A Little More Scandal

by Carrie Lofty

  Don’t miss the first two historical romances in Carrie Lofty’s Christies series!

  Flawless

  Starlight

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Carrie Lofty

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  Designed by Ruth Lee-Mui

  ISBN 978-1-4516-7365-4 (eBook)

  Don’t miss exclusive excerpts from

  Flawless

  The Christies, Book One

  CARRIE LOFTY

  Available Now from Pocket Books!

  and

  Starlight

  The Christies, Book Two

  CARRIE LOFTY

  Coming in July 2012 from Pocket Books!

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  One

  Two

  One

  Two

  ‘Flawless’ excerpt

  ‘Starlight’ excerpt

  A Little More Scandal

  One

  London

  July 1856

  William Christie prided himself on knowing his opponents, in both business and life—believing, without reserve, that the two were entirely intertwined. Thus he had solicited contacts and, with more muscle, pressed the shadier elements of his acquaintance to learn all he could about Miss Catrin Jones.

  The infamous Miss Catrin Jones.

  Unfortunately, in his quest to assemble a picture of her character, personal history, and temperament, he forgot to ask whether she was beautiful.

  Why would he? She was a Welsh country girl, the youngest of five daughters born to a pastor and a perfectly respectable woman of good, if not noteworthy, breeding. She was also a wartime nurse who, in May, had survived a shipwreck upon her return journey from the Crimea. She was the only survivor. Such facts did not conspire to evoke suspicions of great beauty or glamour.

  But she possessed ample stores of both.

  From across the ballroom at Lord Stalton’s city manor, in the midst of the Earl’s annual mid-summer fête, William appraised his target with the practiced eye of a man who knew his weaknesses regarding the fairer sex. In a word, she was contrary. Entirely contrary to the sort of woman who generally caught his eye. She was short and almost boyish in her stature, whereas William preferred sinuous curves that could annul a man’s ambitions. At the age of one-and-thirty, having already experienced marriage, life as a widower, and the unaccountable folly of forming an attachment to a mistress, he had learned to walk well clear of such temptations.

  Miss Jones was not to his taste, per se, but her expression was animated among practiced smiles and forced laughter; it was like seeing the sun at midnight. Entirely out of place.

  As was he.

  Not that he would emphasize their commonality when he seduced her. No, his intentions were much more . . . driven. Rather than see her story blazoned across every newspaper in the empire, Miss Jones had yet to reveal details of her shipwreck survival to anyone outside of the Royal Navy’s inquisitions board. Of course, salacious gossip flourished with or without facts, but apparently she felt no force of circumstance to set the record straight.

  William’s aim was to secure the most sought-after exposé of the decade. Not because he was a journalist. By no means. He did, however, have his sights set on owning a newspaper. Francis Lymon’s Daily Journal was failing at an astonishing rate of decline. The right article about the right nurse, along with a hefty dose of William’s own capital, would set the institution on solid footing. With a newspaper in his back pocket, he could continue his bid to rally support for the essential railroad contracts that underpinned his corporations.

  And it all began with seducing Miss Jones. Who was undeniably beautiful.

  He finished his cognac and crossed the opulent, brightly lit ballroom, navigating past acquaintances, old lovers, business rivals, venomous former in-laws, and the best of London society as if he had been born to that very privilege. Hardly the case. Had he the claws of a wild beast, he would have achieved his climb out of the slums of Glasgow in far fewer years. Instead he had his fists, his mind, and his ambition, and the journey had taken two decades.

  “Ah, Christie,” came the voice of Lord Stalton. His faultless timbre was fashioned by privilege and ancient lineage. “You’re just in time to meet my guest of honor.”

  William affected surprise as if such an introduction had not been his aim. “Oh?”

  “William Christie, wizard of all matters of industry, this is our Angel of the Crimea, Miss Catrin Jones.”

  Lord Stalton was none so crass as his younger cousin, Lady Julia Fenmore, whose lifted brows practically screamed an addendum: “The one from the shipwreck.”

  William shot the woman a dark scowl that sent her rushing to flutter her fan. For being as evil as a snake, she was remarkably dull. Predictable. He had discovered that the means of mitigating her poisonous influence on his affairs was to play the part of the leashed animal, ready at any moment to go for her throat. Men of good breeding did not threaten the women of their acquaintance. But to William she was simply another enemy, albeit one who possessed a striking body—the kind he had learned to avoid.

  What she thought to gain by inviting Miss Jones to lodge within her family’s Mayfair mansion for the Season was a curiosity. He would hardly put it past her to hold no aim beyond amusement. The novelty of parading such a creature through the ton would be quite the boon to an insufferable bore.

  He put her out of his mind, intent on his task. Bowing, he maintained a more neutral expression when greeting Miss Jones. “A pleasure to meet you. I trust you are enjoying Lord Stalton’s soiree.”

  “Indeed.” She carried no fan and kept her hands secreted behind her back. Everything about her posture shouted reserve, but her expression wrapped around some nugget of humor. Was she laughing at the evening’s diversions? Or him in particular? A tingle of unease shot up his spine. “And who are you, exactly, Mr. Christie?”

  “No one of note,” he said gruffly. He was never more aware of his coarse Glaswegian brogue than when conversing with new acquaintances. Always there existed the possibility that they literally would
not understand his words, no matter the long years he had spent modulating his speech. “Merely one of Lord Stalton’s business associates. I was pleased to receive his invitation.”

  Pleased, but not surprised. William owned the deed to the Earl’s favorite hunting grounds in Dorset. The man was jovial, generous, and exceedingly bad at finance.

  “No bother, Christie. None at all. We’re happy to have you.”

  “Of course,” added Lady Julia. “My dear cousin is always looking for novel ways to add . . . variety to his gatherings.” Her pale green eyes sparked with hostile mirth. She leaned nearer to Miss Jones and whispered behind her fan. How fortunate for William to have a catalogue of his faults so readily at hand.

  Even as Lady Julia filled her ears with poison, Miss Jones regarded him steadily, as if intent on making up her own mind based on the figure he cut. The potency of her gaze was mollified only by her soft features. Such a tidy little face, haloed by russet brown hair, so rich, shimmeringly rich and thick with curls. Her lips were nearly as round and plump as they were wide, just like an apricot. Laughing eyes shone with the luster of honey in sunlight. As if perpetually surprised, her russet brows lifted away from the bridge of her petite, turned-up nose.

  The quartet at the far end of the ballroom ended its minuet and struck up the lively strains of a waltz, something frothy and sweet. Miss Jones glanced toward where the dancers paired. Her lips parted on a silent sigh.

  “Miss Jones, would you care to dance?”

  Those wide caramel eyes, ringed with long, thick brown lashes, snapped back toward his face. Their gazes locked. Ambition had, in part, fueled his question. But so had honest male interest. So petite and neatly contained, she seemed to hide a thousand smirking words yet unsaid. He would never hear them if he failed to extricate her from the likes of Stalton and his wan cousin. Miss Jones did not possess the physical form William usually esteemed, but he could do with finding her humor to his tastes. That would make his task so much more enjoyable.

  Lady Julia tossed her chin upward. “Of course she won’t. We were having quite the entertaining conversation before your arrival.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Miss Jones said quietly. “I’d rather enjoy a waltz.”

  “Nonsense. He’s not suitable company. Ask the Burgesses and what become of their dead Susannah. Deplorable!”

  William tucked his fists out of sight. If Lady Julia continued to press the issue of his late wife, he would need to leave. There existed no other option for his temper. Finding another opportunity to get close to Miss Jones might take time, but such trouble was far preferable to strangling the Earl of Stalton’s cousin in a ballroom full of his esteemed guests.

  He waited to see what the young woman would decide. Was she the sort to bow to the whims of her betters? Was she susceptible to suggestion and coercion? Such a temperament would enable an effortless seduction, and yet he found himself silently encouraging rebellion.

  If his research on Miss Jones had been lacking with regard to her fine countenance, he had hit dead-center upon learning of her stubbornness and steel. A mere pastor’s daughter, she wore the hauteur of a duchess as she stepped away from her aristocratic companions.

  “You have no reason to fear, Lady Julia,” she said with a crystalline voice. “I’ve survived far worse.”

  Two

  Catrin had known more than her share of men across five years of nursing, and even before, when she’d loved and lost a good, sweet young man in the small town of her birth. In the Crimea, she had borne weary witness to their violence, with her mind numbed to the gore and rage. More often, however, she had absorbed moments of kindness, which had sustained her optimism. How could she have nursed so many if she had harbored the belief they were all cold-hearted killers?

  She had chosen to remember rations shared, socks mended, blame taken in another’s stead. Or how soldiers in full regalia could appear childlike when huddled together for warmth, one blanket to three bodies, their eyes closed against the toxin of warfare and the horrors of a winter siege. So many had behaved as brothers, with nothing in common but a promise to fight for Queen and Country.

  Never had she seen, however, such a solid, towering wall of contradictions. William Christie had the build of a mythic giant, all muscle and silent intimidation. His suit was unaccountably fashionable for someone who wore it so poorly. He appeared half-strangled by his cravat, and hugged indecently by a slim-fitting coat that had been tailored, inexplicably, to diminish the breadth of his chest. His rich, golden-blond hair was neatly combed and his face cleanly shaven, but she could imagine him scruffy and wild atop some distant Scottish peak, his big-boned body meant for the freedom of a Highlander’s garb.

  And what she felt when she took his elbow . . .

  A sparkling awareness finger-crawled along her hand, traipsing past her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder, until that heady tingle shivered across her nape. She glanced up, way up, to find the full pout of his lower lip. How could anything so soft exist on a face edged with grim lines, beneath such cynical eyes? His humor lurked as a forged blade, ready to cut and cull.

  Good. He seemed to match how she felt among those human vultures.

  “I feel compelled to voice my appreciation, Mr. Christie.”

  “Oh?” He positioned their bodies to join the waltz. Perfectly decorous. But in no way did he did appear capable of such refinement. She’d rather expect a backstreet boxer to perform beautifully on a harpsichord. “For what in particular?”

  Such a throaty brogue! She was thankful, then, for having spoken with men from all over Britain, lest her ear be unable to keep pace with the lilting slur of his accent.

  “For rescuing me from my hosts,” she said.

  “Their topics of conversation not to your liking?”

  “Not in the least.” Catrin breathed in time with the rise and fall of their steps. Her partner danced with significant grace, but it did not seem innate—more as though he had practiced diligently. She preferred the latter. “However, one must make the attempt to appear amenable, wouldn’t you agree? When the Earl of Stalton offers an invitation . . .”

  “We do our best to endure.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Lady Julia was right. You are dangerous. You make me want to say what truly occupies my thoughts. In this place, there cannot exist a higher crime.”

  “Then where shall we go so that you can speak freely with your champion?”

  “My champion? Well, well.”

  Such a word. Almost ruthlessly powerful. Girls from a small Welsh parish did not have champions. They had men who were reticent farmers and good churchgoers. Her fiancé, Aldith, had been such, a solid lad of good reputation and quiet feelings that had eventually progressed to equally gentle lovemaking.

  But then, neither had such Welsh country girls ever found themselves swimming with sharks, quite literally, in the midnight depths of the ocean—only to return to London, eaten alive once again by those who sought diversion in lurid tales of what had been endured.

  Catrin had deflected Society’s probing cruelty by examining every snide opponent as she would a leg beset by gangrene. No one should need to look upon such a sight, but when forced because of duty, a great deal of emotional distance did the trick.

  A champion, however, would step to her aid. Kick the vultures. Peel off the leeches. Wallop the sharks with his big bare fists.

  She would enjoy that a great deal. That Sir William was rich and passably handsome—despite a nose that had taken far too many punches—in no way detracted from his appeal. Her attention was continuously drawn to the rich blond luster of his hair, and how it complemented his skin. He was as tanned as any man who worked the fields, not so sallow and occasionally ill-looking as their current company. She rather liked it, despite that absence of fashion. It added to his wildness and rugged, golden power.

  “I propose we keep dancing,” she said, watching the line of his jaw as they circled the floor. The ballroom twirled in a haze of color an
d sound, but his jaw remained unyielding. Grounding her. She could not become too dizzy when clinging to such an anchor. “After all, what could be more innocent?”

  Pale eyebrows quirked. The creases of his forehead were so animated, despite his cagey persona. “Nothing at all.”

  “Do you receive invitations often, Mr. Christie? To Society functions, that is?”

  “More frequently than my status warrants.”

  “There’s status, and then there’s fortune.” She smiled at his slight look of surprise. “I may be newly returned from distant lands, but I’m not unaware of your accomplishments in trade.”

  “And Lady Julia apprised you of the more salacious details?”

  Catrin had listened with idle interest as her hostess prattled on about the most far-flung acquaintances. Only Mr. Christie’s story lingered in her memory. He had spent the previous year’s Season in Paris. Quite the mystery, Lady Julia had reiterated. Catrin contrasted the idea of a Scotsman in Paris with her own experiences from that summer: living in the bug-infested mud of a siege line outside the Black Sea port of Sevastopol. She would have preferred being in France.

  “Oh, Lady Julia and a few dozen other fine ladies. Either they dislike you a great deal, Mr. Christie, or they are in possession of unresolved appetites.”

  “You are a wicked creature,” he said, his tone admiring. “I wouldn’t have guessed by your face.”

  “Rather angelic, isn’t it?”

  “Rather. Except for your mouth.”

  Aside from his height and physical vigor—that sensation of dancing with a brawny Highland giant—Mr. Christie possessed two extraordinary features. Catrin found herself entranced by his eyes. Hazel. An absolute, true, marvelous hazel. Green and golden brown twined effortlessly. A fierce intelligence shone from their luminous depths, as if he could calculate the velocity of the moon spinning through the night. However, the heavens were not his fascination. He merely stared at her lower lip.

  She licked it. A shiver of victory tickled up her back when his hands tightened. While she had no intention of revealing the details of her experience for the sake of a living, neither did she want to return to Wales. Despite her jests, she knew very well that invitations to events of such magnificent caliber would not be extended indefinitely. Soon people such as Lady Julia would chance upon a new circus freak. That meant Catrin had until the end of the Season to make the most of the ton’s curiosity. Attract one suitor. Others would follow. Then she would have her choice of champions.