Scandal in Spades

by Wendy Lacapra

  “Coven.” Giles passed his hand over his face. “Katherine and Clarissa?”

  “And Philippa and Katerina—they’ve become positively inseparable. Plays, soirees, shopping on Bond Street, even an impromptu trip to the Hampton maze. Is this what you were trying to accomplish? You, my friend, are a laughingstock.”

  Giles’s cheeks darkened. “Of course, I don’t relish the idea of my wife and my former betrothed with their heads tilted together, but better I bear the brunt of Society’s condemnation then either of them.”

  Farring scoffed. “You don’t mind that your wife is all they can speak about downstairs?”

  Giles flashed him a look. “I haven’t gone downstairs.”

  “You haven’t—” Farring stood straight. “You mean you’ve been holed up in these rooms for seven days? What have you been doing?”

  Well, he’d meant to join the living. Only he hadn’t.

  He’d caught up on correspondence, paged through a few treatises, but mostly he’d stared, concocting and discarding plan after plan, and coming back to the same, relentless truth.

  Giles could see the ceiling with his eyes closed at this point. And, none of his plans had solved the essential problem—Giles himself. The Marquess of Bromton, formed in the imperious image of a man who was not his father, but who had passed on his despicable nature nonetheless.

  He did not deserve Katherine. He’d set her free. And that was where his part in her story had to end.

  He and Katherine were both in hell. He could not save himself, but he could save her—if he kept his distance.

  “If you have to work this hard to remember what you’ve been doing, then you must not have accomplished anything of value.” Farring grasped the edge of Giles’s chair. “And while you’ve been diddling your fingers, your wife has become the toast of the Tory set.”

  Ah. Pain lanced his ribs. She’d taken his suggestion, then. She’d set out to find a lover.

  “The marchioness’s attention is hers to bestow as she pleases.”

  Farring stared at him for a long moment. Then, he hit the table hard enough to rattle the dishes. “I’ve always known you to be a vain and prideful sort, but never before have I known you to be a fool. What happened to the man who loved a challenge?”

  He thought about Katherine—about the afternoon of passion they’d shared. He’d felt her tenderness. But he’d also felt the depth of her despair. If he had even a modicum of a gentleman within, he would not have treated her body with such abandon. Not when he could still feel remnants of her hate.

  “She hates me, Farring. And rightfully so.” He looked away. “I deserve whatever punishment she delivers.”

  “You are an ass-headed fool,” Farring growled. “And you haven’t any idea what you are saying.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You may deserve whatever punishment Katherine chooses, but she does not.”

  How dare Farring suggest he was hurting her? “I am not punishing my wife.”

  “Aren’t you?” Farring asked. “Consider the question, Brom. Should she continue down this path, lucky as I am, even I cannot summon enough resources to prevent disaster.”

  “Disaster?” Giles ran tight fingers over his lips. “All you’ve told me so far is that the marchioness is a triumph among my friends.”

  “Dis-as-ter.” Farring towered over him. “Your friends have surely taken note of your absence, and it will not be long before they begin acting as if your absence is permission to court your wife.”

  A wave of nausea threatened the contents of his stomach. He pushed away his plate. “I am well aware.”

  “At least you haven’t completely lost your sense,” Farring said. “Now, what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing,” Giles replied. “I told you. She hates me. I will not stand in her way.”

  Farring threw up his hands. “Leaving her to the mercy of the vultures is truly unforgivable, you beef-witted bounder. I don’t believe she hates you, but she will.”

  “She does hate me. She told me she hates me.”

  “Even I hate you right now. You forget, I watched the two of you together. And I’ve served as her escort since you disappeared. She searches the crowd for you everywhere we go. She puts on a brave, uncaring front but she loves you. I have six sisters; I recognize the signs. If anything, her actions are crying out for you to prove your esteem.”

  Giles stared at his friend, wanting to believe, knowing he could not. Farring did not know the whole truth. Farring did not know he’d coldly planned to use Katherine to assuage his guilt.

  Farring straightened his coat. “I’ll escort her to Lady Darlington’s soiree tonight, but I can only fend off sharks for so long.” His look hardened. “If you leave her to those sharks, without even an attempt to prove your worth, you are not the man I thought you were.”

  Farring slammed the door.

  Giles kicked his chair away from the table, a strangled cry tore from his throat.

  Find the wound, stem the bleeding.

  He’d found the wound, blast all. But how could he stem the bleeding when he was the wound?

  He glanced to his food, suffering another bout of nausea. Leaving his food untouched, he set out in search of the street’s chaotic comfort. He hadn’t a plan. In fact, he wasn’t even aware which streets he chose.

  Until, that is, he found himself face-to-face with a shining brass knocker.

  A sickeningly familiar, shining, brass knocker.

  Revelry sounded beyond the door—the sounds of mutually enjoyed company. He knew he was not welcome among their number. He knocked, anyway. On hearing his name, a nervous servant showed him into a small, comfortable parlor, and asked him to wait.

  This time, it wasn’t his mother who greeted him. It was her husband.

  “Why are you here, Marquess?” Mr. Blackwood asked.

  He’d vowed he’d never occupy the same room as this man. Yet, here he was, in unpressed clothing and wilted cravat, looking every inch exactly as what he was—a man at the end of his fraying rope.

  “Why?” Bromton demanded. “Of all the women in the world, why did you choose the marchioness? Why did you have to tarnish her name?”

  “I did not choose ‘the marchioness’; I chose Lydia,” Blackwood responded. He studied Giles for a long time, his gaze traveling from Giles’s unshaven cheek to his rumpled coat, to his mud-covered boots. “Do you believe my wife feels she has tarnished her name?”

  Giles glanced beyond Mr. Blackwood. The cluttered shelves and tables in the small but comfortable room spoke of a happy life. The furniture’s simple arrangement welcomed conversation—not unlike his mother’s sitting room before he’d redesigned it for Katherine.

  His mother’s sitting room, he realized with a start, had been the only room in the house designed for repose. The only one with any warmth.

  Too bad he’d never set foot inside before he had to tear it down.

  “No,” Giles whispered, defeated. “I suspect she is”—he swallowed—“happy.”

  “I was the one left tarnished, though gratefully so,” Blackwood said. “I divorced because of your mother.”

  Giles looked up. “What did you say?”

  “I tell you this not to shock you but to make you understand. My former wife and I had been long-estranged. And when I told her I had fallen in love, she had the oddest notion that a human institution should not be held above personal integrity.”

  There was that word again. Love. Love existed between his mother and this man. Love existed between Markham and Julia and Kate. Love existed all around. Only he was left parched and wanting. Why?

  The shadow of a woman filled the space behind Blackwood.

  “Warren?” His mother placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Who is—Ahh.”

  “The marquess was just leaving, my love.”

  “No,” Giles whispered. “He’s not.”

  Mama. He stared at his feet.

  “Are you here to hurt me, Brom
ton?”

  Bromton. Always Bromton. A sob escaped his throat. He shook his head no.

  His mother and her husband spoke in tones he couldn’t understand. Then, the door closed. He did not know if either, or both, had left. He didn’t want to look. If she had stayed, she’d curtsey. He could not bear if she curtseyed.

  “Don’t curtsey,” he said.

  “Very well,” his mother answered. “I curtseyed because it was correct. And, like your father, you always demanded I be correct.”

  He exhaled and opened his eyes.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “I—I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He looked at his feet. “Was coming here,” his voice cracked, “a mistake?”

  “You are hurting.” She approached him slowly, as if he were an injured wild animal. “So, I’d like to think not.”

  He glanced up. “I’ve made so many mistakes.” Mortifyingly, his eyes filled. “I do not know where to begin.”

  She wrapped an arm around her waist and held her other hand over her mouth.

  “I would have done anything,” he continued, “anything, to restore the Langley line.” He held his lip between his teeth until it ceased to quiver. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Are you sure it is my forgiveness you seek?” she asked. “Or is there someone else to whom you should be speaking?”

  Again, he hung his head. After a long silence, he felt his mother’s hand against his arm. She guided him to a chair and, together, they sat.

  “I should never have told you,” she said quietly. “It was just—you’d grown so remote. You refused permission for me to wed.” She inhaled. “Not that those things excuse the things I said.”

  “I told you never to darken the halls of Bromton Castle. I did not mean—” He stopped. He had meant those words the night he’d spoken them. He began again, this time, with a clearer truth. “I—I would take back my words, if I could.”

  She placed her hand on his cheek. Her touch was enough to break him.

  “Why are you here, Bromton?”

  To say he was sorry. To ask forgiveness. To find out if there was anything inside him worth being redeemed.

  “I love her,” he said, in an awkward summary of all of the above. “I love her and she hates me, just as you hate me. Justifiably. I’ve lost any chance I might have had to make things right with you both.” A tear dropped onto his cuff. “And I don’t know what to do.”

  “Oh.” She leaned forward. “Oh, darling.”

  He closed his eyes. “Mama,” he whispered.

  For the first time since his fifth year, Giles Everhart Langley, third Marquess of Bromton, tenth Earl of Strathe, and twelfth Baron Langley, found himself enveloped in his mother’s arms.

  “Hush,” she crooned into his hair.

  “She isn’t going to forgive me. And I deserve that, because I did not forgive you.”

  She held his cheeks as she looked into his eyes. “Do you forgive me, now?”

  He nodded.

  A crease appeared between her brows. “But you have yet to forgive yourself.”

  He shook his head no. “How could she want someone like me? I have nothing to offer. The marquess made me what I am.”

  His mother sighed deeply. “You were the son of his—I’d say heart, but I am not fully certain he possessed a heart, in the usual sense.”

  “Such bitterness lives inside in your words.”

  She raised her brows. “Yes, I know. Decades of fear leave acid residue.”

  “He hurt you. Physically.”

  She sniffed. “He did.”

  He’d never considered that she, too, had been huddling in fear. Not when she’d moved with grace and confidence, with a smile for everyone but him.

  “I am sorry I did not protect you,” he said.

  “How could you have known I needed protection?” Her lips trembled. “I never allowed anyone to see.”

  They held each other, for a long, silent moment. The comfort penetrated the layers of regret and pain.

  “Did you love him?” he asked.

  “The marquess? Of course not. My father arranged our marriage.” She wiped tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hands. “And the marquess did not improve with a longer acquaintance.”

  “Not the marquess.” He forced the words. “My real father.”

  She sent him a guarded glance.

  What did she think he’d do? He hadn’t the power to cut any longer. He hadn’t any power at all.

  “Is it your husband?” he asked.

  She scowled. “Do you think the marquess would have allowed a man of lesser rank to father his heir?”

  His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you. The marquess insisted I conceive by any means.”

  “No,” he said, slowly. “You said you had to conceive by any means. Are you telling me the marquess knew I was not his child?”

  Her spine stiffened. “Of course, he knew,” she said. “He arranged for the beddings. Above all else, he wanted his heir.”

  Giles closed his eyes, an attempt to stop the pounding. “Did—did my real father know I was his son?”

  She pursed her lips and then sighed. “I imagine he did and does, though he has been too discreet to mention so to me.”

  He was reeling. Once again, everything he thought he’d understood had been wrong. This time, he would not attempt to claw his way from the mire.

  “You said the marquess would not have allowed a man of less rank than his own to father his heir—that leaves dukes and the royal family.”

  His mother’s wince contained the truth, though the secret of his father’s identity hovered between them like a ghost.

  “Do you truly wish to know?” she asked. “Would knowing change how you feel?”

  One word from her, and his uncertainty would be silenced. One word, and he’d know. He’d know, but he’d never be able to acknowledge. In the eyes of the law and the world he would forever belong to the marquess.

  He thought of Katherine. Of the future he wanted. Of the future he’d believed he did not deserve. Would knowing his father’s name—his rank—give him anything of value to offer his wife? Would it make him, at last, a gentleman?

  Suddenly, the answer was clear—no. He did not need a bloodline to prove his worth. Only his actions could make him the kind of man he wished to be.

  “No,” he answered.

  His mother exhaled, clearly relieved. He turned his full attention to her.

  “You love Blackwood, don’t you?” he asked. “You called him Warren.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes grew watery. “Oh, yes. I would have risked losing you for nothing less than love.”

  He nodded and placed his hand over hers. “I hope we can begin again, Mrs. Blackwood.”

  She kept her lips pressed together until she mastered her tears. “Warren always said you would come around.” She kissed him on both cheeks. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Now,” she sniffed, “what do we do about this lady of yours?”

  “I want to prove to her I’ve changed. I want to prove to her I love her, and I will never hurt her again,” he said. “I just do not know how.”

  “Love exists in order to work miracles,” she replied, cradling his face. “Never give up hope.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The friendship which had begun with a not-quite-by-chance encounter in a modiste’s shop had quickly deepened. First, there had been the irrepressible giggles at the play no one else in the audience seemed to enjoy. Then came the dressing room consultations—always gravely significant between ladies of like mind. And sometime between the balls and the ices and the long afternoon they all got hopelessly lost in the Hampton maze, Katherine found herself confiding the secret everyone in London already knew, but no one would acknowledge—the Marquess of Bromton and his new bride had not spoken for days.

  Although, she did not betray Bromton’s confidence, she did explain that she’d been won in a bet, w
ooed under false pretense, and, somehow, in the midst of this whirlwind courtship, she had fallen in love.

  “And he told you he loved you, too?” Katerina asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Philippa clucked. “Then why has he disappeared?”

  “I don’t know why he disappeared,” she replied. Which wasn’t completely honest. He’d told her he could never be worthy. He’d told her that he must release her in order to save her. But his logic made no sense. “I keep reliving our last afternoon together, searching for something I could have said or done that would have kept him from leaving.”

  She unstrung every moment in her heart, from the slow removal of her glove to his frenzied climax to the moment he’d locked the door. One image stood out from the rest—the agonized look he’d cast over his shoulder, while his white knuckles had gripped the frame of the door. A look of pleading. A look of despair.

  She could think of nothing that could staunch that kind of guilt.

  Only he could choose to fight, to change, to win.

  Clarissa’s foot tapping abruptly stopped. “We are asking Katherine the wrong question.”

  “What question should we ask?” Katerina supplied.

  “Katherine,” Clarissa said, “do you want Lord Bromton back?”

  Yes. Her heart’s answer was immediate. Visceral. If he returned—preferably on his knees—she would make every effort to find and restore the magic they’d shared.

  “I never expected to regain my place in Society,” she answered slowly. “With your help, I’ve exceeded my most hopeful expectations.”

  “But you don’t look at all happy,” Philippa replied.

  “I know,” Katherine swallowed. “It’s just not…” She swallowed again. “I wish…”

  Clarissa’s expression grew soft. “It’s not a triumph without Bromton.”

  Katherine nodded.

  Katerina looked away, her eyes overbright.

  “I believe you have your answer,” Clarissa replied. “Love.” She shrugged as if to say, There’s nothing you can do about the infirmity.