by Jade Lee
“Do tell us more about India, Brandon. It sounds quite wild and fascinating.”
Brandon frowned, obviously thrown. Probably because he’d been back from India for a year and a half now, but he shrugged and complied. “They have a market called a bazaar. The noise was deafening and the smells . . . In that hot climate, the smells can become quite pungent.”
“But you liked it, didn’t you?” the woman pressed. “I distinctly recall you wrote that it was thrilling.”
Brandon didn’t comment. If anything, his face tightened into a grimace, though Scher couldn’t tell if it was because of his aunt’s probing or because of the tepid fish soup being set before him. Scher took a few dutiful sips from her bowl, but Brandon did not even try.
“Curry,” he abruptly said as he waved the soup away. “They have quite the fondness for curry. And such colors as I have not seen, all mishmashed together.”
“But you made a vast amount of money there, right?” continued his aunt. She seemed to be able to drink soup and speak at the same time as she at last turned her attention to Scher. “Don’t you think that would be amazing, Miss Martin? To wear exquisite clothes in India?”
Scher nodded politely. “I’m sure it is a fascinating country—”
“There is money practically littering the street. All you have to do is scoop it up! I think anyone with the means ought to go there as soon as possible! Before the opportunities are all gone.”
Scher blinked. Did the woman think Scher would pack her bags right then and disappear to India? Just like that?
From the top of the table, Kit pushed away his own soup. “Would you like to live there, Miss Martin? After we’re wed? I’m not sure I could stand seeing animals in the middle of the street, and it is beastly hot. But if there is money to be made, I should like to consider it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his mother snapped. “You would hate it there.”
Scher felt her eyebrows raise despite her resolution to be completely demure. Surely her plan was not so crude as that? To get rid of Scher simply by saying there was money in India? “Of course, I should adore to live wherever you wish to go,” she said smoothly to her fiancé.
Kit’s grandmother smiled benignly down the table. “That was a lovely response, Miss Martin. A woman should always be directed by her husband.”
Scher was just framing a response when the countess released a delicate snort. “What an insipid answer. I would have thought you could come up with better, given your parentage.”
Scher didn’t laugh. She had expected to be picked at from all angles, but she was tired of playing the demure miss. It was time to start her own assault. She leaned forward with her first true smile. “Ah, but you did not ask my parents. My mother would respond that bizarre customs are the greatest inspiration to art. And she would say it with a florid arm gesture. What my father would say shall be left to your imagination.” It was left to everyone’s imagination as she had no idea who her father was.
Meanwhile, Brandon waved a lazy hand. “I feel compelled to add that there is not money lying about the streets of India. Orphans and cripples are more the norm.”
“Still,” murmured Kit, his forehead puckered in thought. “If there is money to be made, I shouldn’t mind traveling a bit. England can be quite stifling at times.”
“Indeed,” spoke up the earl from the foot of the table. “I believe that is exactly what Brandon once said.”
“And what an ignorant fool I was,” Brandon murmured. Scher wasn’t sure if everyone heard him, but she certainly did. Not that she could inquire as Kit’s grandmother made her own florid gesture at the footman to remove the soup dishes.
“We have returned to the vulgar again,” the elderly woman drawled. “Miss Martin, I should perhaps have to instruct you that polite conversation does not include the topic of money.”
Scheherazade bit back her tart response. In point of fact, it had been Kit’s mother who’d begun this discussion, but she knew better than to challenge the reigning matriarch. So she dipped her chin.
“Of course, my lady. I am most grateful for your education.”
Brandon shot her a surprised look. Meanwhile, Kit touched his grandmother’s arm. “I say, Grandmama, that’s hardly fair—”
“Tut-tut, Kit,” interrupted his mother with what was probably meant to be a smile. “Do not belabor the point. She has apologized and learned something as well.”
For a moment, Scheherazade thought that Kit would fight his grandmother on her behalf. He had made the initial attempt, but after a glare from his mother, he subsided into a mulish silence. Scheherazade suppressed her sigh. Kit was not handling this well. In that one exchange, he showed that he knew they were treating her badly but was unequal to the task of defending her to his mother. Well, she was hardly surprised by that, still she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Could she not have a man defend her honor just once? Could not someone else fight the battle for her?
Pushing aside her self-indulgent thoughts, she turned her attention to the battle, mentally tallying her allies and enemies. The mother and countess were against her, that much was expected. Kit’s grandmother was an unknown, but as Scher had little experience in turning a proper lady into an ally, she decided to ignore the females and lead with her strengths. She would focus on the men, most especially the earl. He was the head of the family, his parents having both died of a fever some years before. Fortunately, he was seated to her right and so she smiled warmly at him.
Bad choice! His wife Lily sat directly across from her and stiffened most noticeably. Scheherazade immediately chilled her expression. She would need to appear friendly, but not too friendly. But how did one converse politely with an earl? If she were at the Tavern Playhouse, she would simply offer him a service or inquire as to how he liked the show. Given that they were in his grandmother’s dining room, she had to find something else to discuss.
“I understand you are sponsoring a bill in the House of Lords against slavery. Have you always been an admirer of Mister Wilberforce?”
She thought it was a perfect topic. Lord Thornedale was known to be involved in politics, had supported the antislavery movement, though not as loudly as others, and what man didn’t enjoy talking about his life’s work? But when Scheherazade waited politely for him to start talking, the earl stared at her in shock. As did everyone else at the table.
Scher turned slowly around, scanning each face for a clue. Even Kit seemed completely blank.
“I have been the supporter of Mister Wilberforce,” Brandon said softly. “My brother prefers a less reform-oriented policy.”
“Truly?” she said. Had she confused the two brothers’ politics? She hadn’t thought so, but now she was committed to this line of conversation. “But what a wonderful thing that two brothers can disagree on politics and still be brothers! Do you debate with one another often? Or just choose not to talk about it?”
Brandon leaned forward, his eyes dancing with merriment. “Ah, well, that’s the problem. I can never tell with Michael. Some days he wishes to talk cows, and the next day slavery.”
“I find an unrelenting focus on one thing to be tedious,” his brother responded flatly.
“When a country treats a cow better than a man, then perhaps there is a fundamental problem.”
“I see,” she inserted smoothly. She wanted them talking, not coming to blows. “Viscount Blackstone keeps a steady eye on the reforming prize,” she said with a wink to Brandon. “While Lord Thornedale wields a more balanced hand. How wonderful it is that the body politic needs both of you!”
Success! Both men turned to her, their expressions varying degrees of surprise and relief that she had found a way to ease them away from an argument. If this were the Green Room, they would have smiled and deferred to her. But she was not the reigning hostess here. That was their Grandmother, who snorted from the top of the table.
“Are you a close follower of politics, Miss Martin? I find that especially
disreputable in a woman, you know. Too much familiarity with the common elements.”
Scheherazade waited a respectful moment. She pretended to be thinking deeply about the lady’s comment, but truly, she was waiting to see Kit’s reaction. Would he want her to disavow any understanding of the issues of the day? Would he prefer she cede politics to the men? Or did he value her mind as he claimed?
Typically, he said nothing. She got the unfortunate feeling he was waiting to see how the others reacted to decide on his opinion. Which left it up to her again, and so she smiled brightly while phrasing a deferential answer in her mind. Unfortunately, she never got to use it as Brandon pushed forward.
“But don’t you see, Grandmama, any government that doesn’t understand its people is doomed.”
“An understanding?” inserted Countess Thornedale from beside her husband. She spoke softly as befitted the wife of an earl, but everyone heard her clearly. “What is there to understand? They require bread, a home, and the chance to ply their trade.”
“Do you find that true of your servants?” retorted Brandon with a hard edge to his voice. “Are there no petty rivalries, no squabbles, no tensions among your staff? Ever?”
“There is always silliness among the staff. I try not to involve myself in it, but it is necessary at times.”
“Now imagine that type of bickering on a grander scale. That of a whole country. What if you as governor had no understanding of why those arguments existed? And if one of those servants was a thief or a murderer? What would you do then?”
Brandon’s voice was tight with anger. It was not liquor because Lord Blackstone did not drink. Clearly, there was some other wound here.
“Now see what you have done, Miss Martin?” Kit’s mother inserted with a huff. “You have brought everyone to murder!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Aunt Adelia,” snapped the earl. “Miss Martin has done nothing but encourage Brandon in his politics, and that is never a good thing.”
Scheherazade didn’t speak at first. She was too busy pressing a hand to Brandon’s leg beneath the table. He was practically vibrating with fury, and she feared he would do something unseemly. It would be bad for him, of course, but completely ruinous for her, as whatever he did would be squarely blamed on her. So she gripped Brandon’s hard thigh beneath the table, hoping to restrain him from below while she went on the offensive above. It was time to become more bold in her determination to wed Kit despite all the harridans that surrounded them.
“Yes, politics can be a heated subject,” she said, “one probably best left to the men. Obviously, I could never be a political wife. My birth makes that an impossibility. But there is much that a woman of vast fortune can do. Either to support someone’s political ambitions”—she glanced warmly at the earl—“or to embark upon grand adventures in other countries.” She smiled up at Kit, not daring to look at Brandon who clearly thought India was something far darker than an adventure. “So shall we discuss this later, Kit? Exactly where and how we shall invest my fortune?”
“Of course, my dear,” Kit responded immediately. “I’m pleased that you value my advice.”
“Vast fortune?” drawled Kit’s mother. “I assure you, Miss Martin, that a few hundred pounds in your coffers likely feels like a vast fortune. But in our set—”
“My lady,” Scher responded tightly. “Do you not understand? I spend a few hundred pounds daily. I have simply chosen to spend it in support of my mother’s playhouse. But lately, Kit has been expanding my thoughts to a new stage, so to speak.”
“Can it be possible?” mused the grandmother as she turned to look at Kit. “Have you found yourself an heiress?”
“Impossible!” snapped Kit’s mother.
“Oh, but she is,” said Brandon. Beneath the table, he wrapped her hand in his and squeezed. Scher had no idea what his message was. His leg was still as tight as it was a few moments ago. There was no lessening in his fury for all that his voice had dropped to a silky drawl. “Did you really think Kit a total idiot?”
“Well, of course not,” snapped Aunt Adelia. “He’s just a little naïve, is all. Taken in by—”
“Do not say it, Aunt.” Brandon’s words vibrated with warning. Surprisingly, Kit’s mother stopped speaking, her mouth hanging open in shock at his tone. Meanwhile, Brandon continued speaking while his gaze scorched everyone at the table. “She is kind, rich, has a sweet wit, and an unfortunate birth. But Kit is no prize. Accept her and she may deign to loan you some of her money some day.”
To the right, the earl stiffened in outrage. “We have no need of money from the likes of her!”
“Really,” drawled Brandon. “Not you perhaps, but what of her?” His gaze slid unerringly to Kit’s mother, who flushed a bright red. Then he lowered his voice until he was almost gentle. Beneath the table, his body slowly released as well, and his fingers began to stroke the inside of her wrist with the gentlest of touches. “Aunt Adelia, look at your son. Can you not think to give him this happiness?”
There was a moment when Scher thought it would work. Kit’s mother lifted her chin and took a long look at Kit. Then her eyes slid slowly around the table, presumably to look at Scher. But she stopped short, her gaze halting on Brandon. “It is for him that I do this,” she said stiffly.
“Then you are a fool,” he said. Below the table, he moved away from her wrist, choosing instead to entwine her fingers with his.
Meanwhile, Kit stiffened as all eyes turned toward him, clearly wondering if he too would defend Scher. But before he could speak, Grandmama set down her spoon with a loud click.
“Outrageous, Brandon! Wherever did you get such ideas?”
Below the table, Brandon’s leg twitched as if he had been slapped, but his body above the table remained absolutely still. Meanwhile, Kit now took his moment. He threw down his napkin with dramatic flair, then stomped his way down the table to stand beside Scher.
“Come along, Miss Martin,” he said stiffly. “I believe my cousin is in his cups.”
Scher stared at her fiancé in shock. Surely he wasn’t turning on his cousin, especially since Brandon did not drink? Below the table, Brandon clutched her other hand, refusing to release it. And between the two men, Scher felt well and truly caught, uncertain of the right thing to do or say.
Meanwhile, Kit’s mother was not done with her own dramatics. With a clearly staged sob, she screeched down the table at the earl.
“Michael, you’re the earl. Stop this now!”
Like everyone else, Scheherazade looked to the earl, but he had no answers. He glared at the three of them equally, but his eyes lingered longest on Scheherazade.
“This is not seemly,” he said firmly.
Brandon snorted. “A lot of things happen in this world that are not seemly.”
Scheherazade’s patience was suddenly exhausted. This squabbling would get them nowhere. She pushed up from her chair. It was hard given that Brandon still possessed her hand beneath the table. “Brandon,” she hissed, “let go!”
He released her, but his eyes still burned into hers. “You have other options, Scher. This will never work.”
Other options? She almost laughed at the idea. She had only the options that had been available to her throughout her life: to become a whore or not. Kit was the only man offering her anything else. So Scher straightened, forcibly removing her hand from Brandon’s grasp, though she wrenched her wrist to do it. Then she turned her gaze to the rest of the family, all gaping at her as if she was the one who had created this disaster. Looking at their faces, she made her decision. She had tried sweetness, she had tried to speak moderately, and even dressed in the closest things she owned to a nun’s habit. It mattered not at all. And so she would say her piece to all of them.
“Kit and I have made our decision,” she said firmly. “We had wanted to keep this polite, had hoped to win your support. But now I see we should just travel to Gretna Green.”
“Scotland?” squeaked Kit’s mothe
r in alarm.
“Here, now,” inserted Michael. “There’s no need to elope.”
Beside the earl, the countess dabbed her lips with a napkin before speaking in her own quiet tones. “This has been a difficult meal,” she said. “But really, Kit does have a certain status to maintain. A mad flight to Scotland would start things off on a terrible foot.”
“Would it?” she said turning toward Kit, her brow arched in question. “Or would it simply end all the ugliness early?”
Then from the top of the table, Kit’s grandmother chose to speak with a power in her voice that surprised everyone. “My grandson will not elope! I wish to be at your wedding, Kit. Do not think to deny me that!”
There was a moment’s silence as everyone turned to stare at the elderly woman. She was practically vibrating in her chair and her face was flushed a becoming shade of rose. Then Kit broke the silence.
“You shall be in the front pew, Grandmama,” he said. Then he turned to Scher. “See, all will be well. A proper wedding stops wagging tongues.”
“Does it?” she wondered aloud. But he knew polite society better than she, and so she bowed her head. “Very well.”
Kit smiled as he tucked her hand against his arm and began to lead her out, sparing no more than a glance farewell to his grandmother. “I shall post the banns immediately.”
Scher nodded. “I would be grateful.” Three weeks. Could she endure three weeks of this before the wedding? Could he?
They were nearly out the door before Brandon spoke. Scher had been excruciatingly aware of him sitting there, watching them with dark eyes and plotting . . . something. He obviously hadn’t given up his fight for her. She didn’t dare look back at him; her entire being had to be focused on Kit.
