How to Enjoy a Scandal

by Adrienne Basso

  “It must be the country air causing my frivolity,” he said hastily. “So much more informal, as you said.”

  The woman nodded. A light knock sounded at the door and Jason beckoned the footman into the drawing room. The young man was pushing a ser ving cart crowded with silver-covered dishes.

  “Take the food back to the kitchen, with my apologies to Cook, and bring tea instead,” Jason said.

  The footman paused. “Will Mrs. Hollingsworth be staying for tea, my lord?”

  Jason looked to Mrs. Hollingsworth as the ser vant waited, feeling such a sense of relief at learning her name that he did not mind inviting her to tea.

  “Would you be so kind as to take tea with me this afternoon, Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

  Color washed into the older woman’s round cheeks.

  “I would be truly honored.”

  “Inform Cook I have a guest.”

  “Very good, my lord. Shall I serve the tea in here?”

  It was the customary location, but Jason doubted he could stand to sit amongst all the yellow in the room without eventually becoming dizzy.

  “I believe I would enjoy breathing some of this invigorating country air. I have been cooped up in my traveling coach for too many days. Will you brave the elements with me, Mrs. Hollingsworth, and take tea on the terrace?”

  Jason looked to the older woman with a questioning arch of his brow.

  “It sounds lovely, my lord.”

  “Excellent.”

  Jason struggled to seem interested as Mrs. Hollingsworth proceeded to engage him in bland, boring conversation focusing mainly on the weather and the society happenings of the local gentry. Time and again, Jason’s mind kept wandering and he found it necessary to force himself to concentrate.

  “Tea is served, my lord,” the footman finally announced.

  “Splendid.”

  He offered Mrs. Hollingsworth his arm and she began to guide him in the direction of the terrace. Feeling oddly like a guest, instead of a host, Jason allowed himself to be led away. Outside, the sun was shining with a crisp glow, and a pair of sparrows sat on the branch of a large tree that shaded the terrace.

  Smiling, she moved him off toward a table covered with silver trays laden with a large assortment of individual cakes, cookies, pastries and tiny finger sandwiches. It was an impressive spread, even by London standards.

  Jason made a mental note to convey his thanks to Cook for a superb job on such short notice.

  At his insistence, Mrs. Hollingsworth poured the tea.

  She handed him a cup that he accepted politely. Taking a small sip, he hid his grimace and thought longingly of his whiskey glass.

  “Oh, my goodness, what a delightful surprise. ’Tis my daughter, Olivia.”

  Mrs. Hollingsworth’s voice had taken on a false, cheery brightness that indicated she was lying. Relying on the skills that had aided him for years in avoiding matchmaking mamas for years, Jason decided this little surprise was anything but a coincidence.

  Still, he could not be rude. He rose obligingly to his feet and greeted Miss Olivia Hollingsworth, who was a younger and slightly thinner version of her mother. She was dressed in a saffron muslin gown embroidered with roses. Jason nearly winced when he noted the shade, wondering if yellow had some mysterious meaning for country folk, rather like purple did for royalty.

  After a token protest, Miss Olivia joined them for tea.

  She declined the food, but at her mother’s insistence, finally selected a fruit tart from the silver tray. It was a gooey confection of pastry, custard and fresh strawberries, with the pretty green stems intact. She balanced her plate precariously with one hand and Jason kept glancing her way, waiting for the pastry to slide off the plate and fall in her lap.

  Unfortunately, Miss Olivia completely misunderstood his interest. Glancing at Jason from beneath her lashes, she grasped the largest strawberry by the stem and lifted it near her mouth. Using the tip of her tongue, she licked the custard that coated the bottom of the fruit in an amazingly suggestive manner before slowly sliding it between her lips.

  Jason set his teacup down on its saucer and cleared his throat.

  “Your mother was mentioning how it has been an usually warm spring this year.”

  Without the slightest hint of embarrassment Miss Olivia pouted her lips, then opened them to reply, but she was interrupted by the arrival of two matronly females, with five younger women in tow.

  Within ten minutes, another matron and her daughter arrived. Jason soon realized the females in the area must be unaware of his brother’s recent marriage, since they were stalking him with all the tenacity of a hunter on the scent of fresh game. In his experience, only single men were afforded this kind of attention.

  More cups and plates and a second pot of tea was brought. Jason tried to divide his time equally among the women, but it was difficult to concentrate and nearly impossible to keep their names straight. After twenty minutes he admitted defeat—there was no controlling this particular gaggle of determined females.

  He thought briefly of making a reference to Lady Fairhurst, but that might bring up too many sticky questions, namely where she was and why she had not accompanied her husband to the estate.

  No, better to let the word leak out in a more dignified fashion—through the ser vants. Jason would instruct Pierce to make a few pointed references in the servants’

  quarters about his lordship’s marriage tomorrow morning. Within hours, the news would be the main topic of conversation at breakfast tables throughout the county.

  Until then, he would have to endure this female on-slaught with good humor, knowing his twin would never forgive him if he alienated the local society. With an inward groan of dismay, Jason smiled politely as he was introduced to yet another matchmaking mother and her giggling young daughter.

  He bowed stiffly and hoped fervently that in addition to the informal manners found in the country, they also had much shorter visiting and afternoon tea hours.

  “If you do not hurry, Aunt Mildred, we shall not arrive until well beyond tea time,” Dorothea Ellingham cried in frustration. “For pity’s sake, can you not walk any faster?”

  “If I had known we would be sprinting about the countryside, I would have worn my walking boots,” her aunt responded in a puff of shortened breath. The older woman’s round, florid face was flushed and gleaming with a thin sheen of perspiration, but she gamely tried to keep pace with the much longer strides of her niece.

  “Besides, I hardly think it is appropriate that we descend upon the viscount so soon after his arrival. Gracious, the man only arrived at Moorehead Manor a few hours ago.”

  “Nonsense,” Dorothea insisted. “We are not going to call on the viscount. Our visit shall be with Mr. Ardley. If perchance we happen upon the viscount, I would be pleased to make his acquaintance. Though he is a fine London gentleman, I am sure he would appreciate being made welcome by a local to our quaint community.”

  It was a pretty speech, well-spoken and well-meaning and so blatantly false that even the normally bold Dorothea had difficulty meeting her aunt’s eye after she had uttered the words. They both were very aware that Dorothea had never cared a fig for Mr. Cyril Ardley, steward of the manor, and was using Mr. Ardley’s close friendship with Uncle Fletcher, Aunt Mildred’s husband, as an excuse to gain entry to the house.

  Their knock was answered by a tall, wide-shouldered footman. He was brimming with excitement and did not bother to ask their names or why they had called. He made a slight bow and announced, “Please follow me, ladies.”

  Dorothea’s eyebrows lifted at his odd behavior, but not wanting to challenge her luck, she quieted her aunt with a stern look and obligingly followed the servant. He led them through the main foyer, down a long wide hallway and through a set of French doors.

  Dorothea’s initial elation and excitement vanished the moment she stepped out on the sunny terrace. Her heart sank as she beheld the bizarre scene. It seemed as if every un
married female in the area between the ages of sixteen and thirty had precisely the same idea as she had. The normally open and airy terrace was crowded with women of all ages, shapes and sizes. She assumed the viscount was somewhere among them, but it was difficult to see anything beyond the sea of muslin gowns and straw bonnets.

  Dorothea nearly stamped her foot in frustration. If only it had not taken Aunt Mildred so long to get ready, they could have been the first to arrive. Now it was much too late to make a singular impression.

  Drat! She knew she should have left Aunt Mildred behind and brought her sister Gwendolyn along as chaperone. Gwen never fussed with her appearance, walked at a quick and even pace and could be supportive in any situation.

  As an added bonus, many of these stuffy females would most likely flee in horror at being in the presence of a “fallen” woman, thus thinning out the crowd considerably. It went against Dorothea’s nature to expose her sister to any sort of ridicule or pain. Yet Gwen constantly claimed she was not in the least bit upset over her ban-ishment from the local society, an unfortunate and unfair event that occurred four years ago.

  Gwen’s little mishap was part of the reason Dorothea had come to the manor today. The sisters all needed a fresh start, a way to escape this closed existence. And the only way to do that was through marriage. To a peer. A rich peer.

  “My gracious, what a crush,” Aunt Mildred said as she took a sip from the cup of tea she had snagged from a passing footman.

  “If only we had arrived earlier,” Dorothea muttered, then she clamped down on her jaw so hard an ache throbbed at the back of her teeth. It would do no good to insult or upset Aunt Mildred at this stage. Better to see if there was some way to salvage the situation. “Do you see Mr. Ardley in attendance, Aunt?”

  The older woman raised herself up on her toes, no small feat for a female of her girth, and sur veyed the crowd. “I fear I do not.”

  “Pity.” Dorothea clicked her tongue against her two front teeth, a nervous habit that revealed the depth of her frustration. “I was depending upon Mr. Ardley to introduce us to Lord Fairhurst.”

  “That would be the proper course of action,” Aunt Mildred agreed. “Shall we ask one of the ser vants to fetch him?”

  “Lord Fairhurst?” Dorothea asked in horror, seizing her aunt’s hand to prevent her from signaling one of the servants.

  “No! I shall ask for Mr. Ardley. Goodness, where has your head gone today, Dorothea?”

  “I am not sure,” Dorothea replied, her mouth twitching.

  This most unexpected glitch in her scheming was quite vexing and Dorothea found it difficult to get her bearings. She never was one who could think fast in a crisis, who could salvage a situation with a clever new approach at a moment’s notice. That was her sister Gwendolyn’s area of expertise.

  Dorothea felt the frustration sweep through her. It had been a good plan, a solid plan, a brilliant plan. Trouble was, it had not been a unique plan. Every other unmarried female, and their scheming mamas, had apparently formulated the same approach to capturing the viscount’s attention. Double drat!

  “That must be the viscount,” Aunt Mildred whispered, smiling at the blond man on the far end of the patio. “He is certainly a handsome man. A very handsome man.”

  Dorothea did not even attempt to be coy. She lifted her chin and stared boldly across the patio, hungry for her first glimpse of her intended target. Her eyes widened, surprised she had not seen him sooner.

  The viscount stood far above average in height, a fact emphasized in a gathering of women, many who barely reached his shoulder, even in their heels. His hair was a deep golden blond, his eyes a glittering shade of green, his jaw square, his nose prominent, but not intrusive.

  He was far more than she had ever hoped. Dorothea smiled with pure pleasure. No matter what the cost, no matter what methods of flirting or teasing or trickery she needed to employ, she would have him. As her husband.

  All coherent thoughts fled the moment Jason set eyes upon the statuesque blond. Her looks and manner reminded him so much of Elizabeth that his breath caught in his throat. The shade of her hair, the curve of her nose, the arch of her neck. Even the way she stood, with her back straight and her head tilted at an attractive angle.

  An alarm sounded in his brain. Without even speaking a word to her, Jason knew he would be susceptible to her charms, would be vulnerable to her beauty, would listen attentively to her conversation, no matter how inane.

  Knowing it was his only means of survival, Jason found himself turning away from her, shutting himself off from any absurd possibilities. The large crowd that had previously annoyed him was now considered a blessing. At worst he would be forced to meet the angelic blond; at best he could avoid her completely.

  And, he vowed, somehow, he would continue to avoid her for the remainder of his visit to the manor.

  Chapter Two

  “Gwendolyn, wake up!” Gwendolyn Ellingham was pulled from the depths of a pleasant sleep by a hissing in her ear and a hard shake of her left shoulder. She snuggled deeper into her feather pillow and tried to shrug off the interruption, but the shaking and hissing continued. As she drifted toward wakefulness, thoughts formed and separated in her mind and she felt as if she were swimming against a strong tide.

  Surrendering to the persistent disturbance, Gwendolyn opened her eyes gradually, cautiously, and beheld her youngest sister, Emma, crouched on the mattress of her bed, a single lit candle held high.

  “Emma?” Gwendolyn croaked.

  “Yes, ’tis me,” Emma answered in a harsh whisper.

  “What’s wrong?” Gwendolyn lightly touched her sister’s cheek. “Did you have another bad dream?”

  “No!”

  Emma blushed and lowered her head and Gwendolyn wished she had not been so tactless and blunt. Though only fifteen, Emma fancied herself a strong, mature, in-tellectual woman. She did not like to be reminded of her frequent nightmares.

  “Then tell me what is wrong,” Gwendolyn asked.

  “I’m fine. It’s Dorothea who is in trouble. You must come at once.”

  “Is she ill?” Gwendolyn asked in alarm. “I told her not to eat that second helping of trifle, but she seemed so out of sorts at dinner that I did not have the heart to insist.”

  “Dorothea isn’t ill,” Emma replied in an anxious tone.

  “She is gone!”

  “Gone? From your bedchamber?” Gwendolyn patted Emma’s hand comfortingly. “I’m sure there isn’t anything to worry about, Emma. Dorothea often wanders about the house when she is feeling restless and cannot sleep.”

  “She is not in the house, Gwen. I’ve looked ever ywhere for her.”

  “Oh, Emma, I am sure you are mistaken. No doubt Dorothea is hiding from you. You know how she enjoys being secretive and mysterious at times.”

  “This is different. Please, Gwen, you must believe me.”

  Gwendolyn shook her head, but the protest she was about to utter caught in her throat. Startled, she saw a large tear roll down Emma’s cheek. Though sensitive and occasionally dramatic, Emma rarely cried.

  She lifted the corner of her bed sheet and wiped Emma’s face. “Don’t fret. Tell me why you are so distressed. What do you think has happened to Dorothea?”

  Emma lifted her head and gave her a sorrowful gaze.

  “’Tis Lord Fairhurst. She met him this afternoon and was instantly smitten.”

  “Viscount Fairhurst? But he lives in London.”

  Emma’s mouth tightened. “He is here now, at Moorehead Manor. He arrived early this afternoon.”

  Gwendolyn felt an uneasy prickle shiver up her spine.

  “If he has only just arrived, how did Dorothea meet him?”

  Emma licked her lips nervously. “She paid a call at the manor this afternoon.”

  “What? Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I saw Dorothea and Aunt Mildred hurrying from the house and when I asked if I could join them on their walk, I was told to go home. They
would not even say where they were going.” Emma wrinkled her nose in displeasure. “It seemed most unfair, so I followed them to the estate. They went into the manor through the front door, but I could hear voices coming from the terrace, so I snuck around the side, through the rose garden, and peeked.”

  “What were they doing?” Gwendolyn asked, knowing she should not encourage such behavior in Emma, but feeling too curious to scold.

  Emma shrugged. “I could not find them in the crowd, but I am sure that is where they went. It looked like the viscount was having a garden party, but it was very odd, because there were only women in attendance. I recognized Mrs. Hollingsworth and Olivia and Mrs. Tiltondown and her two daughters.”

  Gwendolyn felt a brief, momentary stab of pain, but it vanished as soon as it appeared. If the viscount had held a garden party or some other social event, Gwendolyn knew she would not have been included. Still, it hurt to think that her sister and aunt had not even mentioned the garden party to her, nor had they said anything about it at dinner this evening.

  “A party given by Viscount Fairhurst is big news for our little social community,” Gwendolyn replied. “It would hardly be kept a secret and yet I heard nothing about it.”

  Emma chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Perhaps it was not a formal party, but there were enough people there to consider it one.”

  Gwendolyn rubbed her eyes and tried to force her mind to clear. The viscount was the highest ranking peer in the area, a man who was gossiped about and speculated over on a regular basis, even though he was rarely in residence. If he had come to Moorehead Manor, his arrival would not have been kept secret for long.

  It was possible that her sister and aunt had made an afternoon call, though that seemed a far-fetched notion.

  The three sisters were the granddaughters of a baron, through their mother’s side of the family. Their father had been of respectable birth, but was hardly of the same social standing of a man who was a viscount and heir to an earldom. Yet in the country, the lines of social standing were drawn a bit hazier than in Town.