Scandalous Brides

by Amanda McCabe

  “No! It—I don’t know what came over me that night.”

  “Do you not?”

  “I—perhaps I do. I hated you for having her love. I wanted to hurt you.”

  Peter shook his head sadly. “And so you did. You ruined my life for six long years. Hers, as well.”

  “I never meant to hurt Carmen! I loved her. I thought she was dead—beyond pain.”

  “Well, now you know differently.”

  Robert began to cry again, sniffling into the handkerchief. “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Despite all his pain and anger, Peter could not help but be a bit sorry for such a pitiful, jealousy-consumed creature. “I have a more effective solution.”

  Robert looked up damply. “What?”

  “You will write a letter of apology to Carmen. Then you will leave London, and you will never speak to or of Carmen again. You will never come near any of my family. Do you agree? Or shall I shoot you?”

  Robert looked back down again. “I agree. I will leave London, and go back to Cornwall.”

  “Very well, then. Write that letter, and I shall have it delivered at once. And—have a pleasant journey to Cornwall.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Carmen stood in the doorway of Elizabeth’s drawing room at Evanstone Park, and surveyed the crowd assembled there, taking tea, chatting, milling about.

  Elizabeth and Nicholas had a very wide acquaintance, and it appeared that they were all gathered for the house party. Attending were Lord and Lady Rivers, an elderly couple who were well-known patrons of the arts. There was a Mrs. King, a very wealthy if somewhat silly widow, who was holding her yapping poodle tightly on her lap, no doubt to prevent it breaking free and biting every ankle in the room.

  Elizabeth also included Lord Huntington, a young, handsome viscount, no doubt intended for Carmen. There was a Miss Mary Dixon, an excellent pianist and rather promising artist (Elizabeth was always on the watch for someone to be a mentor to). Miss Dixon was lecturing Lord Crane, a fashionable London beau, on some artistic point, splashing droplets of tea onto his fine green coat with every emphasis.

  A vibrant redhead in a bright green silk tea gown held court in one corner, surrounded by laughing gentlemen. No doubt that was Elizabeth’s good friend, Mrs. Georgina Beaumont, the famous artist.

  And there was Lady Deidra Clearbridge and her mother. They sat somewhat apart from the noisy fray, their lips slightly pursed.

  Only Robert Means was nowhere to be seen. So he had kept the promises in his tearstained letter.

  Carmen nodded politely at the Clearbridge ladies as she handed her muff and gloves to the butler. Then her smile widened as she saw Elizabeth hurrying toward her, tugging the redheaded woman along with her.

  “My dear Carmen!” Elizabeth cried, kissing her on both cheeks. “You are here at last! You are quite the last to arrive, aside from my naughty brother.”

  “I do apologize, Lizzie. I had a very late start from Town.”

  “Well, you are here now, and that is all that matters. Now, you must meet my bosom bow, Mrs. Georgina Beaumont. I lived at her house in Italy before Nicholas and I were married.”

  “Of course! I have heard so much of the famous Mrs. Beaumont.” Carmen turned her smile to the redhead.

  Georgina laughed merrily. “Every bit of it true, I assure you!”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Georgie quite prides herself on causing a stir everywhere she goes.”

  “Then, I can see why you are such good friends,” Carmen said. “You have such a lot in common.”

  “Touché! But then, we are three of a kind, are we not? You yourself are always the center of attention.”

  Carmen laughed. “Perhaps you are right, Lizzie.”

  “I am right! What a dash the three of us will cut, now we are all together.. But now you must come and have some tea.” Elizabeth tucked one of her arms through Carmen’s and one through Georgina’s, and led them into the drawing room. “You must be parched after your journey. And then you must meet the Richardsons. Such charming people, so fond of art...”

  Carmen, meant to be choosing a gown for supper, had instead been standing in front of her wardrobe for a full twenty minutes, dressed only in her chemise. She did not see any of the glittering array of garments hanging before her. She ran her hand absently over the skirt of a blue velvet gown, and thought how very much it looked like the blue of Peter’s eyes.

  She wondered if he would sit next to her at supper ...

  She snatched her hand back from the velvet as if burned. These were the very sort of soppy thoughts she had been trying not to have for days now.

  The rogue had not called on her after their scene in his library. He had not even sent a note.

  Had he forgotten about her the moment she fled his house in embarrassment? She had thought of nothing but him ever since that day. Her Ice Earl, her dashing English major. The man who had, once upon a time, held her, loved her, given her a daughter ...

  Isabella!

  Carmen slammed the door of the wardrobe, and leaned her forehead against it. In all the tumult of the last few emotional days, she had forgotten the most perplexing problem of all. That Peter had a child he knew nothing about.

  She had seen how very angry Peter could be when he felt he had been deceived.

  “What to do, what to do?” she muttered, sinking down onto the bed.

  “Carmen? Are you in there?” Elizabeth swept into the room without bothering to knock. She was already dressed for the evening, and was pulling on her silk gloves. “We must hurry, or we shall be quite late, and I faithfully promised Nicholas I would not leave him alone with the Riverses. Such bores, the pair of them, but such great ones for commissioning portraits of themselves. I did say that ...” Then she looked up. “Why, Carmen! You are not even dressed. Where is the maid I sent up to you?”

  “I sent her away,” Carmen answered quietly.

  “Was she unsatisfactory?”

  “Not at all. I simply don’t think I shall go down tonight, if you will forgive me. I am very tired after the journey.”

  Elizabeth sat down beside her, with a sigh. “It is my great lout of a brother, is it not? Did he not call after that little—tableau in the library?”

  “That was not as it appeared!”

  “Um-hm. I’m sure. Well, after you, er, left, he went straight out, and we never saw him again before we left for the country.”

  “Then, he is not here?” Carmen asked hopefully.

  “Oh, he is here. He appeared only an hour ago, with not a word of apology for his lateness.”

  “Oh.”

  Elizabeth seized Carmen’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “And you must come to dinner! Everyone knows I have the famous condesa here, and they will be quite put out if they do not catch a glimpse of you. My party shall be ruined.”

  Carmen smiled at that blatant piece of exaggeration. “Well, never have it be said I ruined a party.”

  “Excellent! And do not worry—I have seated you far from Peter, next to that very nice Viscount Huntington. So Peter can stew in his own envy. Now, what shall you wear?” Elizabeth opened up the wardrobe and began sorting through the gowns.

  “I had thought the blue velvet.”

  “It is pretty, but if Peter is to stew, you need something more—dashing.” Elizabeth pulled out a pale gold satin. Carmen had never worn it; it had been purchased for a masked ball in Paris, but she had not been brave enough to wear it when it came to the day. It was cut high at the collarbone, but fluidly followed the lines of the figure.

  “This one,” said Elizabeth. “Most assuredly.”

  “Lizzie!” Carmen protested with a laugh. “If I wear that tonight, I will catch my death of cold.”

  “Not at all! I have plenty of fires lit. And it will make Peter very sorry he did not call.”

  Carmen giggled.

  Peter stood beside the fireplace, and sur
veyed the crowd gathered in his sister’s drawing room before supper.

  He might as well have stayed in Town for all the difference it made. Here were so many of the same people he saw there, clustered in the same cliques, repeating the same gossip. Nicholas and a group of gentlemen were having a discussion about some horses that were up for sale in the neighborhood, which would usually have interested Peter at least moderately. But he had wandered away from them after five minutes.

  Elizabeth’s friend, the famous and dashing artist Mrs. Georgina Beaumont, was at the center of a more daring group, which was talking and laughing loudly, having already dipped into the port and brandy usually saved for after supper. Peter would have liked to join them, if only for the brandy, but they would hardly have welcomed him.

  Lady Deidra was seated prettily upon a brocade settee with her mother, her pale pink skirts spread about her like rose petals. She had sent him several glances, but he had no desire to converse with her, either.

  All he wanted was to see Carmen.

  Then his sister the hostess at last entered her own party. He couldn’t help but laugh at how she augmented her meager height with a new headdress of tall crimson plumes that accented her red and gold gown.

  Then behind her appeared the very woman he had been longing to see.

  She was, as always, in the first stare of fashion, her old trousers and men’s shirts obviously left far behind her. Her golden gown modestly covered her collarbone and upper arms, but the fabric was as flowing and shimmering as liquid gold leaf, and followed the lines of her figure and her long legs.

  Those long legs that had once wrapped about his own so perfectly ...

  He cursed softly and wished he had some of that brandy.

  Then he cursed again, as Carmen turned, and it seemed that Peter—and the entire room—was gazing at her backside in the closely flowing gold satin.

  He had such an urge to throw his own coat over her.

  He moved behind her so quietly that she did not notice him, and he leaned forward to murmur in her ear.

  “Good evening, Condesa,” he murmured. His breath lightly stirred the curls at the nape of her neck.

  The gold threads of the satin shimmered as she trembled.

  But when she turned to face him, her features were perfectly composed, her faintly mocking smile in place. “Good evening, Lord Clifton. I do hope Elizabeth and I have not kept everyone waiting for their supper too long.”

  “My sister always keeps us waiting. It is her artist’s prerogative.” He smiled at her, and hoped it looked less like a lupine stretching of lips over teeth than it felt. He longed to be alone with her so very much that it was becoming difficult to display social politeness. “May I escort you in to supper?’

  Elizabeth put her hand on her brother’s arm. “Now, Peter, you know that is not the way! I have Carmen seated next to that handsome Viscount Huntington, and here he is now to escort her. Would you offer Lady Deidra your arm?” She went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “I did invite her just for you, you know.”

  All Peter could do was watch helplessly as Carmen moved away from him on Huntington’s arm, her soft laughter floating back to him, as if in some enticing dream.

  Supper was interminable.

  Carmen toyed with her roast duckling, nibbled at the apple compote, and drank more wine than was perhaps strictly prudent. She smiled and chatted with Viscount Huntington, who was most attentive and rather attractive, interested in her travels and her plans for the Season. She may even have flirted with him just the tiniest bit.

  But her attention strayed often down the length of the flower-laden table, to where Peter sat between Lady Deidra and her orange satin-clad mother. Deidra spoke with him, quietly, earnestly, her bright head bent near his shoulder. Though he smiled and nodded at her words, Carmen couldn’t help but notice that he, too, reached for his wineglass often. He seemed distant from all the merriment and chatter that flowed around them, preoccupied, but always unfailingly polite.

  She wished she could read him, so cool and polite, so distant. She wished she could tell what he was thinking; most of all, what he was thinking of her. She wanted to tell him all about Isabella, the beautiful, delightful girl they had created together.

  If only she could be certain ...

  Carmen sighed and took another sip of her wine.

  “... Would you, Condesa?”

  Viscount Huntington’s voice drew her back from her imaginings, into the gaiety of the supper table. She blinked up at him.

  “I am sorry, Lord Huntington. I must have been woolgathering. Did you ask me something?”

  He nodded understandingly. “Quite understandable, I’m sure. The trip from London is quite tiring. I just hope that you are not too tired for the charades after supper.”

  Carmen was appalled. “Ch-charades?”

  “Yes. Lady Elizabeth was just saying that she planned for everyone to draw names for charade teams after supper. We will perform them on Sunday evening.”

  Now Carmen knew why she had truly never come to England before. It had not been grief. It had been the British propensity for party games. She had hoped to be safe at least at Elizabeth’s house! “Well—no, of course not. One can never be too tired for charades.”

  “Excellent!” He smiled at her shyly. “I hope we are on the same team, Condesa.”

  She smiled at him, and took another sip of wine. Her gaze slid once again down the table, expecting to find Peter still conversing with Lady Deidra.

  Yet Deidra had turned her attention to the gentleman on her left. And Peter was instead watching her, his eyes a warm turquoise in the candlelight. He raised his glass, and in a small, subtle gesture, tilted it in a salute.

  Carmen almost choked on her wine.

  After the ladies departed to take tea in the drawing room, Peter stayed at the supper table with the other men to sip his port and smoke his cigar. He even managed to engage in the discussion concerning politics and horses with a bit of coherence.

  Yet his mind, as always of late, was elsewhere. It was in the drawing room, to be precise, with his wife and her damnably dashing gown!

  She was hiding something, he thought. The Carmen he had known in Spain had been more than free with her views and opinions; she had argued with him heatedly on many topics, from politics to art and music, and had never hedged. He thought that it must have arisen from her careful, traditional upbringing; they had been tamped down inside for so long, just waiting to spring free. And he had adored that about her.

  This new condesa had certainly learned subtlety. Age had lent her a new beauty and a new careful sophistication.

  But she would not meet his gaze directly, would not smile at him with her old, open, sunny ways. Even after their revelations in his library.

  What could it be she kept inside her? He burned to know, to understand this new Carmen.

  No woman but Carmen, either before or after her, had ever stirred this wild need to know, to possess every secret and desire of her heart. After so many years of a frozen anger, his own heart had dared to begin to hope again. There were many things between them, good and terrible, but she still spoke to his soul as no one else ever could.

  Yet she still held herself apart!

  Could it be she had no feelings left for him, that he had killed them and there was not an ember left in her heart?

  Could it be she cared for another? She was so beautiful, so unique. Many men surely desired her.

  Men like—that Viscount Huntington Elizabeth had insisted on pairing Carmen with.

  Peter looked at the man who was talking with Nicholas. He was a handsome man, Huntington, a wealthy man, so Peter had heard, who lived a quiet, content life in the country. He had been in Spain, as well, but had seemingly left the war behind the instant he returned to England, and had never lost his sweet ways.

  Unlike Peter, the darkness had not swallowed him.

  Huntington had smiled and talked with Carmen throughout supper, his f
ace open and warm and a bit shy as he watched her. And she had laughed with him, the rich, brandy-dark laughter that Peter had not heard since their wedding night.

  Damn Huntington.

  Peter tossed back the last of his port and reached for the decanter.

  “Well,” Nicholas said, too cheerfully in Peter’s opinion, as he rose from his chair. “Shall we rejoin the ladies, then? I think Elizabeth was planning some amusement.”

  “May I join you?”

  Carmen looked up from her book, surprised, nay shocked, to see Lady Deidra Clearbridge standing beside her chair. The other woman’s serene smile was in place, her blue-blue eyes placid, giving no clue as to her motivation in seeking out Carmen. She looked very pleasant, and bland, and English.

  What a perfect Countess of Clifton she would make, Carmen reflected wryly.

  She smiled in return and tucked away her book. “Of course, Lady Deidra. Please do.”

  As Deidra sat, her pale pink skirts fluttered about her like the petals of a dainty rose. She even smelled roselike, and a wreath of white roses twined in her red-gold curls.

  Carmen had thought she had long ago left behind her awkward schoolgirl days, towering like a gawky giant over all the other girls at the convent. Now those days came back upon her in a rush.

  “I do hope you are enjoying your stay in our country, Condesa,” Deidra said, her eyes wide and polite over the edge of the teacup she raised to her lips.

  “Oh, yes,” Carmen answered. “I have found it very charming.”

  “Though I am certain it cannot be as exciting as Paris, or Italy. Or Spain.” One dainty brow rose. “I myself have never wanted to venture away from England. But I did hear you were lately in Paris?”

  “Indeed. And before that in Italy, and in Vienna.”

  “Yes. The Continent is growing ever smaller, is it not? Travel is so very much easier since the end of the war. You must have found it so yourself, being so very well traveled.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Carmen, a bit puzzled. “I have enjoyed great ease of travel. And the variety of company I have encountered is always a pleasure.”