To Love a Scandalous Duke (Once Upon a Scandal)

by Rosa, Liana De la

  Alethea nodded.

  “Well, after I was sent from England, I went to stay with my maternal grandfather in France, and then traveled with him to St. Lucia not long after. My mother was my grandfather’s only child, and thus I was his only grandchild, and I was”—Declan paused, memories of his doting grandfather burning his throat—“sufficiently indulged.”

  “How blessed you were to have someone who loved you after you were forced to leave your mother and brother behind.” Her voice dipped to a consoling whisper.

  “I was.” He stared at the curve of her face while he willed his emotions back into order. “He died four years ago, and I was left in control of all six plantations, not to mention the ships, the warehouses, and the factories used to process the cane.” Declan allowed his finger to stroke across her back once, and although it twitched to repeat the motion, he willed it into obedience. “I’ve traveled throughout the West Indies, as well as the Gulf Coast and East Coast of America, and most of the European coast, from various Mediterranean ports to Belfast and beyond for business.”

  Alethea stared at him unblinking.

  “I’m just a simple businessman.”

  “There’s nothing simple about anything you described. Considering your many responsibilities, do you intend to stay in England?”

  The last music notes echoed through the ballroom, and couples brushed past them as they exited the dance floor.

  They didn’t move. She remained firmly locked within his arms, and Declan found he didn’t possess the resolve to free her. Especially not as he considered the breathless way she asked her question, as if his answer was important to her.

  “Until I settle my concerns regarding Albert’s death”—and your father, he thought––“I do.”

  Chapter Nine

  December 1806

  I’m made to feel as if I owe him an apology. For not being enough. For not being another.

  -Diary of Lady Margaret Gordon

  Friends to Lovers? We Hope So!

  What is the old adage? Where there’s smoke, there’s fire? Well, it appears to be true when used in reference to the newly returned D of D and the ever-popular Lady A. Diverted chatter reached our ears the pair was spotted in Hyde Park laughing and making merry, while others reported seeing the earl’s daughter trudging home sopping wet and with a certain ducal escort fighting a smile.

  We, here at the Examiner, were willing to assume the meeting in the park was accidental and, in the lady’s case at least, unfortunate. So imagine our surprise when our flock of little birds cooed in our ears that the pair were seen together again at Lady Carlton’s ball. This time, however, the crush of guests observed them within each other’s embrace, scandalously and deliciously close, and oblivious to the company around them.

  Could Lady A’s streak of denied proposals be in threat of ending? Could the mysterious and darkly handsome duke be off the market so soon after his arrival? Could their budding romance heal the rift their families suffered, or is mere flirtation in the air? So many questions remain to be considered, but one thing seems clear to us: the grounds for scandal become more and more fertile with each longing look that’s exchanged.

  Reading one’s name in the paper was still a surreal experience to Alethea, despite its irksome regularity. But seeing her name printed so closely to Declan’s made her stomach flip in ways she was hard-pressed to decide were good or bad.

  “What put that look on your face?” Finlay asked from the other side of the table, where he was quickly demolishing a plate of eggs, kippers, and a rasher of bacon.

  She picked up her cup and took a sip of hot coffee. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do. You’re wearing a ‘something has sparked my fancy, but I better not let on’ sort of expression.”

  Alethea rolled her eyes. “I am not.”

  Finlay paused, a forkful of eggs suspended before his mouth. “Yes, you rather are.” He pointed to his chest with his other hand. “Twin. Knows all your looks. Has named many of them.”

  “You have not.”

  He dropped his uneaten eggs onto his plate and sighed. “You’re being contrary this morning.”

  “I am n—” Alethea snapped her mouth shut and smothered a laugh.

  “Right.” He grabbed his napkin, wiped his mouth, and held up his closed hand. “There’s your ‘I’m smiling when I really wish I could plant you a facer’ look.” He ticked off a finger. “Or the ‘if I had access to a medieval torture device, you’d be in trouble.’” Another finger met its brethren.

  Her outraged gasp couldn’t quite mask the snicker emitted by one of the footman. “That’s horrid, Fin. I have no such looks.”

  He smirked. “You wear the last one every time Mr. Remington comes to call.”

  “Yes, well.” Seizing her cup once more, she lifted her chin a notch, thoroughly dismissing his nonsense. She lowered her eyes back to the newspaper in front of her, intent on finishing her reading—until it was snatched from under her gaze.

  Finlay plopped back into his seat with his stolen contraband. He flipped through the paper, skimming rapidly over the pages. Alethea knew the moment he’d found the article when his eyes widened before his brows lowered.

  “It appears you have a new sobriquet to add to your collection. Duchess.” Finlay drew the last syllable into a snakelike sound.

  “They’re being absurd.” Alethea picked up a piece of toast and slathered raspberry jam on it, feigning a casualness she didn’t feel. Not at all.

  “Or they’re saying what everyone else thinks. It’s obvious they saw you and Declan waltzing and heard of your little excursion in the park.”

  “So we danced.”

  “I’d say you did much more than dance.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “What do you mean?”

  “Hathaway found me in the card room for the express purpose of telling me about your waltz with Declan. For that reprobate to notice means something.”

  “What rubbish.”

  “If it’s rubbish would the paper have printed the story of your waltz, and what they’re calling your ‘budding romance’ on the first page of the gossip section?”

  “Yes,” she exclaimed and smacked her hand on the table, coffee sloshing over the rim. “Every move Declan has made since his return has been bandied about, and we both know the rags love to analyze every breath I take.”

  The unfairness of it gripped her throat, briefly strangling her of reason, and she ran a hand down her neck as if she could loosen its hold on her. Alethea had already learned there were specific things she could not change, and the press’s fascination with her was one of them. But the feeling of helplessness that swamped her whenever she thought about it didn’t lessen with time or experience.

  “If you already knew how closely you and Declan were being scrutinized, why did you ever agree to dance with him?”

  She ran a napkin over the spilled coffee on the tablecloth, her eyes tracking the way the white material turned brown. “He asked, and I couldn’t exactly tell him no.”

  Finlay snorted. “Yes, you could have. After the debacle in the park, I would have thought you’d keep the entire length of the ballroom between the two of you to quiet the gossip.”

  His censure irritated her, and she tried to remain calm under his accusatory glare.

  “Don’t you think it would’ve been worse if I cut the Duke of Darington in front of Lord and Lady Carlton’s guests? Can you imagine the talk a move like that would have elicited?” Finlay stared at her so she rushed to continue, “I think you’re overreacting. People would have talked whether Declan and I danced or we exchanged obligatory greetings. Believe me, I’m not seeking attention.”

  Finlay pinned her with a serious gaze for once. “What I believe is the Allie of old would have told him no. You would have thought of a polite excuse to deny him. You would have pulled me away from the card room by my cravat if need be. Did that Allie stay behind in Scotlan
d?”

  Alethea released an exhausted breath. “Yes, she did. This Allie finds the strains of conforming, of fitting into her oh-so-proper mold a feat she’s no longer sure she’s capable of.” She looked at the delicate cup in her hands. “This Allie is appalled she’s supposed to decline a waltz with a childhood friend because others think he’s an interesting topic of discussion.”

  “Father asked us to be cautious. Can you honestly say you have been?”

  Any retort she had died on her lips. Her brother’s question left her mentally grasping for footing. Had she done her best to consider the family name or had her own desire to be with Declan been more important?

  Her father had doted on her for her entire lifetime, and her memories of him were happy. Idyllic, even. Why had she allowed her new attraction to Declan to overshadow her usual devotion?

  Finlay sobered. “You should know that when Father and I met earlier, I glimpsed preliminary marriage settlements among his papers.”

  Her cup dropped to the table with a thud, brown liquid once again spreading over the tablecloth she’d so recently cleaned. “Are you in earnest?”

  “I fear I am. They were incomplete, but it was obvious they were being drafted.”

  “Good Lord, Finlay! I haven’t consented to marry anyone. Surely they were just papers Father pulled out to ensure were in order…should I settle on a suitor.”

  “Surely,” Finlay repeated, although his tone was anything but reassuring.

  She groaned and covered her face. “Whyever did I leave Scotland?”

  “You couldn’t have stayed there indefinitely. Your place has always been here.”

  Alethea peeked at him through her fingers. “Are you sure of that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” With his creased forehead, Finlay appeared genuinely confused. How could her brother be so confident of her place in London, but her feelings on the subject be so unclear?

  “Mother never even wanted me to have a Season. She wanted me to marry Lord Framingham as soon as I was of age.”

  Finlay’s lip curled slightly. “Yes, well, we’ll be thankful that particular match never came to fruition.”

  “Because he died.”

  His snort of laughter quickly puttered out. “I never understood why she was so adamant about that engagement. Why would she want to chain her only daughter to a man almost three times her age?”

  “I have a theory,” she said quietly, her eyes briefly cutting to where Samuels stood by the doorway. The butler turned immediately and ushered the footmen out of the room.

  Alethea ran her fingers through the hairs at her nape, the sensation calming. “It’s the reason she was determined I go with her to Scotland when she fell ill.”

  “Which is?”

  “She didn’t like me.” Even saying the words was like shoving a red-hot poker down her throat.

  She had long ago recognized the animosity that tinted every interaction she could remember with her mother. While her mother was never cruel, she wasn’t warm, either. Her cool manner always made Alethea feel she was lacking. Like she was a failure.

  But it was the times she sensed her mother’s gaze, and found the woman staring at her with an odd mixture of longing and despair, that left her confused and uncertain.

  She felt Finlay’s deep sigh more so than she heard it. “I don’t think she liked many people. Or many things, for that matter.”

  The countess was taciturn to everyone she encountered and rarely showed emotion.

  “Except… When our carriage turned onto the downhill drive into Aboyne Castle, I looked over at her. She was crying. She made no sound, but continued to stare out the window at the passing landscape as tears streaked down her cheeks. I’ve never been so out to sea as I was at that moment.”

  “I feel out to sea just hearing your recounting.” Finlay took a drink of tea. “So you think she made you accompany her to Scotland because…?”

  “I think she was punishing me for not accepting any of the offers I had received during my Seasons. I truly believe she thought I would be itching to return to London within a fortnight, and I would submit to her demands to ensure I did.”

  “How wrong she was.”

  Alethea smiled. “She was. I’m sure my unwillingness to play along with her scheme was just another of my many failings.”

  “You didn’t put stock into her criticisms, did you?” Finlay’s eyes flashed concern. “I always thought you viewed her the same way I did. As a sad, unhappy woman who would be miserable no matter what anyone did. So I stopped trying to please her.”

  “But you’re the heir, Fin. No matter what you did, the fact remains you are the only living male heir and are important.” She released a deep, painful breath. “I’m just a female, and a ginger at that.”

  Finlay opened and closed his mouth several times. “She loathed your hair, didn’t she?”

  “Loathe might be too mild an adjective.” She wrapped a red curl around her finger and studied the way the color gleamed in the morning light. Red might be a most unfashionable hair color, but she loved it. She’d always delighted in the vivid impression it made and fancied it secured her place in people’s memories.

  “Aunt Caitriona had red hair, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did.” Alethea released the curl and tucked it back into place. “I received numerous comments about how much I looked like her when I was at Aboyne.”

  “You do look like her,” the earl said as he walked into the room, his cravat already askew from his habit of tugging on it while he worked. He sank into the chair at the end of the table. “Very much so.”

  Alethea took a sip of coffee to wash down the accusatory words sitting on her tongue. But she didn’t wish to cause Finlay trouble if he wasn’t to have told her about the marriage settlements he’d seen, and a quick glance in his direction earned her a look of gratitude.

  Samuels must have slipped in silently behind the earl, for he set a plate piled high with food before Lord Rockhaven and poured him a cup of tea. The earl took several hearty bites of food before he turned his attention to his children. “What are your plans for the day, Fin?”

  “I have an engagement with Lord Reynolds to discuss whether the printing and paper venture he’s invested in would be right for me.”

  The earl nodded his head, his actions busied with the consumption of his food. “And you, Allie?”

  “I have lessons at Little Windmill Street.”

  “It’s an admirable thing you’re doing, helping those foundlings.” Lord Rockhaven gave her an approving nod. “That is the sort of deed others should talk about, just as long as you don’t spend too much time there. That would be unseemly.”

  Finlay covertly slid the newspaper off the tabletop and onto his lap.

  “I’ve already read it,” the earl said in between bites. “This is why I asked you to have a care with how you interact with Darington. The young man has always been a lightning rod for gossip for his…”—the earl paused, his lips pinched—“uncommon lineage. Now that he’s returned looking like the pirate everyone suspects him of being, I don’t want you to be tainted by association. Make sure stories such as that don’t appear again.”

  A hot flush spread over her cheeks. She longed to argue his assertions, but knew it would be pointless. The earl’s opinion of Declan appeared to have been set long ago, and she doubted his many successes or elevated title would change it. “Yes, Father.”

  “Very good.”

  A few minutes of silence reigned, and Alethea toyed with the uneaten piece of toast on her plate, certain it would taste like sawdust.

  Lord Rockhaven wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood, tossing the dirty linen on the table. He placed a kiss on Alethea’s head and turned to go but stopped, pivoting to face them.

  “I almost forgot. We’ve been invited to attend the Gold Cup with Lord Connington. You know the viscount is rarely in town, so to receive such an invitation is a compliment we cannot turn down.”

/>   Alethea and Finlay nodded and watched as their father departed.

  “Perhaps we’ll know who Father is considering as a suitor for you by who’s at the Gold Cup,” Finlay said before he followed the earl out of the room.

  She collapsed back into her chair, a sudden bout of nausea making her grateful she hadn’t eaten the slice of toast.

  Chapter Ten

  February 1804

  No one tells you what you’re to do when you discover everything you thought you knew was a lie. Or the life you always coveted was as tangible as a ghost.

  -The Diary of Lady Margaret Gordon

  Thomas had not been seen for a sennight.

  Or since the last time Declan had visited Tattersall’s, when the young man had agreed to a meeting to discuss what happened the night Albert was killed.

  It was an appointment Thomas had not kept.

  Declan resisted the urge to kick the heavy oak door that admitted visitors and customers to Richard Tattersall’s richly furnished office. The man had been polite but apologetic when he shared that Thomas had disappeared a week prior and no one had seen or heard from him since.

  How bloody convenient, he thought as he stomped back through the crowded grounds to where he’d left his mount. Mr. Tattersall hypothesized the young man had returned to his family in Cornwall, where he’d told fellow employees his mother and siblings still lived. Word was he’d spoken of returning home since he’d been hired.

  Plastering what he hoped to be a considering expression on his face, Declan had nodded. But he’d known instantly Thomas wasn’t in Cornwall.

  More likely in the Thames or some other dark and forbidden place poor souls found themselves when they crossed the wrong people. And if his testimony was to be believed, the wrong people had found Albert and extinguished his life.

  Declan curled his hands into fists, his knuckles straining and the leather of his gloves popping with the motion.

  A simple robbery seemed like less of a possibility with every new detail that emerged.

  He came to a stop by his horse, Tamosi. He had a stack of reports and business correspondence to see to, and instead he contemplated seeking out a fencing partner, eager to burn off an abundance of stress and sexual frustration. Two things he could lay partially at Alethea’s lovely feet.