It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  Her chest tightened with worry. She cast her gaze out the dirty glass of the hack window at the congested city streets. She had escaped the scandal columns the night of her ruin. That had been miracle enough. What if she had been seen with Lord Wainwright in the park? What if he told someone the truth, or an observant passer-by managed to put it together?

  What if, in her attempt to save her sisters’ reputations, she’d ruined them in the process?

  Her fingers went cold. The moment the hired hack slowed in front of the Grenville townhouse, she leapt out and hurried through the front door and up the wooden staircase before her sisters could hear the gossip from someone else.

  Both Bryony and Dahlia glanced up with identical startled faces when Camellia burst into their shared sitting room.

  “I have a confession.” Her heart thudded so loudly, she could scarce hear her own pronouncement. “I won’t be marrying Mr. Bost.”

  “Thank God.” Dahlia tossed a sheaf of papers aside in relief. “We can stop plotting how to kidnap you from Northumberland.”

  Camellia was too nervous to take a seat, but forced herself to perch on the edge of the chaise longue across from Bryony. They should all be sitting down for the rest of her confession.

  “I cannot wed anyone,” she forced herself to admit, “because I am ruined.”

  “You’re what?” Bryony set down her violin with shaking fingers. “Who is this despicable cad who isn’t gentleman enough to offer for you?”

  “He offered,” Camellia said quickly. “I said no.”

  “You what?” Dahlia squeaked, her face a mask of horror. “You’re in no position to say no. Why would you do such a foolish thing?”

  “That wasn’t the foolish bit.” Camellia took a deep breath. There was no going back. “The foolish part was… Lord Wainwright.”

  Both sisters stared back at her in shock for a long wordless moment.

  “I didn’t mean to. I promise,” she assured them, her face aflame. “We were both wearing masks and had no idea who we were with until it was too late.”

  Her sisters’ jaws dropped in tandem.

  Camellia’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t know. And I realize that makes me sound like a brazen roundheels. Masks on, gown off. I’m afraid it was… exactly like it sounds. The tension had been building for weeks. By the time an opportunity presented itself…” She cleared her throat. “If it helps at all, I believe Lord Wainwright was just as shocked to learn my identity as I was his.”

  Both sisters blinked.

  The first to regain her senses was Bryony, who tumbled off her fainting couch in peals of laughter.

  Dahlia, however, did not join in the giggles. She stared at her elder sister as if Camellia had sprouted hooves and a tail.

  “I’m sorry.” Camellia lowered her gaze. “I know you said you’d never forgive us if we so much as spoke to him. This is infinitely worse.”

  “Infinitely better,” Bryony corrected, propping herself up off the floor. “What Dahlia said was that she wanted to take him down a peg. I’d say making him fall in love with you only to cut him from your life easily counts.”

  Camellia’s heart raced faster. “He’s not in love with me. He’s an earl. A gentleman. He offered to marry me because he wished to do the right thing.”

  Dahlia pursed her lips. “Wainwright may be an earl, but he’s no gentleman.”

  “Deliciously not,” Bryony agreed, pretending to fan herself with her gloved hand. “You just said he didn’t know who you were. There was no need to be a gentleman. How ruined are you? If you made love to him at the masquerade—”

  “I might have,” Camellia admitted, her voice strangled.

  “—then there was certainly no expectation of proper behavior on anyone’s part.” Bryony’s eyes sparkled. “Wainwright has money, a title, good looks… He has never done a single thing he didn’t wish to do. If he asked you to marry him, he meant it.”

  “Did you say ‘no’ because you meant it?” Dahlia asked quietly.

  “I…” Camellia’s neck heated. “I may have said ‘no’ because we were caught.”

  “Caught!” Bryony crowed in delight. “Why haven’t we heard rumor of the scandal?”

  “Wainwright was recognized, but I was not. For now,” Camellia added with a wince. “If I align myself with him publicly, it won’t take the gossip columnists more than a single afternoon to determine that I was the mysterious lady in the earl’s bed.”

  “It sounds delightfully sordid,” Bryony said in a hushed whisper. “I am impressed. Why don’t I ever get to do anything sordid?”

  “You’re not trying hard enough,” Dahlia informed her sternly. “If Cam can bring the most infamous rakehell in London up to scratch, I shall be mortified if my baby sister can’t muster up a moment or two of scandal.”

  Camellia’s mouth fell open. “You’re not angry? Either of you?”

  “There’s nothing you need to apologize for,” Dahlia hedged. “I’ve forgiven the earl.”

  Camellia and Bryony exchanged a suspicious glance. Dahlia not holding a grudge might sound positive, but was more likely to be a terrible omen. She had been known only to forgive after exacting revenge. Their brother’s left foot was still dyed purple.

  “So you’re even?” Bryony pressed, narrowing her eyes at Dahlia. “Cam can have as torrid an affair with Lord Wainwright as she pleases?”

  She frowned in surprise. “Cam doesn’t need my permission for a torrid affair. She shouldn’t require anyone’s permission for anything.” Dahlia swung her wide-eyed gaze toward her elder sister. “Cam, when are you ever going to start doing what you want?”

  Camellia had tried that. It hadn’t worked. She gave a weak smile. “I’m the elder sister. It has never mattered what I want. Only what’s best for the family.”

  “Of course it matters,” Bryony exclaimed. “That delicious man is in love with you!”

  “He’s in love with Lady X,” Camellia corrected. “She never existed. Only plain old Camellia Grenville exists.”

  “And what does plain old Camellia Grenville want?” Dahlia asked softly. “Spinsterhood? Northumberland?”

  “The opera,” Camellia said softly. “Ever since I was a child, what I wanted most was to sing professionally. I knew I couldn’t have it, of course. A daughter in theater would ruin the entire family.” She laughed humorlessly. “So I fell in love with a rakehell instead.”

  Bryony’s eyes sparkled. “If you want to sing opera and marry Wainwright, then you absolutely should.”

  “I agree.” Dahlia leaned forward. “I’m pursuing my dream of helping London’s indigent girls find their feet. Heaven knows Bryony does whatever she wants.”

  Bryony nodded earnestly. “Quite true. I’ve been rather worse than usual of late.”

  “If the worst scandal you can imagine is taking advantage of your incredible voice and marrying the man you love…” Dahlia looped her arm about Camellia’s shoulders and pulled her into a warm hug. “I would never forgive myself for standing in your way.”

  “It wouldn’t be my scandal alone,” Camellia stammered, hugging her sister back for all she was worth. “Your reputations would be ruined by association. The gossips will assume all three of us are fallen women.”

  “Let them.” Bryony shrugged defiantly. “It was only a matter of time until I managed to ruin my reputation on my own. Your future happiness is a far better reason to get started.”

  “I’m headmistress of a school for wayward girls,” Dahlia pointed out. “Not a convent. The only souls who believe me an angel are my students. I certainly cannot expect my own sister to be. In fact, I would be delighted to inform Mr. Bost that you must regretfully decline to wed yourself to a stranger.”

  “Beast!” Bryony whacked Dahlia’s shoulder. “I shall be utterly disconsolate if I am not the one chosen to impart the marvelous news.”

  “Then I must disappoint both of you wretched creatures,” Camellia said with a choking laugh. “Mr. Bost may
not have chosen me for love, but he does not deserve to be treated shabbily. I shall pen him a letter at once, so that he does not waste a four-day trip.”

  “And we,” Dahlia said softly, “are delighted beyond measure that you will not be wasting the rest of your life. You have too much talent and too big a heart not to use them both to their fullest potential.”

  Throat stinging, Camellia embraced her sisters and did her best not to cry in their hair. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for them—or they for her. She loved them more than anything on this earth.

  The most precious wedding present her sisters had given her wasn’t their well-wishes or the exotic gowns they’d commissioned for her to wear to the masquerade.

  It was the freedom to decide her future for herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Michael leaned against the cold brick of his fireplace. With unseeing eyes, he sifted idly through a stack of correspondence. So many cards, letters, invitations. And yet the only person whose voice he longed to hear never wished to speak to him again.

  Despondent, he glanced over at the table, where yesterday’s paper yet lay. Michael still wasn’t certain whether to frame the Cloven Hoof’s announcement or to burn it.

  Despite all odds, he had won the forty day wager—but the victory could not have felt more hollow. He felt no relief over what he had won because all he could think about was who he had lost. And how much she meant.

  Camellia had said that winning hadn’t changed anything. That his reputation was still too scandalous to take his proposal seriously. Yet Michael had never been more serious about anything in his life.

  There were plenty of other women who would have valued a countess’s life of luxury over something so ephemeral as a reputation. The silver tray on his mantel overflowed with calling cards of ladies hoping to ensnare an earl by any means necessary.

  He didn’t want just any woman. He wanted the one he loved. The one he had hoped to share his life with, not merely share a title. Without Camellia, the rest didn’t matter. No amount of riches could bring joy to a loveless marriage.

  And she was right. He’d won a wager, not a war. The battle to improve his reputation in society’s eyes was far from over. It might take months, years, before London thought of him as the Earl of Wainwright rather than the Lord of Pleasure.

  But he didn’t have years to work on improving his image before winning Camellia back. He might not even have months. Some other toff—a true gentleman—would already have swept her off her feet and whisked her to the nearest altar. If Michael wanted an opportunity to change her mind, he needed to make his case before it was too late. But how, if she refused to even speak to him?

  He snapped his gaze back to the stacks of calling cards and correspondence upon the mantel. A spark of hope sizzled across his skin. Camellia may not wish to resume their conversation, but if he wanted to hear her voice… perhaps he still could.

  An electric excitement ran through his veins as he rifled through the piles of unopened correspondence until he found the only invitation that mattered. The Grenville soirée musicale. Tonight. No—not just tonight. Right now.

  He shoved the small rectangle into the inner pocket of his greatcoat and strode straight to the mews. There was no time to waste with summoning a servant to ready the horses or coaxing his refined coachman into driving with more urgency than befitted an earl.

  There wasn’t a moment to spare. Michael would drive himself in his swiftest phaeton.

  If he arrived after the performance had begun, he would not be granted entry. Indeed, even though the invitation was hand-lettered to him by Lady Grenville herself, he still had to cross the threshold. If the butler remembered him as the man Camellia had thrown out and instructed never to return…

  Oh, who was Michael fooling? Of course the butler would recall such a memorable incident. Michael’s first task wasn’t winning a private word with Camellia. It was wheedling his way through the front door.

  Reins in hand, he raced his phaeton through Mayfair’s cobblestone streets. When he arrived at the Grenville townhouse, he handed over the carriage and a gold sovereign to the closest footman and strode up the walk to the front door.

  The butler’s lips pursed in distaste upon sight.

  Michael’s hopes fell. No matter. He would fall to his knees and beg if necessary. “My name is—”

  “Lord Wainwright,” the butler finished darkly. He stepped forward as if to block the entrance. Although he had quickly schooled his features into the carefully blank expression worn by front door staff, the butler showed no sign of stepping aside to grant the earl entry. As trusted staff, he likely considered the girls to be under his protection… and had no intention of allowing them to be hurt anew. “Is the family expecting you?”

  Michael rather doubted it. He fumbled for the invitation in his greatcoat pocket and presented the side bearing his name with a flourish. “I am in possession of a personal invitation for tonight’s musicale.”

  “I see.” The butler did not move.

  Michael’s gut filled with dread. “Has it already begun?”

  “It has not,” the butler replied slowly. “Although I expect it shall at any moment.”

  There was still time! Michael tried not to display his frustration. “Then may I please come in and take my seat?”

  “It’s standing room only.” The butler’s scowl faded. He sighed and stepped aside. “But you may try.”

  The acquiescence was so unexpected, Michael blinked twice before he realized the butler was indeed allowing him to cross the threshold. Renewed hope stretched his face into a grin. “I… I may come inside?”

  “Miss Bryony and Miss Dahlia both gave me explicit orders,” the butler responded stiffly.

  But not Camellia. Michael’s smile dimmed. At least he had been granted entrance. It was more than expected. What happened next was up to him.

  He thanked the butler and followed a footman to an open door leading to the rear of a well-appointed salon. Michael’s head jerked back in surprise at the scene inside.

  Standing room only didn’t begin to describe the astonishing crush of people present. He stared in disbelief. He’d had no idea the Grenville musicales were this popular. In fact, he’d heard that the same siblings presented the same score in the same format year after year. Yet there were almost as many bodies crammed into one small townhouse as there were attendees at Lambley’s sprawling masquerades.

  “The performance is about to begin,” prompted the footman. “All doors must be closed to preserve acoustical purity.”

  “Of course,” Michael stammered, and stepped into the room as the door followed right behind him.

  Rows of chairs filled the room in two large blocks. Those who had not arrived early enough to secure a seat stood shoulder-to-shoulder about the perimeter. Every eye focused on the small wooden stage at the front of the room. A pianoforte stood to one side, and a thick velvet curtain on the other.

  Despite the incredible number of guests in attendance, the salon was completely hushed. The air fairly crackled with excitement and anticipation.

  Michael eased along the crowd until he found a bare scrap of wainscoting to lean against by the far wall. It was much farther from the stage than he would have liked, and not at all the best angle to view a performance, but by the looks of things he was fortunate to have found a spot to stand at all.

  Lady Grenville stepped out from behind a curtain to the side of the stage and strode to the center to face her guests. “Thank you all for coming to share a night of magic and music. If this is your first time joining us, please allow me to introduce my children as they take the stage. First, my only son: Mr. Heath Grenville.”

  A handsome young man with a secretive smile strode out from behind the curtain.

  No one clapped. No one even moved. Yet the excitement in the room was even more palpable than before.

  The show was finally going to start.

  “Mother. Guests.” Mr
. Grenville bowed to the hushed room and took a seat at the pianoforte.

  Lady Grenville beamed at her son, then turned back to the crowd. “Next, my eldest daughter: Miss Camellia Grenville.”

  Michael snapped to attention as Camellia stepped out from behind the curtain in a simple, butter-yellow evening dress. His heart tripped. It was nothing like the elaborate bejeweled gowns paired with exotic feather masks she had worn to the masquerades, and yet she had never looked more lovely to him than she did tonight.

  No amount of diamonds and plumes could compare to the beauty of seeing her actual face. Michael would happily spend the rest of his life with both of them in rags if it meant there would be no more masks keeping them apart.

  “And last,” Lady Grenville continued with obvious pride. “My youngest daughter: Miss Bryony Grenville.”

  When the youngest chit stepped out with a violin in hand, Michael barely managed to restrain a gasp of shock. Because he’d spent the last decade-and-a-half haunting music stores across the continent in search of unique harps, he recognized the instrument for what it was.

  Bryony Grenville’s violin was a work of art. A musical masterpiece crafted by none other than the famed luthier Antonio Stradivari. What on earth was happening?

  Lady Grenville took her seat in the front row next to her husband.

  Michael stood a little straighter. He’d always known that the Grenvilles were neither rich nor poor, neither shunned nor especially fashionable. He’d believed their much-publicized musicales to be nothing more than a mother’s obvious attempt to draw a level of attention to her daughters that they might not otherwise receive. Three suitors for three daughters was too important a task to be left to Almack’s alone.

  But the middle daughter wasn’t even present. The youngest had a Stradivarius that cost as much as the townhouse they lived in. It was the son who sat at the pianoforte. And Camellia…

  What had Hawkridge said, that day at the circus? The marquess had claimed Camellia’s voice was far superior to the current reigning soprano—a woman internationally famous for the beauty of her voice.