How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  Benedict was a landowner.

  “…It was ordained for a remedy against sin…”

  He was on familiar terms with the Duke of Wildeforde.

  “Both in prosperity and adversity…”

  He had enough money to warrant a man of business in London.

  “…if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace…”

  Tears pricked her eyes, but that was where they stopped. Weakness was for lesser women, and she would not cry.

  She was not without wealth. She had jewels. It would break her heart to sell them, but she could rent a small house in London or escape to the continent until the gossip died down.

  She closed her eyes, pressing her lips together. Her nails bit into the silk of her gloves.

  Large hands covered hers, warm even through two layers of fabric. They teased at her fingers, loosening her death grip, unlacing them until she no longer held tightly to herself but to him. She looked up. His expression was unexpectedly kind.

  “I take thee, Lady Amelia Elizabeth Crofton, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold…”

  Goodness, were they up to this part already?

  Her heart began to pound. The ringing in her ears reached a crescendo.

  Benedict looked at her intently.

  Was it her turn? What was she supposed to say?

  The priest repeated himself.

  She took a deep breath. “I take thee, Benedict Asterly, to be my wedded husband. To love, cherish, and to obey…”

  A handful of words only—choked out. And inside, beyond the walls that kept her safe, something shattered.

  Chapter 4

  At the pub on your wedding night? Your choices have been interesting lately.” Edwina slid another pitcher of ale toward Benedict with more force than usual. The drink sloshed over the lip, adding to the sticky layer on top of the chipped and marred wood.

  The barmaid’s words had the same edge all his conversations tonight rested on. Even the men he worked with were stiff, their playful teasing forced.

  “Their blood is blue for a reason, Ben. They’re ice cold,” one said.

  His foreman, Oliver, dug an elbow into Benedict’s side. “From what I heard, there was nothing cold about the way they were found. On dis-hab-ill, as the French say.”

  The men around him laughed, the sound lost in the general din of men talking. It seemed his marriage was the most amusing thing to happen in Abingdale for years, but he couldn’t find anything funny in their teasing.

  “You didn’t lose anything that night, did you? And that’s why you’re here instead of there, you know—” The blacksmith made an explicit gesture with his fingers.

  “Ben took Wildeforde’s fiancée; maybe the duke took something in return?”

  The mention of Wildeforde made Benedict’s blood boil even more than the mention of his damned wife. The whole damned debacle was his fault.

  Benedict pushed back from the bar. “Excuse me if I choose to enjoy my own company tonight, boys.”

  He walked away from the group, but not before one last, loaded comment reached him. “That’s what you get for marrying out of your class.”

  The blow hit so hard he almost stumbled. He’d known marrying her highness was going to lay waste to his life at home, but he’d been naïvely hoping the problem would remain confined to his property and not follow him here.

  He zigzagged his way around patrons in the packed bar. It was busier than usual, but there was still a corner booth available at the back of the room.

  Everyone was packed tight, closer to the stage to see tonight’s invited speaker, a short, muscular man whose political fervor made him seem six feet tall. Charles Tucker hadn’t spoken to the men of Abingdale before, but his reputation preceded him. He was an agitator for change, and tonight he would find a receptive audience.

  Benedict had been looking forward to hearing the man talk, but tonight he was too distracted.

  Not a wisp of emotion had shown on his wife’s face during the ceremony. She’d been like a perfect porcelain doll, beautiful but cold and lifeless. Standing next to her, he’d been awfully aware of the contrast they presented. Her, delicate and gently bred. Him, with his common lineage writ clear across his oxlike frame.

  The carriage ride home had been long and tense, filled with Cassandra’s earnest attempts to engage with her new sister-in-law and Lady Amelia’s terse replies. He hadn’t said two words to her. And after showing Amelia to her room, he’d made a poor attempt at comforting his sister before escaping to the firm—Asterly, Barnesworth & Co.—hoping to lose himself in his work.

  Then he’d come to the tavern to lose himself in drink. “Keep them coming,” he said to Edwina, who’d arrived with another ale.

  If he was being honest, it wasn’t anger that had pushed him out of the house—it was terror. History seemed hell-bent on repeating, and he could almost hear the devil cackling away. Benedict took another long gulp and tried to swallow down the nausea that always appeared when his thoughts turned to his mother, a woman who’d been born into the aristocracy but had left it when she’d foolishly fallen in love with a footman.

  A woman who had regretted her decision so deeply that she’d chosen to abandon her own child to try and establish herself among the haute ton in France. Dying alone in Paris had been preferable to living a life in Abingdale with him.

  And now he was set to live his failures all over again.

  An upswell of applause grabbed his attention. The men were standing. Jeremy, the apprentice engine stoker at the firm, climbed onto a table and shouted. “Down with the bloody toffs. The land is ours! Vive la France.”

  The comment was met with a clamor of pints against wood, and the young man beamed. Benedict would need to talk to him. He didn’t necessarily disagree with the sentiment, although he’d like to avoid the need for a guillotine, but there were dangers in expressing them so openly.

  Alastair McTavish slid into the booth opposite him. His grey hair was pulled back into a rough queue, and there was a ring of dirt and sweat along the old man’s hairline.

  “Ye nae standing. Did ye nae appreciate Tucker’s fine words?” the grizzled man said in his thick Scottish brogue.

  “I was distracted.”

  “Perhaps now ye’ve got yerself a fancy wife, the plight of the working man no longer interests you.”

  Benedict tightened his grip around the glass. Of all nights, tonight was not the night to press him. “The plight of my men will always interest me, McTavish.”

  The grooves in Alastair’s face deepened. A decade ago, the man’s frown could make Benedict stand up straighter, square his shoulders, brush the dirt from his breeches. It didn’t have the same effect it once did.

  “You should nae have done it. There was nae gun at yer head.”

  It was the same statement he’d thrown at himself over and over in the past eight hours.

  “I had no choice. What do you think happens to ladies who are ruined? Should I have that on my conscience?”

  Not that his conscience was clear either way. If the past was any indication of the future, he’d condemned her to a life of misery. Riding out a wave of gossip might have been the better choice for her. She might still have found happiness with a man closer to her station.

  “Ye’ve fucked yerself, ye ken that? Ye’ve gone from a respected independent businessman, the top o’ the rung, to a desperate hanger-on that will never be accepted. Not unless ye annul the marriage and get this farce over with.”

  A hot shame crept up Benedict’s neck. His mind had traveled to that same thought every time his insides twisted in a desperate urge to escape. “Annulment is not an option. I may not be a lord, but I am a gentleman. And my catastrophes are not your business, so I suggest you leave.”

  The older man’s face, normally soft and paunchy with the slight yellowed tinge of a man who’s known too much drink, reddened. He sla
mmed the mug he was holding on the table. “Nae. Ye’re a damn fool. But s’pose blood always tells. P’haps ye’re more like yer ma than ye let known.”

  Each word was more fuel in the furnace that had been burning for days. As the heat and fury and pressure had built, there had been no easy release. Now the room around them dropped away, and all Benedict could see was the sneer of a man who could’ve—should’ve—been a bit more damned understanding.

  It was the work of a moment to drag the Scotsman out of the booth and thump him—days of frustration finally finding relief. With one hand, he lifted the man back to his feet, ready to deliver a further blow before his foreman captured him in a viselike grip. Few men matched Benedict’s size. Oliver dwarfed him.

  “Easy now, boss,” Oliver said.

  Alastair slumped back against the booth, a scarred hand to one eye, a look of pure contempt from the other. “You’ll regret this.”

  Benedict looked around. The whole pub had gone silent, everyone staring at them. Charles Tucker, watching from across the room with his arm lazily across Jeremy’s shoulders, had a gleam of speculation in his eye.

  “Go home, McTavish,” Benedict said, though as his blood settled, guilt crept in. McTavish wasn’t the problem, and the man he’d once looked up to had just borne the brunt of Benedict’s true anger.

  “I’ll take him,” one of the boys from the firm said, taking the older man by the arm. “Not to worry, boss.”

  The hum and bustle of the inn began again, and Oliver shoved Benedict roughly into the booth.

  “Cool down, lad. The world’s not coming to an end. Things are not as bad as you think.”

  “How can it not be that bad? She’s the daughter of a bloody earl.”

  Oliver shook his head. “Despite what we heard tonight, they’re not all the devil.”

  Benedict went to interject but Oliver stopped him with a hand. “I’m not saying there aren’t some right bastards among them, just as there is in any group of people. And you’ve more reason to hate them than most, I know. But look at our Johnny-boy. His blood’s as blue as any of them.”

  “John doesn’t count.”

  “And Wildeforde. I know the two of you have had your differences lately, but you can’t deny that he looks after his people.”

  “Wildeforde’s the ass that got me into this mess.”

  “That he did. He has his flaws. I’m just suggesting you take a moment. Give your lady a chance before you decide to write her off.”

  Benedict grunted. He could give his wife a chance, but he wasn’t expecting anything to come from it. Her type were what they were.

  “Have another drink, lad.” The foreman passed him a pint. “There are things that need celebrating.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that you all but secured the contract we needed. The locomotive you designed is going into production. Asterly, Barnesworth & Co. is growing. It’s an achievement. One worth honoring if you refuse to celebrate your wedding.” He clicked his glass on Benedict’s.

  Oliver was right. He should be rejoicing in his success. They’d worked for two years to develop a new and better-performing steam locomotive, and the Americans were ready to sign a deal for three of them.

  But the knowledge didn’t spark any sense of joy. Not when it was overshadowed by the disaster of his marriage.

  Amelia twisted, arms bent behind her back as she tried to undo even one of the buttons trapping her in her gown. It was no use. Ringing for help was pointless. The rope had fallen into her hands as soon as she’d yanked it. Apparently, her options were to venture downstairs or sleep in her gown.

  A thud sounded on the door that separated her from her husband, and she straightened. Her heart skittered and pranced beneath her too-tight stays as she held her breath. With a lump in her throat, she trained her eyes on the brass doorknob, but it didn’t move.

  Thank goodness. Her breath escaped with a loud whoosh.

  She looked around the room again. She’d attended enough house parties to become accustomed to sleeping in strange beds, but she was the daughter of the Earl of Crofton, and she was always given the best room—not one with a lumpy mattress, creaking floorboards, and a threadbare rug.

  She pressed her lips together, catching them between her teeth as she realized this probably was the best room.

  It was plain, outdated, and practically frugal. Other than the bed, there was just a chair covered in last century’s fabric and a dresser that she supposed must double as a writing desk given it had both a cloudy mirror and a dusty writing set.

  The only comfort that she could take was that her things would be arriving soon and then she could leave.

  There was a knock at the door. One tap, an awkward pause, and then two more. Her pulse throbbed in her ears until she smothered it with a deep breath.

  She was Lady Amelia Crofton. She could do this.

  She stood and smoothed her dress as best she could given the wrinkles worn into it from the day. “Come in.”

  The heavy wooden door opened, and Mr. Asterly—Benedict—entered. He had to duck his head to avoid hitting the frame. But as he straightened, his size once again overwhelmed her. She knew he was tall; she’d stood opposite him at the altar, but here in her bedchamber the man was a behemoth.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. Despite his feet planted firmly on the floor, she got the impression that he would prefer to be anywhere else. “I thought to inquire as to whether you had what you needed,” he said.

  What she needed. To reverse time. To wake up. For someone to tell her it had been an elaborate prank. “A hot bath wouldn’t go astray.” She stared pointedly at his damp curls.

  He flushed, his copper cheeks taking on a reddish glow. “Of course, I should have thought. Forgive me. I’ll see to it.” He turned and turned back again, lips pursed.

  “The bath is…uh…it’s in there.” He pointed to the door that separated their bedrooms. “I can go downstairs.”

  As much as she wanted to soak herself in hot, rose-scented water, entering her husband’s bedroom, being surrounding by his things, was more than she was willing to bear at the moment.

  “Never mind. It can wait until morning.”

  “Well then, good night.” He half bowed, an uncomfortable jerking movement, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to interact with her. Which was fair enough. She had no idea what to do with him either.

  “Good night,” she said. “Except…”

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to stumble out the rest of the sentence.

  “I can’t get out of my dress.”

  He blinked. “You can’t get out of your dress.”

  “My lady’s maid is in London.”

  “Your lady’s maid is in London.”

  Good God, had she married a halfwit? Was she destined to a life with a man no better than a parrot? “Do all your conversations consist of so much repetition?”

  He ran a hand through his blond locks. “I’m struggling to understand what Lady Amelia Crofton is doing in Abingdale without a maid.”

  She held her head high but couldn’t stop her fingers from rubbing against the textured lace of her long sleeves. “Reid had a family emergency. She was to follow in a few days with my things.”

  “Why didn’t you hire a companion?”

  Because I tore out of London in the middle of the night…

  She lifted her chin. “A companion was unnecessary. I can take care of myself.”

  He snorted, crossing his own arms; they were like solid logs. “Because that worked out so well.”

  His sarcasm rekindled the frustration that had been ever-present since that night. “I had a coachman.”

  “Who left you alone on the side of the road to freeze to death.”

  “Who left to get help. My goodness.” She clasped her hands primly in front of her in an effort to smother any outward sign of emotion.

  His throat bobbed as though swallowing a retort. He was trying to b
e civil. She could be civil.

  “I can’t see how it signifies now anyway,” she said. “That’s yesterday’s bread, so to speak.”

  They tumbled into awkward silence. What in heaven’s name was she supposed to say to a husband she didn’t know? On her wedding night?

  His face softened a fraction. Not into a smile, nothing that welcoming. Just as if he were made of soft soapstone rather than granite.

  “Come stand by the light.” He gestured toward the dresser. “I’ll get you out of your dress.”

  Her cheeks warmed—never had she been spoken to so intimately—yet they were married now, and she had no desire to sleep in her gown.

  She stood in front of the dresser, her back to him as he reached for the top button.

  The touch of his fingers against the nape of her neck ignited shivers that travelled the length of her spine and set goose bumps running across her skin. He was so close, his very presence sucked the air from her lungs. One button came free, and then another, the coolness of the night air across her neck a stark contrast to the heat from within.

  She looked at his reflection in the dusty mirror. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked on one fabric-covered button after another. The candle threw a wash of golden light over one side of his face, throwing the other into shadow. The line of his jaw was harsh, the skin roughened by short stubble a shade darker than his hair and slightly reddish. His complexion, already tanned, took on a fiery glow. In this light, his eyes looked midnight blue. Everything about him was rough, nothing like the soft, elegant men of London.

  “How many blasted buttons are there?” His voice, low and gruff, reverberated through her. He caught her eye in the mirror. “How attached to this dress are you? I could just…” He made a wrenching motion with his hands.

  She gasped, her heart yammering wildly at the thought of his tearing the dress from her body. “One ruined dress is quite enough for the week, don’t you think?” she managed.

  “Of course, my lady.” He gave a small smile, and a dimple formed in the granite plane of his cheek. At least he found it amusing.