A Proper Scandal (18 page)

“Your proclamations are not law, my lord,” she told him. “Not to me. I will
not
marry you; you cannot force me. I couldn't care less about the gossips.” She reached out and took up his hand. Without looking away from his sad, blue eyes, she dropped the engagement ring in his palm.

His fingers had not even closed around it when she turned and strode to the door.

“Oh, no you don't,” he said through gritted teeth, and she heard him lunge.

She broke left, skirting a table. He went the long way around but was faster. She pivoted right and sprinted a diagonal line. He anticipated this and caught her around the waist, pulling her to him.

“Elisabeth,” he whispered against her hair, “please.” There was a new note of desperation in his voice.

She shook her head against his mouth. “Let me go.”

“You are upset,” he continued, not budging. “I am upset. I feel blindsided and betrayed. I have handled this wrongly, possibly unforgivably. But please, do not do this. It was ambitious, perhaps, to indulge in the fantasy of a marriage with cheerful affection. Life is not so fanciful. We can still marry and succeed.”

She wriggled, trying to break free. “I am already a success. Even better, I am
free
. It was the only saving grace that came of my parents' deaths. I have the money to do as I please. You are mad if you think I will marry you.”

“Freedom,” he said on a breath, “is one of the few things that money cannot always buy.” He loosened his hold but did not let her go.

“Oh, yes, how restricted you are.” She gave her arm a yank and pulled free.

“If I intend to build a new reputation for the viscountcy, which I do, then I am very restricted indeed.”

“If you're so concerned about your reputation, then tell everyone
you
jilted
me
. I don't care. There is your freedom. You invest too much in what these people think about you, Bryson. You are a slave to a way of life that is almost impossible for a flesh-and-blood human to maintain.”

“You're wrong,” he shot back. “It is entirely possible. You don't know the value of it, because you were not brought up in the stench and shame of the opposite. Whatever . . . happened that landed you in the brothel that night must have been a mere dot on the chronology of your life. I cling to high standards now because I mucked around in the gutter for too long—for years. Half my life.”

He watched her watching him, and her expression must have been pained, because he suddenly reached out. “Are you hurt?”

She hopped out of his reach. “High standards, you say? Yes, how high they seemed when you strode into this room, demanding that I pull off my dress. You assumed the very worst about me.”

“You misled me for weeks, Elisabeth.”

For this, she had no new answer. Her greatest wish now was to go. She backed away.

He reached a hand out to her—a gentle hand, supplicating—but she shook her head. She turned and walked to the door.

He called after her. “Why did you go along with the courtship? If you knew our past was such a barricade? I must know. I pursued you, yes, but you could have denied me, put a stop to it, refused to see me.”

She stopped, considered this, and gave the answer to the door. “I went along with it because I enjoyed you.”

“Isn't that enough on which to base a marriage?”

“Not anymore.” She reached for the knob.

“Elisabeth,” he called. “Wait—”

“Good-bye, Bryson.” She sighed. It took no effort to walk away. She heard him rush up behind her, but she didn't break stride. She opened the door.

“Elisabeth, I said wait,” he repeated, a harsh whisper, but she had already slipped into the hallway and gathered herself up to flee.

She turned . . . and faced Aunt Lillian and a dozen of her collected friends. They strode down the hallway to her, their smiles champagne bright.

Bryson burst through the door behind her and came up short.

“Ah, here they are!” Aunt Lillian sang, her smile the brightest of all. “The match of the century! We've waited more than ten years for this. The ladies have come to congratulate the bride- and groom-to-be!”

“Do not think of disgracing me,” he whispered.

Elisabeth's anger spiked again, and she glared. And now he would
threaten her
? After everything else?

But his face was devoid of threat. He looked . . . panicked. Desperate. It was the only thing that stayed her.

She gritted her teeth, angry at herself now too. She owed him nothing, least of all sympathy. Even so, she swallowed hard, fixed her face with a blank expression, and turned back to the women. They descended, and she allowed them to cluck around her while she said nothing at all.

Five minutes later, her aunt mercifully bore her away.

E
lisabeth refused to see him for ten days.

He called in person, every day, beginning the day after the ball, including Sundays. He did not insult her with flowers. He did not write.

The first five days he was turned away by a member of staff. On the sixth day, Lady Banning herself loomed behind the servant and broke in, just as Rainsleigh handed over his card.

“I hope to make more clear what my man has failed to convey,” the countess said tiredly. “Elisabeth will not see you, my lord.”

“I understand, your ladyship, but if she would but permit me—”

“The reason she will not see you,” Lady Banning cut in, “is that she is devastated and heartbroken. In my experience, the only remedy for these conditions is time. To see you only winds back the clock.”

He had been prepared for the countess's anger and scorn, but he was not prepared for sadness.

“I would apologize to her, Lady Banning,” he said, pressing on. “I behaved abominably; if I could only admit that to her.”

“I will tell her,” she said, sighing, backing away, and shutting the door.

On the tenth day, Elisabeth herself came to the door. It shocked him to see her, and his gut responded a half moment before his brain remembered that he was no longer permitted to be cheered by the sight of her face, that her beauty did not unnerve him, that his chest should not expand with what felt like light when he saw her.

“Lady Elisabeth,” he said, blinking at her, fighting to control his expression.

“If I receive you, will you cease calling?” she asked.

He had not expected to bargain. “If that is what you wish.”

“That's no answer, but please be aware: You will cease coming here. Furthermore, in the few moments you will be permitted to say whatever it is you wish to say, you will not raise your voice.”

“Yes . . . I—”

“Or insult me.”

“Correct.”

“Or inform me of my great luck in accepting any offer you may toss at my feet.”

“Yes.”

“You will not demand to peel back any corner of my garment to examine any hidden area of my body.”

“God, no—Elisabeth . . . ”

“You may come in for ten minutes if you promise to abide by these stipulations. And it cannot be said enough: after you've gone, you may never come again.”

He gritted his teeth. “Thank you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, quite aware, he thought, that he had not, in fact, promised. She retreated into the house, leaving the door open. He breathed deeply and followed.

Trailing her silently would be just one of several humilities, he knew. She would not be cordial or pleasant. She would not feign pleasantness. This was the price for his rashness and lack of control.

The price for her dishonesty was the reason he'd come.

They walked silently, him behind her, in a single line. He stared at her back, marveling that he had ever known the liberty of touching her there. Now she seemed as remote as the moon.

She led him down the long hall where he'd first seen her.
No
, he corrected—where he'd first seen her
again.

She wore the same blue dress, then as now. Her hair was down. He was unaffected, he reminded himself, by the sight of her hair, or how the bodice of her dress gave way to the fall of her skirts, or her singularly regal walk. He reminded himself that he'd come here to subjugate himself in order to gain her cooperation and not because he . . . wanted her.

The last ten days had been an exercise in restraint. He restrained himself from pounding on the Denby House door after he had been turned away, and he restrained himself from putting a fist through the wall when he returned home.

The restraint, perhaps, was second nature, but the extreme need for it (especially to rein in door-pounding and wall-punching) was new, and he hated himself for it. Never had he felt so out of control. From the moment he remembered her, his control had vanished, and rashness took its place. He'd behaved abominably in the map room at the ball. And when he returned home, he agonized over it, helpless to put her out of his mind. He could not stop thinking about her. She'd willfully mislead him for weeks—a gross manipulation—
and yet he wanted her still
.

His days were consumed with thoughts of her. Why she'd lied? Why he had not seen the lie? How had she found herself in a brothel that night? Would she ever consent to see him again so he could learn the answers? Worst of all, would they still marry?

He had to know. Never in his life had he respectfully appealed to someone again and again, only to be turned away. Yet every day he awoke anew with the fresh compulsion to see her again.

And so now, ten days later, here he was.
Seeing
her. He could not fully acknowledge the rush of great relief.

She led him to a small receiving room, a dim and airless anteroom, tightly crowded with spindly furniture, devoid of cushions. The message was clear:
You will not linger
.

The room was so small there was no escaping closeness. The chairs were huddled together around a cold grate. She took a chair but he stood.

“May I impose on you to shut the door?” she asked.

He looked behind him at the heavy door. By habit, he was cautious of being alone with her, but what could it possibly matter now? He pulled it shut. The tiny room now appeared even smaller. Elisabeth said nothing and stared up. She waited.

“May I sit?” he asked.

“If you prefer.”

His wooden chair scraped loudly on the stone floor as it took his weight. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry to be a nuisance these many days,” he said. “I was trying to convey my urgency and determination.”

“In this, you succeed. What do you want?”

He blinked. “An opportunity to apologize. To explain myself.”

“There's nothing to explain, Lord Rainsleigh. Our mutual offenses against each other—and I count myself as complicit, I have wronged you too—are too astounding to make amends. That is my thinking on the matter. In fact, I am shocked that you have persisted. You were very angry.”

“Yes, well, anger was only half of what I felt. I think what caused my truly uncivil behavior was that I felt deceived.” Even now, he had trouble saying the words without his heart pounding, without a bitter edge sharpening the ends of his words. He went on. “Regardless of what I felt, it was no excuse for what I said. I . . . I am sorry. I handled the situation very wrongly. Please accept my heartfelt contrition.”

“Very well,” she said, standing up. “Now will you go?”

He stared at her, hustling to his feet.

He had prepared for coolness and hurt but not . . . indifference. Her voice was low and flat. She stood perfectly erect but was in no way anxious. Her arms were folded gently across her chest. He looked at her face, at her smooth, unfurrowed brow and relaxed mouth. She arched one eyebrow.

Did she care not at all? He cocked his head, looking deep into her eyes. That was when he saw the rims, faintly red. The bright, unshed tears. The unique aquamarine had deepened to a lonely shade of blue. His heart lurched.

This is what you want
, he reminded himself.
Regret. Vulnerability. Give
.

He forced himself to continue. “If you will indulge me, I had hoped to hear . . . your story.”

“What story?”

He bit back a fatigue-laden sigh. Of course she would not make it easy.

“The story of how the daughter of an earl and the niece of a countess was working in a brothel when she was barely fifteen.”

“Oh, that story. Not much to tell, really. I did it for pin money, of course.”

“I know this is not a joke to you,” he said lowly. “You have not been to your office in Moxon Street for days. Miss Breedlowe is very loyal to you, but when pressed, she revealed that you are . . . troubled.”

“Let me be very clear, your lordship, or you may leave straightaway. You are not privy to my comings and goings, so do not monitor me. And do not harass Miss Breedlowe. Do not.” She sat back down.

“As you say. But I will hear this story.” He retook his seat and leaned forward, his chair groaning. “Not as a path to forgiveness, Elisabeth. I will hear it because I deserve to know. Considering the time we spent together.”

“Yes, well,
considering the time we spent together,
I deserved respect and compassion when you—” She looked away. “When I received quite the opposite.”

“I can do no more than apologize, Elisabeth. I was out of my head, and I will regret it forever.”

He saw her blink. She was crying.

He continued in a low voice, “You are being stubborn to your own disadvantage. I think you
want
to tell me.”

“No.” She shook her head, speaking to the wall. “What I want is for you to leave and never come back.” When she looked at him again, her eyes were dry. “But as we both know, we cannot always get what we want.”

“Life is about choices, Elisabeth.” He leaned back in the unaccommodating chair. “You can choose to tell me or choose not to tell me. But
you
decide. There is no overlying rule of thumb for this. And I am imploring—begging—you to tell me. You can make up your mind and do it.”

“Fine, Rainsleigh,” she said tiredly. She dropped her head into her hand and scratched her brow. “But please know that I am not being fickle, if that's what you think. I am not withholding the events of that night in order to punish you. I abhor talking about it—which is the reason I had not yet been able to discuss it with you earlier. And especially after the way you behaved.”

“If it makes any difference, I should say that my reaction had mostly to do with me, and my own frailty, my own history, my own relationship with my father.”

“But
I
was there.
I
bore it.”

“Yes,” he said, “you were there.” He felt a regret so deep he couldn't breathe. Elisabeth, of all people, had been the recipient of what he now regarded as an emotional caving in. He would regret this, perhaps forever.

Suddenly, she said, “All right, I will tell you. But first let us acknowledge that life is
not
, in fact, ‘about choices,' as you say—not always. Life may also be about managing whatever one is dealt, learning to cope, and not giving up.”

He nodded to this. He'd told himself that to hear the full account, if she would give it, would be something he did for her—something he gave her. A chance to explain herself. But now his own heart pounded as if it were hammering its way out of his body. He had to fight the urge to grip the arms of his chair. He couldn't say why, really, but
he
wanted to know. He was desperate to know.

She sighed and began. “When I was fifteen, after a visit to my aunt in this very house, my parents' carriage was set upon by thieves on Windsor Road. My mother and father were murdered in cold blood while I watched and waited in terror for my turn at the hands of the highwaymen. However, the attackers did not murder me. Instead, they strapped me to the back of a horse and hauled me to a brothel at the edge of London. There, they sold me to the proprietor, whose scheme was to offer me to whichever deranged man fancied himself rich and selective enough to rape a young innocent.”

“Elisabeth . . . ” He gritted his teeth, bile nearly closing his throat.

“Oh, yes,” she said flatly. “After the brothel owner bought me, he branded me—not unlike a head of cattle—which is the mark you demanded to see on my shoulder in the map room. Clearly you remember it from . . . that night.”

“Elisabeth,” he rasped, running a rough hand over his face. Images from that night flashed in his mind. The shock at seeing a girl so young and lovely in his room. Her obvious state of distress. The sight of a hot-iron brand on human flesh . . .

He made an anguished sound, half wail, half growl, and shoved away from his seat. He paced the three steps to the wall and back. He felt her watch him, considering his reaction.

“I appreciate that you are horrified, Rainsleigh,” she said, “but spare me the shock, if you please. What did you think? That I took up residence in a vermin-infested brothel because I admired the chef?”

“I'm sorry,” he said, and he wondered if there would be a limit on the number of times he could effectively say this. “I suppose I did not think.”

“A fair supposition,” she said, shaking her head. “Next, the brothel owner put me on display for prospective clients.”

“What do you mean, ‘on display'?”

“Perhaps you should ask whoever revealed to you that it was me at the brothel that night.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whoever informed you that you were betrothed to a whore.” She paused.

His mind raced to make sense of this.

“Someone must have told you. You didn't remember for weeks, and then you did,” she said. “Who spoke to you?”

Bryson clamped his eyes shut. “My detestable cousin Kenneth. He followed my father around like an enchanted monkey in those days. I haven't seen him in years, but he came to the baroness's ball, uninvited. Apparently, he tripped at the buffet table and floundered around at your feet. He got a long look at you and managed to dredge up some gin-soaked memory in his tiny brain. He relayed it to Beau, who . . . informed me.”

“A cousin . . . ” Elisabeth repeated absently, sitting up in her chair. “Did anyone else hear?” Her voice took on the first notes of distress.

He shook his head. “No one heard, and my brother has since paid Kenneth an unforgettable—and unforgettably
painful
—visit. He will not be a problem. In fact, he is, even as we speak,
relocating
. To New South Wales.”

“You had him shipped to Australia?” She was openly surprised.

“It was a journey long overdue.” With this, he smiled. After a moment, she smiled too. It was a slow, sad sort of smile. Something began to unspool in his chest at the sight of that smile. He took his first full, clean breath in ten days and then looked away.