Season for Scandal

ATONEMENT

It had never seemed so sweet, or so sensual, as Edmund took his bride’s ungloved hand in his. Her fingertips were calloused from needlework, the skin roughened. Her straitened life had formed her, this woman who would rather play cards than sew, who wondered at the miracle wrought by a new coat of paint.

He rubbed her fingers, and the touch sank deeply within him. She smelled clean like soap, her skin free from perfume.

He liked it, and suddenly it was not enough to hold her hand anymore. His body acted without orders, bending to sweep her up, catch her behind the knees and hold her lengthwise in his arms.

“Consider me enticed,” he said. “Enticed, and entirely unmannerly.” When Jane laughed, it felt like a victory.

“I should show you more of the house now,” he said.

“You really should,” Jane agreed. “Starting with the bedchamber.”

And he carried her upstairs.

Other titles by Theresa Romain

Season for Temptation

Season for Surrender

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

SEASON
for
SCANDAL

T
HERESA
R
OMAIN

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

ATONEMENT
Other titles by Theresa Romain
Title Page
Chapter 1
-
Concerning Cousins, Husbands, and the Correct Number of Aces
Chapter 2
-
Concerning Unexpectedly Large Numbers
Chapter 3
-
Concerning the Uses of Gloves
Chapter 4
-
Concerning an Ill-Timed Confession
Chapter 5
-
Concerning a Pulverized Breakfast
Chapter 6
-
Concerning Preliminary Attempts at Happiness
Chapter 7
-
Concerning the Purpose of Flirtation
Chapter 8
-
Concerning an Unexpected Caller
Chapter 9
-
Concerning an Apology and a Local Journey
Chapter 10
-
Concerning Cartography and Selfishness
Chapter II
-
Concerning Secrets, Both Likeable and Otherwise
Chapter 12
-
Concerning Revolution
Chapter 13
-
Concerning Theft, Pain, and Sleep
Chapter 14
-
Concerning the Proper Steps
Chapter 15
-
Concerning Secret Identities
Chapter 16
-
Concerning the Baroness’s Location
Chapter 17
-
Concerning the Circumstances of the Baroness’s Departure
Chapter 18
-
Concerning Ice
Chapter 19
-
Concerning Toast
Chapter 20
-
Concerning Plans and Plots
Chapter 21
-
Concerning a Portrait
Chapter 22
-
Concerning a New Variety of Plans and Plots
Chapter 23
-
Concerning That Long-Ago Winter
Chapter 24
-
Concerning Tragedie—or Its Opposite
Chapter 25
-
Concerning the Queen’s Gambit
Chapter 26
-
Concerning a Variety of Travel Arrangements
Chapter 27
-
Concerning Proper and Improper Christmas Gifts
Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Concerning Cousins, Husbands, and the Correct Number of Aces

October 18, 1819
London

Jane Tindall could have changed her life, if only Lord Sheringbrook hadn’t played the fifth ace.

Tonight she ignored the viscount’s ballroom in favor of his cramped, smoky card room. For hours, she counted every card turned, waiting for the perfect hand of
vingt-et-un.

At half one, her chance came at last: all the aces had been played, and Sheringbrook dealt himself a nine. He could have nineteen at best, then. Jane’s twenty would win.

Yet somehow Sheringbrook had managed to produce that perfectly timed ace. It mocked Jane from its bed of green baize; such a small and flimsy rectangle on which to pin her hopes, then puncture them.

“We tie at twenty, madam,” Sheringbrook said. His voice was low and smooth, almost regretful. “And so you lose again. My, my. You wagered a great deal that time.”

Indeed she had. A ruinously great deal.

Yet she
knew
that had been the fifth ace. Of domestic gifts, she had none, but she possessed a mind like an abacus.

“You are very silent, madam. Something on your mind?” Below his dark demi-mask, his thin mouth curved, taunting her.

Guests came to Sheringbrook’s card tables masked, the anonymity often inspiring them to leave behind greater sums. But Jane had easily recognized her host’s treacle-sleek voice, the sharp widow’s peak on his high forehead. She even recognized the three other men with whom she’d been playing—by type, if not by name: a cit, a drunkard, and a rake.

The only thing she had not recognized was that Sheringbrook was talented enough to cheat without her seeing how he did it.

Her mind reeled; the musty, acrid scent of tobacco smoke stung her eyes and nose. For an instant she toyed with accusing the viscount openly.
Yes
, she could say.
I was wondering, did you hide the extra ace in your coat sleeve, or was it in your pantaloons? There must be plenty of room to spare in there, you pitiful excuse for a man.

If she were a man, she could call him out. As a woman, her revenge must be indirect.

Her fingers traced the edges of her cards, borrowed jewels catching the dim light. Languidly, she flipped the cards facedown and returned them to the pile.

“No, indeed,” she said in a bored voice. “Congratulations on a hand most . . . creatively played.”

If there was anything Jane could do better than count cards, it was act a part, and no cheat could take this talent from her. She was deep in debt, but salvation would come only from pretending her loss scarcely lightened her purse.

“How do you wish to pay your debt?” pressed Sheringbrook. He ran a finger up Jane’s arm, snagging the edge of her ruched cap sleeve.

No one imagined a respectable virgin would find her way into this makeshift hell. On the other side of the doorway, the fringes of society wound blithely through a country dance, but in the privacy of the card room, the atmosphere was coarse and desperate.

That was exactly why Jane had come here.

She drew herself up to her full height in her chair, knowing that she must look insignificant to the four hulking men with whom she played. Small enough to take advantage of; small enough to dismiss.

That was their mistake. She was the only woman in the card room, and therefore, she was as powerful as they thought her powerless.

Jane covered Sheringbrook’s hand with her own, drawing it off her arm. “Must our play come to an end so soon? I’ve not yet had my fill of this evening’s pleasures, no matter their price.”

She summoned the wispy impressions of a decade of house parties and a dozen bawdy novels, and she used them to become beautiful. Noble. Seductive. The tip of her tongue moistened her lower lip, which she had painted with rouge until it was as full and red as the ripest of forbidden fruits. She twined a fingertip in a heavy curl, drawing it over her shoulder, and trailed her fingers down her rather meager bosom to the low bodice of her inky-blue gown. She acted as if the simple motion would slay them.

And they became slain. As simply as that. All four men shifted in their chairs as if their pantaloons had grown too tight.

Four half-drunk men, one of whom she now knew to be a cheat. This had, perhaps, been her riskiest gamble of the night, but she was counting on the crowd in the card room to keep her safe. Her companions might say whatever filthy things they liked, but they couldn’t touch her. And as long as the cards remained on the table, she had a chance at the truth.

The rake spoke first. “Has the game grown too rich for your blood?” Above the curve of his own demi-mask, hawkish brows lifted. “I could give you private instruction to improve your skill.”

“I like this type of game,” Jane murmured. “I am used to deep play, after all. Deep and frequent.” Again the tongue peeping between her lips, promising a taste. The rake groaned.

She let her sly smile grow. “Shall we have another hand, then?”

“Damme,” slurred the drunkard, “you can have my hand wherever you like it, madam.” Hands unsteady after hours of imbibing brandy of decreasing quality, he fumbled the notes and coins before him. Too much of a fool to know the worth of what he lost, or to hold fast to his winnings. Too foolish to know that money was more than amusement: it was power, and escape.

“If she has your hand, I’ll take hers,” the rake spoke up. “What d’you say, madam? Can you take me in hand?” He sniggered at his own wit.

This was the time to check the cards: now, while they were all distracted. “I confess, our dealer’s hands are the ones that fascinate me.” She looked her host up and down deliberately.

Sheringbrook cleared his throat. “Shall we unmask?” His voice cracked like a schoolboy’s on the final word, hands lifting to fuss with the fastening of his mask.

Now
. Jane feigned a tremor, reaching for the deck and knocking the cards into an untidy heap. With her thumbnail, she flipped a section of the deck faceup.

One ace . . . two . . . if she could turn them all, she’d have proof of Sheringbrook’s dishonesty.

“So careless,” she said. “I beg your pardon. Now they’ve turned every which way.” She gave a blithe laugh and extended her hand again, turning the remainder of the cards in one swift movement. Before she had time to spread them over the table, the viscount’s hand closed about her wrist.

“Don’t trouble yourself, madam.” His smile had gone a bit twitchy at the edge. “We’ll start with a fresh deck, if you care to play again.”

With a snap to a nearby footman in rumpled livery, the viscount had the table cleared. It was all over in less than ten seconds; not enough time to think of a strategy. Jane could only watch as the evidence she needed was carried away on a salver.

Nothing was left behind but a stretch of empty green baize and a false debt that she could never repay.

The cards now gone, Sheringbrook’s smile returned in force, and he turned his attention back to Jane. “Do show us your face, madam. Such a delectable foe deserves our full attention.”