Scandal in Spades

by Wendy Lacapra

  “Does the folly have a name?” He spoke in a kind voice.

  “She named it Vista Grove.”

  He lifted his hand, shielding his gaze from the sun. “Magnificent.”

  “I am sure it is nothing to your home.”

  “Castle,” he said.

  “Pardon?” she asked.

  He turned his magnificent shoulders. “Not a home,” he said. “A Jacobean castle. In Northumberland.”

  An image formed—ramparts rising out of a mist. A shimmering moat with a drawbridge. And in the middle, atop a beautiful stallion, Lord Bromton, in full armor.

  He would have made a fine knight.

  She shook herself inwardly. Clearly, the less she knew about Lord Bromton—and his castle—the better.

  “I have,” she said, “always disliked the grove’s name.”

  “And what name would you have chosen?” he asked.

  Haunted Grove of Mystery had been her childhood favorite. But just because Lord Bromton looked as if he’d stepped out of an Arthurian legend didn’t mean she had to resurrect fanciful notions.

  “Picturesque Prospect, perhaps,” she suggested.

  He squinted. “Is that an improvement on Vista Grove?”

  “Well,” she dug in, “can you offer better?”

  “In this light, I can confidently call my view,” his tone dropped an impossible octave, “bella.”

  “Italian for beautiful.” She hummed. “I suppose bella would be a good choice, since vista is also Itali…” Her voice vanished.

  “No, Lady Katherine, I wasn’t talking about the hills.”

  Her flesh quickened in places no man had touched in years. She went hot, then cold. Then, horrifyingly, she tumbled back through the years.

  “Am I pretty, Septimus?”

  “You are a bothersome little hoyden,” he answered.

  She twirled away in hurt and shame, but he caught her by her waist.

  “Be still, Katie.” He kissed her head. “One day you’ll be beautiful—if you learn to behave.”

  A vicious inner quake pushed out, threatening her limbs.

  She had never learned to behave, had she? Why else would she be dressed in a costume, twisting ink-stained fingers, and practically salivating over a rakish marquess?

  “I have offended,” he said.

  “I think,” she forced, “you’d best escort me to my carriage, Lord Bromton.”

  He did not move.

  “Please,” she added.

  “Please,” he mused, “is not quite as effective when said through clenched teeth.”

  A blush traveled up her neck, spreading like mulled wine into her cheeks. Every word the marquess had spoken had been a calculated invitation to the worst in her nature. Even the semblance of kindness evaporated.

  “You cannot believe your insincere and clumsy attempt at flirtation will work.”

  “Insincere and clumsy, you say?” He snorted—the addle-cove. “Here, I thought I was bang-up prime.”

  “You.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are not the first man to take advantage of Markham’s generosity in order to get a front-and-center view of the most unmarriageable lady in England.”

  Those eyes—enthralling, liquid magnets—locked on hers with a hint of stifled surprise. Yes, it was that terrible. Worse still, the budding understanding within his gaze left her stripped, squirming, and wanting terribly, irrationally, to be held.

  “Just England?” he asked, finally. “Not Scotland or Wales?”

  She used her palms to cool her cheeks. “Just England.”

  “I could have sworn Markham said kingdom.” His voice was calming and his smile wan, but there.

  “Parliament had not yet added Ireland,” she replied, looking back toward the house. “So, there could be some confusion.”

  He hummed, sage-like. “Irish ladies are rumored to be fiercely independent. Surely one of them would have laid claim to the title, were Brummell to have included the whole.”

  A half snicker escaped her startled lips.

  “That is the spirit,” Bromton crooned, “laugh at their expense.”

  “Please,” she eyed him askance, “do not presume to understand.”

  “Has it not occurred to you that I, too, endure assumptions?”

  An odd note in his voice etched a question mark in her heart.

  “I imagine assumptions based on your title would elevate rather than detract.”

  His gaze bore into hers. “Mocking your failed betrothal was callous and not at all gentlemanly of Mr. Brummell.”

  Baby thrushes flapped their mad little wings beneath her ribs. How—with the chill in the air and the breeze—could she still feel his closeness?

  “I do not run with the Carlton House set,” he continued darkly. “And I do not esteem the same things.”

  “What do you esteem, Lord Bromton?”

  A shadow passed over his features before he replied, “Honor.”

  “Honor,” she repeated with a peculiar pang. “Once taken, honor is a difficult thing to recover.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You did.”

  Had she? If honor meant a sense of her place in the world, then perhaps she had—to a degree.

  “How?” he asked.

  “For Julia,” she responded without thinking. She stepped back. “I—I don’t know why I spoke truthfully.”

  He shrugged. “Society’s false sheen has worn too thin for your first impulse to be a lie.”

  “Another exceptional observation,” she managed.

  “I told you, I notice detail when something is of interest to me.”

  Of interest. Her mouth twisted with true bitterness. Like a specimen. Or a traveling player’s tented attraction. One unmarriageable maiden…

  “So, am I of interest to you? Or just my notoriety?”

  “Not your notoriety.” His eyes glowed. “But you? You interest me more so with every passing moment.”

  Again. Those blasted baby thrushes. “Rousing your interest,” she said, “was not my intention.”

  His gaze traveled over her ridiculous clothes. “That, I believe.”

  He remained silent for so long, she became aware of the faint breeze through the hemlocks, the chirping and fluttering of birds, and even a bell’s distant chime. So much for her predicted stiff wind. Even the weather appeared to heed his command.

  “I understand,” he continued, “your first betrothal was a love match.”

  Septimus’s image arose again—a sharp note, playing long, even, and raw. She set it aside. Never would she discuss a perfect human being like Septimus with a man like Bromton.

  “Markham’s been quite free with his tongue,” she said.

  “He answers honestly as well,” Bromton rejoined. “I haven’t the benefit of experience, Lady Katherine. Does having once known love preclude the chance of a second occurrence?”

  Had the marquess conceded a longing to know love? She assessed him.

  No.

  She doubted Lord Bromton believed in the existence of love. But he did expect her to melt like a heartsick fool at the mere mention of the word.

  He was, after all, just like the others. Worse, in a way. Because she wanted him to be different.

  You cannot be trusted. Your very nature is weak.

  Septimus. Again.

  She blinked, her watery gaze casting out for the solace of the view.

  “I loved a man destined for the church,” she said. “Tonnish gentlemen are entirely different creatures.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “Tonnish gentlemen,” she said, “acquire wives for the same reason ladies acquire hats.”

  “Oh?” He suppressed what could have been a laugh.

  She slanted him a glance. “I am far from jesting, my lord.”

  “Well, then.” He lifted his brows. “Enlighten me. I haven’t the faintest idea why ladies acquire hats.”

  “Because.” She held his gaze. “We believe possession of a pretty-som
ething will somehow enrich our person.”

  His eyes went dark.

  “The illusion,” she continued with a quickened heartbeat, “always crumbles.”

  “You are very sure of a great deal, Lady Katherine.”

  At this moment, she was sure of very little. And if she spent another moment in the marquess’s presence, she’d be sure of nothing at all.

  “Am I wrong?” she asked, voice shaking.

  “I’ve been told,” he replied, “that marriage improves character.”

  “Do I look like a hat? Or a person whose character needs improvement?”

  “Few hats are as fascinating. And I certainly don’t believe I could improve anyone’s character. Although,” he softened his voice, “I begin to wonder if you could improve mine.”

  “I haven’t the slightest desire to improve anyone,” she said.

  He leaned forward and tsked. “How uncharitable.”

  She stiffened. “Why did you come?”

  “Markham invited me.”

  “And your aim?”

  His gaze fixed on her mouth. “I believe I’ve made that clear.”

  Her throat dried, so she wet her lips. “Marquess,” she said, “did you just admit to making a conquest of me?”

  “You are an intriguing woman, Lady Katherine.” He cocked a brow. “But having rejected my insincere and clumsy attempts at flirtation, don’t you think I have sense enough not to subject you to them again?”

  She mirrored his expression.

  “I would not,” he said. “Not until you had sense enough to welcome them. My only aim is to know you… For now.”

  She expelled a breath. “I cannot take your measure, Lord Bromton.”

  “Please do not try,” he said. “It’s terribly bothersome to live up to expectations, once fixed.”

  “And if I have already determined you a lost cause?”

  Bat-like darkness flitted behind his eyes. “No expectation is the hardest expectation to fulfill.”

  She turned away. “If I am your aim, you will leave Southford disappointed, my lord.”

  “Already impossible.”

  She glanced sideways. “Thwarted, then.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He turned her shoulders so they faced one another. The heat in his palms seeped through her dress. His full, masculine attention beguiled. Wanting emanated from his body like sweat off skin but by St. George she—a disgraced, thrice-discarded spinster—could not possibly be his object.

  Think, Katherine. What is he really after?

  He wanted—she observed him with care—something. Something he was desperate to obtain. Frustrated wanting, she suspected, was a new experience for the marquess. And frustrated wanting had made what had once been merely dangerous, now lethal.

  Inexplicably chilled, she removed his hands from her shoulders. “You are Markham’s guest, and for that reason I will see to your comfort. But,” her voice cracked, “there is nothing where you or I are concerned, and there never will be.”

  For a long moment, he studied her face. Then he bowed, as if conceding defeat. “I understand your wishes.” He held out his arm. “Shall we go down? Markham is likely waiting.”

  She hesitated before placing her hand on his elbow. As they descended together, he behaved with perfect propriety. Not until she was in her bedchamber removing her ridiculous cap did she realize Lord Bromton had only said he understood her wishes.

  He had not agreed to abide by them.

  Immediately, she rang for her maid. The plan would proceed. The meat hooks would be emptied under the guise that the meat was unfit for their illustrious guest. The butler would decline dinner on behalf of Julia and Katherine, the former not being out and the latter owning nothing grand enough to wear to dinner with such a high-ranking peer. And tonight, the marquess would be attended with exceptional care.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror with only the slightest nudge of guilt.

  Markham and Bromton would not starve. Plenty of food graced the pantry—root vegetables, butter, and grain enough to bake fifty loaves—the men would merely be denied fresh meat. And she knew enough of men to know that a meal without meat was no meal at all.

  She expected Markham—and his lofty friend—would find such lack intolerable.

  Intolerable enough, she hoped, to go away.

  Far, far away.

  Chapter Three

  As dusk deepened the next evening, the gloom made indigo ghosts of the corridor windows. Katherine lingered in the shadows, close enough to hear voices wafting from the billiards room, yet unable to see anything beyond the open-arch entry.

  She’d distributed the meat and eggs to the parish poor, keeping Bromton hungry. She’d refused Markham’s request to dine on behalf of herself and Julia, thwarting his primary aim. She’d sent an army of footmen to inquire after Bromton’s comfort, every hour, on the hour. All. Night. Long. But had her painstaking efforts set them back on the road? No.

  Instead, the marquess had joined her brother in a successful hunt, and he’d ridden with an agility that made it seem as if he’d never spent a more restful night. Now—adding insult to injury—he and Markham were enjoying a game of billiards.

  Billiards!

  Markham stepped into view, leaned over the billiard table, and lined up a shot. Whack. Ivory balls scattered.

  “Excellent,” Markham preened. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

  “I have a feeling,” Bromton’s baritone boomed from beyond her sight, “this won’t be my best game of Carambole.”

  “Why?” Markham asked. “I should think you’d be in top shape now that you’ve been properly exercised.”

  “Your mood has improved, anyway,” Bromton replied.

  “Do you know why my mood improved?” Markham asked. “I’ve been imagining how Rayne and Farring would judge your courtship of the most unmarriageable lady in the kingdom.”

  Bromton moved into sight. “She told me it was England.”

  “Did she? Interesting.” Markham tapped his stick in his palm. “Perhaps she is not as opposed to this match as she wants me to believe.”

  Ugh. It was one thing to think Markham intended the marquess for her, quite another to hear the two of them collude. Well, she would show them both she was not a woman with whom they should trifle. In Lord Bromton’s sleep-deprived state, it should not take much to frighten him away. She strode into the room as if she had every right to be there.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Markham’s stick clattered to the table, scattering the balls.

  She smiled, honey sweet. “I gather I should have announced myself?”

  Markham cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be in here at all. The billiards room is meant to be a man’s refuge.”

  “A man’s refuge,” she repeated derisively. “Why? Are there lightskirts hidden under the table?”

  Markham’s look would have wilted wheat.

  “Oh, bother.” She sighed with Drury Lane flair. “Am I not supposed to know about lightskirts? I assure you, I do. When Cartwright cried off, he obliged my curiosity in scandalous detail. Let me see if I remember…there exists a demimonde, where ladies of wit and fashion enjoy afternoon soirees and evening theater, freely indulging in all things forbidden.” Another sigh. “I confess I am fascinated by this demimonde.” She widened her eyes. “Envious, even.”

  The tips of Markham’s ears went red. “What,” he whispered, “do you think you are about?”

  “Since I am,” she fluttered the lace on her mobcap trim, “clearly on the shelf, I have decided to enter the waters of the forbidden. Tomorrow, I’ll head over to The Pillar of Salt to sample Lizzie’s famous, if not quite legal, gin. And tonight? Billiards.”

  “Kate!” Markham hissed.

  “Yes?” She blinked. “Are you that opposed to my playing billiards? London ladies bowl—I’ve seen etchings. It follows that they must play billiards. But are the ladies in the etchings the good
kind of women, or the bad?” She tapped her chin. “Actually, I don’t care one way or the other.”

  Markham shook his head. “What is wrong with you?”

  Katherine ignored the question. “Surely one can embrace a mistress’s freedoms without the”—she cleared her throat—“responsibilities. And since a spinster is invisible to Society, she should do as she pleases. Do you agree, Lord Bromton?”

  She turned an expectant gaze on Bromton. His eyes, light and luminous, fixed on her like a fox stalking prey. Excitement skittered over her skin.

  “A lady may do as she pleases,” he said in his smoldering timbre, “when in her own home.”

  Well. That was unexpected.

  “Yes,” Markham said significantly, “when in her own home. May I remind you Southford is mine?”

  She glanced to the heavens. “Oh, do stop trying to rattle me, Percy. It won’t work.” She then turned to Bromton. “I hadn’t any idea you possessed such radical thoughts, Lord Bromton. What was it you said about the Carlton set?

  “Freedom in privacy of one’s,” he coughed, “billiards room, is hardly radical. And, while I may not approve of the crown prince’s friends, like you, I honor tradition and precedence.”

  She lifted her chin. “Like me?”

  “Yes.” He leaned on his stick. “I’ve been overwhelmed by the particular consideration you’ve given my consequence.”

  “Overwhelmed,” Katherine responded with a smile. “How terribly gratifying.”

  For a full breath, the air remained electrified, as if lightning had struck the table. Then, everything changed. Bromton did not exactly return her smile, but his features thawed and a gleam entered his eyes. In that moment, they were two people sharing a private jest. The effect was quickening as much as perplexing. She could not break their gaze.

  What was his eye color? And what quality did the mysterious shade have that made her want to settle in and stare as if he were a crackling fire and she desperately needed warmth?

  “Katherine,” Markham said warningly, “leave now, or we will.”