How to Disgrace a Lady

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘I suppose I’ve been a cicisbeo long before tonight,’ Merrick sighed in response to Riordan’s comment. He’d made a large part of his living based on charm and romance. He might not be a ‘kept’ man who was obviously dependent on a woman’s gifts to him, but if he looked closely enough at his life, he was dependent in other ways, not that the honesty made him proud to admit it.

  A ‘life of love’ wasn’t as glamorous as they’d imagined it all those years ago sitting in a student-populated tavern. Then, the road to the future had been long and untravelled—anything was possible. They’d toasted the fact that they were second sons with no expectations placed upon them. There was nothing to inherit but a future they’d carve for themselves. They’d make great reputations as London’s finest lovers. It had seemed like jolly good fun at the time.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Ashe said rather suddenly, his eyes serious and sober in contrast to Riordan’s. ‘We’ve all sold ourselves in some way or another. It’s impossible not to.’

  Merrick stood, adopting a posture of humour, not wanting to be sucked into Ashe’s maudlin philosophy. ‘There’s no time to worry about it. I’ve got a bride to transform and a bridegroom to find.’

  Heaven forbid that bridegroom end up being him, Merrick mused, taking himself out into the darkened hallway and finding the way to his room. He wasn’t a marrying man. His father had made sure of that ages ago and, in the intervening years, he hadn’t done much to improve the notion. He was well aware there were too many rumours surrounding him and his profligate behaviours. While the rumours inspired curiosity they also inspired distrust.

  An image of Alixe’s face, alight with excitement over the translation, came to mind. Tonight had been an unlooked-for surprise. He’d not expected to enjoy the work so much. In fact, there’d been a point where he’d forgotten about the stupid wager altogether. For Alixe’s sake, he couldn’t forget himself like that again. To a woman of her standards, it wouldn’t matter that while many of the rumours were true, a few of the most damaging were false.

  Alone in his room, Archibald Redfield drank a silent toast. St Magnus would be gone by sunrise. A man like him had no particular code of honour. With the matrimonial noose dangling over his head, St Magnus would run as fast as he could, leaving the path to Alixe open. Archibald would be on that path, ready to approach Folkestone with an offer to rescue Alixe. Who knew what kind of rumours St Magnus would spread? It had been an expensive victory, but worth it. In one move, he’d managed to eliminate St Magnus from the house party and he’d put Alixe Burke in a corner from which he would gallantly offer to rescue her.

  Archibald took another swallow of brandy. An engagement would scotch any blemish to Alixe’s reputation. Archibald was certain after this last débâcle, Folkestone would be eager to marry Alixe off to the first man who asked, even if he was a mere mister, and Archibald would be there, only too ready to comply. Folkestone would be grateful and that could be useful, too, in perpetuity. Everything was working out brilliantly at last. He couldn’t make Alixe marry him, but Folkestone could.

  ‘You cannot make me marry anyone,’ Alixe said evenly, matching her father glare for glare across the expanse of his polished mahogany desk. So, this was his plan, the plan she’d waited all night to hear. Merrick St Magnus was to marry her or find someone else to do the deed for him. It was implicitly understood that was the only reason for being made over into the Toast of London.

  ‘I can and I will. We’ve tolerated your foibles long enough,’ came the reply.

  Her foibles? Alixe’s temper rose. ‘My work is important. I am restoring history about our region. This is as much the history of Kent as it is the history of our family.’ Her family knew that. ‘You think it’s important as long as Jamie’s the one doing it.’

  ‘It’s not appropriate for a woman. No man wants a woman who is more interested in ancient manuscripts than she is in him.’ Her father stood up and strode around the desk. ‘I know what you’re thinking, miss. You’re thinking somehow you’ll get out of this, that you’ll reject every suitor St Magnus finds and you’ll find a way to run him off at the very last. If you do that, I’ll cut you off without a penny and you can see exactly how it is for a woman on her own in this world without the protection of a man’s good name.’

  That was precisely what she was thinking: the driving-the-suitors-away part anyway. The last bit worried her. Her father would do it, too. He was furious this time. If it was possible, he was even more furious over this than he had been about her rejection of Viscount Mandley.

  She had to throw him a proverbial bone if she meant to renegotiate this. ‘I’ll go to London after the house party and finish out the rest of the Season, without St Magnus.’ That should appease him.

  ‘No. You’ve had a chance, more than one chance, to turn London to your favour.’ Her father sighed, but she did not mistake it for a sign that he might be relenting. ‘The arrangement isn’t all bad. St Magnus has a certain savoir-faire to him; he’s stylish and charming and he’s risky without being a full-fledged black rake, although he skates pretty close to the edge. Being with him will bring you a cachet of your own, it will help others see you in a different, in a better light. There’s no real chance of actually marrying him, thank goodness. Use him and drop him, Alixe, if he’s so distasteful to you. Everyone has a place in this world. It’s time you learned yours.’

  So much for her father’s version of sympathy.

  Alixe cast a beseeching glance her mother’s direction, only to receive a slow shake of the head. ‘Your father and I are together on this, Alixe.’ No help from that quarter. Perhaps she could cajole Jamie into pleading her case. There were any number of stories he could likely tell that would persuade her father to keep her as far from St Magnus as possible.

  ‘One more thing,’ her father added. ‘We are to say nothing of this to Jamie. It would create a grievous rift in his friendship. We’ve all agreed to keep this incident quiet.’ There went her last hope. Now all that was left was to appeal directly to St Magnus. Surely he was no more enamoured of the tangle they found themselves in than she was.

  Chapter Six

  It was over. Her bid for freedom was truly over this time. Alixe sank down on a stone bench in the flower garden, setting her empty basket beside her. She was in no mood to pick flowers for the vases in the house, but it gave her a useful excuse to be away from the gaiety of the party. Most of the guests were still lingering over breakfast before preparing to ride out on a jaunt to the Roman ruins.

  Her father had meant it this time. There would be no reprieve. In all honesty, he’d been generous in the past. He’d tolerated—she couldn’t say forgiven—tolerated her rejection of Mandley and, before that, her rejection of the ridiculous Baron Addleborough. He’d tolerated—she couldn’t say supported—what he viewed as her oddities: her preference for books and meaningful academic work. She knew it had all been done in the hope that she’d come around and eventually embrace a more traditional, accepted life.

  Only it hadn’t worked out that way. Instead of deciding to embrace society on her own after realising the supposed error of her ways, she’d retreated. The retreat had started simply. At first, it had been enough to stay in the country and devote her efforts to her history. Then it had become easier and easier to not go back at all. Or perhaps it had become harder to go back. Here, she was less bound by the conventions of fashion and rules under the censorious eyes of society. Here she could avoid the realities of an empty, miserable society marriage. Here, she was happy.

  Mostly.

  The truth was, for all the solace the country offered, she’d been restless even before St Magnus’s foolish wager. She’d spent the summer roaming the countryside, looking for … something. Restlessness and loneliness were the apparent going prices for the relative freedoms afforded by the isolation of the countryside. Now, all of that was about to change and not for the better. She should be more careful what she wished for.

  ‘Ther
e you are.’

  Ah, her unlikely fairy godmother had come to make a silk purse out of sow’s ear. She met St Magnus’s easy demeanour with a hard stare. In that moment she hated him, truly hated him. After a night that had upended whatever future he had imagined for himself, he looked refreshed and well dressed, a rather striking contrast to the picture she knew she presented with her dark circles and plain brown gown.

  She hadn’t slept at all and she hadn’t taken any pains this morning to disguise the fact. But St Magnus was impeccably attired for riding in buff breeches, polished boots and deep forest-green jacket. The morning sun glinted off his hair, turning it platinum in the bright light. It was the first time that she had noticed his hair was almost longer than convention dictated, hanging in loose waves to his shoulders, but not nearly long enough to club back. Or was it? Hmmm.

  ‘Is something wrong with my face?’ St Magnus enquired, lifting a hand tentatively to his cheek.

  ‘No.’ Alixe hastily dragged her thoughts to the present. Wondering about his hair would serve no purpose, no useful purpose anyway.

  ‘Good. I’ve come to discuss our predicament.’ St Magnus set her empty basket on the ground and sat down uninvited beside her on the little bench. She was acutely aware of his nearness in the small space and of the other time they’d been so close.

  ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ She tried to slide apart, but there was no place left to slide.

  ‘Discussing our situation?’

  ‘No, sitting so close. The last time was a disaster.’

  He eyed her with a wry look. ‘I think that’s the least of your worries, Alixe. It’s certainly the least of mine.’

  Alixe. The sound of her name on his lips, so very casual as if they were friends, as if working together last night had meant something instead of being contrived to steal a kiss, sent a small thrill through her until she remembered why he was there. She folded her hands in her lap. ‘I imagine you’re quite concerned about the little matter of your wager.’

  ‘I am and you should be, too.’ He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his booted ankles. ‘If I fail, your father will see us married. Neither of us wants that, so tell me who you want to marry and I’ll see to it that you have him.’

  Alixe snorted. This was like a bad fairy tale. ‘How do you propose to do that? You can’t wave a magic wand and conjure a husband out of thin air.’

  ‘No, but you can. I can teach you what you need to entice your man of preference. So, name your man. Who do you want?’

  Alixe stood and paced the path. ‘Let me think … He should be moderately good-looking, moderately young. I don’t want anyone too terribly old. He should be intelligent. I would want to have decent conversation over a lifetime of dinners. He should be respectful and he should appreciate me for who I am—’

  ‘No,’ St Magnus interrupted.

  ‘No? He shouldn’t be respectful or able to make decent conversation at meal time?’

  His blue eyes flashed with irritation at her recital of characteristics. ‘No, as in I don’t want a list of qualities. I want a name. For example, Viscount Hargrove or Baron Hesselton.’

  ‘Then we are at cross purposes,’ Alixe snapped. ‘I don’t want a name. I want a man, a real person.’

  St Magnus rose to meet her, arms crossed. ‘Listen, Lady Alixe, you can play stubborn all summer, but that won’t change the outcome, it will only change the husband.’

  ‘And that would be intolerable since it would be you. Don’t stand there and make it seem as if all your plans are for my benefit. You’re only interested in saving your own precious hide,’ Alixe said angrily. ‘You’re not concerned about me. This is all about you getting what you want, just like it was last night. You didn’t care about the translation. You cared about the wager and I was fool enough to believe otherwise.’

  Merrick’s eyes narrowed to dangerous blue slits. Good. He was angry. She’d managed to shake his attitude of casual insouciance. It was about time he was appalled by what faced them. Goodness knew she was.

  His voice was cold when he spoke. ‘We are most unfortunately in this mess together. You can either take my help and take charge of how this ends, or you can be saddled with me for a husband. I assure you, such a result will only bring you grief.’

  She saw the truth in it. Marriage to a man like St Magnus was perhaps worse than the reality of a traditional society alliance. At least then there would be no illusions like there had been momentarily last night.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Alixe tipped her chin high. Women who married the fantasy were inevitably betrayed when their husbands created the fantasy with other lovers.

  ‘That’s your father’s threat, my dear, not mine.’ Mischief twinkled in his eyes. ‘I think you might enjoy certain aspects of being married to me. It’s not as though it’s a case of caveat emptor. You know exactly what you’re getting. There won’t be any surprises when the clothes come off on our wedding night, after all.’

  Alixe felt the hot blush creep up her neck. This man was impossible. ‘Really, you must stop mentioning it.’

  St Magnus laughed. ‘I probably will when it ceases to make you blush. Now, we must get you back to the house and get you changed for the excursion out to the Roman ruins.’

  This was too much. ‘You do not have the ordering of me.’

  ‘I thought we’d established that I do until you choose another husbandly candidate.’ There was almost a chill to his tone, cautioning that she’d better be careful about pushing this man too far. His easy manners hid a deeper, angrier soul. It was a surprise to discover it. Nothing in his behaviour to date had suggested such a facet to his personality existed. The glimpse was gone as quickly as it had come.

  ‘I hadn’t planned to go on the excursion.’ She picked up the flower basket.

  ‘I hadn’t planned to get caught in the library with you.’

  She turned to face him with hands on hips. ‘Look, I’m sorry you lost your wager, but that doesn’t give you leave to make my life any more miserable than it has to be under the circumstances.’

  ‘I think you’d better get used to calling me Merrick, and you’re wrong about the wager. I won, after all.’ He gave her a cocky grin. ‘I kissed your mother.’

  She knew the look on her face was one of pure astonishment. She couldn’t help it. The most incredible statements kept coming out of this man’s mouth. ‘You kissed my mother?’

  St Magnus—no, Merrick, chuckled and sauntered down the path back towards the house. ‘On the hand, my dear girl,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour at the carriages. Don’t even think about being late.’

  Alixe humphed and stomped her foot. He was infuriating. She had no doubts he’d come looking for her if she wasn’t there. She’d tried to avoid him this morning and he’d found her anyway. Well, he could demand she be at the carriages, but he couldn’t tell her what to wear. Alixe smiled to herself. He’d soon see what a Herculean labour her father had set before him. When her father realised there was no way Merrick could free himself from marrying her, her father would relent. Her father didn’t want Merrick for a son-in-law.

  Alixe hummed her way back to the house. For the first time since midnight, she had a plan and it would work. Then she’d be right back where she’d begun the summer. Never mind that the two words ‘restless’ and ‘lonely’ hovered on the periphery of her thoughts. She’d worry about that later. At present, she had a husband to lose.

  She was prompt, Merrick would give her that. At precisely eleven o’clock, Alixe Burke presented herself on the front steps with the other milling guests, ready for the outing to the ruins. It was something of a surprise that she was on time given she looked a fright. Mastering such an unattractive, nay, invisible look took time.

  If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it to her in temporary recognition of victory. She wasn’t going to concede quietly. Lucky for him, he liked a challenge. Just as long as
he won in the end.

  Merrick excused himself from the group he chatted with and made his way to Miss Burke’s side. ‘Touché, Lady Alixe,’ he said in low tones for her ear alone. ‘You will have to do much better than that.’

  Her eyes flashed, but her chance for a rejoinder was cut short by the arrival of carriages and horses. There were a few moments of organised pandemonium while Lady Folkestone sorted everyone into vehicles and those who wished to ride.

  Alixe chose to ride. Merrick watched Alixe mount the roan mare, taking in the leaping head on the pommel of her side saddle. She was something of a serious horsewoman, then. No one would consider jumping without it. That she considered jumping at all said something about the quality of her riding. She reached down to adjust the balance strap on her stirrup, further testimony to her competence. That was when he looked more closely at the hideous habit. Its lines weren’t ugly. In fact, the outfit was efficiently cut. It was merely the colour. Where other women wore traditional blue and greens, she’d chosen a mousy grey that did nothing to enhance the amber sherry of her eyes or the chocolate lustre of her hair.

  ‘You don’t fool me for a moment, Alixe,’ he said casually once the crowd had separated into groups along the road. The road was only wide enough for two to ride abreast and the riders had neatly paired off with the partner of their choice. Merrick would remember what a formidable hostess Lady Folkestone was. No doubt, this outing was designed with matchmaking in mind, the road chosen for this exact purpose. There’d be plenty of chances for the young couples to exchange semi-private conversations while in plain sight of others along the road to the ruins. It was a stroke of brilliance on his hostess’s part.

  ‘What fooling would you be referring to?’ She kept her eyes straight ahead, her tone cool.

  ‘This attempt to be invisible, not to mention unattractive. It will take more than that to get me to beg your father to reconsider, or to send me running back to London, refusing to honour my agreement.’