Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal

by Grace Burrowes

  It… soothed him to hold her, to breathe in her floral and spice scent, to feel the silky warmth of her hair sliding beneath his palm.

  “When will you know?”

  She’d been feigning sleep against his side but opened her eyes at his question.

  “Two weeks, though this time of year, I sometimes have reprieves.”

  He mentally translated: She didn’t bleed regularly in spring.

  “Then I’m going to ask for at least six weeks of an engagement, Maggie. The longer we wait, the more certain you’ll be of the necessity of marriage, if you’re carrying.”

  “Women miscarry. Her Grace miscarried several times after Evie arrived.”

  A cold skein of dread slithered through his vitals. “You aren’t planning to miscarry, are you?”

  “I am not.”

  “That’s… good. I would not want harm to befall you on my account, Maggie. Not on any account.”

  She sat up and frowned at him. “This is a sham engagement, Benjamin. You needn’t affect all manner of protectiveness. I manage quite nicely on my own.”

  “For the space of a few weeks, my dear, we will manage quite nicely on our own.”

  She regarded him in the gathering gloom of the carriage as she started rummaging in her reticule. “I was considering a two-week engagement. I ought to know in two weeks.”

  “If you know for a certainty you are not pregnant, I can’t stop you from crying off at any time, but you must promise me something.” He took her hand in his before she could put her gloves on. “You will not cry off until you do know for certain. We would only have to become engaged again, and that will create a great deal of talk indeed.”

  “But I told you…”

  He put a finger to her lips. “We’re both exhausted; the day has been trying. We can argue as enthusiastically as you like tomorrow, for I will be calling on you regularly, Maggie, and escorting you to Her Grace’s teas and comporting myself in every fashion like a man both besotted and engaged.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, my dear, it is.”

  He escorted her to her own front door to emphasize his point, bowed very properly over her hand, and lingered for a moment on the stoop with her, giving all and sundry a glimpse of Benjamin Hazlit wooing his intended. She tolerated it, probably because she was too tired to remonstrate with him further, then squared her shoulders and disappeared into her house.

  Ben waved the coach on and decided to use the last of the light to walk home. Realizations—revelations, more like—such as those he’d had today required further thought. When he got home it was full dark, and the thought of a hot bath and a cold drink loomed like paradise.

  He’d just shucked out of his riding attire when Archer came sauntering into his dressing room in evening formal wear.

  “I’m getting tired of chasing Abby Norcross.” Archer subsided onto a dressing stool. “When they say women have more stamina than men, they aren’t just talking about copulation.”

  “When do you ever speak of anything else?”

  “When I actually am copulating, I speak of the lady’s eyes, her hair, her gorgeous—”

  “Hand me the soap.” Ben lowered himself into the steaming tub, grateful in his bones for the luxury of a hot bath. “Where are you off to tonight?”

  “Some damned musicale, then a soiree, then the Peasedicks’ ball in time for the supper buffet. I have it on good authority Lady Abby will grace at least one of those gatherings with her adulterous presence.”

  Ben began to scrub at himself, feet, then arms, chest, and armpits. “What if she’s not committing adultery?”

  “She as good as told his lordship any damned body was more capable of giving her pleasure than he was, and she felt sorry for his mistress.”

  “Ouch. No wonder he wants her in the country. I have some news you need to be aware of, though I doubt it’s making the rounds yet.” He dunked, came up, and started lathering his hair.

  Archer shot his cuffs. “Gossip is always juiciest when it’s fresh, rather like—”

  “Are those emerald cuff links, Cousin?”

  “Poor quality emeralds, but yes. They bring out the soulful luminosity of my eyes.” He batted his eyes then rose and went to poke at the fire. “What is this news you have? I’ve likely already come across it, because I wasn’t avoiding work all day like some people.”

  Ben watched as Archer managed to look elegant performing a task usually undertaken by the servants. “I’m engaged to marry Lady Maggie Windham.”

  Archer rose, iron poker still in his hand. “You’re what? I’m not sure I heard you correctly, as I tend not to pay attention when you’re in the mood to lecture and pontificate. Did I hear you aright? You’re engaged?”

  “To Maggie Windham.”

  Ben dunked his head again. When he came up, Archer was very carefully putting the poker back with the matching set of implements to the side of the hearth. It appeared his heir wasn’t going to comment, so Ben ducked to rinse again, then came up.

  Archer passed him a dry flannel. “You’re engaged to marry Lady Maggie. Well, well, well.”

  Ben glanced over a little warily. Archer could be a merciless tease, but there was no humor in his eyes.

  “The engagement might not last. We were not observing the proprieties as closely as we ought when Lady Dandridge came stumping along. I expect the announcement will show up the day after tomorrow, but Maggie is not convinced we’ll suit.”

  Archer resumed his seat on the dressing stool, his expression hard to read. “Maggie Windham is a woman with troubles, Benjamin. You don’t need to marry her to resolve those troubles.”

  “I’m thinking I do. Her reticule has been returned to her, and she said no money had been taken.”

  “Which leaves you wondering what was stolen that meant more to Maggie than money?”

  “Precisely, and by whom, and how are they exploiting it? If it was letters, they weren’t from one of Maggie’s former lovers.”

  Archer crossed his arms. “They weren’t?”

  Ben pitched the damp flannel at him. “They were not, though for Maggie’s sake I almost wish they were. I could just call the blighter out, wing him, and leave him to convalesce for a few decades on the Continent.”

  “Oh, of course. Scandal always makes a lady see her intended in the most favorable light. You’re marrying a Windham, Benjamin. Do you know how much fun the gossips would have with any excuse to bruit that family’s business about?”

  “Yes, Archer, I do. Rinse me off, would you?”

  Archer obliged by dumping two large ewers of tepid water over Ben’s head, then passing him a bath sheet. “When is the wedding?”

  “We have not set a date.”

  Silence while Ben extricated himself from the tub and dried off. Archer waited until Ben was in a dressing gown and dragging a brush through his hair, before he ambled over to stare at the fire.

  “You ought to set a date.”

  “It is usually the lady’s prerogative. Did you steal my best wool socks again?”

  “Me, steal? From my own cousin? Under our very roof?” He turned and rested one elbow on the mantel. “They are ever so warm, and a man gets chilly running around Town all night. Why isn’t the lady setting a date?”

  Ben eyed him in the full-length mirror. “She isn’t convinced the union will be necessary.”

  Archer blinked once. “You naughty boy, you. Anticipated the vows and the proposal, did you?”

  “That is none of your concern, but for your information, I had already proposed. Lady Dandridge will have it we were choosing names for our firstborn, though that was hardly the case. Keep your ears open, please, and don’t linger too long with your little lady’s maid. I’d like the Norcross situation wrapped up directly.”

  Archer didn’t even blink. “You expect our custom to disappear when it becomes known you’re the Earl of Hazelton, don’t you? You can’t get engaged as plain Ben Hazlit, because that
miserable, sodding bugger is legally nonexistent. This is famous… just famous.”

  Archer stalked out of the dressing room and into Ben’s sitting room, heading directly for the decanter on the sideboard. “You might be ready to retire, Benjamin, but I am not.”

  “Then don’t. I expect I’ll be vacating this house, and you’re welcome to the use of it. You’re still my heir; you have the courtesy title to protect your entrée into the proper functions. If I do marry Maggie Windham, I’ll be repairing North for at least an extended trip.”

  Archer paused with a tumbler halfway to his mouth. “You’re just handing me the business?”

  “I have never enjoyed sneaking about, Archer, though I comforted myself we served a useful function from time to time.”

  “What about the money?”

  “I’ve amply dowered my sisters with some to spare as a nest egg for my own children, though I’m beginning to think distance and coin were not what my sisters needed from me most.”

  Archer took a swallow of his drink. “This is disconcerting, but not… unexpected, exactly. I’ve watched you over the past year, getting quieter and quieter, the ladies becoming invisible to you; the pigeons going North more and more frequently. Is this about your sisters?”

  “In a way, yes, and in another way, not at all. Do you like children, Archer?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Archer turned as he spoke, ostensibly to pour Ben a drink.

  “If I fail to produce sons, you’re still the only means of securing the succession.” Ben sidled over to stand beside his cousin, because something about this conversation was rattling Archer, and nothing ever rattled Archer Portmaine.

  “You’ll produce sons, you and Lady Maggie, if you haven’t made progress in that direction already.”

  “I want children with her, though both of us are getting a late start at it,” Ben said, speaking slowly. “But for her sake, I hope we haven’t gotten a start on it already, not like this.”

  Archer passed him a drink. “She’s really reluctant?”

  “She’ll say we don’t suit, but I think that’s likely her way of saying I can do better. Either that or she’s trying to protect me from whatever trouble she’s in.”

  “In which case…” Archer fell silent for one frowning moment. “Solve her problems, and she’ll fall into your arms?”

  “She’s fallen into my arms. Perhaps what I’m hoping is that if I solve her problems, she’ll become my countess.”

  Archer looked like he’d say something but downed the rest of his drink instead. Ben waited until Archer was at the door, one hand on the latch.

  “Archer?”

  He turned slowly, expression guarded.

  “Your little lady’s maid? I’ve watched you get quieter and quieter, too, the ladies becoming invisible to you ever since we put Anita Delacourt on a boat for Ireland.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Della Martin would be starving in the gutter by now if you hadn’t forged a few characters for her. I’ve always thought it one of your more inspired improvisations.”

  Archer turned to face the door, his voice quiet, devoid of insouciance. “She’s passing for French now, and she put up with that pestilential woman and her drunken admirers for three years, just so her employer could grab every jewel that wasn’t nailed down and disappear like a thief in the night.”

  “And a year later, you’re still making sure Della is safe. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re smitten.”

  “And you’re not?”

  He tossed the question over his shoulder then quietly departed, leaving Ben to ponder the answer.

  ***

  “Forgive me my concern for you.”

  Westhaven’s tone was grave, as grave as Benjamin’s had been in the carriage just the previous evening.

  “You are a duke in training,” Maggie said. “You must fret over your family. Have some lemonade. Anna says you favor it with great quantities of sugar.”

  She took a seat at the wrought iron grouping on her terrace, and her brother did likewise. It was a beautiful day, and there were fewer ears to overhear outside the house.

  Westhaven crossed his feet at the ankle, leaned back in his chair, and studied Maggie while she tried to busy herself with the tray of refreshments.

  Devoted brothers were the most mixed of blessings. Maggie had been up late trying to deal with just this problem: Their Graces might contain damage socially, but it was Maggie’s brothers who would poke and pry in the name of concern, and with the best of intentions, provoke a far worse scandal than a precipitous engagement.

  Westhaven slowly stirred some sugar into his drink. “My countess is ever devoted to my proper care and feeding.” Even the mention of his wife had Gayle’s normally austere features lightening.

  “And how is my nephew?”

  He smiled, his entire countenance beaming a sort of quiet joy Maggie found hard to behold. “His little lordship thrives shamelessly. His Grace has finally expressed unstinting approval of something I’ve undertaken.” The smile faded, and Maggie bore the brunt of her brother’s piercing green-eyed stare. “And now that you’ve diverted me from my intended agenda, Mags, you will answer my questions.”

  “You are my younger brother, Gayle Windham. I need not put up with your interrogation.”

  “But you will, because much of your property is in my hands, and I’m not above threats to gain the truth from you.”

  Maggie snorted. “You are incapable of mishandling a business transaction, so your threats are idle. I might answer a few questions out of simple sororal devotion.”

  He set his lemonade down while resuming his study of the glass. Beads of condensation trickled down the sides, and a wet ring formed on the tray beneath.

  “Do you love him, Maggie?”

  As broadsides went, that one would do nicely. “I am fond of him.”

  “You are fond of your old footmen, fond of my horse, fond of chocolates. One doesn’t marry out of fondness, not after turning away more suitors than I can count. If Hazlit is in any way coercing you, Mags, I’ll meet him, and that will be an end to it.”

  Strategy being everything, she did not roll her eyes or stand up and start stomping about. “And what would Anna think of your gallantry when it got you injured or killed?”

  “What would Anna think of my gallantry if it was so paltry as to get my wealthy sister leg-shackled to an unworthy, deceptive—?”

  She held up a hand. “I know about the title, and I don’t think Benjamin will be doing much more skulking about if we marry.”

  “Did he tell you about the title, or did His Grace let it slip?”

  “He told me, and well before we became engaged. I thought you liked Benjamin.”

  “I like him, but liking and trust are two very different things where a sister’s happiness is concerned.” He picked up his drink then set it down untasted. “You worry me, Mags, so self-contained and quiet. Hazlit—Hazelton—would not have been my choice for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a man who dwells in the shadows and appears to like it there. You have enough shadows of your own.”

  “Maybe he sees me as I really am because shadows don’t deter him.” It was an inadvertent approximation of truth and had her brother frowning at her for a long moment.

  “So you do care for him.” Not a question. “Then why do I still feel as if this union is not well advised?”

  Damn him—damn all prying, well-meaning brothers.

  She took a dilatory sip of her lemonade. “If it’s any comfort to you, I am fairly certain the engagement is temporary. Almost certain.”

  “Oh, Mags…” His expression turned to rueful humor. “Not you, too.”

  “Me, too?”

  “Anna and I… You can consult the calendar. I’m sure everybody else has. His Grace found great glee in telling me Bart had come early, as if Anna and I were following in some great Moreland family tradition.”

/>   “I got the same bit of history from Her Grace. They mean well.”

  “I mean well, too.” He rose, but bent and placed a kiss on Maggie’s crown before she could get to her feet. She reached up and circled his wrist with her fingers where his hand rested on her shoulder. He was a good brother—they were all good brothers—and the urge to confide in him was nigh overwhelming.

  “It will work out,” he said quietly. “And if it doesn’t, I can have you on your way to the Continent with an hour’s notice. Or Ireland or Scotland. You’ll not forget that?”

  “Shame on you.”

  “Yes, on me, but never on you, Mags. Never on you.” Then he was gone, disappearing through the garden’s back gate.

  Maggie managed to wait until she heard the clip-clop of his horse’s hooves fading down the cobbled alley before she started to cry.

  ***

  “Get the damned ring on her finger before another sun has set.” His Grace lowered his voice, even though he and Benjamin were in a private dining room at His Grace’s club. “All the tabbies will be looking for it, and you can get a big, flashy piece without spending a great deal. Has to do with the quality of the gem.”

  “We’ll be selecting a ring tomorrow.” Now they would be. A ring wasn’t a detail, but Ben had overlooked the need for one. He took another sip of excellent wine and contemplated the oversight.

  “If you want my advice, don’t spend a great deal. Made that mistake when I was a young husband. Wanted to shower my duchess with jewels, but she loses ’em. Damnedest thing.”

  “Esther Windham doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to misplace anything of value.”

  His Grace stopped ingesting rare beefsteak long enough to spear Ben with a look reflecting both exasperation and affection. “She isn’t that sort of woman at all, which makes it all the more befuddling. I have since concluded she took to ‘losing’ her jewelry to discourage me from spending so much. When you think the ladies are empty-headed henwits, that’s when they’re being brilliant. Mark me on this, Hazelton. I have daughters, daughters-in-law, granddaughters, and one duchess. I have made a study of the fairer sex out of sheer self-preservation, as any wise man will.”