’Twas the Night Before Scandal

by Christi Caldwell

  Snow angels? The lady stretched her arms above her head, and kicked her legs out before her. Gregory took in her prone form and then glanced back at the servants staring on. That couple swiftly averted their gazes. Annoyance stirred. How much of Society, regardless of station, focused on propriety above all hint of happiness?

  “D-Do you care so much about the opinion of others, Gregory?” she challenged. She began moving her legs and arms in a rhythmic back and forth movement, scissoring at the snow with her long limbs. Her eyes remained closed as the snow fell about them, dusting her golden lashes.

  “I was taught that those opinions mattered most,” he said quietly, unable to look away from the sight of her.

  She paused mid-movement and opened her eyes. Their gazes collided and, despite the frigid bite of snow and wind battering about them, heat filled him as did a desire to taste and explore her contagious joy and make it his own. “Do you believe that is what matters most?”

  He weighed his response. Whatever words he uttered, they would matter most to this woman. “A man without honor is nothing,” he settled for, dragging out that familiar mantra uttered too many times in the course of his father’s too-short life. It was Gregory’s devotion to that sentiment which his mother now appealed to.

  “Pfft. That’s rot. A man without happiness is nothing.” She arched an eyebrow in silent challenge.

  Gregory laid beside Carol and, mimicking her earlier movements, stretched his arms and legs. And staring up at the sky, with the snow falling around them, he smiled. They continued in a companionable silence, with the moments quietly passing. Another gust of wind ripped across the countryside and the sting of cold shot through him and, reluctantly, he shoved to his feet.

  Her teeth knocking loudly, Carol eagerly accepted his hand and he helped her to her feet. They briefly assessed their angels. “Well done on your first snow angel,” she praised, slapping him on the back.

  He lingered his gaze upon her smaller frame etched in snow, alongside his larger one. How very…right they were together, side-by-side.

  “G-Gregory?”

  Startled into movement, he gathered the branches and axe. Together, they started back toward the estate. Did he imagine the regret mirrored in her revealing eyes? With every step they took, the tremble in her frame increased. “Y-Your parents did not expect you to conform to Society’s dictates,” he said. Gregory was trying to distract her from the cold and his previously nonsensical musings about Carol Cresswall and her snow angel.

  When the whipping wind served as his only answer, he looked at her. Her delicate features were set in an uncharacteristically solemn mask that defied the teasing, bold lady he’d discovered in the library last evening. “M-many believe my mother is f-flighty,” she spoke through her shivering. “And she is, but she has always loved us. As children, our happiness mattered most.” By the sliver of regret in that telling admission, she spoke volumes about the viscountess now. Just like so many noblewomen, matches mattered most. She spoke, pulling him back to her. “My father…” Her words trailed off. She grimaced and gave her head a shake.

  The muscles of his belly contracted and he trained his gaze on the pair of servants walking ahead. “Your father?” he prodded, tightly.

  She joined her fingers together. “W-was not unlike so many other husbands. He was a fair landowner. Wise with his funds.” Her lips drew down in the corners. “His loyalty, however, was not reserved for my mother.” A bitter, broken laugh burst from her lips, stirring puffs of white in the air. “In a moment of ill-timing, I’d been hiding in his office while he spoke with his man of affairs about his…” She promptly pressed her lips closed.

  In short, her father had a mistress. It was the way of their world and, yet, when he took a lady to wife, he’d bind himself with vows. As such, he’d give that woman his loyalty. “I am sorry,” he said quietly, useless words of pity she’d want no part of, but words that came anyway. For the pain glittering in her eyes hinted at a raw wound that had never healed.

  Carol gave a tight nod. “Mother’s family was longstanding friends with my father’s family. Of course, a connection between them through marriage was only natural.”

  Just as their own mothers had intended. The words hung unspoken in the air.

  They reached the front of Castle Renshaw and the footman rushed as quick as he was able through the snow, ending all further discussion on a topic. The young man, his cheeks crimson red from the cold, gathered the branches and axe and lumbered away.

  Yes, his and Carol’s mothers had desired a match between them…something now only desired by one of those determined parents. And yet, as he helped Carol up the stairs, the truth slammed into him—that their union would not have been one of those cold, emotionless ones, where they each lived a life separate from their spouses.

  The butler drew the heavy oak door open and, still reeling from the realization, Gregory allowed Carol to precede him. He entered behind her and then stopped.

  His mother stood in the middle of the stone foyer with a wide smile on her ageless face. “Greg—” Her words abruptly ended, as she took in first him, lingering her gaze on his dampened garments…and then Carol. The dowager duchess shot her eyebrows to her hairline as her smile died. She whipped her attention back to Gregory and fixed a tense, more reserved smile in place. “Lady Minerva has arrived.”

  Chapter 6

  She was bloody miserable.

  Carol sat, suffering through another dinner with Theo’s guests. There was her morose partner to the left, whose smiles were as elusive as a falling star. And to her right, Lady Minerva’s ducal brother, with a roguish grin and a propensity of ogling Carol’s décolletage.

  Though, it was not so much the company she’d been assigned a place next to, but the person she’d been seated away from.

  She stole another peek at Gregory. Seated directly across from her with the flawlessly beautiful Lady Minerva occupying his side and Carol’s mother on the other, the message had clearly been conveyed through those arrangements—an impending match would be made between them.

  And if she was being honest instead of miserable, which she forced herself to be in that moment, she’d admit that they struck a stunning vision. Gregory with his too-long midnight locks drawn at his nape and sharp chiseled features had the look of a carved Roman god. Lady Minerva, with her pale blonde hair and dainty lips and chin may as well have been the goddess at his side.

  Carol gleefully knifed her piece of mutton. The irony was not lost on her. She’d spent years resenting and avoiding all hints of this very man and now sat here in bloody misery every time he flashed one of those carefree grins at his partner.

  What did I believe? A stolen exchange and a walk through the snow merited more with the gentleman? She winced, hating that it should even matter. Hating that, as they’d walked side-by-side in from the cold, she’d allowed herself a brief moment of a dream where they could have been one of those happy couples.

  “Take heart, Miss Cresswall,” a hushed whisper, teeming with amusement, sounded close to her ear. “The mutton is long since dead.” Her fork and knife clattered noisily against her plate, earning a series of curious stares.

  Carol’s skin burned from the heat of Gregory’s gaze and then Lady Minerva said something, recalling his attention.

  Swiveling her gaze to Mr. Rayne, she started. The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. Since his public humiliation and broken heart, she’d not seen a glimpse of anything other than jaded sadness in the man. He leaned closer. “If it is any consolation, the gentleman has not taken his eyes from you the whole of the evening, Miss Cresswall,” he added.

  She gasped and stole a glance about to confirm no one had heard his scandalous, if erroneous, pronouncement. “I don’t…” At the knowing glint in the gentleman’s eyes, the lie died on her lips.

  “Smile at me,” he coaxed. “It will make him outrageously jealous.”

  “I’ve no intention of wanting to make him jealous.” S
he smiled wryly.

  Mr. Rayne collected his wine glass and took a sip. “That grin will do.” He gave a slight toast. “Even if it is more on the sardonic side.”

  His words pulled a laugh from her and for the first time since Gregory had been ushered off and away from her that afternoon, she smiled.

  Mr. Rayne lifted his glass once more. “Even better. He’s looking this way, you know.”

  Despite his wicked intentions, she found herself continuing to smile. With his teasing, Theo’s brother revealed glimpses of the charming rogue he’d once been. “No, I do not know,” she said from the corner of her lips as she picked up her fork and knife and proceeded to dice a piece of mutton. Carol popped it in her mouth and then, setting down her utensils, picked up her white napkin. After she’d swallowed, she dabbed at her mouth. “Nor do I know who you are speaking about,” she offered belatedly.

  Mr. Rayne reclined in his chair. “Come, there are few options of who it could be. One guest,” he gave a vague wave at Herbert, seated on the opposite side of Lady Minerva, “is your brother. Another,” he tipped his head toward the head of the table. “My brother-in-law. Devoted fellow.” He leaned closer. “And, of course, there’s the Duke of Windermere.” He paused and eyed her warily. “Unless you’re one of those ladies desiring the title of duchess—”

  “I assure you, I am not,” she interrupted. Her mother’s efforts for Carol making one of those esteemed matches had never been Carol’s goals. Rather, she’d longed for a loving union, based on more than rank and influence. She wished to marry a man who could make her laugh and who wanted to be with her and no other. Carol slid her gaze across the table and a wild fluttering danced in her belly. Gregory stared at her through thick, hooded black lashes. The intensity of his focus sucked the breath from her lungs.

  A man like Gregory… Her heart thudded hard against her ribcage and she blinked slowly. Where in the blazes had that come from?

  Theo’s brother steepled his fingertips together. “As I was saying before you began woolgathering, Miss Cresswall…” She swallowed a groan. First Theo. Now, Mr. Rayne, therefore it must be true. She’d become one of those woolgathering ladies. Mr. Rayne dropped his lips close to her ear. “…if you’ve not set your cap on me?”

  Her shoulders shook at that bold flirting. Prior to his former love’s betrayal, Mr. Rayne must have been devastating with his charm. A slight growl brought her gaze across the table. From over the rim of his wine glass, Gregory glowered at Theo’s brother.

  “As I told you,” Mr. Rayne chuckled and the sound emerged rusty, “outrageously jealous and enjoyed all the more because he is a Renshaw.” All amusement dimmed from his eyes, replaced instead with a sad glimmer. She may as well have imagined that carefree exchange. Silently, he returned his attention to his glass.

  And Carol was left alone once more with nothing more than a flirting, slightly condescending duke—and her thoughts of Lord Gregory Renshaw. The gentleman’s attention now fixed on the guest at his side, Carol used the opportunity to study him. She curled her fingers tight about her fork with a grip that drained the blood from her knuckles. Nay. To study them again.

  What madness was this? Before she’d arrived at Castle Renshaw, she’d vowed to never bind herself to Gregory…or any other gentleman so picked by her mother. Only then, he’d simply been an arrogant stranger who couldn’t be bothered with his sister-in-law’s friend. Since then, she’d, instead, found a man who wasn’t afraid to laugh. A gentleman who didn’t expect her to stifle her personality and be the demure, staid lady desired by the ton.

  Lady Minerva smiled coyly up at him and trailed her fingertips along the bodice of her elegant, pink satin gown. Carol’s stomach muscles clenched reflexively. No lady had a right to such female perfection. She was an alabaster masterpiece.

  What was he thinking? Was he suitably awed by the magnificent beauty at his side? Did he consider the perfect hostess she’d make him?

  Gregory looked up and their stares collided.

  Carol swiftly returned her attention to her plate and forced herself to pick up her fork and take another bite. As she chewed, the food turned to dust in her mouth. She’d rather not know what he was thinking, after all.

  *

  Gregory’s family had never known the Christmastide merriment Carol had spoken of—until this year.

  The previous season, the pain of old resentments still fresh, Theo and Damian had spent the holiday with the Rayne family. This holiday, she and Damian had marked Castle Renshaw their own…and that included the festivities planned for the week and the guests who were invited.

  In the days that had passed since the arrival of their guests, every aspect of the castle had been transformed. The halls decorated with boughs made by Carol and Theo and, to the shock of his own family, Gregory. Nightly hymns and carols were sung, boisterously by the Raynes and Cresswalls and less boisterously by the Renshaws and Quigleys.

  With the passage of each hour, Gregory came to appreciate how vastly different those families were from one another. There were those that celebrated and those that cringed through the cheer.

  This week, with her unwillingness to partake in the Christmastide festivities arranged by Theo, Lady Minerva proved to be one of those cringing through the cheer. Or in this case, gritting her teeth through it.

  “Miserable weather,” the lady went on, like a scholar handing out an invaluable fact. “England isn’t meant to be cold.”

  He silently cursed his sister-in-law. For seating arrangements that had seen him beside Lady Minerva…while Carol occupied a place further down the end of the table.

  Alongside Mr. Rayne.

  A one-time rogue.

  Then brooding brokenhearted lord.

  And now, this evening, seated beside Carol…a smiling, charming gentleman. An unholy, certainly not befitting a holiday gathering, urge to punch the bloody bastard in the nose filled Gregory.

  He gritted his teeth. Why, shouldn’t the other man be smiling? Carol had that effect upon a man. The memory of her, lying beside him in the snow while she’d stretched her arms and legs out, creating angels on the earth, flitted around his mind. That vision drawn forth was accentuated by the sharp wind that pelted ice and snow at the crystal windowpane.

  “Horrid, is it not?” Lady Minerva’s perfectly cultured tones slashed across his musings and drew his focus back to the lady Theo had made his dinner partner. Blasted Theo. “The weather,” the young lady went on, gesturing to the floor-length frosted windows.

  She was a woman who’d discuss the weather, as all proper lords and ladies were schooled in doing. With her reserved movements and gestures, she’d always belong in a ballroom and would never be found lying on her back upon someone else’s library floor. “Have you ever thrown a snowball, my lady?” he countered.

  Lady Minerva stared at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “Indeed, not.”

  Indeed, not.

  And with those two words, she summed up the very staid life she’d lived and the equally staid existence she would lead.

  From across the table, his mother implored him with her eyes and Gregory involuntarily balled his hands into fists. Forcing his grip to relax, he retrained his focus on Lady Minerva. He’d spent four years believing one thing about Miss Carol Cresswall. Mayhap there was far more to Lady Minerva, as well. This woman his mother would ask him to forsake his future and freedom for and marry out of a sense of honor.

  “What do you enjoy, my lady?” he asked.

  She smiled, revealing a perfect smile and equally perfect pearl white teeth. Not a single one crooked or tilted. In sum, very much flawless as the lady herself and somewhat less interesting for that perfection. “I embroider and play pianoforte, Lord Gregory. I also enjoy watercolors and pastels.”

  As she spoke, her words read like a cataloguing. She didn’t move her arms with a carefree abandon. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Nor did she ask him about his own interests and passions.

  �
��A man without happiness is nothing…

  A sea of turbulent emotions rioted inside, battering him like the storm that raged outside. Mayhap, it was his mother’s expectations for him. Or mayhap, it was the Christmastide season. But a hungering clutched at him with a vicious tenacity for…more. Or mayhap, it is her…

  Unnerved, Gregory gave thanks when the table adjourned a short while later and they filed to the Music Room.

  Another one of his mother’s longstanding traditions—having Lady Minerva sing and play for their esteemed families. The only use for song being to put the lady on display and earn the praise for her talents.

  He fixed his gaze not on the lady on his arm, but Carol, as she was escorted through the corridors by Mr. Rayne. Gregory narrowed his eyes. Must the man lean down and whisper so close to her ear? It hinted at impropriety and wicked words and…by God, if he didn’t have another urge to thrash the blighter in these very corridors. Feeling a probing stare on him, he glanced down.

  A little frown marred Lady Minerva’s bow-shaped lips.

  His neck heated. Where his brother Damian had always been coolly formal with his words, Gregory had been the affable one. In the span of two days, he’d been stripped of his composure. What spell had she cast?

  “I trust you know my…circumstances,” Lady Minerva’s quietly spoken words emerged as a statement more than anything.

  He weighed his words.

  Sadness glinted in the lady’s eyes. “Bad form speaking of it, at all.” She tipped her chin toward her mother who walked alongside the dowager duchess. “Mama would certainly never approve.” And in that, she spoke honestly with a realness he’d never known from her. “We’ve n-nothing.” Tears flooded her eyes and she angled her head away. Guilt mounted. He’d always been bloody useless with tears. “It is a farce better reserved for the stage, isn’t it?” She bit her full lower lip. “To believe your whole life you will wed one man. Never allowing yourself to hope for more…” Her words trailed off on a faint whisper. “Then you find yourself without a husband and without a farthing, and your family facing r-ruin.” Her voice cracked and she feigned a cough.