Scandal in Spades

by Wendy Lacapra

  “Don’t,” he said. “I know what I did. I know what I am.”

  Without his heat, the pain came rushing back. Hurt rattled around her mind, searching for a place to land. But fear kept it moving, softening the edges, wearing down the strident angles.

  “What are you?” she asked.

  “A bastard.”

  “I don’t care.” Her throat closed around the words. They came out in a strangled whisper.

  He rubbed both his hands over his face and made another one of those horrible sounds. Then, he stood.

  “I will not ask this of you again.”

  Something sharp pierced her heart. “What do you mean?”

  He strode toward a door—not the one they’d come through, but another. He grasped the jamb and leaned forward, resisting her pull.

  “Katherine,” he said, “you must believe that I never meant to cause you any pain.”

  Did she believe him? Or did she still believe he would have done anything—hurt anyone—to resolve his pain?

  “I want to believe you never meant to hurt me.”

  He cast an agonized glance over his shoulder, and then he looked away. “I am a bastard.”

  “I don’t care.” She swallowed. “I wouldn’t have cared—if you had only trusted me.”

  He shook his head, disbelief plain.

  “I have always been alone and despised in my own home. I had hoped—” His voice cracked.

  “What…what did you hope?”

  “I hoped I could change. I just proved I cannot. I have placed my needs above yours, over and over. I married you, courted you, under false pretense. I was cruel. I will destroy you, if I haven’t already. I cannot permit myself to touch you again.”

  She scrambled off the bed, holding her ripped stays against her chest. She touched his back. He flinched, and then he turned. The resolve in his eyes left her cold.

  “The Langley line was broken.” He fisted his hand and hit the wall. “It does not require me to mend.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “You have the name, now,” he whispered fiercely. “You don’t need a bastard like me to ensure a proper heir.”

  He didn’t mean—he couldn’t mean… “Are you telling me you want me to take a lover?”

  “I am telling you I will not stand in your way,” he replied. “I release you.”

  She blinked away the burn behind her eyes and held a hand against her chest as if she could keep her heart from breaking.

  Then, she remembered. She hadn’t a heart. Not anymore.

  “How on earth did I ever think you were worthy of my love?” she whispered. “Damn you to hell, Bromton.”

  “I have,” he choked. His gaze met hers, as pained as if he knew he’d never see her again. “I have damned us both. But you are capable of surviving, if I let you go.”

  Before she could reply, he disappeared into his chamber, shutting and locking the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sometime in the night, Katherine fell into silence, lulled by the absence of sound into a fitful slumber haunted by dream images of anger and loss. The next morning, she found a note on a silver platter atop the table at the center of her sitting room.

  Lady Bromton—

  Enclosed is a list of shops where I have arranged credit. The carriage is at your disposal.

  I will be—smudge—absent for a few days. If you’ve a need the housekeeper cannot attend, please send word to Lord Farring.

  —Giles Everhart Langley, Marquess of Bromton

  Her eyes lingered on the smudge for an appalling length of time. Her heart thumped against her ribs. How she hated the flicker of hope even pulsing anger failed to extinguish.

  Using her body to form the words she could not say, she’d given him what had remained of her still-broken heart. And instead of fighting to save them both, he’d fled.

  Of all the things Bromton had done, suggesting she take a lover just minutes after she had dissolved in his arms was, by far, his nadir.

  How many times need he prove he was a fool until she took him at his word?

  Coldness entered her heart, an icy protection against further harm.

  Long ago, Lady Katherine Stanley had retreated in the face of less provocation. Fleeing to the country, she’d hid from her shame and from her mistakes. But she was no longer Lady Katherine Stanley, was she?

  She flipped the paper, rereading the address:

  To Katherine, Marchioness of Bromton

  The world had yet to meet Katherine, Marchioness of Bromton. She tested the title on her tongue and decided it would suit. Decided? No, resolved.

  Her heart was broken and bruised, but life would continue. Julia would be coming to stay with Lord Farring’s family, and someday soon Markham would return. She would not be entirely alone.

  To hell with Bromton and his wounded pride, his twisted sense of honor, and his stupid castle. She would live here, surrounded, during the Season at least, by her family. She would transform tragedy into triumph, one extravagant evening at a time.

  In that spirit, she set out to shop. With the solicitous and kind assistance of the milliner, Katherine discovered something else she’d been wrong about—a pretty hat could indeed, on occasion, enhance one’s person. Next, she visited a jeweler. She admired his pieces as he cleaned and restrung her mother’s pearls.

  Armed with her hat and her mother’s pearls, she stopped at Gunther’s for some refreshment. Then, unfortunately, her day went awry.

  Her new maid deemed the shop far too crowded, and there, in the busy street, she recognized a lady with whom she’d made her curtsey to the queen. She could not remember the lady’s name, yet her gaze remained fixed. The lady held the hand of a small child, the child with a face near-identical to the lady’s.

  The phantom punch came out of thin air.

  While Katherine had been hiding in the country, busily priding herself on reducing her wants, life had moved on without her.

  The pink-cheeked child smiled up at her mother, with worlds of love and possibility shining in her eyes.

  Envy filled Katherine’s mouth like raw cotton—thick and fibrous and steeped in something awful and bitter.

  Why had claiming their place been easy for those other ladies? Why?

  Heated and weary, she knocked on the carriage ceiling and asked to proceed to the next destination on her list—the modiste Bromton had suggested.

  The sight of a single child had hollowed out her heart. The vacant space cried out, not just for her husband, but for the hope for family he’d resurrected. She ran her fingers absently across her throat. There was some small chance she could be with child after last night, wasn’t there?

  Wetness gathered behind her lids. What good would that bring? If Bromton had convinced himself that she was better off without him, even a child would not bring them back together.

  She sank back against the carriage cushions and dropped her hand. Despair threatened to engulf her once again. She forced herself to think of Julia. Of Markham. For them, she must, at least, present a brave face to the ton.

  The modiste’s shop was small and neat with walls lined by bolts of fabric and interspersed with mirrors. Tables and chairs scattered about the main area, each table cluttered with the latest fashion plates. The modiste greeted her with great excitement.

  “Your dresses,” she said in a faint accent, “are ready to be fitted.”

  “My dresses?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the modiste nodded enthusiastically. “I followed your instructions, and I promise you the results will not disappoint.”

  She frowned. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course,” the modiste replied. “The marquess delivered your message in person, just last week.”

  Katherine could only nod. How had Bromton obtained her measurements? She pursed her lips. No doubt, Julia had been involved. And the seamstress in the village. Had everyone she’d ever known conspired to bring her together with the marqu
ess?

  Traitors, one and all.

  The modiste and her assistants brought out three evening dresses, each more exquisite than the last. Infuriating.

  How could one man be both thoughtful and thoughtless all at once?

  “You have fine taste,” the modiste said. “However, only one dress can be finished by the evening.”

  She had no place to wear any of the dresses, but she selected the green.

  The dress was as daring as it was beautiful. A white underdress comprised of two layers of gauze gathered at the waist. Fern-like leaves edged with gold thread embellished the base, but the true masterpiece was the heavier taffeta manteau that fitted over the dress and then descended into a long train.

  Embroidered to complement the underdress, the manteau cinched just above her waist, making her appear taller and thinner while boldly hinting at the cleft between her breasts. The dress’s puffed sleeves revealed a small length of her upper arms, before they disappeared within the matching kid gloves, stitched of leather so fine they felt like an extension of her own skin. Her favorite part, however, was the pleated fichu that rose up from the low-cut bodice, lending the dress Elizabethan court-style elegance.

  The dress was at the height of fashion. Indeed, it was fit for a queen. Was this how Bromton saw her? A grand lady of consequence?

  She struggled to quell another mortifying flicker of hope. She had no proof Bromton had ever truly seen her. He was a man who held patriarchal bloodlines above honesty, dignity, and respect. This dress was meant to suggest consequence—his consequence, not hers.

  She wondered when she’d have the opportunity to wear such a masterpiece as she allowed the ladies to undress her and help her back into her clothes.

  She sent her maid to retrieve the carriage and then stood at the counter, admiring a bit of ribbon.

  “Would my lady like to take the rest of the order, or should I have the box delivered?”

  Katherine frowned. “The rest of the order?”

  “Of course,” the modiste replied. “Surely, you remember! Your note was quite specific.”

  The modiste retrieved a box. Slowly, Katherine lifted the lid. A range of pale-hued stockings nestled inside the box. Silk, wool, cotton…all beautifully gored and of the finest knit. Stockings to indulge her every whim. Her one indulgence.

  He’d remembered even this.

  She swallowed an odious lump. But despite her efforts, the lump continued to swell. She stared dumbly at the collection of gorgeous stockings, fighting the urge to cry. What would the modiste think of a marchioness who allowed stockings to reduce her to a weepy mess?

  The shop bell trilled, announcing the arrival of a new party. Katherine did her best to master her tears.

  “Thank you, Madame.” Only a slight tremor marred her voice. “I will take them now.”

  She turned, intending to stride past the new patrons, head down. Instead, she came face-to-face with Farring’s twin, Lady Darlington, who was every inch as beautiful as she remembered.

  Katherine’s gaze slid to Lady Darlington’s companions. She was flanked by two equally arresting women—a brunette with pale brown eyes and a dark-haired lady whose strong chin and wide light eyes were also, somehow, familiar.

  Katherine clutched the box of stockings to her chest like a shield.

  Farring’s sister broke into a smile. “Lady Katherine,” she said, extending her hand. “Oh, but you must pardon me, it is Lady Bromton, now, is it not? I am Lady Darlington, though you may remember me as Lady Philippa.”

  Katherine forced herself to respond with the appropriate pleasantries. She extended her hand too quickly, and her box fell to the ground. Stockings scattered across the floor like a wilted rainbow.

  “Oh!” The dark-haired lady knelt to the floor. “Oh my. Aren’t these divine!”

  The modiste hurried over. “Never you mind, my lady, I will collect them.”

  So, whoever the woman was, she was a lady.

  “Oh, but I just have to touch them.” The lady rose from the ground, clutching a pair of pale yellow stockings. “So divine. I do love a good pair of stockings.” She dimpled. “Philippa, won’t you be a dear and introduce us?”

  “Yes, of course!” Lady Darlington said, a touch too brightly. “Katherine, if I may introduce Lady Clarissa.” She indicated the dark-haired lady. “And,” she pointed to the third woman who had been, so far, silent. “Mrs. Katerina VanHeldt, a widow from Amsterdam.”

  “How do you do?” Mrs. VanHeldt’s voice held a lovely Dutch lilt.

  Lady Clarissa held out her hand. “Charmed.”

  Katherine hesitated only for a moment, though the blood rushing to her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Clarissa, Mrs. VanHeldt.”

  “My brother,” Lady Clarissa said quickly, “is a friend of Lord Bromton.”

  “Yes.” Katherine’s words vanished into the uncomfortable silence. The ladies must think her a right fool. “I’m so happy to have made your acquaintance. I—I was just leaving.”

  Philippa and Clarissa exchanged a significant glance.

  “We do not wish to delay you, of course,” Lady Darlington said. “But—” Her glasses amplified a pleading glance to Clarissa.

  “But we haven’t heard a thing about your wedding!” Lady Clarissa exclaimed. “We simply must have every on dit. Lord Farring’s letter was abominably brief; well, you know men. Imagine! He did not even describe your dress.”

  “I’m afraid the on dits can only disappoint.” She glanced to Lady Clarissa, hoping she had not been insulted. “I mean, it was a simple affair.”

  “Simple?” Lady Darlington scoffed. “Not once in his existence has the Marquess of Bromton done anything without pomp befitting his station.”

  She imagined her husband as he’d been a week ago—stretched out on a blanket, winking as he suggested wicked things. The man she had come to know was not the same marquess Lady Darlington described.

  She missed that man. Dreadfully.

  Her lip quivered.

  “Madame,” Lady Clarissa said quickly. “Would you be so kind as to bring us some refreshment?”

  “Of course,” the modiste replied.

  Katherine followed the modiste with her gaze until the woman disappeared into the back. Mrs. VanHeldt and Lady Darlington withdrew and then busied themselves exclaiming over a pile of fashion plates at the far corner of the room.

  Lady Clarissa took the box of stockings from Katherine’s hands and set it down on a chair. Then, she looped her arm through Katherine’s.

  “I must confess,” Clarissa whispered. “I recognized the carriage. This meeting is no accident.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” Katherine stammered.

  “I will speak for us both, then.” Lady Clarissa lowered her voice even further. “We would have met eventually, and wherever that meeting happened, all eyes—and ears—would have been fixed on us.” She slanted a grin. “I must say, I am glad I acted on impulse. If you blush that way now, I can’t imagine what you would have done in front of a room of gossiping biddies.”

  Katherine frowned. “Forgive me, Lady Clarissa. I cannot tell if you mean to be kind or cutting.”

  “Cutting?” Clarissa exclaimed. “Why would I be cutting?”

  Katherine eyed Lady Clarissa for a long, silent moment. No guile shone in her eyes, only sincerity. “I—I know you were attached to Lord Bromton. I am sorry if I imposed.”

  Clarissa blinked. Then, she laughed. “Oh heavens, no!” She smiled slyly. “Allow me to call a spade a spade and honestly admit you’ve saved me a lifetime of trouble.”

  Extraordinary. She, too, decided to speak in truth. “I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”

  “Now that is over with,” Clarissa said, “you mustn’t allow us to keep you. You must be anxious to return home.”

  Lady Darlington and Mrs. VanHeldt’s laughter wafted across the room. With a wave of homesickness for Julia, Katherin
e sent a longing glance in their direction.

  Clarissa searched Katherine’s face. Then, she appeared to come to a decision.

  “Lady Darlington, Mrs. VanHeldt, and I are going to the theater tonight,” Clarissa said. “You and Lord Bromton are more than welcome to join us.”

  Katherine met her gaze. “Lord Bromton is otherwise occupied.”

  “Well then,” Lady Clarissa said, “you simply must come.”

  “Is the play a comedy?” Katherine asked with a twist of her lips. “I could use a happy ending.”

  Clarissa broke into a grin. “I have a feeling we are destined to be fast friends, Lady Bromton. I, too, love a happy ending, especially when I must arrange one myself.”

  …

  The sleeping quarters at Giles’s club had not been designed for an extended stay. By the end of Giles’s third night on the cot, muscles he did not know existed screamed in protest. By the end of the week, his stride had turned into a hobble.

  He did not want to be at his club. Nor, he suspected, did the club’s manager wish to house him, though the man would never have been so bold as to forcibly remove a marquess. However, the man clucked with impatience every time Giles made a request.

  Giles ignored the clucking and the significant looks and requested a light repast in “his” chamber. He gazed balefully at the cold beef before lifting a forkful to his lips.

  He chewed the tough meat. And chewed. And chewed. And—

  Farring burst through the door. “Not one more day, Spades.”

  Farring? Angry? Giles forced a swallow. “What seems to be the trouble?” He set down his fork. Whatever the trouble was, he would not be able to eat another bite.

  “Were Lady Bromton alone, I could manage.” Farring’s gaze narrowed. “But now, there are four of them. Four. All hell-bent on setting tongues a-wag. And if you fail to put a stop to this, you deserve whatever they dish.”

  “Four of who?” he asked.

  “Four females. All of them feral!” Farring held up his fingers and counted. “Philippa, Katerina, Clarissa, Katherine.”

  Giles frowned. Clarissa? And Katherine?

  “But Katherine doesn’t know Clarissa.”

  “Did you think they wouldn’t meet?” Farring threw up his hands. “My sister, of course, had the honor of introductions—there isn’t a scandal she doesn’t touch. Apparently, the four of them have discovered a sisterhood of mythic proportions.” He snorted. “Did I say sisterhood? I meant coven.”