sneaking out here, working in secret, keeping every thought and feeling hidden from himself and others. From now on, Charles determined, he would do things his way.

  Although the rest of the family appeared to be still asleep, Charles had banked on the fact that his father, when he felt fit, was an early riser. He had guessed correctly. He found the man in the gun room, the disassembled pieces of his twelve-bore shotgun scattered across the table where he sat.

  “Father? Might I have a word?” Charles’s every muscle seethed with tension and ire, which he struggled to contain. His father didn’t like displays of temper or emotion, although he didn’t mind dishing it out himself.

  “Certainly, my boy.” The marquess looked up as Charles entered, then turned his attention back to cleaning the gun. “What a pleasure it is to have this old
fellow back in my hands again. Seems like an eternity since I felt well enough to hunt.”

  “I am glad you are feeling better, Father.”

  “Timing could not be better, either.” He finished swabbing out the gun’s barrel. “Grouse season is just starting. I was thinking of going out tomorrow, see what I can scare up. Care to join me?”

  “Thank you, no. You are well aware that I have no interest in hunting.”

  “Bloody shame. Nothing so satisfying as a walk in the woods, that feeling you get when you flush the bird out and blam! There is dinner! You are missing out on one of life’s greatest pleasures, Charles.”

  “There are other things that give me pleasure. Which is what I have come to talk to you about.” From a leather satchel, Charles removed the device he’d brought and plunked it on the table.

  “What is that?” His father glanced at it briefly.

  “One of my works in progress.”

  “What do you mean, your works in progress?” He stared at the object as if it were a piece of rubbish he had found stuck to his shoe. “Are you saying that you made this . . . this thing?”

  “I did.”

  “Damn it, Charles! You promised me you were done with all that!”

  “I lied. You gave me no choice. I built another workshop.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Smiths’ farm.”

  “The Smiths? They are not a tenant of ours.”

  “No. I made sure to go off the estate. So as not to taint your name by association, should you or anyone else find out. I knew how strongly you would disapprove.”

  His father’s nostrils flared as he picked up an old rifle brush. “What is that?” he asked, gesturing with distaste toward the item on the table.

  “A battery-powered head lamp.”

  “A what? A head lamp? Why on earth would you waste your time making something like that?”

  “Because,” Charles said calmly, “it will make things safer for workers in the mines.”

  That seemed to get his father’s attention. “The mines?” For the first time, he took a real look at the lamp.

  “The gas lamps now in use are a hazard, as you well know.” Charles switched on the attached battery, which caused the lamp to emit a soft glow. “A battery emits no gas. A lamp like this would have saved those lives at Wheal Jenny, and it will prevent future explosions in other mines besides ours.”

  His father’s forehead furrowed as he took that in. “Will it indeed?”

  “The problem is battery power. I am hoping for three hours, if not longer. When I achieve that, it will revolutionize the way we do things in the mining industry.”

  His father seemed to be turning all that over in his mind. From the expression on his face, Charles sensed that, for the first time in his life, his father had heard him. And didn’t entirely disapprove. He actually seemed intrigued by this thing Charles was building. Maybe even a little impressed.

  Would he say so? Was it too much to ask his father to voice anything resembling interest in or praise of something Charles was doing?

  Pressing his lips tightly together, his father went back to scrubbing the rifle’s threads with the brush. “I suppose you intend to sell this thing?”

  Apparently, it was too much to ask.

  “I hope to.” Charles sighed. “But do not worry. Should I be so fortunate as to perfect it and find a manufacturer willing to build this or any of my other inventions, I will keep the Grayson name out of it. It need never be known that a member of our family is involved in trade. But I am not giving it up, Father. Not for you, not for Mother, not for anyone.”

  “I see. If that is how you feel, I suppose I cannot stop you.”

  Well, Charles thought. At least he had laid his cards out on the table. All in all, it had gone better than he had expected. His father hadn’t ranted or raved or tried to bully Charles into stopping the project. In fact, Charles had the distinct sense that his father saw merit in the enterprise, even if he couldn’t bring himself to say so.

  Best of all, Charles would not have to lie anymore. Which lifted an enormous weight from his mind. He felt better than he had in a long while.

  But he had another declaration to make.

  Stuffing the lamp and battery back inside his satchel, Charles said with fierce and unquestioning resolve: “One more thing. I am not marrying Sophie.”

  His father froze. Then he picked up a rag and kept working on the gun, his features tight with tension. “Why not?”

  “Because I do not love her.” Without waiting for his father’s reply, Charles quit the room. As he turned sharply into the corridor, he nearly collided with his mother, who appeared to have been standing outside the door. He skidded to a surprised halt. “Mother.”

  “Charles.” Pride warred with hesitation in her green eyes. “So, you told him at last?”

  He was not sure if she was referring to his scientific work or his decision not to marry Sophie. “I did.” They started down the hallway together.

  “Forgive me for eavesdropping, but when I saw you march in with that satchel and that thunderous expression, something told me you were heading for a showdown. It is high time your father understood what a brilliant son he has, and what you are capable of. It has been irritating, being obliged to hide my knowledge of it all these years. But I felt it was your place to tell him, not mine.”

  “It is a relief to have it out in the open at last.”

  “And . . . Sophie?” There was disappointment in her voice.

  Charles blew out a breath as they crossed the house. “I know how long you have been counting on this match, Mother, believe me I do. I realize I will be letting down Sophie as well, and I feel terrible about it.” Charles’s gut burned as he poured out the feelings that had been bottled up inside him for so long. “But I see no value in making good on a promise that will only make us both miserable. I don’t love her. I will do my duty as the successor to this property, but I am resolved that I will be left free to choose my own wife.”

  Charles braced himself for the argument that was sure to follow.

  Instead, his mother fell silent for a long moment. Then she said: “Charles. Will you walk with me in the garden?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Did I ever tell you about William?”

  Charles glanced at his mother as she strolled beside him, the morning sun shining brightly on her pale pink gown. “William who?” he asked.

  “William Edgerton.” She pronounced the name with a sigh. “I met him while on holiday with my parents at Brighton when I was seventeen years old. William was studying to be a clergyman. He was a clever man with such wit and spark, such a passion for life. I had never been so drawn to another human being. We fell in love. I knew without a doubt that he was the man I wished to marry.”

  Charles sensed where this story was going. “But your parents . . .”

  “They forbade the match. William was the third son of a gentleman. He was obliged to support himself, would inherit nothing. That was not nearly good enough for my family. As the daughter of an earl, I had to marry a man of noble birth.”

  It was an all too familiar refrain—and at the same time, a story Charles had never once guessed at. “I am sorry. What happened to William?”

  “I heard he married a curate’s daughter. I never saw him again.” Her expression was overcome by sadness. “I spent the next two years involved in the Season, where I met eligible young men who met my parents’ notion of acceptability. But they all seemed . . . unremarkable. Interchangeable. Having experienced true love, I had no wish to attach myself for life to someone for whom I felt not an iota of passion. But I had no choice. I had to choose one of them. And so I did.”

  “Do you mean . . . you never loved Father?”

  “Not at first. We learned to love each other. I know it is an old cliché, Charles, but it is true nevertheless.”

  Charles’s stomach clenched. What was the point of this story? Did she mean t
o try to impress upon him that he could learn to love Sophie?

  “However,” she said. Her long skirts brushed the gravel path as they meandered past an expanse of tall hedgerows. “I never loved your father the way I loved William. William lives on in my heart and mind even now, more than forty years later.”

  Charles was uncertain how to reply. “I’m sorry,” he said again, but his mother held up a hand and cut him off.

  “Charles: when you ran off to America with Miss Townsend, was your heart really in it?”

  The question took him by surprise. “No. I felt obligated to stand by her in case she was with child, and because she said I had ruined her. I am convinced that had we married, what would have actually been ruined is both our lives.”

  His mother nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes, the right thing to do is not so clear as we think.”

  Charles glanced at her as they walked, wondering what she was thinking. He was resolved, no matter what, not to marry Sophie. He had no idea if Madeleine would have him. But to receive his mother’s blessing on the former, at the very least, would make things so much easier. “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying . . . although I have been long championing a match between you and Sophie, I have not been entirely unobservant. I have noticed that something was never quite right between you two.”

  “Have you?”

  “Life is full of hurdles, Charles. Marriage has its ups and downs, its quarrels, its unanticipated problems. If a couple are fortunate enough to love each other at the outset, I believe it gives them a solid foundation to build on, makes it easier to weather the storms, so to speak. But without that foundation . . .” A pair of robins burst forth from a nearby hedgerow and fluttered past them. “You said you do not love Sophie. Are you in love with someone else?”

  He hadn’t been expecting that. Without thinking, Charles heard himself blurt: “Yes.”