One Night Of Scandal by Teresa Medeiros

  She ticked off the womanly graces so highly valued at such establishments on her fingers. "I can paint a pastel watercolor, sketch a recognizable likeness, work a sampler." Her face brightened. "Oh, and I've always excelled at the pianoforte."

  "No music," he said, shaking his head. "I've no use for it."

  She looked even more taken aback. "Well… then I can speak fluent French, sew a straight seam, dance the minuet, the waltz, and the— "

  "Can you decline a Latin noun?"

  She blinked up at him, obviously having never considered that a required skill for a wife. "Excuse me?"

  "Can you decline a Latin noun?" he repeated with just the faintest trace of impatience. Giving the leather globe sitting beside the desk a forceful spin, he asked, "Can you locate Marrakesh on a globe? Can you tell me in which year the Ostrogoths conquered Rome? Have you any useful knowledge at all that doesn't involve hemming handkerchiefs or trodding all over your dancing master's poor aching feet?"

  Her jaw had gone taut with the effort it was taking to govern her temper at that moment. "First, second, third, fourth, or fifth declension?" Without awaiting his reply, she snapped, "Marrakesh is thecapital of southern Morocco, which lies in the northwest corner of Africa. And the Ostrogoths never conquered Rome, the Visigoths did. In 409 A.D., if I'm not mistaken."

  It was all Hayden could do not to growl at his own folly. If she had turned out to be a silly young miss with her head stuffed full of useless trifles, he might have dismissed her to her fate without a moment's regret.

  As he grabbed her hand and tugged her to her feet, her guardian's challenge went tumbling unheeded to the rug. He started for the door of the study with her stumbling along behind him, taking three steps to every one of his long strides.

  "Where are you taking me?" she demanded breathlessly. "Are you going to compromise me?"

  He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, wheeled around, and dragged her back to the desk. He retrieved her hat and slapped it on her head. The feather drooped over her pert nose, making her sneeze.

  "No, Miss Fairleigh," he said through clenched teeth. "I'm bloody well going to marry you."

  * * *

  As the marquess's elegant chaise went rolling through the deserted avenues of the West End, the shuttered windows of the town houses and mansions gazed back at Lottie like sleepy eyes. The first pink fingers of dawn had yet to streak the sky. Even the most diligent of servants would still be abed at this time of the morning.

  Which was why Lottie's stomach sank when theyrounded the corner to find Devonbrooke House ablaze with light. She stole a glance at Hayden, but his set features revealed nothing.

  The front door of the mansion stood ajar. Lottie and Hayden slipped inside. The servants were scurrying back and forth across the foyer in such a blind panic that no one even seemed to notice their arrival.

  Sterling came striding out of the drawing room, his face haggard with exhaustion. "What do you mean she's missing?" he shouted. "How can she be missing? I sent her to bed hours ago."

  Cookie trotted after him, looking close to tears. "Her bed is empty, Your Grace. And it doesn't appear to have been slept in at all."

  Laura trailed behind them. "Do you think she might have run away? Perhaps she was afraid we were going to force her to marry that monster."

  Beneath her hand, Lottie felt Hayden's arm stiffen. Before she could think of something clever to say, Addison came marching in from the library, a burnished mahogany case resting on his extended palms.

  The butler stopped in front of Sterling with a click of his heels, his face reflecting the gravity of his mission. "Your pistols, Your Grace, freshly oiled and loaded."

  "Perhaps we should go," Lottie whispered, trying to tug Hayden back toward the door. "This might not be the best time to share our joyful news."

  "On the contrary," Hayden whispered back. "Your guardian appears to be in dire need of somejoy." Before Lottie could protest, he captured her hand and marched forward, tugging her along behind him.

  Warned by Cookie's gasp, Sterling turned. "You!" he exclaimed. "What in the devil are you doing here? Haven't you done enough harm to this family for one night?" As Lottie stumbled into view, Sterling added softly, "No. It appears you haven't."

  "If you'll just give me five minutes to explain— " Lottie began.

  "I'm only interested in the answer to one question," Sterling said. "Did you spend the night in his bed?"

  Keenly aware of the warm fingers laced through hers, Lottie felt a flush creep into her cheeks.

  "Now see here," Hayden said, stepping forward. "I won't have you impugning the young lady's honor."

  "It's not her honor that concerns me!" Sterling shouted. "It's your lack of it. But there's no need to discuss that here. What's between us can be settled on the dueling field."

  "I came to inform you that there won't be any need for a duel," Hayden said.

  Sterling gave him a long, level look before saying coolly, "No, I don't suppose there will."

  As he flipped open the lid of the case in Addison's hands, Cookie shrieked and Laura lunged for his arm. Easily shaking off his wife's grip, Sterling drew out one of the loaded pistols and leveled it at the marquess's heart.

  Although Hayden didn't so much as flinch, Lottie threw herself in front of him as if her slight form could protect him from a pistol ball. "Put away the gun, Sterling! His intentions toward me are honorable. He came here to ask for my hand in marriage."

  Although Sterling slowly lowered the pistol, his narrow gaze never left the marquess's face. "Is that true?"

  "It is," Hayden replied.

  "Why the sudden change of heart? When I spoke to you only a few hours ago, you swore you'd never take another bride."

  Hayden's hands closed over Lottie's shoulders, their possessive heat making her shiver. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you how persuasive your sister-in-law can be."

  Sterling's gaze shifted to Lottie. "And what about you? I suppose next you'll be trying to convince me that you've fallen madly in love with him."

  For some reason, Lottie was thankful Hayden couldn't see her face as she looked her guardian in the eye and said, "Many long and solid marriages have been built on far more stable foundations than love."

  Sterling's shoulders slumped in defeat, as he realized she had overheard his own damning words. Handing the pistol back to a dazed-looking Addison, he snapped, "Come with me, Oakleigh. We'll discuss this in the drawing room."

  As the door slammed behind the two men, Lottie looked over to find Laura gazing at her through a sheen of helpless tears. "Oh, Lottie, what have you gone and done now?"

  Lottie drew herself up, forcing a shaky smile. "I seem to have landed a marquess."

  Chapter 5

  But he refused to relent. I would be his bride or no man's at all!

  "THE MARQUESS OF OAKLEIGH," THE BUTLER announced as he appeared in the doorway. Although the wizened old fellow managed to keep his expression remarkably impassive, his bushy white eyebrows appeared to be in imminent danger of taking flight.

  Ned Townsend nearly choked on a mouthful of cigar smoke as Hayden St. Clair came striding into the smoking room of his Kensington town house. Although Ned made an instinctive grab for the pamphlets and newspapers scattered across the writing table, it was too late to do more than lean across them and hope his shadow would blot out the most damning of the headlines.

  "So you've decided to pay a call on me after all,"Ned said, mustering up his most affable smile. "Perhaps your manners aren't as rusty with disuse as I feared. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? I thought you were leaving for Cornwall this morning and here it is well after noon."

  "I would have already been gone if it weren't for you and your infernal meddling," Hayden replied, leveling a glacial glare at him through his frosty green eyes.

  Ned couldn't help but wonder if that had been the last look Phillipe has seen across the grassy field of Wimbledon Common nearly five years ago.

 
; Hayden's appearance was in stark contrast to Ned's own short-cropped hair, starched cravat, and polished brass buttons. Hayden's boots were scuffed and at least three years out of fashion, his cravat loosely tied and ever so slightly askew. His coat hung loose over his rangy frame, as if he'd scorned more than a few meals recently. As was his habit, he was carrying his beaver top hat instead of wearing it, which had left his shaggy hair at the mercy of the wind. Despite his noble birth, there had always been a hint of the savage about the man, a vaguely uncivilized quality most women, both ladies and lightskirts, seemed to find irresistible. When forced to choose between Ned, Hayden, and Phillipe, they had invariably chosen Hayden.

  Just as Justine had done.

  Ned took a deep drag on the cigar, affecting an air of wide-eyed innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Oh, come now. Surely you can't be the only soul in London who hasn't heard about last night's debacle." Hayden's gaze fell on the scattered newspapers. His jaw tightened. "No, I can see you're not."

  Before Ned could protest to the contrary, Hayden had jerked that morning's copy of The Times out from under his elbow. He held it up to the early afternoon sunlight streaming through the bow windows and read the bold headline with dramatic relish. "'M.M. Claims Another Victim in Crime of Passion.'" As Ned sank back in his chair, admitting defeat, Hayden scooped up two more papers. "'M.M. Gives Kiss of Death to Innocent's Reputation.' Oh, and we mustn't forget that bastion of responsible journalism, the St. James Chronicle— 'Debutante Succumbs to Lord Death's Irresistible Embrace.'"

  " 'Lord Death,' " Ned repeated musingly. "You have to admit it does have a much more poetic ring than the 'Murderous Marquess.' "

  Hayden slapped the papers back down on the table. "I hope you're satisfied. This drivel has probably sold more copies than the last installment of Harriette Wilson's memoirs."

  Ned leaned forward to tap a wand of ash into a copper bowl molded to resemble an elephant's foot. "A regrettable incident, to be sure. But I still fail to see why I am to blame."

  "Because it never would have happened if not for you. When this girl came snooping around my house, I mistook her for the woman from Mrs. McGowan's. The woman you hired."

  Ned's mouth fell open, leaving the cigar to hang limp from his bottom lip. Catching it before it could fall, he collapsed in the chair, unable to suppress a hearty swell of laughter. "Oh, that's just too rich! That poor, dear child. Please tell me you didn't…"

  "Of course I didn't," Hayden growled. But even as he proclaimed his innocence, he seemed to be having some difficulty meeting Ned's eyes, an observation Ned found particularly fascinating. "I'm not given to ravishing every woman who comes knocking at my door. Or my window, for that matter."

  "Perhaps if you were, you'd soon find yourself in a better temper." Ned stabbed a finger at The Times. "So just who is this girl? The papers dropped some tantalizing hints that some are bound to recognize, but they weren't bold enough to come right out and print her name."

  Hayden sank into a sateen-covered wing chair, propping one ankle atop the opposite knee. "Carlotta Anne Fairleigh," he said, tolling the name as if it heralded his doom.

  Although Ned had been on the verge of gaining control over his laughter, tears of fresh mirth sprang to his eyes. "Little Lottie Fairleigh? The Hertfordshire Hellion herself?"

  Hayden's expression grew even more wary. "You've heard of her?"

  "Of course I've heard of her. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone in London who hasn't."

  "I don't understand. How can she be so notorious when she's yet to make her debut into society?"

  "And why do you think that is?" Ned queried, unable to suppress his broad grin.

  "She told me that two Seasons ago her family was abroad and last spring she was afflicted with a nasty bout of the measles."

  Ned snorted. "Afflicted with an acute case of embarrassment, more likely. Her guardian was probably waiting for the gossip from her last attempt at a debut to die down." Knowing he had all of Hayden's attention, Ned leaned forward in the chair. "Devonbrooke brought her to town the Season she was seventeen, fully intending to unleash her on society then. Prior to the ball he was hosting in her honor, as is the custom, she was to be presented at Court."

  It was Hayden's turn to snort. They both knew that King George, formerly the licentious Prince of Wales, had turned the once noble tradition into an opportunity to ogle eager-to-please young beauties in the first blush of their womanhood.

  Ned continued. "So picture if you will the lovely Lottie waiting in a crush of dizzy young belles for her royal summons. When it finally comes, she makes her way toward our gallant monarch, her fair bosom dripping a king's ransom in diamonds, the ostrich plumes adorning her hair swaying with each graceful step. But when she lifts her hoops to make her curtsy, she leans too close and those elegant plumes tickle poor George's nose. He proceeds to sneeze, popping every last button off his waistcoat." Ned shrugged. "Of course, that might not have happened if he hadn't been poured into it like an overripe pork sausage."

  "The poor girl can hardly be blamed for the king's gluttony," Hayden pointed out.

  "A sentiment the fair-minded George apparently shared, for much to everyone's relief, especially the young lady's, he simply burst out laughing. While the royal guard scrambled around on hands and knees to retrieve the buttons, George spotted a particularly tantalizing glint of gold himself. Unfortunately, it was buried deep in the hallowed and heretofore unbreached recesses of Miss Fairleigh's bodice."

  "Oh, hell," Hayden muttered, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and covering his eyes with his hand as if to ward off what was coming.

  "Well, when the intrepid Miss Fairleigh felt that pudgy little hand groping between her nubile young breasts, she defended her virtue as only a true lady can."

  Hayden peeked at Ned between his fingers. "Please tell me she didn't slap him."

  "Of course not." Ned's grin spread. "She bit him."

  Hayden slowly lowered his hand. "She bit the king?"

  "Quite savagely, I'm told. It took three guards to pry her pearly little teeth out of his arm."

  Despite his scowl, there was an unmistakable twinkle of amusement in Hayden's eyes. "I'm surprised she didn't end up in the Tower."

  "If not for the impassioned intervention of her guardian, she might very well have. Which is exactly why Devonbrooke waited until George's ill health drove him into seclusion at Windsor before placing her back on the marriage mart. From what I hear, the girl has always been something of a wild child, given to much mischief and bluestocking notions about women in the arts." Ned waved the cigar. "But if you didn't compromise her, then I fail to see why any of this should matter to you."

  "Unfortunately, her guardian doesn't share your progressive views," Hayden replied dryly. "He's procuring a special license from the archbishop even as we speak."

  "Ah," Ned said, sobering abruptly. "I've heard Devonbrooke has had some experience in that area." Although it had been nearly ten years ago, the delicious scandal of the duke's own hasty wedding was still whispered about in some circles. "So am I to assume that congratulations are in order?"

  "Condolences, more likely, since I'm about to be leg-shackled against my will to a child bride."

  Ned chuckled. "You're barely one-and-thirty, Hayden. You're hardly in your dotage yet. I should think you'd still have the stamina to satisfy her."

  Hayden gave him a dark look. "It's not my stamina I'm worried about. It's my patience. My last bride exhausted the modest amount with which I was blessed."

  "But you were little more than a lad yourself when you married Justine."

  And buried her.

  The unspoken words hung in the air between them until Ned reached over and stubbed out his cigar. "So to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Do you mean to call me out after all? Shall I send for my second?"

  Hayden rose, turning his hat over in his hands. Although he appeared ready to choke on his words, he fina
lly managed to grind them out. "The wedding is to take place tomorrow at ten o'clock in the morning at Devonbrooke House. I thought perhaps… well, I've come to ask you to stand up with me."

  Ned leaned back in the chair, touched in spite of himself. "Why, I would be honored!"

  "Don't be," Hayden retorted, a spark of his old devilment lighting his eyes. "I had no other choice. You're the only friend I have left."

  As he turned and went striding toward the door, Ned couldn't resist getting in a dig of his own. "Don't despair, Hayden. It's only until death do you part."

  Hayden paused in the doorway, but didn't turn around. When he finally went marching past the gaping butler to the front door of the town house, it was with Ned's laughter ringing after him.

  * * *

  "Lord Death," Lottie repeated thoughtfully, everything but her topknot of curls disappearing behind a copy of the St. James Chronicle. "Hmmm, that does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Perhaps I should title my first novel The Bride of Lord Death." She peered at Harriet over the top of the newspaper. "Or does Lord Death's Bride sound even more sensational?"

  Harriet shuddered. "I don't see how you can be so glib about all of this. Especially not when you're going to be the bride."

  The two of them were huddled together on Lottie's bed, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of newsprint. Apparently, Sterling had rescinded his "no pampering" rule, for Lottie had been allowed to languish in bed until after noon. Since awakening, her every wish and whim had been granted with astonishing speed and efficiency. A pair of footmen had delivered Harriet to her bed while a bevy of maids hovered around to prop the girl's bandaged ankle on a pillow. Cookie had plied them with all of Lottie's favorite sweets, including scrumptious little heart-shaped French cakes soaked in rum and honey. Even George had popped his head in the door to volunteer himself for a game of whist should they grow bored with poring over the newspapers and scandal sheets that continued to arrive with amazing regularity, their ink barely dry. Lottie might have enjoyed all the attention were it not for Cookie's fretful "tsking" and the other servants' pitying sidelong glances.