Scandal of the Year

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He could still make his feelings clear to everyone present. All he had to do was give her the cut direct. By turning his back on her without an acknowledging bow, he would put a stop to any ridiculous speculation that they might once again be lovers.

  The wise thing to do, he knew, but he couldn’t do it. He could not compound his lapse of gentlemanly conduct nine months ago by being ungentlemanly now. The fact that her husband had divorced her was his fault as well as hers. He bowed to her, the slightest bow good manners could allow, then he turned away from her and the erotic images that hovered just at the edge of his conscious mind.

  He kept his head high as he made his way amid the crowd to the open French doors leading onto the terrace. He stepped outside and moved to stand at the carved marble railing, where he stared out into the darkness of Kayne’s gardens and breathed deeply of the spring air to cool his blood. With that woman near him again, anything might happen, and Aidan was glad that this time around, he’d chosen to forgo the champagne.

  Julia sighed as she watched Aidan leave the ballroom amid the whispers and stares. He hasn’t changed a bit, she thought in frustration. Still so stiff and so proud, still considering women who were all wrong for him, and still just too damned nice for his own good. He should have cut her a moment ago, for it was obvious why he was at this ball, and acknowledging her did him no favors in that quarter.

  Guilt nudged at her, the same guilt that she’d felt the last time she’d seen him. It was a feeling she was unaccustomed to and one she did not like, and she wondered if perhaps she should have stayed in France. She shrugged her shoulders several times as if to shrug off that niggling guilt and reminded herself that one had to face the music sometime. Besides, she hadn’t gone to all this trouble freeing herself from Yardley so that she could hide away somewhere. She’d done enough hiding in her life already. Unlike Aidan, she didn’t mind being stared at and whispered about. She didn’t mind losing her reputation. She’d never given a damn what society thought. Aidan did, he minded terribly, and that was the difference between them.

  “Julie!”

  The voice of the Marchioness of Kayne broke into her reverie, and she turned her attention to the slender blond in sapphire silk approaching her.

  Julia evaded the other woman’s outstretched hands and took an uneasy glance around. “Are you sure you should welcome me so enthusiastically, Maria? I don’t want you to suffer any guilt by association.”

  “Stuff.” With that scoffing rejoinder, Maria grasped Julia’s gloved hands in her own and pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. “Showing my support in public is crucial if we’re to rebuild your reputation.”

  “I appreciate your trying to rebuild the walls of Jericho, darling, but I fear it’s a lost cause.” She squeezed her friend’s hands with affection, then released them to take a glass of champagne from the tray held by the footman nearby.

  “If it can be done for Lady Shrewsbury, it can be done for you,” Maria pointed out. “You have powerful friends, you know. I just wish I had known you had arrived in town. Where are you staying? With Danbury?”

  This reference to Julia’s cousin, the Earl of Danbury, caused her to give an affirmative nod. “Aunt Eugenia is beside herself, worrying about how it will look to have the black sheep divorcee of the family staying with them, but Paul, bless him, overruled his mother, and I am firmly ensconced in Berkeley Square.”

  “Excellent. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to my ball tonight?”

  With those words, Julia was struck by a ghastly possibility, one that contradicted all her own information. “Yardley’s not here, is he?” she asked, glancing around.

  “Heavens, no! You think I’d offer that man a voucher to a charity ball of mine? Never! Not even for the hospitals.”

  They both laughed at that, but then Maria’s face took on a more somber expression. “I heard Yardley’s not in town, but many people don’t come for the season until after Whitsuntide. He might come then.”

  “I doubt it,” she answered, relieved that her information about her former husband’s impending holiday seemed to be accurate after all. “He’s not a sociable man, as you may have noticed, and besides, I heard he’s off to Africa. On safari, I’m told. Sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming tonight,” she added, desperate to change the subject. “I know crashing a ball is the height of bad taste, but I didn’t want my name appearing on the printed guest list.” She gave her friend an impudent wink. “Hospitals need all the funds they can get, and if people knew I was coming, London society might develop a mass epidemic of the sniffles.”

  “Nonsense!” Maria turned, hooking her arm through Julia’s to pull her more firmly into the room. “I told you, your friends are working hard on your behalf. That’s why I wish you’d written ahead, so I could reassure you. The stand we’re taking is that you and Yardley had an open arrangement, you both knew the score, and it was quite bad form for him to come storming into that cottage the way he did.”

  Julia couldn’t help a laugh. “So his sin is that he opened us both to scandal by barging in on my love nest with Trathen, queering the pitch and then going public with the story? The absurdities of English etiquette! It’s all right for couples living apart to commit infidelity upon each other, but one simply must be discreet about it!”

  “I know, it seems silly, but it’s the only way to frame the situation. Yardley has enemies, you know, some of them powerful men willing to condemn him. You’d have more sympathy, of course, if—” She stopped, but Julia knew what she’d almost said.

  “If I’d given my husband a son or two before having affairs?” Julia’s hand tightened around the stem of her champagne glass, but with an effort, she kept her voice light. “Simply not possible, darling. I’d have had to throw myself off a cliff.”

  “Oh, Julie!” Maria stared at her in wide-eyed horror. “Don’t say things like that! You don’t mean it.”

  She did mean it, but she didn’t argue the point. After all, her former life was not the sort of thing one talked about, particularly at parties. “Maria, dearest, don’t look so stricken!” she said, forcing a laugh. “It’s all over, I’m free of that beastly man, and it doesn’t matter to me in the least that I am not received at court or welcomed in the high circles because he divorced me. I’ve always preferred the bohemians anyway. Although,” she added, feeling another pang of conscience, “it’s different for the rest of the family. I do wish they didn’t have to suffer by association.”

  “We’re doing what we can to change that. Your friends are standing by you, and now that Danbury has thrown his support behind you as well by having you to stay, even better.”

  “Don’t have any illusions my cousin did this for me,” Julia said, laughing, striving to keep her carefree air intact. “Paul’s welcoming me back with open arms because he’s in desperate need of meaningful conversation. His wife has gone back to the States, his brother Geoff is at Oxford, and our cousin Beatrix is in Egypt. He’s all alone with his mother in that house, and having only my Aunt Eugenia for company would drive any sane man off his chump.”

  “We both know that’s not his reason,” Maria demurred with a smile. “But try not to worry about your reputation or your family suffering for it. You’ll soon have some invitations, more and more of them as time goes on. I am seeing to that.”

  Julia was quite touched, well aware of the precarious social precipice onto which her friend was stepping. “Dear Maria, I don’t want to reflect badly on you. You’ve spent over ten years building your place in society. I don’t want to spoil things for you.”

  “You won’t. Though I am merely the daughter of a chef, and though I once owned a shop and engaged in trade, my mother was gentry, so I have a tiny bit of acceptable blood in my veins. In the eyes of some, I will never be accepted, of course. But I have four healthy sons to my credit, and my husband is both rich and powerful, so my place is reasonably secure. I am happy to help you any way I can. Kayne endorses my decision, by the
way, and offers his help and support as well.”

  “I fear we’ll need it. My family seems to have become a favorite topic of gossip the past few years. Paul’s wife taking such a long time to come back to England makes Paul a target. And that whole business of Beatrix throwing over Trathen to elope with the Duke of Sunderland caused quite a stir as well.” She paused, noting the furtive stares in her direction, then added, “Still, I’ve managed to steal their thunder, haven’t I? I fear I’m the scandal of the year, perhaps even the decade.”

  Maria put a hand on her arm, her blue eyes filled with sympathy. “I wish there was more I could do.”

  “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me! I don’t mind all this for myself. I knew what I was doing. But for my family’s sake, I thank you.” She gave her friend a rueful smile. “I don’t suppose you could work another miracle and find Trathen a wife, could you? A good one who’d make him happy?”

  “Well, it won’t be Lady Rosalind. She’s engaged to Lord Creighton now.”

  Julia was glad of that. Lady Rosalind was a doe-eyed schemer with a mercenary heart, and the fact that she’d had to settle for a wealthy marquess instead of an even wealthier duke didn’t tweak Julia’s conscience one bit. Aidan was a different matter. She shrugged her shoulders again, trying to banish that nagging guilt. What was done was done. No undoing it now, and she wouldn’t even if she could.

  Still, when she thought of Aidan’s eyes filled with self-condemnation, Julia found it hard to take comfort in her fait accompli.

  Chapter Two

  Aidan went for a walk in the gardens of Park Lane, and when he started back toward Kayne House some thirty minutes later, he felt his blood had cooled sufficiently that he could return to the ball.

  Aware that being anywhere near Lady Yardley was dangerous to both his peace of mind and his reputation, he intended to keep well away from that woman for the remainder of the evening, but as he started toward the terrace, his intentions were forgotten at the sight of her slim figure sitting on the wide steps. Light from the ballroom spilled over her, thin ribbons of cigarette smoke swirled over her head, and the crimson silk of her gown pooled at her feet.

  The moment he saw her, images of that August afternoon came roaring back, but he worked not to show any sign of it. “Lady Yardley,” he said, and glanced at the cigarette in her fingers as he approached the steps. “Still smoking, I see.”

  She smiled a little. “I’m trying to give it up, if that raises me in your estimation.” Her nose wrinkled ruefully at his unchanged expression. “Obviously it doesn’t.”

  “I bid you good evening.” For the second time tonight, he bowed to her, but as he started to ascend the steps to the ballroom, her voice stopped him.

  “I was waiting for you here because I wanted to thank you.”

  He stopped, curious. “For what do you thank me?” he asked, even as he knew it was probably a mistake to inquire.

  With her free hand, she reached for the glass of champagne perched on the step above the one where she sat. Then, turning, she leaned back against the carved stone balustrade of the stair railing and faced him, lifting her glass in salute. “Thank you for not giving me the cut direct earlier. Given the last time we saw each other, I thought you might.”

  He stiffened. “Contrary to some of my past behavior, I am still a gentleman.” But even as he spoke, his gaze was lowering to the shadowy cleft between her breasts, and he feared that when it came to Lady Yardley, he was in fact hopelessly depraved. “At least I strive to be,” he muttered, and forced his gaze back to her upturned face.

  She was looking at him in a thoughtful way he didn’t quite understand. “No striving necessary. You couldn’t stop being a gentleman if you tried.”

  He gave a short, unamused laugh. “That’s ironic, coming from you. The last time I was in your company, my gentlemanly side took quite a holiday.”

  She took a pull on her cigarette and tilted her head farther back to exhale the smoke overhead. “And you’ve been condemning yourself for it ever since, I daresay.”

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured her at once. “I have plenty of condemnation for you as well.”

  “As you should. I suspect, however, that you are reserving most of the blame for yourself.”

  “Can I be expected to do otherwise, having compromised a lady?”

  She smiled, a dazzling flash of white in the moonlight. “Only you would think tumbling a willing and experienced woman was compromising her. That, and the fact that you can still refer to me as a lady, prove my point. But you need to stop being so damned chivalrous.” She paused, her smile faded, and she added in a softer voice, “It makes you quite vulnerable, you know.”

  “Vulnerable?” he echoed, surprised by the word.

  “To women who are all wrong for you.”

  He stiffened. “If you mean yourself, Lady Yardley, and that tiresome business last year, I can assure you—”

  “I wasn’t referring to myself,” she interrupted. “I meant Rosalind. And Felicia Vale, too, of course. Yes,” she added, “I saw you looking at her when I arrived, but you’re wasting your time considering her. The girl’s dim as a firefly.”

  This confirmation of his own suspicion had the curious effect of making him want to argue the point. “Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with Lady Felicia’s intelligence.”

  “Hmm . . . it’s obvious you haven’t met her yet. She talks just like a mouse.” As she spoke, her voice rose to an unbearably high, painful pitch. “Just like a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty mouse. Squeak, squeak, squeak.” She paused to take a sip of champagne, then added in a normal voice, “She’ll drive you mad in half an hour.”

  Aidan felt compelled to defend the poor girl against this criticism. “Even if what you say is true, a high voice does not imply stupidity.”

  He might have been talking to the wind. “Lady Felicia would be a terrible duchess. Especially for a brainy chap like you, with your interest in history, science, and politics.”

  “I haven’t an interest in politics,” he answered tersely. “Not anymore. It was suggested by certain colleagues that I not take my seat in the House of Lords for the good of the party. Tories and scandals do not mix.”

  “I’m sorry. I . . .” She paused and took another sip of champagne. “I didn’t know that.”

  He looked away. “It doesn’t matter,” he lied.

  “Even so,” she went on, “with Lady Felicia, you couldn’t even discuss politics. I doubt the poor girl knows which party is which.”

  “That’s absurd. Her father’s in the House. She must have some appreciation of—” He broke off, realizing too late he was becoming entangled in an argument with a woman whose opinion did not matter to him about a girl he did not know. He drew a deep breath.

  “Forgive me,” he said, pasting on a mask of cool, puzzled disinterest, “but what is the purpose of your rather ruthless assessment of Lady Felicia’s intelligence?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’re back on the hunt.”

  “And if I am, what has it to do with you?”

  “Nothing at all. Still,” she added irrepressibly, “you might want to reconsider your strategy. Appearing at public balls could prove to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “I met your cousin Beatrix at a public ball.”

  “In St. Ives. London during the season is a different kettle of fish, as you are well aware. You’ll be drowning in invitations by the end of the week, most of them from matchmaking mamas in the lower ranks who want to move up the social ladder.”

  “Given the curtailing of invitations from my own set because of my association with you, Lady Yardley,” he shot back, “I am forced to widen my circle of acquaintance.”

  She bit her lip. “That won’t last forever, not for you. One season. Perhaps two.”

  “Possibly, but I don’t have the luxury of sitting back and waiting for my reputation to be restored. And I don’t recall soliciting your views on the subject. And I have a title,” he
added, attempting a haughty, dampening tone without the least hope it would have any effect. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to address me by it?”

  She flashed him a grin. “I don’t mind at all if you ask,” she responded, as unimpressed by this attempt at ducal hauteur as he’d suspected she would be. “I can’t promise to comply, though. Addressing everyone in the proper way is so predictable, and I do hate being predictable.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” he countered. “No doubt you will surprise me then, and refrain from offering me any more of your pert opinions.”

  She held up her hand, waving it in an airy gesture toward the ballroom. “Oh, don’t mind me. Go back inside, though I don’t know what you expect to gain. Most of the unmarried women here are ladies you’ve already considered and rejected, or debutantes who are too young for you anyway.”

  She might have a point, but he refused to concede it. A man in search of a wife had to start somewhere. Folding his arms, he said, “Is there a point to any of this?”

  “I suppose I’m warning you,” she said slowly. “Don’t allow yourself to be trapped or entangled with some girl whose character you know nothing about. It could happen if you’re not careful.”

  “You mean because I allowed myself to be manipulated by you, I can be manipulated by any woman, is that it?”

  If he hoped his words would sting, he was disappointed. She shrugged, his comment sliding off her back like water off a duck. “We all have our weaknesses, petal. Yours is your fine, upstanding character.”

  “How in heaven’s name is that a weakness?”

  “It makes you particularly susceptible to women who would do anything to secure a man of your position.”

  “Are you basing this conclusion on your own past ability to manipulate me, or are you just deeply cynical about your own sex?”

  “I’m not cynical,” she denied. “Just realistic. Most women are prohibited from earning their way in the world, and making a good marriage ensures their future and that of their children. You’re a duke. You’re also rich and successful, and despite our little tête-à-tête, you still wield a great deal of power. And you’re so good-looking, too, without a scrap of conceit about it. What more could a girl ask for?”