It Started with a Scandal

by Julie Anne Long

  And yet, if he recalled correctly, she wasn’t entirely insufferable.

  He wove through his guests toward her, casually, leisurely. Pausing to greet everyone, introduce himself, exchange a few words, to thank them for coming, to entreat them to have a wonderful time. Charming as effortlessly as he always had.

  Alexandra watched his progress.

  When he arrived, her smile was brilliant and genuine.

  “You always surprise, Alexa. Just when I think I’ve grown accustomed to your beauty . . .” He mimed an arrow to the heart.

  She laughed and tapped him lightly with her fan, letting it linger—­an action very much equivalent to a child seizing a toy and declaring, “Mine!” And she hoped every woman there saw it.

  She wore ice blue silk, nearly the identical shade of her eyes. She hadn’t acquired the dress through ingenuity or barter. She’d acquired it through money, and she had a staggering amount of it. Her honey-­colored hair was bound in an intricate network of narrow little braids that latticed across the back of her head, and were pinned with what appeared to be diamonds. The net effect was exquisite and had likely required the cooperation of four maids working in skilled tandem. He wondered if there was a sort of secret Tattersalls for such maids that only women were allowed to attend.

  Two very deliberate, very fetching curls flanked her cheekbones.

  There would never be any accidental curls for Lady Prideux.

  Very little of what she did was accidental.

  He pictured a spiral of escaped black hair against a pale cheek and felt instantly restless.

  He cast a glance up the stairs, though in all likelihood Elise was in the kitchen, or perhaps in the withdrawing room, assisting women with torn hems and collapsing coiffures.

  “You’re looking very dashing, Philippe. You do only seem to improve with age. My father is saving a brandy for that very reason. I suspect he’ll taste it on his deathbed and will die very happy indeed.”

  Philippe laughed. “I hope you don’t intend to save me for your deathbed, Alexandra.”

  “I prefer not to delay gratification, when at all possible.”

  He recalled now how Alexandra had always possessed a preternatural confidence and liked to consider herself outrageous and modern. He’d once found it amusing; he’d indulged her, the way he’d indulge a kitten for climbing his pant leg. For some reason it now felt a bit like . . . being at a picnic during which the sun blazed relentlessly down. Wearing.

  And if ever there was a virgin, it was Alexandra.

  But Philippe knew he remained a prize. He was still a Bourbon, if a Bourbon more distant from the French court. And it was something Alexandra had always aspired to be.

  “Such a splendid touch, your footmen wearing livery so similar to that of Les Pierres d’Argent, Philippe.”

  “Yes, it does make it feel more like . . . home.”

  He was surprised to realize that this was exactly true.

  “Nothing is as magnificent as Les Pierres d’Argent, Philippe. I always imagined myself living there.”

  It was certainly an opportunity to say, And one day soon perhaps you will.

  A few months ago, during this same conversation, he might have said it.

  He couldn’t quite force the necessary words, and so a funny little silence ticked by.

  Her smile grew slightly strained.

  “I did hope you’d share a waltz with me,” he said instead.

  “Surely there will be more than one waltz to share.” She sounded a trifle uncertain now.

  “Ah, but you must not be greedy, my dear Alexandra. I am the host and I am in demand, and surely you of all ­people know how delightful I can be. And surely one or two of the gentlemen here would cherish for a lifetime the memory of dancing with you?”

  It returned to him so naturally, the flattery, the charm. He found himself hoping he couldn’t manipulate her so easily with it.

  She pouted a little, charmingly and entirely unconvincingly. “Very well.”

  “I shall, however, save the best for last, Alexandra.”

  Best not to let Alexandra become too sure of herself.

  He bowed over her hand and went off in search of the Earl of Ardmay, because they needed to bring to a close a certain matter. And what the earl had to say would come to bear on whatever happened with Alexandra.

  And even though he was a brilliant navigator, somehow his search for the earl led him to the lady’s withdrawing room.

  ELISE AND HER staff had transformed a small room near the ballroom into a cloak and lady’s withdrawing room by hanging a large horizontal mirror and arraying chairs before it, then fashioning a closet of sorts by cleverly partitioning the corner near the door with a curtain. Elise began her evening here, greeting ladies who streamed in in their finery, accepting cloaks and shawls and pelisses to hang, while Kitty and Mary put finishing artistic touches on the sandwiches and tarts heaped on tables in the ballroom.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Fountain,” came a low voice from behind the curtain.

  Her heart leaped and Elise whirled toward Philippe just as a guest was thrusting a shawl at her. The woman toppled forward, her destination the floor, arms flailing. Philippe lunged out and caught her before she landed on all fours.

  He set her upright, and Elise gave her a warm smile.

  “You won’t want to miss the waltz,” he confided to the woman. “They’ll play it soon. Best run!”

  The woman was so startled that she obeyed him and took off at a dash.

  Elise was struggling not to laugh.

  “You see, the women are already falling all over me.”

  She ignored this. “Good evening, Lord Lavay. You slipped in quite stealthily. You look very dashing.”

  He in fact looked heart-­stoppingly, breath-­stoppingly handsome.

  “Don’t I?” He smiled. “I believe I smell wonderful, too.”

  If he was going to smile at her like that, and say things like that, they would be off again, enjoying each other as if no one else in the world existed, and that would simply never do. She took an unconscious step back as if to make room for all the feelings he brought into the room with him. She reflexively thrust out an arm to accept another cloak handed over to her.

  She strived for dispassionate distance. “Do you have a cloak for me to collect, Lord Lavay? Have you questions, or do you need assistance?”

  “The hall looks beautiful. Thank you for your hard work.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “And I want to thank you again for your assistance with the waltz, as I shall embark upon it any number of times this evening with confidence. But I believe that you and I, Mrs. Fountain, are now engaged in something like a reel.”

  She sucked in a surprised breath.

  Because she understood.

  Meeting and parting. Meeting and parting. Meeting and parting.

  Their eyes met.

  And just like that, all at once they might as well have been the last two ­people in the world, even as cheerful assembly-­goers milled around her.

  Another cloak was extended to her.

  She didn’t see it.

  The woman gave it a shake in an attempt to get her attention.

  Elise snatched it from her. Then turned a warm smile on the startled woman.

  “Do you intend to be French tonight?” she murmured to Lavay.

  It was a parry of sorts.

  “Isn’t that what you wished for me, Mrs. Fountain?” he countered softly.

  Something complex sizzled instantly between them.

  Every reel eventually ended.

  The notion of an ending jarred Elise back into awareness. She turned to find a veritable bouquet of arms holding shawls out to her. The owners of those arms might even have spoken to her. If they had, neither she nor P
hilippe had heard it.

  She retrieved all of them. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said to the ladies. “You all look so very beautiful. Thank you.”

  The ladies then clustered about the mirror to pat coiffures and shake out dresses crushed in carriages. Then they sailed out, wreathed in smiles and radiating anticipation.

  Elise squared her shoulders. “Lord Lavay, your guests will find ratafia and fruit punch in the ballroom, sandwiches enough to feed an army, jam tarts that would impress any palate, I believe, and a fair enough orchestra that might play a little quickly unless you give the violinist enough to drink, but if you give him too much to drink, he might become maudlin and then fight. Ramsey and James will patrol the ballroom and help eject anyone who becomes too obnoxious, as well as monitor the state of the food and drink. You best hurry, or you will miss the first waltz.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fountain. Whatever would I do without you?”

  “I assume the question is rhetorical.”

  He smiled at her, and her heart turned slowly over in supplication.

  He made no move to go.

  So she did what she knew she had to do: she turned her back on him and walked away, toward the mirror, in a great pretense of fussing with her hair.

  As if she was releasing him back into his habitat.

  PHILIPPE AT LAST restlessly made his way back to the ballroom, which now seemed duller and dimmer by contrast to the small cloakroom—­or any room, really—­that contained Elise Fountain.

  He fortuitously found the Earl of Ardmay helping himself to ratafia with something less than enthusiasm.

  “Do you remember a ball nearly two years ago, Flint, where I overheard a group of young women speculating about the size of your . . . what was it . . . ‘masculine blessing’?”

  Flint nearly spit out his ratafia.

  “It’s best spit out,” Lavay sympathized. “I will not object.”

  “Where I first danced with my wife. Of course.”

  “More accurately, I first danced with her. And then you danced with her.”

  “Perverse creature that she is, Violet preferred me.”

  “Proof that destiny is on your side, my friend, as no one else would have either of you.”

  “If destiny is a wheel, it was bound to turn in my direction eventually. And yours. And speaking of destiny, Lavay . . .”

  The pause, with its hint of reluctance and apology, was all that was necessary for Philippe to know the truth.

  “You don’t have to say it, Flint. I know.”

  Philippe had been prepared for the answer, yet it was no less unwelcome:

  The earl didn’t want to participate in the latest assignment from the king.

  “I’m sorry, old man. Truly.” Flint knew exactly what that money, and the assignment, meant to Lavay. “A large part of me wants to do it, and not just because of the money. The rest of me, the part that never had a family, never wants to leave their side again.”

  “You don’t have to explain.” But Philippe said it abstractedly. He was still absorbing the impact of the decision.

  “And I know how to keep us from starving, Lavay. Even prospering, eventually. We can join Jonathan Redmond’s new investment group. Right now they’re looking at cargos of Indian spices, teas and silks, and we can use the Fortuna for transport. We wouldn’t have to crew the ship, but we can hire our own captain and crew. But potential profits are months away. I do know you need them sooner.”

  An understatement, to be sure. Monsieur LeGrande would sell Les Pierres d’Argent if Philippe didn’t have the funds inside a month.

  Lavay almost unconsciously turned toward Alexandra. Who was occupied in enchanting some young man whose name Philippe had already forgotten.

  Odd, but he didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy.

  “Will you do the assignment now? Search out a substitute for my role in it? As if any could be found.” Flint tried for a jest.

  “I don’t know,” Philippe said absently. He truly didn’t.

  “You should marry, Philippe,” the earl said, following the direction of his gaze. “You’re lonely.”

  As a matter of formality, Philippe snorted at such an unmanly assertion. They both knew the earl was right, however.

  They said nothing for a moment.

  “Do you think,” Philippe said slowly, “that marrying the wrong person can make you feel lonelier?”

  This made the earl turn his head slowly to study Philippe.

  Philippe carefully did not meet his eyes.

  “All I can tell you is this. I was an orphan. And remember, I married the only person who would have me. But I can tell you that it’s infinitely better to feel as though you belong to something. Or someone. And I think you know that all too well, too.”

  Philippe said nothing. His eyes flicked toward the withdrawing room, and just the thought of Elise was like a taste of something sweet and narcotic. It made him feel better, freer, more peaceful, for just that moment.

  “You’re smiling now at something. What is it? Who is she?” the earl demanded.

  Philippe turned to him, resignation and surrender on his face. Confirmation.

  But he wasn’t about to give up her name.

  The earl gave a soft snort.

  “This is another thing I know, Lavay. There was a time when I thought I would need to live without Violet, and you know this, too. She was worth the sacrifice.”

  “Every man has a different definition of sacrifice, I believe.”

  “Agreed,” Ardmay said easily enough.

  “Do you think Lyon Redmond still loves Olivia Eversea, Flint?”

  “Did we always have these kinds of talks before we became old men?”

  “We’re not old. Just a bit worn.”

  Flint laughed. “I think loving Olivia Eversea has been a part of who Lyon Redmond is for so long that even he likely doesn’t know. Why?”

  Lavay gave a short nod. “Since we’re talking of love and sacrifice, I simply wondered.”

  They fell silent again.

  “Limbo is a horrible place to be,” Flint said. It sounded like commiseration.

  Lavay wondered if Olivia Eversea was in limbo.

  “Agreed,” Lavay said. “Go dance with your wife, Ardmay. I’m going to dance with Olivia Eversea.”

  Chapter 18

  HE FOUND HER BY a process of deduction: she was surrounded by Everseas he recognized—­Colin, Marcus, Chase, and their wives.

  From a distance, the storied Olivia was petite and porcelain-­skinned, fragile yet somehow regal, like a fairy queen, in deep blue. Closer he could see that she was a bit too thin, which made her eyes large and bright in her face. She was like a jewel, faceted, sparkling, hard, remote.

  “Lavay!” Lord Landsdowne, her fiancé, greeted him. “Thank you. Such a pleasure to see you looking well.”

  Philippe exchanged bows with all of them.

  “Thank you, Landsdowne. And thank you, Miss Eversea, for coming this evening. I wondered if you would be so kind as to give me this dance?”

  “To reward you for interrupting the winter doldrums with an assembly, there’s little I wouldn’t do. I would be delighted. You won’t mind?” she said to Landsdowne.

  “Of course not.”

  He probably did, but the woman was going to be his for the rest of his life, and Philippe wanted to know why Olivia had said yes to that proposition.

  Because this was the woman for whom Lyon Redmond was engaged in staggeringly dangerous heroics. The woman who had allegedly broken his heart and caused him to disappear, stirring the centuries-­old enmity between the Redmonds and Everseas, and making her the subject of the alleged curse: that an Eversea and a Redmond were destined to fall in love once per generation, with disastrous results. Lyon Redmond had abandoned his family and birthright
to prove himself worthy of this woman.

  And Lyon Redmond, as of two months ago, had been in London.

  “May I congratulate you again on your engagement, Miss Eversea?”

  “Thank you, Lord Lavay. And are congratulations for your own in order?”

  He’d heard that she was disconcertingly direct, Miss Eversea, which, combined with her alarming good looks and her penchant for passionately taking up causes, particularly antislavery causes, frightened off all but the most stalwart of men. A tactic she’d employed in part as a defense, Lavay suspected, as Lyon Redmond had taken her heart when he’d left and she wished to be left alone so that no one would notice her heart was gone.

  The little orchestra was surprisingly competent, and a man with dramatic dark curls was teasing pathos from the “Sussex Waltz” with a violin. Philippe and Olivia had circled the ballroom twice now. In his peripheral vision, other ­couples spiraled around them. Like clockwork gears.

  She hadn’t once looked at Landsdowne.

  Not a single glance toward him.

  Landsdowne had never truly taken his eyes off her, even as he exchanged pleasantries with other guests. As if she was true north.

  “Have you chosen a date for the wedding yet, Miss Eversea?”

  “Spring, which will allow for all of our guests to travel comfortably. The second Saturday in May.”

  “Will you be married here in Pennyroyal Green?”

  “So many questions about my nuptials for a man who claims his aren’t imminent. Yes.”

  “One must prepare for the inevitable by doing the proper research.”

  She laughed.

  It was easy to see how Olivia captivated. A sort of effortless intelligence, and charm, a hint of impatience that suggested she would never gladly suffer fools, that suggested she knew so few men who were anything other than that.

  He wondered what Olivia Eversea would do if he told her that no less than two months ago, by the dark of the moon, Lavay had looked up into the blue eyes of Lyon Redmond from the ground where he lay bleeding. ”You won’t die.” Redmond had issued the words with steely calm. He was a man accustomed to commanding all manner of things, even death. A man much like Philippe. A man to whom Lavay owed his life.