A Marriage Made in Scandal

by Elisa Braden

  “Maureen and Eugenia are the sun and the moon. Honey and ham. Each is a delight in her own right, but they are not the same.”

  Good God, was he implying …?

  “To use one as a substitute for the other is the lowest—”

  “Enough.” Phineas’s voice was a quiet snap. Fortunately, he’d managed to control it before shouting the word. Did Berne think he did not understand the difference? What sort of depraved blackguard did he take him for? “Let me speak.”

  It took a moment, but Berne nodded.

  “I swear to you that I have dishonored your daughter in no way whatever.” He clamped down upon his anger again, surging and swelling in his chest before he got hold of it. “On the contrary. I admire your family, sir. I seek only to defend it. And her. If we appeared … familiar, it is because of our long acquaintance. Lady Eugenia has taken an interest in my present difficulties. I am attempting to dissuade her from such notions.”

  The fatherly fire gradually diminished. Berne took a long time to answer. When he did, his voice was calmer. “As you should.” He glanced down at his shoes then back up at Phineas. “She is headstrong.”

  Phineas nearly laughed at the understatement. Instead, he nodded and kept his expression neutral.

  “Very well, Holstoke. If you swear upon your honor this is nothing more than a misunderstanding—”

  “It is.”

  “Then I shall say only this.” Berne’s eyes, having resumed their amiable light, nevertheless hardened. “At the first hint of impropriety between you—particularly in a public setting—your wife hunt is over, my boy, for you’ll be marrying Eugenia.” Berne turned and opened the door, waving Phineas forward. “I may not have wanted a footman for a son-in-law, but the Earl of Holstoke?” Berne clapped him firmly on the shoulder as he passed. “You’ll do splendidly.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Impulsivity is scandal’s boon companion, Eugenia. Invite one, and you might as well set your table for the other.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Eugenia Huxley upon witnessing said lady’s reckless offer to a certain pale-eyed earl.

  The following day, somewhere between Bond and Bow Street, Phineas began to feel better. The previous night had been a disaster, true. He’d never been threatened with both hanging and marriage in the same hour before. But after a morning spar at Angelo’s with an old chum from Harrow—who was both a weak swordsman and an excellent Home Secretary—he was beginning to think his circumstances less dire than he’d assumed.

  Thirty or forty percent less, perhaps.

  As his carriage passed a woman milking a cow, he ignored the cacophony surrounding Covent Garden and reflected upon his chances. First, he was an earl. This was not an insignificant fact. Even Bow Street would hesitate to level charges of murder at a peer, whatever the suspicions.

  Second, he intended to assist in the investigation. If, as Drayton reported, the poisons used in the murders were similar to his mother’s, perhaps he could be of use, as he had been previously.

  In the years after his mother’s death, he’d made an exhaustive effort to identify her victims, unearthing her long fascination with poisons. Dunston, Drayton, and the gaming club owner Sebastian Reaver had all helped. Drayton had even been wounded while tracking the apothecary who had mixed the formulations. But none of them had possessed the necessary knowledge of botanical extracts. Phineas had. The only thing he and his mother had shared in common, in fact—apart from a bloodline—was an interest in plants. She’d employed various formulations over time, tailoring them to her needs.

  With his father, for instance, she’d orchestrated a slow, debilitating death marked by a decline in mental faculties. He remembered his father before the “illness” had begun. Simon Brand had been quiet. Thoughtful. Remote but kind. Phineas recalled his father lifting him onto his shoulders to watch a balloon ascension, explaining how heat changed the weight of air. He remembered the day he’d departed for Harrow, how torn his father had looked, as though he’d wanted nothing more than to keep Phineas with him.

  Simon had loved his son. He’d loved Hannah’s mother, whom he’d met on a trip to Bath. He’d loved his daughter. But he had married a viper. And her venom had been his death.

  A woman of exquisite coldness, his mother had targeted his father, a second son, like a serpent with prey. Within three months, Lydia Price had become Lydia Brand. Then, after engineering the deaths of Phineas’s uncle and grandfather, she’d become the Countess of Holstoke. She’d craved influence among the aristocracy, pursued it with naked avarice, assuming that a title equated to acceptance. For a time, it had.

  Eventually, however, the ton had rejected her. Apart from a smattering of susceptible men who worshipped her beauty, nobody desired to be near Lady Holstoke for long. Most sensed her unfeeling nature and sought to escape it, as Phineas had done.

  By all rights, a son should not hate his mother, but apart from birthing him, she’d not been a mother at all. She’d consigned him to the care of nurses and tutors from birth, preferring to host entertainments and cultivate the gardens at Primvale Castle. Even in gardening, she’d had little use for him, often ridiculing his opinions and dismissing his knowledge out of hand.

  As their dislike had been mutual, Phineas had managed to avoid her company—and she his—until six years ago, when he’d come to London to begin his search for a wife. Rather inexplicably, she’d insisted on accompanying him. Later, he’d realized her purpose: She’d devised a scheme selling specialized poisons to families who wished to hasten their inheritances. Phineas had been her excuse for establishing the necessary connections and staying in town.

  It was hardly her first foray into criminality, of course. His mother’s appetite for wealth and power had been bottomless, and she’d spent decades in the effort. Her illicit schemes had ranged from smuggling and thieving rings to brothels and gaming hells. Murder had simply been a means to an end.

  Now, as his coach slowed on its approach to Bow Street, Phineas considered the deaths of Miss Froom and Lady Theodosia. His mother was gone, as were her accomplices, but her methods had been salaciously reported in The Times and other newspapers. Any madman who’d been capable of reading at the time might have decided to mimic her crimes.

  Perhaps after the bodies had been examined by surgeons, he might deduce whether the poisons were, in fact, similar in formulation to Lady Holstoke’s or whether this was all some horrific coincidence.

  The carriage halted outside the Bow Street police office. He waited for a market cart laden with flowers and fruit to rumble past before exiting and crossing to the door. Inside the dingy space, he noted the odd assortment of belligerent drunkards, red-waistcoated patrolmen, shame-faced wretches, sharp-eyed newspapermen, and resigned whores. A constable shoved one slovenly woman. The man laughed as she scurried away, tugging at her bodice and spitting in his general direction.

  Phineas searched for Drayton within the dark and crowded room, but halfway across the rabble, his eye snagged upon an anomaly.

  A small-waisted, proudly postured, distinctly female anomaly.

  He weaved through the crowd, drawing closer.

  Her walking gown was fine, green wool. Her bonnet sported two miniature pears and three gold feathers. The plumes bobbed as she spoke with a square-jawed, dark-haired officer who paused in taking notes to arch his brows and stifle a grin.

  “All night, my lady?”

  “All night,” her sweet, throaty voice insisted. “Every night. There are no nights when he is not with me. Most mornings and afternoons, as well.”

  The officer shook his head and lost control of his grin. “His lordship has formidable vigor, eh?”

  By God, Phineas should have insisted she be locked in her bedchamber. Now, it was too late for them both.

  “Precisely so. Formidable. Yes. So, you see, he would have little time to spare on poisoning anyone, as we are together always. Except when he is at his club. Or attending one of
his tedious garden lectures.” She sniffed. “Mostly, he is with me.”

  Lightning burned through him, firing every fiber. It cracked and split and devoured until everything disappeared—the whores and the rabble, the barred windows and stench of desperation.

  No, there was only this woman and the fate she’d unleashed—Eugenia Huxley would be his wife. No need to calculate likelihoods. This certainty measured one hundred percent.

  The knowledge pounded beneath his skin. Quickened his heart, his breath. It tightened his groin until he could scarcely draw air. Automatically, his legs carried him within inches of her.

  The officer glanced up. Sharp, world-weary eyes flared. He inclined his head. “My lord.”

  Gold plumes swiped Phineas’s chin as she turned. Rich, cat-like eyes widened beneath a pair of pears. “Holstoke!” Her cheeks reddened. “I—I was just explaining.” Her fingers fluttered. “To Mr. Hawthorn, that is. I was telling him—”

  “I heard,” Phineas snapped, clasping her slender arm above the elbow. “We are leaving.”

  Eugenia widened her eyes insistently, bobbing her plumed head in the runner’s direction. “Perhaps we should ensure Mr. Hawthorn has no further questions.”

  The officer’s gaze fell to Phineas’s grip upon her arm, then to the fall of his trousers. The wry grin returned. “Unnecessary, my lady.” Hawthorn arched a brow and met Phineas’s eyes. “My questions have been answered for now.”

  “Oh. Well, then. I shall bid you good day, Mr. Hawthorn.” She nodded crisply as though she’d passed the Bow Street runner in Covent Garden rather than confessing to spending “every night” being ravished by a man of “formidable vigor.”

  “Tell Drayton to come see me at Holstoke House,” Phineas ordered through gritted teeth.

  Hawthorn nodded, tapping his pencil against his notebook.

  Phineas tugged his impetuous, maddening, audacious future bride through the throng and exited onto Bow Street.

  “Holstoke,” she squawked as he hauled her toward his carriage. “I can take a hack.”

  “We shall discuss it in the coach.” He yanked open the door. “Get inside.”

  Sherry eyes blazed. “Don’t be—”

  He leaned down. “Get. Inside.”

  Something of his fury must have conveyed itself at last, for she simply swallowed and climbed inside. He barked an order to his coachman and followed her in.

  For long seconds, he breathed and watched her and silently commanded both his anger and erection to retreat. Neither cooperated. Bloody hell.

  “Staring is rude, Holstoke.” She sniffed. “You should thank me.”

  “Thank you?” he murmured, incredulous.

  “You are welcome.”

  “Damn and blast, woman.”

  “Cursing is also rude.”

  “I warned you not to do this. It is irreversible.”

  Her plumes bobbed as she raised her chin. “Good. My intention was to irreversibly exonerate you. And that is what I have done.”

  “What you have done,” he said softly, “is force my hand.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I rescued your neck from the noose. Further remedies are unnecessary, so long as you do not stupidly contradict me.”

  “I would have rescued my own neck, you little fool.”

  She folded her arms and shot him a disbelieving smirk. “How, pray tell?”

  “By finding the real murderer.”

  She blinked. Her smirk disappeared. “Oh.” She nibbled her lower lip then propped her elbow on her wrist and tapped that plump lip with a finger. The movement drew his eye like a bee to a blossom. “Still, such an investigation might take weeks. Months, even. By then, you would be on trial before the House of Lords and reliant upon Dunston’s dubious assistance. That would be bad. He doesn’t like you. No, my solution is better. Let Hawthorn hunt the killer. By the looks of his attire, he could use the funds.”

  He offered no reply. At the moment, his body was riddled with lightning, and his hands gripped the seat to keep from reaching for her.

  “Furthermore, it might be best for you to leave London. When I return to Nottinghamshire—”

  “You are not going to Nottinghamshire.”

  That mouth—the one causing his blood to run hotter than it should—rounded and pursed. “What are you …?”

  He met her eyes. “I will leave London,” he said. “And you will come with me.”

  Her throat rippled. “No, I—I don’t think that’s necessary. Hawthorn seemed well persuaded—”

  “We will be married within a week.”

  “Married.” She whispered the word. Her chest shuddered and quickened with rapid breaths. Her hands dropped to her lap.

  “Then I shall take you to Primvale, where you will be safe.”

  “Holstoke.”

  “Hannah will be relieved. She prefers Dorsetshire.”

  “I do not want a husband. Furthermore, as potential wives go, I am a dreadful prospect. Dreadful. Only think of the humiliation. The scandal.”

  He leaned forward, struggling not to picture her lying beneath him, those fine lips engaged in a more worthwhile activity than endless arguments. “Perhaps you might have considered such things before you declared yourself my mistress.”

  She shook her head, golden plumes undulating in agitation. “I shan’t agree to it.”

  “A license will take a few days, but if the church has an availability, there should be no delay.”

  “Maureen mentioned you wish to join Lord Gilforth’s little plant club. A notorious wife will surely diminish your chances—”

  He frowned. “The Horticultural Society of London is not a ‘little plant club.’ It is the foremost botanical organization in England. Its purpose is scientific inquiry.”

  “And if you wish to become a member, marrying the Huxley Harlot only further taints—”

  “I warned you never to speak those words again, Eugenia.”

  “Denying reality benefits no one. Besides, I’ve no wish to live in Dorsetshire. Do they even have milliner’s shops there?”

  “Wishes do not matter. Choices do. You have made yours.” He clenched his jaw. “And mine, it would seem.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Her pert response, along with her continued denials, inflamed him further. His body ached and throbbed. He forced himself to look away from her. It helped a bit. He noted the day had gone gray.

  “Listen to me, Holstoke,” she said after a long silence. “You are a man of admirable character.”

  She obviously knew nothing of his thoughts, for they were as far from “admirable” as thoughts could possibly be. He wanted inside—her mouth, her body. As though the certainty of marriage had opened some heretofore undiscovered gate, he was flooded with the near-uncontrollable urge to claim her.

  Eugenia Huxley, of all women. An utterly irrational response to an utterly irrational female.

  “If I believed my statement to Hawthorn would harm me or Kate or the rest of my family to any significant degree, I would not have done it,” she continued, her voice calm and reasoned, her words nonsense. “But you must understand, all conceivable damage was done three years ago. There is nothing left to salvage.”

  “Nevertheless, we will marry.”

  “But … I am a disgrace. You don’t want me, and I don’t want a husband, and—”

  “And you will be my wife by week’s end.” He steeled himself before returning his gaze to her. By God, she was a temptation. Defiant. Rebellious. A curved, cat-eyed provocation. “Accept it.”

  A perplexed frown crinkled her brow. “How am I to accept something so absurd—”

  Between one blink and the next, he moved from his seat to hers. Another blink, and he had Eugenia flattened beneath him, startled and flushed.

  “Accept it,” he repeated.

  Her bonnet slipped down low on her brow. He tugged the thing loose, eyeing her hair. He wanted to see it down. Spread out and shining.

  She blinked u
p at him. “Good heavens, you really are furious with me, aren’t you?”

  Furious? In part, perhaps. Who could say with all the lust swirling about? Percentages were lost amidst the thunderous tumult, crackling hot and confusing.

  He held her waist with one hand, braced himself above her with the other, taking care not to let her feel his hardness. If she mistook his need for anger, so much the better. Perhaps she would be intimidated into acquiescence.

  “Accept it,” he demanded again.

  “You will regret this, Holstoke. There are things you don’t know.”

  He lowered himself until her soft, sweet breasts cushioned his chest and her soft, sweet lips were near enough to kiss. “Accept it.”

  Her breath panted over his chin, her eyes searching his. “Do not blame me when you lament your decision. Remember this moment.”

  “Oh, I shall.”

  “Yes, well. Just recall who allowed chivalrous nonsense to ruin his life and who offered him a way out.” She licked her lips and eyed his mouth. “You are him, in this instance.”

  He did not want out. He wanted in. “Say it, Eugenia.”

  She sighed, her eyes wistful. “At least my family will no longer bear the burden.”

  “Say it.”

  “Very well, Holstoke. I shall marry you.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “A hat, however ostentatious, can only disguise the deficiencies of its perch so long, Meredith.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne in a moment of vexation at Lady Eugenia Huxley’s wayward behavior.

  Genie had been certain he meant to kiss her. Those pale eyes had flared dark; his breath had been upon her lips; his chest had pressed her flat against the seat.

  By all rights, he should have kissed her.

  But then the coach had jolted around a corner, he’d groaned as though pained, and whatever odd emotion had caused Holstoke to behave so unpredictably either dissipated or was brought under fierce control. He’d slowly pushed himself away, pulled her upright, and calmly retrieved her hat from the carriage floor.