Scandal Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “In the Times?” she squeaked, her heart dropping down to her toes. Snatching the proffered newspaper out of her father’s hand, she read the small notice, any hopes of preventing the marriage fluttering away with every word of black print.

  Features pale, she sank down into the oxblood leather chair next to Sir Edward. The newspaper slipped unheeded from her fingers.

  “’Tis a grand match, my dear. One that should make you happy,” her father said gently. “It is the sort of match I have always hoped that you would make.” He paused and sent her a keen look. “Nell, you know that your happiness is paramount to me, it always has been, and if I thought for one instant that Wyndham would make you an indifferent husband, scandal be damned! I would not countenance the match. But he is a fine man—we may not move in as high a circle of the ton, but your brothers and I are aware of his reputation. It is without stain. Friends we share in common with Wyndham have always spoken highly of him and I know of no reason that would make him unacceptable—even if we did not have a scandal to avoid.”

  Her father meant to help, Nell knew that, but all he did was cut the ground from beneath her feet. “But I don’t know him,” she muttered. “I don’t love him.” Accusingly she added, “You and mother loved each other and she wasn’t a stranger. It isn’t fair that you marry me off to someone I don’t know—and don’t love.”

  Sir Edward sighed. “My dear, your mother’s and my marriage was arranged almost from the moment of our births. Neither of us had any say in it. She was an only child, as was I. Our parents were dear friends whose lands marched side by side and they yearned for a closer tie between the two families—and there is no denying that they wanted to unite our estates.” When Nell would have interrupted, he held up a hand. “Yes, we grew up together, knowing that someday we would wed, but we were not in love with each other at the time of our wedding. We liked and respected each other and the union made our families happy—that was reason enough for us.” A faraway expression in his eyes, he murmured, “Love came later, as our relationship deepened. Within months, nay, weeks of our wedding we could not imagine life without the other and we realized that our parents had known what they were about in arranging for us to wed—even if practical matters played a part in it. I have never regretted a day of my marriage to your mother. I miss her still.”

  Defeated, Nell stared at him, the feeling of being trapped increasing. She could offer no argument to refute his words. And she knew her father well enough to recognize that his mind was made up; she would find no help from him in escaping marriage to Wyndham.

  Aware that he had dealt her a blow, Sir Edward reached over and placed a hand over hers. “Nell, it will not be as bad as you fear. Wyndham strikes me as a likeable, reasonable sort, and even if you do not love him, remember that love is not a requirement for marriage among our sort.” He touched her cheek and smiled. “You may, you know, surprise yourself by falling in love with him.”

  Her stormy eyes met his. “But what if he never falls in love with me? What then?”

  Sir Edward winced. “I cannot predict the future, my dear. Your marriage will be what you make of it.” His eyes met hers. “And you can make it happy…or you can make it miserable. The choice is yours.”

  Julian had never linked the words love and marriage together before and as he contemplated his nuptials, the word love was not paramount in his mind. He was realistic about his marriage. And looking at it as a purely practical matter, he could see several advantages in marrying Miss Eleanor Anslowe.

  In fact, when Lord Talcott arrived that morning demanding to know how in the devil the Times could have made such an outrageous mistake, once he had his friend calmed down, he ticked them off for him.

  Quickly ushering his apoplectic friend to the rear of house, Julian had proceeded with care. Ordinarily, he would have laid the entire tale before Talcott. He trusted his friend and there were few, if any, secrets between them. But events were different this time, this time a lady’s honor was involved, a lady who would become his wife, and it seemed to him that the fewer people who knew the truth the better. Adrian Talcott, who knew him intimately, might guess that a rig was being run, but Julian had no doubt that his friend would follow his lead—even if puzzled and eaten alive with curiosity. He quelled a flicker of guilt at not divulging the truth and, sticking to the bare bones of the story he had put forth already, it still took Julian several minutes to make Talcott understand that there had been no mistake: the Times had it correct. He was going to marry Eleanor Anslowe. On Wednesday next. Talcott was, of course, invited to the wedding.

  “B-B-But you don’t even know the chit! At least,” Talcott added after a moment’s hesitation, “I don’t think you do. And marriage! You have sworn to me often enough in your cups, that marriage was a trap that would not catch you again.”

  His long legs crossed at the ankles, Julian slouched in a dark green mohair chair next to Talcott’s, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gaze was on the small fire crackling on the gray marble hearth in front of them and for a moment Talcott thought that he had not heard him. But a second later Julian murmured, “I know. And I will admit that another marriage was something that I had not thought to undertake—even if it meant that my bloody cousin Charles would inherit the title and all that goes with it, and which he would promptly gamble away.”

  Talcott grinned. “Well! I am happy to see that at least your opinion of him has not changed. The way you were going on about the wisdom of this marriage, I next expected you to start singing his praises.”

  “Hardly. But if you think about it, this marriage may be a very good thing. I do need an heir and a hostess of my own—I have estates that need a woman’s hand and I have no inclination to oversee the running of my various households. Diana does well enough, but she is still a young woman, a beautiful one, and she could—in fact it is my most ardent desire—remarry, and then where would I be? Having my own wife would solve that problem before it arises.”

  When Talcott would have interrupted him, he raised a hand and added, “I know what you are going to say next: if I am set upon marriage, why not select a bride from a more recent crop of eligible damsels? Why choose a female not in the first blush of youth?” He rubbed his chin. “Quite honestly, the thought of shackling myself to any one of the flighty bits of muslin that are currently trotted out at Almack’s makes me view with delight the notion of joining a monastery.” Julian shook his head. “No. I’ve considered the situation from all angles and Miss Anslowe is the perfect candidate for me—perhaps the only candidate. Consider it, Adrian! She is young enough to give me a nursery full of offspring and yet old enough to know the ways of the world. She will not bedevil me by demanding that I dance attendance on her—or saddle me with someone else’s brat. Her family’s name and respectability are without parallel—and don’t forget, she is an heiress. The more I consider it, the more convinced I am that marriage with her is wise.”

  “My ears must deceive me—surely this is not the same man who has been declaring for years that marriage is the worst fate to befall man?”

  Julian grinned. “There will be compensations, you know—when she produces an heir, Charles will be blocked from inheriting and, remember, my wife will have to deal with Diana and all of her fits and starts. At least I shall be free of that.”

  “A poor reason to saddle yourself with a woman who has been considered on the shelf for years.” Talcott looked morose. “And don’t forget, there are those rumors about her.”

  Julian sent him a hooded glance. “What rumors?” he asked in a tone that made Talcott uneasy.

  “Uh, well, you know that years ago she was engaged to Bethune?” At Julian’s nod, he said, “It is common knowledge that she suffered an accident that left her crippled…But the reason Bethune was able to escape the engagement without being branded a blackguard is that there was talk that she was not, um, quite right in the head.”

  Julian pictured Nell as he had first seen her, di
rty and bedraggled. She had not been, he would admit, a reassuring sight, but what he remembered most of that moment was the intelligence gleaming in those wary, sea green eyes. He smiled to himself, finding the memory endearing. But one thing had been clear in an instant: this was no madwoman. Not even, he thought, half-mad.

  “You do realize,” Julian asked softly, “that you are talking about the woman that I am to marry?”

  Talcott swallowed, his precisely arranged cravat feeling as if it was choking him. He recognized the deceptive mildness of Julian’s tone. Past experience had taught him that a prudent man treaded carefully when that particular note entered his friend’s voice—either that or take the consequences…which were never pleasant.

  Talcott cleared his throat. “Now, don’t come the ugly with me—I am only repeating what has been said.”

  “Do not…not if you wish to remain my friend. I would suggest also, that for their own good, you promptly disabuse anyone else of that notion.”

  “Oh, of course. Absolutely.”

  Julian smiled at him, that warm, utterly charming smile that always disarmed its object. “I know you will. And I know that you will wish me happy.”

  “Naturally. Wouldn’t do otherwise.” Talcott fidgeted in his chair. “Thing is, Julian, it comes as a shock. Bound to be talk.”

  Julian rose to his feet and, picking up the poker, prodded the fire. “People have been talking and gossiping about me for years—what is one more round?”

  Talcott sighed. “I know, but this time it is different. It ain’t just that you are getting married, it is to whom you are getting married. And the suddenness of it is certain to cause a flurry amongst the old tabbies.”

  “And why should I care about that?”

  “You might not…but what of your lady?”

  Julian paused. He could stand the nonsense, but with an unsettling feeling of protectiveness, he was aware that he did not want the ton sinking their collective claws into Nell. “What do you suggest? I am going to marry her. And it will be on next Wednesday.”

  Talcott cleared his throat again. “Perhaps, if we were to, uh, put forth some sort of explanation?” He sent Julian a glance, trying to gauge his mood. Feeling his way, he said, “Lady Humphries will, of course, be busy spreading the news about how she found you and the Anslowes at the abandoned toll keeper’s cottage.” Talcott paused, making certain that he had Julian’s full attention—and that the earl was not on the verge of calling him out. The expression on Julian’s face was encouraging, so Talcott plunged on, “Knowing Lady Humphries, she will give out the worst reading of the situation. You need a, uh, clarification of the tale to dilute her tale—something that would satisfy, or at least divert, the more determined gossips.”

  “You have something in mind?” Julian asked with a quirk of his brow.

  Settling back in the chair, Talcott considered the matter. Having concluded that, for whatever reasons, Julian was determined to marry Miss Anslowe, he threw himself into the fray. Now what, he wondered, would be a reason for Julian to have kept his courtship—if there had been a courtship, and he seriously doubted it—wrapped in such secrecy? A smile slid across his face as an idea occurred to him. “I suppose,” he said, “that the most obvious reason for you to have kept your, er, growing passion for Miss Anslowe a secret is because you did not wish to distress Lady Wyndham by thrusting a stranger into the household.”

  Julian put away the poker and, amusement gleaming in his eyes, he said, “Yes, that sounds plausible. Diana enjoys being the Countess Wyndham—she will not be happy to claim the title dowager, not at her age.”

  “Er, yes. So that explains why you kept it a secret—you wanted Lady Diana to become used to the idea.”

  Julian nodded. “But why,” he asked, the gleam in his eyes more pronounced, “did I decide to spring this, uh, growing passion, I believed you called it, on her now?”

  Enjoying himself now, Talcott smiled. “Why, my dear fellow, after your unfortunate carriage accident, which left you in such close proximity with the alluring Miss Anslowe, you simply could not contain your passion any longer. You had to speak and the consequences be damned!”

  Julian guffawed. “Of course. It will do all the old tabbies good to think of me snarled in the throes of love. They will look upon Miss Anslowe as the avenging goddess who brought me to heel.”

  “And has she?” Talcott asked slyly.

  Thinking of Nell and the emotions she roused in his breast, Julian shook his head. “I cannot tell you—I do not know the answer to that question myself.”

  How very interesting, Talcott thought to himself. Could it be that Julian’s heart had been well and truly snared?

  Studying the shine of his boots, Talcott inquired, “Tell me, why the suddenness of your marriage? I mean, aside from your inability to control your growing passion for the lady? Why not wait and marry her in the spring? Why so precipitous?”

  Julian thought back to the plans that had been put together so hastily during his ride back to London yesterday with the Anslowes. Lord and Lady Humphries finding them at the toll keeper’s cottage had been unfortunate and it had seemed logical to arrange for a swift outcome. Julian had known that his engagement to any young woman would cause talk and speculation—not all of it kind. With Eleanor Anslowe named as his bride-to-be, the old stories about her and Bethune were bound to arise and add to the furor. Simply put: the longer the engagement, the more time he and Miss Anslowe would be at the center of a firestorm of gossip. And, of course, there was Tynedale’s part in the whole affair. For a moment, Julian’s mouth thinned. The Anslowes were unaware of his connection with Lord Tynedale and he had seen no reason to enlighten them. But Miss Anslowe’s abduction by Tynedale had been another reason for a hurried marriage—with the lady safely married to him, not even Tynedale would dare hint of abduction gone wrong.

  Julian sighed. It had seemed wise to get it all behind them as quickly as possible—the sooner they wed, the sooner the nine day’s wonder surrounding their unexpected engagement would end. And there was a practical reason, too. In another week or two, except for a few stragglers, the majority of the ton would desert London until the spring. By marrying next Wednesday, there would be a respectable contingent to celebrate their nuptials—and spread the word. By the next Season his engagement and marriage to Miss Anslowe would be old gossip and soon forgotten.

  Smiling wryly, Julian said, “There is nothing suspicious about the sudden marriage—I wish to spare my lady as much gossip as possible. It is far better that we stand the nonsense all at once, than to have it dragged out over the winter and into next spring.”

  Talcott could get no more out of him and had to be content. They took their leave of each other, Talcott promising to head immediately to Boodle’s to begin lamenting Julian’s fate. Julian made plans to call upon his bride-to-be.

  Let into Sir Edward’s fashionable townhouse by the family butler, Chatham, Julian was whisked into the study, where he found Sir Edward seated behind his desk.

  As Julian approached Sir Edward rose from his chair and, a wide smile on his face, shook his hand. “Lord Wyndham. A pleasure. Please, please take a seat. Some refreshment?”

  While the most pressing issues had already been decided upon, the business arrangements of the marriage, money, and settlements, had not been finalized. These matters were quickly handled by the two men, Julian agreeing to a generous settlement for his wife-to-be and Sir Edward laying out the extent of her fortune—a fortune that would be under Julian’s control once they were wed.

  Since Nell had little say in the matter she did not even know that her future bridegroom was in the house until a servant tapped on the door to her rooms and passed on her father’s request that she join him and Lord Wyndham in the library.

  For an instant she considered sending back a message that she was indisposed. But knowing that there was no escape, she took a swift look in the cheval glass, shook out the folds of her kerseymere gown and pinched roses
into her cheeks. A critical glance at the curls that framed her face, the remainder of the tawny mass caught up in a braid at the back of her head, satisfied her that she bore little resemblance to the harridan the earl had first seen. Then, berating herself for caring what Lord Wyndham thought of her, she turned away from the glass and left the room.

  Reaching the double doors to the library, she took a breath, stifled the urge to run and pulled open the door. Like a trim frigate with fighting canvass spread, she sailed into the room.

  In the act of raising a glass of hock to his lips, Julian froze. Stunned, he stared at the lovely young woman who stalked across the length of the library and came to halt before him.

  “My lord,” she said, her manner stiff.

  Julian made a polite reply, gathering his thoughts. He could hardly believe that this entrancing creature was the same female he had met just twenty-four hours ago. She was taller than he recalled, but the soft curves of the slender form beneath the sage green gown he remembered very well. Her sea green eyes still held the same wary expression and the strawberry-hued mouth was still just as tempting, but gone was the bedraggled urchin he had first spied. In her place stood a fashionable young woman who would have instantly elicited a demand for an introduction from him if their paths had crossed previously. Where in Hades, he thought, had she been hiding all this time?

  “Thank you for joining us so promptly, my dear,” said Sir Edward, reaching out a hand to bring his daughter to his side.

  Nell started, hoping her face did not show the shock she felt at the sight of the gentleman standing next to her father. From their first encounter, she’d had a memory of a tall, raffish fellow, a man with a beard-shadowed face and hard eyes, a man who had made her think of a highwayman or ruffian, and she was having difficulty reconciling that memory with the elegant man before her. He was meticulously groomed, his thick dark hair waving near his temples, the clean cut of his jaw and lips no longer half-concealed beneath black stubble; the dark blue coat and nankeen breeches fit him superbly, the white cravat arranged by an expert hand. The effect was staggering. She was certain that she had met other men as attractive and urbane as the Earl of Wyndham, but at the moment, she could not remember one of them.