A Midwinter's Scandal - A Novella Duet

by Erin Knightley

  A Midwinter’s Scandal

  A Novella Duet

  Erin Knightley & Heather Snow

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the authors.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A Midwinter's Scandal - A Novella Duet

  Once Jilted, Twice Shy | A Midwinter’s Scandal Novella | Erin Knightley

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. | Once Jilted, Twice Shy | Copyright © 2016 by Erin Knightley | All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. | Loving Lady Dervish | Copyright © 2016 by Heather Snow

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  A note from Heather Snow:

  Once Jilted, Twice Shy

  A Midwinter’s Scandal Novella

  Erin Knightley

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Once Jilted, Twice Shy

  Copyright © 2016 by Erin Knightley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  Chapter One

  Smiling when she didn’t feel like doing so was becoming a particular talent for Lady Juliette Trent.

  She’d called upon it many times in the past eight months, like when friends asked how she was doing, or when she passed a fellow member of the ton and they watched her a little too closely, looking for a sign of any emotional turmoil about which they could gossip . . . or at that very moment, when her cousin scowled down at her with both hands set at her hips, her green eyes alight with mischief.

  “What could possibly be more important than the Frost Fair? Of course you must come. The likes of this have not been seen in a generation, for pity’s sake!”

  Georgiana was only eighteen, a good four years younger than Juliette, but she spoke with the authority of a woman twice her age. She was deuced good at convincing others to do what they might otherwise avoid. It was rather amusing to see Georgie, at all of five feet two inches, pushing around her older and substantially larger brothers, but Juliette had absolutely no intention of being coerced.

  Keeping her customary smile firmly in place, she said, “Yes, I realize. But I have entirely too much to see to this week. Your father’s dinner is to be attended not only by the regular members of the London Botanical Society, but by one of the most respected botanists in the whole world who will be in the country only for a short time. Uncle Gregory wishes for everything to be perfect.”

  Georgie rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “Men who muck about in dirt all day could scarcely have high standards when it comes to linen choice and place settings. And I’m quite certain that you’ve had the entire event planned to the last detail for weeks.

  “Therefore,” she said, settling onto the sofa beside Juliette and pinning her with a determined gaze, “an hour or two on the Thames won’t make a bit of difference. And it will do you good, what with the brisk air and good company.”

  Despite her cousin’s lighthearted teasing, Juliette’s stomach tightened. She looked down at her teacup, which she clasped more firmly than any delicate bone china should ever have to endure, and took a calming breath before shaking her head. “My standards are the only ones that matter, thank you. And though much is prepared, I certainly don’t have every detail in place.”

  It was possible she wasn’t lying. Surely one or two details had managed to escape her careful planning.

  Footsteps in the corridor made both of them glance to the doorway just as Uncle Gregory strolled in.

  “Papa,” Georgie exclaimed, her whole countenance brightening as she popped up to greet her father, “what positively perfect timing. Do say I can borrow Juliette this afternoon for an excursion to the fair.”

  Uncle Gregory blinked, his moss-green gaze sliding between them in confusion. “A fair, you say?”

  He looked as though he’d been awakened from a dream, which probably wasn’t far from the truth. Lord Gregory Pickford had never been like many of his peers, whose disapproving scowls and cold, imposing figures were legendary. He was a thinker and a dreamer. If Juliette were to guess, he’d likely been lost in thought over some tropical species of fern he wanted to add to the new conservatory.

  It was one of the many things she loved about the man who had taken her in five years ago after her parents’ deaths. She could have gone to live with one of her older siblings, all three of whom were already married at the time, but her mother’s kindly older brother had made her feel the most wanted. Plus, she loved helping him with his household, something Georgiana, his only daughter, seemed to have absolutely no interest in.

  Georgie’s brow puckered with consternation. “Don’t say you haven’t heard of it, Papa. It’s not every day the Thames freezes solid.”

  Setting down her teacup, Juliette rose as well. “It’s nothing, Uncle. I’m sure you have much more important things to think of than ice-skating and novelty-shopping on the river. I certainly do,” she added with a pointed look to her cousin. Not that it mattered; the girl was utterly irrepressible.

  Uncle Gregory’s rusty chuckle interrupted her glare. “Ah, a frost fair! I missed the news, I’m sorry to say.” He sent a fond look toward Georgiana. “Your mother and I enjoyed the last one so very much. It was several years before you were born and Nathaniel was still very young, but Elizabeth insisted that we take the two older boys. It was a splendid, splendid day,” he said on a sigh, his soft gaze lost to a different time altogether.

  Juliette and Georgiana exchanged wide-eyed glances. Uncle Gregory rarely reminisced about his wife, who had died when Georgiana was only three. He smiled warmly at them both. “Of course you must go, my dears. And do bring back some roasted chestnuts. They are never so good as when prepared at a fair.” He patted his daughter’s hand, nodded to Juliette, and took his leave.

  As much as Juliette wanted to argue with him, she was simply too astonished to do so. The tenderness and nostalgia in her uncle’s expression was enough to warm even her heart.

  “Well,” Georgie said after a moment, turning a sly grin toward Juliette, “it appears that we
are going.”

  Juliette knew when she’d been beat. Letting out a great sigh, she nodded. “It appears we are. I suppose I should ring for my coat.”

  “More than that,” her cousin replied, clearly quite pleased with herself. “Go up and change into your warmest stockings. I plan to take every advantage of our outing, and I won’t have you bowing out from frostbite.”

  A flutter of anxiety started deep in Juliette’s belly. The longer she was there, the greater the chance she would run into someone who wished to gossip. Or, God forbid, she could run into him.

  She blew out a shaky breath. The chances of that were quite slim. Most of the ton were away at their country houses for the winter. Besides, the only person less inclined than Juliette to squander the day at some silly Frost Fair was most certainly her former betrothed. He couldn’t care less for the diversions of society.

  Squaring her shoulders, she pinned her cousin with her most resolute stare. “One hour. Not a moment longer. And the hour begins when we get in the carriage.”

  Georgie’s grin was much too mischievous for Juliette’s peace of mind. “If you say so, dear cousin. I’ll just finish my tea while you go change.”

  Half an hour later, Juliette was outfitted in her warmest gown, a sturdy wool traveling costume. The thing was substantial enough to survive a trip to the Arctic. She ignored the looks of surprise from the servants she passed. It hadn’t been that long since she’d gone out on an excursion. Excluding church and a handful of trips to the bookstore, she’d gone out . . . two, maybe three months ago?

  All right, so perhaps the surprise wasn’t completely unwarranted.

  Still, neither was her reluctance to leave the house. After the disastrous end of her Season, she’d happily never show her face in London again. Unfortunately for her, her uncle was one of only a handful of peers who preferred the city almost exclusively.

  “Don’t you look splendid,” Georgiana declared, her smile as wide as her lips would allow. Her bonnet was already in place, leaving a few of her light brown curls pushed forward to frame her face, and she pulled on her gloves as she came to her feet. “And just so you know, I’ve decided the hour will begin when we alight from the carriage, and not a moment before. I’m quite firm in my decision, so you might as well agree.”

  Juliette’s customary well-practiced smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Very well. But be advised that I brought my own watch, so don’t even attempt to stretch the minutes.”

  She could do this. With any luck, gossip—much like the Thames—chilled with the winter air, and no one would even think of her humiliation. As an extra precaution, however, she had worn her largest bonnet and brought the longest scarf she could find. These days, anonymity was her friend.

  Perhaps this would be a pleasant excursion after all. So long as no one mentioned the name of Sebastian Holmes anywhere in her vicinity, it was conceivable that all might actually be well.

  ***

  “As I live and breathe, is that you, Holmes?”

  Sebastian paused mid-step and turned, already grinning at the booming voice that could only belong to Captain James Winbrook, an old friend from his days at Eton.

  “It is indeed, Winbrook,” he said, slapping the man on the back in welcome. The gesture was muted by his thick gloves and Winbrook’s heavy wool coat. “At least, it is to you. Damned if people don’t insist on calling me Haverstan now.”

  It wasn’t incorrect, just grating. After all, he’d spent the last three decades loathing the man who bore the title before him.

  Folding his long arms across his chest, Winbrook grimaced. “So the old earl finally stuck his spoon in the wall. I’d say I was sorry, but . . .” He trailed off, giving his shoulders a careless shrug.

  “Precisely,” Sebastian said wryly, glad to be able to speak frankly with an old friend. His father had been a dark cloud over his entire life, and he had felt nothing but relief when the notice of the old earl’s death had arrived on Seb’s doorstep eight months earlier.

  The captain looked around at the icy, crowded pavement and snowy, mud-streaked streets. “It’s a wonder that I stumbled upon you in the city this time of year. I would expect a newly-titled fop like yourself to be languishing in the country, sipping tea from centuries-old bone china.”

  Sebastian’s laughter fogged the frigid air as he shook his head. “No title could ever transform me into a fop, I assure you. I’m in town early in order to do some proper research on the items I will be voting on during my first foray into the House of Lords.”

  Winbrook’s blue eyes widened. “Research? Damned if you’re not taking your responsibilities seriously, old man. I’m impressed.”

  Sebastian chuckled again as a blast of wind stung across his exposed cheeks. “As much as my father declared me a wastrel, I can’t ignore my duty. I never intended to, despite what others seem to think of me.”

  “You were never a wastrel,” the captain said dismissively. “Distant—aloof, even—but only towards those you didn’t know. Once you trust someone, that’s when the true Seb comes out.” He leaned forward, his ginger brows raised conspiratorially. “A bottle of whisky tends to do it as well, as I recall.”

  Sebastian groaned and shook his head. Some things were never forgotten by one’s childhood companions. Sebastian had plenty of stories he could tell about Winbrook’s rather legendary lapses in judgment when it came to his adolescent pursuit of women, but of course Sebastian would never break the code of silence, just as Winbrook never would.

  Another icy blast tugged at Sebastian’s hat, and he put a hand to his brim to keep it in place. It was bloody freezing out here. Winbrook seemed remarkably impervious to the chill, despite the fact his nose was nearly as red as his hair.

  Just as Seb opened his mouth to suggest they find a pub or coffee house to duck into, a woman he vaguely recognized paused, squinted in his direction, then contorted her features into a scowl worthy of the stage. Obviously she recognized the disreputable new earl. She lifted her nose, swished her skirts, and sailed away as though delivering a cut direct in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

  It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. If the beau monde wished to see him as the wretched villain, then so be it. His conscience was clear regarding the scandal last summer.

  “What the devil was that all about?”

  Sebastian turned his attention back to his old friend. “Long story. Now then, back to the topic of whisky. I’d love to hear all about your exploits on the continent, but I suspect my boots are freezing to the pavement as we speak. Care to relocate to my townhouse for a glass or two?”

  The captain grinned and slapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly. “See now? You have turned into a damned fop. Breathe in this bracing air—it’s good for you.”

  Cracking a smile, Sebastian shrugged. “I’m not used to sleeping on the frozen ground like some foot soldier, if that’s what you mean. If that makes me a fop, I’ll gladly own it.”

  Winbrook tilted his head back and laughed. The rich sound filled the street, garnering the attention of a pair of pedestrians as they bustled by. Sebastian shook his head. Even if the captain could contain his boisterousness, his ferociously ginger hair and abnormally tall frame always attracted attention.

  “I have a better idea,” Winbrook said with a voice that rang with both authority and good humor. “If there is one thing I’ve learned during my many years in the military it’s that standing still will only make you colder. Come with me to the riverfront for a pint of whatever they’re offering. If the spirits don’t warm you, the exercise will.” He slapped Sebastian on the back, propelling him forward as though his acquiescence was a foregone conclusion.

  Knowing it would do little good to argue with the man, Sebastian allowed himself to be pushed along with the flow of pedestrian traffic toward the waterfront. “It would appear that all that time in the military has instilled the expectation that others will obey your every decree.”

  “No, that’s
simply my delightful personality. It’s why I chose the military over the church. Well, that and the uniform is downright irresistible to women.” He tossed a wolfish grin over his shoulder before turning his attention back to making a path through the growing pedestrian traffic.

  “Did it occur to you that I might not wish to partake in cheap libations?”

  Winbrook let out a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a rusty chuckle. “What bollocks. Every man needs sustenance, and what better to sustain us than the very nectar of life?”

  “Cheap ale and gut-rot gin are the nectar of life?”

  His friend nodded with mock gravity. “Absolutely. Old Tom burns like the devil on the way down—excellent on a day like this—and if you never have cheap ale, how will you ever properly appreciate good ale?”

  There was no use arguing with Winbrook’s faulty logic. “If you say so, my friend.”

  The wind picked up as they approached the Thames, sending tiny ice crystals whipping at Sebastian’s exposed face. Between the ice and the brilliant sunshine, the air seemed to shimmer all around them. A more fanciful person might call it magical, but to Sebastian, it was simply cold.

  Despite the inhospitable temperature, people were everywhere. Laughter carried on the wind, along with the shouts of vendors as they hawked their wares. Mugs of ale held aloft, oranges juggled, bags of roasted chestnuts rattled—whatever they had, they peddled with single-minded determination.

  Winbrook’s long-legged and purposeful stride kept the pace brisk, which suited Sebastian just fine. He kept his head down, avoiding not only the gazes of the persistent merchants but also of the many pedestrians that had gathered at the waterfront. Make that the ice front. The Thames stretched before them, an unmoving white expanse. It was jarring, seeing the normally turbulent waters so thoroughly tamed by the thick ice.

  They headed down the embankment and eased their way onto the ice. Ahead, a lane of sorts that was lined on either side by merchant stands and tents extended to nearly the halfway point of the river. Off to the right, ice skaters glided along in haphazard laps, while a meat-roasting area had been cordoned off to the left. A giant wooden swing thrilled shrieking children near the ice-skating area, and there was an honest-to-God printing press set up off to the side with a circle of spectators watching a man work the machine with practiced ease.