The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5)

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Warned me?” Corinne repeated. “That Freddie would seduce her?”

  “She probably seduced him,” the duke said with a sniff, reopening his paper. “Her Grace is right about the French. Can’t be trusted. Sack her.”

  “Delora,” the duchess said, “go tell Sybil to pack her things—”

  “No, wait,” Corinne protested. “I like Sybil, and we should hear her side of the story.” The maid was the child of impoverished émigrés. Corinne had met Sybil when the girl had been working as a menial in a dress salon. In a burst of sympathy over the young woman’s plight—because after all, if Corinne, a duke’s daughter, had been French, such could have been her fate, and she would not have enjoyed being a dressmaker’s assistant—she’d offered the girl a position.

  In truth, Sybil wasn’t the best maid. She was haughtier than Corinne’s grandmother, the dowager duchess, and often helped herself to creams, potions, and clothes as if she didn’t think Corinne would miss them. Furthermore, a good maid would not have been taking liberties with her mistress’s betrothed, but this was not the direction Corinne wanted the conversation to take. Sybil was welcome to Freddie—once Corinne cried off.

  “We must hold Freddie accountable,” Corinne informed her parents. “I do not want a husband who cavorts”—oh, she adored that word—“when my back is turned. Especially in my bed. I will not sleep there this night. I can’t.” She tried to sound weak, defenseless. “My sensibilities—”

  “Oh, posh,” her mother interjected. “If you were Belinda,” she said, referring to Corinne’s older, married sister, “you would be carrying on, swooning and in tears, but you are made of sterner stuff, Corinne. So much like your father. We shall have the sheets changed and you can sleep there very well—”

  “I don’t want my sheets changed. I want my betrothed changed,” Corinne said, dropping all pretense at weakness. “I don’t like him, I don’t like him, I don’t like him.”

  “So you have told us several times,” her father said. He’d reburied his head in his paper, and Corinne knew she must take action.

  She crossed to him and slammed her hand upon the paper. “Then why won’t you listen to me, Papa? What have I done that is so terrible that you would wish me married to the most annoying man in England? He slurps his soup. He talks over everyone. He believes himself the most handsome, the most clever, the wittiest—” She groaned her dislike. “He has no appreciation for anyone but himself.”

  The duke had not liked having his paper slapped. A militant gleam came to his eye, a promise of a reckoning. He put the paper aside and stood.

  Perhaps Corinne had gone too far—no, she hadn’t. She was desperate.

  She stood her ground. “The sight of Freddie’s naked bottom has not endeared him to me. If anything, the sight has made me realize I don’t want to see the other side of him naked.”

  “Then you will have to consummate your marriage in the dark,” the duke informed her.

  “Please, Papa.” She softened her voice, begging him. “Let me cry off—”

  “A moment,” her mother said, a warning. “Listening ears,” she reminded them. She looked to her maid. “Delora, please go downstairs and inform the butler that we will join the company momentarily.”

  “I don’t want to join them at all,” Corinne declared. “I want to leave, now, this minute.”

  The maid practically ran from the room, both to carry out Her Grace’s wishes, but also because Delora valued her position in the household. Her wide eyes said she’d heard more than enough and was truly shocked.

  As the door opened and closed, Corinne caught a glimpse of Freddie hovering in the hallway. Her parents noticed him as well.

  “He is such a dunderhead,” Corinne murmured.

  “And you have no one to blame for this state of affairs but yourself,” her father answered. “I gave you your lead to choose a husband who was suitable. You did not. You had hundreds of suitors, and not one met your exacting standards.”

  “I’m a duke’s daughter. Is it wrong to expect the best?”

  Her father leaned forward so he could look her in the eye. “The best? How many offers have you had, Corinne? How much interest? And yet you have given every one of those men the cold shoulder. There had to have been at least one good man in the lot.”

  “Is it wrong to want to meet a man who has substance?” she asked, guilt edging her words.

  “Freddie has substance. His father’s money accounts are full of substance,” her father answered.

  “I’m not talking about money—although I know you believe I should,” she added quickly to stave off another old argument between them. “Papa, I look at your generation and see men who are leaders and scholars. The men of my age have more hair than wit. They spend more time primping in front of their mirrors than I do. Their idea of substance is writing terrible poetry about the lobe of a woman’s ear or placing outlandish wagers on silliness like seeing whose rig can reach Newmarket first.”

  “Sherwin doesn’t write poetry,” her mother chimed in.

  “We should be thankful for that small favor,” Corinne said.

  “I attempted to find a husband of my generation for you,” her father pointed out, “and you refused them.”

  “They were old.”

  “I’m old,” the duke said, his exasperation clear. “But do you understand, my daughter, that at one time all the men my age whom you admire were silly young men like Sherwin?”

  “I am not attempting to be difficult,” Corinne pleaded.

  “Well, you are very good at it,” her mother announced tartly.

  “I just want someone whom I can respect, who is young and handsome, and listens to what I have to say and wants to be with me not because I’m a duke’s daughter but because he admires me, the person that is me. One who relishes my opinions and my passion and my silliness—”

  “And your obstinacy,” her father tagged on.

  Corinne ignored him. The man she wanted was there. She knew it. She believed it. But she hadn’t found him. “Life has to mean more than endless parties because you are bored with your marriage,” she whispered, knowing she was describing her parents’ marriage, and those of her brothers and sisters. “There must be more to life than what we have now.”

  “There isn’t,” her father said. “Life is about obligations. I’ve taught you that since you were knee high.”

  “And I’ve listened, Your Grace,” Corinne answered. “I have helped with the parish poor, served charities. I’ve tried to be good.”

  “It’s not about the poor.” He crumpled his paper and tossed it aside. “The poor are the poor. They will always be there—poor. We are not poor. We marry for advantage to keep from being poor. Your obligation to this family, the name Banfield, is to marry the man I’ve chosen for you. Sherwin is remarkably well-heeled.”

  “I don’t want to marry Freddie.” Corinne sensed where this was going, but she would not budge.

  Her father wouldn’t either. “Our bloodline goes back to before the Conqueror to Rolfe the Great and we shall carry forward as stewards of this sacred trust delivered to us by our ancestors. I’m done with coddling you, Corinne. Sherwin may be an oaf, you might not like the look of his naked buttocks—and I’m not certain I blame you—but the earldom of Bossley is one of the richest in England. His father is not only wealthy but clever. And he is certainly a powerful ally.”

  “Because money is everything.” Corinne hated this discussion.

  “Yes,” her father said, punching the air with one finger for emphasis. “It’s a new world we have now, my daughter, and Lord Bossley is a man of our times. He lets nothing stand in the way of what he wants. And I want that man’s power and influence for my own purpose. I want his wealth for my descendants.”

  “Which will include his son’s bastards,” Corinne couldn’t keep from saying. �
��Because if Freddie pokes all the maids, his descendants shall populate the county.”

  “Corinne,” her mother chastised, but her father didn’t bat an eye.

  “You are naive about the ways of men. We are what we are. Perhaps you are what they call you: the Ice Maiden.”

  Corinne hated the nickname—especially since she feared it was true. She’d yet to meet that man who made her wish to toss aside her God-given sense. She’d never once felt giddy or silly or flush or any of the other things women claimed men did to them. She liked strong, practical men.

  “I believe that the right man shall be everything I desire,” Corinne said, silently praying it was true. “And I believe he will find in me the same. We shall mean those vows we make.”

  “You are betrothed to the right man for my purposes,” her father said. “I don’t care if you don’t like Sherwin. I’m not overly fond of him myself. Yes, I believe he has disgraced himself with your maid. A gentleman is always discreet. However, the die has been cast, Corinne. My duchess is right. It is too late to cry off. You shall marry Sherwin in London four weeks hence and you shall go downstairs, greet his relations and friends, and be everything I expect of you.”

  His words settled in her stomach like stones. She was trapped. If only she could run away . . .

  She bowed her head, no longer able to meet his eye. “I won’t like him. I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to like him,” her mother commiserated. “Your sister doesn’t like her husband, but she has a very generous lover in Lord Hammond.”

  Corinne felt herself flinch. “I don’t want a lover. I want a life that makes sense.”

  “This life does make sense,” her father said, “for those in our class. It is what we do.”

  He didn’t wait for her response but turned to the door. “Duchess?” He offered his arm.

  Her mother tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, giving herself one last glance in the looking glass. Both of them appeared regal and certain of their place in the world.

  Corinne wished she could be like them . . . and she didn’t understand why she wasn’t. Her three brothers and her sister never questioned “what we do.”

  The duke opened the door. Freddie lingered on the other side of the hall. He’d put his time waiting for them to good use. His evening wear was in impeccable order, the brown waves of his hair once again in place, his expression composed. Welcoming even . . . although there was a hint of worry about his eyes.

  He was considered the catch of the Season. Even her own cousin had been calf-eyed in love with him. And Corinne had to wonder why she was able to so clearly see his faults, while everyone else appeared blind to them.

  “I’m here to escort you downstairs, Your Grace,” Freddie said.

  “Very well,” her father answered, accepting his due. He started for the stairs, but then stopped. “Sherwin?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “You will never again upset my daughter in that manner.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I do not understand to what manner you refer.”

  A glint of anger appeared in her father’s eye. His gaze met Corinne’s.

  Her mother stood quietly, studying the crown molding.

  Let me cry off, Corinne silently begged her father. Please.

  His answer was to look away. “Don’t be a ‘dunderhead,’ Sherwin,” he said and started down the stairs, his wife on his arm.

  Freddie had won—again.

  Corinne’s chest tightened with anger and disappointment.

  The dunderhead didn’t even bother to hide a smirk.

  “Lady Corinne?” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we join the guests gathered to meet my soon-to-be bride?”

  She couldn’t cry off, but she didn’t have to be obedient.

  Corinne stomped on the toe of his thin leather evening shoes with all the might she could muster.

  Freddie yelped and jumped back, his lower lip jutting into a pout, his brows lowering in anger.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she informed him and turned to sail down the stairs, head high—

  Her arm was rudely yanked back. She stumbled, almost fell. Freddie held fast and pushed her against the wall. The suddenness of his attack caught her off guard.

  He leaned his body against hers. He was taller, stronger, heavier. “I don’t mind a show of spirit,” he said, his breath hot against her cheek. “In fact, I like it.” He released her before she could gather her wits to retaliate.

  Corinne had to use the wall for balance. Her first reaction was to double her fists and give him a roundhouse punch, much like she’d witnessed her brothers throwing at each other when they’d been playing rough, but she caught herself in time.

  It would not be good for the company below stairs to catch her brawling with Freddie. Such an act would fuel gossip for years.

  No, she had to be wiser, think ahead of him.

  He walked to the top of the stairs. “Lady Corinne?” he said, offering a gentlemanly sweep of his hand to indicate he waited for her to descend first.

  Corinne wanted to wipe the grin off his face, and she would. When he reached for her arm as she passed him, she jerked it away.

  But he caught up with her downstairs and took her elbow right before she entered the reception room, where thirty of his friends, relatives, and neighbors waited to make her acquaintance.

  “Now you’ve become interesting,” he murmured, lifting her gloved hand to his lips and pulling her into the room to the sound of applause and good wishes.

  Corinne had no choice but to don a smile and follow his lead—for now.

  Chapter Two

  Dinner was an endless affair.

  In the reception room, during introductions, Freddie plastered himself to Corinne’s side, taking her gloved hand whenever he deemed it acceptable, daring her to pull away, to make a scene, to risk scandal.

  The company consisted of Lord and Lady Bossley’s relatives and neighbors. It was the sort of dinner party that had to be done to introduce a new couple, although few of these guests would be invited to the wedding. That honor would go to important people. London people. And Corinne could see why. This was a hodgepodge group, and they behaved as if they barely knew each other.

  Bossley’s side—the Sherwins—was light on family. The only one in attendance from his people was an Aunt Minerva, who had a distressing amount of hair on her ancient chin and who had promptly fallen asleep after meeting Corinne.

  Lady Bossley’s side was represented by the young and charming couple Lord and Lady Landsdowne, and her sister, the gregarious Dame Janet, and her husband, a Sir Somebody or Other—Corinne didn’t catch his name—who was such an old roué that he wore a bagwig and light blue silk evening clothes, and sported a patch of a prancing horse on his cheek. It had been ages since Corinne had seen someone in powder and patch, and she noted a faint air of camphor about his person.

  Freddie had inherited his looks from his father. Lord Bossley was handsome in a rugged way. He’d obviously spent a great deal of his life in the sun and had the squint lines around his eyes to prove it. He was of medium height with generous, albeit distinguished, touches of silver in his thick brown hair to mark his sixty some years of age.

  To meet him and his son, one would assume they were the most pleasant of people. Smiles always lurked on their faces, but Corinne knew that pleasantness was a mask Freddie wore and suspected it was the same with the father. A man didn’t grow as powerful as Lord Bossley without a measure of ruthlessness.

  She’d said as much to her parents. They had argued that her love of reading made her fanciful and she should turn to a higher quality of literature instead of novels pertaining to romance and adventure. Corinne had disagreed. She believed there was a great deal of truth to be found in fiction, and certainly few characters were as mysterious as she fo
und Lord Bossley. She’d barely been able to discover anything about him.

  Apparently, after finishing his university studies, he’d set out to tour the world, ending up on the island colony of Barbados, where he’d lived for close to fourteen years. Upon the death of his father a little over twenty-six years ago, he’d returned to claim the title. Since that time, he’d become an Important Personage. He’d taken a modest inheritance and turned it into a fortune. Everyone quoted him. Everyone curried his favor and turned to him for financial advice.

  Corinne’s uncle was Banker Montross, another famed and shrewd investor. She’d asked him recently what he thought of Lord Bossley. His gaze had narrowed at her as if he’d been surprised and appreciative of her question. “He’s a tough customer in gentleman’s dress,” he’d answered. “I know because the same could be said of me. We both go after what we want, but I’m honest.”

  “And he’s not?” Corinne had prodded.

  “I’ve found no proof of chicanery,” her uncle had answered. “But sometimes when a man is overscrupulous, it’s a sign he is hiding something. Of course, I haven’t been able to sniff anything out, bad or good, and I tried. The mystery to me is his life in Barbados. Granted it is a world away, but I’ve found no one from there who remembers him. They’d heard of him, but he didn’t seem to be a part of society there. Not like he is here.”

  “He was a very young man then,” Corinne had pointed out.

  “I don’t like mystery,” her uncle had countered. “And I didn’t want my daughter to marry his son.” His only child, Abigail, had been in love with Freddie since they’d been children. She was now married to a stellar gentleman, and from what Corinne could see, her uncle was pleased with the match.

  Of course, Corinne had duly reported this conversation to her father, who’d ignored her concerns. The duke’s position was that everyone knew Bossley here and had known him for a good two decades and more. Besides, who cared about society on some island colony?

  Who, indeed? A glance around the reception room told Corinne that everyone fawned over his lordship, including his wife, who had a habit of echoing the end of his sentences.