The Birthday Scandal

by Leigh Michaels

  “The local squire has proposed marriage—and though Mrs. Dalrymple protested that she could not abandon me at such a time, I insisted you would be a perfectly adequate chaperone. I was assuming, of course, that you would be here—though my answer would have been the same even if I’d known you were not.”

  “Mrs. Dalrymple, married?”

  “It hardly seems fair, does it—that she has a second husband? I grant that Sir Cedric is red-faced and quite square in shape, and his laugh sometimes sounds as if he’s braying. But I’ve never heard that he’s been unkind to a single soul—and I suppose that is more important than his personal oddities.”

  Isabel felt something like envy flicker deep in her stomach. “More important indeed,” she said softly as they strolled down the wide staircase to the main drawing room.

  Unlike the original section of the castle, this wing had been added within the last hundred years by a previous duke who had thought himself something of an architect. With defense against siege no longer a priority, he had lined the outer walls with windows rather than arrow slits. In the winter, Isabel recalled, the fires at either end of the room had to be kept roaring just to hold frostbite at bay.

  But on this pleasant late-September afternoon, the windows were open to the terrace and the room was flooded with fresh air and sunlight so strong that Isabel had to stop in the doorway to let her eyes adjust. A light breeze stirred the draperies and carried the scent of newly cut grass across to her, along with a heavier, spicier scent that was only vaguely familiar. She’d have to ask one of the gardeners which flower or tree it came from.

  She was startled to see a tall, silent figure silhouetted by the window. Not the butler; Chalmers would have spoken immediately, and he wouldn’t have stood there staring across the grounds anyway. And not a maid, for this shape was definitely male. It must be Lucien, though she was surprised he could have come all the way from London by now.

  “Is that you, dear brother?” Emily called gaily.

  The man at the window turned, and Isabel’s throat dried up. Lucien didn’t move like that, with the sinuous grace of a wild animal.

  She knew now what the scent had been and why she had almost recognized it. It was not a tree and not a flower—at least not directly.

  It was the cologne favored by the Earl of Maxwell.

  His deep voice reached out, curled around Isabel’s heart, and squeezed. “Good afternoon, Lady Emily. How kind of you to refer to me as a brother. And Isabel— my lovely wife. Shall I do the pretty and say that it’s a pleasure, or would that be just a little too much, under the circumstances?”

  Lucien managed a tankard of ale whenever they stopped to change horses, and he swallowed an ill-assorted repast—no one with the slightest claim to sensibility could have called it a meal—at the journey’s midpoint. When he suggested that everyone would benefit from a longer rest at the coaching inn, however, the senior postboy—a man who looked twice Lucien’s age—shook his head and said fatly, “It’s more than my position is worth, my lord, if I don’t get you there on time to suit the duke.”

  So much for being a man of the world, Lucien thought glumly as he climbed back into the post-chaise. He couldn’t even seem to give orders for his own journey. Someday, by Jove, he’d have a stable of his own, with a new team of high-steppers and a different well-sprung vehicle for every day of the week. He occupied himself with choosing possible paint schemes for the curricle of his dreams as well as selecting the perfect team to pull it, and ultimately he nodded off. The nap at least made the remaining hours pass more quickly, though his troubled sleep left him feeling groggy, as well as hungover and rumpled, when the post-chaise finally drew up in front of Weybridge Castle’s front entrance.

  He’d barely crossed the threshold when his youngest sister descended on him. “One of the footmen spotted your chaise approaching across the valley,” Emily said. “Come and have tea. You must be starving after traveling all the way from London.”

  “And not a thing ft to eat on the road,” Lucien agreed. “But Uncle Josiah won’t like me appearing like this—I’m not ft for company.” He turned toward the stairway.

  “Uncle isn’t coming down this afternoon. It’s just us—Isabel and me, and Maxwell.”

  Lucien stopped in midstride and gave a low whistle. “Isabel and Maxwell are in the same room?”

  “Now you know why I want you.”

  “All right, then, I’ll come—but only because I have to see this, and since it’s obvious you haven’t freshened up or changed, either. I’d swear I’ve seen that gown before.”

  “You have indeed, but it’s unkind of you to point it out, Lucien. What inspired you to travel across England dressed like that, anyway?”

  “Not my choice—and it’s not a story that’s ft for your ears.” He offered his arm.

  Emily wrinkled her nose but let him pull her hand through the crook of his elbow. “You smell like the taproom, you know. Or is the smell of ale covering up something even worse?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? Conditions must be pretty tense in the drawing room, if you’re so anxious to have a distraction that you’re willing to put up with my dirt. Lord and Lady Maxwell sniping at each other, are they?”

  “They’re being so polite it’s almost worse than insults.” As they reached the drawing room door, Emily called out, “Look who I found, Isabel—and do make him tell why he’s wearing evening dress at this hour of the day. Lucien says it’s too scandalous a story for me to hear—as though I haven’t any idea what sort of pranks he’s capable of. But since you’re married, he might take you off in a corner and whisper the details. And then you can tell me.”

  “It’s too warm a tale even for a married lady,” Lucien said. His sisters would no doubt leap to conclusions that there must be a woman involved, but there was no harm in a man burnishing his reputation, especially when he was telling no actual lies.

  Lucien leaned over to kiss Isabel’s hand.

  She made a face and pulled away, her hazel eyes narrowing. “You need a shave. Have you fired your valet, or has he lost his mind, letting you rattle around the country looking like that?”

  Now that was just plain unfair, Lucien thought—taking potshots at him, when Isabel obviously hadn’t changed clothes herself. Her pink traveling dress was crumpled and creased from hours of sitting in a chaise, and there was so much dust on her slippers that she might have walked all the way from the village. He opened his mouth to protest and then thought better of it.

  Lucien had barely noticed the Earl of Maxwell until he bowed in greeting. But the earl addressed Isabel instead. “What a comfort it is, my dear wife, to know that you still appreciate good grooming. One would never guess it from observing you.”

  Isabel glared at him. “How strange to find it is my appearance which offends you, sir. I thought it was my mere existence.”

  Lucien pretended not to hear them. “Good to see you well, Max.” He snagged a cake from the nearest stand and consumed it in one bite. “You said there was no sniping,” he muttered to Emily.

  She shrugged. “Apparently, they progressed while I was gone.”

  “It’s going to be a warm few days at the castle. By the way, do you have any notion how long this house party is supposed to last? My letter didn’t say.”

  “Nor mine.”

  “Well—that’s a bit inconvenient, not to know when I might be back in the city.”

  “Why? Are you anxious to get back to your friends, or afraid your ladybird will find another protector while you’re gone?”

  “Not a ladybird.” But Lucien said it with a mischievous smile.

  “You needn’t think I care,” Emily sniffed. “All men are alike. You and your mistresses—”

  Belatedly, Lucien recalled what had happened to Emily last year, and sobered. “Not the same thing,” he said hastily. “Even if I did have a ladybird, it would be nothing like what Rivington was up to.” He eyed her carefully. Emily didn’t look as though
she was still suffering—in fact she appeared to be blooming. But you never knew, where ladies were concerned.

  “That’s a comfort—for despite you being an annoyance, Lucien, I should not like to see you end up as Rivington did.”

  Lucien took another cake, more because he didn’t know what else to say than because he was hungry. Appetite had fled with the reminder of Emily’s ill-fated betrothal.

  Emily had moved to the window that overlooked a corner of the great courtyard and the valley beyond. “Are we expecting anyone else?”

  “I don’t think so,” Isabel said. “Uncle Josiah is hardly in any condition to plan a gala for his birthday. Why?”

  “Because here’s another carriage pulling up.”

  Lucien joined her, his cake forgotten. “Another post-chaise? I wonder who…By Jove, what a bang-up job that is!”

  The curricle of his dreams stood by the front door. The vehicle was perfect, right down to the colors he had envisioned—deep green with black accents. Though now that he saw the combination for himself, Lucien decided he might have had the wheels picked out in gold instead.

  The driver had already climbed down, for a groom was holding the tired horses, ready to lead them around to the stable.

  Had Uncle Josiah read his mind and ordered this setup for him? What a wonderful birthday-gift-in-reverse that would be!

  Emily jabbed him in the ribs. “You do realize you’re drooling, Lucien?”

  The drawing room door opened to admit the butler. “Lady Maxwell, the Marquess of Athstone has arrived.” He faded away, leaving a gentleman standing on the threshold.

  The pieces fell into place in Lucien’s mind. You should have expected him to turn up.

  Envy surged from the back corner of his mind, swamping his better nature. The heir of the Duke of Weybridge could afford the best—or, more accurately, he didn’t need money, for he would have no lack of credit with which to buy curricles and horses.

  Lucien told himself to be sensible. It wasn’t as if the new Marquess of Athstone had pushed him out of a title or an estate; since Weybridge Castle belonged to Lucien’s mother’s family, it would never have come to him even if this chap had not been born.

  Besides, Uncle Josiah had said Lucien was his favorite. No American upstart—a mere twig on some far distant branch of the family tree—was going to come between an uncle and the nephew he loved.

  Lucien realized—just as the marquess’s gaze came to rest on him with something like astonishment—his momentary irritation and envy had caused his hand to clench hard on the cake he held, turning it into paste that oozed through his fingers and dripped down the front of his coat.

  Isabel had tried her best not to even look at her husband. Instead she had concentrated on pouring tea and then chatting with Emily. But no matter how hard she tried to exclude him, the Earl of Maxwell was not to be ignored; he asked Emily about her journey, and he politely requested a report from Isabel on their mutual friends. The moment Emily left the drawing room to fetch Lucien, Isabel turned to glare at him.

  That was a mistake. He was just as handsome as he had ever been, tall and lean and dark, and so perfectly turned out that he seemed to have just stepped from his tailor’s hands. But there was an edge about him now that she’d never seen—a glint of danger in his eyes. Had she missed that before, or was it new?

  “Just why are you here, sir?” she demanded.

  The earl, who had risen politely when Emily got to her feet, sat down again and picked up his cup. “I was invited, like the rest of you.” A look of concern crept across his face. “Were you invited, Isabel? Or is bribed a more accurate term?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you aren’t fond of your uncle, only that there might have been some additional inducement to encourage you to leave your chosen party behind to join this one instead. Your fellow guests must have been devastated to lose you, to say nothing of your disappointment at having to come away to a dull family gathering.”

  Not for the world would Isabel admit to her husband that she hadn’t enjoyed herself to the fullest at the Beckhams’ party. “Quite true,” she sighed. “It broke my heart to leave my friends. And of course if I’d known you were to be here, I might have chosen differently.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. I’m guessing your uncle offered to settle your debts, since I’ve made it clear that I will not. So I believe you’d have come no matter who else was invited.”

  The accusation stung. “I don’t have debts,” Isabel said crisply.

  “You amaze me, ma’am.”

  His gaze roved over her, sending a wave of righteous anger flooding from her core to every extremity. Her fingertips positively itched with the desire to smack the doubt from his face. How dare he sit there and simply look at her as though she were a piece of merchandise he was thinking of buying? Or—given the circumstances—he might be considering a sale instead!

  That thought made her even angrier, but before she could draw breath Emily reappeared, saying something Isabel scarcely heard about evening dress, and Lucien came to bend over her hand. If the earl hadn’t been needling her, Isabel would have been too polite to tell her brother he needed a shave—true though it was. For that matter, he could do with a bath. What was he doing racketing across the country in satin knee breeches, anyway?

  Then the earl spoke once more and she forgot all about Lucien. “What a comfort it is, my dear, to know that you still appreciate good grooming.”

  She saw red and snapped back at him about how he might prefer it if she didn’t exist at all.

  To her regret, the shot bounced off the earl. “Of course, now that I consider the evidence, I believe you do not owe a dressmaker. I should say you have not so much as consulted one in more than a year—since your trousseau was completed.”

  Isabel’s face flooded with color.

  “You were always so careful to look your best, Isabel. What a shame it is that you can no longer afford to do so. Your uncle Weybridge might assist…but if not, what will you do?”

  “Why do you care, sir?”

  His dark, aristocratic eyebrows arched. “But my dear, surely that is obvious. It refects badly on me when you go around to society parties looking like a ragamuffin.”

  “Then let me have more than just pin money! I brought you riches, Maxwell—Kilburn must bring in five thousand a year at least. That estate was my dowry, and it should be my marriage portion. Mine, do you hear?”

  For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. Then he said, very quietly, “You’ve changed your tune since our last discussion of the matter. Perhaps you’ve found your principles to be less comfortable than you expected, in the absence of adequate funds?”

  Isabel bit her lip. “All I ask is my fair share.”

  “Fair? I seem to remember telling you on the day after our wedding that you could have the benefits of marriage only if you were willing to honor your obligations. My stand has not changed, and under the circumstances, I find it ironic that you refer to a marriage portion. But I shall give the matter my attention, Isabel, and let you know what I decide.”

  Fury beyond any she had ever felt before left a metallic taste in Isabel’s mouth. Honor her obligations? The sheer arrogance of the man, to put the blame on her!

  “Lady Maxwell,” the butler said from the drawing room door. “The Marquess of Athstone has arrived.”

  Emily wheeled away from the window at the butler’s announcement. The marquess…the colonial cousin who would someday step into the Duke of Weybridge’s shoes was here?

  “What could Uncle Josiah have been thinking?” she said—louder than she’d intended.

  The marquess’s gaze slid from Lucien—now dripping cake onto the priceless carpet—to her, and Emily felt like crawling under a corner of the Aubusson. What had happened to her manners? Of course, listening to Isabel and Maxwell sparring was enough to put anyone on edge. And though the atmosphere in the room was entirely diffe
rent now that the marquess was taking part, the tension was no less threatening.

  “And you would be Miss Emily Arden, I think?” the marquess asked.

  “Lady Emily,” she said curtly, and wanted to bite her tongue. She’d never been a stickler about her title; why had she jumped to correct him?

  “I beg your pardon. I am but an ignorant newcomer.”

  He didn’t look it, she had to admit. His boots shone as brightly as just-cleaned silver, and the gold tassels dangling from the top edges still swung with jaunty ease. His broad shoulders must have been a tailor’s dream. His pantaloons were cut tight, showing off strong thighs; his linen was snowy white and perfectly creased, and his hair was brushed smooth so that a random ray of sunlight cast a golden gleam over his chestnut curls.

  If he’d planned his entrance to be theatrical, he couldn’t have done better. From the corner of her eye, Emily saw Lucien rub at his stubbly jaw and then try to brush mashed cake off his face, and she had to fight down a hysterical desire to giggle.

  “Lady Maxwell,” the marquess said, “I beg your pardon for bursting in on you like this.”

  He didn’t even sound like an ignorant newcomer, Emily thought with irritation. His tone was neither harsh nor twangy, and his voice neither brashly loud nor self-effacingly soft. Even his accent—though not of English origin—set tled on her ears with a strange sort of ease.

  This, she thought, was a man who desperately needed putting in his place.

  The marquess frowned a little. “Was that correct? Or shall I call you Lady Isabel?”

  “She’s either,” Emily said. “One title by birth, one by marriage. Take your choice.”

  “I prefer to be called Lady Isabel,” Isabel said, with a sidelong glance at her husband. “Would you care for tea, my lord?”

  The marquess’s face lit with humor, his eyes gleaming like sapphires. “And I prefer to be called by my name. Gavin Waring, at your service. If you can bear it, you must call me Gavin—for we are cousins, are we not?”