The Improper Bride (Sisters of Scandal)

by Lily Maxton

  Three, four—

  Henry glanced up. The clouds were full and little flakes of snow drifted down peacefully. He remembered how Cassandra had looked in the snow that day, her cheeks flushed from cold, as she’d straddled him and he’d laughed.

  How she’d felt, in his arms, in his bed, and the simple, blissful pleasure of her kiss. How she tasted, as sweet as sugared tea.

  Five—

  And he remembered sitting in his bed, recovering from his injuries, trying to keep from smiling at something she’d said during their German lessons. He remembered how he’d felt with her, as if he’d finally found the place he belonged. It was how he always felt with her.

  Six—

  Everything in her past had shaped who she was, he realized. Her impoverished family, her sailor husband, her occupation. He’d thought he wanted to marry her despite those things, despite her unsuitability. But he understood how stupid and wrong-headed this mindset was.

  It had been drilled into him since birth—you are better. You matter. You have a legacy to uphold. But that was all just horseshit, in the end.

  He wasn’t better than Cassandra simply because of the families they’d been born into. He wasn’t better, at all. His heart beat to her rhythm, his heart was in her generous, capable, lovely hands.

  Changing any aspect of her past would change who she was.

  And he would never, ever wish for that.

  Society, his parents, every last one of them could go the devil.

  Seven—

  From the corner of his eye, Henry saw their seconds take a step closer, watching the duel progress. Perkins kept flicking his gaze toward the main road. Henry briefly wondered what he was searching for.

  But then he let the present and past images go, and his mind went quiet.

  Eight—

  He felt strangely calm.

  Once, the knowledge of his mortality had made him bitter; once, it had spurred him into action.

  Now, he didn’t mind so much. He didn’t seek out death, but even if the nothingness he’d once experienced was real and not just some pain-ridden illusion, oblivion didn’t seem like the worst thing that could happen. No, he hadn’t produced an heir or accomplished great things, but he’d loved. And he’d held the woman he loved in his arms, shown her how he felt with his body.

  Nine—

  If she’d loved him in return, the length of his life would have mattered because he could have seen their lives stretching forward together.

  But their lives were separate, per her choice.

  He was simply grateful for the short time he’d been given with her.

  He blinked as a peculiar pressure stung his eyes. Bloody hell, he was becoming sentimental. He needed to shoot something.

  One last step.

  Ten.

  He turned and faced his opponent.

  He flashed a wicked grin at Appleby, whose mouth was clenched so tightly his lips had nearly disappeared. If the man knew what was good for him, he’d abdicate, and fire away from Henry. In that case, Henry would have no choice but to do the same or be seen as dishonorable. But the determined gleam in Appleby’s eyes said he wouldn’t. Appleby truly was an idiot. This duel would go on.

  Henry’s stomach jumped with both a jolt of unexpected fear and something like satisfaction.

  Perkins called, “Fire!”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Cassandra’s stomach was roiling, and the fast pace and sharp turns of the carriage weren’t helping. Even so, she willed it to go faster. It was taking much too long to reach their destination.

  She pushed aside the curtain and peered out the window as the carriage slowed to navigate the winding path. The sky had already turned lighter.

  Light enough to duel by.

  As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she heard it—piercing the stillness of the air, piercing her soul.

  One loud gunshot that cracked like a whip.

  Followed by one more.

  She jerked as if she’d been hit by the bullets herself.

  Too late. She was too late!

  She grabbed at her chest, clutching the wool of the greatcoat in her hand, wringing it. “Let me out,” she cried, hitting the roof of the carriage for all she was worth.

  When it stopped and she tumbled out, she didn’t know what she’d find. Dread was leaden in her stomach, and her feet refused to venture forth. If the news was the worst…she didn’t want to know. She’d rather stay in this frozen, awful moment, forever.

  Because at least she could still have hope.

  But then she steeled herself. She braced her shoulders. And marched forward, an inexorable force.

  She wasn’t the same woman she’d been when Robert had died.

  She was stronger.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Henry wasn’t the least bit surprised when Appleby’s finger hit the trigger as soon as Perkins opened his mouth—before he’d uttered a sound. Henry had half expected it.

  The blast rang in his ears. Bark exploded from the tree behind him, spraying his face with shreds of wood. He felt the warm ooze of blood as he gripped the pistol more tightly and looked at Appleby.

  The earl’s mouth gaped. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, you meant to,” Henry refuted.

  Manchester was looking at his nephew with an expression of disgust—Appleby had acted dishonorably by firing early, and it was something the duke couldn’t ignore. “Take your shot, Riverton. Do your worst.”

  At the duke’s command, Henry raised his bleeding arm, leveled it, and fired.

  Appleby screamed—a scream of pure, undiluted terror—and through the smoke from the shot, Henry saw him collapse in a heap.

  Henry started toward him, his heart thumping unpleasantly. Damn. He hadn’t meant to hit the man, only to get close enough to scare him. But the smooth-bore flintlocks that were made for dueling could be absurdly inaccurate.

  Appleby was writhing on the ground, the surgeon kneeling next to him, when Henry reached them.

  “You’ve killed me!” Appleby moaned.

  “So, I see,” Henry drawled. That Appleby was coherent enough to complain probably indicated otherwise.

  The surgeon glanced up and gave him a dry look. “He’ll live, my lord. You did, however, blow his thumb off.”

  Henry glanced down at the bloody stump—all that remained of Lord Appleby’s right thumb. The missing appendage was nowhere in sight and would likely become food for hungry weasels. Henry couldn’t work up much pity.

  “So I did,” he said. He stood there regarding Appleby. The acrid smell of piss wafted up from a dark patch on the earl’s trousers. “Ah, well. Better than the alternative, I daresay.” Henry sent a pointed glance to Appleby’s groin.

  Appleby stared back at him with a blanched face and fearful eyes. Whether the man felt genuine remorse or not, Henry was at least quite sure he’d think the next time he opened his mouth, and hopefully, the next time he felt his temper rising, before he took it out on someone weaker than himself.

  With a surge of satisfaction, Henry walked away, back toward where Perkins waited. He started to speak, but noticed Perkins staring at something. He followed the valet’s gaze toward the road.

  Time stopped.

  Cassandra stood there, barely twenty feet away. Her auburn hair was loose, tumbling around her shoulders, and she clutched together the sides of a man’s greatcoat across her chest. Snow fell around her delicately, gilding her shoulders and hair.

  She looked like an angel.

  He couldn’t breathe. His heart lurched. Toward her. Always toward her.

  The moment broke, and she started toward him, red patches blooming in her white cheeks. And then she was running. The expression on her face was so ferocious that he stepped back as she approached.

  “You!” she cried.

  And then she hit him.

  She hit him.

  And it was no delicate slap either. Her curled fist landed on the front of h
is shoulder with a dull thud.

  It hurt.

  He gazed down at her, his heart blossoming. He drank in the sight of her even as his shoulder throbbed. “Cassandra,” he breathed.

  She covered her mouth with a hand and started to cry. “How could you?”

  The ground opened up and swallowed him, the bottom dropping from his stomach. He’d never seen her cry like this before, as though her heart was breaking. He couldn’t bear to think he was the cause of it.

  He fell to his knees. The ground was soggy and muddy from melted snow. He didn’t care. He gathered her in his arms, and rested his head against her stomach.

  A moment came to him, a memory from another life entirely, and someone else’s words—

  Love humbles you.

  He would kneel at her feet forever if she asked him to.

  But no, Cassandra would never ask that of him. She sank to her knees and returned his embrace on the same level. “You utter fool,” she said, her voice thick and tear-soaked, her face pressed to his chest. “You could have been killed!”

  His pulse faltered. “I didn’t think you would care,” he said softly.

  She drew back, the expression on her face so terrible he wondered if she would hit him again.

  “Of course I care!” she cried.

  Cassandra Davis, the woman who was normally so composed, sounded desperate. He wanted to clutch her against him and rain kisses down on her face.

  “Thank God,” he murmured.

  But she didn’t seem to hear him. “I love you, Henry. If this is your way of forcing me to admit it—”

  “No,” he exclaimed. “I would never—” He stopped as he realized what she’d said, barely daring to believe he’d heard her correctly. “You love me?”

  She nodded, tears glistening on her cheeks. “I love you so much…but if you ever fight a duel again, so help me, I’ll kill you myself, and I’ll do it slowly.”

  “I won’t,” he promised as a feeling of utter buoyancy lifted his heart. He would promise her anything. And he would keep each one. He’d been given something beautiful and precious and he would spend every moment of his life, no matter how long or short, caring for it. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you,” he said, needing her to understand he didn’t think her inferior in any way. Needing her to know he’d give anything to take back what he’d said in his ignorance. “Not one thing.”

  Her arms tightened around him, and she smiled. She knew. Relief swept through him. She knew.

  “This changes everything,” he told her.

  “I suppose it does.” Their foreheads touched.

  “When I thought you didn’t love me back, I was able to let you go. But now—” He breathed in the lemony scent of her. “Stay with me, my sweet, sweet Cassandra,” he whispered. “Marry me.” He cradled her face in his hands, his chest wrenching as he looked upon this woman he loved more than life. This woman who, miracle of miracles, loved him in return. “Marry me.”

  “Yes,” she said, kissing him firmly. Her lips were cold, but they warmed him to the innermost reaches of his heart. “Yes, I think I shall.”

  He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his vision blurring.

  “Cassandra?” he said after a moment.

  “Hmm?” she murmured, smoothing her hand along his hair.

  “Whose blasted greatcoat is this?”

  She laughed. He felt the movement against his cheek. “My brother’s,” she said.

  “Thank God,” he said vehemently. “I thought I was going to have to go after the poor sod and ruin his day. And then I would have come home to you, made love to you until you screamed my name and completely forgot his.” He paused. “Actually, that part sounds like—”

  She nudged him sharply in the ribs. “We have an audience.”

  He lifted his head from her shoulder and looked past her. His sister and his valet were standing a few feet away. Margaret was blushing. His valet was looking off at something in the distance.

  Henry groaned. “I suppose I won’t detail all the things I’d like to do right now. Having friends is so bothersome.” He helped Cassandra to her feet, keeping his arm around her. He felt at peace, certain. This was where he belonged, where he wanted to be every single day—right beside her.

  But if they had a few friends around them, as well, he supposed he wouldn’t be entirely displeased.

  “You could say it in German,” Cassandra suggested, smiling wickedly.

  “Ah,” he said, grinning. “I like the way your mind works, my dear.”

  She pressed close against his side as they walked to his carriage—the others branching off toward Margaret’s equipage.

  He did say all the things he wanted to do. The entire way to his townhouse he sat across from her in the lush carriage seat but kept himself from touching her. He spoke, his gaze never once leaving hers, his words weaving around her, until she was flushed with desire.

  But he didn’t start with wickedness. He started with the simple truth in his heart. With words that could be found in every language. And he said them in all the languages he knew.

  “Ich liebe dich,” he whispered. “I love you… I love you… I love you.”

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Cassandra smoothed down a dress of rich blue silk, surreptitiously inspecting her stomach. She could hide the bump for a while longer, but not forever, and she wanted to revel in the peace and quiet for as long as she could.

  After Appleby, and the duel, and the wedding of the Marquess of Riverton to his former housekeeper that quickly followed, the gossip had been rampant. When they’d learned she worked as a scribe for Mr. Earlywine, even after her marriage, the gossip had swelled again. Things had died down only a few months ago.

  But Cassandra had been surprised by the nature of the attention. Oh, some of it was disparaging, of course—a few members of the ton would never accept her no matter how hard she tried, some had only accepted her reluctantly after she’d stood her ground against their barbed remarks again and again, and a good number of the lesser peers only accepted her because they wanted to ingratiate themselves with Henry. But a surprising number had been swept away in the romance of their saga. A duel fought over the honor of a woman? By Lord Riverton? The Lord Riverton?

  Even the ton enjoyed a good love story. Cassandra had actually become popular in a few circles, as the woman who’d literally brought Lord Riverton to his knees. At least, that was the way the Duke of Manchester told it—there was some debate as to whether it had actually happened, and neither Cassandra nor Henry would either confirm or deny.

  Cassandra was bemused by the attention. This was her life, and it was dizzying to be subjected to the two extremes of disdain and idolization at the same time, by people who really didn’t know anything about her.

  But it was worth it, more than worth it, when she met Henry’s eyes across a crowded, glittering ballroom…just as she did now.

  She moved toward him, unable to keep the joy in her heart from reflecting in a broad smile. He smiled back, but for an instant his intent gaze flickered to her stomach worriedly. If her husband had his way, she would be home resting, night after night, whether she needed to or not.

  Perhaps aggravatingly for him, she’d never been one to back down when she believed in something, and he only got his way about half of the time, now that they were married.

  She was so intent on reaching her husband that she nearly ran into the Duke and Duchess of Vale, her mother- and father-in-law. Their reaction to their son’s marriage had, in true Eldridge fashion, been full of histrionics on Henry’s mother’s side, and wrathful threats on Henry’s father’s side. Eventually, though, they’d accepted the news, as Henry had already married and they really couldn’t do anything about it, short of tossing her off a cliff.

  Cassandra didn’t think any of the Eldridges would resort to murder…

  But as haughty a family as they were, Henry had told her they protected their own against
outsiders, and this would include her. He’d been proven right. No matter how much they’d raged at Henry and Cassandra in private, they never showed in public that they were anything less than perfectly content with their new daughter-in-law.

  She curtsied.

  The duke bowed. The duchess inclined her golden head.

  “A lovely dress, Lady Riverton,” the duchess said.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Didn’t you wear it last week?” Her mother-in-law’s smile contrasted with her underhanded words.

  “I did,” Cassandra said, her face perfectly pleasant. She’d learned soon enough that the best way to stave off barbed remarks was to meet them calmly, head on.

  “A bit absentminded of you, my dear.”

  “No,” she said, politely but firmly. “I simply like it too much to let it gather dust.”

  Grudging respect flickered in the duchess’s eyes. Cassandra, with relief, had noticed this expression more and more.

  “There you are,” Margaret said, appearing suddenly beside them.

  Henry’s sister had been an unexpected asset during those first few months after Cassandra had entered society. She’d stayed by Cassandra’s side diligently, introducing her to the more open-minded members of the ton.

  Cassandra had actually begun to make a few friends with Margaret’s help, something she never would have thought possible a year ago.

  “I’m off to dance a third waltz with Lord Breckinridge,” Margaret said, casting a quick, sly glance at Cassandra as she carelessly mentioned the name of the most notorious rake she could think of.

  Though, it was also highly possible she actually was going to dance a third waltz with Lord Breckinridge. Not all of Margaret’s scheming was for a greater cause.

  The duke glared down at her. “You most certainly will not.”

  Margaret grinned and flitted off, her parents at her heels.

  The empty space they’d vacated was immediately filled by Henry, who looked harried. “I was waylaid by Thornton,” he said. “The bastard wanted my opinion on his new waistcoat.” He studied her face, touching her elbow gently. “Did my parents upset you? Do we need to leave early so you can rest?”