The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “This isn’t about a cottage, Lydia. It’s about my future, and what I want from it.” She hesitated, thinking with a small cramp of regret of how long her mother had been planning this Season, and how hurt she would be if she did something to ruin it. “I know this is hard for you to understand, but I can’t imagine myself happy with a husband.” Particularly not a greedy arse with a sour-faced baroness for a mother. “And what is the point of a Season, if not to find a proper match?”

  “But what is the point of a future without someone to share it with?” Lydia countered through her tears.

  “Why would I want to share my future with someone who will make me miserable?” Lucy protested, shuddering at the thought. “Why must I marry at all?”

  “Not all marriages are miserable. Your parents seem to muddle along, even though they have their differences.” Lydia’s cheeks flushed, no doubt on account of the fact she was living, breathing proof of some of those differences. “And Clare seems wildly happy in her marriage to Dr. Merial,” she pointed out. “You could hope for a love match.”

  “Could I?” Lucy glanced toward the window, unable to imagine it. She shook her head slowly. “I am not like Clare.” Her older sister was poised and beautiful and brave. She had chosen a man she loved, but Lucy couldn’t think of a single other marriage based on such an anomaly. With her too-tall figure and mannish ways, she couldn’t imagine ever being gifted with such a choice herself. Which meant she was facing precisely two possible paths for her future: marry a penniless fop like the one from the coach.

  Or don’t marry at all.

  Outside, night was starting to fall, and through the window she could see the glow of the gaslights on Grosvenor Square. A servant would be coming in soon to pull the drapes, which meant she needed to scurry up to her room and figure out what to do with her hair before dinner. But she hesitated, wanting to make Lydia understand.

  “Can’t you see?” Her gaze swung back to meet her sister’s tear-filled eyes. “I don’t have the same dreams as you and Clare, Lydia.” In fact, she couldn’t imagine a more miserable existence than being shackled to a man she didn’t know, forced to conform to a stranger’s expectations of what a suitable wife did and said. She thought about her now-confirmed fears for the Season, the certainty of an unhappy marriage if she accepted her fate.

  And then she thought of her aunt’s diaries, full of passion and adventure.

  Resolved, she shook her head. “Haven’t you ever wanted something so much it hurt? Something that was refused you, even though you knew it ought to be your birthright?”

  “How can you ask me that?” Lydia answered, swiping at her face. “I won’t have a grand Season, you know. And I’m at least half a Cardwell.”

  Lucy sat silent. It was true. Thanks to the vagaries of her birth, Lydia’s hopes for a future and a husband were of the ordinary variety, lacking the glittering ballrooms and pinched slippers and polished peers in her own future nightmare. There would be no grand Season for Lydia, no presentation at court.

  But Lucy had never wanted this Season. It was her mother’s dream, not hers.

  God, they were a hopeless pair, each wanting what the other had.

  A knock came at the door, making them both jump.

  “Miss Lucy?” came Wilson’s booming voice from the hallway.

  Oh, bugger it all.

  Lucy brought her finger to her lips, begging her sister’s silence.

  “I know you are here,” Wilson warned from outside the door. “The kitchen staff told me they saw you come in.”

  Lucy groaned. Could no one be trusted to keep a secret around here? Slowly, she stood up. Slowly, slowly, she opened the door to face Wilson’s predictable scowl. But as the butler’s frown dissolved into a look of abject horror, her lips flirted with a smile.

  She did enjoy vexing the man.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, touching the new rough edges of her hair. “I think it complements my trousers.”

  Wilson made a wheezing sound deep in his chest. Lucy stepped forward and clapped him on the back, suddenly worried. She wanted to annoy the man, not kill him.

  “You’ve a caller, Miss Lucy,” he rasped, punctuated by a series of halting, gasping coughs. He straightened, regaining a bit of his usual starch. “A gentleman caller.”

  Lucy’s skin began to itch along the collar of her borrowed shirt. “I . . . I do?”

  “The gentleman specifically asked me not to involve Lord Cardwell.” He handed her a card with a disapproving frown. “I don’t mind saying I am uncomfortable with the request.”

  Lucy looked down at the card.

  The Marquess of Branston.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. Her knees buckled and she had to lean against the door frame for support. Oh, bloody, bloody hell.

  “A visit such as this requires a proper chaperone. Shall I inform Lord Cardwell?” Wilson frowned. “Or perhaps you would prefer Lady Cardwell provide attendance? Calling hours have ended, but perhaps an exception could be made.”

  “No!” Lucy cried, beginning to panic now. If her parents found out about the letter she had sent, she’d have far more to worry about than a lecture on missing calling hours. When Wilson’s frown lengthened, she tried to temper her voice. “The gentleman is here about something to do with one of the charities I work with.” The lie tasted sour on her lips, but she plowed ahead. “I shall be fine with Lydia as chaperone. You may show him in now.”

  Wilson looked down at her trousers.

  “He is no one of consequence,” Lucy insisted, squirming now. And she didn’t dare leave Lord Branston alone in the drawing room for the half hour or so it would take to dress and curl her hair. It was better to see him quickly and be done with the matter, before her father caught wind of his visit. “Please show him in,” she insisted.

  With one last frown, Wilson did as she asked, saving her from a spate of further lies.

  Because Lord Branston was someone of consequence. And while she’d felt empowered dashing off a scathing letter, she felt ill-prepared for a face-to-face meeting.

  “Lord Branston,” Lydia mused from the sofa. Her tears were gone, though her eyes still bore traces of redness. “Isn’t that—”

  “Yes.” Lucy knocked her head once, twice, against the door frame, but the violence did little to clear her thoughts. If anything, it muddled them further. She dug at the unholy itch that had sprung up beneath the collar of her shirt, almost as though her skin were telling her to run far and fast. She turned around to face her sister. “It’s the man who tried to buy Heathmore.”

  Lydia’s forehead wrinkled. “Lucy, what else have you done besides cut your hair?”

  “I may have sent him a letter demanding he vacate the premises,” Lucy admitted. She blew wisps of hair out of her eyes. “And accused him of trespass.”

  And threatened to summon the authorities.

  What was the bounder doing here? Why would he have come all the way from Cornwall, especially given the tone of her letter?

  Not to thank her for her good manners, or to compliment her on her penmanship.

  Oh, God, she needed a solid plan. And apparently an entire army of hairpins.

  Unfortunately, neither were in ready reach.

  “Are you really going to meet Lord Branston dressed like that?” Lydia asked, sounding horrified by the notion.

  Lucy looked down at her clothing, relics left by Geoffrey when he escaped to university. Though she wore trousers when digging in the dirt, it had been years since she’d truly dressed as a boy, and then she most often pretended to be a groom to climb trees in Hyde Park. The subterfuge no longer came easily. She would have preferred to be dressed in her own clothes for this meeting, especially given how Geoffrey’s waistcoat bunched in the wrong places and strained in others. And good God, how this shirt made her itch.

  But as awkward as she felt, she refused to give Lord Branston the pleasure of dressing properly for his company. The man was trying to force her hand
in a direction she refused to go, and she would see this to an end, once and for all.

  Hopefully, before her father found out.

  From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore

  January 31, 1813

  One only gets a single chance to make a first impression, and I fear I have made mine all too well. I attended church down in town today, intending to meet my new neighbors. When Reverend Wellsbury offered to walk me home after the service, I foolishly accepted.

  Looking back now, I can’t imagine what I was thinking. I even let him steal a kiss. I might choose to be a spinster, but that doesn’t mean I can’t kiss a handsome man every now and again. But now I suspect the vicar kissed me only to illustrate the potential moral perils of the life I have chosen. When I explained I had no intention of ever marrying, he said it was unnatural for a woman to choose to be alone, and that the town was worried about me, living alone on the edge of a cliff.

  Worried more about me, or my influence on their daughters, I wonder?

  Still, he is much respected here in town. If everyone in Lizard Bay subscribes to the handsome young vicar’s views, my reputation here will be as doomed as it was in London. Well, I shall endeavor to be myself, no matter the cost to my reputation.

  Indeed, I can scarcely wait for church next Sunday.

  Chapter 6

  A stiff-shouldered butler led Thomas into a drawing room, the walls papered in intricate blue flowers. After his three year sojourn in Cornwall, where his feet spent more time out of doors than inside, the carpet felt obscenely thick beneath his polished shoes. His eye fell upon a crystal decanter of brandy, mocking him from a sideboard.

  Damn, but he could use a drink right now.

  He hadn’t had a drink in three years, not since Miss E collected his drunken secrets and threatened him with a bit of well-meant blackmail if he didn’t dry out his sorry hide. He’d done it, too. There was too much at stake to not obey. But it was telling that in the two hours since he’d stepped off the train at Waterloo Bridge Station, he considered stopping for a drink no less than a dozen times. He was beginning to wonder if the easy sobriety he enjoyed in Lizard Bay was more a lack of temptation, rather than any strength of character on his part.

  He’d only been in London a few hours, but already he felt adrift, as though returning to sea after a long absence to find he no longer knew how to swim.

  He forced his gaze to the center of the room. Brandy might ease the tightness in his spine, but it would not further his cause. This wasn’t a casual business meeting between peers, handled over drinks at a gentleman’s club. He was here to meet—and negotiate—with Lord Cardwell’s flighty young daughter. He suspected he’d do better to pour himself a cup of tea.

  He scanned the room’s occupants, sorting out the battle lines. A girl was seated on the sofa, staring at him with wide blue eyes. A sour-faced brother played chaperone to one side, digging at his collar and looking none too happy to see him. Thomas ignored the lad and concentrated on the primary business that had dragged him here from Cornwall.

  His gaze settled more firmly on the girl. She was pretty enough, he supposed, in a bland, British sort of way. Blond curls were piled on top of her head and she was wearing a demure pink gown that would no doubt find a welcome in any fine drawing room in London. The pallor of her skin told him he’d found his quarry and managed to surprise her.

  Good. Always better to start these things with the other party off-balance.

  “Miss Westmore,” he said, bowing from the waist. “Thank you for seeing me. I imagine my appearance comes as a bit of a surprise.”

  Her eyes widened even more. “I . . . That is . . . I am certainly surprised. By your . . . ah . . . appearance . . .” Her voice trailed off, trembling at the edges.

  Odd, that. She sounded unsure of herself. She’d seemed more confident in her letters.

  More of a bollocks-bruiser, actually.

  Thomas studied her profile as she darted a nervous glance toward her brother. She looked as though she’d suffered a recent cry, judging by the redness of her eyes. He’d prepared himself for a feisty exchange, given the tenor of her written correspondence. But he hadn’t prepared himself for tears and stammers and silence.

  “I am sure you can imagine why I am here,” he said, wondering why she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Your letter suggested you might consider a different offer, and so I have come to negotiate. I would offer you five hundred pounds for Heathmore Cottage.”

  She sat frozen like a leaf in ice, even though she’d practically dared him to come to London with a better offer. And why did she keep looking away? He was negotiating with her now, not her father, and certainly not her brother. Wasn’t this what she had wanted?

  Or was this silence part of her act to extort more money?

  He was tempted to tell her about Heathmore’s nearly barren soil. About the second floor of the cottage, rotting and treacherous because he’d not been able to find carpenters brave enough to come in to do the work. About the eerie whistle of the wind and the townspeople’s whispered speculations of a haunting. But the speech he’d planned felt forced, the words a pale shade of the truth. Because there were good things about Heathmore, too. Sweeping ocean vistas, and acres of hidden beauty, a rare explosion of color come summer, fragile flowers somehow finding a toehold in the reluctant soil.

  But she wouldn’t know any of that.

  “I understand Heathmore Cottage might hold great sentimental value for you,” he began again, more softly now, “given how much it meant to your aunt. But there are things you do not understand.”

  “No.” The brother chose that moment to insert himself into the conversation. The lad stepped forward, looking as though he might like to take Thomas by the throat. “I am afraid it is you who does not understand.”

  Only, it wasn’t a man’s voice delivering the words.

  It was a woman’s.

  And that was when Thomas took a closer look.

  Bloody hell, it wasn’t a brother playing chaperone at all. It was a young woman who, if you took the time to look beyond the poorly chopped hair and the ill-fitting waistcoat, looked very much like the demurely stylish young lady seated on the sofa.

  Only, there was nothing demure or stylish about her.

  Two blue eyes glowered at him, nowhere close to a cry. Her mouth was a wide slash of disapproval beneath a rounded snub nose, and her blond hair was a short, unschooled tangle about her ears. She was nearly as tall as he was, and appeared to harbor some sort of twitch, scratching at her neck. But despite these things—which might have made another woman appear unbalanced—she radiated an energy that made him take an involuntary step backward.

  “Miss . . . ah . . . Lucy Westmore, I presume?” he asked weakly.

  “Yes.” She stalked toward him, her fists clenched. He wondered if perhaps she meant to strike him. She was certainly dressed for a brawl. The first time he met Miss E, she’d done that very thing, pulled back her gnarled spinster’s fist and popped him in the left eye, for no greater a transgression than accidentally trespassing on her property.

  He took a deep breath, trying to sort out how to defuse the situation. But it turned out that breathing deeply around Miss Westmore was a mistake, because she smelled of the outdoors and fresh laundry, not at all the way a proper young lady was supposed to smell. He wasn’t so rusty he’d forgotten that, how Gabrielle, his former fiancée, had drenched herself in eau de cologne and expensive perfumes. Now he was the one feeling off-balance.

  And it wasn’t only because Miss Westmore had taken the upper hand in this meeting, surprising him with her trousers and unlikely scents. Unlike his bland reaction to the pale, nervous young woman on the sofa, this one stirred something long dormant beneath his skin. He’d thought he’d grown out of such adolescent urges. After the heartbreak of a failed betrothal and three lonely years in Cornwall, he’d become accustomed to his celibacy. He could look at a woman and not wonder what was under her skirts.

 
What was beneath those trousers, however, was a different story entirely.

  He gave himself a mental shake. This train of thought was unproductive at best, dangerous at worst. The future of Heathmore depended on these negotiations, and he needed to get his head in the game. So he smiled at the strange, glowering girl, trying to recall the charm he had once wielded like a potent weapon, even though that life had long since dissolved into nothingness.

  “I will offer you five hundred and fifty pounds,” he said, trying to be generous.

  Her mouth turned down in a frown. “I am afraid Heathmore isn’t for sale, Lord Branston,” she told him, her voice dripping with disdain. “At least, it isn’t for sale yet.”

  LUCY GLARED AT this gentleman who was not at all a gentleman.

  A true gentleman would not have come without due notice. A true gentleman would not be trying to steal her inheritance for a pittance. And a true gentleman would not be standing in front of her, thick curls rakishly disheveled, skin tanned where his neck met his collar.

  He was not what she had expected. From the sofa, Lydia seemed to hold a similar opinion, because she kept sneaking round-eyed glances toward the man.

  Cultured, her father had called Lord Branston that night over the dinner table.

  He prefers his solitude.

  Well, her father had forgotten to mention young and handsome.

  Lucy had somehow conjured an image of a stooped, gray-haired hermit with false teeth. But Lord Branston’s mouth, she couldn’t help but notice, had its full complement of teeth, because he was flashing them at her in a lopsided smile that made her knees tremble in an alarming—and unacceptable—fashion. His hair was auburn, not gray. And not a single shade, either, but a kaleidoscope of color, as though nature couldn’t quite decide whether he was dark-haired or ginger or something more complicated.

  She realized with a start she was staring. In fact, she realized with a curl of dismay she could quite happily stare at this man all day.