Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “I doubt that,” she replied. “Whatever are you doing here, Iefan? I didn’t think soirees were your cup of tea.”

  He grimaced, his full lips pressing together. “They are not. The whist game in the smoking salon, however, was.”

  “Ah.” She folded Mairin’s letter and slid it back into her pocket. “What caused Westgate to chase you in that way? Did he catch you cheating?”

  “Me?” Iefan said. He frowned. “I do not cheat.” His voice rang like struck iron.

  Mairin put her hands together in her lap. “I apologize for the inference.” She might have felt guilty about thinking Iefan capable of such a dishonorable practice, had her heart not been too full of troubles already.

  How long would he linger here? When would he leave her alone? She wanted to think, which she could not do while he stood there.

  Iefan studied her, a tiny crease between his brows. “Have you been crying?”

  Mairin dropped her gaze to her hands, her heart giving a hard, little beat. “I had forgotten that about you,” she murmured.

  “Forgotten what?”

  “Your directness.”

  “If you were being direct, you would call it rudeness.”

  She looked up at him, startled. His eyes were dancing once more.

  “What are you doing here, anyway, Iefan? You never come to society things. Did you really attend just to play a game of whist?”

  “A rich game of whist, yes. You are quite right. I would rather be anywhere than in this thick concentration of upper class hypocrisy. A friend of mine was invited to play in the game and he wanted a reliable partner, so I agreed to help him.”

  That Iefan had friends at all was a surprise to Mairin. That those friends were not family was intriguing.

  Will and Jack and Peter, and even her older brothers, Cian and Neil, clung together. They were members of the same clubs. They kept each other company at events they attended together. They drank together. They got into mischief together. Even Ben, Iefan’s older brother, often kept the company of the family, bringing Dane with him.

  Iefan, though, was different. He always went his own way. He rarely came to the family gatherings in Cornwall each September, either—while everyone else in the family attended those if they possibly could.

  The mischief Iefan got up to was darker and more serious than anything his cousins had tried…or so Jack and Will and the others hinted.

  What Iefan did with his time was a mystery to just about everyone. Had Mairin just glimpsed the answer? Gambling seemed to fit with the rumors she had heard about him over the years.

  She considered Iefan once more, assessing him. “If you did not cheat, then why was Westgate so upset with you?”

  “Because he’s a fool and cannot play a descent hand of whist even when money rides upon the outcome.” Iefan shrugged and pointed to the bench. “May I sit beside you? It would be best to linger here for a while until Westgate gives up the chase. Then I can escape this house and find a better card game elsewhere.”

  Mairin cleared her throat. She wanted to refuse his request. She wanted to be alone. Yet it was a polite request and a reasonable one under the circumstances. She shifted on the bench and tucked her skirts more closely around her, to give him room.

  Iefan nodded his thanks and sat, thrusting out a long leg and resting his curled hand on the other knee.

  He wore perfectly acceptable evening clothes, including a fashionable tie instead of a cravat. Put amongst a room full of lords, Iefan would be indistinguishable, except for his height, which he had taken from his father, Rhys, and his wild, thick hair that never seemed to behave itself.

  He had his father’s high cheekbones and thin cheeks, although his chin was square and his nose straight. His mouth was usually held in a cynical curl at the corner. In fact, he was making that same sour smile now as he looked at her.

  “I don’t think I have seen you for several years,” he said. “Should you not have been married years ago?”

  She flinched. “If this is the way you engage in conversation with ladies, your continuing bachelorhood is understandable.”

  He smiled fully, showing even, white teeth. “I do not generally trouble myself with conversations with ladies.”

  “So I have heard.”

  His smile grew. “I did not fail to notice how you shifted the subject away from my original observation, either.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?” Oh, how she wished he would leave! Now she remembered why she didn’t like him. Whenever she had been in his company, growing up, she had been left with this same uncomfortable churning in her chest and her heart.

  “You were crying, when I arrived,” Iefan replied.

  “If you were a gentleman, you would have let me shift the subject,” she said, her jaw stiff. Of course, Iefan would pursue it!

  “Yes, if I was a gentleman, I would have. You and I both know my heritage.” There was no resentment in his voice.

  “You’re the son of royalty,” Mairin pointed out.

  “A disowned princess,” he amended. “Sometimes, my mother is more common than my father.” Despite the terrible words, he was smiling with a fondness which made Mairin catch her breath. She had not thought him capable of such warmth. Then he cocked his head, considering her once more. “Would it surprise you if I told you I am rather good at card-playing?”

  “Not at all,” she assured him.

  He nodded. “There is a reason for that.”

  “Ben spoke of your card-playing once. He said you remember every card played.”

  Iefan dismissed the notion with a slight shake of his head. “A parlor trick which helps. It is not why the Alex Ramseys of the world seek me as a partner and pay me half their winnings for the privilege—”

  “They do? Half the winnings?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is not what assures the outcome, though. It is understanding men and how their minds work that is the true skill. Knowing their greed and hope will outweigh their good sense gives me the advantage even before the cards are shuffled.”

  “That is terribly pessimistic.”

  “Honest people don’t gamble.”

  “Then you did cheat.”

  His lips parted. Then he laughed. It was not a polite chuckle, either. It pulled from his belly and seemed to surprise him, too.

  He shifted on the bench, so he could face her. “I don’t cheat,” he said. This time, he spoke without anger. “There is no fun in cheating, while there is an intense pleasure in properly beating a man who thinks he is superior.”

  Mairin caught her breath. “Does the ton really treat you that badly?”

  Iefan shook his head, with an amused expression. “I would have thought, after so many seasons being paraded in the marriage market, you would have acquired more wisdom by now.”

  Mairin thought of the crumpled letter in her pocket and the hurt it had delivered. “I have gained more than you know.”

  “Oh? Is that why you sit alone in the conservatory? Licking your wounds, Mairin?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes widened. Then they narrowed thoughtfully. “I see.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “Then you are losing hope that you will find the husband you seek outside the family?”

  Her middle jumped, making her heart work. “You know about that?”

  Iefan sat back. “I do talk to the family every now and again. Ben told me about the gathering when you and Bridget turned up your noses at every man in the family.”

  Mairin sighed. “It was such a long time ago. It wasn’t meant to insult anyone.”

  “I wasn’t insulted,” Iefan said. “I even know why you said it.”

  “You do?” Mairin couldn’t help voicing her surprise and doubt, for even she was not sure why she and her twin had settled on such an ambition. Not anymore. Once, though, it had seemed clear, simple and straight-forward.

  Iefan shrugged in response to her skepticism. “The family is closed-in. Their sam
eness chokes you. Marrying anyone else would release you from the familiar.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, stunned. It was as if Iefan had reached into her mind and plucked her feelings from the buried morass of the past. Now she remembered why she had been so determined to marry well outside the family.

  “That is why you sit here, sunk into your misery,” Iefan added. “I estimate this is your…sixth season?”

  Mairin swallowed. He had named the number precisely.

  “Five previous seasons and still unwed,” he murmured. “Now, a sixth lies before you and you don’t even have a dance card on your wrist.”

  “It is in my pocket,” she said, stung.

  “And how many names are on it?” Despite the awful question, his tone was gentle.

  “One,” she admitted and looked at her silk gloves. Her cheeks burned. “Bridget and Will are married. Did you know?” It was easier to speak the words if she did not look at him.

  “I did. I also know she was with child. It should have been born by now.”

  “Last August,” she admitted. “A girl.”

  “Bridget marrying a man in the family…I wonder, do you feel betrayed, Mairin?”

  Mairin closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, for it was exactly what she felt. Until Iefan had spoken the words, she did not know it. Now the truth throbbed in her chest. It was why she carried the letter with her. It was why she read it often and experienced yet again the hot rush of hard feeling which rose in reaction to Bridget’s happy news.

  Her eyes ached and prickled. If she cried in front of Iefan of all people, it would be the utter end. She swallowed and blinked and breathed, forcing the tears back.

  “Why do you continue with this charade?” Iefan asked, his voice as soft as hers. “Why do you not give up and go live in the country and enjoy the bucolic peace and quiet, with an untroubled mind?”

  The raw wound he had just prodded made her speak with the same bluntness he had delivered upon her. “I would wither and die, if I did. I would suffocate!”

  “Ah!” He breathed the word, with a note of surprise and satisfaction. “Do you believe marrying into another man’s family would provide freedom and adventure?”

  Horror jerked her chin up. She stared at Iefan, the dawning realization making her shrink back on the bench. “I…had not thought of it that way,” she admitted, her throat tight.

  Iefan’s expression was one of commiseration. He got to his feet. “It seems you’re in quite a pickle, Lady Mairin,” he told her. “Damned if you don’t marry and damned if you do.”

  Mairin looked up at him, her heart heavy. “Thank you for the clarification.”

  His smile grew warmer. The dry curl at the corner of his mouth smoothed out. “Cheer up,” he told her. “You may yet have your adventure.”

  “Is that what you do? Have adventures?”

  “I suppose…yes,” he admitted.

  “Ladies don’t have adventures,” she pointed out. “Not if they wish to remain ladies.”

  “Oh, there are ways to have adventures that don’t involve spoiling your reputation,” he assured her.

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “You cling too hard to society’s rules, Mairin,” Iefan replied. “It is why you are doomed.”

  Hurt tightened her chest. “Your conversations impart the same sensations as always.”

  “A nicely two-faced insult typical of the ton,” he said, although he sounded amused, not angry. “You don’t like talking to me because you find honesty uncomfortable.”

  “Truth unleavened with empathy has that effect upon everyone,” she snapped. “Good evening, Mr. Davies.”

  “Lady Mairin.” He bowed and turned away, toward the path back to the conservatory door, although not before she saw his smile, rich with enjoyment.

  He liked making her feel this way. Damn him.

  Mairin watched his back slip between palm fronds and disappear. With some luck she would go another handful of years without seeing him. Iefan Davies ruffled her far too much to speak to him more frequently than that.

  Chapter Two

  Iefan knew that if he had the sense of a mosquito, he would leave the ball now and avoid running into Westgate once more. The man was a buffoon, yet if he accused Iefan of cheating in a loud enough voice, others would take notice. By tomorrow, Westgate would have cooled down enough to admit he had been properly beaten.

  Instead of stepping out onto Park Lane to find a cab, Iefan lingered by the door of the large dining room. Supper was being served as a buffet, laid upon the long dinner table, while guests moved about the table and selected items for the footmen to put upon their plate.

  He wasn’t hungry, so why was he here, examining each guest as they passed through the door in twos and threes? Women fanned themselves, the men chatted, and everyone made for the punch bowl and took a glassful of the overly sweet cocktail, before turning to choose their meal.

  Iefan studied the steady stream of society’s most influential members in their evening finery, his mood souring. Did anyone truly understand the depth of illusion which covered their true natures?

  Did a place exist, anywhere, where men were completely themselves? Was there an honest world out there somewhere?

  London was certainly not that place.

  Iefan’s gaze fell upon Sir John Holt, standing by the punch bowl. Everyone believed John Holt to be the epitome of the common man—knighted by Queen Victoria for his work in the House of Commons on behalf of the poor of England, a family man with five children, quoted by the Times whenever they needed the common man’s opinion.

  Holt had a string of mistresses he kept in several houses about London, and at least three bastard children. Two years ago, he told his wife the Queen wanted him to travel to India and report back to her on the treatment of orphans. He had instead taken his favorite mistress to Jamaica. He had returned a year later.

  Then there was the Duke of Salcombe, who spent every Thursday afternoon and evening in an opium den in Bethnal Green, and drank his first glass of brandy before getting out of bed each morning.

  The pity of it was that gullible innocents like Mairin believed without question that London society was the sparkling jewel of behavior and morals so idealized by the Queen.

  And yet…and yet, she had been truthful about her own dire predicament. Six seasons and not a proposal in sight. How could the girl be ignorant of the true nature of the people who judged her and yet be frank about her own failings?

  It was an intriguing combination. Was that why he stood here, watching the dancers go by?

  He remembered how startled he’d been when she skewered him with his own logic and concluded he must be cheating. A sharp mind hid behind the soft brown eyes and underneath the rich, dark brown hair. Her sharp chin and firm jaw added to the impression of a determined woman.

  Was that why she had not attracted the attention of a suitable husband? Men seemed to prefer soft, delicate women who never contradicted them or, heavens above, challenged their superiority. God knows why.

  Mairin was not that sort of woman. Iefan could well see someone like Westgate squirming uncomfortably once he ascertained Mairin was not silly and just might be more intelligent than he. Was that why Westgate had broken off his association with her, a few years ago?

  Iefan caught speculative glances being sent his way. The observers leaned closer to their companions and murmured.

  He had been recognized. His heart sank. Next, someone would approach him and engage him in a banal conversation about the weather or the races, or Almack’s latest dance schedule, all because his mother was cousin to the Queen and a princess in her own right…

  He should leave now.

  Iefan pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against with one shoulder. He turned toward the large front doors and paused, for Louis, Duke of Gascony, and Westgate’s whist partner, was heading directly for him, a determined look on his handsome face.

  MAIRIN KNEW SHE COULD
not linger in the conservatory all evening. Besides, the music had stopped and she could hear the clatter of plates. The smell of piping hot, savory soup was stronger than before. Supper was being served.

  Her stomach gave a small pang. It might be wise to eat even a little. Then she would be that much closer to being able to leave without insulting her hosts.

  Reluctantly, she moved out of the conservatory and trailed along the passageway to the grand front hall. The dining room, the ball room and the formal drawing room all lay off the front hall. The smoking room, too.

  Many of the guests gathered in the front hall, waiting to enter the dining room, for there were already too many people inside, jostling for room. There were more people sitting upon the wide staircase rising to the first floor, each of them with a bowl of soup sitting upon a snowy napkin, resting on their hands or knees or, in the case of the women, balanced upon their laps.

  After six seasons, Mairin knew almost everyone by sight, if not by name. Strangers were rare and always caused a flurry of interest. If the stranger was a man, then the maidens and their mothers would preen around him, until his worth as a potential husband was established. If he was worthy marriage material, the courting plumage was brought out in force. If it was discovered he had poor prospects, or was already married, then politeness was all the stranger could expect.

  If the stranger was a woman, then she would be fussed over and complimented by the other women, while they examined every aspect of her appearance and her family connections, to determine the morals and goodness of the woman. Mairin had seen the examinations and resultant gossip far too many times, usually to the detriment of the woman in question. Ladies seemed to be far harsher in their assessment of other women.

  The man standing in front of Iefan, over by the door to the dining room, was not quite a stranger to Mairin. He had been in Westgate’s company in the conservatory. He had apologized for their interruption, with a French accent.

  His face as he spoke to Iefan now was grave. Mairin threaded her way through the guests, moving toward them. If Iefan was in trouble over the card game, she could at least vouch for his character, even though she wasn’t entirely sure of his character in the first place.