Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
PRAISE FOR Scandal’s Daughter
“A touching love story.” —Mary Balogh
“Romance with the sparkle of vintage champagne. A stellar debut from a major new talent!” —Anna Campbell
“A charming romance brimming with emotion and humor. The sensual intimacy between Sebastian and Gemma mellows like a fine wine within the friendship forged long before their first kiss. Christine Wells makes the Regency as fresh and real as her characters, and I expect it won’t be long before she’s a favorite on every romance reader’s bookshelf.” —Kathryn Smith
“Witty, emotionally intense, and romantic—Ms. Wells beguiles us in this stellar debut. Put this writer’s name on your list of authors to watch.” —Sophia Nash
“A brilliantly seductive love story that belongs on every keeper shelf . . . sizzling with sensuality.”
—Kathryn Caskie
“A lovely story of best friends discovering there could be more, Scandal’s Daughter charms and delights with humour, wit, and intelligence. An enchanting debut [that] engages all the senses and leaves a smile on your face and warmth in your heart.” —The (Brisbane) Courier-Mail
“A wonderful debut. With both humor and heat, Christine Wells has crafted a compelling story of two wounded people—a sensitive rake and an independent miss— struggling to find love and meaning in their lives.”
—Sally MacKenzie, USA Today bestselling author
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SCANDAL’S DAUGHTER
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2007
Copyright © 2007 by Christine Diehm.
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For Jamie, who never doubted this day would come
Many thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust, my editor, Leis Pederson, and everyone at Berkley Publishing who helped this book reach the shelves; to my parents, Cheryl and Ian, for their incomparable support; and to my writer friends for their advice and encouragement: Denise Rossetti, Anna Campbell, Anne Gracie, and all at the Historical Fiction Critique Group.
One
London, 1814
SEBASTIAN Laidley, sixth Earl of Carleton, paused on his drawing room threshold and surveyed the aftermath of last night’s orgy. Whoever revived the fashion for these vulgar affairs should be shot.
Half-clad bodies sprawled over Chippendale chairs and gilt satin sofas. More bodies littered the floor. Wine from overturned bottles bled into the Aubusson carpet among mashed clumps of birthday cake and glittering shards of crystal. His prized bronze Venus sported a curly brimmed beaver hat, tilted at a jaunty angle, and a corset dangled by its strings from the chandelier.
Someone groaned. High-pitched giggles and rustling skirts sounded from behind a Chinese screen.
A naked nymph lay curled on the pianoforte, blinking like a newborn kitten at the late-morning sunlight. When she saw him, her eyes widened. She sat up and thrust out her breasts with a crooked, come-hither smile.
Sebastian ignored her. His gaze lifted to the frescoed ceiling, a celestial expanse filled with stormy-faced angels scowling at the debauched tableau below. He imagined his dead father’s spirit floating with the seraphim, smiting these sinners with the force of his icy glare.
The image did not amuse him as it should.
He took a deep breath and almost reeled from the smell: a musky, pungent stench overlaid with sweat and red wine, like a low-class brothel. Unable to contain a fastidious shudder, Sebastian turned on his heel and strode along the corridor in search of Romney. He was the only one of Sebastian’s house guests who had declined to attend the previous evening’s revelry, and thus, the only one likely to be awake at this hour.
Sebastian found his friend with Mortimer in the breakfast room, wolfing down a sirloin with obvious relish. Romney preferred staying with Sebastian when he was in town rather than staying in a hotel, or worse, rattling around in that tomb of a place in Brooke Street his father had bequeathed to him.
“The trouble with orgies,” Mortimer was saying, “is that one always wants what the next fellow has.”
“The trouble with orgies is they’re so deuced uncomfortable.” Sebastian nodded a greeting to his friends and crossed to the sideboard.
Romney snorted. “Lord, yes! I’ve seen less complicated contortions by the India Rubber Man at the Bartholomew Fair.” He squinted into the depths of his empty tankard and reached for the ale jar. “But all that’s behind me
, now I’m to be a married man.”
“I’m overjoyed to hear it, since you’re wedding my sister.” Sebastian checked under the domed cover of a silver chafing dish and wondered if his uneasy innards might tolerate devilled kidneys. “I’d hate to be obliged to grind that pretty face of yours beneath the heel of my boot. You are a guest in my house, after all.”
Deciding against the kidneys in favour of York ham and fried mushrooms, he joined his friends at the table.
Romney shook his shaggy auburn head. “I’m not afraid of anything you can do, Carleton. It’s that sister of yours who terrifies the living daylights out of me.”
“Under the cat’s paw already, Romney?” Mortimer chortled and slapped the table with a plump hand as if he’d made a witty joke. “Where were you last night?”
Romney grunted. “In bed.”
“Bed, eh? Curled up with a tasty bit of muslin?” Mortimer winked at Sebastian.
Shooting Mortimer a scathing look, Romney said, “Not at all. I was reading, if you must know.”
“Oh?” Sebastian’s lips quivered. “Reading?” The vision of his rakehell friend sitting primly in bed with his nose in a book while an orgy raged below struck his mind’s eye.
Mortimer burst into a rich guffaw.
Ignoring him, Romney turned to Sebastian. “Did you enjoy your birthday, old man? Sorry I couldn’t attend last night but I have morals, now, d’ye see.”
Mortimer, who had masterminded the evening’s celebrations, looked up from his plate, his pale eyes alight with hope. Like a puppy who had dropped a bone on the hearth rug, unsure if he’d won his master’s approval.
Sebastian hesitated. If the truth be known, the affair had turned his stomach. He’d no taste for public fornication, but his friends had surprised him with a troupe of Madame du Pont’s finest whores and a frosted pink birthday cake in the shape of naked breasts. How could he refuse? He’d always been partial to breasts.
But he hadn’t stayed. He’d drunk a lot and kissed a willing wench or two for form’s sake, then slipped away once everyone was too intoxicated or otherwise occupied to notice. At least, he hoped no one noticed. His reputation as London’s wildest young rake was becoming difficult to maintain.
He sipped his coffee. “The evening was . . . memorable.”
That seemed to satisfy Mortimer. Romney, on the other hand, regarded him shrewdly. He waved his beef-laden fork in Sebastian’s direction. “If you wish to know what I think—”
“I don’t give a toss what you think.”
“—it’s that you should get married, too. Do you the world of good.”
Why did the newly converted always turn around and preach? With a sigh of infinite patience, Sebastian ticked off points on his fingers. “I have wealth, I have position, I have an heir dangling somewhere on the family tree. I have a beautiful mistress I’m not obliged to live with, who does not enact a Cheltenham tragedy if I neglect her for a week or a month. As long as I hand over an expensive bauble now and then and pay her gaming debts and dressmaker’s bills, she couldn’t give a tinker’s damn if I hold an orgy in my house every night.” He selected a roll from the basket in front of him and broke it apart. “What could I possibly want with a wife?”
Romney grinned. “Oh, nothing, old fellow. You have it all.”
That smug smile gave Sebastian the sudden urge to stab his future brother-in-law with the butter knife, but Yelland came in, bearing a silver salver.
“My lord, a letter for you arrived by messenger from Ware.”
“Ware?” Sebastian straightened, snatched the letter, and ripped open the seal with hands that were not quite steady. Urgency always meant bad news, and his godfather was no longer at the peak of health.
The looping script confirmed his fears. A leaden weight settled in his gut. He blinked, tossing the letter onto the table.
“Tell the messenger I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Something wrong?” Romney half rose as Sebastian pushed away from his place.
“It’s Sir Hugo, my godfather. He’s ill. Dying.” The last word stuck in his throat. He couldn’t believe it. Not Hugo. “I must go.”
He stood and turned to his butler. “Have the chaise brought around immediately. Tell my man to pack enough clothes for an extended stay.”
“Very good, my lord. And the, er, persons in the drawing room?”
Sebastian indicated Mortimer with a jerk of his head. “Mr. Mortimer will get rid of them after breakfast.”
“And what message shall I give your steward, my lord? He arrived last night with some pressing matters to discuss about the estate. He says his business cannot wait.”
Scowling, Sebastian strode to the door. “Tell him to go to the devil.”
SUMMER sunlight flooded the library, illuminating swirling dust motes and flashing off gilt letters on tooled leather books. But despite the bright warmth of the day, the long windows remained obstinately closed against the slightest draft and a fire crackled in the grate.
For an instant, Sebastian wondered if the stifling heat had made him delirious.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard,” grunted his godfather. “I said I want you to marry Gemma.”
Sir Hugo Mainwaring cradled an illicit glass of burgundy in his gnarled, arthritic fingers and hitched the rug on his knees higher. “Damned leech says I’m like to cock up my toes any minute. Well, I won’t, mind you, I’ve got a few months in me yet, but I want that granddaughter of mine settled before I die. And I want you to marry her.”
The old gentleman took a long draft of wine, contemplated his glass for a moment, then drained it and thrust it out for a refill.
Sebastian took the glass and crossed to the drinks tray. Tilting the decanter, he watched the ruby liquid tumble and cursed under his breath.
Caught in parson’s mousetrap at last.
If the old gentleman were not dying before his eyes, he could have laughed. Eight years eluding the snares set by determined matchmaking mamas and their equally tenacious daughters; eight years styling himself as the kind of man no virtuous lady dared be seen alone with, lest his wicked reputation taint her purity; eight years of hedonistic, reckless, extravagant living, only to be caught by this wizened, dying old gentleman commanding him to marry . . .
Gemma.
Sebastian nearly snorted out loud. She’d be mad as fire if she found out. It was almost worth agreeing, if only to see the look on her face.
But no, he couldn’t do it. Not even for that satisfaction; not even to grant an old man’s dying wish.
“I doubt I am husband material, sir.” He handed Hugo the glass and sat down. “And even if I were, Gemma and I have not set eyes on each other for years. What makes you think she would have me?”
Hugo gave a grim smile. “She’d have you. I’d see to that. And as for not being husband material, that’s bilgewater. Have to get married some time, don’t you? Why not now?”
Because I would rather be staked out naked in the woods, covered in honey, waiting for the ants to nibble at my nether regions, thought Sebastian.
He settled for a more diplomatic response. “You are forgetting I have three male cousins, sir. I need not marry for the sake of an heir.”
“Poppycock,” growled Hugo. “Your father would have committed bloody murder before he let one of those whey-faced poltroons inherit. Your trouble is you are still thinking like a younger son. No sense of what is due to your position and your name.”
Sebastian stretched his legs out before him and contemplated the golden tassels on his black Hessian boots. An all-too-keen sense of his responsibilities had caused him to flee them so expeditiously, but he kept that reflection to himself.
“Hugo, I regret to disoblige you after all you have done for me over the years—”
“Aye!” The old man’s frail hand slapped his knee. “Sponsored you at White’s, didn’t I? Took you sparring with Jackson. Damme, took you to your first whorehouse, so I did! And t
his is the thanks I get.”
Sebastian grimaced. He’d been thinking, rather, of his godfather providing a welcome second home for him on school holidays, but the old gentleman was correct on those worldlier counts as well.
Hugo’s hand balled into a fist, as if to haul tight on the reins of his temper. His breath came in gasps. “I’m offering you a sound bargain, Sebastian. Gemma’s a good girl. Substantial heiress, impeccable bloodlines. Do your father proud.”
Sebastian bared his teeth in a smile. “Ah, but you see, it is a rule of mine never to do anything that would have made my father proud.”
Catching Hugo’s startled glance, he shook off the threatening darkness. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Were it anything else, I should be yours to command, but marriage? Sir, I could not do it.”
The old gentleman raised his glass to quivering, corrugated lips and sipped. Half-curtained by drooping folds of skin, his eyes glittered as he set down the glass with a snap. “I seem to recall a time when you were not so averse to the prospect of marriage. I seem to recall a certain yaller-haired doxy in the village . . .”
Heat stole along Sebastian’s cheekbones. This time, it had nothing to do with the fire. Was he actually blushing? What was it about Hugo, about this place, that always reduced him to schoolboy status? “I was a stripling at the time, young and foolish. And lamentably lacking in discrimination.”
“Luscious little thing,” said Hugo. “You always did have a good eye for a woman, I’ll say that for you, but she scarcely would have done for your countess.” The wicked dark eyes snapped at him over steepled fingers. “Proposed marriage, didn’t you?”
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