The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady
A Historical Regency Romance Novel
Hanna Hamilton
Edited by
Maggie Berry
Contents
A Thank You Gift
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Charity Falls for the Rejected Duke
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Hanna Hamilton
About the Author
A Thank You Gift
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called A True Lady. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
Hanna Hamilton
About the Book
The charming Lady Helena Barrington, the only daughter of the powerful Duke of York, is tormented by a serious skin condition. Having spent her whole life watching the world from behind her window, she longs for love, acceptance, and freedom.
James Campbell, the very handsome and kind Duke of Durham, is on the threshold of financial ruination and in need of an immediate solution as his business associates betrayed him.
Each has something the other needs…
Desperate to feel normal, even for a while, Helena comes up with a scandalous deal: five courtship visits from the Duke, one for each ruby on the invaluable rose brooch she inherited from her mother.
A deal that could turn out as a fairytale or a nightmare...
Prologue
Balls were impossible places to find peace of mind.
James Campbell, the Duke of Durham, had quite possibly met every marriageable miss within the entire city of London, and it was only a week since the official London Season had begun. He watched the dancers with a certain boredom that came of too much perfection.
His gaze rested on each dancer in turn. It seems an odd complaint. They each spend so much time on dress and hair with the intent of presenting a visually-pleasing spectacle, that more often than not they neglect what’s important.
Was he too particular? He saw Melanie Rothchild look his way and suppressed a shudder. Melanie was everything he loathed about these affairs, and unwittingly he had met her eye. He was duty-bound to nod in her direction, knowing it would only set her toward expectations.
Expectations of young girls were things to be assiduously avoided in his world. He was now beholden to ask Miss Rothchild to dance, and he’d already had that honor once. To do so again would be tantamount to announcing an engagement.
“Excuse me, you are the Duke of Durham, are you not?” The young man standing at his elbow seemed obsequiously out of place among such finery. Not a servant, or at least not obviously so, he was dressed in a plain, well-cut blue jacket, and — shockingly — wore trousers considered fashionably acceptable only during daylight.
Not one to stand on propriety, James smiled all the same, especially when saved from making a spectacle of himself on the dance floor. “I am, sir. And you are?”
“A messenger only, Your Grace. I am most regretful to interrupt your festivities.”
“At Almack’s with dinner about to be served? Such can only be construed as a blessing.” Gesturing for the man to precede him into a private alcove, James asked, “Come, let us find a quiet corner to talk. What message is so important that it could not wait until morning?”
The man took several folded papers from inside his jacket. “I am afraid it is bad news, Your Grace. These papers will explain all.”
“Bad news?” The Duke took the documents, noting the seal as that of his partner, the man who had charge of his entire fleet for the American venture. Feeling somewhat uneasy, to say the least, he broke the seal on the packet and examined the letters, growing more and more agitated as he moved from one page to the next.
“A hurricane,” he said, at last, feeling the room pitch and sway about him, as though he himself were trying to stand in such a gale. “Is it, as they say, the entire fleet gone?” He couldn’t breathe. He’d been against the idea from the start. One didn’t send the entire fleet on one trip. He’d been talked into the venture, and now it was as precisely as he’d feared.
“I am most regretful to tell you that this is indeed the case. The young man bowed. “Lord Collins should have outlined the matter to you enough in the papers presented.”
James rattled the papers at the messenger, knowing full well that he was placing blame on the wrong man. “He more than outlined it. He also made it disturbingly clear that my partner, Mr. Fortesque, was responsible for a rather sizeable loan toward the building of additional ships, but that I had been signed as the holder of that note. Is that not also the case?”
The young man nodded, his voice coming somewhat hoarse as he replied. “I am afraid that is the case, Your Grace.”
“Speak up, man. Do not be afraid to speak plain. According to this, I am a pauper now, am I not?” James threw the papers upon the floor and sank into a chair.
“Not a pauper, Your Grace. You still have, according to the terms of the loan, your estate and the house near the port—”
“Little good that will do me, with no ships arriving in that port again. Where is Fortesque in all of this? Tell me that, will you?”
The boy shuffled his feet, not quite meeting his gaze. James recognized him as being the younger son of the very man who’d sent him. He wasn’t accustomed to playing messenger boy but had in fact been training to take over his father’s business interests someday. “Dead, Your Grace. He heard the news same as you and he…”
“Do not finish, boy. I can guess the rest.” James got to his feet and paced the small room, thankful that space was empty and that the others at the ball were already at their dinner, such as it was. Almack’s was not known for its fine dining. “Quit looking at me so. I am not going to kill myself. It is a cowardly thing to do. Just give me but a moment to think.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the boy said, looking only marginally relieved.
“I am done with this incessant Season. Send word to my man, to pac
k up the London house. We will leave for Hull in the morning. I will make a few stops first, but I want him to be ready to leave when I get there. Though I suppose I cannot afford his salary either right now, can I?”
The Duke ran a trembling hand through his hair, thinking rapidly. “Lord Collins will be at his club, I suppose?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Right. I will see him first. In the meantime, I best make my excuses.” James laughed then, though the sound was rather mirthless. “There is not a maiden in the place who would have me now. A title without wealth is an empty thing, is it not? Though I suppose in my dreams, there is one who is beautiful inside and out and will care little of how many pounds I can claim per annum.”
“Your Grace?”
“Never mind, boy. I am fine.” The Duke turned to the messenger. “Or I will be. Be off with you. We both have our tasks before us, do we not? So it is, the world changes, all in one moment. The only thing left for us is to move forward. Onward and upward, boy, in the noblest of fashion!”
Chapter 1
Helena’s harp reflected the sounds of the storm.
She sat next to the window, aware of the driving snow and the way the wind rattled the panes. Her hands flew over the strings, eliciting the symphony in concert with the violence outside. She ignored the ache of fingers as she reached up, to the highest notes, trying to find the pattern of falling snow, the soft tinkle of it raining against the glass.
But the music did not satisfy. She could not capture what she thought it might have been. There was no music for the way the blizzard raged. She sighed and shifted so that her forehead lay against the glass, her skin instantly growing cold as she stared out into the driving snow.
Why am I so unsettled tonight?
The wind blew so cold and fierce against the window, that Helena could see her breath on the thin layer of ice that formed on the inside pane. She winced at the squeak her forefinger made while she drew figures on the frost. One was a giant of a man, standing beside a woman — perhaps her? — since this was her fantasy. She gave the man a hat and debated the bonnet for the woman. How she hated the floppy things she usually wore and longed for something small and neat.
But you can never wear such things, not if you do not wish for the world to stare.
Using her thumbnail to scratch at the ice crystals, she tried to fix the hat, but it wasn’t looking right. But then art had never been her strong suit, much as Papa had paid for tutors to try and ease her fumbling attempts at landscapes. Besides, her thumbnail was too thick. She needed something thinner for the fine detail.
She thought a moment and unfastened the brooch from her dress. The five rubies that made up the heart of the flower glinted dully in the dim light from the window. She brushed her finger over the fine tracery of stem and leaf and wondered for a moment at her mother who had left her such a fine thing.
And laughed a little to think she would use such a thing for an artist’s brush.
Helena grasped the rose in her hand, using the point of the pin on the back to draw in the more intricate details of the hat upon the head of her frost woman. With such a fine instrument, she was able to add a feather with a certain realism that pleased her, though it was hard going to only affect the ice upon the window and not to leave marks upon the glass underneath.
Helena sat back finally, laying the brooch on the table next to her and stared at her efforts. She realized that in her idle etching, she’d been trying to recreate the dream she’d had, however imperfectly. The man…he’d been blond. Handsome. She closed her eyes, idly scratching at a spot on her wrist and tried to see him in her mind’s eye.
He had been tall and blond, with broad shoulders and an easy smile with a familiarity to him that she’d been unable to place in the light of day. “Where have I see you before?” she asked the silent figure on the glass and hid a laugh at the absurdity of the question.
In her dream, it had been his smile she had loved most. He’d regarded at her with a quiet intensity with eyes so blue they might have been pieces of the sky itself. Well, not today when it was storming. But in summer, maybe, when the sun seemed to shine forever.
It had been a silly dream. She sat up, eyes open, staring at the scratched figures on the glass already starting to fade and disappear, much as they had last night, when in her dreams she had only begun to dance.
Angry at herself for getting caught up in silly fantasies, Helena used the edge of her sleeve to wipe away the figures, embarrassed now by her foolishness. Only a child drew upon the glass in a blizzard and at two and twenty, she was long past infancy.
Outside, just on the other side of the glass the storm still waged war with the world. She bent, fascinated by the way the trees bent in the wind, by the snow falling sideways across the window obscuring all from view.
Nearly all.
She leaned closer to the glass to see. Outside in the storm, down by the gate a figure hunched over, staggering against the wind. A man like the one she had seen last night? No…this was no dream. The cloak whipped out, away from the figure revealing it to be a woman, her face strained, as she fought to stay upright against the wind.
Helena’s house stood at the edge of town. Why did this woman not have a carriage? It was impossible to make out through the wavy glass. There were so few residences along this road. Had she missed her way? If she needed to return to the city proper, the walk would be far. Any distance in this storm would be brutal. No one could manage such a thing on foot, at least not in this weather!
Helena rose and looked toward the door. She had not heard any visitors, so she had surely not come to Thornhill. Unless perhaps she was a relative of a servant? Yes, that was more logical. Well, if that were the case, would it not be cruel to send this poor creature out into the snow? Would it not be better to give her shelter until morning? Surely it would be better by then.
But what if it is a stranger? Would you give shelter to someone who perhaps has no business here at all?
Did it matter? Would not a truly compassionate person invite the poor wanderer in, even if she were nothing more than a stranger?
Suddenly unsure, Helena went to the window again, but by now the storm had increased to where she was unsure whether anyone was out there at all, or if she had dreamed the whole thing.
Dreams! Her dream had held danger. Was she being foolish now while spending time dithering over this strange figure? What if the woman became so disoriented in the storm that she fell and perhaps even died? Such things happened, did they not?
It was too dreadful to contemplate. Helena reached for her gloves discarded upon the table next to the harp and flew from the room even as she tugged them into place. It was Antony she found first, her father’s manservant, a kindly man who had always been more than a servant, but also a friend to her. So excited was she that she scarce noticed that she grabbed his sleeve with her bare hand, as she drew him to the window.
“Please tell me I am not seeing things amiss,” she begged, half out of breath from her mad flight down the hall. “But is there, or is there not a poor creature huddling at the gate in this storm?”
Antony, being much taller than her, bent to look through the pane indicated. When he straightened, he was frowning heavily. “Indeed, there is, though I mislike what it might mean. A thief perhaps, thinking the house empty with your father gone.”
Helena stared at him, absolutely aghast. “Antony! Do you mean to say you feel no compulsion of any kind to bid the poor woman come in out of the wind?”
It was Antony’s turn to stare at her in a way that was at best disapproving. Already, before she could even plead for even the remotest chance at understanding, he was shaking his head ‘no’ in her general direction.
It was times like this when Helena most felt the difference between them in age, for Antony had been with her father since before she had been born. His hair was graying now, his eyebrows gone bushy, though they drew together now in a most alarming way. But his gaz
e was still clear even if he looked down at her through a pair of spectacles that constantly slid down his rather hawk-like nose.
She met that gaze now, arms crossed, one hand still holding the glove that she still hadn’t replaced upon her hand. It spoiled the effect somewhat, especially with her skin so mottled and sore. “Antony, are you my friend or not?” she asked, her voice strident and sure.
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