Scandalous
by
Cassandra Dean
Scandalous
Copyright © by Cassandra Dean
Cover Design: Cassandra Dean
Interior Book Design: Cassandra Dean
ISBN: 9780463777084
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopy, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Acknowledgements
About Cassandra Dean
Other books by Cassandra Dean
Connect with Cassandra
Chapter One
London, 1830
The town house was lit like a bonfire, every sconce that could contain light ablaze. Laughter and music spilled through the air, the temptation of revelry too much to refuse an invitation to the Maddern ball, though it was a week before Christmas and as cold as the Arctic. Guests entered the foyer through the heavy oak doors, bitter cold brightening their cheeks as they shed their heavy cloaks to reveal the finery beneath, and footmen scurried amongst them, burdened with discarded cloaks as they ushered the arrivals in the direction of the ballroom.
Shoulder against the wall, Edgington observed the activity. He’d accepted the invitation to this ball purely on a whim though he’d known it would be tedious, and nothing in the time since his arrival had disabused him of this notion. After an obligatory turn of the ballroom, he’d stationed himself in the entrance hall, gaining some faint amusement from the arrival of those so desperate for society they ventured out on a night like this. Ah, but then, what did he say about him that he was amongst their number?
A couple passed him, close enough he could almost discern their conversation. Tittering behind her gloved hand, the female glanced at him. Edgington met her eyes. The woman blanched, her gaze quickly skittering away as she urged her partner hurry toward the ballroom.
He smiled faintly. His reputation was in full effect, it seemed.
Shifting his weight, he considered his options. Maybe it was he should make his way to his club, or a gambling house, or any one of a number of entertainments he’d previously patronized. While it held amusement to force his presence upon a society clearly unwilling to host him, there were vastly more interesting ways to spend an evening—not that he could think of any at this present moment. Of late, the life of a profligate had started to pall, and he found himself wondering of his estate in Ambleside. Of what might be involved in land management, and how the sun would feel against his skin as he stood in a field, the gentle bray of sheep carried on the breeze.
With a twist of his lips, he dismissed such fancies. He must be getting old to become prone to maudlin thoughts. Besides, the Earls of Edgington were bred for better things, or so his father had told him. However, his father had also told him he was a useless fool, and if his wife had managed to present him with a spare as was proper, he would not suffer his eldest son as heir.
Why his father despised him, Edgington didn’t know, but he’d long reconciled himself that his father held no affection for him and he’d found delight in living down to his opinion of him. A smirk twisted his lips. The greatest of his perversions could boast inception in his desire to enrage his father and, truth be told, he was a little lost as to his purpose now the man was gone.
Once, though, he’d thought to have something more. His smirk died as memory curled about him. Once he’d thought perhaps he was more than the sum of his parts, more than what his parents had made him. Once, someone had looked at him as if he could be better and, for a brief moment, he’d believed her.
However, that was ten years and a lifetime ago, and he’d gone in another direction. Maybe, though…maybe it was time to turn his path. Maybe, instead of his club, he would go home. Maybe tomorrow he’d strategize a new life, one that gave him purpose.
A laugh rang out over the throng. Something about it tugged at a half-remembered memory, something he’d convinced himself he’d forgotten. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he pulled himself straight, straining to look over the throng to find the owner of the laugh. Heart a fast beat in his chest, he skipped over each face and figure, certain he was wrong.
As if magic, the crowd parted. And he saw her.
His heart froze. For an endless moment, he stared. Then the world started again, his heart lurching to a wild rhythm he couldn’t contain.
She’d only just arrived. Cheeks rosy, she removed a heavy cloak to reveal she wore green, not the pale green of her youth but a deep emerald. A feather of the same hue set jauntily in her hair deepened the strawberry blonde curls and no doubt brought out the green flecks in her hazel eyes. He couldn’t see their color from here, but he remembered them, remembered their light as she beamed a smile. Remembered them wet, and then remembered them devoid of any emotion at all.
Face animated, she gestured at the crowd as she spoke to the dark-haired woman beside her. The woman said something and she laughed again, the sound of it skipping along his spine. Linking her arm with her companion, she made her way toward the ballroom, chatting all the while.
Edgington followed them. They entered the ballroom and the whirl enveloped him, hundreds of people in a too-small room, but the lure of the feather atop her head was too great.
The feather stopped. Pushing through the crowd, he saw her friend had greeted someone, temporarily leaving her to her own devices. A polite smile on her face, she looked about the ballroom, her smile brightening every now and then.
Hidden in the crowd, he watched her. Now, it was obvious why he’d come to the ball—for the slight chance he would see her.
He’d heard about her return. It had been in all the papers, the triumphant return of Viscount Hargrove’s sister. They’d been full of her exploits on the Continent, the countries she’d seen, the society she’d kept. Each article he’d devoured, unable to keep the distance he maintained with everyone else, but then, that was nothing new. He’d never been able to distance himself from her.
Ten years since he’d seen her, and she hadn’t changed. Maybe she was a bit older, her hair a bit more gold, but she still looked as she did when he was a callow youth of nineteen and more than a little infatuated. He remembered every curve of her face, the softness of her skin. The way her mouth moved under his.
Her gaze wandered to the dancing, and a wistful kind of smile occupied her face. Pulse a thunder in his ears, he wanted, quite stupidly, to ask her to dance.
Closing his eyes briefly, he shook himself. As if she would say yes. If he were to approach her, the smile would disappear from her features, as would all emotion. He knew. He’s seen it happen before.
Her gaze moved again and th
eir eyes locked.
For a moment, a split second, her smile remained and he had an insane hope that all had been forgiven, that, perhaps, he could approach her. Then, all expression bled from her face and she regarded him coolly, her joy in the evening gone.
His heart sank. He’d known she’d react so, though a part of him had hoped he’d been wrong. A part of him had hoped he could approach her, could ask her to dance, could ask for her hand.
But, of course, he couldn’t. She was Miss Sofia Hargrove. The girl he’d ruined.
Chapter Two
Sofie stared at Viscount March. He had changed in the last ten years. His golden hair used to riot about his head in a tumble of curls, but now dark blond strands were clipped close to his head and slicked back with pomade. His dress was sober too, unrelieved black with a snowy white cravat, as if he knew such clothing would frame his pale skin, wide shoulders and slim hips. His eyes would still be grey, not that she could see that from here, nor would she ever wish to confirm it. She’d be quite happy to never speak to him again, and thus forever be in ignorance if his eyes were the same shade of grey she, to her great disgust, still remembered.
The viscount—No. He must be the earl now. The Earl of Edgington. She’d read of his father’s death in the English newspapers in Vienna…or was it Prague? Wherever it had been, she’d skipped over news of him and very deliberately turned the page.
The earl stared back at her. Sofie resisted the urge to check her hair, and then cursed herself for even thinking it. She’d known she’d come across him eventually. The three weeks she’d been in London, she’d held her breath, certain she would turn a corner and there he’d be. Every time she’d attended a ball or a dance, the theatre, even walking in the park she’d thought she’d see him. When she hadn’t, she’d foolishly allowed herself to believe she would never see him, that maybe she would pass this time in London without encountering him again.
More fool her.
“Sofie, what are you staring at?”
Diana’s voice pulled Sofie from the earl to discover her friend regarded her, a crease between her brows.
Arranging a bright smile across her features, Sofie said, “Nothing. This ball is such a crush, isn’t it?”
Diana was not so easily dissuaded, however, and Sofie knew the precise instant her friend discovered whom had captured her attention. Anger soured Diana’s expression. “What’s he doing here?”
A wave of love swept her. The hostility in Diana’s words spoke of her loyalty more than anything else could. “To be fair, it’s the biggest ball of the season. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t here.”
Diana scowled. “There is no fair about it.” Her expression softened. “Sofie, are you well?”
Her smile turned bitter. “As well as can be. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I am only surprised it has not happened before now.”
“I should scratch his eyes out.”
Diana’s fierce declaration startled a laugh from Sofie. “I should think you would have to join the queue.”
“Well, point it out to me.” Diana looked at her, her expression stricken. “He took you from me, Sof. You weren’t even here for Stephen and mine’s wedding. Why shouldn’t I scratch his eyes out? Besides, he hurt you.”
Sofie swallowed. He had hurt her. Ridiculous that she still felt the stab of it. “I survived, but I should not talk to him again, not for all the tea in china.”
“You can’t tell me you enjoyed the last ten years fully. You cannot tell me you didn’t resent having to leave England under such a cloud.”
“No, I don’t, but I cannot regret those years either.” It had begun badly, it was true, but in the past ten years, she’d had more adventure and seen more wonders than she’d ever thought possible. “Where is Stephen?”
Diana waved her hand. “Somewhere. He can do well enough without me. I’m more concerned about you.” Her eyes lit. “No, I will get him. It’s time someone thrashed that man for what he did. Don’t worry, Stephen will set things right.”
Sofie concealed her smile as Diana hurried off, scowling at those daft enough to get in her way. Diana seemed to think Stephen could do anything, which was sweet in his context as Diana’s husband but vastly disturbing when he was one’s brother. She remembered quite clearly frogs in beds, dunkings in ponds and roof-raising fights over who would get the blue croquet mallet.
The earl still stared at her. Smile dying, she looked elsewhere. She didn’t want to think about that time ten years ago, but she could think of nothing else.
She’d been so thrilled when the scandalous Viscount March had paid her attention. She’d heard all the whispers about him, about his dissolute reputation, the wild escapades, the daring wagers. Diana and she had debated endlessly what it meant when the viscount had met her gaze across a ballroom. When he’d finally approached her at the refreshment table, she’d just about expired on the spot. They exchanged words, and then he’d touched her. Nothing overt, a single brush of his smallest finger against hers as their hands rested on the refreshment table, but it had been enough to tumble her headlong into infatuation.
When he’d asked her to meet him in the garden, she’d rushed to say yes. It had been foolhardy, but she’d been seventeen and giddy with her first season. Their first meet, she’d thought he would grab her, do wicked things, but instead, he’d simply…talked.
Over the next three months in the darkened gardens of society, she’d grown to know him. She’d discovered his wit and his humor, the emotion he hid under a mask. He shared himself with her, and she did the same with him. She told him of her desire to travel, her interest in architecture, how her mother drove her insane.
The whispers changed during those three months, of how the scandalous Viscount March was suddenly not so scandalous, how he attended society functions and acted with, if not quite politeness, then at least civility. She’d been smug, knowing it was because of her, and she, foolish child that she’d been, had tumbled headlong into love.
Then had come the Silverton’s ball, and everything had gone horribly wrong.
She hadn’t meant to kiss him. They’d been in Silverton’s garden, and he’d said something unbearably romantic about the stars. He’d been surprised at first, but then his hand tightened at her waist, he’d pulled her into him and she’d…melted. She had been kissed before, but never the way he had. Never with such passion, as if he’d die if he didn’t taste her. As she’d die without him.
Of course, they were caught. Three months they’d met without incident, but the one time, the one time they’d kissed, Lady Harrison, Lady Violat and Mrs Wilding, the worst gossips in society, had seen them.
It had spread like wildfire, that Viscount March and Miss Sofia Hargrove had been caught in a torrid embrace. She’d stubbornly clung to the hope that he would make everything right, that he loved her as she loved him, but when he hadn’t arrived at her home, when he hadn’t paid his addresses to her father, she’d realized she was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.
Six days after they’d been caught, she packed her trunk, taken her maid and set sail for France. Stephen had been touring the Continent, wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting people of Paris. Her brother had been horrified at the arrival of his younger sister at his hotel, but once he’d finished his shouting, he’d taken her in. The fact that she’d promptly burst into tears upon the end of his tirade had probably gone a-ways to convincing him. He’d been so flustered to see her upset he’d caved to any suggestion she made, including that she join him for the remainder of his tour.
At first, their parents had been furious she’d seen fit to decamp. They’d demanded she return home, but when weeks had stretched into months and then years, they’d relented. She stayed away longer than intended, well after Stephen had returned to England, but there’d been nothing for her in London. Those years on the Continent had been kind to her, and she couldn’t regret it.
But she regretted him. The viscount. Bitterly.
“
Miss Hargrove.”
Her shoulders tensed. He wouldn’t.
Slowly, with the fervent wish she’d misheard, she turned. Her stomach dropped and her skin flushed as fury sped through her.
She hadn’t misheard.
The Earl of Edgington stood before her. “Miss Hargrove,” he said again, his rich, deep voice just as she remembered. “You have returned.”
A wave of emotion hit her, so tangled she couldn’t separate one from the hundreds. Did he truly expect her to respond?
No reaction crossed his features at her deliberately rude lack of response, but then he was an unfeeling automaton, wasn’t he? She had been the imbecile who’d imagined emotion behind that impassive gaze. Well, no longer. She knew his measure now, and she had no desire to renew their acquaintance.
She noted, quite insanely, his eyes were the same grey.
A hush surrounded them, as Society noticed the Earl of Edgington was addressing Miss Hargrove. Whispers began, and she could imagine what they said, as they repeated the scandal to those who didn’t know, as they wondered if she would be so stupid as to believe his lies once more.
Cheeks burning, she lifted her chin. She wouldn’t allow such whispers to affect her. Not again.
Finally, the earl spoke. “Miss Hargrove, would you honor me with a dance?”
Fury exploded. Trembling with it, she clenched her fists as she fought to control herself.
He stood there with his impassive face and tall body and he thought he could treat her as if nothing had ever happened? As if she had not been forced to leave this country, her home, because of his actions? A voice whispered she was not wholly blameless, but she ignored it.
Drawing herself to her full height, she poured every bit of anger she felt into her response, the only response she could possibly give. “No.”
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