The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior

by Jennifer McQuiston

  And instead of peaceful gardens and greenhouses, clubs and racetracks had become his proving grounds. And instead of books on botany and geology, bottle after bloody bottle had filled his life. He couldn’t even point to when it had become a problem. He only knew it had.

  He preferred the solitude of Cornwall now. Needed it.

  Too many people made him twitch.

  All too soon these worn-out souls would be packed elbow-to-chest in third class seating, sweating and miserable. Thank God he had a first class ticket and would soon be sleeping on his own upholstered seat to the rhythm of the rails.

  A bell rang out, fair notice the train was boarding. With it, the crowd began to push and hum. Through the frantic swirl of people, a woman caught his eye. Perhaps it was her height, standing several inches above the other women on the platform. Or perhaps it was because he could just see an inch or so of blond hair peeking out from the bottom edge of her bonnet. Whatever the reason, it was enough to make Thomas turn and stare as she hurried toward a third class car. It couldn’t be her. She was a viscount’s daughter.

  She wouldn’t be riding in third class.

  But as her face turned to greet the ticket taker, he caught a glimpse of that wide mouth that had argued with him so vigorously yesterday but then failed to stand up to her father.

  Bloody hell. It was her.

  Miss Westmore was boarding the train to Salisbury. Alone.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t count his failures just yet.

  At least she was wearing a proper dress this time—and a very fashionable one, too, though his skills in that arena were rusty with disuse. It was a bright canary gold, clearly meant to draw attention to the wearer, and was nipped and tucked in places that highlighted her generous curves. Definitely not the sort of gown—or the sort of woman—one usually saw in a third class car. About her neck, he spied a distinctive serpentine stone, a defiant symbol of Lizard Bay and the unusual geology of the coast.

  Its appearance gave him pause. It told him her destination better than any map.

  Holy hell. Did she really mean to go to Cornwall without suitable accompaniment? He could see no servant trailing her. No glowering father at her heels. No stacks of trunks and hatboxes towering in wait of loading. He couldn’t figure her out. The girl was trouble incarnate. He ought to bundle her back to Lord Cardwell’s house, the consequences of facing her father be damned. Or better still, he ought to leave well enough alone.

  But as she disappeared into the depths of the third class carriage, he found himself drifting toward the point where he had last seen her. What was she doing?

  Damn it, what was he doing?

  She’d made her position clear yesterday. She had no interest in dealing with him. But something about this girl piqued his interest. She seemed . . . alive.

  Not much else in his life did.

  Thomas made to follow her into the carriage but found his way blocked by the ticket taker.

  “Tickets, please!” the man barked, holding out his hand.

  Thomas shook his head, which had the misfortune of making it pound more fiercely. “I just want to speak with a woman who’s just gone into the car. I’ll only be a moment.”

  “You must have a ticket to board,” the man said sternly.

  “I only want a word—”

  “And I only want your ticket.”

  With a snarl, Thomas pulled his ticket from his jacket and handed it to the man. “Now may I pass?”

  The station worker began to sputter. “But . . . this is a first class ticket, sir.” He pointed toward the other carriage, just ahead. “Your car is there. This is the third class car.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Thomas growled. “I presume a first class ticket holder can sit anywhere they please?”

  “There are only a limited number of seats—”

  “Then give someone else my seat in the first class car.” Thomas pushed past him. “I choose to sit here.”

  WITH AUNT E’S second diary volume clutched in her hand, Lucy found an empty seat and settled into it with a small sigh of relief. Wilson, bless his big heart, must have kept his word, because no one had shown up to intercept her at the station. The wooden seat felt hard as a slab of granite beneath her bum, but it couldn’t dim her enthusiasm.

  She was finally on her way to Cornwall.

  She took off her bonnet and leaned her head back against the wooden bench, briefly closing her eyes. She was too excited to sleep, but suspected she was also too tired to read. Through the seat back, she could feel the steady vibration of the engine and the jostling of fellow passengers as they shifted about on the bench, each seeking to find a comfortable position to carry them through the portending nine hour ride.

  Perhaps, once the train started moving, she might have a hope for a nap.

  “Does your father know you are on this train, Miss Westmore?”

  Lucy’s eyes flew open and her fingers tightened over the journal as she saw who had uttered such a damning phrase.

  Oh, bugger it all. She bit her lip to keep from saying it out loud.

  Could she really have such poor luck?

  Lord Branston towered over her, his auburn hair backlit by the morning sun streaming through the train’s grit-covered window. If this was a dream, she hoped it ended in something more interesting than another tiresome offer for Heathmore Cottage.

  But given the man’s persistence, she suspected he was all too real.

  “As we established yesterday, I am of age,” she replied crisply, sitting up straighter and shoving her aunt’s diary in her valise. “My father cannot dictate my actions.”

  “Ah.” He sounded unconvinced. “So having reached your majority, you simply bade him good-bye and walked out the front door?”

  “Not that it is any of your business, but I climbed out a window. You’ll find I am persistent enough to do nearly anything once I’ve set my mind to something. I’ve set my mind to see my property and understand what has you sniffing after it.” She glared up at him. “And given that you are a marquess who tosses about offers of hundreds of pounds as though they mean nothing, shouldn’t you be seated in the first class car? Or perchance own your own train?”

  “No trains.” He stepped forward, out of the sun, and his features shifted into sharper focus. She could see, then, the light brown of his eyes, golden flecks swirled with green, and the light stubble across his cheeks, suggesting he’d not shaved this morning. He chuckled softly. “I prefer to spend my money on falling-down cottages, you see.”

  Lucy swallowed at the sound of his light laughter. “Not my cottage.”

  Unperturbed, he lowered himself onto the bench beside her and stretched out his legs.

  As though he meant to stay.

  As he filled the space beside her, she caught the faint scent of brandy. Perhaps his valet had splashed some on his skin after shaving? Although . . . he didn’t appear to have used the services of a valet this morning. Though his clothing was quite respectable—the sort of frock coat and trousers you might find on any well-bred London gentleman—the points of his collar were drooping, and his necktie was slightly off-center.

  Not that those small signs of dishevelment detracted from his appeal in any way.

  Already, he was making her heart thrum faster and the skin itch beneath her collar.

  He sidled closer to her as he made space for a last, straggling traveler, a woman with a fussing baby in her arms. He even took the woman’s bag and stowed it for her under the seat. The gesture, while kind, caused his thigh to brush up against hers and sent her stomach jumping like a nervous kitten.

  “Surely there are other places you might sit,” she said in exasperation.

  A crooked smile appeared as he settled back against his seat. “I don’t see any other seats, Miss Westmore.”

  “I would imagine there is more room in the first class car.”

  “Yes, but the company there is so much less enjoyable.” Warm hazel eyes met hers and lingered. �
��The view, as well.”

  Lucy slouched down against the hard bench. He wasn’t doing anything untoward, exactly. And he’d extended a kindly hand to the woman with the baby. But that was evidence he was mannered, not nice. She didn’t trust him any further than she could throw him.

  And then it was too late to fix.

  With a mighty groan, the train began to pull out of the station.

  Bugger it all. Now she was stuck with the man for the length of the journey.

  She inched away from him, though that brought her flush against a portly man to her right who reeked of pipe tobacco. She cleared her throat purposefully, given that she had no intention of making a good impression. “Speaking of views, I remember the view of the ocean from the front door of Heathmore Cottage,” she said, determined to both regain the upper hand and circle the conversation back around to the point.

  Which was that she was not going to sell him the property, so he might as well toddle on to a different seat in the car and leave her in peace.

  Lord Branston shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by her rabid throat-clearing. Or was he hard of hearing? But no . . . he was smiling. “The view is about the only thing to recommend it, at present. I assure you, my offer of six hundred and fifty pounds is more than fair.”

  “It is worth more than that to me.”

  “I can see you appear to harbor a sentimental attachment. Your aunt was similarly fond of the place.” He hesitated and leaned closer. “Would you consider six hundred and seventy-five pounds?”

  Lucy drew in a sharp breath. Bloody hell. He’d only sat down next to her to continue the negotiations. “If Heathmore is in such terrible condition, why are you so interested in it?” she asked. “I suspect you could buy any home in England. Why is my house the one you want?”

  Though the train car rocked and swayed as it gained speed, his eyes didn’t waver as they met hers. “Why is anything the one we want?” he said softly, and the varied interpretations of his words kindled a warmth in her stomach.

  “That is hardly an answer,” she protested.

  “Very well, then. There is something about it that appeals to me, something others don’t see when they look at it.” He inclined his head. “It has . . . hidden depths. If I thought you meant to live there and see to its upkeep, I would leave it be, I assure you. But as long as there is a chance you might sell it, and as long as there is a chance someone else might buy it, I am afraid I must continue to offer.”

  Somehow, she found the presence of mind to shake her head. “And I am afraid I must continue to decline, Lord Branston.” In fact, in this moment, on this train, she wouldn’t imagine selling it, no matter how high the man’s offers escalated. Though she’d claimed to Lydia that she wanted to inspect the property to have a better sense of its worth, now that she was finally on her way, freedom tingling beneath her skin, the thought of selling it felt six shades of wrong.

  His low-throated chuckle slid over her like a warm bath. “We’ll see, Miss Westmore. We’ll see.”

  From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore

  August 20, 1815

  Reverend Wellsbury seems up to his usual tricks again.

  Today’s sermon was on loving your neighbor, and he met my eye more than once from the pulpit. When I winked at him, the man turned as red as the devil himself. I have to admit, he’s a handsome thing—it’s no hardship to go to church, even if my mind’s not always on God.

  But I can’t help but wonder . . . just who does he intend the advice for?

  It is no secret around town that I’ve received three separate proposals of marriage from Mr. Jamieson, the town grocer, and more mooning glances from Mr. Bentley, the postmaster, than I can count. They are both kind—if a bit too persistent—but I cannot bring myself to imagine anything beyond an innocent flirtation with either of them.

  Now Reverend Wellsbury . . . there’s a man with whom I can imagine a not-so-innocent flirtation. But despite his appeal, I cannot quite bring myself to trust his intentions. He seems determined to save my soul from spinsterhood.

  But unfortunately, he seems unwilling to martyr himself for the cause.

  Chapter 9

  To keep his mind off the fact he was still half drunk and hurtling through space in an iron box with no hope of stepping outside for air, Thomas kept his attention focused squarely on Miss Westmore’s face.

  Not that it was a hardship to do so.

  In staring at her as much as he liked, he discovered something peculiar about her. Well, more peculiar. She filled out a pair of trousers nicely, after all, and had hair of a length that would inspire envy in a monk. Nothing normal about that.

  But he couldn’t help but notice she chewed on her lower lip when she was thinking, and he found himself wanting to see it again. But that wasn’t going to happen if she kept those rather lovely lips pressed together, tight as a slipknot.

  A porter came down the aisle, carrying a basket of items for purchase. Thomas lifted a finger, summoning the man, and then dug in his pocket for a coin to purchase two apples. “Malus domestica,” he said, presenting one to Miss Westmore with a grand flourish.

  Her eyes narrowed on the proffered fruit, but she shook her head. A beat passed, and then those lips miraculously opened. “Why did you call it that? It looks like a plain old apple.”

  He turned it into his palm, the yellow-red skin slightly mottled. He could tell by its color that it was a Ribston Pippin variety of apple. He could tell her its entire history, including its original cultivation from an orchard in Yorkshire. But given the disdain in her voice, he decided to keep that information to himself. She seemed none too impressed by his knowledge anyway.

  He stared down at the apple in his palm, wishing she would just take it. She looked hungry, despite her refusal. Or was she turning up her nose at the apple itself? It looked different than the apples he’d been served on the way to London. He supposed they must serve only polished apples in the first class cabin, the ones with no evidence of interest from insects and the like. But he liked the look of this one, as though it was somehow more real than the carefully chosen, polished variety. Much like Miss Westmore herself.

  He frowned, suddenly realizing she was still waiting for his answer. “Malus domestica is the scientific name for apple,” he explained. “I enjoy . . . odd facts.” At her resulting scowl, he added, “I studied botany at university, once upon a time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you are trying to impress me, Lord Branston, you should just leave off. Botany is hardly a subject of note. Now, philosophy, religion, law . . . those are subjects a marquess might use to advantage. At least, the useful variety of marquess.” By her tone, it was clear that she roundly considered him one of the nonuseful varieties.

  Not that he disagreed.

  She wiggled down into her seat and stared straight ahead again, though her lips muttered a last, final thought. “And the fact that you know the scientific name for a bloody apple won’t change my mind about Heathmore.”

  Thomas sighed at the dismissal. He bit into his apple and pocketed the one he’d intended for her. This was a bit like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. He thought of his discarded first class seat, with its lovely cushioned bench and its copious space. And then he thought of how close Miss Westmore was sitting to him, and how the scent of her reminded him a bit of this apple: fresh, tart, and entirely unexpected in the car of a filthy third class carriage.

  As far as trades went, he suspected it was worth it.

  “Do you know much about your destination, Lizard Bay?” he asked next, thinking, perhaps, she simply needed an avenue to less confrontational conversation.

  She ignored him.

  “It is a small town,” he went on. “And I’ve never seen a lizard there, myself. I suspect the town’s name derives from some older, Cornish word. Or perhaps it was named after the lizardite rocks that litter the coast.” She kept her eyes focused straight ahead, as though the elderly couple sitting on the opposite bench
was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

  But . . . there it was.

  Her mouth shifted. The line became softer and her lower lip slipped between her teeth.

  She was definitely more aware of him than she was letting on.

  “Do you always bite your bottom lip when you are thinking?” he teased.

  She made a grand show then of not biting her lip and inched her tall frame a little farther to her right. Thomas stifled a laugh. If she continued in that direction, she would be sitting on the lap of the gentleman beside her all too soon. Not that the man looked as though he would mind. It had not escaped Thomas’s notice that she’d captured interested glances from most of the men in the car. She seemed oblivious to the attention.

  That told him she was rather naive about the intentions of men.

  And that made Thomas want to stick tight as a burr to her side.

  “No witty retort?” he asked mildly.

  “You should not be staring at my lips,” she muttered.

  Now that was about as ludicrous as the idea he might willingly abandon his hopes to acquire Heathmore. She might not be the most striking woman in a train car, but there was something about her that drew the eye. It was true that her mouth turned down, all too frequently, but that made him want to force a smile.

  Thomas shrugged, hardly knowing which devil had seized him, but all too willing to give himself over to it. How long had it been since he’d tried so hard to make a woman laugh? He’d once been considered rather funny, in the days before he descended into that dark, London drunkenness, but he scarcely recognized the skill that was emerging in slow, rusty turns.

  “I am a man. You have a pair of lovely lips, and you tend to bite them when you are irritated. Forgive me for noticing.” He leaned closer, until the sweet, simple scent of her filled his head and drowned out the sweating bodies on either side. “You are doing it again. To tempt me, perhaps? Or merely to demonstrate your prowess with the act?”