It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  Had he thought? Of course she would be stand-offish. The sum total of their prior interactions had included him calling her sister a termagant, Miss Grenville inventing burn-in-hell Bible verses to shame him, followed by a heated exchange at the circus.

  The back of his neck heated. He had never before made such a muck of simple encounters, and he hoped never to repeat the experience. No wonder Miss Grenville believed him incapable of comporting himself properly for forty days.

  He had been speaking the truth when he told her he’d forgotten about the wager. Not that he didn’t want to win. He had to win. ’Twas simply that, since the night he’d met Lady X, she had become all he could think about. He hadn’t even danced with another woman since, much less flirted with anyone else.

  He acknowledged the irony. He hadn’t had to try very hard to stay out of the scandal columns—his obsession with Lady X had achieved that for him.

  Although there had been a few near misses. Particularly when there was a Grenville about. They had good reason to dislike him. He ran a hand through his hair in dismay.

  Until the wager, he hadn’t given much thought to how others perceived him. Michael had always done his best to compliment every lady and befriend all the gentlemen simply because he liked people, not because he sought any particular reward or notoriety. But things didn’t always go as one wished.

  “Mmm, if it isn’t the earl,” cooed a female voice behind his ear. “My favorite flavor.”

  Bloody hell, not the widow Epworth on one of her relentless prowls. Blast. Michael heroically refrained from fleeing through the closest exit.

  “Mrs. Epworth.” He kept his tone pleasant but distant. “Are you enjoying Napoleon’s carriage?”

  She licked her lips. “I would enjoy the view far more if you and I were in the back, taking full advantage of that plush satin squab.”

  Michael edged slightly to one side. Say what one would about the widow Epworth, she certainly didn’t waste time making one guess where her interests lay.

  “I am afraid I shall have to decline your generous offer.”

  “Too public a place? My townhouse is much more private. You should pay me a visit. It’s been years since last we… ‘talked.’” She gave a suggestive, open-mouthed wink, lest he not have quite followed the subtleties of her innuendo.

  He tried to think of a demurral that would neither offend her sensibilities nor intrigue her into trying harder to ensnare him. “I’m afraid I am no longer on the market.”

  “Pish-posh. A leopard cannot change its spots. Nor would I wish you to.” She turned away, only to blow him a kiss over her shoulder. “You know where to find me when you change your mind.”

  Once, a comment like that would not have bothered him. Indeed, in Michael’s younger days, he had gone so far as to cultivate a debonair, rakish demeanor. He hadn’t minded at all that his harmless flirtations and pleasurable assignations had garnered him a dashing but scandalous reputation as an accomplished rake.

  After all, his actions with respectable young ladies had always been those of a gentleman. And his activities with the demimonde had always been mutually desirable. Women like Mrs. Epworth were already “fallen.” Everyone won. He was a bachelor, he was rich, he was titled—gossip was just noise, not something that actually mattered.

  Except perhaps it did.

  The Grenville sisters had clearly found him lacking. Unlike the rest of the ton, Miss Grenville didn’t find the wager a jolly spot of fun at all. She thought him worse than scandalous. She believed him to be heartless. A cad.

  He frowned. What would his mystery lady think? It hadn’t mattered because outside of the masquerade, they were strangers. But what if he did discover her name, or she his? He had indulged fantasies about seeing her again, of being with each other as their true selves.

  But what if his overblown reputation was simply too scandalous for that to be possible? Michael’s fingers went cold. What if he told her that she was all he ever thought about… and she didn’t believe him?

  He ground his teeth in frustration. On the surface, his past history spoke for itself. His affections rarely lasted longer than an evening—because the women who had lain with him had not expected anything more. He, too, was often little more than a fling to boast about.

  His jaw set. Regardless of what Miss Grenville and her sisters might believe, he had never seduced an innocent. London contained too many experienced women who knew exactly what they wanted for him to risk getting too close to a marriageable female. With the demimonde, even knowing each other’s names was superfluous. Why pretend either party had designs on the future?

  Except now he did pretend. He dreamed about sharing many more moments with Lady X, in the bedchamber and out. He wanted to kiss her lips at the bank of her river, just as they’d imagined when he’d held her in his arms on the stone folly beneath the stars.

  The fantasy was delightful, but no longer sufficed. They were capable of so much more. If he could only divine her real name…

  Would their blossoming romance have a chance outside of the masquerade? Or would it all come crashing down about them?

  The damp edge of a wet parasol snagged the tail of his coat.

  “Lord Wainwright! I beg your pardon. I was so startled by the stuffed birds on the shelf behind the carriage that I didn’t see where I was going.” A young lady turned slowly scarlet beneath the brim of her bonnet.

  He bowed. “Why, good afternoon Miss Digby. There is nothing at all to forgive. I myself was just wondering what brilliant artist had decided stuffed beasts needed to be displayed in metal cages. One should hope we’re in no danger of them coming back to life.”

  “Never fear,” Miss Digby whispered. “I am armed. If they attack, I shall strike them with my wet parasol.”

  He gave a delicate shudder. “I myself live in fear of the unpredictable nature of your majestic parasol. The stuffed beasts haven’t a chance.”

  She grinned and tucked the instrument safely out of harm’s way. “Thank you for being so kind. I trust I have left no lasting damage?”

  “Only to my pride,” he assured her. “Enjoy the exhibition, Miss Digby.”

  “You as well, Lord Wainwright.” She bobbed a curtsy before disappearing into the crowd.

  Michael tried to return his attention to Boney’s carriage. For as long as he’d stood in the exhibition hall, he had yet to examine the luxurious spoils of war.

  Yet his gaze went not to the Imperial arms and gold candlesticks, but to the eldest Grenville sister. From the corner of his eye, it appeared the trio were making their way toward the exit.

  He pushed back his shoulders in determination. He had been out of sorts in more ways than one these past few weeks, and the middle sister had suffered for it. Despite the horrendous day he’d had, despite the inexplicable vehemence she’d displayed to him from out of nowhere, a gentleman should not snap at a lady.

  Perhaps this was the perfect moment to apologize for insulting her. Michael straightened his beaver hat and hurried outside, a hopeful smile playing at his lips. They could finally put the awkwardness behind them.

  He caught up with the sisters just as they were hailing a hackney. “Ladies, if you could grant a brief moment, I believe I owe one of you an apology.”

  All three women stared back at him with identical blank expressions, as if he were not an infamous earl but a forgettable servant whose function they could not recall.

  See? No rancor this time. He was positively growing on them.

  He swept off his hat and faced the middle sister. “I apologize for the thoughtless words before your dinner party. There is no excuse for such rudeness. I should never have called you a termagant.”

  “Of course there’s an excuse,” she said with a sigh. “You would never have reacted thus, had I not called you a soulless cretin and implied you couldn’t read.”

  Michael blinked in surprise.

  “I provoked you. I meant to.” She winced at the memory. “It wa
s not at all well done of me, but I was just so angry with you…”

  “Angry with me?” He tried to think. “For requesting you refrain from whinnying at my soirée?”

  “Not the whinnying.” She waved an impatient hand. “I can whinny anytime I wish. What I cannot do every time I wish is raise funds to cover the operating costs of my school for wayward girls. Without sufficient donations, dozens of young ladies will find themselves back on the streets, back in the nightmarish environments they’ve only just escaped.”

  He frowned at the sudden shift in topic. “It sounds like a worthy cause.”

  “It is. That’s why I was furious with you for ruining it.”

  He stepped backward in surprise. “I ruined it? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “That is the point.” Her smile was brittle. “One month ago, I presented the charity opportunity to an interested group of socially conscious society ladies at the Blaylock soirée. All had previously expressed their intent to donate funds once they learned more about the project.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t see how I—”

  “You interrupted our gathering, complimented the ladies on their beauty and accomplishments, and cautioned them to beware creating more competition.” She pulled a face. “I presumed you were jesting. The others did not. Every single promised donation was rescinded the moment you left.”

  His stomach sank in horror. He didn’t recall the conversation in question. He wasn’t even certain what night it might have been.

  But, to his chagrin, he could not claim to be surprised. He attended so many events, greeted countless people. The words were automatic.

  Michael had always believed the only sane way of managing innumerable social interactions was to be kind to all guests and keep the conversation superficial. Admire a gentleman’s new hunting box, compliment the embroidery on a lady’s reticule. He had been trying to avoid problems, not to create one for someone else.

  “I didn’t mean…” he began.

  She lifted a shoulder. “I know. My sister pointed out that was likely the case. Yet the consequences remain the same.”

  He swung his gaze to the eldest Grenville. The one who had quoted false testament at him in Hyde Park and later expelled him from her house and onto his ear after overhearing his remarks to her sister. He could not blame her.

  His throat grew thick. She hadn’t thrown him out because of his thoughtless comment in the midst of his foul mood. She’d thrown him out because it was one more straw in an endless stream of slights. From him, from the world at large. She’d thrown him out because she could. Because their home was the one place she and her sisters had any say at all.

  “I apologize,” he said again, though words had never once solved anything. He hoped they realized he spoke the truth. “I won’t keep you any longer. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  The two youngest sisters mounted the step into the hackney and disappeared inside without taking their leave. The elder Miss Grenville gazed at him for a moment longer before doing the same.

  He stared back at the blank dusty walls as the door swung closed and the hack rattled away. Miss Grenville’s silent gaze had unsettled him for reasons he could not say.

  Perhaps because unlike the rest of society, she did not see him as a rake to be reformed or a bachelor to be won. Nor did she see him as the empty-headed Adonis depicted in the caricatures.

  Miss Grenville didn’t give a damn about his title or his money. Her sensible heart didn’t flutter at the thought of hearing her name on his lips or having him press a kiss to her gloved hand. She cared about things that mattered. Like sticking up for other people. Like taking care of her family.

  He had meant his apology. The Grenville sisters might not trust his sincerity. He would not blame them for skepticism. But he would do everything within his power to ensure he was never so careless with how his words might affect someone else again.

  Michael snugged his beaver hat back onto his head and strode to his carriage. As soon as he returned home, he would have his man of business determine which bank held the account for the school, and ensure an anonymous deposit was made forthwith.

  If there was one thing that was certain after today, it was that the pleasure-seeker he had once been was not the man he wished to be. Not for the Grenville sisters, not for Lady X, and not for himself. The future had changed course, and he wanted Lady X to be part of it.

  He was not merely out to win a wager. He was out to win a countess.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Days later, Michael strode through the flower garden at the rear of his property and wondered how it might fare in the eyes of Lady X.

  He had been mooning over her for the better part of a week. It had become such a normal part of his daily routine that could scarcely remember what life had been like before she had overtaken his every waking thought.

  Nor did he wish to return to those whirlwind but meaningless days. He wanted more of his nights with Lady X. He wanted her here, at his home. In his arms. At his breakfast table. The hours they spent together at each masquerade were delightful beyond compare, but he wanted… more.

  He wished he were not strolling through the twisting paths of his garden alone. But what could he do?

  The next time he saw Lady X, should he ask for her name? Or was the wisest path to continue as things were, for as long as she’d let him?

  Uncertainty itched beneath his skin. He didn’t want to push too hard and send her running. But he also didn’t want to wait too long and lose her anyway.

  There was no right answer. Only two risky choices with unknowable outcomes.

  Frustrated with his mad obsession over a woman whose name he didn’t know, he had spent the past several days trying to distract himself from the mystery of Lady X.

  Since the last masquerade, Michael had visited Bullock’s Museum for the carriage exhibit and Cribb’s Parlour in Haymarket the next day for bare-knuckle boxing. Then half a bottle of Blue Ruin at the Daffy Club. After regretting that decision intensely the following morning, he had shoved down the brim of his hat to block the sun from his bloodshot eyes and met a few friends at the Peerless Pool. He took daily walks just like this one hoping to queer his blue devils.

  Nothing worked. He was positively smitten. Nothing could quit Lady X from his mind.

  Frustrated, he turned away from his garden and headed toward the mews at the rear. His pace increased in determination. Friends would be a good distraction. He summoned his coach and set out for the Cloven Hoof.

  As Mayfair slowly disappeared from the carriage’s side windows, Michael did his very best not to imagine himself en route to Lady X’s London domicile, wherever it might be, with flowers or imported chocolates in hand. This was not the right time.

  Before he did anything rash, he had to win his wager.

  The fact that Lady X had let slip that she must take great care to guard her reputation hinted at her social standing… and her priorities. Michael had to win this bet not just to prove himself to his friends, as he’d first intended, but to prove himself to society at large. Especially Lady X.

  If he could not manage forty days without scandal, she would never think of him as anything more than a rakehell. A temporary lover with whom a lady might pass a few pleasurable hours before finding a serious gentleman more worthy of her time.

  He wanted to be worthy of her time. More than that, he wanted to be worthy of her heart. Or at least to hope for the possibility of winning it. He didn’t want to offer her a future filled with caricatures and whispered gossip. He wanted to offer a life she could enjoy. A home she could relax in. A man she could trust.

  He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.

  As soon as the carriage ceased moving, he leapt from the cab to the paved stone below and strode into the dimly lit interior of the Cloven Hoof.

  Clumps of men with intense expressions and half full glasses of brandy crowded the gaming tab
les. The bar was empty save for a serving girl arranging drinks on a tray. Michael glanced up toward the ceiling.

  The caricatures those blackguards Gideon and Hawkridge had so helpfully strung up like Christmas decorations rustled in the breeze from the closing door. Although sun and soot now rendered the printed etchings illegible, Michael’s friends had likely left them up just to needle him.

  It worked, damn them.

  He found both scoundrels at a rear table. From their shadowed corner, they had an excellent view of the bar, the gaming tables, and the front door.

  By size of their grins, they had both witnessed him glance up at the ceiling the moment he crossed the threshold. He allowed his irritation to show on his face. The rotters were enjoying this wager entirely too much.

  He slid into the seat opposite Gideon, viciously pleased the strung etchings had since faded to blurs. He hoped his past soon would, too.

  Some of the drawings Michael supposed he had deserved. He was indeed a shameless flirt. He did, in fact, love wine, music, and people of all walks of life. Perhaps he was the “Lord of Pleasure.”

  But the other caricatures, the truly hurtful ones, had not been earned. He had never cuckolded a friend—or anyone at all. There was no secret chamber of debauchery hidden within his house. His thoughts while in the House of Lords were not on women, as the artists depicted, but rather the very real problems of the day.

  There was a time and a place for being derelict. Parliament was not that place. Michael’s vote carried the same weight as any other, and he did his best to ensure he used it wisely.

  Perhaps now that his name wasn’t splashed across every scandal column in England, he might finally develop a reputation he could be proud of.

  “Wainwright.” Gideon motioned for one of the serving girls to bring an extra glass. “Haven’t seen you in over three weeks. How is the wager coming?”

  “The fact that you have to ask means you know I’m winning,” Michael said as he accepted a glass of brandy.