Summer of Scandal

by Syrie James

  Still, Madeleine didn’t dare offer to read to Lord Trevelyan again. She spent her afternoons helping Sophie, Helen, and Anna work on their costumes for the ball, grateful that Martin had agreed to alter the white muslin gown for herself. When the household retired for the night, Madeleine worked on her novel, which to her satisfaction was nearing completion.

  Every morning she spent assisting Sophie, who often seemed out of sorts and distracted.

  “Is anything wrong?” Madeleine asked one bright day as she pushed Sophie in her wheelchair in the garden.

  “Wrong? Why do you ask?” Sophie responded.

  “Because you haven’t spoken for twenty minutes. Nor replied to the last two questions I posed.”

  “Oh. Forgive me. I was miles away.” Sophie paused, as if turning something over in her mind. Then making a little face, she said, “I guess I am feeling sorry for myself. It is so frustrating to be unable to walk, and to be encumbered by this cast on my hand.”

  “They are only temporary inconveniences,” Madeleine reminded her. “With any luck, you’ll be right as rain very soon.”

  Miss Atherton had asked him to stay away from her. Charles did his best to comply.

  He took a jaunt up to London, although he had no real reason to go there, and spent the entire time thinking of her and counting the days until he could return.

  When he returned to Cornwall, he didn’t dine with the family, spending his time either visiting tenants, overseeing the operation of the mine, or at his workshop. Once, he wheeled Sophie around the garden himself. On the few occasions when he did see Miss Atherton at tea, he made a point of sitting across the room.

  Although she had insisted on this new distance between them, and he also believed it was the right and proper thing to do, he couldn’t help feeling regretful that it had become necessary.

  Whenever he thought about Miss Atherton—and despite himself, Charles thought about her far too often—his blood felt as though it were on fire. It wasn’t just the memory of their kisses that affected him, however incendiary those kisses might have been. It was the memory of each and every experience they had shared, in its entirety.

  The day he had saved her notes in the fountain. Making wishes in the cave. Showing her his inventions at his workshop. Their late-night feast in the kitchen. Each time, they’d shared long, meaningful conversations which he had thoroughly enjoyed.

  By putting an end to those wonderful discussions, Charles felt as though he’d lost something important from his life. But that was understandable, he told himself. It’s what one would expect to feel, were he kept apart from someone he particularly liked and admired.

  Or was infatuated with.

  We must rise above this infatuation, or whatever it is, and agree that henceforth we will just be friends.

  Friends. That’s what Miss Atherton had deemed they should be. But what he felt for her went far beyond friendship. If only he didn’t feel this intense, overwhelming . . . attraction to her. That’s what had complicated things.

  Charles was contemplating all this one morning as he left his room, when to his surprise, he encountered Miss Atherton at the head of the stairs, coming from the guest wing. He stopped, his heart leaping in his chest. It was the first time they had been alone together in weeks.

  She looked inexpressibly beautiful. She was attired in a lovely blue gown that matched her eyes and showed off her perfect figure, and her hair was swept up in touchable waves.

  Waves he knew he could never touch again.

  In her expression, he read her silent regret at their enforced separation, a mutual feeling he did not even try to disguise.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Miss Atherton returned the greeting. After a pause, she glanced up at him with a half smile and a sparkle in her hooded eyes, which suggested that she was recalling some pleasant but illicit memory. Was it the same memory that had haunted his dreams for weeks, and even now danced in his head, fueling his body with desire? The memory of heated kisses and hands on naked flesh after sampling strawberries and cabernet?

  Charles swallowed hard, struggling to focus on the present moment. How he longed to take her in his arms. Even if he couldn’t kiss her, just to hold her, to feel her body pressed against his, would help quench some of the flames that burned within him.

  He had just thought of a way to make that happen—a way that wouldn’t break any code of ethics—when his father’s voice bellowed out along the corridor.

  “Pure nonsense! Infernal quackery! I want toast with my eggs, damn it! And cinnamon cake with my coffee!” The sound of breaking china followed, and then muffled murmurs from the nurse.

  Charles glanced in that direction, and he couldn’t prevent a smile. “As I understand it, that is all your doing?”

  She stiffened slightly. “I simply shared something I once overheard.”

  “Overheard?”

  She told him of the circumstances, how she had once escaped the tedium of a ball by hiding in the library, and overheard two gentlemen speaking about a medical condition. “I thought I should tell Dr. Hancock in case it was of significance. Now I wish I hadn’t. Your father is so upset.”

  “Do not let Father’s bluster alarm you. I am glad you said something.” They started down the stairs together.

  “Are you?”

  “He is a man who enjoys his food—or used to. It is interesting to think that some of his favorite dishes might be the very things that have been making him so ill.”

  “Is he any better at all, on the new diet?”

  “Mother said she has seen real improvement over the past weeks,” Charles told her. “It is still early days, but some of Father’s symptoms have definitely abated.”

  “I am so pleased to hear that.” Miss Atherton looked hopeful. “Will he be able to attend the ball, do you think?”

  “Father assured me that he will. Speaking of which—will you still be here, the night of the ball?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you promise me a dance?” Say yes. Say yes.

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think that would be wise, my lord. Remember our pact.”

  “We agreed to stay out of each other’s way. To be like ‘ships passing in the night’—I believe those were your words? At which we have succeeded remarkably well of late, don’t you think?”

  “I do.”

  “What is the harm in a dance in a ballroom full of people?” Please say yes. He envisioned the moment: gliding together around the dance floor, holding her once again in his arms.

  “Well . . .”

  “I will not take no for an answer,” Charles insisted. “One dance, that is all I ask. Do I have your word?”

  “Well, all right then,” she gave in, her tone teasing, “if my dance card is not full.”

  Yes yes yes. “I will look forward to it.” More than you know. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Charles bowed, his eyes still holding hers. “Good day, Miss Atherton.”

  “Are you not going in to breakfast?” she asked, apparently disappointed.

  He shook his head. “I am dining elsewhere.”

  “Might I ask where, my lord?”

  With a wink, Charles replied: “In Truro.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The morning before the ball, a small package was delivered to Madeleine’s room.

  “Lord Saunders told me to bring this to ye,” said the maid with a curtsy before vanishing down the hall.

  A note was attached:

  My Dear Miss Atherton,

  A little something to remind you of your stay at Trevelyan Manor.

  With my best wishes for your health, happiness, and success.

  Charles Grayson

  The Earl of Saunders

  Madeleine unwrapped the parcel to discover a copper hairpin, equally as delicate as the ones he had made for the other ladies in the household. In addition to a row of gleaming white pearls, it featured a
tiny charm which looked to have been molded and sculpted by hand, and was shaped like a book.

  Her heart caught. The hairpin was a thing of beauty, and clearly designed with her in mind. How kind it was of him to think of her, to make this for her. At the same time, his words made it clear that this was a parting gift, and a subtle reminder that they were just friends.

  As it should be, she reminded herself. If only the reminder didn’t make her feel so sad.

  “Sophie: you are a vision,” Madeleine said.

  The fancy dress ball was due to begin in half an hour. Madeleine and Sophie stood before the looking glass in Madeleine’s bedchamber, while Martin finished adjusting the glittery silk wings suspended from Sophie’s arms.

  “Do really you think so?” Sophie modestly studied her reflection.

  “You’ll turn the head of every man in the room,” Madeleine assured her. Two days before, Dr. Hancock had pronounced her ankle recovered, and this morning he had removed the cast from her hand. “And how wonderful that you are able to dance.”

  All their hard work on Sophie’s costume had paid off. In the violet-and-black gown, with her gossamer wings and a headband of delicate wire-and-velvet antenna, she looked every bit the ethereal butterfly.

  Madeleine wasn’t so sure about her own costume. When she’d first tried it on after Martin had finished the alterations, it hadn’t seemed quite so low-cut. Although the gown had been let out as far as it would go, Madeleine felt as though she’d had to pour herself into it. Her hair was done up in a nice Grecian style, though, and the old blue-ribboned Royal Navy Cross medal, which she’d found in the attic and was now pinned to her bodice, gave her ensemble a “Lady Emma Hamilton” flair.

  Her sister had written expressing her regrets that she and Thomas could not attend. In her note to Madeleine, Alexandra had injected a hint of humor, saying:

  Every day, I grow larger and larger, and at this point I’d look ridiculous in costume unless I appeared as a whale. In any case, I’m too close to my due date to travel. Thomas refuses to allow me to even set foot inside a carriage until after the baby comes.

  In spite of her disappointment that her sister wasn’t coming, and a fatigue with regard to balls in general, having attended far too many in town, Madeleine realized she was looking forward to this ball. Her stay at Trevelyan Manor was almost at an end. Sophie could do her own letter-writing now. Tonight would be her one and only chance to dance with Lord Saunders, and after she left, who knew how long it would be until she saw him again?

  By the end of summer, six weeks from now, he would be engaged to Sophie, and Madeleine would have to make up her mind about Lord Oakley. She was fairly certain that she would have to turn Oakley down. How could she marry a man when her mind was full of someone else—even if that man was to marry someone else?

  Still, even if she couldn’t have him, she could dance with him tonight. Create one last memory.

  “You need a hair ornament,” Sophie pronounced, breaking into Madeleine’s thoughts as she studied their reflections in the mirror. “Would you like to wear the hairpin Charles gave me?”

  The offer made Madeleine blush. Was there no end to this young woman’s innocent goodness? “Actually, he gave me one of my own,” Madeleine admitted. She hadn’t put it on, nor mentioned it to Sophie, worried that the gift might make Sophie feel uncomfortable. But Sophie’s eyes just lit up.

  “Did he? How kind of him. Do let me see it.”

  Madeleine retrieved the hairpin from her bureau drawer and showed it to her friend.

  “Oh, it is lovely. You must wear it. Here, let me place it for you.” Sophie expertly wove the copper hairpin into Madeleine’s hair. “There. Now you are perfect.”

  “You’ll both be turning heads tonight, mark my words,” said Martin with a smile. “No other woman in that ballroom stands a chance.” With that, she quit the room.

  Sophie turned to Madeleine, a worried look on her face. “Could that be true? I do not wish to draw attention away from Aunt Charlotte. It is her birthday, after all.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. Lady Trevelyan’s gown is spectacular. She is certain to be the belle of her own ball.”

  “I hope so. Just as I hope that . . .” Sophie’s voice broke off.

  “You hope what?”

  Sophie’s cheeks bloomed a gentle pink. “Oh, Maddie. There is something I have been meaning to speak to you about. But I felt strange somehow. Because I . . .” Sophie seemed to be groping for words. “It is just that . . .” Leaning close to Madeleine’s ear, she whispered: “I am hoping for a proposal tonight.”

  A proposal. Madeleine’s heart seized. “Are you?”

  Madeleine felt as if all the air had been sapped from the room. Was it possible that Lord Saunders intended to propose to Sophie tonight? The ball, with all of the Graysons’ friends in attendance, would certainly make the ideal venue to announce an engagement.

  Stop being ridiculous. You knew he was going to marry Sophie. Still, knowing that the proposal would happen eventually and being confronted with the fact that it might take place that very evening were two different things.

  “It is no doubt a vain hope,” Sophie said quickly. “Please forget I mentioned it.”

  Before Madeleine could reply, Helen and Anna burst into the room, attired in all their finery. “Oh! You both look wonderful,” Anna cried.

  Anna herself looked radiant in her Night costume, her blue dress bespangled with gold stars, and Helen was pretty as a picture in her Turkish pantaloons. Several minutes were given over to inspecting and admiring each other’s attire, during which time Madeleine forced herself to rally. Lord Saunders had asked to dance with her, and engagement or no engagement, he might still do so. She was determined to enjoy the ball, no matter what happened.

  “Come downstairs now,” Helen urged. “The guests are already arriving.”

  “Shall we go?” Sophie took Madeleine’s arm and they followed the girls out of the room.

  “Wait,” Madeleine said, “I forgot my fan. You go on ahead, I’ll join you downstairs.”

  The other three rushed off. A few minutes later, fan in hand, Madeleine stopped at the railing overlooking the grand hall and took in the scene below.

  The house was decorated like a fairyland, festooned with garlands of flowers, the glimmering chandeliers supplemented by hundreds of lit candles. Newly arrived costumed guests were laughing and chattering, awaiting the procession that would lead to the ballroom.

  Madeleine scanned the crowd. Many couples were dressed as pairs of historical and literary figures. She spotted Napoleon and Josephine, Queen Elizabeth and Robert Dudley, King Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, and Romeo and Juliet. She found herself looking for Lord Saunders, but had no idea what his costume would be.

  At last she spotted him at the far end of the room, wearing a dark blue, gold-trimmed Royal Navy uniform. As if he could feel her gaze upon him, Saunders glanced up in her direction. He paused in mid-conversation, his expression turning to admiration as their eyes met and held.

  Madeleine’s pulse skittered as she slowly descended the stairs. She saw him excuse himself from the guest to whom he was speaking and weave his way through the throng toward her, his gaze never wavering from hers. His words rang in her ears. I have never met anyone quite like you. You are a remarkable woman. I admire you more than I can say.

  An invisible current of electricity seemed to be traveling across the space between them, connecting them. Was anyone else aware of it? To her relief, a brief, sidelong glance assured her that the general buzz of laughter and conversation continued unabated.

  Her mind darted to what Sophie had whispered. Did Saunders intend to ask Sophie to marry him tonight? It pained Madeleine to think of it. So she wouldn’t think about it. Not now. Just for the moment, to know that he could look at her this way as he crossed a room was enough.

  They met at the bottom of the stairs.

  In his Royal Navy uniform, embellished with epaulettes, ribbons,
and medals, Saunders looked impossibly attractive. Tight-fitting white breeches accentuated the lean length of his masculine legs. A tricorne hat, which was dashingly askew, completed the outfit.

  “Lady Hamilton.” His expression announced his surprise and delight.

  She suddenly understood his costume, and why he looked so astonished. Her cheeks went scarlet as she dipped him a curtsy. “Lord Nelson.” He had come as the hero of the Battle of Trafalgar, who’d had an infamous and adulterous love affair with Lady Emma Hamilton.

  “Did you know about my costume?” Madeleine asked, suddenly feeling scandalous in her filmy, low-cut gown.

  “I did not.” He laughed, a sound of deep, unqualified pleasure. “I found this uniform in the attic only this morning, the relic of an uncle or cousin or some such who was in the Royal Navy. Perhaps it is fate?” He caught her eye, then said with a wolfish grin, “You are not worried, are you? That someone might think we deliberately dressed as a couple?”

  “A little worried,” Madeleine admitted. “I would not want Sophie to think . . .”

  “Do not distress yourself,” Saunders interrupted with a shrug. “Tonight is all in good fun. Do you see that gentleman over there?” He gestured toward a man wearing a large, handmade champagne label across his chest, and a cap simulating the foil-wrapped cork of a bottle. “He is a barrister, normally a very grave fellow. And the couple dressed as pirates? They are Lord and Lady Dartmoor, known and respected for their philanthropy. Yet tonight, both are carrying a knife in their boot.”

  Madeleine laughed, her anxiety dissolving in the face of his good humor. “Thank you for that reassurance.” Then: “Didn’t Nelson lose an arm?”

  “He did, in later years. But it is difficult to dance with one arm. I am therefore Young Nelson, with half his medals, and as you see, no red sash.” Glancing about, he added, “I do not suppose you know anyone here?”