A Marriage Made in Scandal

by Elisa Braden

  The horse whinnied. Danced. Hooves pawed and dug at the soil near Genie’s head. One hoof caught a piece of her hair beneath it, and she felt a horrid, tearing pain as she rolled away. She tried to stand, but she only managed to get up on her knees and crawl toward the fence. Her skirts hampered her. Her hands dug and clawed at the pasture’s grass and mud.

  A warm trickle traced from her temple to her jaw. She grabbed hold of the lower rail. Dragged herself to her feet. Turned. Saw the mare rearing. Saw Hannah drop the cane and cling to the horse’s mane. Saw the girl turn a frightened horse just enough to prevent Genie’s head from being crushed.

  “Eugenia!” Hannah cried. “Get away!”

  The girl did not beg for help. She wanted Genie to avoid harm. Genie’s heart was both full and pounding when she found her chance. She watched the mare’s hooves come down once more, then rushed forward to grasp the bridle. Fractious and nickering, the mare’s sides quivered. But she stayed on the ground. She did not bolt or struggle.

  “Come, Hannah,” Genie said gently, turning the horse’s side to the fence. She gestured to the stark-white girl still clutching fistfuls of mane. “I will help you dismount.”

  Hannah shook her head. Her dashing little hat had slumped to one side.

  Genie grinned up at her. “You did it, dearest. You did it. You stayed mounted. You kept this big girl from landing upon me.” She patted the mare’s neck. “Well done for a novice, I daresay.”

  Tears glossed pale eyes. “Y-you were nearly—”

  Genie reached for Hannah and motioned her forward. “Come. Turn her mane loose. It is time to get down.”

  Finally, after a wrenchingly long process of loosening her fists, Hannah let go of the reins and mane. Between Genie and the rails, she was able to climb down from her perch. She trembled so badly, her legs nearly crumpled. Genie automatically wrapped an arm around her waist to brace her. Hannah flinched away. Then, without warning, the girl’s arms enfolded her. A dashing little hat plopped onto the ground. Her cheek settled against Genie’s, cool and shivering.

  “I thought,” Hannah whispered, “I thought I had killed you.”

  Genie squeezed her tightly and smiled. “No. You only kill those who deserve it.”

  Another flinch. Hannah drew back, searching Genie’s face. A tremulous hand brushed at the red, wet trail along Genie’s jaw. “Lady Holstoke was deserving.” A hard glint entered her eyes, reminding Genie of Phineas in his darker moods. “She killed my mother. And Papa.”

  Genie nodded. “That’s right. And when you saw your shot, you took it.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And when that monster held you against your will, you took your shots then, too.”

  A lovely brow crumpled. Lovely, pale eyes closed. “But I could not escape.”

  Genie held her tighter. “You endured. Do you know how much strength that requires?” She sniffed. “Far more than climbing on a horse or defying the gossipy matrons on Rotten Row. Everyone treats you like wet paper. Hmmph. You are stronger than anybody I know.”

  “You have torn your hair, Eugenia.”

  “It will grow back.”

  A long silence amidst the gusts. Then, a tiny whisper. “I won’t.”

  “Yes. You will. If you let yourself.” Genie gave her a squeeze. “Bit by bit, dearest. Bit by bit.”

  Distantly, she heard men shouting. Hannah’s eyes flared. “Oh! We should tell—”

  “Phineas,” Genie said, though there was little sound. Her air had gone.

  Hannah spun and saw what Genie had seen—Phineas striding up the hill, dark as the devil himself. Genie patted Hannah’s waist. “Take the mare to that pleasant fellow with the pistol, won’t you?” She nodded toward the closest of Dunston’s men, who had evidently sprinted across the pasture when the horse had reared. “I shall speak with Phineas.”

  Why Phineas should be out here in the east pasture, too, she could not say. He must have been watching. Ever the protective brother, she supposed. Shakily, Hannah bent to retrieve her riding hat then did as Genie asked.

  Phineas stalked toward her with black fury in his eyes. She braced herself for a lecture about putting Hannah at risk. By the time he reached her, his chest was heaving. Perhaps from exertion. More likely from anger.

  She held up a hand. “Before you start—”

  “Not another word, Eugenia.” His voice was a rough, growling bite. He cinched her upper arm inside an unforgiving grip and promptly dragged her toward the castle.

  “Wait! For pity’s sake, Phineas.” She stumbled after him. “Let go! You must see—”

  “I see more than enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He dragged her halfway down the hill before stopping. He pulled her close. “Reckless woman,” he gritted. “Do you realize what almost happened?”

  “Almosts do not matter. Let go of my arm.”

  “You are a bloody disaster.”

  “Reckless and a disaster. Your flattery quite turns my head, Lord Holstoke.”

  “You never listen.”

  “No, you are the one not listening!” She turned her arm in a wide circle until his grip loosened. “Let. Me. Go.”

  His shoulders rippled as though he were a horse restrained from bolting. But he released her.

  Immediately, she started back up the rise, pausing briefly to shout, “Well, come along. I am not climbing this hill again because I wish to relive the glory.”

  At last, he followed, glowering all the way. When she reached the fence, she pointed out to the adjacent pasture, where one of his herds had obviously been poisoned.

  He slowed as he came up beside her. Looked out across the next valley. His face blanched. Hardened to ice-encrusted stone.

  “He is here, Phineas. I do not know how or why, but he is here.”

  For several breaths, she thought he might not say anything.

  Then, he did. And his words, murmured as though to himself, sliced her heart wide open.

  “I should never have married you.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Inebriation is more often the cause than the consolation for one’s troubles. Perhaps if one relinquishes the bottle for a blessed hour, one would arrive at this most obvious conclusion.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew during a discussion of said nephew’s lamentable losses at the hazard table.

  The corridor’s marble floor tilted at an odd angle. Genie staggered and nearly lost her hold on the bottle. Fortunately, the doors to the drawing room were there. She caught her sore shoulder against them and righted herself.

  “This room. Ah, this room was made for my sister, Mr. Ross. She simply adores yellow silk.” She threw the doors wide and stumbled in. Outside, in the courtyard, rain pattered against the windows. “Whilst I, on the other hand, do not.” She drank again, the room spinning, yellow and blue, yellow and blue.

  “My lady, perhaps you would like to sit—”

  “No.” She shook her head and sank onto cerulean cushions. “Oh. Yes. Perhaps I would.”

  “Shall I fetch you a pot of tea?”

  “No.” She held up the bottle and smiled. “Here is to you, Mr. Ross. A fine valet. A true gentleman.” She drank until the wine warmed her stomach. “Perhaps you could instruct Holstoke. A gentleman should not tell his wife …” A hole opened. She closed her eyes against it. Breathed until she could speak again. “Where did Harriet go?”

  “She is arranging a bath for you, my lady.”

  Genie glanced down at her gown. Ruined. The gold silk was stained with rainwater and the pasture’s muck. A tuft of grass was caught in one of the frog closures. “Some things never come clean, Mr. Ross.”

  The valet knelt beside her. His plain, bald head reflected stormy light from the windows. “Some things do, if you work at them.”

  She laid her cheek on the arm of the sofa. “I forgot I am the Great Burden of Genie. I should not have. He remembered. Or perhaps he’s alwa
ys known.” She closed her eyes. Opened them again. “I do not care for this room. Though it is lovely. Too much yellow.” She pushed herself upright, waiting for the spinning to stop—yellow and blue, yellow and blue. Then, she surged to her feet. Mr. Ross caught her arm, helping her maintain her dignity. Not that it mattered. Dignity had abandoned her years ago.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ross.” She tugged loose and made for the doors. “His lordship may not thank you for touching me, but I shall. You are a gentleman.”

  “You are too kind, my lady.”

  She thought amusement laced his voice, but everything was spinning, and she could not pin it down. Weaving back along the corridor and through a set of glass doors into the courtyard, she turned her face up to the rain. She liked it. Cool drops on her skin.

  “He made himself a paradise,” she said, throwing her arms out and closing her eyes. “Magnificent place. She loved it, you know. Called it ‘palatial.’ How true.”

  “… perhaps a shawl …”

  The rain washed over her. Cooling and wet.

  She circled the fountain and sidestepped a potted plant. Found another set of doors. Another corridor. It was chasing her, the pain. Chasing and chasing. She did not want to be caught. She drank wine and shook her head. Slammed into a wall with her sore shoulder. Winced.

  “… my lady, please. Let me help you …”

  Must keep on, she thought. It chased and chased. Another door. She opened it and found wood-paneled hush. Through the window, she glimpsed the sunken garden stretching out toward the lake. At the center, Neptune fought the gale. She sank onto a table beneath the window. Took another drink.

  “I shall ask Mrs. Green to prepare tea, my lady. A lovely, warm pot of tea.”

  The hush grew when he left. On this side of the castle, she could see the rain more than she heard its tumult. She touched her forehead against the glass, which fogged with her every breath.

  The rain had come while she’d stood on the rise with Holstoke. Fat drops had splattered on her nose and cheeks. She’d been numb for a minute or so after he’d said … what he’d said. Then the pain had come, a crack down her middle. She’d called him vile names and shoved him hard. She’d charged down the hill, ignoring his shouts. He’d sent one of Dunston’s men after her. She’d accused that man of having a whore for a mother.

  Later, she must apologize. She did not even know his mother.

  Now, hours on, she drank again. Sighed. Before the wine, her temple and shoulder had hurt terribly. The mare’s panic had done some damage. But neither pain compared to Holstoke’s cut. That was what chased her.

  She closed her eyes. Held her stomach. Perhaps she should have known. He hadn’t wanted to marry her. Not really.

  Not her.

  Breathing came fast now. She slid off the table, knocking a candelabrum to the floor. The clatter echoed in the hush. She ignored it. Moved to a chair. Set the bottle on the desk. Laid her arms beside the bottle and her head upon her arms.

  Paper rustled as she shifted. She saw squares.

  And words.

  Slowly, slowly, she raised up. Read the words inside the squares.

  A crack widened into a chasm. It filled with Holstoke’s words—sentiments she’d long suspected but hoped weren’t real.

  God, what a blind, besotted fool she was. Hope was a vicious poison.

  On one side of the paper, beneath Maureen’s name, were pleasant and true statements: Attractive. Interest in gardens. Pleasurable company. Widely admired. Excellent mother.

  On the other side, beneath the word “Eugenia,” the ledger weighed decidedly in the opposite direction: Vexing. Irrational. Too bold. Invites scandal. Displays little understanding of botany. Needlessly argumentative. Too familiar with staff. Stubborn. Provokes worst male instincts. Unruly.

  The lists were lengthy, going on in a similar vein for several pages. Eugenia’s, in particular, took two additional sheets of paper on its own. He’d even noted her “preposterous hats.”

  Little wonder he regretted marrying her. Reading this list, she could scarcely abide herself.

  The pain she’d been fleeing found her. Rushed into the chasm and howled its triumph.

  She could not breathe.

  She could not breathe.

  The pressure built and she could not breathe.

  When she finally did, it was gasp. Then a sob.

  The chasm yawned wider. Filled deeper.

  “Eugenia?” Gentle hands settled on her shoulders.

  She could not answer. Only gasp and keen. She covered her mouth with both hands.

  Gentle arms wrapped around her from behind. A cool cheek pressed her own. “Do not cry, Eugenia. Please.”

  Hannah held her and rocked her for long minutes until the shudders slowed and she regained control. Genie did not know when the girl had taken Holstoke’s list from her fingers, but it was gone. She sensed a fine tension just before Hannah drew away, commanding Genie to use her handkerchief.

  The white scrap of cloth blurred before her, but she took it. Blew her nose. Wiped her eyes. Felt empty and sick.

  Hannah took charge, her arm bracing Genie’s waist as she helped her upstairs to her bedchamber.

  Maureen’s bedchamber.

  The world spun in shades of yellow and blue. Yellow and blue. Then, she lay down upon the bed she hadn’t spent a single night in since arriving at Primvale. Distantly, she realized Hannah had helped her disrobe down to her shift, that the girl was now washing Genie’s face with a warm, wet cloth.

  Genie looked up at her lovely sister-in-law, whose cheeks were streaked with glistening trails.

  “I am sorry,” Hannah whispered, those pale eyes glossed and bare. “I am sorry for … saying those things. About Maureen. About you. I never meant them. I never did, Eugenia, I swear it.”

  Genie closed her eyes. Nodded. Opened them again and looked out upon the sea. The waves peaked white with fury.

  “I—I wished to keep things as they were. After … the bad time, Phineas became a home. He is my family. My friend.”

  The cloth stroked her cheek again, gentle and warm.

  “I was wrong to think you might take him from me. That is not what happened at all.”

  When Genie offered no reply, Hannah began plucking her few remaining hairpins and gently stroked Genie’s hair. She went away then returned to brush the curls, taking care not to tug near Genie’s wound.

  “You are my friend now, too, Eugenia. And I am yours.”

  Genie closed her eyes again. The sounds of the storm faded and for a time, she slept. When she awakened she was alone. The skies were darker, the sea rougher. The pain was the same—sharp and grinding and unbearable. She rolled over to escape it, but it chased and chased and chased. She threw off the bedclothes and went to the charming little sofa with its charming tasseled pillow.

  Fury swept over her like the waves. She destroyed the tassels. Tore them off. Ripped the fine silk down the center and threw the unstuffed mess across the room. She threw open the glass doors and walked out onto the terrace, flinching as the doors slammed closed. The stones were slick and cold beneath her bare feet. The rain plastered her shift to her skin in seconds. She tasted salt. Heard the sea roar its rage.

  Gripping the balustrade, she leaned forward and closed her eyes. Out here, on the precipice, the pain chased and chased and chased. Running gained her nothing. It always found her. Filled that chasm to the top.

  She looked down. Saw the fountain. A serpent and a griffin battled for dominance. Rainwater fell from her hair down several stories to the circle. She watched the drops descend, wondering how something so beautiful as love could hurt so badly.

  Behind her, the door clicked open.

  And fury from another source growled, “What the devil are you doing?”

  *~*~*

  For the first time in weeks, his head pounded. He’d rarely gone so long without one of his headaches. But, then, he’d lived a bloody nightmare that day. Watching Eugenia—fierce
but so very small—knocked flat by an uncontrolled horse, then seeing her come within inches of … God, he could not bear it. The very thought of her being harmed, let alone crushed, sent him into a killing rage.

  He would do anything to keep her safe. Anything. Even if it made her unhappy for a time. Eugenia had to remain safe and alive. This was what mattered.

  After their argument, he’d spent hours with his farmers and dairymen. They’d discovered Cicuta virosa roots amongst the parsnips used as supplemental feed for the dairy cows. Someone had poisoned his cattle with bloody cowbane. These were the cows whose milk and cream and cheese fed his entire household. He’d had to assume every bit of food in the larder was tainted, so he’d disposed of the lot. Next, he’d sent Cook and ten footmen to Bridport to restock. He’d set Dunston’s guards the task of questioning everyone who had access to the cattle. Then, he’d ordered seventy percent of his remaining staff to search the castle and grounds for signs of intrusion.

  They’d turned up nothing. Bloody nothing.

  Worst of all, Phineas knew it was a feint. The blackguard wanted him frantic and distracted. It was working. His body hummed with the need to kill.

  Earlier, he’d angered Eugenia when she’d misunderstood something he’d said. By the time he’d realized how his words must have sounded, she’d already informed him—loudly—that he was an “addlepated lobcock” too “bloody dull” to tempt a sheep, much less a woman. She’d further scorned his manners, his matrimonial shortcomings, and his manhood in increasingly vicious terms.

  His thoughtless, murmured statement had been aimed at himself, not his wife. Marrying her had been selfish, the act of a man possessed by the blackest enchantment. In claiming Eugenia as his own, he’d put her in danger, which was intolerable.

  But he also should not have said what he said. He’d hurt her. Unintentionally, perhaps. His Briar had thorns aplenty, but she was also formed of sweet, tender petals and soft, downy leaves. She could be bruised. He had bruised her. Therefore, he must repair the damage.