Seeking Scandal

by Nadine Millard

Having been hiding all day, Julia had had the benefit of hearing what the gossips had to say about the handsome viscount. It was none of it very flattering, though the younger ladies sounded more enthralled than horrified.

  Still, the result was that she knew his character and she would do well to remember that.

  "Thank you," she answered primly. But rather than put him off, her rigid answer seemed only to amuse him.

  "Oh, Miss Channing, I do so look forward to getting to know you better," he said with a rakish wink before moving off to another part of the room.

  She tried not to watch him. He towered over most of the other men in the room, his walk languid and graceful, like that of a panther.

  He had danger stamped all over him and Julia would do well to heed that.

  He turned then and caught her watching him, his icy blue eyes boring into her green ones.

  Julia's heart raced in response.

  This viscount was going to be trouble. Why then, did she feel only excitement and not fear?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nadine Millard is a writer hailing from Dublin, Ireland. Although she'll write anything that pops into her head, her heart belongs to Regency Romance.

  When she's not immersing herself in the 1800s, she's spending time with her husband, her three children, and her very spoiled Samoyed. She can usually be found either writing or reading and drinking way too much coffee.

  An Unlikely Duchess

  by Nadine Millard

  PROLOGUE

  “You know, old chap, ‘tis not a bad sort of life.” This sentiment was expressed rather drunkenly by the gentleman being propped up, unsuccessfully for the most part, by another young gentleman in much the same state.

  The two were exiting one of the more reputable gaming halls lurking on the wrong side of London. The Black Den, known as much for its light skirts as the light pockets people suffered when exiting, had become a regular haunt for the two friends since the beginning of the Season.

  These were no ordinary gentlemen. They were considered the catches of the Season and, as a result, had suffered greatly at the hands of ambitious mamas with steel in their eyes and marriage on their minds.

  The more drunk of the two, and younger by two years at twenty-eight, was Lord Carrington, future Earl of Ranford, whose seat would be a magnificent estate in Ireland. Having spent much of his twenty-odd years in England attending the best schools and then sowing his oats under the pretence of wife catching, the young lord had no real desire to be shipped off back to Ireland to waste away with no society or activity to speak of.

  However, his father was getting on in years, and it was time to return home and learn the ropes before the mantle and responsibility fell to him.

  The older, and even more of a catch as far as the mamas were concerned, was none other than the future Duke of Hartridge. The title alone was enough to have debutants swooning. Added to that his colossal wealth and number of properties, and even Prinny himself would not have caused as much of a stir as when Charles Crawdon, Marquess of Enthorpe walked into a room.

  The gentlemen had been suffering the machinations of debutantes and their mothers since the start of the Season. Only that evening, the Marquess had literally had a young girl thrown at him by her mama in the hopes that the scuffle would look like some sort of scandal, therefore forcing an engagement.

  He would rather face the entirety of the French army than the mothers of the ton hell bent on having their girls wed.

  And whilst Henry Carrington had suffered his share of near misses, nobody was terribly thrilled about a son-in-law who would leave the country. After all, what was the point in having a peer in the family if one could not parade him around in front of one’s friends? But he was still an Earl, so he was in their sights.

  And so it was that the young scoundrels, determined to paint themselves as disreputable rakes, though not quite brave enough to suffer the collective wrath of their fathers, frequented places like the Black Den, and associated with the demimonde and the women who had neither the means nor inclination to trap them into marriage.

  Outside, the biting wind helped to revive the gentlemen somewhat, and as they awaited the arrival of the ducal carriage they were both contemplating the same thing.

  “The end of the Season is fast approaching.” Lord Carrington was the first to break the contemplative silence.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Your father expects an engagement.”

  “So does yours,” Enthorpe bit back.

  “Indeed he does.”

  There was a slight pause, and then a desolate sigh.

  “I think our days of rakishness are numbered.”

  “Had they even begun?” Enthorpe enquired dryly.

  “Not as much as I had hoped. I suppose I just do not have it in me to seduce widows and ruin debutantes.”

  “No,” answered Enthorpe rather regretfully, “nor do I.”

  Another pause.

  “So, who will you marry then?” This time Enthorpe broke the silence.

  “Perhaps Lady Mary. She is a good sort. I think we would rub along rather well together. She has indicated, quite forcefully, that a quiet life in the Irish countryside would be no hardship to her. It may as well be her as anyone. And you?”

  “The Lady Catherine, I think,” was the eventual answer after some minutes pondering the question. “I must consider the duties of a duchess when making my decision. Nobody knows the rules of society as much as she. She is pretty and pleasant. And it will please my father to align ourselves with that family. She is on his list of acceptable wives.”

  Neither of the men spoke in terms of asking these women. They knew, everyone knew, that a refusal would be completely out of the question for any of the ladies in Town.

  There was an air of finality about the conversation between the two young men. They both knew they were on the cusp of respectability and their days of misadventure would soon be behind them.

  Thus, it was with a fond nostalgia that the conversation continued once they were safely ensconced in the warmth of the ducal carriage and making their way back to Mayfair.

  “It has been a good ride Thorpe,” said Lord Carrington fondly.

  The marquess grinned. “It has been at that Carry.”

  “I wonder how many brats you will have,” Carrington quipped.

  “Less than you I warrant! An heir and spare is all I require, though I believe ladies have a fondness for daughters too.”

  “I shall want at least four to fill up that museum of a house in Offaly. As long as one of them is a boy I shan’t mind about the others.”

  “Boys will be infinitely more manageable than girls, Carry.”

  “Nonsense. Girls are pliable and pleasing. They do as they are told quietly and without fuss.” Carrington answered this firmly and with confidence, having had no experience of sisters or close female cousins.

  The marquess, however, had grown up with sisters and smirked at Carrington’s innocence and naivety.

  “And what of the trouble of marrying them off?”

  “Well, what of it? I shall give them their Seasons and they will marry.”

  “My dear Carry, do think of the Season we’ve just had. You will subject your daughters to the likes of us?”

  “I had not thought of that,” answered Carrington, his sudden look of consternation confirming that he’d forgotten that his daughters would not be exempt from the ups and downs of the marriage mart.

  The marquess gave him a moment to digest this new piece of information and to re-evaluate his desire for girls.

  “I’ve got it,” he announced so suddenly that Enthorpe almost jumped out of his skin.

  “Damnation, Carry! You almost scared me to death!”

  “Apologies, old man. But I’ve got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “The solution, of course.”

  “To what?” the marquess asked in exasperation.

  “Why, the marrying off of my ch
ildren,” announced Carrington in a booming voice. “I shall just marry them to yours!”

  Now, neither of these young men were hair brained or stupid. However, both were very firmly in their cups and, in such a state, the idea seemed ideal. Having enough sensibilities between them still to actually hash out some details, they decided that since the duke’s heir probably should live where his actual dukedom was, it would be more appropriate to marry off a daughter of the earl’s to a son of the duke’s.

  And, as young men of vast wealth and power are wont to do, they immediately called upon the duke’s solicitor and forced that poor man out of his bed to draw up a legally binding contract that would secure the futures of their children. And all this before either man was engaged.

  Thus, both men went on to marry their intended ladies and start on the children they were to produce, safe in the knowledge that at least two of them could look forward to a very agreeable match…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Offaly, Ireland, 1815

  “Remind me again what we’re doing here.” The command, issued in a bored drawl came from Edward Crawdon, Duke of Hartridge.

  The ducal carriage was bouncing along a rather bumpy, if beautiful, road in the Irish countryside, carrying its passengers to stay with Very Dear Friends. A term oft used by his mother and usually, as in this instance, meaning people Edward had either never met or could not remember.

  His mother speared him with a steely glint and slightly raised eyebrow, designed to quell his stubbornness even from infancy.

  “I told you dear. Several times. We are to visit our very dear friends, the Carringtons.”

  “You do know, Mother,” pressed Edward, “that I have never actually met the Carringtons?”

  “You’ve met Ranford, dear.”

  “Have I?”

  “Why, yes,” the dowager answered sweetly. Too sweetly.

  “And, how old was I when I met him, Mother?” He speared her with a steely look of his own.

  “I cannot recall the exact age…”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Oh, about three or four perhaps.”

  Edward smirked as his suspicions were confirmed. There was something going on.

  “It is odd, is it not Mother, that we would be invited to stay with Ranford six years after Father died, and for no real reason?”

  “Of course not,” Lady Catherine answered brusquely. “He and your Father were terribly close, and I have always maintained a correspondence with Lady Ranford. I expressed a wish for a change of scenery and she was kind enough to invite me to stay for some weeks before the Season. Would you have me travel here alone at my age?”

  Edward looked at his mother and raised another eyebrow. His mother was far from in her dotage. At 54, she was neither old nor incapable of travelling without her son. She was fit, healthy and had retained much of the beauty of her youth.

  She had aged some six years ago when his father had passed away suddenly in a riding accident but, being good ton, had recovered remarkably well and was happy to become the dowager at a relatively young age. Now she could sit back, relax, and pressure her only son into marriage and the production of grandchildren. Besides which, she wasn’t alone, never going anywhere without her lady’s maid, Annie.

  Edward knew his mother well enough to know that something was going on. And he’d be damned if he’d walk into the situation, whatever it may be, blind.

  He turned to question the other occupant of the carriage, his cousin Tom. Tom and he had always been close, more brothers than cousins he supposed. The son of a second son, he was very comfortable being a gentleman of means but little in the way of occupation. He had half-heartedly studied the law before settling himself in a small estate outside of London. He lived comfortably and well. His wealth could not be compared to Hartridge’s but there were few men who could boast of that. His father was, by all accounts, a cruel and bitter man whose jealousy of Edward’s own father had caused a lifelong estrangement. Tom had been taken under wing by the dowager and her late husband, saving him from his father’s cruelty and allowing him to develop into a happy and pleasant young man without being poisoned by his father’s moods. He was also very likely to be privy to whatever it was Edward was missing in this scheme.

  “Well, Tom,” he questioned, “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Your grace?” asked Tom, politely.

  “Come now Tom, do not play the innocent with me. I’ve known you far too long for that to wash. What am I doing in an Irish backwater?”

  “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Edward. Your mother wanted to visit with her very dear friends. It is only fitting that her son should come too.” He blinked a few times, which was always a sure sign that he was nervous, but his face remained a cool mask of innocence.

  Biting back a growl of frustration, Edward changed tact.

  “You know, it is terribly irresponsible of me to take myself out of the country when there is work to be done. Our investments and properties will not take care of themselves.”

  “No, they will not,” his mother agreed, “which is why you employ the most efficient and capable stewards for when you cannot be there. You are one man, my dear. It would be quite impossible for you to shoulder all of that responsibility yourself.”

  Too late, Edward realised his mistake. There’d be no stopping Mother now.

  “If only you had a wife to unburden yourself with,” she began. Predictably. “Someone who could help ease your worries, talk through your problems and–”

  “And what Mother?” he interrupted, sounding sharper than he intended but annoyed by the same lecture yet again. “And spend all of my money, gossip with her dim-witted friends, and parade me around Town like a circus act?” he asked, unable to hide the distaste in his voice.

  “Edward,” his mother admonished, a little shocked at the bitterness in her son’s tone, “you cannot believe that I would want anything less than a suitable wife for you.”

  “Our ideas of suitable are vastly different, Mother,” he commented dryly, “you would have me marry a cow if it was from good stock.”

  The bark of laughter from the other side of the carriage brought Edward’s attention to Tom.

  “You,” he snapped, his tone accusing, “should know better than to go along with Mother’s schemes, Tom.”

  “It is no scheme, Edward. It is just a visit.”

  Edward turned away from them both to stare moodily out the window once more. They’d closed ranks and neither would tell him anything.

  Well, maybe it was genuinely just a visit. It would be terribly awkward, and unorthodox to say the least. But if he hadn’t agreed, his Mother would have gone on about it until the Season, with all its distractions, started and he really did not want to have to deal with that.

  The carriage started to turn and Edward noticed they were approaching a pair of heavy wrought iron gates. The entrance, presumably, to the Earl of Ranford’s estate. His steel grey eyes took in his surroundings as the carriage began its slow progress up a meandering gravel path set in sweeping verdant grounds.

  Ireland was really breathtakingly beautiful, he had to admit. Though there were similarities to his own country estates in Surrey, Lancashire, and Wales, there really was an air of mystery and magic amongst these hills and dales.

  Edward was never one for fanciful thoughts. He had great responsibility, which he took seriously. Though his friends and family knew him to have a kind heart and wicked sense of humour, he rarely gave way to thoughts which were illogical or insensible. He shook his head slightly, laughing at himself.

  The carriage rounded a central water fountain and stopped before a rambling red brick house that was the formal seat of the Earl of Ranford.

  The house itself was built on land which had been occupied by an old and important Clan in Irish history and there were traces still of that ancient civilisation dotted around the grounds. There were ruins that could be explored, and his mother took grea
t delight in telling him about the hills of the faery folk and ‘little people’ of Ireland.

  He should really have her looked at.

  Aside from the supernatural nonsense it was a beautiful old house, very well situated with a central rectangle design flanked by extended wings on either side.

  The afternoon sun bounced off the windows giving the place an altogether welcoming feel.

  No sooner had their carriage stopped than the front door opened and a flurry of activity ensued.

  Footmen were brought immediately to their assistance by the butler, who introduced himself as Murphy — a very well turned out man, appearing to be in his sixties and with a pleasant Irish brogue.

  “Good day to ye, your grace, your grace, sir,” he said deferentially, bowing to each of them in turn. “If you will follow me please, his lordship is waiting to receive ye.”

  Edward offered his arm to the dowager and together they walked up the steps and into the hallway of the great house. His mother gasped in approval and Edward could tell she was noticing striking similarities between here and his estate, Banfield, in Surrey.

  The floor was covered in a similar light coloured marble, a central staircase veered out to a surrounding balcony on the first floor and a truly magnificent chandelier took pride of place in the centre of the ceiling, drawing the guest’s eye up.

  Murphy coughed discreetly and indicated that they follow him to a room on the left.

  He heard Murphy announce them and a booming voice telling him to show them in at once. He shared a look with his mother— hers, one of pleasure, his, ever suspicious.

  Tom hung back and appeared disinterested in the proceedings. Edward knew he would already be wishing to acquaint himself with the staff and kitchen. Mostly concentrating on the kitchen.

  They were shown into a beautifully situated receiving room. Decorated in tones of palest yellows and whites it was bright and airy and perfect for a hot summer afternoon. The windows looked out onto a beautiful vista of green leading down towards what looked like a sizeable pond centred by yet another fountain.