How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  It was Oliver who’d stood by him as he informed Jeremy’s family of the boy’s death. It was Oliver who had brought the workers back to the firm. It was Oliver who had dragged him home night after night from the pub when he was too sloshed to stand.

  “I mean it, lad. Take yourself home. We’ll start again in the morning if the weather clears up.”

  Benedict nodded to the men and boys that were stretching canvas sheets across the foundations. They gave him a wary nod in return. It would take time to win back their trust, but devil take him, he was going to do it.

  He trudged home. The heavens did open. Rain beat down hard. He didn’t turn up his collar or hasten his steps. He let the water trickle down the back of his neck. His boots became sodden, the hem of his coat heavy with mud.

  He missed his wife. Every damn minute of every damn day. He’d been an ass. Worse than an ass, a downright bastard. Everything had gone wrong, and instead of accepting it and trying to move forward, he’d blamed the one person who’d supported him the most.

  The truth was, he’d been afraid she’d leave. Afraid he couldn’t be the man she wanted, so she’d hie off to London without a backward glance. And he couldn’t be the one left behind again so he’d pushed her away.

  But as much as he regretted losing her, he couldn’t say it was a mistake. It was the best thing for her, to be in town with people who understood her unfathomable obsession with jewel-tone colors, who could dance without crowding the floor, who could talk with airs and graces.

  Better to be with people who weren’t clumsy behemoths who managed to get in more arguments than conversations with her ilk.

  She was better off without him, even if he was miserable without her.

  As usual, the door was open before he’d even made the top step. He took off his dripping coat and handed it to Greenhill. There was no point trying to go back to old ways with his butler. Amelia’s influence showed no signs of abating.

  “You’ve a visitor, sir. He’s in the library.”

  Who the devil would be visiting him? A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The letters from his grandfather, all sitting unopened in his bottom desk drawer, had been arriving with increasing frequency. Maybe the old bastard had grown tired of waiting.

  “Who the devil is it?”

  Greenhill scowled. If anything, he had become even more of a stick-in-the-mud since Amelia had left. Cursing was no longer acceptable regardless of your role in the household.

  “The Duke of Wildeforde, sir.”

  An initial sense of relief turned quickly into unease. Wildeforde. What the hell does he want?

  Wilde had left for London the day after the riot, without word to anyone. It wasn’t surprising. A fistfight. A riot. An explosion. It was more fodder for gossip than the duke would tolerate. At least, that’s what most people would assume. Only a handful of people had seen him with Fi that night. Only they would know he was running away.

  “Why are you here?” Benedict asked from the doorway.

  Wilde stood by the window, staring in the direction of the firm. He looked over as Benedict entered and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not doing much to counter your beastly reputation, are you? You look like garbage. When did you shave last?”

  “Why are you here?”

  Wildeforde sighed, crossed to the nearby armchair, and sank into it. “Very well, if we’re not going to bother with conversation, I’m here on business. The Duke of Camden has requested an introduction. He has a proposition for you.”

  The Duke of Camden. Benedict had sworn never to work with an Englishman with a title. That had been the whole point of pitching to Grunt and Harcombe. But there was an entire village of people in need of work. While Fiona’s latest project had potential, it wouldn’t be ready for production for a year or more. And there was no money coming from the Americans.

  “I thought your lot didn’t do business,” he said, refusing to move from the door. He would probably take this opportunity for the sake of his people, but he didn’t need to welcome it.

  “We don’t do work, but we do money. Therefore, we do business. Camden has discovered a coal seam running through one of his more far-flung estates. He needs a way to transport it, and given his propensity to need the newest of everything, I suggested your Tessie. Although for the love of God can you give it a decent name?”

  “He wants Tessie? Despite the fact that she’s now five tonnes of twisted scrap metal?” His heart thudded at the memories of that night. The heat. The smoke. The slip of blood between his fingers. The heart-shattering agony as he watched Amelia leave. Benedict crossed to his desk and poured two glasses of brandy. He needed a drink to keep the visions away.

  “I’ve told him the failure was not with the engine,” Wildeforde said gently.

  He knew then. The truth of that night. Of course he knew. Wilde made it his business to know what was happening in and around his estates, and Jeremy’s death was no secret.

  Benedict’s grip on the decanter tightened until his knuckles whitened. “No.” His voice was hoarse. “I was the failure.”

  They were hard words to admit, but Benedict didn’t deserve the comfort of hiding his faults. It was his mistake, and he’d own it so the world could pass the judgment he deserved. His neglect had killed a boy and hurt those dearest to him.

  The stark admission wasn’t enough for Wilde. The duke waited for Benedict to elaborate.

  “Jeremy sabotaged the engine. He was angry with me. I hadn’t been around to notice.”

  It was why he was working such long hours at the firm now. Why he was drinking each night at the inn. He would never not be around for his people again.

  “You know that it’s not your fault, don’t you?” Wildeforde asked. “Feeling responsible and actually being responsible are two different things.”

  “You sound like Amelia.” He gave a glass to Wilde and sank into the vacant chair.

  “She’s an intelligent woman.”

  “Which is why she left.”

  Wildeforde didn’t contradict him. He knew Amelia almost as well as Benedict did. He would have known from the start that Benedict didn’t deserve her. That their union was destined to fail. The daughter of an earl and the son of a footman could never make it work. Not when they wanted such different things.

  “So what are they saying about me in London?” he asked, swirling the brandy in his glass and watching it cling to the crystal.

  “The usual rot. A violent brute that could crush a man’s skull between his giant hands. Uncultured, volatile. Not exactly untrue, although I’m surprised you care.” Wildeforde stretched out, kicking his heels up on the table between them, settling into the chair like it was old times. Like the past five years, the total fracturing of their friendship, hadn’t occurred.

  It was bittersweet. There was no overlooking the damage wrought in the past, but Wilde was here now. He’d always turned up when Benedict was hurting, without fail, and so he’d come.

  “Amelia cares, so I care.” And Benedict did. It would kill him to hear his temper had ruined her chances for happiness.

  “If that’s the case, if you really care, then why are you here and not in London?”

  “Because as you said, I’m an uncultured, volatile brute. She’s better off without me.” Benedict drained his glass and took Wildeforde’s when his friend offered it.

  “She’s not happy, you know. I mean, she’s doing all the things the old Amelia would do—the parties, the dancing, the outrageous flirting…”

  The crystal glass fractured beneath Benedict’s fingers.

  “But she’s not happy.”

  She’s not happy. Those words should be salt on an open wound. After all, didn’t he want her to be content? To find joy in her life where he couldn’t give it? Wasn’t that why he’d pushed her away and put himself through this torture?

  Instead the words planted a bright seed of hope. One that needed stomping on. “I can’t make her happy. I’m the son of a footman.
I’m a working man.”

  “You’re the grandson of a marquess. You’re a future lord. You’re richer than half the men of the ton, and you’re a deuced fine man. A good friend and a good leader. But certainly, stay here ruining the crystal she purchased if you’re happy to let her go.”

  Damn. He wasn’t happy to let her go. It had been torture, every day, and Wilde was not helping his resolve. But it wasn’t about him. “She loves your world. She loves the color and the music and the fabrics and even the people, though I can’t for the life of me see why. She’s better off there.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Of course I bloody love her. Frankly, I don’t know how you were engaged to her for fifteen years without falling in love with her. She’s intelligent and kind and completely aggravating. She’s honest, brutally so at times, but it’s always because she wants to make things better than they are. And I want her in my life forever.”

  I want her in my life forever. Saying the words out loud tattooed them onto his very soul. I want her in my life forever.

  Wildeforde chuckled. “For a successful businessman and engineer, you can be completely cotton-headed, you know. If you want her, and you know that she wants to spend time in society, then your decision is made for you. It’s not that complicated. Go to London. Put the effort in.”

  Go to London. His stomach tied itself up in knots at the thought. London would have been difficult enough before the blasted house party. To go there now, after everything he’d done, after all the damage and humiliation he’d caused. Could he do it? Could he face his wife again?

  Could he live life without facing her again?

  Benedict ran his fingers through his hair, gripping it tightly. “But how do I convince her that I mean it? I said some awful, awful things to her. I was the worst kind of cad. You have no idea.”

  “What’s the biggest gesture you could make?”

  Chapter 34

  Amelia’s dance card was no longer the pleasure it had once been. Oh, it filled as quickly as it had before, and the same men still jockeyed for pride of place, but the dancing itself was no longer enjoyable.

  She strained against Lord Lionell’s inappropriate hold, trying to maintain the acceptable distance between them. But there was nothing she could do about the slow lowering of his hand below her waist.

  “How is Lady Lionell? Is she still volunteering for the children’s hospital?”

  “Wouldn’t have a clue,” he responded. “She has her business. I have mine.” His leer suggested that his business did not involve charitable work.

  “She’s so admirable, your wife. I must call on her now that I’m back in London.”

  He grinned. “Call on Thursday. She has some book group or needlework thing and will be out for hours.”

  Amelia shuddered. He was the third man to proposition her in as many hours. “Have you met my husband?”

  “I don’t think so.” His voice was as dismissive as the slight shrug he gave.

  “Oh, you’d remember if you had. He’s six feet six inches with fists the size of Christmas hams. And you know those common-born types. Such hotheads. I once saw him destroy a door because it didn’t open quickly enough. Split the thing in two. I’m forever having to replace furniture. I will pass on your regards.”

  The blood drained from Lord Lionell’s face, and he released her as though she were burning a hole through his gloves. “There’s no need…That is to say, I hope you didn’t misinterpret…I…”

  “Thank you for the dance.” She swept into a deep curtsey to hide her smile. If she was to be subjected to constant solicitations, then she might as well enjoy making them panic.

  Her friends were gathered halfway between the entrance and the refreshment table, framed by exotic plants and a chandelier—the perfect position to see everything and be seen by everyone. Men rotated in and out of orbit around them, hoping for a dance. A cluster of debutantes lingered a few feet farther out, desperate for some attention.

  Amelia had a place there, right at the center. But she hung by the refreshment table, delaying her return. There was only so much petty gossip one could handle in an evening.

  On the other side of the room—looking very comfortable on furniture by the wall with no flattering lighting—sat a group of women the old Amelia had dismissed out of hand. Women who had been too bookish, too unconventional, too frightfully uncaring of society’s expectations.

  I’d wager their conversation is interesting.

  But the question remained, how could she approach these women who didn’t give two figs for her?

  Fiona would know. Fiona would just stroll on over and say something exceptionally interesting and thought-provoking, and these women would welcome her with eager arms.

  What Amelia wouldn’t give to have her friend with her now. What she wouldn’t give to have anyone from home.

  She and Cassandra had exchanged letters almost daily, but there had been nothing from Benedict. Not since she’d walked out.

  Which was good. He was respecting her decision.

  But also bad. Because she wasn’t sure she’d made the right one. He hadn’t been entirely wrong in his accusations.

  She swallowed. A crowded ballroom was no place for emotion. She had hurt the one person who truly saw her, and losing him was something she was just going to have to live with—her penance for being too caught up in what other people thought.

  One of the tepid swains who circled the room cleared his throat, trying to get access to the punch she was blocking. With a last look at the probably-interesting group of women, she made her way back to her “friends.”

  “Lord Lionell seemed to be enjoying the dance,” Luella tittered as Amelia approached. “I’ve heard he’s very generous to his mistresses.”

  Hmmm.

  Benedict’s temper had clearly rubbed off on her because she had to stop herself from slapping the girl. But she just smiled sweetly. “Manage to find a husband, Lulu, and an affair with Lord Lionell is yours for the taking.”

  Luella’s eyes narrowed. “Not all of us will have husbands content to leave us so completely to our own devices. I’m quite jealous, Amelia, that your husband is so hands-off.”

  It was the perfect jab. A reminder of what she’d lost in a saccharine wrapping that didn’t go unnoticed by those around her. Barely suppressed smiles had her shaking in anger and embarrassment. If she opened her mouth, it would be a firestorm of fury that poured out. So she kept her mouth shut and raised an eyebrow in the most condescending stare she could imagine.

  The cluster of debutantes around them watched to see who would break first in this silent-staring struggle for dominance.

  Luella was the first to capitulate, diverting her gaze, her ears flushing red. “There’s Miss Penelope. I heard Madame Genevieve refused to dress her—thank goodness. There’d be no fabric left for the rest of us.”

  “What has she done, do you think?” one of the new crop of debutantes said. “Made a ballgown from the drapes?”

  Amelia looked over at the girl hugging the wall. She was pretty enough, if a little fuller than the current prevailing taste. But hideously dressed. She sported too many freckles to be truly ladylike, and the half-smile she gave to anyone who walked past was too earnest to be fashionable.

  Last Season, Amelia would have thought nothing of making some offhand derogatory comment. A flush of hot shame snaked up her neck. Last Season, she hadn’t been a particularly kind person.

  Was that why Benedict had pushed her away? Because he saw too much of that person still in her?

  She would do better. For him, she would be better.

  “Miss Penelope Ainslie, yes?” Amelia asked. “No mother, no sister, no aunts if I recall correctly.”

  “And no sense of style. Her first time in London, and she leaves the house in that.”

  No wonder the poor girl struggled in the sartorial stakes. She’d been raised by men in the country. A lump formed in Amelia’s throat. How incredibl
y lost Penelope must be feeling. It was a sentiment Amelia had never understood until her life had been upended by a broken carriage wheel. Ironically it was the same feeling that dogged her now, even though she was “home.”

  Lost and in the sights of a horrid young lady who needed to be taken down a peg or two. “I do believe your sense of style was somewhat lacking when you first debuted, Lulu. In fact, I seem to remember a highly amusing incident with an abundance of feathers.”

  Luella’s cheeks flushed.

  “Didn’t it take two weeks of lessons and three trips to High Street before you stepped out in anything presentable? How grateful you must be that I rescued you from irrelevance.”

  There was a collective gasp from the girls around them, followed by utter silence as they waited for Luella’s response.

  But while she might have capitulated earlier, there was no surrender this time. “We may all have looked up to you once, Amelia. But that was before you debased yourself. There’s another queen bee now.”

  Heads swiveled in Amelia’s direction, eager for a response to the attempted social coup.

  It was all rather sad, actually. None of these girls had any real sense of what really mattered in life. Benedict had shown her. He’d seen a kinder person in her and had taught her how to be that. He’d encouraged her to pursue work with the firm that had real meaning.

  What other man would offer his wife a partnership in his business? Benedict’s support had allowed her to make herself a better person.

  What on earth am I doing back here?

  Returning to London had been a mistake. Even if he wanted nothing more to do with her, she could still have found a more productive, worthwhile life to live. She’d been naïve to think she could slip back into her old ways and be fulfilled.

  Amelia took Luella’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. They had, after all, been friends at one point. “You’re welcome to the hive, Lulu. I hope it brings you joy.”

  Luella’s eyes widened before narrowing suspiciously. “Just like that?”

  She was tempted to try to explain it—the superficial nature of what they were focused on, how utterly irrelevant it was—but knew deep down that it took more than words to convince someone. So she smiled, a genuine smile for the first time that night. “I’m off to fly in a different field.”