Scandalous Scions Two

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “May I borrow your mink stole this evening?”

  “My…” Elisa’s brow lifted. “You are going out this evening?”

  “And every evening I am invited anywhere,” Jenny told her. She lifted the stack of letters and invitations. “May I also be at home, at least once a week?”

  “You, my dear? Are you sure?”

  “I am not sure of anything, any more,” Jenny said. “Only, that something must change. This is one way I have of changing it.”

  When her mother left, Jenny spent the rest of the morning replying in the affirmative to every single invitation.

  Her life became a flurry of engagements. She had observed Sharla juggle engagements and a full social calendar for months and borrowed her strategies to attend as many events as possible.

  The tactic ensured that Jenny was rarely at home and if she was, she had guests to host. The more the better.

  She hated every minute of it.

  The first few weeks left her breathless and sick, drained of any energy. Her nerves were strained and there were moments when she found herself in the middle of a conversation with not a clue what to say next. Not a single thought would form. It was as if her brain had seized, like an overworked engine.

  She stopped taking breakfast at the dining table with the rest of the family, as most days she was too tired to rise early. Paulson delivered a breakfast tray to her when most people were partaking of morning tea.

  Then she would escape the house to walk in the park. Those few hours in the park each day were soul-soothing. Even though hundreds of people took a turn about the park each day, she could walk among them without engaging, which left her mind free to roam. However, even those peaceful moments became fewer, for her widening circle of acquaintances wanted to chat or walk with her. Gentleman would insist upon escorting her.

  During the few moments when she was home alone, she would purge her thoughts and worries and her growing distaste for London society upon pages of stationary. The pile of botchy pages sitting upon the top of her secretary grew taller.

  Jenny was introduced to James Jackson Ryder, the new Duke of Burscough, on July 15th, 1863. She knew the date exactly, for she had written it upon her pages, along with the remark that he was not a couth man.

  Everyone knew about Burscough, of course. He had returned from India just over a year ago, to take up the title after the passing of his father. He was the third son who had never expected to inherit, and it showed. Burscough was a military man, as so many second and third sons were. His shoulders were broad, which reminded Jenny oddly of Jack—perhaps because Burscough wasn’t just endowed with a wide carriage but was also a physically strong man.

  That was where any similarities to Jack ended.

  Burscough was far older than Jenny. Weeks later, after he had proposed, Jenny consulted Burke’s. Burscough was forty-five.

  He had thick, wavy hair, shot with gray. His face and hands were heavily tanned from years of strong sunlight. He gripped Jenny’s fingers as he bowed over them, instead of letting them rest on the back of his hand as a gentleman would.

  There were heavy creases about his eyes that Jenny at first thought was from constant smiling. However, she would learn that Burscough did not smile. The creases were from frowning and from peering at the world suspiciously.

  His velvet evening jacket was old fashioned, even though it was new. His cravat was colored instead of white and it was not silk.

  Their first conversation was awkward. Burscough didn’t seem to know how to talk politely, while Jenny had learned to let the gentleman carry a conversation.

  Peter, who was at the opera that night, too, came up to them and handed Jenny a glass of champagne. He asked her about the flower show she had attended that afternoon. It rescued her from having to find a topic that would engage the new duke.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Burscough let out a shaking breath. He was as socially reluctant as she was.

  Recognizing his reticence made Jenny more tolerant of his strange ways when they next met. When Burscough stumbled from the weather to the Derby results, Jenny lifted her hand. “I understand that you lived in Bombay for many years, your Grace. Were you acquainted with the Marquess of Laceby? His son, John, was fostered by my parents.”

  Burscough scowled. “I did not circulate with the upper class there,” he said flatly.

  “Would you rather talk about the natives, then?” Jenny asked and winced at her own lack of restraint.

  “I would rather not speak at all. I find it a strain,” Burscough replied with the same frank tone she had used.

  Jenny blinked. Why, he hated society as much as she did!

  She gave him a small smile. “Shall we stand over here by the corner, where no one will interrupt us? Then we can observe everyone and not talk and be perfectly comfortable doing so.”

  Burscough’s scowl disappeared. For the first time, she saw his face in repose. He had rather fine features, with an elegant nose and a strong brow and chin. Even his lips were fuller than she had thought, when he was not pursing them.

  “To not talk would be pleasing to me,” he admitted and stepped aside.

  Jenny moved over to the corner and Burscough stood by her. They viewed conversations breaking up and coming together, until the supper gong sounded and they were forced to enter the dining room.

  Although she had no feelings for the man other than a sad empathy for his social awkwardness, Jenny spent more time in his company, for neither of them had to try for polite engagement with each other. It was a relief to stand in silence and draw breath. The little pools of silence in his company were restorative, allowing her to sally out and socialize with renewed energy.

  When Burscough proposed, Jenny was caught by complete surprise. It was the last ball of the season, on the glorious twelfth. Tomorrow and in the next week, London would empty as everyone returned to their estates for the opening of the hunting season. The dance floor was full. Jenny had been more than happy to stand against the wall of the ballroom and purvey the dancers.

  “Me?” she blurted, as he drew a shaking breath after speaking his well-rehearsed question. “You cannot marry me.”

  “Why not?” Burscough asked, the scowl coming back with a rush.

  Jenny twisted her hands together. She had been about to point out his advanced age, yet she knew of debutantes who had married men even older than Burscough. Society did not see age as a barrier, if the man was still virile. “I am a commoner,” she said desperately.

  Burscough nodded. “I am acquainted with that fact. I may trip over matters of etiquette and protocol, but I am old enough to know human nature. You are a commoner, although your family connections are unparalleled. Your beauty, your family and your financial expectations wins you acceptance among these people, while I am a third son with barely any education, who would rather be walking the borders of my estate than spend any more time with these people. Unfortunately, they are all aware of my preferences. Our contempt is mutual.”

  Jenny bit the inside of her cheek, for she had heard the disparaging remarks about Burscough herself.

  He shook his head impatiently. “I won’t profess undying love and affection for you. I won’t insult you with the hypocrisy. Instead I will point out that I am a duke and if you marry me, you would be a duchess. It is a station in life no other duke would dream of offering you. It is also, I must add, a position for which your grace and gentleness makes you completely worthy.”

  Jenny stared at him, astonished. She had never heard Burscough speak so many words at once.

  Burscough tugged at his cuffs and twisted the links, his scowl returning. “You needn’t answer now. Let us stand here and not speak. Please.” And he turned to look upon the room with a shaky breath of relief.

  Jenny turned, too. She stared blindly at the dancers, seeing nothing but a blur.

  Her thoughts whirled. If she married Burscough, then Jack would have nothing left but to marry Lady Mary and make a l
ife with her. It would force Jack to do what he should.

  Once she was married, she would have no need to participate in society ever again, should she desire. Burscough would prefer to walk the borders of his estate. She would be just as happy never to return to London.

  When the Polonaise ended and the dancers clapped, Jenny touched Burscough’s wrist.

  He glanced down at her hand, then at her face.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will.”

  His face worked. Then he contained himself and nodded. “I will find champagne.” He walked off without another word, his wide shoulders making him a solid figure that cut through the swirling dancers with steady, unmusical steps.

  Jenny shivered. It was done.

  Chapter Ten

  Four Years Ago: The Wardell house, Grosvenor Square, London. August 12th, 1863.

  Blanche and Emma were in the drawing room when Jenny returned home, playing whist and arguing over the rules. Elisa sat under the candle stand, sewing.

  “Where is Father?” Jenny asked her.

  “In the library with the boys,” Elisa said. She smiled. “How was the ball?”

  “Eventful,” Jenny replied. “You may wish to come and hear this, too, Mama.” She walked back out into the hallway and moved down to the front of the house and knocked on the library door.

  “Come!” her father called out, amid the sounds of male conversation.

  It was smoky in the library and Jenny waved her hand. Her father stubbed out his cigar. “I apologize,” he said, as Peter and Will both knocked the coals off their own cigars. Jack didn’t smoke, although his brandy snifter was full.

  “Father, I have news,” Jenny told him. It was better to have this over and done with.

  Elisa took Vaughn’s hand and turned to face Jenny expectantly.

  Everyone else waited.

  Jenny drew in a breath for courage. “The Duke of Burscough asked me to marry him and I said yes.”

  Silence gripped the room.

  Jack put the brandy snifter back on the table beside him. The base ground against the wood with a harsh scraping sound.

  He stalked to the door, opened it and stepped out. The door shut behind him, although the quiet thud might as well have been a cannon. Jenny jumped at the sound. Her heart ached. She had known what the announcement would do to him, yet it still hurt to see Jack receive the news.

  The silence in the room extended onward, for long heart beats after Jack had left.

  “Papa?” Jenny whispered.

  Vaughn let out a rasping breath. “No,” he said, his voice strained. “I will not allow it.”

  “Father!” Jenny cried, shocked. None of her calculations had anticipated that her father might not approve. “You must give your blessing!” If he did not, then she would never be able to make Jack do what he must.

  “The man’s reputation is questionable,” Peter said from behind her. “There are rumors…well, enough to say I don’t believe you should marry him, either.”

  Jenny whirled. Both Will and Peter were scowling. Will shook his head. “There’s trouble at the club and he’s in the middle of it. The man isn’t honorable, Jenny.”

  “He’s a duke!”

  “When have we ever cared about such things, my dear?” Elisa asked her.

  Jenny turned back to look at her mother. “When did you ever dream a duke might ask me to marry him?”

  Elisa dropped her gaze to Vaughn’s hand in her own.

  “There is no need for this,” Vaughn said. “If you believe such a match will in some way vindicate your…us, then you are wrong.” There were fine lines about his eyes, and a pulse jumped in his throat. “Rescind your acceptance. Tell him you have reconsidered.”

  Jenny shook her head. “I will marry him. I must marry him.”

  “There are other lords. Dozens of them,” Will said. “They would all jump at the chance to court you. I know that for I’ve spent the two years since your coming out vetting them, while you turned your nose up at all of them. If it is a title you seek…”

  “That isn’t it at all!” Jenny cried. “Will, how could you think that of me?”

  Will sat back, stroking his blond beard. “I am beginning to wonder if I know you at all. Burscough, Jenny? He’s nearly as old as Father.”

  “He has no money, either,” Peter added. “You’d live the life of a pauper…or does he believe you have a fat dowry that will save him?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” she said. “It doesn’t matter,” she added truthfully.

  “Of course we will provide for you upon your wedding, just as we did for Sharla and will for all the girls,” Elisa said.

  “No, we will not,” Vaughn said sharply.

  Elisa gasped.

  Jenny turned back to face him, shocked.

  “You could marry any other man and I would provide for you,” Vaughn said. “He could be the poorest man in England and still I would ensure you lived a comfortable life. If you marry Burscough, you will get nothing. Not a farthing, Jenny.”

  Jenny stared at him, appalled. Her heart wobbled and her throat was tight. Sound wavered in her ears, in muffling waves. “Papa...”

  Vaughn’s face worked. He shook his head. “I cannot, Jenny. Not if you wed that man. Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

  Jenny pressed her hand to her bodice, trying to ease her aching heart. “I cannot,” she whispered.

  Her father looked as though she had driven a stake into his heart. Her mother’s cheeks were wet with tears.

  The roaring in her ears was making it hard to think. Jenny had never, not once in her life, defied her parents in this way. It terrified her.

  Jack. I am doing this for Jack, she told herself. The reminder gave her the strength to move. She tried to smile at Elisa and Vaughn. It was a weak expression, but she managed. “I love you both very much. Will and Peter, too. And Sharla and Dane and Ben and Blanche and Emma.”

  She moved to the door.

  “Jenny…!” her mother cried. The hurt in her voice almost made her turn back. Jenny gripped the door handle, feeling cold metal bite into her palm.

  For Jack, she repeated to herself.

  She opened the door and stepped out into the front hall. The gas lantern was not lit, there, although light spilled from the drawing room, where the two girls were still arguing over their cards.

  Jack sat on the third step, a darker shape in the shadows over the stairs. He lifted his head as Jenny emerged. His eyes glittered.

  Jenny picked up her cloak and reticule, bonnet and gloves. She would put them all on in the carriage. She opened the heavy front door, for Paulson was mysteriously absent. Perhaps the butler had reached into her mind and knew she wanted no one to help her leave.

  When she had the door open, she looked back.

  Jack gripped the newel post, his fingers digging in. It looked as if he might launch himself toward her with just a little more effort.

  Jenny shook her head.

  He drew a breath that shuddered. The unsteady rasp of air sounded all the way across the hall.

  For Jack, she breathed silently and shut the door.

  * * * * *

  Four Years Ago: The Burscough townhouse, Marylebone, London. The same night.

  Burscough hurried out to the cab in shirt sleeves, his long-legged butler behind him, carrying a lantern. Burscough leaned in but did not climb into the carriage. “Miss Gwendolyn…!”

  “Do you still wish to marry me, your Grace?” Jenny asked him.

  “Has something happened that would make me change my mind?”

  “My family will not approve the marriage,” Jenny told him.

  Burscough’s grip on the door tightened. His focus shifted, so he was looking through her, rather than at her. “They do not approve of me.” Bitterness dripped from his voice.

  “I am free to choose whom I marry,” Jenny told him. “If you will have me, if the lack of money and family support are not a barrier, then I will marry you.
” She held her breath. This was the test, the moment that would tell her why Burscough had proposed.

  He stood in the doorway for what felt like hours. Then he leaned around the door and murmured to his butler.

  Jenny waited. She held no trepidation or worry about the outcome. All feeling had been stripped from her. What remained was an icy lump in her chest. Burscough would marry her or not. If he did, it would force Jack’s hand. If he did not, then she would find another way. Whatever it took she would do, to ensure the pain she had caused Jack was worth it.

  Burscough called up to the cab driver. “Euston Station, if you please.” He climbed into the cab and shut the door.

  Jenny stared at him, finally feeling an emotion. Surprise. “What are you doing?”

  “Marrying you,” he said shortly, as the cab jerked into motion. “It is Friday night. We can be in Burscough by mid-morning tomorrow, which will allow bans to be read at St. John’s on Sunday. It will shorten the delay by a week.”

  Jenny’s heart thudded. Three readings for bans…it meant she would be married by late September.

  She shuddered and hid it from Burscough.

  As usual, they did not speak, not until they reached the station. Burscough never again mentioned his bitterness over her family’s refusal to support the marriage.

  * * * * *

  Present day: The Wakefield Residence, St. James Square, London. February 1867.

  Much as the library had been silent and filled with uneasy surprise when Jenny had announced she would marry Burscough, now Sharla’s morning room was filled with the same thick stillness.

  All three of them—Dane, Ben and Sharla—stared at Jenny.

  “Oh, Jenny…!” Sharla breathed. “I had no idea about any of this. I was too focused upon in my own miseries.” She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping them.

  “It is a good reminder that no matter how miserable one’s life appears, there is always someone else in a considerably bleaker position,” Dane added.

  Ben stirred and tugged his waistcoat into place. “Your marriage to Burscough was by bans, not a license?”

  “I believe he wanted the wedding to be as proper and legal as possible, to offset the gossip the fast marriage would generate,” Jenny told him. “Burscough arranged rooms for me in the village inn and I lived there while the bans were read. Then we married in St. John’s on September twenty-eighth.”