Scandal of the Season

by Liana Lefey

  He nodded. “Those against dirtying their hands with the business of making money are finding it increasingly difficult to keep up with industrious commoners eager to better their lot in life.”

  “You mean eager to emulate us, and poorly at that,” she retorted, her tone sour. “The gentry have been thoroughly infiltrated, and now the peerage is being invaded. ‘Merchant-barons’ are springing up everywhere, marrying into quality families, quite literally buying their way in with the promise of solvency.” She shook her head. “It’s shameful. And yet that is exactly what the Dembys and the Aftons seek. Not only does Lady Afton look to marry her daughter off to such a one, but she admitted that she hopes to find an heiress for her son from among them. I can hardly imagine the lad being attracted to any woman of common origin, but I’ve no doubt Lord Afton will insist upon the most lucrative match.”

  “Don’t be such a snob, Mother. After all, am I not equally guilty of lowering myself by engaging in business?”

  “What you are doing is quite another thing altogether,” she snipped. “You are of noble descent—and you are being far more discreet about your entrepreneurial activities than some I can name. I doubt anyone knows of your dabbling.”

  “I see. By allowing marriages below their rank, these families are essentially tainting themselves, is that it?”

  She shifted in her seat, and he knew he’d gotten to her. “I did not say that. But at the same time I feel Society is losing its refinement, and I blame this new invasion. I just think it a shame to see our culture diluted by the coarseness of the newly affluent,” she said, pursing her lips as though the words tasted bad.

  “Not all of them are coarse,” he rebutted. “Over the last few years I’ve met a number of the ‘newly affluent’ and have made several friends among them. If anything, most are keen to refine their manners and rise above their humble origins.” Though he knew it would rile her, he said it anyway. “And who knows? Perhaps some new blood will serve to revitalize our lofty ranks.”

  “New blood? I do hope you are not considering such a union,” she said with undisguised alarm. “In fact, I expressly forbid it. My delicate sensibilities would not tolerate such a daughter-in-law.”

  “How fortunate for you then that I have no need to marry money.” He grinned as she glared. “As for the Aftons and the Dembys, I’ve found that fear of poverty always overcomes the delicate sensibilities of those in the midst of financial strain. The uncouth can always be trained or ignored, a far more palatable solution than being demoted to a lower social echelon over a lack of means. If our friends can find suitable matches for their children from among the nouveau riche, they will be saving themselves from the indignity of a slow decline.”

  “I cannot decide which fate is the worse,” his mother muttered, shaking her head. “Speaking of making a suitable match, you ought to consider doing so yourself—to a woman of appropriate family, of course.”

  He hesitated for only a heartbeat. “I’ve been thinking about that, actually, and I’ve decided to go with you to London this year. It is high time I married.”

  “Oh, Sorin! I’m so very pleased to hear you say it,” she exclaimed softly. However, her joyful smile transformed almost at once into a frown of worry. “Heavens! You’ve only just arrived, and the Season is right around the corner. There won’t be enough time to have a new set of clothes made for you or to—”

  “There is no need. I have several trunks filled with the very latest from Paris,” he said, enjoying her surprise. “I took the liberty of having them made while I negotiated the final contracts for the King’s fleet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “This is no spontaneous decision, is it?”

  “I confess it is not. Nor is it solely for the purpose you deem it. All of the clothes are made from our imported fabrics,” he said, careful to conceal his enthusiasm. He couldn’t let her know just how much he really liked “dirtying his hands” with entrepreneurial pursuits. “When everyone sees the beauty and quality of the materials, they’ll wish to know where they can find them. Naturally, I’ll direct them to those shops offering our goods.”

  A single silvery brow arched. “I assume the bolts and patterns you sent to me were to the same end?”

  “Those I sent because they were beautiful and I thought it would cheer you.”

  “And it certainly won’t hurt our pockets if my friends wish to imitate me, either,” she added with a knowing smirk.

  “My first desire was to lift your spirits.”

  “Of course it was,” she said, eyes twinkling. “You’re a good son and a shrewd businessman. I’ll wear the gowns and gladly tell everyone where they can find the material as long as you can promise they’ll never find out we’re profiting from their covetousness.”

  “No one will ever know,” he assured her. “The shops purchase the material from a distributor. He gets it from ships whose captains know only that they work for the Triple Crown fleet, which is managed by a man I pay handsomely to keep the identity of its true owner a secret.” A man he trusted because he knew his life was forfeit if he ever revealed that information to anyone other than the king himself.

  “You must pay him a pretty sum indeed,” she said, eyeing him.

  “He is well content with his lot. I’ve made him a rich man.”

  “I thought you said we needed to be cautious,” she said, frowning. “How rich?”

  “Rich enough to marry into quality,” he said just to poke at her “delicate sensibilities.”

  “Heaven forefend,” she said with open contempt.

  He shot her a quelling look. “Earning an honest living should bring shame to no man. Many of our peers will fall because of their overweening pride.”

  “And yet pride has its place,” she replied, her chin rising. “Your father would have sooner suffered gentle poverty than abandon his.”

  “A fool’s pride!” he snapped, his patience drawing swiftly to an end. “Woe to the man who holds to his pride while doing naught to prevent his ship from sinking, for hunger and regret will be his chief companions in the days to follow—if he does not immediately drown. Anyone who romanticizes poverty shows a privileged ignorance of its brutality.” Now that they were safe, it was time she knew. “Five years ago, poverty knocked at our gate, Mother. Father’s stubborn refusal to modernize, or to at least employ better economy, very nearly ruined him, and us along with him.”

  Her expression grew stricken, and he softened a little. “I did not share that knowledge with you because I did not wish to tarnish your memory of him while your grief was yet fresh. Much as he had done, I continued to shield you from the dire reality of our circumstances.”

  “Dire?” The word was small and filled with disbelief.

  “Our debt was monumental,” he said quietly. “I sold off some of the smaller unentailed assets in order to fund my recent endeavors as well as pay at least some of the amount owed to the worst of the creditors lest our situation become public knowledge. And I have since worked tirelessly to drive poverty off our doorstep. If my efforts are discovered, then so be it. I will bow my head in shame to no man.”

  She had no chance to respond, for they had reached the church.

  Sorin disembarked in haste, still fuming. Had Father lived, they would be in the same, if not worse, situation as the Aftons and Dembys. He ground his teeth. It had taken five years of careful planning, stealthy negotiations, and some bloody hard work, but he’d turned their fortunes around.

  He hadn’t told Mother, but the estate now had more income than ever before in its history, so much in fact, that it would have been an easy matter to pay off all their debts at once. He would have done so, save that such an act would be equivalent to announcing his activities in The London Gazette. Instead, for the past two years he’d been paying creditors off in small enough increments to keep them satisfied without tipping his hand. They now owed no more than anyone else and certainly far less than most, and no one knew it wasn’t “old” money being us
ed to pay it down—which was exactly how he wanted it.

  Well, almost no one. There was one other person privy to his secret. Two, actually. Charles, who’d invested along with him in order to save his own family’s fortunes, and Eleanor. Eleanor, who’d been quiet witness to their early discussions. Eleanor, who’d told them it made more sense to risk Society’s censure than to accept hardship and pretend it was anything else. Eleanor, who was practical and wise beyond her years. If he could find a woman even half as sensible…

  He let out a loud snort of self-derision, and a passerby shot him a startled glance. Such thinking was useless. Not only did he not want any other woman—much less one with only half her sense—but it was likely that any female from the loftier circles of Society would be mortified to learn that her noble husband’s income was newly minted.

  Any woman but Eleanor.

  Even as he thought it, his eyes found her. Her cheek curved as she turned to say something to Rowena, and he knew she was smiling. He yearned to see it, to feel its warmth directed at him. But there was little hope of that, given their most recent interaction.

  “Well? Are we to stand here all day or are we going in?” asked his mother, who’d come up beside him.

  In answer to her testy inquiry, he offered his arm.

  Chapter Five

  He’d arrived. Even if Eleanor hadn’t felt the prickle of awareness on the back of her neck, she’d have known it thanks to Caroline, who’d gone all stiff beside her before proceeding to primp and preen. Determined to ignore his presence for as long as possible, Eleanor kept her hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed on the pulpit.

  Dear Lord, please help me not to make a fool of myself today.

  An hour of listening to the vicar deliver scathing indictments concerning the innately sinful nature of humanity was all the reprieve she could expect. As soon as it was over, Charles would spot Sorin and drag them all over to stand and politely listen to, if not actively participate in, their conversation. She closed her eyes. How can I face him?

  There had to be a way to avoid him. Immediately, she crossed Caroline off the list of possible excuses—her friend would delight in any opportunity to hang at his elbow and upon his every word. Her desperate eye fell on Rowena, who was speaking to Mrs. Quimble about an upcoming charity fundraiser. In that instant, Eleanor determined that should Rowena go to speak with her after the service rather than stay at Charles’s side, she would accompany her. No matter how tedious the conversation, no matter if it meant a month of embroidering napkins or stitching quilts, she’d do it and be glad.

  The church bell rang, and as everyone moved to take their seats, Eleanor marked the presence of an unfamiliar gentleman sitting beside Lady Yarborough. A hiss of dismay escaped from between her lips as the man turned to speak to his companion.

  “What is it?” whispered Caroline, following her gaze. “Oh, I see,” she murmured, appraising the young man with an appreciative eye. “A handsome fellow, is he not? I assume from your reaction that you know the gentleman?”

  “That’s Donald Yarborough, and he is no gentleman,” Eleanor replied, keeping her face averted so he wouldn’t see her. “He was a terrible bully when we were children,” she added in response to her friend’s blank look. “I knocked him down once in this very churchyard.”

  “You appear to have a strange penchant for hitting handsome, eligible men.” Caroline’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I don’t suppose he’ll remember it now all these years later.”

  “Oh, I can only imagine he will, and all too vividly,” Eleanor muttered, busying herself with her hymnal.

  “You were only children. Surely he’s forgiven you by now?”

  “I very much doubt it. I humiliated him in front of half the village.”

  “Well, be that as it may, I don’t think he holds it against you anymore,” said her friend. “The man is staring at you as if he would eat you with a spoon.”

  What? Before thinking better of it, Eleanor looked. Yarborough was staring at her. Their eyes met, and after a momentary furrowing of his brow, his face broke into a wide grin of recognition.

  Quickly, she turned away. He was supposed to be at university! Ignoring him, she looked to the other side of the aisle—a mistake, for Sorin and his mother had taken their seats there. His gaze met hers for an instant and then, without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, he turned to stare impassively at the front, as though he hadn’t seen her.

  Her stomach clenched. He’d given her the cut. Him. Sorin. Her oldest friend. She ought to have looked away, too, and pretended not to have noticed, but the little muscle jumping at his jaw fixed her attention. She knew that expression all too well. He was annoyed. With her, apparently. Pain lanced through her, and her eyes began to smart. Steeling herself, she poured all of her concentration into singing hymns. Then the sermon began—a treatise on, of all things, the many blessings bestowed by the institution of marriage.

  Beside her, Caroline giggled softly. “It seems the good vicar has taken a liking to the eldest of the Braithwaite girls,” she said, indicating a pretty, young blond woman sitting near the front.

  Eleanor bit back a sigh of frustration. Was heaven against her, too? She’d rather suffer the usual blisteringly cautionary diatribe than this! She spent the entire service in a state of utter wretchedness.

  …Trying not to look at Sorin.

  …Resisting the urge to elbow Caroline, who kept wriggling about and making little noises to draw attention to herself.

  …Attempting to ignore Yarborough, who was trying without much subtlety to attract her notice. She sucked her teeth in irritation. Really! Couldn’t he at least wait until after church to make a laughingstock of her?

  When the final blessing was issued and the congregation dismissed, it was all she could do to keep from hiking her skirts, jumping the pew, and bolting for the door. Dignity, she reminded herself. Donald Yarborough must never have the satisfaction of knowing he’d troubled her. As for Sorin, he would have no excuse to reprove her this day either, and he would certainly never know how much he’d hurt her with his coldness.

  Two could dance that waltz.

  Holding her head high, she exited her row just as Sorin, who was following his mother, came to the end of his. The Dowager Countess she greeted with a sweet smile and a nod before allowing the lady to go before her. Sorin, on the other hand, she did not deign to acknowledge, though he waited politely for her to precede him. Without so much as a glance, she gave him her back.

  Her teeth clenched with frustration as behind her she heard Caroline’s enthusiastic greeting. Hoping for a quick exit, she made to follow Rowena who, much to her relief, was making a beeline for Mrs. Quimble. Before she’d gone ten steps, however, a male voice—not Sorin’s—called out her name.

  “Lady Eleanor! Wait—I say, do stop a moment and greet an old friend, won’t you?”

  Damn. And how dare he call himself my “old friend”? Groaning inwardly, Eleanor stopped and turned to Yarborough with as blank an expression as possible. “My humble apologies, but have we met?”

  “Do you not recognize me?” His mouth stretched into a saucy grin. “I certainly remember you. How could I ever forget? Why, it was in this very churchyard that you taught me the meaning of humility.”

  At that moment, Sorin passed them by—again without seeming to see her. Blood boiling, she looked to her old nemesis, let out a little feminine squeal, and clapped a hand to her chest in a manner that would have made Caroline proud. “Donald Yarborough? Upon my word, you are so changed that I did not even know you! You’ve grown so very”—she ducked her head, feigning embarrassment, but then peeked up at him coyly—“so very tall.”

  Satisfaction filled her as Sorin halted in his tracks, stiff as a poker. Ha! “Goodness, but it seems to be the time for old friends to return,” she said to Yarborough. “You cannot have been home for very long?”

  “I arrived just yesterday. Felicitations on your birthday, by the bye. Mother info
rmed me that I missed the festivities,” he continued, his smile turning sheepish. “I’m afraid she was most displeased with the lateness of my coming, though it could hardly be helped. One of the horses drawing my coach stepped in a hole and lamed itself.”

  “Oh, well I’m truly sorry to have missed you,” she replied with an exaggerated pout, watching with glee as Yarborough stood a bit taller and as, behind him, Sorin half turned around. “You are home to stay, I hope?” she added for good measure.

  “Indeed. Well, after the Season, of course,” amended Yarborough. “You will be going to Town as well, I suppose?”

  “Oh, but of course. We’ll no doubt run into each other quite often, won’t we?” It was, perhaps, a bit heavy—but she was set upon making a point to yon eavesdropper. It was no lack of civility on her part that had determined her current marital status!

  “I certainly hope so,” said Yarborough, his gaze roaming for a moment before settling on her bosom. “I should like to see you as often as possible.”

  Ugh! But even as she forced a smile, she saw from the corner of her eye that Sorin was still listening. Perhaps it was time to give him a little taste of his own tonic. “But come, you must greet my cousin, Lord Ashford. I’m sure he will be as delighted as I am to welcome you home.” Taking the arm he offered, she sailed right past Sorin, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead. And here’s some sauce for the gander!