The Improper Bride (Sisters of Scandal)

by Lily Maxton

  Just bloody perfect.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Henry had never been more tempted to stab himself with a fork, but, alas, there were no forks in sight. He should have smuggled one in from the dining room. Instead, he sat anchored on one end of the striped settee in the drawing room as Lady Jane, on the other end, asked Mr. Thornton a question.

  It was a soul-destroying game, questions and commands. Everyone had agreed enthusiastically when Lady Jane brought up the idea, while Henry’s mild suggestion of cards had gone unheeded.

  If they’d expected Lady Jane to go easy on them, they were sadly mistaken. She wasn’t the type. She’d sent Henry a sly smile before turning toward Mr. Thornton. “Who was your first mistress?”

  Lord Washburn glanced at Lady Emily worriedly. “That isn’t a very appropriate question for mixed company.”

  Lady Jane waved him off. “Don’t be so dull, my lord. It is all in fun.”

  Lady Jane’s chaperone, who was, ostensibly, there to protect the woman’s virtue, remained quietly in the corner, staring at the wall hangings. Henry felt a little flash of pity for the woman.

  “Now, Mr. Thornton?” Lady Jane said with a lift of her eyebrows.

  The man blushed. “I cannot possibly answer that. It’s ungentlemanly.”

  “Then you must follow a command,” she said.

  “Very well.”

  Lady Jane leaned back against the settee, a smile tilting her lips. “Crawl on the floor and baa like a sheep.”

  Miss Haversham giggled into her hand.

  Mr. Thornton looked affronted. “Lady Jane!

  But she shook her head, merciless. “Either answer the question or follow the command. You know how the game works. You agreed to play it, didn’t you?”

  Mr. Thornton tugged at his cravat, and then, the man lowered himself to his hands and knees on the Persian carpet and crawled around the room. “Baa,” he uttered faintly as he passed by Henry’s knees.

  It was almost physically painful to watch.

  Lady Jane turned her gaze on Henry when Mr. Thornton, his face tomato red, heaved himself back into his chair. “Lord Riverton, your turn. Why did Julia Forsythe leave you?”

  He stared at her, wondering what she was playing at. She wanted him to like her, didn’t she? “And if I don’t answer?”

  “I’ll go easy on you,” she said. “A simple kiss as forfeit.”

  The corner of his mouth curled. The woman was diabolical. If the image of Thornton pretending to be a sheep wasn’t fresh in his mind, he might have even been impressed. “I’ll answer the question,” he said smoothly, ignoring her crestfallen look. “It’s only the first day of the house party, after all. We have plenty of time for such forfeits.”

  She looked a bit happier now. God help him.

  He thought about how to answer. Before, he might have responded with something snide and petty. She preferred Adam Radcliff because she wanted a man with dirty hands. I was too clean for her. But he found he didn’t have the heart for it anymore. Not after the fire—when he’d started to understand how it felt to be helpless, when he’d started to have some inkling of the awful thing he’d done to Julia with his threats. So, he told the simple truth. “Julia Forsythe left me because she was in love with my gardener.”

  Miss Haversham gasped. “Truly? Were you heartbroken?”

  Heartbroken? His pride had been shattered. But never his heart. “No. I was not very kind to her. I cannot blame her for leaving.”

  Silence permeated the room. Had he ever admitted that aloud before? Had he ever even thought it? But it was true. He’d just been too proud to acknowledge the truth.

  “See here. I’ve answered more than my share of questions,” he said, forcing his lips into a smile. He used to be better at this—the politeness, the dissembling, and even, when necessary, the charm. Even when it had grated, he could don a persona like a mask around his peers. Now the mask chafed. “Lady Jane?”

  The woman looked at Lady Emily, who stared at her knees, no doubt hoping she could escape notice. “Lady Emily, what man here would you most like to kiss?”

  Lady Emily’s head jerked up, her lips parted on a silent breath. “I’d rather not answer that.”

  Lady Jane shrugged. “Then kiss Mr. Thornton.”

  Lady Emily wrung her hands together on her lap. She visibly steeled herself, but when she stood, Henry could see her hands trembling. High spots of color appeared in her cheeks. She looked wretched, even more so than Thornton had when he’d been crawling around on the floor.

  Henry was about to put an end to this humiliating game when Lady Jane sighed heavily. “Oh, very well. What is your favorite play?”

  He glanced at Lady Jane, who listened to the other woman’s answer without interest. She wasn’t cruel then…just a bit devious. She might make him a decent match. She did, according to his sister, have the largest dowry of all the women present.

  Why did she have to enjoy a game as awful as questions and commands?

  Cassandra Davis would probably despise parlor games as much as he did, if she were ever compelled to play them.

  His hand clenched into a fist. Life would be much, much easier if he could learn to like Lady Jane. And if he could keep baffling, useless musings of another woman from creeping into his mind so often.

  Chapter Twenty

  Blakewood Hall awoke to a landscape blanketed with snow, the sunlight dancing and glittering across whiteness which covered the earth like soft down. The tree branches were weighted with snow, some bending until the merest whisper might break them. The only color was a line of pine trees outside the back terrace that dotted the estate with lush, dark green.

  The earth was still. The birds were silent. England was asleep.

  When Cassandra pushed opened her bedchamber window to look out and let the chill air touch her skin, it felt as if she’d awakened to a whole new world.

  Snow reminded her of childhood. It reminded her of snowball fights that never had a clear winner and resulted in her and her siblings trailing into their cottage with wet clothes and flushed faces. Her mother had never reprimanded them. She’d simply made sure they each had a small cup of warm, spiced milk when they came in.

  Every time there was snow on the ground, Cassandra was reminded of heat between her palms and the scent of nutmeg in her nostrils, and her mother’s soft, lilting voice.

  She watched her breath paint the air with frost for a moment, before she shut the window and decided, against her better judgment, to head downstairs.

  She heard voices from one of the sitting rooms that faced east to let in the morning sun. The one with papered walls in a pale, airy blue. She drifted closer.

  “I wonder if River has a sleigh,” Lady Margaret, Lord Riverton’s sister, was saying to Miss Haversham. “No one can refuse a sleigh ride, can they?”

  The two women sat at a round table on their own. Apparently, the other guests still slept. Both women wore long-sleeved muslin dresses. Lady Margaret’s was striped green and white and Miss Haversham’s was plain white with a flower pattern. As they sipped delicately at their tea and daintily arranged their food, Cassandra thought they looked just like a painting.

  She’d met them briefly yesterday when Lord Riverton had instructed his sister to call on Cassandra if there was anything she wanted done for the party. But she would have known Lady Margaret was his sister even without the introduction—if not from the gleaming blond hair, from the haughty set of her shoulders and tilt of her chin.

  Miss Haversham reached for a breakfast roll. “I’d heard rumors of a fire, but I didn’t expect his face to be so damaged.”

  Lady Margaret glanced at her. “Does it bother you?”

  “Scars can be quite dashing—they make him look a bit dangerous, don’t you think?” She gave a little shiver that looked more like anticipation than distaste.

  Cassandra pushed down a sudden flash of annoyance and stepped forward from where she’d paused in the doorway. “Lady M
argaret. Miss Haversham. Is there anything else you need?”

  Lady Margaret’s eyes narrowed on her, and Cassandra wished she’d kept walking past the sitting room instead of stopping. “Mrs. Davis, is it? Why don’t you sit with us?”

  She froze in astonishment. “I couldn’t, my lady.”

  “Please,” Lady Margaret said, without a trace of actual pleading. “I insist.”

  Cassandra couldn’t very well say no to that, so she pulled out a chair at the opposite side of the table from the two women, deciding that one Eldridge at Blakewood Hall was more than enough. She knew aristocrats were arrogant. She knew they were demanding. But Lord Riverton and his sister seemed to have gotten more than the normal share of both traits.

  Lady Margaret’s glance swept over her. “I must admit, I was a little surprised when my brother introduced us yesterday. Don’t housekeepers normally have gray hair?”

  “Not always,” Cassandra said smoothly. “As you can see, my lady.”

  Lady Margaret looked a bit taken aback by her response, no doubt accustomed to immediate acquiescence “How old are you?”

  Cassandra’s hands were clasped together under the table. They tightened a fraction at Lady Margaret’s shrill question.

  “Certainly it is bad form to ask a woman her age,” she murmured.

  Lady Margaret leaned back in her chair. “Thirty-nine?”

  Thirty-nine? She was only thirty-two! She didn’t think she looked that much older than her age.

  Then she saw a flash of grim satisfaction cross the other woman’s face and realized Lady Margaret was only trying to goad her.

  Miss Haversham frowned. “Margaret, you are so dreadful at ages. She must be nearer thirty than forty.”

  Lady Margaret lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  “She’s rather pretty, isn’t she?”

  Cassandra wanted to remind Miss Haversham that she was still in the room. She’d become a plaything, a doll for spoiled children. She hated how small that made her feel.

  “Pretty?” Lady Margaret sized Cassandra up. “Is that why he hired you?”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Miss Haversham said. “He’s accustomed to much more beautiful women, isn’t he? She’s pretty in a maternal sort of way.”

  A maternal sort of way? Cassandra stiffened with outrage. She might not be overly concerned about her appearance, but no young woman liked to be described as maternal.

  “Or perhaps,” a deep, cold voice said from the doorway, “I hired Mrs. Davis because she was the best candidate for the position.”

  All three heads jerked toward the doorway. Lord Riverton was there, dressed in light-colored trousers with high gleaming boots and a dark blue coat over a gold waistcoat.

  Cassandra’s breath hitched. He had such a commanding presence. If Lord Riverton were in a painting, he’d be depicted as an army general—powerful, intimidating, and severe. Like Wellington. It would have been odd if her breath didn’t hitch.

  “I hope you slept well,” he said, moving toward the sideboard. He wasn’t speaking to her, of course. For a handful of weeks they’d been nearly friends, and now they pretended to be merely master and servant. She wished she didn’t miss their almost-friendship with such a tangible ache.

  With a start, she remembered she was seated and slid quickly to her feet. She stood there, uncertain if she should stay or go.

  Miss Haversham went to the sideboard to refill her plate, though Cassandra noticed it was still about half full. The woman leaned close to the marquess. Cassandra remained impassive, while within her, irritation battled with something much darker.

  “Forgive me for asking, my lord, but do the injuries cause you much discomfort?” Miss Haversham asked in a hushed voice.

  Lord Riverton didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Instead, his lips curved in a careless smile. “Some discomfort, nothing insurmountable.”

  “You are just like a hero in a book,” she gushed. “So stoic in the face of pain.”

  Cassandra must have made some sort of derisive noise because Lord Riverton’s gaze flicked toward her. His gray eyes held hers and for an instant, his smile changed from a mere empty gesture to something that glimmered with real amusement.

  “A hero in a book,” he mused, his eyes still on Cassandra. “We must not read the same types of books, Miss Haversham.”

  Cassandra looked down, fighting to suppress a grin. When she looked back up, Lord Riverton was turned toward the sideboard, selecting a few items for his breakfast, and Lady Margaret was watching…her.

  Lord. She’d seen it. She’d seen whatever it was that had passed between Cassandra and the marquess a moment ago.

  And she did not look pleased.

  Cassandra experienced a jolt of unease.

  Miss Haversham seemed happily unaware of anything but the marquess. She glanced at his plate. “Oh, I love ham, as well!”

  Lord Riverton was turned just enough that Cassandra saw his eyebrows lift. “How interesting,” he said blandly.

  “It is quite simply my favorite breakfast food,” Miss Haversham said. “Do you have a sleigh, Lord Riverton?”

  He blinked at the sudden change of topics. “Would you like to eat ham in a sleigh?” he asked mildly, making Cassandra fight back another smile.

  “Oh no.” Miss Haversham gave a flighty wave of her hand. “I am simply curious. But forgive me…you must think me indelicate for asking you so many questions so early in the morning.”

  “I do not think you indelicate at all, Miss Haversham.” he said. “Quite the contrary.”

  Cassandra tensed. There was something in his voice—smooth and suggestive. She hadn’t heard it before, but it was almost…flirtatious. Was this how he always was with ladies of the ton? Was it…was it real?

  He’d never spoken to Cassandra that way.

  And why would he? Miss Haversham was a lady, and an attractive one at that, and Lord Riverton was used to doing what he wanted. He might end up marrying Miss Haversham, after all. Why wouldn’t he engage in a little flirtation if the opportunity presented itself?

  Cassandra’s stomach churned as Miss Haversham said something in a low voice and Lord Riverton laughed quietly in response. Cassandra’s fingernails dug into the back of her hand. She breathed deeply.

  No, she did not have the sudden overwhelming urge to push the other woman away from Lord Riverton.

  No, she did not want to slam her foot down on Lord Riverton’s toes.

  No, she was not jealous.

  “Mrs. Davis?”

  For a second, her heart faltered. She looked hopefully at Lord Riverton. “Yes?”

  “Would you tell Cook to make more ham?” he asked.

  “I—” A flush rose in her cheeks. She swallowed hard. “Of course, my lord.”

  God, she was a stupid, stupid woman. She’d actually let herself believe, for a few seconds, that she belonged here. With him. She’d actually let herself think there was something real between them when he’d smiled at her, that they’d shared an amusing secret. He probably smiled at every woman that way.

  She turned to go. Her knee bumped the table and the teacups clattered loudly against their saucers. Just what she needed—more humiliation to burn in her gut. She fled from the room without looking at any of them. She couldn’t bear to. If she met Lord Riverton’s gaze, she knew she would do something truly foolish, like lash out at him.

  Or worse, start to cry.

  She had the sudden, dreadful premonition that watching him select a bride was going to be far more horrible than she’d let herself believe.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At first, Cassandra didn’t recognize what she was seeing. Perhaps because she rarely saw Lord Riverton outside, since most of her duties were conducted indoors.

  But she’d gone out the servants’ entrance at the back of the house that night, wrapped up tightly in her serviceable wool cloak—no luxurious pelisses or redingotes for her—and stopped dead.

  Lord Riverton stood, his b
ack toward her, his boots about half a foot deep in snow. The manor house had blocked the worst of the snowdrifts, so the snow was shallower at the back of the house than the front. He was gazing up at the stars and the moon, which was almost full. It shone fierce white in the black sky. The snow on the ground reflected the moonlight, giving off an ethereal silver glow. The night wasn’t as dark and shadowed as it normally was. This was night at its brightest.

  Cassandra had come outside because she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d thought the stillness and the moon and the stars might calm her. The last thing she’d expected to find out here was Lord Riverton. She started to turn, to slip quietly back inside, when he glanced back. Had she made a noise?

  “Mrs. Davis,” he said, his voice conveying nothing out of the ordinary as if it was perfectly natural for them to meet so late at night. Outside in the snow.

  “My lord,” she replied.

  He went back to facing the moon while she just stared at him. Silence stretched for at least a minute.

  He was so still. She’d never seen him this still.

  “Are you…well…my lord?” She could see her breath, frosting the air with each tentative word she spoke.

  He didn’t glance back at her. “I’m well enough,” he said. Then added, “Choosing a bride is not as easy as one might think.”

  Her heart lurched. She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to imagine him wedding one of those women—with their perfect clothes and their money and their breeding and the way they either looked right past her as though she didn’t matter, or worse, looked down at her with disdain. Right now, all she wanted to do was pretend that she and Lord Riverton were the only people alive in this glittering, snow-covered world.

  But she could never pretend for long.

  She forced herself to speak through an aching throat. “I don’t think it is supposed to be easy. You’re picking a lifelong companion.”

  He snorted.

  Against her better instincts, she stepped closer to him. “Who do you prefer at the moment?” She didn’t know why she asked. She was quite certain she didn’t want to know. And yet, some part of her did want to know…maybe so she could brace herself for the inevitable.