Alexandra Benedict
Too Scandalous to Wed
To my parents, with everlasting love and gratitude.
Contents
Chapter 1
“Good heavens, Henry, you’re still in your drawers!”
Chapter 2
Sebastian Galbraith, Viscount Ravenswood, eyed the little hoyden skirting across…
Chapter 3
“I’ll not hear another word, Jenny!”
Chapter 4
The manor house, nestled amid snowy mounds, stood prominent against…
Chapter 5
A gentle snowfall showered the earth. Henrietta stared into the…
Chapter 6
“Good heavens, she married a duke!”
Chapter 7
A disgruntled Sebastian made his way through the house and…
Chapter 8
Yes, he did like it. He liked it very much.
Chapter 9
Henrietta burst into her bedchamber.
Chapter 10
Henrietta had slept in. Drat! She was supposed to spend…
Chapter 11
Sebastian stood by the library window, staring into the black…
Chapter 12
Henrietta didn’t want to move the seduction along too quickly.
Chapter 13
Sebastian set the light aside before he placed Henrietta on…
Chapter 14
“Madam Jacqueline, I’ve ruined everything!”
Chapter 15
Henrietta squished closer to her maid for warmth. She was…
Chapter 16
Sebastian made his way back down into the banquet hall.
Chapter 17
Wretched tears! Henrietta stumbled on the first step, her vision…
Chapter 18
Sebastian opened his eyes. The room was spinning. He shut…
Chapter 19
The room was stuffy, filled with about a hundred guests…
Chapter 20
The sweet taste of champagne on Henrietta’s warm lips had…
Chapter 21
The little bell chimed as Sebastian opened the door. He…
Chapter 22
Henrietta stared at Sebastian’s closed bedroom door.
Chapter 23
Henrietta was feeling much better. Ensconced in a soft chair,…
Chapter 24
Henrietta set the candle down. Feeling a pinch of remorse,…
Chapter 25
Sebastian let out a deep, sated sigh. He had not…
Chapter 26
Henrietta slowly moved across the grounds, enjoying a morning stroll.
Chapter 27
Henrietta had a terrible habit of sneaking off without telling…
Chapter 28
Sebastian was at his wit’s end. He was getting married…
Chapter 29
Henrietta stood in front of the mirror and eyed the…
Chapter 30
The house was in an uproar.
Epilogue
Henrietta dandled the baby on her knees.
About the Author
Other Romances
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
London, 1821
“Good heavens, Henry, you’re still in your drawers!”
And Henrietta Ashby was going to stay in her drawers until she figured out the ideal dress to wear—much to the dismay of her mother, Lady Lara Ashby.
“I’ll be there in a minute, Mama.”
Distraught, the elder woman proclaimed, “But Henry, the guests have already arrived!”
Henrietta wasn’t interested in the guests below…well, she was interested in one particular guest, hence the crucial decision she had to make.
“Which one, Mama, the pink or the peach?”
Lady Ashby fluttered her fan in quick succession. “Henry, can’t you ever make up your mind?”
Unfortunately, Henrietta could not. She had a penchant for disorder and a tendency to waver over every decision. Alas, it was not her fault she had such a flighty disposition. Truly, it wasn’t. Henrietta was the youngest offspring of Baron Nicholas Ashby, and, as such, the most pampered of the lot. She also served as the baron’s surrogate son, thus the nickname Henry.
You see, the baron had a brood of children—all girls! Desperate for a male heir, he had christened his fifth daughter Henry, and like any indulgent papa, the baron catered to his “son’s” every wish and whim without complaint. Though there was no property to inherit or title to come into, that did not stop Henrietta from acting the part of the doted-upon son and heir. The only trouble with being Henry was the freedom to do as she pleased without a thought to the consequences.
“I think I’ll go with the pink,” said Henrietta.
“Fine.” Lady Ashby sighed with impatience. “I want you below in five minutes!”
The door thudded closed.
Jenny, the poor chambermaid, blanched at the command, not that Henrietta noticed. She eyed the rose silk ruffs and heart-shaped neckline and thought: It’s perfect!
The peach frock went flying through the air, skewered on a bedpost. Discarded and forgotten, the dress dangled in neglect like so many other wisps of fabric scattered across the bedroom floor.
Musing, Henrietta glanced around the cluttered space. “Now for the mask.”
She went over to the bed, tossed the weekly gossip papers aside—she’d been reading the juicy tidbits earlier in the day—and sifted through the many scattered headdresses, looking for the best match.
With a pleading look in her eyes, the young chambermaid lifted a bejeweled headpiece. “Will this do, miss?”
Henrietta eyed the glittering adornment. “Yes, that will do.”
Jenny whistled a sigh of relief and quickly ushered her mistress to the vanity. It took a little longer than five minutes, but soon Henrietta was all decked out in a resplendent evening gown of shimmering rose silk and a lovely jewel-encrusted mask to match.
She twirled in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting her reflection. The frock complemented the auburn glow of her hair and deep brown hue of her eyes to perfection.
If this doesn’t draw his notice, I’m going to scratch out his eyes.
With that encouraging thought in mind, Henrietta thanked her maid.
Jenny started to tidy up the room.
“Never mind that,” said Henrietta. She took Jenny by the hand and shooed her out the door. “Cook needs help in the kitchen, I’m sure. You can clean the mess later.”
Jenny sighed and skirted off. “Yes, Miss Ashby.”
A spring to her step, Henrietta made her way down to the ballroom. Baron Ashby’s annual masquerade ball was fast becoming a tradition. The third so far, it was first initiated at the behest of Lady Ashby to help find her youngest daughter a mate. With four sisters already wed, Henrietta was the last of the brood to get leg-shackled. Spinsterhood was fast approaching, and that, of course, put Lady Ashby in near hysterics.
But what Mama did not realize was Henrietta’s determination to resist every suitor save one—Viscount Ravenswood.
Henrietta’s heart pinched at the thought of Ravenswood. Even his name made her shiver right down to her toes.
Oh, love was such a pesky affair! For eight long years she had dreamed of Ravenswood, ever since his younger brother Peter had married her eldest sister, Penelope. Eight agonizing years, and still the blasted man thought of her as a charming chit, nothing more.
Henrietta had a mind to clout the viscount for his mulishness. She wasn’t a lass of twelve anymore, but a passionate woman of twenty with a need for one equally passionate man. And if th
e vexing lord would only stop thinking of her as a spirited imp, she could finally take her rightful place as the next Viscountess Ravenswood. She wasn’t getting any younger, didn’t he know?
The ballroom loomed ahead.
Her steps more refined, Henrietta gracefully moved to the arena’s threshold. She paused under the arched entranceway and scanned the array of twirling dance partners. Her eyes skipped over the feathered headdresses and looked beyond the crystal chandeliers and polished marble statues of Roman gods, searching for Ravenswood.
“Good evening, Miss Ashby.”
She bristled. He was the only one in the family who didn’t call her by her nickname. It annoyed her beyond words, his willful refusal to grant her even that small level of intimacy.
Slowly she turned around to confront the towering figure of masculine energy.
Henrietta let out a little gasp at the sight of Ravenswood. He was decked in striking sable black attire, the white ruff of his cravat set high in an elegant knot at the center of his throat. A thick throat. A strong throat. One that made Henrietta wonder where a peer like Ravenswood would get such corded muscles.
But soon thoughts of “where” turned to thoughts of “who cares” as something squirmed in her belly. A moist heat that dazzled her senses every time she stood near the man. He was immaculate in apparel; only his sable black locks were a bit untidy, a few stray curls draped over and around his red silk mask.
Heavens, he was stunning! Oh, why hadn’t she brought along her fan? It was overwhelming, the heat radiating from Ravenswood.
“Good evening, Sebastian.” Voice unsteady, she called him by his Christian name. He would not deny her that familiarity, at least.
Sebastian quirked a smile at her lack of deference, but otherwise did not remark on her failure to call him “my lord.”
“And how are you this evening, Miss Ashby?”
His voice was deep and measured, and it made her heart thump loud and fierce.
“I’m very well, Sebastian, thank you,” she squeaked. “And you?”
“I’m quite well, Miss Ashby.”
Oh, she wanted to tweak his tongue and get it to say her first name! “I’m so glad to hear that.”
The viscount folded his hands behind his back, the breadth of his chest exposed to her eager eyes. And, oh, that spicy scent of Eau de Cologne! The rosemary and lemon made Henrietta positively light-headed.
It was a deuced bother, being in love with such a man. He was much too cavalier; it always put her at a disadvantage…well, not this time. This time she had on the perfect dress.
Her pulse throbbed. It throbbed even harder when he drawled in that oh-so-husky voice, “You look lovely this evening, Miss Ashby.”
“Thank you, Sebastian.”
For just a moment, his smoldering blue gaze dropped to caress the swell of her bosom, and Henrietta thought her heart would break through the breastbone.
It’s working, she thought. He’s finally going to see me as a grown woman!
Her hopes soared even higher when he leaned in so achingly close to whisper, “I think you have outgrown your frock, Miss Ashby.”
Oh, curse him! Was that all he could say? What about You look bewitching? Or I must claim the next dance? Anything but an overprotective, brotherly remark.
She wanted to rail at him. She bit her tongue instead.
Forcing a smile to her trembling lips, she said, “Have I really?”
The richness of his voice tickled her skin. “I suggest you run back to your room and fetch a chemisette.”
And with that, he bowed and walked away.
Henrietta just stood in the entranceway, utterly dumbfounded. A chemisette! She had draped her body in the softest of silk—and all but exposed her bosom with the low cut of her neckline—and he told her to cover up!
She was going to wring his neck. Why, every other gentleman at the ball was gazing at her in admiration. Why couldn’t he?
“Bloody hell,” she muttered in the same vein as her best friend, Mirabelle Hawkins. Things were not getting off to a good start.
And that discourse! Could she have said anything more mundane?
Drat!
Why couldn’t she find her voice when in the presence of the viscount? Why did her flesh tingle and her heart patter and her mouth grow dry? Why couldn’t she flirt effortlessly like that wench across the room ogling her Ravenswood?
Henrietta let out a soft snort, then turned away from the spectacle. She hated to see Ravenswood converse with other women—pretty women. It downright made her heart hurt.
Taking in a deep breath to ease the tightness in her limbs, Henrietta made her way through the throng of guests and headed for the lemonade bowl. She needed a cool refreshment.
She also needed the company of her dearest chum, Mirabelle Hawkins. The two women were kindred spirits. But alas, Mirabelle’s family was in the most dreaded of all professions—trade—and while Henrietta did not give a whit about her best friend’s familial roots, Mirabelle did. The young woman was quite aware of the stigma upon her head, and she did not wish to besmirch Henrietta’s reputation by maintaining an obvious friendship. And so Henrietta could not even invite her best bud to the masquerade ball—and she thus had to suffer the sting of Ravenswood’s dismissal alone.
A tap on the shoulder diverted Henrietta’s attention, and she set her glass of citrus fruit aside. “Oh, hello, Cat.”
Catherine Smith was an amiable acquaintance. A shy girl, she lacked the spirited character Henrietta longed for in a chum. But she was a sweet debutante, eager to please. Henrietta had asked a favor of her, to help her woo Ravenswood. She was about to inquire after Catherine’s progress in the endeavor—when she noticed the rose pigment marking the young woman’s throat. Was the girl blushing?
“Is something the matter, Cat?”
Catherine stuttered.
“Cat, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
The girl paused, took in a deep breath, then said, “I spoke with Ravenswood, just like you asked me to.”
Henrietta blinked. “When?”
“Tonight. The ball’s been under way for more than an hour, Henry.”
Heavens, was she that late? Henrietta brushed her astonishment aside and fixed her gaze on Catherine. “Well, out with it, Cat. What happened with Ravenswood?”
The girl knitted her fingers. “I-I mentioned your name and remarked on your pretty eyes and—”
“Yes, I know what you said. We rehearsed the monologue last week. But what did he say?”
“Oh, he was quite in accord about your eyes, and all.”
“But…?”
“Well, you s-see.” Catherine glanced at the polished ballroom floor. “He was so nice and we talked about all sorts of things.”
“Things?” Henrietta reared her head back. “What sorts of things?”
“Nothing of consequence. The beautiful summer weather, the approaching end of the Season, the retreat to the country…”
Henrietta wasn’t a soul to practice patience. Lord knew, she didn’t have much restraint when it came to her temper, either. And Catherine was beginning to gnaw at what little equanimity she had left.
Setting a hand over the girl’s fidgety fingers, Henrietta encouraged, “Yes, Cat?”
Catherine looked up and sighed. “I think I’m in love with Ravenswood.”
Henrietta blinked again. It took her all of two seconds to gather her stunned thoughts.
“Why, Cat, you little hussy!”
Henrietta snatched the wide-eyed girl’s mask, and in a fit of feminine pique, plucked each and every feather from the frilly headpiece. She cared not a jot that she was standing in the middle of the sumptuous ballroom, amid a throng of masquerading guests, and causing a bit of a stir. Nor did she heed Catherine’s whimpers. All Henrietta minded was the ghastly declaration young Catherine had just uttered, causing her mind to whirl and colorful spots to dance before her eyes.
“I say, unhand me,” Hen
rietta protested, as a hand suddenly pinched her wrist and yanked her roughly away from a sniveling Catherine.
Dragged to the other side of the ballroom and shoved behind a potted fern, Henrietta glared at the masked female with obvious ire.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” Indignant, Henrietta demanded, “Who are you?”
At that moment, the mysterious female lifted her feathered headdress.
Henrietta gasped. “Oh, Belle!”
Henrietta flung herself at Mirabelle Hawkins, her very dearest friend in the whole wide world. The horrible downward spiral of the evening immediately brightened, as the two girls hugged and hopped in glee—and let out a few feminine squeals to boot.
Henrietta had not seen her chum in almost a year. Gracious, it had been too long! Though studious in her letter writing, Mirabelle had not come to Town to visit. And Henrietta had missed her terribly…so what was Mirabelle doing here? Henrietta had not invited her to the ball. Was the woman in some sort of trouble?
Discarding Catherine’s tattered mask, Henrietta removed her own bejeweled headpiece. “What’s the matter, Belle? Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right.” Mirabelle took in a rather shaky breath, indicating otherwise, then pointed to the shabby mask on the shiny ballroom floor. “What was that all about?”
Her temper rankled once more, Henrietta made a moue. “Oh, Cat’s a conniving little witch.”
“Cat?”
“Catherine…never mind.” Henrietta waved a hand. “The girl was my friend up until a minute ago.”
“What happened?”
“Catherine was supposed to tweak Viscount Ravenswood’s nose and get the man to notice me. She wasn’t supposed to set her cap on him.” Henrietta huffed. “As if Ravenswood would ever flirt with a mousy little thing like her.”
“Viscount Ravenswood?”
And that was all the encouragement Henrietta needed to vent her frustrations. The story poured forth—every vexing detail.
All the while, Henrietta stared at Ravenswood from across the room. He wasn’t with the wench anymore, but conversing with Papa—listening to Papa—for he was far too busy glaring at her to say much of anything to Baron Ashby.
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