How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  “Are we going?” Cassandra asked, taking Amelia’s other hand in hers, completely oblivious to the standoff.

  Releasing a frustrated sigh, Benedict swept his arm wide. “This is the sitting room.”

  “I had gathered,” she replied as dryly as she could muster. Cassandra giggled. He gave the two of them and their shared camaraderie a suspicious glare.

  Out in the foyer, he indicated the room next to it. “That’s the dining room. Should you care to join us this evening. Through it is the kitchen.” He turned to indicate the rooms at the back. “This back room is the library.”

  Then, as if rudeness didn’t come easily to him, he added, “You’re welcome to any of the books in it, obviously.”

  And even though she was perfectly capable of delivering a cut direct, she inclined her head. “Thank you.”

  “Amelia won’t need the library,” Cassandra said. “Did you know ladies don’t read?”

  He blinked. Twice. Bewildered.

  “I read,” she ground out, in case he thought her uneducated. “I don’t read novels. It’s not the done thing.”

  “How…utterly unsurprising.”

  Amelia had the sense that she’d just failed some sort of test, and it rankled. She was not used to failing at anything, let alone failing to meet a set of social standards. She set the standards. Who did he think he was? Before she could respond, he’d dismissed the conversation and moved on.

  “Upstairs on the left is your bedroom, my bedroom, the nursery and the playroom. Welcome to The Cottage.”

  Amelia indicated the doors on the right side of the hall they were standing in. “And the east and west wings of the house?”

  Cassandra shook her head. “There are no wings.”

  “Please.” She crossed her arms. “I may have been half asleep when I arrived yesterday and more than a little wishful, but even I can’t have hallucinated two thirds of a building.”

  “The wings are closed.” He stood with his feet set wide as though he could block her from seeing what was plain in front of her face. Three tall wooden doors that were certainly not decorative—nothing in the house was—so were presumably functional. Which meant they very much led somewhere.

  Amelia skirted around him and pushed on one of the brass handles. It didn’t budge. “I’d like to take a look,” she said, turning to face him.

  “It is closed.”

  She huffed. Ludicrous. “Unless you bricked up each doorway, closed can become open. Goodness, Mr. Asterly, one would almost think you’re hiding a hoard of dead bodies. Or are they live ones? All your previous wives locked away forever?”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous is living in ten rooms instead of fifty.” She turned to Benedict’s sister. “Cassandra?”

  The girl shrugged. “I’ve never been in there. Father used to say that big houses were lonely houses, and we should move to a real cottage.”

  In Amelia’s experience, all houses were lonely ones when you took away the guests and the orchestra. Better a lonely and well-appointed one. “Then why didn’t you move?”

  “Mama liked the gardens.”

  There was no deep grief in the words, but nevertheless Benedict put a protective arm around his sister. “That’s enough. I’m sorry the house doesn’t meet your elevated expectations, Lady Amelia. But you’re just going to have to live with it.”

  Chapter 6

  Maybe she’s not coming down for dinner.” Cassandra fiddled with her water glass. “You weren’t very nice to her today.”

  Benedict grunted. He hadn’t been very nice to his wife today. He’d come in with every intention of making her comfortable, building on their moment together the night before, and instead he had walked in on her discussing his mother and snapped.

  For the umpteenth time, he sighed. It was only natural she’d want to know about his family. Hell, it was probably a good sign that she was interested enough to inquire.

  But he’d been on edge all day, ever since that blasted almost-kiss, and it had taken just the thought of his mother to push him over.

  His mother, the woman he’d never been able to please, trapped in a life she didn’t want. His wife, in the very same position.

  “Maybe she doesn’t know dinner is ready. Maybe she thought it was earlier. We are eating really late tonight.”

  “It’s seven. People in town eat at seven. She knows dinner’s ready.” He was a damned fool for changing their dinnertime to begin with. Amelia was a country woman now and would need to get used to country hours. “She didn’t come down for breakfast; my guess is she’s not coming down for dinner.”

  Damn. He was going to have to apologize. That much was clear. The only thing worse than marriage to a woman who didn’t love you was marriage to a woman who detested you.

  “If she doesn’t want to join us, then it’s your fault for yelling at her.” As Cassandra threw the accusation out there, her voice wobbled. It had been easy for him to spend the afternoon wallowing in self-pity. He had to remember that his sister’s life had been upended just as much. And she didn’t have the thick skin needed not to take this disaster personally.

  The thread of regret that had sat with him all afternoon twisted some more. “I’m sorry, poppet. I’ll be nicer tomorrow. I promise.” He’d spent the afternoon finding the heaviest things in the firm and moving them in an effort to distract himself from thoughts that plagued him every time he stood still.

  The slow reveal of her skin as he’d undone each button.

  The flare of heat as she’d turned, so close he could feel her breath.

  The ache of desire as he’d leaned in to kiss her.

  He rubbed the space between his eyebrows, but the thoughts could not be pushed from his mind. “We’ll wait another few minutes.”

  “But you just said she’s not—” Cassandra broke off as Amelia appeared in the doorway.

  His chest tightened at the sight of her. The evening gown she wore was creased but hugged tight across her breasts. The dress hid her figure, but he’d already seen the gentle tapering of her waist, the silhouette of her body beneath her shift. Somehow knowing what was unseen beneath the fabric was just as arousing.

  He stood as she entered, Cassandra following suit.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” Her voice was tart, her demeanor cool and aloof. It made a mockery of his attraction to her, and only the look of hope and welcome on his sister’s face stopped him from responding acerbically in kind.

  “Not at all,” he managed.

  Amelia stayed in the doorway as if she hadn’t quite decided to join them yet. “I didn’t hear the dinner gong,” she said.

  Cassandra cocked her head. “What’s a dinner gong?”

  Amelia paused, and the briefest flicker of confusion showed on her face. “It lets people know when it’s time to dress for dinner.”

  “Why were you undressed?”

  “In London, people put on nicer clothes for dinner,” Benedict interrupted, attempting to cut the conversation short. Amelia could think what she liked about him, but it would devastate Cassandra if Amelia thought her uneducated.

  “Huh. Is that why you changed, Ben?” Cassandra asked. “I thought you’d burnt another hole in your shirt.”

  Devil save him from troublesome sisters.

  He had changed. He’d gone through practically every shirt in his closet, ninety percent of which were discarded immediately, before he’d found something somewhat suitable. “Nice” clothing was a waste of money when they’d likely be covered in soot within minutes of entering the firm. Not that he cared.

  He walked the length of the table and pulled Amelia’s chair back. As she sat, he got a whiff of the same jasmine perfume she’d been wearing the night before, the scent causing an unwelcome stirring in his groin.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, completely unaware of the maddening effect she had on him. “I take it Greenhill is not waiting on us tonight.”

  “We gen
erally serve ourselves.”

  She made a noise in her throat, somewhere between a cough and a gurgle. But her face remained impassive as she reached for the spoons and served herself.

  “Did you enjoy your afternoon?” he asked as he piled his own plate.

  “Yes, thank you. I was writing letters.” She took a delicate forkful of meat and gravy. “Oh my.” She pressed fingers against her lips, and her eyes scanned the room.

  Blast. He hadn’t thought to warn her off the sauce. Would the elegant Lady Amelia dare spit out her food? Or would she soldier through?

  She fixed him with a glare and chewed once, twice, and swallowed hard before giving him another polite smile and reaching for her wine glass.

  “Is this a joke?” she asked after a long swallow.

  “It’s best not to try the sauces,” Cassandra said.

  Hesitantly, Amelia ate a small forkful of the potato. “Well, on the bright side, not tasting like anything is a step up from tasting like that.” She wrinkled her nose at the sauce. “Your cook is away, I take it.”

  “Daisy Greenhill is our cook. Mrs. Greenhill struggles with her eyesight these days.”

  “Daisy is your cook and your housemaid? Perhaps she got her jars mixed up. Silver polish in the salt tin.”

  “She’s gotten much better,” Cassandra said. “Only one side of the toast gets burnt now.”

  “And have you considered replacing dear Daisy?”

  In the one sentence, she demonstrated everything he hated about her kind. “I’m afraid people aren’t as disposable in our world as they are in yours.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying chop off her head, but expecting one to do the job she’s paid for is hardly unreasonable.”

  He stabbed his fork into the beef. “Daisy is an excellent housemaid.”

  “The dust under my bedroom rug say otherwise.” It may have been said under her breath, but there was no doubt he was meant to hear it.

  Benedict ground his teeth. Yes, Daisy struggled in the kitchen, and her attention to detail was not the best. But she was a sweet girl, and her grandparents had been working here since his mother and father had married.

  In truth, he had been thinking about hiring a cook. Though he wouldn’t do it now and give her the satisfaction.

  “Is there anything on this plate that’s safe to eat?”

  “You’re exaggerating,” he bit out. He’d come in to dinner this evening fully prepared to raise the white flag if it meant restoring some peace and comfort to the house. But damn his wife was aggravating.

  She folded her napkin and placed it on the table beside her. “Mr. Asterly, there were plenty of things I thought I was going to miss, living out here in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t think eating was one of them.”

  Enough is enough. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know you needn’t suffer Daisy’s cooking tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Cassandra looked at him, confused, but he ignored it. “Tomorrow is your turn to cook.”

  Amelia’s tight smile went slack. “Pardon?”

  “We take turns in this house to do the primary chores. Cooking, shopping, cleaning of the common areas. Your personal rooms are your responsibility, of course.”

  “You are joking.” His wife looked as aghast now as she had when their marriage was first proposed.

  “I’m not.” Benedict was glad that Amelia had her horrified stare focused on him because his sister’s face was just as shocked. “I’ll have Daisy bring you the new roster in the morning.”

  “If you think I’m going to scurry about in the dust, you are a bedlamite.”

  He watched to make sure her hand didn’t twitch toward the dinner knife. Instead they were clasped together in front of her so tightly her knuckles had whitened. Good. “You were fool enough to travel alone and, in the process, upturned my life as well as yours. You’ve married into this world, my lady. The sooner you accept it, and everything that comes with it, the better.”

  “This…I…” Her mouth opened and closed like a trout gasping for air.

  It didn’t bring the satisfaction he was expecting, to see her speechless. So he toned it down. Slightly. “There are worse things than a life in the country.”

  “Hmph. I daresay it’s an improvement on city slums or”—she shuddered—“Australia.”

  Brilliant. Now she was comparing his house to a colony of thieves and murderers. He’d been a fool to soften. It made it easier for her to find a place to pierce.

  She pushed back from her chair. “Cassandra, it has been lovely…eating…with you. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Asterly.”

  With a swish of her skirts she stormed from the room. Cassandra slowly shook her head.

  “It’s for her own good,” he said gruffly. “I trust you’ll keep this secret.”

  “This is not going to end well.”

  Chapter 7

  To gird one’s loins. According to one of Benedict’s tutors, it was a term that came from Africa. Tribesmen would wrap the fabric skirts they wore up tight around their groins before battle to keep them from tripping as they ran.

  Right now, Benedict needed to do more than wrap his balls in fabric. He needed steel armor around them.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door between their rooms. She didn’t stir. He was transfixed for a moment as he took in the sight of her sleeping. Blond hair was loose over the pillows, scrunched in rough, uneven waves. She had one pillow hugged close to her body. In sleep, she looked small and innocent. It almost made him regret what he was about to do. But it was for the best. He’d already watched his mother waste away in this bedroom, dreaming of a better life. He’d be damned if he let his wife suffer the same fate.

  Which brought him back to his current task. She would engage with her new life until it was no longer new. She would be an active participant in this family until she no longer wanted to leave it. And she would start today.

  He coughed.

  Nothing.

  He banged the door into the wall.

  Nothing.

  Bloody hell. The woman could sleep through a dozen steam trumpets. He dumped the bundle of clothes he was holding on her dresser and strode to the curtains. “Rise and shine, Mrs. Asterly.”

  He yanked the curtains open. The sun was just starting to rise, a wash of yellow through the pine trees and over the snow, creating ribbons of light and long purple shadows. It was his favorite time of day. Perhaps, in time, it would be an opinion they shared.

  “Mmmhpmph.” Amelia turned over to face the wall, bringing the pillow over her head.

  “It’s eight o’clock,” he said in his most annoying, sing-song voice.

  “Then why are you awake?”

  Awake? He’d been up for three hours, despite a night spent tossing and turning. “You’re in the country now, Mrs. Asterly. Time to get used to country hours.”

  She burrowed so far under the covers that he could barely hear her response. “You have until the count of three to exit this room.”

  He laughed, leaning against the wall, trying to paint a picture of nonchalance, despite the unreasonable anxiety that bubbled away. “You’d be a little more terrifying if I hadn’t seen the trail of saliva on your pillow.”

  Emerging from her cocoon, she glared at him. “You are no gentleman.”

  The smile he gave her was intentionally goading. He preferred her spitting mad; it made him feel less of a cad for doing what he planned to. “I think we’ve established my lack of breeding well enough. You have a busy day. Time to get up.”

  She flung herself back down and pulled the blankets over her head.

  This is for her own good. With three quick strides, he reached the foot of her bed, grabbed a fistful of downy quilt in each hand and pulled.

  Her nightdress might have covered her to the chin, but it had ridden up over her knees and left her long, lithe calves exposed.

  Distracted, he didn’t see th
e pillow she flung at him until it hit him square in the face.

  “You boor.”

  He deserved that, but he was pushing ahead regardless. “I’m not going until you’re up and dressed, so you might as well get on with it.” He grabbed the clothes from the dresser. “These are for you,” he said, tossing them to her.

  She shook them out and held them up with a sour look. “And what are these?”

  “I assume you don’t want to be working in your dresses. You only have three.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward, fixing him with the type of look adults generally used on the very young or the very crazy. “I don’t work,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “You do today. Here’s the roster.”

  “Roster?”

  “Duty roster for the week. What each of us is responsible for.” He thrust the timetable he’d been working on all morning at her. With a scowl, she took it.

  “Wash the laundry, polish the banisters, buy groceries, cook dinner. You forget, Mr. Asterly, that I’ve been in this house for two days now, and I can tell you, that banister has not been polished in recent memory. Don’t try to tell me that this roster of yours is common practice.”

  Damn. He scrambled for an excuse. “You don’t feel that polished banisters are appropriate for a household led by a woman of your station?”

  She climbed out of bed, pulling on an old robe of his that Mrs. Greenhill must have dug out from somewhere. The sight of her in his clothes did uncomfortable things to him.

  She turned her pert little nose up, arms akimbo. “Of course they are. It would be an embarrassment to receive guests in that foyer.”

  He gave her a wolfish smile. “Well, with an extra person added to the schedule, we can meet your lofty expectations.”

  Benedict had more experience with steam and pressure than most people, and if Amelia were an engine, she’d be ready to explode. “What do we hire a maid and a housekeeper for, if not to polish the banister?”

  He shrugged. “Mrs. Greenhill doesn’t clean. She’s too old.”

  “She’s too old to clean?”

  “Indeed. She is almost sixty.” It was an effort to keep a straight face. Her outraged expression was the first moment of joy he’d had since that blasted night he’d found her. Petty, perhaps, but Lady Amelia managed to bring out the worst in him.