The Scandal of the Season

by Aydra Richards

  Worse still, things he had never before valued seemed to have acquired meaning of their own. His house had once been a status symbol, a place he had not so much lived in as resided in—king of his own castle. Though he had enjoyed it for its luxury, it had always simply been a house. A pretty decoration, much like an expensive bauble to display upon a desk or a shelf, purchased because he had the means to afford it.

  Recently, however, it had begun to feel like a home, and that strange force that pulled him from his work as the light faded was Mouse. He had grown so accustomed to her presence over dinner that being out so late—late, when mere weeks ago he would have termed seven o’clock early indeed—caused a knot of anxiety to settle in his stomach.

  Mouse would be waiting. She always waited, though he’d not come to dinner any night this week. She waited every night, or so claimed Simpson, for at least half an hour. Even now she was likely sitting at the table, holding the dinner service—and she would, until at last she was forced to accept the fact that he would not be home for it.

  And while Mouse sat at her lonely table and waited for him to appear, Grey walked the streets of London and tried to make sense of the nonsense skittering about his brain. Where once his mind had been occupied with facts and figures, now there lived emotions, irrational and maddening. They could not be explained away or assigned to one column or another. They resisted all attempts to pack them away into tidy little boxes.

  His neatly-ordered world had become cluttered, and he had let it happen. Chaos ruled him in a way it never had before, and though it was not a comfortable feeling, neither was it unwelcome—because the predictability that had governed his life these last years had soured, and the chaos Mouse had brought with her into his life had presented a new sort of challenge. It had surprised him how much he had valued her opinions, how quickly he had come to appreciate her company.

  Appreciate seemed too weak a word. The right one was something else, something far more dangerous. It weighed heavily at the back of his mind, but he could no more wrap his brain around it than he could reconcile himself with the fact that he’d become someone he didn’t recognize—someone who would rather be at home than at his office, someone who had forgiven more debts than only those Mouse had asked. Someone who walked the streets of London, glancing periodically at his pocket watch and wondering whether Mouse was picking at her dinner yet. If she missed him. If she—

  The thin lamplight glanced off the gilded crest painted upon a carriage stopped some distance away. Andover’s crest—and there was the man himself, accompanied by his eldest son, speaking sharply to the coachman. The light accentuated his face, falling harshly into lines and crevices that were more pronounced now than they had been only weeks ago.

  Grey supposed that impending ruin would do that to a man. But what surprised him was not Andover’s presence so much as the realization that he had not thought of the man in days. Perhaps as much as week.

  On the rare occasions he had thought of Andover, always it had been in the context of Mouse, and how her father had failed her at every turn. His long-cherished desire for vengeance had shifted from what he had suffered to what Mouse had suffered. Somehow he had accepted that no amount of punishment inflicted upon Andover would ever erase the wrong that had been done him—but Mouse could still be protected from her father’s influence. Someone ought to have protected her long before now.

  She was owed at least that much. She deserved so much more.

  It was that thought riding at the forefront of his mind that compelled him to speak. “Evening, Andover. Lansdowne.”

  Andover tensed, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat. “Granbury. I’ll thank you to be about your business.”

  “As it happens, Andover, I’ve no particular business to be about this evening.” Grey pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it once again—it was going on half seven. He had not paid much attention to where he had been walking, but it seemed that he had stumbled upon Andover’s club. Though it was not particularly unusual for a gentleman to take a private dinner at his club, for a man of Andover’s status, it suggested that he had perhaps not received an invitation to dine elsewhere.

  “Well, you can have no business here,” Andover snapped, turning a glare on Grey even as he yanked at the carriage door. “You are not a member of this club.”

  “True enough,” Grey allowed, but as Andover stomped one booted foot into the carriage, a suspicion roused in his mind. Andover hardly had the look of a man who had enjoyed a leisurely supper, his humor too black to suggest it had been a pleasant evening. “But are you a member, Andover? Or were you denied admittance at the door?”

  By the way Lansdowne shrunk into the shadows, his shoulders slouching in humiliation, Grey guessed that he had hit upon the truth. And as he had not, in fact, endeavored to have Andover barred from his club, he could only surmise that the club’s owners had canceled his membership. Perhaps it had been his besmirched reputation—or the roiling rumors of his looming financial insolvency—but either way, Andover’s chickens had come home to roost, and the tide of public opinion was turning.

  “A minor mishap,” Andover said, though the words hissed through his clenched teeth and seethed with malice. “And none of your affair, besides. Come, William—we need not dignify Granbury’s ill-bred inquiries with our attention.”

  Lansdowne had the downtrodden look of a beaten dog, cowed and spiritless, and for a moment Grey felt a sliver of pity for the man. “Yes, Father,” Lansdowne said, his sulky voice more suited to a child of five than a man of nearly thirty.

  Mouse had had a lucky escape, Grey realized—what might she have become, had Andover turned his attention to shredding her of her spirit in the manner that he had stripped his sons of theirs? What might she yet become if the man ever got his hooks into her again? He’d have to ensure it did not happen.

  But Lansdowne—he was a man grown and responsible for his own actions.

  “I’m sorry for you, Lansdowne,” Grey said, as Lansdowne stepped into the carriage after his father. “You’re more a mouse than ever your sister was.”

  To his satisfaction, Lansdowne paused, glancing over his shoulder. From within the shadows of the carriage, Andover snapped, “Ignore him. He’s nothing.”

  In the lamplight, a flicker of regret passed across Lansdowne’s face. “Tell her I’m sorry,” he muttered, something like shame creeping into his voice.

  “Tell her yourself,” Grey replied. “Should you ever become man enough to do so. It’s a pity, Lansdowne, that you’d make of yourself a man in your father’s image when you might be more.”

  For a moment, Lansdowne’s face was drawn in horror, as if the mere suggestion that he might end up like his sire was a nightmare beyond imagining. For a moment, Grey thought perhaps that he might have begun to grow something approximating a spine.

  And then Andover snarled, “We’ll not sit here and listen to your abuse, Granbury. William, at once.”

  Lansdowne jerked as if he’d been slapped, and proceeded mechanically into the carriage, sinking into the shadows once more, and Grey found himself disappointed—for Mouse, who deserved so much better from her family than she had received.

  Some things were far beyond Grey’s means to give her. And so, as Andover rapped on the roof of the carriage and began castigating his son, Grey turned away and walked on.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Serena labored over the stemware like a woman possessed. It had been more than a week since she had caught a single glimpse of Grey, and if she hadn’t been assured by the butler, Simpson, that he had returned to the house each evening, she would never have known.

  He was avoiding her. That was the only possibility that remained. They no longer took meals together, because he was never about to take meals with, though she had held dinner for the first few days in the hopes that he would be. Instead, the candles had sputtered and the cook had informed her that their dinner would soon grow too cold to serve before she h
ad at last given up the hope that he would return and join her.

  Perhaps he had found her lacking. The stray thought brought with it a surge of fury, because it was hardly her fault that she had not any great amount of experience in matters carnal. She forced herself to soften her grip on the stem of the fragile champagne flute in her hand, lest it snap off, then gave it another quick scrub and handed it on to the kitchen maid, Nancy, to dry.

  She had done many of these tasks of late, since Grey was no longer present to forbid them. It was yet another petty rebellion, but as her knowledge of such household tasks grew she felt less like the useless lady Grey had once proclaimed her and more—well, not accomplished, per se. But capable. It was amazing how something so simple as washing dishes—or doing laundry, scrubbing floors, and even baking bread—could make her feel as if her life weren’t so very out of her own control.

  That at some point, perhaps, she could make something of herself that did not depend upon going from one man’s keeping to another’s. That she might have learned something, however small, to support herself, because men had proved to be so fickle, so capricious as to be unreliable.

  Grey hadn’t even told her his surname, and she was certain that she had earned it. It wasn’t as though she had demanded his love, or…or marriage. Just his name. And he had not even given her that much.

  The kitchen door flew open behind her, and Nancy gave a squawk of surprise just as a furious voice snapped, “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  Grey. Serena swallowed down a bubble of annoyance. Perhaps, like the demon so many thought him, he really could be summoned with just a thought, a word. Still, she was vexed with him and thus not inclined to cater to his ill humor. “The dishes,” Serena said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Surely you could have guessed.”

  Nancy gave a squeak of terror, as if it was beyond belief that Serena had taken such a tone with her employer. She had no spirit for being caught in the crossfire of the inevitable row, and so she bobbed a little curtsey and fled, racing away through the door to the stillroom.

  Grey bit off a foul word. “Must I lock you out of the kitchen as well?” he inquired.

  Serena slapped a wet rag against the side of the sink and turned to face him, though she knew the front of her yellow gown was dotted with water splotches, the delicate silk all but ruined. “First, you might ask how well a locked door kept me from the laundry,” she snapped. “What business of it is yours how I spend my time?”

  “It’s my damned house, Mouse. Of course it is my business what you do within it.”

  “Is it? I’ve seen little enough evidence of that,” she retorted. But she couldn’t help the sliver of concern that pierced her heart, because he looked so tired. His hair was ruffled as if he’d been dragging his fingers through it, and she suspected he’d not shaved this morning. His eyes were rimmed with red, as if he had been sleeping poorly, but they drifted over her with a faintly hungry cast—despite her yellow gown, which she had known he would not admire.

  And despite herself, she softened. “I wish you would not avoid me,” she said softly. “There is no need for it.”

  “Isn’t there?” His hand passed over his jaw, but the remark was so quiet it seemed not intended for her. She wanted to run her fingers through his disheveled hair and restore it to order, but she did not think it was a gesture he would appreciate or welcome. Not from her—not now. So she settled instead for fisting her hands on her hips and tilting up her chin, pretending a confidence she did not feel.

  “No, there is not,” she said. “Who told you I was in the kitchen?”

  His eyes sheered away. “Simpson,” he admitted in a low voice, which sounded vaguely guilty.

  Serena compressed her lips into a flat, firm line. “You asked him,” she accused. “You asked him where I was—so that you could endeavor not to encounter me.”

  And he did not respond, and she knew it was true, and a part of her—the tiny, insignificant part that had hoped that she had been mistaken, that perhaps he had simply been terribly busy with his various business interests—shriveled in her chest. Withered, like a flower deprived of sun.

  “As you wish,” she forced herself to say. “Only tell me when and where you will next present me, and I will make myself ready.” In all honesty, she had expected to be paraded about as often as possible, but aside from the single outing to the park, he’d shown no interest in it—and when she had asked him directly, he’d evaded the question. “But please do me the courtesy of letting me be otherwise.” She shoved aside the painful melancholy sitting like lead in her chest and turned her back on him, fishing out the rag that had sunk once more into the soapy water to continue washing the dishes.

  She had expected him to go, to turn on his heel and leave—but no footsteps marked his exit, and she thought…she thought she could feel his eyes on her, sliding over her like hands, and she suppressed a shiver.

  A tea cup, a saucer, and a pastry dish all made it through her hands before he broke the silence once again. “I don’t like you in yellow.”

  Serena resisted the urge to cast the saucer at his head, because she’d worn a yellow gown every day, only he had not bothered to be home to see them. “I don’t particularly care,” she said. “What does it matter what I wear? You won’t be seeing my gowns.”

  “How many are there?” he inquired in that queer, speculative way he had, as though he was already analyzing what he knew of her to arrive at the correct answer. “Two seems too few. You’d want to have some extras, wouldn’t you? Five, perhaps? Not overly excessive—but still a touch too expected, I think.”

  She declined to dignify his conjecture with a response. Let him guess, then, if it pleased him so—which it did, because she could hear it in his voice. The soft click of his boots on the floor sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Ah,” he said, and his hand settled on the counter next to her. “Seven. One for every day of the week. Sound about right, Mouse?”

  Blast him for always being so bloody right. Seething, she seized the rag and cast it at him, where it landed with a wet splat on his chest, soaking his waistcoat and likely his shirt beneath it. It slid from his chest and hit the floor, splattering the both of them with stray drops of murky water.

  Serena angled her chin and drew in a breath to upbraid him, but before she could form a single word, he pounced. His arm banded about her shoulders, snatching her against his chest, and his other hand shoved itself into her hair, tugging her head back. She managed only a weak sound of surprise before his lips were on hers, insistent and greedy. Every bit of her ire fled in the space of a heartbeat—because it simply was not possible for a man who kissed her as he did not to feel something for her.

  Perhaps she had misunderstood what his avoidance signified. Perhaps she had misunderstood everything. Perhaps he had provoked her into lashing out at him specifically for this reason—so that he might have an excuse to kiss her, a return to their old game.

  She had not realized just how much she would relish the same excuse. How good it would feel to press herself against his chest and wind her arms around his neck, to sink her wet hands into his hair and feel those sleek strands against her fingertips. To feel the abrasion of his stubble burn her cheek, to welcome the thrust of his tongue into her mouth.

  It wasn’t until she felt the wetness from his waistcoat soaking through the bodice of her gown that she managed to pull away, but she liked that he had not let her go far, that he pressed his cheek to her temple as they both caught their breath.

  Though she knew it could prove a mistake, she heard herself ask breathlessly, “Will you be home for dinner this evening?”

  His fingers moved in her hair, a comforting stroke. “I suppose that depends on whether or not you intend to have Cook serve something palatable. Babies can be so difficult to come by—perhaps a puppy,” he mused.

  “Oh, you are despicable,” she groused, shoving at his shoulder.

  He buried a l
augh in her hair, but at last he said, “Yes, Mouse. I’ll be home for dinner.” His hand moved over her back in a possessive caress. “And I don’t want to see you in yellow.”

  ∞∞∞

  Grey drew a razor down his cheek slowly, angling the blade with care. Most men of his status had valets to attend to such needs, but Grey had created his status and not been born to it, and he didn’t see the sense in hiring a man to dress him, to shave him—it would have left him feeling helpless, as if he had not the wherewithal to wipe his own ass.

  Still, there were occasionally times—when his attention was elsewhere—that he could see the sense in a valet after all. He’d already nicked himself once. Because instead of concentrating on scraping away the whiskers that burnished his jaw, he’d only been thinking that his smoothly-shaven face would not rasp Mouse’s tender thighs.

  Already all he could think of was when next he might coax her into bed. It had been a mistake to return home, to ask after her. He ought to have left her alone, let her do as she would and ignored her presence until he had secured her future, then sent her away and buried himself in work until she had ceased to crawl through his mind, because he certainly could not afford the space she commanded there.

  But Davenport’s suggestion had rattled him, and he’d lost the taste—temporarily, at least—to continue his search for a husband for her. Because once he had seen to her future, the clock would be ticking.

  And he didn’t want to surrender her just yet.

  The fact that it had less to do with her father’s humiliation at his hands than the pleasure of her presence was concerning, to say the least. It was a weakness he could not account for, one he had never expected to experience. If she had been the lady he had expected her to be, he would have had no trouble at all setting her aside—but she was so much more than he had expected. No shrinking violet, no swooning maiden, for all that she’d been raised to the role. She had a tenacity, a fire that could not be extinguished by something so inconsequential as the loss of her reputation. She had a strength that even a cold, callous father and the scapegraces she called brothers had not managed to smother.