Do You Want to Start a Scandal EPB

by Tessa Dare

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who could be a ruthless negotiator.

  She crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”

  “I made it clear from the beginning that I can’t offer you that.”

  “Love, Piers. That’s what we’re discussing. And I know you’re not accustomed to it. You can’t even bring yourself to utter the word.”

  “Words. Words are meaningless.”

  “Gah.” She made a motion as though she would strangle the air. “The very purpose of words is to mean something! There are entire books dedicated to listing nothing but words and their meanings. They’re called dictionaries; perhaps you’ve seen one.”

  He gave her a dry look.

  “It may be just a word,” she said, calming. “But hearing it would mean a great deal to me.”

  “I do not countenance ultimatums. From anyone. And I cannot afford distracting attachments. I haven’t made such declarations since I was a child.”

  “Perhaps you just need practice.”

  “Perhaps you need to grow up.”

  The words were sharp and aimed to wound, and Piers knew at once they’d hit the mark.

  “I won’t do it,” she said quietly. “I’ve already lost my friend. There’ll be no recovering my reputation. Thanks to Frances, the gossip will reach London faster than we do. I’ll be called every vile name there is, whether it rhymes with Charlotte or not.”

  “No one will dare.” If nothing else, he could promise her that. “Not if they wish to avoid the barrel of my pistol or the point of my sword.”

  “Men can call each other out. This is enmity among ladies, Piers. You cannot shield me from it, and believe me—a woman’s tongue can be rapier-sharp. The ladies will cut me to my face. They will slice me to ribbons when my back is turned.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I could endure it all, if I knew you loved me. If we shared a life together that went beyond dinner parties and procreation. But without that . . .”

  His heart twisted. “Charlotte.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t bear it.”

  She ran from the room.

  And there it was.

  All her sweet words last night . . . Vowing to chip away at his defenses. To work for years, even decades, if that’s what it took. Because, she’d said, he’d be worth the effort.

  I’m never giving up on you.

  And yet she had. It had taken her all of one night. One glimpse at what he truly was, and what he was capable of doing—and her naïve promises went up in smoke.

  Just as he’d known they would.

  Because now she finally saw the truth. If she broke through the walls, there was little inside him but a dark, empty space.

  It wasn’t worth the effort. Not at all.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Charlotte spent the day in a trance, unable to sleep or take anything more than a few sips of tea.

  When the maids came up to her newly designated room, she let them dress her in freshly washed underthings, cinch her stays tight, and help into her blue silk gown. She sat perfectly still as they dressed her hair in a pile of curls atop her head, bound with a silver ribbon.

  She stared into the mirror.

  Oh, Charlotte. You’ve been such a fool.

  From the beginning, she’d been insisting that their match defied all logic. No one could fail to note the vast gulfs between them in class, education, and experience, not to mention their wildly different personalities.

  But somewhere along the way their match had come to make perfect sense—to Charlotte, at least—no matter how implausible it might appear to the world. She unsettled him; he anchored her. Together, they could be more than they were apart.

  She’d dared to hope that he felt the same. That he was in love with her, too. Even if saying so didn’t come naturally to him, his willingness to support her dreams, to wait for her, to treat her as his equal, would prove it to be true.

  But instead of supporting her, he’d thrown her under the carriage wheels.

  She didn’t know what to do. Delia wasn’t speaking to her. And though Mama had been her strength last night, she couldn’t ask her for advice today. Charlotte knew what the answer would be.

  Of course you will marry him. He’s a marquess! Have you no regard for my nerves?

  Just as the maid finished tying a cameo choker about her neck, someone rapped lightly on the door.

  “Charlotte?” The door opened a crack. “It’s us.”

  She knew that voice. Her heart leapt, and she ran to fling open the door.

  Her sisters stood in the doorway, dusty and rumpled from travel.

  To Charlotte, they looked like angels.

  “Oh, this is wonderful. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  She hugged her oldest sister, then turned to Minerva and clasped her tight.

  “Of course we’re here.” Minerva adjusted her spectacles. “Colin was invited to a party. He’s not going to fail to appear.”

  Colin was invited? That must have been Piers’s doing. He’d asked the Parkhursts to invite her family. So they’d be present for the announcement of the betrothal. Thoughtful of him, that.

  “We decided to make it a family trip.” Diana glanced at Minerva. “We thought you might need us.”

  “I do. I need you desperately.” Charlotte pulled them into the room. They all settled onto the bed. “I seem to have found myself betrothed to a wealthy, handsome, unfeeling marquess.”

  Diana smiled. “And what’s wrong with him, precisely?”

  “Aside from him being everything that Mama would want, of course,” Minerva said.

  Charlotte sniffed. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  Minerva plucked a biscuit from her untouched tea tray. “Try the beginning, then.”

  So she did. She told them everything. Or rather, nearly everything. She didn’t betray any hint of Piers’s secret work, of course, and she was purposely vague about any episodes that involved clothing removal. As she related the episodes of the locked room and Lady the Demonic Mare, her sisters laughed.

  Four biscuits and one tearstained handkerchief later, Charlotte finally came to the end. “And then he told me I needed to grow up.”

  “He didn’t,” Diana said. Her gasp of shock and dismay gave Charlotte some cold satisfaction.

  “He’s so walled off, so stubborn. The man doesn’t know the slightest thing about love.”

  Minerva smiled. “As opposed to . . . you?”

  Her older sisters exchanged a look. A how-sweet-she-sounds look.

  Charlotte found it maddening. “I know it must sound ridiculous. He’s a worldly, educated peer, and I’m young and inexperienced. But when it comes to emotion, I’m leagues ahead.”

  “Men can be taught,” Minerva said. “Even the worst-behaved ones, like Colin.”

  “And if I’ll be forgiven for saying it,” Diana added, “you may have some things to learn, too. I know I did.” She squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “Do you love him?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “But I told him that, and he still betrayed me to force my hand.”

  “Well, there’s the problem,” Minerva said. “You told him you love him. That doesn’t mean he believed it. Most likely, in some desperate, shortsighted, arsonist way, he meant to test you. It would be just like a man.”

  “Perhaps.”

  If it had been a test, Charlotte had failed it. He’d revealed his deepest, most shameful secret, and she’d received it with cold indifference. Despite all her promises to wait him out, knock down his walls . . . she’d walked away.

  “I do think he cares for me. When he can get out of his own way, he’s so tender and passionate. But maybe I am too young. Maybe it is too fast. If we marry like this, it will be for all the wrong reasons.”

  “I’d like to know who marries for the right ones,” Minerva said. “I all but kidnapped Colin, and we were nearly to Scotland before he gave in.”

  “And there’s a reason the twins were born less
than eight months after I married Aaron,” Diana said. “Sometimes love unfolds gradually. But more often than not, life hurries it along.”

  Charlotte smiled a little, and it eased the knot strangling her heart. Her sisters were the best medicine.

  Still, she picked at the edge of her handkerchief. “I’m just afraid.”

  “Of what, dear?”

  “Of becoming Mama.”

  There it was, out in the open at last.

  “I’m not a scholar like you, Min. Or as patient as you, Diana. If I marry without love, with little experience of the world and nothing to occupy my time . . . What will prevent me from becoming a ridiculous woman with a nervous condition?”

  Minerva looked to Diana, and they shared another of those older-sister looks. “Should we tell her?”

  “I think we should,” Diana replied.

  “Tell me what?”

  “You will become Mama,” Minerva said flatly. “It’s inevitable. Once babies come along, you don’t even have a choice.”

  “It’s true.” Diana sighed. “All the things I swore I’d never do, never say . . .” She buried her face in her hands. “The other day I told Aaron to consider my nerves.”

  Minerva rose from the bed and went to her traveling satchel. “Do you want to know what’s even worse?” She reached into the bag and withdrew her evidence. “I’ve started carrying a fan.”

  “Oh dear.” Charlotte laughed.

  Diana gave her a smile. “The truth of it is, it’s only now that we can fully understand. Mama loves us, and in her own, misguided way she tried to secure us the best possible future she could imagine.”

  “I know,” Charlotte said. “And we didn’t give her an easy time of it, either.”

  “At least we will not have such a narrow idea of what our daughters’ futures can be,” Minerva said, returning to the bed. “Colin and I have already started putting aside money for Ada’s university education.”

  “University? But there aren’t any colleges that admit women.”

  “Not yet. But we have some time to change that, don’t we? If it comes to it, we’ll build our own.”

  “And if Ada doesn’t wish to go to university?”

  Minerva looked at her over her spectacles. “Don’t be absurd. Of course she will want to go to university.”

  Charlotte had a mental image of Min storming the gates of Oxford and demanding a college for women—with Ada standing several paces distant, cringing behind her hand.

  Perhaps every generation of Highwood women was destined to be an embarrassment to their daughters. If it happened to Charlotte, at least she wouldn’t be alone.

  “If you don’t want to marry this marquess, you don’t need to,” Minerva assured her. “You’ll always have a home with us. Once things are smoothed over and the gossip is forgotten, you can start afresh, pursue the future you want for yourself.”

  “Scandal’s like a fire,” Diana added. “It only burns so long as you give it fuel.”

  “Doesn’t love need fuel, as well?”

  Could she and Piers keep that fire burning for a lifetime? After the events of last night and their argument in the morning, Charlotte wasn’t sure. She wasn’t strong enough to be the only one carting coals. He would have to supply at least a few.

  But he’d refused her even that much.

  Diana patted her on the knee. “Minerva and I had best go wash and dress for the evening. We’ll leave you to think.”

  Sir Vernon invited Piers to join him in his library before the ball, for a brandy.

  Piers accepted, naturally. The irony was irresistible. They were returning to the scene of the crime.

  “Too bad about that unpleasantness in the back garden last night. But it’s all worked out in the end, eh, Granville?”

  He handed a brandy to Piers before taking a seat behind the infamous creaking desk.

  “You needn’t worry about any scandal,” he said. “My daughters understand it’s in their best interests not to sully the virtue of a close friend.”

  The nerve of the man.

  Piers took sole responsibility for wounding Charlotte. But he never would have hurt her at all if Sir Vernon Parkhurst were the honest, upright man he pretended to be.

  Atop this very desk, he’d committed adultery. He’d had weeks to confess his indiscretion, but to this day, he would allow his daughter’s friend to pay the price for it. Which was a loss, of course, to Delia as well.

  Piers tossed back a scalding swallow of brandy. He’d been sent here to find answers. He was tired of dodging around the questions.

  Forget stealth and searches. He was going to outright ask.

  “Sir Vernon, how long have you been married?”

  The man frowned in reflection. “Three-and-twenty years this August, I think?” He counted on his fingers. “No, twenty-four.” He laughed. “If my lady asks, I answered you correctly the first time. Without hesitation.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not so handy with numbers, but I recall everything about the evening we met. It was a masquerade. She was dressed as a cat. Tail attached to her skirts, little pointed black ears. Fur edging her bodice.” He raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, propping his boots on the desk. “I’m a hunter, Granville. A sporting man, through and through. I knew then and there, Helena might lead me a pretty chase—but in the end, she would be mine.”

  What a charming story.

  Piers sat up in his chair. “We are friends, are we not?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Then I hope you’ll permit me a personal question. The answer will be kept in the strictest confidence, of course.”

  Sir Vernon waved his brandy glass in invitation.

  “As you say, you’re a sporting man. In twenty-three years, have you never caught sight of a different quarry? Been tempted to give chase?”

  His host’s grin faded. He let his boots fall to the floor and set his brandy on the desk. “I know what this is about, Granville. What you’re truly asking.”

  “Good.” That would make this all the easier.

  “We’re men. We understand each other.”

  “Yes, I believe we do.”

  “Then let’s get to the heart of the matter.” Sir Vernon regarded him gravely. “You’re getting cold feet.”

  Stunned, Piers found himself at a loss for words. “I . . . You’ve . . .”

  “No need to be ashamed of it, Granville. You needn’t make excuses to me. I felt the same on the eve of my nuptials. Spent a sleepless night convinced I was making a mistake. In the morning, I thought I’d be sick all over the vicar’s vestments.” He tapped the desk blotter thoughtfully. “But I’ll tell you God’s honest truth. Once I caught sight of my Helena walking down the aisle of that church, all my doubt vanished.”

  “Vanished?”

  “Gone.” The man’s eyes were unwavering, solemn. “Never looked at another woman after that day. Well, I’ll be honest. I’m a man. I’ve looked. But I’ve never felt restless, never been tempted to stray. I’ve never even given it a thought.”

  Piers regarded the man.

  Most people were exceedingly poor liars. He’d long ago learned to tell a truth from a falsehood, unless the liar in question was very, very good.

  And he’d be damned if he didn’t believe, to the soles of his boots, that Sir Vernon Parkhurst was telling the truth. The man was devoted to his wife.

  Which meant Piers knew even less than he’d thought.

  It didn’t make any sense. The missing money. The strange journeys to seedy row houses and country inns. What on earth could be behind it, if not a mistress or illegitimate child?

  Some other agent would have to find out, apparently. Because Piers was at a loss.

  Sir Vernon rose from his chair and came around the desk to give him a hearty slap on the back. “You’ll be fine, Granville. A bit of doubt on the bridegroom’s part is only natural—but don’t be fooled. You’re not truly worried she won�
��t be enough for you. You’re worried you won’t be enough for her.”

  Piers reached for his drink and downed the remainder in a single swallow.

  “You never will be good enough, you know,” Sir Vernon went on, chuckling. “For some unfathomable reason, the ladies insist on loving us anyway. Sometimes I even think they like us the better for it.”

  With another resounding thump to Piers’s back, Sir Vernon left the library—leaving Piers alone with an empty glass, a mind awhirl with thoughts, and a heart full of regret.

  He stared at the window seat. He remembered clasping Charlotte to his chest as she laughed herself to tears against his shirt. He recalled watching her smile as she conversed with his brother. He thought of making love to her in a sunny meadow.

  He thought of Oliveview, and of ranking solidly in her top quartile.

  He’d likely plunged to the bottom of those ranks today, hovering somewhere just above the dullards who rarely bathed.

  Who was he fooling? He’d sunk beneath them, too.

  Damn. He’d been so stupid. Beyond stupid. He’d had a lovely, sweet-natured woman naked in his bed, vowing to love him forever. And the minute she fell asleep, he’d decided to go play with matches. All in some stupid attempt to prove her wrong.

  Now—thanks to Sir Vernon Parkhurst, of all people—it was clear to him that he’d been not only an idiot, but an ass, as well.

  Of course Charlotte was wrong.

  Every woman was wrong. They had to be, or else humanity would have died out long ago. If they could hear the vilest thoughts in a man’s head, see the craven darkness lurking in his chest . . . they would never allow men anywhere near them.

  And chances were, it worked the same for women, too. Charlotte doubtless had flaws or some insecurity she’d rather swallow tacks than let him see. It wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference in the way he felt. He didn’t love her for being perfect, he loved her for being Charlotte.