’Twas the Night Before Scandal

by Christi Caldwell

  “The Ivory Parlor, my lord,” Parker called after him.

  Trailing dirt and moisture along the carpeted floor, Gregory wound his way through the corridors of Castle Renshaw. One of his brother’s many, ancient holdings, the place spoke to the wealth, power, and prestige of the Renshaw name and title.

  Every winter ushered in the same, tedious antics from his determined mother. She would host a Christmastide celebration between the Renshaws and the Quigleys; the two longstanding families had been called friends for centuries. Ultimately, the event had always served as a less than subtle, always purposeful attempt to join those same respectable families in name. His eldest brother, Damian, the Duke of Devlin, had represented her greatest hope for one of those mergers to Lady Minerva Quigley.

  In the end, Damian had wed another and Mother had otherwise shifted her focus.

  He came to a stop outside the Ivory Parlor. His mother sat on a satin upholstered sofa with an embroidery frame in her hands. She attended that task with mock intensity. Gregory, however, well knew his sole surviving parent. Nothing was carefree or casual about the Dowager Duchess of Devlin. Single-minded. Precise. Calculated. These were but a few of the descriptors that could be tossed at the lady. “Mother,” he said warily, coming forward.

  She lifted her head and a wide smile wreathed her unwrinkled cheeks. She came to her feet. “Gregory, my dearest boy.” The warning bells blared louder. Dearest boy?

  He cast a quick gaze longingly over his shoulder.

  “Do come in, come in,” she urged, setting aside her frame.

  His garments wrinkled, his boots caked in mud, and smelling of horseflesh, all would-be lecturing offenses. Now, she’d smile through all that? His unease deepened. Gregory came forward, now knowing how a man felt being marched to the gallows.

  She turned her cheek for a kiss and as he leaned forward, she wrinkled her nose. At that slight, a typical response of the always proper dowager duchess, the world somewhat righted itself. “Sit, sit, please,” she urged, motioning to the chair closest to her.

  He settled himself into the seat. And waited.

  His mother proceeded to arrange her skirts, smoothing her palms over the silver satin fabric.

  When it became apparent that she’d no intention of beginning the discourse, Gregory arced an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” she asked, puzzling her brow.

  Gregory stretched his legs, tight from two days spent in the saddle. “I expect it isn’t maternal affection that led to my summons at…” He stole a glance at the porcelain, painted clock atop the mantel. “…thirty minutes past eight?”

  She slapped a hand to her chest. “Why, I am offended, Gregory. I…” At his long look, her words trailed off. “Lady Minerva is set to arrive later this week.”

  So now they would get to the heart of her summons.

  “Lady Minerva?” he asked, with feigned confusion. “What of Miss Cresswall you were attempting to foist me off on?”

  “Oh, do hush,” his mother chided and leaned over to slap at his fingers. “Miss Cresswall was an acceptable bride before the scandal.” The scandal being the hasty courtship and even hastier marriage between Damian and Lady Theodosia. “It is a wonder they still spend the Christmastide season with us given…” She stole a furtive look at the doorway and then dropped her voice to a loud whisper. “Given your brother’s betrayal.”

  Damian’s betrayal. As in his failing to honor that familial expectation and, instead, wed Lady Theodosia, of the Rayne family. A family they’d bitterly feuded with through the ages. “He is happy,” Gregory pointed out and a sliver of envy pulled at him. He grimaced. Egads, it must be the holidays making him maudlin.

  “That is neither here nor there,” Mother said with a long sigh.

  “Of course not. How could I be so foolish as to dare mention his happiness?” he retorted with a dry edge that brought a frown.

  For the whole of his life, his parents had been dedicated to the power and prestige of the Devlin line. However, the expectations had largely fallen to the ducal heir, Damian, and he had proven to be the dutiful, responsibility driven son and brother.

  Until he’d gone and wed, Lady Theo. It had been the single time in his life he’d not done the expected and it had quite thrown their family thereafter into a silent upheaval. It had also led to panicked efforts on their mother’s part to repair the tension that had evolved between the Renshaw and Quigley families.

  “Regardless,” his mother continued, breaking into his silent musings. “Someone must do right by Minerva.” And in an unduchess-like manner, stomped her foot.

  “She is a duke’s daughter,” he pointed out and buried a yawn in his hand. “Certainly she has more discriminating taste than to settle for the third in line to a dukedom?” Gregory knew as much because the lady had fixed her attention on just one Renshaw brother through the years—Damian.

  “I spoke to Samantha.” The Duchess of Windermere. “A title is not…necessary.” His mother’s expression grew shuttered. Not necessary, which hinted at the fact that something else was required.

  “James?” he proffered with a tenacity that came in being a gentleman quite content with his bachelor state. As soon as the suggestion left his mouth, guilt needled him. Rather dishonorable putting forth a brother’s name to spare one’s own bachelor state. Particularly when that same brother was—

  Widening her eyes, his mother emitted a strangled choking sound. “Your brother is off fighting that miserable Frenchman. Would you have Minerva follow the drum?” By the glower she fixed on him, that was a question not requiring an answer. “I’ve not asked you for much, Gregory.” Oh, blazes now would come her lecturing. A muscle ticked in the corner of his eye. “When you began overseeing—” she whispered—“business investments, I said little.”

  He rolled his shoulders and flashed a sardonic grin. “I expect managing words through your copious weeping posed difficult.” After all, a duke’s third-born son enlisted, as James had done, or took to the cloth. They didn’t invest in coal mines and other business ventures.

  Color blazed across her cheeks. “But this is different,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I’d not ask you to make a match unless—”

  “And you are no longer insistent I wed Miss Cresswall?” he reminded her and the dowager duchess’ blush deepened.

  “Miss Cresswall will make a match, regardless,” she added with a flick of her hand. Since the young lady had made her Come Out three—or was it four years ago—his mother had been single-minded in her determination to see him wed the Viscountess Fennimore’s daughter. “Furthermore, my friendship goes back far, far longer with Lady Minerva’s mother.”

  Apparently, his mother was a woman who’d tack years of friendship toward loyalty owed.

  A troubled glimmer lit her blue eyes. “But that is not all, Gregory.” Stealing another glance at the door, she edged closer to her son. “The Duke of Windermere is in deep.”

  That brought his mouth open.

  His mother carried on in hushed tones that barely reached his ears. “Samantha only recently revealed all. Minerva must make a match.” Ah, so this is why Lady Minerva, destined to be a duke’s wife, would settle for a third son. Now it made sense.

  He tamped down a bitter smile. Then, wasn’t that the way of their world? A lady craved a title above all else, unless there was need of a fortune. In that case, she’d lower herself to marrying a man with a fortune…as long as he had roots to a noble line. At her expectant look, Gregory added. “She is lovely. A duke’s daughter, with beauty and grace, she’ll make any nobleman a perfect English bride.”

  With a sound of impatience, she surged to her feet. “Do you not see?” she asked, a desperate edge to her tone. “She waited five years for your brother to come ’round and offer for her. In that time, she earned a reputation amongst the ton as an ice princess. And now they are in desperate need of funds.”

  Despite their family’s connections, but for
the handful of gatherings they attended or shared through the Season, he’d little interaction with the lady. She’d been all but picked for Damian since she’d been a child. As such, she’d had no words or looks for the third in line.

  He swiped a hand over his eyes. Detesting this obligatory sense of doing right by the family. Hating more that his mother would ask this of him.

  A soft hand settled on his shoulder and he looked up. “Please, Gregory,” she implored softly. “I ask that you but think on it.”

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a light scratching. “Enter,” his mother called out.

  The butler filled the doorway. “Another guest has arrived, Your Grace. Mr. Rayne.” Lady Theo’s oldest brother, Richard. The same man who’d had his heart broken by a Renshaw. And yet, he’d spend the Christmastide season, anyway. It spoke to that family’s devotion to one another.

  A reminder of the favor his mother sought from him…and his own self-serving desire to put his own happiness before that of their familial honor.

  His mother sent Parker off with a flick of her hand. “I must go greet our guest.” That slight emphasis spoke plainly of the disdain she still carried for the Rayne family.

  The servant shuffled off and his mother started for the door. Suddenly, she stopped and turned back. “Gregory?”

  He inclined his head.

  “I know you will do the honorable thing,” she said with a grateful smile.

  With that, she swept out of the room.

  Alone at last, Gregory unleashed a stream of curses.

  Chapter 3

  Carol wished to leave.

  She’d rather endure a barefoot march across the snow-laden earth than suffer through the humiliation of her mother’s dreadful and less than subtle scheming. The only thing that made this whole affair at all bearable was seeing Theo. Theo had married nearly two years ago and was away in the country more than she was in London. Carol remained largely alone and desperately missing the other woman’s friendship.

  In the far right corner of the library, shoulder to shoulder, in matched repose, she and Theo lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. Hiding as they were, as they’d been since Carol’s family had arrived earlier that evening, they may as well have been the same young girls who’d snuck away from their families during country parties.

  In this instance, it was easy to pretend that Theo was the same best friend who’d sat beside her on the fringes of ton events, plotting and whispering. But Theo was now this all-powerful, married duchess, and not the unwed-almost-spinster, Carol now found herself. Or rather, that was how Mother oft referred to her.

  Muffled discourse sounded from the adjoining room and penetrated the thick plaster walls.

  “My poor brother-in-law arrived a short while ago,” Theo explained on a hushed whisper. “The dowager duchess is trying to orchestrate a match between him and Lady Minerva.”

  Ah, so the dowager duchess had since shifted her marital hopes from Damian to another. Well, if the gentleman’s evasiveness through introductions and meetings orchestrated by the viscountess hadn’t been deterrent enough, then this should put a stop to her mother’s dreams. “At last,” she muttered under her breath. For even as the viscountess would sell her soul, or in this case, her daughter, to merge the Cresswall and Renshaw families, it would never be.

  Feeling Theo’s gaze on her, Carol turned her head. “She’s still not abandoned the hopes of me making a match,” she grimaced, “with Lord Gregory.” A man who’d see her enter a ballroom and then turn the other way. Literally. She wrinkled her nose. Quite rude. Not that she’d minded his disinterest, but it was still boorish, nonetheless.

  Mother may have not noticed such a slight, but Carol had. And she’d sooner make a match with the devil himself.

  “Ah,” Theo said, with a dawning understanding. “There should be few worries there, then. Damian believes Gregory will wed Lady Minerva to secure the connection between their two families.” She pursed her mouth. “Though I’ve come to appreciate he’s far more affable and charming than my own family credited him.”

  A silence descended on the room.

  “She’s growing more desperate,” Carol said quietly.

  “Yes,” Theo immediately concurred. It was that blunt honesty that had marked her as Carol’s sole friend in the world from childhood. “Take heart, she might set her sights upon Herbie,” Theo offered, ever the optimist.

  Given her exchange with Mother in the carriage earlier that afternoon, Carol knew that was as likely as the English making a Frenchman king.

  The shuffle of footsteps, followed by the sound of a door opening, and then a soft click reached their ears.

  “Gregory is, at the very least, spared from her further haranguing,” Theo muttered. She sighed and reluctantly shoved herself into a sitting position. “Alas, I now have to meet with my mother-in-law before she retires to discuss the seating arrangements for the morning and afternoon and evening meals.” The young duchess gave her head a shake.

  Yes, the days of hiding away while the world carried on around her, had come to an end long, long ago. And in that instant, Carol selfishly felt…a great sense of relief. For even as her friend had married for love, Carol would never aspire or long for the loathed role of proper hostess.

  Her friend hopped to her feet and took her leave, closing Carol in the library alone. Carol lowered herself to the floor, once again, and stared at the mural overhead. The blazing fire in the hearth popped and hissed, as shadows danced off the ceiling.

  It wasn’t that she deliberately sought to vex her mother on the matter of marriage. She didn’t. Despite the viscountess’ opinion that Carol chose to remain unwed, such was only a partial truth. Carol very much did wish to wed. Those details she’d shared in the carriage were the most truthful ones she’d ever given Mother on the topic of husbands. She wanted a husband. And children.

  Though her own family had been a close, loving one, there had been no such grand emotion shared between her parents. They’d been that proper, stuffy lord and lady who thought it gauche to speak to one another using their Christian names. The late viscount and his wife had evinced a typical union. Polite host and hostess, with a mother who hosted teas and a father wise with his investments. And who’d also kept a faithful mistress.

  That shocking fact discovered when she’d been a girl of ten, hiding behind the curtains in her father’s office while he’d been meeting with his man of affairs. Every last illusion she’d had of her mama and papa’s loving union, forever shattered with the purchase orders given to deck the woman in diamonds and emeralds. Carol had remained frozen in that spot long after her father’s servant had left and Father had departed that room.

  It was also when she’d resolved to never marry a gentleman who could not give his heart wholly to her. And a man, such as Lord Gregory Renshaw, or any man like him, who’d marry her out of some misbegotten sense of familial obligation, could never be that.

  So mayhap her mother had been, in fact, correct when she’d indicated Carol sought a paragon, but she’d settle for nothing less.

  The sound of footsteps in the hall cut into her musings. Heavy footfalls paused outside the library door and she went motionless. Heavy footfalls that belonged to no slipper-wearing lady. Oh, blast. The last thing she wished was to be discovered by the young duke while hiding away in his well-stocked library.

  The snapping hiss of the fire roared loud in the quiet, punctuated by the faint ticking of the ormolu clock atop the mantel.

  And Carol waited for the gentleman to continue on.

  The click of the door handle and slow creak of the curved wood door dashed any such hopes.

  Blast and damn. She inched closer to the wall as the interloper stepped inside the room and closed the door. A tall, wiry figure entered deeper into her sanctuary. She wrinkled her nose. Or, rather, her former sanctuary. A familiar figure and not at all the young duke.

  Lord Gregory Renshaw, glass of spirits in one
hand, pushed the door closed. Under most circumstances, a lady would be shocked and horrified to be shut away alone with a gentleman. After all, such scandals were how too many hastily thrown together marriages came to be.

  Carol briefly closed her eyes and prayed the gentleman away.

  Alas, the Lord was otherwise busy that evening.

  Gregory wandered over to one of the leather wingback chairs and, with each of those lazy steps, Carol took in his languid movements. His midnight strands were drawn back in a queue at his neck and a day’s worth of growth stubbled his cheeks. Her heart kicked up a beat. Odd, she’d never truly looked at Lord Gregory before. He’d always simply been the gentleman her mother urged into her path. Now, lying on the floor, secretly studying him, there was a raw, primitive masculinity to him that went against all of Society’s dictates in how a proper gentleman should dress and be. Setting his drink down on a nearby mahogany table, he yanked free his cravat and tossed it onto the leather button sofa across from him.

  This is where I should reveal my—

  He shrugged out of his jacket and it joined his stark white cravat.

  She swallowed hard, ignoring the wave of heat that went through her. By his actions, Lord Gregory had little intention of leaving and Carol was effectively trapped.

  Well, drat.

  *

  He was effectively trapped.

  Claiming one of the comfortable leather chairs, Gregory settled back into the folds, and then reclaimed his drink. He rolled his snifter back and forth between his palms, his gaze fixed on the amber contents.

  A blasted fortnight of sidestepping his mother’s machinations.

  Grimacing, Gregory took a sip of his drink. And yet, the appeal she’d made to him this evening had been altogether different. It hadn’t been solely about power and rank and prestige, but rather a matter of honor. Whether there had been a formal understanding between Lady Minerva and Damian or not, there had still been an understanding, and now the lady found herself unwed because of it.