The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “What?” Lucy gasped. She looked between Lydia and her mother in astonishment. She could imagine why Lydia had agreed to do it. Her sister had long dreamed of a grand come-out. But to have her mother concoct such a charade . . .

  Wasn’t a lady always supposed to tell the truth?

  “Well, you both look so much alike, dear,” her mother offered, her smile softening to more of an apology. “And she had done such a good job during calling hours . . .”

  “And I wanted to do it,” Lydia chimed in, her cheeks still pink. “I danced nearly every dance, and drank ratafia and lemonade, and met the most handsome gentleman.” She sighed dreamily. “I am grateful for the experience, actually.”

  “I had already accepted these invitations for you before you disappeared,” Mother went on, coming down the stairs now to give Lucy a hug of her own. “The gossip would have been immense. It seemed the most logical and least embarrassing thing to do until we found you.”

  “You mean . . . my Season isn’t ruined?” Lucy somehow managed to whisper against her mother’s embrace. The thought made dread pool in her stomach.

  Her mother straightened and smiled gratefully in Lydia’s direction. “Far from it. Your sister did brilliantly. She’s even attracted the attention of a nice viscount who might do well for you. I think you will be well set up to go on with the rest of the Season. The Duchess of Pembroke’s ball is tomorrow, where we can make the switch. Best do it now, before people catch on.” Her hand crept up to touch Lucy’s hair. “Provided, of course, we can do something about this.”

  Lucy frowned. She didn’t want a nice viscount. She wanted an auburn-haired marquess. Thomas had made her feel beautiful, as though she was the only woman in a room. In the world. But she had a notion that on a London dance floor, she was going stand out in a more obtrusive way.

  Her mother’s hand fell away. “You are frowning. Do you mind so terribly? We couldn’t see another way forward without claiming an illness, and we didn’t want to give anyone the impression of infirmity.” She shook her head. “I still can’t sort out how Wilson thought you were locked in your room all that time. And then, when Lydia’s initial appearance worked so well, it just seemed natural enough to go on . . .” Her voice trailed off, no doubt on account of the look on Lucy’s face. Her mother cleared her throat, a wholly unladylike sound. “Well, should you choose to not go through with it, then we’ll come up with a more fitting exit from the Season.” Her lips tipped downward. “Perhaps we can have you sprain your ankle. Call in Dr. Merial, spread the word about. It worked well enough for your sister Clare.”

  Lucy shook her head, not wanting to foster any greater deception. It was already going to be difficult enough to keep it all straight. “I will go, at least for tomorrow.” She didn’t know how long she could stay in London, given that her heart was already urging her back to Lizard Bay. But for now, what harm would there be in paying this penance? Surely she could suffer through an awkward waltz or two, play the dutiful daughter, for a few days.

  Provided, that was, anyone wanted to dance with her.

  Suddenly, a sprained ankle seemed like a smashing good idea.

  Her mother’s gaze fell lower, to Lucy’s neck. “What a lovely necklace you are wearing,” she exclaimed, tilting her head. “I’ve never seen it before.” Her mother reached out to touch the pendant, turning it over thoughtfully. “Beautiful, really, especially against your blond hair.”

  Lucy’s hand crept up to covetously cover the stone. “It belonged to Aunt E.”

  “Hmmm.” Her mother’s hand fell away. “Well, she may have been eccentric, but your Aunt E clearly had excellent taste in jewelry.”

  Lucy remembered, then, her mother’s opinion of the woman. It was an opinion Lucy had once wrongly harbored herself. But Aunt E wasn’t mad, or thoughtless, or uncaring either. She was simply who she was, and Lucy would always treasure the bits and pieces she’d learned of her aunt’s life. “I would like to wear my necklace tomorrow night,” she said impulsively, lifting her chin. “For good luck.” The unspoken warning hung in the air. She would go to the ball . . . but she would do so on her own terms.

  Her mother considered it a moment. “I can’t see any harm in that. Just do not let people know where it came from. I would hate for anyone to suspect you’ve been in Cornwall this past week.”

  Geoffrey chose that moment to step out of the front door and tumble down the steps. His blond hair was rumpled and he looked as though he’d just been roused from bed despite the fact that it was approaching dinnertime. The scent of stale cheroots and gin clung to him like a miasma. Good heavens. The boy was only seventeen.

  When had gin and cheroots and sleeping until evening become a part of his daily diet?

  “There you are, sis!” A shit-eating grin split his face. “I hope you know I am missing a good deal of fun at university on your behalf.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed. Her rash might be better, thank you very much, but her temper was anything but. “What are you doing here?” Her hands came up to settle on her hips. “Come to put poison ivy in all of our beds?”

  His eyes crinkled. “Come on, don’t snarl at me so, it was only a little bit of fun. No harm done. And someone needed to help Lydia make a grand splash during her debut. Or rather, during your debut.” He shrugged. “Who better than someone who is practically a professional jokester?”

  “He’s been a big help,” Lydia interjected. “He introduced me to several of his friends.”

  “Mother summoned me to make sure it was as believable as possible. And we’ve done a ripping good job of it, if I do say so myself.” Geoffrey’s grin widened as his gaze swept over her rumpled appearance. “Good God. You look a little rough around the edges, sis. Then again, I suppose you have been staying in a rat-infested cottage. Bring any back for us?”

  Lucy huffed out a breath. Leave it to Geoffrey to say she looked rough around the edges, when his own appearance practically screamed he’d been frequenting a gin house. “As a matter of fact . . .” She put her hand in the pocket of her skirt. “I’ve brought you something from Cornwall.”

  The cocky smile slid off his face.

  She pretended to hurl something at him.

  Damned if he didn’t shriek like a girl, slapping at his chest, his face gone white.

  “Idiot,” she laughed. “I’m not afraid of rats. And I’m a bloody lady.”

  “I AM GLAD to have you safely back, Miss Lucy.”

  Lucy glanced up from her self-appointed role pacing the drawing room carpet to see Wilson’s broad, familiar face. He was standing at attention, his gleaming silver tray balanced precisely in his gloved hand.

  In spite of her worry, the sight of him warmed her heart.

  “It is good to be back,” she lied. “Thank you for keeping my secret for so long. Your loan was much appreciated.” She hesitated, trying to sort through her debts. She owed Wilson more than she could ever properly repay. Those extra days he had given her were just enough time to reach Heathmore Cottage and fall madly, deeply in love. “I promise I will pay you back when Father resumes my pin money.”

  “It was a gift, Miss Lucy, not a loan.” He shook his head gently. “I was pleased to do it.”

  She swallowed, gratitude thickening her voice. “I understand Mother didn’t realize I was gone for several days at least.”

  “There was much shrieking when Lady Cardwell finally discovered you were missing.” A smile twitched at the corners of Wilson’s mouth. “Loud, unladylike shrieking. You would have enjoyed hearing her screams, I suspect. But if I may ask . . . I understand you’ve a ball to attend in only a few hours. One would imagine you will need to preserve your strength for dancing. Why are you pacing a hole in the carpet instead?”

  She looked down. “I am not looking forward to tonight’s ball,” she admitted.

  Or the one after that, or the one thereafter.

  Something about tonight’s ball and all the expectations it carried made her want to toss up
her luncheon into the nearest potted plant. She had promised her mother she would attend tonight’s, at least. To smile and dance and pretend all was well. Lydia had worked hard to give her this opportunity, and she didn’t want to let her sister down. But it felt wrong to be forced to go through the motions of pretending to be carefree and available, when her heart was so clearly tied up in Thomas.

  “Ah.” The butler frowned. “Am I to presume, then, that you are not open to receiving a visitor either?”

  Lucy winced. “If it is Lydia’s viscount, I think not.” In fact, the thought of facing the man tonight made her stomach churn a vigorous protest.

  “It is not a viscount.” Wilson paused dramatically, then stepped forward and extended his silver salver. “It is, in fact, a marquess.”

  It took a moment to sort through the butler’s words, but when they registered, her eyes flew to the card presented there, the black ink stark against the white vellum.

  The Marquess of Branston

  Lucy suddenly felt as though she had run the length of Oxford Street and back, her heart pounding and her face burning. He had come. To London.

  For her.

  With a small, glad cry, she lifted her skirts.

  “Er . . . Miss Lucy . . .” Something in Wilson’s voice made her still. “He did not come to the front door. He is at the scullery door.”

  That made her blink, but only for a second. No doubt Thomas was being cautious of her father’s propensity to wave pistols about.

  She dashed down the hallway and burst through the kitchen doors. Yanking open the scullery door, she nearly launched herself into his arms.

  Except . . . it wasn’t quite the Thomas she remembered from Cornwall.

  Oh, the important parts were all there. Familiar hazel eyes seemed to scrape against her skin with a raw hunger she understood all too well, given that the very same emotion was coursing through her. His mouth was still quirked higher on one side, a rakish, lopsided grin that pulled her heart right up alongside it. But the clothing . . . now, that was a different matter entirely. She stepped back to properly take him in, her gaze tripping across his checked wool trousers, the embroidered waistcoat, the gleaming top hat. He was wearing his London costume, again, having shed the achingly familiar skin of his Cornwall clothing.

  Which only made his appearance at the scullery door all the more confusing.

  “Why have you come to the scullery entrance?” she asked dubiously. “You look a bit ridiculous standing here, as if you’ve come to deliver the fish.”

  “Ridiculous, am I?” He lifted a brow as he twirled a silver-tipped walking cane. “Strange words, coming from a lady who first met me dressed like a boy.”

  She sniffed the air suspiciously. “Are you drunk?”

  “No.” His eyes met hers, deadly serious. “I’ve not even been tempted to have a drink since my train arrived, which has been a revelation in and of itself.” He looked down at his clothing, and finally a sheepish smile broke through. “Although I am beginning to suspect a man would have to be either a fool or desperate to dress this way sober. I’ve come straight from the train. And I’ve come to the scullery entrance because I wanted to keep news of my arrival quiet.” He hesitated, just enough. “I’ve come to see my sister, you see.”

  Lucy knew she ought to be glad. But instead of giving a little leap of gladness, her heart stubbornly insisted on feeling a little hurt instead.

  He’d come to London to see his sister. Not to see her.

  Still, he was here, wasn’t he? At her scullery door. There was something in that, even if it wasn’t the dramatic, sweeping declaration of love she had hoped for.

  “Will you come with me?” he asked.

  She caught her breath. “I . . . I am afraid I can’t tonight.” Oh, she wanted to. But his timing was to rot. “I’m to attend the Duchess of Pembroke’s annual ball in just a few hours. I promised my mother I would go, and I’ve a good deal of disappointment to make up for, apparently.” And she needed to do a proper job of it, too, or else all their reputations would be ruined.

  “This will only take an hour or two. You will be back in plenty of time.”

  Lucy bit her lip. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say yes to an entire host of things. But was she to serve as a crutch for this mad adventure, or had he issued the invitation for more honorable reasons? “Why?” she whispered. “Why do you want me to come with you?”

  “I want you to meet her. In truth, I’ve wanted you to meet her from the start.”

  Lucy could feel herself wavering. She suspected she might go anywhere with this man. “Thomas, I am glad you want to see your sister, truly I am. But if I may ask . . . why are you dressed like this?”

  He glanced down. “I was trying to be subtle. I thought my usual clothing from Cornwall might cause more attention on the streets of London.”

  “Subtle?” Lucy snorted. “I am quite sure the pattern on that waistcoat has never been called anything of the sort. Are those really embroidered cherubs?”

  His smile seemed to stretch across his face. “Yes. Trappings of my previous time in London, I’m afraid. A gentleman ought not to visit the tailor’s when he is drunk.” He hesitated, his smile hanging on the edge of falling away. “I suppose I do look a bit ridiculous. What do you suggest, then? I want to see Josephine, but I am worried my appearance may attract undue attention. I don’t want people to see me knocking on her door and guess the ruse.”

  “Well then, you need a proper disguise, not a waistcoat with cherubs.” She thought back to their first meeting, in the drawing room that fateful day when he’d come to increase his offer for Heathmore. She’d been dressed as a boy, and it had taken more than a second glance to set things straight. She motioned him inside. “Come on, then. I need to get you upstairs without the servants seeing you.”

  “Why, Miss Westmore.” His gaze trailed warmly down her body, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck sing to attention. “Are you intending to have your way with me?”

  Lucy’s laugh slid right out of her, like a bird bursting into song. “I intend to have my way with your wardrobe.” She smiled up at him. “And someone is going to have teach you how to walk properly in skirts.”

  Chapter 28

  Thomas lowered his hand from the knocker and stared up at the front of the red brick town house. Behind him the sound of shod hooves rang out on the cobblestones, fair notice that the hackney they’d hired out of Mayfair was leaving—and along with it, any notion to quit this lark. He ran a finger beneath the stranglehold of his high lace collar. Lucy had gamely pilfered through the dregs of her wardrobe and dressed him as though he was a china doll: petticoats, corset, bodice, skirts. He was even wearing stockings, the whisper of silk against his legs a poor promise of comfort, given they were already showing a tendency to sag about his ankles.

  Christ above, how did women do this?

  Lucy stood beside him, loose-limbed and easy, far more comfortable in her boy’s clothing than he felt in his dress. She’d laughingly insisted he needed a chaperone, and then proceeded to step into a bloody pair of trousers.

  Not that he blamed her. It turned out that wearing skirts was not for the faint of heart.

  A hand burrowed into his. He looked down to see Lucy’s fingers twine with his, and his chest tightened. God, he loved this woman. She was brave and courageous and daring and mad, and all those things combined in him as a rush of affection and lust.

  And what a pair they made, she in her trousers and he in . . .

  Well, suffice it to say, his Hessians did not match his lace collar.

  “Are you nervous?” she asked, squeezing his hand. Her blue eyes met his, open and honest beneath the slouched brim of her hat. Her hair was poking out in a hundred different angles, as though she was a blond porcupine. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

  He smiled. “No,” he said, honestly. Perhaps it was because his head felt almost violently clear, focused on the task at hand instead of the bot
tle. Or perhaps it was the anticipation of introducing his sister to the woman standing beside him. He was heading into this with a clear head and a hopeful heart. And no matter the outcome, he was at least going to try.

  The door opened and a mob-capped maid peeked out. “May I ’elp you?”

  Behind the servant a pleasant foyer loomed, and from deeper in the house he could hear the awkward notes of a pianoforte, seemingly plunked at random. It sounded a bit as though someone were trying to murder a piano, and instead only succeeded in maiming it.

  Thomas pulled out his card. “Please tell your mistress Lord Branston is here. We would like to see Mrs. Smythe.”

  The maid’s eyes trailed down his clothing. “Did you say . . . ‘lord’?”

  Bloody hell. He’d forgotten he was wearing skirts. And pretending to be someone else.

  Lucy, thank God, sprang to action. “I am Lord Branston,” she corrected, her voice artificially gruff. “And Mrs. Smythe will want to see us.”

  The maid looked doubtful, but she motioned them in. The sound of mismatched piano notes grew louder as they were led down a hallway, and then they emerged into an airy drawing room. In one corner a pianoforte was in use, explaining the racket he’d heard in the hallway. A small child—little more than a toddler, really—was seated on a piano bench that was far too big for her, her legs kicking industriously in the air as she pounded on the keys. A woman sat to one side, her chin in her hand, eyes closed shut in a well-defined wince.

  The maid left him standing by the doorway and went to whisper something in her mistress’s ear. The woman looked up, her beautiful face pale with surprise.

  She stayed the child’s fingers with a quick hand. “Thomas?” she whispered as the last note awkward trailed off. Her eyes tugged toward him in confusion.

  He nodded, his shoulders tense.

  Would Josephine be happy to see him? Angry? It had been three years, after all.

  But then she was standing up in a rush of heavy silk, stumbling toward him, her eyes bright with tears. And then, unbelievably, he was being folded into her arms.