How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  He managed another button. “How did you get into this thing without a maid?”

  “The duchess loaned me hers for the day, which was kind of her, under the circumstances.”

  The look on his face suggested he thought otherwise. “Kindness from Lady Wildeforde? It was a special day.”

  She swallowed hard. “Thank you. I can take it from here.” She turned toward him, her hands tucked tightly under her armpits to keep the dress from falling.

  He didn’t move, and she found herself standing far too close to him. His collar was open at the neck, and wiry strands of hair curled below the deep v that formed at the base of his throat, drawing her eyes farther down. She forced herself to look into his eyes. His heated gaze ignited a shivering that began at the deepest part of her and rippled outward.

  “Is there anything else?” he asked.

  The words were barely a whisper, but they buffeted through her.

  He dragged a thumb lightly across her brow, shifting a stray hair. His touch was nothing like she’d experienced. No gloves, just the heady friction of long, warm, calloused fingertips.

  No man had ever stood so close—not even Edward. His lips were only inches from hers, as if waiting on her permission to close the gap. Half of her wanted to lean into the kiss. The other half wanted to shrink back.

  He seemed to sense it, pulling away, taking in a deep ragged breath as he did so.

  “If that’s all, I’ll leave you.”

  She inhaled, an earthy scent of spice and grass setting off something she didn’t want to acknowledge. She was exhausted and lost and wasn’t quite ready to be alone. “You said we’d met before?”

  He stiffened, the warmth in the room slipping away.

  “Twice, actually, the first time you visited the Wildeforde estate. But it’s no surprise a lady like you wouldn’t remember a man like me.”

  Chapter 5

  The sitting room was a jumble of mismatched furniture. Books were scattered in small piles. The table had parchment and an abacus, and an empty teacup balanced precariously on the edge. The settee wasn’t even facing the center of the room. Instead, it had been dragged in front of the window facing the outside. Stockinged legs hung over the back of it.

  Amelia coughed quietly. There was a soft thunk of something hitting the floor, and the legs slithered out of sight. A quick second later, the sister—Cassandra—appeared from behind the couch, coming to stand in front of Amelia, book in hand.

  She dipped into a shallow, wobbly curtsey. “Good morning, Lady Amelia. Did you sleep well?”

  Tall and lanky with a smattering of freckles across her slightly tanned face, she wore a dress two inches too short in a simple fabric. Unlike her brother, Cassandra looked at her with the open admiration of a new debutante.

  “I slept very well, thank you.” She had slept terribly in fact—something she wanted to put down to a sagging mattress but in truth was more about the memory of Benedict’s breath, hot on her neck. The thought of his hand tracing a line across her brow.

  No. She had not slept well at all.

  “I put the flowers on your breakfast tray. I thought they might cheer you up.”

  “That was very kind of you. They were very pretty.” It had been touching, actually. They were hardly the hothouse flowers Edward sent each week—at least his secretary sent each week—but the gesture was sweet.

  Goodness. Sweet. When was the last time she’d met anyone like that? London and sweetness were not common bedfellows. But then, she wasn’t in London anymore. No. She was in Abingdale, and her best way forward was to gain as much insight into her situation as possible. And Cassandra was her first step.

  “I thought perhaps you and I could have tea. Get to know each other.” Amelia reached for the bell rope to summon one of the maids.

  “That doesn’t work,” Cassandra said, scooting around Amelia and ducking her head into the hall.

  “Daisy, can we please have some tea?” she yelled. She turned back to Amelia. “It shouldn’t take long. Mrs. Greenhill leaves a kettle on the stove all day in winter.” Cassandra cleared off the center table, stacking the papers in a pile on the floor. She dragged two seats to face each other.

  Amelia took her place neatly on the edge of the seat, her hands folded into her lap. Cassandra did the same, studying Amelia’s hands and mimicking their placement.

  There was a long silence before Lady Amelia gestured toward the book in Cassandra’s hands. “What are you reading?”

  “The final Princess Lionberry novel. Have you read them?”

  “I can’t say that I have.”

  Cassandra blossomed into animation, her expression brightening, her hands gesturing wildly. “They’re splendiferous. Princess Lionberry lives in an enormous castle, but it’s bewitched and things are alive that shouldn’t be and are causing all sorts of problems.”

  “Oh my. How…troublesome.”

  “You don’t need to worry. Nothing’s alive in this house that shouldn’t be.” She patted Amelia’s hand in a surprisingly comforting gesture.

  “What a relief.”

  “What are you reading?” Cassandra asked.

  “I don’t read.”

  Cassandra’s jaw dropped open. “You can’t read?”

  “Of course I can read. I’ve read Debrett’s cover to cover a dozen times. I don’t read.”

  “Why not?” The girl’s face was one of horrified curiosity.

  “Novels are frivolous. And men don’t like bluestockings. There’s nothing appealing about a woman who might be more intelligent than he is.”

  Cassandra pursed her lips, her face the epitome of confusion. “But Fiona says that girls are as smart as boys and should learn all the same things they do.”

  “And is this Fiona married?”

  “Well…no.”

  “I rest my case. If you want to be a success on the marriage mart, you need to avoid books like they’re wealthy young men with trade backgrounds. Tempting but entirely unsuitable.”

  Cassandra’s eyes filled with tears, and she began to twist the fabric of her skirts.

  Darn it. Even Amelia balked at making children cry. “I’m sure it’s perfectly fine to read books at your age. I won’t tell.”

  Cassandra looked at her hopefully. “Did you read books as a child?”

  “Of course. I read Lady Quinn’s Guide to a Perfect Household, Social Graces by Miss Megan Dunley, The Language of Flowers by Charlotte de la Tour.”

  Her governess had given her a new book to read and memorize each fortnight. She’d hated every page of them. It was only now that she saw the benefit of such strict tutelage.

  “But they’re instruction books.” Cassandra wrinkled her nose.

  “And very good ones. You can borrow my copies when they arrive.” Regardless of one’s station, there was no excuse for not managing a strict and effective household. Amelia wouldn’t be here for long, but she would do what she could to teach the girl in the meantime.

  A thin gawky maid who couldn’t be more than fifteen stopped in the doorway, looking ready to collapse under the size of the unpolished tray she carried. Her eyes darted between Amelia and Cassandra. Hesitantly, she entered and put the tray on the table between them.

  Amelia looked at the tray and then looked at the maid. “I’m sorry. We asked for the tea service.”

  Confused, the girl looked from the tray to Amelia and back again. “Yes, m’lady. And I’ve brought it.”

  “You’ve brought a teapot and some cups. Where’s the coffeepot?”

  “P…Pardon, m’lady. I thought you wanted tea.”

  Amelia sighed. The staff were clearly going to require a lot of work. “It’s fine. Please bring it now.”

  Her housemaid bobbed a quick curtsey and picked up the tea tray.

  “What are you doing?” Amelia asked.

  The maid froze. “Taking back the tea to get you coffee, m’lady.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes. If the girl couldn’t get tea righ
t, how on Earth were they supposed to handle a larger party?

  “Leave the tea. Bring the coffeepot.”

  The girl nodded and scurried out of the room.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” Cassandra said.

  “Neither do I.” Amelia poured tea into the two cups. “Deplorable stuff. Goodness knows why anyone drinks it.”

  She had a second cousin that drank coffee, but he also held on to last century’s obsession with wigs, so he could hardly be considered a barometer of taste.

  “Then why did you ask for coffee if you don’t want to drink it?” Cassandra stirred sugar into her tea with youthful vigor. Amelia delicately dipped her spoon once, twice into the brew.

  “Because when you serve tea, you also serve coffee for those who prefer the latter.” She sipped. Divine. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in London and the past few days were just a bad dream.

  Cassandra slurped at her drink, sending shudders down Amelia’s spine. “That seems dreadfully wasteful. Ben would never approve.”

  “It’s the aristocracy, my dear. If we insist on watching our pennies, we might as well be middle class.”

  The housemaid came in with a coffeepot on a tray, face falling when she saw both of the girls drinking tea.

  Amelia acknowledged the housemaid with a slight nod. “Thank you—?”

  The girl turned a deeper shade of crimson. “It’s Daisy, m’lady. We met yesterday.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Daisy.”

  The maid left, and Amelia turned to her new sister-in-law. What she needed was information. Then she could form a plan.

  “I thought when the weather cleared, we could go on a tour. You could show me Abingdale.”

  Cassandra nodded. “I’ll take you to Mrs. Duggan’s bakery. She makes delicious apple tarts.”

  Amelia counted backward from five. Were all children this frustrating? “I was more thinking the estates around Abingdale. A tour of the grand houses nearby.”

  “Eh.” Cassandra shrugged, suddenly less interested. “There’s Wildeforde House, I suppose. But I heard Mrs. Greenhill say you have already visited there.”

  Amelia swallowed. “Any houses other than Lord Wildeforde’s?”

  The girl tapped her finger against her cheek as she thought. “Lady Karstark has a big house, but she’s in the next county.”

  Amelia’s thoughts immediately shifted to the decrepit Lord Karstark who’d condemned her to this life. His was not an acquaintance that she particularly wanted to pursue. But she was also a pragmatist and could recognize that there weren’t many other options.

  “I made Ben promise to take me to see their library one day. He says it’s heaps bigger than our study, with thousands of books. It’s dusty, though.”

  “Does he visit often?” Perhaps his relationship with them was not as frosty as it had seemed at first. Maybe he could introduce her to Lady Karstark, and Amelia wouldn’t be as alone out here as she first thought.

  “No. He only went once—with his mama when he was my age.”

  His mother. That explained the age gap between brother and sister. “You both look so similar I wouldn’t have guessed you had different mothers.”

  Cassandra flushed red. “His mother was very pretty. There’s a painting of her in the attic,” she whispered.

  “How exciting. You’ll have to take me up there.” Not that she was remotely interested in rummaging through a dusty attic. She was interested in learning more about the increasingly intriguing background of her husband, though.

  “And was Benedict’s mother close to Lady Karstark?”

  Cassandra shook her head. “I don’t know. I think so. He doesn’t like to talk about her.”

  “Lady Karstark?”

  “His mama. He rants about the Karstarks all the time. He thinks Lord Karstark’s the devil.”

  It was a sentiment Amelia shared. Although she rather thought the devil had the better end of the comparison. But surely there was more to it. “Why does he think that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Cassandra was proving a frustratingly poor source of valuable information. “Does your brother have any fancy visitors?”

  “Not really.”

  “Does he go visiting?”

  “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  Amelia scoffed. “Don’t be silly. This is just conversation.”

  Cassandra looked at her suspiciously. “If it were a conversation, wouldn’t I get to ask questions?”

  “Very well, what would you like to know?”

  “Do you love my brother?”

  Amelia choked on her tea. “I barely know your brother.”

  Cassandra frowned.

  “But I’m sure he’s a lovely person.”

  “Then why did you marry him?”

  Because she was an idiot, Edward was a coward, and Karstark was a jackass. “I believe it’s my turn to ask a question.” And since the child was asking the tough questions so would she. “What happened to your parents?”

  Cassandra dropped her gaze and began to fiddle with the handle on her cup. “They died. There was a carriage accident two years ago.”

  Two years was fresh. It had taken Amelia at least that long to be able to speak about her mother with anyone. “I lost my mother when I was about your age. It’s not easy. I’m sorry.”

  And she was. It was a hard thing as a girl to grow up without a female hand to guide you. A governess could only do so much.

  “Ben takes good care of me.”

  “I don’t doubt. You’re very lucky.” Amelia hadn’t had that fortune. Her father had made it clear within days of her mother’s death that she was a nuisance, and other than giving her strict instructions on the appropriate ways to behave, he’d paid very little attention to her.

  “What happened to Benedict’s mother?”

  Cassandra shook her head. “He doesn’t like to talk about that.”

  Getting information out of a child was like getting a decent rendition of Serenade Number 13 out of a country orchestra. “Come now. That’s hardly fair. I thought we had an agreement.”

  “Ben really doesn’t—” She stopped and looked up at the sound of the drawing room door swinging open; her face was that of a child caught sneaking an extra sweet.

  Dash it. Just when it was getting interesting.

  Amelia turned to face her husband. Everything about him was iron and stone, from the expression on his face to the muscles exposed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves and open collar. She was not fooled by his casual lean against the doorframe. Every inch of him was tense.

  “Good day,” she said. There. That was perfectly polite. This man might bring out the absolute worst in her, but she would make the effort. Last night, he had been rather gentlemanly for a commoner. Perhaps they could make it through the next few days without drawing blood.

  “An inquisition before lunch, Lady Amelia?” There was nothing gentle about his tone. Whatever truce they’d come to last night was clearly over.

  From her seated position, she was forced to look up at him, an abdication of power she wasn’t happy to bestow. She’d lost enough this week. She didn’t want to lose the upper hand as well.

  “Hardly. There’s not a chain or stale bread in sight.”

  “Yet an interrogation nonetheless.”

  She rolled her eyes. Her husband was proving to be quite dramatic. “I wasn’t aware interrogations involved tea and lemon cake—the fuss about those prison hulks is clearly overstated.”

  Benedict’s eyes bulged, and she felt some small satisfaction. She shouldn’t goad him. She knew she shouldn’t, but she’d tossed and turned half the night. The memory of his breath against her lips as he’d almost kissed her made her skin tingle, and every movement against the thin cotton sheet had been a reminder that prodded her awake.

  And a lack of sleep did nothing to improve her mood.

  Clearly trying to put on a good front for his sister, he moved out of t
he doorway and took the seat next to Cassandra. He looked ridiculous relaxing back against the delicate floral chair, which looked ready to collapse beneath him.

  “I hope you’re enjoying your first day in your new home, my lady.”

  “It might have started with a tour of the house, don’t you think?”

  If he wanted to exchange sarcasms, she was more than ready. She was stuck, sleep-deprived in a strange house, in the middle of nowhere, married against her will, and with no more than a handful of dresses to her name. And he had the gall to be offended at the direction of her conversation?

  His patience clearly splintered. “I would have offered, but you didn’t come down to join us at breakfast,” he said, his voice laden with false courtesy.

  “I didn’t know the way.” She took a long sip of tea. He could be as sore-toothed as he liked. She’d withstood worse.

  He smiled. “Ah, of course. My apologies. So we can expect you tomorrow then? We breakfast at seven.”

  Seven? Not a chance. She placed her teacup back on the table between them and leaned forward. “Married women breakfast in bed.” And not at seven in the morning. Good grief.

  “Of course.” Two words, but he used them as an obnoxious victory flag she wanted to smother him in.

  “For goodness’ sakes, I’ve been looking forward to breakfast in bed since I was twelve. Must you take this from me too?”

  “I’m twelve!”

  Both of them turned toward Cassandra, who was giving Amelia a tentative smile.

  Amelia swallowed the frustration, reining in the volume of her voice. The last thing she needed was to alienate the only ally she had in this house. “Twelve is a perfectly lovely age. I advise you to remain there for as long as possible.”

  “We can take you for a tour now, if you like,” Cassandra said.

  “That would be lovely,” Amelia replied, standing.

  “Yes. Let’s.” Benedict also stood and offered Amelia his arm.

  She didn’t want to take it. Maybe she was balking at the inherent power imbalance in him taking the lead, maybe it was because she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t burst into tears.