A Proper Scandal (20 page)

He studied her for a moment, considering this. He nodded to the floor. “For this, I have no defense. I had not . . . not thought of it. I can vow to you that I am not some dormant madman who might explode every time he's provoked.” He looked up. “Of course, I have no proof. But you must remember that I strive to be temperate in all things. Another talisman of a childhood spent in dizzying chaos. My parents' ceaseless shouting nearly defeated me. I hold my temper in check because I hated it so very much. I will not run mad if you mislay the key to the cellar.”

“So you say,” she said softly.

He stood up and walked three steps to the wall and back, chuckling. “Right. Now I feel compelled to ask:
What other
life-altering secrets that strike at the heart of my deepest insecurities could you withhold from me, Elisabeth? Is there something
else
I should expect to discover from a smug, hated cousin after a public gesture? Perhaps if we cleared up that now, we can cut off ‘unsubstantiated anger' at the bend.”

It was a joke, and Elisabeth smiled along sadly, working to suppress the tendrils of hope that had begun to twine around the fractured trellis of her heart. He should not be so honest. He should not lay himself so bare. He should not be more open and authentic than he had ever been, just as she was ready to say good-bye to him forever. She blinked, sighed—and then she remembered.

Aunt Lillian.

Quincy.

In her miserable, self-involved sadness, she'd forgotten that she
did
have another life-altering secret—one that she had mourned as much in these last ten days as her own broken heart.

She stood up. “As a matter of fact, I do have such a secret.” She watched him closely, crossing her arms over her chest. He wished to press this marriage? He insisted that she was his model wife? Let this be the ultimate test. He would fail it, of this she was sure. But then they would both know.

He stopped pacing and turned around. “You're joking.”

“
No
.” She shook her head. “I will tell it to you, here and now. When you hear it, if you still wish to marry me, I will consider your . . . arrangement.”

“Truly?” He took a step closer.

“
Wait
until you hear it. And remember your promises upon entering this house. No shouting.”

“Oh, God, Elisabeth, what is it?”

She took a deep breath, drawing her hands up in front of her chest and clasping them together. “My aunt, the esteemed Countess of Banning, has been carrying on a twenty-year love affair with her gardener. A man called Benjamin Quincy. They are fully committed and intend to marry. They have been in love since shortly after her aged husband's death, years ago—the old earl. Quincy is like an uncle to me, and he's adored by everyone in this house. My aunt is madly in love. I'm sure you've seen him. He is never far from her at his duties.”

Rainsleigh stood stock-still, staring at her.

“It is why Aunt Lillian never remarried,” Elisabeth went on. “She was waiting until I was settled. She would not damage my reputation by running off with a member of staff. Of course she will lose the title, the house. If I were not married when they did this, I would have nowhere to go. It's to be a whole new life for them. On a tropical island, apparently, which is their dream.”

“A tropical island . . . ” he repeated faintly.

“In the Caribbean Sea.”

“And you've . . . known all along?”

“Well, I've known since I came to live with her after I . . . well, after you rescued me. In the beginning, I was preoccupied with recovering. I knew only my own pain and grief. By the time I emerged from the fog, I had grown accustomed to Quincy. Their relationship is very natural. He is a wonderful man. They are very happy.”

“And they are determined to run away? To leave London and marry?”

“Determined is the wrong word. It is their most fervent wish—well, after seeing me happy. I am trying to convince them to go, even while I remain here alone, but they are very committed to me.”

“Indeed.” His expression was unreadable.

“I was going to tell you,” she said.

“I can see now that you've had a growing list of things to tell me.” He raised an eyebrow, and she laughed. It was a small laugh at first, a chuckle. She tried to stifle it, but then she was laughing in earnest. Two weeks of agony let loose in a torrent of laughter and tears combined. She put a hand on the back of her chair to support herself, bent over laughing. She stole a look at him. He stared back, shaking his head.
Disgusted
, she assumed, but then she saw his achingly familiar wrinkled-cheeked smile, and she felt something dislodge in her heart. A talon or a thorn—some sharp, heavy thing that had pinned it down. Now it simply let go. She swallowed her laughter and wiped away her tears.

“Would they consider waiting until after the wedding?” he asked, looking mildly pained.

She blinked at him, certain she'd misheard. “I believe that was the plan. They would not miss my, er, wedding.”

“What has become of the Banning earldom? Who became earl when the old earl died? Your aunt is not a dowager, so there was no one with a wife, gunning to be countess.”

“There was a distant cousin who is said to be lost at sea. Solicitors of the estate pursued him, but the young man was never particularly interested in the title before he set sail. Lord Banning married my very young aunt in a desperate attempt to produce a suitable heir. But he died before . . . ”

“And so she has chosen instead
the gardener
.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

“Quincy fought valiantly in the war,” Elisabeth said.

Bryson dropped into his chair. She moved to sit opposite, watching him.

“You see?” he finally asked, looking at her. “You see how calmly and rationally I am responding to this news?”

“Oh, so now you're telling me that you can weather the gossip of my aunt's great escape?”

“If they will consider a few suggestions I might offer on the timing and the strategy of their departure—yes.”

“But they must actually go, and they must actually wed.”

“Oh, yes they must.”

She thought about this. He was a man of his word. If he promised it, it would be done. Aunt Lillian and Quincy—finally married and openly living as man and wife. The reward for their long-awaited happiness was nearly enough to make her immediately consent. Their sacrifice all these years had been for her. She could now make one for them, could she not?

A moment later, she asked, “And you would not promise the money for my foundation if you did not mean to give it?”

“The money is yours. Your good work will flourish.”

“And . . . and . . . ” Her voice grew stronger now, more demanding. “May I find employment in your shipyard for the girls I rehabilitate? Sewing sails or sweeping up? Whatever honest work you may have for them?”

His eyes grew large, and he scratched his jaw. He made a faint growling noise.

She shrugged. “It is the right thing to do.”

He growled again, shifting in his chair. He'd tossed his coat over a quilt stand, and he leaned back and reached inside it now. She watched him pull out the ring she'd dropped in his hands ten days before.

“The agreement comes with jewelry,” he said. “Part of our public appearance.” He handed it to her.

She reached out and took it, their fingers brushing in the exchange. “Shall I remove it when we are behind closed doors?”

He blinked. “If you prefer.”

“Perhaps we can add the rotation of the ring to the strategically timed appointments . . . ” She turned away to slide it on. The weight of it was a conscious thing. She had only worn it for a moment in time, but she had felt its absence since she'd pulled it off that night. Like ripping off a layer of skin. She opened and closed her finger, trying not to stare at it.

When she looked up, he was watching her carefully, intimately.

“Does that mean you agree to the marriage? The business arrangement?”

“Either that, or I am stealing this ring.”

“And you are . . . content?”

“Oh,” she mused, unable to resist gazing at the ring, “let us not classify the vivid spectrum of our current contentedness.” She tore her eyes away. “Yours or mine.”

He nodded, allowing the topic to dissolve. What more was there to say? She could identify only two truly happy things: Her aunt was now free to marry and go, and she would never have to worry about resources for the foundation again.

As for the rest of it?

Well, marriage to him could not be worse than the last ten days without him had been.

T
he irony of the wedding, Rainsleigh thought, was its utter perfection. He and Lady Banning had thrown the whole affair together in just three weeks' time, not that anyone could guess. The church dripped with flowers. The musicians and robed boys choir transported the audience to an angelic realm. The esteemed guests—a mix of the countess's society friends and Rainsleigh's well-heeled shipping clients—were a colorful bouquet of hats and fans and sugary-colored spring finery.

The ceremony was at St. Paul's, an obvious choice, but he and Lady Banning had clashed over the site of the breakfast. As Elisabeth's guardian, the countess had expected to host the guests at Denby House in Grosvenor Square. But Rainsleigh had pressed for a grand feast in his new townhome in Henrietta Place. He'd gone to the expense of building and furnishing the bloody thing; what more legitimate reason to trail all of influential London through its doors than his own wedding?

If circumstances had been different . . . if his and Elisabeth's relationship had been as it was before . . . then perhaps he would be less inclined to exploit the exposure. But now? Now the purpose of their union
was
exposure. He married her so that no one would talk about a showy engagement that fizzled out. And even before that, he'd chosen her because she appeared to be an ideal wife.

As to the wedding, he would have curtailed any detail if she would but have asked. But she was never at home when he called to discuss the wedding with her aunt, and Lady Banning assured him that she had no preference whatsoever. When he insisted that he should hear it from her, he was given no choice but to write her to ask what she wished. A note came back by her boy, Stoker. One line:

I have no preferences for the wedding. Do as you wish.

Well, he had wished to host the bloody wedding feast. In the end, Lady Banning conceded, as her home could not easily be made ready to host three hundred guests in such a short period of time. Rainsleigh would have his way, and the party was set for Henrietta Place.

After the venue and the food, there was the matter of the dress. Rainsleigh and the countess agreed it must be exquisite and unique and unforgettable—and complete in three-weeks' time. Rainsleigh had wanted to buy it—he'd wanted to buy everything—but her aunt would not be swayed, and she paid triple to London's most esteemed modiste to have a singular frock rushed into production.

In the end, it was worth whatever the price. When Elisabeth emerged from the vestibule at the far end of St. Paul's, Rainsleigh worked to curtail the jaw-drop and intake of breath. He had not seen her in twenty-one days. He had thought of her many times in those weeks (if he was being honest, he thought
only
of her during that time), but the memory of her beauty did not compare to the living, breathing golden glow of life. Or perhaps she had, in fact, never looked quite so lovely as on her wedding day. Whatever the reason, he could not look away.

Ironic, because he had meant to glance at her once and then to look anywhere else—one of many moments about which he'd lain awake at night, planning in advance. His brother had teased him for plotting simple reactions, but it was a way of assuming control of an event that, despite the design of every detail, had felt wildly out of control. And anyway, why should he stare? It would be too personal. Staring revealed too much.

But oh, when the moment was upon them, detachment was lost to him. No reaction this strong could possibly be concealed. The full scope of his desire surely burned in his eyes.

The dress was perfection. No garment had better suited her, he thought. The design was simple—light, gauzy fabric of the finest silk, falling in yards and yards from tiny gathers at an empire waist. It was the color of forest in the shade. The contrast against Elisabeth's lightly bronzed skin, freckles, and red-gold hair was nothing short of ethereal in the sunlit church.

And her hair? He'd never known her to wear even the simplest jewelry, but today she wore a sparkling coronet, diamonds mounted on a slight silver setting, as beautiful as it was regal. From the crown fell her veil, with her hair pulled back from her face and then long down her back.

When Rainsleigh recovered from the sheer shock of her breathtaking beauty, he began searching her face. Was she unhappy? Resigned? Was she afraid? Bitter? Regretful? Did she approve of the flowers and the music and the great many guests?

Did she approve of him?

He could not say. She returned his gaze. Her blue-green eyes grew large. She smiled a little. And then she was the one who coolly looked away. Her eyes darted away, and she remained transfixed on the stained-glass window above his head until the bishop invited them to kneel.

When the ceremony began, she glanced at him only when the vows called for it. She repeated the familiar words in low, even tones. Her hand was warm and steady when he slid the ring on.

At Rainsleigh's request, the ceremony was classical and formal, and there was no place for a kiss. When it was finally over, the bishop bade the bride and groom to face the guests, and he intoned, “Lord Bryson Anders and Lady Elisabeth Rose Courtland, the Viscount and Viscountess Rainsleigh.”

And then it was done.

Rainsleigh could not resist and stole another long, searching look at her face. If she gave some reaction, any at all, he would not miss it.

She stared back, cordial but vague, her beauty heartbreaking at such close range. And then she stared out at the great crowd with her chin high. He felt an unaccustomed clench in his chest, a physical reaction to her profile, or that raised little chin, or simply to the fact that she was standing so closely beside him again. He forced himself to look away.

Adhere to the plan,
he ordered and proffered his arm to lead her down the aisle. Her hand settled over the top of his hand, light and stiff, barely touching. A formality. The message was clear. She could march independently down the aisle in the same way she'd marched up, but she would follow convention. She would play along. Resigned. Formal. Entirely for show.

It's what you wanted
, he reminded himself.

Before you met her, when any future wife was but an ideal
.
And after you knew her, after you
really
knew her
.
You wanted this
.
Resigned and formal and just for show.

It it's all you wanted.

In that instant, while hundreds of guests beamed up at them, Rainsleigh felt deeply, crushingly sad. Sadder than he had been in a very long time.

Underlying the sadness was anger. Only a spoiled child would demand something, receive it, and then declare it not enough.

But it's not enough
, he thought, forcing a grim smile.

It's not bloody enough.

T
hey were silent in the carriage to the breakfast feast, each on opposite seats for the short ride to Henrietta Place.

Elisabeth could have made some idle chatter, but she refused to be trite. She would not prattle on about the beauty of the church or the flowers and the songs—not when there were so many more pressing and important things to discuss. When Rainsleigh had proposed (well, when he had proposed the second time), the conversation had been painful, but it had also been frank and honest. She could not bear for them to become disingenuous and petty now. If there was any hope for civility between them, they must have honesty or nothing at all.

The quietness felt strange in the closed carriage, not to mention rude, but she allowed herself to lean her head back on the soft leather seat and embrace it. He had pressed for this arrangement; surely the burden was on him. She closed her eyes, willing the gentle sway of the vehicle to while away her regret for what might have been.

When the carriage turned onto Henrietta Place, Rainsleigh cleared his throat, and she opened one eye. He watched her.

She sat up.

“Elisabeth,” he began, “I thought we should discuss the domestic . . . er, positioning.”

“All right.” She had no idea what this meant.

“My housekeeper, Mrs. Linn, is very proficient at running the house and managing staff, working in tandem with Sewell, the butler. I have told her that you will direct her in your preferred level of involvement. Please consider your own work at the foundation and choose what best suits you. It makes no difference to me either way.”

Elisabeth nodded. If he meant what he said, this was a generosity indeed. She had no time for (or interest in) running his overgrown house, but naturally, it would be expected of a wife. “Thank you,” she said.

“Your trunks from Denby House arrived yesterday, and I instructed Mrs. Linn to see your things put away in the viscountess's suite. I hope that is acceptable.”

“It is,” she said carefully, searching the statement for deeper meaning.

“You may arrange the suite as you see fit,” he went on, “and send out for anything more you require. I hired a man to furnish the suite in the style of a lady of means with a considerable wardrobe. God knows if he got it right.”

“I will look forward to settling in,” she said, but she thought,
I don't care about the room. I don't care about the trunks or Mrs. Linn.

They'd said so very little to each other since he'd learned her terrible secret. Was there nothing he wanted to discover, now that he could look on her real, true self? Nothing at all?

But perhaps he could not bear to look upon her real, true self.

She had no idea how to ask this, of course. And honestly, was it her right to ask? This was a business arrangement, after all.

“I am aware of your . . . fatigue,” he continued. “I thought I'd show you to your chambers tonight, and perhaps Mrs. Linn can take you around to every nook and newel in the morning. Since we are not bothering with a wedding trip, I assumed we would each resume our normal lives and schedules tomorrow.”

In response to this, she could but nod. She tried not to think of the grand tour of his house he had planned before their courtship had so abruptly come to an end. It was his idea of an outing, and he suggested it more than once. He'd said Miss Breedlowe would chaperone, as in the visit to his shipyard. He had not yet asked her to marry him, but he had alluded to “learning her preference” for changes to decor or the function of rooms. He'd hinted at a suitable guest room for Stoker on school holidays and a “second office” for her beside his own.

What a difference three weeks made. Now someone named Mrs. Linn would provide the tour. Now Elisabeth would discover her new home by walking in the front door as a resident. It was only her second time.

“After the crush of the reception, I assume you'll want to take supper in your rooms,” he finished. He pushed the carriage curtain aside with one gloved finger and looked out the window.

“Perhaps. Yes,” she said quietly, mortified to hear a quaver in her voice. “It might be best.”

Now
? she thought, swallowing hard. Now
I will cry?

She'd endured the lavish ceremony, the dazzled guests, and the misguided vows with dry eyes, and
now she would cry?

The carriage bounced to a stop in front of his house, thank God, ending the conversation. The door flipped open, and a line of liveried servants could be seen standing sentry outside. She blinked, swallowed hard, and braced herself for more of the same.