Scandalous Brides

by Amanda McCabe

  At night she would sometimes dream of floating free in a gondola, dappled in buttery sunlight while her handsome gondolier flirted with her in fluid Italian. She dreamed of rich wine on her tongue, almond cakes at Florian’s, the scent of incense in the dim splendor of San Marco.

  She would wake from these dreams sobbing with homesickness. The old stone church in the village, while lovely, couldn’t rival the almost-pagan splendor of a Byzantine cathedral. The servants looked quite scandalized when she drank more than a thimbleful of sherry before dinner, or wore one of her Italian gowns to a party.

  Not that her life at Clifton Manor was bad in any way. The servants, despite their curiosity, were most happy to have a lady in residence again, even if she did nothing that was expected. Daisy adored the stories of the odd Venetian maid Bianca, and the narrow gray-pink house she had tended to so poorly. Daisy even posed for her own portrait, after an initial hesitation, and made over all Elizabeth’s old pastel frocks by lowering the necklines and removing the excess furbelows. She even delighted in bringing in Georgina’s letters on the morning trays of chocolate and toast.

  Two footmen had cleaned out her old studio on the third floor, and Georgina had sent on all her works in progress. Elizabeth dutifully set up her easel, and even ground some pigments, but somehow she could not paint. The brushes would just hang from her fingers, and the colors and images that used to flood her mind and make her forget all else refused to come to her. Her mind was a blank. Aside from the portrait of Daisy, she had not finished one work.

  Even her appetite was gone. Mrs. Brown, the cook, tried to make her “Italian” meals, to no avail.

  Elizabeth could not do anything but think of Nicholas, and the life she had left behind.

  Every day, rain or sun, she would go walking through the fields and woods, striding along aimlessly. She hoped that if she could walk far enough, fast enough, she could leave him, the taste of him, the sound of his voice, far behind. She felt almost a physical pain in the pit of her stomach whenever she remembered his pale face revealing his betrayal.

  She had loved him truly; indeed, she loved him still. Despite his lies, and the lie they had lived together for so many weeks. He lived in her heart, and he would not easily be dislodged. Even distance did not dim the memories.

  One moment she would curse him, and vow that if she ever saw him again she would spit in his face for leaving her to this, for lying to her and then never even writing to her. In the next instant, she would cry at the thought of never seeing his face again. It was like a never-ending “delicate time of the month.”

  One night, unable to sleep, Elizabeth built up a fire in her bedroom grate and tried to feed all her sketches of him to the flames. She could not bring herself to do it. Instead, she brought out her hidden bottle of brandy, drank it, and cried until dawn.

  All that came from that experiment was a raging headache.

  She had grown thinner, paler; she could see that now in the mirror. She knew that she could not go on in this stupid manner forever, but she didn’t know how to stop it. She missed Nicholas; she missed Georgina and all their friends. She hated the fact that Peter set footmen to follow her wherever she went, hated sitting across from him at the dinner table, listening to his cool voice talk to her of inconsequential matters like the weather and the last gathering they had attended.

  Most of all, she hated the Elizabeth she had become. The merry girl in Italy, so independent and confident in her abilities, would never have cried such a sea of tears. She would not have been so very indecisive over a mere man. Especially such a man, such a rake.

  “Old Nick, indeed,” she murmured, not realizing that she spoke aloud.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady?” Daisy said.

  “Oh, not a thing. I was merely thinking of a painting I am composing in my mind.”

  “Well, that is good that you are thinking of painting again! And what do you think of your hair, my lady?”

  Elizabeth dutifully turned her head to examine the elaborate whorls and waves. “Exquisite, as always. You are more the artist than I am, Daisy. I am not so very certain about the gown, though.”

  “What is wrong with it, Lady Elizabeth?”

  “I loathe white.” She fluffed out the skirt of the silk and tulle gown, a creation left over from her days before she left. “It looks rather silly on a woman of nearly one-and-twenty! If only I had not already worn all my Italian gowns.”

  “White or not, it looks well on you, my lady. And you have your lovely Indian shawl to wear with it.”

  “Hmm, and quite appropriate for supper and cards at the Havershams’.” Elizabeth dug under the dressing table for her discarded silk slippers. “I have half a mind to plead a megrim and stay home with a good book.”

  “I wouldn’t want to do that, my lady. Not tonight, anyway.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “I hear tell the Havershams have a new houseguest.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “Oh, lud! Not another pimply faced nephew, dangling for an heiress?”

  “Oh, no, my lady.” Daisy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I heard that this one is a sculptor. Newly arrived from Italy.”

  Elizabeth stood in the doorway of the Havershams’ grand drawing room, surveying the company assembled amidst the overstuffed, overdecorated chinoiserie that Lady Haversham was currently infatuated with. There were the Misses Allan, spinster sisters and arbiters of county morals, dressed in rusty black and surveying everyone through their lorgnettes; the vicar, enjoying a very large glass of fine Madeira; Mr. Taylor, local eligible bachelor and heir to the Viscount Drake, dressed in the pink of London fashion and surrounded by giggling misses.

  And conversing with their hostess was the person she sought. Sir Stephen Hampton, her old friend and one-time halfhearted suitor, looking just as she had last seen him in Venice.

  He saw her as well, and gave a tiny nod in her direction. Elizabeth waved her white lace fan.

  Peter took her arm in a firm grasp. “Shall we go in, my dear?”

  Elizabeth did not look at him. “I suppose, since we are already here and have no hope of retreat.”

  The room hushed just a bit as they made their entrance, as it always did. Local society had grown accustomed to seeing the “odd” Lady Elizabeth, who had vanished from their midst so mysteriously two years ago, in company, but they were still wary of her. It was almost as if they expected her to sing bawdy songs at the pianoforte, or dance barefoot across their ballrooms.

  She merely smiled and nodded as Peter escorted her to their hostess, and the hum of conversation slowly resumed.

  “Ah, Lord Clifton, Lady Elizabeth,” Lady Haversham cried, the feathers on her puce-and-lavender turban bobbing. “You must meet the newest addition to our little society, Sir Stephen Hampton. He is quite a renowned sculptor, and has only recently returned from Italy.”

  Peter raised a golden brow in Elizabeth’s direction. “Italy? Indeed?”

  “Yes,” Lady Haversham replied. “I thought Lady Elizabeth would be particularly interested in meeting him. She was always so very artistic.”

  “Indeed I am very happy to meet him,” answered Elizabeth. She held out her gloved hand for Stephen to bow over. “Your fame has quite preceded you, Sir Stephen. Even in the wilds of Cornwall, where I have lately lived.”

  “How do you do, Lady Elizabeth?” Stephen gave her hand the merest squeeze.

  “Sir Stephen is on his way to begin a commission for the Duke of Ponsonby, for his late duchess’s memorial,” Lady Haversham interjected. “And speaking of marble, Lord Clifton, I do want to ask your opinion of the ruin I am thinking of having constructed in our park....”

  Lady Haversham led Peter away, leaving Elizabeth providentially alone with Stephen.

  “Would you care for some refreshment, Lady Elizabeth?” he inquired politely.

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Sir Stephen.”

  They did not speak again until they found a secluded alcove behind the refreshment
table.

  Elizabeth threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Stephen, you dear old thing! I have never in my life been so very happy to see anyone.”

  His arms tightened briefly. “Are you glad to see me, Elizabeth?”

  “Terribly! I have missed you all so much.” She sat down on the velvet bench, and smiled up at him. “Tell me, how is everyone, and what are you doing in Derbyshire?”

  “Everyone is well. Georgina sent this on to you.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a thick letter. “She has closed up your house in Venice, and I suspect you will see her here soon enough.”

  “Oh, no! I have told her she must not think of coming here and leaving her work.”

  “I do not think she could have been stopped. Once your friend has set her mind to something it cannot be turned.”

  Elizabeth laughed, and tucked the precious letter into her reticule, to be savored later, when she was alone. “No, that is true. Well, I shall be very happy to see her regardless.”

  “But how are you, Elizabeth? Are you well?”

  “Me? Well enough. As you can see, Derbyshire is hardly Venice, but I am busy. There are dinners and musicales almost every evening.”

  “I thought you were in costume when I first saw you this evening!” He gestured toward her white gown.

  “Oh, you mean this gown? I thought my black velvet not quite suited to the evening!” Elizabeth fluffed up her skirt, and smiled.

  They were silent for a moment, listening to the Havershams’ eldest daughter mangle a Mozart concerto on the pianoforte, then Stephen said, “You are not happy, Elizabeth.”

  She let her bright mask slip at last, and the corners of her mouth turned down. “No.”

  “You are not suited to this life.”

  “Not in the least! I miss my work desperately.”

  “I know how you can escape.”

  “Do you?” Elizabeth laughed mirthlessly. “Then pray tell me, Stephen. I have been racking my brain for a way for weeks.”

  He knelt beside her, and took her hand in his. “You could marry me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was by no means the most elegant brothel in London.

  Smoke hung heavy in the air. The drink was watered, the green velvet upholstery and carpets were a bit shabby and threadbare, and the gilt of the mirrors’ frames was chipped in spots. The “ladies” wore far too much paint, and the lace trim on their shifts was quite dingy (not that one could see that in the faint candlelight). Their faces were harsh, their laughter even harsher.

  The patrons were scarcely any better-looking. These were not the dandies and the titled gentlemen who frequented Madame de Sevigny’s establishment across town. These were low-level tradesmen, dock workers, sailors, smugglers. Baths were a rare occurrence for these men, and brawls frequent.

  And the most disreputable sight in the entire room was Sir Nicholas Hollingsworth.

  He was ostensibly involved in a game of cards, and winning, much to the chagrin of his odorous opponents. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey sat beside his pile of winnings; two of the house’s finest, one blond and one a redhead, perched in his lap, one unfastening his shirt and the other giggling against his neck.

  He always refused to let any black-haired whores near.

  “Oh, come upstairs now, Nicky,” the blonde cooed. “Cards are ever so dull!”

  “There’s a new girl,” the redhead added. “We could invite her along, if you like.”

  Nicholas threw back his head and laughed, reaching out to pinch the blonde’s ample bum. “That sounds promising, loves! Let me just . . .”

  He was shocked from his inebriated haze when one of his opponents suddenly overturned the flimsy card table, scattering cards, whiskey, and coins in every direction. The two whores fled, shrieking, leaving Nicholas sitting in the ruins, utterly stunned. He fumbled for the dagger hidden in his boot.

  A slender fist grasped him by the shirtfront and pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. “I wouldn’t go anywhere with those tarts if I were you,” a voice, rough with smoke, said. “There is no telling what you could catch . . . Nicky.”

  Then Nicholas found himself looking down into the glittering green eyes of none other than Mrs. Georgina Beaumont.

  “Phew! Have you never heard of a small invention called soap, Nicholas?” Georgina lit the only lamp to be found in Nicholas’s lodgings. Her nose wrinkled as she surveyed the damage—clothes scattered on the floor, empty bottles, congealed plates of uneaten food. “There are also things called housemaids, though I doubt you could find one in desperate enough straits to clean this place.”

  “I don’t want anyone here,” he answered pointedly, the first words he had spoken since Georgina had dragged him by his shirt from the brothel and shoved him into a waiting carriage.

  “Obviously.” Georgina removed her battered old felt hat, and shook her red hair free.

  “How did you know where to find me? How did you know I would be at Mrs. Barry’s establishment?”

  “Oh, that was simple enough. I have been following you about for a week.”

  “Following me!” Nicholas could have hit himself for letting his guard down so shockingly.

  “Yes, and that just shows how very low you have sunk. In Italy, you noticed everything and everyone about you.”

  “Yes, I noticed how very stubborn lady artists can be.” He sat down on a pile of dirty clothing, and closed his eyes wearily.

  “Oh, Nicholas,” Georgina said sadly. “What have you done to yourself?”

  “I have not done anything.”

  “Except drink and gamble and whore. I must say, you do not whore very well, either. You flirt and tease, but you never take a girl upstairs.”

  “You have only been following me for a week. I may have been engaged in all sorts of debaucheries before that.”

  “No. I doubt that you did anything differently at all before I found you.” She paused sympathetically. “Poor Nicholas. None of them are Elizabeth, are they?”

  “God’s blood!” he exploded. “Why are you doing this, Georgina? Why are you here, and not sporting with the Italian models at home?”

  Georgina blinked in shock at this deliberate cruelty. “That is unkind, Nicholas. And unfair. But since I know what pain you are in, I will overlook it. Once. And in answer to your question, I am here to shake some sense into you, you stupid man. And into Lizzie as well.”

  “I like being unsensible, thank you very much, so you can just be on your way.”

  “Blast you! I saw the two of you in Italy. I know that you truly care for each other—love each other. Just as I loved my Jack, once upon a time. Probably you would be wed by now, if you had not turned out to be such a lying coxcomb.” She pushed some dirty clothing off a chair and sat down gingerly. A piece of stationery crackled beneath her hip, and she pulled it out and read over the familiar handwriting with growing comprehension. “I see.”

  “See what?”

  “This letter Lizzie gave you. You know what happened to her, then? Before she came to me in Italy? Her brother’s beastly behavior, and the... the unfortunate demise of the duke.”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes. I know.”

  “So that is why you will not go to her, Nicholas? The truth gave you a disgust of her?”

  “No! It is not that at all. Surely you know that nothing could give me a disgust of her, and certainly not the fact that she was horribly taken advantage of.”

  “Then what is it?” Georgina cried. “What could possibly be wrong?”

  “She would not have me if I did go to her! You are completely right—I am a lying coxcomb. She deserves better than someone who would treat her as shamelessly as Peter and that duke dared to. She is far better off as far from me as she can possibly go.”

  “Oh. Oh, Nicholas, what a terrible mess we have all made of things.” Georgina went and opened the window, leaning far out to breathe of the cool night air. “I have never seen two such stubborn, fatalistic people as y
ou and Lizzie. You will not even try to solve your differences, you just weep and get foxed, and declare that you are nobly letting her go on to a better life without you. Where is the man I knew in Venice? You would never have let her get away from you there!”

  “Georgina, it is not that easy . . .”

  “Pah! Of course it is. And you are just fortunate to have me as your friend. I will help you to resolve everything.”

  “Will you now?”

  “Yes, I will. But you must cooperate.”

  “Cooperate. Yes. And just how do you propose to get Lizzie to forgive and forget all that I have done? Will you wave your magic wand?”

  “Oh, very witty. Not that you deserve to know, but I am on my way to Derbyshire. I am leaving in the morning, and have a very fast phaeton to take me there. And you, Nicholas, will accompany me.”

  “Oh, will I?”

  “Oh, you will. And please stop saying ‘oh.’ ” She kicked disdainfully at an empty glass, and sent it rolling across the carpet. “The country air will do you some good, I think. Whatever would Lizzie say if she could see you living in this squalid manner?”

  Nicholas had the most bemused, dreamlike sensation of being completely overcome by a tidal wave. His will was no longer his own. “She would probably say that it was no more than I deserve.”

  Georgina drummed her fingers on the windowsill thoughtfully. “No. Somehow I do not think that is what she would say at all. She would say . . .”

  “M-marry you?” Elizabeth blinked up at Stephen.

  “Why, yes.” Stephen’s face was quickly becoming quite as red as his hair. It was obvious that he was not at all accustomed to proposing to young ladies, or to having his proposals greeted with obvious shock and dismay. “It is the perfect solution to your difficulties. If you ran away to Gretna Green with me tonight, you would no longer be under your stepbrother’s guardianship. You could resume your painting, return to your home in Italy—whatever you like. I would not make, er, um, husbandly demands upon you, I vow that on my honor.”