How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  “Oh, I’m finished with them now. They aren’t part of my morning reading.”

  As he passed the pages, his knuckles brushed her fingertips. That unsettling spark he felt whenever she got too close surged through his body. He shifted in his seat, his breeches suddenly uncomfortable.

  It was damnably inconvenient, this attraction he felt for his wife. Any other woman he’d ply with pretty words, a few gifts, and then sate the attraction until it was spent and they could part ways amicably.

  How laughable that the one woman he should be able to exercise his lust with was the one woman he didn’t dare try it with. He was bound to be rejected, and then life together would be even more uncomfortable.

  He tried to focus on the words in front of him but found himself glancing over the edge of the pages at her. Her hair was in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Short tendrils curled at her ears. She had a look of eager anticipation on her face as she flipped open the gossip section.

  He forced himself to look away and to the words in front of him.

  Damnation.

  There it was. His marriage had finally hit the newspapers. It was a short article in the business section speculating on the future growth prospects of the firm now that Benedict had married into the upper echelons of society. Had the Asterly, Barnesworth & Co. cofounder changed direction? Would his new connections make the firm first pick for lucrative contracts?

  Hell.

  If their marriage had made the business pages, it would have made the society pages. He looked up in time to see the blood drain from his wife’s face.

  “Amelia.”

  Her hand wobbled. Tea sloshed over the side of the cup, and she put it down with a discernible rattle.

  “What does it say?” He could only imagine. He reached across for the pages, but she shifted away from him.

  There was no visible indication of the content of the article with the exception of a slight raising of the eyebrows and a barely perceptible cock of the head. She might be reading about the weather as easily as reading about a herd of goats in dresses.

  But he knew the jig was up. Lady Amelia Crofton may have found him beneath her notice, but enough of London knew his background that she was sure to find out his connections now.

  She finished reading and wordlessly folded the pages and handed them to him. “Well, that was informative.” She poured another cup of tea and sipped it.

  He opened the pages. Fuck.

  SOCIAL CLIMBING REACHES NEW HEIGHTS.

  WAS AN EARL’S DAUGHTER KIDNAPPED?

  COMPROMISED? FORCED TO MARRY?

  Beneath the headline was a sketch, him the size of a giant with Lady Amelia slung over his shoulder.

  Blood pounded in his ears. His body shook, and the newspaper crumpled in his hand.

  Kidnapping? Forced marriage? He’d been trapped into an unwanted marriage by an earl’s daughter who hied off into the country on her own, by a duke who refused to do the right thing by his fiancée, and an earl who spread gossip maliciously, and somehow he was the villain?

  He slammed the paper to the table.

  “Damn.” He shouldn’t swear in front of a lady, but “Goddamn!”

  He pushed back from the table, running his hands through his hair. What was he going to do? He stood and paced the length of the dining room in long, fast strides, spinning on his heel each time he reached a wall. This could jeopardize everything. There would be so many ramifications. He would need to get ahead of them.

  Amelia stared at him over the rim of her teacup, not an ounce of emotion showing.

  “Does anything ever crack that façade?” he asked.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m English. We’re not disposed to such extravagant displays of feeling.”

  “I’m English.”

  “Well, there’s definitely French blood in there somewhere.” She returned to staring at the orange segments on her plate as if nothing had occurred that was worth interrupting her meal for. Infuriating woman.

  “This is unfair. All I did was save your bloody life.”

  She stabbed at the orange with her fork. “Of course it’s unfair. Life usually is. Now should we discuss this, or shall I leave you to your tantrum? I’d remove the china, but I can’t help but think your smashing it against the wall may just improve it.”

  He ignored that last jibe to turn his attention to the real catastrophe.

  Everyone read the society pages—well, every woman—but the husbands would once they heard the rumor from their wives. Not that he gave a rich royal damn about the lords of London, but he had a reputation to protect. Not the ridiculous conceited reputation of the aristocracy, but of an honest, upright, fair-dealing businessman. Rumors of kidnapping could tear that to shreds.

  He needed to go into damage control. Now.

  He looked over at Amelia, who was now sitting primly in her seat, sipping on tea and watching him pace.

  He was loath to admit it, but any rescue from the scenario was going to involve her help.

  He took the seat directly opposite her, his arms resting against the white linen, his face as controlled as he could manage.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “What am I thinking? I’m wondering when you were planning to tell me that I had not, in fact, married a factory worker.” Her tone was pleasant, but the look in her eyes told him to reinforce the lock on the door between their bedrooms.

  She continued, picking up steam. “I was also wondering why we are living in a musty, rundown half of a house with shabby furniture, no garden, and next to no servants.”

  And there it was. The crux of her problem, and further proof that she was the most self-centered woman in England.

  “That’s what has upset you? There are not enough people here to wait on you? You’re inconvenienced by the need to brush your own hair and make your own bed?”

  She gripped the edge of the table hard, as though her fingers were pressed around his neck. “You are the grandson of the Marquess of Harrington! And wealthier than half of London. And we live like this!” She waved her hand in front of his burnt toast and her fruit. “It is unconscionable.”

  “Unconscionable? Like false allegations of kidnapping? Like destroying a man’s reputation in order to entertain a gaggle of useless, elitist aristocrats?”

  “What reputation? You work! Apparently when you don’t need to. Some ridiculous gossip that will pass in a week can hardly lower your reputation any further.”

  He swore. He swore with every measure of frustration in him. He swore to every incarnation of the devil he could think of. He swore in order to shock the look of blasted superiority off her beautiful face.

  There was an entire village of people counting on him to deliver a contract for the construction of new steam locomotives. A contract that might fall through because of this gossip. But apparently that paled in comparison to his wife’s desire to be waited on hand and foot.

  If ever he’d needed confirmation that he was right in not letting his sister grow up with money, this was it.

  Amelia smoothed her skirts. “I must say, I’m surprised Lord Harrington hasn’t reached out. He usually has such impeccable manners.”

  Blood pounded in his head at the sound of his grandfather’s name.

  “This family has nothing to do with that man. And that’s nonnegotiable. I forbid you to engage with him.”

  She smirked. “You clearly don’t know me if you think forbidding anything is going to work.”

  “I mean it. That man is the lowest form of life there is. He’s a cruel, heartless bastard, and nothing about him is welcome in this house. Not his presence, not his money, not his name.”

  “You are a fool. You claim to be a businessman, yet you turn your back on the advantages and connections that your family background offers. Don’t you know that more deals are made in cardrooms at balls than in musty old offices?”

  “This is not up for debate.” He stormed out of the room, needing to
put as much distance between him and his wife as possible. She was everything about the aristocracy that he hated. And marrying her was destroying everything.

  Amelia waited until Benedict had left before retrieving the crumpled newspaper from the floor.

  She was livid. He had been treating her like a fool from the very first moment. He’d been laughing at her the entire time. To think she’d spent yesterday afternoon in tears because her jewelry had not been sent with the rest of her things when she was married to a man who could purchase her entire jewelry collection ten times over.

  To think that she’d lain in bed last night resigning herself to life as low-income landed gentry.

  But no matter. At least now she had a clear path. She might not have jewels to fund an escape or a lady’s maid to help her, but she was no longer a drab Cinderella scrubbing floors. She would be her own fairy godmother. It was time to turn the marriage—and her husband—into what she’d always expected. Something worthy of Lady Amelia and the grandson of a marquess.

  “Daisy! Cassandra! We’re going into town.”

  Chapter 9

  It had been a bloody awful day, so it was only fitting that the snow had turned to icy rain by the time Benedict left the firm to go home for the night. The hood of his cloak kept it out of his face, but even through the sheepskin lining, he could feel the cold. Dark patches stained the leather where water had splashed.

  He was going home to a steaming bath and a fortifying meal, and then he was going to sit her down and explain, as nicely as possible, why living a simple life was the best choice for his family.

  They had enough privilege—a roof over their head, food on the table, people that loved each other—and they didn’t need the fawning and the excess and the waste of the upper class. She just needed to give it some time, and she would see. She could be happy without that opulence too.

  He stamped his feet on the mat at the front door, trying to shake off the mud. As he did so, the door opened. Tom Greenhill stood at attention, everything stiff from his posture to his shirt front, which looked to have been starched and ironed.

  “Tom, is everything well?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Asterly.” He bent at the waist. Shockingly, no creaking sound accompanied it.

  “What the devil is wrong with you?” Benedict asked as he stepped inside. In thirty years, Tom had never addressed him as Mr. Asterly. Tom stood behind him, reached over to grab the lapels of his cloak, and tried to pull it off him.

  Benedict stepped away. “Good God, man. What are you doing?”

  “Taking your cloak, sir.” The man’s face was as uncomfortable as his movements.

  “Sir?”

  This was his wife’s fault. What numskull idea had gotten into her head while he was gone?

  “I can hang up my own damn cloak.” Hell, the frail, white-haired man would probably sink under the weight of it.

  “Of course, sir.”

  As he hung the cloak in the cupboard by the door, he saw the local lad who delivered the newspaper each morning walk through the foyer, executing an odd bow without breaking stride.

  What the devil? He followed the lad through the dining room and into the kitchens. Chaos. Unbelievable chaos.

  Half the damn village was in the room wiping pots, cutting food, or sweeping the floor. At the head of it all, using a wooden spoon as a directing stick, was Mrs. Duggan from the bakery, barking orders as if she were a military general.

  She hustled over when she saw him, swatting her younger daughter out of the way as she did. “You shouldn’t be in here, Mr. Asterly. It’s not your place, and you’ll just get in the way.”

  She’d been calling him Benny since he was in knee breeches, and he didn’t appreciate her newfound formality. “Mrs. Duggan, what are you doing in my kitchen?”

  “It’s my kitchen now. Off with you.” She hesitated. “Respectfully, sir.”

  He slammed the kitchen door shut as he left. “Amelia!” he bellowed. “Amelia!”

  He was about to take the stairs when he noticed the door to the east wing was open for the first time since his mother had left. Two children sat on the floor in her old sitting room, polishing candlesticks. They looked at him with wide eyes.

  “Have you seen Lady Amelia?”

  The children shook their heads. “Not this way, m’lord,” one answered.

  “I’m not a lord.” And he sure as hell wasn’t going to become one to satisfy the whims of his wife.

  He took the stairs two at a time. “Amelia!”

  This was insanity. What right did she have to bring people into his home? He didn’t bother knocking. He just marched straight into her room.

  Three heads swiveled in his direction as he entered. Two wide-eyed with alarm, the third with that damnable cold smile.

  “Cassandra. Daisy,” he said. Of course Amelia had surrounded herself with a human bloody shield.

  Daisy paused, her hands wrapped in Amelia’s hair, pins between her teeth. She bobbed. “Mwah Ward.”

  “I am not a lord.”

  “Daisy is going to start doing my hair,” Cassandra said, smiling.

  “You wear your hair in braids. How hard is that to do?”

  His sister flinched, and he cursed his wife for putting him in such a mood.

  “Amelia thinks it’s time I start wearing my hair up,” she said hesitantly. “Like a young lady. And she says we’re to go shopping as soon as the weather turns. I’m old enough to wear more delicate fabrics.”

  This. This was exactly what he’d spent Cassandra’s lifetime trying to avoid. He had good bloody reasons for raising his sister like he had, and no upper crust chit was going to change that.

  He took a deep breath. “She says that, does she? Lady Amelia seems to have a great many ideas at the moment.”

  Amelia sat silent through the exchange—more than happy to have his sister wade into musket fire for her.

  “She found you these fashion plates.” Cassandra stood and collected a handful of periodicals from Amelia’s dresser. Several pages had been marked with ribbon. Cassandra smiled up at him. “I like this one the most.”

  It was hideous. Blue breeches, purple shirt, green waistcoat. The paisley cravat was tied up in such an intricate knot that no man would have full range of motion in his neck.

  He wanted to toss the plates into the fire, but his sister was looking at him with such joy. He was going to wring Amelia’s neck for getting Cassandra’s hopes up. “Thank you both for your consideration, but I’m happy with my wardrobe as it is. Amelia, a word?”

  She sighed and shooed Daisy away from her curls. “Spoilsport.”

  “Daisy, take Cassandra downstairs to play.” There was a tightness to his voice that his housemaid clearly recognized because she grabbed his sister and left the room at remarkable speed.

  “For someone who’s not a lord, you certainly are acting like one.” Amelia’s dry sarcasm hit right under his skin, crawling up his neck, causing his teeth to clench.

  “Why is my house full of people?”

  “Our house is full of staff hired to restore it and run it in a manner fit for its occupants.”

  He ground his teeth. “It has been fit for its occupants for the past three decades.”

  “Truly?” How she was able to load one word, two syllables, with scorn, derision, disbelief, and challenge, he was unsure.

  She continued. “It’s fit for the grandson of a marquess and the daughter of an earl? Please don’t insult my intelligence.”

  She turned back to the mirror in short dismissal and began to play with the loose strands of her hair.

  Her brush-off was not unlike the first time they’d met, when she’d not even acknowledged his presence. Frustration, hurt, anger, and embarrassment all warred for pride of place inside.

  “I wouldn’t give a damn if you were King George’s daughter. You are a useless pain in the ass. And I don’t recognize the marquess as family.”

  That finally elicited an emotio
n from her. She slammed the ivory brush onto the dresser and spun to face him. “You may not, but what of your sister? For heaven’s sake, Benedict, she has the chance to make an excellent match. She’s a natural beauty, well-connected if you can look past your own ego to accept it, and with your wealth and my guidance, she could be a society diamond.”

  The picture she was creating was Benedict’s worst nightmare.

  “How well did being society’s diamond work out for you, princess?”

  That shot landed. He saw it in the way she pressed her lips together, the way she sat back as if to put as much room between them as possible, the way she looked to the side at the faded curtain and threadbare rug and a barely perceptible shudder passed through her.

  How he resented her.

  “I will not have my sister joining that cesspool of human vice. And I will not have men whom I’ve grown up with suddenly fetching my meals and shining my shoes and bowing as if I’m above them because I married a damn aristocrat.” He spat the last word out.

  “You. Are. A. Hypocrite.” She stood, her hands on her hips. “You talk about the importance of bringing security and income to the working class, yet what I offer them is exactly the same thing.”

  “A life bending to your whims and serving others? I’m sorry if I don’t see the appeal of that.”

  She countered, ticking off points on her fingers. “They’ll be paid well; they’ll develop skills working in a big house, prestige, and good references; they’ll have a career path in front of them. If you can’t see the appeal, it’s because you’re blinded by prejudice.”

  She accused him of prejudice? She, who turned her nose up at anyone with pride enough to work. She, who took a week to remember three people’s names.

  “You have the money to employ dozens of people,” she continued. “It’s selfish for you not to. Cruel, even. But by all means, you go out there and tell all those people they no longer have work because you’re a stubborn goat.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. He hated being outmaneuvered. Of course he wasn’t about to walk out of that room and fire people.

  “This wasn’t your decision to make. You should have spoken to me about it first.”