Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  Gwen stiffened her back. “Why Lydia, I thought you’d be thrilled. After all, I shall be moving all the way to Yorkshire and will not likely visit often.”

  Lydia’s next harangue was cut off as Mother entered the room.

  “There you are, Mama. I was hoping you’d be present when Mr. Montague arrives. He is eager to renew his acquaintance,” Gwen said.

  “As am I. I’ve been trying to picture him, but it’s been too long since he was in town.”

  Lydia lifted her chin. “I shall not be present. I have an appointment with my modiste,” she said as she huffed off.

  Good riddance.

  Mama stared at Lydia’s retreating back. “Is she unwell? I wonder if she is increasing. This is her third visit to the modiste this week.”

  Gwen dwelled for a moment on Lydia’s perfect figure. “I think not. Reggie would have told you. I think Lydia likes to have a current wardrobe.” And she likes spending Reggie’s money.

  Mama sat at the tea table and refilled Gwen’s cup. A few biscuits were laid out on a tray, and Gwen refrained from eating any more. She wanted to look her best now that she was an engaged woman. The second set of banns would be read next Sunday. After the third, they would be married.

  Mama had been aghast at the haste, but Papa’s state of health required an immediate ceremony. He wanted to see his only daughter married. If tongues wagged, so be it.

  The butler announced John, who had followed him into the room. He seemed to be in a good mood today, his grin so wide his dimple showed.

  “Lady Culbertson.” He bowed and took Mama’s hand, raising it to his lips. “It has been a long time since I have seen you. I was sorry to hear you had taken to your bed with a chill, or I would have called on you sooner. I sincerely hope you are well.”

  She smiled and patted the seat next to her. “I have fully recovered. Please sit while I pour your tea. Gwen has told me so much about you. I understand you are a war hero.”

  John choked as he took his first sip and put down the cup. “I was in the army, ma’am, and every soldier who helped route Bonaparte was a hero. I only did my duty.”

  When his gaze found Gwen’s, his eyes held mirth, not a scold. She’d only embellished a bit, mainly for Lydia’s ears. “The last time Mr. Montague was here, you were holding a musicale, Mama. I believe the entertainer was a soprano.”

  Lady Culbertson’s brows knitted as she tried to remember. “Ah yes. A highly accomplished woman. Madame . . . Madame . . . oh dear, I have forgotten her name.”

  As have I, but not her screeching.

  Gwen suppressed a shudder at the memory while John continued to make small talk. He swallowed a biscuit, drained his tea and pulled a fob out of his pocket. “Look at the time. We should take our leave, Miss Pettigrew, if we’re to join the queue at the height of the fashionable hour.” He dipped his head toward Mama. “Would you care to join us, Lady Culbertson?”

  “You two go on ahead. Many will want to stop your conveyance and speak to you.”

  Gwen hid her sigh of relief and gathered her outerwear.

  “With your permission, I would like to take Lady Gwen to Gunter’s to get an ice when we finish our promenade. I am fond of ices. My brother, Lord Longley, had an ice-making device installed at the house, but his cook is averse to it, and it is rarely used.”

  Mama fluttered her handkerchief. “By all means. Enjoy the rest of the day.”

  John offered his arm to Gwen and led her out to the street. A landau with the Longley crest stood waiting.

  “I borrowed this from my brother. He said it is just the thing to show you off, my dear.” He paused as if waiting for a response. “Is it all right to call you my dear?”

  She laughed and swatted him with the gloves she had yet to put on. “Don’t be silly. I’m happy you call me by an endearment. And please do it often in Lydia’s presence.”

  “Where is your nemesis?”

  Gwen arranged her skirts on the seat and rolled her eyes. “Out shopping. It seems to be her main pastime.”

  John gave the signal, and the coachman headed toward Hyde Park where they joined a line of conveyances that stopped frequently so their occupants could talk to people passing by. Trees heavy with fall foliage provided shade, and the Serpentine glistened in the distance. Tipped hats and salutes greeted them along the way, and their vehicle stopped when a man John introduced as one of his best friends offered his good wishes.

  When they had spent a couple of hours in the fresh air, they turned off and went to Gunter’s where waiters brought ices directly to the coach. Gwen ordered lemon and John had the bergamot. When they finished, they turned back toward the house.

  “Do you ride, Lady Gwen? I forgot to ask you.”

  “I do, and I quite like it. Will it be possible to take my mare with us when we leave?”

  “We’ll tie it to the coach bringing our personal staff and our belongings.” John slid the glove off her nearest hand, raising her fingers to his lips, the smile still in his eyes. “All you need is ask, and I shall make every attempt to honor your wishes.” He turned her hand over, and his lips touched her wrist.

  The sensation sent waves of unaccustomed heat through her body.

  Oh la, this was going to be an adventure after all.

  Chapter 4

  He hadn’t meant to kiss her wrist, but the softness of her hand invited his lips, and he’d given in to an urge. Her reaction surprised him. She’d closed her eyes and sighed as if the touch of his lips had brought pleasant feelings to the surface.

  Sitting opposite, he studied her face. Gwendolyn Pettigrew would not be called a beauty by a popular standard that favored women who were slim, blond, and delicate. But she had a smile as warm as summer sunlight and an exuberance for life that energized everyone around her. Her cheeky grin amused him, and her animated eyes with their extraordinarily long lashes enchanted him. He counted himself a lucky man to have found such an agreeable bride. Even her intelligence was not off-putting. It appealed to him. They were going to become the best of friends.

  For now, he must pretend to woo her. All of London was watching, and their betrothal needed to be seen as a love match of long standing, to account for the hasty marriage.

  “Do you like the theater? I thought we might attend the opening of the new play at Drury Lane next week.”

  She clasped her hands. “I should like it above all things. I have not been to the theater since Papa fell ill. It is not Reggie’s favorite pastime, nor does Lydia care for the theater.” She leaned forward, a part of her body he’d tried not to pay attention to pressing against her bodice. “Lydia says all actresses are fallen women. She said she would be tainted by being in the same building.”

  He swallowed and fidgeted with his cravat as she sat back in her seat. “I daresay it is never a good idea to paint all birds with the same brush. A few may be considered damaged goods, but certainly not all.”

  Gwen laughed—a hearty laugh that spread from her lips to her eyes and made his own lips twitch. “I do believe you made a joke. Birds? You mean ladybirds?”

  “If I did, it was not intentional, and I do beg your pardon.”

  “Oh, posh. My sensibilities are not so fragile.” Her face took on a serious expression as the coach passed a street vendor selling flowers on the corner. “Too many members of society believe themselves better than others. I’ve met a few women who had the misfortune to be, shall we say, down on their luck, but had the purest of hearts.”

  He reached over and took her hand. “You know of which you speak because you have a pure heart, Gwen.”

  She widened her blue eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure.” He squeezed her hand and laid it back in her lap as they approached the Culbertson town house.

  An old-fashioned coach was
ahead of them on the street. A tiger held the horses.

  “Oh, no.”

  John frowned. “What is it?”

  “Caulfield is here. Can we keep driving?”

  “You have nothing to fear from him.”

  He patted her hand as the door of the coach opened and Lord Caulfield got out. He marched over to them, his mouth working as if he’d tasted something spoiled. Standing at the side of the landau, he gestured with his walking stick. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Missy. This is a sham, and everyone knows it.”

  Gwen seemed to shrink in her seat under the verbal onslaught. John jumped down and confronted the old rogue. “You are improperly addressing my fiancée, you cur, and I would appreciate it if you would not.”

  Caulfield’s gaze shifted to John, and he spat on the ground. “Women do not thwart me without consequences. Culbertson will be hearing from my solicitor. Breach of promise. That’s what this is. And you, sir, are the scoundrel who forced her to do it.”

  John’s hand twitched at his side as his fingers curled into a fist. He raised it, but Caulfield had turned his back and was striding to his coach. Taking calming breaths, John let his shoulders sag. He’d wanted to lash out and flatten the bounder for speaking harshly to Gwen.

  You must watch for signs in yourself.

  The warning from one of the doctors he’d consulted about Mother made him pause. He wouldn’t have hit him, would he? Over words?

  As Caulfield’s coach moved off, John handed Gwen down and escorted her into the house.

  “Are you feeling all right? Shall I summon your mother?”

  Gwen appeared shaken but became her resolute self. “Lord Caulfield speaks nonsense, and he knows it. I never gave my consent, and Father was clear I had to give it for the marriage to take place. Any promises I made were only to my father.”

  John sighed. Here was a woman of worth, and he was damn fortunate to have her.

  The butler stood in the doorway. “Do you wish to have tea, Lady Gwendolyn?”

  She glanced at John. “Mr. Montague?”

  “Not today, thank you. I must be off.” He took her hand and kissed the air above it. “Tell your mother Lord and Lady Longley will be attending the theater as well. You will be well-chaperoned. I shall see you Friday.”

  He took his leave. The encounter with Caulfield had been unsettling, but Gwen was right. The man could bluster and threaten. Nothing more.

  Hopefully they would not encounter him in a public place where he could make a scene, although he was known to have a box at the theater.

  Thank God Culbertson didn’t want his daughter to have a long engagement. The sooner they were wed, the better.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gwen could barely contain her excitement on the morning of their outing to the theater. Time passed quickly because it was also the day of her last salon.

  Gwen’s salons were popular with the younger, rebellious set. Only a few gentlemen attended today—two who fancied themselves poets and one aspiring painter. Most of the guests were women a few years past their debuts who were not afraid to wear their bluestocking credentials in public.

  “This cannot be your last one.” Lady Emily Sinclair slipped on her gloves and allowed the footman to help her into her pelisse.

  “I wish it were not so, but I have a wedding to plan. You know I cannot leave the details to Mama. She’ll enlist Lydia’s help, and the gown Lydia will insist on will bury me in ruffles. The church—if I wed there—will be filled with overpowering floral arrangements, and the guest list will resemble one for a grand ball.”

  Emily laughed, her light-brown ringlets bouncing at her temples. “I thought you were going to be married in the Longley garden.”

  “Papa is trying to make arrangements, but it seems marriages are not legal unless one is married indoors. The pergola is covered, and Papa is insisting a roof makes it a building.”

  “I see.”

  Gwen was still astonished at how much Emily resembled Miranda. The two were cousins and had become friends but were not close. Miranda spent most of her time in London, and Emily had retired to the country. Gwen was glad Emily had come today, although the purpose of her visit to town was to attend her grandfather’s birthday celebration. Unfortunately, she was due to return to her family’s country estate before Gwen’s wedding.

  “Will you continue your salons in Yorkshire?”

  “Only if I find companions willing to attend.”

  “Mr. Montague does not mind?”

  “Mr. Montague will be a most agreeable husband.”

  “You are fortunate then, and I wish you well. Please write when you get to Yorkshire.” She swept the room with her gaze. “I miss all this. There is little society in the Cotswolds.”

  “Then why did you not remain in London?”

  Emily looked down. “Let us just say I am nursing a broken heart.”

  Gwen hugged her friend, recalling that Emily had once had a tendre for the Earl of Longley, but he had eyes only for Miranda. Surely her heart had long recovered. Had someone else stolen it recently? “Stay well and know you will be missed at the wedding.”

  Emily put on her bonnet and departed while Gwen’s gaze followed her out. I must remember to write often.

  Emily was the last guest to leave, and Gwen’s shoulders sagged. Only a few hours remained until dinner, and then John would be here to take her to the theater. Plenty of time to nap. She wanted to look her best tonight.

  Gwen hurried up the stairs and met Lydia on the landing. Arms folded, her sister-in-law looked like a warrior ready for battle.

  Gwen pasted on a smile. “Good afternoon. Are you going out?”

  “I am. The atmosphere in this house is stifling. I had to firmly close my door, so I would not hear lewd words coming from the parlor.”

  Gwen’s lips twitched. “You should have come to my salon. The topic was whether or not angels are clothed once they reach heaven. I daresay, it was quite a lively discussion.”

  “You and your friends disgust me.”

  “If you sneer too often, Lydia, a permanent frown line will mar your face.”

  “Isn’t it enough that you pour tea for inappropriate persons? I understand you are now going to the theater.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful? Mr. Kean will be on stage.”

  “And you will be the spectacle of the evening.” She let her arms drop to her sides. “I cannot believe your father allowed you to end your betrothal to Lord Caulfield. Did you not want to be a countess? What is wrong with you?”

  Gwen grinned. “I am to marry the man of my heart. Did you not hear the story?”

  Lydia snorted as she resumed her descent. Pausing half way down, she looked back. “You may have fooled your mother, but you haven’t fooled me. You hardly know the man. He doesn’t want you. He wants your dowry. He probably keeps a mistress. Perhaps he’ll beat you. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end? Mark my words, in a few months’ time you’ll be wishing you were back in London with dear Lord Caulfield. And then I shall be laughing.”

  Gwen bounced into her room and flopped onto her bed. A door slammed somewhere downstairs. What a disagreeable person Lydia was.

  You hardly know the man.

  Lydia did have a point. Was she doing the right thing? While Gwen would love to have more time for a proper courtship, Papa seemed insistent that the marriage take place as soon as possible, and John agreed. If they remained in town, they were sure to run into Lord Caulfield, and their one encounter so far had been most unpleasant.

  She had to trust Miranda’s judgment. John was Miranda’s brother-in-law, and she’d known him her whole life. Even if she and John found they had nothing in common, at least she would be a mother. And that would make her life complete.

  Her doubts
must have put her to sleep because her next conscious thought was Sadie shaking her shoulder.

  “Time to get up and get dressed. The theater awaits.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The Theater Royal at Drury Lane was more crowded than usual. Gwen struggled to contain her excitement. Like her, everyone had come to see Edmund Kean as Shylock.

  Or to ogle the subjects of the latest on-dit, the aging spinster and the man who had stolen her from Lord Caulfield.

  Gwen reached out to John, who handed her down from the Longley carriage, followed by Miranda, then Jeremy. She and John were to sit together in the Longley box where they would be seen by everyone in attendance. Miranda assured her it would be best to conduct themselves as if nothing was amiss.

  By now Lord Caulfield had spread his venom, claiming his intended bride had been enticed away by an upstart second son who was after her dowry. The ton loved nothing more than a juicy scandal. While Gwen had repeatedly shrugged off criticism of her salons in the past, she now cringed at all the attention upon her because of her betrothal.

  “Do you feel like all eyes are staring at you, Mr. Montague?”

  “The only eyes you need worry about are mine, Miss Pettigrew.” A smile spread over his face, and her heart warmed. Perhaps this marriage would work out after all.

  Seated in the box, Gwen gazed out at the crowd. The boxes across from them quickly filled with those who came to the theater to be seen rather than to enjoy the performance. Below, stylish young men dawdled in the pit, leering and laughing. Conversations often continued throughout the play, and more than one finger already pointed at their box.