A Scandal at Midnight

by Annie Burrows

  But then, her brother’s plans never did. They did not take into account the feelings of others, only what he assumed to be right. When his former fiancée, Penny, had explained to Beatrice the truth of the situation—that she had not had an affair with a Scottish soldier, but that her father had sold her to him to pay off his debts—Beatrice had believed her. Whether or not her brother had... It hadn’t mattered. The damage had been done. And there was nothing that could have been done about her marriage. In the end, Penny had agreed to marry the Scot and go with him back to the Highlands. But the truth didn’t matter. Not to Hugh, whose opinion of Penny had been altered forever.

  Once Hugh determined someone had fallen short, they could never again be held in the same esteem they had been before.

  That could be her after tonight.

  Yes. It could be.

  But she had two options. She could either go along with what her brother wanted for the rest of her life, or she could attempt to claim something for herself.

  And so she had decided on this endeavour, dangerous though it was.

  She knew that the reputation of a woman was a perilous thing. And that becoming ruined was actually much easier than remaining beyond reproach.

  ‘Shall we go downstairs?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beatrice said. ‘Let’s.’

  It was just time for guests to begin arriving. Beatrice wanted to make sure that she was tucked away in an advantageous corner of the ballroom so that she could watch for the arrival of James. And from there, she would decide the best course of action. Because she would have to figure out exactly where she had to be seen with James. And what exactly they needed to be doing.

  She was not entirely certain how tonight would unfold, and she needed to...think. Needed to get a sense for what was happening.

  She took a sharp breath and steeled herself, as she and Eleanor walked down the stairs. Their feet didn’t make a sound on the rich, burgundy carpet that covered the stairway. Marble from Italy gleamed bright on the floor of the entry, reflecting the lights of the elegant chandelier that hung above. Intricate scrollwork carved into the crown mouldings.

  But it paled in comparison to the opulent ballroom. The marble there was gilded at the seams, frescoes painted on the walls and the ceilings of angels and demons locked in heavenly battle.

  They moved from the entry into the ballroom, and Beatrice immediately set upon the punchbowl. She was quite pleased to see that there were already refreshments placed out, and that there were a few people in attendance. Her brother would arrive on time. Not a moment sooner or later. What was fashionable did not matter to him. It was a matter of being a man of his word.

  When the ball truly did start, Beatrice was relegated to the back by her own sense of propriety. She was a guest without truly being a guest. In many ways it was actually shocking that Hugh allowed her to come downstairs and attend in any measure at all. He could have just as easily kept her shut up in her room. But he did not.

  It was quite the break with tradition. By Hugh’s standards.

  James was not here yet, but she knew that he would be. And soon. Her brother arrived, made greetings to his guests. And eventually made his way to the back of the room.

  ‘How are you finding this evening?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Lovely. As ever,’ she said, fighting the urge to twist her hands with nervousness. He would ask what was wrong if she displayed a hint of nerves. He was far too perceptive. It was not part of his charm.

  His eyes darted behind her. ‘Where’s Eleanor?’

  ‘I do believe that she was asked to dance,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘Was she indeed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her brother’s gaze was sharp.

  And she could see that his concerns would be transferred elsewhere. She did wonder sometimes, if he believed so strongly in the force of his own will that he did not worry about her defying him, or if he simply did not believe her to be a woman. If he did not believe that anyone would ever see her that way. It was entirely possible that he believed he did not have to guard her against suitors because he did not believe that she was capable of having any.

  He saw her as a sickly child.

  The thought made her very sad. Deeply so. And sometimes when that despair welled up inside her she...

  Her chest felt heavy. And she ached. That clawing feeling that she couldn’t breathe overtook her and she worked hard at her trick. One she had cultivated on those long days spent ill. Was it her body denying her breath through restricted airways or fear making her think it was? If she slowed the moment, the world, she could find the truth. And so she did, relaxing her shoulders and breathing in deep. Then she dug her fingernails into her palm, the slight pain soothing.

  Pain was an interesting thing.

  At least, in Beatrice’s opinion. Some avoided it, and she supposed that was its purpose. To tell you to turn away from a path, to warn you of harm.

  But she hadn’t had that choice. Pain was part of saving her life, part of the regimen doctors used on her body.

  She’d had to forge a different way of relating to it.

  It marked so many steps taken in her life. Good and bad. She had been bled as a child. Frequently. It had been excruciatingly painful. Many of the treatments she’d been subjected to had been. And then, as her health had begun to improve, she had taken what opportunity she could to sneak out and roam the estate. That was how she had met Penny. She had found her lost on the estate, having wandered too far from home.

  Beatrice had been loath to let anyone know that she had been out, as she hated to reveal her secrets. But she had found a great deal of freedom and pain out in the world, when she had finally been able to explore nature. Bee stings and the sharp pain of falling and scraping your knee. Falling out of a tree.

  All things that she never wanted her brother to know had occurred. But she had begun to associate it with her liberation.

  And sometimes... There was a familiarity to it that hurt. It was not something she spoke of. Not ever. For it made little sense, even to herself. Yet as her nerves began to fray she found balance in the pain in her palm. A sort of grounding sensation.

  A sense of strength.

  A sense that she knew herself and that she could withstand far more than anyone believed. It was that sense that gave her confidence now.

  She felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck, and she looked up, just in time to see Briggs walk in.

  The Duke of Brigham.

  When he walked in, a ripple went through the room. Briggs was the sort of man who attracted attention wherever he went. It was undeniable.

  He was magnetic in a black coat, black waistcoat and white cravat. He wore buckskin breeches and black Hessians. In a room full of men dressed in similar fashion he should not be notable. But whether it was the fit of the clothing, or simply the quality of the man beneath, he was more than notable.

  He was outstanding.

  He was the most beautiful man Beatrice had ever seen. She was certain he was the most beautiful man anyone in this room had ever seen. And the reaction to him indicated that. But it was not just his appearance—though his dark hair, kept just long enough to carry a slight wave, and his piercing blue eyes were certainly the pinnacle of masculine attractiveness.

  No. It was his bearing.

  He carried an air of authority that was unquestionable. He was an entirely different man to her brother. Not one bound quite so tightly by honour. And yet. And yet there was never any doubt that he was in absolute control. Of himself.

  The ton had an obsession with him, as did every marriage-minded mother. If he had a fault, it was that he was already in possession of an heir. But his marriage had been brief, and many years ago, so much so his bachelorhood was firmly re-established.

  As was his reputation as a rake.

  But he was also.
..kind. And she had always found him easy. Easy to talk to. Easy to befriend. She knew he did not think of her as a friend. She would be little more than a child to him, for as long as he’d known her. But she carried a deep well of affection inside herself for Briggs, and whether or not it was sensible or reasonable, it remained.

  It was...

  She felt sometimes as if the stars hung on his every word. And that the sun shone because of his every breath. She would not say that she carried a flame for him, not in the way that Eleanor did for Hugh. No. It wasn’t that. Briggs was beyond her. It was simply that she... That she could not imagine her life without him. And in that way, yet again he was like the sun or the stars. Unreachable, but it was unfathomable to imagine life without that warmth. That presence.

  He did not acknowledge her. Not formally. In fact, he crossed the room and made his way to a group of ladies. Not debutantes.

  Widows.

  Men of his sort preferred widows. They did not have to observe the same strictures as young ladies. Beatrice could not pretend that she understood the nuance of that. She felt a strange prickling sensation though, watching him as he spoke to those women. And then he turned, only slightly, and his eyes met hers from across the room.

  And he winked.

  Her heart jumped in her breast, and she turned away. She did not want him to look at her for too long. She had the fear that he might be able to suss out that she was up to something, and the last thing she needed was to be caught out by Briggs.

  She nearly fainted from relief when she saw James arrive. He was wearing a smart grey coat with a blue waistcoat, the effect overall much softer compared to Briggs’s much more severe attire.

  He was sweet and handsome, angelically so. With blonde hair that curled at the base of his neck, and pale blue eyes.

  She did not feel... What she did not feel was as if a magnet drew her to him. As if she could not look away from him. She felt comforted by him.

  Friendship.

  Theirs was a deep and real friendship. One that—were it known about by the ton—would see her ruined anyway as she had been alone with him without a chaperon before. Now they would simply need to court public ruin.

  In the absence of her brother’s blessing, she would have to force his hand. Because he hated scandal above all else. Which meant... She would have to create one.

  And he would never see it coming, because he did not believe her capable.

  James came to her, a second glass of punch in his hand.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ He handed it to her.

  She appreciated it. The care it demonstrated. He was like that. He was kind.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Have you devised a scheme for the evening?’

  ‘I have to figure out where I think we might be seen and by whom. Logic indicates that it should be Hugh who catches us out.’

  ‘I see. And are we to simply wait in his bedchamber?’

  For some reason those words made her stomach tighten. ‘His bedchamber? I do not think we need a bedchamber.’

  The look on James’s face was almost...pitying. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘A lady can be ruined by walking along the wrong garden path,’ Beatrice pointed out. ‘I could have been ruined long ago if it was known I went calling at your residence and took tea in your drawing room without the presence of a chaperon.’

  ‘I rather think that for the scheme you’re devising there was going to have to be a measure more than walking involved. Or taking tea. There can be no doubt as to what is being witnessed.’ He looked down. ‘I fear your brother enough to know he must think the only option is for us to marry, lest I find myself called to account, and on the wrong end of his pistol.’

  She looked up at him, feeling helpless. Because she did not know what he was alluding to.

  She was... She was terribly sheltered. And she had seen pictures in some of the books left in the library that depicted nude nymphs running away from male suitors, and it always made her feel uncomfortable. For some reason, those images came back to her now, and she had a feeling... Well, she had always had a feeling that something to do with those images related to ruin. It was only she could not connect them.

  ‘I should like... I...’

  He smiled, and it was kind. ‘I do not wish to force you into anything, Beatrice. Please, if you wish to turn back, it will never be too late.’

  ‘This is for you as well,’ she said. ‘You also must feel...you also must have the life you desire, James. And I care for you. If I could help you, I wish to.’

  And she might never be able to understand exactly why he didn’t want a real marriage. And perhaps the two of them would be giving up certain things. But they would have friendship. And all the freedom marriage afforded.

  And she... She had felt for him. Because while he was a man, he was a second son, and he did not have anywhere near the power that her brother had in his position in society. He was facing enormous pressure from his family, and it was a pressure he did not want. Beatrice didn’t have to have experienced the exact same thing to understand what it was to be presented with a life you did not want to live.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know what to do. It would be best to have the largest audience as possible, while seeming to believably seek isolation. I know where to go. We will be found, not only by my brother, but by his associates.’ Briggs would be among them. The very idea made her skin feel scorched. Shame. She felt a deep sense of shame.

  ‘He often retires to his library at some point during an evening such as this,’ she continued. ‘If we could contrive to be in present...and...’

  ‘We should only have to be locked in an embrace,’ James said. ‘That should be enough.’

  She felt somewhat mollified by that. A simple embrace did not seem so ruinous. But she knew that to the broader society it would be seen as such.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe that is so.’

  ‘We shall meet there.’

  ‘Yes. And in the meantime, endeavour not to draw suspicion.’

  She waited. Waited until the hour drew closer for her brother to begin to make his way from the ballroom. They would have to get there before him. With a bit of time.

  James was already gone.

  She swept from the room, taking care not to be seen, and tiptoed up the stairs, towards her brother’s library.

  The only light in the room was that cast by the fire in the hearth. She hoped that the staff would not precede her brother to light candles for those who would soon occupy the room. The staff might offer her discretion. She did not want discretion.

  She wanted to be ruined.

  She sensed movement in the corner, and she turned, her stomach tight with nerves, her entire body nearly surging with unnatural amounts of energy. And then she heard footsteps. Just at the same time. And before she could think, before she could do anything but act, she did so. She flung herself at the figure in the corner, wrapping her arms around him. But he was so much taller than she had expected him to feel.

  So much more solid.

  The figure...the man...moved against her, and she nearly fell backwards. And then he lowered his hand, cupping the rounded globe of her buttocks. And she knew that hand was much too large to be James’s.

  Terror streaked through her, but just then, the door flung open wide, and along with the open door, came the light.

  ‘What in the devil is happening?’

  She looked towards the open study door and felt...everything shatter. It was not merely her brother and a few colleagues; it was a house tour. Complete with some of the sharper-tongued gossips of the ton.

  And then she looked up, up at the man who held her in his arms, to see familiar blue eyes. Far too familiar.

  The stars. The sun.

  Briggs.

  His hand was
still planted firmly on her buttocks, and suddenly the warmth of his body became an inferno, the strength of his hold a revelation.

  She could not breathe.

  You can breathe. No man is allowed to steal your breath.

  Even so, the fact remained...

  She had flung herself at Briggs. And her brother had walked in just in time to see it.

  ‘I demand an explanation now. Or I will have no choice but to call you out.’ She could see murder in her brother’s eyes, and she knew that he was not speaking in jest.

  ‘There is nothing untoward here.’ Briggs released his hold on her slowly, ensuring that she did not fall.

  ‘And yet, we have all witnessed something quite untoward, sir.’

  ‘It’s my fault. It’s my...’

  ‘There is no question. There is no question of what must be done.’

  She looked back at Briggs, who was gazing at her brother with fury in his eyes. ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s it to be. Pistols at dawn?’

  ‘No,’ Briggs said, his voice firm. Decisive. ‘It is to be marriage.’

  Copyright © 2021 by Millie Adams

  Love Harlequin romance?

  DISCOVER.

  Be the first to find out about promotions, news and exclusive content!

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  Instagram.com/HarlequinBooks

  Pinterest.com/HarlequinBooks

  ReaderService.com

  EXPLORE.

  Sign up for the Harlequin e-newsletter and download a free book from any series at

  TryHarlequin.com

  CONNECT.

  Join our Harlequin community to share your thoughts and connect with other romance readers!