A Marriage Most Scandalous (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 2)

by Victoria Vale

  Dear God, what had she done to deserve such treatment?

  Turning, she found herself face to face with Penelope, who breathed heavily, as if she’d elbowed her way from across the ballroom to meet her.

  Her chin trembled and tears stung her eyes.

  “Don’t,” Penelope whispered, taking her arm and forcing a false smile. “Do not cry. Not here. Come with me.”

  She was right. To break down in front of them would only fuel the fires of gossip, and Cecily didn’t even know what had caused it yet. Raising her chin an inch, she allowed her friend to guide her toward a set of double doors leading out into the garden. The terrace beyond it stood empty. There, they could speak in private.

  The seconds it took them to reach the terrace felt like hours, creeping by as the bit of theater taking place within the ballroom continued.

  The dull hum of gossip faded away once they cleared the doors, finding sweet relief in the cool air of the evening.

  She turned to Penelope the moment they were alone.

  “I don’t understand. What is going on?”

  Penelope’s dark eyes had turned grave, her mouth a pinched line. “That, my dear, is what we call the cut direct. You just received it from half the ton.”

  She shook her head, brow creased in disbelief. “But … why?”

  Her friend began to pace, seeming to have not heard her question. She sighed, hands clasped behind her back.

  “Why did you do it, Cecily? Did I not tell you that married men indulged in such pastimes behind their wives’ backs? What could have possessed you to go find out for yourself? Now, you might well be ruined!”

  “What on Earth are you talking about?”

  Agitation made her tone short and curt and caused sweat to coat her palms beneath her gloves. What had felt like a dream just that afternoon became a nightmare by the second.

  “Someone saw you, Cecily,” Penelope replied, pausing in her pacing and turning to face her. “Coming and going from Madame Petra’s in the dead of night.”

  A strangled sound escaped her throat despite the vise gripping it, preventing her from speaking.

  “No well-bred woman would be caught dead in such an establishment,” her friend continued. “Yet, you were seen, and someone has ousted you. Now gossip is swirling about what you might have been doing there. The speculation ranges from the obscene to the bizarre. It is not good, darling.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed, her mind filling with images of Petra on her knees, her lips and tongue coaxing wet heat from her cunt. Embarrassment filled her and she realized she was well and truly ruined.

  “I … I didn’t do anything wrong,” she protested meekly.

  Penelope came forward, taking her hands and squeezing them gently, her expression full of pity.

  “I know. You went after him because you felt betrayed, and you had every right to. Oh, but why couldn’t you have waited to confront him at home? His reputation would not have been ruined by his presence in that place, but yours may well have been.”

  She shook her head, no longer able to fight the tears cascading down her cheeks. “I never meant for this to happen.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  Penelope held her, hugging her tight. Clinging to her friend, she choked back a sob, realizing what this all meant for her. She would be shunned everywhere. No one would want a woman who consorted with whores to attend their parties, teas, or balls. No one would want to speak to her in Hyde Park, or invite her into their home, or allow their gently-bred, virginal daughters anywhere near her. And her charity groups …

  “The society,” she choked.

  Penelope shook her head. “They’ve designated me to inform you that you are no longer welcome.”

  Dashing at her tears, she forced herself to take a deep breath. “You shouldn’t be seen talking to me, Penelope. You should go back in there and ignore me, along with everyone else. There is no need for your reputation to suffer, as well.”

  “To hell with them all,” Penelope declared, wiping her hands together as if ridding them of bothersome dust. “I have always been my own person, and you know this more than anyone else. I am a spinster with no desire to marry—thus making me a bit of an oddity and an outcast as it is. It makes sense that I would count a salacious whore among my friends.”

  Amusement pulled at the corners of her lips, and she couldn’t hold back the laugh that shook her shoulders.

  “Oh, you do know how to make me feel better. A spinster and a whore—we make quite a pair, do we not?”

  Penelope’s face grew serious again. “What do you need? I want to help you.”

  Cecily sighed. “Just one thing. I want to go home. I need Sheridan.”

  “Of course. Wait here.”

  Penelope retreated, leaving her alone. Without her friend there to feed her confidence, her shoulders deflated and tears filled her eyes again.

  Why hadn’t she been more discreet? Of course, she’d known she took a risk in going to Madame Petra’s, but she would never have guessed someone would see and recognize her.

  What had begun as a desire to breathe life into her monotonous marriage now threatened everything. Sheridan would be furious when he learned of the gossip making the rounds. He would blame her for the position he was now in. His peers would shun him, and his voice in the House of Lords had now been discredited. His father, the viscount, would not take this lightly. It would be just like him to cut off Sheridan’s funds over such a scandal, leaving them in dire straits. Her dowry could only go so far.

  Yes, she felt sure he would blame her, and could not fault him for that. She had ruined absolutely everything.

  Chapter Eight

  Their townhouse was in an uproar when Sheridan and Cecily returned home. Annoyance and confusion gripped him when he found a large, over-embellished coach with the Perth crest waiting out front, and the vestibule filled with their trunks. It became exacerbated when he spied his father, standing with one foot propped on the bottom stair, observing his timepiece and pretending not to notice their entrance.

  “Sheridan?” Cecily called, voice quivering.

  “Go upstairs,” he said. “I will determine what this is all about.”

  She seemed reluctant, but did what he asked, walking silently to the staircase and retaining the dignified set to her shoulders as she breezed past his father.

  There hadn’t been time for them to discuss what had happened at the Morley’s ball, and now, it would have to wait even longer. When the viscount demanded an audience, he was not to be ignored.

  Baldwin Cranfield III, Viscount of Perth, appeared like a mirror image of Sheridan, with only a little gray hair and the lines of age to distinguish him. He cut an imposing figure in his evening attire, his expression even sourer than usual. Unlike his son, he did not possess an easygoing nature. The viscount liked to control everyone and everything around him—including his adult son and his wife. Thus, the reason for his visit and the packed bags.

  “You will depart for Edenwhite,” he said in a clipped tone that warned he would tolerate no argument.

  Sheridan bit back a scathing retort. He knew he walked a tightrope with his father, who had the power to cripple him financially.

  “There is no need,” he replied, clasping his hands behind his back. “The rumors about Cecily aren’t true. If we remain and present a united front, the tongue-wagging will cease. If we don’t give them anything more to talk about, they’ll latch on to some new bit of nonsense and forget about my wife.”

  “Your wife.” Baldwin shook his head, nostrils flaring as he seemed to fight to control his own anger. “It would seem we were mistaken about her. However, milk spilled cannot be put back in the bottle. We must weather this until it has passed.”

  He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, his fingernails biting into his palms. “Cecily is innocent here. I’ll thank you not to speak ill of my wife while standing inside of my house.”

  “A house my money pays fo
r,” the viscount reminded him, arching one blond eyebrow. “If you’d disciplined your wife as I taught you—”

  “You seem to have forgotten, I am no longer a child,” he interrupted. “You might have forced me to do your bidding when I was young, but how I treat my wife is not subject to your approval, or your dictates.”

  “No,” the viscount agreed. “But where you live is. You will remain at Edenwhite through the season. Perhaps when you return next year, you’ll have sired a brat on the chit. That should keep her occupied.”

  Sheridan gritted his teeth, but couldn’t bite the words back quick enough. “No.”

  His father straightened, tension squaring his shoulders. “No?”

  “You heard me. I said no. Cecily and I will remain here for the season, and thank you to keep your nose out of our affairs.”

  Baldwin crossed his arms over his chest and gave his son a derisive smirk. “This united front you spoke of … I suppose you think your step-mother and I will play some part in it? The Viscount of Perth, shielding his heir from the cruelty of gossip and scorn.”

  Sheridan had counted on his father’s influence to see them through this time, but realized now he shouldn’t have. The viscount had always been a stickler for propriety, thus the many lessons in how one should expect one’s wife to behave.

  “I won’t involve myself, since you have commanded me to stay out of your affairs,” he continued when Sheridan didn’t answer. “Neither will your brother or stepmother. I won’t allow it.”

  He had no doubt of that. He also knew his family would never go against the viscount. His brother, the second son, barely clung to the fringe of their father’s good graces. Their stepmother, a young chit of an age with Cecily, did not have a defiant bone in her body—thus the reason the viscount had chosen her.

  “Do what you must,” Sheridan replied, shrugging. “I will do the same.”

  Baldwin studied him in silence for a moment, anger and frustration emanating from him in tangible waves. After a while, he nodded, as if coming to a decision.

  “I still expect you to vacate the premises,” he declared. “If you wish to carry on without my influence, you shall do so without my money. I expect you gone by morning, or you are cut off. If you plan to go against me, I do hope you’ve been wise with your bride’s dowry.”

  Retrieving his coat and hat from a footman, he left through the open door, which the butler closed behind him as he descended the front steps.

  Ignoring the curious stares of the servants, Sheridan turned and made his way up the stairs.

  His valet sat in the dressing room, giving various servants rebellious glares while they rifled through Sheridan’s things. He shot to his feet when his master entered, panic widening his eyes and anger setting his jaw.

  “I told them I would have no part in it, but they carried on without me. I warned them you would not like anyone but me packing your things, and that I would not do so unless I heard the order from your mouth. They proceeded to go against my wishes, and have likely ruined your shirts and cravats with their careless handling.”

  He fought back a smirk. James could always be trusted to fly into a tizzy over shirts and cravats no matter the situation.

  “It’s all right, James,” he said. “Have you seen my wife?”

  “In her chambers,” James replied, “changing into her traveling clothes. Is it true that we are departing for Edenwhite?”

  Sheridan felt one of his hands curling into a fist. Not the first time this evening he’d felt like punching something. Without answering the question, he passed through the door separating his dressing room from hers, then entered her chamber.

  She sat in an armchair near the fire, hands folded in her lap. She’d changed into a demure carriage dress, and a small valise rested at her feet. His heart wrenched when her tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his.

  Forcing a smile, he came farther into the room. Dismissing her maid, he knelt in front of her chair and took her hands in his.

  “What’s this?” he asked, nodding toward the valise.

  “I am ready to leave,” she replied.

  Reaching up, he swiped away a tear with his thumb.

  “We are not going anywhere.”

  Shaking her head, she stood. “I heard your father, Sherry. Every word. We cannot afford to remain here more than a few weeks without your allowance. Besides, perhaps he is right. The best thing to do is leave until the gossip blows over.”

  “But what about your ladies’ group and your charity work? You were so excited about coming before the start of the season.”

  She sobbed, falling against him and burying her face against his chest. “They don’t want me anywhere near them! They asked Penelope to inform me that I am no longer welcome.”

  Anger rose up in him as he held her, wracking his brain for a solution to their problem. He felt helpless enough as things stood, relying on the mercy of a man who required complete obedience from him in all matters. This, along with the fact that his wife had been forced to hire a whore in order to coax him to making love to her properly, made him feel inadequate.

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “This is all my fault.”

  “No,” she protested, backing away from him. “I am the one who got caught leaving a brothel. I should never have been there, and now our friends will shun us, and your father will disown you … all because I couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

  “That’s enough,” he chided, grasping her shoulders. “Listen to me, Cecily. I’ve been a fool. I let my father control me once; I won’t do it again.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “His teachings … I let them influence our marriage, and it resulted in you not being happy with our intimate life. You acted out of desperation, and one could hardly blame you. Now that I understand what a passionate nature you have, I can’t help but wonder how you went so long without saying something.” He laughed. “Or beating me over the head with your parasol.”

  She giggled. “I felt tempted, I must admit. Still, I could have talked to you about the matter. I employed less conventional means, and now, we are ruined because of it.”

  “Half the women of the ton wish they had your courage, and the majority of the men wish their wives did, as well. Never apologize for what you did to make me see the light.” He reached down and gripped one of her plump buttocks, giving it a squeeze. “I certainly enjoyed it.”

  Her lips curved into a smirk. “Too bad it has to end now. Petra and I had not yet finished with you.”

  An idea struck him so suddenly, he could hardly believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

  He smiled. “Maybe it doesn’t have to end. Not yet.”

  Her brows scrunched quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  Glad he hadn’t taken off his coat, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and turned for the door.

  “Don’t take off your travelling clothes just yet. We are leaving when I return.”

  “Very well, but where are you going right now?”

  He paused in the doorway, turning back to give her a smile. “It’s a surprise. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sheridan allowed his gaze to linger on the woman framed in the doorway that separated his and Cecily’s room from hers. She’d freshened up, changing from her rumpled carriage dress to a simple black peignoir and matching wrapper. Let loose from its chignon, her lustrous, mahogany hair fell around her face in luscious waves.

  Near the fire, Cecily reclined in the bath, head thrown back against the rim and eyes closed.

  From where he stood, it proved difficult to ascertain whether or not she slept. She had to have been as exhausted as he had, after their sleepless night followed by a full day of travel.

  Deciding to leave had been a good idea. Especially since he’d done it on his own terms and escaped to Brighton instead of Edenwhite as his father had so high-handedly commanded. A quick visit to Mada
me Petra’s had secured her company, which had made Cecily happy, as he’d suspected it would.

  The Madame had caught wind of the gossip and agreed they must leave London. She also agreed that their time had not yet run its course.

  “There is so much more I want to teach you,” she’d said while packing her trunk for the trip. “Both of you.”

  She’d assured him the brothel would be in good hands while she was away, and that a holiday in Brighton would be a welcome one.

  The sun had just begun its ascent on the horizon when they’d departed London, just after he had sent a message by footman informing the viscount of their plans. He hated to think that his father had won, but derived a smug sense of satisfaction from his small rebellion. As a man completely dependent on estates he hadn’t inherited yet, there were only so many mutinies he could perpetrate before his financial well ran dry. Going to Brighton and taking his and Cecily’s mistress with them would be rebellious enough.

  He smirked while she entered the room at the thought of her as ‘their’ mistress. In truth, that’s what she was—a woman they had hired to see to both their sexual needs. He almost envied his wife, who’d been privileged to experience Petra in a way he hadn’t yet. Though they did have the shared experience of knowing the feel of her skilled mouth. Just the thought of her lips wrapped around his cock caused the organ to swell and fill with blood.

  “Are the accommodations to your liking, Petra?”

  She closed the door behind her and met him in the center of the room, the firelight outlining her lithe form beneath the sheer fabric she wore.

  “Quite comfortable, thank you,” she replied. Glancing from him to Cecily and back again, her gaze became observant. “You and your wife do not prepare for bed in the same room, do you?”

  He frowned, thinking of the countless nights he’d peered at her through the cracked dressing room door, watching from afar as she loosened and brushed her hair.

  “We have separate chambers and dressing rooms,” he replied. “Why would we?”