Scandal at the Midsummer Ball

by Marguerite Kaye

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. She had not thought her heart could absorb any more happiness, but it seemed it could. ‘Do you mean it? You really want us to be married?’

  ‘I love you. All I have to offer is the hope of a glittering future, but with Sir Timothy’s backing, my management, and your talent, I know we can do it. America is where the future is. A new country, where we can make our own destiny, our own rules. We can make our own dynasty too. Take a chance with me, Katerina. Marry me.’

  ‘I can think of nothing I would like better.’

  Inside the ballroom, the orchestra struck up for the first official dance. If Fergus and Katerina had looked through the window, they would have seen Lady Verity bestowing the honour of her hand on Desmond Falkner. They would have seen Jessamy Addington dancing with Florence Canby, and Cynthia Kilmun standing disconsolate to one side as her sister danced for the second time that evening with the Earl of Jessop. They might have noticed the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore eyeing the other various couples on the floor with a mixture of pride and disappointment. They would not have seen Sir Timothy or Lillias Lamont, for after a long day discussing his circus venture with Fergus and Katerina, Farthingale had decided that he and that luscious lady were in need of a rather more adult form of entertainment.

  But they did not see any of this. They were, shockingly, locked in one another’s arms, and kissing in the most indecorous of ways. ‘I love you so much,’ Katerina said.

  ‘How much?’ her betrothed asked with a wicked smile.

  ‘Spirit me away from this fairy land, and I’ll show you,’ she answered.

  At which point, they retired, to dance to their own particular tune. And with that, the curtain is discreetly lowered on the Brockmore Midsummer Party.

  * * * * *

  The Debutante’s Awakening

  Bronwyn Scott

  For Evelyn, independent bookstore owner extraordinaire.

  Thanks for making Good Book Café a great place where readers and writers can meet.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Chapter One

  Saturday June 14th, 1817

  Brockmore Manor House Party

  Programme of Events

  Welcoming Party in the Drawing Room

  Exhibition by the World-Famous

  Russian Acrobat Troupe

  The Flying Vengarovs in the Ballroom

  This was the house party of the Season? Miss Zara Titus stood in the archway of the Duke of Brockmore’s elegant blue, ode-to-the-sea drawing room and surveyed its occupants with what may have well been a hint of disdain in her gaze. After all, it was so very hard to hide one’s true feelings all the time and the truth was: she’d rather be anywhere else than here. In fact, up until three weeks ago, she’d never dreamed she’d need to be here. Then Viscount Haymore had broken their long-standing betrothal and everything had changed. Even her. Not just who she was but what she wanted. She’d gone from being successfully betrothed and anticipating a Christmas wedding to suddenly being a three-Seasons debutante with no husband in sight.

  This party was supposed to rectify that. If she allowed it. The old dreams no longer suited her. In the wake of Haymore’s defection, she wondered if they ever had. She had new dreams now, dreams of independence where she chose the path of her life and who, if anyone, she walked that path with. This party posed a danger to those fledgling dreams.

  Oh, the party looked innocuous enough—all the usual players in all the usual places: Lady Verity Fairholme, the duke’s niece, at the centre of the room, surrounded by her beaux, and arranged portrait-perfect on a large hassock, having no doubt selected her cream gown with its blue trim to complement the room’s decor—a strategy Zara noted her rival often used to gather attention; Miss Florence Canby dressed in white sitting by the open French doors, gentlemen hovering about her who would say they had drifted over because it was cooler, but who in truth were probably there because of the ‘unconfirmed’ rumours from the Westcott ball that Florence would indeed kiss a man and a bit more in the garden if she had enough champagne. No wonder the girl was here—she needed to marry fast.

  Like you, Zara’s conscience prompted. You are no longer different than these other girls. They might not be as pretty, but they were just as wealthy, just as highly placed in society and, for whatever reasons, just as in need. Zara pushed the negative thought aside. That was the old Zara talking, the old dreams reasserting themselves.

  It had been rather humbling to realise how much she had prided herself on that betrothal, how much she’d unconsciously defined her self-worth by it and now it was gone, all because Haymore had found his true love and it wasn’t her. Losing Haymore had hurt, but growing pains always did. This party would be the first test of the new Zara’s resolve and the power of her new dreams—dreams crafted by her, for her, not given to her by a set of well-meaning parents.

  Zara’s gaze quartered the room to take in the rest. There were other well-known, expected guests: Jeremy Giltner, Douglas Brigstock and Jessamy Addington, all known protégés of the duke; the newly inherited Lord Markham and his sister Catherine, who was getting a late start on her Season after a year of mourning; the pretty Kilmun twins, Cynthia and Cecily, who lingered near Verity; shy Miss Ariana Falk and her dragon of a mother; Mr Melton Colter, who had a terrible habit of graphically discussing horse breeding at dinner. It was a traditional assembly of London’s haut ton, each guest carefully selected by the duke. But only the most naïve would think this gathering was innocent.

  Anyone who was anyone knew what went on here. This was where the most prestigious matches of the year would be made—nay, not merely ‘made’—to say matches were made minimised the party’s significance. This was where the most prestigious matches of the year would be orchestrated by the Silver Fox himself, the Duke of Brockmore and his Duchess. These were not ordinary marriages, they came with plums: prime diplomatic postings, estates, seats in Parliament, military offices. The Duke could make a man’s career. He could establish a woman in a life of wealth and comfort, position her to become one of London’s leading hostesses. Anything was possible as long as one married appropriately according to the duke’s dictates. To do otherwise was unthinkable. By attending, guests were agreeing to play by those rules.

  Zara Titus wanted no part of it. She did not want to marry a man she’d known for a week just to save face. Of course her mother, the unflappable Viscountess Aberforth, felt otherwise. In her opinion Brockmore’s was exactly where they needed to be in order to show the ton Haymore hadn’t jilted Zara, that the break was indeed mutual if not slightly skewed to Zara’s benefit. Zara could do far better than the viscount and she had a week to prove it by effecting a betrothal to a man of better rank and wealth. It was all Zara had heard for the last three weeks.

  ‘Chin up, shoulders back, gaze to the left, make eye contact with our host,’ her mother coached in firm undertones beside her as Brockmore himself moved forward to greet them, stately and sleek with silver hair that gave him his moniker, a man still in his prime despite his fifty-two years. ‘Breathe in and exhale...’

  With a smile, Zara finished silently in her mind, flashing the room a dazzling one without second thought. After three years, she knew the routine by rote and carried it out effortlessly. It was the routine of a woman who was confident in herself, in her beauty, in her ability to captivate a room as if it was her due
. For three years she had done just that. Only it had never really mattered. Everyone had known she was destined to be Haymore’s bride. Now it mattered. In ways her mother would not expect. Her mother would be quite exercised to know the thoughts running through her usually dutiful daughter’s head. Zara meant to rebel against all of it: the rules, the expectations, the stifling propriety that said good girls did what they were told, never thought for themselves, never experienced life for themselves.

  She might be furious with Haymore for having deserted her—it was embarrassing no matter how Haymore had let her father shape the news of their betrothal ‘broken by mutual agreement’, but she would not sell herself in marriage simply to avenge herself on Haymore. Marriage was for ever. Scandal was for a few weeks until something else came along to take its place, and something would. London thrived on rumours.

  She’d learned a lot about herself in the three weeks since Haymore cried off. She’d learned she hadn’t really loved Haymore, only the comfortable idea of him and even then only because she’d known nothing else. She’d learned she was strong. She’d faced down the initial wave of speculations. She’d learned too that she liked her freedom. Haymore had been chosen for her almost since birth.

  Now she had a choice if she was brave enough to make it. Haymore had been brave enough. Why shouldn’t she be? Why shouldn’t she taste a little of life’s pleasures instead of having everything decided for her? She would choose if she married, who she married and when. She would choose how her life would be spent and where even if that meant away from London society.

  ‘How exciting, darling, to think your husband is in this very room at this very moment,’ her mother whispered as the duke neared. ‘Perhaps the dashing Mr Giltner or young Lord Markham?’

  That was exactly what Zara was very afraid of. She doubted a man who would let her eschew convention and live freely was in this room—arguably the most proper drawing room in England. This room wasn’t a field of opportunity, as her mother liked to portray it. It was a trap waiting to devour her.

  The sinking feeling Zara had fought ever since they’d turned down Brockmore’s mile-long, oak-lined drive became a full-blown pit of anxiety as the duke bent over their hands, all graciousness, giving no acknowledgement that he knew precisely why they were here. ‘Miss Titus, it is a privilege to have you here.’ A privilege? Is that what the genteel scrambling for a last-minute invitation was called these days? Zara was well aware her own highly connected father had called in a few favours to arrange this. The guest list had been set months in advance.

  ‘Let me introduce you, although I am sure you know almost everyone.’ The duke had a fatherly hand at her back, ushering her towards the groups of people gathered about the room, while her mother walked on his other side, looking sophisticated, calm, and above all else, supremely pleased to be here, as if life hadn’t been turned on its ear. Perhaps her mother was pleased to be here. It was all a game to her mother and the duke, they were all living chess pieces to manoeuvre around society’s board.

  Zara was done being a pawn. This week would be about rebellion. The more her mother liked something, the more Zara would resist. In the end, she would taste something of freedom and her parents would understand she’d be making her own decisions from here on. The lesson would serve all parties.

  ‘You know my niece, of course.’ The duke beamed as they approached the hassock. How could she not? The two of them had been in direct competition to be the ton’s leading beauty for years now. But Zara smiled and kissed Verity’s cheek, exclaiming over her gown as if they were the best of friends because that’s what rivals did. They moved on to greet the Downings, Catherine and Richard, the new Lord Markham. That was when she felt it, or rather him.

  A man was watching her, his eyes following her as she moved from group to group, making it hard to concentrate, hard to pretend she was unaware of his attention. By the fourth group, she gave up and hazarded a glance about the room. She found him immediately. He stood with the rather eccentric Timothy Farthingale and the prudish merchant, Desmond Falkner—the only two guests who were here for business, not matrimony.

  He was bold in looks and demeanour. He was tall next to the shorter men, his dark hair pulled back in to a sleek tail to reveal the strong bones of his face and piercing dark eyes. With the right clothes and setting he might easily pass for a pirate. Here among the assembled proper, he was positively feral. He made no move to cut his gaze away. Instead, he smiled broadly when their eyes met, confirming what Zara already knew. He was no gentleman.

  He wasn’t merely looking at her, he was undressing her with his eyes. Zara felt an urge to fan herself that had nothing to do with the actual warmth of the room. She resisted on principle. She would not give him the satisfaction or the acknowledgement. Zara leaned towards the duke. ‘Who is that man?’ She indicated the stranger with only her eyes, careful to keep her tone neutral.

  The duke smiled kindly and patted her hand, exchanging a look with her mother. ‘Merely a guest, my dear. Hardly anyone for you to worry over.’ The message was clear; He was precisely the sort of man her mother wouldn’t want her to meet. He was to be ignored. That made him the perfect place to start.

  The duke’s words were entirely the wrong thing to say to a girl who had no intentions of ending the week with a husband and every intention of exercising a little independence. The man in the corner was suddenly much more interesting than he’d been a few moments ago. Now, he’d become positively intriguing. Zara discreetly flipped open her fan. A little acknowledgement might be in order after all.

  Chapter Two

  Kael Gage recognised a cat-and-mouse game when he saw it. He and the striking woman in the butter-yellow muslin were initiating a subtly aggressive flirtation, each of them seeking to command the other, their roles switching from pursuer to pursuant with a motion of the eyes and the flick of a fan from across the room.

  It was his turn to answer and he would do so with a calculated move. He would wait and make her wonder if he would indeed respond. There was no need to rush over immediately. To do so would concede early victory and put him in her power as a man she could manipulate. It would not enhance his appeal. A woman liked nothing as much as the man she couldn’t have. Likewise, a woman lost interest in a man who was too easily won. Near unattainability was key.

  Kael turned his attentions back to the conversation between Falkner and Farthingale, which had its own engaging value, Falkner in his dark, puritanically plain clothing questioning the business practices of the flamboyantly garbed Sir Timothy Farthingale, but there were practical reasons too for not approaching his lovely butter-gowned flirt just yet. To do so while she was in the duke’s company and her mother’s would be to court rejection outright.

  He didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know what the duke was whispering to the pretty brunette right now, or to know the meaning behind her mother’s brief, shrewd glance in his direction. Kael smiled in their direction, indicating he was aware of their polite censure and that he didn’t care a whit. During his ten years on the town, he’d fought three duels of honour—two with pistols which meant he’d faced mortality at twenty paces at dawn, one of the more frightening things a man could do. He would not be intimidated by a matchmaking mama’s stare and a duke’s whisper.

  Still, whatever they whispered to his flirt was undoubtedly true. That he was no good; he fraternised with the wrong sort of women—opera singers, actresses, jewels of the demi-monde and a certain kind of experienced tonnish woman. He couldn’t deny it. He did more than fraternise with them. He seduced them, bedded them, found physical pleasure with them. But a lot of men did that, even married ones. What was probably less forgivable in their eyes was that he had no prospects. His family tree was a stump with broken branches everywhere. His grandfather had been an earl with a prolific ability to produce reckless sons—seven of them, in fact, only the heir still living—b
ut a less prolific ability to generate income which had left six of those careless sons to fend for themselves, his own father included.

  As a result, Kael had his good looks to recommend him, but not much else except a small horse farm in Sussex. It meant he was fit for a squire’s daughter or a gentleman farmer’s girl—a lesson that had been drilled into him since he was eighteen; the fine debutantes of the ton might flirt with a man like him, but they’d never marry him. It had been a hard lesson for an eager grandson of an earl to learn, no matter how pretty the face delivering it.

  Now, at the age of thirty, he knew very well for a fine diamond of the first water like Miss Butter-Gown, he was persona non grata, which served to make him contrary. It made him want to play the game all the more, just to be contrary, simply because he could. From the flick of her fan, she did too. She was restless. It was there in her gaze, hidden behind that confident smile of hers as she moved from group to group, and in the defiant tilt of her head that she couldn’t quite hide. She didn’t want to be here. How very interesting. Most women would kill to be here. To find someone who would not, was intriguing. It made her different, it made her stand out. It made him want to know her. What sort of woman would willingly eschew this opportunity?

  This was shaping up to be quite the entertaining house party. He’d not expected it. This was not his usual venue. He’d merely come as a means of getting out of London, all too happy to be Jeremy Giltner’s guest. The city had become rather ‘hot’ for him at present in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

  * * *

  Kael waited until after the acrobatic display by the Flying Vengarovs that evening to make his response. It had been a scintillating performance, leaving spirits high and imaginations aroused. Perhaps exactly what their host intended, Kael thought with cynicism. The Silver Fox did nothing by accident. Katerina Vengarov had been nearly naked as she’d navigated the tightrope strung across the ballroom high above the floor, igniting all sorts of fantasies in the male mind, while her chiselled brother had likely made the same impact on the female population.