How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  Despite the cold, a red heat seared across her. She tore her gaze away from his naked torso and found him staring at her, his eyebrows raised as if he knew very well where her attention had been.

  Her face grew hot with embarrassment.

  “W-well?” she asked, trying to brazen it out. She’d sound more impressive if her words weren’t slurred. “Who are you?”

  He gave a deep, weary, frustrated sigh. “Benedict Asterly.”

  “And why am I here, like…” she gestured to the blanket covering her.

  “You were in a coach, freezing to death.” His voice was flat and unsympathetic.

  Yes. It had been cold. The hot bricks at her feet had cooled, and the cold outside had seeped in. Despite piling on every layer she could, she’d been freezing, and it had become harder and harder to stay awake.

  “And I’m undressed because…?”

  “That’s a darn good question.” Edward’s bearing mirrored the stranger’s—grim, autocratic, guarded.

  The stranger—Benedict—sighed, raking his hands through his hair. The muscles of his chest stretched as he did so. “You disrobed yourself.”

  “I did not!” The nerve of him. “It takes my maid half an hour to get me into this dress.”

  Her father rounded on her again. “And took him half a second to get you out of it.” She was well acquainted with his temper, but never had he been so furious that he’d lost his composure in public.

  The stranger pushed himself from the wall. His was a different species of anger. Where her father exploded like fuel-fed fire, the stranger was controlled, lethal.

  Every inch of her was startlingly aware of him, of his immense size and the surprising fluidity of his movement.

  “I said, step back.” He placed himself firmly between her and her father. “Rather than yelling at a girl, why don’t you tell me which of you idiots left her in a carriage alone?”

  “She was supposed to be in London, minding her own bloody business,” her father said.

  The shouting began again, all three men obstinate and determined to talk down the others. The noise was too much.

  For heaven’s sake, stop beating your chests and pour me a hot bath.

  She ignored the lot of them and wrapped her arms around her knees, focused on taming her shivers. Taking deep, measured breaths, she closed her eyes and let their words roll over her. Nine. Eight. Seven. She shuffled closer to the fire behind her. Six. Five. Four.

  The frigid floor disappeared from under her as the stranger swooped her into his arms as if she weighed little more than a wisp of lace.

  “You’re too close to the flames, princess. Wilde, drag that chair over here.”

  Did he really just call Edward, Duke of Wildeforde, Wilde?

  A muscle ticked along Edward’s jaw, but he did as the stranger asked.

  “This argument is ridiculous,” the stranger—Oh, what was his name?—said, lowering her to the chair. “I’ve not compromised her, and you damn well know it.”

  The words hit like a heavy reticule swung by a careless debutante. She sat back. Compromised?

  Edward fixed the stranger with a frustrated stare. “Of course you didn’t. But you have made a mess of things.”

  “I’ve made a mess of things? Why the devil was a lady traveling alone? Where was her chaperone? Where was her coachman? Where were the people who were supposed to be looking after her?”

  Edward stared at her. Her father stared at her. The stranger stared at her. Heavens, she was tired.

  “That’s not of any consequence.” The voice came from a dark corner of the room. It was loud and low-pitched and seemed to settle on the room like a copper snuffer extinguishing flame. An old man in an overly ornate, embroidered and fur-covered coat, clearly from the previous century, stepped into the light. She hadn’t noticed him earlier and was glad for it.

  His lips were twisted into a sneer. “The chit has debased herself. The only question now is what’s to be done about it?”

  A chill prickled across her neck. That didn’t bode well. Best to cut that line of conversation short. “I hardly see that anything needs to be done about it,” she said. “Whatever it might look like, we all know—”

  “It looks like you are alone in a house, unchaperoned, with him half-naked and you…disheveled.”

  The prickles spread as a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold coursed through her.

  “Now wait just one minute. Perhaps we should give them a minute to explain.” Finally, her father had caught up to the potential ramifications of this ludicrous situation.

  “What we’ve witnessed is explanation enough. We left the comfort of Lord Wildeforde’s library to rescue an innocent girl in peril. What we found was a harlot engaged in a wanton act of lust.” The man turned to Edward, who was rubbing the spot between his eyes. He rarely did that. Only when his mother was particularly trying. Or when Amelia was trying to lock him in to a wedding date.

  The man continued. “You have responsibilities to the family name, to your title, and they include choosing a duchess who hasn’t tupped half the county.”

  Her chest tightened, and she scrambled to catch the threads that were unraveling around her. “You wretched cur.” She turned to Edward. “How can you let him say these things? You know they’re untrue. I was unconscious, for goodness’ sake.”

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I know that.” He sighed, as lost for words as she’d ever seen him. “This is all a confounded mess that looks a sight worse than the truth. But Lord Karstark is right. There’s my family’s reputation to consider.”

  “Lord Karstark is a jackass.” He could not do this to her, dash it. After all these years. “We have been engaged since I was five.”

  “Amelia.”

  And there it was, the tone he used whenever he thought she was being irrational.

  “Amelia, you need a Season before we wed. Be reasonable.”

  “Amelia, we can’t possibly marry in the same year as the Duke of Rushford. Be reasonable.”

  “Amelia, we can’t possibly wed at all because your carriage got stuck and you almost died. Be reasonable.”

  “Don’t ‘Amelia’ me. I’ve been waiting for you for years.” She tried to stand, to go and shake some sense into him, but her legs crumpled.

  He examined the pressed cuff of his coat, running a thumb over the embroidered edge. “You’ve always known the conditions. No scandals. It is in the contract we all signed.” His voice carried a tinge of disbelief, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.

  She squeezed her fingers into tight fists. Her nails dug into her palms. “There isn’t a bloody scandal if everyone in this room keeps their mouth shut.”

  Edward’s eyes widened in shock, but if ever she should be permitted to use profanities, surely this was the time. They were quite surprisingly satisfying. No wonder men used them.

  She looked over at the half-naked stranger. He was rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, strikingly similar to the way Edward did.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “By noon, it’ll be all over the county.” The stranger looked pointedly at the ancient peacocking Lord Karstark, and she felt a sudden, all-consuming urge to rake her fingernails down those powdery, tissue-like wrinkles. Her entire life ruined by a gossipy centenarian.

  Edward finally looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.” It was the first time she’d ever heard him apologize for anything. His tone was bleak, as though he knew full well the pain he was causing and regretted it.

  Bile crawled up her throat, and she fought the urge to retch. She couldn’t breathe, and the ringing in her ears grew louder.

  “I’ll be ruined,” she choked out. “Please.” Her voice caught. She’d never in her life thought she’d plead for anything, but she’d plead now.

  His face twisted. He knew it to be true, yet the truth didn’t change his mind. “We’ll say you ended it. You threw me over. You got
tired of waiting. I spent too much time in parliament and not enough time courting you.”

  But that’s not what they would say. Not when this story got out.

  Edward could confront a difficult and contentious parliament without hesitation, but if there was one thing that could bring him to his knees, it was the slightest hint of gossip. And tonight would be more than a hint. He would step away, stay out of the scandal, and she would have to defend herself.

  She searched his countenance for something to give her hope, but there was nothing. “Are you actually doing this?”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he turned away, pulling his hands through his hair as he left.

  And with his exit, a fissure appeared. She was Lady Amelia Crofton, daughter of an earl, diamond of the ton, third cousin to the King, and the future Duchess of Wildeforde. Or at least she had been.

  Lord Karstark smirked and turned to her father. “If Wildeforde sends one of his men to Canterbury now, you could have a special license before Sunday’s Christmas service.”

  A bubble of horrified laughter caught in her throat. The situation had spiraled from awful to borderline hysterical.

  “Excuse me?” The stranger’s voice rose five octaves. “Now see here.”

  “No. Now you see here,” her father said. “Someone is marrying my daughter, and if it isn’t the Duke of Wildeforde, it will be you, damn it. God knows no one else will have her now.”

  She looked at the stranger—Benedict—waiting for him to say something. Do something. He just stared at the palms of his hands.

  Useless men. “Father, I can’t marry him…I’ve never even seen him before tonight.” Her eyes pricked with tears.

  The stranger rolled his eyes with a look of unadulterated scorn, which she was wholly unused to having sent in her direction. “We’ve been introduced, Lady Amelia.”

  Had they? She searched his face, the unfashionably tanned skin, the harsh stubble on his jaw, the strong, broad nose with an unseemly bend where he’d clearly come out worst in a tavern brawl. Nothing about him was familiar. “We have?” Surely she’d remember a man of his lumbering size.

  He shook his head, clearly disgusted.

  Her father nodded. “We can do it after the Christmas service.”

  By the time Amelia woke, the orange glow of the coals was battling with descending dark. By the time she was dressed, the day had fled.

  The maid she’d been assigned by Edward’s housekeeper arrived with a tray. The toast was burnt, the eggs were cold, and the mushrooms she’d asked for were nonexistent.

  “I realize I’m asking for breakfast during the early evening, but I was hoping for something that wasn’t actually cooked at breakfast time.”

  The past twenty-four hours had been beyond humiliating. Never in her life had she felt less in control of a situation. And the cold, congealed mess before her was her mood manifested.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the maid muttered.

  Amelia raised her chin, thankful for her extra height. “My name is Lady Amelia Crofton.”

  The only response was a clenched jaw.

  “The correct term is my lady.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” The words came through gritted teeth. The milksop chit scuttled out. No doubt the gossip below stairs was out of control.

  As she choked down the rubbery eggs and tepid tea, Amelia assessed what was left of the hours ahead of her. Damage control was needed. It would take a nauseating amount of flattery, but there was no reason the situation couldn’t be rectified. It’s not like she was actually compromised, just apparently compromised.

  With any luck, her father had fixed the disaster while she slept. That had been the point of his visit to Abingdale in the first place—to convince Edward to set a date. Every conversation they’d had over the past fifteen years had somehow referenced her approaching marriage to Edward.

  “Don’t wear yellow. The Duchess of Wildeforde is not cheerful.”

  “Don’t skimp on the sugar. The Duchess of Wildeforde is not a pauper.”

  “Don’t laugh. The Duchess of Wildeforde is not a barmaid.”

  Her father was as invested in this marriage as she was. The whole situation was most likely solved already.

  She knew the way to the study. She’d been here briefly just after her first Season. And her third. She waved off a footman’s reluctant offer to guide her and strode down the stairs and through the hall to where Edward generally conducted business. Taking a short, determined breath, she pushed open the door.

  Edward’s study was much like the man himself—grand, richly appointed, and meticulously presented. The curtains fell in even lines. The journal on his mahogany desk was perfectly parallel to the edges.

  Except her father, slouched in the leather wingback chair by the window, deep into his cups. She could smell the brandy from here. The other chair was empty; Edward was absent.

  “Well, here she is.” Her father tipped his near-dry glass in her direction. “The lady of the hour. The key to our family’s salvation and the whore that threw it in the ashes.”

  “I see you found the liquor cabinet. Again.”

  He stared at her, eyes glassy. “You had one job.”

  And here it was, the lecture she’d listened to more times than she’d care to count.

  “Marry the Duke of Wildeforde. Become the perfect duchess. Bring…”

  She rolled her eyes. “…honor and prestige to the House of Crofton. Yes. I know. I’m working on it.”

  He let out a long, gaseous burp. “This never would have happened if you were male.”

  It was truly unfair that her greatest failing in life was something she had no control over. “If I were male, I could have taken one of the horses and saved myself.”

  His eyes narrowed. He hated it when she spoke back to him. “You’re a selfish creature, just like your mother. All I asked for was a son.”

  “And all she delivered was a daughter. We’ve had this conversation.” Over and over and over. Every time he got deep in his cups.

  “All I asked of you was to marry well. Now look at the shit we’re in.”

  “I take it you haven’t managed to rectify the situation.”

  He snorted. “Oh, it’s rectified. You’ll be married in the morning, after the Christmas service.”

  She pressed a palm to her chest, noticing the weight she’d been under only as it lifted. “Well, that’s a relief. Truly, if all it took to speed things up was the threat of scandal, I would’ve half-frozen myself years ago. The way Edward has dragged his feet is intolerable.”

  Her father laughed, the mean, snide laugh he made coming home half-drunk from wherever he’d been gambling—if he’d won. The hairs at the nape of her neck rose.

  “You seem to be misapprehending the situation. You’ll be married. To Mr. Benedict Asterly of the…Abingdale Asterlys? Do half-breeds come from anywhere?”

  She grabbed at the back of the chair as her knees buckled. “You are joking.”

  “No.”

  Straightening, she clenched her hands into tight, fury-filled fists. “This is absurd. I can’t believe Edward would do this to me.”

  “You were found in the arms of another man, with your dress…” He waved his hand at her bosom. “What’s so difficult to believe?”

  “For a start, he’d have to find himself a new bride. That’s an awful lot of effort for him.”

  He certainly hadn’t put any effort into their engagement. In fifteen years, she’d received one letter, and that was to ask the name of a composer she’d mentioned his mother might like.

  “Well, he did. Rejected you as if you were a fish gone bad at the markets.” Her father poured himself another drink.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never stepped foot in a market.”

  She walked to the window and back. And again. Her father was useless. It was up to her to set things back on course.

  In the background, the ranting continued. “I told you. Be the perfect duc
hess. Say the right things, do the right things—”

  She swatted his words away.

  Lady Wildeforde was in residence. Could she convince Edward’s mother to stand beside her? She’d always been supportive—if somewhat acidic—in the past, and had been instrumental in establishing Amelia as the younger set’s preeminent figure.

  “—had to keep yourself out of scandal, and you would be—” Her father wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “I can’t see why there needs to be a scandal,” she snapped. Could he not see that she was trying to focus? “It was just you, Edward, me, and…what was his name?”

  “Mister Benedict Asterly.”

  She shuddered. Mister. Ugh. “Right. Well, surely you can pay him off. Marrying an earl’s daughter might seem attractive, but he’s a country lummox. Give him a thousand pounds and assure him that I’m more trouble than he expects.” Because she would be. That was certain.

  “You’re forgetting Lord Karstark.”

  Hell. The blasted lord with his vile sneer. “For goodness’ sake, give generously to whatever cause will put the funds into his pocket, promise my firstborn child to the relative of his choice, and send him on his way. Really, must I do everything?”

  Her father held the snifter up to the light and gave it a nonchalant swirl, studying the brandy as it clung to the sides of the glass. “Karstark. Brother-in-law to Lady Merwick.”

  Her heart gave way like slippers on ice.

  “Cousin to the Duke of Oxley,” he rattled off, “and rich as Croesus. The only things he values are power and gossip, and you just gave him both.”

  Dash it.

  He sniggered. “Face reality, Amelia. Abingdale is your new home. I don’t believe your future husband owns a London residence.”

  This couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. Amelia spun on her heel. If Edward wasn’t in his office, where would he be?

  Maids fled as they saw her approach. She didn’t stomp—a duchess’s footsteps are never heard—but her clenched fists and brisk pace ensured no one got in her way. Edward could be made to see reason.

  He entered the foyer just as she did. Judging by his heavy coat and Wellington boots, she’d caught him just as he was escaping. He stopped, tapping his hand against his thigh. He was uneasy. Good.