Saved by Scandal (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Whoever said hell hath no fury like a woman scorned would have known to batten the hatches for the coming storm. Standing firm and tall in his own parlor, Galen got bombarded with a hurricane of hatefulness, a spate of spite, a torrent of threats, and the Ming vase Fenning hadn’t thought to remove.

The fact that Lady Floria had scorned him, rejected his suit in public, not once but twice, meant nothing to the earl’s daughter. No matter that she had made Lord Woodbridge a laughingstock, a byword for buffoonery, Floria did not like being told she was dishonorable, disreputable—and dowerless.

“No, I will not return the twenty thousand pounds your father gave me, Florrie. That sum was signed over to me, and I fulfilled my part of the contract by showing up at the church. You did not, so you lose.” Galen thought that was straightforward enough that even his former fiancée would understand. The conversation would end, she would leave, and he could get back to seducing his wife.

Lady Floria had other ideas. “If you are entitled to my dowry, then I am entitled to the marriage settlements,” she insisted, drumming her fingers on the arm of the sofa. The sound was becoming as annoying as her high-pitched voice.

“Florrie, you are entitled to nothing but contempt. You could have had a perfectly respectable marriage, the one our fathers wished for us, but you chose to run off with a fortune hunter. The fact that he took your jewels—most of which I paid for anyway—should be a lesson to you.”

“It was. I have learned that a woman cannot trust a man!”

“Hah! Coming from you, that is laughable.” The viscount turned in his pacing to glare at her. “Your promise means less to you than yesterday’s dinner.”

“Tomorrow’s dinner means more, Woodbridge. That’s the one I won’t be eating if you turn me out without my twenty thousand pounds.”

“I told you I would give you the carriage fare to your father’s, or anywhere else you wanted to go. You still have the diamonds you were wearing when you left, and a fortune in clothes. I ought to know, because I am still getting the bills for them. Sell them and you can eat very well for years.”

“What, living in a rundown cottage in the wilderness? Don’t be absurd, Woodbridge.” The finger tapping grew louder and faster. Galen paced farther away. “Besides, you don’t need the money, and I do.”

“I am sorry, Florrie, but the money has been deposited in Margot’s account, as her marriage settlement.”

“What? You gave my money to that trollop?”

In a flash, the viscount was in front of the couch, looming over Lady Floria, shaking his fist in the air so he would not shake her. “How dare you sit in my house and insult my wife? That
lady
is not the one who eloped on her wedding day and spent two nights on the road with a known libertine.”

Floria waved her fingers dismissively, which was better than discordantly. “La, nothing happened.”

“La,” he echoed in jeering tones, “it does not matter if anything happened or not. People may have wondered if we anticipated our wedding vows after such a long engagement, but they will absolutely assume that you and your baronet did.”

She arched her plucked eyebrows. “Well, they would be wrong. Sir Henry was importunate and unpleasant about it, but I knew what was due an earl’s daughter.”

But not a duke’s son? Galen asked himself. Gads, he’d
had a luckier escape than he’d thought. So had Lytell, broken nose notwithstanding. The viscount decided he could be magnanimous, in light of her leaving. “Very well, Florrie, I will make you an offer. I will give you half of the dowry, ten thousand pounds, if you go to Bath and marry my cousin. It’s a perfect solution, for no one else would have either one of you. I’ll pay you the other half if you bear him a child.” That half of the blunt ought to be safe on two counts: Floria wouldn’t go near Harold’s bed, and Harold wouldn’t want her to.

“Marry Horrid Harold?” Her voice’s pitch went up a notch; so did the volume. “I’d rather be a…a…”

“A rich man’s mistress? That’s about all your sullied reputation leaves you suitable for.”

Her look of distaste answered that question, but not Galen’s curiosity to know if she’d ever intended to grant him—or Lytell—his husband’s rights. “No, I did not think so. Besides, even a protector demands some degree of loyalty for his money.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“I’ll spell it out for you, Florrie. No, that would make it too hard for you. I’ll just speak slower: I do not give a rap. And if you rap on that arm rest one more time, I will use that black lacy thing to tie your hands together. Dash it, Florrie, you never even said you were sorry!”

“Of course I am sorry, when I see how well appointed this house is, and how well run. I am immensely sorry to miss the end of the Season, sorry to be left without funds, sorry that basket-scrambler made off with my emeralds.”

He shook his head. “No, Florrie, you are sorry for yourself, for the coil you’ve landed in, but you haven’t spared one thought for me or the wretched mess you almost made of my life. Well, I am sorry I never cared enough to matter to you, but I was willing to make a go of the marriage. You were not. So go. I want you out of my house, for you are not fit company for my wife.”

That’s when the names and the knickknacks started flying.

*

Fenning reached the parlor before Margot, and made a dive for the Oriental vase. He caught the priceless pottery just before it reached the floor, but his white powdered wig went sailing, leaving him with a shiny, bald pate. Ruff, seeing what appeared to be a particularly furry rabbit, or perhaps a cat, flying across the room, gave chase.

Over went the Chippendale chair, the Sheraton table, the Meissen bonbon dish, and Margot, who was trying to get to the hairpiece before the harebrained mutt. As Galen’s wife lay sprawled on the carpet, her skirts above her ankles and her hair trailing down her back, Lady Floria smirked behind her veil. “
That’s
your lady, Woodbridge?”

The viscount helped Margot to her feet and wrestled the wig away from the dog, who was shaking the hairpiece, making sure the thing was dead before eating it, thus coating the carpet and the viscount with the white powder. When Margot ordered, “Drop it,” Ruff spit out the wig and went after the fallen bonbons. Galen handed the hairpiece to Fenning, who held it at arm’s length in two white-gloved fingers. He held the Ming vase in the other as he left the room, his back rigid with disapproval.

Margot was attempting to tuck her loose hair back into the topknot, and Galen was brushing down his navy superfine and his satin-striped waistcoat, which were now covered in white dust and dog hair and, no doubt, drool and droves of vermin. Lady Floria was studying her fingernails for nicks.

“What is this about, my lord?” Margot asked, once the furniture was righted and the broken dish was taken away. “Do you wish to cause yet another scandal with such a contretemps? Why, the staff will think you were having a lovers’ spat with my cousin, Madame Millefleur, if they do not already suspect the truth. And you, Lady Floria, are you not in enough difficulties without drawing attention to yourself? Any number of servants might recognize your voice,
despite the veil over your face, once they start wondering what my cousin is about, brawling with Lord Woodbridge. Ansel and Ella, of course, already know I have no French cousin.”

Galen had not listened past “lovers’ spat.” Did his wife suspect him of dallying with the she-demon? “You know deuced well all I wanted to discuss with the witch was her departure. I met Florrie here alone so that I could throw her out of the house without embarrassing her in front of you or the servants. This is the thanks I get.”

“If you had been more accommodating, you might have had more success,” Lady Floria snapped at him. Then she turned to Margot. “He refuses to give me back my dowry. Twenty thousand pounds might be a pittance to you, missy, now that you have married Golden Ball, but I want my money and I am not leaving without it.” She dabbed at her eyes, as if a tear could form any minute. She even managed a sniffle. “Without the brass I have nowhere to go, no way to live. I’m not nearly as brave as you, to try to earn my way in the cold, cruel world.” She was not as talented as Margot, either, but she was a deuced good actress.

Galen’s arms were crossed over his chest. He did not so much as glance in Floria’s direction. “The money from Earl Cleary became your portion when we married, Margot. I will not renege on that.”

Margot looked from one to the other and shook her head. “I thought Ansel and Harriet were the only children in the house. Lady Floria, you know your father will support you if you go home and beg his forgiveness. He’ll undoubtedly even restore your dowry in hopes of finding you a husband. I told you
my
husband was not your savior. But you, Lord Woodbridge, did you truly think I would spend another woman’s fortune on frills and furbelows? I would not touch tuppence of Lady Floria’s
dot
.”

“Perhaps she is a lady, at that,” Floria said. “At least she shows good sense, unlike you, Woodbridge. La, to prove I am as much a female of refinement, I have decided to travel
to Bath after all, as you proposed. My twenty thousand pounds will be a vast sum to an elderly gentleman who has little else to choose from in that benighted place, or a retired military man. I do believe I am weary of callow youths.”

The viscount made a rude noise.

Floria pretended not to hear him. “Yes, I shall escort your sister to Bath, saving your having to hire a
duenna
for her, and I’ll stay at your aunt’s house, as you suggested, to help that lady chaperone Lady Harriet, a headstrong minx if I have to say so myself. She’ll bear careful watching if she’s to make a decent match, and I doubt your aunt is desirous of attending all the waltz parties and picnics of which young people are so fond. I do believe Mrs. Woodrow has a fashionable place in the Royal Crescent, hasn’t she?”

Galen almost shouted, “That wasn’t what I suggested, and you know it. You think to save money on the price of a carriage, and you plan to trade on my poor aunt’s respectability to reestablish yourself in the quieter Bath society. I don’t want you anywhere near my aunt, my sister, or my carriage horses! And I have not agreed to hand back the money I earned by waiting at that church altar in front of a thousand smiling spectators.”

Ignoring her husband’s intransigence, Margot told Lady Floria, “I am afraid Lady Harriet won’t be leaving for a few days. The doctor feels that her skull may have suffered more severe injury than first appeared. He believes that the motion of the carriage will worsen her condition, and a sudden jarring, as from a bad rut or a sharp turn, could actually imperil her life or her reason.”

“Gammon,” Galen said. “The chit hasn’t enough brains to be shaken up, and she is healthy as a horse. I heard her send for enough food for an army, at breakfast time.”

Floria ignored him, too. “La, if the poor child is ailing, you’ll need me to bear her company. You’ll be too busy, Lady Woodbridge, getting ready for your little gathering and trying to learn how to run a household of such distinction. Then there is your brother, taking a great deal of your time,
although you’d do better to hire a tutor for the lad, of course. I can see to dear Harriet, chat about the people she should know, play quiet games, peruse the fashion journals with her, the type of thing I can tell you are not interested in, Lady Woodbridge.” She let her eyes travel from hem to neckline of Margot’s simple lavender round gown, devoid of ornamentation. “Yes, that is best for everyone. I’ll go on to Bath when Harriet does, me and my twenty thousand pounds.”

She drifted out of the room in a flutter of black lace, while Galen sent black looks her way.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Whoever said reformed rakes make the best husbands had been reading too many purple-covered romance novels.

Margot did not want a rake, reformed or otherwise, for a spouse, no wandering-eyed womanizer, no roaming-affections Romeo. She wanted a husband to rely on, to trust, as her mother had believed in her father. How could she trust Galen’s intentions toward his former intended? Margot wanted Lady Floria under her roof as little as Galen seemed to, but his attitude could change; Margot’s never would.

Oh, Lord Woodbridge might be angry with Lady Floria now, and no one could blame him, but they’d known each other for so long that Margot had to worry. Galen and Floria shared so much—friends, interests, backgrounds, and experiences—while Margot and the viscount had only a marriage contract in common.

To add to Margot’s concerns, Floria was beautiful. She’d been the Toast of London since her very first Season, of which fact she never hesitated to remind Margot and Lady Harriet. Men had swarmed at her feet, writing poems to her eyebrows, which were perfectly arched, of course, and bringing her gifts. How could any warm-blooded man not be attracted to that lush, rounded figure and auburn hair that hinted of hidden fires? She even looked stunning in black, never mind that no respectable widow would wear her mourning so low-cut or clinging.

“Do you think she is pretty?” Margot finally asked, when Galen stopped cursing under his breath.

“Floria?”

“No, your aunt Mathilda. Of course, Lady Floria.”

“Do I think Florrie is pretty?” He had to think, which Margot took for a good sign. “Right now I think she is as homely as a hyena’s hind end, but I know in my mind’s eye that she is exquisite.”