Marriage Made In Shame (The Penniless Lords Book 2)

by Sophia James

  He could never tell anybody. Ever. He would have to deal with his problem alone and in privacy. He would either get better or he would not and the thought of years and years of sadness rushed in upon him with an awful truth.

  His reality. His punishment. His retribution.

  But today had been like a reprieve, too, a genuine and awkward evasion of what might have come to pass. He was known across the ton for his expertise with the opposite sex and if the scale of his prowess had grown with the mounting rumour he had not stopped that, either, his downfall sharpened on lies.

  This is what he had come to, here and now, walking along the road to his carriage parked a good two hundred yards from the doctor’s rooms to secure privacy and wishing things could be different; he could be different, his life, his secrets, his sense of honour and morality and grace.

  Once he had believed in all the glorious ideals the British Service had shoved down his throat. Integrity. Loyalty. Virtue. Principle. But no more. That dream had long gone in the face of the truth.

  He was alone in everything he did, clinging to the edge of life like a moth might to a flame and being burned to a cinder. There was nowhere else, or no one else. This was it.

  He had always been alone and he always would be.

  Chapter Two

  Two weeks in the London Season had already seemed like a month and this was the fourth ball Adelaide had been to in as many nights. The same grandeur, the same people, the same boring chatter concerned only with marriage prospects, one’s appearance and the size of a suitor’s purse.

  She was tired of it, though tonight the crowd was thicker and those attending did not all have the rarefied look of the ton. A less lofty gathering, she decided, and hence more interesting. Lady Harcourt beside her did not look pleased.

  ‘Lord and Lady Bradford are rumoured to be enamoured by the changing tides of fortune and one can see that in some of the guests present—a lot of wealth but no true class. Perhaps we should not have come at all, Penbury?’

  Her uncle only laughed and finished his drink. ‘Adelaide isn’t a green girl, Imelda, and I am certain she can discern whom to speak with and whom to avoid. In truth, even those with genuine titles seem to be rougher these days, less worried by the way a fortune is made or lost.’ His eyes fixed on a group of men in the corner.

  At that very moment the tallest of them raised his glass and said something that made the others laugh. Adelaide noticed he wore a thick band of silver around one of his fingers and that the cuff on his shirt was intricately embroidered in bronze thread. He was everything she had never liked in a man, a fop and a dandy, handsome to the point of beautiful and knowing it. Nearly every woman in the salon looked his way.

  From her place to one side of a wide plastered pillar she watched him, too. Out of a pure and misplaced appreciation, she supposed, the length of his hair as extraordinary as every other feature upon him.

  ‘The Earl of Wesley is the most handsome man in the King’s court, would you not say, Miss Ashfield?’ Miss Lucy Carrigan’s voice rose above the chatter, breathless and adoring. ‘It is understood that his London town house has mirrors on every wall so that he might look at himself from all possible angles.’

  ‘And he would boast of this?’ The frown that never left the forehead of Lucy Carrigan deepened.

  ‘Well, if you were that beautiful, Miss Ashfield, should you not wish to look upon your form, too?’

  Adelaide could only laugh at such a thought. My goodness, the girl was serious. She struggled to school in her mirth and find kindness.

  ‘Perhaps it would be so.’

  ‘My cousin Matilda said Lord Wesley kissed her once when she was much younger and she has never forgotten the feelings his expertise engendered. Indeed, she is long married and yet she still brings up the subject every few months.’

  ‘And her husband is happy to hear this?’

  ‘Oh, Norman can hardly object. It was Lord Wesley himself who introduced them to each other and steered them on to the pathway of Holy Matrimony.’

  ‘Which he believes in?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The earl? Is he married?’

  Peals of laughter were the only answer. ‘Oh, dear me, no. A man like that is hardly going to be tied down to one female, is he, though word has it he did come close.’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘To Mrs Henrietta Clements. Some dreadful accident took her life a few months back, but the whole thing was hushed up quickly because she had left her wedded husband for Wesley. A scandal it was and the main topic of conversation for weeks after.’

  Normally Adelaide stayed clear of such gossip, but fourteen days of society living had broken down her scruples somewhat and Lucy Carrigan for all her small talk was proving most informative.

  ‘And so the earl was heartbroken?’

  ‘Ahhh, quite the opposite. For a while nobody saw him at all, but then he began to spend far more time in the vicinity of fast women with questionable morals.’

  ‘You speak of London’s brothels?’ Adelaide could not quite work out what she meant.

  The other reddened considerably and dropped her voice. ‘No lady of any repute should ever admit to knowing about such things, Miss Ashfield, even amongst friends.’ Lucy Carrigan’s eyes again perused the figure of the one they spoke about and Adelaide regarded him, too.

  The Earl of Wesley was tall and broad with it, the foppish clothes out of character with his build. But the arrogance was not to be mistaken and nor was the intricately tied cravat that stood up under his chin and echoed the style of the day. The Mathematical, she had heard it called, with its three demanding and precise creases, one horizontal and two diagonal.

  He stood with his back to the wall. Even as others came to join the group he was within, he still made certain that he faced any newcomer. And he watched. Everyone. Even her. She looked quickly away as bleached golden eyes fell by chance upon her face.

  Lady Harcourt beside her was fussing about the heat in the room and the noise of the band. Tired of listening to her constant stream of complaints, Adelaide signalled to her chaperon that she wished to use the ladies’ retiring room and quietly moved away, glad when Imelda did not insist on accompanying her.

  A moment later a small bench to one side of the salon caught her attention, a row of flowering plants placed before it allowing a temporary shelter. Glancing around to see that no one observed her, she pushed the greenery aside and slipped through, sitting down to stretch her legs. A row of windows before her overlooked a garden.

  She had escaped, if momentarily, from the inane and preposterous world of being presented to society and she planned to enjoy every fleeting second of it.

  ‘Ten more weeks,’ she enunciated with feeling. ‘Ten more damned weeks.’

  A slight noise to one side had her turning and with shock she registered a man standing there. Not just any man, either, but the foppish and conceited Earl of Wesley.

  Without being surrounded by admirers and sycophants he looked more menacing and dangerous. Almost a different person from the one she had been watching a few moments earlier if she were honest. The pale gold of his eyes was startling as he looked towards her.

  ‘Ten more damned weeks, until...what?’

  A dimple in his right cheek caught the light of a small flickering lamp a few feet away, sending shadows across the face of an angel. A hardened angel, she amended, for there was something in his expression that spoke of distance and darkness.

  ‘Until I can return home, my lord. Until this dreadful society Season of mine is at last over.’ The honesty of her response surprised her. She usually found strangers hard to talk to. Especially men who held all of the ton in thrall as this one did.

  ‘You do not enjoy the glamour and intrigue of high courtly living, Miss...?’

 
‘Miss Adelaide Ashfield from Northbridge Manor.’ When question crossed into his eyes she continued. ‘It is in Sherborne, my lord, in Dorset. I am the niece of the Viscount of Penbury.’

  ‘Ahhh.’ The one dimple deepened. ‘You are rich, then, and well connected?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ She could not believe he would mention such a thing. Was that not just the very height of rudeness?

  ‘My guess is that you are a great heiress who has come to the city on the lookout for a husband?’

  ‘No.’ The word came harshly and with little hidden.

  He turned. Up close he was even more beautiful than he was from afar. If she could have conjured up a man from imagination personifying masculine grace and strength, it would have been him. The thought made her smile.

  ‘You find society and its pursuit for sterling marriages amusing?’ A bleak humour seemed to materialise on his face.

  ‘I do not, sir. I find it degrading and most humiliating. The only true virtue in my list of attributes is wealth, you see, and as such I am...an easy target for those with dubious financial backgrounds.’

  The returned laughter did not seem false. ‘Such a description of desperation might include half the lords of the ton then, Miss Ashfield. Myself included.’

  ‘You are...penniless?’ She could not believe he would be so candid.’

  ‘Not quite, but heading that way.’

  ‘Then I am sorry for it.’

  The mirth disappeared completely. ‘Do not be so. There is a freedom in such a state that is beguiling.’

  Again Adelaide was perplexed. His words were not those of a vacuous and dandified lord. Indeed, this was the very first conversation that she had actually enjoyed since leaving Dorset.

  He glanced around. ‘Where is your chaperon, Miss Ashfield? I could hardly think she would be pleased to see you alone in my company.’

  ‘Oh, Lady Harcourt is back amongst the crowd, complaining of the crush and the noise. I am supposed to be in the retiring room, you see, but I slipped off here instead.’

  ‘A decision you might regret.’

  ‘In what way, my lord?’

  Now only ice filled the gold of his eyes. ‘A reputation is easily lost amongst the doyens of the ton, no matter how little you do to deserve it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  He smiled. ‘Stay close to your chaperon, Miss Ashfield, or one day you surely will.’

  With that he was gone, a slight bow and then gone, only the vague scent of sandalwood remaining.

  Adelaide breathed out deeply and pushed back the shrubbery, aware that others were now moving in her direction. Suddenly the room seemed larger and more forbidding than it had done before, an undercurrent of something she could not fathom, a quiet whisper of warning.

  She had seen these weeks in the ton as both a game and a trial, but perhaps it was not quite either. To be roped into marriage on a mistake would be disastrous and life changing. Without pause she hurried back to Lady Harcourt.

  * * *

  She should not have been alone, Gabriel thought, watching as the unusual Miss Adelaide Ashfield rushed past him and back towards safety. She was so far from the usual run of those new to society he had barely believed she was one. Older for a start and much more...beguiling. Yes, that was the word. She did not seem to harbour the cunning and duplicity of almost every other débutante he had met. She was tall, too, her head rising to his chin, and at six foot four that was something that seldom happened. She was not blonde, either, her hair a mix of sable and dark chestnut and her eyes the colour of a winter stream running over limestone. Deep clear blue with shadows of hurt. He doubted the spectacles she wore were for any reason other than a way of making her appear more studious, less attractive. He could not remember seeing another woman ever wear spectacles to a ball. A further oddness that was intriguing.

  Men who came for the Season with the hope of finding a docile and curvy blonde would not be interested in Miss Adelaide Ashfield from Sherborne.

  ‘God,’ he swore, but his eyes still followed her, pushing past other patrons, barely pausing.

  He had frightened her. A good thing that. If one’s reason for being in London for the Season was truly not marriage then she should be glued to the side of the harridan she had finally reached. Another man came to join her and Gabriel recognised him as the hapless Bertram Ashfield, no doubt newly come from the card rooms on one end of the salon. He looked defeated and luckless.

  A taller man had also joined the party, his sallow face wreathed in smiles. He was talking to Miss Ashfield in the way of one whose words portrayed more than just the pure sounds. A suitor. Observing the way she leaned away from him, Gabriel gained the impression that any tender thoughts were not returned.

  Perhaps she did not lie. Perhaps indeed she was here under duress. The scene became even more interesting when Frederick Lovelace, the Earl of Berrick, joined the small group in the company of the Viscount of Penbury himself. The baby-faced earl had the same look of hope in his expression as the other taller man had.

  Gabriel smiled. Could Miss Ashfield be a siren perhaps with the penchant to attract men despite her wishing not to?

  Look at her damned effect on him!

  He rarely spoke with the new débutantes of the Season and certainly never for so long. Even now he wished he might find her again somewhere isolated so that they could converse further, the low and calm voice that did not hold back feelings placating somehow and sensible.

  When the music began to play Gabriel knew it was a waltz and he watched as Berrick took Miss Ashfield’s arm and led her on to the floor. All débutantes needed permission to dance the waltz and he wondered which of Almack’s patronesses had allowed it.

  The trouble was she did not seem to know the steps, tripping over her feet more times than he thought possible. Berrick held her closer and tighter so that she might follow him with a greater ease.

  Hell. Why did the chaperon not intervene? Or the uncle? Did not others see how very inappropriate such closeness was? He glanced around, but no face was turned towards the couple in censure.

  Perhaps Frederick Lovelace was further down the pathway of his courtship than Miss Ashfield had let on? With a curse Gabriel turned for the door. An early night would do him good for once. If only he could sleep.

  * * *

  Adelaide saw Lord Wesley leave the room, the sure steps of his exit and the quiet observation of others. For one long and ridiculous moment she had imagined that he still watched her and that he might ask her to dance.

  Instead the Earl of Berrick held her to the steps, his arms too tight and his body too close. The waltz must soon be finished, surely, and then pleading a headache she could leave, too. She was at that moment glad of such an elderly chaperon and one who would be more than happy for an early night.

  Her uncle might not be so pleased, of course, but even he had begun to flag beneath the ludicrous constant social graces and late-night soirées of the ton. Bertie would stay, no doubt, locked into the card rooms in the hope of a win that never seemed to materialise.

  ‘I should like to call upon you on the morrow if I may, Miss Ashfield.’

  He looked as serious as she had ever seen another look. Would he be showing his hand as a suitor? Pray God, she hoped not, but when he squeezed her fingers and looked intently at her she knew that such a wish was false.

  ‘You are a sensible girl, well endowed with a brain and the ability to use it.’

  She smiled, hating her pasted-on joviality with an ache. She could never before remember playing people so false than here in London.

  ‘My mother, the countess, would like you.’

  The music stopped just as she thought she might burst into laughter and Lord Berrick could do nothing but escort her back to her chaperon.

  For once
the frowns of Lady Harcourt were reassuring and Adelaide took her hand.

  ‘You are tired, Aunt. Perhaps we might leave?’

  The older lady failed to hide the relief that flooded into her eyes as she leant upon her charge and they threaded through the crowded room to the exit.

  * * *

  Gabriel dreamed that night of colourful dresses and tuneful waltzes, and of a woman in his arms on the dance floor smelling of lemon and hope. Her dark hair was loose and her eyes mirrored the hue of the flowers the greenery around them was bedecked with.

  But something was wrong. The ease of the dream turned into worry. He must not kiss her. She would know otherwise. He needed to find some distance from the softness of her touch, a way of leaving without causing question. But she was stuck to him like a spider’s web, clinging and cold, and the only way to be rid of her was to push her down and down until she lay still beneath the marbled font of the destroyed wooden chapel, the smell of sulphur on the glowing fabric of her gown and her feet bare.

  Henrietta Clements morphed from Adelaide Ashfield, the blonde of her hair pinked with blood.

  He tried to shout, but no words came, tried to run, too, but his feet could not move and the burning ache on his upper right thigh pulled him from sleep into the cold and grey light of dawn.

  He could barely breathe, his whole body stiffened in fright and the anger that hung quiet in the daytime now full blooded and red.

  Henrietta had come to him out of fear, he knew that. Her husband was purportedly involved in helping to fund Napoleon’s push into Europe and Gabriel had been tailing Randolph Clements for a month or so in an effort to find out more. The Service had had word of the man’s close connections with others in London who held radical views and they wanted to see just whom he associated with.

  A simple target. An easy mark. But the small notice he had allowed Henrietta Clements had changed into something else, something he should have recognised as dangerous from the very start.