“Was, dear. Was.” Samantha clarified. “It was a long time ago. She’s passed since then, but it was quite an upset and scandal about six years ago. I wasn’t even out in society and I knew about it.” Samantha’s gaze widened, and she shook her head slowly, as if mourning for whatever he’d endured.
“Oh. What was the scandal?” Grace asked, leaning forward expectantly. Absentmindedly, she picked at her toast and popped a corner into her mouth.
“Well, it’s quite the long story, but it was one of the few cases of divorce I’ve ever actually known to take place. Most of the time, in the ton, if there is . . . unfaithfulness. . . in a marriage, it’s kept secretive. But this . . . this kind of unfaithfulness was impossible to keep in the dark.”
Grace leaned forward, eagerly anticipating the story. “Well?”
Samantha took a deep breath. “Lord Sterling met Rebecca Standson in her first season. I never saw her myself, but she was known as a great beauty. She was nearly an incomparable of the season that year. A lady of gentle breeding, very fine manners, and tolerable fortune, she was a very respectable prospect—which was the most enticing factor for Lord Sterling. Heathcl—Viscount Kilpatrick—has said much about his friend, but the most defining character trait used to describe Lord Sterling is the great weight he places on propriety and respectability.” She nodded her head for emphasis.
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Grace agreed.
“So, it takes no great intelligence to see that a man searching for a respectable wife would find Miss Standson a very promising prospect.”
“It would make sense,” Grace agreed. “So, he offered, she accepted, and they were married.”
“Yes.” Samantha concurred.
“And then she was a strumpet?” Grace leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in disapproval.
“No. Not in that way,” Samantha answered.
Grace’s brow furrowed. “He was a rogue?” That she hadn’t expected. For someone so bent on propriety, it didn’t follow that he’d be willing to risk his reputation by adultery.
“No. It’s something quite different. I’ve never heard of it happening before, or since.” Samantha whispered softly, but the intensity of her tone captivated Grace’s attention.
“What happened?” Grace asked eagerly, leaning forward once more.
“Miss Rebecca Standson was actually Mrs. Nixwell.” Samantha arched a brow.
Grace blinked. “I’m . . . confused. She wasn’t who she said she was?”
Samantha lifted her teacup and took a sip, irritating Grace with the pause it created. “You’re missing the first part. Mrs.”
“She wasn’t widowed . . . Dear Lord. She was married?” Grace gasped in horror.
“Yes. Yes, she was.”
“So she was married . . . twice? Goodness, how does such a thing occur without someone being the wiser?” Grace made a gesture with her hand and frowned in confusion.
“As the story goes, the winter before, she had run off with a gentleman of little means and low reputation to Gretna Green. Her father was determined to wash the whole business under the bridge, and paid off a rather corrupt local magistrate, and, as luck would have it, the gentleman she’d run off to marry was wanted for debtor’s prison. He was locked up, which kept him silent on the true events. A few months later, the father, Lord Standson, presented his daughter at the London season with no one the wiser.”
“It’s like reading a gothic novel,” Grace replied breathlessly. “What an arrogant attitude for the father to attempt such a thing.”
“Very true. And it might have worked . . . but for two important people.”
“The husband, no doubt. But who is the other?”
Samantha’s lips bent into a sad smile, and Grace had the suspicion that the rest of the story was far sadder than the beginning. “The child.”
“Dear God,” Grace whispered with feeling.
Samantha gave a slow nod. “Miss Standson concealed the truth even from her father, and only after she had married Lord Sterling did the truth start to unravel. He might have been able to recover from a by-blow, but when her first husband came to London . . .” Samantha gave her head a slow shake to emphasize her point.
“The scandal would be horrendous.”
“It was. Lord Sterling attempted to set things right as quickly and quietly as possible, but his efforts weren’t helped by the other parties involved. The first husband made his side of the story known, the father was implicated in concealing the truth, and then Miss Rebecca and the child she carried were known.”
“Lord Sterling must have nearly died from mortification,” Grace replied, blinkingly.
“I would imagine so. My husband says he has never quite recovered. There was some considerable fallout between him and his father after the situation was known, but I do not know the truth of it. Since then, Lord Sterling hasn’t danced with anyone else . . . save you.” Samantha punctuated her point by setting her cup down.
“It would seem that I owe him quite a debt of gratitude, then,” Grace whispered. “It was truly a selfless act for him to take pity upon me.”
“It was, my dear.”
“What are we talking in whispered tones? Do I dare ask?” The viscount strode into the breakfast room, bending to place a quick kiss on Samantha’s cheek.
“We were just—”
“Discussing last night—” Samantha interrupted Grace’s statement, giving a quick shushing glance to her.
The viscount turned to Grace, his expression one of deep reflection. “It could have been worse.”
“Good Lord, not you too.” Grace slouched in her chair.
“What?” He replied, then walked to the side table to fill his plate. “How could such a statement cause offense?”
“Because it is exactly the same statement I said not a quarter hour earlier, my dear,” Samantha replied, hiding a grin and attempting to suppress a giggle.
“Oh, I’m pleased we are of one mind, my love. That bodes well for us.”
“Though I dare not expect it to happen always,” Samantha replied saucily.
“Minx,” he teased in return.
“I do believe that is my cue to leave,” Grace replied, standing from the table. “If we’re to attend Almack’s today, then I best practice holding my peace, my curtsey, and all the other things I’m so very ill at performing.” She rolled her eyes.
Samantha gave her a scolding look, but it was softened with a smile. “You’ll do just fine.”
Grace was just passing through the door when she turned slightly to reply. “As you said, it could be worse. I may achieve that today. We shall see.” Grace grinned and walked away.
In spite of the fact that there was a serious amount of truth in the statement, she rather felt lighter. Because it could always be worse.
She could have Lord Sterling’s past.
That was most certainly worse.
Chapter Eight
Ramsey added the figures once more, then set his pen down on the desk with a slight click. After checking his fingers for ink stains, he rubbed a hand down his face, all the while damning his friend Heathcliff to the seventh circle of hell.
Or lower, if that were an option.
What had started as a usual evening in Temptations had turned into a nightmare.
At least, his version of a nightmare. It started as a few whispers that carried his name.
The result was several bets placed in the betting book with his name in permanent ink.
All because of his damned oversensitive sense of responsibility to Heathcliff and his bloody, irritating, and clumsy ward.
If he hadn’t attended the ball, then he wouldn’t have witnessed the disaster that Miss Grace Morgan created. And if he didn’t witness the scene, then he wouldn’t have felt pity for the poor creature. And if he hadn’t felt pity, then he wouldn’t have marched over there and spoken with her and he bloody wouldn’t have offered to dance.
A waltz no less.
It was as injuring to his toes as it was to his reputation.
Which, clearly, was in tatters. Again. As if he needed help in that department. Though, this time around the whispers were of lesser damage than before with that whole sordid mess with Rebecca. Dear Lord, now that was a disaster of traumatic proportions.
But, as it were, he was once again the object of scrutiny, suspicion, and whisperings, which he utterly hated to the core of his being. All because he attended the ball and bloody danced.
He glanced back to the betting book, reading the wagers. His eyes grew unfocused as he read through the five wagers placed on whether he, Ramsey Scott, Marquess of Sterling, would marry the mysterious and quite accident-prone chit.
Five. It might not seem like many, but it was five more than he wanted, that was for sure. And if there were five last night, then there would certainly be more tomorrow, and the next day, and so forth and so on until the girl married someone else.
The only upside was that Temptations would turn a tidy profit from all the losers of the betting pool.
Though that wasn’t much of a silver lining in his opinion.
He slammed the book shut, then stood from his desk. The chair made a scraping noise on the floor as he abruptly scooted it back. He paced the floor, his gaze flickering back to the betting book, and then forward. What was he to do? Truly there was nothing he could do except wait it out.
Damn.
And he blamed Heathcliff. If he hadn’t requested his help, if he didn’t have some misbegotten sense of loyalty—he started all over, grumbling. But even as he held the grudge against his friend, he knew that the next ball would find him in attendance and he would once again take vigil over Heathcliff’s ward. He wasn’t sure why his loyalty was so excruciatingly demanding, but it was, and it wasn’t about to change.
Damn the consequences.
The night was over, and to confirm it, he pulled out his pocket watch while suppressing a yawn. Yes, it was after dawn and as such, his optimum time for catching whatever sleep he could attain.
After giving one last glare to the betting book, he quit his office, locked the bolt, and strode from the hall into the foyer of the Barrots’ residence, also the location of Temptations. With a determined stride, he took the back exit and, in no less than five minutes, was riding his gelding home.
However, even though he was soon comfortably situated in his rooms there was no rest to be found. He should be exhausted, he should be falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Yet he was not; rather he was tossing, turning, and sticking one foot from under the bedclothes in an effort to keep from being too hot, only to discover that the single foot outside the bedclothes made him entirely too cold.
Blast it all.
And to top it off, his bloody mind wouldn’t stop spinning. He considered a snifter of brandy, but decided against it. He was too tired to actually rise from bed and get it. He was too tired to sleep; that had to be it. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was hell.
He should have expected the day would simply continue to be as wretched as the night had been.
No rest for the wicked and all.
At some point in the early afternoon, he opened his eyes, thankful to have fallen asleep for at least a few hours, though, it was the kind of sleep that made one imagine they were only thinking of sleeping, rather than actually falling under the spell of unconsciousness.
Whatever the case, he’d take it, and with a sigh, he rose from bed and rang for his valet.
In short work he was dressed for the day, or rather the afternoon, and he quit his room in search of some sustenance. It was his custom to take tea once he woke up; it was usually that time of the day anyway, and he found the tea service awaiting his leisure in the breakfast room. Beside the teapot was a plate of biscuits, and an assortment of sandwiches. He lifted one from the plate and took a bite as his eyes scanned for the correspondence that would be waiting for his attention. He took another bite of the cucumber sandwich, set it to the side, and then lifted a small stack of thick envelopes—invitations, no doubt.
He smirked. It had been quite some time since he’d received so many invitations. Usually he avoided the London social sphere like the plague, and only when absolutely necessary would he darken the door of a ballroom. If he needed an invitation, he simply hinted at it while at Temptations, and the invitation would appear the next day. It was quite simple really.
But overnight, that had all changed.
Which only meant one thing.
The matchmaking mamas of the ton thought he was in search of a wife.
Another wife.
Good Lord.
The day had gone from wretched to bloody horrific.
He could practically feel their assessing stares boring into his back. He glanced about the vacant room, then shuddered. It was his exact description of hell, to have those women circle him like vultures.
Well, he’d have to put a stop to that notion right quick.
But he wasn’t exactly sure how to do such a thing.
Denial wouldn’t work.
And if he showed any favor to any lady, Miss Grace included, it would only make matters worse.
He could, however, escape to Scotland . . . or India. Though even that didn’t seem far enough.
And he wasn’t keen on the idea of traveling just now, not with the silver masquerade approaching at the end of the season. There was much to do to prepare Temptations for the exclusive event. Certainly not the time to be gallivanting about the continent.
He gave a mental glare to Lucas, who was still gallivanting.
Ramsey had a stronger sense of responsibility. He always had.
Even when it cost him everything.
Duty and honor coming first in all things. It was how he was raised, how he was indoctrinated. And it felt as if he were constantly making amends for all the ways he had failed to live up to his father’s expectations of those virtues.
Even with his father deceased these five years, Ramsey had never been able to release the need to achieve his father’s impossible standards. It was a drive, it was a necessity, it was also . . . impossible. Yet that hadn’t stopped him, and he didn’t see how he’d stop any time soon. Pity, but the truth.
He could never restore the lost honor to name or title, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try.
Never once had he ever considered that it wasn’t a worthwhile endeavor. It simply was a necessity, like breathing. And since he must breathe, he must also strive.
He tossed the envelopes to the side of the table and served himself tea in the beloved silence of the breakfast room. The light was anemic as it filtered through the windows, signaling a certain rain in the near future. He sipped his tea, ignored the missives, and rather chose to think of . . . nothing at all.
But his mind resisted such a vacation from exertion and soon his eyes flickered back to the invitations. He wondered which event would be selected by Heathcliff to attend that evening. After considering the options, he rather believed it would be none of the above.
It was Wednesday, after all. The proper thing to do would be attend Almack’s.
Good Lord, he could think of a million things he’d rather do than darken that door.
Leeches, a toothache, hell, a broken carriage wheel in the middle of nowhere, all sounded blissful in contrast to the prospect of the society present at Almack’s.
But it was likely going to be a necessary evil, and, as his honor would demand, he would likely call on Heathcliff and ascertain their plans and do his best to assist.
More often than not, he rather hated his sense of honor, and the situations it created.
But to deny it would be like denying a part of himself—impossible.
So it was with a reluctant heart that he finished his tea and the small meal accompanying it, and then ordered his carriage readied.
Sometimes the best way to deal with unsavory circumstances was simply to get them over with, and that
was certainly the approach he decided to use today. With any luck, he would find Heathcliff planning to attend Almack’s on the earlier side of the evening, and as such, Ramsey would be able to vacate the premises with alacrity, having the rest of the evening open for other orders of business.
But of course, hope, which sprang eternal, was not as eternally promised to bring about the desired outcome.
Chapter Nine
Grace studied the building before her as she cautiously stepped from the carriage. The building didn’t appear as formidable as the occasion seemed to call for, but she hadn’t exactly darkened the door as of yet. Almack’s was supposedly such a rite of passage into the London marriage mart, but she couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was a stone building, like much of the other buildings of London, but, also like much of London, the worth was not based on the building as much as the people inhabiting it.
Samantha followed her out of the carriage and gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ll be wonderful. I’m not particularly familiar to Lady Jersey, so I requested for my sister to contact a dear friend of hers, Lady Grace. You shall not forget her name since you share it, I dare say. She is married to the Earl of Greywick. He recently inherited the title upon his father’s death. Wretched man, but a delightful son. It goes to show that a child always has the choice to rise above the character of the parents,” Samantha said with a firm nod. “And Lord Greywick is certainly of that variety.”
Grace smiled. “Thank you for securing the introduction.”
“Of course. It was easily done.” Samantha gave a slight flick of her fingers and then led the way into the building.
Grace followed, the music greeting her ears before she was even fully through the door. Samantha graciously nodded to the ladies who were in the hall, calling a few by name before she and Grace entered what was certainly the main ballroom.
The first thing Grace noted was the humidity. Certainly someone could open a door or window? It was stifling, but there seemed to be no relief in sight. She had noted that it was a warmer day than usual, but this still seemed unexpected.
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