Scandalous Brides

by Annette Blair

  At least the lines of her black satin gown—as with all of her gowns—were elegant, if a bit high in the neckline for fashion. That would change too, she vowed, no matter what Prudence had to say to the matter. Taking up her black lace fan, she left her chamber.

  “Nessa, you look lovely this evening,” her sister greeted her as they met at the head of the stairs. “Those silver flowers are a nice touch.”

  Lord Creamcroft, at her side, murmured agreement with his wife's words, but Nessa noticed that his eyes were all for Prudence. Did her sister have any idea of how her husband worshipped her? Nessa wondered. Probably not—she wouldn't consider it proper for a husband to care so much for his wife. It was sad, in a way, for both of them. What might her own marriage have been like, had Lord Haughton loved her?

  She forced a smile. “Thank you, Prudence. They were Simmons' idea. Shall we go?”

  Once inside the carriage, she resumed her musings. Most likely, had Lord Haughton cared more deeply for her he would simply have demanded sexual intimacy more frequently than those few incidents early in their marriage. Nessa shuddered.

  “Are you cold, sister?” asked Lord Creamcroft kindly. He was an attractive man, with light brown hair and eyes, only a few years older than her sister. Nessa felt a brief, unexpected surge of envy.

  “Thank you, no,” she replied. “Just a passing chill.” No, she would not envy any married woman! She knew, all too well, what the marriage state entailed: obedience, subordination and occasional subjection to distasteful physical contact. Even with a man closer to her own age than her father's, or one reasonably attractive, it was nothing to be desired.

  To be fair, since her arrival in London ten days ago she had seen no sign of Lord Creamcroft bullying her sister. Of course, he held her in affection, which might make a difference, she supposed. Unaccountably, her thoughts strayed back to the masked monk at the masquerade.

  “Here we are,” Prudence announced just then, interrupting her errant thoughts—which was probably just as well. “Is not the Mountheath house lovely?”

  Nessa peered out of the carriage window as they slowly approached the entrance, waiting their turn behind a few other carriages. Lovely was not quite the word she'd have chosen. Imposing, certainly, with its enormous columns and frowning gray façade. She murmured something noncommittal.

  A few minutes later, they stepped down from the carriage and entered the impressive edifice. The interior of the Mountheath Town house was as formally elegant as the exterior, Nessa noted. Both her father and husband would have approved of this place. She found it rather oppressive.

  “Prudence, my dear,” a large, turbaned woman greeted them at the head of the stairs. “And Lord Creamcroft. Such a handsome couple, as I always tell everyone. And this must be the mysterious Lady Haughton!” Her eyes gleamed with avid curiosity.

  Nessa dropped a half-curtsey. Her rank was equal to Lady Mountheath's, but the latter's age and role as hostess demanded the tribute. “Guilty as charged,” she assented daringly, and was not surprised to hear a soft gasp from her sister. Prudence had warned her that Lady Mountheath thrived on scandal, and she could not resist teasing a bit.

  Their hostess, however, merely nodded, raking Nessa with her eyes. “Everyone has been wondering what you were like, my dear. I believe you will throw out the suppositions of the majority. But come, you must meet my daughters. New to London as you are, you'll wish to make friends as soon as may be, I doubt not.”

  Nessa very shortly decided that she'd as soon not number Miss Lucy and Miss Fanny among her close friends, even though both girls—she kindly refrained from calling them spinsters even in her thoughts—were near her in age. They both possessed their mother's penchant for malicious gossip, as well as her tiny, sharp eyes and double chins.

  “I can't think why Mamma invited Miss Islington,” Lucy was confiding in a loud whisper as the three of them stood not far from the top of the stairs, where they had a good view of those entering. “Her cousin married well beneath him, you know. It must sink the whole family's social standing to be associated with trade, even two generations removed.”

  Nessa wished she had stayed with her sister and brother-in-law. She was searching for a reply that would neither condemn Miss Islington for her cousin's connections nor offend her hostess' daughters when Fanny gasped.

  “Look! Look there, Lucy!” she hissed. “Is that not Jack Ashecroft? Or Lord Foxhaven, I suppose we must say, now. I am positively certain Mamma did not invite him!”

  Her sister turned. “You're right, Fanny! It is he! Do you suppose Mamma will have him removed?”

  Nessa was forgotten as both sisters avidly watched the tableau unfolding at the entrance to the large room. She herself found the situation interesting, the more so when she got a good look at the man in question. Lord Foxhaven was without a doubt the handsomest man she'd ever seen, with thick, jet black hair, noble profile and breathtakingly athletic physique.

  As she watched, Lady Mountheath greeted the gentleman accompanying him, then turned to face the supposedly uninvited guest. Her color rose precipitously as she apparently realized who he was. Nessa had thought her hostess' smiles insincere before, but they were nothing to the strained expression she now wore. The corners of her lips looked as though a puppeteer's strings pulled them upwards against her will. Nessa edged closer in hopes of hearing the exchange.

  “Why my lord, such a, er, delightful surprise,” Lady Mountheath was saying stiffly. “Had I but known you were in town…”

  “Yes, I thought as much, my lady. Knowing your unfailing hospitality, I presumed on your kindness to accompany Lord Peter, praying that you'd not turn me away.”

  Nessa swallowed, hard. She was almost certain she'd heard that voice before. But no, she must be mistaken. This appeared to be a man of some consequence, as did his companion.

  Lady Mountheath managed to force a trill of laughter. “Turn you away! La, my lord, how droll you are. Come, both of you, and join the assemblage. You've met my daughters, I believe?” Behind her back, out of sight of the gentlemen, she beckoned Fanny and Lucy with one actively twitching hand.

  “Charmed to see you again,” said Lord Peter, bending over the hand of first one, then the other suddenly simpering miss. He introduced Lord Foxhaven, who had apparently not made their acquaintance for all they'd recognized him on sight.

  Nessa tried to move unobtrusively away as her suspicions sharpened. Unfortunately, Lady Mountheath recollected her manners before she could escape.

  “Here is someone you'll not have met,” she said, appearing oddly eager to call the interloper's attention away from her daughters. “Lady Haughton is but newly come to Town, staying with her sister, Lady Creamcroft. Lady Haughton, may I present Lord Peter Northrup, son of the Duke of Marland, and his lordship the Marquis of Foxhaven.”

  Both gentlemen regarded Nessa with sudden interest, which was unsettling enough. But far more unsettling were the brilliant blue eyes of the marquis—eyes she had seen once before, through the slits of a brown mask!

  Nessa had just presence of mind enough to modulate her voice into a softer, lower tone than she normally used, praying that Lord Foxhaven would not recognize her, as she made her answer. “I'm happy to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.” She dropped a perfectly proper half-curtsey.

  “Lady Haughton, what a sur—that is, how nice to meet you here tonight.” Lord Peter winced visibly from the surreptitious kick the marquis had given him.

  Nessa realized with a jolt that this had been the harlequin at the masquerade. She fought down her panic as Lord Foxhaven spoke.

  “This is indeed a pleasure,” he agreed so smoothly that she wondered whether she'd imagined that kick. “You are highly spoken of in all the best circles, my lady. It is my honor to make your acquaintance.” The bow accompanying this speech was the very picture of polished elegance.

  “You are too kind, my lord,” she murmured, beginning to breathe somewhat easier, though she kept her eyes lower
ed. He hadn't recognized her. At least, she cautioned herself, not yet.

  THREE

  JACK GLANCED QUICKLY at Lord Peter, then back to Lady Haughton. For a moment, he'd been almost certain he'd met her before, but now he began to doubt. Clearly Peter was showing no signs of recognition—not that he was the most perceptive of fellows. Besides, it seemed so unlikely, after all he'd been able to learn of Lady Haughton.

  He'd done a bit of research since Peter had brought her name to his notice. As his friends had said, no one had seen her since her arrival in London two weeks ago, so he had not really expected her to attend tonight. Not only had she been in virtual seclusion since her husband's death, but both she and Lady Creamcroft were complete sticklers for propriety—so much so that she avoided appearing in public at all before her year of mourning was up.

  Which made the possibility of her being the same woman he'd met at last week's masquerade impossibly remote. “Monique,” whoever she'd been, had certainly not been a grief-stricken widow! Even if she had possessed melting brown eyes remarkably similar to Lady Haughton's.

  Still, he decided to attempt a small test. “Might I procure a glass of lemonade for you, my lady, before the entertainment begins?”

  Though she kept her eyes demurely lowered, the long, mink-brown lashes fluttered at his words. “No, thank you, my lord,” she said after just the slightest hesitation. “I do not particularly care for lemonade.”

  Jack watched her closely. Could it possibly be…? But he decided not to press the matter—not just now, at any rate. If this really were the woman from the masquerade, he would find out soon enough. That could be very useful information. Very useful indeed.

  “Ratafia, then, perhaps?”

  She nodded then, not deigning—or daring?—to meet his eyes again. “Thank you, my lord. That would be pleasant.”

  Peter accompanied Jack to the buffet table. “Not quite the antidote you predicted, eh, Jack?” he commented as they obtained beverages for themselves along with Lady Haughton's ratafia. “Rather prim, of course, but I'd say she shows potential.”

  Jack smiled, remembering the luscious Monique. “Potential indeed, I suspect. Still, I don't want to limit my options just yet. Did you notice whether Lady Beatrice is here tonight?”

  “Over there, with her father.” Peter nodded toward the archway of the music room.

  Following his glance, Jack saw Lady Beatrice, surrounded by half a dozen gallants, looking just as cool and lovely as he remembered. After meeting Lady Haughton, however, he found his enthusiasm for the blonde debutante at a lower ebb than ever.

  “Let's see whether my new position will garner me more than the stiff nod plain Jack Ashecroft received when I first met her, shall we?”

  Lady Haughton's ratafia in hand, he detoured past the music room. “Good evening Lady Beatrice, Sherbourne.” He nodded to the lady in question and her father, in turn. “How nice to see you again.”

  Lord Sherbourne frowned at him suspiciously. “Evening, Foxhaven,” he said with a stiff nod. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

  Jack allowed himself a half-smile. “Ah, sometimes I surprise even myself.” He turned to face Lady Beatrice.

  She smiled limpidly, darted a quick, curious glance at her father's sour expression, then regarded Jack again, more warily. “Good evening, my lord. I had not realized you had returned to London.”

  Jack wasn't surprised. His exploits since his return to the metropolis had hardly been of the sort to reach such a sheltered miss's ears.

  It seemed her father was thinking along similar lines. “Come Beatrice,” he said before Jack could respond. “Your mother will be expecting us to join her within for the performance.” With a warning glance over his shoulder, he led his daughter away from Jack's dangerous influence.

  Chuckling, Jack continued back to where Lady Haughton had now been joined by Lord and Lady Creamcroft. “The reputation is still ascendant, it would seem,” he said in an undertone to Peter as they approached the trio. “Is Lady Creamcroft such a dragon in the defense of her sister, do you suppose?”

  “I'd imagine Lady Haughton can defend herself, after a lifetime of the sort of tutelage she's had.” Peter motioned off to the left with his head. “There's Miss Varens. Perhaps you'll need to lower your standards just a hair.”

  Jack glanced at his friend in surprise. “You wound me, Peter! At any rate, I must bring Lady Haughton the refreshment I promised her before pursuing other game.” This last was said a shade too loudly, Jack realized belatedly. Lady Haughton appeared not to have heard, but her sister was frowning—whether at his words or at him in general, he couldn't tell.

  “Your ratafia, Lady Haughton.” He presented the drink with a flourish. “I believe the entertainment will be beginning in a moment.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” The expression in her brown eyes, when she lifted them briefly, was wary but not censorious. “Have you met my sister and her husband, Lord and Lady Creamcroft?” She seemed anxious to turn his attention away from herself.

  “Creamcroft, we've met at Boodle's, have we not?” The young baron nodded his assent. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, at least. “Lady Creamcroft, I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Charmed.”

  Lady Creamcroft responded most properly, but her expression told him she'd heard all the worst tales about him—most of them true, unfortunately. She edged herself almost imperceptibly in front of her sister. A dragon indeed, albeit a young and pretty one—nearly as pretty as Lady Haughton, in fact, her brown hair touched with golden highlights instead of red ones. Amazing that poker-faced old Cherryhurst could have produced these two beauties.

  “My lord,” she said formally. “If you'll excuse us, we'd best take our seats.”

  As the trio retreated, Jack just caught the curious glance Lady Haughton sent her sister. Doubtless by the end of the evening she'd have heard everything her sister knew of him.

  He frowned. He'd just faced almost the identical situation with Lady Beatrice and her father, and it had afforded him only amusement. So why should the thought of Lady Haughton learning of his reputation cost him a pang? He didn't know, but couldn't deny that it did.

  “Cross off another one,” said Peter in his ear. “Looks like this won't be so easy as you thought.

  “I never said it would be easy.” Jack couldn't quite hide his irritation. “There's your Miss Varens. Care to introduce me?”

  Peter performed the office, but though they said all that was proper, Jack was greeted by cold stares, not only from Sir Arnold and Lady Varens, but from the young lady herself. He'd intended asking her to go driving with him tomorrow, for she was a pretty little thing, but suddenly opted against it.

  Cursing himself for a craven, but feeling decidedly out of his element, Jack went to find a chair for the performance which was just beginning.

  ~ ~ ~

  “WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT, Prudence?” asked Nessa in an undertone as their party moved toward their seats. “That was the nearest thing to rudeness I've ever seen in you!”

  Her sister glanced over her shoulder before answering in an even lower tone. “Lord Foxhaven is not the sort of man with whom you should be encouraging an acquaintance,” she whispered repressively. “I can't conceive why Lady Mountheath should have invited him here tonight. I had thought her more discriminating.”

  Nessa decided against revealing what she'd learned from that lady's sharp-tongued daughters or the scene she'd witnessed earlier. “Why? What is wrong with Lord Foxhaven?”

  “Pray lower your voice!” Prudence admonished her. “He is but very lately come into his title and seems—how shall I put it?—ill prepared for the role. His life has been one of unremitting license, if all I hear is to be believed. 'Twill take more than a marquisate to establish him in Society, I assure you.”

  Settling into the chair beside her sister, Nessa commented, “I never knew you to put such stock in gossip, Prudence. Are any specific evils laid at his door, or merely the general ones th
at jealousy might account for?” At her sister's questioning look, she clarified. “A young, handsome man coming so suddenly into a high position is bound to excite envy.”

  But Prudence shook her head. “Jack Ashecroft's scandalous reputation had been bruited about London long before he inherited. For all that he was feted as a hero last May, after our Army's victory over Napoleon, he has never had the entrée to the better circles.”

  “He was a soldier, then?”

  “A major, I believe—or perhaps he was promoted to colonel. His military career was distinguished, I'll grant you that. One of Wellington's finest 'tis said. But he is at least as well known for his paramours—” Even in the dim light, Nessa could see her sister's flush at this bold reference to the man's improprieties— “and his association with all manner of low types. 'Twas even rumored that he occasionally acted as a spy while on the Continent, and you must know what is said of spies.”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Hush,” said Prudence, clearly desirous of dropping such a distressing topic. “The music is beginning.”

  Though she tried, Nessa found it difficult to concentrate on the flutist's performance. Instead of the music—though adequate in execution—she found her thoughts straying again to Lord Foxhaven, whom she'd noticed slipping into a seat only two rows back.

  Had he recognized her? She thought not, but when he made the offer of lemonade, she had wondered. One thing was certain, however: if he were not going to betray their earlier meeting, she most assuredly would not!

  The very thought of Prudence's reaction if she learned the truth made her quail. Nessa didn't want to be responsible for her sister's almost certain collapse, especially after Prudence had been so kind to her.

  Momentarily diverted, she wondered why she and her sister had never been particularly close, considering that they had no other siblings. Of course, any sort of affectionate display had been frowned upon by their parents—perhaps because it would have made that particular lack in their marriage all the more apparent.