Scandal of the Season

by Liana Lefey

  Scandal of the Season

  Also by Liana LeFey

  To Love A Libertine

  Once a Courtesan

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More from Entangled

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Liana LeFey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Entangled Select is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Interior design by Toni Kerr

  ISBN: 9781633757028

  Ebook ISBN: 9781633757035

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my daughter—you are a constant source of joy and light in my world, and I adore you. Thank you for being so patient and understanding. If you learn anything from your mother’s example, I hope it’s that working hard to make your dreams a reality is always a worthwhile pursuit. Don’t ever be afraid to reach for those stars, baby.

  Prologue

  London, 1812

  He’s back!

  Sorin Latham, her family’s closest neighbor—and her dearest friend—had returned at last.

  Eleanor raced down the stairs, keeping tight hold of her skirts and a sharp eye out for Rowena. The last thing she wanted was another scolding about running in the house. The carriage must have made it down the drive by now. He should be getting out by the time she reached the front hall.

  A grin split her face as she contemplated sliding down the banister, but good sense overruled the rash impulse. She’d be sixteen in two days. Sliding down banisters was out of the question now—at least whenever there was a chance one might be seen.

  Will he have exciting news to share? Will he be happy to see me? Did he bring me a present from Paris, like he promised?

  He’d been gone three whole months this time. It had seemed an eternity. Not for the first time, she wished Cousin Charles had a sister he could marry so they could truly become family. But, like her, Charles was an only child. At least Sorin’s bride would one day come to live with him here in Somerset.

  Now all she had to do was find a way to remain here, herself. Eleanor gritted her teeth. If only Charles would see reason! But both he and Rowena were bent on the idea of her marrying. It was to be her debut Season, and no expense had been spared to see that she made a good impression. Daughter of a duke, she was expected to make a fine marriage. Her cousin had even gone so far as to show her a list of possible matches he deemed “acceptable”.

  A grimace tugged at the corners of her mouth. I’ll never wed. Her family would be annoyed at first, but they’d get over it. They don’t really want me to leave Holbrook. Why, this very morning Charles had told her that, in his opinion, no man was good enough for her, but that he’d be pleased, as long as she was happy.

  For some reason, he simply refused to accept that her idea of “happy” was for things to remain exactly as they were. I don’t need a husband. I already have a home.

  The front door opened as she reached the bottom step, and joy surged at the sound of Sorin’s voice. Quick as a fox, she ducked beneath the stairs and waited. After the servant had welcomed him and taken his hat and coat, their guest was told Lord Cramley awaited him in the blue salon.

  Eleanor emerged just as he rounded the corner. “Surprise!”

  Stopping short, he greeted her with a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. “Ellie!” His gaze travelled downward, doubtless noting the absence of her customary pinafore, and his brows rose. “Gracious, I think you’ve grown another inch.”

  Too happy to take affront at his reference to her height, which had indeed increased during his absence, she dashed forward to embrace her friend. “I’ve missed you so! It’s been dreadfully lonely here without your visits.”

  Her joy turned to bewilderment as he stiffened in her arms and then, bracing his hands against her shoulders, thrust her away. The ungentle manner of his rejection caught her off guard and she stumbled backward, only just managing to catch herself on the newel post and avoid an ungraceful fall.

  When she looked up, a thunderous, disapproving frown was fixed upon his face, which was turning scarlet. A dull, throbbing pain erupted in her chest, and a queer, numbing sensation settled over her. Sudden tears stung her eyes as he backed away another step. She wanted to ask why he looked at her as one might a leper, but words would not form on her lips.

  It was he who broke the silence. “Ellie, I’m—” He stopped and took a deep, unsteady breath. “Forgive me.” Without another word, he turned and strode away.

  Shaking as if a palsy had taken her, Eleanor sank to the floor in a state of utter shock and confusion.

  What did I do wrong?

  Chapter One

  1817—Five Years Later

  “Go and find out whether Sor—I mean Lord Wincanton—has arrived,” Eleanor ordered her maid Fran for the third time in the space of an hour. She turned to her friend Caroline. “I keep forgetting he is the earl now.”

  Caroline frowned and patted a fiery red curl back into place. “Earl or not, why you should bother waiting for him is beyond comprehension.”

  “He’s my cousin’s closest friend and our neighbor, and he has just returned home after a long absence.” Going to the mirror, Eleanor gave her tiny, puffed sleeves a final tweak. She had to admit the new gown was very becoming. The deep, square neckline was most flattering, and the long swath of celadon-striped muslin that fell from just beneath her breasts to the tips of her matching beaded slippers was simply divine. “It would be the height of ill manners to begin the festivities without one of our honored guests.”

  Her words had no effect other than to elicit another exasperated sigh. “Some friend,” complained Caroline. “He’s been away for five years.” In the reflection, Eleanor watched as her friend pinched her cheeks to make them pink. “It seems to me his importance might have diminished after so long an interval. Besides, it’s your birthday. Why should you have to share the celebration with anyone, much less a man who means nothing to you?”

  Because the thought of sharing this evening with him made Eleanor want to burst with both joy and trepidation, but she chose not to correct Caroline’s assumption. She glanced at the locked box by the window seat, which contained his letters to her. They had exchanged correspondence throughout his absence, and she’d never shared them with anyone but Charles and Rowena. Caro
line was a good friend but she could be insensitive at times, and those letters were personal and precious.

  “He’s the one being discourteous,” said her obstinate companion. “Holly Hall is but a short distance from here. I cannot think what has delayed him.” She began to pace the room.

  Eleanor smiled. “What’s really bothering you is that Lord Penwaithe’s son is downstairs.”

  As usual, Caroline didn’t bother prevaricating. “He is indeed. At this very moment. And Elizabeth Ann, if I know her, has probably already sunk her claws into him!”

  “Well, you needn’t wait for me,” Eleanor said, chuckling. “Why don’t you go on down? I’ll be along soon enough.”

  An indelicate snort answered the suggestion. “And have you run off? I should think not.”

  “I would never do such a thing to my cousin.” Especially not tonight.

  Another snort. “You would. You hate these things.”

  “I do hate being paraded about like a slightly overripe fruit in danger of spoiling,” Eleanor confessed. “But tonight is not about my cousin trying to marry me off. This is simply the celebration of another year—and the return of a friend.”

  “I still don’t know why they bother to celebrate his return,” grumbled the other girl. “As I recall, he was never much fun. Always so proper. Never a smile or laugh. A sober sack if ever I’ve seen one.”

  “You disparage him, yet you knew him less than a month.”

  A raised auburn brow queried her accusation.

  “It is only because you never understood him,” Eleanor insisted. “He’s reserved, as a gentleman ought to be—a quality one might consider a benefit, as opposed to a fault.” She hadn’t meant that last bit to come out with such sarcasm, but Caroline’s taste in men ran rather unfortunately to the rakish. “I just feel you ought to look to men like him as a proper example.”

  “Proper indeed,” said Caroline with open disdain as she touched perfume to her wrist. Her bright blue eyes narrowed. “Manners are all good and well, but I like a man who laughs every once in a while. Not to mention one who understands this modern age. Remember when Lorraine Montagu was ill and missed a Season? One Season, and she was completely hopeless the following year! Wincanton has been away for five years. It might as well have been fifty.”

  Eleanor bit her tongue. Sorin probably knew more about this “modern age” than many a London dandy. And while it was true he rarely laughed, it didn’t mean he never did. The first time she’d had the occasion to witness it would live in her memory forever. Out of rebellion over being scolded by Rowena for ruining yet another dress, she’d defiantly climbed a tree down by the pond—and had gotten stuck. Naturally, Sorin had been the one to find her. He’d climbed up as far as possible and then had carefully talked her down to meet him. Just before they’d reached the lowest limb, however, she’d lost her grip and had fallen on him, knocking them both into the murky water below. The very cold murky water.

  Instead of being wroth, however, he’d taken one look at her and had started laughing. She’d been covered from head to toe in muck, and he’d laughed until he was nearly blue. After getting over her own wounded pride, she’d laughed, too—for the first time since her parents’ death. It would have been completely wonderful—had she not accidentally broken his nose a moment later while he was helping her up the slippery bank. But, even then, he hadn’t yelled at her.

  Caroline wasn’t quite finished with her rant. “Waiting for his high-and-mightiness to arrive is a complete waste of time. We should already be down there.”

  “Caroline, I will n—”

  The door opened, cutting her off. “His lordship has arrived, my lady,” said Fran.

  “At last,” muttered Caroline, sweeping away.

  After stepping aside to let her pass, the servant leaned back in. “Shall I tell them you’re coming down, my lady?”

  “No, but thank you,” Eleanor said quickly. Nothing, nothing was going to mar her entrance. Tonight was her twenty-first birthday, and by George, she would be a perfect lady for once. Or at least appear to be one.

  “Come on!” said Caroline from the hallway.

  Eleanor followed meekly, but stopped when they neared the stairs. “Will you just check first to make sure the way is clear?”

  Caroline rolled her eyes, but did as asked. “It’s safe enough—no one is looking. I’m going down.” She did so without a backward glance.

  Eleanor listened as the crowd below hushed. Damn. I ought to have gone first. She waited until the murmur of the guests returned. Stomach aflutter, she began her descent.

  Hand grazes the rail rather than gripping it tightly. Head high. Shoulders back. Spine straight. Don’t look at your feet. Six steps down, silence again fell. She forced herself the rest of the way down and paused on the last step to seek out the faces of her guardians.

  “Dearest Eleanor, happy birthday,” said Rowena, coming forward to kiss her cheek.

  “How very generous of you to host this party in my honor,” Eleanor said to her. “I cannot thank you enough for your many kindnesses over the years.” To her surprise, her eyes began to sting. Rowena had indeed been kind. More than kind. Though they were near enough in age to be sisters, she’d been a mother in so many ways.

  Charles beamed as he joined them. “The pleasure is all ours, Cousin Eleanor. Come, let us toast this special day with a glass of champagne.”

  As he turned to seek out a glass for her, another figure came forward, his face as familiar and dear to Eleanor as any on earth, though it had been more than five years since she’d last looked upon it. Sorin. Unlike the other men in this room, his skin was golden—from days spent on the deck of a ship. Faint lines fanned out from the corners of his hazel eyes, and hair that had once been darkest walnut was now tinged with lights from exposure to the sun and the faintest sprinkling of gray at the temples.

  Eleanor sank into a deep curtsy. A perfect curtsy. “Lord Wincanton. How delighted I am to share in celebrating your return home.” Flawless. Just the right tone. Cultured. Polite. No unseemly squeals or unladylike displays.

  Not like last time.

  What an awful day that had been. Though he’d later sought her out to make amends for his ungentle treatment of her, his words had cut her to the quick.

  …I shall always count myself your friend, Ellie—Lady Eleanor, I should say from now on—and much as it pains me, I would be a poor friend indeed did I not speak plainly with you. You are a young lady now and must behave like one. You simply cannot go about hugging men, not even me, lest you risk your good name and that of your guardians. Certainly, I expected you to know better by now. As such, I shall at the first opportunity speak with Ashford regarding your edification on matters of propriety, for you certainly cannot enter London society otherwise…

  To have earned such censure from him, of all people, had been devastating, and the effects had lasted much longer than a mere day.

  Before he could make good on his promise to speak with her cousin, however, Rowena had discovered herself again with child. Unable to make the journey to London, Rowena had arranged for her to stay with her elderly aunt. She’d then prevailed upon Sorin and his mother to help bring her out, as Charles had refused to leave her side. Thus, it had been Sorin rather than Charles who’d presented her at court, Sorin who’d squired her about to various events, and Sorin who’d kept strict watch over her every word and action, correcting her at every turn.

  Much as she adored her friend, Eleanor had found the whole experience most awkward. He—apparently—had found it mortifying. Less than a month into the Season, he’d returned to Somerset without explanation, leaving her with two elderly matrons for company. Upon arriving home, she’d found him cool and distant. Then he’d left again “to see to his family’s foreign investments.” Following that absence, he’d received orders to command a vessel in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. She’d expected his return after Napoleon’s defeat, but it was another two years before he came home
.

  It had taken all her courage to write that first letter and send it enclosed with Charles’s correspondence. Thankfully, he’d written back, and their friendship had resumed. Numerous letters had been exchanged between them since, with “the incident” never mentioned, but she knew he’d not forgotten—any more than she had. And now here he was, and still, it felt awkward.

  Gracefully, she extended her hand—and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She’d forgotten her blasted gloves. Damn that Caroline for being in such a rush! Behaving as though nothing was amiss, she waited, her innards all hollow and wobbly as he bowed, as his hot, dry fingers slid beneath her own. He released her almost immediately and folded his hands behind his back.

  Heat flared in her face, but she held her head high. So not everything was perfect, but no one could possibly remember to follow every one of a thousand rules all of the time! “Tell me, Lord Wincanton, are you planning to remain in England or do you intend to return to the East?”

  Sorin tried hard to ignore the ominous tingling as it spread from his fingers throughout the rest of his body. God have mercy… Could this poised, elegant female possibly be Ellie?

  The silence was becoming conspicuous. He cleared his throat to ease its tightness and spoke through suddenly parched lips. “It would of course please me greatly to never again leave England’s shores, but none of us knows what the future holds. Fate has a way of interfering in the best laid plans.” His plan to stay away until she was safely married had failed miserably.

  “Indeed it does,” she agreed. “But if it is truly your desire to remain, then I should hope Fate will allow it.”

  Though her cheeks were as red as pomegranates, her tone was light and airy. Anyone else might have thought they were two strangers meeting for the first time. In a way, they were. But for all that she had matured, she was still Ellie, and her flush told him she was remembering that conversation. A conversation he desperately wished he could erase.

  “Lord Wincanton?”

  Sorin realized he’d been staring. “My apologies. It is only that I cannot believe how much you’ve changed. It is as though a different person stands before me.” He forced a smile. “Where is the mischief-making pixie who climbed trees and ran about with no bonnet until her nose freckled?”