The Improper Bride (Sisters of Scandal)

by Lily Maxton

  She’d been married once. She could have had her own house, her own children. But that life had vanished when Robert was killed during the war.

  When she’d first received the news of his death, her lungs had constricted and she hadn’t been able to breathe—she’d sunk to the floor gasping, sure she was going to die, as well. That she would suffocate. But she hadn’t died. She’d picked up the broken pieces of her life with the help of her siblings and her parents.

  But she knew she wouldn’t marry again, or have a house, or children. She’d loved Robert with her whole heart, with all the beautiful naivety and foolish passion of youth and the belief that their love could conquer anything, even time…even death. She didn’t think it was possible that she could love someone that much again.

  She didn’t even know if she was capable of that sort of love any longer.

  Maybe a person could only give so much, and then she could give no more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day, Henry experienced something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time—anxiety. And it was over a woman.

  He really didn’t like the feeling—the churning stomach, the overwrought senses. He felt distinctly unlike himself, and he wasn’t comfortable with it. He sat in his bed and kept glancing at the mantel clock, watching the blasted thing tick away the minutes until eleven, then glancing back at the door.

  But it wouldn’t do to be staring at the door when she came in. He’d look like a fool, and there was nothing he despised more than looking like a fool.

  He still wished Cassandra Davis had turned out to be dimwitted. Instead, she soaked up knowledge like roots soaking up spring water, and it made her blossom into something glorious.

  He watched a metamorphosis each time he was with her. But perhaps this woman she changed into was the woman she was meant to be…the woman she might have been if her father had had a better position, or if he hadn’t had to raise so many children. Instead of a widowed housekeeper, she might have been a linguist or an author or a scientist. She might have been one of the few women to sever the bonds of her gender, to break out from her hollowed chrysalis and sweep the entire sky in a rainbow of shimmering color.

  God, she was so beautiful it made him ache.

  He stilled as the thought chased across his mind. And then shoved it aside violently. She wasn’t. She wasn’t beautiful. She was pretty on her best days, and average on her worst. He’d been with women she couldn’t hold a torch to.

  And he would do well to remember it.

  To distract himself, he selected a book from the stand and flipped it open, glancing down without even seeing the words. He managed to maintain the position until he heard Mrs. Davis’s footsteps in the corridor and then the light scratch at the door that, somehow, he always recognized as hers.

  He didn’t look up as she sat down in her usual chair, but he was aware of her movements.

  “That must be an interesting book, my lord,” she said after a moment of silence.

  He waited a few more seconds before answering. “Indeed,” he drawled.

  “What is it?”

  He froze. What was it? Damned if he knew. And he couldn’t very well close it to look at the title. He peered at the pages…which seemed to be discussing different types of manure and wheat. It must be the agricultural book he’d requested, a topic which bored him to tears, but which he tried to keep up with, all the same. A lord who was well-informed in farming techniques had a better grasp on the most prosperous methods. If there was one thing his father had drilled into him it was that—the importance of knowledge.

  His father wasn’t the most trusting sort. Henry was quite sure the duke didn’t care about knowledge for its own sake, but so that he wouldn’t be swindled by people who knew more than he did.

  “The latest in the world of agriculture,” he answered. “Fascinating stuff.”

  “I’ll take your word on that,” Cassandra said, sounding unconvinced.

  He closed the book, a little harder than he’d intended. The thud filled the entire room.

  “Shall we start?” she asked.

  So. She wasn’t going to mention what he’d done.

  Something washed over him. A sort of ache in his chest that felt alarmingly close to disappointment. But why should it matter whether she mentioned it or not? He was simply trying to help her learn better, which was his duty as her tutor.

  “We’ll do numbers today,” he said. “Verbally first, and then you can— Did you even notice the labels?”

  What, in the name of God, was that? Mrs. Davis jerked her head up, her nose wrinkling in confusion. He felt just as confused as she appeared, but his confusion was mixed with a healthy amount of self-disgust. He didn’t just blurt things out like a lunatic. He was a lord of the realm—his speech was measured, and calm, and thought-out—

  “Did you?” he repeated harshly. God, his blasted mind had lost all control over his tongue. “Did Kitty not put them up? I’ll ring for her.” He turned toward the bell pulls, and pain shot through his damaged arm as it hit one of the bedposts. He grunted.

  “No,” Mrs. Davis said, lifting her hand to stay him, looking a little alarmed by his clumsy movements. “They were all there.” She frowned. “You remembered her name but not Mary’s?”

  “No. I asked her what her name was.”

  “You asked her,” she murmured. “Why?”

  Why was she still talking about Kitty? He wanted to know what she’d thought of the labels, blast it.

  “Because you—” And this time, finally, his brain caught up with his mouth. He’d been about to say, “Because you wanted me to,” as simply as that, without even stopping to think about how it would sound—like a pathetic fool who let his housekeeper take charge of his life.

  But he was the master of Blakewood Hall. He would do whatever he damn well pleased, and it didn’t matter whether she cared about the labels he’d written for her or not. He felt like a child, giving a gift to someone admired, and waiting with breathless, dizzy anticipation to see if she liked it, ready to be crushed into pieces if she didn’t.

  He was angry. Angry with her for causing him to feel this way.

  “Because you wouldn’t shut up about the matter,” he said brutally. “And I was bloody sick and tired of hearing it.”

  She didn’t flinch, but her face turned a shade paler. She lifted her chin. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  His hand curled, an agitated gesture that he quickly checked. He hated it when she turned into the obedient servant, hated it when she withdrew from him, hated the lack of emotion in her voice. Life would have been much easier if she’d never confronted him in the heat of the moment—then he wouldn’t know what he was missing.

  But she had, and he did know.

  “Did the labels help?” he asked.

  “They…” She hesitated. “The other servants took note of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They thought it was unusual for you to do something like that for a servant. Your actions made them…speculate on the nature of our relationship.”

  He barked out a laugh, though he didn’t feel amused, at all. “What relationship? Tutor and student?”

  She made a gesture that was unlike her, a little careless shrug, and then pulled at the hem of her sleeve. She was usually a very poised woman—she didn’t fidget. It caused a disturbing reaction in him, a little pang of dismay, that he’d made her feel agitated enough to lose some of her composure. Even when he’d been tossing out some of the worst words he could think of, she hadn’t lost her composure. “Please don’t do it again,” she mumbled.

  He wasn’t sure he’d heard her right, even though a sinking feeling was spreading through his stomach. “Excuse me?”

  “Please don’t do anything like that again, my lord. It made me uncomfortable.”

  He stared at her. She stared back. There was silence—a long, dragging silence that buzzed in his ears. He tried for a smirk, and for the
first time in his life, wasn’t sure if he looked as uncaring as he wanted to appear. “As you desire, Mrs. Davis.”

  He kept his expression cool as he launched into his lesson about German numerals, but his face was like a placid lake that hid a monster underneath the surface. Because inside…inside, he felt crushed.

  Like a child whose gift to the person he most admired had been rejected.

  But then he steeled himself. For a moment, he’d forgotten what they were to each other. He’d forgotten their roles, their respective places, his duty and hers.

  He wouldn’t forget again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You can leave the bandages off now,” Mr. Faulkner told him.

  Henry sat on the edge of the bed in a ray of afternoon sunlight that streamed in through the open curtains. He could feel the chill of winter in the air—a month had passed since Cassandra Davis had stepped up to his sickbed and asked him to teach her German. At the surgeon’s statement, Henry tensed. “Pardon?”

  “The bandages. The skin is healed, or at least as healed as it will be in the short term. There is no risk of infection any longer.”

  “I see.” Henry remained silent as Mr. Faulkner unwrapped the bandages, then gathered up his things.

  The man smiled. “It truly is miraculous that you survived, my lord. I’ll call on you next week, but I don’t think there is anything more to be done. The muscles in the arm will tighten…you’ll want to knead them, I think, to ease the pain, but you should maintain use of it. ”

  Henry stayed perched on the edge of the bed and watched the surgeon leave. He didn’t know if his survival was a miracle or not, but it had driven knowledge of his mortality into him like a spike into the earth. He would die. He might die soon, before he’d had a chance to produce an heir. Even before the fire, the issue of a bride had niggled at the back of his mind. That he carry on the family name before it was too late. He certainly wasn’t getting any younger.

  He’d put it off, though. The idea of taking a wife, of binding himself to another person, had made his chest feel tight.

  It still did.

  But now…now it seemed even more important to secure a bride and a future heir. Now, ironically, when he was scarred and the last thing he wanted to think about was wooing a woman.

  But he couldn’t cower in this bedchamber forever. He was the Marquess of Riverton. That was worth something.

  That was worth everything.

  Everything he was.

  With fear in his heart, he approached the simple mirror that hung on the wall. For the first time without bandages, he looked into it.

  His lips parted on a sharp breath as he gazed at his reflection in the unforgiving daylight.

  Well.

  No one could call him handsome anymore. From one temple to his jawline, his skin was discolored, a rough patchwork pattern of violent red and lifeless white. The corner of his eyebrow had been burnt clean off. He supposed he was lucky he still had use of that eye. It must have been a close thing.

  He pressed his fingers to the scarred, raised skin.

  For at least a minute, he just stared at himself. It was strange, when he tilted his face to the other side he looked exactly as he had before. And then he moved his head slightly, and there it was.

  Ugliness.

  Damage.

  Frailty.

  Fear hollowed out his heart. Fear of going back into society, of what the reaction would be from people he’d known for years. Fear of what Cassandra Davis would see when she looked at him. Ridiculously, that was what worried him the most. He allowed himself the fear, but only for one weak instant before he braced himself.

  He had always thought it was better to be envied than loved. And he would be envied, no matter what his face looked like—he was still heir to a duke. He would still have his choice of the most refined ladies to marry.

  It was high time he found himself a wife. It didn’t matter if mamas pointed and stared, or if fainthearted debutantes swooned. He was the Marquess of Riverton, and he would not hide. Not from them.

  Not from anyone.

  Certainly not from one little housekeeper.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lord Riverton sent for Cassandra before their customary lesson. She was glad that, even after the awkwardness with the labels, they’d continued the German lessons each day, like clockwork. Their interactions felt a little like clockwork, too. Smooth, but mechanical.

  He would sit on the edge of the bed while she sat in an armchair several feet away. He no longer made any dry jokes. He didn’t try to provoke her.

  God, she must be mad, but she almost wished he would.

  She wasn’t sure she liked the way his eyes would pass over her, barely noting she was there. Wasn’t sure she liked his even, distant tone. Cool, but polite. No warmth, but nothing to take issue with, either. It was the exact way he’d spoken to her before.

  She should have been relieved.

  She wasn’t.

  More often than not, her stomach tightened with annoyance. And why? Because he wasn’t trying to shock her with vulgar words? That was a good thing!

  Still, she was learning German. She didn’t know how fast the marquess had learned it, but she thought she was making good progress. And she loved the language, at least, whether the man teaching it left her unsettled or not.

  That morning he’d sent a note down to her to come early. She had no idea what he wanted to talk to her about.

  She knocked quietly at the chamber door and stepped in at his command. He was turned away from her, looking out the window. He’d dressed in trousers and a dark coat and boots. It had been a long time since she’d seen him in anything other than a dressing gown.

  Strange, it hadn’t seemed improper at the time, as he’d been recovering from his wounds, but now that he was fully dressed, her skin heated a little to think back on it.

  For a good ten seconds he stayed silent, staring out the window at dark clouds. She was reluctant to break into the stillness. She would be content to stand here and watch him, take in the elegant lines of his form, the way the shadows played across the side of his face, for an hour, for two hours.

  That troubling realization spurred her into action. “My lord?”

  He faced her suddenly, and she made a sound at the sight of him. Not quite a gasp—more a sharply drawn breath. She would have taken it back if she could, but he’d startled her. She hadn’t known the bandages were off. Hadn’t known that when he turned to face her, she would see him, not as he’d once been, but as a man who’d been hurt, and who bore scars as evidence of that hurt.

  His beauty was gone. The scars themselves were shocking—vivid, on first glance, in their ugliness. But they could have been worse. They hadn’t killed him. They hadn’t left him blinded.

  She ached for his pain, but she was grateful his life had been spared. More grateful than she would have ever imagined.

  And knowing this, she found that she could look upon him steadily instead of glancing away.

  “I’m throwing a house party,” he said, staring down at her impassively.

  She blinked, already distracted from the scarring on his face. Had she heard him correctly? “But the south wing—”

  “It will be a small, informal house party. The remaining guest rooms should be sufficient. I’ve written to my sister—”

  Now it was her turn to interrupt him. “Your sister?” she asked, flabbergasted. She’d been in his employee for five years, and his sister had never visited Blakewood Hall.

  He looked suddenly amused. “Believe me, I’m not thrilled, either. But she’s acquainted with many ladies of a marriageable age. My main consolation is that she’s only one of the Eldridges, and the least vexing. To me, at any rate.”

  “You don’t like your family?” Cassandra asked curiously. He’d never spoken of them before.

  “I don’t like my family when we’re all together,” he said dryly. “My sister does everything in her power to make my
parents livid, and my parents don’t respond very well to the challenge.”

  Cassandra was intrigued in spite of herself. Where did he fit into this circle? He sounded like an outsider looking in. “They can’t be that bad.”

  “No?”

  He folded his arms over his chest as he gazed at her, drawing her attention to the way the fabric stretched over his biceps. One arm he seemed to hold a little more gingerly than the other. Did it pain him?

  “Once my family was hosting a house party, and my sister and her beau du jour were rowing a boat on the lake. They got into some sort of argument and she flung herself out of the boat.”

  Cassandra gaped. “Truly?”

  He nodded grimly. “You can imagine my mother’s reaction.”

  “Well,” Cassandra said cautiously. “If your sister was young, and in love…”

  “This was only a few years ago, and as far as I know, Margaret has never been in love—she quite relishes her role as a spirited spinster. Anyway, my father threatened to lock her in her room for the rest of the day for disgracing the family honor.”

  Cassandra’s jaw fell. He must be joking. But no…he looked completely serious. “Surely not.”

  He smirked. “It only lasted about ten minutes. Father unlocked the door when she wouldn’t stop singing a particularly bawdy song at the top of her lungs.”

  Cassandra bit her lip. And then snorted, unable to contain a burst of laughter. She covered her mouth with her hands. “I apologize. It’s not a laughing matter.”

  “And yet, you’re laughing,” Riverton pointed out.

  “It’s just…well, it is rather ridiculous.”

  “Quite.” He watched her, looking like he wanted to smile, then abruptly looked away. He looked so distant in that moment, so untouchable. But he was untouchable. For her, at least. A pang went through her chest.

  “My sister will act as hostess,” he said, returning to the original topic. “She’s selected three eligible ladies she wants me to become better acquainted with, and of course, we’ve invited a few gentlemen to balance out the numbers. As she will arrive with the other guests, I thought it best if we go over the planning now.” He gazed at Cassandra expectantly.