Marry in Scandal

by Anne Gracie

  Lily barely heard him. She’d never been carried by a man in her life. Not since she was a small child and Cal carried her about on his shoulders. She held her breath, desperately wishing she were slimmer, lighter, daintier.

  He strode into the inn and mounted the stairs rapidly, seemingly indifferent to her weight. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. The inn was small, the floors and ceilings crooked with age, and Mr. Galb—Edward—had to bend his head to get through the doors. At the top of the stairs, a door stood ajar. He pushed it open with his boot, carried her in and deposited her gently on a rag rug.

  The sitting room was small, furnished with a worn settee, an overstuffed armchair and a small table with two wooden chairs. Though an open door Lily could see an even smaller room containing a large bed with a spotless white counterpane and a plain oaken wardrobe. Everything was worn and a little shabby, but it all looked and smelled very clean.

  A sturdy young woman was crouched before the sitting room fireplace, blowing hot coals into life with fresh kindling and a pair of bellows. At their entrance she jumped to her feet and bobbed an awkward curtsey.

  Mrs. Baines, who’d followed them up the stairs, said, “My daughter, Betty, sir, she’ll take fine care of your sister.” Turning to the girl she said, “Didst tha fetch them clothes for the young lady?”

  “Not yet, Ma, I was getting the fire—”

  “Well, run along and fetch ’em, then.” The girl hurried away. Her mother turned back to her guests. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour, sir—enough time for the young lady to take a bath and—Oh, here are the lads now.”

  Two hefty young men—her sons by their resemblance to her and Betty—had appeared in the doorway, carrying large cans of gently steaming water. A younger boy followed, half hidden beneath a tin hip bath carried on his back, like a snail. Under one arm he carried a smart leather valise, which Mr. Galbraith took delivery of.

  Under their mother’s direction the lads placed the bath in front of the merrily blazing fire and filled it with water, while she fussed around fetching towels and a pot of soft, strong-smelling homemade soap.

  Lily stood huddled in the rug, feeling useless and very self-conscious as the young men glanced surreptitiously at her, noting her bare feet and calves.

  “Stop gawking at the poor young lady!” their mother snapped. “Ha’n’t she endured enough already without a pair of great useless lummoxes staring at her as if they’d never seen a foot before! Now, get along downstairs wi’ you—there’s work a-plenty for idle hands yet!” Her sons left sheepishly.

  Betty arrived a moment later with an armful of clothing, which she took through to the bedchamber and dumped on the bed.

  “The girl will assist you at your bath and in all other ways,” Mr. Galbraith told Lily. “Consider her your personal maid for the time being—I’ve arranged it with her mother.”

  He glanced at Mrs. Baines, who was in consultation with her daughter, and handed Lily a small hinged tin that he’d taken from his valise. “You might find this more to your taste. Now, take your time and be sure to send for more hot water if you need it. And when you’re ready for dinner to be brought up, let the girl know. We shall dine up here, in private.” He gave her a searching look. “Is there anything else you need?”

  Lily shook her head. “Thank you, no. You’re very—you’re all very kind,” she amended for the sake of her audience, recollecting that he was supposed to be her brother and brothers were expected to be kind. Truth to tell, she was feeling a little overwhelmed.

  The door closed briskly behind him and Mrs. Baines, and the room was suddenly quiet. Recalling the small hinged tin he’d given her, Lily opened it. It contained a cake of soap. She sniffed it cautiously and smiled. It smelled delicious, of clean, slightly exotic masculinity and somehow, of safety and warmth. Much nicer than Mrs. Baines’s homemade soap.

  “Dost tha—I mean do you need a hand getting undressed, miss?” Betty said tentatively.

  Lily, recalled to her senses, gave an embarrassed half laugh. “Not exactly,” she said, and dropped the rug. It pooled around her feet.

  Betty gasped. “Oh, my lordy lord! A man’s shirt? Is that all? Ma said you’d lost all your clothes in the accident but—not even a shift!”

  Lily grimaced uncomfortably, not knowing how to explain her scandalous lack of even basic underclothing. Before, in the carriage, when she was wet and half frozen, still dazed by the drug—and dizzy with relief to have escaped—it had seemed perfectly natural to strip down to her skin, dry off and then put on the only dry garment available.

  At the time the feel of the finely woven fabric against her skin and the scent of clean linen with a hint of starch had been oddly comforting. Now, under Betty’s horrified gaze, she inwardly cringed.

  Betty glanced at the smears of dried mud still clinging to Lily’s skin and the bruise on her cheek and her voice softened. “It musta been a terrible accident, miss. Hop into the bath now, before the water gets cold. You’ll feel better after a hot bath and some clean clothes and one of Ma’s good dinners.”

  She tugged the shirt off over Lily’s head and stepped back. Lily stepped into the bath and sank gratefully into the steaming water. It was bliss.

  Lily wet a washcloth and picked up the soap Mr. Galbraith had given her. A hint of sandalwood, the tang of lemon, the warm fragrance of cinnamon. Clean, spicy, exotic. Essence of Edward Galbraith.

  She scrubbed herself first from top to toe with the rough-textured washcloth, determined to remove all trace of her noxious adventure, then knelt in the bath and lathered herself dreamily with Edward’s delicious soap. The scent surrounded her, like balm to her bruised spirits.

  Betty bustled about, draping towels over a stand in front of the fire and chattering happily. “Ma’s the best cook in the village, so we’ll soon have you feeling fine and dandy. Better’n your poor maid, I’ll be bound.”

  Lily blinked. “My maid?”

  “Broke her leg in the accident, Ma said.”

  Lily recalled the story Edward had told the landlady. “Oh, yes. It was terrible, poor girl.”

  Betty gave her a critical look. “Washing your hair, eh? Then you’ll want some of Ma’s special rinse. Puts a nice shine on your hair, it does, and smells lovely.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “Though not as nice as that soap.”

  “Thank you, but there’s no need—”

  She broke off as Betty poked her head around the door and shouted, “Jimmy, fetch us up some of Ma’s hair rinse! She’ll know which one the young lady needs.”

  A few moments later a small hand poked a corked bottle through to Betty. “Here you are, miss, Ma’s special rinse. Famous in the village she is for her rinses.”

  Full of misgivings about the greenish-yellow contents of the bottle, Lily resolved to find some tactful way of refusing the offer. She soaped her hair, then stood to let Betty rinse off the suds from her hair and body with a pail of clean, hot water. She bent over, wrung out her hair and put her hand out. “Pass me a towel if you please, Betty.”

  “Not yet, miss. There’s Ma’s rinse to go, remember?”

  “Oh, but I don’t think—”

  Betty emptied the bottle over Lily’s bent head, patting it thoroughly through the wet hair with enthusiasm. The liquid was cold and bracing and made Lily’s scalp tingle. While Betty fetched a towel from in front of the fire, Lily sniffed her dripping hair cautiously. “Is that berries I can smell?”

  “That’s right, miss. Ma uses blackberry leaves for this one. Nice, isn’t it? Funny color, I know, but it smells like a breath of summer. Once your hair’s dry you won’t hardly be able to smell it, though, but your hair will be nice and shiny.”

  Wrapping herself in towels that were threadbare but clean and beautifully warm from the fire, Lily stepped out of the bath and dried herself in front of the fire, then turned to try on the clothes that Bet
ty had fetched. What if they didn’t fit? Betty was a strong and vigorous country girl, and the only thing plump about her was her bosom. Lily would be mortified if the clothes were too small.

  The chemise and petticoat were loose and shapeless garments. Lily sucked in her stomach as Betty fastened a corset around her and laced it firmly. Then she tossed the dress over Lily’s head and tugged it down. “It’s me favorite go-to-church dress, but Ma insisted you have the best, you being gentry and all.” Made of vivid red linsey-woolsey, it was embellished with cream satin bows, pulled in with a drawstring under the bosom and flared out at the hips.

  “There you are, miss, it’s perfect on you. Pretty as a picture, you are.”

  There was no long looking glass in the inn, so Lily had to take her word for it. The dress was a little snug in the bosom, the design was far from fashionable and she’d never worn such a bright color. Again she mourned the beautiful dress Miss Chance had made for her, with the elegant layers of gauze that skimmed her curves lightly and made her feel . . . beautiful.

  But there was no going back. Her poor dress lay abandoned in muddy ignominy, miles back, somewhere beside the road. She would have to face Edward Galbraith feeling—and no doubt looking—like a colorful cushion, tied in the middle.

  Betty was watching her with an expectant expression.

  Lily gave her a warm smile. “Thank you, Betty. It’s a very pretty dress, and it’s very generous of you to lend it to me.” She slipped her feet into the slippers Betty had brought. They were a bit too big, but that was better than too small. She folded the thick woolen stockings so they doubled over her foot and put the slippers back on. That was better.

  Betty gave a brisk nod of satisfaction, then stuck her head out the door and let out a piercing whistle. “That’s to let the lads know to come and fetch away that water. Then I reckon you’ll be ready for your dinner, won’t you, miss?”

  Lily was about to respond when her stomach did it for her, rumbling noisily. Betty laughed. “I reckon you are, and all. You keep drying your hair by the fire, miss, and I’ll let everyone know you’re ready for your dinner.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Ned sat on a bench in the stone-flagged taproom, sipping the landlord’s very decent dark ale. He’d written a note to Cal Rutherford but, not knowing the messenger, had taken the precaution of writing, if not in code, then in a manner Cal would understand. After their wartime experiences, such discretion was second nature to both of them. It might not be wartime, but the potential for scandal was real. If it reached Cal, he’d be reassured, but if the note fell into the wrong hands it would appear innocuous, and no harm done.

  He’d share the unsavory details with Rutherford later; no need to distress him or his family any more than necessary. The girl was safe and would be home late tomorrow night, God and the state of the roads willing. That was all they needed to know.

  He spoke to Baines, the landlord, who produced what he claimed was a reliable man to deliver the message to London. Hoping the fellow was indeed reliable, he handed over the letter and enough money to cover the cost of hiring horses to enable him to ride through the night. He promised him a handsome sum on delivery and told him the receiver would pay him a bonus if he delivered it by the morning. He’d added a postscript to Cal to that effect.

  It was all he could do. Even if the messenger proved feckless, or irresponsible, knowing he’d sent a message would at least relieve some of the worry in Lily’s mind. In any case, barring any unforeseen circumstances, she’d be back in the bosom of her family by tomorrow night.

  He was sipping his ale when a light, affected voice came from behind. “Excuse the interruption, my good fellow, but I would ask a small fav—good gad, it’s Galbraith, isn’t it?” the man exclaimed as Ned turned. “Last fellow I expected to see in this poky little place.”

  Swearing silently, Ned inclined his head. “Elphingstone.” What the hell was Cyril Elphingstone, of all people, doing in this little out-of-the-way town?

  The veriest Pink of the Ton, Elphingstone was dressed in dove-gray skintight breeches, gleaming gold-tasseled boots that Ned would swear had never met a horse, a high collar with a neckcloth arranged in such a complicated knot he could barely turn his head and a lavishly embroidered pink satin waistcoat. His red-brown hair—surely not its natural color—was elaborately curled and pomaded. He stood out in the smoke-stained little country taproom like a flamingo in a foundry.

  Without being invited, he seated himself at Ned’s table. He snapped his fingers in the air, which caused a liveried minion to scurry forward with a glass of port. “Carriage problems too, eh, Galbraith? My demmed chaise cracked a wheel and the blasted wheelwright says he can’t fix it until tomorrow.” He leaned forward confidingly. “Understand you’ve secured the only bedchamber in the house. Don’t suppose you’d let an old pal share?”

  “No,” Ned said with uncompromising bluntness. Elphingstone was not and never had been an old pal, nor even a friend of any sort. He was, however, one of the biggest gossips in the ton, and right now Ned wished him at the farthest end of the country.

  “Dash it all, you can’t expect me to sleep”—Elphingstone gestured distastefully around the taproom—“down here among the rabble and riffraff.”

  Ned drained his tankard and stood. “Frankly, Elphingstone, I don’t care where you sleep.”

  “I meant, of course, on a trundle bed. Surely—”

  “No.”

  “What about the sitting room? I gather you’ve reserved that too.”

  “No. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Ned turned to leave, just as the young maidservant bounced in, saying, “Your sister is ready for her dinner now, sir. I’ve let Ma know and the boys will be bringing it up to your room in a minute.”

  “Your ‘sister,’ eh?” Elphingstone quirked a salacious eyebrow.

  Ned swore under his breath. Elphingstone knew perfectly well he had no sister, no other siblings at all.

  Elphingstone chuckled and said with a leer, “Now I know why you’re so reluctant to share—and I don’t blame you. Cozy armful, is she?”

  Ned’s fingers curled into a fist. He shoved it in his pocket. “Nothing of the sort,” he said in a bored voice. “I’m escorting a young relative—well, more of a ward—to London, that’s all.”

  “And sharing her bed, eh?”

  There was a sudden cold silence. His gaze bored into Elphingstone until the man dropped his eyes, flushing.

  “I don’t care for your insinuations, Elphingstone.” His voice was soft, icy.

  The leer slid from the dandy’s face. “Meant nothing by it, dear fellow. Nothing at all.”

  Ned paused a long moment as if considering the man’s apology. Elphingstone swallowed convulsively.

  “Take care what that idle tongue of yours suggests. The young lady’s maid will sleep on a trundle in her bedchamber. I shall sleep elsewhere. Not that it is any business of yours.”

  Ned mounted the stairs, swearing under his breath. He’d been planning to sleep on the settee in the adjoining room—purely for her protection and with the door firmly closed between them—but now with Elphingstone sniffing around, he’d have to make other arrangements.

  He was doing his best to ensure that there were no further repercussions from Lily’s abduction, but if the dandy got the slightest whiff of her identity, she—no, they were done for.

  Chapter Six

  “The pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  Edward—every inch of her skin smelled of his soap and she couldn’t think of him as Mr. Galbraith anymore—entered just as Mrs. Baines and Betty were setting out the dinner on the table in the private sitting room.

  He gave her one swift, all-encompassing glance, gave a brusque nod, and moved to the wind
ow. He stood there, gazing out across the night-dark moors in silence.

  By his position, he was waiting for the women to finish bustling around, but she could tell by his grim expression that something had disturbed him earlier.

  It took her back to the first time she’d ever seen him, at her brother’s wedding. She’d found him rather intimidating back then, so tall and handsome and elegant and sophisticated—the kind of man she just knew she’d never be able to talk to without making a complete fool of herself.

  But she’d watched him, nevertheless, unable to take her eyes off him. The wedding reception had been held at her former school—Miss Mallard’s, where Emm had been a teacher—and all the girls—all the females there, in fact, old or young, married or not—had made such a fuss of him.

  He’d been perfectly charming. The rumors were that he was a dangerous rake who’d recently been jilted. Or had jilted some poor girl—the stories were contradictory, but the girls at Miss Mallard’s didn’t care which it was, they just loved flirting with a handsome man. The hint of danger that lurked about him only added to their enjoyment.

  He’d handled their attentions with lazy indifference, those winter-green eyes of his glinting with subtle amusement. She couldn’t hear what he said, but it seemed to her that every time he opened his mouth all the girls giggled and sighed and fluttered their eyelashes.

  Of course the schoolgirls at Miss Mallard’s rarely met any men, except at church and they were mostly ancient, bald or toothless, so any halfway decent-looking man was guaranteed to have girls twittering around him. A man like Edward Galbraith, lean, dark and crisply elegant, with a hard, clean-shaven jaw, a bold nose that was not quite straight, and a firm, masculine mouth—well, any female would be dazzled.

  Even if she didn’t have the courage to talk to him herself.

  He’d flirted easily with any female drawn to his orbit, which was most of them, Miss Mallard included. But somehow, Lily thought, it wasn’t in any way . . . personal. It was as if he’d been presented with a kitten, petted it absently so it purred happily, and then set it down, all without noticing or caring which kitten he had. Or what happened to it afterward.