All's Fair in Love and Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  Douglas obediently fell quiet and tried to look shocked as his onetime friend strode up to him, eyes flashing. Go on, Douglas silently dared him. Do it.

  Spence glared at him before spinning on his heel toward Lord Chesterton. “My lord, I believe you offered a bounty.”

  Spence hadn’t spoken very loudly but in the expectant hush of the ballroom every word carried. Chesterton’s face went dead white, like a man suddenly regretting a long-ago outburst. “This is not the place . . .”

  With another furious look at Douglas, Spence held up one hand. “Does that mean you don’t intend to honor it?”

  The intake of breath around the room was audible.

  Chesterton’s lips barely moved as he replied. “I always honor my word, sir.”

  Good Lord, it was better than he’d hoped. Spence was so angry he was defying any sort of propriety or discretion to beat Douglas to the point. This would be branded on his name for years to come.

  “Spence,” Douglas began.

  The man threw up his hand. “I’ve discovered the name you seek, my lord,” he said rapidly. “Shall we retire to a more private location to discuss the matter?”

  “You have not!” Albright scoffed, making Lord Chesterton start. “Anyone can produce a name; he could make one up on the spot.”

  “The evidence is in my favor,” Spence retorted.

  “What evidence?”

  Spence’s eyes darted back to Douglas. “That is for his lordship to hear.”

  Chesterton was as still as a statue. “I have no idea what you mean, sir . . .”

  For the first time Spence looked around at the breathlessly watching guests. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on him. Even people who had no idea what bounty he was talking about were eager to know the answer—and Douglas was quite sure they would discover every lurid thing about Chesterton’s offer before the end of the evening, after this little drama. “Perhaps we should speak privately—”

  “So he won’t have to defend his ‘evidence,’ ” said Albright sotto voce.

  William Spence drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. “Mrs. Madeline Wilde.”

  People gasped. Douglas allowed himself a quick glance in her direction; the crowd was already easing away from her, giving him a clear view. She stood staring, her beautiful lips parted and her eyes blank with apparent shock. It physically hurt him to see her suffer this public denouncement, even though she had agreed to this part of the plan.

  “How dare you,” he growled at Spence, not having to feign his anger.

  Spence barked with laughter. “How dare I? When you came tonight to tell Lord Chesterton the very same thing—that she is the woman who defamed him!”

  Douglas took a step back. “I most certainly did not. Tonight I came . . .” He turned toward Madeline. She was still there, rooted to the spot, with one hand now at her breast, looking as if she’d been betrayed. “Tonight I had a very different sort of declaration in mind.”

  “You said—” Spence’s face went slack as he realized.

  “I know I’ve got a bit of a reputation.” Never taking his eyes from her face, Douglas started toward Madeline. “I won’t say I didn’t earn it, but what I did to earn it is all in the past. And it shall stay in the past because I’ve gone and lost my heart.”

  A blush raced up her face as he came to a halt in front of her. The people around her, who had withdrawn a few steps when Spence cried out her name, were goggling at him with every sort of expression from disapproval to shocked delight.

  “You astonish everyone,” Madeline said in a low voice. “Public announcements of attachment!”

  Slowly he grinned. He hadn’t told her all of his plan; she was expecting a gallant defense of her name. But the moment she agreed to his mad plan, put her trust in him and made love to him and slept in his arms, he knew. She was no ordinary woman. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t imagine life without a woman in his house, in his bed, in his arms—this woman. Still, he didn’t know what her answer would be, and his heart kicked against his ribs in nervous hope. “It’s even more than that. It’s a proposal of marriage.”

  A lady in the crowd let out a little shriek. A matron standing nearby put her hand on her bosom and smiled.

  Madeline’s eyes went wide in shock. “That is a very large risk.”

  “With a very large reward, if my luck holds.” He went down on one knee and held his hand out, palm up. He hoped she didn’t notice it shook slightly. “Will you consider it, my love?”

  “No,” she said softly. Thankfully she went on before his heart had a chance to stop. “I would like to accept.” And she took his hand.

  He rose and pressed his lips to her wrist as a murmur rippled through the crowd. “I love you,” he whispered. “Desperately.”

  Her eyes glowed with sparks of gold. “You’d better. We’ll never be spoken of again without some mention of this evening.”

  “I have no objection to that.”

  “I thought you weren’t a marrying sort of man,” she murmured unsteadily.

  “Until I met you, I wasn’t. Now . . .” He rubbed his thumb over her third finger, where his ring would soon be. “Now I look forward to it.”

  A hand on his shoulder jerked him around. Spence looked angry enough to kill him. “You lied to me.”

  “Mr. Spence.” A tall and rather imposing servant glided up to them. “Lord Chesterton would like a word—privately.”

  Spence’s furious gaze veered to Madeline and then back to Douglas. “Very well.”

  “And with you, Mr. Bennet,” added the footman.

  “Of course.” He offered Madeline his arm. “Shall you come along, or do you want to miss the fireworks?”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she breathed, twining her arm through his.

  They followed Spence. The hiss of whispers in their wake was deafening. Lord Chesterton was waiting in a small parlor, his face set in stern lines, and Philip Albright leaned against the mantel with the air of a man about to enjoy a good show. “Explain yourself,” spat Chesterton as soon as the door was closed. “How dare you mention that bounty in the presence of so many ladies?”

  Spence had obviously made an effort to control himself and organize a defense. “I was deceived,” he said stiffly. “By Bennet and, I suspect, by Albright. I apologize, my lord.”

  “You must be the greatest idiot in London. What deception did they practice on you that you felt at liberty to bring my name into your scandalous behavior?”

  Spence shot another venomous look at Douglas. “It doesn’t signify, my lord.”

  “No,” retorted Lord Chesterton in disdain. “You merely stood up and accused the Duke of Canton’s goddaughter of being that vile liar Lady Constance.”

  Everyone turned to look at her, Douglas in some surprise. The Duke of Canton’s goddaughter? He’d heard the rumors about her mother and Canton, but not that. Madeline merely looked quietly outraged.

  “I told you she wasn’t, Spence,” Albright said. “Never saw any proof of it.”

  “Were you searching?” Chesterton looked astounded.

  Albright nodded. “Spence went ’round saying she must be Lady Constance, and offering to split your bounty with anyone who could prove it.”

  The older man flushed and turned on Douglas. “And you, sir? I presume you were involved in this as well.”

  “Spence made me the same offer.” He glanced at Madeline. “Happily, I lost interest in that endeavor and found something far more dear.”

  “So I see.” Chesterton was also watching her. “I apologize for the scene you just endured, madam. I deeply regret any part I may have played in causing it.”

  She curtsied. “You are very kind, but I bear no ill will toward you, my lord.”

  He inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment before tur
ning back to Spence. “You, however . . .”

  “I was deceived,” said Spence again. “Mr. Bennet may stand here now acting the part of a lovesick fool, but for a fortnight he has repeatedly assured me he was in possession of more and more evidence that Mrs. Wilde is Lady Constance. I would never have presumed to act as I did—”

  “If you hadn’t been afraid he was about to cut you out of your share?” Chesterton’s tone was frosty. “Perhaps you wish to ask the lady directly.” He waved one hand as Spence froze. “Go on, man. You had no compunction naming her in public.”

  Slowly Spence faced Madeline. Douglas felt her fingers grip his arm, but her expression remained composed. “Are you the infamous Lady Constance, author of 50 Ways to Sin?”

  Her gaze was cool, disdainful, and insulted. “I promise you, I am not.”

  Spence gave a jerky bow. “I humbly apologize for my mistake, madam.”

  “Get out,” said Chesterton in a soft, deadly voice.

  Moving as if his limbs were made of wood, Spence went. As he opened the door, Albright called after him, “I’ll come ’round tomorrow to collect on our wager, shall I?” Spence paused a moment in the doorway, then continued on his way without a word. Beaming with satisfaction, Albright bid them all farewell and left.

  “I trust,” said Lord Chesterton, “this will be the end of the matter.”

  Douglas privately thought it would live on for months in drawing rooms across London. “I hope so as well.”

  “It is over for me,” Madeline concurred. “Although, I must say . . . if Lady Constance truly did model her characters on actual persons, she couldn’t have chosen a finer one than you, my lord.”

  Interest sparked in Chesterton’s eyes. “Oh?” Then he glanced at Douglas, and a faint smile crossed his face. “Ah well; too late for that.” He bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Wilde. Mr. Bennet.”

  He left them alone, closing the door behind him. Douglas let out his breath and grinned. “You’re as brilliant as you are beautiful, love.”

  She laughed. “Am I? I certainly wouldn’t have believed any charge that I was writing 50 Ways to Sin.”

  “I was very torn,” he said somberly. “On one hand, if you were, Spence would win, and I wanted to prevent that at all costs.” He made a face. “However, if you were, it would also demonstrate a naughty imagination and a certain . . . uninhibited generosity I find utterly bewitching—”

  “I never said I couldn’t write something like that,” she murmured.

  “Unfortunately that would ruin the new respectability we shall have to cultivate if we’re ever to outlive tonight’s gossip.” He drew her toward him. “But I would never dream of impeding your creative wishes. If your muse leads you to write wicked, naughty fantasies about me, I would never argue. In fact, I would read them over and over.”

  “Oh?” She braced her hands on his chest. “You would prefer to read than do?”

  “No.” He dragged her against him in spite of her hands—not that she put much effort into her resistance. “We can do both. Every author needs a muse, after all . . .”

  “I don’t think much about writing when you do that,” she said on a sigh, letting him kiss his way down her neck. Her hands had gone from holding him away to clinging.

  “What do you think about?” he murmured with interest.

  “It’s hard to think at all.” She waited until he raised his head. “But mostly . . . I think of how much I love you.”

  He was the luckiest bloke in Britain. “That’s all I want.”

  Don’t miss the other romances

  in Caroline Linden’s deliciously sexy

  Scandals series:

  Love and Other Scandals

  Tristan, Lord Burke, has no intention of ever marrying, especially not a droll, sharp-witted spinster like Joan Bennet. If only their clashes didn’t lead to kissing . . . and embraces . . . and a passion neither can resist.

  It Takes a Scandal

  Mysterious and reclusive, Sebastian Vane is rumored to be a thief and a murderer—not the sort of man an heiress like Abigail Weston would marry. But even the fiercest scandal is no match for love . . .

  Love in the Time of Scandal

  Coming Soon!

  Penelope Weston has her heart set on finding passion and adventure along with true love. Benedict Lennox, Lord Atherton, wants just the opposite, no matter how tempting he finds Penelope. But Fate seems to be throwing them together, until scandal leads to marriage—and that could lead to so much more than either of them ever imagined.

  Want more scandalous romance?

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at

  USA Today best-selling and RITA® Award–winning author

  Caroline Linden’s next novel,

  Love in the Time of Scandal

  Coming June 2015

  from Avon Romance

  1822

  London

  Some people were born with an acute appreciation of the little things in life: a good book, a beautiful garden, a quiet peaceful home. Nothing pleased them more than improving their minds through reading, or practicing an art such as painting or playing an instrument, or helping the sick and infirm. Such people were truly noble and inspiring.

  Penelope Weston was not one of those people.

  In fact, she felt very much the opposite of noble or inspiring as she stood at the side of Lady Hunsford’s ballroom and glumly watched the beautiful couples whirling around the floor. She wasn’t envious . . . much . . . but she was decidedly bored. This was a new feeling for her. Once balls and parties had been the most exciting thing in the world. She had thrilled at sharing the latest gossip and discussing the season’s fashions with her older sister, Abigail, and their friend Joan Bennet. None of the three of them had been popular young ladies, so they always had plenty of time to talk at balls, interrupted only occasionally by a gentleman asking one of them to dance.

  At the time, they had all openly wished for more gentlemen to ask them to dance, and to call on them, flowers in hand, and beg for their company on a drive in the park. No one wanted to be a spinster all her life, after all. Whenever Joan fell into despair over her height, or Abigail fretted that only fortune hunters would want her, Penelope loyally maintained that there existed a man who would find Joan’s tall, statuesque figure appealing, and a man who would want Abigail for more than her dowry.

  Well, now she’d been proven right. Joan had married the very rakish Viscount Burke, and Abigail was absolutely moonstruck in love with her new husband, Sebastian. Penelope was very happy for both of them, she really was . . . but she was also feeling left out for the first time in her life. Her sister was only a year older than she, and they had been the best of friends her entire life—and now Abigail was happily rusticating in Richmond, cultivating the quieter society that made Penelope want to run screaming from the room. Joan’s bridegroom had swept her off on a very exciting and exotic wedding trip to Italy, which Penelope envied fiercely but obviously could not share. And that left her alone, standing at the side of ballrooms once more, but this time without her dearest friends to pass the time.

  “Miss Weston! Oh, Miss Weston, what a pleasure to see you tonight!”

  Penelope roused herself from her brooding thoughts and smiled. Frances Lockwood beamed back, cheeks pink from dancing. Frances was on the brink of her first season, still starry-eyed at the social whirl of London. “And you, Miss Lockwood. I hope you are well.”

  The younger girl nodded. “Very well! I think this is the most beautiful ballroom I’ve ever seen!”

  Penelope kept smiling. Just three years ago she’d been every bit as wide-eyed and delighted as Miss Lockwood. It was both amusing and disconcerting to see how she must have looked to everyone back then. “It is a very fine room. Lady Hunsford has quite an eye for floral arrangements.”

  “Indeed!” Miss Lockwood agr
eed eagerly. “And the musicians are very talented.”

  “They are.” Penelope felt much older than her twenty-one years, discussing flower arrangements and musicians. Her mother was probably making the very same comments to her friends.

  Miss Lockwood sidled a step closer. “And the gentlemen are so very handsome, don’t you think?”

  Now Penelope’s smile grew a bit rigid. Frances Lockwood was the granddaughter of a viscount. Her father was a mere gentleman, and her mother was a banker’s daughter, but that noble connection made all the difference. Penelope’s father had been an attorney before he made his fortune investing in coal canals, and the grime of that origin had never fully washed away. The Lockwoods were received everywhere; Frances, with her dowry less than half the size of Penelope’s, was considered a very eligible heiress. Not that Penelope wanted Frances’s suitors—who were silly young men with empty pockets, for the most part—but it set something inside her roiling when she saw the way they fawned over her friend.

  “There are many handsome gentlemen in London,” Penelope said aloud. There were, although none near this part of the ballroom, where the unmarried ladies congregated. If Joan were here, they could discuss the scandalous rakes lounging elegantly at the far end of the room, closer to the wine. But Frances was only seventeen and would fall into a blushing stammer if Penelope openly admired the way Lord Fenton’s trousers fit his thighs.

  Frances nodded, a beatific smile on her face. She edged a little closer to Penelope’s side and dropped her voice. “Miss Weston . . . may I confide in you? You’ve been very kind to me, and I do so look up to you for advice—well, you know, on how to deal with gentlemen who are only interested in One Thing.”

  Oh dear. Frances meant the fortune hunters who clustered around her. Penelope tried not to heave a sigh. Unfortunately she had too much experience of those men, and too little experience of real suitors. She was probably the least suited person to be giving advice, but Frances persisted in asking her. “Is another one bothering you? If so, you must send him on his way at once. Such a man will never make you happy if all he cares for is your fortune or your connections.”