Читать книгу Nothing But Scandal - Allegra Gray - Страница 7

London, April 1814

Family expectations—and the guilt that came with not living up to them—were going to be the death of Elizabeth Medford.

Given that her father, Baron James Medford, had hardly been a bastion of familial responsibility himself, having amassed a mountain of gaming debts prior to his untimely death, it seemed unfair that the remaining members of the family should expect that she, Elizabeth, would salvage them by marrying Harold Wetherby. Her third cousin might have a respectable income, but the memory of Harold’s sweaty hands pawing her at a picnic when she’d been a mere fourteen years old was enough to convince her she simply could not, could not marry him.

And since she’d otherwise been a resounding failure in the marriage mart, Elizabeth had devised a new plan—one to be implemented that very morning.

The moment breakfast was over, she’d hastily ushered her younger sister, Charity, and their maid, Emma, out the door of the Medford town house and into Hyde Park for a stroll, ignoring her sister’s nonstop stream of questions as they readied themselves.

They’d been in the park no more than a minute before Charity faced Elizabeth and thrust out her chin. “Now will you tell me what’s going on? If you continue to tease me this way, I shall simply perish.” She placed a melodramatic hand to her heart.

Elizabeth glanced behind them. Emma, acting as chaperone, trailed discreetly, close enough to keep up appearances but not to overhear conversation.

“All right. For the past weeks we’ve thought of only one thing: getting a man, any man but Harold, to propose marriage to me. Now that we’re out of full mourning for father, Uncle and Mother are anxious to accept his suit. I am running out of excuses to delay. But perhaps there is another way out of this after all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Think. What does Harold stand to gain from marrying me?”

“Your connections. He wants respect, social advancement, obviously.” Charity raised an eyebrow, making it clear she thought Elizabeth was cracking under the strain if she believed this was new food for thought.

“Exactly,” Elizabeth confirmed with glee.

“I don’t see where this is going.”

“I don’t want to marry Harold, right? Well, we were thinking I’d need a better offer in order to get out of it. But I don’t. I simply need him to withdraw his offer.”

“But what would make him do that? He already knows about father’s financial situation, and even that miserable fiasco didn’t make him cry off,” Charity pointed out.

“No, it didn’t, because, poor or not, I am still a respectable member of the ton.”

Charity’s eyes widened. “Ooohh. Elizabeth, I’m not sure I like what I think you’re thinking.”

Elizabeth ignored her. “If I were no longer respectable, if I were, say, ruined, Harold would withdraw!” She nearly tripped over a root on the path in her excitement over the idea.

“It’s wonderfully daring,” Charity conceded, not looking quite so pleased. “But how would you do it? And, oh, think what Mother and Uncle would do! They’d toss you out for certain. You’d be disowned, dishonored. Where would you go?” She tugged at her hair, an old habit and a sure sign of her concern.

“I could work for a living, I suppose.” Elizabeth bit her lip, aware her plan had more bravado than substance. “I’d have to. I’m good with a needle, so I could work for a dressmaker. Or be a governess. Anything would be better than being married to Harold. I’d be forced to endure his touches and…”

She shuddered, then fought to regain control of her emotions. Her little sister didn’t need to know how badly their distant cousin frightened her. He’d tried to force his attentions on her years before, and now that she was actually within his reach, he would stop at nothing until she married him. Unless, of course, marrying her would thwart his grasping ambition and hurt his precious reputation.

There was, however, one problem. “It’s you I’m worried about. My marriage was supposed to support you, too.”

Charity patted her sister’s arm, her eyes softening with understanding. “Do what you must, E., and don’t worry overmuch about me. For heaven’s sake, don’t marry the beast just because he’s offered to keep me fed and clothed.

“But in order for your plan to work, your reputation would have to be utterly destroyed, and soon. You seem to forget that in spite of Father’s penchant for scandal and debt, you, Sister dear, have no such objectionable deeds to your name.”

“So far,” Elizabeth said.

Charity’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve already thought this through. You’re plotting something.”

“Of course.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, tell me! You know I can’t stand it when you don’t include me in your adventures.” Charity nearly bounced in anticipation.

Elizabeth smiled serenely, though inside, her heart raced. “You didn’t think we came to Hyde Park merely to stroll, did you? No, Charity, I’ve decided the best way to destroy my reputation—and in a way that will ensure Harold never again approaches me—is to be caught in a compromising situation. With a man.”

Charity stopped in her tracks. “Elizabeth, you couldn’t.”

“I could.”

“But…but,” Charity spluttered, “you’d need a man willing to take part. No gentleman would ever do such a thing.”

Indeed. No gentleman would.

Right on cue, Elizabeth spotted him. Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort, striding along an adjacent path. He was no gentleman. Even at this early hour, he had the sleek appearance of a night predator, a beautiful but deadly jungle cat. Since she’d held a tendre for him since childhood, following his every move with fascination, Elizabeth knew he had a reputation to match that of his predatory look-alike. It was also how she knew he had a habit of walking through the park at nearly the same time each morning.

“I’m going to do it.”

“Now?” Charity squealed. “Wait. Are you sure there isn’t some other way?”

“Now. Can you make yourself scarce?”

Charity glanced around. “Mary Sutherby and her sister are just over there. I’ll join them. E., do be careful.”

“Careful, Charity, is exactly what I am not going to be.”

Her sister’s eyes grew wide with apprehension and admiration. “In that case, good luck.” She hurried away.

Elizabeth turned. One pointed look at Emma was enough to make the poor maid shrink even farther behind.

Elizabeth hurried just enough to intercept the duke as he passed her way. She tugged her walking costume a bit lower on her bosom, remembering her prey was accustomed to bold women. Tracking him down and initiating a conversation—let alone the one she planned—were bold moves she would have never considered even a week ago, but Elizabeth was desperate.

“Your Grace?”

“Miss Medford?” He slowed his pace as she fell into step with him.

“Might I delay you a moment?” Her heart quickened at his proximity. She had to tilt her head up to meet his keen glance, and his thick dark hair fell forward to brush knife-sharp cheekbones as he bent his head in return. She swallowed weakly. Did he remember they’d waltzed at the Peasleys’ ball? It had only been the highlight of her life.

“Of course. Do you need some sort of assistance?”

“Of a sort.”

The duke looked around, as though there might be some emergency.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. How best to approach this? The etiquette books did not cover how to properly destroy one’s reputation, only how to preserve it.

His dark brows drew together in question. Elizabeth swallowed hard. Best just to get it over with.

“Right. Well, thank you, Your Grace, for allowing me a moment of your time.”

“A very brief moment.” His features took on an expression of bored tolerance now that it was apparent no one was in dire distress.

“I’m not here to join the ranks of simpering females who usually surround you, hoping desperately for your hand,” she announced bluntly, surprising even herself.

“No?” He gave her a lazy grin. “My skill at the waltz must be slipping. Usually it takes no more than that.”

Absurdly pleased he remembered her, Elizabeth squelched the desire to respond in exactly the way she’d just promised not to.

“If it is not another dance you’re after, and you’ve met no misfortune in the park, then how can I be of assistance?”

“Actually, I have a proposition for you.”

“Really? A proposition from a lady? That hardly sounds proper.” His voice was teasing, but his features were alert.

“Just wait until you hear it,” she muttered.

The duke laughed, spearing her with a roguish glance. She felt a wicked thrill at what she was about to do.

“You see, my mother is forcing me to marry and…never mind.” She needn’t bore him with details. “I would like you to ruin me.”

“What!” The word was an explosion.

Elizabeth thrust out her chin.

“Let me get this straight. You want to be ruined?”

“Yes.”

“By me.” His face took on a masklike expression. Cynical appraisal replaced the open laughter of a moment before.

“Well, yes. I haven’t much experience in such matters, but I thought you would know how to go about such a thing.”

“I see. What’s in it for me?” he asked bluntly.

Elizabeth fought down panic. She hadn’t considered that. But now that she’d gone this far, the only thing to do was see it through. “Er, I imagine the benefit to you would be whatever it is gentlemen are usually after when ruining a woman.”

The duke gaped at her.

“Of course,” she challenged, determined to brazen it out, “if you’re uncertain as to how to go about it…” She knew he wasn’t. There’d been rumors enough.

“It’s not my knowledge in that area that gives me pause,” he snapped. “It is the foolishness of your proposition. Do you even know what you are asking?”

She arched a brow. “I have a fairly good idea.”

“Then you know what will happen to you.”

“Absolutely.” She smiled. He might not understand, but those consequences were exactly what she was hoping for.

“Sorry, I’m not interested.” He turned to go.

Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. She’d been so sure this would work.

“Why not?” She couldn’t help but ask.

He turned in the path, faced her squarely. “It may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not in the habit of seducing innocents, then failing to claim responsibility when I do so.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. Hadn’t he a reputation for just that sort of thing?

Heat flooded her cheeks. “I don’t appeal to you in that way. Well, you wouldn’t have to seduce me, then. We could simply have it whispered about—”

“I told you, I’m not interested.” He glanced over his shoulder as though he had somewhere to be.

Crushing embarrassment swept through her, and her throat grew thick with the threat of tears. It was time to accept defeat.

“In that case, I thank you for your time, Your Grace. And I would appreciate it if you did not mention this, er, conversation, to anyone,” Elizabeth said with the last scraps of dignity she could muster.

He gave her a stiff nod. She turned and fled as fast as her skirts would allow.

Alex stared at the quickly retreating redhead. The whole Medford family must be mad. It was the only way to explain it. Yes, he’d danced with her at the Peasleys’ ball last week. She’d looked quite fetching, and a bit lonely. And, of course, he hadn’t known who she was until too late.

He knew about loneliness, having grown up with it. But he’d never imagined the seemingly innocent girl he’d held in his arms had been planning to ask him to engage in an illicit liaison. Where on God’s green earth had she gotten such an idea?

Mad, entirely.

Alex knew he had a reputation, but all his affairs had been with widowed or otherwise independent women. Well, there had been that one unfortunate incident in his youth, but in that case, the young lady in question had actually been teaching him a thing or two, so he could hardly be blamed for her ruin. He knew how the ton gossiped, though.

To tell the truth, it bothered him. He’d have preferred Elizabeth held him in higher regard, if she was going to think of him at all. In spite of her family, he’d been attracted to her refreshing wit. But once again, his judgment failed him whenever the Medfords were involved.

Some men would consider ruining Medford’s daughter the perfect revenge, or, as the feckless baron himself had suggested, an appropriate repayment of debt, but Alex was not one of them. There was no satisfaction to be had in getting revenge on a dead man.

If anything, he pitied Elizabeth. Because of her father’s reckless management, she now suffered. He’d not failed to notice her brief mention of an unwanted engagement.

His pity, however, did not extend to the point that he was willing to become personally involved. In fact, he’d promised not to.

Alex blew out a breath. Fortunes were made and lost all the time, and Elizabeth’s was certainly not the first noble family to find themselves on the outs.

What would the chit have done if he’d said yes? He grinned at the idea. He’d been tempted enough. Her wildly colored hair, her slim curves, and her defiant bravery held definite appeal.

No doubt she’d have tried to back out at the last minute.

Unless, he speculated, she was using him.

Perhaps she was foolish enough to believe that if he “ruined” her, as she’d so boldly offered, he’d be forced to offer for her in return. Perhaps her father had even planted the scheme in her head before his demise. It was a far more daring approach than the coquettish looks he endured from dozens of other hopeful misses, but he was not so easily fooled. And there was nothing Alex hated more than being used.

He ground a heel into the dirt, then strode down the path that would take him out of the park.

She had his reluctant admiration for her daring, but Elizabeth Medford’s problems were her own.

“Elizabeth, a word with you,” Lady Medford said, accosting her daughter the moment she stepped through the door to their town house. Charity, whom Elizabeth had rejoined at the park before seeking the sanctuary of home, heard their mother’s tone and disappeared like mist in the wind, leaving Elizabeth to fend for herself.

All Elizabeth really wanted to do was run to her room and hide her mortification under her bedcovers, but instead she schooled her features into a polite expression. “Mother.”

Lady Medford started down the hall, and Elizabeth resignedly followed, dragging her feet over the polished wood floors. They entered the salon, a room decorated in delicate shades of rose—a room Elizabeth had always found completely uncharacteristic of her mother.

Lady Medford turned and faced her daughter like a general dressing down a private. “It has come to my attention that you were seen dancing with the Duke of Beaufort.”

Elizabeth stifled a groan. The duke was the last person she wanted to talk about right now.

“Yes, at the Peasleys’ ball,” she answered cautiously. Her mother had chosen not to attend, pleading a headache. Elizabeth had been chaperoned instead by Lady Tanner—an older lady of venerable reputation, who would surely exact a favor in return for having performed the duty of chaperone, in spite of having performed said duty in a rather lax fashion. Just one more thing Elizabeth had to look forward to.

“Is he pursuing you?”

Elizabeth’s attention snapped back to her mother. “I don’t believe so.” She nearly choked on the understatement. Beaufort had made it abundantly clear how little intention he had of “pursuing” her.

“Good. I think it would be best if you did not get involved with him.”

Now Elizabeth was truly confused, for Lady Medford’s statement surely qualified her as the only mama in the entire ton who didn’t want her daughter pursued by the extremely wealthy, handsome, and eligible Duke of Beaufort.

Reminding herself her mother had no idea of what had actually just transpired, she replied, “Mother, I assure you there was nothing untoward; it was merely a dance.”

“Nonetheless, the man has a reputation. Why, he’s practically predatory. Any involvement with him is likely to end in disappointment on your part.”

Well, that much was true. But since when did Lady Medford care about her daughter’s hopes getting crushed? That would be a new development in their relationship—if it was true.

“Also, I don’t believe your father would have approved.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply. Her mother had meticulously avoided unnecessary mention of her father since his death, so why would she bring him up now? None of this made any sense.

It really didn’t matter whether her father would have approved, given that she would not be seen consorting with the duke again any time soon. He’d made that abundantly clear.

“It’s all right, Mother. I’ve no hopes of snaring the duke’s hand,” she said in a tightly controlled voice.

“Right.” Her mother sniffed. “Very well, then.” She sniffed again. “I believe this room needs airing. The servants are becoming intolerably slack in their duties.”

Elizabeth kept her mouth shut. The servants weren’t becoming slack. They were leaving. They knew as well as anyone that her father had died with no heir and considerable debt. Slowly but surely they were finding employ in other, more stable, noble homes. If her mother chose not to recognize that, Elizabeth wasn’t going to be the one to point it out. She turned to go, assuming her mother’s change of topic meant she’d been dismissed.

“No, don’t leave. You have a caller.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. Could her day get any worse? First that humiliating and unsuccessful scene at the park. And now, when she wanted nothing more than a moment’s peace, she had to entertain. And to what purpose? Her mother would announce her engagement in mere hours, and Elizabeth had run out of ideas for avoiding it.

“Wetherby is waiting in the drawing room. I wanted to be certain you had no foolish yearnings for Beaufort before I sent you in to see him. But I see that, in this matter at least, you are a sensible girl.”

Elizabeth cringed. She’d been wrong. Talking about the Duke of Beaufort was infinitely preferable to talking to Harold Wetherby. At least her mother hadn’t seen her “sensible” daughter’s behavior thirty minutes ago.

“We can afford to wait no longer, Elizabeth,” her mother told her. “Wetherby’s lack of title may be lamentable, but his income is not. I’ve given him every reason to expect his suit will be accepted, though of course he’ll want to hear it from you as well.”

Elizabeth nodded woodenly. Yes, her day could definitely get worse. Her plan may have failed, but she was not yet ready to face her volatile cousin.

“Yes, Mother. I’ll be in to see him as soon as I’ve had a moment to tidy my appearance.” Her mother was a stickler for propriety, so Elizabeth knew she would approve of the short delay. One did not meet one’s future husband looking mussed from the outdoors.

The baroness nodded. “I’ll have the butler give him your message. Don’t dawdle.”

Fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth entered the drawing room, having dawdled only a little. The panicked whispers she’d shared with Charity had given her no new inspiration.

Her unwanted soon-to-be fiancé stood by the window, tapping his expensively shod foot. He did not look especially pleased to see her.

“Harold.” She said it with as much politeness as she could muster, forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile.

“Elizabeth.”

She stiffened her shoulders as he strode toward her.

“You’re looking well,” he told her, stopping only when they were separated by a scant few inches. “Better than I expected for someone distraught with grief.”

“Right. Well. One must go on,” she lamely replied. What was he after?

“One must. Though to hear it, you’ve been doing a bit more ‘going on’ than I would like.”

Elizabeth held her chin up but said nothing. If he was going to accuse her of something, she wanted to know exactly what.

“Nothing to say for yourself, my sweet?”

“Your meaning is unclear.” She managed to keep her tone modulated and polite, though she clenched her fingers in the folds of her gown.

“No? Then let me explain.” His voice was silk but his quivering jowls gave away his simmering rage. “Why do you think I offered for you?”

Elizabeth had several theories on that, but as Harold wouldn’t appreciate any of them, she kept silent.

“Respectability, Elizabeth!” He was openly angry now. “Your lack of dowry I can tolerate—I’ve sufficient funds of my own. But I plan to go places in Society, and I damn well want the respect that comes with marrying a nobleman’s daughter!”

“I see.” She was a means to an end for him. Well, she’d known that. “But that doesn’t explain why you chose me.”

“You know bloody well why. Your father, gambling fool that he was, left you within my reach.”

“I see,” she repeated. She refrained from mentioning that for someone who claimed to want respectability, he didn’t seem to have any qualms about using vicious language in front of a gently bred woman.

“Obviously you don’t see, or you would have more care for your reputation.”

“My reputation is my own to worry about.”

“Now see here, Elizabeth! I won’t have a wife who speaks back. Or one who has sullied herself.” The acrid scent of sweat assaulted Elizabeth’s nostrils as he railed at her.

Insulted though she was, a ray of hope filtered through her anger. She hadn’t done anything inappropriate—a fact she was all too aware of—but if Harold believed otherwise, perhaps she could convince him she was not worth marrying. She’d have to play it right.

“I am not your wife yet, and you overstep your bounds if you dare accuse me of impropriety.”

“Oh? Then what is this all about?” His fleshy finger viciously prodded the bustline of her gown.

“How dare you! You should leave. Now.” She stepped away, furious, her glance flicking down as she thought about the alterations she’d made to the gown earlier that spring, when she’d still hoped to attract a more desirable suitor. The ploy hadn’t worked.

“Why shouldn’t I dare?” He advanced again, giving her a nasty leer. “You’ve gone to great lengths to put yourself on display. Why else if not for a man to touch? A respectable woman would take more care to cover herself. You will do so, at least in public, as my fiancée and my wife.”

“I will most certainly not—”

“And furthermore,” he cut her off, “you should take more care in the company you keep.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Now he really went too far. She stepped beyond his reach.

“The Duke of Beaufort!” he exploded, face red and eyes bulging.

She folded her arms. “If you’re so concerned with advancing in Society, you should be pleased to be marrying someone sought after by more prominent personages than yourself.” Elizabeth couldn’t help firing back at him, though it filled her with disgust to refer to their impending marriage.

Harold blew past her retort. “For all the duke’s prominence, he’s a known libertine and rake! Everyone knows it, yet you cavort with him as though you were a common serving wench!”

Perhaps her plan was working. She tossed him a deliberately provocative look. “His Grace appreciates me.”

“Bah. He appreciates how gullible you are, perhaps. But from now on, you’ll keep your flirtations, and that delectable little body of yours, for me alone.” Spittle flecked his lips as he raged at her.

“I hadn’t realized you were so, er, old-fashioned. Hardly anyone in the ton expects a faithful marriage.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it was accurate enough and suited her current purpose. “Perhaps we aren’t so well suited after all.”

“We’re well suited enough.” He stepped forward, closing a meaty fist around her arm. “I won’t have you sullied by another man. The right to your body is mine alone. I’m marrying a baron’s daughter, not a tavern slut.”

Bile rose in her throat at the idea of enduring intimacy with such a beast. Without thinking, she reached up and slapped him with all the force she could muster.

Her hand connected with his beakish nose—the only part of him where bones were more prominent than flesh—with a satisfying crack. He released her so swiftly she staggered.

“You vicious little bitch!” he bellowed, holding his nose.

“Get out. Just get out.” She pointed an imperious finger toward the door.

He stalked over to the door, then turned. “Don’t think this is over, Elizabeth. You may get away with this now, but as my wife you’ll learn to bend to my will. Bend, or break.” He shut the door behind him with enough force to leave it reverberating in its frame.

Elizabeth sat, limbs quaking, on the nearest available piece of furniture—an uncomfortable beige settee she usually avoided. She pressed a hand to her heart, then hugged herself tight. Her flesh still burned where he’d prodded her. There would be bruises tomorrow.

She’d thought for certain that Harold’s railing at her meant he was about to cry off. He couldn’t possibly treat her that way and still expect to marry her!

But, apparently, given his exiting remark, he did.

Rage and humiliation coursed through her. How could her mother care so little for her eldest daughter that she would see her married to such a pig?

Well, she wouldn’t have it. Elizabeth stood with renewed purpose. She’d told Charity she could work for a living, and so she would. Her mother might announce her engagement to Harold in every one of London’s papers, but Elizabeth wouldn’t be there to fulfill it.

Alex stared at his brandy. Darkness closed in on the windows of his study, his business for the day long since concluded. He’d thought to spend the evening at home, but the morning’s incident in the park kept replaying itself in his mind. Weakness. Why couldn’t he simply block it—her—out? The red-tressed chit was as mad as her father, for certain, but the hint of desperation he’d seen in Elizabeth’s misty green eyes ate at his soul.

She’d never have come to him if she’d known what he’d done. Or maybe, he reflected after a long swallow of the brandy, she would have. After all, he’d had a hand in the family’s destruction, however unintentional. Why shouldn’t he be the one to finish the job?

No. Irredeemable though he was, he’d not stoop that low. It went against his code.

The Code, as he liked to think of it, was a sort of modified creed of honor. It wasn’t going to get him nominated for sainthood, but there were lines even a dissolute rake such as he shouldn’t cross. Don’t hurt anyone, and don’t get involved with anyone who doesn’t know how the game is played. It had worked for drinking, gaming, and women. Except that once, last fall. And there was no atoning for it now.

Elizabeth’s hurt green eyes flickered into his mind. If only she knew.

It would have been no hardship, her suggestion. He could easily envision himself kissing the fullness of her lower lip, or the corner of her wayward smile. He’d explore the slim column of her body, the ripe curve of her breast, that impossibly smooth skin…

Alex tossed back the rest of his brandy and stood. Even thinking of her aroused him. Damn Medfords.

“Hanson!” he bellowed for his valet. He needed diversion. A night of cards and drinking. Since he’d pensioned off his last mistress, and had no liking for the bawdy houses, he’d restrict himself to the gentlemen’s clubs. Besides, another woman would only remind him of the one he was trying to forget.