Scandal of the Season

by Liana Lefey

  Eleanor closed her eyes. What a disaster. She’d wanted nothing more than to end this in a civilized manner, one that would—should—have allowed Yarborough to walk away with his pride and honor intact. If he’d had any to begin with, that is. If he didn’t cooperate…

  “Shall I tell the kitchen to send up some breakfast?” asked Rowena.

  The very mention of food brought on a wave of nausea. “Thank you, but no. Perhaps some tea, but nothing more—for now,” Eleanor amended with a smile, not wishing to upset her any more than she was already.

  “I’ll have Charles inform Lord Marston and Sorin of your decision.” She shook her head. “Poor Sorin was beside himself last night. I know he’ll be especially relieved to learn you are well. You know for a moment, I thought that perhaps…”

  Eleanor’s breath caught at the sight of the sad little smile hovering about Rowena’s mouth. “What? You thought what?” She twisted the coverlet in her hands.

  “In all the many years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him so furious,” said Rowena. “Charles had to physically prevent him leaving here last night once he was certain you were out of danger. Such was his anger over your ill treatment that we both feared he would seek out Yarborough and challenge him.” Her gaze pierced Eleanor. “You are very dear to him, you know.”

  Tender pain blossomed in her heart. But not dear enough. She looked down and began smoothing out the wrinkles she’d put in the coverlet. “As he is to me.” It came out sounding rather strangled.

  Several heartbeats passed in silence before Rowena spoke again. “I’ll see about having tea sent up for you.”

  “Thank you.” Unwilling to raise her watering eyes, she waited until Rowena departed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The knowledge that Sorin had been so angry on her behalf both pleased and frightened her. Guilt crept in alongside the fear. If she hadn’t been trying to make him jealous, this would never have happened. This was her fault for being fool enough to think herself safe with Yarborough under any circumstance. For pity’s sake, he’d drugged her in plain sight of everyone! Had he succeeded in his dreadful scheme, she would no doubt have awakened to the news of her upcoming nuptials.

  If Marston hadn’t found her in time. If Sorin hadn’t secreted her away. If, if, if…

  She had to see him. At once. If only to thank him and know in her heart that he wasn’t wroth with her. And she must write a letter expressing her gratitude to Lord Marston, as well. Scrambling out of bed, she rang for Fran. “Tell Lady Ashford I’ve changed my mind and will come down for breakfast. Tell her, and then come right back and help me dress. Hurry.”

  Eleanor turned to her wardrobe, snatched out her new lavender walking gown, and threw it across the rumpled bed. As she pulled her nightdress off over her head, her thoughts returned to her scandalous dream. The curious floating sensations, the feelings of warmth and safety—and above all the memory of passionate kisses and touches shared with the man she loved.

  Memory…

  Memory?

  Her hands froze in the act of pulling on a stocking. No. Not memory. Vision. Wild imagining. Dream. It was a dream. Only a dream. One by one, she tallied all the many reasons why he would never behave in such a manner, the final being that even if he did by some miracle secretly desire her, he was far too honorable a man to take advantage of her in her weakened state.

  An irony-laden laugh forced its way up from the depths to choke her. No, the images in her mind were no more than a result of longing and lust mingled with whatever Yarborough had slipped into her glass. A mere dream.

  But what a dream! Even now, her body still tingled.

  Standing before the mirror in her stockings and shift, she let her hands trace the shape of her hips, moving up until they cupped her breasts. Her nipples, just visible beneath the near-transparent batiste, were dark, rosy shadows. She closed her eyes and stroked one, imitating the actions Sorin had taken in her erotic dream. Lightning pleasure shot straight down to her belly as the sensitive nub contracted, causing her to gasp.

  It was the same feeling as in the dream, only far less intense. The juncture of her thighs pulsed with sudden heat, making her legs feel weak. Reaching beneath the hem of her shift with a trembling hand, she was shocked to find her secret flesh slick and burning as with a fever. An unbearable tension seemed to build within her at her own touch. What would happen if she were to stroke there as he had?

  The doorknob rattled. With a tiny squeak of guilty fright, Eleanor leaped away from the mirror, snatched up her wrapper, and enfolded herself in it just as Fran entered.

  “Lady Ashford says she’ll have Cook make you something fresh when you come down, my lady.” The maid came over to the bed to fetch the gown that had been carelessly tossed atop it. “She’s been so worried. Said nobody ought to ever eat meat that’s not served hot when away from home.”

  Eleanor breathed a silent sigh of relief. “I can only agree and say that I will certainly never do so again.”

  “Poor thing,” said Fran, looking at her with pity. “Oh, and she also said to tell you Lord Wincanton will be calling later today. Such a nice gentleman he is.”

  “Yes, he is,” Eleanor said absently as Fran helped her don the gown. Would she be able to look him in the eye? Another fear clawed its way to the surface. What if it hadn’t all been a dream? It had certainly seemed very real. What if in her intoxicated state she had behaved inappropriately toward him? Her heart quailed.

  “Eleanor?”

  Turning, she saw Caroline peeking in from the doorway with eyes full of worry. “I’m perfectly fine,” she said at once, reaching out to embrace her friend as she entered.

  “When I heard what happened, I—” Caroline drew back to search her face. “They told me you left the ball ill,” she breathed, one eye on Fran, who was just leaving. She waited until the door closed before continuing. “Lady Ashford asked Lady Heston if she would mind taking me home after the ball, so I knew nothing until after I arrived.” Her eyes narrowed in fury. “The beast ought to be hung!”

  “I cannot say that I disagree with you,” Eleanor replied, grimacing. “But no matter how much I would love to see him brought to justice, we must avoid a scandal. I’m surprised Rowena told you what really happened.”

  Caroline’s face flushed. “In truth, she did not. When I came in, I heard Lord Marston speaking to Lord Ashford and remained hidden so they would not see me. I know I ought not to have listened, but I could not help myself. I was completely horrified and so very angry for you! I had to wait until they moved on before I could go up to your room.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Lord Wincanton was here with you when I came in.”

  “He was?” Hope flared in Eleanor’s heart as her friend nodded.

  “Yes, and his distress frightened me terribly. I thought that perhaps…” She paused, and Eleanor saw tears form in her eyes. “I thought you’d died. But as soon as he saw me, he assured me you were not in danger and that you would recover fully. And then he told me that I must have nothing more to do with the Yarboroughs—and why.” Her blue eyes burned with hatred through their bright veil of tears. “You may be confident that I shall never again speak to either of them!”

  “Caroline, you must never tell anyone what really happened,” Eleanor urged. “Promise me!”

  “I already promised the same to Lord Wincanton, but I’m happy to make the same vow to you.”

  Relieved, Eleanor again embraced her friend. “Thank you.”

  “I pray that pig Yarborough gets what he deserves,” muttered the redhead, hugging her back fiercely. “I hope he’s forced to marry Lottie Winthrop!” she burst out. “She’d be a perfect match for him, the horrid little cow.”

  In spite of being almost overwhelmed by doubt and fear, Eleanor began to giggle. Miss Winthrop was truly not a very nice person, but even so, she wouldn’t wish anyone, even Lottie, to be stuck with the likes of Donald Yarborough for a husband.

  With patience worn thin as parchment
, Sorin waited, one eye on the mantel clock. Rowena had sent a note this morning to tell him Ellie was fine, but he needed to see for himself. He also needed to speak with Charles. How that conversation went would depend upon how much she remembered and her feelings about it.

  Stafford had not disappointed him this time. Just thinking about what he’d learned made Sorin’s jaw tighten. It might not be his place to challenge Yarborough openly—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find another way to get to the bastard. And he had.

  Angry over having been cheated out of his fee, one of Yarborough’s solicitors had provided evidence concerning an illegal investment Yarborough had made with the aid of a rival solicitor. Under a false name, Yarborough had taken some of the proceeds from the sale of his Irish property and invested in a “coffee farm” that was, in fact, a slave operation. Things had gone sour, however, and his investment had not provided adequate returns. He was in imminent danger of bankruptcy.

  This same informant also claimed Yarborough had made some interesting inquiries of a junior clerk employed by Ashford’s solicitor—inquiries specifically regarding the amount of Eleanor’s inheritance. Yarborough had not been given exact information, but he’d learned enough to know that marrying her would enable him to pay all of his debts and live quite well on annual dividends from the remainder.

  Even if Eleanor decided not to prosecute, and he didn’t think she would, Yarborough was still on the wrong side of the crown. And Sorin was going to make certain the blackguard saw the full measure of consequences for his crimes.

  Alerted by the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned to see Eleanor. Her smile was subdued, but she was clearly pleased to see him. Like a cool rain, relief washed over him. Either she didn’t remember anything of his actions last night—or she returned his affection for her in kind. If the former, he would allow her to remain in blissful ignorance of his imposition. If the latter, he was prepared to drop knee this instant. The ring practically burned a hole in his pocket. “Ellie, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you well.”

  “Thanks in part to you, as I understand it,” she replied. “I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude. Had it not been for you and Lord Marston—”

  “Think nothing of it.” Please…

  Her brow furrowed. “Such a selfless act cannot be considered insignificant.” She looked to the floor, but not before he saw a blush begin to stain her cheeks. “Had I been more prudent, my rescue would not have been necessary. And had you been less discreet, I would be facing an entirely different situation than the one I do now.”

  A selfless act. Again, he was struck low by shame. And—if he was honest with himself—sore disappointment. It was at once evident that their passionate interlude was, for her, lost to oblivion. No hidden amour for him dwelt in her breast. It’s for the best, he told himself, overriding the protest of his heart, which felt like someone was trying to tear it from its mooring.

  It took him a moment to gather his wits enough to speak. “I’m honored to have been able to render assistance. As is Marston, I’m sure. Which reminds me…” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sealed envelope. The ring, he left concealed. “He came by this morning and asked me to deliver this to Miss Caroline. I believe it may be a final effort to reconcile differences.”

  With ginger fingers she took it. A twinge of unease ran through him at how careful she was to avoid touching him. He brushed it off. It was only natural that she would now be reluctant to make physical contact with any man.

  “I cannot break the confidence with which I’ve been entrusted,” she said, her voice breaking a little as she looked up at him. “But I can tell you that this letter will be most welcome. Thank you for bringing it.”

  Before he could respond, Charles walked in and the moment was lost amid friendly greetings and more undeserved thanks.

  “Gentlemen,” interrupted Eleanor. “If you will excuse me, there is something I must see to at once.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Charles, dismissing her with an impatient wave. “We have business to discuss, anyway.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Business concerning Yarborough?”

  “Yes,” said Charles after a moment’s pause. “Rowena told me you’d agreed to have me speak with him privately rather than haul him up before the magistrate. Is that truly what you want?”

  “I wish to avoid a scandal,” she said with calm that was belied by her worried eyes.

  Sorin’s temper flared. “If there is a scandal, you won’t be the cause of it. The fault will be entirely his.”

  “Regardless of who is at fault, a scandal would impact more than just me,” she answered back. “There are others to consider.” Turning to her cousin, she dipped a curtsy. “I shall leave you to your discussion.”

  “What news?” asked Charles as soon as the door closed behind her.

  Prevaricating would serve no purpose. “Yarborough is due to be arrested tomorrow morning.”

  “What? But I just agreed not to—”

  “For reasons having nothing to do with Eleanor,” Sorin interjected. He then told him what he’d learned that morning. “He’ll be sent to a penal colony—if he’s lucky enough to escape the noose,” he said, taking grim satisfaction in the pronouncement.

  “George’s gouty toe,” swore Charles softly. He frowned. “Wait. Why tomorrow and not immediately?”

  “Stafford agreed to wait until morning because I asked him for time so I might warn you. It is my hope that Yarborough will simply blame his creditors, but if he learns of my friendship with Stafford, he’ll rightly assume that I was involved. Given recent events, he might also suspect you.”

  Charles regarded him with sharp eyes. “And if Yarborough thinks we have anything to do with his arrest…”

  “He might attempt revenge of some kind,” Sorin finished for him. “The most obvious means of getting at either of us would be to threaten Eleanor. It would be an easy matter to spread lies from the confines of his cell and tarnish her good name.”

  “Perhaps, but I shan’t worry much over it,” said Charles, shrugging. “Who would believe the words of a traitor?” He squared his shoulders. “Well, if the blackguard is to be arrested tomorrow, then I fail to see the point in speaking to him today. I’ll go and tell El—”

  “You cannot,” Sorin interrupted. “You must go and confront him.”

  “Why? As of now, the events of last night are known only to a very few. Why not simply let the matter rest?”

  “Because we don’t know who else saw them. Marston said there were witnesses. He knew none of them, but that does not mean Ellie went unrecognized. And because we don’t know who he may have talked to about last night, and because he’ll expect you to come pounding on his door in a state of righteous anger. If it does not happen, he’ll wonder why,” Sorin stressed. “Then, when they come for him tomorrow…”

  Crestfallen, his friend nodded understanding. “Very well. I shall leave at once. Better to have done with the nasty business quickly. What should I tell Rowena and Eleanor?”

  “Nothing,” Sorin replied. “The less they know the better. When you see Yarborough, you must give no hint that you know what is to happen. If he is forewarned, he will flee.”

  “Either way, the man is finished,” Charles told him with a humorless chuckle. “In truth, I care not what happens to the bastard as long as he troubles us no more.”

  “I can find nothing to disagree with in that statement.”

  But that night as he sat before the fire at his favorite club nursing his aching heart and his third brandy with Marston, Sorin began to care. He began to care very much indeed.

  A group of rowdy young men intent on making merry came in and seated themselves a few tables away behind them. Their noisy discussion informed all in the room that they were recently come from taking their pleasure in Covent Garden. Ribald jests were traded, as well as some good-natured ribbing about a particularly buxom barmaid.

  “Come, let us leave and g
o somewhere less crowded,” said Marston, draining his glass.

  Before he could stand, however, Sorin heard Yarborough’s obnoxious voice rise above the others, boasting about how he’d lifted the barmaid’s skirts. Sorin’s blood heated, and he resettled himself. “I won’t be driven from my place by such as him, lest everyone think me craven,” he told Marston, who was looking at him askance.

  “What does it matter what anyone thinks?” hissed his friend. “By this time tomorrow he’ll be bragging to the rats in his cell!”

  Sorin eyed him for a moment. Pride and sheer stubbornness urged him to remain. But reason won out. “You’re right, of course. Come. Let us go someplace less polluted.” But just as he again prepared to stand, raucous laughter broke out behind him.

  “I heard a somewhat different tale,” said one of the men in Yarborough’s party. “I heard that her-high-and-mightiness left early after taking ill.”

  There was a derisive snort, Yarborough’s. “If she was ill, then I’m the king’s long-lost twin. The lady in question was the epitome of robust health, I tell you. Thankfully, her little swooning act seems to have fooled everyone. Truth be told, I’m just glad her cousin failed to call me out over the incident when he came to see me—or worse, force me to marry her.”

  Sorin gripped the arms of his chair until the wood creaked softly in protest. All the pain of this morning’s disappointment came flooding back, along with all his wrath over how Ellie had been treated by the bastard. That this swaggering imbecile should speak so of her, when any man would be more than blessed to call her his wife…

  “Force?” said another of Yarborough’s companions. “I should dance down the bloody aisle to be so lucky! The wench brings a fortune with her, and she’s not bad looking either. I’d certainly not mind playing a bit of bread and butter with her.”

  Another round of laughter followed, as well as a few more ripe comments from the men. Again, Yarborough’s voice rose above the others. “Yes, yes. Her fortune might tempt another, less discerning man, but I tell you there is not money enough in the world to make me want to marry that succubus. Her…appetites are such that I’d never know if the babe in her belly was my get or a footman’s.”